Hello, welcome to my blog! Or masterlist, whatnot. Just wanted to try this out! I write for Jenna Ortega and her characters (some that I feel comfortable writing for, and for the characters that I know how to write, or if not, then I haven't really seen the other movies/series)! This is just a minor time burner for me, time would tell if I'd post some more tho, probably won't be taking requests, no, I'm not new to writing (but I'm still pretty shitty at it considering english isn't my first language), but that doesn't make it an excuse as to why I don't wanna take requests, really, I just don't want to, and perhaps also because I may not be able to fulfill requests, I work at a slow pace, not even kidding. My cup of tea is definitely the third povs; it's a minor issue but I have problems with being detailed about ones surroundings, I'm shit at those. I can't do a series for my life, mini series are there to catch my boring life choices, though.
And I quite have a knack for angst..
(keep in mind that I absolutely adore Wednesday Addams, so you'll rarely see my works of her angsty..)
note: I don't condone plagiarism!
: I only write for Fem!Readers! so if you're uncomfortable with that, you can kindly leave my blog! Thank you!
: Things that I strictly do not write: smut, male readers.. I'm just not really comfortable with it.
: Imagines that are marked ✭ is fluff!
and ☾ for angst!
Works:
Jenna Ortega
So close yet so far - ☾
More than friends, less than lovers.
My Miss President
(I) || (II) - ✭ (mini series)
Jenna was never the type to fall for someone like Y/N, someone who'd always end up in fights, someone you'd often see doing stupid things outside the school premises, someone who always look so arrogant but is an absolute sweetheart. Jenna wasn't into those, considering she's what the school calls 'Ms. President' aka, Miss Perfect. She'd never, right?
Stay a little longer - ☾
Two broken hearts in one night.
You said you'd wait - ☾
A failed courtingship leads to heartache, days, weeks, months.. I hope you waited like you said you would.
Some life she hoped - ☾
Meeting again after so long wasn't really on your bucket list, neither did you receiving an apology.
World Star - ☾
Fame, that's something you're sure of that you want. Something too gruesome that everyone who was bound to feel it was doomed to fall.
Wednesday Addams
Mi Pesadilla - ☾ ✭
Wednesday's regretting pushing you away.
Lost a letter
(I) || (II) - ✭ (mini series)
You have a hard time trying to swoon Wednesday, but having her roommate be your friend? It doesn't always end well.. Maybe..
Cursed Bloodsucker - ✭
A day of the week, you'd think curses and hexes was all on the same day, but surely it wasn't that bad.. You had a girlfriend, didn't you?
Gone soft - ☾ ✭
You thought getting Wednesday a stuffed bear was cute, but as she is, she doesn't quite like anything that imaged her that she was turning soft.
Possessive - ✭
If being unattractive and boring were a choice, Wednesday would've taken those choices for the both of you when you started dating. But, can she really blame your admirers?
I chose you - ✭
When Wednesday transferred to Nevermore, the school lacked the fiery hostile attitude Y/N always spat out, perhaps a change of heart. But frankly, it never left in the first place. Wednesday frequently hears of the comments about your temper all around nevermore—it's like living hell, they said. Well, she thinks otherwise.
She who fell in silence
(l) || (ll) - ☾ ✭ (mini series)
After the bitter loss for Crackstone and ultimate triumph for Nevermore. Wednesday felt so out of place, and she failed to recognize the reasoning behind it—but in the end, she awakened to reasons to stay.
Tender Missteps - ✭
An accidental slip up of Wednesday calling you by your name sets you on a first name basis calling spree—life lesson, she shouldn't forget about your endearments next time.
Vada Cavell
A stupid girl with a bloody nose - ✭
Being arrogant gets Vada absolutely nowhere, well sometimes..
summary: in which the truth finally comes out, but not on your terms—and definitely not on hers.
word count: 10.4k
author’s note: like i mentioned before i wrote this over four months ago and never got around to posting it. i don’t really love it, and it might feel a little rushed since i haven’t re-read it since i first wrote it, but i wanted to share something since it’s been a while. consider this a small apology for going quiet. not sure if i’ll keep posting, but for now, here’s this. let me know what you think, if you’d like.
For two weeks, Jenna couldn't get you out of her head.
Even though she had told herself, over and over, that it was done. That she had made the right choice. That this was for the best.
But the moments lingered in her thoughts, clinging to her like the remnants of a dream you could never quite shake off. She'd lay in bed late at night, the quiet stretching between the heavy silence of the room, and she could feel the weight of everything she had said to you, everything she had walked away from.
She never expected to feel so torn.
The decision had been made—final. She knew there was no turning back from it. It had to happen, didn't it? She had convinced herself, time and time again.
She had broken the two of you apart for reasons she couldn't even fully explain to herself.
There was guilt, there was the ache of knowing she'd hurt you, but there was also this strange, unsettling sense of rightness that came with the choice, as if it was something that had been fated. And yet, that didn't make it easier. It didn't make it feel less wrong.
Her thumb always hovered over the phone screen, a draft message staring back at her, begging to be sent. She had typed it countless times, each time deleting it before her finger could press the button. "Are you okay?" was always the start.
But it wasn't enough. She wanted more than that. She wanted to reach out, to make sure you were alright, but how could she? After everything she had said. After what she had done. It would be unfair to you, wouldn't it? To just show up and ask how you were doing after tearing everything apart.
You deserved so much better than that.
She remembered how you looked at her, the hurt behind your eyes that she couldn't erase, no matter how hard she tried.
How the words had come out wrong, stumbling over her tongue, rambling in a way that didn't make sense but still left a mark on both of you.
And then, the way you had looked at her. The tears that almost spilled from your eyes. The quiet "oh" that you had whispered, like it was a small admission of defeat. Jenna's chest ached at the memory. She had never wanted to cause you pain. She had never wanted to be the one who broke you.
But it was done. It had to be.
She could still hear your voice in her head, soft and pained. She could still see the shimmer in your eyes as you fought to keep it together. It made her want to call you, to text you, to ask if you were okay, even though she knew deep down that she had no right.
But then there were those moments—the quiet mornings when she woke early, unable to sleep, and the first thought in her mind was of you. It was a fleeting thought, quickly smothered by the reality of the breakup, but it was there, always there. Were you okay? Were you getting better? She had to know, even though she didn't deserve to.
The longer Jenna sat with these thoughts, the more her guilt gnawed at her. The more she questioned herself. Was it too late to fix it? Was it too late to reach out to you? Maybe it didn't matter.
The doubt never fully left her.
It sat in the pit of her stomach, twisting every time she thought about what she had done. Why had she done it? Why had she walked away from you, from everything you two had built together, when it felt so wrong?
Every time Jenna tried to convince herself it had been the right decision, a voice in her head pushed back. It was like trying to convince herself that she hadn't torn a part of her soul away when she ended things. It didn't make sense. Not when she loved you.
She loved you so much.
It was more than just the small things—the way your hand fit perfectly in hers, the way you'd laugh about the stupidest things, making her forget about the weight of her world for a while. It was more than that.
It was how you made her feel like she could breathe easier when you were around, how you understood her in a way no one else could.
You saw her for who she really was, not the façade she put on for the world, not the parts of herself she kept hidden behind layers of insecurities and fears. You made her feel safe, and loved, in a way that made her heart ache just thinking about it.
The way your voice would soften when you spoke her name, like it was a secret only the two of you shared. The way you held her after a long day, arms tight around her like you could protect her from everything.
How could she have done that? How could she have let go of something that meant so much to her?
She thought about the quiet mornings when you would be the first to wake up, your messy hair still wild from sleep as you stretched and groggily smiled at her.
Every piece of her own brokenness seemed to fall into place when you were by her side. It felt like home. And yet, now she had walked away from it. Moved away from it.
And now, all she wanted was to go back. To rewind time, to find the courage to say something different.
She wanted to go back to that night, to that moment when she had sat across from you, her heart breaking into a thousand pieces as she uttered the words that had torn everything apart.
She wished she could have just pulled you close and told you how much she loved you, how much she needed you, and how scared she had been.
But it was too late now. The words had already been said.
Now, as the days passed and her thoughts spiraled, Jenna found herself wishing she had said anything. Anything to stop the hurt. Anything to fix it.
It got to the point where she found it harder to focus at work, her mind constantly drifting, her thoughts veering toward you when they shouldn't. Even though ending things with you was supposed to make work easier.
It was as if everything she touched, everything she read, had some trace of you in it. Some days, when she stared down at the lines of the script in front of her, your voice would fill the silence, echoing the way you would help her work through the scenes.
It was like you were there with her, coaching her through the dialogue, offering small pieces of advice that always seemed to make everything fall into place.
Sometimes, the simplest words—lines she had read a hundred times before—felt like they carried something more.
She would hear them in your voice, almost like a phantom whisper, and for a moment, it was like nothing had changed. For a moment, you were still there beside her, as you always had been.
She missed you so much that it felt almost suffocating. It was strange, because the pain of it seemed bigger than just a breakup.
It was as if you had died, and the thought of never seeing you again had left an empty, hollow feeling in her chest. But that was ridiculous, wasn't it? It was just a breakup. People broke up all the time. It wasn't a funeral. You hadn't died, and yet, it felt like a part of her had.
She caught herself thinking that maybe she could go see you tomorrow, that maybe she could find the courage to face you, to apologize, to make things right.
But then the harsh truth hit her: she was the one who had ended it. She had been the one who said the words, who took the step that closed the door.
If there was any death here, it was the death of the love that once was, and she had killed it herself. She was the one who had let it die.
She wished she could go back and do it all over again, even if that meant facing the hard parts. Anything to bring you back into her life. But it was too late now.
She had already made the choice. And she had to live with it, even though it felt like a slow kind of death.
For weeks, it seemed like everyone on set had noticed that something was off with Jenna too. It wasn't anything obvious—she still showed up on time, still gave her all to every take, still cracked the occasional joke between scenes. But there was a heaviness to her presence that hadn't been there before, a quiet distraction that lingered in her eyes or the way she'd zone out in moments she normally wouldn't.
Nobody said anything. Maybe they thought it wasn't their place, or maybe they just chalked it up to the pressure of work. Either way, they left her alone, offering polite smiles and tentative questions about how she was doing but never pushing for more.
Everyone except Mila.
Mila was one of the first people Jenna had worked with in the industry, and over time, they'd grown close—close enough that Mila had been one of the few friends Jenna introduced to you.
The three of you had hit it off immediately. Mila's easygoing personality and sharp sense of humor made her easy to like, and before long, she had become part of the small circle of people Jenna trusted implicitly.
You and Mila had bonded quickly during visits to set, sharing inside jokes and late-night conversations that blurred the lines between friendship and family. Mila had been there through a lot—both the good and the bad—and while Jenna hadn't told her about the breakup, she couldn't help but wonder if Mila had noticed the shift in her mood.
Jenna had told Mila everything once. But now, she hadn't told her anything.
Not about the breakup. Not about why her smile felt more forced than usual. Not about how she struggled to keep it together some days.
Still, Mila noticed. She always did.
Her usual teasing had shifted in recent weeks, replaced by quiet, searching glances. Sometimes, Mila looked at Jenna like she was on the verge of breaking, as if she could see cracks forming beneath the surface that Jenna wasn't even sure were there. And that look... it confused her.
Had you told Mila?
The thought had crossed Jenna's mind more than once, an anxious flutter in her chest as she replayed your last conversation in her head. You wouldn't have said anything, would you?
You weren't the kind of person to share personal things like that without a reason. But the way Mila looked at her sometimes—with that mixture of pity and quiet concern—it was hard not to wonder.
For days, Jenna tried to shake the feeling, brushing off Mila's attempts to talk or check in with excuses about work or being tired.
But Mila wasn't one to pry, but it was clear that Jenna wasn't herself, and eventually, she decided enough was enough.
"You need a night out," Mila announced one evening, catching Jenna off guard in her trailer. "Just us. A girls' night. Go somewhere loud, have a couple of drinks, and, I don't know, live a little."
Jenna hesitated, her fingers pausing over her phone screen as she looked up at Mila. "I don't know if—"
"Don't even try to talk your way out of it," Mila interrupted, crossing her arms as she leaned against the doorframe. "You've been all... weird lately. Everyone's noticed. It's time to shake it off. Besides, I already have the perfect place in mind."
Jenna opened her mouth to protest again, but Mila didn't give her the chance.
"And hey," Mila added, her tone softening just slightly, "you should invite Y/N. I haven't seen her in forever."
The words hit Jenna like a punch to the stomach. She froze, her brain scrambling to catch up as Mila continued, oblivious to the shift in her expression.
"What?" Jenna finally managed, her voice quieter than she intended.
"Y/N," Mila repeated casually, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "You know, your girlfriend? Bring her along—it'll be fun."
The realization sank in slowly. Of course Mila didn't know. Jenna hadn't told anyone about the breakup, not her family, not her closest friends—not even Mila. She couldn't bring herself to say it out loud, to admit that she had ended something that had meant everything to her.
"Oh," Jenna said after a moment, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Yeah... sure. I'll, uh, I'll ask her."
"Great!" Mila said brightly, grinning as she clapped her hands together. "It's settled, then. This Friday. You, me, and Y/N. It's going to be great."
Jenna nodded, pretending to go along with the plan as her chest tightened with guilt. She couldn't even imagine how she was supposed to explain this to Mila—let alone face the thought of actually seeing you again.
But for now, she pushed those thoughts aside, plastering on her best fake smile and hoping Mila wouldn't notice the cracks beneath it.
"Yeah," Jenna said softly, her voice barely audible. "It'll be great."
___
The week passed faster than Jenna wanted it to, each day slipping away like sand through her fingers.
By Friday morning, she found herself regretting not protesting harder when Mila had first brought up the idea.
She could've said she had something else to do—work, a family obligation, anything that sounded remotely plausible. Or better yet, she could've just told Mila outright that she didn't want to go.
Because she didn't.
Jenna didn't want to go out, didn't want to pretend to have fun, and she especially didn't want to sit through an evening where Mila expected you to show up.
The thought of it made her stomach twist, the kind of anxious churn that left her restless and exhausted all at once. She hadn't even texted you about it, and she didn't plan to. How could she, knowing what Mila was expecting versus what she would actually get?
Still, as much as she hated the idea, the more Jenna thought about it, the more she realized that this might be the right time to say something.
A month had passed. Thirty long, aching days since the two of you had broken up, and she still hadn't told anyone. Not her family, not her friends, and certainly not Mila. But Mila wasn't blind. She had to know something was going on, even if she didn't know the full story.
Maybe you'd told her.
The thought was both a comfort and a weight, lingering at the back of Jenna's mind as she tried to figure out what Mila did—or didn't—know. If you had said something, then it wouldn't be a surprise tonight when Jenna finally admitted it.
If Mila asked, of course.
Jenna wasn't planning on volunteering the information. But if Mila pressed, if she brought it up with that quiet concern she always carried lately, then maybe it was time to stop dodging the question. Time to stop pretending everything was fine when it so clearly wasn't.
And who knew? Maybe saying it out loud—finally letting someone else in—would take some of the weight off her shoulders.
Or maybe it would just make everything worse.
Jenna arrived at the bar later than she'd intended, though she couldn't bring herself to care. The thought of lingering too long, standing awkwardly with Mila before things really got going, had filled her with dread.
She'd spent way too much time overthinking her outfit, too—something casual but not too casual, like she wasn't trying too hard to look like herself when she didn't feel like herself at all.
The place was already buzzing by the time she walked in. Music thumped softly under the hum of voices, and the low lighting made the bar feel warmer than it had any right to. Jenna spotted Mila almost instantly, leaning against the counter with a drink in hand.
She was talking to someone Jenna didn't recognize, but the moment Mila saw her, she perked up and waved her over.
"Finally! I was starting to think you'd stood me up." Her tone was light, teasing, but it carried just enough of a playful jab to make Jenna smile despite herself.
"Yeah, sorry," Jenna said, slipping into the seat beside her. "Traffic." It was a weak excuse, but Mila didn't press.
"Don't worry about it. You're here now." Mila signaled the bartender, sliding a drink over to Jenna. "Figured you'd need this."
Jenna laughed softly, lifting the glass. "Thanks. What is it?"
"Something not too crazy," Mila replied, swirling her own drink. "Didn't think you'd want to dive straight into tequila shots."
Jenna took a sip, letting the conversation flow naturally from there. It was easier than she expected—Mila always had a knack for making things feel effortless. They talked about work, swapped a few jokes about the chaos of the set, and somewhere along the way, the glasses kept refilling.
By the third—or maybe fourth—drink, Jenna was starting to feel the edges of her tension blur. Mila was, too, her laughter coming easier, her cheeks flushed pink.
Her now for what it seemed like sixth drink hovered near her lips as she sat back, her gaze lazily drifting around the room. She took a small sip, her movements slow and deliberate, almost giving the impression she'd forgotten Jenna was even sitting there.
The silence between them stretched, filled only by the low hum of music and scattered voices, until Mila suddenly stiffened. Her eyes widened with a spark of realization, her expression snapping to life.
"Oh my god, right!" she blurted out, the sharpness of her voice cutting through the din. "Where's Y/n? Is she okay?"
The words hit Jenna like a sucker punch, the casual tone unable to disguise the weight they carried. Jenna froze mid-sip, the glass slipping from her lips as her breath caught in her throat. She coughed, the sudden burn forcing her to set the drink down hastily, her fingers trembling as the glass met the table with a sharp clink.
Her chest felt tight, heat blooming beneath her skin—not just from the alcohol, but from something heavier.
Of course Mila would ask that. She had invited you for God's sake.
That detail had slipped Jenna's mind entirely in the haze of the evening, or maybe she'd pushed it aside on purpose. Now it was front and center, leaving her no room to deflect.
She glanced at Mila, already regretting the defensive edge in her voice as she snapped, "Yeah. Why wouldn't she be?"
The words came too quickly, too sharp, and the moment they left her mouth, Jenna wished she could take them back. They weren't just defensive—they were revealing, betraying a tension Mila clearly wasn't expecting.
Mila froze, her brows lifting in mild surprise at the tone. For a brief moment, she looked unsure of how to respond, and then her expression shifted again. Her lips parted as if to speak, but no sound came out, and instead, she fidgeted, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
"Oh, nothing," she said at last, though her voice had lost its usual breezy confidence. She brushed a strand of hair behind her ear and gave a dismissive laugh that didn't quite reach her eyes.
"I just thought maybe something was wrong? I don't know. She didn't come, so I just wondered."
The nervous energy radiating from her now was unmistakable. Her hand moved to adjust her glass, her fingers drumming against the surface of the table before falling still. She looked everywhere but at Jenna, as if avoiding her gaze would somehow soften the tension hanging in the air.
Jenna narrowed her eyes slightly, her stomach tightening as she watched Mila's sudden shift in demeanor. Something was off—Mila wasn't just making small talk. She was circling something, and Jenna could feel the subtle crackling undercurrent of panic in the way Mila's gaze darted around the room, as if searching for an escape.
Jenna's fingers curled around her glass, the condensation slick against her palm. The question lingered, sharp and unspoken, in the space between them. Why was Mila so nervous?
"Actually I...Uh" Jenna's voice wavered, caught somewhere between a lie and the truth. Her hesitation felt damning, and she hated how small it made her feel. "I didn't ask her."
The admission hung in the air, heavier than she'd intended, and Jenna flinched inwardly at the way it sounded—cold, thoughtless. Nothing could be further from the truth, but Mila didn't know that, and Jenna could already see the gears turning behind her friend's eyes.
"What? Why?" Mila's brows shot up as she leaned forward, her curiosity sharpening with the movement. Her fingers curled loosely around her glass, but her full attention was fixed on Jenna now, the question hanging in the air like a dare.
Jenna froze, her hand hovering mid-air with her drink still in her grasp. The room around her blurred into a haze of muffled conversation and dim light as her thoughts screeched to a halt. She hadn't thought this far ahead—not tonight, not here, not with Mila.
Was this it? The moment she finally said it out loud?
Her stomach churned, and her grip on the glass tightened as the weight of the unspoken truth pressed harder against her chest. What was the point of keeping it to herself anymore? Mila would find out eventually—everyone would.
Besides, when else was she going to say anything? At the table read? Where the cast, producers, and half the crew would be there to overhear? No. That wasn't how she wanted it to come out.
She inhaled sharply, a shallow breath that did nothing to steady the trembling in her hands. The drink clinked softly as she set it down on the table, her fingers still clutching the rim like it was an anchor.
"Because, uhm..." The words felt foreign on her tongue, her voice shaky as her gaze darted down to the table. She could feel Mila's eyes boring into her, waiting.
Her throat felt dry, the lump forming there making it harder to speak. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to look up just enough to meet Mila's gaze.
"We... we're not together anymore."
The words tumbled out unevenly, quiet but heavy, and the silence that followed was deafening. Jenna's stomach dropped, her pulse pounding in her ears as she watched Mila's face shift through a range of emotions—surprise, confusion, concern.
For a second, neither of them moved. Mila blinked, her lips parting as though to respond, but no sound came out. She glanced at Jenna's hand still gripping the glass and then back to her face, her expression softening slightly.
"What?" Mila said again, but this time her voice was softer, almost disbelieving. She leaned back in her chair, her fingers nervously tapping against the table. "I—since when?"
Jenna's jaw tensed, her teeth pressing together as she tried to find the words, but none came easily. She felt exposed, vulnerable in a way she hadn't expected, and the weight of Mila's question made her chest tighten even more.
"Not long ago," Jenna finally said, her voice flat, like she was trying to smooth over the jagged edges of the truth. "It's... complicated."
It wasn't complicated.
Yet Mila nodded slowly, her brows furrowing as if she were trying to piece something together. The nervous energy from earlier was gone now, replaced by an unfamiliar kind of stillness.
Jenna could feel Mila's unspoken questions hanging in the air, but she didn't have it in her to answer them—not here, not now. She picked up her glass again, her fingers trembling just enough to make the drink ripple.
Mila opened her mouth as if to speak but hesitated, her lips pressing into a thin line instead. "I—I didn't know," she said finally, her voice careful, almost apologetic.
Jenna shook her head quickly, as if to wave it off. "It's fine. Really. It's not..." She trailed off, unsure of how to finish that sentence. It wasn't fine, but admitting that felt like too much.
The silence between them returned, heavy and unyielding. Mila shifted uncomfortably, her gaze flickering toward the door as if searching for an escape, while Jenna stared at her glass, the weight of her own words settling deep in her chest.
Mila didn't respond right away. Instead, she leaned back in her chair, her gaze dropping to the table as though she were trying to puzzle something out. Her fingers toyed with the edge of her napkin, folding and unfolding the corner absentmindedly.
Jenna could see the wheels turning behind her friend's eyes, the way Mila's lips pressed together as if she were holding back a question. The silence between them stretched, thick and uncomfortable, and Jenna shifted in her seat, wishing she'd said anything else—anything to steer the conversation away from this.
But then Mila looked up, her expression caught somewhere between hesitation and concern. Her fingers stilled against the napkin, and she inhaled softly, her gaze flitting to Jenna's before darting away again.
"Is..." Mila began, her voice quiet and careful, like she wasn't sure if she should even be asking. She bit her lip, her brows knitting together as she seemed to second-guess herself. "Is it because she's... sick?"
The question hung in the air, stark and unrelenting.
Jenna blinked, her thoughts skidding to a halt at Mila's question. Sick? The word echoed in her mind, but it didn't stick, didn't make sense. She stared at Mila, trying to piece together the sudden turn in the conversation.
Her first instinct was to assume she'd misheard, that the low hum of music or the alcohol in her system had muddled her perception. But the look on Mila's face—hesitant, nervous, but serious—told her she hadn't.
Jenna frowned, her confusion deepening as she scrambled to connect the dots. Sick? What the hell is she talking about? The word didn't fit anywhere. You weren't sick. At least, not in any way Jenna knew of.
Did you have a cold?
Her stomach churned uneasily. Was Mila talking about someone else? Or was this some poorly worded attempt at... what? A metaphor? A joke? Jenna didn't know, but she felt a sudden, inexplicable sense of dread curling low in her chest.
Her grip tightened on her glass, the condensation slick against her fingers. Mila's question replayed in her head, each syllable dragging her further into her own confusion.
Mila had said it like it was obvious, like it was something Jenna should already know, and that only made the knot in her chest tighten further.
A faint heat crept up Jenna's neck, frustration mixing with her unease. She hated not understanding, hated the way her mind was now running in circles trying to grasp something she clearly didn't have all the pieces to.
Jenna's heart thudded faster, her thoughts a jumble of fragmented possibilities that led nowhere. Her confusion was quickly giving way to something sharper—irritation, panic, a gnawing need to demand what are you talking about? But she couldn't bring herself to speak, couldn't do anything but stare at Mila and hope she'd explain herself before Jenna had to ask.
She wet her lips, suddenly aware of the dryness in her throat, and willed herself to keep her expression neutral, though she could feel the tension pulling at her features. She didn't want to look clueless—vulnerable—but she had no idea what Mila meant, and it was beginning to eat at her.
Her fingers drummed restlessly against the side of her glass as she glanced at Mila again, searching her face for some kind of clue.
Mila froze, her eyes widening slightly, a flicker of surprise flashing across her face. It wasn't shock exactly—it was something subtler, like she'd just realized she'd let slip something she wasn't supposed to say. Her hand stilled mid-air, clutching her glass, and her gaze darted away from Jenna as though avoiding eye contact would somehow erase what she'd said.
Jenna felt her stomach drop, unease prickling at her skin. Her grip on her drink tightened as she leaned forward, her brow furrowing. "What?" she asked, her voice sharper than she intended. "What do you mean, sick? Does she have a cold or something?"
Mila flinched at the question, her face tightening into an expression that only made Jenna's anxiety spike. Mila swallowed, then shifted uncomfortably in her seat, her fingers tapping lightly against the glass she held.
"You... you don't know?" Mila finally said, her voice soft, barely above a whisper.
The way she said it—the hesitant tone, the words themselves—sent a jolt of panic straight through Jenna. Her heart skipped a beat, her chest tightening as a chill spread down her spine. Why was Mila framing it like this? Why did it sound so heavy, so dangerous?
Jenna's throat felt dry, her words coming out unsteady. "Don't know what?" she said, her voice rising slightly as she fought to keep calm. "What are you talking about?"
Mila hesitated again, her teeth catching her bottom lip as if she were debating whether to say more. Her gaze flickered up to Jenna's face, studying her with a mixture of wariness and something that almost looked like pity.
"When did you guys break up?" Mila asked carefully, the question quiet but deliberate, like she was trying to piece together a puzzle.
The question caught Jenna off guard, and for a moment, she couldn't respond. Her mind spun, trying to connect the dots Mila was implying but not fully saying. She blinked, then looked down at the glass in her hand as if it might hold the answer.
"It was..." she began slowly, her voice trailing off as she tried to pinpoint the timeline in her mind. Her thoughts felt scattered, disjointed, as she realized how much time had slipped by without you.
"September," Jenna said finally, the word feeling heavy on her tongue. She stared at the condensation pooling at the base of her drink, her voice quieter now, almost distant.
The realization sank in as she said it aloud, a wave of emotion hitting her in its wake.
Three months.
She hadn't even thought about it in those terms until now, but it was true. Three months of getting through each day without you. Three months of forcing herself to push forward, even though the weight of it had felt unbearable at times, even though it was her fault.
And now here was Mila, looking at her like there was some crucial piece of the story Jenna didn't know. The unease grew stronger, twisting in her stomach, and her voice came out softer, more fragile than before.
"Why does that matter?" she asked, the question hanging in the air like a challenge and a plea all at once.
Mila's expression shifted as she looked at Jenna, her features softening with a guilt so palpable it made Jenna's chest ache.
There was something about the way Mila's eyes rested on her—sad, full of hesitation and regret—that made Jenna feel small, like a little kid who had just been caught doing something wrong but didn't know what it was.
The weight of that gaze was unbearable, and Jenna found herself straightening in her seat, as if good posture could somehow shield her from the impact of whatever Mila was about to say.
Her heart hammered in her chest, the seconds stretching unbearably long as Mila opened her mouth, hesitated, and then sighed quietly.
"Jenna..." Mila said softly, her voice almost trembling. She paused, her eyes dropping to her hands for a moment before meeting Jenna's again.
The next words landed like a punch to the gut.
"Y/N has cancer."
The words hung in the air, heavy and unyielding, echoing in Jenna's mind as her entire body went still. For a second, it didn't even register—like Mila had spoken a foreign language Jenna couldn't translate. The room seemed to tilt, the muted background noise fading as all Jenna could hear was the faint ringing in her ears.
"What?" she breathed, her voice so quiet it was almost inaudible. The word felt foreign in her mouth, like it wasn't enough to encompass the sheer disbelief coursing through her veins.
Jenna's heart pounded so hard it drowned out every sound around her.
Cancer?
No. It couldn't be true. It just couldn't. Her head swam, and she blinked rapidly, as if trying to clear her vision or wake herself up from whatever cruel dream she'd stumbled into. Mila's words echoed over and over, growing louder with each repetition until they were almost unbearable.
There was no way. No way. You would've told her. You had to have told her, even though she broke up with you. Right? Jenna gripped the edge of the table, her knuckles white as her thoughts spiraled. You wouldn't keep something like this from her. You couldn't.
The idea that you might have felt the need to tell Mila instead of her made her stomach churn. When had it happened? How long had you known? And why hadn't you come to her, at least for this? She couldn't stop the questions from flooding her mind, each one more agonizing than the last.
Her lips parted, and for a moment, nothing came out. Her voice felt lodged in her throat, trapped behind the whirlwind of disbelief. Finally, she forced the words, shaky and unsure, as if saying them out loud might make Mila realize how impossible they were.
"When did she tell you that?"
Mila's eyes flicked downward, and she bit her lip nervously, her hands fidgeting in her lap. The air between them thickened with unease, Mila seeming to grasp how heavy her revelation truly was. She exhaled sharply, as though trying to remember something she wasn't sure she wanted to recall.
"A week ago. Maybe two," Mila said finally, her voice quiet, tentative.
The answer made Jenna's breath hitch. A week ago? Two? She felt like the world tilted, like her chair was suddenly unsteady beneath her. She stared blankly at Mila, trying to process how you could've known—really known—and said nothing to her. Her mind flashed back to that awful night, the night she shattered everything, and she realized just how long it had been. Nearly three months. Three months without you. Three months of thinking the pain was one-sided.
And yet, you told Mila.
