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itsnotyouithink · 25 days ago

Text

without you

pairing: tara carpenter x fem!reader

summary: long distance isn’t for the weak, especially when you visit your girlfriend in new york city - just to see her all over somebody else.

warnings: mentions of ghostface & blood

word count: 7.0k

author’s note: that viral video of the girl surprising her boyfriend while another girl is sitting on top of him and all his friends are like “yoo holy shit wtfff” and laughing at the girlfriend haunts me to this day.

part two

——

You were the smart girl. The golden girl. The one with annotated poetry books and hair that always looked a little too perfect in the wind. Your teachers loved you — that kind of quiet reverence usually reserved for prodigies and people who already had TED Talks queued up in their futures. You wore Harvard on your chest before you even applied. Because of course you'd get in. Of course you did.

But none of it ever made you feel like Tara did.

Tara Carpenter — with her bite and her bruises, her too-dark eye circles and the way she rolled joints like it was an art form. She used to call you "Valedictorian Barbie," but only when she was feeling flirty. Which was often. She made you feel like being brilliant was hot. Like being soft and sharp at the same time was something to be worshipped, not tolerated. You loved that she didn't treat you like you were breakable.

And she loved that you saw her.

Not Sam's little sister. Not Ghostface bait. Not the girl who almost didn't survive.

You knew her before all that.

Before Amber's house. Before the hospital.

You were the one holding her hair back while she cried on the bathroom floor the week after her stitches came out. You were the one who wiped blood off her collarbone and kissed her anyway. You were the one who told her she was more than what happened to her. That she was still here. Still worth everything.

You spent your last year in Woodsboro fused. That was the only way to describe it. Two people who knew they wouldn't survive the year unless they clung to each other. It was desperate. Beautiful. And when you got your Harvard acceptance letter, she screamed louder than your mom did.

"I told you," she said that night, sprawled across your bed, a bowl of grapes between you. "You're gonna be running the whole world by 30."

"And you're gonna be directing horror films in a basement somewhere," you teased.

"With Chad holding the boom mic," she grinned. "And Mindy threatening producers."

You looked at her and said it without thinking:

"I wish you were coming with me."

She had blinked at that. Quiet. Uncharacteristically quiet.

Then: "We'll be fine. I'll be in New York. You'll be in Boston. It's like—what? A four-hour train ride?"

That was the plan.

Or so you thought.

Harvard was cruel in a subtle way. It didn't punch you in the face so much as bleed you dry by a thousand little paper cuts. It didn't feel like success at first.

It felt like punishment.

You sat in lecture halls the size of churches and felt like a fraud. You got A-minuses and wanted to scream. You called your mom crying twice in the same week because your roommate played club lacrosse and thought Nietzsche was "just okay." You started eating dinner at 9 p.m. and sleeping four hours a night. You excelled, of course — you always did — but it didn't feel like winning. It felt like surviving.

Like a fever dream made of fluorescent lights, frigid air, and classrooms that smelled faintly of erasers and old money. You walked through campus in your thrifted wool coat like a ghost wearing someone else's skin — the only person in the lecture hall taking notes by hand because you couldn't afford a new laptop after your financial aid went toward books in the first month of school.

But then you met them.

Gwen. Samira. Alex. Cassie.

The weird girls. The brilliant ones. The ones who built forts out of unread textbooks and spoke about grief and girlhood like it was a second language. You found them on the floor of a dorm hallway during a fire drill. Someone quoted Adrienne Rich. Someone else cried. You stayed until 3 a.m.

They didn't just like your mind. They saw it.

You weren't too intense or too emotional or too ambitious here — you were exactly enough. And when you spoke, people leaned in. You started to laugh again. You started to write again. You stopped apologizing for taking up space.

But the thing is, when you start becoming more of yourself... Sometimes the people who loved the earlier version of you start to disappear.

You were halfway through a half-eaten pack of seaweed snacks, balancing a laptop on your knees while everyone around you argued about which sad girl singer deserved the "haunting voice of the decade" crown - it was clearly Mitski - when your phone lit up.

Tara Carpenter ❤️ calling.

Your heart stuttered.

You dropped the snacks.

"Shh—guys, shut up—Tara's calling."

They all fell dramatically silent.

You answered on the second ring, suddenly too aware of the chaotic mess behind you.

Her face filled the screen. Sleepy, soft. She looked like she had just climbed into bed, hair half-damp and hoodie swallowing her frame.

"Hey," she murmured. "Did I call too late?"

Your chest ached. Her voice still did that to you.

"No, it's perfect."

From behind you, Samira waved dramatically. "Is that the famous girlfriend?!"

You laughed, startled, and turned the phone slightly so Tara could see the room: Gwen wearing Alex's hoodie like a cape, Samira eating instant oatmeal with chopsticks, Cassie in your bed pretending to meditate.

Tara blinked at the screen, clearly caught off guard.

"Oh... wow. You have a cult now."

"They worship me," you deadpanned.

"Obviously," said Gwen.

"Duh," said Samira.

Tara laughed. Kind of. But there was something off in her voice.

"They're cool," she said. "Different from Woodsboro."

"They're insane," you grinned. "But in the best way."

Tara nodded slowly. But didn't say anything right away.

Then: "You look happy."

You glanced down. That kind of compliment — simple, sincere — shouldn't hurt. But it did. It made you think about how long it had been since she'd said anything like it.

"I am, I think," you replied. "It's hard, but... yeah. They make it easier."

More silence.

Tara's thumb brushed the edge of her screen. Her eyes flicked somewhere just out of frame.

Then: "You're still coming here next month, right?"

"Yeah. I booked the train. Didn't I tell you?"

"You didn't," she said, smiling faintly. "But I'm glad."

And for a second, it almost felt normal. Easy. Like you were still the girl who patched up her stab wounds in a bathroom and whispered "I'm not scared when I'm with you."

But then Gwen asked if you wanted to stay up for tarot readings and Samira announced she was making "grief popcorn" — and Tara suddenly looked very far away again. "I should let you go," she said. "Looks like you've got a whole... thing going on."

You frowned. "No, wait, stay on. I'll kick them out."

Tara shook her head.

"It's fine. I'm just tired."

And then she was gone.

Just like that.

Call ended.

No I love you.

No goodnight.

Just a gray screen and a slow, sinking ache in your chest.

Then, it just got worse.

"I'm just tired, babe," she'd say, voice raspy. "Long day. I'll call you tomorrow."

Tomorrow turned into the weekend. The weekend turned into "shit, sorry, I forgot."

You told yourself it was okay. She had her own life. You couldn't expect everything to stay the same. You were both adjusting. But something shifted in the silence. Something you couldn't name.

You started overanalyzing her texts.

Started noticing how often Chad's name came up. Started wondering why she laughed in his stories but never in your calls.

You visited her once in early October. Took the Amtrak with an overstuffed bag and nerves like static in your chest. It was a surprise. You brought her favorite cold brew, wore her favorite sweater. You imagined the way her face would light up when she saw you.

She answered the door in someone else's hoodie.

It smelled like cologne.

The apartment was buzzing with noise — Mindy was yelling about a horror remake, Chad was tossing popcorn into his mouth like a Labrador, and Tara... Tara was tired. You could see it in her eyes, the way she hugged you like she was checking off a box.

You stayed two nights.

She kissed you once. She slept facing the wall.

By November, you'd memorized what it felt like to fall asleep without her voice in your ear. You'd stopped telling her about your day unless she asked. (She didn't.) You'd stopped sending cute videos you saw on Instagram because she rarely watched them anymore. Your late-night-post-essay-due-date drunken pictures of you just in the Harvard sweatshirt and the pair of black lace panties she loved on you stopped.

