halfmoonaria

[halfmoonaria]

not like this

pairing: tara carpenter & reader

summary: you knew tara could be cruel when she was drunk, but you didn’t know she could be this cruel.

wordcount: 9.5k

author’s note: i’m not the biggest fan of this one since i wrote it a while back, but i’m only posting because i haven’t posted in forever and feel really bad about it. my motivation is super low right now, so i don’t know what else to do.

Trauma changes people.

Everyone says that like it's obvious — like it's just something you're supposed to know, the way you know fire burns and knives cut.

But there's a difference between knowing something and watching it happen.

There's a difference between hearing the words and feeling them lodge somewhere deep inside you, where you can't ever really shake them loose.

You learned that earlier than most.

You learned it when you watched your dad fall apart after his mother died.

It didn't happen all at once.

There wasn't some big, cinematic moment where he dropped his coffee mug or broke down crying at the kitchen table.

It was quieter than that. Slower.

It was in the way he started coming home from work later and later, sitting out in the driveway with the engine running, like he couldn't make himself walk through the front door.

It was in the way he stopped laughing at the dumb TV shows you used to watch together.

Stopped making jokes under his breath while you did the dishes.

Stopped planning camping trips in the summer like he always used to, talking about them for months beforehand even though half the time you didn't even end up going.

It was like watching someone you loved slowly drift out to sea, farther and farther, until you couldn't hear them call back anymore.

And the worst part was, he didn't even seem to notice.

It was just the way life moved now.

Back then, you didn't have words for it.

You just knew it hurt in a way you couldn't explain.

That it made you feel small and helpless, standing there with empty hands, not knowing how to pull him back.

You told yourself it was something that only happened to adults.

That you'd never have to feel it happen again, at least not for a long time.

You were wrong.

Because then there was Tara.

And Woodsboro.

And everything that came after.

And you got to learn it all over again —how fast someone could slip away right in front of you, how loud silence could be when it started stretching between you, how a person could still look like themselves and feel like a stranger all at once.

Tara was still Tara.

She still laughed at stupid videos you showed her.

Still kicked her feet up onto your lap when you sat too close on the couch.

Still looked at you, sometimes, with a softness that made your chest ache.

But it was different now.

It lived in the small things, the sharp edges she hadn't had before.

The way she snapped at you when you asked if she was okay —quick, defensive, like you were accusing her of something she couldn't explain.

The way she pulled away from your touch on bad days, shaking you off without even meaning to.

The way she seemed to run hotter, angrier, like everything you said was one wrong word away from setting her off.

At first, you told yourself it was normal.

That it was part of healing.

That if you had gone through what she had, you might lash out too.

And besides, she always apologized.

Sometimes hours later, sometimes with her face buried in your shoulder, mumbling about how she didn't mean it, how it wasn't about you.

You always said it was fine.

You always said you understood — even when you didn't, not really.

Because what else could you say?

You loved her.

You were supposed to love her through the hard parts too, right?

And maybe it would've been okay.

Maybe it would've stayed manageable — just a few harsh words, a few apologies, a few moments you could both move past —if she hadn't found something else to lean on.

Something easier than talking about it.

Something that blurred the edges faster than time ever could.

Tara turned to drinking.

Not all at once — not enough for anyone to call it a problem in the beginning.

At first, it was just parties.

Just nights she said she needed to blow off steam, to feel normal, to feel young.

You never tried to stop her.

After everything she'd been through, she deserved a little normalcy, didn't she?

Even if it meant sitting alone in her room on Saturday nights, refreshing your phone every two minutes, staring at the door like it might swing open if you wished hard enough.

You stayed up for her.

Every time.

Sometimes until three, four in the morning — heart pounding louder with every hour she didn't call.

And when she finally stumbled back through the door, half-drunk and half-smiling, you were always there.

You'd help her out of her clothes when her fingers fumbled with the buttons.

Swap her jeans for soft pajama pants, pull the hoodie over her head when she couldn't get her arms through right.

You'd get her water, Advil, a trash can by the bed just in case.

You'd tuck her in like a child even when she swatted you away, mumbling rude, slurred things under her breath.

"You're so clingy."

"God, I'm not a baby, get off."

"Go take care of your own pathetic life for once."

You told yourself she didn't mean it.

That it was just the alcohol talking.

And maybe it was.

Maybe that was why it hurt so much and why you let it go all the same.

It stayed like that for a while.

Her out at parties.

You at home, waiting.

Until eventually, you started going with her.

It wasn't because she needed a babysitter — even though sometimes, when the drinks started kicking in and her patience started thinning, she made little comments about how it felt that way.

You didn't care.

You weren't there to control her.

You just wanted to make sure she was okay.

Make sure no one slipped something into her drink.

Make sure no one dragged her upstairs when she was too drunk to say no.

Make sure she made it home in one piece.

And maybe — though you wouldn't have admitted it even to yourself — you wanted to see for yourself how bad it was getting.

You wanted to believe it wasn't as bad as it sometimes sounded through the cracked speaker of a drunken 3 a.m. phone call.

You wanted to believe you still knew her.

That you could still reach her, even through the noise, even through the fog.

You wanted to believe you still knew her.

That you could still reach her, even through the noise, even through the fog.

But eventually, it stopped feeling like a phase.

It became a routine.

A pattern you could've mapped out with your eyes closed.

Every weekend — Friday or Saturday, sometimes both — there was another party.

Another friend's birthday, another "small get-together," another reason she had to go. HAD

It didn't matter if it was freezing cold or pouring rain or if she had an essay due at midnight — there was always an excuse.

Always a party just big enough, just loud enough, to drown everything else out.

And you always followed.

You didn't really drink, not like she did.

But you drank when she was watching.

You threw back shots with her while getting ready in your shared apartment, laughing a little too loudly, pretending it tasted better than it did.

You let her drag you into dance circles, let her shove plastic cups into your hands, let her kiss your mouth rough and messy when she was two beers in and her walls started to crumble.

You did everything you could to stay on her side.

To keep the night easy, to keep her smiling — or at least not snapping.

But it didn't always work.

It never always worked.

There were nights she got mad over nothing.

Nights where you said the wrong thing — like asking if she wanted to slow down, or if she needed water — and she'd look at you like you ruined everything.

"Stop treating me like a kid."

"If you don't like it, leave."

"You're such a fucking buzzkill sometimes, you know that?"

You got used to smoothing things over.

To pretending you didn't hear it.

To laughing it off when people looked at you strangely, wondering why you weren't leaving, why you weren't fighting back.

Because it was just the alcohol.

It wasn't really her.

It wasn't really Tara.

And if you stayed long enough, if you held on tight enough, you kept thinking maybe the girl you fell in love with would come back.

You told yourself that again when another party came up.

Tara had brought it up a few days before — casually, like it was just another night, just another plan you were supposed to nod along to.

You tried, for once, not to.

You tried everything you could think of to stop her from going.

You suggested a movie night — said you could pick up snacks, pull the couch cushions onto the floor like you used to.

You threw out other ideas too, desperate and a little frantic by the end — ordering takeout from that Chinese place she loved, playing Mario Kart until sunrise, even just staying in bed and doing nothing together.

But she barely even listened.

Brushed it all off with a quick shrug and a mumbled, "We can do that tomorrow," like it was no big deal.

But you knew better.

Tomorrow, she'd be too hungover to even smile at you properly, let alone spend a whole night tangled up under a blanket.

And next week, there'd just be another party.

Another excuse.

Another night of standing in the corner of some stranger's living room, pretending not to notice the way she slipped further and further away from you.

Still, you agreed to go with her.

Not because she asked — because she never asked.

You asked her.

You asked if she wanted you to come.

And she gave the kind of shrug that said she didn't care either way.

The kind that hurt more than any no could have.

But you told yourself it was better to be there than not.

Better to be part of the wreckage than left behind by it.

So now you were sitting on the edge of the bed, watching her get ready.

The room around you was dim, lit mostly by the soft orange glow of the lamp on her nightstand.

Her speaker sat on the dresser, humming low with some song you didn't recognize — fast and heavy, the kind of beat that was meant to make you move.

It buzzed in the walls, in the floor, under your skin.

You tried not to let it get to you.

Tara moved through the room like she always did — quick, focused, pulling open drawers and tossing clothes onto the bed beside you without a second thought.

She was still sober, close to it at least.

You could tell by the way she didn't sway when she bent to dig through the bottom drawer, by the way her hands didn't fumble with the buttons on her jeans.

It was one small thing.

One small reason to breathe a little easier, even if the knot in your stomach didn't loosen much.

You sat quietly, your fingers fidgeting in your lap, picking absently at the frayed edge of your jeans.

The thread unraveled a little more each time you twisted it between your fingers, but you couldn't make yourself stop.

It was something to do.

Something to keep you from staring too obviously at her.

Something to keep you from saying something too early, before the night had even started.

Tara barely glanced at you at first — just kept moving, pulling a black top out from the pile and holding it up against herself, then tossing it back with a small frown.

She was beautiful, even when she was annoyed.

Even when she was somewhere else, already halfway gone in her head.

You watched her carefully, almost nervously, feeling every second stretch out between you like a thread pulled too tight.

The air in the room felt heavier with every song that bled through the speaker.

It didn't matter that she hadn't had anything to drink yet.

It didn't matter that she hadn't snapped at you yet.

The night already felt like it was slipping through your fingers.

Maybe she felt it too.

Because after a few minutes, she finally broke the silence — her voice just loud enough to be heard over the thumping bass.

"You don't have to come if you're too nervous you know."

It was so casual you almost didn't catch the weight of it.

Almost.

You looked up at her — still bent over the dresser, not even facing you fully — and felt something sink low in your chest.

Nervous.

That's what she thought this was.

Like you hadn't been doing this — following her into party after party, night after night — for months now.

Like you hadn't seen her at her worst and still chosen to stay anyway.

You swallowed it down.

Forced a soft laugh, one you hoped sounded real enough, and leaned back on your palms to make it seem like you were relaxed.

"I'm not nervous," you said lightly.

"I've been to, like, a million of these with you."

You smiled, even if it felt tight.

Even if you hated that you had to reassure her — hated that somewhere along the line, it had become your job to make her feel okay about all of this.

Tara didn't turn around.

She just gave a short, breathy laugh — more a puff of air than anything else — and muttered, "Right."

The word was so soft you almost missed the way it caught in the back of her throat.

Almost.

It wasn't sharp, wasn't said cruelly, but it still sat wrong between you.

Still made something cold settle low in your stomach.

You didn't know what to say after that.

So you didn't say anything at all.

Just went back to picking at the thread on your jeans, pulling it tighter and tighter until it finally snapped off between your fingers.

The way she walked a few steps ahead without looking back.

The way her arms stayed crossed even when the wind picked up, even when you hurried to catch up beside her.

It was obvious she didn't even want you to come.

Maybe she hadn't said it out loud — she never did — but you could feel it all the same.

You knew her too well not to.

You could guarantee that if you stopped right now, if you said you'd changed your mind — that you were going home instead — she wouldn't fight you on it.

She wouldn't ask you to stay.

She wouldn't even frown or argue or try to pretend she was disappointed.

No.

She would just shrug, maybe toss out a lazy "whatever," and keep walking.

And if you stayed frozen long enough, you'd catch it — the tiny, satisfied smile she wouldn't be able to hide fast enough.

Because the truth was...

she didn't want you there.

Not tonight.

Not any night, lately.

She didn't want you hovering close while she drank, didn't want you keeping count of her shots or pulling her back when she started getting sloppy.

She didn't want you slowing her down.

And if you were honest with yourself — really honest — a part of you wished you had just gone home.

Wished you'd turned around at the corner and let her go by herself.

Because Tara was already in a mood.

You could feel it radiating off her even without a word.

That restless, tight energy she got sometimes — like she was vibrating under her skin, like she was already looking for a fight she hadn't even picked yet.

Her jaw was set, her hands jammed deep into her jacket pockets, her steps quick and clipped against the pavement.

Every once in a while she'd kick a stray rock a little too hard out of her way, muttering something you couldn't catch under her breath.

You knew that mood.

You'd lived through it enough times now to recognize the signs.

And you knew exactly what was waiting for you at the end of this walk —loud music, cheap drinks, too many people.

And Tara, disappearing from you one shot at a time.

The party wasn't far — maybe just a few blocks away — but every step felt heavier.

Like it wasn't your feet carrying you forward, but something else.

Something stupid and stubborn and hopeful in you that refused to let go.

You kept your head down, letting Tara lead, letting the night swallow the distance between you.

You kept your head down, letting Tara lead, letting the night swallow the distance between you.

Five minutes later, you reached the house.

It looked the same as every other party house you'd been dragged to — sagging front porch packed with people, music already thudding loud enough to rattle the cracked windows, a warm, sticky breeze carrying the sour mix of spilled beer, weed, and sweat across the sidewalk.

There were bodies everywhere — clustered on the lawn, perched on the porch railing, slumped together on the front steps.

Someone you didn't recognize was throwing up in the bushes by the door, and nobody even spared them a glance.

You almost lost Tara before you even made it inside.

The second her feet hit the porch, she was pulled into a wave of greetings — people calling her name, pulling her into hugs, laughing too loud in her ear.

You recognized some of them — people who seemed to float through every party, like they lived there — but most were still strangers to you.

You stuck as close as you could, half a step behind Tara's shoulder, weaving through the crush of bodies like you were tied to her by an invisible thread.

It was too loud to say anything, and even if you could, you weren't sure she'd hear you.

Or listen.

The house was even worse inside.

The second the door swung open, you were hit by a wave of heat and noise.

The living room was crammed wall to wall with people — some dancing, some drinking, some leaning into each other like they didn't even notice the crowd around them.

Someone was making out against the stair banister like they hadn't even tried to find a bedroom.

A guy you vaguely recognized from one of Tara's classes was chugging straight from a vodka bottle, surrounded by a circle of people egging him on.

It was chaos.

The kind of chaos you knew Tara loved now — the kind where nobody was looking too closely at anyone else.

Where you could be sloppy and stupid and reckless, and it would all just blend into the noise.

You barely had time to register it all before Tara was moving again, cutting a path through the crowd without looking back.

You followed quickly, your hand brushing her jacket once but she didn't slow down.

She made a beeline for the first drink table she could find — a battered folding table sagging under the weight of cheap liquor bottles, red Solo cups, half-empty mixers, and sticky puddles of spilled drinks.

Without hesitating, she grabbed a cup, sloshed something dark into it, and knocked it back in seconds.

No flinch, no wince.

Like water.

She poured herself another one immediately, barely glancing at what she was mixing.

Then, almost as an afterthought, she filled a second cup and shoved it toward you.

You took it without thinking.

Without looking.

Because that's just what you did now — you took whatever she handed you and told yourself it was fine.

You tightened your fingers around the sticky plastic cup and forced a smile you knew she wouldn't even see.

From there, it all just spiraled.

Tara barely slowed down, drink after drink, shot after shot, the line between sober and gone blurring faster than you could even try to keep up.

At one point, you thought you saw her lean into someone — a guy you didn't recognize — laughing too hard at something he said, her hand steadying herself on his shoulder while she tipped back another shot he offered.

Another moment, you caught a glimpse of her slipping outside onto the porch, and when she came back, you were almost certain you could smell the sharp, skunky edge of weed clinging to her jacket.

You were pretty sure you even caught her taking a drag from someone's joint, eyes glassy, smile too wide.

And the worst part was — you didn't even try to stop her.

You didn't know how anymore.

Every time you opened your mouth, the words died somewhere between your throat and your tongue.

The fear of saying the wrong thing — of setting her off — was enough to glue your feet to the sticky floor, to wrap invisible hands around your voice and keep it trapped there.

So you just watched.

You watched her slip further away from you with every laugh that wasn't meant for you, every drink slammed back without a second thought, every careless, reckless moment she chose to chase instead of you.

You followed her around the house like a shadow, cup still clutched in your hand, pretending you were part of it.

Pretending you belonged there the way she did now.

And every time you thought about grabbing her wrist, pulling her aside, saying something —

You remembered the look she'd given you the last time you'd tried.

Sharp. Embarrassed.

Like you were the one ruining the fun.

So you stayed quiet.

You stayed scared.

But eventually, you couldn't keep standing there doing nothing

You watched her tip another half-full bottle toward the red cup in her hand, wrist wobbling just slightly — and before you could even think it through, your legs were moving.

You weaved through the crowd, heart thudding against your ribs, until you were standing at her side.

She didn't even look at you at first — just kept pouring, humming off-key to the thudding bass rattling the walls.

You set your own cup down behind you, feeling the alcohol in your blood but still sharp enough to know you needed to do something.

You leaned in, kept your voice soft — calm, careful — like you were trying not to spook a wild animal.

"Hey," you said, your hand brushing lightly against her elbow. "Let's go get food or something. Yeah?"

For a second, you almost let yourself hope.

That maybe she'd hear the way you said it — not nagging, not accusing — just offering.

Just wanting to take care of her.

But Tara only exhaled a short, sharp breath through her nose and pulled her arm out of your reach.

"Stop being boring," she muttered, tossing her head back and swallowing half her cup in one go.

You blinked, feeling the words slap across your face harder than they should have.

Still, you tried again — a little gentler, a little closer.

"You're gonna feel like shit tomorrow, Tara," you said, managing a small laugh like you were trying to joke with her, not fight her.

She finally looked at you then — really looked — and you wished she hadn't.

Because there was nothing soft in her expression.

Just the flat, dull shine of anger she hadn't bothered to hide anymore.

"God, you're so fucking annoying sometimes," she said, loud enough that a few people nearby glanced over.

Your stomach twisted.

You opened your mouth — to defend yourself, to apologize, you didn't even know — but she was already turning away from you, already reaching for another drink like you weren't even there.

You stood there for a second, frozen, every instinct screaming at you to leave.

To just turn around, walk out the door, and save whatever was left of yourself before she could chip away at it even more.

But you didn't move.

You couldn't.

So you just picked your cup back up, and followed her deeper into the party — even as every step made you feel smaller.

So you just picked your cup back up and followed her deeper into the party — even as every step made you feel smaller.

Tara stumbled ahead of you through the crowd, barely bothering to look where she was going.

Every few steps, she bumped into someone — muttering a messy, half-slurred apology before moving on like nothing happened.

You kept close, close enough that if she tripped or fell, you'd be right there.

Because you knew her — you knew how quickly this could get bad.

You reminded yourself — over and over again — that you weren't here to babysit her.

You were here because you loved her.

Because you didn't trust anyone else to care if something happened to her.

Because you wanted her to be safe, even if she didn't make it easy.

You were threading your way through the crowd after her when she glanced back at you — her eyes, glassy and heavy-lidded, rolled so hard you could practically hear it.

"You're hovering," she said, voice raised just enough to be heard over the bass-heavy music, the words slurring together. "'M not a baby, y'know."

Before you could even get a word out, she turned back around — and stumbled straight into another girl, hitting her shoulder hard enough to spill part of the girl's drink.

You immediately stepped forward, instinct taking over.

"I'm so sorry," you blurted quickly to the girl, reaching out to steady Tara at the same time.

Tara swayed against you, unsteady and disoriented, and you kept your hands gentle on her arms, helping her straighten up without making a big deal out of it.

You could feel how hot her skin was, how tense she was under your touch.

But the second she was upright again, she shook you off with a frustrated little shrug, muttering under her breath, "M'fine."

You let go immediately.

The girl shot you a dirty look before disappearing back into the crowd.

You stayed standing there for a second, your heart pounding against your ribs, trying to pretend your hands weren't shaking.

You hated that this was getting normal.

You hated how much you still wanted to reach for her anyway.

You picked up Tara's cup from where she'd dropped it and followed her again — not because you didn't know better, but because you loved her too much not to.

She wove her way through the crowd, barely steady on her feet, until she finally ended up by the kitchen island.

It was cluttered with bottles and cans — some half-finished, some completely full, others abandoned and sticky from who knew how many hands.

The lights in the kitchen were a little brighter, but they only made it worse — made the glassy shine in Tara's eyes more obvious, made the deep flush along her cheekbones stand out like a warning.

She barely paused before grabbing for the first unopened beer she could find.

Her fingers fumbled over it, picking at the tab without finding the grip, squinting like the can itself was moving around just to mess with her.

You got there just in time.

Without thinking, you reached forward and slid it out of her hands.

Your fingers brushed against hers for a second — warm and clumsy and tense — before you backed off, the unopened can now sitting heavy in your palm.

Tara blinked at you, slow and confused, like she couldn't quite register what you were doing.

You gave her the smallest smile you could manage, trying to make it look like a joke.

"Maybe you've had enough of those for now," you said, voice gentle, almost teasing, like if you were soft enough she wouldn't get mad.

For a second — one fragile second — she just stared at you.

And you let yourself hope, stupidly, that she might laugh.

That she might roll her eyes and shove your shoulder and say fine, you're right, let's just chill for a bit.

But then she snorted — low and mean — and shoved a different cup off the counter into her hand instead.

"This one's half empty anyway," she muttered, already tipping it back.

You felt something pull tight in your chest.

You didn't say anything.

You didn't have to.

The ache in your chest said enough, clawing up higher with every passing second — because it wasn't just the drink anymore, wasn't just the party or the music or the noise.

It was her — this way she was standing there in front of you, swaying even though her feet weren't moving, like gravity itself had started working differently around her.

She blinked slow, heavy-lidded, barely catching herself before tilting too far to the side.

You watched her fingers slip a little on the plastic cup, her wrist buckling for just a second before she corrected it.

Her whole body was fighting to stay upright — and losing.

You could see it — how close she was to crumpling right there on the kitchen floor.

The kind of drunk where even the air seemed too heavy for her to hold up anymore.

You tightened your grip around the unopened beer still in your hand, your thumb digging so hard into the aluminum it left a shallow dent.

She'd definitely passed double digits.

You were sure of it.

And you didn't even want to think about whatever she'd smoked — some kid from her psych class had passed her a joint earlier in the night, and you had seen her tip her head back and take a deep drag without even asking what was in it.

It was more than any other night you'd ever tagged along.

More shots.

More drinks.

More everything.

And less of her.

Less of the girl who used to hold your hand under the table, who used to sneak kisses when no one was looking, who used to beg you not to leave her side for even five minutes.

You swallowed hard against the lump rising in your throat.

You shifted on your feet, chewing the inside of your cheek, then leaned a little closer to her — careful, like she was a skittish animal you didn't want to scare off.

"Hey," you said, keeping your voice soft, too soft to even carry over the music without you practically whispering it into her ear. "Maybe we should go home? It's past midnight."

It wasn't.

You weren't even sure it was eleven yet.

But you said it anyway, hoping she'd be too out of it to question it, hoping it would be enough to nudge her back toward the door without a fight.

For a second, she just blinked at you.

Long and slow, her pupils blown so wide you could barely see the brown anymore.

Her lips parted a little, her breath hot with the smell of cheap vodka and something sour you didn't want to think about.

And you could see it happening — the way the words you said hit her ears but didn't seem to land in her brain right away.

Like there was a delay between hearing and understanding.

You held your breath, waiting for something.

Anything.

Then she snorted — sharp and humorless — and tipped the cup in her hand dangerously toward her own chest before she caught herself.

"You're such a... a buzzkill, y'know that?" she muttered, voice slurring so badly you almost didn't catch it all.

It didn't have the same sharpness it usually did when she snapped at you.

No real teeth behind it.

Just a tired, messy kind of bitterness, slipping out between heavy breaths and glassy eyes.

You flinched anyway.

You wanted to argue — wanted to tell her you weren't trying to kill her buzz, you were trying to keep her from collapsing in the middle of a stranger's kitchen — but you didn't.

You just nodded, once, tightly, and looked down at the sticky floor instead.

Because arguing with her like this didn't work.

Because no matter what you said, no matter how carefully you said it, she wouldn't hear you tonight.

She didn't want to hear you.

And the worst part — the part that burned the back of your throat worse than any shot ever could — was that you knew it.

___

An hour passed. Maybe longer.

You weren't really keeping track anymore.

At some point, you stopped trying to pull her away.

Not because you didn't care — but because it was obvious she wasn't going to listen.

Nothing you said tonight would change her mind.

If anything, you were only making her angrier.

You hadn't walked away, though.

You stayed close — close enough to catch her if she fell, close enough to step in if something went really wrong — but you gave up on asking her to leave. You didn't want to make a scene. You didn't want to embarrass her in front of everyone like she claimed you always did.

You just sat yourself down at a kitchen chair tucked against the wall and tried to make yourself as small as possible.

Your plastic cup was still half full in your hand. You weren't really drinking it — just letting it sit there, something to do with your hands, something to pretend made you blend in.

You leaned your head back against the wall behind you and watched the chaos unfold around the kitchen.

Someone spilled beer across the counter. Someone else was trying to make shots out of whatever was left in the half-empty bottles scattered across the floor.

A group of guys were yelling over a beer pong table. A couple was making out against the fridge like they didn't even know anyone else was there.

You caught glimpses of Tara now and then — always at the edge of the crowd, always laughing too loudly, always reaching for another drink.

Every time you spotted her, you felt the same sharp stab of worry — but you stayed where you were.

Hovering around her wasn't helping anything.

You just kept telling yourself that the sooner she burned herself out, the sooner you could finally take her home.

You just had to wait it out.

Stay close.

Be ready.

Still — it didn't stop that awful, restless feeling from gnawing at you.

The feeling that you were waiting for something bad to happen.

The feeling that you wouldn't be fast enough when it did.

You hadn't seen Tara in fifteen minutes. Maybe more.

The last glimpse you caught of her was her weaving into the throng of people toward the living room, laughing too loudly at something someone said, tipping her body too far into people's arms to stay upright.

You stayed put, your leg bouncing restlessly under the kitchen chair, heart thudding harder with every second she didn't reappear.

You tried not to let your mind run wild — but it did anyway.

You kept picturing her sprawled across a couch somewhere, half-conscious and surrounded by strangers who wouldn't think twice about taking advantage of someone who couldn't fight back.

You imagined her crumpled on the floor, passed out cold, while the whole party just stepped over her.

You twisted the cup in your hands until the plastic nearly split in half.

You hated being here.

You hated feeling like this — helpless and scared and absolutely useless.

You had told yourself there was no point trying to drag her home anymore, that it would only make her dig her heels in harder.

You had told yourself it was better to just wait her out. That the best thing you could do was stick close, stay alert, and get her home when she was finally too tired or sick to argue.

You had meant it when you said it.

You had believed it, for a little while.

But all that careful logic shattered the second you caught sight of her again.

You barely noticed her at first — just a flash of movement out of the corner of your eye, up near the staircase by the living room.

You turned your head — and your stomach dropped straight through the floor.

There she was.

Tara.

Clutching the railing for dear life as she tried to make it up the narrow stairs without falling over.

And right behind her — walking too close, smiling too much — was Chase.

You froze for half a second, the sound of the party collapsing into a dull roar in your ears.

Because you knew Chase.

Everybody knew Chase.

Your stomach dropped so fast you thought you might actually be sick.

You knew Chase — and Tara did too.

You were sure of it.

Sober, she would have known better than to even look at him.

But tonight... she probably couldn't even tell his face from anyone else's.

Tonight, she was drunk enough — desperate enough — to follow him wherever he led her.

And he was leading her upstairs.

Away from the noise.

Away from the crowd.

Away from anyone who might notice if something went wrong.

You didn't even realize you were moving until your chair screeched loudly across the kitchen floor.

You didn't stop to think.

You didn't care if you looked crazy.

You shoved through the crowd, heart hammering harder with every step, cutting between sweaty bodies and sloshing drinks without even an apology.

All you knew was that you had to get to her.

You had to stop her.

Because you could sit quietly through a lot of things.

You could take a lot of hurt.

But this — this was where you drew the line.

You loved her too much to just sit there and watch her ruin herself.

Not like this.

You shoved through the kitchen first — the thickest part of the crowd — brushing past sweaty shoulders and half-spilled drinks.

Someone cursed at you when you clipped their elbow, but you barely muttered out a rushed "sorry" before you were moving again.

You ducked under someone's arm where they leaned lazily against a doorframe, squeezed past a girl laughing so hard she doubled over without noticing you.

Your heart was thudding so hard you could barely hear the music anymore.

You could still see them — Tara and Chase — a few steps ahead, moving slower than you would have liked, but still moving.

Tara's hand was gripping the railing so tightly her knuckles looked white under the flashing party lights.

Chase stayed close behind her, one hand reaching out once to steady her lower back when she stumbled.

You grit your teeth and pushed harder through the bodies packed near the base of the stairs.

It was even worse there — people sitting on the steps, couples making out halfway up, guys shouting over the music to their friends leaning over the banister.

You caught the edge of someone's knee with your hip as you wedged past — mumbled another "sorry" without slowing down.

A guy sitting two steps up didn't move when you tapped his shoulder, so you just climbed over him instead, your hand bracing against the sticky wood of the banister.

Someone laughed behind you, but you didn't look back.

You couldn't afford to.

You made it halfway up before you glanced up again — and your heart stuttered.

Tara and Chase had just reached the top.

She wobbled hard to one side, nearly crashing into the wall, but Chase caught her and pulled her straight again — too close, too familiar — before nudging her down the hallway to the left.

And just like that, they were almost out of your sight.

Almost gone.

You didn't think.

You didn't care if you looked desperate.

You shoved through the last few people on the stairs, ignoring the annoyed looks, ignoring the guy who shouted after you when you stepped on his shoe.

You just pushed forward, one hand tight around the railing, the other practically dragging yourself up step after step.

Because whatever happened tonight — whatever Tara wanted to believe she could handle — you weren't going to let it happen like this.

You finally hit the landing, breathless and burning.

Your head whipped side to side, scanning the mess of people spilling out of open doors, leaning against walls, laughing too loud.

And then you saw her.

Tara.

At the end of the hall.

Chase's hand was pressed against her lower back, steering her clumsily toward a half-open bedroom door.

You knew it wasn't what it probably looked like to most people — the way Chase hovered too close, the way he kept glancing over his shoulder.

This wasn't about hooking up.

It wasn't about anything like that.

It was about something far worse.

Chase wasn't stupid.

And he wasn't harmless either.

Your heart jammed itself up into your throat as you watched him murmur something into Tara's ear — too quiet for anyone else to hear — and Tara, drunk and blinking slow, just nodded.

Already slipping out of reach.

You didn't think.

You just called her name.

"Tara!"

It came out sharper than you intended — loud enough to make a few people nearby turn their heads — but you didn't care.

Chase's head snapped toward you first — fast, alert — his eyes narrowing when he saw you marching down the hall.

Tara, slower, more sluggish, turned a beat after him.

And when her blurry gaze found yours, something almost sweet crossed her face — a lazy, drunken little smile tugging at her lips.

It almost made you stumble.

Almost made you forget why you were even there.

But then Chase's hand tightened on her arm.

And he tried to pull her faster through the door.

You didn't let him.

You crossed the distance in a handful of fast, heavy steps, not even caring how many people you shoved past, not caring who was staring.

You reached out — grabbed Tara's wrist firmly — and tugged her back toward you.

She stumbled a little from the force, her body tipping clumsily into your side.

You steadied her immediately, keeping a firm but gentle grip on her arm, feeling how boneless and unbalanced she was even standing still.

Chase scowled — muttered something under his breath you couldn't hear over the thudding bass.

But you didn't look at him.

You only looked at Tara — her flushed cheeks, her glassy eyes, the confusion pulling at her features.

"Come on," you said lowly, just for her.

"Let's go."

Tara frowned when you pulled her closer, her body going stiff under your hand.

Then, clumsily, she tried to twist herself free.

"No," she mumbled, slurring the word into two messy syllables.

"I'm—I'm fine," she added, blinking slowly like the hallway was spinning around her.

Before you could even respond, Chase's voice cut in — lazy and casual, like he thought this was all some stupid misunderstanding.

"Yeah, it's all good. Chill out a bit."

He had the audacity to laugh under his breath, like you were the problem.

Like you were being dramatic for not wanting Tara dragged off into some room where no one would be able to hear her.

You felt your jaw tighten, your fingers curling harder around Tara's wrist — but not enough to hurt her, never that — just enough to keep her close.

Just enough to tell her you weren't letting go.

You turned to Chase, heart pounding, every part of you burning hotter by the second.

And you didn't even think before spitting out, sharp and low,

"Why don't you just fuck off?"

That wiped the smirk off his face.

You didn't stop there.

"Go back to selling dime bags to high schoolers behind the gas station."

You tilted your head, smiling sweetly — all fake — as you added,

"Or does your probation officer have a curfew you're supposed to be following?"

Chase's mouth opened slightly — stunned for a second.

Then he shook his head with a bitter laugh and spat out,

"Fuck you."

He gave Tara one last glance — something dark and annoyed flashing across his face — before finally shoving his way past you, disappearing back down the hall.

You didn't even look after him.

Your hand was still on Tara's wrist, feeling her pulse fluttering unsteadily under your fingers.

Tara yanked her arm free from your grip with a sharp, stumbling pull.

You instinctively reached out again — not grabbing, just reacting — but she was already moving, her boots scuffing clumsily against the floorboards as she veered farther down the narrow hallway lined with bedroom doors.

You stood frozen for a second, your heart hammering.

Then, halfway to the end of the hall, Tara spun around.

Her hair was a mess around her face, her cheeks flushed and eyes dark with something angry and reckless.

For a second, the way she glared at you almost made her look sober — like she was choosing to hurt you.

"Why do you always have to ruin everything?" she bit out, her voice slurring slightly at the edges, betraying the drunken haze she was fighting to stay sharp through.

You stayed where you were, jaw tightening, breathing carefully through your nose.

You felt the headache already blooming between your temples — the kind that came from clenching your teeth too hard for too long.

You exhaled slowly, closing your eyes for a beat before opening them again.

Trying to stay calm. Trying not to make this worse.

"I'm not going to let you take drugs from Chase, Tara," you said — low, even, the words leaving your mouth heavier than you meant them to.

You saw it the second it flashed across her face — the sour, irritated twist in her features that always came when you tried to help her after she'd already decided she didn't want it.

It showed in the narrowing of her drunk, glassy eyes, in the stubborn jut of her chin as she swayed where she stood.