The betrayal mingled with guilt, forming a storm that twisted in her chest until it felt impossible to breathe. Why didn't you tell her? Why did you think she didn't deserve to know?
Her hands fell to her lap, trembling slightly as the adrenaline coursing through her body rendered the alcohol utterly meaningless. For the first time all night, she felt stone-cold sober.
"What type?" she asked suddenly, the question tumbling from her lips before she even realized it. It felt necessary. Urgent. As if understanding the specifics might make it more manageable, something she could wrap her head around.
Mila hesitated, her discomfort evident as she glanced away and then back at Jenna. She looked almost apologetic, like a woman who'd accidentally unleashed a tidal wave and now couldn't stop it.
"She told me it was... something in the lungs," Mila said slowly, almost wincing at the words. She faltered, clearly unsure of how to phrase what little she knew. "And I don't really—when I asked her how serious it was, she didn't really say..."
Mila trailed off, reaching for her glass. She drank deeply, the motion unnervingly casual for such a serious conversation. It felt wrong, somehow—her nonchalance juxtaposed with the chaos unraveling in Jenna's chest.
"But it can't be that serious, right?" Mila added, her tone nervous but edging toward hopeful, as though willing Jenna to agree.
Jenna couldn't reply. Her throat burned, the words catching painfully on the realization that she didn't know anything. Nothing at all.
Her hands clenched into fists in her lap, nails digging into her palms as her mind raced. The possibilities were endless, and they all sounded worse with every second of silence. Lungs. Something in the lungs. A dozen horrific images flashed through her mind, each more unbearable than the last.
And you hadn't told her. Not about this. Not about anything.
She swallowed hard, her eyes flicking down to the table as a horrible, crushing helplessness settled over her. What was she supposed to do now?
Jenna's thoughts began racing, rewinding through every moment she could remember with you. Every interaction over the past few months played back like a fragmented reel in her mind, and she realized with growing dread that there were signs.
She'd noticed you'd lost weight—nothing drastic at first, just subtle changes. Your cheekbones had become more defined, and the jeans you loved wearing had started sitting looser on your hips. She remembered teasing you about it lightly, asking if you were trying out some trendy diet. You'd laughed it off, brushing her concern away, and she hadn't pressed.
And the cough. God, the cough. It had started as something minor, almost unnoticeable—a soft clearing of your throat here and there. But it stuck around. Over weeks, maybe longer, she'd noticed it lingering, deepening. There were times when it sounded almost painful, raspy, like you were struggling to catch your breath after a fit. She'd asked once or twice if you were okay, and you'd shrugged it off, blaming it on the weather or a cold you couldn't quite shake.
Now it felt obvious. Too obvious.
Had you known back then? Had those symptoms already been signs of something so much worse, and she'd completely missed it?
She remembered other things, too, things that felt insignificant in the moment but now came rushing back like flashing warning signs she'd ignored. You'd gotten tired more easily, saying you needed to lie down after errands that wouldn't have phased you before. Jenna had chalked it up to stress or exhaustion, something manageable. You'd stopped joining her for long hikes, claiming your legs felt "off," though you'd never been specific about it.
And then there was the bruise. A vivid purple mark on your arm that you couldn't remember getting. She'd joked about you being clumsy, and you'd laughed along, but she remembered how quickly the color had darkened, how long it had taken to fade.
Her stomach churned at the realization that all of it—every small, seemingly disconnected thing—might have been connected. How hadn't she seen it before?
She gripped the edge of her chair tightly, her knuckles white as her mind spiraled further. When had you known? Were you already aware back then? Were you coughing while lying in her bed, pretending everything was fine, knowing it wasn't? Had you looked at her across the breakfast table, silently carrying the weight of something she couldn't even begin to fathom?
Her chest tightened, her breaths quick and shallow as the guilt crashed over her like a wave. If you had known, if you'd been dealing with this alone, why hadn't you told her? Why hadn't she noticed?
Every moment she hadn't pushed harder, hadn't questioned further, now felt like a failure. She should have seen it. She should have known. But she hadn't. She'd let you brush it off, just like she let you slip away when she ended things.
The thought that you might have been carrying this secret—this unbearable burden—during those final months together made her feel sick. It was unthinkable. She was unthinkable. Too wrapped up in her own emotions to see what had been happening right in front of her.
Her eyes burned, but she refused to cry, not here. Not now. She didn't deserve the release. All she could do was sit there, hands trembling, head spinning, replaying every moment that now screamed at her with a truth she hadn't wanted to see.
The guilt hit Jenna like a physical blow, a crushing weight that left her breathless. She had broken up with you. She had walked away from the one person she loved most in the world.
What if, in the moment she ended everything, claiming her work was too demanding, that she couldn't give you what you deserved, you had been silently carrying this? What if, while she was drowning in her own stress, you were drowning too—but in something far worse?
Her stomach twisted painfully, her chest hollowing out as the realization settled deeper. The words she'd said that night came rushing back to her. The look on your face, the way you'd nodded. She hadn't noticed it then, but there was something in your eyes—something heavy, resigned, like you weren't just letting her go but bracing yourself for something far bigger.
God, had you known? Had you sat there, holding that secret, letting her leave because you didn't want to make her stay out of pity? The thought made her stomach churn violently.
She pressed her palms against the table, needing something to ground her as her head spun. All those months.
Three months.
Ninety days she had spent convincing herself she was doing the right thing by focusing on her career, by staying away from you so you could move on. Ninety days where she'd justified her choice as selfless, when in reality, you had been the one suffering. Not her. Never her.
She broke up with you because she said she was "overwhelmed." That was the excuse she gave. She'd cried about deadlines, interviews, and sleepless nights while you—you—were fighting something that made all of that seem meaningless.
The shame was unbearable. It was suffocating. How could she have been so blind? So selfish?
The memory of your voice haunted her now, the way you'd tried to reassure her when she broke things off, even as you were clearly heartbroken. How had she missed it? The exhaustion in your tone, the fragility behind your words?
Her throat tightened, bile rising as she imagined what you must have felt—knowing you were sick, facing something unimaginable, and having the person you loved walk away from you. She had abandoned you. And for what? Because she claimed to be suffering from her workload? The idea made her want to scream.
Her hands trembled as she ran them through her hair, gripping tightly, as if that could stop the onslaught of guilt. She'd made you feel like you weren't enough when the truth was, she wasn't enough. She hadn't been strong enough to stay, to notice, to see you.
She wanted to believe you hadn't known back then, that you hadn't been aware of the cancer when she left. But even if you didn't, it didn't matter. Because you'd faced this alone. And now? Now it felt like she'd been gone at the very moment you needed her most.
The rest of the night was nothing like Jenna or Mila had envisioned. What was supposed to be a casual girl's night out—a break from the chaos of work and life—had turned into something suffocating, something heavy. Neither of them knew how to recover from the bomb that had just been dropped.
Mila seemed to be trying, though. She fiddled with her glass, attempting a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, occasionally throwing out a lighthearted comment about the music or the drinks. But her voice was thinner now, her movements stiffer, as though she wasn't sure if it was okay to pretend everything was normal.
Jenna didn't even try. She nodded when Mila spoke and murmured vague responses, but her mind was elsewhere. Her chest felt tight, her breath shallow, as if all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room. She couldn't focus on anything Mila said; her words blurred together, meaningless and distant, like background noise.
She kept fidgeting—picking at her nails, twisting her rings, pushing her drink away only to pull it back closer. Her legs bounced under the table, her body humming with restless energy that had nowhere to go. Every time Mila glanced at her, guilt flashed across her face, but Jenna couldn't bring herself to reassure her. She couldn't bring herself to do anything except sit there and try not to scream.
Her mind raced. Over and over, she replayed what Mila had said: "Y/N has cancer." The words felt like a brand, seared into her skull, impossible to escape. She wanted to text you, to call you, to demand answers—but what would she even say? Did you know how much she wanted to see you right now? Did you even want to see her?
It wasn't supposed to be like this. She was supposed to come here tonight to tell Mila about the breakup, to maybe cry a little and then laugh it off over a second drink. Instead, all she wanted was to go home. To be anywhere but here.
Her phone sat heavy in her bag, and she had to physically stop herself from reaching for it every other minute. What would she even say if you picked up? Would you pick up? The thought of hearing your voice again both thrilled and terrified her.
She wanted to know everything. When did it start? What type? How bad was it? Were you okay? Were you scared? Did you hate her for leaving you? The questions screamed in her head, louder and louder, until her temples throbbed.
Mila broke the silence with a forced laugh, trying again to steer the conversation to something normal, but even she gave up halfway through her sentence. She took another long sip from her drink, her gaze darting around the bar, clearly uncomfortable.
"I think I should head home," Jenna blurted, her voice cracking slightly.
Mila's eyes widened, and she nodded quickly, almost relieved. "Yeah, yeah, of course. Do you want me to come with you?"
"No," Jenna said too quickly, shaking her head. "I just—I need to..." She trailed off, unable to finish the thought. Mila didn't press her.
The walk out of the bar felt surreal. The music and chatter faded into a dull hum, her footsteps heavy against the floor. By the time she stepped outside, the cool night air hit her like a slap, but it did nothing to clear her head.
Jenna's hands were shaking as she unlocked her car. She slid into the driver's seat, closed the door, and just sat there. The keys dangled uselessly in her hand as she stared blankly at the steering wheel. She didn't cry. She couldn't. All she could think about was you.
She needed to see you. To hear your voice. To know the truth. But she didn't know if she had the right to reach out—not after everything. So she just sat there, torn between guilt and longing, until the weight of it all became unbearable.
The house was dark when Jenna got home, the only light spilling in from the streetlamp outside. She hadn't bothered to turn on the lights, her coat and bag left discarded by the door. The quiet was almost oppressive, the kind that made her chest feel even tighter. She kicked off her shoes and made her way to the couch, collapsing onto it without even bothering to take off her scarf.
Her phone burned in her pocket, but she didn't take it out right away. She sat there for a moment, staring blankly at the coffee table. The familiar space, usually comforting, now felt foreign. Nothing felt normal anymore—not the cushions under her, not the faint ticking of the clock on the wall, not even her own breathing.
She pulled her phone out with trembling hands, unlocking it and staring at the blank call screen. Your number was still there, at the top of her recent contacts, even though she hadn't called you in months. Her thumb hovered over your name. She didn't know what she was even going to say. Was it true? Why didn't you tell me? Why did I have to find out like this?
The first time she called, it rang once before she hung up. Her heart was pounding too hard, her stomach twisted into knots. She tried again, this time letting it ring through.
No answer.
The third call was the same, and by the time the voicemail picked up, Jenna was biting her lip so hard it nearly bled. She dropped the phone onto the couch cushion beside her, leaning back and covering her face with her hands.
You didn't want to talk to her. That had to be it. Why else wouldn't you pick up? She couldn't blame you. Not after what she'd done. But the thought of you sitting there, seeing her name light up on your screen and choosing to ignore it, made her stomach churn with guilt and dread.
She picked up the phone again, her fingers trembling as she opened the messaging app. What could she even say? How could she even begin to ask the question clawing at her throat?
She typed and deleted the message three times before finally settling on the only words she could muster.
is it true?
Her finger hovered over the send button for a moment, her chest heaving with shallow breaths. Then she hit send, tossing the phone onto the coffee table like it burned her.
The wait was excruciating. Every second stretched into eternity, her eyes glued to the screen even though no reply had come through. She didn't know what she'd do if you didn't answer.
But you did.
Her phone buzzed, and she snatched it up with both hands, her pulse thundering in her ears as she opened the message.
what are you talking about?
The words hit her like a wave of icy water. Jenna's stomach twisted, her heart lurching in her chest. Did you not know she knew? Or were you pretending not to know? Either way, the confirmation that she'd have to say more made her hands tremble even harder as she tried to think of how to respond.
Jenna stared at your reply, her mind spinning. What are you talking about? It was almost cruel how normal the words looked on the screen, like they hadn't just completely uprooted everything she thought she knew. Like they didn't force her to put her fears into words that she didn't even know how to face herself.
She started typing, then deleted it, her fingers trembling as they hovered over the keyboard. She couldn't write it. Writing it would make it real, and Jenna didn't know if she could handle that. The word alone carried too much weight, a weight she never imagined she'd have to face—not for you, not for anyone, and certainly not like this.
Her jaw clenched as she tried again, typing out the letters slowly, deliberately, as if each one could shatter the phone in her hands.
cancer
That was it. That was all she wrote because if it were true—if you really had cancer—you'd understand what she meant. She pressed send before she could overthink it, then stared at the screen, her heart pounding in her chest so hard she thought she might pass out.
The reply came quicker than she expected, but it didn't make it any easier.
yes
Jenna's stomach dropped as the world seemed to tilt around her. The room felt like it was spinning, but she couldn't move, couldn't breathe. Her thumb hovered over the keyboard, but for a moment, she couldn't even think. Then, another reply came through.
i'm sorry.
Her chest ached at those words. Sorry? Sorry for what? For being sick? For not telling her? For everything? Her fingers shook as she typed back, her mind racing with a thousand questions, none of which felt like they'd ever be enough.
why didn't you tell me?
The reply didn't come as quickly this time. Each passing second was agonizing, the silence feeling louder than it had any right to be. Jenna stared at her phone, her breathing shallow, her thoughts spiraling.
i was going to. but you made it clear we were done.
i didnt know how
Jenna dropped the phone onto her lap, her hands shaking so hard she couldn't hold it anymore. The words were a slap in the face, brutal in their honesty, and she couldn't even argue against them. You were right. She had been the one to leave. She had been the one to shut the door on you, and now you were sick—seriously sick—and she hadn't even known.
She picked up the phone again, staring at the screen as if it could somehow give her the answers she didn't have.
im so sorry, she typed, her thumbs trembling as she hit send. It was all she could think to say, but it felt hollow, inadequate.
The reply came a moment later.
me too.
Jenna stared at your last message, the words sinking deep into her chest like a weight she couldn't shift. Her heart pounded as her fingers hovered over the screen, uncertain, scared, and desperate all at once. She needed to know more—she had to know more.
She typed quickly, her breath catching in her throat.
where are you?
The reply came a moment later, and Jenna's stomach dropped as she read it.
at the hospital
The hospital? Jenna blinked at the screen, rereading the words as panic gripped her chest. Hospital. Why? Was it that serious? It couldn't be that serious, right? But why else would you be there? Her mind spun, racing through possibilities, each one worse than the last.
She gripped her phone tighter, her pulse roaring in her ears. Why hadn't you told her? Why hadn't you called or messaged her before it got to this point? And then it hit her—of course, you hadn't told her. She'd left you. She'd broken up with you and walked away.
Her head fell into her hand as guilt crashed over her again, harder this time. She had shut the door on you, and now you were in the hospital. Alone. How long had you been there? Days? Weeks? The thought made her feel sick.
Jenna's fingers shook as she typed, her desperation clear in every movement. She started the message and deleted it three times before finally forcing herself to just write the truth.
can i come see you? i really want to see you.
Her thumb hovered over the send button for a moment, her chest tightening. Was it too much? Too sudden? She wasn't sure if you'd even want to see her, but she couldn't stop herself from asking. She pressed send and let the phone fall to her lap, her heart racing as she stared at it, waiting for a reply that felt like it might never come.
Jenna's phone buzzed with your reply, and her stomach flipped as she read it.
visiting hours ended like 25 minutes ago.
She exhaled shakily, the weight of the evening pressing down harder. Of course, they had. She should've guessed, but that didn't stop the frustration and helplessness from clawing at her. She needed to see you. She couldn't wait another day knowing you were there, in the hospital, without her.
Her fingers flew across the screen, her desperation evident in the hasty, unpolished message.
can i come tomorrow?
ill come first thing in the morning
The response didn't come right away, and Jenna stared at her phone, her chest tightening. The seconds dragged, each one stretching endlessly. Finally, her screen lit up again.
if you want
they open at 8.
The simple reply stung more than she expected. It wasn't cold, but it wasn't warm either. It was neutral, distant—so unlike how things used to be between you. She hated that, hated how far apart you'd grown. And it was all her fault.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she typed again.
how are you?
The message felt inadequate, but she didn't know what else to say. She needed to know, even if she was terrified of the answer.
Your reply came quickly, short and to the point.
been better
Jenna's breath hitched, the two words slicing through her like a blade. She stared at the screen, her thoughts a jumble of guilt, worry, and overwhelming sadness. She wanted to ask more, to press for details, but her body was betraying her.
The alcohol, which had burned through her emotions like fuel all evening, was now taking its toll. Her eyelids grew heavier, her body sinking deeper into the couch. She typed out a half-formed message, her fingers sluggish and uncoordinated.
i really
The phone slipped from her hand as sleep overtook her, her mind still spinning with thoughts of you, the weight of everything crushing her even as unconsciousness claimed her.
The room was dark, quiet except for the soft hum of her breathing, but the tension in her face remained, even in sleep.
___
The next morning came far too quickly, the harsh light seeping through Jenna's curtains and forcing her awake. Her head throbbed with a relentless ache, and her mouth was dry, but none of it mattered. Her stomach twisted in a way that had nothing to do with her hangover as the events of last night flooded back into her mind.
She didn't linger in bed. She couldn't. The longer she stayed still, the more the anxiety clawed at her chest. Swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, she winced as the cold floor met her bare feet. She fumbled for the ibuprofen bottle on her nightstand, nearly knocking it over before popping two into her mouth and washing them down with a long gulp of water. The relief wouldn't come fast enough.
Jenna moved through her morning routine like a ghost. She grabbed a piece of toast but barely took two bites before tossing it aside. Her jeans were pulled on hastily, paired with a wrinkled hoodie she found draped over the chair in her room. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and paused, her reflection startling. Her hair was disheveled, her face pale and drawn. For a moment, she thought about fixing it, but the thought of wasting another minute when you were waiting...
Her hands shook as she pulled on her sneakers. Her heart raced, her mind spinning with a million thoughts, none of them coherent. All she knew was that she needed to see you. She needed answers, reassurance—proof that this was all a misunderstanding. You had to be okay.
The drive to the hospital was torturous. Every stoplight seemed longer than usual, every slow car ahead of her made her grip the steering wheel tighter. Her knuckles turned white as she stared straight ahead, her jaw clenched. She barely noticed the December chill in the air, her focus so singular it made the world blur around her.
When Jenna finally walked through the hospital doors, the sterile smell hit her immediately, sharp and unnerving. Her sneakers squeaked against the polished floor as she hurried to the reception desk. An older woman sat there, her glasses perched low on her nose, typing away on her keyboard. Her kind, weathered face didn't ease the tightness in Jenna's chest.
"I'm here to see Y/N Y/L/N," Jenna blurted, her voice tight and trembling. She leaned forward on the counter, her eyes wide and desperate.
The receptionist nodded, her fingers moving across the keyboard. Jenna watched every movement as if it held the answer to everything. She clutched her phone in her hand, her nails pressing into her palm. The seconds dragged, each one heavier than the last.
Then the woman's expression shifted. Her typing stopped, and she looked up at Jenna. The pity in her eyes made Jenna's stomach drop.
"Oh, honey..." The woman's voice was soft, careful, like she was afraid Jenna would shatter if she spoke too loud. "I'm so sorry. She passed earlier this morning. Around four o'clock.”
Jenna blinked, her breath caught in her throat. She didn't understand the words at first; they didn't make sense. Passed? Passed where? The realization hit her all at once, sharp and suffocating.
"No," she whispered, shaking her head. Her voice cracked, and she could feel the tears rising. "No, you're wrong. I-I talked to her last night. She was fine. She was—"
The receptionist leaned forward slightly, her voice softer now. "I'm so sorry, sweetheart. It happened very suddenly."
"No," Jenna said again, louder this time, though it came out more like a plea. Her legs felt weak, and her vision blurred as tears filled her eyes. She clutched the counter, trying to keep herself steady, but nothing felt solid anymore.
Her mind raced, flashes of you from the last time she saw you, the sound of your voice from last night, the messages—everything crashing into her all at once. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't think. You were supposed to be here. You were supposed to be waiting for her.
Jenna's knees nearly buckled, but she caught herself, stumbling back a step. She felt like she was falling, like the entire world was falling. You were gone. Gone before she could tell you how sorry she was. Before she could apologize for everything, for breaking up with you, for not seeing the signs, for not being there when you needed her the most.
She wanted to scream, cry, do anything to release the suffocating weight in her chest, but she couldn't move. Her tears spilled over, hot and unrelenting, as the receptionist gently asked if she needed someone to call. But Jenna barely heard her.
You were gone. You were really gone. And it was too late. Too late for all the things she wanted to say, all the things she should have said.
summary: tara feels like she knows you - your charm, busted ankle, and the desire to be the best. but, after attending mindy’s long-awaited student film festival, she realizes she barely knows what’s underneath the obsessed artist you are.
warnings: mature language, torn acl (rip)
word count: 6.1k
author’s note: not so sure about this chapter but here it is!
previous part | next chapter
——————
The second the front door clicks shut behind you, a collective exhale leaves your group like you've just disarmed a bomb. You all freeze for a second, waiting for some noise from inside — a thud, a groggy Sam scream, the unmistakable sound of Tara trying to use the blender at one in the morning.
Nothing.
Mindy silently throws her head back, arms raised to the sky like she's seen God. "Holy shit. I didn't think we were gonna make it."
"She kept saying her key was in her boot," Chad adds, wiping a line of sweat from his forehead. "She wasn't wearing boots."
"I'm still emotionally recovering from when she tried to kiss the doorknob goodnight," Anika says, tugging her oversized cardigan tighter around her shoulders as you all start heading back toward campus. The pavement is wet with leftover rain, glistening in the streetlights. The air smells like hot dog water, weed, and victory.
"She thought the doorknob was a person," Mindy corrects. "She said, and I quote: 'You've always seen me for who I really am.'"
You laugh — harder than you mean to — and your breath clouds up in the air in front of you. Everything feels a little surreal. Your ankle still aches from the game, your voice is half-gone from yelling, and there's a dried smear of Gatorade on your sweatshirt, but none of it matters.
Because you won. And Tara was there. Watching. She showed up to the party, drunk off her ass from frat-party vodka and looking at you like you'd hung the moon.
"Okay, but," Chad says, suddenly grinning. "She was kinda obsessed with you tonight."
You glance at him, playing dumb. "What?"
"Oh, don't 'what' me." He bumps your shoulder. "Every time you touched the ball, she gasped like she was watching a murder documentary. And when you hit that floater in OT? I swear to God, she grabbed my arm and whispered, 'That's my favorite play.'"
"She doesn't even know what a floater is," Mindy mutters.
"She knows now," Chad says, wiggling his eyebrows. "Because her hot jock crush did it."
"I don't have a—" you start, but Anika cuts you off, spinning around to walk backward in front of you.
"Oh please. She was basically wrapped around your shoulder the whole walk home. If she had been even one tequila shot more coherent, she would've proposed."
You shove your hands in your pockets and look down at the sidewalk, trying to hide the way your face is heating up. "She was drunk."
"Drunk minds, sober hearts," Mindy intones like it's gospel.
You roll your eyes, but it's no use. They've got you cornered, and they know it.
And maybe it's not just teasing. Maybe there's truth under it — in the way Tara had leaned against you like you were gravity, or how she'd looked at you with those sleepy brown eyes and whispered, "You smell like orange Gatorade. I think I love you." You'd laughed at the time, brushed it off like a joke.
But now? Now you're not so sure.
Your friends keep talking — Chad's going on about post-game waffles, Mindy and Anika are arguing over the ethics of shipping real people — but your mind stays back at that house, with that girl.
The night's cold, but you're buzzing.
And you're not sure if it's the win, or if it's her.
Your dorm is quiet. Everyone else is probably passed out — teammates drunk off cheap beer, fans still posting shaky game clips to Instagram. Your ankle's elevated, still sore from overtime. You've showered, iced, changed, but your brain hasn't shut off. Not with the win. Not with her. Not with the amount of alcohol you should've never touched an hour ago.
But you were used to this - your brain never quite shutting up. Celebratory parties had been a normal occurrence for the basketball team this past year with your sudden burst of talent. But nonetheless, it still hit you like a truck.
You're lying on your bed, one arm behind your head, scrolling through your camera roll — not looking for anything in particular, just avoiding sleep. You stop when you get to a photo someone AirDropped after the game. A blurry shot of you mid-jump shot.
And in the background — Tara. Sitting just a little too close to the court. Hands cupped around her mouth, eyes locked on you.
Your phone buzzes.
Tara Carpenter [2:11 AM]
question
if i showed up at your door right now
would you make me food
or would you kiss me
just wondering
Tara Carpenter [2:13 AM]
ignore that
tequila and shame
i'm gonna disappear now
You [2:14 AM]
depends
what kind of food
what kind of kiss
Tara Carpenter [2:15 AM]
food: grilled cheese
kiss: the kind that makes people sit down after
You [2:15 AM]
damn
you're aiming high for 2am and no warning
Tara Carpenter [2:16 AM]
you played good tnn
i'm vulnerable
Tara Carpenter [2:16 AM]
and you won the game
and looked stupuudly hot doing it
so maybe this is your fault actually
You don't respond right away. You're reading every word like it's written in code, like she's going to take it back the second you answer wrong.
Then:
You [2:19 AM]
i'd let you in
grilled cheese first
kiss second
then you can pretend it never happened in the morning if that makes it easier
There's a pause. You stare at the message. Your heart is a little louder now.
Then:
Tara Carpenter [2:22 AM]
i wouldn't want to forget
just wouldn't know what to do after
That one stays on your screen for a long time.
You don't move.
You reread it five times.
Then you type:
You [2:25 AM]
maybe don't think about the after yet
just think about the now
and the fact that i want you here
Typing... Then:
Tara Carpenter [2:26 AM]
that makes two of us
fuck
goodnight
And that's it.
No emoji. No follow-up. No jokes to soften the edge.
Just honesty. Brief and blazing.
And now you're just lying there, heart pounding, wide awake at 2:30 AM — smiling like a fucking idiot.
⸻
Tara Carpenter is ninety percent sure she died last night and this is purgatory.
She's seated on the lowest step of the auditorium stage, hunched forward in a hoodie she stole from Mindy three months ago and never gave back. Her hair is pulled into the kind of messy claw clip arrangement that says I've given up, and her sunglasses are oversized, crooked, and doing a barely adequate job shielding her from the blazing overhead lights Mindy insisted on turning to "full stadium brightness."
The room is a disaster: folding chairs half-unstacked, extension cords snaking across the floor like live wires, glitter already stuck to Tara's socks. There's a faint buzzing from the AV booth that's threatening to break her last functioning brain cell in half. And through all of it, Mindy is marching around the room like a caffeinated auteur on the verge of a nervous breakthrough.
"Can someone explain to me why the projector screen is hung at a 73-degree angle?" Mindy calls, pointing dramatically at the ceiling like she's directing Inception. "I said cinematic, not asymmetrical trauma!"
"Those are the same thing," Tara mutters from her corner.
"I heard that!"
Tara slumps further into herself and presses her forehead to her knees. She is not built for this. She is built for drinking four and a half tequila shots, dancing to Rihanna, sending risky texts at 2 a.m., and then disappearing for a full 24 hours. Not public service. Not ladders and paper lanterns and Mindy yelling things like "non-linear aesthetics."
"You good down there, T?" Chad asks from a few feet away, where he's unraveling yet another string of tangled fairy lights with all the enthusiasm of a man serving time.
"I'm thriving," she mumbles, deadpan.
"I think I saw your soul leave your body ten minutes ago," Anika adds, stepping over an extension cord with a roll of black gaffer tape in one hand and an iced chai in the other.
Tara lifts one middle finger, then rests her head back on her knees.
And then—
The doors open.
They creak a little too loudly, and Tara winces like a vampire mid-sunrise. But when she lifts her head and looks toward the light, the glare fades — and there you are.
Hoodie on. Sweatpants. That familiar confident walk that says you definitely slept in. And in your hand: a brown paper bag, slightly grease-stained, clutched like a talisman. You scan the chaos, zero in on her like a heat-seeking missile, and start walking.
Tara's stomach flips.
It's you. With food. And a smile she absolutely does not trust.
She immediately looks away. Bites the inside of her cheek. Tries very hard to pretend she didn't send a string of late-night texts about kissing you and sandwiches — in that order — and then double texted. It's fine. You probably didn't read them. You probably forgot.
But then you're right in front of her.
"Morning, Princess of Darkness."
She peers up at you over the rim of her sunglasses. "Are you here to help or just to mock me?"
"I brought you breakfast." You shake the paper bag like it's a peace treaty. "Which technically makes me a hero."
She stares at it, suspicious. "What is it?"
"Grilled cheese. Fresh off the griddle. Or, like... fresh-ish. I stole it from a freshman who looked like he might cry if I made eye contact."
She sighs. "You are so full of shit."
"And cheddar," you say, winking. "Come on. I figured you were still deciding between kissing me or eating, and I didn't want to make you choose on an empty stomach."
Tara turns fully toward you, pulling her sunglasses down to the tip of her nose like a judgmental librarian.
"So you read the texts."
You grin. "Printed them out. Had them laminated. Gonna hand them out at the next team dinner."
She narrows her eyes. "I hate you."
"But," you say, crouching beside her and placing the bag in her lap, "you're also currently accepting my grilled cheese."
She opens the bag with caution, like it might bite her. The sandwich is slightly flattened, a little too crispy on one side, but it smells amazing. She takes a bite before she can stop herself and immediately closes her eyes.
You watch her chew with a smirk.
"See? Better than your drunk imagination."
"I was imagining more cheese," she says flatly. "But this is... acceptable."
You fall back onto the floor beside her with a satisfied sigh, arms behind your head. "I bring you comfort food and witty banter and you still insult me. Incredible."
Tara glances sideways at you. Her voice softens just a touch. "You didn't have to bring anything."
"I know," you say, looking up at the ceiling. "But I wanted to."
There's a beat. Her fingers tighten around the sandwich.
Across the room, Mindy is shrieking about someone using duct tape on the "vintage projection screen," and Chad is pretending to care. But here, in this little corner of the chaos, it's just you and Tara — her hoodie sleeves too long, your shoulder brushing hers, the ghost of last night's texts still hanging between you.
She nudges your arm with her elbow. "If I was drunk when I said I wanted to kiss you, does that mean you're gonna hold it against me forever?"
You glance at her. "Nope."
"Really?"
You smile.
"I'm gonna hold it against you now. You know. Just in case you want to say it again — sober."
She stares at you. Eyes sharp. Mouth twitching.
