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itsnotyouithink · 2 days ago

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AFRAID

PAIRING: tara carpenter x fem!reader

SUMMARY: Tara Carpenter never asked to be assigned to the school’s most frustrating student-athlete: cocky, charming, and somehow worse at Film 101 than she is at shutting up. But a tutoring session full of eye-rolls, slow smiles, and suspiciously flirty jabs leaves them both more affected than they’re willing to admit. And when someone asks Tara what it’s like tutoring “the hottest girl on campus,” the answer might be written all over her face.

WARNINGS: ghostface mention, daddy issues.

| part one | part two | part three |

WORD COUNT: 3.0k

AUTHOR’S NOTE: nottt proofread

————————————

You were five minutes late and Tara Carpenter was already annoyed about it.

She sat in the far corner of the library, where the tables were cracked from overuse and the overhead light flickered every six seconds. Her laptop was open, angled perfectly, a black gel pen tucked behind her ear like a warning. Her hoodie sleeves were shoved up to her elbows, and her leg was bouncing beneath the table—nervously or irritably, you couldn't tell.

You dropped your duffle bag onto the floor with a familiar thud, slid into the chair across from her, and offered your usual weaponized smile.

"Miss me?"

Tara didn't even look up. Just clicked her pen once—loud, intentional. "You were supposed to be here twenty minutes ago."

"You said three o'clock."

"I said two-thirty.”

You blinked. Grinned. Shrugged. "Tomato, tomahto."

That earned you the briefest glance—eyes flicking up, sharp and unimpressed, before returning to the stack of worksheets in front of her. She shoved one toward you, "Same scene. La La Land. Color symbolism. Try using more than three brain cells this time."

You leaned in, elbows on the table, the sleeves of your hoodie scrunched up past your forearms, still warm from practice. Your last name and your game-day number: 4, was on the back. A faint sheen of sweat clung to your skin, but you smelled like lemon body spray and stubbornness.

Your eyes flicked to the still: Mia in that yellow dress, mid-spin under a purple sky, streetlights glowing like low-hanging stars.

"You ever get tired of this movie?" you asked.

"No."

"You ever get tired of me?"

"Constantly."

"Liar."

She didn't answer. But the corner of her mouth twitched—barely. You caught it anyway and tilted your head, tapping the image with your finger. "Okay. Yellow. She's hopeful."

"Go on."

"But it's nervous hope. Like she's wearing it too brightly, trying not to spill it."

Tara looked up again. Slowly. Her gaze lingered a second longer this time, "And the purple?"

"Makes it feel fake. Dreamy. Like they're borrowing a world that isn't theirs." She blinked. You could see her fighting the urge to be impressed. She clicked her pen again, once, twice.

"Not terrible," she said eventually.

"Did you just compliment me?"

"No."

"You totally did. Should I tell the press?"

"If you do, I'm telling them about your 'sunset means mystery' theory from last week."

You groaned and slouched back in your chair, knees knocking hers under the table. She stiffened for half a second but didn't move. You noticed. You always noticed—sadly.

She wore sneakers today—her usual, scuffed at the toe—and black jeans that were fraying at the seams near the knees. Her fingers kept brushing the edge of her laptop touchpad, like she was trying to look busy. But her eyes kept flicking to yours. You tried to ignore the scar on the back of her hand: how did she get that?

"Do you always wear black?" you asked.

"Do you always ask irrelevant questions?"

"I just think you'd look good in yellow."

A pause. Her foot tapped against yours under the table.

Once.

Then again.

"If I wear yellow, will you actually pass this class?"

"If you wear yellow, I'll be too distracted to focus."

"Gross." She gagged, but she was smiling. Sort of. The kind of smile she pretended wasn't a smile. You sat up straighter, "You like me a little."

"I tolerate you."

"That's progress. Last week I thought you were planning out my murder." You rested your chin in your hand, watching her scribble something in the margin of your worksheet. Her handwriting was small, neat, and way too aggressive for a simple note. Her knuckles brushed yours when she handed it back. Neither of you moved away and she ignored your comment; she was planning your murder.

"Why are you always looking at me like that?" she asked suddenly.