You caught yourself wondering what the point of it all was. Of you. Of her. Of trying.

You called her on the anniversary of the attack.

You cried. She didn't.

She said she didn't want to "dwell on it." Which, obviously, you understood. She was the one to get stabbed while you were just the one who found her bloody on her kitchen floor.

She said Chad took her to Coney Island to cheer her up.

She said she'd call you later.

She didn't.

It became a kind of masochism — loving her. You started to feel embarrassed when you mentioned her in conversations with new friends. Like it was obvious you were the only one still in it.

You kept trying anyway.

You remembered what she was like in Woodsboro, when she'd press her forehead to yours and whisper things like "I didn't know I could feel this much without falling apart."

You thought maybe — maybe if you just showed up again, you could remind her of that version of yourselves.

Of the "us" she used to cry over.

The train into Manhattan rattled like a pulse beneath you. Loud and relentless.

You sat pressed against the window with your cheek resting on the glass, watching the East River blur past like a half-forgotten memory. Your duffel bag was jammed under your legs, your phone was dead, and your head ached in that particular way it always did when you hadn't eaten properly in two days. The cold from the window crept through your coat and up your spine, but you didn't move. You didn't want to miss the skyline.

You hadn't seen her in 62 days.

You counted.

You told yourself you weren't counting, but of course you were. That's what people do when they miss someone. They count days. Silences. Excuses. And lately, you'd had too many of all three.

Still—this wasn't some dramatic last-ditch attempt. This was love. A surprise. A grand, spontaneous thing you used to dream about when you were fifteen and scribbling your future into the margins of your AP Lit notebook.

You imagined her opening the door, eyes going wide, smiling so hard she forgot how to speak. You imagined her pulling you in by the collar, kissing you like the wait was unbearable.

You imagined it so clearly it started to feel like a memory.

You got off at Penn Station just before sunset. The city buzzed around you in that way only New York could — like it didn't care who you were, what you were carrying, or why your hands were shaking slightly as you pulled up her address from memory. The air was sharp with early winter. You could taste metal on your tongue.

Brooklyn wasn't far. You'd made this trip before — once, back in September, when things still felt like they were holding together. When she met you at the subway stop in that green jacket you loved, kissed you like she needed you to breathe, and made you pancakes at 1 a.m. even though she didn't know how.

But tonight, you went alone.

No warning. No texts. No "I'm outside :)"

Just your bag, your college sweatshirt, and that familiar pressure in your chest that always showed up when you were about to do something brave or stupid.

Her building looked the same. Beige brick and flaking paint, a crooked buzzer panel and the smell of someone cooking aggressively seasoned lentils on the first floor. The hallway was dim, light flickering above the stairs, the sound of a muffled bass line bleeding through someone's door.

You climbed the steps slowly. Your legs felt heavier than usual. Each floor seemed longer than the last.

You reached her apartment and stood there for a full ten seconds.

Just breathing.

You adjusted your hair. Wiped your hands on your jeans. Told yourself to relax.

Then knocked.

Once.

Twice.

Then you heard it.

A laugh.

Her laugh.

Muffled, but unmistakable. That slightly raspy, breathy little sound she made when something actually got to her. When she wasn't faking it.

You smiled.

And then you waited.

Waited for the sound of her footsteps.

Waited for her to fling the door open, throw her arms around you, gasp "oh my god, you're here."

But nothing happened.

Another laugh — and a second voice. Deep. Familiar.

Chad.

You knocked again. A little louder.

A beat.

Then the doorknob turned.

And there she was.

Her face was flushed from laughing. Hair pulled back into a loose bun, a smudge of eyeliner under one eye like she'd rubbed it in the middle of a joke. She was wearing a hoodie. Too big to be hers. You recognized it instantly.

She froze when she saw you.

And something flickered behind her eyes — not joy. Not even shock.

Panic?

"Y/N?"

Her voice cracked on your name. Like she wasn't sure it was really you.

"Hi," you said, heart thudding. "Surprise."

There was a pause. Too long. Like she had to recalibrate her entire brain to process what she was looking at.

You smiled, nervous. "I couldn't stay away anymore. Midterms ended yesterday. I took the train."

Her mouth opened. Then closed again.

You watched the confusion settle into something else — a practiced calm. Controlled. Neutral.

She stepped aside.

"Oh. Uh... come in."

Not come here.

Not I missed you.

Just... come in.

And that's when the noise behind her hit you fully.

Voices. Laughter. The rustle of blankets. The glow of a paused TV.

You stepped through the doorway and into the warmth.

And stopped.

Chad was on the couch, controller in his lap, half-turned toward the door like he'd already seen you coming. Mindy was curled up in the bean bag, legs tucked under her, phone glowing in her hand. Anika waved weakly from the kitchen. There were empty beer bottles on the coffee table. Two mugs of something warm.

It wasn't a party.

But it was close.

It was a night in.

And she hadn't told you.

She hadn't said, I'm busy tonight.

She said she was tired. Ready for an early night.

Because she hadn't expected you to come.

Because maybe she hadn't wanted you to.

And yet, here you were — still smiling like an idiot. Still holding your bag like you didn't already know.

Still pretending you didn't notice the way she didn't hug you.

"Hey," Chad said, nodding like you were a regular delivery guy, not the girlfriend who hadn't been here in weeks. "Didn't know you were visiting."

You swallowed. "Yeah. I wanted to surprise her."

Mindy raised an eyebrow. "Well... you certainly did."

No one laughed.

Tara cleared her throat and sat down — not beside Chad, not exactly, but close enough to make your stomach churn. Her arms folded tightly over her chest.

"We were just watching something," she said quickly, gesturing to the screen. "You can sit if you want."

You sat.

Of course you sat.

In the far corner of the couch. Bag still in your lap. Sweatshirt still on. Like a guest.

Like a stranger.

And the worst part?

You told yourself it was fine.

Because you were tired.

Because you loved her.

Because you'd made it this far.

Because if you let yourself really feel what this was turning into — you might not be able to crawl back out of it.

So, you stayed.

Because what else could you do?

You sat stiffly on the far end of the couch, half-perched like a piece of misplaced furniture, still clutching your bag like it was armor. No one told you to relax. No one offered to take your sweatshirt that was obviously overdressed for the warmth of the living room. You waited for her to shift closer. She didn't.

The movie started again. Something loud and gory, the kind of film she used to tease you for squinting through. She used to tuck herself under your arm during the bad parts, fingers curled into your hoodie, whispering things like "okay that part was kinda hot actually" when someone got their arm chopped off.

But tonight she sat three feet away, laughing too loud at Chad's dumb commentary, chewing her nails like nothing was wrong.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket.

Once. Twice. Then a steady stream.

You didn't have to look to know who it was.

HARVARD GAYS 💌 — the groupchat.

Samira:

are you THERE???

what's happening is she like sobbing in your arms rn or what

Gwen:

PICS OR IT DIDN'T HAPPEN

don't make us go all poetically unhinged for you

Alex:

if she didn't jump into your arms like a war widow I'm gonna be sick

Samira:

y/n 👁👁

You let the screen fade to black.

Didn't answer.

Your chest buzzed with something sticky and slow, like syrup over a wound. You could almost hear your own heartbeat in your throat — that tight, pulsing ache that came whenever you forced yourself to stay in situations that didn't love you back.

It didn’t get any better. The feeling in your gut, your mind, your heart, your soul. It didn't help that she didn’t touch you once.

Not even a hand on your knee. Not a passing brush of fingers. You watched her laugh at Chad's jokes and lean her chin into her hand and mouth the words to some stupid commercial on Hulu and all you could think was—

This isn't the girl who used to fall asleep on your chest.