"Why do you even care what I do?" Tara slurred, her words spilling out loose and uneven.

At first, you didn't even register what she said.

It hit your ears all wrong — messy, half-swallowed — and you just blinked at her, the noise of the party downstairs buzzing distantly behind you.

"What?" you asked, stepping closer without even realizing it. "Why do I care?"

You said it back slowly, disbelievingly — like you needed her to hear how ridiculous it sounded coming out of your mouth.

The question itself felt like a mockery.

Like a slap to the face from someone you'd spent the whole night — the whole year — trying to protect.

It felt so backward, so ugly, so wrong that for a second you couldn't even summon an answer.

Tara was staring at you — leaning slightly to one side like she couldn't stay balanced, but her gaze still locked stubbornly on yours.

There was a sharpness to it, a meanness she didn't usually show you unless she was drunk enough to forget who you were to her.

And then she laughed under her breath — low and almost mean — and shrugged one sloppy shoulder.

"Yeah, why?" she said again, her voice heavier now, her mouth twisting into something cruel.

"It's not like you have anything better going for you anyway."

It stung — sharper and deeper than you ever should've let it.

You knew better.

She was drunk. She didn't mean it.

That was what you tried to tell yourself.

That was what you always tried to tell yourself when she got like this — mean and reckless, saying whatever would get her the quickest win in the moment. ALWAYS

But still, you felt yourself swallow hard, your throat dry and scratchy like you'd just been choked by the words instead of hearing them.

You shifted your weight, feeling suddenly too heavy, too full of everything you didn't know how to say.

You forced your voice out before you could stop yourself — low, a little shaky:

"What's that supposed to mean?"

The words barely made it over the thudding bass still leaking up from the party below.

You hated how small you sounded — how defensive — but you couldn't help it.

Not when she was looking at you like that.

Not when it felt like everything you'd spent the whole night trying to do for her was being twisted into something pathetic.

Tara just stood there, swaying slightly, her eyes glassy and unfocused — but she didn't take it back.

She didn't even blink.

Her mouth twisted — like even she had to think about it for a second before her brain caught up with her tongue.

And then she said it — carelessly, coldly.

"It means that nobody gave a shit about you before I got with you."

The words hung between you, so sharp and cutting you could almost hear them slicing through the haze of the hallway.

But she wasn't done — she stumbled a half-step closer, her boots dragging on the carpet, her balance off.

"If it wasn't for me," she slurred, "you wouldn't even have any friends. You wouldn't even be here. You wouldn't get to step a foot into parties like this."

Her voice pitched up slightly like she thought she was doing you a favor by saying it. Like she thought it was some obvious fact you needed reminding of.

And the way she wobbled toward you — arms loose at her sides, head lolling slightly — almost made it worse.

Because even like this, drunk and bitter and mean, she was still trying to square up to you.

Still trying to win something.

You just stood there — frozen — feeling the words sink in deeper with every heartbeat.

They settled somewhere heavy in your chest, in that small, bruised place you'd been trying to protect all night.

Because the thing was — you knew Tara.

You knew she could be cruel when she was like this. You knew she said shit she didn't mean.

But there was something about the way she said this — so casually, so easily — that made it feel less like a drunken mistake and more like some quiet truth she'd been sitting on.

Like maybe she'd thought it before.

Like maybe she'd meant it more than she even realized.

You didn't say anything at first.

You didn't trust yourself to.

Because what were you supposed to say? That it wasn't true? That you didn't care?

Both would've been lies, and she would've seen right through them.

Instead, you just blinked at her — feeling like the floor had dropped out under your feet — and swallowed against the rising lump in your throat.

You didn't cry.

You weren't going to give her that.

But God, you wanted to.

You started to shake your head — slowly at first, almost in disbelief — scrambling for something to say.

Something that would cut through this, that would make her see you.

"I don't—" you started, voice catching.

But Tara cut you off before you could even finish.

"I have stuff going for me, you know?" she snapped — the words messy, her tongue thick with alcohol but her voice still carrying sharpness underneath.

"I have... I have a future," she said, waving one hand vaguely toward nothing, as if it were something she could physically point to.

"Things I wanna do. Places I wanna go. People I could—" she cut herself off for half a second, her mouth pressing into a thin line before she forced it open again — "People I could be with if I wanted."

She wobbled a little where she stood, but it didn't stop her.

If anything, it just made the rambling worse — made her voice louder, made the bitterness drip out faster.

"But you're always there," she said, almost whining now. "Asking me things. Making everything harder than it has to be. Always hogging me. Always needing something."

Her hands moved again, clumsy and too fast for her body to catch up, like she was trying to bat away the invisible weight of you.

The words tumbled out of her like they had been waiting for the right drunken moment to spill — messy, ugly, half-truths stitched together by all the things she didn't have the decency to hold back anymore.

And you just stood there, taking it — blinking through the sting of it, feeling it dig in deeper with every slurred accusation.

Because even if she didn't mean it — even if you could excuse it later by blaming the alcohol — it didn't make it hurt any less right now.

You opened your mouth again, swallowing down the thickness in your throat, trying to get the words out — trying to tell her that she wasn't the only one with plans, that you had dreams too, that you weren't just—

"I have—" you started, voice low and shaking slightly.

But it was almost like she couldn't let you speak.

Like the sight of you standing there, trying so hard to explain yourself, only fueled the ugly, drunk thing curling in her chest.

She cut you off again — sharper this time, meaner somehow, even though her words were still sloppy and drunkenly stitched together.

"I guess it's understandable though," she slurred, shrugging one shoulder lazily. "I guess when you don't have anything going for you... you wanna hog someone who actually does."

She let out a breath of a laugh — a humorless, biting little sound that hit harder than if she'd screamed.

"You got nothing," she said, voice dropping lower now, almost confidential, almost cruel in the way drunken people could be without even realizing. NOTHING

"No future. No goals. No anything."

"It's like you don't have a future," she said, almost scoffing, throwing her hand out clumsily like she was tossing the words right at you.

"You don't have plans, or—or goals or dreams or whatever. You just... hang around."

Another humorless, broken little laugh.

"You just exist. That's it."

Your heart thudded painfully hard against your ribs.

Still, she didn't stop.

"I mean, what else would you even do?" she rambled, blinking at you like she genuinely didn't know.

"Without me, you'd be... you'd be no one. You'd be...

She trailed off into a sloppy shrug, shaking her head like the idea wasn't even worth finishing.

You stood there, your brain struggling to keep up — like every word out of her mouth was another sharp blow you couldn't defend yourself against fast enough.

You didn't even realize you were shaking until you looked down at your hands.

The world around you — the hallway, the faint noise of music and voices downstairs — faded into a low, meaningless roar.

You blinked hard, willing the sting in your eyes to back off.

You couldn't cry. Not here. Not now.

Not in front of her.

But it was too late.

Because even if she was drunk — even if you knew she wouldn't remember half of this tomorrow — it didn't change what she was saying.

It didn't change how easily she was tearing you apart, how little she seemed to care.

You sucked in a sharp breath through your nose, your chest tightening painfully.

And still — you couldn't find the words to say back.

Because what were you supposed to say to someone who looked at you like you were nothing?

Your mouth opened — you didn't even know what you were going to say — but what came out wasn't strong or sharp or anything you wished it would be.

It was small. Weak.

"That's not true," you said quietly, the words catching on the tight, burning knot in your throat.

But Tara just scoffed — a bitter, drunken sound that felt like another slap across the face.

She shook her head, messy hair falling into her eyes as she stumbled back a step.

"Yes, it is," she muttered, almost under her breath, like she couldn't even be bothered to argue it properly.

Like it was just an accepted fact. Like you were the delusional one for thinking otherwise.

You didn't move.

You just stood there, feeling everything inside you scream at once.

To yell back. To reach for her. To do something.

But before you could even try, Tara spoke again — and this time, she didn't mumble.

Her voice was louder, clearer, like she wanted you to hear this one.

"You're just... a leech," she said, her lip curling in something almost cruel.

"Always hanging on. Always needing something. It's pathetic."

For a second, you forgot how to breathe.

She didn't even seem to realize what she'd said — not really — just stood there, swaying slightly, her drunken glare still pinned lazily on you like she was waiting for you to snap back.

Waiting for you to make it a fight she could win.

But you didn't.

You just stared at her.

At the girl you loved.

The one you'd spent the entire night trying to protect.

The one who, right now, couldn't even see you clearly enough to know how much she was breaking you apart.

You felt your chest hollow out.

Something in you flickered — small, tired, defeated.

But you couldn't just accept it.

You couldn't let yourself believe she meant it — not really.

She was drunk.

Of course she didn't mean it.

Why would she? She was just drunk. She didn't know what she was saying.

You swallowed hard, your voice cracking under the weight of it all as you tried — almost panicked — to force the words out.

"You don't mean that," you said, your hands half-raising like you could somehow catch the words before they stuck.

"You're— you're drunk, Tara. You've had too much to drink."

You sounded desperate. Even you could hear it

Tara just blinked at you for a second, like she was trying to process what you said — like the world was tilting under her feet and she couldn't find her balance.

And then she let out a sharp, humorless laugh.

It scraped in your ears like nails on glass.

"So what?" she slurred out, her arms thrown out slightly at her sides.

"I'm always drunk. You think that makes it any less true?"

She was smiling — but it wasn't happy.

It was ugly.

Twisted with hurt and anger and something worse — something almost mean.

And for the first time that night, you realized:

It didn't matter if she was drunk.

It didn't matter if she was sober.

Right now, she wanted to hurt you.

And she was doing a damn good job.

A single blink — that was all it took.

When your eyes opened again, the first tear broke free, carving a hot, silent path down your cheek.

You sucked in a shaky breath, reaching up almost automatically, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

Your hand trembled as you did it — barely, but enough.

Enough that Tara saw it.

And somehow — somehow — that was what made something shift.

It was like a crack split through her whole face.

The twisted, mocking smile she wore faltered.

And then it was just gone — like it had never been there at all.

Her drunken, glassy eyes widened slightly, and suddenly she didn't look angry anymore.

She didn't look smug or superior or mean.

She just looked... guilty.

Like she was waking up from a dream she hadn't even realized she was trapped inside.

Like she finally saw what she had done.

The hallway around you blurred at the edges.

Everything felt so quiet now — so much quieter than before.

You nodded slowly, almost absently, as everything she said sank in — like stones being dropped one after another into your chest, weighing you down until it hurt just to stand there.

The worst part wasn't even the words themselves.

It was how easily she said them.

Like they didn't matter.

Like you didn't matter.

Your throat burned as you turned around, blinking hard against the hot sting gathering behind your eyes.

You didn't wait for her to call after you — you didn't expect her to.

You just started walking.

One step, then another, and another — until you were far enough down the hallway that she was nothing but a shadow behind you.

It wasn't until then — until you knew she couldn't see you anymore — that the sob finally broke loose from your chest.

Silent, shaking, splintering you open from the inside out.

You kept walking anyway.

Because if you stopped — if you looked back even once — you weren't sure you'd be able to start again.

[halfmoonaria]

Will there be a part two for the cost of hate?

i will absolutely make a part two if that’s something you guys want. although since i didn’t have any plans beforehand im hoping for you guys to send in requests or suggestions for what you want to see in the part two!!

[halfmoonaria]

y’all how do i get the motivation back

[halfmoonaria]

just wanted to say a quick thank you to everyone who’s sent in requests. i seriously love reading them and i do take them all in — but i wanted to apologize in advance if it takes me a while to get to yours. i’ve got a lot in my inbox right now, and honestly, motivation’s been kind of low lately and life’s been a bit busy too.

i’m not ignoring anyone, i promise! there’s just a lot, and sometimes things get buried or accidentally missed. so if yours hasn’t been answered yet, i’m really sorry — i’ll try my best to catch up soon.

please don’t let this stop you from sending things in though! i really appreciate every message i get, and i’ll always do my best to make them happen whenever i can 💌

[halfmoonaria]

hi everyone!!

i just re-read my two imagines what i can’t say and what i can’t undo — and honestly, they’re still some of my all-time favorites that i’ve written.

i know a lot of people have asked for a part three since it kinda ended on a cliffhanger (sorry for making you wait so long), but i really want to write it if that’s something you guys still want!

i’d love to hear how you’d want it to end or what you’d want to happen. feel free to send your ideas — anonymously or not. i really want to adjust it based on what you want, since these stories mean a lot to me and you guys have been so sweet about them.

so yeah, just send me anything you’d like to see!

[halfmoonaria]

Didn't check your username Read your latest work Checked the name Cursed myself because you only write bad ending angst :'c In a more serious note, very nice work, even tho I must admit I tend to avoid your stories because I don't deal well with angst

thanks for reading my work. just being honest, i don’t really take what you said as a compliment — it comes across more critical than kind. i get that not everyone enjoys angst, and that’s okay, but i write what i love. no hard feelings, but please remember writers put a lot of effort into their work, even if it’s not your style.

[halfmoonaria]

ok random but i just wanted to say this real quick because i keep cringing every time i reread my own posts: if you ever notice random WORDS in all caps out of nowhere, that’s why.

i always write all my posts on wattpad first (idk it just feels better and i’ve always done it that way), and when i copy the text to tumblr, the words i originally made cursive don’t stay cursive. so while i’m editing the post here, i put the words in caps so i know which ones are supposed to be italic. otherwise i forget and the whole post looks weird.

so yeah. that’s why it sometimes looks like i’m just randomly YELLING in the middle of a sentence lmao. just thought i’d explain it bc otherwise it’s just awkward as hell.

[halfmoonaria]

the cost of hate

pairing: tara carpenter & gp!fem!reader

summary: tara always knew you drove her crazy — she just never expected it to go this far

warnings: smut 18+ / NSFW content (explicit sexual content), angry sex, alcohol intoxication.

author’s note: this was a request and turned out extremely long so buckle up.

Tara wasn't sure when exactly you became her nemesis.

It could've been the time you called her "Tinkerbell with anger issues" in front of the whole group — completely unprovoked, by the way.

Or maybe it was the fact that you always showed up to group hangouts exactly eight minutes late. Not seven. Not ten. Eight. Like you were trying to be casually inconvenient on purpose.

And somehow, you always had an iced coffee in hand and sunglasses on, even if it was dark outside, looking like you were arriving for an interview you didn't need to prepare for.

Whatever the origin story was, all Tara knew was that you were insufferable. Loud, cocky, always smirking like you were the punchline to a joke only you found funny.

And worse? You flirted with everyone. Constantly. Half the time you weren't even saying anything particularly charming — just leaning too close, dragging out compliments, tilting your head like you were always three seconds from kissing someone just because you could.

And people loved you for it. Chad thought you were the funniest person alive. Mindy treated you like some chaotic little science experiment she'd adopted. Anika had actually said the words "I think she 's kinda iconic" once, and Tara had nearly choked on her drink.

She didn't get it. She didn't want to get it.

You were the kind of person who made her blood boil and her eye twitch. She'd convinced herself that every time you opened your mouth, it shaved at least a day off her lifespan. You always had to have the last word. You always pushed the exact button you knew would get a reaction.

And worst of all, you did it with that face — that smug, slow-smiling, resting-brat expression that made Tara want to throw something heavy at you. Preferably a chair.

She'd tried ignoring you. She really had. But you made it impossible. You talked too much, laughed too loud, spread out across the couch like you paid rent there, and had the nerve to act like she was the uptight one whenever she snapped at you. You acted like everything she said was just part of some game you were both playing — like you didn't even take her seriously.

And maybe that was the worst part.

Because sometimes, late at night, Tara would catch herself replaying your dumb little one-liners, thinking of all the better insults she could've said. And sometimes, she'd spend way too long trying to decide whether you actually meant it when you told her she looked "surprisingly good" that one night in her new jeans.

She told herself it didn't matter.

Because you were not funny. You were not charming.

And if anyone thought otherwise, they were probably just under the influence of your freakish ability to spin basic, mediocre nonsense into something that sounded clever. It wasn't wit. It was volume control and eyebrow raises. That was your whole personality — speaking like you were narrating a scene and reacting like you knew you had an audience.

Tara hated that you always acted like you had the upper hand. Even when she was clearly, objectively winning an argument, you'd throw out some offhand line like "You're cute when you're wrong" and somehow — somehow — everyone would laugh like you were the second coming of George Carlin. It made her want to scream. Or hit you. Or both.

You always took up space without asking. You sat on counters like chairs didn't exist. You interrupted people with questions no one asked and nicknamed her things like "Captain Cranky" or "Tiny Terror," depending on your mood. There was never a day you didn't have some quip ready, like your entire goal in life was to make her feel just annoyed enough to snap in front of other people.

And the worst part was how good you were at pretending it was all harmless. Like she was the only one taking it seriously. You'd look at her with that stupid half-lidded stare, eyebrows lifted, head tilted like you were trying to figure her out. Like she was the one being weird.

God, it was infuriating. You were infuriating.

And yet, somehow, her brain had decided you deserved this much mental real estate. Which wasn't fair. Because she didn't like you. She wasn't even curious about you. She just... needed to understand why you bothered her so much.

Yeah. That was it. She was just trying to understand you.

Which is totally normal.

Totally sane.

Totally not bordering on a hyperfixation.

Tara blinked, the sun catching the edge of her vision as the sharp buzz of lunch chatter brought her back into the moment. She was sitting on one of those uncomfortable benches in the quad, elbow resting on the table, a half-eaten sandwich in front of her that she'd mostly forgotten about. The group was scattered around her — Mindy sprawled with her laptop open even though no one believed she was doing homework, Chad snacking on something loud, Anika sipping from a thermos and pretending she wasn't eavesdropping on everyone at once.

And you — of course — were across from her, leaned back like the bench was a recliner, sunglasses pushed up into your hair. Your mouth was moving, which meant Tara was already irritated.

"...I'm just saying," you were saying, mid-rant about something that had nothing to do with anything, "if I wanted to scam someone, it'd be super easy. Like, I could sell people fake concert tickets and just vanish. New name, new identity, new city. Easy."

Chad looked genuinely impressed. "Wait, you've thought about this?"

"I have a backup plan for my backup plan," you said, proud.

Tara didn't look up from her phone as she muttered, "Yeah, the plan is called 'being an idiot with too much confidence.'"

Anika pressed her lips together like she was trying not to laugh. Mindy glanced up, half-interested, just in time to see your face twist into that annoying little smirk you always pulled when Tara spoke.

You leaned forward slightly, tapping the table with your fingers. "Aw, don't be mad just 'cause your only backup plan is murder."

Tara looked up at that — slow and unamused. "If I ever do commit murder, guess who's at the top of the list?"

"Oh, I hope it's me," you said without missing a beat. "You thinking about me in your darkest hours is kind of hot."

Mindy muttered a faint Jesus Christ into her drink. Chad quietly asked Anika what the hell was happening.

Tara rolled her eyes and went back to her phone, but her ears were hot. And unfortunately, she knew you noticed that. Because you were watching her. Still.

Always.

Tara told herself she wasn't going to engage again. She had already given you one line — that was one too many. But you were still there, grinning like you'd just won something, like her irritation was a gift, and it was taking everything in her not to throw her sandwich directly at your stupid face.

God, she hated you.

She hated the way you always found a way to make the conversation about yourself — like you were the main character and everyone else was lucky to exist in your orbit. She hated your fake-deep takes on random topics, your smug little shrugs, and how you somehow got away with doing absolutely zero schoolwork but still passed everything. She hated how you never used a phone case. She hated your handwriting. She hated that you had a fanbase in school like this was a Netflix original.

And most of all, she hated that you always sat across from her.

"Okay, but if you had to pick someone in this group to survive the apocalypse with," Anika was saying, gesturing dramatically with a carrot stick, "who would it be? And you can't say me, because obviously I'd carry all of you."

Mindy snorted. "You? You panic when the WiFi goes out."

"I have emotional strength," Anika shot back.

"Emotional strength doesn't reload a crossbow," Mindy said.

"Wait, wait—" you leaned forward like you were about to say something important, which already annoyed Tara, "—do we mean zombie apocalypse or, like, nuclear winter? Because that changes everything."

Tara didn't even look up. "Why do you sound like you've practiced for both?"

You didn't miss a beat. "Why do you sound jealous?" That earned a soft laugh from Chad. Tara glared at him.

Mindy was already shaking her head. "This is why you two can't sit next to each other. It's like watching a romcom written by sociopaths."

"Excuse you," you said, hand on your chest. "I bring levity to this group. I'm the charming one."

"You're the delusional one," Tara muttered.

Chad leaned back. "Speaking of delusion — is everyone still going to that party Friday night?”

Tara finally looked up again. "You mean the one at that junior's house? Josh-something?"

"Josh Valera," Mindy supplied. "He was in that weird film class last semester. Wears too much cologne. Thinks Letterboxd is a personality."

"That's the one," Chad said. "Apparently he's got a pool and like five kegs."

Anika perked up. "Five?"

"Two of them are root beer, but still," Chad added.

You shrugged. "I'm going. I like chaos.”

Tara rolled her eyes. "Of course you do. You are chaos."

You grinned at her again. "Flirting already? Slow down, Carpenter. Buy me a drink first."

Tara didn't respond. She just reached over and stole a grape off your tray.

You blinked. "Hey."

"Shut up," she said, chewing slowly.

You didn't argue. You just gave her that look — the one that made her want to throw you into traffic. Or maybe into a wall. Hard to say.

Tara turned back to the group, pretending like the grape theft had ended the interaction, but her thoughts didn't exactly follow. Her fingers tapped absently against the table as Mindy and Chad started debating whether keg root beer was a crime or a revelation, voices blending into background noise.

She wasn't even sure she wanted to go to this party.

It wasn't her scene. Too loud, too messy, too many people trying to be seen. She'd already told herself she might flake. She had a paper she could use as an excuse. A headache she could fake. A completely made-up allergy to chlorine if anyone asked about the pool.

But now you were going — and somehow that made her want to not go even more, and also want to go twice as hard just to make sure you didn't say something so dumb no one could recover from it.

That was the thing about you. You made her feel like she had to be there. To monitor the chaos. To fact-check your nonsense in real time. And sure, yeah, maybe parties were a little more fun when you were around — but only because watching you try to dance and hit on people like a malfunctioning dating sim was basically free entertainment.

She wasn't going because of you.

Obviously not.

She was going because she was invited. Because all her friends were going. Because maybe she deserved a night out after surviving another week of your voice echoing through every goddamn group hangout like a mosquito that wouldn't die.

Totally normal reasons.

Mindy was saying something again, something about outfit coordination or theme or whatever, but Tara barely caught it. Her eyes flicked back across the table where you'd gone back to talking with Anika — animated, leaning in, saying something Tara couldn't hear but that made Anika snort.

You looked relaxed. Stupidly relaxed. Sunglasses still pushed up on your head, like you hadn't even noticed the sun or the way it bounced off your smile or how annoying it was that you smiled that much.

God, Tara hated people like you. The kind who didn't try and still got attention. The kind who didn't care and still got invited to everything. The kind who never shut up — ever — but somehow never got told to.

And now you were going to be at the party too.

Great.

Because of course you were. Of course you'd show up, talk too loud, drink too much, and somehow still end the night with everyone thinking you were fun. And Tara would have to deal with it. Like always.

Totally fine.

She could survive one night. As long as you didn't say anything too stupid.

Or try to talk to her.

Or exist within her peripheral vision.

___

Tara didn't even know why she was standing in front of her closet like that. Like she was frozen. Like any of this actually mattered.

It wasn't her first party. Wasn't even the first one this month. She knew exactly what to expect — same drinks, same music, same people. She wasn't nervous. She wasn't trying to impress anyone. She wasn't standing there for any reason at all, really.

Still, she'd been flipping through the same six hangers for almost ten minutes.

She wasn't overthinking it. She just didn't feel like hearing some dumb comment about how she wore the same shirt every time. Not that she cared what Mindy said — Mindy had zero taste and even less room to talk — but still. It wasn't about the top. It was just... the principle.

She grabbed a black crop top. Put it on. Looked at herself. Took it off.

Not because she didn't like it. She just didn't feel like dealing with it right now.

Tried something else. Looked fine. Took it off again.

God.

She tugged her hair into a loose ponytail, held it there for a second, then let it fall. Stared at herself in the mirror. Walked away. Came back. Tried on the black again. Threw it on the bed.

Her phone buzzed. Again.

The group chat was full-blown chaos now — Mindy sending voice notes nobody asked for, Chad trying to be funny and failing, Anika suggesting shots before they even left the dorm. Tara rolled her eyes. She opened the chat, typed something halfway, deleted it, then checked her lockscreen out of habit.

And of course, your name was sitting right there. With another voice note. Two, actually.

She played the first one, not because she wanted to hear it, but because it auto-played when she tapped it. That's what she told herself anyway. Not like she was listening. Not like she replayed it when it cut off halfway through because she didn't have her volume up.

She didn't even laugh. Not really. Just that weird half-smirk thing she did when she was trying not to give anyone credit for being funny.

Whatever.

She tossed her phone across the bed and sat down next to it with a dramatic flop she'd never admit was on purpose. Let her head fall back. Closed her eyes.

This wasn't her being weird. It was just her getting in the right headspace. That's all. Normal pre-party stuff. Not dread. Not anything serious. Just the kind of minor, manageable irritation that came with the territory.

People were going to be annoying. The room was going to be too hot. Someone was going to spill beer on her shoes again. And yeah, maybe you'd be there, being loud and smug and pretending like you didn't love hearing your own voice. But so what? Tara could handle that.

She always handled that.

And if she didn't, it wasn't like anyone noticed.

She'd gotten good at that — at faking it. At keeping it light. Whatever the opposite of spiraling was, that's what she did in public. Kept things casual. Played it off. Made the right faces. Said the right things. The trick was not to stop moving. Not to let people look for too long. Not to give anyone time to ask questions.

And if something slipped — if her voice cracked, if her hands shook — well, that's what alcohol was for.

It made things easier. Smoother. People didn't ask why you were acting weird if you were drinking. They just laughed and passed the bottle and told you to take another one. And Tara? Tara could always take another one.

She never had to explain anything if she was drunk.

It was a cover. A convenient excuse. And sometimes, yeah, it worked a little too well — like when she woke up still in her jeans or couldn't remember who had walked her home. But that was part of the deal. Part of the plan. She'd rather feel nothing at all than have it spill.

She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, and rubbed her hands over her face.

Tonight wouldn't be different. It wasn't going to be some dramatic thing. Just another night where she drank enough to not think too hard. Just enough to laugh too loud and say something kind of mean and not care if you looked at her like you wanted to say something back.

Just another night. Same as always.

That's what she told herself as she pulled on her jacket and stepped out into the dark. She didn't rush. Didn't think too hard about it. The door clicked shut behind her, and for a second, she just stood there, her hands buried in her pockets, the quiet pressing in from all sides. Not a calm kind of quiet — not peaceful — more like the kind that made her feel too aware of everything. Her breath. Her pulse. The buzz in her ears that hadn't gone away since last week.

She started walking.

The streets were mostly empty. A few cars passed. Somewhere in the distance, someone was laughing way too loud, maybe already drunk. She didn't look. Just kept moving. It was muscle memory at this point — her feet knew where to go, even if her mind wasn't really in it yet.

She used to put music on for walks like this. Something loud, something fast. Something to drown things out. But now she didn't bother. Now she liked the silence better. Or maybe she just didn't want to give herself the chance to start assigning meaning to lyrics again. She hated when she did that. It made everything feel too obvious.

So she walked in silence. Past the same corner store, the same flickering streetlamp, the same crooked fence that probably still hadn't been fixed. Her fingers itched for a cigarette even though she didn't smoke. She was just used to the image — used to pretending she was the kind of person who'd do that. Careless. Detached. In control.

By the time she turned onto the right block, she could already hear the music. Not loud enough to be annoying yet. Just enough to feel like a warning. Like a reminder of what came next.

She didn't slow down.

The house wasn't far. Just a few blocks down — she could already hear the thump of music by the time she reached the corner. That same playlist they always used. That same vibrating bassline that never quite matched the beat. Someone had left the front door cracked open, and warm air hit her in the face the second she stepped inside, carrying with it a wave of voices, sweat, perfume, and cheap alcohol.

Same as always.

She didn't stop at the entrance. Didn't hesitate. She shoved her hands in her pockets and headed straight for the back — toward the kitchen, toward the glass sliding door with the broken lock, toward the corner that had somehow, over time, become theirs.

Mindy spotted her first.

"Tara!" she shouted, like they hadn't spoken that morning, already tipsy and holding a Solo cup with something suspiciously pink inside. She lunged in for a hug Tara barely returned, then immediately started talking about something she didn't really understand. Chad followed, grinning wide and already pulling her into one of those awkward side-hugs he gave everyone, like he was too big to fully aim.

And then there was you.

You leaned back against the counter like you owned it, one eyebrow raised, drink in hand. You didn't even say hi at first. Just let your gaze drag up and down her outfit — slow, deliberately unimpressed — before you spoke.

"Wow," you said. "She changed out of the hoodie. What's the occasion? You get drafted?"

Tara blinked once. "Wow," she repeated, tone deadpan. "That was almost funny. You've been practicing, huh?"

Mindy laughed. You grinned. Chad muttered something about not starting again.

But it was too late. The ritual had begun.

Tara took the drink Mindy offered, clinked it lightly against yours in some mock toast, and took a long sip without breaking eye contact. It tasted like something toxic, but she didn't flinch.

The circle closed around her again, just like it always did — warm, messy, loud, familiar. Anika slid in beside her and started complaining about the DJ. Mindy was yelling about rules for flip cup that no one asked for. Chad had already disappeared, probably looking for food. And you... you stayed exactly where you were, always within arm's reach, always with something to say.

It felt normal.

Same as every other night. Same drink in her hand. Same laughter around her. Same practiced smile on her face, tight but believable. And if she stayed moving, stayed distracted, stayed loud enough or quiet enough or just enough of something — then no one noticed anything at all. Not even you. Who noticed everything.

Anika was halfway through telling the story — apparently Chad had knocked over a whole drink onto the stereo setup earlier, and they all thought the music was going to short out and ruin the night. Mindy kept cutting in to dramatize it, claiming Chad had "shrieked like a toddler," and Chad, who was now camped out by the snacks, shouted back through a mouthful of chips that it wasn't that loud.

You half-listened, swirling the last of your drink around in the cup. Your focus kept drifting back to Tara, who had slouched into the armchair next to you without much enthusiasm, tapping the bottom of her cup against her knee like she was counting down the minutes until she could leave.

"Yeah, you missed it," you said finally, tossing it casually in her direction. "You took so long getting here we were about to send out a search party."

Tara didn't answer right away. She shifted a little in her seat, tapping her cup once more, before muttering, "Sorry people have other shit to do besides drink themselves stupid."

You smirked at the sharpness in her tone. That was the thing about Tara — she always bit back, even when it only made it worse for her.

"And here I thought you were just busy picking out an outfit," you said, resting your elbow lazily against the back of the couch. "Took you forever and you're still the worst dressed one here."

Mindy barely looked up from her phone. "Okay, but to be fair, Y/N would say that no matter what she wore."

You clicked your tongue like you were hurt, but Tara beat you to it, lifting her cup and aiming a lazy smile at Mindy.

"At least someone around here has taste," she said, clinking her drink lightly in Mindy's direction.

You eyed Tara's outfit again — black jeans, black top, black jacket. Somehow three different shades.

"Taste?" you echoed, eyebrows lifting. "You're wearing two different blacks right now. You look like a printer error."

Tara exhaled through her nose — not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. "Right, because I should take fashion advice from someone who thinks jean shorts are business casual."

The reaction from the group was instant — a few low laughs, Mindy muttering something under her breath you didn't catch. Tara just shook her head like she was so done, but you could see the slight twitch at the corner of her mouth, like she was holding back a smile she didn't want to give you.

Still, she couldn't leave it alone. She never could.

"You know what?" you said, straightening up like you'd just remembered something crucial. "At least I show up on time. Not everyone's gotta wait around pretending to enjoy freshmen karaoke because someone can't figure out how to use Google Maps."

That one hit — a few more chuckles around the room. Tara narrowed her eyes, shifting forward in her seat.

"It's a five-minute walk," she said, her voice dripping with disbelief. "Even you could find your way here, and you still get lost inside a Target."

You gasped like it was an outrage, slapping a hand to your chest. "Oh my god. I got lost one time."

"Three times," Anika corrected, not even looking up from the cup she was fiddling with.

You turned your betrayal onto her with a dramatic glare. "That's because Target is a maze. They do it on purpose. Like a trap.”

Tara was already leaning back, tipping her head against the wall like she was exhausted by your stupidity. "You're just dumb," she said sweetly, smiling over the rim of her cup.

You smiled wider, teeth and all, like you had been waiting for it.

"Yeah?" you said. "You got an F in Health class, Tara. You're basically a public hazard."

It was immediate — a loud snort from Mindy, Anika covering her mouth in a poor attempt to hide her laugh. Tara, for once, didn't have anything fast enough to say back. She just gave you a look — all narrowed eyes and simmering annoyance — and took a long, deliberate sip of her drink instead.

You leaned back into the couch, pleased, letting the laughter fade around you. Tara was still glaring at you from behind her cup, and you shot her a wink just to twist the knife a little deeper.

Like always — you got the last word. And like always — she hated you for it. God, she hated you.

She hated the way you acted like you didn't care, like nothing ever touched you. She hated the way you could tear her apart without even raising your voice, how you never got rattled no matter how hard she tried to knock you off balance. How you smiled at her like you liked seeing her lose.

She hated your mouth — sharp and quick and always moving — and the way you dressed, like you didn't even try but still somehow won. Tight black tube top stretched over your chest, low-slung jeans clinging just right, a little messy, a little dangerous, a lot hotter than she could stand to admit.

Tara let her gaze slide sideways, just for a second. You were leaning back against the kitchen counter now, a red solo cup dangling carelessly from your fingers, grinning lazily, legs crossed at the ankle like you couldn't have been more at home. The hem of your jeans was frayed, the belt slung low across your hips, the sharp lines of your body slouching there like it wasn't killing her.