You blinked. "Like what?"

"Like I'm.. I don't know, interesting."

You tilted your head, "Maybe you are."

She stared at you. No eye roll. No comeback. Just that look again. Half-curious. Half-defensive. And maybe—just maybe—a little bit soft.

You tapped your pen against the table and changed the subject before it got weird.

"So," you say, tilting your head like you're not about to ruin her day, "what's your favorite movie?"

It's casual, almost lazy, the way you say it. Like you're just trying to fill the space. But you're leaning forward now, arms crossed on the edge of the table, your hoodie sleeves pushed up past your elbows, eyes tracing her like you're trying to memorize her answer before she even gives it.

Tara stiffens. Not noticeably to someone else, but you've spent enough hours across from her—bickering, teasing, trying to make her smile—to notice the way her pen stops mid-circle. The way her breath catches ever so slightly.

"That's kind of a loaded question," she says, not looking at you. She adjusts the cuff of her hoodie, tugging at the edge like it suddenly doesn't fit right. The fabric covered the scar on her hand. Her shoulders inch up slightly, and for a second, you think she might not answer at all.

"What, like it's embarrassing?" you tease. "Is it Twilight? Just say it. This is a safe space."

"No," she says quickly. Too quickly. There's a tightness in her voice now. A weird, careful control she doesn't usually bother faking with you. She's looking at the table, at the edge of her notebook, at anywhere but your face.

"I just..." She shrugs. "Don't really have one."

You blink.

Pause.

Let it settle.

You snicker as if she's joking around with you, "You're literally tutoring me in film."

She lifts one shoulder, eyes locked on a pen she isn't using. "So?"

"So you definitely have a favorite." You chuckle but it's tense, like you asked the wrong question at the wrong time.

"I used to."

There it is. Something sharp and quiet slips between the words—just enough to make your chest go still. Tara presses the tip of her finger into the spiral of her notebook like she needs the grounding. Her nail is chipped. There's a faint red indentation around her wrist where a hair tie used to be.

You watch her. Careful.

You don't push, but your voice softens automatically. "You don't have to tell me," you say. "I wasn't trying to—"

"It's fine," she interrupts, like if she says it fast enough, it'll make it true.

But she still won't look at you.

And for once, you stop smiling.

"I was just trying to get to know you."

That catches her. She lifts her gaze slowly—eyes darker than usual, like a storm pulling in over still water.

"Why?”

Your knee brushes hers under the table. You don't even notice this time. "Because I want to," you say, like it's obvious. Like it hasn't been building since the first tutoring session when she rolled her eyes so hard you thought they might fall out of her head. You had always been the type of person to want to see every place on Earth, try every hobby or activity, and meet everyone you could ever interact with. This included your somewhat stoic, emotionally-closed off tutor — Tara Carpenter.

That quiets her.

For a moment, she just stares. And her whole face changes—like she's trying not to let it change. Her mouth opens. Then shuts again. Her hand tightens around the pen she's not using, knuckles pale, like holding something keeps her from falling apart.

"So, what is your favorite movie?" you say, biting gently on the end of your pen with a light-hearted laugh. Chuckle? Giggle? It wouldn't even qualify as a laugh more-so a breath of air.

Tara hesitates. You see it—how her eyes go a little guarded, how she tugs at the cuff of her hoodie again like she needs something to fidget with. Why is she panicking over a movie selection?

Then she lifts her chin, like she's daring you to make fun of her. "The Babadook."

You blink, "Wait, really?"

"Yes. Problem?"

"No. No problem. I just..." You grin slowly. "Didn't take you for a gay grief monster allegory kind of girl."

She stares flatly. "I literally study horror for fun."

"True. But The Babadook?" You nudge her boot with yours under the table. "Bit on the nose, isn't it?"

"It's thematically rich," she fires back. "Also, it's camp."

"So what I'm hearing is: you see yourself in the Babadook."

"I see myself in the mother," she snaps, then immediately pauses. "Okay, wait, don't make that weird."

"Already did. Sorry. It's permanent now." You grin, happy that you could lighten the atmosphere between you two.