Then she takes another bite.
"Shut up and eat your own grilled cheese," she mutters.
"You didn't bring me one."
She leans back against the stage with a sigh and tosses you a crust. "Sucks to suck."
An hour later, lights are strung, the banner's (slightly crooked) but finally up. Chad's been gone for at least forty minutes, Mindy's yelling about lens ratios from behind a stack of folding chairs, and Tara — uh, well — Tara is sitting at the edge of the stage again, legs dangling, your half-eaten grilled cheese in one hand, the other tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear. Her sunglasses are finally off. Her eyes are tired but clear now — and every time they glance at you, it's like the rest of the room fades.
You're standing just a few feet from her, tangled lights still wrapped loosely around your arm, pretending not to notice how she's watching you. Like you didn't spend the night texting each other things that neither of you have acknowledged since.
She licks a bit of melted cheese off her thumb and mumbles, "This is terrible, by the way.
You smirk. "And yet you're still eating it."
"I'm fragile and easily manipulated by carbs."
You walk over, gently toss the rest of the tangled lights onto a plastic chair, and say, "I'll keep that in mind next time I bribe you."
She hums. "Next time? Oh, you wanna hang out with me more, Varsity?"
You freeze for a second. You weren't expecting that, you never do whenever she calls you a stupid nickname. But then your phone buzzes in your pocket. You pull it out.
You feel the shift before you even check the time.
It's subtle — a change in the way your heartbeat settles, the way the lights on stage suddenly feel too bright, the way your chest starts to tighten like something's wrong.
1:06 PM.
Shit.
The press junket started at 1.
You were supposed to be there fifteen minutes early. Hair neat. Posture perfect. Answers locked and loaded — the same way you've been doing since you were fifteen, since the day they threw you in front of a local news camera after your first 30-point game and said, "Smile like that again, kid, and you'll get a full ride."
You've been smiling ever since.
You were the one who never broke routine. The one who never flinched. Early to every team meeting. First out on the court. Face of the program. Captain. Role model. The "serious one." You didn't have time to mess around. Didn't give anyone room to doubt you — not your coaches, not your family, not the girl who said once, "You never shut off, do you?"
But now?
You're in a dim auditorium filled with tangled fairy lights, folding chairs, and a last minute Postmates half-eaten grilled cheese cooling in a paper bag next to Tara Carpenter.
She's sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of you, hair up in a loose clip, hoodie sleeves swallowed over her hands. There's a streak of red marker on her wrist from the banner she was working on earlier, and she's squinting up at the projector screen like she actually cares if it's perfectly centered.
You were supposed to stop by. Just for a second. Mindy asked for help. You said sure.
But really — it wasn't about the projector. It was never about the projector.
You wanted to see her.
Tara, who hasn't brought up your late-night texts.
Tara, who took the grilled cheese without flinching.
Tara, who hasn't stopped looking at you like she knows you're off your game, but hasn't said a word.
You tear your eyes away from her, throat dry.
"I have to go," you say, already backing up. Your voice comes out tight. "I'm—I'm so late."
Tara looks up, blinking like she just realized you were still here. "What?"
"Press. I was supposed to be at media by 11:40."
Her brows raise. "You're over an hour late?"
You grab your bag. "I lost track."
"Since when do you lose track?"
The words sting more than they should. You offer a tight smile. "Guess I'm slipping."
She watches you. Doesn't say anything. Just picks at the corner of the sandwich bag.
"I'll see you later?" you ask.
She shrugs. "You know where to find me."
That one hits low.
You don't say anything else. You turn, push the auditorium door open, and walk out into the light. Your heart's in your throat. Your legs feel heavier with every step.
For the first time in months, you feel like you're walking into something unprepared.
⸻
You don't see her at first.
You're running — not sprinting anymore, but that focused, panicked jog that says you know you're already late. Your legs ache. Sweat's pooling between your shoulder blades. Your chest is tight, but not from exertion. It's the shame. The spiral.
You shouldn't have stayed at the auditorium that long.
You shouldn't have forgotten what time it was.
You shouldn't have let her get to you like that.
And then you round the corner — cut behind the old campus bookstore — and she's there. Like a trap you didn't see until it was too late.
Leaning against the back of the brick wall like she's exactly where she was always meant to be. Hoodie unzipped. Leg up on the wall. A crutch tucked under her arm. Messy curls. Faded knee brace visible just under the hem of her biker shorts. And eyes locked on you before you can even process what's happening.
Riley.
You stop short.
Your breath catches. Your heart — already sprinting — stumbles in your chest.
She hasn't changed.
Still has that smirk that dares you to do something reckless. Still wearing her hoodie like armor, sleeves shoved up to her elbows. Still chewing gum like she owns the sidewalk.
"You're late," she says, voice cool and unbothered.
You blink. "Riley."
"I heard you dropped forty last night," she adds, straightening slightly. "Big win. Real press-junket shit."
"I have to be there now," you say, already trying to step past her. "I can't—"
She moves just a little. Not blocking your path. But not exactly making it easy, either. "I'm not gonna keep you," she says. "Just thought it was funny. Watching you run like that."
You don't answer.
She cocks her head. "You always used to walk. Strutted like you didn't owe anyone anything."
"That was a long time ago."
"One year," she says. "Not that long."
You glance at your watch. Time slipping like sand.
"I can't do this," you mutter.
Riley exhales a laugh — sharp and low. "Why? 'Cause it's not part of your little routine? Wake up. Stretch. Get coached. Smile for the cameras. Pretend the game still matters."
Your jaw tightens. "It does matter."
"To who?" She steps in, voice low now, less mocking — more real. "You used to play with teeth. You remember that? You'd claw for the ball like it owed you rent. Elbows out. Head down. Angry. Mean. Beautiful."
You look away.
"I remember," she says. "You were fire back then. You played like the world hurt you and you were gonna hurt it back."
"I had to."
"No, you wanted to. That's what made you better than everyone else."
She's closer now. You can smell her — vanilla and sweat and old gym floors. You remember late nights in the rec center, the sound of rubber on concrete, her laugh echoing off empty bleachers. You remember splitting a pack of Sour Straws and a warm water bottle between you and calling it dinner. She was your best friend - your role model in the sport of basketball, but since her injury the two of you had never been the same.
You took her spot as the best player on the court and she hated you for it.
"You've gone soft," she says.
You flinch.
She nods toward your chest. "Press junkets. Gatorade deals. You used to burn. Now you just, kind of… float."
"I've changed."
"Yeah. You have." She says it like a compliment. But it feels like an insult.
Your voice is small when you say, "That's a good thing."
Riley looks at you — really looks at you — and for a second, there's no smile.
Just honesty.
"You don't even look like you believe that."
You inhale sharply. Stare past her. Focus on the double doors to the athletic center. Focus on anything but the guilt blooming behind your ribs.
"I have to go," you say.
She steps back, slow, letting you pass.
"You always do."
You're already walking away when she calls out behind you. "Hey. You were more dangerous when you were angry. Now? You're just trying to be liked. Hope that works out for you."
You keep moving. You don't look back.
But something in you flickers.
Something old.
Something red and hot and loud.
You tell yourself you're better now.
You tell yourself she's wrong.
But God, it would feel good to play like that again.
You shove the door open to the athletic wing and instantly feel it — the shift in temperature, the sterile fluorescent light, the silence that isn't really silent.
The press room is just down the hall, past the trophy case and the wall of grainy team photos. You can hear muffled voices inside, the tap of a mic being adjusted, someone clearing their throat. And standing just outside the door, back to you, arms crossed so tight his biceps strain against his quarter-zip?
Coach Ryan.
He turns before you can even open your mouth. "You wanna explain to me what the hell this is?"
You freeze.
He walks toward you in three long strides, and suddenly he's too close — the way he gets when he's really mad. That sharp cologne. The clipboard clutched in his hand like it's the only thing keeping him from throwing something.
"I gave you one job. One. Show up. Look sharp. Represent this team."
"Coach, I—"
"You're over an hour late," he snaps. "An hour. Do you know how bad that looks?"
"I was—"
"Don't say film club," he growls. "Don't give me that bullshit again."
You clamp your mouth shut.
"You think you're untouchable because you dropped forty last night? You think that means you get to roll in here whenever you want, looking like you just crawled out of bed?"
Your jaw clenches. "It wasn't like that."
He jabs a finger at your chest. "Then tell me what it was like."
You open your mouth. Close it again.
You can't say Riley's name. You won't say Mindy’s.
So you lie. "It was tutoring."
Coach stares at you.
His voice goes quiet — which is worse. So much worse. "Don't test me."
You look away.
"I stuck my neck out for you," he says, still low. "Told them you were the future of this program. Told them you were a leader. You're lucky your teammate's been covering your ass in there. You're lucky the press is obsessed with you right now. But that shine fades fast, kid."
Silence.
Then: "You think you're focused, but I see it. You're slipping. Just enough. Just enough for someone to start wondering if you're worth betting on."
That one lands. You feel it deep. In your chest. In your stomach. In your legs.
You finally meet his eyes. "I'm still locked in."
Coach steps closer.
"Then prove it. Get in there. Own the room. And stop letting whatever—whoever—is pulling your focus drag you off the court."
You nod, stiff. "Yes, sir."
He doesn't step aside. Not yet.
"You screw this up again?" he says, voice deadly quiet. "You're not starting next week. I don't care how many points you drop. I need consistency. Not drama."
You swallow hard. "I understand."
Finally, he moves.
You walk past him toward the press room, trying not to feel how heavy your feet are. You swipe your hoodie sleeve across your forehead. You adjust your posture. You smooth out your face.
By the time you open that door, you're someone else. Smile tight. Shoulders straight. Answers ready.
But in the back of your mind, Riley's still there.
And Coach's words echo louder than the flash of any camera.
"You're slipping."
⸻
The lighting is low and warm, the air smelling like popcorn, eucalyptus body spray, and a flicker of something sweet from the nearby snack table — maybe pink lemonade punch or store-brand cupcakes with too much frosting. Fairy lights zigzag across the ceiling, flickering slightly, and someone's pressed a red filter over the projector so the entire room glows faintly like an afterparty no one invited you to — but everyone showed up for anyway.
And then there's you.
Not overdressed. Not showy. But the kind of unintentionally perfect that turns heads anyway. You're wearing a soft white tank-top over your favorite push-up bra — too much, in your mind, actually — right above your loose jeans. Your jacket is cropped, dark green, slightly faded at the collar, the kind you've worn to death and still get complimented on. Hair half-up with a claw clip, a few strands falling in that soft, face-framing way. Lip balm. Gold necklace layered with a team pendant. Nails painted — chipped, but still pretty.
You enter with your team behind you — your teammates trailing like a tide. All chaos and all clearly dragged here against their will.
Zoey, in bike shorts and a "Property of Women's Basketball" hoodie, is yawning dramatically while balancing a snack plate in one hand and a Gatorade in the other. Tasha, always dramatic, has a silk headscarf and a matching mini-purse slung over her shoulder, even though she's wearing sweats. Naomi, queen of judgment, is already critiquing the zine like it's a Yelp review. "Why are there six films about grief and none about revenge? Film kids are so unserious."
You settle into the back row with them, dropping into the middle seat like a queen returning to her court. You tug your jacket sleeves over your hands and glance forward —
— and you finally see her for the first time since the morning.
Fourth row. Burgundy dress with a slouchy knit cardigan thrown over it now, sleeves pushed up. She looks the opposite of death - a contrast of how exhausted she looked that morning. Her boots are laced all the way, but one sock is slightly rolled. Her hair's up, her gloss is fresh, and she's surrounded: Mindy, pacing like a tiny director; Anika, lounging with a lollipop in her mouth. They look like a perfectly styled trio of indie film festival royalty.
Tara hasn't looked back.
But her shoulders tense when you laugh.
And when your teammates loudly drop into their seats behind her row, exchanging gum and talking way too loudly about how "the girl in that poster kinda looks like you," she adjusts her cardigan like she's trying to focus. Like something is under her skin.
You lean toward Zoey and take a sip of her drink without asking. "You think anyone here knows what a pick and roll is?" you whisper.
Zoey scoffs. "No. But they definitely know what sexual repression looks like. And I think you're the cause."
You huff out a laugh — but your eyes flick back toward Tara.
She still hasn't turned around.
But she knows.
You're here. You're watching.
And she's wearing that dress like it's armor now.
Mindy taps the mic at the front, the room buzzing low with whispers and last-minute texts. "Welcome to REEL LOVE, a night of short films, long feelings, and no budget," Mindy deadpans. "Please don't leave during the one that's silent and sad. It's about grief, and also bees.”
Laughter rolls through the room. You smile without meaning to.
The lights dim. The screen flickers. A lo-fi opening title card appears. And as you shift in your seat, tugging your jacket a little tighter, you swear Tara glances over her shoulder.
Just once.
Long enough to see you.
Long enough to know she's not winning tonight.
Not when you look like that.
Not when you don't care if she looks or not.
⸻
Tara Carpenter is not the type to overdress.
But the maroon dress isn't overdressed — it's calculated. Soft velvet, subtle square neckline, sleeves that hug her wrists. Her hair's up, gold clip catching under the theater lights every time she leans in to whisper something to Anika. The kind of outfit that says: I came to support my friends. I came to look hot doing it.
And maybe — maybe — she came to see if you'd say something.
You're two rows back, stretched out with your teammates like you own the row. Laughing too loud. Throwing popcorn at each other. Every time the light from the screen flickers just right, she swears you're looking at her.
The festival's going well. Mindy's lineup is tight. The shorts are weird, sharp, short enough to keep the crowd from shifting in their seats. Everyone's relaxed. Comfortable. Tara even laughs once — really laughs — when a claymation character swan-dives into a bowl of tomato soup.
She leans in toward Anika, "I need to pee. Save my seat."
Anika nods without looking.
Tara stands, smooths her skirt, and slips into the glowing aisle light.
The hallway outside is jarringly bright. Stark white. Cold tile floors. The overhead lights buzz faintly — the kind of artificial hum that makes you feel like you're waiting for something to go wrong.
Tara rolls her shoulders back, stretching out the tension from sitting. She glances toward the restroom, already halfway there, when she hears them.
Two girls.
Standing by the water fountain, dressed in layered thrift-store cardigans and vintage skirts that scream effortless film major. One of them is fiddling with a camcorder keychain. The other's reapplying clear gloss, talking with the ease of someone who always assumes she's being listened to.
"I saw Riley last night at the club off Main Street and now I see Y/N tonight? Such a small world, to be honest. But, I still can't believe Y/N just walks around like nothing happened."
"Right? Like, full smile, no guilt, just... laughing with her little team."
"It's so insane. Everyone knows she's the reason Riley doesn't even go here anymore."
Tara slows mid-step.
Her brow furrows.
“She didn't break her knee, obviously, but she made sure that spot stayed closed, you know? Riley tried to come back."
"Yeah, and Coach just 'couldn't make room' Please."
"Exactly. And now she's all over Mindy and Tara like she's some reformed jock lesbian with a Letterboxd account."
“She’s totally trying to date Tara.” The girl with the lipgloss snickers, “I heard she asked Carpenter to tutor her.. classic athlete stereotype.”
Laughter.
The mean kind. Shiny and sharp and fast.
"Honestly, I give her a month. Tops. She'll ghost both of them, she’ll stop acting dumb in school and date a junior in a varsity jacket who thinks Carol is a foreign film."
"Tara's so smart. Like, how does she even fall for that?"
"Because she thinks she's different around her. They always think that."
Tara goes still. Fully still.
Not angry.
Not shocked.
Just — hit.
Like someone tossed cold water at her chest, and now she's trying not to react. The voices around the corner don't lower. They're not trying to be quiet. They're trying to be right.
She stares ahead at the wall, blank. Posters curl at the edges. Someone's missing cat flyer flutters in the AC vent breeze and for the first time tonight — maybe the first time since you showed up in her world with that lopsided smile and quiet confidence — Tara thinks:
Who are you? Like… actually?
Because yeah, you bring her grilled cheese when she's too hungover to move. You show up to study sessions half-asleep but still remember the exact timestamp of the scene she couldn't stop analyzing. You lean into her space like it belongs to you, throw her looks across the quad that make her forget how to breathe. You flirt like it's your first language, but every now and then — every rare now and then — it softens into something that feels like maybe you mean it.
And maybe she started to believe it.
But you also have this whole other version of yourself tucked away like it doesn't exist — a version she's only just starting to glimpse through whispers and side-eyes and conversations she wasn't supposed to hear. A version that makes her realize how much you've chosen to keep from her.
Not lies.
Just... silence.
That's almost worse.
Because now she's re-running everything. The study sessions. The walks home. The near-moments that could've been something more if either of you were better at being honest.
And she realizes:
She doesn't really know you.
She knows about you. The things you let people see, the cool detachment. The jokes that always come before sincerity, the way you brush off compliments like they're nothing but flinch when someone says your name with real weight. She knows you're good at math, that your coach rides you harder than anyone else on the team, that your teammates trust you but don't really get you.
She knows your dad's a sore spot. She knows there's something buried there — something bitter and sharp — but you've never said a word. She's guessed at it, sure. She's pieced things together from the way your face hardens when family gets mentioned, from the times you go quiet after a win, like celebration doesn't feel safe.
She knows. But not because you told her.
Because she watched.
Because she paid attention.
Because she wanted to understand you without you ever asking her to.
And maybe... maybe that was the problem.
Because Tara does the same thing.
She hides behind precision. Behind snark and sarcasm and perfect eyeliner. She controls her space — her image — like it's armor. And the worst part? She thought maybe you understood that. She thought maybe that's why this thing between you felt different. That you saw each other's closed doors and knocked gently instead of barging through.
But tonight — hearing people talk about you like they know you — Tara realizes something gutting: She doesn't know if you'd ever open the door at all.
And it's not that she thinks you're cruel. Or calculated. Or cold.
It's that maybe you're just like her.
Too used to surviving to let anyone all the way in.
And that terrifies her. Because if she was letting herself hope — if she thought this meant something — then what does that say about her, falling for someone who never promised anything real?
She thought the flirting had weight. She thought the silence between jokes mattered.
She thought maybe you were waiting, like she was.
But maybe you were just good at pretending.
And she was just easy to believe it.
She walks back into the auditorium quietly. Shoulders straight. Dress clinging just enough to feel present.
She takes her seat next to Anika.
Doesn't look back.
Doesn't lean sideways.
Doesn't laugh when your teammates burst out giggling during the next short's credits.
She crosses her arms. Picks at her thumbnail. Tries to focus on the screen.
But your laugh carries.
And suddenly, it sounds a little different.
————
second author’s note: this was written at 4am no proofread so bare w me
SUMMARY: Tara comes to your basketball game after you pass the most recent Film 101 test and you don’t expect the feelings you feel when you see her in the crowd cheering for you. You also didn’t expect your night to turn into an Ocean’s 8 reboot while trying to get “Drunk Tara” back into her own apartment.
WARNINGS: underage drinking, daddy issues
WORD COUNT: 4.1k
AUTHOR’S NOTE: send requests i’m bored
previous | next chapter
——————————
The gym is electric, humming with pre-game adrenaline and the sticky throb of too many bodies in one space. Air conditioning exists only in theory; the overhead lights radiate down like they're trying to cook everyone alive. The floor already glistens with condensation before the first whistle.
You're bent over at the waist near the scorers' table, sweat already lining your spine and pooling in the crease behind your knee. Your taped ankle pulses—tight, reliable pain. It's fine. You've played through worse. You stretch, pull your hoodie over your head, and shake out your arms.
Then you look up.
She's here.
Tara Carpenter. Second row, dead center. She's not front row—she said she wouldn't do front row—but she's close enough to see the way your jersey clings to your back. Close enough to hear your sneakers squeak across the court.
She's in a black ribbed tank and low-rise jeans, hair half-up and loose, strands sticking slightly to her cheeks from the heat. She's leaned forward, elbows braced on her knees, lips parted just slightly. There's a red Gatorade tucked between her feet like it's waiting to be handed off.
She doesn't wave. Doesn't smile.
She just watches.
"Eyes up, killer," Chad says as he jogs past you behind the scorer’s table, grinning like he's about to say something deeply inappropriate. "The professor showed."
You roll your eyes and jog back to the line-up. Tara's not your professor. She's your film studies tutor. Who sometimes brings you coffee and sometimes rolls her eyes when you flirt. Who told you, dead serious, that if you passed the test last week she'd consider coming to a game. And now she's here. With the Gatorade. Watching.
The ball goes up.
You don't get the tip, but you get the first steal.
Banks—number 5—telegraphs a lazy pass and you pick it, quick hands and quicker feet, and take it coast to coast. Easy two off the glass.
The bench is already shouting.
Your team runs motion and you're slicing through defenders, ghosting left and exploding right. You hit a pull-up jumper from the elbow. Then a deep three from the wing. Then another. You're finding seams where there are none.
Eight. Ten. Fifteen. By the end of the first quarter, you've dropped seventeen.
The gym smells like wood polish and sweat and something sweeter—the syrupy bite of Gatorade opened in warm hands. You glance at her once. Just once.
Tara hasn't touched the bottle. The crowd groans as someone misses a layup.
She's leaned back now, arms crossed. Her face is unreadable, but her foot is tapping. She's in it. You know that rhythm. It's how she tapped during your last study session, during a scene in The Babadook she couldn't look away from.
Mindy's beside her, shouting stats. Anika's filming. Chad's across the court pretending to be your hype man. He's yelling your name like he's your agent.
"She's gonna drop forty!" he calls at the start of the second. "Y'all better call SportsCenter!"
Tara doesn't react. But her eyes never leave you.
Then it happens.
You pivot off a screen, plant your foot wrong. Your ankle gives—not fully, not enough to fall, but enough that you feel the twinge. You bite down hard and keep going, but the limp shows in your next step.
Banks notices. Smirks.
"Uh oh," she says. "Little glass foot."
You say nothing.
You score twice more.
Twenty-four.
The crowd is a body of its own now—roaring, pulsing, reacting to every touch. It moves like breath. Every time you hit the floor, someone screams your name.
But there's a cold knot somewhere in your chest. And it tightens when you catch a glimpse—just beyond the student section, seated three rows up, expression locked in place like it's carved into stone.
Your father.
He's dressed like he came from work—suit jacket folded over one leg, tie loosened. He sits with his elbows on his knees, watching like a scout, like a coach. Not like a parent.
No smile. No reaction.
You feel it in your teeth.
By halftime, you've scored 28. You limp toward the tunnel, ignoring the trainer trying to catch your eye. The locker room is a blur of shouts, water bottles, and sweat-drenched towels. You sit. Untape your ankle. Retape it tighter.
You think about quitting. For half a second. But you can't. Not tonight. Not when he's here. Not when she is.
Back on the court, the heat feels worse. Like the building's gotten angrier. But you don't slow down.
Thirty. Then thirty-four.
The defense tightens. You take a shoulder to the ribs. No call. Banks clips you going up for a layup and laughs on the way down.
Mindy's standing now, cupping her hands around her mouth. "Ref! What's your job, babe?!"
Tara's not smiling. Her jaw's tight. Her hands are clenched in her lap. That red bottle has moved to the edge of her seat.
You miss your next shot.
Then—next possession—Banks hits you hard. Deliberate. You hit the floor. The gym gasps.
You hear Chad yell, "Hands! She's all hands!"
Mindy: "Deck her, babe! We won't tell!"
You press a palm to the court and push yourself up. The pain flares. Your ankle screams. But you get up.
The crowd rises with you.
Tara rises, too. Slowly. Her brows knit. The look on her face isn't exactly worry. It's closer to rage.
You keep playing.
Fourth quarter. Final minutes. You're at 39.
Down two. The gym is vibrating. The bench is up. Students are on their feet.
You fake right, step back left, and shoot.
It arcs.
Time stalls.
Swish.
Forty-two.
You barely hear the buzzer. The bodies crashing into you. The coach clapping your back. Chad screaming like he's at a wedding. Mindy waving a towel like it's a flag of surrender. Anika already filming your sweaty face in case it goes viral.
Your chest is heaving. Your ankle's on fire.
And she's still there.
Tara Carpenter, second row. Standing now. The Gatorade open, finally, in her hand. Her bangs are damp. Her face is unreadable.
But this time—when you meet her eyes?
She smiles.
Barely. But it's there.
You limp to the sideline. One of your teammates passes you a towel, but you brush them off. You keep your eyes on her.
Tara doesn't say anything. Doesn't wave. She just takes a slow sip from the bottle and watches you like the whole court still belongs to you.
And maybe, just maybe—you believe it.
⸻
The hallway outside the locker room was colder than the gym, but not by much. The walls were that pale institutional yellow that made everything feel a little sick. Rubber soles squeaked on the tile as players came and went in bursts—laughing, shouting, dragging gym bags over one shoulder and reeking of adrenaline and deodorant and sweat.
You moved slower than the rest.
Towel around your neck, jersey damp and clinging to your ribs, hair sticking to your temple, ankle burning with each step like someone had poured something molten into the joint. You should've been sitting. You should've been icing. You should've been letting the trainer tape you up again, but your eyes weren't on the locker room door anymore.
They were locked on the girl leaning against the cinderblock wall across the hall.
Tara Carpenter. Arms crossed. One foot pressed back against the brick like she wasn't planning on staying. Red Gatorade in one hand, label torn halfway off, condensation slicking her fingers. She had her head tilted just slightly, like she was still trying to decide if she'd made the right choice coming.
The hallway lighting did her no favors, but she still looked good in that infuriating way she always did—black tank clinging to her ribs, jeans low on her hips, hair half-up and loose from the heat of the gym. Her small braid had half fallen out, wavy strands curling at her cheekbones. Her expression was unreadable. Or at least, it would've been to anyone else.
But you knew better now.
You hobbled your way toward her.
Slow. Slight limp. Every nerve still buzzing. Not from pain. From her.
She didn't look up at first. Pretended not to notice. Pretended she wasn't watching you limp your way toward her like you hadn't just broken your body on a hardwood floor for 42 points and a maybe.
When you were only a few feet away, she finally glanced up. The corner of her mouth tugged upward, just slightly. Just enough to hurt.
"I didn't think you'd actually come," you said, breath catching a little from the lingering burn in your chest.
"I told you. If you passed the test, I'd consider it." Her voice was cool. Even. Like she hadn't spent the entire game on the edge of her seat. "I didn't say anything about staying."
"You stayed."
"I was waiting for it to be over."
"Forty-two's a long wait."
Tara's eyes flicked down to your ankle, then back up. "And what'd that cost you? Half a foot?"
You grinned, sweat still beading down your neck. "Most of one, yeah."
She held out the Gatorade like she was offering you a settlement. Her fingers brushed yours again when you took it—cool plastic against your overheated palm. You didn't drink it yet. You just held it between you.
You searched her face for something. Warmth? Relief? Maybe even a sliver of pride?
But she just looked at you like she was trying to hide something behind all that silence.
"You looked pissed," you said. "Third quarter. You stood up."
"I looked annoyed."
"You stood up, Carpenter. Don't try and spin that."
Her arms crossed tighter over her chest. "You were being dramatic."
"She elbowed me in the ribs."
"You've played through worse."
"You remember that?" you asked, your voice softer now. "You remembered I've played through worse?"
Tara didn't answer. Her jaw flexed. Her eyes dropped to your lips for a second and then darted away.
Inside the locker room, someone slammed a locker shut and shouted your name. Chad's voice rang out next from down the hall before Mindy slapped his chest to shut up, "Are we going or what, MVP?! There's literally jungle juice calling your name!"
You didn't take your eyes off her.
"You going to the party?" she asked.
Her tone was casual. But her eyes weren't.
You took a long sip of the Gatorade. It was warm now. But still sweet.
"I wasn't gonna," you said, "but if you're gonna be there..."
"I didn't say I was going."
"You didn't say no."
Tara tilted her head, mouth curling into something half-cocky, half-intrigued. "I've been to your parties before. It's loud. It smells like sweat and spilled vodka."
"I smell like sweat and spilled vodka," you offered.
She gave you a once-over. "You smell like painkillers and ego."
You laughed. It hurt, but it was worth it. She was close now. Closer than she'd been in weeks. And the weight of her stare made your skin hum.
You leaned forward slightly, voice low. "You could just say it."
"Say what?"
"That you're proud of me."
Tara rolled her eyes so hard it looked like it physically hurt her. But the flush in her cheeks gave her away.
"I didn't say I wasn't," she murmured.
The hallway quieted for a moment. Just the two of you and the buzz of the lights and your teammates yelling inside. You watched her watch you. Her eyes traced the curve of your shoulder, the red mark on your chin from the fall, the way you were trying not to favor your ankle.
She swallowed.
"Go get changed," she said finally, voice tight. "Before I say something I regret."
You smirked. "That a yes?"
"It's a maybe."
You backed away, smiling into your Gatorade. "Good enough for me."
And just before you slipped back into the locker room, you glanced over your shoulder—
She was still watching.
Like she couldn't stop.
Like maybe this wasn't just about a game anymore.
⸻
The hallway of the athlete dorms smells like victory and sweat and the kind of cheap pizza they only order when someone breaks a record.
You've got one arm slung around Chad's shoulders for balance, the other gripping a water bottle like it's a trophy. Your hair's damp, jersey untucked, ankle wrapped tight but still throbbing. Every movement hurts, but you're grinning so hard your face aches.
"Forty-two!" Mindy shouts like she's announcing a lottery number. "I've never seen a game like that. You literally had the crowd in cardiac arrest."
"Banks was crying," Anika adds, deadpan. "She said she was sweating but we all saw it."
"I got that shot on video," Chad says, gesturing wildly. "You hear me screaming in the background like I was being born again."
The group laughs. Tara had to do damage control before sneaking out for the party later in the night. You nodded with a small smile before you watched her go - Mindy joked with you the whole walk back to your dorm. The stairwell echoes with noise and sneakers and energy, other sports teams buzzing like they just won too.
You finally reach your door, cheeks still flushed, high off the chaos. Someone's still humming the fight song. Mindy's behind you, dancing with a box of pizza someone stole from the locker room. Your ankle twinges as you reach for the keycard.
"You need to sit down before your foot straight-up detaches," Anika says.
You swipe your key. The light flashes green.
And then you open the door.
And everything stops.
The dorm lights are on. Too bright. Not the warm fairy lights you usually plug in. Not the soft, lived-in glow. No music. No movement. Just cold fluorescents and—
Your father. Sitting at your desk.