The girl who cried when you left for college.

The girl who wrote you a letter the night before you moved into your dorm. A real one — with her messy handwriting and a pressed flower between the pages.

The girl who was obsessed with you - always wanting you underneath her in her bed. In her clothes. In her hands.

The girl who said you're my safe place.

But this girl sitting beside you?

This one wouldn't even meet your eyes.

By the time the movie ended, your bones ached from how still you'd been.

Tara stood up and stretched, then mumbled something about getting ready for bed. She didn't look at you when she said it. Didn't invite you to come with her.

You followed anyway.

It felt pathetic.

It was pathetic.

But you followed her down the hallway, past the peeling paint and the poster of Jennifer's Body Mindy taped to the wall and the echo of Chad's voice yelling something behind you. You tried not to think about how different this walk was from the last time — how you used to race each other down the hallway, out of breath and laughing and already half-undressed before the bedroom door even closed.

Now it was just footsteps.

Hers first.

Yours echoing after.

Her room was small.

She clicked on the lamp and stepped out of her hoodie. You tried not to notice how she didn't offer it to you. How she folded it and set it neatly on the chair instead, like it meant something.

You sat on the edge of the bed.

She rummaged in a drawer. Pulled out pajamas. A pair of soft shorts and a worn t-shirt. Not yours. Not anything you recognized. She changed with her back to you, and you stared at the cracks in the ceiling to give her privacy.

She climbed into bed without a word.

Didn't ask if you were coming.

Didn't ask anything.

You stood for a second too long, waiting for her to say something. Anything. A glance. An invitation.

Nothing came.

So you slipped off your jeans, peeled off your socks, and eased in beside her.

She didn't reach for you.

She didn't turn toward you.

She just laid there.

Like sleep was something she owed to someone else.

Throughout the night, you stayed very still.

So still your back started to cramp. So still your throat felt like it might close.

You thought about texting Samira. About typing something's wrong, and waiting for her to send a voice note, one of those soothing ones with sleepy affirmations and stupid jokes and a promise to egg your ex's dorm if things went south.

But you didn't.

Because that would mean admitting it.

Admitting that this trip — this grand romantic gesture — wasn't going the way it was supposed to.

That you were losing her.

That maybe, somehow, without you even realizing it… You already had.

Like always, you didn't sleep.

Not really.

Your eyes stayed closed, your breathing even. But your body never softened the way it used to in her bed. You laid perfectly still, listening to the faint sounds of the city outside — the occasional honk, the distant thrum of a train, the rhythmic creak of the radiator. You used to find it soothing. Now, it just felt like a countdown.

You felt her shift beside you. Not dramatically. Not the exaggerated toss of someone trying to fall asleep — more like the quiet, guilty stir of someone who never planned to.

Her breath caught. Just for a second. You could feel it.

She thought you were asleep.

And maybe that was the only reason she whispered, "Shit," under her breath. Like the night was closing in on her too.

You opened your eyes.

The lamp was still off, but a thin strip of light from the hallway cracked through the door and cast a sharp outline of her back. She was sitting up now, legs pulled to her chest, arms wrapped around her knees like a kid.

"Tara?" you said, voice hoarse, small.

She didn't answer right away. Just tilted her chin toward you, not all the way.

"I didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't.”

A pause.

Then: "Couldn't sleep?"

Another pause.

She nodded.

You sat up slowly, the comforter falling from your shoulders. The bed was still warm beneath you, but your skin was starting to go cold.

"Tara," you said again. This time with more weight. "Talk to me."

Her eyes closed like the sentence physically hurt.

"There's nothing to talk about."

"That's a lie."

You said it gently. Not like an accusation — more like a confession.

She inhaled. Sharp. Controlled. Like she was bracing herself.

You stared at her, really stared, and realized how small she looked in that moment. Not physically — emotionally. Like she was pulling every piece of herself inward, trying to disappear inside her own silence.

"I feel like I don't know you anymore," you said. Quiet. Not a threat. Just a truth you'd been trying to avoid for weeks.

Tara didn't flinch. But she didn't deny it either.

"You've barely looked at me since I got here."

Still nothing.

You reached for her hand — tentative, slow — and she let you hold it. But it was limp. Heavy. Not how it used to be. Not the way she used to need you.

You squeezed anyway.

"I'm not mad," you whispered. "I just... I need you to be honest with me. Please."

Her thumb twitched against your palm.

And finally, finally, she turned toward you.

Her voice was so soft it nearly disappeared.

"I didn't think you'd actually come."

That shattered something in you.

You tried to keep your voice steady. "Why wouldn't I?"

She looked at you like the answer should've been obvious. "You're at Harvard. You're... happy. You have this whole new world."

"So do you."

"No, I have this," she said, gesturing vaguely toward the apartment. "I have late-night movies and dumb jokes and group projects with people I barely know. I have Chad."

Your mouth went dry.

The name hit like a slap. Not because she said it with affection. But because she said it instead of you.

"You could've told me you were struggling," you said. "You could've called."

"I didn't want to ruin it."

"Ruin what?"

Her voice cracked: "You. Everything you're building."

You wanted to scream. Shake her. Tell her that she was never a distraction. That she was part of the dream. That every hard night at Harvard still ended with you whispering her name into your pillow like a prayer.

Instead, you said: "Tara, you don't have to protect me from your sadness.”

"I wasn't protecting you," she said. "I was hiding."

Silence.

You stared at her. Your Tara. Or the girl who used to be.

"I'm still here," you said. "Even now."

And for a second — just a flicker — she looked like she might believe you.

But then her gaze dropped to your hands, still loosely clasped.

And she said: "I don't know if that's enough anymore."

—————

You woke up cold.

The kind of cold that doesn't make sense at first — the kind that feels like it came from inside you. Like it had been building overnight, slow and secretive, seeping through your bones while you pretended everything was okay.

The bed beside you was empty.

Her side: cold. Sheets slightly wrinkled. Pillow still shaped like her head had been there hours ago. She didn't just get up. She'd been up. Long enough for the impression to start fading.

You sat up slowly. Blinked against the light filtering through the cheap blinds. The room looked almost exactly the same as it had last night. Except now, it was unbearable.

Your throat was dry. Your heart felt like it was bruising itself against your ribs.

Still, you gave her the benefit of the doubt.

Maybe she ran out for coffee. Maybe she went to the bathroom. Maybe she—

—maybe she didn't want to be there when you woke up.

You tried not to think that.

You tried not to think anything at all.

You got dressed without turning the light on. Pulled your jeans on quietly. Tugged your sweater over your head like you didn't want to disturb ghosts. You didn't brush your hair. Didn't fix your face.

You didn't want to see yourself.

When you stepped out into the kitchen, the apartment was alive in that half-awake kind of way — music playing low from someone's phone, the scent of cheap coffee burning slightly in the pot, a pan on the stove with something scrambled and overcooked inside it.

Chad was at the counter. Shirtless. Making eggs.

Mindy sat cross-legged on the couch, phone in hand, thumbing through something with a blank expression.

Anika leaned against the wall, sipping from a chipped mug, eyes flicking up when you entered.

No one said anything at first.

You could feel it.

The thing in the air.

The quiet kind of discomfort that stretches across a room like a spiderweb. No one wants to touch it. No one wants to be the first to speak.

"Morning," you offered, voice raw from not talking.

"Hey," Anika replied, like someone cautiously approaching a dog they don't trust not to bite.

Chad gave a small nod. "Tara ran out. Said she had class."

You stood there.

Still.

"I thought she had Fridays off."

Chad shrugged. "Maybe she picked up a makeup lab?"

Mindy didn't look up.

She didn't say anything.

That's when it hit you.