You looked like every bad decision she had ever barely survived. And you knew it.

Tara took another long sip of her drink, swallowing down the burn. She told herself she was just annoyed — just irritated by you — that the flush creeping up the back of her neck was from the alcohol, not from the way you kept laughing, easy and bright, with everyone except her.

Not because you looked good.

Not because you made her want something she was supposed to hate.

She tapped her cup against the edge of the counter again, harder this time, trying to shake it off.

Trying to ignore the way you shifted your weight, the way the band of your belt caught the low light, the sharp gleam in your eye every time you caught her looking.

God, she hated you. And if she didn't, she was going to have to start lying a whole lot harder.

Tara cracked an eye open at the sound, her gaze dragging over you — slow, irritated, and just a little too heavy. She could already feel the alcohol blooming hot under her skin, prickling at the back of her neck, tightening in her chest like it wanted to crawl out. Definitely more than she usually drank. Way more.

But what was she supposed to do? Stand here stone-cold sober while you — in all your smug, infuriating glory — kept shooting her that half-smile like you knew you were winning just by existing?

No chance.

She shifted her weight, letting her shoulder knock loosely against the cabinet behind her, and took another sip even though she didn't want it. The liquor was starting to taste stale. Bitter. And it still wasn't working. Still wasn't shutting off the sharp, gnawing awareness of you — standing there way too close, belt catching the light, black tube top doing absolutely nothing to not make her night worse.

She blamed the red in your eyes on the alcohol too. Had to. Because the alternative — that you were already three steps ahead of her, soft and glassy and loose-limbed and still managing to make her look like the idiot — was something she wasn't about to deal with tonight.

You caught her looking again. Of course you did. You tilted your head just slightly, a silent challenge, your fingers toying lazily with the rim of your cup.

"Just you and me then, princess," you said, smirking around the rim of your cup.

Tara scoffed, hard, eyes narrowing. "Don't call me that."

You blinked innocently. "No? What about...Pissy Missy?"

She made a face like she just swallowed something sour. "Worse."

You grinned wider, pushing off the counter to face her more fully. "Snappy?"

She shot you a look that could've cut glass. "Try again and I'm breaking your nose."

You lifted your free hand, pretending to think it over, pretending to take it seriously. "Mmm... Crankzilla?"

"Jesus Christ," she muttered under her breath, rubbing her temples like the very sound of your voice was giving her a migraine.

You pushed yourself up onto the counter with a little hop, drink sloshing slightly in your hand but somehow you didn't spill a drop. You perched there like you owned the whole damn room, legs swinging loosely, head tilted just enough to seem amused, still grinning, refusing to let up. "Tantrum Tot?"

Tara let out a short, humorless laugh. "You are the last person who's allowed to call me that."

Your smile turned sly. You leaned in just a little — enough to make it annoying, enough to make it clear you were doing it on purpose. "Mean Bean?"

Tara actually recoiled like you'd slapped her. "I will literally throw you out the window."

You laughed under your breath, couldn't help it. "So that's a no?"

She shook her head, looking half-ready to murder you, half-ready to laugh. She wasn't sure if it was the alcohol making everything feel looser around the edges — the thrum in her veins, the heat crawling up her neck — or just you being a stubborn, smug little shit, the way you always were.

You looked at her, feigning disappointment. "Guess I'll just stick to 'princess.' You seemed to like that one the best."

She let out a sharp, disbelieving breath — not quite a laugh, not quite a groan — and nudged your knee with her hand as she stepped past you to grab another drink. "God, you're insufferable."

But her mouth twitched at the corner when she said it. Just barely.

And you caught it.

Of course you did.

Your eyebrows lifted, slow and smug, and you tipped your cup toward her like a lazy kind of toast before taking a sip — dragging it out just enough to make sure she noticed.

Tara rolled her eyes, whipping her head to the side like she could physically shake you out of her sight. But it was too late — you'd already seen it.

The tiny, reluctant pull of a smile at the corner of her mouth. Like she hated you, God, she hated you — but sometimes you were just... so stupid, it scraped a laugh out of her before she could stop it.

Not a full laugh — just a quick breath through her nose, a barely-there twist of her mouth — but enough to make you catch it.

And enough to make your smirk deepen.

You leaned back against the counter a little more comfortably, soaking it in, almost like you were proud of yourself for chipping away at her.

Which, of course, you were.

The room around you buzzed louder — people laughing, shot glasses clinking together somewhere across the kitchen. You turned your head lazily toward the noise, watching as a group gathered by the kitchen island, shouting numbers and already spilling cheap liquor across the counters.

Your gaze shifted back to Tara, a lazy spark lighting behind your eyes.

"Let's take a shot," you said, voice low and smooth, like you were suggesting something way worse.

Tara blinked at you, like she genuinely thought she had misheard. "What?"

You shrugged one shoulder, your smirk never dropping.

"Scared you can't keep up?"

This time, the laugh actually escaped her — a short, incredulous sound, almost more like a scoff.

"You wish," she said, shooting you a look so sharp it could've taken your head off if you were standing any closer.

You pushed off the counter, setting your drink down without a second thought, already moving toward the mess of bottles and half-filled glasses at the island.

You didn't even have to look back — you could feel her eyes burning into your back, feel the weight of her decision hanging thick in the air.

For a second, you thought maybe she was going to be stubborn — dig her heels in and refuse, just to spite you. But when you slowed up near the table, pretending like you hadn't even noticed she hadn't followed yet, you heard her exhale sharply.

You didn't have to look to know she was giving in.

You grabbed two shot glasses from the cluttered island, ignoring how sticky the counter had gotten, and poured quickly — a lazy, messy hand on the bottle.

You very obviously tipped a little more into hers, the clear liquid sloshing closer to the rim, before sliding it across the counter toward her spot without a word.

Tara caught it, narrowing her eyes immediately — but she didn't say anything. She just adjusted her grip like she was already planning how to get you back later.

You grinned, picking up your own glass, and tilted it toward her expectantly.

"C'mon," you said, nudging the rim of yours toward hers. "Don't be rude."

She rolled her eyes but lifted hers too, clearly ready to just get this over with — but you didn't let it stay casual.

You smacked the two glasses together a little harder than you should have, enough that a splash of alcohol flew up and splattered across her hand and wrist.

"Asshole," she laughed — real this time, but quick and rough like she didn't mean to let it out — wiping her hand absently on the side of her skirt.

You shrugged, pretending like it hadn't been on purpose at all, and tipped your glass up.

Tara followed a beat later.

The tequila hit her tongue hot — too hot.

Not the smooth burn she was used to — the kind that melted into your chest and stayed there — but something sharper, harsher, like her whole mouth dried up at once and she was still somehow drowning.

She squeezed her eyes shut as she swallowed it, scrunching her nose instinctively after.

She'd taken shots a hundred times before. But right now, it felt... different.

Maybe it was the amount she'd already had tonight — more than she usually would've touched.

Or maybe it was the way the room spun a little when she tipped her head back down, how everything felt just slightly off-balance, like the floor under her feet was shifting.

Or maybe, just maybe, it was the fact that you were standing there, cocky and stupid and smirking at her like you knew she was going to keep saying yes to every little thing you dared her to do.

Maybe it was that.

Either way — she wasn't about to let you win again.

You were already reaching for the bottle again, tipping it over both your glasses without even asking.

You didn't even look at her — just poured like it was obvious she was going to stay.

Tara moved automatically at first, grabbing her glass to pull it away — but she hesitated halfway through. Her fingers tightened around the rim instead, her mouth tightening too, like she couldn't believe she was actually doing this.

She was shotting with you. Standing next to you — just you — out of her own free will.

Nobody forcing her, nobody dragging her by the wrist, nobody making a joke or daring her into it.

She could have walked away fifteen minutes ago. Hell, she could have never said yes in the first place. But here she was.

And the worst part — the part that made her want to throw the shot straight in your face — was that it didn't even feel completely insufferable.

It should have. God, it should have.

Instead, there was a lightness to it. A weird, easy kind of tension that didn't make her want to throw a punch — not really. Just... knock your stupid smirk off your face a little.

You caught her staring, of course — because you always caught everything — and shot her a look like you were already laughing at her inside your head.

You smirked wider, raised your glass, and clinked it against hers again.

"Cheers, princess," you said, all slow and mocking.

Tara narrowed her eyes — but when you both tipped your heads back and took the second shot, she was smiling.

She hated it.

But she smiled anyway.

The first shot was already starting to hum under her skin — or maybe it was the second, she didn't know. She told herself that was why she was still standing there with you. Why she hadn't already shoved past you and disappeared into the crowd.

It wasn't because it felt good — leaning there, beside you, the air crackling faintly between your arms whenever you shifted too close. It wasn't because of the way you kept glancing at her, like you were waiting for her to crack first.

It wasn't because the tiny part of her — the tiny, traitorous part — kind of liked it.

No.

It was just the alcohol.

That's what she decided as she placed her empty shot glass back down, a little too hard.

That's what she decided when her head swayed slightly, and the room tipped for a second too long before steadying.

When the blurry edges of the world made it easier not to think too hard about anything.

You were leaning your hip lazily against the edge of the folding table now, one foot hooked behind the other, like you didn't have a single worry in the world. One hand still cradling your drink, the other tapping a slow, easy rhythm against your thigh.

You were too relaxed.

Too comfortable.

Like standing next to her wasn't supposed to be the most aggravating part of your night.

It made her jaw clench — and at the same time, her stomach twist in a way she didn't really want to name.

She didn't realize she was staring until you turned your head, catching her again — always catching her — and cocked your eyebrow slightly, like you could read every thought she hadn't even figured out herself yet.

You didn't say anything for a second — just kept leaning there, easy and casual, like you didn't notice the way she was barely keeping herself upright. But then your smirk deepened a little, sharp and taunting.

"Want to dance?"you said, tipping your head toward the living room, where the music was still loud and heavy.

Tara almost laughed in your face.

Almost.

But the alcohol made the floor feel softer under her sneakers.

It made the flicker of lights around the room seem farther away, easier to ignore. And it made the idea of saying no — of staying here while you went off and smiled at someone else — feel unbearable.

So she rolled her eyes, muttered something under her breath that sounded a lot like "fuck you," and shoved off the table to follow.

The bass was pounding when you reached the middle of the room, people already packed tight enough that there wasn't really much space to move properly.

You didn't seem to care. You just spun around to face her, stepping backward into the crowd and waiting, daring her, with a tilt of your head.

Tara hesitated — but only for half a second.

Because fuck it. It was just dancing.

And it was definitely just the alcohol making her heart trip when your hand brushed lightly against her wrist.

You didn't grab her. You didn't even really touch her again.

You just started moving, lazy and easy, like you knew she was going to fall in step with you eventually.

And the worst part — the part that made Tara want to rip the stupid black tube top off your body — was that she did.

The music was loud enough to drown everything else out.

The lights blurred. The people around you blurred. And suddenly it was just you.

The way you moved. The way your jeans clung low on your hips. The flash of your belt buckle when you twisted just right. The way your shirt stretched tight across your stomach, showing off every sharp line of you.

Tara's mouth went dry. And just like that, the anger was back.

Because of course this was happening. Of course the second she let her guard down for half a second, you had to go and be hot.

She blamed the alcohol. She blamed the shitty lighting. She blamed the way the air felt sticky and electric. She blamed everything — except herself.

Because there was no fucking way she was actually starting to want you.

Tara moved half a beat off from you, just enough to look casual — just enough to hide the way her eyes kept flickering up, catching on you every other second.

The lights kept shifting overhead, blurring everything in flashes of purple and red, but somehow you stayed sharp.

The slope of your neck when you tossed your head back, laughing at something someone said behind you.

The way your shirt bunched and stretched with every shift of your hips.

The way your fingers hooked lazily through your belt loops, casual, cocky, like you owned the whole fucking room.

It all felt like slow motion.

Too vivid. Too loud inside her own head.

Tara gritted her teeth and forced herself to move, let the music drag her along so she didn't freeze up completely.

Because she could not let you catch her staring. She could not give you that satisfaction.

But even as she danced — even as she made herself sway to the pounding bass — her hands curled into fists at her sides.

She wanted to slap herself across the face. Or better — slap you.

Because you weren't even doing anything. You were just existing — just breathing and smiling and moving like you didn't have a single thought in your stupid, pretty head — and it was wrecking her.

It wasn't fair. It wasn't fucking fair that you could get under her skin like this without even trying.

And it made her furious.

Furious that she couldn't look away.

Furious that you looked so good under the lights, all effortless and smug and just a little wild.

Furious that her pulse stuttered every time you shifted closer.

Furious that a tiny, traitorous part of her — deep, deep down — almost didn't hate it.

Of course this was happening. Of course it was.

It wasn't like she hadn't seen it coming — not really. Not with the way you hovered around the edges of her life now, like a bad habit she couldn't kick. Not with the way the bickering had started sounding less like hatred and more like a language only the two of you spoke.

But this — this heat licking up her spine every time you so much as shifted in her direction —

This wasn't supposed to happen.

It couldn't happen.

Not when she hated you.

Not when she'd spent months convincing herself you were a mistake — a fluke — an accident she was smarter than to repeat.

You were cocky. You were smug.

You were a walking disaster, and you didn't even try to hide it.

You made her want to scream into her pillow and punch holes through walls and maybe — maybe —pull you closer by your stupid shirt and kiss you until she forgot how much she hated you.

And that was exactly the problem.

Because if there was even the smallest chance she could want you — even for a second —even with the alcohol burning through her bloodstream and the lights spinning overhead —then everything she thought she knew about you — about herself —was a lie.

And Tara Carpenter didn't lose.

She didn't fold.

She didn't want things she wasn't supposed to want.

Especially not you.

Her head buzzed — heavy and slow — like she was moving a few beats behind everything else. Every noise — every shout, every laugh, every thud of bass — felt a little too loud, rattling inside her skull like a marble in a glass jar. She blinked hard, trying to clear the static clouding her brain, but it only made the lights streak across her vision worse.

She caught herself swaying a little where she stood, the floor tilting under her feet, and scowled hard at nothing.

Her hands clenched into fists at her sides — like maybe she could squeeze the dizziness out of herself if she tried hard enough.

Great.

Exactly what she needed.

As if this wasn't already a fucking disaster.

The music thumped louder, vibrating up through the soles of her shoes, knocking against her ribs like a second heartbeat. Someone bumped into her shoulder, laughing, a drink sloshing over their hand, and Tara barely managed not to stumble sideways.

She realized she wasn't even really dancing anymore — just standing there, stuck, her pulse pounding too close to the surface, her breath coming quicker than she wanted.

Everything felt too hot. Too close. Too slow and too fast all at once. She needed to move.

She needed to get away from you — your stupid mouth and your stupid smirk and your stupid eyes.

Without thinking, she spun on her heel and pushed away from the crowd, her boots scraping hard against the sticky floor.

The bodies around her blurred together, all sweat-slick skin and flashing lights. She shoved her way through without caring, elbowing past groups hunched over drinks, sidestepping half-hearted apologies she barely heard.

The smell of cheap liquor and something burnt clung to the air, thick enough to choke on. Every step felt heavier than the last, like her boots were sinking into the floor, dragging her down.

She squinted through the chaos, trying to find somewhere — anywhere — less suffocating, her hands flexing uselessly at her sides.

Her eyes caught on a worn-out couch shoved against the wall, sagging in the middle, a mess of abandoned jackets and empty cups piled onto one side. It was barely any quieter over there — the music still thudding through the walls — but it was better than standing around like an idiot.

She stumbled her way toward it, weaving through the crowd, her shoulder clipping someone's arm without so much as a sorry. By the time she dropped onto the couch, the seat gave a tired creak under her weight, and she let herself slump back — her legs sprawling.

She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, willing the dizziness to settle, the roaring in her ears to die down.

The world kept tilting anyway.

She hated this.

Hated the way the night felt like it was slipping out of her hands.

Hated the heat clinging to her skin.

Hated you for making it worse without even trying.

She didn't even hear you approach — not at first.

But she felt it — the shift in the air, the invisible pull of you stepping closer.

That same stupid electricity sparking just from you being near.

Tara gritted her teeth, dropping her hands back onto her knees like she hadn't noticed anything at all. Like you weren't already there, lingering behind her, all smug and cocky and impossible to ignore.

She barely had time to slump back before you caught up, dropping down onto the couch beside her like you belonged there.

Your voice was low and stupidly smug in her ear.

"What's wrong? Can't keep up?"

Tara flipped you off over her shoulder without even bothering to look at you.

The motion was sloppy — her middle finger wobbling a little in the air — and she hated how you immediately laughed under your breath like you thought it was cute.

She scowled harder at the wall in front of her.

God. She hated this.

You didn't let up, of course.

You just shifted lazily closer, sprawling back like you had all the time in the world, your knee knocking against hers.

"What," you teased, voice low and impossible to ignore, "not used to anything outside of Beethoven?"

Tara whipped her head toward you — or tried to — but the whole room lurched sideways and she had to slam a hand down on the seat cushion to steady herself.

You laughed — actually laughed — and it was so stupid and smug that Tara couldn't help it.

A tiny, treacherous snort escaped out of her before she could stop it.

She immediately clamped her lips together, furious at herself — but it was too late.

You'd definitely heard it.

And worse, you were already grinning like you'd just won some invisible game she didn't even realize she was playing.

Tara cracked her eyes open again — a mistake — and immediately caught you staring right back at her.

Her chest tightened, too hot under her skin, and she tried to look away — but it was already too late.

Your eyes locked.

The air between you stretched tight — tight enough to snap — and Tara felt her own gaze flicker down, stupid and uncontrollable.

Straight to your mouth.

God, your lips were glossy — pink and wet under the shitty lights — and she hated that she noticed.

Hated the way the thought hit her like a punch:

That she could just lean over and kiss you.

That she could wipe that stupid fucking smirk right off your face with her mouth.

The thought should have mortified her.

Instead, it just burned — angry and wild, crackling in her chest like static.

She didn't chase the thought away. She didn't even try. She just sat there, letting it ruin her, letting it make her crazy.

Because it wasn't like you could hear what was happening in her head.

It wasn't like you knew.

But then you spoke — low, lazy, almost bored — and she realized you absolutely knew.

"Wanna make out?" you said.

The words weren't even really a question — more like a taunt — sliding off your tongue slow and smooth, like you already knew the answer.

Tara's whole body locked up at once.

Her fists clenched hard against her thighs.

Her heart slammed against her ribs like it was trying to break out.

She stared at you, open-mouthed, furious —

Furious at you, at herself, at the alcohol humming thick under her skin.

And the worst part — the absolute worst fucking part —was that her first instinct wasn't to say no.

It was to say yes.

And that terrified her more than anything else.

Because it wasn't just the alcohol talking.

Not just the warmth in her chest or the slow spin of the room.

It was the way the air felt heavy around her, the way your knee brushed against hers on the couch and she didn't pull away. The way her eyes kept dragging to your mouth and how she couldn't, for the life of her, seem to stop.

Her thoughts were sticky and slow, crawling through her head like syrup.

Everything around her — the voices, the music, the clatter of cups and laughter from the next room — had started to melt together, one indistinct blur of sound.

But you?

You were sharp. Clear. The only thing not spinning. And that pissed her off.

Because you weren't supposed to look like that — not here, not now.

You weren't supposed to be this version of yourself.

Not flushed and grinning and leaning back on someone else's couch like it belonged to you.

Not with those fucking glossy lips and the heat in your eyes and that low, teasing voice that kept sliding under her skin like it knew how to get there.

You looked good.

Too good.

Not in the annoying, arrogant way she was used to seeing you at school — mouthing off in class, flashing smug looks from across the cafeteria like you knew everything.

Now, in this lighting — under the soft yellow bulbs and the flicker of whatever movie someone had left playing in the background — you looked warm.

Inviting.

Your shirt slightly rumpled from dancing, your lashes casting shadows on your cheeks when you blinked.

And your mouth.

God, your mouth.

Tara's eyes flicked to your lips before she could stop them, catching the faint sheen of gloss that hadn't completely worn off yet.

She wanted to blame the shot.

Both of them.

The burn still lingering in her throat, the warmth still spreading in her chest.

She felt high.

Not drunk — high.

The kind of high that made her limbs feel light and disconnected, her fingers slightly numb where they fidgeted in her lap.

She felt like if she moved too fast, her body would tip right off the edge of the world.

And you had the audacity to say it like it meant nothing — like you hadn't just thrown a live wire into her already scrambled brain.

Like it was funny.

Like it wasn't about to ruin everything.

She froze — only for a second — but it felt longer than that.

Long enough for her brain to scramble for something.

Some reason, some excuse, any explanation that didn't end with her admitting what she was actually thinking.

None of it will matter tomorrow.

You're drunk. She's drunk.

This isn't real.

You wouldn't even say something like that if you were sober.

So she didn't have to take it seriously.

She didn't have to mean it.

She let her head fall back against the couch — the real kind of surrender — and turned it lazily to the side so she could look at you without making it obvious.

You were already watching her.

Her gaze dropped again, and this time, she didn't pretend it was an accident.

Your lips looked soft.

Mocking.

Like they were daring her.

And for just a second, she imagined what it'd be like to shut you up with a kiss.

Hard.

Fast.

Just to wipe that look off your face.

The thought made her stomach flip.

It made her angry, how easily her mind went there.

But you weren't going to hear those thoughts.

So what did it matter?

Her lips curled before she could stop them — a slow, crooked smirk — and she finally gave in.

"Sure," she said, her voice low and dry.

Your eyebrows ticked up, just slightly.

And then you leaned in, already smiling like you knew.

Tara barely had a second to breathe.

Your face was suddenly so close — the heat of you, the smell of your skin, some mix of alcohol and mint gum and whatever lotion you used.

Too close.

And then your mouth touched hers.

It was hesitant at first. Just a press. A test.

But it was warm — soft — and her breath caught in her throat.

You tilted your head just slightly, and her lips followed without thinking.

They parted for yours like they knew how.

The kiss deepened.

Slower than she expected.

Sloppy, yes — but controlled.

You kissed like you were making sure she felt it.

Every inch of it.

Tara's lips moved with yours, instinct kicking in where reason had checked out.

She shifted her weight, angling closer, and felt your hand graze her knee before sliding up to her hip, anchoring her there.

You adjusted, one elbow slipping up along the back of the couch — the actual term she was too drunk to think of — your fingers brushing her shoulder as you leaned in further.

It made your bodies press together in a way that sent sparks shooting down her spine.

She kissed you harder.

Or maybe you kissed her harder.

She didn't know anymore.

All she could feel was the warmth of your mouth — wet, slow, maddeningly soft — moving against hers.

It wasn't clean or careful.

It was messy.

Unsteady.

Like neither of you really knew where the rhythm started or ended, just that you didn't want to stop.

Your lips parted again, and she followed.

Breath hitched.

Tongues touched.

Tara's fingers dug into the edge of the couch cushion, her balance swaying between you and the seat, and she didn't care.

Your lips tasted like cheap liquor and something sweeter underneath.

Your teeth grazed her bottom lip and she inhaled sharp through her nose — just enough for you to notice — before kissing you again.

It was chaotic.

Uncoordinated.

Hot.

Her heart was hammering.

You kept kissing her like it was easy. Like you weren't even thinking about it.

And she couldn't stand how badly she wanted to keep going.

How her body leaned into yours like it needed to.

Every second of it was wrong.

Every second of it felt too good.

But Tara didn't pull away.

Not yet.

Your hand was still resting at her hip, light but grounding, and her fingers curled unconsciously against your leg, needing something solid to hold onto. Her lips moved against yours again — slower this time, deeper. Like she couldn't help it. Like the heat simmering in her chest had nowhere else to go.

She didn't even try to think anymore.

Didn't care.

Her thoughts were loud — messy, tangled, barely strung together.

She shouldn't be doing this.

She shouldn't want this.

But she did.

God, she did.

She kissed you harder, angling her head to the side, and you met her without hesitation — like you'd been waiting for that exact pressure, that exact urgency.

Her legs shifted against the couch, thighs tightening involuntarily as your hand brushed up her side — not even high, not even skin — and still it sent a jolt right through her.

She was drunk.

That had to be it.

It had to be.

Because she could feel it now.

Low in her stomach. Between her legs.

A slow, pulsing heat — the kind that wouldn't go away. That never just went away.

It was ridiculous.

So fucking ridiculous.

But you tasted good.

You felt good.

And when your lips dragged slightly down to the corner of her mouth — just enough to make her breath hitch — Tara realized she didn't just want to kiss you.

She wanted more.

Her mind raced.

Images flashing too fast to stop — her hands gripping your shirt, your mouth lower, your body under hers — and she wanted to shake herself.

Yell.

Do something.

But all she did was kiss you again. Again and again and again.

She could barely think, barely breathe, could feel herself pooling between her legs — warm, aching, needy in a way that made her want to scream.

It was humiliating. It was infuriating.

And it wasn't stopping.

You shifted slightly, pulling her closer without even trying — and Tara let you.

Let you kiss her like you owned her.

Let your tongue slide against hers with that same cocky rhythm.

She wanted to push you back.

Push you down. Pull your hair. Something. Anything.

Because she needed more.

Even if she couldn't say it.

Even if it killed her.

The thought alone made her dizzy.

Not the alcohol. Not the heat.

Just you.

You, sitting there like you hadn't just lit her whole body on fire.

You, staring at her with those eyes like you knew exactly what she wanted and how badly she wanted it.

And fuck — she hated that she couldn't hide it anymore.

Not with her lips swollen from yours, not with her chest rising too fast, not with that hungry, throbbing pull between her legs that wouldn't stop gnawing at her.

Her mind twisted in circles — a thousand reasons why she should stop, why she had to stop.

This wasn't her.

She didn't do this.

She didn't want this.

But that voice was buried now — drowned under the heat, the rush, the way her thighs squeezed together like they had a mind of their own.

The only thing louder than her thoughts was the ache.

She wanted to lean back in.

Wanted to taste your lip gloss again, to bite your bottom lip and hear you gasp.

Wanted to see just how far you'd let her take it.

Instead, her body moved on instinct.

Sharp. Sudden.

She pulled away — barely — lips parting from yours with a sound too soft for how hard her heart was beating.

She sat there for a second, just breathing.

Just staring.

Your eyes locked with hers, confused but already glinting with that same smugness you always had.

And still — she couldn't look away.

Her hand twitched. Fingers curled.

"Come on," she muttered — voice low, tight, like the words cost her something.

Then she grabbed your wrist.

Not rough. Not gentle.

Just determined.

You didn't say a word.

Didn't ask where you were going.

You just followed.

She pulled you through the crowd, heat and bass and sweat pressing in from every side.

Bodies crushed together — laughing, moving, swaying — and Tara didn't look at a single one of them.

She didn't care.

Didn't slow down.

Her grip on your hand tightened as she shoved through, weaving past shoulders and spilled drinks and sticky floors.

The music was louder now, the air thicker, and she could barely breathe — but she didn't stop.

Because you were still behind her. And your hand was still in hers. And she needed more.

Wherever this was going —

Whatever happened next —

She needed more.

And oh, did she get it.

She barely registered the room as she dragged you inside — the faint whir of a ceiling fan, the messy tangle of an unmade bed in the corner, a dresser with half-open drawers.

It didn't matter. None of it did.

The second the door clicked shut behind you, Tara's hands were on you again — shoving you back against it hard enough to rattle the frame.

You let out a breathy laugh — smirking — and Tara wanted to punch it off your face.

Or kiss it.

Apparently her body decided for her.

Because the next thing she knew, her mouth was on yours again, hot and rough and starving.

She felt you grin against her lips — cocky and pleased — and it made something furious and electric twist deep inside her.

She kissed you harder.

Sloppier.

Your bodies crashed together, uncoordinated and messy.

It was all teeth and heat, lips sliding and tugging, hands scrabbling for something to hold onto.

Tara barely remembered how to breathe.

Her hands fisted in the hem of your shirt, tugging you closer, feeling the way your body molded into hers.

You were warm — too warm — and the heady smell of you, your perfume and sweat and beer, filled her lungs until she was drunk off it.

Drunker than she already was.

You tilted your head, deepening the kiss, and Tara almost whimpered — feeling it all the way down to her knees.

The way your tongue brushed against hers, teasing, coaxing.

The way you bit down gently on her bottom lip, pulling it between your teeth for just a second before letting go.

Fuck.

She pressed her whole body against you, chasing the feeling, desperate to steal more.

And all she could think — all she could fucking think — was:

More.

More.

More.

Her hands moved before her brain could catch up — yanking at the hem of your shirt, dragging it upward in one rough pull.

You didn't resist — you even raised your arms to make it easier — and Tara barely tossed it somewhere across the room before her eyes dropped automatically, hungrily.

You were wearing a black bandeau bra — simple, tight, strapless. It hugged your chest perfectly, the curve of your breasts pressed up and together — smooth and effortless and unfairly fucking hot.

Tara stared for a second longer than she meant to, heat punching through her chest so sharp it almost hurt.

And then she was on you again.

Her hands framed your face, grabbing you roughly, and she crashed her mouth back onto yours like she could erase the thoughts racing through her head if she just kissed you hard enough.

You made a low sound in the back of your throat — something between a laugh and a moan — and suddenly, you started walking forward, guiding her with you.

Tara stumbled a step back, caught off-guard, but didn't think, didn't care — she just followed, letting herself be pulled wherever you wanted her.

It was messy, chaotic, bumping into furniture, nearly tripping over shoes left on the floor. The floor kept tilting under her feet, the alcohol swirling through her blood like fire.

But none of it mattered.

You didn't give her time to overthink.

Before she could fully process it, the back of her legs hit the edge of the bed —

And your fingers were already at the hem of her shirt, bunching it up and over her ribs.

Tara didn't move at first.

Didn't breathe.

She just let you.

Arms raising slightly, letting you peel the fabric up and off — another piece of herself surrendered without even a second thought.

Her head spun so violently it almost made her laugh.

And then your eyes flickered down — blatantly — lingering at her chest. Tara didn't even have time to brace for it.

She was wearing a black lace bra — something strappy, barely-there, a little too much push-up if she was being honest.

The way your gaze darkened made heat lick straight down her spine. You smirked, slow and lazy, like you had all the time in the world.

"Fancy, Carpenter," you murmured, voice low and teasing.

Tara opened her mouth — maybe to tell you to shut the fuck up — but then you tilted your head, grinning even wider.

"Did you pick this out just for me?"

Your hands slid up without warning — fingers tracing lightly over her ribs before cupping her breasts through the lace.

It wasn't even that rough, but it didn't have to be.

Tara almost moaned.

Almost.

Her knees went a little weak, her body flaring hot all over — and god, it pissed her off how easily you could get to her.

Instead of giving you the satisfaction of hearing her fall apart, she grabbed your face again — rough, desperate — and pulled you back into her.

"Don't remind me that you're you,” she growled into your mouth.

And then she kissed you — hard, messy, almost feral — her hands fisting tight in your hair like she needed something to hold onto just to keep herself grounded.

Tara kissed you like she was trying to knock the smugness right off your face — open-mouthed and clumsy and a little too desperate.

Your hands stayed right where she hated them — cupping, teasing — your thumbs brushing over the lace in a way that made her hips stutter forward without meaning to.

And somewhere in the swirling, drunken haze of it all, Tara had the fleeting, stupid thought that maybe she regretted what she said. Because doing this — this — with you didn't make her hate you more.

It made it hotter.

Made her want to crawl out of her own skin.

Before she could sink too deep into that terrifying realization, your hands slid down to her waist — gripping tight — and without warning, you pushed.

Tara stumbled backward with a sharp gasp, the backs of her knees hitting the bed.

She let herself fall — dropping onto the mattress with a bounce — glaring up at you like she wanted to murder you and kiss you at the same time.

You just smirked down at her, maddeningly calm, stepping in even closer. Your knees bumped against the edge of the bed, and for half a second, neither of you moved — the air thick between you, your breathing ragged and shallow.

And then — slowly, lazily — Tara spread her legs apart, leaving just enough space for you to step between.

She tilted her head back against the bed, looking up at you with dark, furious eyes — like she was daring you to fucking do something about it. Tara could already feel herself slipping.

Her thighs tensed where they framed your hips, her chest heaving with every shallow breath.

She didn't know what it was — the alcohol, the heat, you — but she needed something.

Needed you to move, to touch her, to do something.

If that meant bending her over and fucking her until she forgot her own name, then so be it.

She didn't care. She just needed it.

Her whole body ached with it — restless, buzzing, desperate — and she barely lasted ten seconds under the weight of your stare before her patience snapped clean in half.

"Are you just going to stand there fucking stare," she snarled, her voice low and wrecked, "or are you going to fuck me?"

Tara propped herself up on her elbows like it might make her look tougher —like it might somehow hide how desperate she was underneath all the glaring.

Your mouth fell open slightly at her words, caught somewhere between a smirk and actual shock —like you hadn't expected her to say it out loud.

You let your gaze rake down her body, slow and lazy, and when you looked back up at her, your smile was downright cruel.

"Wow," you said, voice dripping with mock-sweetness. "Someone's needy, huh?"

You leaned in, one hand bracing on the bed beside her hip, your mouth just barely brushing her ear.

"Poor little princess," you whispered. "Should I help you out?"

Tara muttered a "fuck you"under her breath — something sharp and furious— but her hands were already moving.

Shaky, rushed, desperate.

She grabbed at your belt first, fumbling with the buckle like it personally offended her, her fingers clumsy with alcohol and want. She yanked it loose hard enough to make the metal clatter, then popped open the button of your jeans, dragging the zipper down in one rough pull.

And fuck, there it was — hard and heavy against the fabric, clear as fucking day.

The sight made her head spin worse, made something low and tight pull deep in her stomach, but she didn't let herself stop to think about it — not even for a second. She shoved at your jeans until you stepped out of them, until they hit the floor with a messy thud.

Her heart thundered, wild and wrecked against her ribs, but she didn't move away — not yet.

Her hands hovered there for half a second, like she was caught between hating herself and wanting you more than she'd ever wanted anything.

Tara's mouth actually watered — hot and heavy and shameful — and she clenched her jaw tight like that could somehow make it stop.