Still in his button-up from the game. Collar undone. Tie hanging loose. One leg crossed over the other like he's been there for a while. His hands are steepled under his chin. He doesn't stand. He doesn't smile. He just looks at you like he's already decided something.
Silence.
A full, crushing beat of it.
Then Chad, blinking. "Uh... Coach?"
You don't move. Just grip the doorframe like it might hold you upright.
"He's not a coach," you say flatly. "Guys... it's fine."
"You sure?" Mindy asks, quieter now.
You force a smile. "Yeah. I'll see you at the party."
The group hesitates—like maybe they don't want to leave you—but you're already stepping inside, already closing the door behind you. The latch clicks too loud. It echoes.
Still silence.
You drop your bag by the foot of the bed. The ice pack from the trainer thumps as it hits the floor.
"You let her hit you three times before the refs blew the whistle," he says.
Not hello. Not good job.
Just that.
You peel off your jersey, slow, careful, trying not to let it stick to your back. "They were late. I still scored."
"You played sloppy in the third quarter."
"I was doubled."
"You should've adapted."
You toss the jersey onto your desk—next to his elbow. You don't meet his eyes. You head to your duffel bag and grab the Gatorade Tara brought. Still unopened by you. You uncap it now, take a slow sip.
"You came all the way here just to say that?"
"I came because no one on your team has the balls to tell you when you mess up."
You lean back against the wall, arms crossed, the bottle pressed to your wrist.
"I dropped forty-two points."
"You could've dropped forty-five if you kept your head in the game."
Your breath catches. You bite it down.
"I didn't know you were coming."
"I didn't come to be seen."
"No," you say. "You came to watch."
Your voice is sharp now. Tired. Not angry—just done. The kind of exhaustion that settles in your chest like wet concrete.
"You were three rows up. Stone-faced the whole time. I nearly rolled my ankle into a spiral fracture and you didn't even flinch."
He shrugs. "You kept playing."
"I always do." You shake your head, “But that’s what you taught me, right?”
That lands. A flicker of something in his jaw. Maybe regret. More likely just disappointment trying on a new expression.
"I need to change," you say finally, voice quiet.
He stands. Straightens his sleeves.
"I'll see you at the next one."
You don't answer. You don't look at him.
The door opens. Closes.
Silence again.
And in it—you're just a girl standing in a room still heavy with his absence.
Skirt still in your drawer.
Tara's voice still echoing in your head: I like watching you when you're not pretending.
You sit down on the edge of your bed. Hold the Gatorade in your lap.
And let the silence hum.
⸻
As soon as you entered the frat house, you went straight for the alcohol. You absentmindedly waved at people shouting your name, played a few rounds of Cup Pong with your teammates in a mess of drunken bets and shots.
The party's at its loudest now. Music thumping. Lights dimmed to a haze of color. Every cup's sticky. Every face flushed. You've been complimented thirty times, kissed on the cheek at least five, and someone made a toast with Jell-O shots in your honor.
You earned this. You won this.
And yet—
Your crown is slipping. Because somewhere in the back of the house, Tara Carpenter is absolutely wrecked.
"We need evac, NOW," Mindy yells, cutting through a crowd of girls doing TikTok choreography in the hallway. "She's on the coffee table, screaming about gender theory and how she'd fight Freud with her bare hands."
"She what?" you blink.
"-Tearing him apart," Anika says, breathless. "It was like watching a TED Talk delivered by a gremlin."
You drop your drink and follow them through the chaos. Bodies part for you like you're royalty—or a handler trying to rescue a drunken celebrity. And then you see her.
Tara.
Standing on the coffee table in combat boots and a tank top, one braid unraveling, cheeks flushed to hell, arms outstretched like she's trying to summon a demon.
"IF I'M CRAZY THEN CALL ME KATHY BATES!" she yells.
A guy nearby cheers. Someone else drops a joint in awe.
Mindy grabs her ankle. "Tara, babe. Please come down."
"I'm making a point!"
"You're gonna make a trip to the ER!" Anika calls.
Tara squints, sees you, and gasps dramatically like she's in a soap opera.
"You're here," she says, eyes glassy, wobbling a little. "Oh my God, she came."
"Of course I came," you sigh, stepping closer. "It's my party."
She crouches down on the table like she's preparing to leap into your arms. "Catch me."
"Do not jump."
"I'm gonna do it," she stage-whispers.
"You jump and I let you hit the floor, Carpenter."
Mindy slaps a hand over her face. "This is a disaster."
Chad appears beside you, holding a slice of pizza like a scroll. "She also told three people she invented lesbianism."
"I DIDN'T SAY I INVENTED IT," Tara shrieks, hopping off the table directly into your arms with absolutely no warning. "I said I redefined it!"
You catch her. She smells like tequila, peach lip balm, and rage.
"We have to get her home," Anika says, eyes darting around. "Sam cannot find out."
"She's gonna kill us," Mindy mutters.
"She's gonna start with me," you say, adjusting your grip on Tara as she curls against you like you're her designated pillow. "I was the one who was found with her locked in the basketball gym two weeks ago at midnight. Her sister already probably hates me.”
"Holy shit," Chad says solemnly. "You are gonna die.”
⸻
1:23 a.m. – Outside the Apartment
The porch light above flickers like it's struggling to stay conscious—maybe in solidarity with Tara, who's folded into your side, draped half-limp across your back, breath warm on your neck and smelling like peach Schnapps and bad decisions. Her left boot is missing. Her right sock is wet for some reason no one understands. There's glitter on her shoulder, and her braid has completely unraveled, curls stuck to her cheek like sleep lines made of chaos.
The rest of the group crowds behind you: Mindy pacing with military intensity, Anika wringing her hands like she's praying, and Chad holding Tara's boot, a bag of ice, and a Gatorade like he's bracing for an apocalypse.
"I need absolute silence," Mindy says. "We're going full Special Ops. Tara, you're not allowed to speak unless you're unconscious."
"I am unconscious," Tara mumbles against your shoulder. "I'm just narrating from the beyond."
"Shut it," you whisper. "You smell like a jelly bean died in your mouth."
"You smell like a warm bakery and judgment."
"She's feral," Chad says reverently.
"She's possessed," Anika corrects. "That's not alcohol. That's demon juice."
The door creaks open. It sounds like it's screaming in slow motion.
The apartment is dark, cloaked in shadow. The hum of the fridge is the only sound. The air is warm, still laced with dinner and detergent and something sharp underneath—like someone left out tension to ferment.
You take a breath and cross the threshold.
⸻
1:25 a.m. – Entering the Apartment
Every step is a war crime waiting to happen. The floorboards have never sounded louder, like they've unionized against your mission.
"Step only on the edge of the runner," Mindy mouths as she tiptoes ahead. "Not the middle. And whatever you do—don't look at Sam's door. She'll feel it."
Tara clings to your neck tighter. "You're doing so good. You're like... a hero."
"Shhh."
"You smell like a cinnamon candle."
"Please."
"I'd die for you."
"Then die quietly."
Behind you, Chad stubs his toe and drops the ice bag. It hits the floor with a wet slap. Everyone flinches.
The light under Sam's door flickers slightly.
No movement.
Anika mouths, we're dead.
Mindy waves a hand. Abort nothing. Proceed.
You adjust Tara in your arms. She nestles into your chest like she belongs there—like she's always belonged there—and hums something incoherent against your shirt. Her fingers curl in the fabric like a child's.
"I feel like a burrito," she murmurs. "A burrito... of shame."
"You're a quesadilla of regret," you whisper back.
"I'd let you eat me."
"Okay," Mindy hisses. "We're officially on pause. She's cut off for eternity."
⸻
1:28 a.m. – Hallway to Doom
Tara's room is seven steps away. Sam's door is four steps closer.
The floor groans like a warning bell. You hold Tara tighter, adjusting your grip beneath her thighs, one hand splayed against the small of her back, heat radiating between you.
Her skin is warm. Her breath is shallow.
"I want you to come tuck me in," she whispers.
"I'm doing that."
"With, like, affection."
You glance toward Sam's door. The hallway feels like it's holding its breath.
You whisper, "Tara. Focus."
She leans up just enough to nose your cheek. "You're so bossy. It's... intoxicating."
"You're already intoxicated."
"I'm double drunk. I'm you-drunk."
You almost drop her.
Mindy hisses: "MOVE. MOVE NOW."
You surge forward—two steps, three, four—
Anika twists Tara's bedroom doorknob, holding it open like a bodyguard ushering in a VIP client. Chad crouches in the corner, whispering prayers to no god in particular.
You slip inside just as a floorboard pops loudly behind you.
You freeze. The hallway stays silent.
No Sam.
You exhale like you just survived a plane crash.
⸻
1:30 a.m. – Tara's Room
The door shuts behind you.
You set her down carefully, slowly, easing her onto the bed like she's made of glass and landmines. Her head falls back against the pillow, curls spilling across the case like a halo of static.
Her lips are pink, parted. Her eyes flutter open halfway, mascara smudged just enough to make her look like a tragic silent film star. Her tank top rides up just enough to show the scar below her ribs.
She looks up at you like you're something she dreamed.
"Don't go."
Your throat closes.
Mindy tosses a water bottle on the nightstand and nods like a soldier finishing a mission. "She's down. Let's run."
Anika tugs Chad toward the door.
But Tara's hand finds yours before you can follow.
"Wait," she murmurs. "You stayed."
"I always stay."
Her thumb traces your knuckles. She smiles—barely. Sleepily.
"You're really hot when you panic."
You snort softly. "You're going to forget all of this."
"Maybe." A pause. "Maybe not."
You tuck the blanket around her, brushing the hair from her forehead with a tenderness you try not to analyze.
Her eyes slip closed again.
She exhales. "My heart is so stupid for you."
And then—out.
⸻
Back in the hallway, the others are waiting. Mindy's pressed against the wall like she's just pulled off a heist. Anika's shaking out her hands like she's landed a plane. Chad solemnly holds up the boot.
"She's safe," you whisper.
"For now," Mindy mutters. "Until the Sam Bomb goes off tomorrow."
You nod once.
But even as you walk away, even as the door clicks shut behind you—
You can still feel Tara's fingers wrapped around yours.
Summary: Joey likes helping people, it's what she's best at. Hunting down the monsters of myth and legend might be the best way to save people.
Warnings: None?
Word Count: 4.4k+
Main Masterlist | Series Masterlist
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19 | Part 20 | Part 21
You let out a sigh as you smoothed out your wrinkle free shirt. You glanced at yourself in the mirror, black shirt, black pants, black shoes, it might have been too much black. You glanced back at the shirts laid out on your bed, a white one, a navy one, and a maroon one. You had tried them all on multiple times, standing and turning in the mirror like one of them would suddenly magically speak to you. They were all inherently the same, a simple long-sleeved button-down shirt, the only difference was the color. A shirt color could change everything though, if you wore the wrong one you could clash with Joeys outfit, or it could clash with the rest of your outfit.
You glanced down, maybe the shirt didn’t matter, maybe the problem was the pants or even the shoes. Your eyes slid over to the dresser that held your pants, the drawer with the nicer dress pants still open and a couple pant legs hanging out from when you started digging around in there. There were colors to match each of the shirts, though you thought doing so would have been a bit much. There were also a couple different shades of black that had you beginning to debate whether everything truly went with black, or if it was certain shades of black that made them different. There was a chance you were just wearing the wrong shade of black and if you changed your pants to the right shade then the rest of the outfit would come together.
“You’re spiraling,” Grace’s voice cut through your internal debate about pants and shades of black.
You jumped at her voice, your eyes instantly finding hers in the mirror. She had made her way into your room and stood directly behind you. Grace gave you a knowing smile and turned you around so you could no longer see yourself. She ran her hands over your shoulders and down your arm, brushing off the invisible dust.
“I just want everything to be perfect,” you mumbled.
It had been a little bit since you asked Joey out and now it was finally time. There were no monsters, it wasn’t a school night, and a neighbor was going to come stay with Caleb for a few hours. You had chosen a nice restaurant, the kind of place that would turn you away for wearing a t-shirt and jeans. You didn’t want to go too fancy, you didn’t want to get there and not be able to pronounce a single thing on the menu or when the waiter brought out the course look down only to find out it would be consumed in two bites.
“It’ll be fine,” Grace said, giving you a soft smile.
You let out a shaky breath and glanced down at your outfits one last time. It wasn’t a bad outfit, but you weren’t sure if it was good enough for a first date.
“You look fine,” Grace said. You flicked your eyes up giving her an unsure look.
“You have been on a date before, right?” Grace joked.
You huffed out a laugh, flexing your fingers to stop the shaking. “It’s been a while,” you admitted.
You flirted. You did that all the time. Whether it was for a job to get close to a target or just for fun, you had no issues flirting. You had done the same when you first met Joey and several times since then. Flirting didn’t mean anything though, it was just good fun. But a date was real. It’s what you wanted sure, but that didn’t mean you were in any way prepared for it to happen.
“I’m sure you remember how to do it,” Grace said. “It’s just Joey.” You let out a nervous chuckle. She was right, it was just Joey but on the other hand, it was Joey.
“What are you getting up to tonight while I’m gone?” You asked, trying to distract your mind with something new.
You turned around, facing the mirror again so Grace could smooth out the back of your shirt. “I have a lead I’m going to run down.”
Your eyes snapped up. Grace was still smoothing out your shirt, not seeming to hear her own words. When she finally finished, she looked up, meeting your gaze in the mirror. “It’s nothing,” Grace assured. “I’ll be fine.”
You held her gaze, not at all convinced. Grace was more than capable, she was absolutely terrifying, her own one-woman army. You still didn’t like when she went off on her own, especially tonight when you would be away and not easily able to get to her if needed.
“I’ve done this before,” she said. You sucked in a breath; she had been doing this a lot longer than you.
She turned you around, her eyes softening as she now stared directly into your own. “Enjoy your date,” she said. “You deserve it.” You opened your mouth, but she shook her head, clearly not wanting to hear any excuse you’d come up with. “It’s just a lead. I’ll be fine.”
Your jaw twitched as a battle raged in your head. You finally let out a defeated sigh when Grace gave you a pointed look, there was no arguing with her. “Call if something feels off,” you whispered. “Please?”
You wanted tonight to be perfect; you had it all planned out. You wouldn’t hesitate to leave mid-dinner if Grace needed you though. Joey would understand. She probably wouldn’t be happy, and it might cost you from ever getting a date with her again, but she’d understand.
“Fine,” Grace reluctantly agreed. “Now go,” she nodded towards the door. “You can’t be late for your first date.”
You huffed out a laugh but hesitated to move. She gave you a pointed look that finally got you moving. You were going to try making the best of the night, but you had a feeling your mind would be focused on what Grace was doing over anything else.
When you got to your car you turned up the radio, attempting to focus on the music and drown out any worries about Grace. She would be fine, you didn’t even know what the lead was. If it was dangerous, Grace would have told you. She could be meeting with someone she’s familiar with that might have information, she could be doing a small stakeout. Just because she was following a lead alone didn’t mean it was inherently dangerous.
It seemed music failed at distracting your mind because before you knew it you were pulling up outside Joey’s apartment and your mind had yet to stop thinking about Grace. You turned off the car and took a deep breath in and then out, tonight was all about Joey, everything would be fine.
You looked around, suddenly realizing you didn’t get flowers or anything of the sort. You let your head flop against the steering wheel. Flowers were classic and yet you managed to forget them. You weren’t even on the date officially and you were already screwing it up.
You dragged yourself out of the car since Joey agreed to allowing you to properly pick her up at her door. You gave yourself a once over, smoothing out your shirt one last time before making your way to the door. You checked the time for the hundredth time, making sure you weren’t too early. You knew you wouldn’t be late; you spent an embarrassing amount of time making sure that didn’t happen, but you didn’t want to be showing up to her doorstep over half an hour early.
When you got to the door you let out a shaky breath before gently knocking. It was just Joey. You knew Joey. Joey was fun. Joey pretended she didn’t like you but secretly tolerated you. You spent time together. You spent so much time together. You knew each other. More importantly she knew you. She was the one person you didn’t have to worry about learning your secret. She saw you. She saw the worst version of you, and she was still willing to go out with you, more important she allowed you to meet her son.
“Hey,” Joey greeted as she opened the door.
Your mouth fell open, your breath catching in your throat at the sight of her. You didn’t even notice her still putting her earrings on. She was wearing a sleek black dress, it hung off her shoulders, and the long sleeves somehow made it stylish yet sophisticated. You swallowed a lump, suddenly aware how underdressed you were compared to her.
“You, okay?” She asked, snapping you out of your daze.
You cleared your throat but still couldn’t seem to form any words. You gave a shake of your head, you forgot flowers and you had yet to greet her, you were off to a great start so far. Joey raised an eyebrow, giving you a hesitant look.
“You’re just…” you managed to finally get out. “You look…” your eyes respectfully raked over her body. “You…” you sucked in a breath, but it was as if the wind was knocked out of you. “Wow.”
Joey ducked her head down, her body shaking with silent laughter. You straightened your back, maybe you hadn’t completely ruined everything yet.
“You don’t look so bad yourself,” she complimented when she finally looked at you again.
You huffed out a laugh. You knew she was just being nice; she was wearing what she was, and you were in a shirt and pants, you hardly compared to her.
“Are you ready?” You asked. “If not, no rush I-”
Joey rested a hand on your arm and anything else you might have said quickly died. “Let me just grab my bag,” she said.
The door closed as she went to grab her bag. You couldn’t help but rock back and forth on your feet as you waited for her return. It was only a moment before Joey was exiting, a small black bag that matched her dress slung over her shoulder.
You silently held out your arm for her to grab. She looked at it then back up at you before wrapping her arm around it. You tried not to visibly show how happy her accepting your arm made you, but based on the small smile on her face you failed. You led her down to your car and even made sure to open the door for her.
You drove in silence, the only sound coming from the radio. “You know you didn’t have to go all out like this,” Joey said. “I’d have been happy with pizza and a movie.”
“Good to know,” you said. That definitely sounded like a great date idea, but that was a future date when you knew her taste in movies. If you took her to one on her first date, you’d want to make sure it was something she’d enjoy.
“But I didn’t go all out,” you clarified.
You didn’t want her to think you were trying too hard. You weren’t. You really didn’t go all out. Part of you wanted to but you knew that would be a bad idea. You kept things simple but nice. That’s what a first date should be.
You got lucky finding a spot on the street to park that was only a couple minutes’ walk from the restaurant. When you got out of the car you ran around to the other side, opening the door for Joey before she could do it for herself. She gave you a grateful smile and even took your hand when you offered it to help her out of the car.
You walked to the restaurant, Joey not taking her hand off your arm until you reached the front door. You gave your name to the hostess and instantly the server was leading the two of you to a table. The two of you were seated at a table for two, pressed against the wall towards the back of the restaurant, close to the bar but not so close that your conversation would be drowned out by the noise.
You mouthed a thank you as the server handed each of you a menu and left to get you both waters. Before either of you could even open your mouths, the server was back, placing a glass of water in front of each of you and a basket of bread in the middle of the table with a little silver platter next to it.
You lifted the tiny lid of the platter and hummed at the sight of a couple packs of butter. “Fancy,” you commented. Joey chuckled at you as you grabbed one of the packs and a piece of the already sliced bread. “This is probably the fanciest place I’ve ever been.”
Joey shook her head as she continued to scan over the menu. “You didn’t need to do all this,” she said.
She looked around, her eyes scanning over the exposed brick walls and the dim lighting. The pristine white tablecloths over every table only helped to set the romantic mood. Everyone around them was dressed just as nice if not nicer than them. Everyone was coupled up, there were no groups getting together for a business meeting or to celebrate someone’s birthday, and there were no children running around, it was all couples on a date, maybe for the first time like you and Joey, or celebrating an anniversary of some sort.
You shrugged. “But you deserve it,” you whispered, quickly dropping your head back to your own menu.
You skimmed over the menu. You were right, you could pronounce everything on the menu. However, there were some items that though you figured out how to pronounce, you had no idea what they actually were. By the time the server returned you had decided on something you were familiar with while Joey ordered some sort of pasta dish.
“So,” you said, tapping your fingers against the table. “What’s new?”
Joey raised an unimpressed eyebrow as you. “That’s the best you got?” She asked. “Is this like your first date ever?”
You huffed out a laugh as you tried to hide your reddening cheeks. “It’s been a while.”
“How long?”
You glanced up, trying to decipher is she was serious. She raised an expectant eyebrow at you, telling you she did in fact want you to answer the question. “I don’t know,” you shrugged. “A few years?” You furrowed your brow. “I honestly don’t remember.”
“Wait…” Joey scrunched her eyebrows together as if she was trying to work something out. “A few years?” You nodded. “Does that mean you haven’t dated anyone since you turned?”
You gave a small nod, keeping your eyes glued to the small fork on the table. “I mean…” you shrugged. “It’s not like I can keep it a secret forever and do you know anyone willing to put up with something like that?”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
Your eyes finally flicked up to meet Joey’s. “Well, clearly you’re crazy.” That brought a laugh out of her, making you smile.
You weren’t wrong though. A normal person would rightfully run away the second they learned what you were, actually they’d probably run just from all the secrets being kept. And any sane person would run after you almost killed them. Joey clearly wasn’t normal though.
“Why did you agree to go out with me after…” you trailed off, not wanting to say something someone could overhear.
Joey brought her water glass to her lips, clearly wanting to drag this out. She didn’t even look at you until she sat the glass back down on the table. “Because you’re good,” she said, as if it were so simple.
She spoke as if it were true. You’d never define yourself as good, there was no way you could be good after everything you’ve done. Good people didn’t have blood on their hands.
“You’re kind and caring,” Joey continued. “And I told myself I wasn’t looking for anyone. I was done with relationships. The only thing I cared about was focusing on Caleb.” You smiled at that, even before meeting her you could tell how hard Joey was working on prioritizing Caleb. “And you understood that,” Joey whispered. “I know I stressed about getting to him on time but even when I didn’t you always made sure I was where I needed to be.”
You shrugged. It was the least you could do, she was putting her life in danger every time she went on a job with you. You didn’t even think about it half the time, you were just aware of what time it was and knew where and when Caleb needed to be picked up. You weren’t even sure when you learned the schedule like that.
“So, despite what I wanted,” Joey sighed. “You somehow managed to win me over just by being your stupidly charming self.”
You gave a shy smile at that. You weren’t sure what to say, you had never been complimented so much. You didn’t think Joey would like you trying to disagree with her, even though you did in fact disagree with her on more than half of what she said.
“So,” you leaned forward, whispering as if you were going to reveal a secret. “Since we’re on an official date.” Joey furrowed her brow but learned across the table so she could hear you. “Am I allowed to call you Ana?”
Joey slumped back into her seat with a playful eye roll. You gave her an innocent grin, hoping to convince her. She let out a tired sigh as if she were exasperated by your antics.
“I guess I can allow that,” she finally conceded, but not without adding another eye roll.
A second later the server came out with the food, setting delicious looking plates in front of both of you. She offered a bottle of wine which you politely declined. If Joey wasn’t going to drink, then you wouldn’t as well.
Over the course of dinner conversation flowed effortlessly. You answered any questions Joey had, though she seemed to be keeping it casual for now, focusing on things like your favorite movie and what not. You made sure to ask her the same questions but also ask about Caleb and how he was doing. She went on and on about him, telling you more about their time at the carnival and even some things she hoped to do with him in the future.
Toward the end of dinner, the server came back around, setting a smaller dessert menu in front of each of you. There were only a handful of options, all of which sounded delicious. You and Joey each chose a dessert and continued talking as you waited for them to come out.
The dessert came out ready and perfect within minutes. You practically inhaled yours because one second it was in front of you and the next it was all gone. Joey took her time, eating her dessert like a normal human instead of devouring it like an animal.
When the server brought the check, you snatched it up before Joey even had time to turn her head. You could feel her shooting you a glare as you tucked your card in the sleeve and handed it all back to the server before she even had the chance to leave the table.
You gave Joey an innocent smile. “How’s your dessert?” you asked.
She gave you a disapproving look as she finished chewing. “It’s delicious,” she finally answered.
When the server came back you quickly signed your name and left a decent sized tip. By the time you were done Joey had finished her dessert and was ready to go. You offered her your arm and led her out of the booth and then the restaurant. The two of you naturally slowed your pace as you made your way back to the car.
When you finally reached your car you opened the door for Joey, doing a dramatic gesture for her to get in. She rolled her eyes but there was a smile on her face as she stepped up into the Jeep. You hopped in the driver’s side and went on your way, glancing at the clock only once to see that you’d be getting Joey back at a reasonable hour.
The two of you drove back in a comfortable silence. Whenever you glanced out of the side of your eye you saw Joey looking out the window and up at the lights of the city. She had a small smile on her face, one that she didn’t wear too often, it was like you were seeing a secret part of her.
All too soon you were pulling up to her apartment and your night was coming to an end. You turned off the car and ran around to the other side to open the door for her once again. You held out your hand to help her out and then hand in hand you walked her into her apartment complex and all the way up to her apartment.
The two of you stood outside her door, you flexed your hand that was currently in hers. The faint sound of some show, it seemed to be a cartoon of some sort, could be heard. Joey looked at her door where the sound was coming from and rolled her eyes. You didn’t imagine Joey being strict with bedtimes and such things with Caleb, but you’d wager a guess that he was up much later than he usually was.
“I had fun tonight,” you whispered. “I hope you enjoyed it as well.” Your eyes dropped to the floor, she didn’t let on to anything throughout dinner but part of you wondered if she actually enjoyed it or if tonight only showed her how much she doesn’t want this with you.
“I had fun as well,” Joey said. Your eyes lit up as you snapped them back to her. “Probably the best date I’ve ever been on.”
You weren’t sure how much praise that actually was considering her ex, but you would take it, and it was doing wonders for your ego at the moment. “Does that mean I’ve earned myself a goodnight kiss?”
Joey rolled her eyes and without a word leaned forward and captured your lips. Unlike the first time you were prepared, instantly leaning forward and melting into her touch. You rested a hand on her hip, holding her steady while she gripped your shirt. The kiss was soft and slow and the complete opposite of your first kiss. It had only lasted a few seconds but in the moment, it felt like forever.
“Be careful getting home,” Joey whispered against your lips. She stole one more quick kiss before disappearing through her apartment door, leaving you dazed with a stupid smile on your face in the hallway.
You never lost that smile as you walked back to the car and even on the drive back to Grace’s. You barely remembered the drive back; it all passed in a blur. The next thing you knew you were parking in your usual spot outside of the mansion and making your way up the stone steps to the front door.
When you pushed open the front door you furrowed your brow, tilting your head, it was completely silent. You quickly made your way towards Grace’s office, not even bothering to knock as you burst through the door.
Your eyes scanned the room. Grace obviously wasn’t there. She was running down a lead, something she had done plenty of times, something she would have been done with before the end of your date. You homed in on the papers scattered across her desk. When you rounded the desk you brushed the papers aside, getting a look at the map and Grace’s handwritten notes. She had an address written down and an area circled on the map, it was still in New York, maybe an hour’s drive at most, she should have been back by now.
You were already slipping your phone out of your pocket as you clicked on her laptop. You clicked on Grace’s name without even looking, she was your only emergency contact after all. You tucked the phone between your ear and shoulder as you typed in Grace’s password. Several links popped up when the call went to voicemail. You dropped the phone back into your hand, Grace never sent you to voicemail, not when one of you was out in the field.
“Where are you?” you asked. “I’m going to call until you answer me.” You started clicking the windows she had open on her laptop, trying to figure out exactly what she was investigating. “If you don’t call me back in five minutes I’m coming after you.” You ended the call and proceeded to call again.
It went to voicemail again. So, you called again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
Your gripped tightened around the phone as you heard Grace’s voicemail once again. It had been ten minutes, and you had no idea how many times you had called her. Every single call rang until going to voicemail.
You let out a growl and shoved the stack of books on the right side of the desk to the floor. You closed your eyes and gripped both sides of the table, you could hear your claws lightly scratching the wood as you tried to focus on your breathing.
You released a shaky breath and finally opened your eyes. You could feel your teeth wanting to come out, but your claws had retracted. You tapped your phone again and scrolled to the only other contact you had saved.
“What’s wrong?” Joey answered after two rings.
“Grace is gone,” you said. You still couldn’t tell what she was investigating but it involved a house out in the middle of nowhere, the same place circled on the map. You sent the location she had pinned on her laptop to your phone. “I’m going after her.”
“Pick me up on the way.”
You opened your mouth but could only let out a huff. You didn’t want to seem too controlling by telling her she couldn’t come with you. You didn’t know what you were walking into though, Grace could handle herself and it seemed something had gotten the jump on her.
“I’m going with you,” Joey said, leaving no room for you to argue.
“Fine,” you conceded. “I’ll be there in twenty.” You hung up before Joey could question you. She did not live that close, but nothing was going to stop you from making it back to her apartment in that time frame.
summary: cairo was always yours when no one else was looking, and that was the problem.
word count: 10.5k
author’s note: request based of back to friends by sombr
It wasn't supposed to happen again.
You had made that promise to yourself — silent and stubborn, a line drawn deep in the sand.
The first time had been a mistake. A heat-of-the-moment disaster fueled by too many drinks, too many lingering stares, too much loneliness you hadn't been willing to admit to yourself.
It was supposed to end there.
You were supposed to know better.
But mistakes didn't happen twice.
Mistakes didn't happen again and again, until you lost count of how many promises you'd broken between the spaces of her hands and your mouth.
You told yourself you were stronger than this. That whatever thin, breakable thing existed between you and Cairo could survive the bruises you both kept pressing into it. You had rules, boundaries — the kind built on tight smiles and jokes you didn't really mean. The kind that kept you safe, kept you from looking at her too long, from wanting too much.
But none of that had mattered, had it?
It never did, when it came to her.
One glance across the room. One stupid flicker of something too raw, too familiar. And then you were breathing her in like you were starved for it. Fingers twisting in her hair, pulling her closer before either of you could think. Her mouth trailing down your throat, finding every place she knew you were weakest. Clothes tugged at clumsily, buttons popping loose, jeans shoved halfway down legs before either of you even made it to the bed.
It was desperate. It was thoughtless. It was inevitable.
You couldn't even pretend you had a choice.
And now... now there was no taking it back.
You hated how easily it had happened.
You hated how easily it always happened.
The truth sat like a stone in your stomach: this wasn't just a mistake anymore. Mistakes didn't leave bruises shaped like promises on your neck. Mistakes didn't feel this good and this terrible at the same time.