Not all at once — not like a gunshot or a scream.

More like drowning. Like realizing, slowly and too late, that you're already underwater.

They knew.

Not everything, maybe. Not the details.

But they knew something.

And none of them would meet your eyes.

You sat down at the tiny kitchen table. Didn't ask. Just sat. Folded your hands together and stared at the chipped tile on the counter, willing yourself not to cry.

You didn't belong here.

Not anymore.

This wasn't your place. This wasn't your girl. Not the way she used to be. Not the way you still were.

You felt your phone buzz in your back pocket.

Once.

Twice.

Then again.

You didn't check it.

You knew who it was.

Samira. Gwen. Alex.

Asking for updates.

Sending jokes.

Probably picturing you wrapped up in Tara's arms, happy and safe and home.

And you couldn't bear to tell them the truth.

That she didn't stay.

That she left before you could ask her to.

That maybe this entire time — while you were holding your breath in Massachusetts, counting the days, promising yourself this would all be worth it —

She was already letting you go.

————

She came back around three.

Sunlight was bleeding through the blinds in that slanted, golden way that made everything feel too soft for how sharp the ache in your chest was becoming. You'd been sitting on the edge of her bed since noon, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, bag zipped tight and ready by your feet. It had started to feel like you weren't even waiting anymore — just sitting with the loss.

When you heard the key turn, your body stiffened.

Not with relief.

With resignation.

The door creaked open. You listened to her boots hit the floor, the scuff of her tote bag against the wall. She was humming. Humming.

Like nothing was wrong.

She walked into her room half-distracted, pulling her phone from her pocket. She didn't see you until she was already inside.

"Oh," she said, nearly dropping her coffee. "You're still here."

You blinked up at her slowly. "Of course I am."

The way she stood there — surprised but not sorry — made something nauseating bloom behind your ribs.

"I thought..." she trailed off. "I figured you'd be gone by now."

"Yeah," you said flatly. "So did everyone else."

Tara's expression faltered. She set her coffee down and crossed her arms. Defensive. Tired. Distant in a way you were starting to recognize as permanent.

She nodded at your bag. "You're leaving?"

You stood. Slowly. Shoulders heavy, breath uneven.

"I don't think I ever really arrived."

That's when she looked at you. Really looked.

There were bags under her eyes, purpled and sunken from sleepless nights. Her lips were chapped. Her posture curled inward like she was trying to become smaller — less real. She looked like a person unraveling quietly. Like someone who'd long since forgotten how to ask for help.

"I didn't mean to hurt you," she said.

And god, you wished she had. You wished it had been intentional. Because at least then you could be angry instead of just... broken.

You shook your head, voice tight. "But you did, you stopped choosing me.”

It came out quiet, but it landed like a bomb. Not because of how loud it was, but because of how true it was. The kind of truth that makes people flinch. And she did. Not dramatically — not like someone slapped her — just a blink, a recoil. A subtle, almost imperceptible jerk of her chin like her body had finally caught up with the thing she'd been pretending wasn't real.

"You say you love me," you continued, voice rising now, shaking in that way that meant you were either going to cry or break something. "You say you didn't mean to hurt me. But you didn't fight for me either. You didn't reach. You didn't try. You let me show up here with hope in my chest like an idiot while you've been slipping further away every single day and letting him fill in the blanks."

Tara's arms crossed tighter over her chest, like she was trying to contain herself — or maybe cage something in. Her eyes were glassy but hard, like she was tired of being accused of something she didn't mean to do. But meaning didn't matter anymore. Intentions didn't keep people warm at night.

"I told you," she snapped. "It's not about Chad. It's not like that."

"Then what is it like?" you shot back. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks a lot like you replaced me with convenience."

Her expression cracked, sharp and sudden. "Fuck you."

You blinked, stunned for just a second.

"Fuck me?"

"Yes, you," she said, stepping forward, voice trembling with rage and heartbreak tangled together. "You come here and act like I'm the villain for needing someone when you're not around. You say I stopped trying, but when was the last time you asked if I was okay? When was the last time you noticed I was falling apart and didn't just tell me I'd be fine?"

You opened your mouth to respond, but she cut you off.

"You send pictures of your weird little study group and talk about how seen you feel and how you've finally found your people. And that's good. I'm happy for you. But you talk about it like I'm not one of them anymore. Like the version of you that loved me is someone you already buried back in Woodsboro."

"That's not true," you breathed. But it was weak. Paper thin.

"Isn't it?" she said, voice cracking now. "You say I stopped calling, but half the time when I tried, you were too busy or too tired or in some deep, intellectual spiral with Gwen or Alex or whatever the fuck. You outgrew me. I just didn't realize it until I was watching you shine from across a screen like I didn't even belong in your orbit anymore."

The room felt too small. Too hot. You wanted to scream or run or throw something just to make the pressure in your chest stop.

You stepped closer, teeth clenched.

"You think I outgrew you? I built everything around you, Tara. I made space for you everywhere. I wrote you into every story, every plan, every thought about my future. You were the constant I was holding onto, even while everything else felt like it was swallowing me whole."

Her breath hitched.

"I was drowning too," you whispered. "But I kept calling out for you."

Tears welled in her eyes. She blinked them back fast, stubborn.

"You weren't supposed to need me," she said, voice suddenly small. "You were supposed to be the one who made it out."

"And you were supposed to be the one I came home to."

Your voice wasn't quiet when you said it this time. It wasn't trembling. It was full. Solid. Final. It echoed through the small bedroom like a bell toll — sharp and sickening and absolutely true. And Tara didn't move. Didn't deny it. She just stood there, arms still crossed over her chest, mouth parted like she might say something, but nothing came out. She just stared at you with that same hollow, stunned expression — the kind people make when they realize the building is already on fire, and it's far too late to save anything inside.

And that was what pushed you over the edge.

"Oh my God," you snapped, stepping back, your hand running down your face like you could wipe the pain off your skin. "You're not even gonna try, are you? I came here, Tara. I showed up. I left everything I had going for me to be here with you, and you're just gonna stand there and let me fall apart in front of you like it doesn't fucking matter?"

Her jaw tightened. "You think it's that simple?"

You laughed — sharp, bitter, like broken glass under bare feet. "It was simple. Until you made it complicated."

"I never asked you to come," she said, and there was venom in it now, like she was trying to hurt you first. "You showed up without warning, expecting me to—what? Drop everything and wrap my arms around you like it's still high school?"

"I showed up," you hissed, "because I missed you. Because you wouldn't answer my calls and I started to wonder if maybe something was wrong—and guess what? I was right."

Tara's voice rose, suddenly sharp. "You think I don't miss you?"

"You have a hell of a way of showing it."

"You think I'm not trying?" she yelled. "Do you have any fucking idea what it feels like to sit in this apartment every night, surrounded by people who only know the broken pieces of me and pretend that's all there ever was? You think Chad knows me? You think I want him?"

"Then why does it look like you do?" you screamed back. "Why did I walk into your space and feel like a guest in my own relationship?!"

Tara shook her head but didn’t respond, her mouth opening and closing while she tried to find a word, a phrase, a sentence - anything, to say back to you.

You felt the tears slide down your cheeks, you never cried. “I miss my caring girlfriend, Tara. The one who used to send me letters every two weeks with flowers and small drawings between the words. The girlfriend I made plans to have a future, a family, a life with!”

"I don't think that version of me exists anymore," she said.

And for a moment — a single, frozen heartbeat — the entire room went quiet. Like even the walls were waiting to see if you'd break.

You didn't. Not right away.

You just stood there, blinking at her like you couldn't quite comprehend the weight of what she'd just said. Like you were waiting for the punchline.

But it never came.