Before she could even think about it, you were already moving again — your hands sliding down her sides, gripping tight at her hips. And then you were tugging at her skirt, so much easier than the fight she'd had with your jeans.

All it took was a little lift of her hips, and the fabric slid right off, pooling somewhere forgotten at the edge of the bed.

And fuck — she was wet.

She knew it.

You probably knew it too.

The thin black lace of her panties — delicate and stretched tight over her — left absolutely nothing to the imagination. Tiny little bows sat at each hip, the material riding low enough to make her look even more wrecked than she already was.

Your eyes dragged down her body slowly, like you were memorizing every goddamn inch.

And Tara, stubborn as ever, tilted her chin up — like she wasn't seconds away from begging you to touch her already. You didn't even hesitate.

Your fingers hooked into the delicate black lace at her hips and tugged, slow and deliberate, dragging the soaked fabric down her thighs. Tara didn't move at first — didn't even breathe — but the second they were off, she let her head fall back against the bed, her elbows still propping her up, gaze tilting up toward the ceiling.

The room spun around her, thick and heavy and slow, but she didn't care.

Not when she could hear the faint shuffle of you undressing too, stripping off that last piece of clothing between you.

She didn't even have to look to know you were naked now.

She felt it — the heat rolling off your body, the slow, deliberate weight of your gaze dragging across every inch of her.

Her chest rose and fell fast, uneven.

Her thighs pressed together for just a second — instinctive — but then she forced herself to relax them again, stubborn even now.

Waiting for you to make your move.

You still weren't doing anything.

You were just standing there, hovering over her, like you had all the time in the world — and it made her insane.

Tara threw her head up from the bed, snapping in a wrecked, furious voice, "God, could you be any slower?"

But she barely had the words out before you finally pushed into her.

Her breath punched out in a strangled, desperate moan, her head falling back again, slamming lightly against the mattress.

Her bare legs immediately wrapped themselves around your waist, locking you in place, like she couldn't stand the thought of you pulling away even for a second.

"Fuck," she gasped, low and broken, her voice raspy from how much she needed this — from how much she hated how good you felt inside her.

Without thinking, she tried to grind up into you, desperate for more, desperate to chase the dizzying pleasure curling in her stomach —but your hands clamped down on her hips, hard enough to bruise, forcing her to stop.

You didn't let her set the pace. You didn't even let her move.

You held her exactly where you wanted her — then shoved her hips deeper against yours, guiding her exactly how you wanted it: hard, rough, relentless.

Pushing her into you, dragging her back, pushing her forward again — over and over, like you were using her body to fuck yourself, like she wasn't even given a choice.

And God, it was good.

Every drag, every thrust was blinding —

Tara could feel you everywhere, splitting her open, filling her until her thighs were trembling from the force of it.

She bit down on a moan, fingers clawing uselessly at the sheets beside her, barely able to breathe through how fucking good it felt —how good you felt —how much she hated it and loved it and needed more anyway.

The rhythm was brutal.

Your hips crashed into hers again and again, rough and relentless, dragging these helpless, wrecked sounds out of her throat with every thrust. The bed squeaked under the force of it, your bodies slamming together, slick and messy and perfect.

It felt fucking fantastic.

Tara couldn't stop herself — couldn't even try to stop — moaning over and over again, broken, desperate sounds ripping free of her lungs like she had no control over them anymore.

It was euphoric. It was almost too good.

Her mind was spinning so violently she swore she might black out, the pleasure building under her skin like fire.

Fuck, you were so good at this. FUCK

So fucking good it made her angry.

She squeezed her eyes shut tight, tried to ground herself — but when she opened them again, when she saw the way you were looking down at her —so cocky, so goddamn smug, so fucking hot — she had to throw her head back again, moaning even louder, because fuck, she couldn't take it.

Her body betrayed her, gave her away completely, hips bucking up to meet yours every time you snapped forward into her.

And even if her brain was screaming at her not to say it —not to admit it —every single wrecked, desperate sound coming out of her mouth was saying it for her.

You were making noises too — low, heavy grunts punched out from your chest — but Tara barely even noticed. She was too far gone, too consumed by the feeling of your cock stretching her open again and again, your body pinning her down so perfectly she never wanted you to stop.

And then, of course — you just had to fucking smirk.

"Geez, Tara," you said between rough breaths, that infuriating grin tugging at your mouth, "if I knew this would shut you up, I would've done it ages ago."

You shifted your hips with a brutal snap, driving yourself harder into her just as she opened her mouth to fire back — and the only thing that came out was a wrecked, desperate moan.

"Yeah, well— maybe you should've—" Her voice cracked, the words collapsing into a breathless whimper when you slammed deeper, grinding mercilessly against that perfect, aching spot inside her.

Tara's head fell back against the mattress, her whole body jolting with every sharp, perfect thrust. She tried to scramble for the sheets again, tried to cling to anything to ground herself, but her hands were useless, clutching nothing but air.

Every time you moved, it was overwhelming — relentless and raw and fucking perfect — and it made her legs tighten around your waist like she was scared you might pull away.

Her breath was stuttering now, spilling out in broken little gasps that only made you smirk harder. And when you pushed in again, harder, rougher, she whimpered so loudly it almost sounded like a sob.

Fuck, she hated how good it felt.

Fuck, she hated how fucking good you felt.

Her hands scrambled uselessly against the bed — grabbing fistfuls of the messy sheets, tangling in her own hair, clawing at her flushed face — but nothing grounded her, nothing eased the brutal, overwhelming way you were slamming into her.

She felt like she was going to snap.

She wanted to snap.

The bed creaked under the force of it all, the air thick with rough breaths and low grunts. Tara's entire body burned — from rage, from need, from how fucking good you felt ruining her.

And you just kept going. Kept fucking talking.

"You sound so pretty when you're desperate," you panted against her ear, smirking because you knew what you were doing to her.

Tara's jaw clenched so tightly it ached. Her whole body tensed under you — furious and humiliated and desperate all at once.

"God," she snarled, her voice low and wrecked, "shut the fuck up.”

You just chuckled darkly under your breath — and pushed even deeper, harder, like you were punishing her for even thinking she had the right to tell you what to do.

Tara threw her head back against the bed, a choked moan breaking out of her throat — furious at herself for how fucking good it felt, furious that she was the one begging now, without even needing to say a word.

And it only got worse.

Rougher.

Harder.

Better.

The slap of your bodies hitting echoed in the room, each thrust forcing little desperate sounds out of her no matter how tightly she bit her lip to hold them back. Her thighs shook where they were wrapped tight around your waist, the sheets she clawed at were useless under her hands, and fuck —that heat in her lower stomach was starting to grow.

A dangerous, simmering pit that started as a little thrum — a warning — and then kept building, sharp and dizzy and huge, way bigger than anything she was used to feeling.

She knew what it was.

She knew she was about to come — fuck, she was about to come — and it scared her how fast and hard it was coming.

It was like her whole body had turned traitor. It was like she couldn't stop it even if she wanted to.

And you must have felt it too — the way her body started tightening around you, the way her nails dug harder into the sheets — because you only fucked her rougher, dirtier, faster.

And Tara couldn't hold back anymore.

She gasped out something — something wrecked and half-broken — her head pressing back harder into the bed, her mouth falling open on a silent cry.

You were right there with her, dragging her closer and closer to the edge, like you wanted to watch her fall apart. Like you fucking needed it.

And Tara didn't stand a fucking chance.

One more thrust — brutal, rough, deep — and she was gone.

Her whole body tensed hard, legs locking tighter around your waist, her back arching sharply off the bed as a broken moan ripped straight from her chest.

It slammed into her all at once — fast, wrecking, almost violent — like something had snapped inside her. Her vision went white around the edges, her fingers clawing helplessly at the sheets, at her own hair, at anything she could grab.

Her hips bucked without her even meaning to, grinding desperately against you like she still needed more even as her orgasm ripped through her.

And you —fuck, you lost it too.

The second her body clamped down around you, tight and soaking wet and shaking, you cursed low under your breath and slammed into her one final time, burying yourself as deep as you could go.

You spilled inside her with a wrecked grunt, your hips grinding into hers, trying to ride it out as your body shuddered with the force of it.

It wasn't clean. It wasn't soft.

It was messy and hot and frantic — both of you coming so hard it almost hurt, both of you falling apart into each other like you didn't care if it fucking killed you.

Tara barely even realized she was whining until it was already out of her — high and wrecked and fucking needy, her whole body trembling as you finally, finally stilled.

And for a second, neither of you could breathe.

The only sounds were the wet, sticky slap of skin, the broken, panting breaths you both tried to catch, and the furious hammering of Tara's heart in her ears.

You pulled out of her slowly, dragging a low whimper from Tara's throat that she tried — and failed — to swallow down.

The second you were gone, she let herself collapse fully onto the bed, chest heaving, skin flushed and slick with sweat.

You hovered above her for a moment, both of you panting, just staring at each other. Tara glared up at you — or at least, she tried to.

But her anger didn't land the way it usually did; she was too fucking tired, too wrecked, too spent for her eyes to sharpen into proper daggers.

It was more of a seething, half-lidded glare now. One that didn't scare you at all.

And that was when it hit her —what had just happened.

What she'd just fucking done.

It felt like the alcohol evaporated out of her bloodstream in one horrifying instant.

Her heart hammered in a completely different way now — heavy and sick. For a second, she thought she might be sick.

What the fuck had she done?

The shame hit her first — hot and brutal — almost strong enough to drown her.

She hated herself for it. Hated you for it.

Hated how fucking good it had felt.

And that was what saved her —the memory of how good it felt. The sharp edge of her panic dulled, just a little.

The anger simmered lower, curling into something she could almost stomach.

Still — she had to get the fuck out of there. Now.

Tara shot upright so fast it made her dizzy, scrambling across the bed, snatching up her underwear and yanking it up her shaky legs.

Her skirt came next — wrinkled and inside out, but she didn't give a shit — she just needed it on.

As she struggled to tug it back into place, she looked up at you —still half-naked, still smirking like the smug piece of shit you were.

"Not a word about this to anyone," she snapped, her voice low and wrecked and shaky, "Okay?"

And you — of course — just smirked wider.

___

At first, Tara didn't think much of it.

She figured she was just still hungover — the party had been brutal, after all. She hadn't exactly treated her body well that night.

Half a bottle of vodka, God knew how many shots after, plus whatever the hell she'd eaten off some random guy's plate at three in the morning... it made sense she still felt like shit days later.

That was all it was. Hangover.

Or maybe she ate something bad.

Maybe that sketchy half-burnt pizza from the gas station.

Maybe some stomach bug going around campus.

Or maybe — worst case scenario — she was just getting sick. Some late-winter flu. Something that would pass in a few days if she just drank enough Gatorade and slept it off.

Because seriously, what else could it possibly be?

She shoved the thought away. Refused to let herself even consider anything bigger than that.

But then the days passed.

And the nausea didn't go away. It just got worse.

Creeping up on her in the middle of class — making her have to fake-cough into her sleeve just so she wouldn't gag in front of everyone.

Gnawing at her stomach late at night when she tried to sleep, making her curl tighter under the blankets, teeth clenched, trying to will the feeling away.

It felt like her body was rejecting something. Like it wasn't even hers anymore.

By day five, even the smell of coffee — something that usually got her through her worst mornings — made her stomach flip.

By day six, brushing her teeth made her gag so hard she had to sit down on the bathroom floor for ten minutes after.

Still, she told herself it was nothing.

Stress, she thought, scrubbing her face at the bathroom mirror with angry hands. College. Lack of sleep. Nerves.

Maybe her immune system was just wrecked.

Maybe it was her period coming and being a bitch about it.

It had to be something like that.

It had to be.

She kept telling herself that —over and over, louder and louder —right up until she opened her calendar app one morning and her whole body went cold.

Because she was late.

Really fucking late.

Her stomach twisted.

Not from nausea this time — from panic.

She counted again.

And again.

Counting on her fingers like a dumbass because her brain couldn't make the math make sense.

No matter how she spun it, it had been almost two months.

Tara had sat back against her bed, staring blankly at the ceiling, trying not to hyperventilate.

Trying to tell herself she was wrong.

That it was still stress, still nerves, still something normal.

It's not that, she told herself, breathing through her nose, gripping the blanket so tightly her knuckles turned white. It's not that. It's not that. It's not that.

But deep down —deep, deep down —she already knew exactly what it was.

She could keep lying to herself.

She really could.

And maybe she would've kept lying, would've shoved it down and ignored it and pretended it wasn't real,

if it hadn't been for that night.

The night she ended up hunched over the toilet, sweating and shaking, the taste of acid clawing up her throat.

No warning. No time to pretend it was something else.

It hit her halfway through brushing her teeth — one second she was fine, the next she was dropping her toothbrush into the sink and bolting for the bathroom like she was being hunted.

And as she wiped her mouth, breathing hard, hands clutching uselessly at the cold tile floor —it sank in.

Cold.

Sick.

Unavoidable.

No more excuses.

She didn't remember making the decision.

Not really.

One minute she was pacing her room, hands trembling, heart crawling up her throat —

and the next, she was standing in some grimy drugstore aisle, blinking under the too-bright fluorescent lights, staring at a wall of small pink boxes like they were a firing squad.

She grabbed the first one she saw.

Didn't read the label.

Didn't check the price.

Just threw it into her basket, keeping her head down, as if someone — anyone — might see her.

Might know.

The walk to the register was a blur.

The cashier barely looked up.

She paid in cash.

She didn't even wait to get home.

She just —well.

The bathroom at the back of the store was disgusting.

The kind of disgusting that made her hover awkwardly over the toilet, chewing on her thumbnail, breathing through her mouth because the smell was so bad.

She didn't care.

She couldn't care.

The box was torn open with shaky fingers.

The instructions were left crumpled on the floor.

She didn't need to read them anyway.

Everyone knew how these things worked.

It was over before she even realized she had started.

A few minutes that felt like years.

She sat there — cold, half-numb — perched on the closed toilet lid, arms wrapped tight around herself like it could somehow keep everything from slipping out of her control.

She didn't look at it at first.

She couldn't.

Just sat there, staring at the wall, feeling the seconds bleed out slow and awful, until every heartbeat felt like it could crack her ribs wide open.

And when she finally forced herself to glance down —just a glance, nothing more —it was there.

Blunt.

Undeniable.

Positive.

Tara didn't even have time to think.

Her stomach lurched viciously, and she was barely able to twist around and yank the toilet lid up before she was gagging into the bowl, retching hard enough that her whole body trembled.

It wasn't the same kind of nausea as before.

This was something worse — something heavier.

Shock.

Terror.

Grief.

When she finished, she just stayed there — bent over, forehead resting against her forearm, the test lying on the counter behind her like some cruel, stupid joke she couldn't wake up from.

She didn't know how long she stayed there.

Five minutes? Ten? An hour?

Time didn't feel real anymore.

Eventually, she forced herself up, stumbling to her feet on shaky legs.

She paced the small bathroom, bare feet slapping against the tile, hands buried deep in her hair like she could physically tear the panic out of herself if she just pulled hard enough.

Muttering under her breath.

Cursing herself.

Cursing you.

"What the fuck," she whispered hoarsely, dragging her hands down her face. "What the fuck."

She couldn't breathe right.

Her chest felt too tight.

Her mind kept spinning in wild, useless circles.

Who the fuck was she supposed to tell?

Sam?

Absolutely not — Sam would kill her. Not even just yell — actually kill her.

Mindy?

No way. Mindy would ask a million questions. She'd want to know who. When. How.

Anika?

Same thing. Just softer. And worse.

Chad?

Tara almost laughed — a sharp, broken noise that didn't sound right at all.

Chad wouldn't even listen for more than ten seconds.

He'd probably just high-five her over the sex and completely miss the part where her whole fucking life was falling apart.

Which left you.

The last option.

The last person she wanted to talk to.

Because this?

This was your fault.

Maybe partly hers, sure — she wasn't stupid — but mostly yours.

And the thought of calling you made her stomach churn all over again.

She didn't even remember saving your number.

She didn't even remember getting it.

But there it was — staring back at her from the cracked screen of her phone, mocking her.

Her thumb hovered over the call button.

Her heart pounded so hard it hurt.

And then, before she could think better of it, she pressed it.

She pressed call.

And every second that the phone rang, her panic grew louder, shrieking inside her chest.

One ring.

Two.

Three —

You answered, your voice so casual it made her want to scream.

"Well, well," you drawled, smug and slow, like you were grinning already. "Couldn't get enough, huh? Already calling me back?"

Tara swallowed.

Hard.

The words sat like a rock in her throat.

She opened her mouth — nothing came out.

Because saying it out loud would make it real.

Saying it out loud would shatter whatever thin, desperate hope she still had that this was some sick mistake.

You didn't say anything either.

The teasing dropped into silence — just the faint crackle of the line between you, waiting.

And then you said, more cautious this time, "...Hello?"

Tara squeezed her eyes shut.

Felt her hands start to shake.

And before she could stop herself — before she could take it back — she forced it out in a broken whisper:

"I'm pregnant."

[halfmoonaria]

i feel so incredibly unmotivated to write rn this is actually insanity

[halfmoonaria]

Do you have any requests that you’re currently writing?

yes!! im currently writing a request for tara & the reader, and i honestly don’t wanna say what it’s abt bc i fear that i’d spoil too much. but it is smut i’ll tell you that much; hoping yall don’t get tired of it😓

but incase yall didn’t know i do take requests so feel free to send any suggestions to me💫

[halfmoonaria]

i fw your posts a lot but i wish you would start putting word count again cause your posts are long and i wanna know how long it’ll take me to read it

omg wait that’s literally the whole reason I stopped putting word counts — I felt like it might make people scroll past if they saw how long it was. idk why it’s embarrassing but it kinda is?? but I get what you mean tho, I might start adding them again just so ppl know what they’re getting into lol

[halfmoonaria]

what we’ve been holding back

pairing: vada cavell & female reader

summary: for the first time, it’s just you, vada, and everything you’ve both been holding back.

warnings: smut (18+) oral (v receiving) fingering (r receiving) explicit sexual content.

author’s note: i hate this more than tongue can say but hope yall enjoy it anyway.

Vada never got the house to herself.

Not really, anyway. There was always someone around—her parents, of course, but more than anything, Amelia. Her little sister was like a permanent shadow, always appearing at the worst times, always needing something.

If she wasn't barging into Vada's room without knocking, she was hogging the TV remote or loudly FaceTiming her friends right outside Vada's door. And if she wasn’t being actively annoying, it was only because she was looking for new ways to be.

There were nights when Vada would be stretched out on the couch, half-asleep and watching some movie with you, only for Amelia to come crashing in, demanding to know exactly what you were watching before declaring it boring and switching the lights on. Then there were mornings when she'd blast music from the bathroom, knowing full well that Vada was still trying to sleep. Even on the rare occasions when she wasn't in the way, she was still there, existing in the background, always within earshot, ready to interrupt.

So when Vada found out that, for the first time in forever, she would actually have the house completely to herself, she barely knew what to do with the information at first. It didn't feel real.

It had started as a normal enough evening—her mom mentioning something about dinner plans as she moved around the kitchen, her dad chiming in with something about not waiting up. None of it really registered with Vada until her mom casually added that Amelia was already gone for the night, off at a sleepover.

That was what made Vada sit up.

The realization hit her all at once. No parents. No Amelia. No interruptions. Just her. Just you, if she got you to come over.

Excitement bubbled up fast, making her reach for her phone before she even fully processed what she was doing. She barely thought about what she was going to say—just that she had to tell you, and she had to tell you now.

The second you picked up, she was already talking, rushing through the words like she was afraid she'd lose the moment if she didn't get them out fast enough. You didn't even have time to say hello before she was telling you about the miraculous turn of events—how her parents had made last-minute plans, how Amelia was staying at a friend's house, how, for the first time in what felt like forever, she had the house to herself.

And more importantly, how that meant she had you to herself.

She barely gave you time to react before she was asking if you'd come over. It wasn't really a question—more of a demand disguised as one, her voice all hurried excitement as she told you to bring something nice to wear, even if she didn't know what for yet. She wanted tonight to be different, she told you. Not just another hangout, not just another "date" in name only, but something that actually felt like one.

Because most of the time, your "dates" weren't really dates at all. They were sitting on her bed watching bad movies while Amelia threw popcorn at you from the doorway. They were laying in the grass at the park, pretending the $3 slushies in your hands were expensive cocktails. They were long drives with no destination, no plan, just a vague hope that you'd end up somewhere interesting.

It wasn't that she minded. She loved that time with you—loved that it didn't take some grand gesture for you to want to be with her. But part of her still wished she could give you more than that.

She wished she could take you out somewhere nice, somewhere that didn't have sticky floors or fluorescent lights. She wished she could take you to a real restaurant, one with candlelit tables and expensive wine lists, where she could pull out your chair and hold your hand across the table without worrying about her little sister making gagging noises in the background.

But neither of you had the money for that, and even if you did, her parents were always home, Amelia was always home—there was always someone home. So your time together had to fit into the spaces left between.

Not tonight, though. Tonight was just yours.

So she'd cooked.

She wasn't a great cook—not even a good one, really—but she wanted to make something herself, something that at least resembled an actual date-night meal. Something better than the usual microwave dinners or takeout containers you two shared on her bed. So, she kept it simple: pasta. She figured it was hard to mess up, but even then, she still managed to overcook the noodles a little.

It wasn't fancy. It wasn't even that impressive. But it was hers.

And that had to count for something.

She'd even gone as far as lighting candles, the only ones she could find being the old, half-melted ones her mom kept under the sink. They smelled like vanilla and something vaguely floral, and the flames flickered unevenly, casting wobbly shadows across the table. It was probably stupid—it felt stupid. She could already hear Amelia's voice in her head, making fun of her for trying so hard.

And honestly, Vada would've made fun of herself too, a few months ago.

This was the kind of thing you two used to laugh at when you watched rom-coms together—how cheesy and soggy it all was, how ridiculous it was that anyone actually took the whole candlelit-dinner thing seriously.

But now? Now, she was starting to get it.

And that was enough to make her feel like maybe, just maybe, all of this wasn't as ridiculous as she thought.

Then the doorbell had rung.

Vada had barely had time to shake herself out of her thoughts before she had rushed to answer it, almost tripping over the corner of the rug in her hurry. She had stopped just short of yanking the door open too fast—because cool, she had needed to be cool—but all her effort at playing it smooth had gone straight out the window the second she had seen you.

You had stood there on her front porch, bathed in the dim glow of the porchlight, a bottle of wine in your hand. You had lifted it slightly, eyebrows raising as you had teased, "Thought this could make our very serious, very fancy dinner even fancier."

Vada had huffed out a laugh, eyes flicking from the bottle back to your face. Your face. Soft in the low light, lips curved in that easy way that had always made her heart trip over itself. The way your hair had framed your face, the way your eyes had flickered with amusement, the way you had looked at her—it had all been enough to make her forget her own name for a second.

She had recovered just enough to snatch the bottle from your grip, fingers brushing against yours for half a second longer than necessary. "You stole this, didn't you?"

You had grinned, tilting your head. "Define 'stole.'"

Vada had rolled her eyes but had still taken a step back, letting you in. And the second you had crossed the threshold, setting your hands on her waist, any and all of her previous self-consciousness had melted away.

You had kissed her before she could make some smartass remark, before she could even think about saying something stupid. It had been soft—slow, even—but warm in a way that had settled deep into her bones, making her feel weightless and anchored all at once.

And God, she had been able to taste the trouble on your lips already.

When you had pulled back, she had barely had a second to process before you had been taking in the dining setup behind her, eyes flicking over the candles, the plates, the pasta. Your smile had stretched a little wider, amusement clear in your gaze as you had turned back to her. "You really went all out, huh?"

She had felt her face heat, but she had just shrugged, trying to downplay it. "You're welcome."

You had hummed, clearly unimpressed by her attempt at being casual. Then, tilting your head, you had smirked. "So... which cooking tutorial did you follow?"

Vada had groaned, tipping her head back dramatically. "I hate you so much."

You had just laughed, nudging your shoulder against hers before stepping further into the house. And even as you had poked fun at her, even as you had made some offhanded comment about how the noodles had looked a little overcooked, she had been able to tell—you had liked it.

You had liked this.

Dinner itself had been a blur of easy conversation and laughter, of stolen bites and exaggerated reactions to how terrible her cooking had been. It hadn't been fancy. It hadn't been perfect. But it had been something.

You had liked this.

Vada had been able to tell by the way your smile had lingered as you ate, how you had stretched your legs out beneath the table, nudging your foot against hers like it was second nature. And maybe it had been. Maybe it had always been this easy for you—to just exist like this, to fit into every space you were given and make it your own.

She hadn't been able to take her eyes off of you.

Not while you had spoken, hands moving as if they could shape your words in the air. Not while you had twirled your fork through the pasta, the candlelight catching on the rim of your glass as you had lifted it to your lips. And definitely not when you had picked up the wine bottle, turning it between your fingers before tilting your chin up slightly.

"Some more wine, ma'am?" you had asked, your voice lilting in a way that had made her groan.

Vada hadn't even bothered to respond, just shaking her head as you had poured more into her glass anyway.

And now, even with the food long gone and the plates abandoned in the kitchen, she still couldn't take her eyes off of you.

The movie playing on the TV was one she had seen a hundred times, something you had both agreed on without really thinking about it, but she wasn't paying attention. Not to that, at least.

Because the way you were curled up against her, legs tucked over hers, fingers tracing lazy patterns against the back of her hand—that was more interesting than anything on the screen.

The movie had been playing for a while, the glow from the screen flickering across your face, catching in your eyes as you stared at it. Vada was supposed to be watching too, but her focus had started to slip long ago.

She had barely touched her glass of wine, her fingers curled loosely around the stem, more preoccupied with the way you had sunk further into her side, your body relaxed against hers. Every so often, you would shift slightly—reaching for more wine, adjusting your position, stretching out more against her. And every single time, she had to fight the urge to look down, to get distracted all over again.

She only snapped back to reality when you suddenly let out a breath, shaking your head a little before speaking.

"Okay, but why do people pretend this is the best movie ever? Like, it's fine, but it's not that good."

Vada had hummed in vague agreement, even though she had no idea what part you were talking about.

But then, a moment later, you turned your head toward her. Your brows furrowed slightly, like you were studying her, before your lips quirked up in a knowing smile.

"Are you even watching?"

She had barely caught herself in time, blinking and shifting her focus back toward the screen like she hadn't just been completely lost in staring at you.

"No, I am," she had said quickly, smiling through the lie.

And then she had forced herself to look back at the screen, even though it took everything in her not to glance at you again.

Vada had tried—really tried—to keep her eyes on the screen. But it was impossible when you were sitting right there, barely a breath away, looking the way you did.

Maybe it was the wine. You hadn't had much, just enough to feel the edges of everything blur, to make the warmth in her chest settle a little deeper. But still, it was enough to make her wonder if that was why she couldn't seem to look away from you. If it was the reason why, for the past ten minutes, she hadn't absorbed a single thing from the movie playing in front of her.

The glow from the TV flickered over your skin, soft and golden, mixing with the dim light from the streetlamp outside that slipped in through the window. It caught in your hair, traced over the curve of your cheek, reflected in your eyes when you blinked. You weren't even doing anything—you were just watching the movie, completely unaware of the way Vada was looking at you.

But she was looking.

And she couldn't stop.

Her gaze drifted over every little detail of your face—the faintest crease between your brows when you concentrated, the slight part of your lips when something caught your attention, the way your lashes brushed against your skin when you blinked. She felt your fingers move absentmindedly over the back of her hand, tracing slow, barely-there patterns against her skin, and the way it made her stomach tighten was almost embarrassing.

It was all so effortless. So you.

And she couldn't believe she got to have this. That she got to sit here in this moment, surrounded by nothing but the warmth of the house and the flickering light of the candles she had been embarrassed to set up, and just watch you.

She should have looked away.

She didn't.

And of course, you noticed.

You let out a quiet, breathy chuckle before turning toward her, amused. "What?"

Vada felt her stomach twist, her face warming under your gaze. She hesitated, just for a second, before letting out a soft breath.

"You're beautiful."

The way you blinked, like you hadn't expected her to say that, made her heart lurch in her chest. And then you smiled—really smiled—something small and teasing but still so genuine. Your fingers slowed against her hand, resting there, your touch lingering.

Vada's gaze flickered down before she could stop it.

Your lips.

She felt something settle low in her stomach, spreading through her chest, making her breath come just a little shorter. She didn't even think before she spoke again, voice quieter this time, rougher, like the words were forming before she had the chance to second-guess them.

"And I want to kiss you."

You tilted your head slightly, your smile deepening at the edges, the teasing glint in your eyes making her pulse quicken.

"Is that so?”

You didn't pull away.

Instead, you shifted, leaning in just a little, just enough that your knees brushed against hers, your fingers tightening slightly over the back of her hand.

And God, she must have looked ridiculous. Because she could feel it—could feel the way her lips parted slightly, could feel the way her eyes were stuck on your mouth, could feel the way she must have looked at you, like she was desperate, like she was starving.

She barely managed to nod.

And then you leaned in, closing the space between you.

Your lips met hers, soft and warm and slow, and for a second, Vada forgot how to breathe.

The kiss started slow, soft, just like it always did. But it never stayed that way for long.

Because Vada loved kissing you.

You had made out more times than either of you could count—on her bed, on your bed, in the backseat of your car, pressed up against the wall by your front door when neither of you wanted to say goodbye. It was something she would never get tired of, the feeling of your lips against hers, the way your hands always found their way to her waist, the way your fingers would tangle in her hair when you got impatient. She loved all of it.

But this? This felt different.

Hotter.

The kind of different that made her ache.

Your fingers curled at the hem of her shirt, not pushing, not pulling, just holding. She felt the way your touch lingered there, like you were thinking about doing something with it. And God, she wanted you to. But she didn't have time to dwell on it before your lips parted against hers, before your tongue flicked against hers, slow and teasing and just enough to make her stomach twist.

Vada let out a quiet hum, barely even a sound, before her hands found their way to your face, fingers brushing over the heat of your skin, thumbs smoothing over your jaw as she deepened the kiss.

It still wasn't enough.

So, without even thinking, she shifted.

Her hands slipped down to your shoulders, pressing against them lightly for balance as she adjusted her position, swinging a leg over your lap. Her knee sank into the couch next to your hip, then the other, her weight settling over you as she straddled you properly.

And still, her lips never left yours.

She felt the way you reacted instantly—the way your hands gripped her waist a little tighter, the way your fingers curled slightly into the fabric of her shirt, the way your breath hitched, barely noticeable, but she noticed.

Of course she did.

Because she noticed everything when it came to you.

It deepened fast, all sense of restraint unraveling the second Vada settled on top of you.

And maybe it was the wine, or maybe it was just you—the way you felt underneath her, the way your hands kept fidgeting, like you couldn't figure out where to hold her. Whatever it was, it had something twisting tight in her stomach, making her push closer, kiss harder, until she wasn't even sure if she was kissing you anymore or just trying to devour you whole.

She barely realized what she was doing—how desperate, how messy she had gotten—until she felt you chuckle against her lips. And God, that should have slowed her down, should have made her think, but instead, it only made her worse. Because the second you smiled, the second you mumbled something about her being so needy, Vada groaned against your mouth and kissed you even harder, hands threading into your hair to keep you right there.

And your hands?

God, your hands.

They moved constantly, like you couldn't decide where you wanted them most. First, your fingers tangled in her hair, threading through the strands, tugging just enough to make her whimper. Then they slid lower, pressing against the thin fabric of her shirt as they smoothed down her back. And then—fuck—then they landed on her ass, barely a pause before your fingers squeezed, firm and possessive, making heat shoot straight through her.

Vada gasped against your lips, the sound half a moan, and she swore she felt you smirk.

But just as quickly as your hands had gotten there, they moved again, fingers skimming up over the curve of her hips, finally settling there, thumbs pressing lightly into her skin through the fabric.

And then—oh God, then—you guided her.

The touch was loose, barely even forceful, but she felt it. The way your fingers flexed, the way your grip tightened just enough to encourage her to move. And before she even thought about what she was doing, her body responded.

Her hips rocked against yours, slow and experimental, sending a sharp, warm shiver straight up her spine.

Oh.

Oh.

This was new.

Your hands had wandered before, gotten a little bold when you made out, but this? This had never happened before. And the realization, the fact that you were doing this, that you wanted her to do this, sent a rush of excitement straight through her, making her stomach flip.

So she did it again.

And again.

Each movement growing a little more confident, a little more sure, until she didn't even have to think about it anymore. Until her hands were gripping your shoulders just to keep her balance, until she was pressing herself against you exactly the way she wanted to, the way you were leading her to.

And Vada had never been more excited in her life.

Because she had noticed.

The second she opened the door and saw you standing there, she had noticed. The black off-shoulder top clinging to you, the delicate curve of your collarbone on display, the way the fabric settled so perfectly against your skin. And she hadn't thought much of it at first, just that you looked really fucking good. But then, when you leaned over the table to pour more wine, when the neckline of your top shifted just slightly, the realization hit her—

You weren't wearing a bra.

And now, as she pressed against you, her hands skimming over the soft fabric of your shirt, the thought was making her dizzy.

She wanted to see you.

Her fingers curled at the hem of your shirt, and she hesitated for only a second before pulling away just enough to look at you. You understood immediately, a slow smile playing at your lips as you raised your arms, giving her permission, encouragement, and—fuck—Vada could barely breathe as she pushed the fabric up, over your ribs, over your chest, finally tugging it over your head and tossing it somewhere.

She didn't care where it landed.

Because—

Oh.

Oh.

She froze.

Her hands, still mid-motion from discarding your shirt, stilled. Her breath caught somewhere between her chest and her throat, and her brain completely short-circuited.

She was fucking gone.

She had imagined this before—of course she had, she was only human—but nothing, nothing, compared to the reality of it. The way the candlelight flickered over your bare skin, painting you in soft golds and shadows, the way the warm glow from the TV barely illuminated the curves of your chest, making them look almost unreal.

God.

Vada just stared, mouth slightly open, eyes wide with something between disbelief and absolute, stunned awe.