You had crossed a line you couldn't uncross.
And somehow, Cairo had let you.
Maybe it had always been leading here.
Maybe you'd been pretending for too long that what you had with her was ever something clean, something safe.
It started small — like these things always do.
A hand on your back that lingered a second too long.
A look that held a little too much, turned away a little too late.
Jokes that slid too easily into flirting, into whispered words at crowded parties that made your skin flush and your heart ache in ways you refused to name.
You told yourself it was harmless.
You told yourself Cairo didn't mean anything by it.
But it was a slow kind of drowning — so slow you barely even noticed when the air ran out.
And then —
One night, it happened.
It was too late. Too dark.
Both of you too drunk on something more dangerous than alcohol — on loneliness, on wanting, on everything you were never supposed to admit.
She looked at you like she could see it all.
Like she wanted it all.
And you kissed her.
Or maybe she kissed you.
You couldn't even tell who moved first — just a messy clash of mouths and hands and need, as if the world had tilted and there was nowhere else to fall but into each other.
You remembered the way her fingers tangled in your shirt, how her mouth opened under yours like she was drowning too.
You remembered the heat of her skin against yours, the rough scrape of denim and the soft thud of the door slamming shut behind you.
You remembered the way she whispered your name like it meant something.
You remembered everything.
You hadn't meant for it to go that far.
You hadn't meant to let your hands slip under her clothes.
You hadn't meant to push her back onto the bed and follow, heart pounding so loud you swore she could hear it.
But she didn't stop you.
She pulled you closer.
And once you felt her like that — warm and real and shivering under your touch — there was no going back.
It wasn't careful.
It wasn't slow.
It was desperate. Breathless. Almost angry with how much you wanted it.
How much you wanted her.
You tried to tell yourself it didn't mean anything.
Tried to believe it was just one mistake, a stupid, drunken accident.
But the way she clung to you in the dark — the way you buried your face in the curve of her neck like you could hide there — it said everything neither of you dared to speak.
And it didn't stop with that night.
Every glance, every brush of fingers, every tight, breathless moment where you should've pulled away — you both leaned in instead.
Again and again, like moths burning themselves on the same flame.
It wasn't casual.
It wasn't simple.
It was Cairo, and it was you, and it was everything you were too scared to say out loud.
And now... here you were again.
The same bed.
The same ache under your ribs.
And this time, you knew better.
This time, you couldn't pretend it didn't mean something.
Not when it was tearing you apart.
It had always been like this.
Every time she touched you — even when it was soft, even when it was barely there — it wrecked you.
There was no difference anymore between gentle and cruel.
Her fingers in your hair, her mouth against your skin, the way she used to smile into your neck when she thought you were asleep — all of it felt like knives now.
You told yourself it was nothing.
You told yourself it didn't mean anything.
You had to.
Because otherwise, you would've broken apart months ago.
You shut your eyes against the memory — against all the memories — but it didn't matter. They lived under your skin now.
The way she'd used to look at you like you were something more, like she wanted you just as much — it was all fake. Or maybe it wasn't. You didn't know anymore, and maybe that was worse.
You shifted on the mattress, kicking the covers down as quietly as you could, trying not to brush against her.
You couldn't take even that.
Not tonight.
But even without touching her, you could still feel her.
Cairo's arm was thrown loosely across the space between you, her breathing slow and easy like this was just another night, just another mistake you could both pretend never happened.
Her fingers twitched once against the sheets — reaching for you in her sleep — and your heart stuttered so hard it hurt.
You stared up at the ceiling, your throat closing around a breath you couldn't take.
How could she be so close — warm and real and right there — and still feel like she was slipping away?
How could you lie in the same bed and feel miles apart?
You swallowed hard, blinking fast against the burn behind your eyes.
You weren't supposed to care.
You weren't supposed to care.
But you did.
You always had.
Even when you knew better.
Even when Cairo made it so easy to pretend.
You weren't dating.
You never were.
That line had stayed drawn in the sand from the beginning — messy, blurred at the edges, but never crossed.
Not officially.
Because that would mean admitting it meant something.
And neither of you had the guts for that.
So instead, you had this — these nights that started with too many drinks, too many looks across crowded rooms, too many almosts that broke down into this.
Fingers tangled in each other's clothes.
Mouths finding mouths like it was inevitable.
Her hands on your body like she had every right to touch you.
And you always let her.
You always let her.
Maybe because it was easier than hearing her say it didn't mean anything.
Maybe because, for a few minutes, it was possible to believe she wanted you the way you wanted her.
Maybe because you were stupid.
Or selfish.
Or both.
You told yourself it was fine.
You told yourself it didn't have to hurt if you didn't let it.
But it did.
It always did.
And now — lying here beside her, feeling the heat of her body and the slow, steady rise and fall of her chest — you realized it wasn't the touching that ruined you.
It was the silence after.
The way she never said anything.
The way you never asked her to.
You stared harder at the ceiling, willing yourself not to look at her.
Not to reach for her.
It wouldn't change anything.
It never had.
You knew that.
You knew it too well.
You had the proof carved into the walls of your memory — every careless word, every too-fast goodbye.
You remembered the first time it happened, how you stayed tangled together for hours afterward, pretending sleep would make it easier.
It hadn't.
You remembered the second time, when she'd pulled her jeans back on without meeting your eyes and said, "This doesn't change anything, right?"
And you'd nodded — because what else could you do?
Because you were too scared she'd leave for good if you said no.
You remembered every time after that — the way it got easier for her to walk away, and harder for you to pretend it didn't hurt.
Sometimes she'd be in such a rush you barely got a goodbye at all.
Other times, like that night at her place, she'd just roll over, tug the blanket higher around herself, and drift off to sleep — leaving you there in the dark, heart hammering, waiting for some kind of sign.
None ever came.
And eventually, you'd learned how to let yourself out.
Quiet.
Invisible.
Unwanted.
It should have been enough to make you stop.
It should have been enough to make you hate her.
But it wasn't.
Because somehow, despite everything — despite the thousand little ways she showed you it didn't mean anything — you kept letting her touch you like it did.
And she kept touching you like it didn't.
Now, the air between you was too warm, too heavy.
The sheets clung to your skin, still tangled halfway down your legs.
You could feel the weight of her beside you — Cairo, lying there like it didn't mean anything. Like this was just another mistake you were both going to pretend didn't happen.
Your eyes locked onto the ceiling, tracing the cracks, the faded lines in the paint — anywhere but her.
Because if you looked at her, you'd break.
Her fingers brushed your thigh absently, like a habit she didn't even realize she had.
You squeezed your eyes shut.
It wasn't fair. It was never fair.
You kicked the covers off with a quiet, frustrated shove, desperate to breathe, desperate to pull yourself out of the gravity of her.
The room was too hot.
Your heart was too loud.
You couldn't pretend anymore.
And when you finally did risk a glance at her, Cairo was already looking at you — head propped lazily on her hand, gaze unreadable, like she wasn't the one unraveling you from the inside out.
You were so weak for her.
You hated it.
You hated her for it.
But mostly, you hated yourself.
You hated how easy it had been — again.
How fast you crumbled the second she touched you.
How even now, lying in the wreckage of it, you wanted her to reach for you again.
Wanted something she was never going to give.
Beside you, Cairo shifted lazily, the mattress dipping under her weight.
You heard her let out a breath — almost a laugh — low and careless, like none of this meant anything at all.
"Guess we're not great at keepin' promises," she muttered, voice rough from sleep and amusement.
Your heart clenched so tight it hurt.
She said it like it was funny.
Like you were both in on some harmless little secret.
Like it hadn't been you who had to pick up the pieces every single time she slipped away without a second thought.
You forced a smile — a tight, broken thing — and nodded once without trusting yourself to speak.
The room suddenly felt too small.
The air too heavy.
The ceiling too far away.
You focused on the cracks spidering along the plaster, willing yourself not to say anything.
Willing yourself not to feel anything.
Cairo didn't notice — or maybe she did and just didn't care.
She stretched again, unbothered, yawning into her hand like this was just another morning after nothing important.
Then she was sitting up.
Pulling the blanket off like it wasn't tangled around the night before.
Like it didn't still smell like both of you.
Like it wasn't the only thing holding the moment together.
You didn't say anything.
Didn't move.
You watched as she stood and padded across the floor, bare feet soft against the cold hardwood.
She didn't even hesitate — just reached down, gathering up her clothes from where they were scattered like discarded evidence.
Her shirt was inside out, and she didn't fix it.
Her jeans were wrinkled, and she didn't care.
You stayed in bed.
You didn't ask her to stay.
You didn't ask what this meant.
You knew better by now.
You watched the way she tied her hair up messily with the elastic around her wrist. The way she glanced in the mirror, wiped at the corner of her mouth, and grabbed her phone from the nightstand.
And then — as if it were nothing — she looked back at you with that same half-smile she wore when you passed each other in the hallway.
The one that meant nothing, said nothing, asked nothing.
"See you at school," she said.
Like it hadn't just been this.
Like you didn't still feel her on your skin.
You didn't answer.
You just stared up at the ceiling again, blinking hard.
You listened to the door click shut behind her.
And that was it.
That was always it.
No goodbye. No pause. No after.
Just Cairo, walking out like she hadn't been in your bed, in your hands, in your mouth.
Like she hadn't touched you the way people only touch you when they mean it.
When they feel it.
You lay there, motionless, in the heavy quiet she left behind.
Trying to catch your breath without making a sound.
Trying not to fall apart just yet.
You hated that this wasn't the first time.
You hated that you knew what came next — the silence, the space, the way she'd pretend none of this ever happened.
The way you were expected to pretend with her.
To sit across from her at lunch.
To text like everything was fine.
To hear her laugh and not remember what her breath sounded like when she was pressed against your neck.
And maybe what hurt the most wasn't that it kept happening.
It was that nothing ever changed.
You gave her everything. And she kept walking away.
Like you were just a mistake she was used to making.
It was cruel, in a way. The way she made it look so easy. How she could walk away, fix her shirt, toss her hair back into place like none of it ever mattered.
Like she hadn't just touched you like that.
Like she hadn't just ruined you all over again.
You sat there too long after she left. The air still warm with her in it. The bed still dented in the shape of her. You hadn't even touched the other side of the mattress. Hadn't even moved, not really—except for pulling the covers over your chest like it might hide the ache in your ribs.
You didn't understand how she did it.
How she kept coming back and pretending it didn't mean anything.
How you kept letting her.
Because you had meant it. Every time. Even the first.
Even when you told yourself you didn't.
And what made it worse—what made it sting—was knowing there was a time she used to pretend too. Not that it meant nothing, but that it meant less. Before she got good at hiding it. Before she stopped pretending at all.
You remembered it.
Last December.
You'd fallen asleep on her couch—half by accident, half by design. Cairo's head had ended up resting against your chest, one arm slung across your stomach. The room had been dark and warm, the silence broken only by the soft hum of her breathing. You didn't dare move. You were scared even one shift, one breath too deep, would wake her up and end it. You'd never felt so still in your life.
You weren't together. Not really. But that night you thought maybe—just maybe—she felt it too.
That maybe she wanted to feel it.
But the next morning, she'd barely looked at you. Just mumbled something about how "this was getting too messy," and said it was probably smart to take a step back. She'd said it like it was about you, like she was doing you a favor.
And the worst part?
You'd agreed. You'd nodded, even smiled, like it made sense.
Like it didn't already feel like something was cracking open inside you.
That was before all the promises. Before all the "let's not do this again" and "we're better off as friends."
Before she stopped bothering with excuses altogether.
Now it was just this—
Sex, silence, and a door closing behind her.
And somehow you were expected to act like you could still be friends.
Like she hadn't just laid her hands on your skin and then left you with nothing but the weight of it.
You were friends—or that's what you told people, what you told each other. You'd run out of ways to explain what it was between you, and even more reasons to keep trying.
But you weren't friends when she touched you like that.
Not when her mouth was on your skin and her hands were in your hair.
And now, as the heat faded from your body and the silence came crawling back in, you couldn't help but think:
How were you supposed to look at her tomorrow and pretend this didn't happen?
How could you both go back to acting like friends when you'd just shared a bed?
You wanted to ask her how.
How she could act like you were just someone she used to know.
How she could get dressed and say "see you at school" like she hadn't just pulled you apart with her mouth.
But you never did.
You just watched the door.
And let it all sit there inside you, heavy and sharp and endless.
School made it worse.
Because there she was—everywhere.
In the hallways, at your lunch table, slipping into the seat next to you in class like her skin hadn't been against yours just nights ago.
You thought it would get easier once you were around other people, once the world was louder. But it didn't drown anything out. If anything, it amplified it. Every laugh she gave someone else stung like it was meant for you. Every time she leaned too close to someone that wasn't you, your chest ached with something you couldn't name without sounding pathetic.
And the worst part?
She didn't even seem affected.
She smiled like she always had. Nudged your shoulder in group conversations. Said "hey" in passing, as if your mouth hadn't been on hers. As if she hadn't broken you open and walked away like it was nothing.
You started to wonder if that's all it ever was for her—nothing.
And maybe that thought would've hurt less if it hadn't happened so many times before.
Now, at school, it was like none of it had ever happened.
You saw her the next morning—before first period, outside the science wing, laughing at something someone else said. You weren't close enough to hear it, but you still felt it land in your chest like a bruise.
She looked at you once. Briefly. Like she was just checking to see if you were there.
And maybe you were reading into it—but that glance, that stupid, fleeting glance, felt like it meant something.
Like she remembered.
Like it had happened.
But then she looked away.
Tied her hair up. Smiled at someone else.
So maybe it didn't.
It was like that now—constant whiplash.
One second, you thought maybe she was hurting too.
The next, she was making jokes in class, passing you a pen, tapping her foot against yours under the desk like she'd forgotten everything but your presence.
And somehow that was worse.
Because even in the silence, even in the pretending, she was still there.
Not gone. Not distant. Not doing the decent thing and staying the hell away.
She was in your space.
Touching your elbow by accident. Brushing past you in the halls.
Acting like nothing had changed, and maybe it hadn't—for her.
But you were holding it all in your chest like a secret that wouldn't stop screaming.
So you smiled.
You walked the halls like your heart wasn't splitting open with every step.
You laughed when your friends made jokes, nodded through every conversation like your skin wasn't still buzzing with the memory of her mouth.
Because what else were you supposed to do?
You'd made the same mistake again and again and again. You'd laid yourself out for her, let her touch you like it meant something—knowing it didn't.
Not to her.
Not in the way it did to you.
So now you pretended.
Pretended you didn't still feel it in your stomach when you heard her voice behind you.
Pretended her hand brushing yours didn't feel like setting off a fire alarm in your bloodstream.
Pretended her laugh didn't echo in your chest like it used to, when she'd only ever laughed for you.
And Cairo made it easy—too easy.
She smiled at you the same way she did at everyone else.
Tossed you casual glances in class, shared her charger, borrowed your hoodie when she forgot hers and gave it back without a word.
Like you were still friends.
Like it was fine.
And maybe that was the worst part.
Because on the outside, everything looked fine.
You were back to being friends.
You sat beside her at lunch sometimes. You answered her texts. You nodded when she talked about stupid movies or new music or the things she wanted to do after graduation.
But none of it felt real anymore.
Not when you still remembered what her breath sounded like in the dark.
Not when her hands had just been on your skin and now acted like they'd never touched you.
You kept waiting for her to say something.
Anything.
To admit that maybe it wasn't just sex. That maybe she felt something.
But Cairo never did.
And you didn't ask.
Because if you did—if you really asked—you were scared of what the answer would be.
So you swallowed it all down.
Carried it through the hallways, through classes, through every moment where she was close enough to touch.
You forced yourself to smile when you passed her.
Pretended that your laughter didn't feel hollow in your throat.
You told yourself that it was fine—this was fine.
You could handle it.
It didn't matter if you were coming undone inside.
But every time you caught her eye—every time she looked at you like nothing had happened—
You felt that split right down the center of your chest.
The one you kept telling yourself wasn't there.
And maybe that was why—somewhere under the weight of all the pretending—you felt the pull of anything that might let you forget.
Anything to drown out the memory of her hands on your skin and the way she always left.
And maybe that was why—somewhere under the weight of all the pretending—you felt the pull of anything that might let you forget.
Anything to drown out the memory of her hands on your skin and the way she always left.
It was easier to think about something else—anything else—than the way she could still look at you in the hallway like you were nothing.
So when you heard about the party—just some kid's basement, music too loud and lights too low—it felt like a lifeline.
Parties didn't happen often here. Not in this little Massachusetts town where the most excitement you got was the annual pumpkin festival or Friday night football games.
You knew Cairo wouldn't be there—she was never the party type. She'd rather be home with a book, or tucked away in some secondhand theater watching operas you couldn't even pronounce.
You'd always tried to notice things about her like that.
Every quiet detail that made her who she was—how she liked her coffee black, how she hated the way people chewed with their mouths open, how she'd dog-ear pages when she was too tired to find a bookmark.
And she... she never seemed to notice anything about you at all.
Never paused to take in the way you went quiet when you were upset. Never looked close enough to see how hard you were holding yourself together.
It was like she could be everywhere with you—skin to skin, breath to breath—and still not see a single piece of you.
Maybe that was why the party felt like an escape.
A chance to be seen—just once, by anyone else.
A chance to stop being the girl who always let Cairo come and go like you were nothing.
Fridays always felt like a small mercy.
You and Cairo didn't share many classes, which meant you didn't have to see her face so much.
Didn't have to watch her slip back into the ease of her laughter with other people while you were still stuck on the memory of her mouth on your skin.
On Fridays, you could almost pretend you were okay.
Almost pretend you hadn't spent another week feeling like a ghost in your own life.
So you went home that afternoon telling yourself it didn't matter.
You went home telling yourself you'd find something—anything—to fill the hollow she left behind.
You didn't want to think too hard about what you were doing.
You showered quickly, put on a top that felt like a shield and a smile that didn't feel like yours.
Told yourself that if you looked good enough—carefree enough—it wouldn't hurt so much.
The sun was already setting when you left.
And you kept telling yourself this was what you needed:
A night away from Cairo.
A night away from your own head.
The party wasn't far—you could walk there in under twenty minutes if you cut through the old mill road. So that's what you did. The evening air was already starting to cool down, but you didn't mind. You wrapped your jacket around yourself and tried not to think about how every step felt like running away.
When you turned the last corner, you could see the glow of lights spilling from a house that was bigger than most in town—one of those places that looked like it had been built to be impressive, not lived in. You could hear music thrumming from the backyard, the low bass beat carrying down the street.
It looked almost like Cairo's house in some ways—expensive siding, the kind of driveway that could fit more cars than your whole family owned. It made your stomach twist to see it, but you swallowed that down and kept walking.
Inside, it was exactly what you expected: too many people crammed into too small a space, loud voices and laughter echoing off marble countertops and polished wood floors. Someone was already mixing drinks in the kitchen, red solo cups lined up in neat rows like they'd been waiting for this all week.
You didn't know most of the people here. Didn't care to. That was the point, wasn't it? No one knew you either—no one who would see the way your hands kept trembling when you reached for your drink.
You found a corner to lean against and took it all in.
The way the music pulsed through the walls.
The way everyone seemed so sure of themselves—like none of this mattered.
You wanted to feel that too.
You wanted to stop feeling like you were always carrying Cairo's ghost with you.
And for a little while, you did.
You let yourself drink more than you usually would—some cheap beer that tasted like nothing, and something sweeter, sticky on your tongue.
You let the music be loud enough to swallow your thoughts, let yourself lean into the blur of it all.
You laughed too hard at jokes you barely heard, your voice a little too bright, your eyes a little too glassy.
And you danced with Winnie for a while, letting her pull you into that easy rhythm, the two of you moving in circles that felt almost real.
It felt like the past couldn't catch up to you here—like the house was too crowded, too alive for any ghosts to linger.
For a while, it worked.
The drinks made it easy to forget—made it warm and soft and almost fun.
Like maybe, if you let yourself pretend hard enough, you could stop feeling like every breath you took had her name in it.
But then you saw her.
It was just a glimpse at first—her face half-lit by the kitchen lights, her hair pulled back in a way that made her look too casual for this place.
She was holding a drink, talking to someone you didn't know.
And you almost didn't believe it.
You blinked, your vision blurring at the edges, and told yourself it was the alcohol, the noise, your mind trying to fill in the spaces she always left behind.
But it wasn't.
She was really there.
You could feel it in the way your stomach dropped, in the way the music seemed to fade out around you.
Because of course she would be here—because you could never have anything for yourself that didn't turn back into her, that didn't somehow lead back to Cairo.
For a second, you thought maybe she hadn't noticed you.
Maybe you could slip away, find another corner of the party where she couldn't follow.
But then her eyes found yours across the room.
It was just a moment—one heartbeat, maybe two—before she looked away.
But in that moment, you saw it: the flicker of surprise, the way her shoulders stiffened, the way her mouth parted like she had something to say.
And then it was gone.
She turned back to her conversation, and you were left with the echo of it in your chest.
That familiar, hollow twist—like the world was folding in on itself and the only thing left was her.
Like you'd spent all night trying to forget her, only to end up right back at the start.
It hit you in a way you didn't expect.
Not loud, not sharp.
Just this slow, sinking thing that crept in under your skin — like gravity shifting sideways, like the floor tilting just enough to throw everything off balance.
Because she was still across the room.
Still talking.
Still smiling.
And that was what did it, really.
Not the shock of seeing her. Not even the way she'd looked away like it didn't matter.
But how easy she made it seem.
Like she hadn't once curled up beside you in the dark.
Like she hadn't once kissed you like she meant it, like she knew you.
Like none of it — none of you — had left a mark at all.
She laughed at something someone said, tossing her head back the way you used to love watching.
You remembered that laugh.
You remembered the sound of it against your neck, your shoulder, your throat.
And now it was out here, scattered across the room for anyone to take.
It gutted you.
Because she didn't look broken.
She didn't look haunted.
She didn't even look uncomfortable.
She looked like she belonged here.
Like this night was just another night.
Like you were the only one pretending it meant nothing.
You didn't even realize you'd stopped breathing until the room blurred again, your chest so tight it almost hurt.
And you couldn't stop looking at her — not because you wanted to, but because something in you needed to understand.
Needed to know how she did it.
How she could erase you so cleanly.
And God, you hated it — the way your hands started shaking again, the way your throat burned.
Not from the drinks.
From her.
From the way she made you feel like a ghost in your own story.
You were supposed to be forgetting.
You were supposed to be moving on.
But instead, you were standing in some stranger's house, surrounded by people who didn't know what you used to be, and watching her pretend like she'd never touched you at all.
Like she'd never looked at you the way she was now looking at them.
And maybe you should've walked away.
Maybe you should've turned around and left.
But your feet didn't move.
Because some small, wrecked part of you still hoped she'd look back.
Still hoped she'd remember.
Not the version of you that was standing there now — with your drink in hand and your chest caving in — but the one she used to reach for when no one was looking.
The one she kissed like a secret.
The one she held like a habit she couldn't quit.
But Cairo didn't look back.
She didn't glance over her shoulder.
She didn't shift or stiffen or blink like she remembered anything at all.
She just kept talking, kept smiling. Like you were nobody. Like you'd always been nobody.
And you tried—God, you tried—to convince yourself that it didn't mean anything.
That maybe she was just good at hiding things.
That maybe this was hard for her too.
But the truth was right in front of you.
She didn't look wrecked.
She didn't look like someone who'd shared a bed with you five nights ago.
Or kissed you in your kitchen like she couldn't help herself.
Or left before morning like none of it meant anything.
She looked like someone who'd never known you.
And that was what undid you.
Because you couldn't understand how she could wear her detachment like perfume — easy, invisible, soft.
While you were here swallowing it all down, trying not to look like someone who was breaking apart in real time.
You wanted to scream.
You wanted to shake her, ask her how she could stand there and treat you like any other girl at the party.
How she could act like nothing ever happened — like you weren't still carrying pieces of her inside you that didn't even belong to you anymore.
You didn't.
You just stood there, watching her laugh with someone else.
Feeling like the only person in the room still bleeding from something no one else could see.
But it started building — quietly, then all at once.
Like your thoughts had teeth.
Like they were gnawing straight through you.
You weren't sure if it was the alcohol making everything feel louder, or if this had always been inside you, waiting for a moment like this to finally come undone.
Because how could she stand there and let it all go so easily?
How could you be the one still clinging to every look, every half-spoken word, still trying to stitch some meaning into it — while she didn't even flinch?
You were holding on too tightly.
To things she dropped the second they got too heavy.
To touches that meant nothing to her the morning after.
To a connection that felt real only because you needed it to be.
You kept telling yourself you were just going to get some air.
That it wasn't Cairo — it wasn't the way her laughter curled in your gut or the way she leaned toward someone else like her body had never even touched yours.
But you couldn't lie to yourself anymore.
Not tonight.
Not when it all finally cracked open inside your chest.
So you walked — fast, almost stumbling — out through the crowded living room, past the half-drunk boy who tried to hand you something, past Winnie's voice calling after you.
You didn't stop. You couldn't.
The door slammed behind you like punctuation.
And the cold slapped you hard across the face the second you stepped out.
And for a second — just a second — everything went still.
The muffled bass of the party thudded through the walls.
The night air bit into your skin, sharp and sobering.
But it was better than standing in there pretending you didn't feel like you were drowning.
And maybe that's why, just before the door clicked shut behind you, Cairo turned.
Like she'd only just realized you were gone.
Like your sudden absence broke the rhythm of her pretending.
But you didn't wait to see if she'd follow.
You just kept walking.
Because something in you was finally too tired —
Too raw —
To keep bleeding quietly.
You stepped off the porch like your legs barely belonged to you.
The night felt colder now — like it had teeth, like even the air wanted to bite down.
You found yourself on the front steps, sitting on the edge of them like you weren't sure whether you were about to leave or collapse right there.
The cement was rough beneath your hands, still holding some of the day's warmth but not enough to matter.
The street stretched quiet in front of you, interrupted only by the occasional blur of headlights passing by, slicing gold through the dark.
Somewhere across the yard, a guy was bent over in the bushes, retching like his body had given up on him too.
Further down the drive, a small group of older boys stood in a half-circle by the curb, smoking cigarettes like they had nowhere better to be. Their laughter was low and tired, curling into the cold.
But besides that, the world was quiet.
Or at least quieter than inside.
Here, things didn't spin as fast.
You exhaled slowly and felt the breath leave you like something you hadn't meant to let go.
It all felt so heavy.
Like your ribs were too tight around your lungs.
Like the ache in your chest wasn't just about her — but about everything she'd taken from you without even knowing it.
Or maybe she did know.
Maybe that was the worst part.
The concrete beneath you.
The dark sky above you.
It all made you feel small in a way that was both calming and unbearable.
Like you could disappear out here and no one would notice.
Like maybe that would be a relief.
You pressed your palms to your knees, stared out at the road, and tried not to think about the way her eyes had not searched for you.
About how easy it was for her to stay inside.
To keep laughing.
To keep pretending none of it mattered.
But you couldn't do that.
You never could.
Not with her.
You stayed there on the steps, elbows balanced on your knees, your fingers picking absently at the skin around your nails. You weren't sure how long you'd been sitting there. The chill had started to settle in your arms, but you didn't move. Didn't think. You just were. Hollow and still and almost quiet inside.
Until the door opened behind you.
It was soft — not loud enough to startle you, just a hush of movement and muffled bass leaking out for half a second before it clicked shut again. You didn't look. Probably just someone stepping out for a smoke, maybe heading home. You didn't care. Not anymore.
But then there were footsteps.
Light ones.
Measured.
You didn't turn around, not at first. Just stared out at the road, your eyes glazed and dry.
And then, in your peripheral, a shape.
Familiar somehow.
Slow-moving.
You blinked and your chest went tight.
Because for a second, you didn't think it was her.
Didn't want to believe it was her.
Your brain reached for excuses — someone with the same hair, maybe, the same walk, the same frame…
But no.
You knew.
Even out here, even half-lit by streetlights and a sliver of moon.
It was Cairo.
She stepped closer, and you heard the gravel shift under her boots.
Heard her hesitate.
And still, you didn't move.
Because after everything — all the pretending, all the disappearing — she had followed you.
And somehow, that didn't feel like enough.
Not anymore.
She stood behind you, not too close, not too far.
The kind of distance that said I'm here, but also I don't know what I'm doing.
You didn't turn.
Didn't need to.
You could feel her.
Cairo had always been bad at standing still. She shifted her weight once, then again. The gravel crunched softly under her shoes — not the kind of party heels most girls wore, but boots, like always.
You imagined her glancing down at the steps and hesitating.
She probably didn't want to sit.
The skirt she was wearing — the pale one she only wore when everything else was in the wash — was probably still damp at the hem.
She'd waited too long to do laundry, as usual.
Didn't think things through unless she had to.
And yet she'd shown up tonight.
You could feel her watching the side of your face. Probably waiting for you to make it easy.
She was never good at starting things with you.
Not real things.
Maybe she was hoping you'd look over your shoulder and say something stupid and casual — "didn't expect to see you" or "some party, huh?"
Something she could step into.
But you didn't.
Because you knew how it would go if you did.
You knew how easily your mouth would forget everything your heart remembered.
You could smell her before you heard her breathe.
That same mix of coconut and vanilla clinging to her skin — subtle, warm, the kind that made you ache.
And underneath it: smoke.
Always the smoke.
She never lit her own cigarettes, just borrowed other people's and forgot to return them.
And still, you didn't look.
Because if you did, it'd all slip again.
The hurt, the distance, the last scraps of dignity you were trying so hard to hold onto.
You stared at the road instead.
And pretended you couldn't feel her ruining you all over again, just by being there.
You hoped she'd give up eventually.
That she'd take the hint — realize you didn't want this. Not right now.
Not like this.
You hoped she'd sigh or roll her eyes or check her phone and walk away, back inside where it was loud and warm and easier to pretend.
But she didn't.
She just stood there.
Fidgeting, like she was working through some equation in her head. Like if she got the words in the right order, maybe you'd stop freezing her out.
Her fingers picked at the edge of her sleeve, slow and nervous — Cairo's version of pacing.
And then finally, quietly, like it was something she'd been holding onto for too long, she spoke.
"It's pretty cold out here... shouldn't you head inside?"
Her accent wrapped around the words soft and hesitant, and she tilted her head like maybe that would make her seem more sincere.
Like maybe if she sounded gentle enough, you wouldn't notice how fake it felt.
You almost laughed.
Almost scoffed.