Just her. Just that look on her face — exhausted, hollow, wrecked in all the wrong ways. Like she wasn't sorry enough to take it back. Just sorry enough to say it.

And that's when something inside you snapped.

"You don't think that version of you exists?" you repeated, slowly, voice rising with every syllable. "Then what the fuck have I been holding on to, Tara? What the hell have I been fighting for all this time?"

"I never asked you to fight," she bit back, voice sharp now, ugly.

"No," you spat. "You just let me."

You were shaking — full-body shaking — like your grief was trying to claw its way out of your skin. You took a step toward her, not to threaten, but because standing still hurt too much. "You let me call. Let me text. Let me write letters. You let me lie awake at 2 a.m. wondering if you were okay, if you still loved me, if I'd done something wrong. You let me keep giving when you knew you'd already checked out."

"I didn't know!" she snapped, stepping forward now too, fists clenched at her sides. "I didn't know what the hell I was doing! I was scared and numb and just trying to survive and every time I looked at my phone and saw your name I felt like I was drowning in all the ways I was failing you."

"You weren't failing me," you shouted. "You were leaving me!"

Tara's face twisted. "I didn't know how to be with you and be broken at the same time."

"And I didn't know how to be without you," you said, and it came out a sob. Not a scream. Not even a sentence. Just a raw, trembling ache you couldn't keep down any longer. "But I tried. I tried so hard. I tried when you went quiet, and when your texts got short, and when you started saying Chad's name more than mine. I tried when it felt like I was talking to a version of you that had already decided I was part of a different life. One you were trying to forget."

She flinched at that.

You kept going, because there was no turning back now.

"You think I'm thriving, don't you? That because I have people and lectures and some bullshit little academic glow-up, I don't need you anymore? That I forgot what it felt like to kiss you with blood still on your shirt? That I stopped waking up in the middle of the night wanting to hear your voice just so I didn't fall apart?"

"I didn't want to be your trauma!" she shouted suddenly, like the words had been rotting inside her for months. "I didn't want to be the thing that held you back! I didn't want to be the reason you couldn't fucking breathe."

"And now you're not," you whispered. "Now I'm just the girl you forgot to say goodbye to."

Tara's face collapsed.

But you weren't done.

"Do you have any idea how humiliating it felt to walk into your apartment and realize everyone knew before I did? That your friends had already seen you pull away and just let me show up like some lovesick idiot begging for scraps? That they watched me sit on your couch while you laughed at Chad's fucking jokes like I was invisible?"

Her mouth opened. Her voice cracked. "It wasn't—"

"I loved you more than anything," you said, stepping back, chest heaving. "And you let me come here thinking we were still us."

"I didn't know how to tell you," she said, breathless.

"You didn't even try."

You said it like it was the last thing you'd ever say to her.

And maybe it was.

#tara carpenter x reader #tara carpenter #scream #scream 5 #scream 6 #aesthetic #fiction #fanfic #jenna ortega #wlw #jenna ortega x reader #netflix wednesday #netflix #angst

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idkdudethisisntpermanent · 8 months ago

Text

Keep Your Eyes on Me - pt.ii

tara carpenter x female reader

part i | part ii

summary: Tara begins to question her own emotions, especially when the thought of losing Y/n's attention unexpectedly stirs something deeper.

word count: 5.3k

warnings: slight violence

————

"Is Y/n dying?" Mindy asks with genuine curiosity looking back at you and Tara. "What the fuck is wrong with her face?"

The five of you had just gotten off the subway and exited the station, but your mind was still stuck a few moments behind. Tara had wrapped her arm around yours and spoken the five words that made your heart skip a beat: Keep your eyes on me.

Since then, you hadn’t been able to function. Stiff as a board, your brain was in a daze, replaying those words over and over. Now, you were walking aimlessly, arm-in-arm with Tara, trailing behind Mindy, Chad, and Sam, who were a good distance ahead.

"I think it might have something to do with Tara," Chad chimes in, glancing back at you both.

That comment got Sam's attention and she finally turned to see what was happening. "Yikes she does look—hold on why would Tara be responsible for whatever is going on with Y/n's face?" She asks with a raised brow, looking at the twins genuinely confused.

"Look at her arm," Chad says, pointing at Tara. "It’s wrapped around Y/n’s."

"She's looking up at her like Y/n put the stars in the sky," Mindy laughs.

Sam squints her eyes still confused. "So? Tara's finally warming up to Y/n. I spoke to her a few weeks ago about how Y/n is good for her."

"Her arm is around Y/n's," Chad states again with more emphasis.

"I hold my friends by their arm all the time," Sam shrugs like it's no big deal.

"Oh honey... did you say friends?" Mindy says gently wrapping her arm around Sam's shoulders like she was trying to soften the blow. "You know Y/n has the hots for your sister right?"

Sam wasn't stupid. There was instances in the last six months where the thought had crossed her mind. The way you always glanced at Tara after one of Mindy’s outrageous jokes, just to see her reaction. The way you went silent every time Tara got too close. The way your cheeks flushed crimson whenever Tara did something particularly sweet or kind.

Sam sighs. Deep down, she knew. The way you were attentive to Tara wasn’t just friendly—it was something more.

When she’d encouraged Tara to give you a chance, it wasn’t about dating—it was about letting someone in, letting someone care for her. But now, watching you and Tara in this new light, the possibility of her little sister entering her first relationship suddenly felt real.

That’s what unnerved her. Not you, specifically. She liked you. And if anyone was going to date Tara, she was glad it would be you.

"Don’t worry, Sam," Chad says, trying to reassure her. "Y/n’s a total dork. She can’t even admit to herself that she likes Tara. She just genuinely cares about her, even if she only gets to do that as a friend."

"Dude," Mindy cuts in, laughing so hard she’s clutching her stomach, "you literally helped Y/n get into your sister’s pants!"

“You gave Y/n first class tickets to take your sister to Pound town!” she adds in between laughs.

Chad groans, dragging a hand down his face. "Why are you like this?"

Sam felt her blood run cold. She changed her mind—maybe she did have a problem with you.

————

Meanwhile, about twenty steps behind the group, the younger Carpenter sister was freaking out for a completely different reason.

Sure, she hadn’t expected to enjoy the feeling of her hand resting on your bicep this much. That was its own problem. But what was really throwing her off was the deafening silence. Why weren’t you saying anything?

She’d called your name a few times now, but you hadn’t so much as blinked in response. She considered taking her arm away. Maybe she’d overstepped. It had been a bold move—not just saying what she did but closing the space between you two like this.

It was a stark contrast from what's the usual between you two—her throwing violent insults your way, half the time just to see how you’d react.

Okay maybe it makes sense why you weren't responding. Still, was it too much to ask for a little reaction?

Fearing she’d made you uncomfortable, Tara began to pull her arm away.

"No! Wait—" you blurt out, snapping out of your daze at the loss of contact. The words hang in the air, and the realization of what you just said slaps you in the face. Your face flushes red. "I mean—wait, not no! You can keep your hands to yourself if you want!" you stammer, awkwardly backpedaling as you take a step closer to the road to create a distance between you two.

She just told you that you can keep your eyes on her and you told her she can keep her hands to herself.

In that moment, you’d honestly prefer to be hit by a car than embarrass yourself any further in front of Tara.

You brace yourself, expecting her to roll her eyes, to call you an imbecile, to tell you to get over yourself. Maybe she’d point out that she doesn’t need you to give her permission to keep her hands to herself—that she has full autonomy. Or worse, she’d say something cutting, like how she’d never touch you in a million years, even though she was the one who had grabbed your arm in the first place.

But instead, she laughs.

And it’s not a mean laugh. It’s soft, warm, and unexpectedly genuine, catching you completely off guard.