She wanted to touch. Wanted to feel.

But all she could do was look, completely mesmerized, completely wrecked, because holy shit.

Vada barely realized the word had left her mouth until she heard it. "Wow."

It wasn't intentional—just something that slipped out, breathless, awed, like her brain hadn't caught up with her mouth.

She hovered her hands over you, close enough to feel the warmth of your skin but not quite touching. She wasn't sure why she was hesitating. Maybe because she didn't want to ruin the moment, or maybe because she didn't know if she could handle it.

But you didn't seem embarrassed.

Didn't shift under her gaze, didn't cross your arms over yourself or make any move to cover up. You only smirked, a soft, amused chuckle slipping past your lips, and somehow, somehow, that made everything even sexier.

Vada swallowed hard.

And then, finally, finally, she touched you.

Her hands settled on your breasts, hesitant at first, just feeling, getting used to the weight of them in her palms. Her thumbs brushed over your nipples, and when she felt them harden beneath her touch, something in her snapped.

She grew bolder, kneading them more firmly, watching your expression shift as your lips parted just slightly, as your breath hitched.

God, she loved this. Loved how soft you felt, how warm, how responsive.

Then she leaned in, capturing your lips again without stopping her movements, her hands still exploring, still touching. She felt the way you sighed into her mouth, how your fingers slid into her hair, tugging her closer, deepening the kiss.

But it wasn't enough.

Vada needed more.

So she let her hands drift down, gripping your waist as she shifted lower, trailing her lips from your mouth to your jaw, then lower still, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the side of your neck.

And then she kept going.

She slid down your body, slowly, adjusting herself as she moved lower, her knees sinking further into the couch cushions, her body stretching out across yours so she could reach. Her lips trailed past your collarbone, over the slope of your shoulder, and then—

Lower.

Her mouth hovered over your chest now, and she hesitated for just a second, looking up at you.

Your head had tilted back against the couch, your eyes fluttering shut, your lips parted just slightly as the softest moan slipped out.

And fuck, that was all she needed.

Vada pressed soft, lingering kisses along the curves of your breasts, giving them both equal attention, her lips parting slightly to suck at the delicate skin. She took her time, savoring the way you reacted, the way your body tensed and relaxed beneath her touch.

And when her tongue flicked over your nipple, circling it in slow, deliberate motions, she swore she felt the way your breath caught.

It should have felt new. It was new. She had never done this before, never been in this position with anyone. But somehow, it didn't feel unfamiliar.

It was like second nature, like her body knew exactly what to do without her having to think about it.

Maybe it was because she'd watched people do this before—had spent more time than she'd ever admit scrolling through videos, studying the way hands moved, the way mouths teased, the way lips wrapped around sensitive skin just like hers were doing now.

Or maybe it was just you.

Maybe it was the way you made everything feel so easy, so natural, like she was supposed to be here, like she was supposed to be doing this.

Your hands found their way into her hair, fingers threading through the strands, gripping just enough to make her feel it, to make her shiver.

And then—

"Fuck, Vada."

Hearing you say her name like that, breathless, desperate—God, it wrecked her.

Vada barely had time to process the effect it had on her before she felt your hands on her sides, fingertips pressing lightly, almost hesitantly, before they trailed up. The warmth of your touch sent a shiver through her, and when your fingers slipped under the hem of her hoodie, she swore her heart skipped a beat.

You didn't need to say anything. The way your hands lingered there, the way your thumbs brushed over the bare skin just above her waistband—it was enough. And she wanted it too.

She hesitated for just a second, her breath catching in her throat, before she pulled away just enough to reach for the fabric herself. In one smooth motion, she lifted the hoodie over her head, her hair falling messily around her shoulders as she tossed it somewhere—she didn't know, didn't care. Not when your hands were already reaching again, already touching her.

You started slow, fingertips grazing her shoulders, sliding under the straps of her bra. The touch was light, teasing, and yet it set every nerve in her body on fire.

She felt your fingers pause at the clasp.

Her breath hitched.

And then, slowly, so slowly, you worked it open.

The straps slipped down her arms, the fabric falling away, and then it was gone.

Vada wasn't sure what she expected—if she expected anything—but when she finally gathered the courage to meet your gaze, what she saw made her feel like her whole body had just been set ablaze.

You were staring.

Not just looking. Not just seeing. You were taking her in, eyes dark and hungry as you admired every inch of her.

Vada had never been in this position before—half-naked in someone's lap, completely exposed—but somehow, she didn't feel nervous. She should have, maybe. But the way you were looking at her... it was like you wanted her, like you needed her, like this moment had been building up for so long that neither of you could hold back anymore.

And when your hands found their way to her waist, gripping just a little tighter than before, pulling her back in like you had to, like you couldn't stand even a second apart—she swore she could have melted.

You pulled her back in, your lips meeting hers again, slow at first—like you were savoring her, like you wanted to take your time. Your hands traced gentle paths along her waist, your fingers spreading out over her bare skin, warm and steady, grounding her in a way that made her dizzy.

Vada let herself sink into it, let herself melt against you, let herself feel everything. The softness of your lips, the way your breath mixed with hers, the way her whole body felt like it was burning from just this.

And then, between kisses, your voice came, soft but certain, against her lips.

"You're beautiful."

It was so simple, yet it sent a rush through her that she hadn't expected.

She hadn't realized she needed to hear it—not until you said it.

A smile pulled at her lips, small at first, then wider as she let her forehead rest against yours for just a second, breathing you in. She knew she was beautiful, she'd been told before—but hearing it here, Now, from you? With your hands on her, your lips brushing against hers, your gaze still lingering like you meant it?

She didn't feel shy anymore.

She pressed another kiss to your lips, slower, deeper.

"I can't believe we're doing this," she murmured against your mouth, the words slipping out before she even realized she was saying them. But she didn't regret them. Because she couldn't believe it. Couldn't believe that after all the teasing, all the stolen kisses, all the almosts—this was happening.

And God, she never wanted to stop.

Vada pulled back just enough to look at you, her breath warm against your lips, her eyes dark and heavy-lidded with something deeper than just desire. It was hunger—real, undeniable hunger—but beneath that, something softer, something nervous. Not because she didn't want this, but because she did—so much that it made her hands tremble slightly as they brushed over your bare sides.

Her gaze flickered over your face, searching, memorizing, as if she were trying to commit every second to memory. Because this was happening. Finally.

She swallowed hard, blinking down at you before her lips twitched into the smallest, almost shy smile. And then, she kissed you again—deeper, slower, savoring it. But it wasn't just that. It was purposeful. Like she had already made up her mind about something.

You felt it when she shifted, her hands smoothing over your sides, then lower, gripping your hips as she carefully slid back, slipping off of your lap and sinking to the floor between your legs.

Your breath hitched.

She kissed her way down as she moved, lingering at your jaw, your collarbone, your chest—her lips pressing reverent, open-mouthed kisses to the soft skin there. Then lower, down your stomach, her nose brushing against your skin, her breath warm, making you shiver as she went.

And then she stopped. Right at the waistband of your jeans.

Her fingers hovered there for a second, hesitating, before she glanced up at you.

Her lips were slightly parted, her pupils blown wide, and yet—her eyes searched yours, questioning, asking without words. She wasn't unsure about what she wanted, but she needed you to tell her. To say it.

You held her gaze, your chest rising and falling a little too fast, your skin still tingling from the way she had kissed her way down your body.

Then, finally, you nodded. And when you spoke, your voice was barely above a whisper—soft, but certain.

"Please."

That was all it took.

Vada let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding, and then—her fingers moved. The button of your jeans came undone, the zipper following soon after, and then—she was tugging them down, her hands warm, her touch careful but eager, as she pulled them off of you.

With your jeans gone, the only thing left on you was your underwear, a thin barrier between you and her. And Vada—she just stared.

Her breath was uneven as she reached for them, her fingers hesitating against the waistband, her nerves flickering back to life despite the overwhelming heat between you. But it wasn't uncertainty. It was something deeper.

Because this was it.

She was really about to see you. All of you.

Her lips parted slightly, her eyes flicking up to meet yours again, searching, almost like she was waiting for permission all over again. And you—God, you looked so good like this, half-naked on the couch, skin flushed, chest rising and falling just a little quicker than before. You weren't hesitant.

You weren't second-guessing anything. If anything, the way your lips curled into a soft, expectant smile—the way you lifted your hips slightly, giving her silent permission—only made Vada's heart hammer even harder against her ribs.

So she tugged them down.

Slowly. Carefully.

And then she saw it.

Her breath hitched, her fingers freezing against your thighs as she took you in.

Fuck.

She didn't know what she was expecting. It wasn't like she hadn't thought about this before, wasn't like she hadn't imagined it in the back of her mind on nights when she was alone, when the teasing had been too much, when she could still feel the ghost of your hands on her skin.

But seeing you—like this, bare and spread out before her—was something else entirely.

Her throat bobbed as she swallowed hard, her wide, dark eyes flickering between your thighs, drinking in every detail, her hands still resting against the tops of them. She could feel the heat radiating from you, could see how wet you were, and it sent a dizzying rush straight through her.

God.

She almost laughed—half out of disbelief, half because she suddenly felt so overwhelmed, like her brain was short-circuiting, like she was having a hard time processing just how fucking gorgeous you were.

But all that slipped past her lips was a soft, breathless—

"Wow."

Her voice was barely above a whisper, filled with something almost reverent, almost awestruck.

You let out a quiet chuckle, your head tilting slightly, watching her, waiting for her to do something, say something more. But you didn't look embarrassed. You didn't try to shy away or cover yourself, didn't shift under her gaze like you were self-conscious about the way she was staring.

And that only made this even hotter.

Vada hovered her hands over your thighs, fingers twitching, like she wanted to touch you but wasn't sure if she was allowed to yet.

You reached down, running your fingers through her hair, tugging her closer, a silent encouragement. And when she finally touched you, sliding her hands up your legs, gripping your thighs and spreading them just a little wider—she swore she felt herself ache with need.

Because fuck—she wanted you.

All of you.

And now she was finally about to have you.

But just before she dove in, she looked up at you again, her lips slightly parted, brows furrowing as if she was only now realizing what she was about to do.

"Should I...? Do you want me to—"

The nervous energy crackled in her voice, a sharp contrast to the hunger in her eyes, and God, it would've been adorable if you weren't already aching for her.

You cut her off, your fingers still tangled in her hair, tugging just enough to get her attention.

"Vada, baby, please."

That was all she needed to hear.

"Right."

And then she did it.

She started slow. Tentative. Like she was testing the waters, figuring out what made you gasp, what made your fingers tighten in her hair. But she wasn't unsure. Far from it. She licked a slow stripe up your center, tasting you for the first time, and Jesus Christ, she nearly moaned.

You were so wet.

For her.

Her hands flexed against your thighs, gripping them as she let herself sink deeper into it, flattening her tongue, pressing in closer, wanting more.

And the sounds—God, the sounds you made.

The quiet gasps, the breathy little moans that slipped past your lips, the way you exhaled her name, voice shaky and wrecked—fuck.

She had never done this before. But somehow, she knew exactly what to do.

Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was the way you reacted to her—your body arching, your breath hitching, the way your thighs tensed when she flicked her tongue just right. Or maybe it was the fact that she had definitely watched people do this before, studied the way they moved, imagined what it would be like.

Either way, she wasn't stopping.

Not when she had you like this—breathless, desperate, falling apart under her tongue.

And God, she loved this.

So she should've felt confident. The way you gasped, the way your body tensed, the way your fingers tangled in her hair, pulling her closer—it all should've been enough to tell her she was doing this right.

But still, she couldn't help the doubt creeping in, the slight hesitation in her movements as she pulled back just enough to look up at you.

"Does it feel good?" Her voice was soft, uncertain, lips glistening as she spoke.

You barely managed to open your eyes, your head still tipped back against the couch, breath coming in short, uneven pants. And God, Vada loved how wrecked you already looked.

Your fingers twitched in her hair, tightening just a little. Keeping her there.

"Mhm." You nodded, voice barely above a whisper. "Baby, it's great."

That should've been enough for her.

But she still watched you, eyes flickering between your face and the way your chest rose and fell, like she was waiting for more.

And you could feel it—the slight hesitation, the way she was still holding back. Still unsure.

So you tugged her in closer, your voice coming out rushed, almost pleading.

"Please, continue."

And fuck, that flipped something in her.

Any hesitation she had before—gone.

She dove back in with renewed hunger, her hands gripping your thighs tighter as she flattened her tongue, moving with more confidence this time. More intent.

And when she felt your fingers tighten in her hair again, pushing her down just the slightest bit, guiding her to exactly where you needed her most—God, she nearly groaned against you.

Because that told her everything she needed to know.

You wanted more.

And she was more than happy to give it to you.

Vada never considered herself patient, but she took her time now—partly because she wanted to savor this, and partly because she was still figuring it out. But she knew one thing for certain: she wanted this. Wanted you. And judging by the way your body tensed beneath her, the way your breath hitched every time she moved, she was doing something right.

Her hands gripped your thighs, thumbs tracing slow circles against your skin, grounding herself as she let her mouth explore. She started off careful, tentative, trying to gauge your reactions. But the second she heard your sharp inhale, the quiet, breathy "Oh—" that slipped out before you could stop it, something in her ignited.

She pressed in deeper, her movements growing more confident, more eager, and she felt the way you responded instantly. Your fingers curled into her hair, not pulling, just holding, tugging her closer. And fuck, that did something to her. The idea that you wanted her right there, wanted more of her.

And God, she wanted to give you everything.

Your head tipped back against the couch, a shaky breath escaping as you murmured, "Oh yeah, that's good." Your voice was unsteady, like you were barely able to get the words out, and that was all the encouragement Vada needed.

Her grip on your thighs tightened, holding you still as she settled into a rhythm, pushing past her nerves, following nothing but instinct now. The more she gave, the more she wanted—you were warm, soft, intoxicating beneath her, and hearing those quiet sounds fall from your lips only made her more determined.

She could feel your breath coming quicker, the rise and fall of your chest growing uneven, and when your fingers in her hair tightened—really tightened—she felt another rush of pride surge through her.

And when she heard you whimper her name, that was it.

Vada swore she could've stayed like this forever.

But it was clear you couldn't.

The way your thighs started to tremble, the way your breath hitched on every exhale, coming out in these ragged little gasps—it told her everything. You were unraveling, slipping closer and closer to the edge, and fuck, she could feel it. The heat of you, the way your body arched into her touch, desperate, pleading without words.

And then there was the way your hands had tightened in her hair, no longer just holding but gripping, like you were keeping yourself grounded. Like the pleasure was so overwhelming you needed something—someone—to hold onto. The realization made something deep inside her clench, a rush of pride, excitement, maybe even disbelief washing over her all at once.

She was the one making you feel this good.

She was the one drawing out these breathy little moans, these broken gasps, the soft, helpless whimpers that sent a shiver down her spine.

You rocked against her, chasing the feeling, chasing more, and she let you, gripping your thighs as she worked her tongue in slow, deliberate motions.

Vada never wanted to stop.

But then your hips stuttered—just slightly, just enough for her to notice. Your breath hitched sharply, and the hand buried in her hair tugged before you let out a shaky, "Fuck, I'm close."

Your voice, wrecked and desperate, sent a bolt of heat straight through her, but she didn't dare slow down. Instead, she gripped your thighs, keeping you in place, letting herself sink even deeper into the moment.

You needed this.

And God, she needed it too.

Vada didn't let up.

If anything, hearing you say that only spurred her on. She flattened her tongue against you, dragging it slowly before flicking the tip against your most sensitive spot. She could feel the way your body reacted, the way your thighs tensed beneath her palms, your hips jerking up ever so slightly like you couldn't help it.

She did it again—slow, teasing, before switching back to those quick, precise flicks, alternating between the two until she felt you start to tremble. The way you whimpered, the way your fingers tightened in her hair, almost pulling her closer, told her you needed more, needed her to keep going just like this.

So she did.

She wrapped her lips around you, sucking gently, adding just the slightest pressure as her tongue moved against you in tight, perfect circles. You let out this soft, strangled moan, your thighs twitching against her, and fuck, that sound—Vada swore she could feel it, deep in her chest, in her stomach, everywhere.

She didn't know how she was doing this so well, didn't know how she knew exactly what you needed—but she wasn't questioning it. Not when you sounded like this.

And then you broke.

Your body tensed, thighs clamping around Vada's head as a sharp, breathless moan escaped you. Your fingers tightened in her hair, pulling just enough to make her whimper against you, but she didn't stop—not yet. She kept her tongue moving, guiding you through it, slow and deliberate, savoring every second as you came undone beneath her.

She could feel it—the way your stomach clenched, the way your hips stuttered before finally stilling, the way your breath came in short, uneven gasps. She didn't stop until she felt you physically twitch from the sensitivity, until you exhaled a shaky, "Vada—" that sounded so sweet, so wrecked, that she had to listen.

Only then did she finally pull away, lips glistening, pupils blown wide as she looked up at you. And God, she had never seen anything more beautiful.

You were still trying to catch your breath, chest rising and falling unevenly, body still warm and buzzing from the aftermath. Your head was tilted back against the couch, lips slightly parted, eyes half-lidded as you blinked down at her. You looked completely wrecked in the best way, and Vada could not stop staring.

She stayed between your legs, grinning softly, her own breath still uneven. There was something so intoxicating about seeing you like this, knowing she had been the one to get you there. It made her stomach twist in the best way.

After a moment, she tilted her head, eyes flickering up to yours, and asked, almost shyly, "Was that good?"

You let out a breathy chuckle, still dazed. "Amazing, baby."

And God, Vada swore she could've melted.

But then you spoke.

"My turn."

Vada's grin faltered for just a second at your words, her breath hitching as realization settled in. Your turn.

You had finally caught your breath, but she lost hers.

She stayed between your legs for a moment longer, her hands resting on your thighs, but now there was a shift—something in the air that made her shiver. You reached for her, fingers curling around her wrist as you guided her up, and she followed without hesitation.

You kissed her again, slow and deep, before gently maneuvering her until she was straddling your thigh, her knees pressing into the couch on either side of you. She was already breathing heavier, already so affected by just the idea of what was coming next.

Her hands found your shoulders for balance, and you smoothed yours down her sides, over the curve of her waist, before sliding them lower. Your voice was soft, but certain—confident—when you said, "I want to make you feel good too."

And just like that, Vada felt like she could combust.

Your hands dipped lower, fingers working at the button of her jeans. It wasn't the easiest thing to do with the way she was straddling you, but you didn't seem to mind the challenge. Neither did she. If anything, it made her pulse race faster.

She bit her lip as you popped the button open, then dragged the zipper down. But when you tried to push them down her hips, the angle made it impossible. She huffed a soft laugh, already desperate to get them off.

"I should probably—" she mumbled, already moving before she could finish the thought.

You let her go, watching as she stood, hurriedly shoving her jeans down her legs. They pooled at her ankles, and she kicked them off, nearly stumbling in her rush. A breathless giggle escaped her lips as she caught her balance.

Her hands were already at the waistband of her underwear, but before she could do it herself, you reached forward, hooking your fingers there.

"Let me."

She swallowed hard, nodding, letting you pull them down in one slow, smooth motion.

And now she was bare for you. Just as you had been for her.

She was already moving back toward you before she even thought about it, climbing into your lap again, her breathing uneven as she settled against you—closer than before, warmer than before.

And God, she needed you.

The moment she settled back onto your lap, you pulled her in for a kiss—deep, slow, intoxicating. Your tongue brushed against hers, and she whimpered softly into your mouth, her hands gripping your shoulders for stability.

Your hands didn't stay still for long. They traced their way up her sides, fingertips ghosting over her waist, her stomach—warm, soft, nervous. She shivered under your touch, but she didn't pull away. If anything, she pressed in closer.

And then your hands cupped her breasts.

Her breath hitched—sharp, surprised, new. No one had ever touched her like this before. Not anyone else. Not even close. The only hands that had ever roamed this part of her body were her own, and this was so different. This was you.

Her lips parted against yours, a soft, shuddering exhale slipping free.

You parted from the kiss, your breath mingling with hers as your hands settled on her hips, thumbs smoothing over her warm skin. Your eyes met hers—dark, wanting, hungry, but underneath it all, there was something else. Something softer.

Love.

And then, in one fluid motion, you shifted, guiding her onto her back against the couch, your body hovering over hers. Her breath hitched again, eyes wide for only a second before a grin tugged at her lips—God, she loved this. She loved you.

Her legs instinctively wrapped around your waist, pulling you in as her hands slid up your arms. But when your hand moved down between her legs, she shuddered, her grip faltering as her thighs loosened slightly around you, just enough to give you the access you wanted.

Your fingers trailed down, brushing over the heat of her, feeling how warm, how wet she was for you. The slightest touch had Vada sucking in a breath, her stomach tensing as her hips shifted instinctively toward you. Her eyes fluttered shut for a second, like she was trying to process it, to hold onto the feeling, but she forced them back open, locking onto yours. She needed to see you. Needed to watch you.

You kept your touch light, teasing, dragging your fingertips along her inner thigh before moving back to where she was desperate for you. Her body reacted instantly—another sharp breath, the way her fingers dug into your arms, holding on like she needed something to ground herself. And maybe she did.

"Is this okay?" you murmured, your voice softer than ever, filled with nothing but care. The way you looked at her, the way you asked—like she was something delicate, something that mattered more than anything else in the world—it made her dizzy.

Vada swore she could've come just from that. Just from you.

She tried to answer, but her throat felt too tight, the words tangled somewhere inside her. So she just nodded, quick, almost frantic, because yes, yes, she wanted this, needed this.

And then you pushed in.

Two fingers, slow but certain, sinking into her with ease. The air left her lungs in a sharp, broken gasp, her head tipping back against the pillow as a sound she'd never made before slipped out of her mouth. Her body clenched around you, hot and tight, and she couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything but feel.

Couldn't do anything but feel.

Your fingers moved with purpose, slow at first, letting her adjust, letting her take it all in. The way you filled her, the way your touch sent warmth spiraling through her body—it was overwhelming, almost too much, but she didn't want it to stop.

A sharp, breathless sound escaped her as you curled your fingers, pressing against something deep inside her that made her entire body jolt. Her hands clutched at your arms, her nails digging into your skin, as she let out something between a gasp and a moan.

Your face was so close to hers, your breath ghosting over her lips, hot and unsteady. She could feel you, all of you—your hands, your mouth, the way your body pressed into hers, keeping her grounded even as everything inside her felt like it was unraveling.

Her mouth fell open, but no words came, only the broken sounds of pleasure slipping past her lips. It was nothing like she imagined—no idle fantasy could have prepared her for the way you touched her, the way you knew exactly what she needed.

You whispered something to her, voice low and soothing, and she barely processed the words. All she knew was that she wanted more. That she never wanted this moment to end.

A shuddering breath left her lips before she could stop it, her whole body tightening as your fingers pressed deeper. "Fuck." The word slipped out before she even realized she was saying it, half-whispered, half-moan, raw with desperation.

She didn't know what to grab. Her hands twitched, searching for something, anything to hold onto, but the couch beneath her wasn't enough. Her fingers curled into the fabric, gripping tight, but it didn't ground her—it only made her more aware of how good this felt.

Her hips moved instinctively, chasing the pressure, grinding against your fingers as heat curled low in her stomach. It was intoxicating, the way you touched her, the way you watched her. She could barely keep her eyes open, barely form a coherent thought, but that didn't stop the words from spilling out of her mouth, breathless and unfiltered.

"Jesus—God—that's—fuck, you're so—" A strangled whimper cut her off as you curled your fingers again, hitting that spot that made her body jolt. "So good."

Her voice was shaking, her breath uneven, and she couldn't stop herself, couldn't stop the way she was moving against you, couldn't stop the way she needed more.

Her fingers clawed weakly at the couch cushion behind her, nails dragging against the fabric as her hips moved in rhythm with your hand. Her head tilted back, lips parted, breaths choppy and uneven. She kept trying to say something, kept opening her mouth like the words were there—right there—but all that came out were broken sounds, strangled moans that cracked in her throat.

And then, between gasps, she finally said it—barely audible, like it slipped out without permission.

"I've thought about this," she breathed, voice hoarse and raw. "So many times."

You didn't stop, just kept your pace steady, fingers dragging in and out of her with that perfect angle, that perfect pressure that made her thighs tense around you. Her stomach flexed with every wave that built, and her eyes fluttered open—just barely—to find yours.

There was a flicker of something deeper behind her dazed expression. Lust, obviously. But also disbelief. Awe.

"Not like this though," she managed, her voice catching in her throat. "Not this good."

Her gaze dropped to where your hand was moving between her legs, the slick sounds of it only making everything more intense. She looked at your fingers like she couldn't believe what they were doing to her—how deep they were, how wet they were. Her jaw trembled, and her eyes rolled back again as another moan tore from her.

Vada's legs were starting to shake around your waist, but her hips kept moving anyway—needy and uncoordinated, like her body didn't care how far gone she already was. Her head lolled to the side, teeth catching her bottom lip, but she couldn't bite back the moan that spilled out next. Her hand slid from the couch to your arm, gripping like she needed something to anchor her.

"I used to think about this so much," she panted, eyes blinking slowly, trying to keep them open. "Like... I'd imagine you touching me, sometimes when I couldn't sleep, or when I was just—" She broke off for a second, the pleasure crashing over her words. "I never thought it'd feel like this. I thought I'd be nervous, or too in my head—"

"Baby," you murmured, your voice low and uneven, but she kept talking, trying to push through it even as her body clenched tighter around your fingers.

"—but it's just you, and it feels—fuck—it feels so—"

"Vada."

Her name landed like a spark on her skin. Her voice died out, breath catching in her throat, and the sound that left her was more of a moan than a response.

"Yes?" she whispered, almost a whine, her eyes fluttering shut and then open again like she couldn't decide if she wanted to look at you or just fall apart.

Your lips hovered close to hers—so close she could feel your breath in her mouth, warm and shallow. The only thing separating a kiss was your restraint. Your nose grazed hers. And she could feel how breathless you were too, though not quite as wrecked as she was. Not yet.

"Please shut up," you said, barely more than a breath, but you were smirking—hot and slow—like it was a warning and a tease at the same time.

Vada didn't argue. Her breath caught again. She went quiet instantly, and the look in her eyes made it clear she liked that. Liked how wrecked she felt under you. Liked that you could still manage control even when she couldn't.

And you didn't stop.

Your fingers curled up inside her with practiced pressure, the pads dragging against that one spot that had her breath catching every time. You didn't let her hips escape you either—your free hand slid up her side to hold her in place, your palm splayed flat just under her ribs as she squirmed.

Vada let out a choked moan, her nails digging into your bicep now, trying to hold on to something as her thighs tensed around your waist again. Her body was too responsive to hide anything—every time your fingers thrust in, slow but deep, her whole chest jolted forward, her back arching off the couch in little jerks she couldn't control. Her head tipped back hard against the cushion, exposing her throat, her mouth slack with whimpers that kept slipping out between her gasps.

You dipped your head, lips grazing along her jaw, your breath brushing her ear as your fingers pumped faster. You didn't need to look to know how wet she was—you could feel it, slick and warm, coating your fingers and dripping down over your knuckles.

And her face—god, her face. She looked like she was losing it.

Her brows were furrowed, cheeks flushed, lips trembling as she tried to breathe through it. But she couldn't keep still. Her hips were chasing every motion of your hand, grinding into your palm like she needed more, needed it harder, deeper, anything. Her thighs clenched around you again, tighter this time, and a broken curse left her mouth.

"F-fuck—"

Her voice cracked halfway through it. Her whole body stuttered, trembling under your weight, and her hands flew to your shoulders now, clutching at you, nails scraping lightly down your skin like she couldn't hold herself back anymore. And that's when you knew—she was right at the edge.

So you stayed right there, fingers moving with purpose now, pushing in just a little deeper, curling up just right. You let her ride it out, your face still so close to hers that you could feel every unsteady breath against your lips. Your name tumbled out of her mouth like a plea, broken and urgent, over and over again.

And then her whole body seized—legs locking, mouth falling open in a silent moan before the sound finally caught in her throat.

She came hard.

You felt it all—every twitch, every clench around your fingers as her orgasm tore through her. Her whole body arched beneath you, thighs trembling, her chest rising fast as her moans broke apart into gasps she couldn't catch. It hit her so suddenly and so deep that she was left stunned, lips parted like she was still trying to speak, but nothing came out.

You didn't pull away, not right away. You kept your fingers buried inside her, letting her ride out the aftershocks as her body spasmed beneath you. Slower now, gentler, your touch shifted—fingertips stroking her from the inside, coaxing every last ripple of pleasure until she was too sensitive to take it.

Only then did you ease your hand away, and her legs fell open, limp and trembling. Her hands slipped down from your shoulders, dragging weakly across your back as her body sagged into the couch like she had no bones left to hold her up.

Her chest was still heaving.

Her skin was flushed.

And her eyes—when she finally blinked them open—were glassy, dazed, and somehow still locked on you. You leaned down, brushing your lips against her jaw before you settled over her again, your hands gentle now as they smoothed up her sides.

Vada was smiling.

Barely, lazily, breathlessly.

She looked wrecked. And it was maybe the hottest thing you'd ever seen.

Still catching her breath, she gave a quiet laugh, lips twitching like she couldn't quite form real words yet. But she tried.

"Holy shit."

You kissed the side of her mouth, slow and warm, and when you pulled back, she finally looked at you fully—eyes wide, cheeks flushed, hair messy against the cushions.

And then, with a small smirk and a husky voice, she whispered, "I can't feel my legs."

You didn't say anything right away. Just let yourself look at her, really look—at the way her lashes stuck together at the corners from the wetness in her eyes, at the little flush still lingering across her cheeks and chest. Your hand moved without thinking, gently brushing sweaty strands of hair back from her face. She leaned into the touch, eyes fluttering closed for a second like even that soft contact was too much.

Still breathing heavily, Vada shifted slightly beneath you, her thighs twitching in aftershocks as she tried to get comfortable again. She winced a little, laughing under her breath as her body reminded her just how hard she'd come. You whispered something close to her ear—some soft murmur that made her smile—but mostly, you stayed quiet. Let the silence settle around you both.

Eventually, you started to move. Carefully. Slowly pulling her underwear back up her legs, tucking her in again like you were scared she'd break. She watched you, dazed but glowing, her fingers brushing against your arm as you helped her. When you sat back down beside her, she immediately curled into your side, her head resting against your shoulder like it belonged there. Her breathing was steadier now, but you could still feel the occasional hitch in her chest when your fingertips moved over her bare skin.

You let your hand rest on her stomach, your thumb tracing idle little circles as you both just... lay there. Warm. Spent. Close.

And then she tilted her face up toward yours again, eyes half-lidded and mouth pink from all the kissing and gasping and biting down on moans. Her voice was rough, still catching on the tail end of her own breathlessness.

"Can we do that again?"

[halfmoonaria]

when you weren’t here

pairing: tara carpenter & female reader

summary: tara sought escape in all the wrong places, never expecting reality to catch up with her

warnings: graphic violence/injury; stabbing, blood, coma-related discussions

author’s note: someone asked for more angst and i’ll deliver. actually love this one.

Tara had gotten used to hospitals.

The way the air always smelled faintly of antiseptic and something sterile, like it had been scrubbed too clean. The way the lights buzzed quietly overhead, flickering just enough to make her wonder if they were about to go out.

The way voices echoed in the halls—doctors speaking in calm, measured tones, nurses hurrying past with carts that rattled against the floor. She knew the sounds, the smells, the feeling of hospital sheets stiff against her skin, the weight of bandages pressing into wounds that had barely started to heal.

She had been here before. Too many times.

The first time was when she was six. She still remembered the sharp snap of pain in her wrist when she fell off the monkey bars at school, how she hit the ground so hard that for a second, she thought she had cracked the earth beneath her.

Sam was the one who carried her to the car, her voice tight with panic as she told her to hold still, just hold still. Tara had cried the whole drive there, cradling her arm against her chest, the pain radiating all the way up to her shoulder.

She had stopped crying when the nurse handed her a lollipop, but the ache lingered for weeks after, even beneath the heavy cast wrapped around her arm.

The second time was worse.

Woodsboro.

She had spent weeks in a hospital bed, stitches holding her together while the bruises darkened and then faded, while her body fought to get stronger, to recover from the way a knife had torn through her, over and over.

She had learned how to sleep in hospital beds, how to breathe through the pain, how to smile and pretend she wasn't terrified every time a nurse walked in, half-expecting the glint of a knife instead of the dull shine of a clipboard.

And then, she had come back. Not as a patient, but as a visitor.

Chad had been in the hospital for weeks after the attack. He had survived, but just barely, and Tara had spent so many afternoons at his bedside, watching him try to act like everything was fine even as he winced with every breath. Mindy, too. Tara didn't know how many times she had walked into one of their rooms with a stupid joke on her lips, trying to make them laugh, trying to make the place feel less suffocating than it was. But she hated it. The smell, the sounds, the memories pressing in on all sides.

Then came New York. A fresh start. A way to move past everything that had happened.

But the past had followed her.

Hospitals had followed her.

And now, she was back.

It shouldn't have affected her so much.  She had gotten used to hospitals after all.

But this one was different.

This time, it wasn't her in the bed.

She had gotten used to the steady beeping of the monitors beside her. Steady, rhythmic. A constant in the background, something that had faded into white noise over time. It was the same sound she had heard for months.

The same sound she had heard that first day. Or that day

She remembered the day too clearly.

She had been told what to expect before she stepped inside—that you wouldn't look the same, that there would be wires and tubes, that there was no way of knowing when or if you would wake up. The words had been clinical, rehearsed, meant to prepare her. But nothing could have.

Because when she stepped into that room, everything in her just... stopped.

The world outside the door felt like a different place. A different life. One where you were still you, where your voice filled the spaces between words, where your laughter tangled with hers in the air like it belonged there.

But in here, in this room, there was only the hum of machines and the too-sterile scent of antiseptic. There was only you, still and quiet in a bed that wasn't yours, wrapped in too much white, your face almost lost beneath the harsh fluorescent light.