Because really?
Now she cared if you were cold?
She never cared about that.
She never cared if your fingers went numb walking home.
She never cared if you were shivering beside her when she opened the window in her room just because she liked the sound of rain.
She never cared about what you felt unless it had something to do with her.
But you swallowed it down.
That sharp little spike of bitterness that wanted to slip out and cut her.
"No thanks," you said instead, your voice low, a little thick from the cold.
Your nose was starting to sting — just enough to make it hard to talk like you weren't feeling anything at all.
You sniffled once, sharp and quick.
"But you do that."
You didn't say it cruelly.
Didn't snap.
You just let it sit there — soft but pointed, like something closing a door without slamming it.
She didn't say anything back.
And you still didn't look.
Because if you did, you weren't sure what you'd see.
And you weren't ready to see it.
Not yet.
The silence that followed stretched thin and awkward, the kind that made your skin itch.
Cairo didn't say anything.
Didn't move at first.
She just stood there like she was trying to solve a puzzle with no right answer — like she hadn't expected this version of you.
One that didn't fold the second she opened her mouth.
One that didn't give her softness just because she asked for it.
She was used to being chased.
To getting the last word.
To people falling all over themselves to hear what she had to say — but you didn't look at her.
You didn't give her that.
And it must've thrown her off.
Because she shifted her weight, arms folding over her chest.
Then unfolded them again.
Then looked down at her shoes, like maybe she was thinking of leaving — turning around, heading back inside, forgetting this ever happened.
And for a second, you thought she would.
You wanted her to.
Sort of.
But she didn't.
She just hovered there, her hesitation loud in the air between you.
You didn't notice her watching you — not at first.
But something in the way the silence held started to feel different.
Not cold anymore. Not distant.
Like it wasn't just indecision that kept her standing there.
And even though your eyes were still on the street, some part of you knew.
Knew she was looking at you — not with the sharp edge she usually had, but with something else.
Softer. Quieter.
Something almost like... admiration.
You didn't turn to check.
You didn't want to.
And then, finally, her voice again — quieter this time.
Careful. Almost gentle.
"You look very pretty tonight."
Like she meant it.
Like it was a secret.
Like saying it any louder would break something between you.
And maybe that should've meant something.
Maybe a part of you — a softer, dumber part — wanted it to.
But instead, it just made your throat tighten.
Because of course she was doing this.
Of course she waited until you were at your worst — outside, alone, unraveling — to say something sweet.
She always did this. Always showed up just late enough to make it hurt more.
Weeks of silence.
Months, even.
Ignoring you like you hadn't shared her bed, her secrets, her goddamn heart.
And then she'd show up again, all slow blinks and honeyed words.
"You know I can't sleep right without you."
"I missed the sound of your voice."
"I kept your hoodie, is that weird?"
Like that was enough.
Like those sentences could hold together the wreckage she always left you in.
And every time, you let her.
Every single time, you let her tilt her head and smile and pull you right back into her orbit.
You hated it.
You hated yourself for it.
And you were so, so tired.
Maybe it was the alcohol — sharp behind your teeth and fogging your head — or maybe it was just the weight of too many endings pretending to be beginnings.
Either way, something snapped.
You shot up from the steps, sudden and stiff, brushing your palms on your thighs like that could wipe off the ache.
"I have to go," you said quickly, voice tight.
You didn't wait for her to ask where.
Didn't wait to see if her face fell or stayed smug or even surprised.
"I have to use the bathroom," you added under your breath, like it explained anything.
Like you weren't already turning away, walking fast, fast, fast toward the edge of whatever this had become — toward the only escape you had left.
Away from her.
Before she made you stay.
Before she made you want to.
You didn't mean to brush so close.
But as you stepped past her—barely a centimeter between your shoulder and hers—it was enough.
Enough for her to react like you'd tugged something out of her.
Like leaving was something she physically couldn't let you do.
"Y/n, wait—"
Her voice cracked, louder than she meant it to be, tangled with something too desperate, too raw.
You saw her foot shift forward, heard the scrape of her heel against concrete.
And then her hand—warm, trembling—closed around your wrist.
Her fingers were soft, familiar, like they still remembered how to hold you.
Like they hadn't forgotten.
You refused to look at her.
Even when her body tilted toward yours, even when her other hand lifted slightly—reaching for something in the space between you two.
Her mouth opened.
"I—"
"No."
Your voice was low, almost a whisper.
But it stopped her.
You pulled your arm out of her grip, sharp and quick like it burned.
"Cairo, please stop doing this."
It hung there between you—quiet but undeniable.
A plea, a boundary, a crack in the spine of every story you'd lived with her.
Because you couldn't do it again.
Couldn't let her start something she'd never finish.
Not when you already knew the ending.
Not when you'd lived it too many times.
Cairo had the stomach to look confused.
Like you hadn't just laid yourself bare in front of her. Like she didn't know exactly what she was doing.
"Doing what?" she asked, voice light, cautious—almost innocent.
But her eyes flickered.
You caught it.
That flicker of guilt or recognition or whatever it was—quick, like she didn't mean to let it show.
You almost laughed.
Because she knew what you meant.
She always knew.
You meant the way she only ever looked at you like that when no one else was around.
The way her voice softened, the way her compliments curled around you like smoke, sweet and slow—but only when it was just the two of you.
You meant how you were only enough when no one was watching.
How she never touched you in public.
How she never said your name like it meant something unless it was in the dark, when her body was pressed against yours and her lips were on your shoulder and she didn't have to pretend.
You meant this.
Her chasing you down just to give you almost.
To say something tender and break you open, and then leave you bleeding while she walked away clean.
Like always.
You didn't say any of that out loud.
But your eyes did.
Your silence did.
And you watched her shrink beneath it.
But your eyes did.
Your silence did.
And you watched her shrink beneath it.
You didn't mean to say anything.
You really didn't.
But the words started spilling out before you could stop them—low and uneven, like your voice didn't know what tone to take.
"You know exactly what I mean."
She blinked, and something flickered again in her face—like she wanted to deny it, like she wanted to play dumb. But you didn't let her.
"You're fine being around me when no one's watching. When it's just us. You can say all the pretty things then, right? You can touch me, kiss me, sleep in my bed, tell me you missed me—like it's nothing. But the second we're around other people, it's like I don't exist. Like you don't know me. And now you're out here acting like—like I'm the one who's being cold?"
Your voice cracked at that.
Your breath caught in your throat, and your hands clenched at your sides like maybe that would hold everything else in.
She didn't say anything.
Of course she didn't.
So you kept going, voice rising just enough to make it worse.
"I can't keep doing this with you, Cairo. I can't. I can't go back to being just your friend, or your maybe, or your secret. I can't sit next to you at some party and pretend like we didn't share a bed, like I don't still feel you on me every time I try to sleep."
You didn't mean to let your eyes sting.
Didn't mean for your throat to tighten like that.
But it was too much.
And somehow, what made it worse was how stupid it felt to even have to say this.
Like this wasn't obvious. Like she hadn't been doing it over and over again.
Your voice wavered, but you didn't stop.
"You keep doing this to me. You disappear, and then you come back and say one thing—just one fucking thing—and I fall for it. Every time. You say I look pretty, or that you miss me, or that you didn't mean to stay away, and I believe you. And then what? You leave again. Like none of it ever mattered."
You laughed, dry and bitter and tired.
"I'm done, I can't do it again. I can't."
And then it was quiet.
Not because there was nothing left to say, but because saying it out loud already felt like too much.
Like you'd peeled something raw open between you, and it was all just sitting there now—too exposed, too ugly, too real.
You were trembling now, not from the cold but from everything she made feel like too much. Your hands, your chest, your thoughts—none of it felt yours anymore. And still, she hadn't said anything.
So you gave her one last look. Not kind. Not cruel. Just done.
"And I can't pretend we're strangers," you said, quieter now but somehow heavier than before. "Even though you seem perfectly fucking fine with it."
And with that, you turned.
You started walking toward the door, not fast, not dramatic—just steady. The porch light buzzed softly above you, and the house hummed with music and voices muffled by the walls. The party you'd almost forgotten was still happening.
You got close to the door, close enough that the tip of your fingers grazed the handle, metal cold under your skin.
And behind you, you could hear Cairo trying to find words—her breath hitching just enough to give her away. You could picture it without turning: her brow furrowed like she was concentrating too hard, her mouth opening like it always did when she was about to say something that never came.
"Y/n—"
Then nothing.
Then again. "Wait—"
Still nothing.
And just when your fingers curled around the doorknob—
"I love you."
You froze.
It wasn't loud.
It wasn't confident.
She said it like it was her last card, like she wasn't sure it was even worth playing. Like if she didn't say it now, she never would.
And it hit you in a way nothing else had.
Like the one thing you'd wanted to hear, and the last thing you could stand to.
You didn't turn around yet.
You just stood there.
Fingers still on the door.
Heart in your throat.
It echoed in your head—I love you.
Too soft to be real. Too cruel to be fair.
And then, slowly, you turned.
Your eyebrows pulled together before you even realized they had, confusion etched deep into your face. You stared at her like she'd just said something in a language you didn't speak. Or like she'd ripped open a wound you didn't know was still bleeding.
"What?" You breathed it out, sharp, almost spat it.
Because people don't do this.
They don't ignore you for weeks. They don't flirt with other people, disappear into crowds, pretend not to know you in rooms filled with mutual friends—and then say that.
People don't destroy you and then tell you they love you.
Not unless they mean to ruin you.
But Cairo just stood there.
And it was like watching someone realize they'd said the one thing they weren't supposed to. Her shoulders dropped just slightly, her hands fidgeting at her sides. She looked like she wanted to crawl out of her own skin.
Her eyes flicked to yours, then down, then up again—scared.
Not of you, but of what you might say next.
She looked nervous.
She looked nervous.
And maybe it was the expression on your face—the anger she wasn't used to seeing. Because you'd never looked at her like this before. Never let her see the damage. The frustration. The disbelief. You'd always swallowed it down, tried to stay soft even when she made you feel cold.
But not now.
Now you were just angry.
Because your chest fluttered at her words—still.
Because of course she'd said the one thing you'd always wanted to hear, just when you were ready to walk away.
Because it worked. It always worked.
And that was exactly why you hated it.
Because it still meant something.
And that felt like the worst part.
There was a long pause. You didn't fill it.
You just stood there, still halfway turned toward the door, waiting to see if she'd even try to explain.
For a second, you were sure she wouldn't.
But then Cairo took a step forward, slow, like the ground might split if she moved too fast.
"I didn't..." she started, then stopped. Her jaw tightened as she looked past you, toward the road. Like maybe the words would come easier if she didn't have to see your face. "I didn't think you'd—God, I didn't think this would get so..."
She shook her head. Not at you — at herself.
Then her hand came up to her forehead, brushing her bangs back like that might help her think clearer.
"I didn't mean to—" she tried again, voice soft, almost choked. "It's not like I wanted to lose you. I just... I didn't know what to do with you."
She laughed—barely. A quiet, breathy, humorless thing.
Her shoulders hunched in a little, like she hated even hearing herself say it.
"It was easier to pretend we were just messing around. Easier than... admitting it was more than that."
You stared at her, but she still didn't meet your eyes.
She was fidgeting again—wringing her hands, rubbing the back of her neck, shifting her weight like standing still made her restless.
"I mean, I knew, okay?" she finally said, a little louder, a little more desperate now. "I knew what I was doing when I pulled away. When I acted like it didn't matter. It's just—if I let it matter, I had to believe it could actually work. And I didn't want to believe that."
That made you flinch. Just a little.
Cairo noticed.
She panicked at the look on your face—whatever it was.
"I didn't mean it like that," she rushed. "I mean—I did, but not because of you. I didn't trust me. I mess things up. That's what I do. I get too close and I ruin it, or it gets taken away. So I told myself it was better to just..."
Her voice trailed off.
She was talking with her hands now, gesturing vaguely like the words might somehow appear if she moved enough.
And it was weird — seeing her like that.
Cairo, who was usually so composed, so cold, so smart-mouthed and detached — now standing in front of you like someone scrambling for a lifeline.
"I didn't know how to have you and not lose you," she said finally. Quieter this time. "So I kept letting you go first."
You didn't say anything.
You couldn't.
Because part of you wanted to scream.
And part of you wanted to believe her.
She looked up finally.
Her eyes were glassy, but she blinked hard like she refused to cry in front of you. Her bottom lip tucked slightly between her teeth, and she took a half-step closer—like maybe if she was just a little nearer, you'd forgive her faster.
And still, she looked embarrassed to be saying all this.
Ashamed of how late it came.
Ashamed that it had to come like this.
Her voice dipped again, uneven now. "I know I made it look like it didn't matter. I know that. And I'm not saying that's fair. I just... I didn't know what else to do."
You turned slightly, only just—barely angling your body toward her. And maybe it gave her hope.
Because her eyes flicked up.
And then she kept going.
"I was scared. Not of you—just... of what it meant. Of how I felt. And I guess that sounds stupid now, but I didn't know it was gonna be you. I didn't think you'd—" she cut herself off, shaking her head again, teeth digging into her bottom lip.
Then her eyes flicked to yours for a second—like she was checking to see if you were listening.
You were.
Too much.
"But I liked you," she said suddenly, almost tripping over it. "I like you. Not just like... in that way. I liked you before I even realized what it was turning into."
You blinked, startled by how honest it sounded.
Cairo noticed your expression change—just slightly. Your eyebrows creased in a way she recognized, and it made her shift again, lean in a little.
"I liked the way you look at people when you think they're not watching," she said, still quiet, but now her voice trembled. "I liked that you never pretended to be something you weren't, even when everyone else was busy trying. You just... you were always there. Even when I didn't deserve it."
You hated that your heart thudded at that.
Because of course she would say something like that now.
Now that you were already halfway gone.
"And I know I'm not saying this right," she muttered quickly, hand curling into a loose fist at her side. "I always mess it up when it matters. But I meant it—what I said earlier. I do love you. I just didn't know how to show it. Not in a way that wouldn't fuck it all up."
Her voice cracked at the end of that. And she looked away fast, like if she didn't see your face, it wouldn't hurt so bad when you walked away.
She didn't realize you were still standing there.
Still facing her.
Still listening.
Even if your heart didn't know what to do with any of it.
You pursed your lips, slowly.
Not in frustration—just trying to process it all.
Her voice still echoed in your chest, repeating the things you'd waited too long to hear.
You didn't even know where to begin.
Because part of you wanted to believe her.
Wanted to let the warmth of her words settle into your ribs and undo the months of damage she'd done.
But the other part—
The part that had sat alone on the stairs, aching and cold—
It was still angry.
Still hurting.
And so, after a beat, you nodded once.
"Okay."
Cairo's expression faltered immediately.
Like the floor shifted beneath her feet.
"Okay?" she echoed, almost confused.
Her brows drew together slowly.
She blinked. "That's all you have to say?"
You nodded again. "Is there something else you wanted me to say?"
The silence that followed was thick and sharp, like the air between you had teeth.
Cairo's mouth parted, then shut. Her head tilted slightly—like she couldn't decide whether she was more shocked or offended.
She hadn't expected that.
Not from you.
Not after all that.
Because for once, you were the one pulling back.
And she wasn't used to that.
Not from you.
You looked at her for a moment longer—
At her still furrowed brows, the soft rise and fall of her chest, her fingers twitching like they didn't know what to do if they weren't touching you.
It would've been easier if she hadn't meant any of it.
If she'd just said all that to win. To manipulate.
But she hadn't.
You knew she hadn't.
And maybe that's why it hurt more.
You didn't even know what you were supposed to feel. Relief? Vindication? Anger?
It felt like all of it. All at once.
Because yeah, maybe you had needed to hear it.
Maybe a part of you had been begging for this moment for weeks.
But not like this.
Not after everything she put you through.
Not after all the times she made you feel stupid for hoping.
You ran a hand down your face, exhaling hard through your nose.
Your chest ached. Your throat stung. You hated how it all still mattered.
And maybe that's what finally pushed the words out of your mouth.
"You don't get to just say that and make it better, Cairo," you said, barely looking at her. "You don't get to say 'I love you' like it erases the rest."
She blinked—like she hadn't expected you to sound so calm.
You swallowed. "You keep doing this thing where you disappear. You come close just long enough to fuck with my head and then act like it never happened."
She flinched—just barely—but you saw it.
"And I always let you," you added, voice cracking. "Every time."
There was a long, quiet breath as Cairo stared at the ground, lips slightly parted like she wanted to interrupt but couldn't find where. You waited. You gave her the silence. And when she didn't take it, you filled it yourself.
"I can't keep doing this with you. I can't keep... feeling like a secret. Like I'm only good enough when no one else is around."
The words felt heavier now that they were out. More real.
You blinked a few times, fast, trying to push the burn out of your eyes.
You didn't mean for that one to come out so bitter. But it did.
And she felt it.
It landed like a bruise across her face — barely visible, but you knew.
Your chest tightened. Your hand drifted toward the doorknob again, fingers curling around cold metal.
"And if you're not ready to be honest about this—about us—" you paused, voice dropping, "then come back when you are."
You didn't look at her after that.
You didn't even give yourself the time to second-guess it.
You were just about to turn the handle—just about to walk away for real—
When you heard the quiet shuffle of footsteps behind you.
And before your mind could even register what was happening—
Her hands were on your cheeks.
Warm. Familiar. A little shaky.
You blinked in surprise as she pulled you down slightly—eyes darting over your face like she wasn't sure if she was allowed to do this—and then she kissed you.
Hard.
Not like the last time. Not like any of the times before.
There was no hesitation in it. No pretense. No half-truths.
Just Cairo, pressed against you like she was trying to make up for every single second she'd wasted not being here.
Her lips tasted like stale sugar, cheap wine, and cigarette smoke, and somehow that combination made your chest ache harder than anything else.
Her fingers twitched against your jaw, like she didn't know how to stop holding you.
And her mouth—
God, her mouth was saying everything she couldn't get out.
Sorry.
I mean it.
Don't leave.
Her thumbs trembled slightly where they pressed against your jaw.
Her mouth moved against yours like she thought she might never get to do it again.
And your heart—
It cracked open.
Because even if everything still hurt...
Even if none of this fixed what had already broken—
She was trying.
She was finally trying.
When she pulled back, her eyes searched yours, frantic and wet around the edges.
And she didn't say anything.
She didn't have to.
You rested your forehead against hers for a moment, just breathing.
Feeling the ache settle into something a little quieter.
Maybe it wasn't a fix.
Maybe it wasn't clean or easy.
But it was honest.
And for once, that felt like enough to start with.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19 | Part 20
You pulled your shirt over your head when you heard a soft knock at your door. A second later Grace stepped in, knowing she didn’t need to wait for a response. She came over to you and instantly lifted the shirt you had just put on, making you sigh. Despite being allowed to leave the infirmary she still needed to check you over one last time.
“I’m fine,” you assured her.
“You’ve almost died twice now,” she whispered. “What did I tell you about being careful?” She flicked a glare up at you, letting the shirt fall back into place.
“I’m sorry.” You gave her your most charming smile and even added your puppy dog eyes to get her to relax.
She only rolled her eyes. She didn’t ask before tilting your head to the side and pulling down the collar of your shirt. Her breath caught in her throat at the sight. A vampire bite wouldn’t kill you, not like your bite does to them. A bite from one of them wouldn’t even turn you, but it did leave a small scar, even with your healing ability.
“It’s fine,” you whispered again, gently guiding Grace’s hand back down. “It’s nothing new.”
Grace let out a tired sigh, like she was sick of having this argument every time you got hurt. Which she probably was. You got hurt, she patched you up, it was a never-ending cycle. The alternative was her getting hurt, or Joey, or some innocent, you couldn’t let that happen. If suffering for a short while was what you had to do to save others, then it was a sacrifice you were more than willing to make. Grace herself understood that, you knew that. The whole reason Grace did all this was so that what happened to her, and to you, and to Joey, never happened to anyone again.
“You and Joey seem to be getting closer,” Grace said.
You furrowed your brow at the subject change. That also seemed to be one way to put it. “I guess,” you mumbled, your cheeks heating up. You weren’t really sure what you’d call you and Joey. She kissed you and it was amazing, but you had just almost died trying to save her, she was probably just being nice.
“You’re allowed to be happy,” Grace said softly, though you noted the seriousness of her tone. “Go after what you want,” she smiled. “It’s okay. You just have to be willing to fight for it.”
You scrunched your eyebrows together as you search Grace’s face. You couldn’t help but feel there was a double meaning. That maybe Grace didn’t drop it, that she wanted you to use whatever was going on with Joey to not throw yourself carelessly into danger. You weren’t sure if that would work, you’d probably just want to protect Joey more if your feelings deepened. That being said, you had never allowed yourself to care about someone that way, not since you were bit. Besides Grace, you didn’t have to worry about not making it home, you never had to consider who might grieve you if you never came back.
“I don’t even know what she wants,” you whispered.
“Then talk to her,” Grace said with a soft smile.
That was certainly easier said than done. If you talked to her, she’d give you an answer. You were sure you weren’t ready for her answer. More specifically you weren’t ready for her to reject you. It was just a crush at the moment, harmless flirting, you were sure she knew about your crush but as long as it remained that way it was fine. Even if she maybe sort of felt the same way as you, she had other priorities, other things to consider. You met Caleb once and though he seemed to like you that didn’t mean Joey wanted you in his life that way. You were a risk, being with you would be a risk, and she didn’t take risks with Caleb, it was probably better if she continued to keep herself and him distant from you.
“Go on,” Grace nodded towards the door. “She’s waiting.”
You nodded and walked out of the room with Grace behind you. You had the regular car ride back to Joey’s, though this time you imagined an uncomfortable silence now that you’ve shared a kiss. For all you knew Joey wouldn’t want to talk about it and would pretend it never happened. Or she would want to talk about it, and she’d try to let you down easy.
When you got downstairs you saw Joey already waiting by the front door. “Ready?” You asked. Joey nodded and you opened the door, gesturing for her to lead the way.
The two of you hopped in the car and were on your way. You hit the button for the radio and turned the volume up just enough that it shouldn’t annoy Joey but also so the silence wouldn’t feel as awkward. You occasionally glanced at Joey out of the side of your eye but tried to remain focused on the road. She stared out the window, her elbow resting out the window as the wind blew her hair back.
You could feel Joeys eyes on you as you continued the drive, but you refused to look at her. Your fingers started to twitch around the steering wheel after five minutes of her eyes on you.
“Are we really doing this?” She asked.
“Do-doing what?” You asked, finally taking a quick look at her. There was an amused smile on her face though you weren’t sure why.
“Seriously?” She raised an eyebrow at you.
You opened your mouth, but no excuses came to you, so you ended up just gaping at her like a fish. Joey rolled her eyes and looked back out the window.
“I kissed you,” she said simply.
Your mouth suddenly became dry; you weren’t expecting her to bring it up. You figured if you never mentioned it then she wouldn’t attempt to reject you. You guessed she just wanted to make things clear and not let you assume it meant anything. Maybe she was offering you this as a kindness, a type of closure, or she just didn’t want you to start thinking you could do something drastic like hold her hand.
“Now you’re being weird,” she said.
“I’m not being weird,” you awkwardly chuckled, which did nothing to help your case. “I saved your life, and you were thankful and that’s what happened.” You cleared your throat awkwardly hoping that was believable. You opened the door, you just needed her to understand it was okay with you, that you didn’t expect anything from her.
“You really think I’d kiss you just because you almost died?”
You gave her a confused look. You agreed, it seemed a little weird but there was truly no other reason you could think of that would make her kiss you.
Joey let out a sigh. “It did make me realize somethings,” she admitted. “But that’s not the only reason why.”
“It’s not?” You asked with a tilt of your head. Inside you perked up, you couldn’t help the spark of hope that ignited in you.
“Are you seriously going to make me say it?” She looked at you, genuinely asking you this. You just stared back, you needed her to say it, you needed her to clarify what she meant. If you spoke first then you could never go back, if she went first and it wasn’t where you thought it was going then you could shove your disappointment down and pretend everything was fine.
“I like you,” she mumbled.
You fought the smile that tried to break out onto your face. “You like me?” You asked. “Like, romantically?”
“God,” she groaned. “You’re such an ass.” You couldn’t help but chuckle. “Yes! There! You happy!” She through her hands up in faux frustration. “Somehow your stupid self-sacrificing ass has won me over.”
You focused on the road as you tried to stop from smiling, she could say the sweetest things at times. “So, does that mean it would be okay if I asked you out some time?”
You flexed your hands around the steering wheel, quietly wondering when your mouth became so dry. You risked a glance to your right when an answer never came, only to be met with Joey staring right back at you. Luckily, she wasn’t glaring like you thought she would be, though she seemed to wear a look of disbelief.
“Are you seriously asking me if you’re allowed to ask me out?” She asked.
You shrugged. She kissed you, said she liked you romantically, though as far as you were concerned none of this was confirmation she wanted to date you. She could have been acknowledging all those things but still wanting to keep things professional. You didn’t want to get your hopes up, work up the nerve to ask her out, only for her to reject you and make things forever awkward.
Joey rolled her eyes with a sigh. “If you were to ever ask me out,” she said slowly. “I wouldn’t worry too much about getting a no.”
A smile tugged at your lips, but you remained focused on the road. “Good to know,” was all you said.
A part of you wanted to turn and ask her out right then and there. You were on your way back into the city, there were so many great spots you could go to that would be perfect for a date. Though all that seemed a little sudden, you didn’t want to come off desperate. Besides, though you were sure Joey would appreciate the sights, she deserved something special for a first date, you needed to actually think it through and plan it out. On top of all that, asking her out in the car was hardly romantic, you could do better than that.
As you got off the highway you took the turn that would lead you towards Joeys apartment. “Turn here,” she said as you came to an intersection.
You furrowed your brow but did as she asked. “I need to pick up Caleb,” she said.
You hummed in acknowledgement. You had only picked her up a few times from her ex’s apartment, she usually tried to be back at her place by the time you arrived. This was new though, you weren’t sure if you were meant to drop her off and then she and Caleb would just walk back to her apartment or what. You knew your time with her was coming to an end for the day, but you still hoped for a little more time. Caleb had met you but if you offered them a ride he might think something more than work was going on between you and his mom. Which there was, at least you and Joey were on your way to that, at least you thought you were. Everything was so new, you weren’t even dating, you hadn’t even been on a date, the last thing either of you needed was Caleb asking questions.
You pulled up to the apartment and put the car in park, the very least you could do was wait until she got inside. You’d wait until she and Caleb walked out but that might raise even more questions from Caleb, especially if he saw they weren’t getting in the car with you.
Joey unbuckled herself and wordlessly got out. You were tapping your fingers on the wheel when you decided to turn up the music. As you reached for the dial you caught Joey staring at you with a raised eyebrow. Your mouth hung open, the question dying on your lips, you felt like you were supposed to know what she was expecting.
“Aren’t you coming?” She asked.
You looked around, as if she could be talking to someone else. You quickly nodded and struggled to undo your seatbelt as she finally closed her car door. You barely remembered to turn off the car before getting out and jogging to catch up to her.
You kept glancing at her out of the side of your eye. This was uncharted waters, and you weren’t sure how to act. You deciding standing behind Joey and following a few steps behind was the best course of action. You didn’t know much about her ex, just that he was kind of an asshole and Joey didn’t seem overly fond of him, but she still allowed him to share custody of Caleb.
You followed Joey up the stairs to the fourth floor. You waited behind her, looking everywhere but the door she was currently knocking on. You titled your head; there was a slight creak of the floorboards from the apartment behind you. The door never opened, no one even so much as touched the doorknob but you could hear their breathing, they were most likely looking through the peep hole.
Your head snapped to the door as it was flung open. A man stood in the doorway, he was relatively physically built, he had a crew cut even after his time in the military, his flannel hung loose over a white tank top, and to pull it all together his jeans were forever dirty from whatever job he worked. You recognized him instantly; there were pictures in Joey’s file after all, from when you were considering offering her a job. The man instantly rolled his eyes when they fell on Joey.
“What do you want?” He asked gruffly.
“I’m here to pick up my son,” Joey said. Her voice didn’t change, you had heard it a thousand times like that now, but her heart rate spiked ever so slightly. Her hand was shoved in her pocket, and you could hear her fiddling with a wrapper from a piece of candy she had already eaten.
The man just scoffed and rolled his eyes again. Your fingers twitched at your side; it was good Joey never wanted you around before if this was how her ex treated her.
“Caleb!” the man called out, barely turning his head back into the apartment. “Your mom’s here, get your shit together!”
Your fingers clenched into a fist, you sucked in a breath when you felt claws pierce your palm. You couldn’t lose it, not with not only Joey right there but her son just in the other room. Slowly you unclenched your hand, it took everything in you not to hiss as your claws came out of your flesh. You wiped your palm on your jeans; the last thing you needed was someone questioning why your hand was covered in blood.
“Who’s this?” the man asked, seeming to notice you for the first time.
“None of your business,” Joey snapped.
The man scoffed. His eyes flicked from you to Joey and a knowing cynical smile slowly spread across his face. “I see how it is,” he nodded. “Where’d you fine this one?” he looked you up and down, puffing out his chest as he sized you up.
“Work,” there was an edge to Joey’s voice, one that you knew meant drop it. Her ex didn’t seem to know her too well or he didn’t care because dropping it seemed to be the last thing on his mind.
“Work,” he sighed, rubbing his chin, like he was in on some secret between just the two of them. “You knew me from work once.”
Joey rolled her eyes, she clearly knew what he meant as well. You had a feeling you knew what he was getting at, but you didn’t want to start assuming.
“What kind of work,” he said as if he didn’t believe a word she said. “Do you do together?”
“None of your business,” Joey said, giving him a warning glare.
“I think I deserve to know who you’re bringing around my son.” He stood taller, blocking the entirety of the doorway. He didn’t take a step forward, but he it clear what he was trying to do.
Before Joey could respond Caleb came running up behind his dad. He squeezed past his dad, not bothering to wait for him to move. “Get back here,” the man said harshly, catching Caleb by the arm and yanking him back.
Your breath caught in your throat as you held in a growl. This wasn’t your fight, you had no right to involve yourself. Joey was more than capable of taking care of herself, you had seen that firsthand.
“Don’t touch him,” Joey warned, ripping her ex’s hand off of Caleb. She gently pulled Caleb toward her, putting herself between him and his father. You heard the click of a lock and the door behind you creak open, but you didn’t turn around.