Tara groans and drops her forehead into her hand. Her hair falls forward in a curtain and she mutters something into her palm that sounds suspiciously like "I hate you."

You lean closer, "If it helps, I'd let the Babadook haunt me if it meant spending more time with you."

She groans louder.

"Stop talking."

"Make me."

That earns you a flick of her pen to your forehead. Not hard. Just enough to make your heart stutter like a dumb middle schooler.

For a second, it's quiet.

And kind of warm.

She's still leaning on her hand, looking at you with that tired, half-annoyed, half-not expression she always has around you. You're still grinning, like you don't know how to do anything else when she's sitting across from you.

"You should probably go," she says finally, glancing at the time. "Don't you have practice again?"

"Yeah." You don't move.

She notices. But doesn't say anything.

You reach down, shove your duffle over your shoulder, and stand up slowly. "Same time tomorrow?" you ask.

Tara shrugs, playing with the edge of her notebook. "Unless you finally drop out."

"Tempting. But then I wouldn't get to see your pretty face three times a week."

She raises her eyebrows.

"Did you just call me pretty?"

You back away toward the exit, walking backwards, "Don't worry, I'll deny it later."

She doesn't smile.

But she does look down. And when you glance back one more time before rounding the corner, her hand is resting where your boot tapped hers under the table.

She doesn't move it for a while.

——————

Mindy cornered you before you could swipe into your dorm, your ID — complete with that hideous freshman-year photo — already halfway to the scanner. She slid in like a glitch in the matrix, knocking the card from your hand.

"Uhm, excuse you?"

"I need a favor," she said, like she wasn't already on thin ice from the last one.

The last time Mindy asked for a favor, you almost got suspended for vandalism — something about a carton of eggs and a tenured professor with a vendetta. But Mindy made chaos look fun. She was the rare person who didn't treat you like a walking headline or a stats sheet.

Your days were regimented like military drills: practice, press, game tape, lift, brand deal, repeat. You had nearly a million Instagram followers dissecting your highlight reels, but they didn't see the way your knees screamed by midnight. Or how the only place you felt even remotely like yourself anymore was on the court — and even that was starting to crack. The burnout was loud, but your ambition was louder. And somewhere deep down, the little-kid part of you still loved basketball like it was a painting you were trying to finish, obsessing over every stroke, every angle. You weren't just a player — you were a craftsman. You played like it meant something. Like it was personal.

Mindy got you out of that headspace, even if it meant dumb decisions and third-wheeling her dates with Anika. (Anika was a saint, by the way. The only person on campus who ever told you to rest without sounding like a trainer.)

"Absolutely not," you muttered, nudging Mindy aside to reach for your card. Her foot landed on it like she was stepping on a landmine. You stared up at her. "Mindy. Move."

"No." Her voice was stern. "I need a favor."

You sighed. "Is it illegal?"

"Egging is, like, diet crime."

"It was your professor."

"We wore masks."

"I almost got benched."

"Details," she waved off. "Anyway. I need you to come to my film festival next month."

You stood upright, suspicious. "Okay... but why me?"

"To support your talented friend," she tried with a winning smile.

You crossed your arms. "Mindy."

She exhaled like she'd just been caught sneaking cookies. "Fine. People like you. If I say you're gonna be there, more people will show up. I don't want it to tank. I've been working so hard."

Your expression softened despite yourself. "You know I'm not actually famous, right?"

"Tell that to your blue check," she grinned.

You rolled your eyes. "Fine. I'll go."

She whooped and did a half-assed happy dance in the hallway before lunging in for a dramatic hug. Just as you reached for your door again, she spun back around. "Wait—one more thing."

"You are allergic to goodbyes."

"I didn't know you and Tara were, like, a thing."

You snorted. "We're not. She's just tutoring me for Film 101."

"She's color-coding that ridiculous textbook for you, FYI."

You blinked. "She is?"

Mindy nodded. "You sure it's just tutoring?"

"I don't even think we're friends. She kinda hates me. She never laughs at my jokes. Or... anything."

"Classic Tara." Mindy shrugged. "She's sweet once you get past the barbed wire and emotionally repressed vibes."