She hadn't moved at first. Couldn't.

She just stood there, staring, because none of it made sense. You didn't look like yourself. Too pale, too still, too much like something fragile, something breakable. She hated it. Hated the way the sheets swallowed you up, hated the way your hand looked so small against the stiff hospital blanket. Hated that you weren't looking at her.

Somewhere, deep down, she half expected you to wake up right then. To blink up at her with that same sleepy smile you always gave when she woke you up too early. Because that was supposed to happen. That was how it was supposed to go. She would walk in, and you would see her, and everything would be okay.

But you didn't.

You didn't move at all.

And for the first time since it happened, she felt the full weight of it settle into her chest.

You weren't just sleeping.

You weren't going to wake up. Not now. Maybe not ever.

And she didn't know how to breathe through that.

You hadn't just been sleeping.

You hadn't been going to wake up. Not then. Maybe not ever.

And she hadn't known how to breathe through that.

For a second—just a split, desperate second—she had caught herself thinking that it had to be some kind of joke. That any moment now, you'd sit up, laughing until your stomach hurt, teasing her about the look on her face. You'd tell her it had been a prank, a huge, sick joke, and she'd have been pissed, but she wouldn't have cared, not really, because at least you'd have been you. At least you'd have been here.

But you hadn't woken up.

You hadn't moved.

You had just laid there.

Tara had only stared. She had seen you a million times before—had seen you grinning with flushed cheeks, had seen you rolling your eyes at something dumb she'd said, had seen you looking at her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.

But that? That hadn't been you.

Your face had been too pale, too still. Your lips had been cracked. The glow you had always had, the warmth, the life—it had been gone. The person in front of her had looked like a shell, like someone wearing your skin but missing everything that had made you you.

And Tara hadn't been able to accept it. She wouldn't have accepted it.

Not that. Not you.

Her hands had trembled as she had forced herself to move. She had taken a step forward, then another, but every movement had felt wrong, like she had been walking into something she hadn't been meant to see. Like if she had gotten too close, if she had looked too long, she'd have had to admit this had been real.

She had sat down in the chair beside your bed, but not without hesitating. She had hesitated with every move she had made.

Her fingers had clenched against her jeans. She had gulped hard.

And then—slowly, silently—the tears had started falling.

She hadn't even realized she had been crying.

It hadn’t been you.

It couldn’t have been.

But it had been.

Her breath had hitched as she had reached out, stopping just before her fingers had touched yours. She hadn't wanted to feel it. Hadn't wanted to know what your skin had felt like now, what it had meant for you to be this cold.

But she had done it anyway.

Her hand had covered yours, careful, almost fearful.

You hadn't moved.

Your fingers hadn't curled around hers, hadn't squeezed back, hadn't reacted in any way at all.

And you had been cold.

Tara had sucked in a sharp breath, blinking fast, trying to keep herself together.

She had told herself it had just been the hospital, that rooms like that had always been freezing, that it hadn't been you, not really.

But the truth had sat heavy in her chest.

You had been cold because your body hadn't been living the way it should have been.

Because your heart had been beating, but you hadn't been there.

She had swallowed past the lump in her throat and had whispered, barely above a breath—I'm here.

And then she had just sat there, her hand over yours, watching, waiting, hoping.

Convincing herself that it hadn’t been forever.

That you would wake up.

That she'd see your eyes again.

Bright with laughter, maybe even squinting as you smiled, the way they always did when you were really, really happy.

Because the last time she had seen them. Really seen them. Was in the moment she found you, bleeding out on the floor.

They had been wide with shock, glazed over with pain, staring up at her as blood pooled beneath you.

They had searched for her—pleaded with her—before fluttering shut, before your body went still, before everything collapsed around her.

That wasn't how she wanted to remember them. She didn't want that to be the last image burned into her mind—the dull, fading look in your eyes, the way they lost focus as your body went limp.

She tried to push it away, to replace it with something else, something better.

But no matter how hard she tried, that was the version of you that haunted her.

She wanted to remember your eyes the way they used to be—warm, bright, alive.

She wanted to remember the way they squinted when you smiled, the way they gleamed with mischief whenever you teased her, the way they softened when you looked at her like she was the only person in the world.

She wanted to remember how they flickered with something unreadable when she kissed you—how your lashes fluttered for half a second before you melted into her like you had been waiting for it.

But when she closed her own eyes, when she let herself slip for even a second, that wasn't what she saw.

She saw them wide with fear.

Glassy. Unfocused. Darting between her and Sam as she held onto your wrist, fingers trembling because she knew what she was asking you to do. Go. She had said it again and again, her voice sharp with urgency, her grip tightening like that alone would be enough to make you listen. But you hadn't—not at first. You had shaken your head, refused to leave her, your voice cracking as you told her you weren't going anywhere.

And god, she had wanted to hold onto you, to tell you she wouldn't leave either. That you'd get through this together.

But she couldn't.

Not when she had no idea what was coming next. Not when she was standing there, her pulse hammering, her body braced for something—the inevitable moment Ethan and Quinn would make their move, the moment they'd step out from the shadows and turn this entire fucking night into something even worse than it already was.

She had forced you to say it. To repeat it back to her—those three words that still echoed in her head.

I'll walk away.

She could still hear the way your voice had cracked on the last word, how quiet it had been. She could still see the way your fingers had twitched by your sides, the way your throat had bobbed like you were trying to swallow down the fear pressing up into your chest. You had looked at her like you wanted her to stop you. Like you wanted her to change her mind.

And she had almost—almost—reached for you again.

But she didn't.

Her fingers had curled into fists at her sides as she forced herself to nod, to meet your eyes one last time and tell you it was okay. That she would come back to you, that she'd find you the second Ethan was dead, that she'd be right behind you before you even had the chance to start panicking.

That you'd be safe.

That everything would be fine.

She had believed it. She had believed every single word she said to you.

But she had said it all too loudly.

And Quinn and Ethan had been listening.

She hadn't known it then. She hadn't even thought about it.

She had just stood there, her hands shaking as she tried to steady her breathing, her mind racing with a dozen different thoughts at once—how long they would have to wait, how Ethan would show himself, how Quinn of all people could be Ghostface, how quickly she and Sam could get this over with so she could go back to you. She had been so fucking sure that was how this would go. That Ethan and Quinn would attack, that she and Sam would fight back, that they would win.

She hadn't known that while she was standing there, preparing for a fight that hadn't even begun yet, they had already found you.

She hadn't known.

She hadn't known that while she stood there, gripping the handle of a knife so tightly her knuckles burned, you had already collapsed to the floor. That while she braced herself for Quinn and Ethan to make their move, you had already felt the first sharp, brutal tear of a blade slipping between your ribs.

She hadn't known that while she sucked in a slow, steadying breath, yours had been knocked out of you. That your fingers had clawed at the wound in your stomach, hot blood spilling between them, painting your hands in red that you barely registered because—fuck—it hurt, it hurt so bad.

She hadn't known that while she took a step closer to Sam, her body tensing in anticipation, your legs had given out beneath you. That the floor had rushed up to meet you in a way that felt almost unreal, your head spinning so violently it was hard to tell which way was up, which way was down, which way was—

Her.

Where was she?

Your lips had parted, the effort of forming her name too much when your throat was already thick with blood, choking you, drowning you.

But she hadn't heard.

Because she hadn't known.

She had stood there, heart pounding in her chest, waiting, waiting, waiting for something to happen—unaware that it already had.

She had lifted her knife, a sharp inhale burning its way down her throat, seconds away from lunging at Ethan—while you lay just meters away, blood pooling beneath you, slipping through the cracks in the floorboards.

She had ducked when Quinn swung for her, twisting her body at the last second—while your fingers barely twitched at your sides, weak and useless, unable to do anything but slip in the mess of red beneath you.

She had slammed her knee into Ethan's stomach, her breath sharp, body thrumming with adrenaline—while your chest barely moved, every breath shallower than the last, drowning under the weight of it all.

She had shoved a fucking knife into his mouth.

And she had laughed.

A short, breathless thing—sharp with relief, with victory, with the overwhelming certainty that it was over.

That you were okay.

That the only thing left to do was find you.

She had turned, her fingers still curled around the handle of the knife, ready to run back to you, ready to wrap her arms around you and hold you, ready to breathe again because she could, because you could, because you were—

Her body had frozen.

Because you weren't there.

Because the spot where she had left you, the place where she had told you to go, was empty.

And then she saw it.

A hand.

Limp. Pale. Blood-slicked fingers barely curled.

She followed it.

Followed the trail of blood smeared across the floor, the crimson soaked into your sleeves, the mess of it seeping into your hair.

And then—

She saw your eyes.

And she wished she hadn't.

Because they weren't the same ones she had been so desperate to see again. They weren't shining with laughter, weren't squinting slightly at the corners as they always did when you smiled at her. They weren't warm, weren't alive.

They were glassy. Unfocused. Half-lidded, as if keeping them open was already too much for you.

And fuck—

There was so much blood.

It coated your skin in streaks, in smears, in pools. It had soaked through your clothes, clung to you like a second skin, painted your lips a deep, terrifying red. There was some on your chin too, like you had coughed it up, like your body had already started failing you.

Your lips trembled.

You were trying to say something.

She knew what it was.

Her name.

But it didn't come out.

Because you couldn't force it past your lips, couldn't get enough breath into your lungs. Because you could barely even move—the only sign of life being the weak, desperate twitch of your fingers, the way your hand, the one that wasn't splayed limply against the floor, pressed against your stomach, trying—failing—to stop the bleeding.

You had tried.

You had tried to help yourself, tried to push down against the wounds, tried to fight.

But there were too many.

There was too much blood.

And she wasn't thinking anymore.

She dropped to her knees so fast she barely registered the pain of the impact, her hands pressing over yours, her fingers curling over your own like she could somehow give you her strength.

Your body flinched under the pressure.

A sharp, agonized wince twisted your features, and Tara felt her own face crumble, a shaky breath pushing past her lips because—fuck, she didn't want to hurt you, but she had to.

Your body was shaking. Your breath came out in short, quick pants, your chest barely rising.

She could see you slipping away.

She could see it happening, right in front of her.

And her lips parted.

A scream tore out of her throat, raw, desperate.

She screamed for Sam.

Screamed louder than she ever had in her life.

And within seconds, Sam was there.

Sam, who had still been gripping her knife, ready to fight. Sam, who had barely even taken a breath of relief after Ethan before Tara's scream had ripped it away. Sam, who froze the second her eyes landed on you.

Because she had thought it was over.

Because Tara had thought it was over.

Because you were supposed to be safe.

And yet—

There you were.

Bleeding. Dying.

Tara didn't know which one of them had moved first, but the next thing she knew, Sam was beside her, already pressing down, already shaking, already pleading with you to stay awake.

And Tara—

Tara couldn't breathe.

She felt like she was drowning.

Her hands were soaked with blood—your blood—and it was warm and thick, seeping between her fingers as she pressed down harder, tighter, trying to keep it inside you where it belonged. Her breaths were sharp, ragged, her chest rising and falling too fast, too fast, her vision blurring as she blinked furiously, trying to keep her focus on you.

Sam—

Sam, call 911.

Her own voice barely sounded like herself. It was strangled, hoarse, somewhere between a plea and a demand, but she didn't even know if Sam heard her because she was already moving—already pulling her phone out with shaking hands, already fumbling with the buttons.

And Tara—

Tara was left with you.

With your barely-there breathing.

With your trembling lips, stained red.

With your fingers, twitching so weakly against hers that she wanted to scream.

Stay awake. Stay awake. Stay awake.

Her voice shook as she said your name.

She begged.

Told you it was okay.

Told you she had you.

Told you she wasn't going to let you die.

And maybe it was a lie.

Maybe she knew it was a lie.

But she had to say it anyway.

Because your eyes were slipping shut, and she couldn't let them.

Her hand moved from yours to your cheek, fingers smearing warmth against your skin as she cradled your face, her thumb brushing against your jaw. She tried to smile, even though her lips were trembling, even though her lungs felt too tight.

"Hey, baby."

It came out too soft, too small. Like her voice had caved under the weight of her panic, like it was shattering inside her chest.

She sniffled, blinking back the hot sting in her eyes, forcing her lips to curl up a little more, forcing herself to keep it together.

"It's okay. You're okay."

You blinked. Barely.

Your eyes were losing focus again, shifting away from her, but she wouldn't let you go.

Her grip tightened against your cheek, forcing your gaze back to hers, forcing you to look at her.

"That's it. Just keep looking at me, okay?"

Her throat was tight, aching, her pulse hammering so hard she could hear it in her ears.

Sam was talking to the operator.

There was a rush of static, a frantic voice on the other end.

But Tara didn't hear it.

Didn't listen.

Because you were staring at her.

Like you wanted to say something.

Like you needed to.

She leaned in, pressing her forehead against yours, whispering so softly that only you could hear—I love you, I love you, I love you.

And then—

Your lips parted.

Barely.

A single breath.

A single, broken word.

Love you.

And then—

Nothing.

Your breath stopped.

Your lips stilled.

Your eyes—

Your eyes slipped shut.

And Tara—

Tara lost it.

She didn't mean to scream.

Didn't mean for it to tear out of her like an animal caught in a trap, raw and broken and filled with something so deep and unbearable that it didn't even feel human.

But she did.

And then she was grabbing you, shaking your shoulders, trying to wake you up, trying to pull you back, trying to make you breathe again.

But you didn't move.

Didn't react.

Didn't do anything.

Her whole body shook as she let out another choked sound, barely even words, just something painful clawing its way out of her throat. She pressed her forehead against yours again, like it would do something, like it would keep you here with her, but your skin was so cold now, your breath completely gone, and she—

She knew.

But she couldn’t accept it.

Not yet.

Not when the ambulance hadn't even gotten here.

Not when she could still hold you.

So she refused.

Refused to let go.

Refused to move.

Refused to stop begging.

She kept calling your name over and over, her voice cracking with every syllable, her hands shaking as she tried to press down harder, tighter, anything to stop the blood from slipping through her fingers like sand, anything to keep you here.

Sam was still there—somewhere in the background, talking frantically to the dispatcher, telling them to hurry, hurry, hurry, but it had already been too long.

Tara felt like she was outside of herself.

Like she was floating, completely weightless, completely detached, like none of this was real, like any second now she'd blink and it would all be over.

She wanted to shake you harder.

Wanted to snap you out of this.

Wanted to undo it all.

Because this wasn't the plan.

You were supposed to walk away.

She was supposed to come back to you.

You were supposed to be safe.

She was supposed to keep you safe.

And now—

Now she was holding you as you died.

Something inside her snapped.

She barely even registered the sound of sirens.

Barely noticed when the paramedics rushed in.

Barely heard anything at all, except for her own sobbing as someone—several someones—pried you away from her.

She fought them.

Of course she did.

Her hands were clawing at the arms that grabbed her, her voice raw as she screamed at them, screamed at everyone, trying to keep you with her, trying to go with you.

But they wouldn't let her.

She struggled against Sam's grip, sobbing, thrashing, desperate to follow, desperate to get to you as the paramedics swarmed around your body, pressing oxygen to your lips, pushing down on your chest, yelling to each other.

But Tara couldn't hear them.

She could only see you.

Could only see them lift your body onto the stretcher, see the way your arms limply bounced at your sides, see the way the blood had soaked through every inch of your clothes, see the way your head lolled to the side, exposing the cut along your throat—not deep enough to kill you instantly, but deep enough to steal your breath, to steal your voice, to steal every last chance you had of surviving if they didn't move fast enough.

And they—

They weren't moving fast enough.

Tara felt it—felt the exact second she knew you were already gone, felt it tear through her like a physical thing, knocking the air from her lungs as she screamed again, her body sagging against Sam's as she watched you get carried away.

And she knew.

She knew that would be the last time she ever saw you alive.

She knew she wouldn't make it to the hospital.

She knew you'd be pronounced dead before she ever got the chance to say goodbye properly.

She knew she wouldn't see you again until—

Until your funeral.

Until you were in a coffin.

Cold and gone.

And when the ambulance doors slammed shut, locking you inside, separating you from her completely—

Tara broke.

Tara didn't remember getting to the hospital.

Didn't remember the car ride.

Didn't remember the moment she and Sam rushed through the doors, demanding answers, begging for updates, shaking as they pressed their hands over wounds that weren't even theirs.

She only remembered sitting in a waiting room that smelled like antiseptic and old coffee, staring down at her bloodstained hands, feeling the way the dried, sticky patches of it clung to the creases of her palms, the way it coated her fingernails, the way it was still under her skin even after Sam had tried to scrub it away in the hospital bathroom.

Hours had passed.

At least, Tara thought they had.

Time felt warped, stretched too thin, like the entire world had stopped the second the ambulance doors slammed shut and left her behind.

She hadn't moved since then.

Hadn't spoken.

Hadn't done anything but sit in the same plastic chair, hunched over, her fingers clasped together so tightly they ached, like holding onto herself was the only thing keeping her from falling apart completely.

Sam sat next to her, just as stiff, just as quiet.

She had tried—at first—to say something, to get Tara to drink some water, to get her to breathe, but Tara couldn't.

She couldn't do anything.

She could only wait.

Wait and hope and pray that at any second, some random, exhausted doctor would walk through those double doors, look her in the eyes, and tell her you were alive.

And eventually—

After what felt like an entire lifetime—

Someone did.

Tara's head snapped up the second she heard your name, her chest tight as she stared at the doctor in front of her, unable to breathe, move, think.

She wanted good news.

Needed it.

But she knew better.

Even before he spoke, even before she saw the look in his eyes, she knew there was no happy ending.

"The patient stabilized in surgery."

A pause.

A hesitation.

"But she is in a coma."

The words slammed into her.

Coma.

Coma.

She heard Sam exhale sharply beside her, heard the way her sister's body tensed, but Tara—

Tara felt nothing.

Or maybe she felt everything at once.

Because she should be relieved, shouldn't she?

You weren't dead.

You weren't six feet under.

You weren't a name carved into a headstone.

Your heart was still beating.

Your body was still here.

There was still a chance.

She should be grateful.

She should be grateful.

But all she could do was stare.

Stare at the doctor.

Stare at the fluorescent lights buzzing above her.

Stare at her own hands, still covered in your blood.

Because how the fuck was she supposed to accept this?

How the fuck was she supposed to accept that you weren't here, not really, not anymore?

How the fuck was she supposed to live with the fact that you might never wake up?

The first time Tara walked into your hospital room, she thought she was going to be sick.

Because it was you—

It was you.

Your face, your hair, your body—

But at the same time, it wasn’t.

Your skin was too pale. Your lips were too dry. Your body looked too small under the weight of the hospital blankets, like there was less of you now, like the attack had taken something she could never get back.

And worst of all—

Worst of all—

Your eyes were closed.

Not like when you were asleep, not like when she could nudge your arm and whisper your name and hear you grumble in response.

This was different.

This was wrong.

And Tara couldn't fucking stand it.

So she did what she always did when she didn't know how to cope—

She stayed.

She stayed through the first night, sitting at your bedside, refusing to let anyone move her.

She stayed through the second, through the third, through the fourth, through every single hour, every single shift change, every single moment that passed where you didn't wake up.

She was always there.

Always.

No matter how much Sam begged her to go home, to get some actual sleep, to take care of herself for once.

No matter how many times the nurses told her she needed a break, that she couldn't sit there forever, that you weren't going anywhere.

She didn't care.

She couldn't care.

Because what if you woke up and she wasn't there?

What if you opened your eyes and she wasn't the first thing you saw?

She couldn't let that happen.

She wouldn't let that happen.

So she stayed.

And she talked to you.

She talked to you about everything.

She read her texts out loud—Mindy's updates, Chad's stupid jokes, Sam's endless concerns.

She told you what was going on outside, what she saw from the hospital windows, how the city looked the same even though everything had changed.

She braided your hair, just to have something to do with her hands, just to feel like she was taking care of you in some way, even if you didn't know it.

She curled up next to you in bed, not caring if she was uncomfortable, not caring if her body ached from lying still too long, not caring about anything but being close to you.

And some days—

Some days she was angry.

Not at the doctors.

Not at the Ghostfaces who had done this.

Not at herself.

But at you.

Because how the fuck could you do this to her?

How the fuck could you just lay there while she was falling apart?

How the fuck could you not wake up

She would sit at your bedside, gripping your hand so tightly it left marks, whispering please, please, please through clenched teeth.

Some days she would beg.

Some days she would yell.

Some days she would just cry.

But every day—

Every single fucking day—

She would stay.

But then.

It happened on a Wednesday.

Or maybe it was a Thursday.

Tara wasn't sure anymore. Time had stopped making sense a long time ago.

All she knew was that Sam had been relentless—pressuring, bribing, threatening, begging her to go home.

And at first, Tara refused.

Because how the fuck was she supposed to just leave? How was she supposed to walk away while you were still lying there, unconscious, unaware, not even able to notice she was gone?

She had told Sam no.

Over and over and over again. OVER AGAIN

But somehow, some way, Sam had gotten to her.

Maybe it was the exhaustion.

Maybe it was the way her own clothes had started to feel stiff with dried blood and days-old sweat.

Maybe it was the way the nurses kept looking at her, like they were worried, like they were waiting for her to break.

Or maybe it was the fact that, deep down, she knew Sam was right.

So she left.

Just for a little while.

Just to shower.

Just to change.

Just to pack some extra clothes—yours too, just in case. Because when you woke up, you wouldn't want to stay in a hospital gown. You'd want real clothes, something comfortable, something normal.

She even let herself picture it for a second—

The way you'd sigh when you saw what she brought, the way you'd tease her for picking something too baggy or too tight or not what you would have chosen.

The way you'd sit up, bleary-eyed, still weak but there, and she'd help you get dressed like she had a million times before.

That's all it was supposed to be.

A quick trip.

A moment of preparation for the future she was sure was coming.

But then—

Then she laid down in her bed.

And she couldn't move.

She told herself it was just for a second, just to rest her eyes, just to feel something that wasn’t a stiff hospital chair.

But that second stretched into a minute.

Then an hour.

Then a whole fucking night.

And when she woke up—

When she woke up, she was supposed to go back.

She was supposed to be at the hospital right now.

But she couldn't.

She couldn’t.

Because the image of you lying there—pale, still, lifeless—was burned into her fucking brain.

And she wasn't sure she could see it again.

Because it didn't even feel real anymore.

It felt like they were lying to her, like the doctors and the nurses and the beeping machines were all just some elaborate trick to stop her from completely falling apart.

Like you were already dead and they just didn't want her to know.

And she didn't think she could handle looking at you, knowing you were technically alive but still feeling like she had already lost you.

So she stayed home.

And she told herself it was just for a little longer.

Just one more hour.

Just until the afternoon.

Just until the evening.

Just until tomorrow.

And then tomorrow came.

And she told herself the same fucking thing.

It wasn't supposed to be like this.

Tara knew that.

She wasn't supposed to be here. She was supposed to be there, in that tiny, sterile room with the too-bright lights and the never-ending beeping of your heart monitor.

But she hadn't been there in—

Fuck.

How long had it been?

A week?

Maybe longer?

She didn't know anymore.

The first few days had been the worst. Every morning, Sam would ask her—Do you want me to come with you?—and every morning, Tara would say the same thing.

I'll go later.

Later.

Always later.

But later never came.

Because there was always an excuse.

She wasn't feeling great. She had too much homework. She needed to sleep.

She had plans with Chad.

Or Mindy.

And Sam never called her out on it.

She never said I know you're lying, never forced Tara to get up and go, never made her face what she was trying so fucking hard to avoid.

She just nodded, lips pressing together, like she was holding back a lot of things she wanted to say.

And then there were the hospital calls.

They didn't come every day. But when they did, Tara never picked up.

She could imagine what they were saying.

How it must have been strange to them—

How she had spent days refusing to leave your side, only to suddenly disappear, like she had given up.

And maybe—

Maybe that's exactly what she had done.

Because in the beginning, she thought being there meant something.

She thought that if she talked to you, if she held your hand, if she begged you to wake up, maybe—just maybe—you actually would.

But you didn't.

You didn’t.

So what was the point?

What was the point in going back?

It wouldn't make a difference.

You wouldn't wake up just because she was there.

You wouldn't even know.

And she—

She wasn't sure she could handle looking at you, knowing that.

So sometimes, Tara tried to pretend you were just away.

On a trip somewhere, maybe.

She'd picture you on a beach, stretched out in the sun, laughing at some dumb joke a stranger had told you. Or maybe in a different city, wandering through streets you'd never seen before, texting her updates every few hours.

She'd tell herself that you were fine, that you were just busy, that you'd be back soon.

But it never worked.

Because the second she turned on her phone, there was another reminder waiting for her.

A missed call from the hospital.

A thinking of you text from Anika.

A question from Chad—When's the last time you went to see her?

And Tara hated it.

Because every time someone asked, they assumed the answer was yesterday.

They assumed she was still going.

And she hated that, too.

Because it made her feel like she should be going.

Like she should still be sitting at your bedside, still talking to you, still believing that maybe, maybe, you would actually wake up.

But she wasn't.

And she didn't.

And she was tired.

Tired of people looking at her with that soft, sad expression, like they were waiting for her to break.

Tired of Sam and Mindy and Chad and everyone else acting like they knew you'd be okay.

Tired of the fucking hospital calls, the fucking questions, the fucking hope.

And sometimes—

Sometimes, she was tired of you.

For not waking up.

For making her feel like an idiot for believing, even for a second, that you ever would.

And she hated that she felt that way.

Because it wasn't your fault.

But she still wanted to blame you.

She wanted to be mad at you, wanted to yell at you, wanted to shake you and demand to know why.

Why you had to get hurt.

Why you had to leave her here like this.

Why you weren't waking up.

Why you never would.

It had been weeks now.

Weeks since Tara had last walked through that hospital corridor.

Since she'd last sat by your bed, waiting for something to change.

Since she'd last let herself HOPE.

She told herself that it was fine. That it was normal.

That you wouldn't want her to spend every second of every day sitting in that damn chair, waiting for a ghost of a movement that would never come.

That you'd want her to go out, to be around friends, to breathe for once instead of drowning in the same thoughts over and over again.

And Chad—Chad made that easy.

He distracted her.

Dragged her to parties, pulled her into conversations, gave her something to focus on that wasn't the memory of you lying still and silent in that fucking hospital bed.

And she let him.

Because it was easier to be here, laughing at one of his stupid jokes, than it was to be there, watching you not wake up.

And every time that guilt crept in—every time she thought about how you were still there while she was out here—she reminded herself that this was what you'd want.

That you'd want her to be happy.

That you'd want her to be okay.

And if she just kept telling herself that—

Maybe one day, she'd actually believe it.

___

It took a lot for her to get here. More than anyone knew.

Because nights like these—loud music, too many people, voices blending together until they didn't even sound like words—used to be something she loved. Before. Before the hospital. Before you.

But now, everything felt different. Too loud. Too fast. Too much.

Because it wasn't just a party—it was leaving. It was stepping out of her room, out of her head, out of the cycle she'd been trapped in for weeks. It was choosing to be somewhere else, somewhere that wasn't a hospital waiting room or the inside of her own thoughts. And that choice felt heavier than it should have.

She had almost backed out a hundred times. When she stood in front of her closet, staring at the clothes she hadn't worn in weeks. When she slipped on her shoes and felt how unfamiliar they were, like she had forgotten what it was like to go anywhere but home. When she grabbed her jacket and stopped in the doorway, telling herself that if she left now—if she really left—then it would mean something.

Tara had almost turned around the second she stepped inside. Had almost let the pulsing beat and the heat of the room push her right back out the door. But then someone had handed her a drink, and someone else had pulled her toward the couch, and she'd let it happen—because that was easier than thinking. Easier than remembering the other nights she'd spent alone, staring at her phone, knowing exactly where she should be and refusing to go anyway.

Someone shoved a drink into her hand, someone else pulled her toward the couch, and she let it happen. She let herself be here, because that was easier than thinking. Easier than wondering if she should be anywhere else.

So she sat. She stayed. She let the noise settle around her, let the weight in her chest dull just enough to breathe.

And maybe that was why, when someone sank onto the couch beside her, when their knee brushed hers, when their voice—steady, familiar—cut through the noise, she didn't immediately pull away.

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

"Hey, T."

Chad's voice was easy, familiar—like nothing about this was strange, like it was just another night. Tara turned her head slightly, enough to see the lazy grin tugging at his lips, the way he slouched back against the couch like he belonged there.

"Didn't think I'd see you here."

Tara turned her head slightly, enough to catch Chad watching her, a lazy grin playing at his lips. He had a drink in one hand, the other slung casually over the back of the couch like he had been here for a while.

"When'd you get here?" she asked instead of answering.

"Like an hour ago," Chad said, tipping his drink toward her in some half-formed gesture. He leaned back against the couch, exhaling like he'd been here for a while, like this was just another night. "Mindy's already yelling at people over their taste in horror movies. She's been going off about Hereditary for the last ten minutes."

Tara huffed a quiet breath. "I'm surprised she hasn't gotten banned from parties by now."

"Give it time."

Chad smirked, nudging her knee with his, and for a moment—just a moment—this almost felt like how things used to be.

But then the silence crept in. Not real silence—music was still thudding through the walls, voices still blending into the background—but the kind that settled between words. The kind that gave room for thoughts she didn't want to have.

And she could feel it.

Because this was the part where you would've jumped in. The part where you would've teased Mindy's dramatics, the part where you would've slung an arm around Tara's shoulders, warmth and confidence and energy spilling over into everyone around you. You loved parties. Maybe even more than she did. You were always the one pulling her onto the dance floor, the one convincing her to stay just a little longer, the one filling every night with something bigger than just music and drinks and meaningless conversations.

If you were here, this night wouldn't feel so empty.

If you were here, Tara wouldn't be sitting stiffly on a couch, holding onto a drink like it was the only thing grounding her. You'd be tugging her toward the dance floor, laughing against her ear, telling her to loosen up, babe, it's a party. You'd be pressing up against her, hands on her hips, turning a casual sway into something that meant something. And eventually—eventually—you'd be pulling her away from the crowd, finding some empty bedroom, letting her press you against the door with her lips against yours.

That's how tonight was supposed to go.

But you weren't here.

And Chad—he was thinking about that, too.

She could tell by the way he shifted beside her, by the way his grip tightened slightly around his cup, by the breath he let out, like he was bracing himself to say something he wasn't sure he should say.

Tara already knew what it was. She knew before he even opened his mouth.

He was going to ask about you.

And she couldn't do this.

She didn't want to hear his voice shape your name, didn't want to see that soft, careful look in his eyes, didn't want to be reminded that everyone knew—that they all knew exactly where you were, what had happened to you, what had become of you.

So before he could say it—before he could ruin this moment, this fragile distraction—Tara lifted her drink and knocked back the rest of it in one long pull. Let the alcohol burn its way down her throat, fast and sharp and necessary.

She needed to get out of her own head. Needed the edges to blur, just a little.

And when she set her empty cup down, her hand was already reaching for another. Some half-finished drink left on the table in front of them, someone else's, untouched long enough that it didn't really belong to anyone anymore.

She didn't care.

She just wanted to forget.

Just for tonight.

And she did.

A few hours passed in a haze of too-loud music and too-smooth drinks, slipping through her like water.

She had loosened up. Had let herself sink into it, let herself laugh at things that weren't funny, let herself tilt her head back and feel the bass thrum through her bones like it was the only thing keeping her upright.

She had spoken to people, barely remembering faces, barely remembering names. But none of them had mentioned you.

Maybe they had forgotten.

Or maybe it was just easier to pretend. Because it wasn't like you were gone. You were still here—in whispers, in thoughts, in the space that people hesitated to step into. But you weren't really a person anymore, not in the way you used to be. You were a memory, a tragedy, a thing that people danced around, careful not to get too close.

And so Tara danced, too.

Without you.

It felt wrong. It felt like breaking something sacred. But it was easy to ignore that when her limbs were light, when the alcohol softened the edges, when no one was looking at her like they were waiting for her to fall apart.

And eventually—eventually—she found herself back on the couch, back where the night had started, back where Chad was still sitting.

Her body felt light, her head a little heavier, but not in a way that mattered. Not in a way she cared to notice. The music wasn't as loud anymore, or maybe she just wasn't listening. Voices blurred together, but none of them sounded like yours, and that was enough. That was all she needed.

Chad glanced over when she sat down, tipping his drink slightly in her direction like some kind of wordless toast. His eyes flicked over her outfit, and he smirked, leaning in just a little.

"You look good in black.”

Tara huffed out something that could've been a laugh, stretching her legs out in front of her.

"Yeah, well, I always wear black."

"Still," Chad shrugged. "It suits you."

She rolled her eyes but didn't argue. Didn't say anything, really. Because her skin was warm, her limbs felt light, and the weight in her chest—the weight that had been pressing down for weeks—wasn't as heavy anymore.

She let her head tip back against the couch, let herself breathe. Let herself exist in this moment, in this space, without thinking about where she should be, or who should be here with her.

It was easier that way.

He smiled. And maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the warmth of the room, maybe it was just that she was tired—but something about the way he was looking at her felt different. Not bad. Just... different.

For a moment, she just looked at him. At the way he was watching her—not expectantly, not like he was waiting for something. Just LOOKING.

She didn't know why she noticed it now, why it felt DIFFERENT now, but it did. Maybe because it had been a long time since someone looked at her like that. Like she was more than just tired eyes and half-finished sentences.

Like she was here.

Not in a hospital room. Not sitting in the quiet, waiting. Not halfway stuck in something she couldn't change.

And maybe it was stupid, maybe it was just the alcohol, maybe it didn't mean anything—

But she didn't move when he shifted closer.

Didn't pull away when his gaze dropped to her lips.

Didn't say anything when his fingers brushed her jaw, so barely there it almost didn't feel real.

She knew what was coming.

And she should stop it. She should turn her head, she should say something.

But then his lips were on hers, and—

For a second, her breath hitched.

For a second, something cold curled in her chest, something sharp that made her almost pull away.

Maybe she should have. Maybe some part of her wanted to.

But Tara was tired.

She was tired of the weight pressing down on her chest, of the way everything felt wrong all the time. Tired of the dull ache in the back of her head that never really went away.