“We’re leaving,” Joey said with finality. “You better get over this,” she gestured up and down at him. “By next weekend.”
The man let out a humorless chuckle. “We are not done yet,” he said. His hand shot out, grabbing onto Joey and trying to yank her back towards him. Joey spun around and slapped him across the face.
His head snapped to the side, and he slowly turned, now fully glaring at Joey. “Bitch,” he snarled.
He raised his hand, to grab her again or to hit her back, you weren’t sure. Your hand caught his before it could ever reach her. You snapped his wrist with just a simple flick of your own. He tried crumbling to his knees, but you held him up as you stepped in front of Joey. You pushed the man back into his apartment, slamming the door behind you, Caleb didn’t need to see what you were about to do.
“Don’t kill him,” you heard Joey whisper.
You let out a huff, it would be so easy to kill him, though it probably would have only caused you more problems in the long run. You kept your grip on his wrist as you walked him back until he hit the wall. When you released him, he collapsed to the ground, gripping his wrist, which now flopped motionlessly in a direction it wasn’t supposed to go.
“You psycho,” he spit out. “I’m going to…” his words died as you crouched down in front of him, flashing your glowing yellow eyes. You heard his heartrate tick up and you couldn’t help but smirk.
“Wh-what are you?” he managed to get out through trembling lips.
“You’re never going to lay a fucking hand on either of them again,” you stated calmly. “Got it?” he quickly nodded, pushing his back into the wall as if he could somehow put more distance between himself and you. “You’re also never going to try taking Caleb from her, yeah?” you chuckled as if it were ridiculous for you to even think he’d do such a thing.
He nodded, you knew he could be agreeable with the right motivation. “Good,” you said, giving him a kind smile.
Your hand shot out, gripping him tightly on the shoulder. You squeezed, applying just enough pressure so he was wincing but not enough to actually break anything. “Now,” you whispered, still keeping the kind smile on your face. “You don’t actually give a shit about your kid; we both know it. You only wanted weekends because it hurt her. So,” he let out a whimper as you squeezed his shoulder even tighter. “No more of that,” you shook your head. “She’s got full custody.” You stared at him expectantly, but he just stared back at you in fear. “Do you have a problem with that?” you asked slowly so he’d understand. He quickly shook his head.
You lessened your grip on him, and he released a sigh of relief. You didn’t allow him the pleasure of thinking you were done for long before you tightened your grip once again, yanking him closer. “If you come for either of them, if I so much as hear about you ever having laid a hand on them,” you said coldly, your eyes somehow burning brighter. “I’ll rip your fucking throat out,” you let out a dark chuckle as you stared into his tear-filled eyes.
You released him and stood up abruptly, as if nothing had happened. You turned on your heel and walked back out the door, not bothering to give him a second glance. You closed the door behind you, making sure no one could see the disappointment of a man lying on the floor.
You looked up and down the hall, you were alone. You tilted your head when your head lifted at the sound of Caleb’s laughter. You let out a shaky breath as you stepped up to the door across the hall and gave it a soft knock.
It was only a moment before a woman you didn’t recognize answered. She looked you up and down, letting out a small hum before stepping aside. You didn’t move to step into her apartment, but you could see Joey and Caleb sitting on the couch. Joey seemed to feel your eyes on you because her eyes found you almost instantly and she was moving towards you a second later. She whispered something to Caleb who nodded and started packing his stuff.
“Are you okay?” you asked as soon as she was standing in front of you. Joey crossed her arms over her chest and nodded. “I’m sorry,” you dropped your head. You had just made progress with her; she was allowing you a chance and you probably just blew it.
You sucked in a breath when you felt Joey’s soft hand rest on your cheek, slowly guiding you to look up. When you looked at her you didn’t see anger or judgement, you didn’t even see fear. “Thank you,” she whispered.
You leaned into her touch, you wanted nothing more than to pull her in for a kiss, but you were aware of Caleb coming up behind her. You stepped away when he got to the doorway and looked down at him. He looked up at you and if he was surprised to see you, he didn’t show it, he just smiled and pushed past his mother.
The woman whose apartment they were in pulled Joey aside and whispered something to her. You didn’t listen, wanting to respect her privacy but you couldn’t help but think they were talking about you based on the way the woman’s eyes occasionally flicked to you and how Joey’s cheeks reddened. When they were done you looked a Joey questioningly and she shook her head, clearly having no intention of ever telling you what was just said. You couldn’t help but smirk as you followed them back down to the car.
Caleb’s eyes lit up at your car and he actually sprinted to the backseat. Joey shook her head, but you hadn’t seen a smile so big on her face since you had met her. Once all three of you were in the car you rolled down the windows, it was a short drive to their apartment, but you figured Caleb deserved the full experience of riding around in a Jeep, if that was his reaction to it.
Within a few minutes you were pulling up outside Joey’s apartment. You didn’t wait for her to give you that look again as you unbuckled and followed them out. The three of you silently walked up to the apartment and as soon as Joey opened the door Caleb rushed in, running straight to his room, barely managing to wave you a goodbye in the process.
You bounced on your heels in the doorway, not wanting to cross the threshold until Joey invited you to do so. Joey stood on the other side, casually resting her arm on the doorframe.
“Thank you for today,” she said softly.
“Anytime,” you whispered.
The two of you stood there just staring at each other before letting out an awkward chuckle. It seemed neither of you knew what to do next. You let out a shaky breath as you tried to prepare yourself for what you wanted to do. You just threatened a man as if it were nothing but the idea of making this next move was the most terrifying thing you had ever faced.
“So, Ana,” you said, testing the waters. She tilted her head curiously at her real name but didn’t so much as glare at you like she had before. “Would you do me the honor of going on a date with me?”
You swallowed nervously and tried to stop your fingers from twitching at your side. She had told you earlier that she wouldn’t be opposed to you asking her out, she told you she liked you. None of that got rid of the nerves though. Even though she thanked you before, you weren’t sure if breaking her ex’s wrist and threatening his life would change things for her.
“It would be my pleasure,” Joey answered, not leaving you in suspense for too long.
You couldn’t stop yourself from breaking out into a smile. “Great!” you said. You stepped back, not wanting to overstay your welcome or risk making everything awkward again. “Have a nice night.”
“You too.”
You walked backwards down the hall until she closed the door then you turned around. The smile didn’t leave your face even when you got back to the car. You couldn’t wait to get back and tell Grace everything that happened.
I'd like to request a Tara Carpenter x FemReader lovey-dovey story!
A Dinner date! This date is early in their relationship.
Tara is cooking for R? She's asking for Sam's assistance on how to make a dish they loved when they were younger. They are the only ones home. R brings dessert from a bakery Tara loves, and Tara is secretly touched she remembered. As they enter the kitchen, Sam secretly left a sticky note on the fridge (which is accidentally too high for Tara to read xddd) that says, “Don’t mess this up, Tara. She’s a keeper.” R sees it and grins.
They settle down. R compliments the food, and Tara gets flustered, turning beet red. R jokingly asks Tara what the secret ingredient is, and Tara deadpans, “My desperation.” (Love cheeky Tara...😩)
R helps Tara clean up the kitchen afterward, making it another soft moment, washing dishes side by side, sneaking glances. After the delicious dinner, they play a game on the roof with hot chocolate! 20 questions or Truth or Dare with shameless flirting and bold dares, questions.
After the game, Tara steals R’s hoodie after she gets cold, and they cuddle under a blanket, fingers laced. They watch the stars and make up fake constellations based on inside jokes! (That's just so adorable!!!!)
When Sam comes home, she walks in on them asleep on the couch, Tara tucked into R’s chest, and quietly backs out without saying a word.
Of course, I want them to kiss!!! But I can't think of the perfect time, I'm all-out of ideas. XDDD I let you do your magic!!! Take your time!
THANK YOUUU!! 💙💙
A Recipe for Us
Tara Carpenter x Female Reader (Request)
Summary: Tara wants a perfect date; quite frankly, you think any date with her is perfect.
Just fluff, no angst here.
Masterlist
Word count: 3.5k
“If you go any further, you’ll be in the closet for the first time in your life,” Anika, your roommate and a current annoyance commented as you reached further into the closet, searching for a shirt to wear for tonight’s dinner.
You faked a laugh. “Comedian,” you muttered, fully aware that half of your body was currently in the closet. You emerged from the depths of that very dark place with a couple of shirts and tossed them onto your bed. “Nope, no, not that one either,” you said as you threw shirts onto a slowly forming pile on the chair. “Shame on me for even buying that,” you tossed that one particularly hard.
“Why?! It’s a nice shirt!” Anika defended the offensive piece of clothing that you must have bought by accident.
“Meh,” and back to the closet you went as the clock kept ticking. You only had three hours left and you were starting to panic. “Can you check on the dessert for me?” you asked.
“Y/N, I checked half an hour ago, still in the fridge, still in the box, still looks good,” Anika groaned and you heard a thud as she threw herself on your bed.
“Fine,” but you still made a mental note to go and check on the dessert. It was one of the more popular ones in the bakery Tara loved, to the point it sold out within two hours. Meaning Tara often missed out on it. So, you went to the bakery the moment it opened today and got a few more than Tara and you could eat, put them in the fridge and were now hoping they’d survive the excruciating wait.
Anika hopped to her feet, probably bored of watching you turn your room into a very localized tornado victim. “I’m still not sure how you remembered that one very specific detail,” Anika teased you as she walked by you and patted you on the back.
“Of course I remember! It’s Tara’s favorite!” you defend yourself with a pout as she heads out.
“Simp!” she yells from the safe distance, laughing maniacally.
You roll your eyes and once more begin going through your closet to find the perfect outfit for tonight.
~X~
A few blocks away Tara was also losing her mind. “SAM!” she cried out like she was being chased by hellhounds as she looked at the boiling water while her hands were glued to the dough. Sam barged in with a knife in hand and Tara wondered where she got it from. All the knives were supposed to be in the kitchen.
“Where’s the intruder?!” Sam demanded, frantically looking around the kitchen for anyone.
“At the stove! Stir the pasta!” Tara yelled as water began boiling over and she did not have the time to clean the damn kitchen after making the dinner. Sam just looked at her, dumbfounded. “Sam! Please!” she urged her sister which thankfully finally made her act and stir the pasta.
“What’s the dough for?” Sam asked as she watched over the pasta.
Tara, on the other hand, felt like crying. “I wanted to make a quiche,” and she stupidly wanted to make it all from scratch. She didn’t see it, but Sam’s eyes softened. “I can’t knead it properly,” she felt helpless and frustrated.
“How about you handle the pasta and I’ll finish the dough,” Sam offered gently and Tara, wanting the dinner to be perfect, reluctantly nodded and cleaned her hands. “You know, I don’t know her as well as you do, but even I can tell she’ll be happy just eating dinner with you, no matter what it is,” Sam’s words were meant to comfort her, but it only made her more anxious.
Yes, you would be fine with anything. For all you cared Tara could go to the store and get a frozen pizza, bake it and leave it to get cold and you’d happily eat it as long as you got to do it with her. Which was why she needed this to be perfect. You deserved better than a cold pizza. And she also wanted the first dinner she made for you to be special, to be her favorite childhood meal, and she wanted you to enjoy it. “Anything won’t do, this has to be perfect,” she was as determined as she was desperate as she drained the pasta. She’d use it to make a salad since you mentioned you liked it.
Sam smiled as she for once dropped the overprotective sister act. Somehow you won her sister over. Granted, Tara always knew you’d get Sam to like you, she just didn’t expect it to happen this quickly. Well, you managed to break her own walls down and she fell hard, wishing these dates happened more often, but between college and work there just weren’t all that many nights that could be spent like this. With a, hopefully, nice dinner and relaxing without worrying about tomorrow.
“You’ll be fine, Tara. This is already perfect,” Sam really needed to work on her lies.
“Bullshit. We don’t have anything done,” Tara deadpanned, causing Sam to burst out laughing. Despite her anxiety, Tara joined in, loving the sound of Sam laughing. That certainly wasn’t something she got to hear often.
~X~
Three hours later Tara was bouncing on the soles of her feet, anxiously waiting by the doors for you to knock. She was dead tired from spending the day in the kitchen and cleaning the apartment, and getting ready for the date, and overall being worried, but she was still filled with so much anxious energy she just couldn’t settle down.
Sam went to work, meaning the two of you would be on your own and at least that brought her some relief. At least Sam wouldn’t tease her, or act overprotective, or anything else, really.
Two soft knocks on her front door would have startled her if she wasn’t so focused on the doors and she didn’t even have it in her to pretend she wasn’t right behind the doors this whole time. She swung the doors open, which, considering what happened last year, wasn’t the smartest thing to do, but it all worked out as she jumped into your arms and felt all the tension and exhaustion in her body disappear as you hugged her with one hand and lifted her up. “Hey, T,” you chuckled as she kissed your cheek and quickly kissed her cheek in return. “You look beautiful,” you complimented her.
Tara rolled her eyes when you released her. “You didn’t even get to look at me,” she teased you, getting lost in your gaze.
“I caught a glimpse,” you winked at her and she felt her heart racing faster. ”I got these for you,” you brought her attention to a bouquet of roses and a paper bag from her favorite bakery.
“Y/N,” she accepted the gifts, touched by your gesture, especially when she realized you brought her favorite desserts. “It’s beautiful,” she blushed and looked you over. “And you look incredible too,” she hoped the smile on her face told you everything while she reached out and took your hand, gently pulling you into her apartment.
~X~
She was mesmerizingly beautiful and you wondered how you got so lucky. Nothing else could get your attention when she was guiding you, holding your hand, walking in front of you, when you were like this with her it felt like the whole world faded into the background and you couldn’t resist it. The moment you closed the front doors behind you, you pulled Tara back against you and wrapped your arms around her waist. “I missed you,” you muttered against her shoulder as you hugged her like that, worrying that she could feel how hard your heart was beating against her back.
Tara looked back and smiled shyly, clearly embarrassed by how easily she just melted against you. “Missed you too,” you had exams this past week, so you didn’t really get the chance to see one another.
You stood like that for a few moments, just relaxing, soaking in each other’s presence before you slowly pulled away, letting Tara lead you to the kitchen. “Could you grab the salad from the fridge? I just need to get the main dish out,” she asked as if you could say no to that.
“Of course,” you went to the fridge and noticed a note stuck to the top of it. ‘Don’t mess this up, Tara. She’s a keeper. -Sam’ you froze, shocked by what you read. You didn’t expect Sam to accept you this quickly. “There’s no way you could mess this up,” you assured her and Tara turned to look at you, clearly confused. And she looked adorable, putting the gloves on and looking all baffled and cute. You just pointed at Sam’s note, which once again confused Tara.
Did she not notice it? You pulled it off the fridge and grabbed the salad along the way. You handed the note to Tara, who immediately blushed redder than a tomato and quickly turned away from you to hide it. “I didn’t see it,” oh, right, it was a bit too tall for her. “You are a keeper, though,” she said as you set the salad down and she opened the stove. A heavenly scent struck you, temporarily making you forget whatever you were going to say. Which, in hindsight, was probably better, because Tara was already embarrassed enough.
“You’ll spoil me,” you said as the best quiche you ever saw was set on the table by the most wonderful girl you got the chance to meet.
Tara smiled and poked you in the middle of your chest. “That’s the plan,” she glanced at your lips for a moment and you nearly leaned down, but you weren’t sure if you should. You and Tara just recently got together and haven’t really kissed that many times. Tara bit her lower lip for a moment and then, with clear effort, took a step back. “We should eat before the quiche gets cold,” she made herself busy, filling the plates as you brought the utensils.
She finished filling the plates and you gave her a cheeky grin as you pulled her chair out for you. “Who is being spoiled now?” she asked with a light laugh.
“Both of us,” you shrugged, and she shook her head, but she still sat down, letting you push her chair closer to the table before sitting down next to her.
You waited for a bit, just making sure the quiche wouldn’t burn your tongue, before taking the first bite and you dropped your fork and leaned back, humming at how good it tasted. “Marry me,” you blurted out, only half-joking and making Tara laugh.
“It can’t be that good,” Tara one again turned red and looked down at her plate in embarrassment.
You looked at her sternly, or at least you were trying to be stern. You were failing miserably, but you were trying. “It can, it is, I want to know what the secret ingredient is,” you were grinning ear to ear as Tara messed with the end of the napkin. “T, Baby, it really is perfect,” you leaned in, kissing her cheek. “And it can’t just be love, there has to be some other secret ingredient here,” you whispered in her ear,
“My desperation,” she deadpanned, making you laugh and lean your forehead on her shoulder.
“You’re incredible,” you said, patting your girlfriend on the back and turning your attention back toward the perfect dinner she made for the two of you. You made a mental note to get the proper recipe later, because damn, this was incredible.
~X~
Doing dishes was not something younger Tara considered a part of a perfect date, but somehow it just felt natural with you. She cleaned the table while you began washing the dishes and Tara occasionally looked at you. You looked like you belonged here. Not in front of the sink, washing dishes, but in Tara’s life, seamlessly belonging in what used to be a lonely, almost too painful, existence. As she approached you to start drying the dishes you washed she caught herself thinking that she could definitely get used to this.
“You know you didn’t have to do this,” she said softly, her eyes once again focusing on your lips. She wanted to kiss you so badly, but, like with the dinner, she wanted this kiss to be perfect as well, to come at a perfect moment.
You shrugged in that way she absolutely adored. “I want to, though,” and that meant the world to Tara. All her life she wanted this sense of domesticity, this constant presence she would come back to over and over again. And somehow, after thinking she wouldn’t get that, after being abandoned and betrayed again and again and damn near giving up on that ideal life, she almost dared to think she might have just found it with you.
You just recently started dating, but she felt that deep connection already, felt safe and secure and cared for in ways she never did before.
So, she did the only sensible thing; she scooped some of the soap from the sink and flung it at your nose. You blinked a few times, taken aback as Tara, both to temporarily push aside the thoughts about the future, and to get that adorable reaction out of you, laughed.
“Now that’s just uncalled for,” you chuckled and, much to Tara’s surprise leaned in and brushed the tip of your soap-covered nose against her own. “It’s cute though,” you teased her when she froze, not expecting you to do that. And she definitely didn’t expect you to first wipe the soap off her nose, brushing it with your thumb so gently she nearly turned into a puddle.
“Oh shit, look at all these dishes I need to dry,” she frantically began rubbing the plate with a cloth, ignoring the smirk on your face.
~X~
You weren’t sure how this night could possibly get even better. The dinner was perfect, ou adored every moment you spent with Tara and now, for whatever reason, she was taking you outside of her apartment. You watched, puzzled and with two cups of hot chocolate and a blanket hanging over your shoulder, as she locked the doors and pulled you up the stairs by your forearm. Not that she needed to pull you, you’d follow her anywhere as long as she led the way. Still, you figured Tara liked holding you in some way.
She opened the doors and you were proven wrong. The night could get better. You looked in awe at the starry night sky, clear from clouds, bright, beautiful, almost as beautiful as the girl that led you here. Corny, yes, but you’d live with that.
Tara led you to a mattress she probably set up earlier today and the two of you sat down, enjoying the light breeze, even if it was a bit cold. Tara quickly grabbed the blanket and wrapped it around both of you, blushing at how close you had to be for the blanket to warm both of you up. She was still shivering slightly, and you figured the pink shirt she was wearing wasn’t warming her up all that much. So, you did the only reasonable thing and set the hot chocolate down, unzipped your hoodie, took it off and gave it to Tara without a single word.
“Aww, my hero,” she teased you as she happily put the hoodie on, took a deep content breath, and snuggled against you. “Wanna play 20 questions with me?” she suddenly offered, and you haven’t played it in a while, so, you figured why not.
“Of course,” you looked at her grinning and figured you were supposed to guess. “Is it alive?” you asked and Tara rolled her eyes.
“Predictable,” she teased you. “Yes,” she still answered and you suddenly got an idea.
“How about we make it more interesting?” you offered, immediately getting Tara interested as she leaned closer to hear you out. “If I get it right in less than ten questions, I get a kiss, and if I don’t, I’ll do your chores for the weekend.”
“So, a win-win for me?” she raised an eyebrow, and you nodded. Tara smirked, leaning in so close you swore you could feel her lips on your own. “You must really want to kiss me,” she pulled back, teasing and taunting you with her lips.
“I do,” and you weren’t ashamed to admit it.
Tara, despite the blush on her face, took a sip of her hot chocolate, made a show of licking her lips clean and looked you straight in the eyes. “If you guess it in less than seven questions I’ll let you kiss me all you want,” well, now you were definitely motivated.
“Deal,” you shook her hand. “Is it an animal?” she nodded. “A pet?” shook her head. “Can it fly? She shook her head again. “Is it a predator?” Tara nodded again. “A wild cat?”
“Yes, careful now, only one question left,” she warned you.
“Is it a lion?” you had to try, and she shook her head, well, there goes your unlimited kisses. You hung your head low and Tara laughed, patting you on the back to comfort you in your defeat. “Does it live in a jungle?” might as well try to get a kiss, but she shook her head and you watched her a bit suspiciously. “A leopard then?” you asked and she shook her head. “Is it a sub-species?” and there went your kiss as Tara nodded. “A Siberian tiger?” you guessed, and Tara nodded, kissing you on the cheek to give you a bit of a consolation price.
“Almost got it, Baby,” she whispered as you found comfort in hot chocolate.
You looked at the night sky, letting go of your wasted opportunity to kiss your girlfriend and resigning to doing her chores. “That looks like Babadook,” you pointed at some random stars, drawing a rough shape of the movie character as Tara laughed next to you.
“Shit, you’re right!” she began looking around and then pointed to your right. “That looks like Lightning McQueen,” and you didn’t see it, no matter how hard Tara tried to draw the lines for you.
“Come on, that’s too random,” you weren’t accepting it, but Tara kept insisting. “There’s your name, by the way,” there wasn’t but she still looked to her left and lost the newly found Lightning McQueen constellation.
“Sure, Y/N,” she dragged the words out and drank the last of her cup. “Truth or dare?” she asked you out of blue.
“Dare,” you had nothing to lose and something in Tara’s dark, beautiful eyes told you that was the correct choice.
“Kiss me,” she said and who were you to reject such a wonderful dare. You caressed her cheek, wiping a bit of hot chocolate from the corner of her soft lips and making her smile.
“The easiest dare I’ll ever complete,” you whispered, kissing her softly, almost timidly, almost as if you were still charting the new territory. And Tara responded in a similar way, just barely deepening the kiss and instead pressing her body against your own, seeking your warmth and the closeness. There was something almost lazy about the kiss, just relaxed, as if you had all the time in the world, as if the whole world stopped when the two of you were like this.
The taste of hot chocolate lingered as you separated and Tara hugged you. You remained like that, just basking in each other’s presence, wanting nothing more than to stay in this moment for as long as you possibly could.
“We should do that more often,” you whispered and she nodded, wholeheartedly agreeing with that.
“We definitely should,” so, she kissed you again, just as softly and gently as before.
~X~
Sam figured giving Tara and you several hours while she pretended to be at work and was instead spending time with Danny would be enough. So, a bit before midnight, she slowly unlocked her apartment and slipped in. Tara had a long day, so she wouldn’t be surprised if she fell asleep, and all things considered Sam fully expected to see you sleeping on the couch.
What she didn’t expect was to walk into her living room and see not just you sleeping on the couch, but also Tara sleeping with you, tucked into your chest while you had your arms protectively wrapped around her. You were both wrapped in blankets, but Sam could still see Tara was wearing a hoodie she didn’t recognize, that, suspiciously looked big enough to fit you.
Sam smiled, noticing the content look on Tara’s face. It’s been a while since Tara slept so peacefully. You really were a keeper.
A/N: Damn, it felt really good to go back to writing for Tara. I enjoyed this a lot and I hope you'll enjoy reading it as well.
summary: An accidental slip up of Wednesday calling you by your name sets you on a first name basis calling spree—life lesson, she shouldn't forget about your endearments next time.
A/N: hell yeah, r and w's dating heree
Warnings!: ooc wed! soft wednesday! 🤭
Masterlist
wc: 1.2k
You and Wednesday always used terms of endearments privately—that has become your own language, only that you both speak of.
So, when Wednesday got back to your dorm, literally fuming, you didn't waste a breath, already asking her what was wrong, or if she needed something to soothe her nerves.
She didn't have a problem with your persistence, she absolutely adores you, but she just wasn't feeling too good tonight. She knew you knew that, you were together all day, although she did part with you after dinner to head to her dorm for her writing time, only for her to find out she ran out of ink, she wouldn't be able to buy some until tomorrow because of the pouring rain.
And, the weight of her bag was too much, how her jaw felt like it's locked in place, the heels on her boots felt heavy all of a sudden, gosh she just wants you to hold her tight and not let go.
"I don't need anything at the moment, thank you Y/N." She sighs, beginning to take her boots and bag off, unbuttoning her vest and making her way to your closet, where your clothes are now practically hers, vice versa.
Though, your abrupt halting clearly wasn't subtle, she saw the hesitance in your body language, the way you began moving at a slower pace, worrying if you moved too suddenly you'd have not only been on a first name basis with Wednesday—but also anxious if Wednesday would prefer to sleep in her dorm room from now and then, too.
You didn't want to give up your nightly routine cuddles! Never!
"You okay?"
Her eyes traced your features, your brows creased. To the motion of your hair to the shift of your foot. She didn't know what had happened, did she say something to set you off? She knew you were big on thinking about everything too hard. She didn't need that tonight.
"Yeah.. I'm okay." You gave her a light huff, with a flick of your thumb hitting the switch of the room's emitting light.
Wednesday giving a sigh of her own, you both began moving towards your cozy bed that was currently calling for both of you to just sleep and relax. That's just what you both needed, right? right.
That's what it was.
...
The next morning didn't go as planned, not that Wednesday anticipated on going thoroughly well with her day. She didn't like the way you said her name, just her name. She didn't like the way you were avoiding eye contact with her either. She loathed everything you were purposely doing!
So, she went to someone who knew you and per chance to get the idea why you were portraying such actions out of the ordinary. Weirder than weird.
"Enid, I think.. I scared Y/N off."
Enid dismisses it as lovers quarrel, saying nothing fixes that issue with no communication. So, that's what Wednesday did! Still, she felt as if the steps she went through were misguided.
"Y/N, it seems I've.. I've— upset you in some way. May I know how?"
Wednesday didn't know why her voice wavered and quivered, she wasn't worried, was she? She didn't think so, Enid's right. Just communicate.
Yet you looked at her funny, like what she had said was silly, gently taking your hand to your lips, a light laugh went out of your throat.
"No, Wednesday. Just stressed, that's all."
Huh. By then you would've addressed her with some sappy nicknames you could've come up with. She didn't mind those nicknames, she even tolerated a few to have given you permission to use it as you pleased.
Yet Wednesday didn't think much of it, sighing in relief, the breath she didn't know she held. Thinking something was bothering you—or she did something to upset you.
It was basically nothing.
...
Although, despite the fact that Wednesday began going back to your terms of endearment, you—somehow stuck with just "Wednesday", even to the extent of just calling her by her last name.
"Oh Wednesday, can you lend me my flask, please?"
“You look even more beautiful tonight than ever before, Addams."
"Wednesday, you're hogging the blanket! Please! I'm freezing!"
"Where's my kiss goodbye, Addams?"
She'd had enough, marching right in your dorm like she owned the damn room.
Like? What was wrong with you! Where's the sap? The cheesy nicknames Wednesday began to tolerate? I mean, not that Wednesday wanted you to call her grimacing nicknames...
Who was she kidding? She loves it, she goes to you for comfort, basically loves every bit of you that exists, may it be the way you sing in the bathroom that would take at least an hour for you to finish, may it be the way you drift off to sleep every time you both study in your room together, may it be the way you'd always hold out the door for everyone, may it be the way you'd serve her as if she were something fragile. And yet—she loves it. She loves you.
"You can stop that, Y/N."
"Stop what?"
The audacity for you to say that.
"I know what you're doing and it's not funny."
She couldn't live with a first name basis and last name basis calling forever!
"Amore, please. Have I done something to upset you?"
Wednesday rarely pleaded, you knew something bothers her when her facade would gradually slip, her vulnerability that's slowly unraveling, her eyes close to spitting out segments of hesitance—up to this point, you still had the heart to look at her like she hung the moon, just for you.
"Maybe.. I was just getting back at you for calling me by my first name a night ago, I did get upset about it— I'm sorry— I just thought I did something to have upset you when you called me like that! So I hesitated.."
Calling it relief doesn’t come close to what Wednesday felt. A weight was lifted off her shoulders, and she was grateful it wasn’t anything as serious as she thought, although, even if it were, her heart is set on making you happy once more and filling your days with unwavering love.
She began striding towards you, you held eye contact with her, your eyes held so much love just for the Addams, her change of demeanour alone can make your world shake and crumble—nevertheless, the words aren’t always spoken, but the love is always there—her love touches you deeply, in every small way you feel the heartbeat of her love in all she does for you, every day without fail.
She caresses your face, gentle as light, afraid if she moves too fast you'll move away, her fingertips grazing right between your brows to the side of your lips, a subtle smile surfaced. She held eye contact, she saw how your eyes spoke so much emotion all at once.
"I was beginning to get agitated with your bratty scheme."
Your laughter sent shock waves into Wednesday's insides. When she met you, the walls around her heart cracked, and warmth began to seep in.
You gave her a taste of something real—and she’d never give that up for something that wasn’t.
summary: they come home to chaos and promptly gtfo
warnings: 18+! enemies to lovers, typical apocalypse stuff, violence, blood, zombies, gore, angst, some fluff, alcohol consumption, insane man, stabbing, animal abuse and cruelty, attempted murder, neglecting personal health, murder
AN: heyyyyy…. see that last warning i added…. dont be scared………..
word count: idk again but it’s longer i think
—//—
You’d thought the walk home would be quiet. Not peaceful, exactly - you weren’t foolish enough for that - but quiet in the way things had been lately. Angelo padded ahead along the dirt road that curved through the thinning trees, his nose twitching at every scent, his gait easy. The forest had been kind to them that day. No dead things, no stray sounds. Just the promise of a future - those lakeside cabins, the gated houses past the slope, the garden and the barn. It was something to hold onto.
You rounded the final bend where the path led back toward the villa, approaching it from the front this time. It had been Jenna’s idea, though she hadn’t said it aloud. She hadn’t looked at the back gate since she was attacked. You understood. You didn’t want her to.
The moment the villa came into view, something in your stomach went cold.
Angelo stopped walking.