"She called me a 'cinematic liability' last week," you muttered.

"And yet she's still helping you pass. Even if it is a paid gig."

You didn't say anything for a second. Just let yourself think of Tara — those sharp eyes, the bite in her voice, the way she never smiled but still always showed up, like clockwork. You weren't used to people sticking around without asking for something in return. Especially not people like her.

You finally said, "I just want her to be happy, you know? Even if she's a little... emotionally allergic."

Mindy raised an eyebrow. "You like her."

You scoffed. "I don't even like myself half the time."

"Bullshit." She kissed your cheek with a loud mwah. "You're just scared because she's not part of your world."

"She's too smart for me," you admitted with a shrug. "And she hates basketball. She said she would rather go through AP Calculus again than go to one of the games."

"She tolerates basketball," Mindy said. "But she might not hate you."

You opened your door finally, backpack slung low, exhaustion dripping from your shoulders. "I'll come to your festival. Send me the details."

"You're the best." Mindy saluted you like she was in a war film and skipped away.

You stood there a moment longer, hand still on the doorknob. Your body ached — a thousand micro-tears in muscle that kept you upright, moving, powerful. People loved you for your game, but didn't realize it came at a cost. That behind every dunk and buzzer-beater was another layer of obsession, sacrifice, and hours alone in the gym trying to get it just right.

But Tara... Tara saw something else. And for the first time in a long while, you wondered what it'd be like to be wanted not because you were good — but just because you were you.

⸻

One of the study spaces at Blackmore University was quiet. It was the kind of quiet that made everything sound louder. Vending machine humming. Laptop keys clicking. The occasional sneaker squeak down the hallway or honk of a truck from outside in the city.

Tara sat curled up on the far couch, hoodie up, highlighter cap between her teeth. Chad was busy at the gym, Mindy was hanging out with Anika, and there was no way in hell that she would willingly go hangout with her older-sister, Sam. Her laptop was open to the same document she'd been editing for an hour — a study guide she'd already emailed. Twice.

She was rewriting the example section. Again.

"You're really going all out for a girl who's going to forget everything the second she gets back on the court."

Tara didn't look up. She didn't need to.

Julia, a blonde freshman with a sketchbook full of half-finished screenplays and a reputation for being observant in the most inconvenient ways, dropped into the chair beside her.

"I'm serious," Julia went on, flipping a pen between her fingers. "You've rewritten that thing three times. Are you, like, secretly in love with her?"

Tara shut her laptop.

Slowly.

"Absolutely not."

Julia snorted. "Relax. I had a crush on her last semester too. First week of classes — she helped me carry a box and then told me my handwriting looked like a movie character's. I thought she was flirting."

"She probably was," Tara muttered.

"Yeah," Julia said, smiling. "That's the thing. She flirts without even noticing. Smiles like you're the only person on Earth and then forgets your name by Friday."

Tara didn't respond. Just started capping her highlighters, one by one, methodical.

"She's good at it, though," Julia added, more softly. "Charming. Stupidly nice. Kind of a golden retriever thing going on."

Tara set her pencil case down harder than necessary. "She's not charming. She's late. Loud. Doesn't take anything seriously. I'm pretty sure she doesn’t even know her left from her right."

Julia watched her.

"She shows up to study sessions without a pen," Tara went on, faster now. "Brings snacks like that makes up for not knowing what a jump cut is. Sits too close. Laughs too loud. Like she's trying to make me like her in the most desperate way possible.”

There was a beat.

"You sound like you hate her," Julia said.

Tara's jaw clenched. "I do hate her."

Julia raised an eyebrow. "Sure."

Tara grabbed her laptop, shoved it in her bag, and stood. "She's a distraction. That's it."

Julia tilted her head. "Right. So why do you keep making her study guides that match her team colors?"

Tara didn't answer.

She just walked out and Julia couldn’t help but laugh a little.

The door clicked shut behind her. The hallway was cold, dim, echoey. She didn't move. Just stood there, back against the wall, staring at nothing.

"She's a distraction," she whispered to herself again. “A horrible, obnoxious one.”

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