And tonight was the first time in weeks that it hadn't been there.

So when Chad's fingers brushed against her jaw, when he leaned in—slow, careful, like he was giving her a chance to pull away—she just... didn't.

And when his lips met hers, she let him.

She didn't think. Didn't analyze it, didn't pick apart what it meant, didn't try to figure out if it should mean anything.

She just let it happen.

Because thinking was exhausting. Thinking meant remembering, and remembering meant you.

And tonight, she just wanted to exist outside of that.

So she kissed him back.

And she didn't feel guilty.

Not at first.

And maybe that was the strangest part.

Because she should have. Should have felt that sharp sting of regret, that pull in her chest telling her she had done something wrong. But it never came.

Instead, she just felt...lighter. Like something inside her had finally shifted, like something had clicked into place in a way she hadn't expected.

And it didn't stop there.

She let Chad pull her closer, let his arm rest against the back of the couch, fingers grazing her shoulder. She let him lift her legs, shifting them into his lap, his hands lingering at her ankles, his thumbs brushing against the exposed skin there. She let him say nice things, flirty things, let herself listen without the immediate instinct to brush it off.

Because stopping felt weird.

Because she couldn't stop anything else in life, could she?

She couldn't stop what happened to you.

Couldn't stop the way things changed the second you weren't there. Couldn't stop the way the world kept moving forward without you in it.

So why should she stop this?

Why should she pull away when everything else had already been taken from her?

And an hour later, when she and Chad were standing side by side at the beer pong table, when the last ball landed in the final cup, when he threw his arms up in victory—

She didn't stop herself then, either.

Didn't stop her hands from reaching up, from grabbing his face, from pulling him down into a kiss.

It wasn't a conscious choice. It just... happened.

They won, right?

That was all it was. Just a moment. Just a win.

And when he kissed her back, when his hands settled against her waist—

She let that happen, too.

She let him guide her upstairs.

Through the hallway, past half-open doors and muffled voices, past the sound of the party still pulsing downstairs.

She let him press her against the bedroom door the second it shut behind them, let his hands grip her waist, his mouth on hers, warm and eager and wanting.

She let him push her onto the bed, his body over hers, his weight pressing her into the mattress.

She let him kiss down her neck, over her collarbone, let him pull her shirt over her head.

She let herself moan.

She let his hands roam, let his lips trail lower, let herself arch into the touch, let herself forget everything else except this.

She let him push himself in.

Let him thrust.

Let herself take it.

She let it happen.

Because stopping felt impossible. Because stopping meant thinking. And thinking meant remembering.

And she didn't want to remember.

Not tonight.

Tara knew what she should have felt after that.

What she should have done.

She should have pushed him off of her the second it was over, scrambled for her clothes, left the party without looking back. She should have gone straight to the hospital, straight to you, should have cried by your bedside and apologized over and over and over—even if you couldn't hear her, even if you never woke up to hear it.

She should have thrown up from the guilt, should have felt it twisting deep in her stomach, making her sick, making her sorry.

But she didn't.

She laid there instead. Stretched out on the bed, chest rising and falling, skin warm, heartbeat slowing. Chad lay beside her, one arm lazily draped over his stomach, breath steady, like this was just—normal. Like it was nothing at all.

And that's what she told herself too.

That it was nothing.

It didn't mean anything.

It was just a party. Just alcohol. Just loneliness.

And that excuse—at first—was enough.

But somewhere in the back of her mind, a voice whispered: It stopped being nothing the second you let him take off your bra.

She ignored it.

She didn't leave. Didn't pull away when Chad rolled onto his side, looking at her with that same easy, familiar smile.

And when he said something—low, teasing—she answered.

She talked to him.

Laid there, stayed there, and let the minutes slip past.

It shouldn't have happened again.

Tara knew that.

She knew it the second she left the bedroom, clothes rumpled, skin still warm, the air of the party pressing in around her like a reminder—like a weight. She knew it when she went home that night, when she stepped into the quiet of her bedroom, when she curled beneath the covers and stared at the ceiling, waiting for the guilt to settle.

But it didn't.

Not really.

And that was the problem.

Because it should have crushed her. It should have eaten her alive, kept her awake, filled her with a twisting, ugly sickness that left her gasping. It should have sent her to the hospital the next morning, should have put her at your bedside with tears in her eyes, whispering apologies to the silence, to the beeping machines, to the part of you that might still be able to hear her.

But she didn't go.

She didn't cry.

She didn't feel enough of anything to stop herself when it happened again.

And again.

It was supposed to be nothing. But nothing wouldn't have made her text him the next day, wouldn't have made her go looking for him at another party, wouldn't have made her say yes when he asked if she wanted to go somewhere quieter.

She told herself it didn't matter.

Because what was she supposed to do? Tell you?

She couldn't tell you.

You wouldn't hear her.

You wouldn't look at her, wouldn't cry, wouldn't scream or push her away or force her to see what she was doing. You wouldn't do anything.

She couldn't allow you to do anything.

You weren't supposed to be able to hit her, to yell at her, to leave her.

And maybe that was why it was okay.

Maybe that was why this was okay.

Because Chad was safe.

Because Chad wasn't you.

Because when she was with him, there was no weight, no pressure, no fear that she might destroy something fragile and real.

So she saw him again.

Let herself fall into the easy rhythm of his company, let herself forget.

It was different now.

She wasn't just seeing him at parties, wasn't just stumbling into his space, wasn't just kissing him because she was drunk and the music was loud and she wanted something to drown everything else out.

Now, she knew she would see him.

Now, she didn't drink as much. She didn't need to.

Because when she found him, when she sat next to him, when his arm stretched along the back of the couch or his knee pressed against hers, she could pretend that this was what she chose.

Not what she fell into.

Not what happened because she didn't know how to stop it.

She wasn't supposed to want this.

She wasn't supposed to want him.

But when he texted, she answered.

When he called, she picked up.

And when he kissed her, she kissed him back.

Like now.

A week after the party.

Another week without you waking up.

Another week where nothing changed—where she walked into that hospital room, sat by your bed, held your hand, and whispered words that never reached you.

Another week where she left, where she didn't go straight home, where she let her feet take her somewhere else.

Somewhere she could breathe.

Somewhere she could forget.

And now—now, she was doing just that.

She was in his bed, her body moving with his, their breaths tangled in the stillness of the room, the only sound the quiet creak of the mattress beneath them. His hands were on her skin, sliding over her waist, up her ribs, gripping her hips as he thrust into her.

And she let him.

Let her head fall back against the pillows. Let her fingers grip his shoulders. Let herself feel everything but think about nothing.

Because it was easier.

Easier to sink into this.

Easier to chase pleasure, to gasp against his mouth, to moan when his lips dragged over her throat.

Easier than facing the weight of another empty day, another silent visit, another reminder that nothing was getting better.

That you weren't getting better.

So she moved with him.

Let him pull her closer.

Let herself let go.

Her release tore through her, a sharp, shuddering thing that left her gasping, her body tensing before melting back into the bed. A loud moan escaped her lips, her head tipping back against the pillows, her limbs weak and shaking.

Chad followed soon after, groaning as he buried his face against her shoulder, his grip on her hips tightening for a moment before finally slackening.

And then it was over.

He rolled off her, collapsing onto his back, both of them a mess of sweat and heavy breaths. Tara stared up at the ceiling, her skin still tingling, her body still pulsing from the aftershocks.

She'd lost count of how many times it had happened tonight. Twice, maybe three times. It didn't really matter.

What mattered was that she still didn't feel better.

Chad turned his head, looking at her with a lazy, satisfied grin. She didn't look at him. She kept her gaze fixed on the ceiling, blinking up at the shadows cast by the dim light in the room.

"Getting better, aren't I?" he said, his voice low, teasing.

Tara let out a short, fake chuckle.

It wasn't funny.

He wasn't getting better.

You weren't getting better.

She wasn't getting better.

Nothing was getting better.

But then.

The sound of her phone buzzing cut through the quiet, sharp and insistent.

Tara barely thought before reaching for it, her hand fumbling along the bedside table until her fingers wrapped around the device. The screen lit up in the dim room, notifications flooding her vision—

A text from Sam, the words

ANSWER ME!!!

standing out in harsh, capitalized letters, punctuated with exclamation marks.

Her brows pulled together as she swiped down, revealing more—three missed calls from Sam. And below that, another string of missed calls, this time from a number she recognized instantly.

The hospital.

Four times. No—five.

Her stomach twisted.

She had their number memorized by now, burned into her brain after calling it over and over in the past, desperate for updates.

Still, her first thought wasn't that. It wasn't you.

It was that the hospital had been calling to check in again. Maybe to ask when she was coming back. It had been a while since she last went, and she knew how the nurses had gotten when she stayed away too long.

Beside her, Chad shifted, voice thick with exhaustion as he mumbled something—"What's wrong?”

Tara didn't answer.

Her fingers moved on instinct, tapping Sam's name, pressing the phone to her ear.

It rang once.

Twice.

Then—Sam picked up.

The line barely had time to connect before Sam's voice hit her, urgent and breathless—"Have you heard?"

Tara froze.

She couldn't tell what emotion was laced in Sam's voice. It was everything at once—shaken, unsteady. So she assumed the worst.

Her chest tightened.

The hospital. The missed calls. Sam's voice like that—fuck.

Her mind spiraled, flashing through every possibility, every horror.

You were dead.

That's what she thought.

That the shell you had become had finally broken. That your body had given up, collapsed in on itself, unable to keep going without you inside of it.

She could already feel her throat closing up, her vision growing blurry. Her lips parted—

"No," she said, barely a whisper. "What?"

Sam hesitated.

The world felt like it had stopped turning, the air thick and unmoving.

Then—Sam's voice, breaking through the static.

"She's awake."

Silence.

Tara's heart dropped.

The next words came softer, lighter, like a breath of relief—

"Y/N woke up."

[halfmoonaria]

y’all bombard my inbox with messages what you think happened that made tara fire reader!!

[halfmoonaria]

her words, not mine

pairing: top!tara carpenter & sub!female reader

summary: you and tara kept things simple, no complications—until she made one.

warnings: smut (18+) fingering (r receiving), secret relationship, office sex.

author’s note: i haven’t proofread this one so..

Tara liked control.

She always had. Even as a child, she found comfort in order. It wasn't just about neatness or routine—it was about knowing.

Knowing that things were in their right place, that nothing unexpected would throw her off balance. Her toys had to be arranged a certain way. If someone moved them, she'd notice instantly. Her bookshelves had gone through endless reorganizations—not because she couldn't decide on a system, but because she needed to find the best one.

Genre made sense, but what if she wanted all her favorite books together? What if she needed to sort them by spine height so they looked even? What if, what if, what if?

She liked puzzles. Not because she enjoyed the picture at the end, but because she liked solving something that had a clear answer. She liked math for the same reason. Two plus two would always be four, no matter what. There was no uncertainty. No surprises. Just rules that made sense, that she could rely on.

She learned early that people weren't like that.

At school, group projects were a nightmare. The moment the teacher assigned one, Tara's jaw would clench, already anticipating the frustration. No one ever did what they were supposed to. No one ever cared as much as she did. So she took over. Not because she wanted to, but because if she didn't, things would fall apart.

People didn't appreciate that.

They called her bossy. Controlling. Too serious.

But what was wrong with wanting things done right? What was wrong with making sure things were finished on time instead of hoping someone else would magically pull through at the last second?

She stopped caring what people thought of her.

By the time she was a teenager, she had already accepted that if she wanted something done properly, she had to do it herself. And that suited her just fine. She didn't need anyone else. She had her plans, and she followed through on them, no matter what.

Tara never half-assed anything. If she committed to something, she owned it.

It was how she got through college at the top of her class. While other students partied, Tara studied. While others procrastinated, she finished assignments weeks in advance. Not because she was a genius, but because she refused to let herself fail. She didn't do 'good enough.' She did more.

And when it came time to enter the workforce, she carried that same mindset with her.

The first job she landed was nothing special. Just a stepping stone. She knew that the moment she walked in. But while others treated it like just another paycheck, Tara treated it like an opportunity. She learned fast, adapted even faster. She memorized company policies inside and out. She figured out what made people listen, what made them respect her.

She wasn't the boss. Not yet. But she knew she would be.

So she worked. And worked.

Late nights, early mornings, weekends sacrificed in the name of something bigger. It wasn't enough to be good at her job—she had to be the best. She studied the people above her, watched how they operated, learned from their mistakes. She climbed the ladder so quickly it made people's heads spin.

By the time she got to the top, no one could say she didn't deserve it.

Now, she was the one in charge. The one who gave orders instead of taking them.

Her office ran exactly the way she wanted it to—strict, efficient, with no room for distractions.

Or at least, that's how it was supposed to be.

But then there was you.

Tara didn't notice you at first. Not in the way she would later. You were just another name on a new hire list, another employee she expected to follow orders and do their job. You weren't the first person to work under her, and you wouldn't be the last.

But you were different.

She saw it almost immediately. While others hesitated around her, unsure whether to tiptoe or challenge her authority, you never wavered. You didn't shrink under her sharp tone or the weight of her expectations. You never sighed when she gave you extra work, never rolled your eyes when you thought she wasn't looking.

The others tried to hide their exasperation, their thinly veiled frustration whenever she demanded precision. It was in the subtle way they hesitated before saying yes, ma'am, in the tight-lipped expressions they wore when she sent them back to redo a report that wasn't up to her standards. They obeyed, but with reluctance. Even the best among them still carried that underlying sense of just let it go, it's not that serious.

But not you.

You followed every instruction to the letter, not just meeting her standards but exceeding them. If she asked for paperwork, it was on her desk before she even had to remind you. If she wanted reports sorted in a specific way, you did it without question. Not once did she have to send something back because it wasn't done right.

You did everything her way. Everything she wanted.

And you never complained.

At first, she told herself that was all it was—just appreciation for competence. Respect for someone who took their job as seriously as she did. But then she started to watch you.

She noticed things she had no business noticing.

The way your fingers tapped lightly against your desk when you were deep in concentration. The way you chewed on the end of your pen absentmindedly during meetings. The way you bit your lip when you read over a document, eyes narrowing just slightly as if you were committing every word to memory.

It was ridiculous. Inappropriate. Unprofessional.

And yet, sometimes—only sometimes—she would catch herself looking lower.

It wasn't intentional. At least, that's what she told herself. But her gaze would flicker downward, lingering for a second too long. It didn't matter that you never dressed revealingly. You could be wearing the most modest blouse imaginable, and still, her eyes would betray her. The way the fabric hugged you just enough, the way it shifted when you moved—it was infuriating how easily her mind wandered.

She scolded herself for it. She was better than this. Smarter than this.

You worked for her.

And yet, no matter how many times she told herself it was nothing, that it didn't mean anything, the thought was always there. Looking isn't doing anything wrong. Thinking isn't acting.

As long as she never did anything about it, there wasn't a problem.

Right?

...Right?

Tara told herself it would pass.

That it was just a phase—an overactive mind, too many late nights, nothing more.

But the longer it went on, the worse it got.

Because you made it hard.

She had control over everything. Everything. Her schedule. Her business. The way people spoke to her, the way they listened when she gave orders. Control was what she did. It was what she was.

And yet, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't control this.

Couldn't control the way her eyes lingered on you when you weren't looking. The way she caught herself anticipating your presence, your voice, the way you carried yourself so effortlessly through the office. Couldn't control the way her mind drifted at night, replaying insignificant moments as if they meant something.

But you—you were controlled.

You followed the rules. You knew how to navigate her world, how to move within the strict lines she had drawn. You did everything right. Everything she wanted.

And it infuriated her.

Because no matter how much power she held over you in that office—no matter how much control she had over everything else—she couldn't control what you were doing to her.

She tried to push it down. Buried it beneath long hours and stricter expectations, forced herself to focus on anything but the way her breath caught when you got too close.

It didn't work.

Because eventually, there was that night.

It was late. The office was empty, save for the low hum of the air conditioning and the faint glow of computer screens still in sleep mode. She hadn't planned to stay so late, but neither had you.

And she hadn't planned on letting her control slip.

But it did.

And once it happened the first time—once that line was crossed—there was no going back.

The headache had settled in hours ago, a dull ache at the base of Tara's skull that no amount of pinching at the bridge of her nose had managed to fix. The office had been silent by then—just the faint buzz of a light she had kept meaning to replace, the occasional creak of the building settling.

She should have gone home.

But the end of the day had always felt like a void, like the moment she stepped outside, she would have nothing but time—time to think, time to dwell, time to let her mind wander places it shouldn’t.

So she had stayed.

A few reports had still needed reviewing, a contract had been waiting for her signature—excuses, really, but enough to justify the extra hours. She had skimmed through the papers in front of her, rubbing at her forehead as she had tried to focus.

Then, a soft knock against the doorframe.

Tara had looked up sharply, her thoughts scattering like glass.

And there you had been.

You had smiled, the same polite, professional smile she had seen a hundred times before. The kind of smile you had always given her when you had stepped into her office with a file in hand or a question on your lips.

But that night, it had felt different.

Or maybe that had just been her.

Because it had been after hours. Because she had been tired. Because her body had been tense and restless in ways she hadn't been proud of, and now you had been standing there, looking at her like you always did, and for the first time, she had felt like she couldn't look away.

"Ms. Carpenter..." Your voice had been soft in the quiet space, hesitant but not nervous.

You had shifted slightly, holding up a folder with one hand. "I was finishing up the reports from the vendors, but there were a few inconsistencies in the invoices. I thought you might want to go over them before I send them back."

Tara had swallowed, her throat suddenly dry.

Of course. Work. That had been why you had still been there. Why you had approached her. Why you had spoken her name so softly it had sent a shiver down her spine.

She had nodded, forcing herself to look at the folder instead of at you. "Right. Leave them on my desk."

But you hadn't moved right away.

And Tara had realized, in that small pause, that this had been the moment where it all had started to go wrong.

You had nodded at her words and stepped forward, placing the folder neatly onto her desk before turning to leave.

And Tara had watched you go.

It had been instinct, at first. A passing glance that had lasted a second too long.

The way you had walked—unhurried, confident but not cocky. The way your skirt had hugged your hips just enough to make her grip tighten around her pen. She had never let herself stare before, but she had been exhausted, her thoughts already slipping past her usual restraint, and for a brief, fleeting moment, she had let herself want.

Just as quickly, she had forced herself to look away.

Of course she hadn't said anything. Of course she had stayed silent, eyes snapping back to the papers in front of her, pen dragging across the page as if that could erase the fact that, for one split second, she had almost wished you had stayed.

But the knowledge that you were still somewhere in the building—that it was just the two of you, alone in the dimly lit office—was enough to make her pulse thrum a little too fast.

She had tried to push it down. To ignore the sudden heat simmering beneath her skin, the restless energy that made it impossible to focus on the words she was supposed to be reading.

But her hands had felt unsteady.

Her grip on the pen had been too tight, her skin too warm, her breathing a little too uneven. She had even flexed her fingers, pressing her palms flat against the desk as if she could ground herself, but nothing had helped.

And it had been infuriating.

Because this wasn't what control felt like.

Control was certainty. Control was discipline. Control was her thing.

This? This had been something else entirely.

Tara had exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down her face before glancing at the clock. It was late. Too late.

She had decided then—before her thoughts could spiral any further—that it was best to go home. If she was feeling this off, this hot and restless, she was probably coming down with something. Maybe a fever. That would explain everything.

With that excuse firmly in place, she had snapped her laptop shut and started gathering the scattered papers on her desk.

And that had been the exact moment you had walked in again.

She had frozen, just for a split second, fingers still curled around a loose stack of documents, before forcing herself to relax.

The same soft smile. The same perfectly put-together demeanor. A thinner folder in your hands.

"Ma'am," you had said, voice smooth, effortless, sending something sharp and electric straight through her spine.

She had swallowed, gripping the papers a little tighter.

You had stepped closer, holding out the folder. "I finalized the edits on the quarterly report, but I wanted to double-check if you wanted me to send it to the board as is, or if you'd prefer another review first."

Tara had barely heard a word you had said.

She had tried to listen—to focus—but she had still been picking up the last of her things, still forcing herself to act normal, and that had already taken every ounce of willpower she had left.

You had glanced at her desk then, at the way she had been straightening up. Something in your expression had shifted, a flicker of hesitation before you had spoken again.

"Did you want me to close up?"

Your voice had been softer that time, more casual.

And it had been a simple question. A normal one. But for some reason, the sound of it had made something deep in Tara's stomach tighten painfully.

She had nodded, too quickly. "Yeah, that would be great."

Her voice had been neutral. Measured. Like she had barely been paying attention.

But she had been paying attention.

Too much.

Because she had still been pretending to organize the papers in front of her, still trying to do something so she wouldn't have to think about the fact that her whole body had felt wound too tight.

And then you had said it again.

"Yes, ma'am."

And that had been the last drop.

Tara had never let herself indulge. Never let herself do more than look—and even that had been rare, controlled, brief.

But suddenly, none of that had felt like enough.

Suddenly, control hadn't mattered at all.

Tara hadn't planned it.

She hadn't thought about it—not really, not in a way that acknowledged what she was actually doing.

She had just moved.

One second, she had been standing there, still gripping the edges of her desk like it could somehow ground her, still trying to will away the heat in her chest, the tightness in her stomach. And then, suddenly, her hands had been on you, her lips pressing hard against yours.

It hadn't been careful. It hadn't been slow or thoughtful or rational—it had been instant. A desperate attempt to make it all stop.

Because if she kissed you, maybe the thoughts would go away.

If she kissed you, maybe the tightness in her chest would finally ease, maybe the heat in her stomach would stop twisting itself into unbearable knots, maybe she could get her control back.

And for one agonizing second, as she had felt your breath hitch against her lips, she had been terrified that she had ruined everything.

That you would push her away. That you would look at her like she had crossed a line. That you would pull back, storm out, and cost her everything—her reputation, her position, everything she had worked for.

But then you had leaned in.

Not quickly, not in a way that screamed urgency or recklessness.

You had just looked at her—wide-eyed, surprised, the soft glow of the office lights making your lips look even more kissable than they already were.

And then you had kissed her back.

Tara had barely registered the sound of a sharp inhale, barely processed the way her pulse had thundered so hard it almost hurt, because suddenly, her back was hitting the desk, and her legs were wrapping around your waist like she needed you closer.

She had needed you closer.

Everything had been fast—desperate.

The sound of her desk chair scraping back, the crash of a stapler and loose papers hitting the floor as she grabbed at you, pulled at you, let herself want.

She had never been this desperate before.

But she had clung to you like she needed you to breathe, grinding up against your hips with reckless urgency, tilting her head to deepen the kiss, lips parting against yours as her fingers tangled in your hair.

She had felt electric.

Like her whole body was on fire, like every part of her was wired too tight, coiled up with months of restraint she hadn't even realized she had been holding.

And then your hands had slid down.

Slow. Intentional.

You had pushed up her skirt, fingers grazing along the inside of her thigh.

Tara had gasped—actually gasped—her nails digging into your shoulders, her body arching up into your touch, her mind blanking completely when your fingers pressed against her.

She had never let go like this before.

But with you, she hadn't wanted to hold back.

She remembered everything.

Every sound. Every touch. Every second she had let go.

She remembered the way her legs had trembled when your fingers pushed inside her, how she had gripped at your shoulders, nails digging in like she needed something to anchor herself, to keep herself from completely falling apart.

She remembered how wet she had been, how embarrassing it should have been, how it only made you move faster, made your touch rougher, made her hips chase the pressure.

She remembered the way she had moaned—loud, desperate, shameless. How she hadn't even thought about keeping it down, about the fact that anyone could have still been in the building, about anything except the way your fingers curled just right inside her.

She remembered your mouth.

How it had found the skin of her neck, her jaw, the shell of her ear. How you had sucked at her pulse, kissed down her throat, whispered things against her skin that made her throb.

She remembered the burn of her desk against her back, the way her blouse had ridden up as she squirmed against the wood, the way her thighs had ached from being spread so wide around your hips.

She remembered how her own voice had sounded—breathless, high-pitched, needy.

She had never sounded like that before.

She had never let herself sound like that before.

But she had wanted it. She had needed it.

And when she came—legs shaking, mouth open in a silent cry, forehead pressing into your shoulder—she had realized something that terrified her.

For the first time in her life, she had lost control.

And it had felt so fucking good.

After, there had been silence.

No awkwardness, no words, no need to fill the space with anything but the sound of hurried breaths and rustling clothes. Tara had smoothed down her skirt, fixed the buttons on her blouse with slightly unsteady hands, and watched as you did the same. Neither of you spoke about what had just happened.

And maybe that was for the best.

When you left the office, you didn't look at her any differently. You didn't linger in the doorway, didn't hesitate, didn't ask what it meant. You just said Goodnight, Ms. Carpenter—like you always did—and walked away.

Tara didn't say anything back. She had just sat there, perched on the edge of her desk, feeling HOT all over, feeling something that wasn't quite regret but wasn't satisfaction either.

That night, she couldn't sleep.

She had tried. She had needed to, but every time she closed her eyes, all she could see was the way your lips had parted against hers, the way your body had pressed against her own, the way you had taken without hesitation, without letting her control a single moment of it.

And that was what stuck with her the most.

She had never let that happen before. She had never let anyone else dictate HER. Not at work, not in life, and definitely not in bed.

But she had.

And the worst part—the best part—was that she had liked it.

She wanted it again. She knew that much.

But if it happened again, it had to be her way. Her rules. Her control.

Because this wasn't who she was. She wasn't reckless, she wasn't impulsive, and she wasn't someone who let her own employee bend her over a desk without thinking.

If she was going to do this again, it would be different. It had to be.

And it happened again.

It shouldn't have. Tara had told herself that. She had laid in bed the night after that first time, forcing herself to believe it had been a mistake—one she wouldn't repeat, one she couldn’t repeat.

But then, not even a full day later, she had found herself alone with you again. And just like before, she hadn't thought. She hadn't stopped herself.

It kept happening after that.

At first, there had still been some semblance of restraint. A tension she tried to hold onto, an unspoken boundary she convinced herself still existed. But then it became a routine.

She didn't call you into her office for work anymore.

There were no excuses, no flimsy justifications—just a glance, just a moment, just a shift in the air between you that made it clear what you were both there for.

It happened almost every day.

And if a day was missed? It was made up for the next.

Tara hadn't expected it to get that far. She had thought maybe it would be like some passing phase, some moment of insanity that would fade with time.

But it hadn't.

And what made it worse—what made it better—was that it didn't just happen after hours anymore.

It happened during the day. During work.

Behind a locked office door, when the sun was still high and the sounds of the office still filled the space beyond the walls, you would take everything she gave you. Let her be the one in charge. Let her have the control.

And maybe that was why she let herself keep going. Because even though this was the one thing she shouldn’t be doing, at least in this, she still had control.

Most of the time.

Because there were still moments—rare ones, fleeting ones—where you took it back. Where you reminded her of that first time, of what it had felt like to be completely at someone else's mercy. And when that happened, she told herself she hated it.

But that was a lie.

It always started the same way.

A glance. A shift in the air. A moment where the tension between you sharpened, like a wire pulled too tight, waiting to snap. And then it did.

Tara would push you up against the door, lips crashing into yours before the lock had even clicked into place. She was always desperate in those first moments, always acting like she had spent the entire day trying not to think about this—about you.

Her hands would be on you immediately, slipping under your blazer, shoving it from your shoulders. Your blouse was next. She had learned how to work the buttons quickly, how to get you bare in seconds. She never wasted time.

Her mouth would trail down your neck, your collarbone, as she backed you toward the desk. She had done it enough times to know the perfect angle to sit you on the edge, to stand between your legs, to push your skirt up just enough to let her fingers tease along the inside of your thigh.

She liked teasing at first, watching you shift against the desk, watching your body react before she even really touched you. But she never made you wait long.

Because she couldn't.

Because the second she slipped her fingers inside, she always realized just how wet you already were. For her. From nothing but the anticipation. And that drove her insane.

Tara knew exactly what you liked by now. She knew the pace, the rhythm, the angle that made your body tighten, that made your fingers grip the edge of the desk like you'd fall apart otherwise. She knew when to slow down, when to speed up, when to press her thumb against your clit just right. She knew how to get you to say her name exactly the way she liked it.

But it was never enough.

Not for her.

Because by the time she felt you clenching around her fingers, by the time she felt you coming undone, her own body was aching for more.

And you always gave it to her.

She barely had time to catch her breath before you were tugging her blazer off, pulling at the buttons of her blouse, pushing it off her shoulders. Your hands always moved differently than hers—slower, more deliberate, making her feel seen in a way that made her shiver.

When you pushed her onto the desk, when you kissed your way down her stomach, she never stopped you.

She couldn't.

Because by then, she was gone. The moment your mouth was on her, the second she felt your tongue against her, she lost everything else—her control, her thoughts, her pride.

All that was left was this.

Your mouth, your tongue, your fingers pressing into her hips, holding her there as she gasped and writhed and tried so fucking hard to keep quiet even though she never fully could.

And it was in those moments—when you were on your knees between her legs, when she was unraveling, moaning, shuddering—that she knew the truth.

She could tell herself whatever she wanted. That she had the control. That this was just another thing she handled the way she handled everything else.

But it was a lie.

Because the truth was, when you had her like this—when you had her completely—you could do whatever you wanted to her.

And she'd let you.

Only until she decided she was done letting.

Because no matter how good it felt to give in to you, to let herself forget, to let herself be taken—Tara never forgot for too long who was really in charge.

Like now when she had you right where she wanted you.

You were on her desk, legs spread around her hips, your back arched slightly from the cool surface beneath you. The usual casualties of your encounters—a few scattered papers, a pen rolling off the edge, the ever-present risk of knocking over her coffee—were long forgotten. The only thing that mattered was the way Tara was inside you, her fingers buried deep, her palm pressing against your clit with every slow, deliberate thrust.

She watched you, dark eyes fixed on the way your body moved against her hand, on the way you clenched around her fingers with every roll of your hips. It wasn't enough for her to just have you like this. She needed to see what she was doing to you. To feel it in the way your breath hitched, in the way your fingers dug into the edge of the desk like you needed something—anything—to hold onto.

You were grinding down against her hand, chasing the friction she was only half-giving you, and that alone made her smirk. It was always like this. Always you getting so desperate for more, even when she was the one giving it to you.

Her free hand skimmed up your thigh, fingers pressing into the soft flesh before sliding higher. She tugged at your blouse, pushing it further up your stomach, exposing more of you to her. Not that she needed to—she had already seen you like this more times than she could count—but she liked it. Liked having you spread out for her, flushed and desperate and completely at her mercy.

Her pace didn't change, even though she knew you wanted her to move faster, to push you over the edge. But that wasn't how this worked.

Not with her.

It had started the way it always did. With Tara deciding she wanted you and making sure she got you.

She had been restless the night before, shifting beneath her sheets, unable to sleep because every time she closed her eyes, all she could see was you. The way you looked when you dropped to your knees for her. The way your lips parted when she pushed her fingers deep inside you. The way you whimpered her name when you were close—breathless, desperate, completely hers.

By the time morning came, she knew she wouldn't be able to make it through the day without doing something about it.

So she did.

She had barely been in the office an hour before she made sure you'd end up exactly where she wanted you. She didn't call you herself—she never did. That would've been too obvious. Instead, she had one of her employees, someone whose name she barely remembered, find you and let you know that she needed to see you in her office.

It was routine. Expected. If Tara Carpenter called someone to her office, it was for a reason, and when she was finished, they'd leave.

No one ever suspected that when you went in, you didn't come back out right away.

That by the time you did, your blouse was just a little more wrinkled, your legs just a little shakier, your lipstick just a little smudged.

Now, Tara had you exactly where she wanted you.

You were gasping beneath her, moaning into her mouth, your forehead pressed to hers as her fingers fucked you, deep and slow, the way she knew drove you crazy. Your breaths mingled—hot, shaky, desperate. She could feel the tension in your body, the way your thighs clenched around her, the way you needed her to move faster, to give you more.

And fuck, she loved this.

Loved the way you looked right now—eyes hazy, lips parted, skin flushed. Loved the way you sounded—soft moans mixing with shaky breaths, filling the space between you.

Loved knowing she had done this to you. That she could have you like this whenever she wanted.

Your hand fumbled for her tie, fingers curling around the silky fabric she had chosen that morning—the one she only wore on certain days, for reasons only she knew.

It was loose around her neck, slightly loosened from the heat between you, but not enough to ruin the sharp, put-together look that drove you crazy. You wrapped the material around your fingers and tugged, not hard enough to choke her, just enough to make her feel it—to pull her closer, to make her fingers push deeper inside you, dragging a desperate whimper from your lips.

Tara exhaled through her nose, slow and heavy, her lips parting just slightly as your mouths hovered against each other. Your breath tangled together, hot and uneven, your gasps mixing in the small space between you.

You felt burning—all over, inside and out. Every brush of her fingers, every shift of her wrist, every slow, torturous drag of her touch sent another wave of pleasure coursing through you, tightening in your stomach, making your thighs tremble around her hips.

Your lips barely moved against hers when you whispered, "I love when you wear a tie."

Tara let out a slow, shuddering breath, like she was feeling your words as much as she was hearing them.

And fuck, she was.

Because the second you said it, she felt it—low in her stomach, pulsing between her legs, sinking into her chest like an intoxicating warmth that she never quite knew how to handle. Your voice, the way you said it, the way you looked at her as you did—it sent a fresh spark of heat through her veins, made her fingers curl inside you on instinct.

You gasped at the sensation, a choked sound escaping your lips as your thighs tensed around her waist.

Tara smirked, just a little, her confidence spiking at the reaction she pulled from you. "Oh yeah?"

Her voice was lower now, thick with satisfaction, teasing but dark—like she already knew the answer. Like she just wanted to hear you say it, wanted to watch the way your face twisted with pleasure when you admitted it.

Your stomach tightened, and you pressed down against her hand, chasing the pressure, the friction, the pleasure.

Her fingers curled deeper.

Your breath caught.

"Yes, ma'am."