Not that you were complaining, but

What the fuck is she doing?

————

"What the fuck am I doing?" Tara mumbles to herself.

“That’s what I want to know,” Mindy fires back with a teasing smirk, leaning closer to Tara who was seated across her on the table.

Fortunately for you, soon after you heard the melodic sound of Tara’s laugh that made your brain short-circuit, the bar you were all heading to came into view giving you the perfect excuse not to dwell on it—or, more accurately, to avoid melting into a puddle of feelings. For the first time ever, Tara had laughed because of something you did, and the thought alone made your heart do a happy little somersault.

Upon entering the dive bar, you excused yourself to go to the bathroom while the rest of the group found a table to be seated at. Thankfully, the bathroom was empty, so you were able to think out loud.

“What even is my life right now?” you muttered to yourself as you leaned over the sink with a goofy smile. Catching your reflection in the mirror, your face was beet fucking red. Oh no. Did Tara notice how red you were? You groaned, covering your face with your hands.

How did things change so fast? How had it gone from her hating your guts, calling you Ghostface at every opportunity, and throwing insults your way—barely even sparing you a glance—to this?

Mindy had told you to stop chasing Tara, to ignore her, to let her come to you. You’d managed to stick to that advice for maybe an hour, and somehow, this was where it got you.

Not that you were complaining—oh, you definitely weren’t—but wow, this was a lot to handle. Your heart felt like it might burst from how warm and fluttery it was. Tara was kind of adorable… and terrifying. Mostly adorable. Okay, maybe all adorable.

"Fuck, this girl is going to be the death of me."

————

Outside, Mindy, Chad, and Tara stayed at the table while Sam headed to the bar to scope out the scene.

"Sooo… did I just see you holding Y/n’s arm?" Mindy asked, probing Tara for more answers.

Tara groaned dramatically before dropping her head onto the table with a quiet thud. "Yes," she mumbled, her voice muffled against the surface.

"What the hell happened in the two weeks we didn't hang?" Chad questions. "You couldn't stand her last time we hung out. And you're pulling the Carpenter rizz?"

"I don’t know!" Tara whined, her words still muffled by the table." Sam talked to me okay? And I guess I was being harsh to Y/n."

"Uh-huh, sure," Mindy replied, her grin widening. "But that still doesn’t explain why you were holding her arm. That’s a huge leap from ‘I hate Y/n, she’s totally Ghostface,’ to... this." Mindy explained, clearly enjoying the situation.

"Unless," Chad cut in, his grin matching Mindy’s as he wiggled his eyebrows, "there was always some hidden feelings under your 'supposed' hatred for her..."

Tara’s face shot up from the table, bright red as she glared at them. "There are no hidden feelings!"

Mindy gasped, clutching her chest like she’d uncovered a scandal. "Oh my God, there totally is! Admit it, Tara��you’ve been waiting for this moment for a long time!"

"Absolutely not!" Tara protested, her voice climbing an octave.

"You have," Chad teased, leaning closer with a conspiratorial whisper. "And you loved it."

Tara groaned again, hiding her face in her hands, as Mindy and Chad erupted into laughter.

"Shut up!" Tara muttered, but the small smile tugging at the corners of her lips betrayed her completely. She sighed, trying to compose herself. "I don't like her like that, okay? She was just ignoring me today, and... I guess it sucked not having her care about me like she usually does," she mumbled, hoping the explanation would get the twins off her back.

"Yeah, that makes sense," Mindy replied casually to Tara’s surprise. Well, that was easy.

But then Mindy smirked, leaning back in her chair. "So, it shouldn’t bother you that Y/n’s getting hit on at the bar right now, huh?"

Tara froze. "What?" she snapped, whipping her head around so fast it was a miracle she didn’t pull something. Her eyes darted frantically toward the bar. "Where is she?"

The brunette turned back around so Mindy could answer her, and that’s when she realized—she’d walked right into her trap.

Mindy burst into laughter, slapping the table. "Oh my God, you’re so obvious!"

Tara frowned and crossed her arms as Chad joined in on the laughter, both of them clearly enjoying how flustered she’d become.

————

You finally leave the bathroom once you feel like you can function like a normal human being again. It doesn’t take long to spot your friends at their table—sometimes, you swear you have a built-in Tara radar, always able to sense exactly where she is.

As you make your way over, your eyes are drawn to her, bathed in the soft red glow of the bar lights. She looks stunning, her features highlighted by the warm hue. She’s speaking animatedly to the twins, her hands flying up to cover her face in between bursts of conversation, a mix of shyness and excitement that makes her even more captivating.

Sometimes you wish you weren't the awkward human you were, and met Tara in better circumstances. A world where Ghostface didn't exist as well. Maybe then—maybe then you two could be something?

Your heart leapt at the thought. And you felt almost guilty for thinking the way you do. You never wanted it to seem like you only treated Tara with kindness because you had some sort of ulterior motive. It made you feel guilty. But it was getting difficult denying it any further. Maybe it was seeing her in this setting, so relaxed, so beautiful—maybe it was her touch and words earlier that sealed your fate.

But all you wanted right now was to slide into that booth beside her, feel her hand on your arm again, and be the person she could lean on.

You really liked Tara.

And you also really needed a drink.

————

"Okay, hold on—help me out here," Mindy says, holding her hands up. "If you do have some kind of interest in her, then why, and I say this with love, were you such a massive dick to her?"

Tara groans, letting her head drop back dramatically against the booth. "I wasn’t trying to be! It just... happened," she mumbles, rubbing her hands over her face, as if she could wipe away the embarrassment. "I don’t know, okay? She just gets under my skin. She’s so infuriatingly... nice. And smug. And—"

"Hot?" Chad offers with a teasing grin, earning a glare from Tara.

"I wasn’t going to say that!" Tara snaps defensively, though the red creeping up her neck betrays her.

Mindy snorts. "Oh, sure. That’s why you grabbed her arm like she was the last person on Earth. Real subtle Carpenter."

Tara exhales hard, crossing her arms and slouching down in her seat. "I didn’t plan that, okay? She was ignoring me. I didn’t like it. And I panicked."

Chad raises an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair with that smug big-brother energy. "Sooo, you panicked and held her arm? You panic-flirted?"

"I did not panic-flirt!" Tara protests, sitting up straighter, her voice pitching higher with frustration.

"You so panic-flirted," Mindy grins, leaning closer. "Face it, T. You’ve got it bad. I mean, you did just admit you didn’t like her ignoring you. That’s classic 'please-pay-attention-to-me' behavior."

Tara opens her mouth to argue, but freezes. She can’t deny that part—because it’s true. Too true. She didn’t like the way you’d suddenly stopped caring, stopped looking her way like you always did. It left her feeling... off-balance.

"Fine," she mutters, looking away as her fingers trace patterns on the table. "Maybe I didn’t hate it when she cared."

Chad and Mindy exchange a glance before turning back to her with matching smirks.

"Uh-huh," Mindy drawls. "And maybe you didn’t hate holding her arm."

Tara groans again, sinking lower into the booth like she could disappear into the cushions. "I really need you both to shut up right now."

"Why am I getting interrogated? And more importantly, where are the drinks? Sam? Y/n?"

"Wouldn't you like to know."

————

You weave your way through the crowd, finally making it to the bar, where you flag down the bartender and order a drink—something strong to calm the storm brewing inside of you. Taking a seat, you take a deep breath, letting the hum of the bar settle around you.

"Another round," a familiar voice says beside you, and you turn your head to find Sam, casually gesturing for the bartender to line up several drinks. You blink, surprised.

"Sam?" you ask, brow furrowing. "What are you doing?"