Tara sucked in a sharp breath through her teeth, her entire body reacting.

Her fingers stilled inside you for half a second, but only because she felt it—really felt it. Like the words sent a jolt of electricity through her veins, like they cracked something open inside her.

Her stomach clenched. Her thighs pressed together involuntarily. A deep, primal kind of satisfaction settled low in her gut, making her pulse throb in the worst, most intoxicating way.

You saw it happen. You felt it happen. The way her muscles tensed, the way her throat bobbed with a quiet swallow, the way her eyes darkened—heat flickering in them like a barely restrained fire.

And then she exhaled, slow and heavy, before letting out a quiet, dangerous laugh.

Her smirk returned—wider, more dangerous, dripping with the kind of power she knew she had over you.

Her fingers moved again.

And this time, she was ruthless.

Tara's eyes roamed over you, taking in every detail—every messy, undone, wrecked part of you.

Your hair, which had started the day in a neat ponytail, was loose and disheveled now, strands falling around your face and sticking slightly to your skin from the heat between you. It framed your features perfectly, making you look even more ruined, even more gone under her touch.

Your shirt—crisp and professional when you arrived—was a mess. The top buttons had been carelessly undone, either by you in desperation or by her when she pulled at the fabric to get her mouth on your neck earlier. The soft lace of your bra peeked through the open collar, teasing her, taunting her. And fuck, if she wasn't already losing her mind, that definitely would have done it.

She dragged her eyes back up to your face, breathing heavily, watching the way your lips parted, the way your lashes fluttered, the way your forehead pressed against hers like you needed the contact to stay grounded.

And fuck, she wanted to ruin you even more.

Her fingers moved again, curling deeper, pressing harder—just to see the way your body jerked in response, just to hear the way your breath hitched in your throat.

But then—

A sharp knock at the door.

The handle rattled.

You both froze.

A voice—muffled through the wood but clear enough to snap you both back to reality.

"Ms. Carpenter?"

Your stomach dropped.

Tara's body tensed between your legs, her fingers still buried deep inside you. Your breath hitched in your throat, your entire body humming with the worst kind of anticipation—stuck somewhere between panic and overwhelming need.

Tara didn't move. Didn't pull away. Didn't stop.

She turned her head slightly toward the door, her expression unreadable, her breathing slow and controlled. And then—very deliberately—her fingers curled again.

You gasped.

Tara smirked, her fingers still moving inside you, slow but deliberate, as she turned her head slightly toward the door. Of course she knew who it was. She always knew.

"Yes, Derek?" she called, her voice perfectly even, professional—like she wasn't currently fucking you on her desk.

And then—

She pressed deeper, her fingers curling inside you, her palm pressing firmly against you as she quickened her pace. The sharp, overwhelming pleasure sent a jolt through your body, making your legs tighten around her waist, your breath stuttering.

The moan slipped out before you could stop it—loud, desperate.

Tara reacted instantly.

Her hand clamped over your mouth, the warmth of her palm pressing firmly against your lips, muffling the sound. Her grip was just tight enough to be controlling, just enough to make it clear—you had to stay quiet. Her dark eyes locked onto yours, a silent command flashing in them. Behave.

On the other side of the door, Derek kept talking, oblivious.

"I just sent over the reports you requested, Ms. Carpenter. I wanted to go over the projections for next quarter—"

Tara's fingers dragged inside you, slow and deep, pressing against the spot that made you tremble. Your whole body clenched around her, your hands gripping at her arms, nails digging into the fabric of her blazer. Your muffled whimper barely escaped against her hand.

She leaned in, her breath hot against your ear. Her voice was impossibly soft, teasing.

"Be quiet."

Your thighs twitched against her hips, your entire body working against you, betraying how desperate you were for more.

Derek continued, still unaware. "There were a few discrepancies I thought you should look at before we move forward with—"

Tara's fingers curled, pressing deeper, her wrist flexing as she fucked into you with slow, devastating precision.

Your entire body shook. Your head tipped back slightly, your lashes fluttering, your breath coming out in sharp, stifled gasps against her palm.

Tara's smirk deepened, her lips ghosting over the corner of your mouth. She felt every little movement, every twitch, every uncontrollable reaction you had to her.

"And?" she prompted smoothly, as if she weren't currently ruining you.

Derek hesitated on the other side of the door, then cleared his throat. "Uh—actually, may I come in and show you?"

Tara exhaled a soft, knowing laugh, like she found the idea ridiculous. Because it was.

She didn't stop. She didn't slow down. If anything, she only pushed harder, deeper—testing you, taunting you.

"I'm currently speaking with Ms. L/N," she said, her voice steady, unshaken, the perfect contrast to how wrecked you were against her.

She knew what she was doing to you. She knew how close you were. And she knew you couldn't do a thing about it.

Her fingers curled again, sharper this time, hitting just right, and your entire body shuddered. Your nails dug into her arms, your hips jerking forward, desperate for more.

Tara pressed her forehead to yours, her eyes locked on yours, watching you come undone in her hands.

Her smirk widened.

"I'll be ready in just a second."

Her voice was steady—controlled, composed—but you could feel the way her breath hitched against your lips, the way her fingers pushed just a little deeper, chasing something she wasn't even sure of.

And then, just as you hit that peak, just as your body clenched around her fingers, she pulled them out.

Not slow. Not gentle. A calculated retreat, leaving you trembling, gasping, still teetering on the edge.

She brought her fingers to her lips, holding your gaze as she sucked them clean, and something about the way she did it—just a little slower than usual, just a little less smug—made your stomach twist.

Then it was gone.

She smirked as she straightened your skirt, smoothing it down over your thighs like she hadn't just had her fingers buried inside you. Like you weren't still sitting there, trying to catch your breath.

"Fix your shirt," she murmured, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

It was normal. The same teasing aftercare she always gave.

And yet.

There was something in the way she stepped back too quickly. The way she turned away before you could see her face. The way she ran a hand through her hair like she was trying to shake something off.

It wasn't obvious.

But it was enough.

And later, when everything changed, you'd realize that maybe it had started here.

___

Tara had been acting weird.

At first, it wasn't anything obvious. Nothing anyone else would notice. But you did.

Because she hadn't called you into her office.

Not once.

Days passed. The longest you'd ever gone without her pulling you aside, without the press of her lips against your skin, without her hands gripping your waist, pulling you close, taking what she wanted. The silence stretched between you, thick and unspoken, but you felt it every time you glanced toward her office door and saw it closed. Locked away. Off-limits.

Still, everything else seemed normal. Or at least, it should have.

Tara walked the halls like she always did, head held high, voice sharp and sure when she spoke. In meetings, she still nodded at your input, still approved your reports with the same efficient flick of her pen. But the moments in between—where her gaze should have lingered, where her fingers should have trailed along your wrist as she passed by—were gone.

It didn't make sense.

You saw her in the break room, standing by the coffee machine like usual, but she didn't acknowledge you beyond a brief glance. Not a smirk. Not a word.

In the hall, you brushed past her, felt the heat of her presence right there, but she didn't stop you. Didn't pull you aside. Didn't so much as glance over her shoulder.

And yet, sometimes, when she thought you weren't looking—you swore she was watching.

But it wasn't the same.

Because before, when her gaze had lingered, it was heavy with intent. With want. Now, when your eyes met, something unreadable flickered across her face before she quickly looked away.

Something wasn't right.

Something had changed.

And it wasn't like you could just ask her.

That wasn't how it worked.

You didn't get to knock on her office door and ask if you could come in. Didn't get to slip her a note or send an email saying, Why don't you fuck me on your desk anymore?

That wasn't your place.

That wasn't the deal.

Tara called the shots—literally. She decided when, where, if. And for weeks, that had been fine. More than fine. She wanted, she took, and you let her, because it worked. Because she always wanted. Because there was never a reason to question it.

Until now.

Now, the days dragged on in silence, and you didn't understand.

How do you go from every day—every single day—to nothing?

At first, you told yourself she was busy. Of course she was. She was the boss. She had a company to run, responsibilities, meetings, deadlines. She couldn't always make time for you. That was reasonable. That made sense.

But then—shouldn't she have at least acknowledged it?

Even if she couldn't pull you into her office, couldn't press you against the door, couldn't have you falling apart beneath her hands—shouldn't there have been something? A glance, a smirk, a comment under her breath when no one else was around?

Anything?

But there was nothing.

Just silence.

And it didn't make sense.

Tara had stopped calling you in.

That much had been obvious from the start.

That was the first thing you noticed—the first thing that made no sense.

It happened so suddenly that, at first, you didn't even realize it. Maybe it was because you were busy with your own work, caught up in the never-ending tasks that came with the job. Or maybe, deep down, you just hadn't wanted to notice.

But the absence of it became impossible to ignore.

Days passed. Then a full week. Then another.

And still, nothing.

No glance in your direction when you walked by her office. No subtle nod, no small, barely-there smirk that told you to close the door behind you. No teasing remarks under her breath as you followed her inside. No whispered orders. No lingering looks.

You had told yourself it was fine.

Tara was the boss. She had responsibilities. She wasn't exactly available every second of the day, and it wasn't like the two of you had some set schedule—this was never something you had planned in advance. It had always been unpredictable, sporadic. Sometimes you'd see her multiple times in a week. Sometimes you'd go days without so much as a touch.

That was normal.

That was how it worked.

But this...this was different.

Because it wasn't just that she didn't have the time.

It was like she had chosen not to.

And then, there were the other things.

The moments that should have been insignificant, the ones you would have ignored completely if they hadn't felt so off.

Like the way she suddenly couldn't look at you.

You noticed it one afternoon, passing by her office at the exact time she would normally call you in. It was almost muscle memory at this point—the way your body tensed slightly, the way your pace slowed just enough to see if she would give you a look, if she would signal for you to step inside.

But she didn't.

Instead, she kept her eyes locked onto her computer screen, her fingers tapping against the desk in an anxious rhythm.

And it wasn't just that she didn't see you.

It was that she wouldn’t.

She had seen you from the corner of her eye—there was no way she hadn't. But instead of even acknowledging you, her shoulders went stiff, her expression blank, like she was forcing herself to focus on anything else.

You almost stopped walking.

Almost said something.

But what the fuck were you supposed to say?

And then, a few days later, you tested it.

You had found a reason—something small, something professional, something completely work-related. It wasn't an excuse, not really. You had needed the information. She had to answer.

So, you had gone up to her desk, waited for her to glance up at you, and asked.

And she had answered.

But only in the shortest way possible, her voice clipped, her tone completely detached, like she had no interest in having the conversation at all. She gave you just enough to satisfy your question, nothing more, then immediately turned back to her computer as if you weren't even there.

There was nothing playful in it. No teasing, no lingering glances, no flicker of amusement in her eyes. Just a sharp, calculated disinterest.

And then there was the break room.

Late at night. The office almost empty.

You had been standing by the coffee machine, half-expecting—no, half-hoping—for her to say something when she walked in.

A tease. A smirk.

Something.

But she didn't.

She didn't even acknowledge you.

She walked past you like you weren't even there, went straight for the cabinet, grabbed a mug, poured herself coffee, and left.

No glance in your direction. No hesitation. No reaction.

And you had just stood there, fingers wrapped too tightly around your cup, heart pounding in a way you didn't understand.

You had thought, for a while, that the worst part was the silence. How quickly she had slipped out of your reach—like all those nights, all those moments, had meant nothing at all. Like she had just...moved on, and you were the only one still stuck in place.

At first, you had tried to reason with it. Maybe this was just how things were now. Maybe it had always been inevitable. You weren't entitled to her attention, after all. You weren't owed anything.

But knowing that didn't make it any easier.

And lately, it had started to feel heavier—the quiet, the distance. Like you were walking on a fault line, waiting for it to crack beneath your feet.

But it never did.

Not yesterday. Not today.

Today had passed like all the others. You had come in, sat at your desk, gone through emails and reports, answered questions, filled out forms—played your part, just like always. But it wasn't just another day, not to you. It had been a week now. A full week of nothing.

No call into her office. No lingering glances. No accidental touches.

You had still looked for it, though. Every time you heard footsteps, every time your phone buzzed, every time you passed by her door, you felt that flicker of something—hope, desperation, whatever it was—only for it to be ripped away just as fast.

And it wasn't just about the sex. It wasn't about the heat of her hands or the way she used to look at you like she needed you. It was the absence of it all. The absence of her.

The office had started to empty now, the low murmur of voices fading as people packed their things and headed home. Someone laughed a few desks over, lighthearted, easy. The scent of coffee had gone stale in the air. Phones still rang in the background, but fewer now. The usual hum of the place—the life of it—was winding down.

But you were still here. Still waiting.

And she still hadn't called for you.

Until she did.

It was just as you were reaching for your phone, pretending to check something that didn't matter, that you heard the soft click of a door closing down the hall. You barely had time to register it before footsteps approached—heels tapping against the tile with a steady, unhurried rhythm.

You glanced up just as the sound reached your desk, and there she was—Sophie, from marketing.

She was around your age, maybe a little older, with sharp, dark eyes and a practiced kind of friendliness that never felt too forced. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a sleek ponytail, her makeup was still intact despite the long day, and she carried herself with the kind of effortless confidence that made her good at her job.

She had just come from her office.

You knew it before she even said anything—before she stopped beside your desk, before she tucked her phone into the pocket of her blazer, before she shot you a look that was neither warm nor cold, just neutral. Indifferent.

Then, with no warning, no weight behind it, she said, "Ms. Carpenter wants to see you."

No glance in your direction. No hesitation. No reaction.

Your grip tightened around your pen.

For a second—just a second—it felt like the air had been sucked out of the room.

Your heartbeat, slow and dull all day, suddenly jumped in your chest, rattling against your ribs like it had been waiting for something. Waiting for this.

It was automatic, the way you straightened up. The way your breath caught. The way you felt yourself reacting before you could stop it.

Because finally.

Finally.

She wanted you.

It should have been obvious what this was. It should have been clear that this wasn't an invitation, that it wasn't some whispered promise of relief. But you had gone days without hearing her say your name, without feeling the weight of her attention, without even knowing where you stood.

And now, she was calling you in.

You weren't expecting an apology. You shouldn't have expected it to begin with.

But this—this was something.

You swallowed hard, nodding stiffly as you grabbed your notebook—an instinct, an excuse, something to hold—and stood. Sophie was already gone, her heels clicking away, already moving on with her day.

But you were stuck there for a moment, standing beside your desk, fingers pressing into the cover of your notebook, heart pounding so hard it almost made you dizzy.

This was it.

You had been waiting.

And now, she wanted you again.

You moved without thinking.

The path was familiar—down the hall, past the break room, past the framed awards and corporate slogans lining the walls. It was the same walk you had made so many times before, the same quiet stretch of polished floors and low conversation, the same flicker of overhead lights casting everything in that soft, sterile glow.

It felt like routine. Like muscle memory. Like something ingrained in you, something you had done over and over until it no longer required thought.

But today—today, something about it felt different.

Maybe it was the way your pulse hadn't settled, the way each step felt just a little too careful, like you were trying not to let yourself get ahead of anything. Or maybe it was the fact that, for once, you had no real idea what was waiting for you when you got there.

Not that it stopped you.

You reached the door too quickly, or maybe not quickly enough.

It was closed.

Of course, it was.

You hesitated only for a second—just long enough to take a slow breath, to steady the way your fingers twitched at your side—before lifting your hand and knocking, light but deliberate.

The response came almost immediately.

"Come in."

Her voice.

It sent something through you, something automatic and unshakable, something that made your stomach tighten in a way you shouldn’t have let it.

You exhaled, turned the handle, and stepped inside.

The door clicked shut behind you, and the first thing you noticed was that she wasn't standing.

She wasn't waiting for you. She wasn't already crossing the room, wasn't reaching for you, wasn't closing the space between you before you could even get your bearings.

She was sitting.

She was perched at her desk, one leg crossed over the other, pen in hand as she finished writing something in the notebook before her. There was a chair in front of her desk, positioned deliberately—waiting for you.

That was new.

Your gaze dragged over her, slow, searching—like you were trying to find something familiar, something that would make this feel normal again.

Her blazer was still on, though it looked slightly looser, like she had been tugging at the collar absentmindedly. Her hair was the same, dark and perfect, framing her face in a way that made her unreadable.

And then, finally, she looked up.

Her eyes met yours, and for a second, she just held your gaze, expression unreadable. Then, she offered a polite nod, her voice measured.

"Welcome."

Her tone sent something uneasy down your spine.

You barely had time to process it before she added, smoothly, "Ms. L/N, would you mind closing the door for a second?"

For a moment, you just stood there.

Closing the door wasn't unusual. It was something that had happened plenty of times before.

But not like this.

Not like this, where your fingers curled around the handle, where you turned and pushed it shut yourself. Normally, it wouldn't be you closing it at all. Normally, the weight of it against your back would come from her, from the way she would back you up against it, from the way she would kiss you like she needed to.

This—this didn't feel like that.

Nothing about this felt right.

You turned back to face her, but you could already tell.

There was something in the way she was sitting, something that made your stomach tighten. She wasn't relaxed. She wasn't leaning back in that easy way she sometimes did, wasn't watching you like she already knew what she wanted from you.

Instead, she looked... uneasy.

Her hand twitched slightly before she brought it up to adjust the sleeve of her blazer, fingers brushing over the fabric like the motion would somehow steady her. Her lips pressed together, and then, finally, she lifted a hand—gesturing to the chair in front of her.

"Would you please sit down?"

Polite. Too polite.

The words landed in your stomach like a stone.

You hesitated, but only for a second—then, with a quick nod, you muttered, Yes, ma'am, before lowering yourself onto the chair.

She was watching you.

Or, at least, she had been.

As soon as you met her gaze, she looked away—eyes dropping down to the desk, hands shifting against the surface like she wasn't quite sure what to do with them.

Something about it sent a sharp, uneasy feeling through you.

Tara Carpenter didn't fidget. She didn't look away.

And yet, here she was—sitting in front of you, fingers pressed against her desk, avoiding your eyes like she couldn’t meet them.

Something was wrong.

You sat there, watching her, trying to piece together what this was.

It couldn't be anything serious.

At least, that's what you told yourself.

Maybe it was just a minor issue with some paperwork you had sent in—something from last week, or maybe even three days ago. Maybe there had been an error somewhere, some formatting issue, something that had made its way up to her desk. It wouldn't be the first time. She might just be calling you in to correct it, to give you that sharp little look, to let you know in that dry, amused way of hers that she expected better.

Or maybe—maybe it was about this.

About you. About her.

Maybe she was going to say it had to stop.

Maybe she was going to tell you that she couldn't do this anymore, that she had been thinking about it for a while now and it was too risky, too complicated. Maybe she was going to sit there, all composed and professional, and tell you that this thing—this thing that had felt so effortless, so natural, so right—had to end.

Your throat felt tight.

But even that didn't explain the way she looked.

Tara Carpenter wasn't a nervous person.

You had seen her in meetings, handling high-stakes deals with nothing but a smirk and a raised brow. You had seen her walking the floor, speaking in that firm, confident tone that made people straighten up when she passed.

And beyond that—beyond the person she was in the office, beyond the way she commanded attention in a room—there was you.

You had seen her in ways no one else had.

You had seen her with her head thrown back, her lips parted, her hands fisting, You had seen her hair messy, tangled from fingers pulling through it. You had seen the smooth glide of her bra slipping from her shoulders, the slow reveal of bare skin beneath dim office lights.

You had seen her unravel.

So why, why, was she looking like this?

Like she was trying to hold herself together.

Like she was the vulnerable one.

Tara inhaled sharply.

She started to speak, then stopped—lips pressing together like the words weren't quite right.

Then, after another second, she tried again.

"It has been brought to my attention—"

But she cut herself off, exhaling through her nose, shaking her head slightly.

That wasn't it.

She tried again.

"I wanted to discuss—"

Another pause.

Her fingers tapped against the desk. She let out a short breath, dropped her gaze for a moment, then lifted it again.

You just sat there, waiting.

Feeling the weight of it, the heaviness in your chest growing stronger with every second she spent not saying it.

Tara let out a slow, unsteady breath.

You weren't sure you had ever seen her like this before.

She had always been so sure of herself—whether it was in the office or when she was pressing you against the door, her mouth on yours, her hands sliding beneath your clothes. There was never hesitation, never DOUBT. And yet now, sitting across from you at her desk, she looked...unsteady. Like she was losing her grip on something she had been trying so hard to hold onto.

She tried again.

She parted her lips, inhaled like she was about to speak, but no words came out.

Another pause. Another exhale, shakier this time.

You just sat there, silent, watching her.

Afraid to say anything. Afraid to move.

And then, finally, she spoke.

Her voice was measured, like she was trying too hard to keep it even.

"There have been—" She stopped, her jaw tightening. Then, after a beat, she continued, forcing the words out this time. "There have been concerns regarding—"

Another pause.

Her fingers twitched against the desk.

You could tell she was frustrated—frustrated with herself, frustrated with whatever this was, frustrated with how impossible it was for her to just say it.

And then she did.

Sort of.

She started talking—not stopping herself this time, not cutting herself off—but none of it made sense.

"I have to consider the overall professionalism of this workplace," she said, her hands fidgeting slightly, like she didn't know what to do with them. "And it has come to my attention that... certain dynamics could be viewed as compromising to that environment. As a leader, I have to ensure that all professional relationships remain, well, professional, and given the circumstances, it has been deemed necessary to take appropriate action in order to maintain the integrity of this organization and uphold the standards expected within a corporate setting."

The words kept coming, all strung together, tangled and stiff and unnatural.

Like she had put together a bunch of professional-sounding phrases and hoped they would add up to something real.

But they didn't.

Because none of it explained why she was looking at you like that.

Like she was barely keeping it together.

Like this wasn't just business to her.

But Tara kept going.

She kept talking, even as her voice wavered slightly, even as her fingers twitched against the surface of her desk, even as her eyes darted around the room, landing anywhere but on you.

"I've had to take into account the... potential risks of certain workplace interactions and the possible implications of, um... interpersonal relationships that could—" She cut herself off, her jaw tightening, like she was annoyed with herself. Then, a quick inhale, a forced recalibration, and she tried again. "There are expectations that need to be upheld, and I can't allow—" Another pause. Another shift in posture. "It's important to set clear boundaries in order to ensure that the workplace remains an environment of—"

She was stringing together words that, on their own, might've sounded reasonable.

But put together like this?

Like a desperate attempt to say something that justified this?

It was ridiculous.

Your brow furrowed slightly as you just stared at her, struggling to follow along, struggling to even comprehend what the hell she was getting at.

And she wouldn't look at you.

Her fingers tapped against the desk. Her posture was tense, rigid. Her eyes flicked toward the papers in front of her, then the window, then the floor—anywhere but at you.

And then, finally, she finished it.

Her voice was quiet but firm, like she had to force herself to say it.

"...Which is why I've decided that I'm going to let you go."

You blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Your brain stalled, like you had misheard her, like maybe she had just said it wrong, like maybe if she tried again it would make sense.

But she didn't.

She just sat there.

And all you could do was stare.

The second the words left her mouth, you saw it happen.

Something in her cracked.

Her expression wavered, that firm, professional look she had been trying so hard to maintain slipping away the moment she heard herself say it out loud. And for a second—just a second—her face was bare. No control, no composure. Just guilt.

It was in the way her fingers twitched against the desk, the way her throat bobbed as she swallowed, the way she tried to get that same firm expression back, but it was already too late.

It was already slipping.

And she knew it.

You didn't react right away.

The words hit you like a slow-moving train—impacting in pieces, each one slamming into you harder than the last.

Your breath came out unsteady, like your body didn't quite know what to do with this.

She had just—

No.

She didn't just say that.

She didn’t.

"What?"

The word spat from your mouth before you could stop it, sharp and incredulous, like your body rejected the very sound of it.

Tara flinched just slightly—so slight you might've missed it if you weren't looking so closely. But you were.

And you saw how her eyes immediately dropped to her hands, suddenly fascinated with her own fingers, as if you weren't sitting right in front of her, burning holes into her skull.

She didn't respond.

She didn't say a single word.

Your pulse slammed against your ribs, a roaring sound filling your ears as you sat there, waiting. Waiting for her to say something, anything, to fix whatever the fuck this was supposed to be.

But she didn't.

And the silence only made your anger grow, burning through your veins, pressing hot against your chest.

Your chair scraped back just slightly as you leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "Are you fucking kidding me right now?"

Still nothing.

She wouldn't even look at you.

She just kept staring down at her hands like she wanted to disappear into the desk, like she already regretted everything she had just said, everything she had done.

Your breath came out sharp, clipped. "So that's it?"

No reaction.

Nothing but the sound of the office clock ticking in the distance.

The bitterness came creeping up your throat before you could stop it, before you could even try to swallow it down.

"You called me in here just to sit there and ramble a bunch of shit that doesn't even make fucking sense—"

Your voice faltered, not because you doubted what you were saying, but because you didn’t doubt it.

You had been sitting here for minutes, minutes, trying to decipher whatever the hell she had been saying, and yet, none of it—not a single fucking thing—had led to this.

This wasn't a warning. This wasn't an adjustment.

This was you're fired.

This was get out.

And you didn't even get the decency of a real explanation.

Your voice came back stronger, rougher, laced with disbelief.

"—just to fucking fire me?"

You let the words hang there, hoping—daring—her to look at you again, to at least own what she was doing.

But she didn't.

She just sat there, barely moving, barely breathing, guilt written all over her face.

Her head hung low, her hands stiff on the desk, her shoulders tight with something that almost resembled shame.

She didn't have to look at you to know what she'd see. She heard the anger in your voice, felt it in the way the air shifted between you, thick with disbelief.

And for a second, she looked like she might say something—her lips parted slightly, like she was searching for the words, but then she hesitated.

Her mouth closed.

She figured it wouldn't do any good.

Your voice came next, clipped and sharp. "On what basis?"

Tara flinched at the formality, the sheer professionalism of your tone despite everything.

Unprofessionally enough, she still didn't answer.

She looked up at you briefly, just a fleeting glance—but regretted it immediately when she saw the way you were looking at her.

Like you knew.

Like you weren't fucking stupid.

Your voice cut through the silence.

"I didn't fuck you well enough, is that it?"

Tara's whole body went rigid.

Her breath caught in her throat, fingers twitching slightly against the desk, but she didn't move, didn't react, just sat there, stiff.

"Not hard enough?"

Her eyes flicked to the door as if she were checking—praying—that nobody was standing just outside.

But you weren't done.

"You chose somebody else to do my work instead?"

The meaning was clear.

Your tone was clear.

And Tara panicked.

Not outwardly, not obviously, but you saw the way her lips parted like she wanted to object, to say something, only for nothing to come out.

The way her hands clenched just slightly in her lap.

The way her throat bobbed as she swallowed hard, barely, almost shaking her head—but it was so light, so small, it wasn't even convincing.

Then why was it?

Why was she doing this?

Your patience snapped.

"Then what is it, Tara?"

Her name came out like venom, spat from your lips like an insult, like it wasn’t supposed to be spoken by you at all.

And she felt it.

She felt the way it burned coming from you.

She felt the way it stripped away every ounce of authority she had left.

And for the first time since she started this—since she said those words—Tara felt small.

Tara still didn't answer.

Instead, she took a slow breath, trying to steady herself, before straightening her posture like it would somehow make her seem more in control. But the way she held herself was stiff, unnatural—like she had to FORCE herself to sit upright, to look like she was handling this professionally when she so clearly wasn't.

Then, without meeting your eyes, she started shifting through the papers on her desk, her fingers slightly unsteady as they flipped through each one. It was like she was buying herself time, like if she just focused on the paperwork, she could pretend this wasn't happening.

"I understand this might come as a shock," she said finally, her voice careful, like she had to pick each word as she went. "And I know it's short notice. But I want you to know that I appreciate everything you've done for this company."

Your stomach twisted.

The way she was talking, like she was trying to soften the blow without actually explaining anything, only made you feel worse.

Tara didn't acknowledge the fact that she was skipping over the real issue. She kept her eyes down, finally finding the paper she had been searching for and sliding it across the desk toward you.

Then, after the briefest hesitation, she reached for a pen and set it carefully on top.

"I just need your signature on this."

Her voice was quiet, hesitant.

It was the first time she had said something direct in the entire conversation, but even then, it wasn't an answer. It wasn't an explanation.

It was just a demand.

It was real.

This was real.

You were being fired.

And she wasn't even going to tell you why.

Your fingers twitched slightly as they rested against your thigh, the weight of the realization crashing over you like a slow, suffocating tide. All you had gotten was a mess of words strung together, words that barely made sense next to each other but had been forced into sentences anyway, as if saying something—even if it was nothing—would make this feel more justified.

You let your gaze drop to the paper in front of you, your eyes skimming over the fine print, the legal jargon meant to make this look official. Termination of employment. Effective immediately. Company policy compliance. You could barely process any of it. The words blurred together, shifting in and out of focus, and you weren't sure if it was because you weren't trying HARD enough to read them or if it was because your eyes were beginning to sting.

Tara was actually doing this.

You were actually losing your job.

A dull, empty ache settled in your chest, something worse than anger. Something heavier. Because now that the initial shock was starting to wear off, now that the confusion and disbelief had settled into something more solid, you felt... sad. Not just because of what was happening but because of who was doing it.

It didn't make sense. It didn't feel real. But it was.

You could feel Tara watching you, her eyes fixed on you like she was waiting for some kind of reaction—maybe bracing herself for it. And when you finally forced yourself to look up, meeting her gaze, you could tell immediately that she felt it.

She looked guilty.

Gut-wrenchingly guilty.

For the first time since this conversation started, she didn't immediately look away. Maybe it was because she saw the water in your eyes. Maybe it was because she realized what she was actually doing. Maybe it was because, deep down, she regretted it.

Her lips parted slightly, but she didn't speak.

Her throat bobbed with a hard swallow.

And you didn't care anymore.

Clearly, she had made up her mind. Begging wasn't going to change anything.

So you clenched your jaw and spat, "Fine."

Tara's face shifted, something flickering behind her eyes—something almost soft, almost surprised. Like she had expected you to fight harder. Like she had wanted you to give her some kind of reason to stop this, to take it back.

But you didn't.

Instead, you reached for the pen, flipping it between your fingers once before pressing it to the paper, signing your name in sharp, deliberate strokes. You didn't bother reading any of it. You didn't care what it said. It didn't matter anymore.

The second you were done, you slid the paper back toward her side of the desk. Tara's eyes never left you, not for a single second, even as she reached for the document. She was gripping it too tightly, her fingers pressing into the paper like she was trying to keep them steady. She looked like she was trying not to cry.

She glanced down at your signature, lips parting like she wanted to say something else—something more. But instead, all she said was, "Thank you for your cooperation."

The words sounded hollow.

Your stomach twisted at how easily she said it.

A humorless laugh slipped past your lips, sharp with sarcasm as you leaned back in your chair, tilting your head slightly. "You're really good at this, huh?" you mused, voice laced with venom. "I'm guessing I'm not the first person to sit in this chair while you use words like compliance and company policy to make it sound like you actually know what you're doing."

Tara's expression faltered.

You could tell she knew you were lying, could tell she knew just as well as you did that she sucked at this.

But she didn't acknowledge it.

She straightened her posture, smoothing her hands over her desk before speaking again, voice carefully composed. "You'll be expected to vacate your position by the end of the day," she said, slipping right back into that stiff professionalism. "You'll have until tomorrow morning to collect any remaining personal belongings from your office space before your company access is revoked."

Her words meant to sound formal, meant to sound like she had control. But the slight shake in her voice, the way she hesitated before certain words, made it painfully obvious that she didn't.

You just stared at her.

And Tara swore she saw your eyes darken.

Then, suddenly, you stood, the legs of your chair scraping loudly against the floor as it nearly tipped over behind you.

Tara flinched slightly at the sudden movement, her fingers curling against her desk.

You met her gaze one last time, your expression unreadable.

And then, with a voice cold as steel, you spat, "Fuck you, Tara."

The words felt heavier than anything else you could have said.

And then you turned and walked out, leaving her sitting there, hands still gripping the desk, face still stuck in that tense, guilty expression—watching you go.

Tara didn't call after you.

She didn't try to stop you.

She just sat there, frozen in place, watching as you disappeared through the doorway like you had never been there to begin with.

The silence in the office was suffocating.

She let out a slow, shaky breath, fingers twitching as she reached for the document you had just signed. Your name stared back at her, bold and unforgiving, ink still fresh against the stark white paper. Her grip tightened around it, knuckles paling, and for a moment, she just stared.

You hadn't even looked at her before walking out. Hadn't hesitated. Hadn't faltered.

It was done.

And yet, as the echo of your footsteps faded down the hallway, leaving her completely, utterly alone—Tara had never felt less in control.

[halfmoonaria]

halloooo!! how r u?

do u have any plans to write something w astrid? !!!

i really love ur writing and im excited to see u write for her !! the lovely

have a good day !!

hii!! i’m doing well, hope you are too! and omg yes, i would love to write something for astrid!! the only thing is, i have no clue what to write yet, so i’d love for people to send in requests or ideas! if there’s anything specific you’d like to see, feel free to send it my way! thank you so much for your kind words, that means a lot!! hope you have a great day too!!

[halfmoonaria]

hello!

i really really really love your writing and your fic with tara carpenter, 'this christmas, without us' made me think about the song 'merry christmas, please don't call. - bleachers' and it honestly made me ugly cry.

if it's alright to request!

would it be okay if you made a sequel to that particular fic thats based on the song?- or if you have an idea really! if not, it's totally fine too! i just really love your writing and realized it fits too. (but if you do can you make the ending happy 🥹)

thank you so much again for writing! i love jenna ortega and i love you too!

hi!! first of all, thank you so much, this was so sweet to read :,) it really means a lot that you loved this christmas, without us and that it made you feel so much. seriously, that means everything to me.

as for a sequel, i don’t really have plans for one, but my friend @shdysders actually has an imagine based on merry christmas, please don’t call, and it’s incredible. she’s such a fantastic writer, and i really think you’d love it, so definitely check it out if you haven’t already!!

but yeah, thank you again for this message, it made my day. and i love you too <3