Sam doesn’t look at you as she responds, eyes focused ahead, her tone completely serious. “Mourning.”

You stare at her, processing. “Mourning?” you repeat, confused. “Who… who died?”

Sam finally turns to you, expression deadpan. “My baby sister.”

You freeze, mouth opening slightly as your brain short-circuits. “Tara? Tara died?” you ask, voice rising in disbelief as you whip your head toward the booth where Tara is very clearly alive and animated, still talking to the twins.

Sam sighs dramatically, shaking her head. “Not literally. Spiritually. She’s about to get into her first relationship.”

Your face contorts into the human equivalent of the surprised Pikachu meme. “Her what now?”

Sam gives you a look, like you should already know. “Oh, don’t play dumb. You’re the relationship.”

You nearly choke on your drink, sputtering. “Me?!”

“Yes, you,” Sam replies matter-of-factly, grabbing one of the drinks the bartender sets down but not leaving just yet. She leans against the bar, eyeing you like she’s assessing your soul. “And don’t make that face. You’re the one she’s been all smiley and weird about lately.”

You blink at her, utterly lost. “Smile-y? Weird? What—Tara doesn’t even like me like that.”

Sam raises an eyebrow. “Oh, really?”

“Yes, really,” you insist, though your voice wavers slightly.

Sam just smirks, sipping one of the drinks slowly. “You’re even worse at lying than you are at hiding how red your face is right now.”

Your hand flies to your cheek like you can stop the blush burning there. “It’s the bar lights!” you blurt defensively. “They’re red. They make everything red.”

"But I'm not lying I swear! She hates me remember? I'm supposedly Ghostface?" You ramble, trying to jog Sam's memory, because what in the world is she talking about. Tara likes you?

Sam chuckles under her breath, shaking her head. “You’re a mess.”

“Thanks,” you mutter, sinking further into yourself before glancing up at her. “But seriously… what do you mean me? I thought you were mourning because of some jerk she’s into—”

“Oh, I still think you’re a jerk,” Sam interrupts, though there’s a teasing glint in her eye now. “But you’re a tolerable one.”

You blink again, confused. “I’m… tolerable?”

“For now,” Sam confirms, narrowing her eyes at you in a way that makes you feel like you’re back in high school, being questioned by a teacher. “But listen to me, Y/n—I don’t care how flustered you get or how much you like her, I’m watching you. If you so much as make her frown, I’ll know. You’ll regret it.”

The seriousness of her tone makes you sit up a little straighter, but there’s still something soft in the way she says it—like, beneath the overprotective big-sister act, Sam really does care.

“I wouldn’t do that,” you say quietly, surprising even yourself with how genuine you sound. “I’d never hurt her. Ever.”

Sam studies you for a long moment, like she’s trying to read the truth straight from your eyes. Finally, she gives a small nod, satisfied. “Good. Because she deserves someone who looks at her like she’s the best thing to ever happen to them.”

Your heart stutters at her words, and you look down at your drink, trying not to smile too obviously. “I already do,” you admit softly, almost to yourself.

Sam pauses, her expression softening ever so slightly. “Yeah. That’s what worries me,” she mutters, more to herself than to you, but before you can ask what she means, she straightens up. “Now come on. I’m not carrying all these drinks by myself.”

You blink up at her, still a little dazed by the conversation, but you quickly grab a couple of glasses and stand up to follow Sam back toward the table.

But as you rose, the sudden sound of shattering glass and the murmur of rising voices pull your attention toward the commotion. A crowd begins to form in the center of the bar, the tension thickening with every heated word exchanged. It’s only when the circle shifts slightly that you spot her—Tara, her small frame squared off against a guy who looks a little too angry for the situation, and a girl glaring daggers at her.

You and Sam exchange a glance before rushing over, the protective instinct in both of you kicking in instantly.

“Look, I said I’d buy you another drink,” Tara says, her tone calm but laced with frustration.

“Yeah, well, maybe watch where you’re going next time dumbass,” the guy snaps, his voice dripping with condescension.

“Okay then maybe don’t stand in the middle of the fucking bar like a human traffic cone,” Tara bites back, her words sharper than you’ve ever heard from her.

The guy’s girlfriend steps in, practically seething. “Who do you think you are? Bumping into him like a slut and then acting like it’s his fault? God, you’re so full of yourself!”

Tara rolls her eyes. “Trust me, I do not want your man. This isn’t that deep.”

The guy snickers, leaning closer to Tara. “Yeah, right. With that attitude? You’d be lucky if anyone wanted you.”

You feel your chest tighten with anger, but you force yourself to take a deep breath. You step forward, hands up in a gesture of peace, trying your best not to escalate things.

“Hey, let’s all just calm down,” you say, your voice cracking slightly under the pressure. “I’ll get you a drink, okay? On me. No big deal.”

The guy turns to you, sizing you up before sneering. “Who the hell are you? Her little lapdog?”

That stings more than you’d care to admit, but before you can respond, he takes a step closer to Tara, clearly trying to intimidate her. Tara doesn’t back down, her glare unwavering, but his shoulder roughly “brushes” against hers in what’s definitely not an accident.

The nudge sends Tara stumbling backward, but thankfully, she lands against Sam, who steadies her instantly.

And that’s when all hell breaks loose.

Something snaps inside you, and before you can think it through, your fist is already flying. It connects with the guy’s jaw, sending him reeling back a step. The bar erupts in gasps and shouts as the guy recovers, glaring at you with fire in his eyes.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he growls, lunging at you.

Chaos ensues. Tables scrape against the floor as people back away, forming a wide circle. You’re barely aware of Sam pulling Tara further back, her voice sharp as she tells her to stay put.

The guy swings at you, but you dodge, adrenaline coursing through your veins. “I was trying to be nice!” you shout, your voice somehow still awkward despite the situation. “But nooo, you had to go and—”

His next punch grazes your shoulder, and you retaliate, landing another hit square in his side.

“Y/n!” Tara’s voice cuts through the noise, and for a split second, you falter, glancing in her direction.

That’s all the guy needs to get a cheap shot in, his fist connecting with your stomach. You stumble back, the wind knocked out of you, but you manage to stay on your feet steadying yourself by having your palm planted on a nearby table.

Unfortunately luck wasn't on your side, and the table had a broken bottle on it, the jagged glass slices into your palm. You wince, but thankfully, the chaos around you masks the pain, and no one notices it.

Suddenly, Chad steps in between you and the guy, his broad frame blocking any further blows. “Alright, enough,” he says, his voice firm, but not without a hint of warning. “You don’t want to take this any further bro. Trust me.”

Before the guy can respond, Sam steps in too, her hand flashing a taser from her waistband, her expression icy cold. “I suggest you walk away,” she says, her voice steady and threatening. “Unless you want to leave here with more than just a bruised ego.”

The guy hesitates, clearly debating whether to push his luck. But the bartender steps in then, a burly man who looks like he’s seen his fair share of bar fights. “Alright, that’s enough!” he barks. “You—out. Now.”

The guy glares at you one last time before grabbing his girlfriend’s arm and storming out, muttering curses under his breath.

As the crowd disperses and the bar settles back into its usual hum of activity, you turn to Tara, who’s staring at you with wide eyes.

“You okay?” you ask, your voice hoarse.

She nods, her gaze softening as she takes a step closer to you. “Are you?”

You wince, clutching your stomach. “I’ll live. But, uh, maybe next time, don’t antagonize the guy holding the drink?”

Tara scoffs but smiles faintly. “Maybe next time, don’t throw punches for me.”

Sam snorts, crossing her arms. “No, by all means, keep throwing punches. Just learn to dodge better.”

You laugh weakly, glancing between the two Carpenter sisters. “Noted. So… anyone else need a drink, or is it just me?”

Tara shakes her head, her smile growing, her face red. “It’s just you. But… thanks. For standing up for me.”

Your heart skips a beat at her words, and despite the ache in your hand, you can’t help but smile back. “Anytime.”

You catch Tara glancing at you, her expression softer then ever, and for a moment, she seems to be looking at you like she’s seeing something more than the awkward dork you think you are.

And in that instant, she can’t help but think you're even more amazing than she already knew. But before she can fully process it, Chad suddenly approaches, glancing at your hand, his face faltering in concern.

“Hey, are you good?” he asks, his eyes scanning your hand. “You look like you're in pain.”

You wince, still trying to play it off as no big deal. But Chad catches sight of the blood trickling from the glass cut on your palm, and his eyes widen. "Holy shit, dude, we need to take you to a hospital."

You shake your head quickly, your voice still a little shaky. “It’s just a scratch, really. I’ll be fine.”

But Tara, her brows furrowing in concern, steps forward, and glances at your hand and gasps. “That’s not just a scratch,” she insists, her voice filled with worry. “You’re bleeding bad. Get up—Mindy call an Uber.”

You open your mouth to protest again, "No hospital, I'm fine I just need a first aid kit." Sam steps in with a calm, no-nonsense tone. “On it, I'll ask the bartender.”

Tara, who’s been silently observing the whole time, takes charge. Her voice is soft but firm as she grabs the first-aid kit from Sam’s hands once she rejoins the group. “I’ll do it,” she says, her gaze never leaving yours. “You’ve done enough tonight. Let me take care of you.”

Mindy, who’s been watching the exchange with a smirk, suddenly chimes in, a teasing edge to her voice. “Look at you, Y/n. Who knew you had this much of a protective streak? Tara’s got you all worried, huh?”

You feel your face flush, but before you can respond, Tara shakes her head at Mindy’s comment, her worry deepening. “She’s hurt, Mindy. It’s not funny.” Her voice softens as she turns back to you, “You’re really gonna be okay, right? I— I don’t want you to be hurt.”

You can see how much she cares, and it makes your chest tighten with emotions. Tara’s usually so tough, so guarded, but right now she’s nothing but concerned.

You try to reassure her, even though the tenderness in her gaze makes it hard to keep your cool. “I’m fine, really. You don’t have to worry so much.”

But Tara doesn’t seem convinced, her lips pressing into a thin line. “I can’t help it,” she admits softly, her voice almost a whisper. "I care."

The weight of her words lingers in the air, and for a moment, everything feels a little clearer between you two. Tara doesn’t just care for your safety—she cares about you.

She gently guides you to an empty booth, pulling you away from the noise and chaos of the bar. It’s just the two of you now, in your own little corner of the world. You slide into one side of the booth while she settles on the other, a table separating you, but it somehow feels closer than ever.

The silence stretches between you both, and for a moment, neither of you says anything. You hold your hand out toward her, palm facing up, your fingers trembling slightly from the sting. Tara’s gaze softens when she sees the injury, and with a quiet sigh, she reaches for the first-aid kit.

Her movements are slow, deliberate, as she opens the kit, pulling out antiseptic and gauze. You watch her, your heart pounding for reasons you can’t quite explain. She carefully dabs the cotton swab in the antiseptic, then presses it gently to the cut. You wince, a sharp sting jolting through your palm.

“Sorry,” Tara murmurs, her voice low and soothing. She frowns, her brows knitting together in concentration as she takes more care, dabbing at the wound more carefully this time. “I’m trying to be gentle. You’re not a fan of this whole ‘injured’ thing, huh?”

You chuckle softly, still feeling the burn of the antiseptic. “Nope. Not my favorite thing," your voice coming out a little more awkward than you intended.

"I can't believe a dork like you got in a fight."

You let out a small laugh, trying to hide the fact that her words have made your heart race. “I’m not a dork,” you protest weakly.

Tara raises an eyebrow, a teasing glint in her eye. “Really? Because I could’ve sworn you were about to pass out the second I touched your hand.”

You blush even harder. Tara’s smile is warm, genuine, and it makes the sting of the antiseptic a little easier to bear.

“It’s not the touch,” you mumble, “it’s just... you’re too close.”

She laughs softly, a sound that makes your heart flutter. “Yeah? Guess I’ll just have to keep getting closer, then.”

Her words, teasing as they are, send a warmth rushing through you. You try to play it cool, but inside, you’re an absolute mess. The way she cares for you, even in such a simple moment, makes everything feel... different. It’s like a tiny shift in the air, making you want to stay in this little bubble of quiet with her forever.

Tara looks up at you, the gears turning in her head. Was she being unfair right now? Giving you mixed signals.

She continues cleaning the wound, but now with even more care. She choses her next words carefully not wanting to sour the mood, “I'm really sorry for how I treated you. I think with everything that happened last year, I was scared to let new people in, and so I was wary of you even though you’ve been nothing but amazing to me. I guess I just had my guard up and it was unfair and—"

"I know Tara, I forgive you don't worry," you smile at her. And its pure and genuine, and Tara knows that you mean that whole heartedly.

As Tara finishes bandaging the cut on your palm, she gently flips your hand over to check for any other injuries. Her fingers graze across the back of your hand, and she notices the bruised knuckles. For a split second, she pauses, her breath catching in her throat.

Her eyes linger on your hand—on the faded bruise, evidence of the fight you’d just gotten into—and for some reason, she can’t help but think it’s... hot. The way your hand looks, bruised but still strong, it makes something in her chest tighten. You got into a fight for her.

She quickly shakes her head, trying to push the thought away, but it lingers. What the hell is wrong with me? she thinks, her face flushing slightly. Tara quickly looks up at you, trying to mask her sudden embarrassment with a forced nonchalance. But you're just sat there beaming at her, telling her its okay for how she treated you in the past, that you forgive her.

Suddenly, Tara couldn’t just take it anymore. The way you were looking at her, so soft, so genuine, made her heart flutter in a way she couldn’t ignore. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, and then, without warning, she leaned forward, her eyes locking with yours.

“You know,” she started, her voice low and teasing, “Mindy said you were incapable of acting first.”

You blinked, confusion flashing across your face. “What?” you asked, not sure where she was going with this.

Tara smirked, clearly amused. “And that if I wanted something to happen, I’d have to be the initiator.”

You furrowed your brow, still not understanding. “What are you talking about?”

Tara’s smile widened, and she leaned in a little closer, her voice dropping even lower. “I find that hard to believe, given how you just got in a fight for me. I know there’s a little boldness in you.”

Your heart skipped a beat at her words, and before you could even process what she was saying, she added, “But I guess so do I.”

Without warning, Tara reached across the table, her hand grabbing the front of your shirt. You froze, your breath catching as she pulled you closer, her face just inches from yours. Your heart raced as she leaned in, and then—before you could even think—her lips were on yours.

It was soft, tentative at first, like she was testing the waters. But then it deepened, and everything around you seemed to fade away. The kiss was warm, gentle, but there was an undeniable intensity to it, as if she was pouring everything she felt into that moment. Your uninjured hand instinctively reached for hers, feeling the pulse of her heartbeat against your fingertips.

When the kiss finally broke, both of you pulled away, breathless. Tara’s eyes were wide, a soft blush coloring her cheeks as she looked at you, her lips still tingling from the kiss.

You blinked, your mind racing, and then you couldn’t help but grin, a nervous laugh escaping you. “Damn... I should’ve gotten into a fight a lot sooner.”

Tara rolled her eyes, but her smile was all warmth, and you could see in her eyes that there was something deeper. Something unspoken, but undeniable.

Something that was always there.

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