He didn’t bark. He just… sat. Right there on the gravel, back legs planted, tail down, body stiff.
Your heart dropped.
Jenna was in the trolley, watching you. Her hand had already gone to the revolver she kept close. “What is it?”
“I’ll go check it out,” you said. You didn’t wait for her to argue.
You approached the front steps with cautious steps, hand on your machete. The front door looked fine from a distance, but the closer you got, the worse it felt. You stepped up onto the porch - and your eyes landed on the trampled flowerpot near the welcome mat.
You turned the key in the lock.
You pushed the door open.
Muddy footprints, leading from the door into the living room.
Your breath caught. You’d scrubbed this place clean. You knew every inch of this house by now. Those weren’t your prints. They weren’t Jenna’s. Your fingers curled tighter around the machete as you stepped inside, moving slowly, listening for any sound beyond your own heart beat thundering in your ears. Nothing.
But everything was off.
The rug in the hallway was bunched. A pillow tossed onto the floor. The dining chairs slightly out of place. Your water collectors- You spun, bolting back outside, taking the long way around to the garden.
They were tipped. All of them. Water pooled in the grass.
“Fuck,” you hissed.
You jogged to the garage, flung the door open - the cord that connected the generator to the villa had been cut. Not pulled loose. Cut. Clean through. You stood there, motionless for a second, listening for your own heartbeat.
He’d come back.
You didn’t know how long ago. You didn’t know if he’d watched you leave, if he’d waited for the moment the house was empty. But he’d come, and he’d ruined everything.
You ran back to the front, breath sharp and shallow as you approached Jenna and Angelo. Jenna’s eyes searched yours the moment you appeared.
“He came back,” you said quietly. “He was here. I don’t know when, but - he cut the generator, wrecked the water supply, destroyed the crops-”
Jenna swallowed hard. “What now?”
“We can’t stay.”
You turned, rushing into the house again. You grabbed the shopping trolley - the one you and Jenna had stolen ages ago - and threw it open in the kitchen. You worked fast. Food. Tools. Pictures. Your hands moved on instinct.
Jenna’s mug. Angelo’s supplies. Yeast. Flour. Medicine. Anything that was left.
You tied a thick rope to the trolley handle. You knew you’d hitch it to the mobile lounge you’d built for Jenna.
You shoved the generator inside. The toolbox. Bottled water. Soda cans. Rope, batteries, radios, maps. All of it.
When you came back out, Jenna was gripping her revolver tightly, her jaw clenched - but you could see it in her eyes. The fear. The disappointment. The grief of losing another home.
You crouched beside her for just a second, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. You leaned in, kissed her temple, soft as the moment would allow. “I’ve got you,” you whispered.
Then you stood up, grabbed the rope, and tugged.
You didn’t look back until the villa disappeared between the trees. But when you did, the sight made your throat close.
Angelo stayed pressed close to Jenna’s side. Her hand curled in his fur like a tether. Like an anchor.
You held the rope tighter.
You were moving forward.
You had to.
-
The cabin was close. Too close for comfort, honestly - it sat only a few minutes deeper into the woods than the villa. But it was cleared. Familiar. Secure in all the ways that mattered when the world had stopped making sense. The moment you reached the front steps, you let the handle of the trolley drop to the ground and moved to the door, testing it with a firm shove.
Still locked.
You dug out the spare key from your pocket and slid it into the lock with shaking fingers. The door creaked open, cool shadows spilling out like breath.
Angelo trotted inside without hesitation, did a slow patrol of the interior, then came back to sit near Jenna, his head tilted in gentle alertness.
“Alright,” you murmured, glancing toward Jenna. “Let’s get you inside first.”
She nodded wordlessly, her eyes heavy with exhaustion, her limbs sluggish but cooperative. You swept her into your arms like you had too many times already, cradling her carefully as you carried her over the threshold. She didn’t say anything - just let her head rest against your collarbone, warm breath brushing your neck.
You placed her on the bed in the cabin’s small bedroom, pulled the softest blanket you could find over her legs, and kissed her forehead. “I’ll be back in a sec.”
The moment you closed the door behind you, you went to work.
You pushed a heavy dresser against the front door, angling it just enough to make it impossible to open from the outside. The cabin didn’t have locks on every window - but it did have shutters, and you bolted them shut one by one. The back door didn’t lock either, but there was a low armoire you could jam beneath the handle. Not ideal, but it would have to do.
You retrieved two of the battery-powered emergency lamps from the trolley and placed them strategically - one in the bedroom with Jenna, one near the kitchen. The soft yellow light they gave off flickered slightly, but it was warm. Safe.
Finally, you pulled the trolley inside and stacked it neatly near the fridge. You unloaded only the essentials for now - medical supplies, food, blankets. Anything that might be needed quickly.
Then, at last, you exhaled.
Dinner was simple - a hot pan over the small propane stove, some of the canned beans and rice you’d brought, a splash of oil, a few spices, some of the nuts you found here. You didn’t have the heart to dress it up, but it was warm. Nourishing. Angelo ate first - a full scoop from the kibble stash, followed by a long drink of water, and a very thorough brushing of the places he let you reach.
Jenna didn’t say much as she ate. Her body was still healing, her energy stretched thin, but her eyes followed your every movement. You caught her watching you when she thought you weren’t looking. You didn’t say anything about it. You were too tired.
By the time dinner was cleared, the sky had gone completely dark. Rain pattered faintly on the roof again, barely a drizzle, but enough to cast a rhythm over the silence. You checked every door and window one more time, lit a candle for the bathroom, and finally returned to Jenna.
She shifted over instinctively, making space. You slid into the bed beside her, one arm gently resting over her waist as she curled closer. You didn’t talk. You didn’t need to.
The silence was heavy - but not empty.
And sleep, when it came, felt like surrender.
-
It was the middle of the night when Jenna woke.
She wasn’t sure why - there was no loud noise, no nightmare snapping her back - just that vague, hollow pull of thirst and restlessness. Her throat felt dry, her skin clammy with sweat that had cooled in the night air.
The room was quiet. Too quiet, almost. Rain ticked faintly against the cabin’s roof, but even that felt hushed - like the forest was holding its breath.
Carefully, Jenna pushed the blankets back. Her hand trembled slightly as she sat up, one arm cradling her midsection. The stitched gash just beneath her ribs flared with discomfort, tugging with every breath - a stubborn, ever-present reminder of what had happened. Of who had done it. Of who was still out there.
But she could move.
That was something.
Angelo lay curled at the end of the bed, one ear flicking in his sleep as his paws twitched from whatever dream was currently running through his mind. Y/N, in contrast, was still tucked beside her, face turned away, one arm slack across the pillow where Jenna had just been. Her breathing was soft but uneven - a small furrow etched into her brow even in sleep.
Jenna wished she could smooth it away.
She almost reached for her - but the dryness in her throat won out. Water. That’s what she needed.
She reached for the small flashlight Y/N had left propped near the bedroom door, its ridged rubber grip familiar under her fingers. With a flick of the switch, a soft, cone-shaped glow illuminated the floorboards before her. It wasn’t much, but it was enough.
Jenna moved slowly, the wooden floor creaking under her bare feet as she slipped into the hallway, her free hand trailing along the wall for balance. The ache in her thigh was a dull thrum now, manageable - the worst of the sharp pain finally dulled by time and careful care. She passed the bathroom, then the narrow storage closet, until she reached the main room.
Everything looked… normal.
Too normal.
The cabin was quiet, unnervingly so. Just as they’d left it - the lamp on the kitchen counter casting warm amber light that pooled faintly across the floors. The windows were still curtained, shadows clinging to the corners. There was no breeze, no sound of wildlife. Just silence. Thick, eerie silence.
She made her way to the trolley, which Y/N had left tucked near the kitchen for easy access. Her hands sifted through the containers until they found a water bottle - one of the half-filled ones they’d boiled and cooled earlier in the week. She twisted the cap open and took a long, grateful drink. The cool water soothed the dryness in her throat instantly, and she nearly downed the entire thing.
She’d just started to exhale - the first breath that didn’t feel like it was trying to crawl its way out of her lungs - when she heard it.
Click.
A pause.
Then - scrrrrrtch.
Her shoulders tensed.
Jenna froze mid-motion, head snapping slightly toward the sound. It was faint - delicate, almost - but unmistakable. A sort of rapid tapping, like clawed feet dragging across wood. It didn’t come again immediately. She strained her ears.
There - again. Click. Scratch.
Her heart stuttered.
It was coming from the front door.
The breath she’d just taken lodged in her throat. Her fingers tightened around the flashlight, its plastic casing suddenly slick with sweat. She turned slowly, angling the beam of light toward the cabin’s entrance. The curtains were drawn tight, but the direction of the sound left no doubt.
Something was out there.
She didn’t move. Barely even breathed.
It’s just a possum, she told herself. Or a raccoon. Or maybe a rat. Something scavenging. The world was full of desperate little things now, picking through whatever scraps humans had left behind.
But her body didn’t believe it.
Every muscle was tight. Her back tingled with cold unease, her breath shallow in her throat.
The scratching came again - this time a little louder. It made her flinch.
A creeping, primal instinct stirred in her chest. Something ancient. Something that whispered get help.
Jenna turned back toward the bedroom.
She needed to wake Y/N.
Now.
She turned off the flashlight and stepped quietly back toward the bedroom. Each footstep was measured, silent. The cabin’s wooden floor creaked beneath her weight like it was holding secrets.
She opened the bedroom door and slipped inside. Y/N stirred immediately - her body jerking awake, eyes wild for a moment as they locked onto Jenna.
“Hey,” Jenna whispered, holding up a calming hand. “Sorry. I just… I heard something.”
Y/N was already sitting up, legs swinging over the bed as she reached for the machete resting beneath the side table. “What kind of something?”
“Scratching. Outside. I think.” Jenna’s voice was quiet but tense. “Could be nothing. Just freaked me out.”
Y/N nodded, already standing. Her hand brushed Jenna’s arm briefly. “Stay here. Keep the door closed.”
Jenna frowned but nodded. She watched as Y/N stepped barefoot down the hall, every movement deliberate, precise. The machete glinted softly under the faint lamp light as she crept toward the front of the cabin.
The scratching was clearer now.
It was definitely at the front door.
Y/N took a deep breath, peeked through the window - and furrowed her brow.
Nothing.
She waited.
Waited.
Moved the dresser out of the way.
Then cracked the door open an inch.
A hiss burst through the gap - and a blur of movement rushed toward her feet. Y/N jumped back instinctively, the door swinging open slightly wider before she caught it again.
And there it was.
A possum.
A fat one.
Chewing contentedly on something… shiny and half-wrapped in foil.
Y/N narrowed her eyes and took a cautious step forward.
It was a half-eaten chocolate bar.
Not just any chocolate bar - the luxury kind. Dubai brand. The one she scavenged. The one they were saving.
She laughed softly - brittle and humourless. “Just a possum,” she called back to the bedroom. “Eating that Dubai chocolate bar we got.”
She turned to close the door, exhaling - and that’s when she heard it.
“Y/N,” Jenna’s voice said behind her - sharp, strained.
Y/N looked up.
Jenna was standing just outside the bedroom door now, pale as the moonlight, her hand gripping the frame.
“Cam took that bar,” she said, her voice trembling.
Everything clicked.
The hiss of the possum hadn’t even fully left Y/N’s ears before the door was slammed back against her body with a sickening, thunderous crack. The wood shrieked beneath the pressure as her shoulder gave way, and her whole frame was flung back against the floor. She landed hard, ribs slamming into the base of the nearby dresser, air punched from her lungs like a balloon torn open.
A shadow filled the doorway.
He stepped inside as if he owned it - like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t disappeared, like he wasn’t the source of all their nightmares.
Cam.
Smiling.
"Miss me?" He asked with a crooked smile.
The Glock was in his hand. Jenna’s Glock.
Y/N struggled to breathe as she forced herself onto all fours, pain lancing through her side. Her machete was out of reach - thrown out of her hand by the impact.
Behind Cam, Jenna screamed her name - voice raw, terrified - and then she was moving.
Cam raised the gun. Jenna hurled a heavy lamp at him.
It smashed into his arm and the bullet went wide, carving a deep groove into the wall inches from Y/N’s head. He stumbled, letting out a growl of annoyance as Jenna darted toward Y/N - reaching to help her up - before Cam lunged again.
They clashed in the centre of the room.
Cam fired two more times. One missed, splintering to one of the structural beams of the house.
The other-
Y/N didn’t know how she was still standing.
Every nerve in her body felt like it had been lit on fire - the searing trail of pain in her upper arm where Cam’s bullet had grazed through muscle pulsed with every heartbeat, hot blood already soaking the sleeve of her shirt.
She barely had time to register it before another shot hit - lower this time - a blinding, tearing agony slicing across her side just above the hip. Her knees buckled slightly, breath stuttering out of her chest as she clutched her ribs, staggering back half a step. For a second - just a single heartbeat - the world tilted.
But her hand found the machete.
And that was enough.
Cam surged toward her, eyes wide and glinting with something sick and wild, his body moving like a shadow let loose from hell. He reached for her - fingers outstretched, teeth bared, already halfway through another twisted monologue.
Y/N didn’t let him speak.
With a cry from the pit of her soul, she brought the machete down in a brutal, raw arc. The steel met flesh with a sickening crunch, burying itself deep into Cam’s shoulder near the collarbone. His scream wasn’t human - it was something guttural, high-pitched, spit-laced and strangled.
He lashed out, shoving her with every ounce of strength he had. The impact sent her stumbling backwards, breath knocked from her lungs, the blood loss finally catching up - black spots started to pepper the edges of her vision. Her machete slipped from her grip and clattered to the floor.
Cam stumbled too - favouring his arm, which now hung strangely - but there was still a savage gleam in his eyes.
Jenna didn’t hesitate.
With a grunt of force, she launched herself at him from the side. Her good shoulder collided with his ribs in a furious tackle, sending both of them crashing into the sideboard with a thunderous bang. The Glock clattered free from Cam’s hand, spinning across the kitchen tiles and vanishing under the edge of the table.
Cam cursed, thrashing to get back up, but Jenna was already grabbing for something else - anything - her hand closing around the wooden broomstick propped near the hall door.
Angelo was barking like mad now, the sound deafening in the space - snarling with full, furious volume, snapping at Cam’s legs and forcing him to dance away in ragged, panicked steps.
“Back off, you little-” Cam tried to kick the dog, but Angelo dodged cleanly and lunged again, teeth brushing his ankle.
Jenna swung.
The broomstick cracked hard across Cam’s side, right at his ribs - the sharp, dull thwack ringing through the kitchen. Cam howled and staggered sideways, hand flying to his chest.
“You’re done,” Jenna hissed, eyes blazing.
But Cam wasn’t done.
Not yet.
“You’re dead!” he spat, eyes wild, shining with unhinged malice. “I should’ve killed you!”
“You tried,” Y/N rasped, rising behind him. Her hand gripped the hilt tighter, slick with her own blood.
Cam twisted, realising she was still standing. Still fighting.
And suddenly - he ran.
He bolted for the door, limping heavily but fast, snatching the Glock on his way out. His blood marked his path like breadcrumbs. Jenna gasped. “No, no- he’s not getting away again-!”
Y/N was already stumbling after him, machete in one hand, clutching her side with the other.
“I’m finishing this,” she said through gritted teeth.
“Then we finish it together,” Jenna growled, scooping up a hunting knife from the kitchen counter. She looked to Angelo. “Stay.” He sat instantly, tail low, eyes locked on her.
Y/N threw open the door and they charged into the forest.
Darkness and the soft rain wrapped around them like wet silk - June’s humid breath clinging to the trees. Cam’s trail was easy to follow. He was bleeding heavily, limping hard. But still fast. Still desperate.
Jenna sprinted beside Y/N, adrenaline overriding every bruise and ache in her body. She could see him up ahead now - weaving between tree trunks, crashing through the undergrowth.
“Caaaaam!” Y/N’s voice rang out like thunder. “You’re not getting away this time.”
He shouted something back - garbled, slurred - it sounded like laughter.
He could be heard up ahead, slipping in mud with every unstable step he took. The two women didn’t have it much easier, also struggling to stay moving at this point- but they were finishing this. Tonight.
They found him moments later. Slumped against a tree, trying to reload the Glock with bloody fingers. He looked up, eyes glassy. “You two don’t know when to quit.”
Y/N’s breath came in short, furious bursts. “No,” she said. “We just know when something needs to end.”
Cam lunged again - with the knife this time.
Jenna met him halfway, the knife she took from the kitchen landing in his forearm, forcing him back - and Y/N brought the machete down again.
And again.
And again.
Cam screamed. Blood sprayed the tree bark. Jenna wrestled the knife from his grip and drove it into his thigh. He wailed - tried to claw at them - but it was over.
Y/N’s blade buried into his chest with one final, sickening crunch.
His breath rattled.
Stopped.
They stumbled back, gasping, panting, trembling. Blood soaked the forest floor. It pooled beneath his body. Steam rose in the night air.
Jenna stood frozen.
Y/N let the machete slip from her fingers as her knees buckled, her body folding in on itself like a marionette whose strings had been cut. The ache in her side roared now - searing, ragged - and her arm throbbed with every pulse of her weakening heart. She slumped back onto the muddy forest floor, breath ragged, blinking up at the dappled leaves overhead that swayed gently like none of this was happening - like the world hadn’t just cracked apart again.
Her ears rang. Her hands were shaking. Her blood mixed with the pine needles and dirt beneath her like ink spreading across canvas.
Cam lay just ahead - sprawled half in the clearing, half between the roots of a crooked elm, limbs tangled and twitching in unnatural angles. Blood was pouring from the gash in his shoulder, the slice across his side, staining his shirt, pooling beneath him.
And then - he twitched.
Not the kind of twitch you’d expect from a dying man. No, this was something deeper. Something wrong. His hand jerked once, fingers curling against the forest floor. Then again - more violently.
Y/N’s eyes widened. “No... no no no-”
Cam’s head snapped up with a bone-cracking jolt.
A choked gasp tore from Jenna’s throat.
Cam’s body jerked upright with a sick, spasming motion, like something invisible had yanked him up by the spine. His neck cracked audibly as it rolled back, his face lifting toward the treetops. His eyes - once cold and calculating - were now vacant, blown wide and glossed over, as if something human had been flushed out and replaced with rot.
His mouth opened in a silent scream, jaw unhinging far too wide. Then he let out a guttural, rasping growl - more animal than man.
“He turned-!” Jenna’s voice broke into the forest, high and cracked, her fingers scrambling for the Glock that had fallen during the struggle. Her limbs moved on instinct - pure survival, heart hammering in her ears as she threw herself to the ground, dirt embedding into her palms as she crawled toward the glint of metal just out of reach. “Shit-”
Cam moved.
He didn’t rise so much as snap upright - his whole body lurching like a corpse pulled by invisible strings. His feet pounded against the forest floor as he charged, mouth open, teeth bared.
Y/N tried to shout. Tried to warn her. But all that came out was a croak of breath as pain knifed through her chest.
Jenna’s hand closed around the Glock.
She rolled onto her back - heart in her throat - just as Cam lunged.
She didn’t hesitate.
BANG.
The shot echoed through the woods.
Cam’s skull exploded backwards, painting the trees.
His body fell.
Still.
Dead.
This time - for good.
Jenna laid down on the floor beside Y/N.
Neither of them spoke.
They just breathed.
-
You don’t remember standing up.
It all blurred together after the shot. Cam’s body sprawled on the forest floor, the night pressing in like a shroud. His blood was already sinking into the mossy dirt beneath him, soaking the roots of the trees.
Good.
Let the earth rot him down to nothing.
Jenna was shaking.
You reached for her hand, both of you still on your knees beside the body. Your fingers were slick with blood - some of it his, some of it yours - but you didn’t care. She held on just as tightly, her knuckles white, her breath catching in shallow hiccups.
“I think it’s over,” you whispered.
She didn’t respond at first, but then she nodded. Just once.
That was enough.
The journey back to the cabin was quiet. Your side screamed with every step, the wounds from earlier now sluggishly weeping under the makeshift wrappings. Jenna limped too - favouring her still-healing thigh - but she didn’t complain. Angelo met you halfway down the trail, his tail low, ears pinned, sensing the blood and the tension clinging to both of you.
You didn’t even need to speak. He simply fell into step beside Jenna.
Inside, the emergency lamp still glowed faintly against the far wall, casting long shadows across the wooden floor. You placed the Glock on the counter. Your machete too. Then locked the doors. You pushed the dresser back across the entrance. You checked every window, every blind. One more time. Just in case.
You couldn’t bear the thought of being wrong again.
“Sit,” you said to Jenna, gently guiding her back to the mattress. Her face was grey under the flickering light, her lips dry. “Let me look at you.”
“I’m okay.”
“You’re not,” you replied. “Please.”
She sank down, exhausted. You peeled back the layer of gauze on her side, checked her other bruises. No new blood, no reopened stitches. You’d both gotten lucky. As lucky as anyone could get.
However, the adrenaline had finally drained from your system, and now your body was making its anger known. Every pulse of your heartbeat throbbed in your arm, in your side, in the blood-soaked fabric sticking wetly to your skin.
Jenna knelt in front of you with trembling hands and wide, tear-glossed eyes. She didn’t speak - just unzipped the first aid kit and carefully peeled your shirt back from the wound on your side. You winced, trying not to move.
“I’m okay,” you lied.
“Don’t,” she whispered, almost too quietly to hear.
She worked methodically, her lips pressed tight, her jaw clenched. The gash across your bicep was jagged but shallow - the one in your side would need more than a bandage - but the bullet had gone through. Her fingers were gentle, though you could feel how badly they were shaking.
Blood smeared across her knuckles. You reached up, instinctively, and cupped her wrist.
“I’m still here,” you murmured, voice cracked and low. “You saved me. Again.”
Jenna didn’t answer. She just looked at you for a long moment, something fragile in her eyes. Then she went back to work, cleaning and wrapping the wound in silence, like if she focused hard enough, maybe the pain would stay away. Maybe you’d both stay together.
The room was still - save for the sound of Angelo’s breathing, curled nearby and watching with tired, worried eyes.
The water in the kettle had gone cold. You refilled it with rainwater from the plastic jug near the back door and boiled it again. Jenna didn’t say anything as you worked - she just watched you in silence. Her eyes followed your every movement like she was trying to memorise them. Like she was afraid you’d vanish if she blinked too long.
You brought her a clean cloth and gently wiped away the dried blood from her face. She flinched once - just once - and then leaned into your palm. You kissed her forehead, a soft, trembling thing.
“I’m here,” you murmured. “We’re here.”
She finally nodded.
You laid down beside her, bodies pressed together under the blankets, the weight of everything still clinging to your shoulders. Angelo curled up at your feet, his tail brushing Jenna’s leg.
For a long time, there was only the sound of rain pattering gently on the roof above.
Eventually, Jenna whispered: “Do you think he came back… just to destroy what we had?”
You didn’t answer right away. Your voice was too raw.
“I think he came back because he couldn’t stand that we thrived without him.”
She let out a breath. “I’m glad we ended it.”
You turned your head and kissed her shoulder. “Me too.”
Outside, the rain fell harder. Inside, the lamp flickered once - then steadied.
And for the first time since Cam walked back into your lives, you both slept without fear of waking to his face again.
warnings: 18+! enemies to lovers, typical apocalypse stuff, violence, blood, zombies, gore, angst, some fluff, alcohol consumption, insane man, stabbing, animal abuse and cruelty, attempted murder, neglecting personal health,
AN: you’re gonna yell at me but idc
word count: idk since i did this all on my phone instead of my laptop <3 3-4k ish?
The garage door groaned as you lifted it, letting the evening cool pour in across the concrete floor. You rolled the makeshift trolley out into the light, beaming with an odd mix of pride and nerves. It had taken you most of the afternoon and some stolen wood from the shed, but there it stood: a lounge chair on wheels.
The blue trolley was originally some kind of kids’ cart, four rugged wheels and a steel frame built for bouncing off curbs and grass. You’d bolted a wooden base to the top, reinforced it with some thinner slats to prevent any bending or flex, and then stacked cushion after cushion, all held together inside a stripped duvet cover that you’d pinned and tied into place. A plush blanket lay across the top like a final, royal touch. On either side of the chair, two wooden storage containers had been attached to the frame with screws - just big enough for snacks, drinks, and a few supplies.
It was rough. It was janky.
It was perfect.
You turned as you heard the back door creak open behind you. Jenna stood there, leaning slightly against the frame, her arm still wrapped, her limp barely noticeable as she took a careful step down. Her brows rose when she saw the contraption waiting for her, mouth twitching into a small, surprised smile.
“…You built that?” she asked, eyes flicking over the details.
“Yep.”
A beat.
“That’s… actually impressive.”
You grinned, sweeping an overly dramatic bow. “Milady, your carriage awaits.”
She huffed a quiet laugh, clearly trying not to show how charmed she was. “It better be comfortable.”
“Oh, only the finest cushions. Finest blanket. Five-star suspension.”
You moved closer and slid an arm around her waist, the other beneath her knees. “Ready?”
Jenna blinked, caught off guard for half a second, then gave you a small nod. “Okay. Just don’t drop me.”
“Never.”
You lifted her gently, the soft weight of her body settling against you like something precious and irreplaceable. She smelled faintly of lavender and antiseptic - the scent of healing and quiet strength. You carried her the few steps over to the trolley and carefully set her down on the padded cushions, easing her back and adjusting the blanket over her lap and legs.
To your immense relief, she visibly relaxed into the makeshift lounge, her body settling deep into the cushions with a soft exhale.
“Okay, wow. I’m actually impressed. This is pretty comfortable.”
You couldn’t help the stupid smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah?”
She nodded. “Yeah.”
“Well then.” You took hold of the trolley handle. “What are we waiting for?”
She kicked playfully with her good leg, wincing only slightly before her grin returned. “Go! Go!”
You started to push.
The wheels rolled smoothly across the paved path leading around the garden - and the way her eyes widened with delight, the way the breeze ruffled her damp hair and Angelo trailed behind with his tail wagging - it made everything worth it.
It felt like, maybe, something was right again.
Just for a moment.
-
You guided the trolley slowly around the edge of the property, watching the way the solar powered garden lamps glinted off Jenna’s skin. A few strands of hair had slipped loose and danced along her cheek, and she was too content to care. Angelo walked a little ahead of you both, nose low to the ground, his tail swaying gently with each step. The air was clear and warm, the kind of cool summer breeze that should’ve carried laughter and birdsong and the clinking of glasses from someone’s patio - not silence and the occasional distant groan of a structure settling in a world abandoned.
But today… the quiet wasn’t unbearable. It was gentle. Like a lull between storms.
You kept one hand on the handle of the trolley and used the other to swat away a vine as you took the back trail that looped around the villa, passing the edge of the garden.
That was when Jenna’s breath hitched.
You felt it before you even looked at her - the subtle tensing of her shoulders beneath the blanket, the way her hand gripped the fabric just a little tighter. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to.
You both knew exactly where you were.
The garden bed.
The spot where she’d been attacked. Where she’d screamed so loud the trees had held their breath.
You kept pushing.
She tried to be subtle - wiped her hand on the blanket, as if her palms weren’t suddenly clammy. But you saw the way her jaw clenched. The tiny tremble in her lower lip. The way her eyes darted from the garden to the ground and back again, never quite settling.
You didn’t say anything.
You didn’t have to.
You picked up the pace just slightly, rolling the trolley past the bed, past the edge of the lawn, toward the side yard again. Giving her space to breathe. To escape it.
When you rounded the corner back to the garage, you slowed to a stop and walked around to her side. She was still staring ahead, as if trying not to look back. Her fingers had wrinkled the edge of the blanket in her lap from holding it too tight.
“Hey,” you said softly.
Jenna blinked. Then looked at you.
“I’ve got you.”
She nodded.
You leaned in and gently scooped her up again, cradling her with the same care you had that first night. As you carried her back inside, she whispered, “Thank you,” so quietly you almost missed it.
You nodded once, setting her down on the sofa again - her safe spot. Pillows arranged. Blanket tucked in. Angelo settled at her feet within seconds.
You turned to leave - maybe to grab water, or just… breathe.
But the words were already clawing at your throat.
“I think we should think about moving.”
Jenna’s brow furrowed slightly, mouth parting - but before she could say anything, the words just spilled out of you.
“I know this is a good house, and that it’s basically made for the apocalypse, and I know how hard we’ve worked on it, but-” you exhaled sharply, “I can’t bear the thought of what happened here to you. I know you’ve been thinking about it too. I know it still lives in the walls for you. And maybe I’m wrong, maybe you don’t feel that way. But I do. I do. And I know moving again would be a nightmare - clearing someplace out, starting again - but I want us to live somewhere where we’re both comfortable and happy. Somewhere that hasn’t been touched by… by him.”
You stopped, breath ragged, not looking at her. Not yet.
“I—”
You didn’t get to finish.
She leaned forward and kissed the corner of your mouth - soft, still trembling a little, her eyes closed.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Your eyes fluttered shut. Your shoulders dropped. You barely noticed her arms curling slowly around your neck until her body was pressed against yours, her head tucked under your chin.
You hugged her back - not too tightly. Just enough.
Just enough to feel her heartbeat.
-
The early morning air clung to your skin like a kiss from the earth - cool, crisp, and damp with dew. Mist lingered in low pockets over the grass, swirling in soft tendrils that caught the golden light filtering through the canopy. The world felt quieter in June mornings like these. Like it hadn’t quite opened its eyes yet.
Jenna sat tucked snugly into the mobile lounge cart you’d built. The duvet-wrapped cushion beneath her was tilted ever so slightly back, her legs gently extended with a second pillow supporting her thighs. You had added a blanket before leaving the garage, tucking it around her waist and across her lap. Her hair was slightly mussed, the corners of her mouth softened into a peaceful line as she adjusted the blanket a little higher. She looked… comfortable. At peace.
You’d packed the small compartments on either side of the frame earlier that morning - one with four water bottles, a few dusty cans of lemon soda, two sandwiches with hummus made from a can of chickpeas, and a carefully packed bag of caramel lentil popcorn you’d made just for her. The other held a compact first aid kit, just in case you needed to re-wrap her wounds mid-trip, and three small treats for Angelo - who now walked in large, unhurried loops around the courtyard, his ears perked.
First stop was the cabin.
For weapons.
You hated needing them. But after everything, you couldn’t ignore it.
“Ready, angel?” you asked softly, bending to gently check the blanket around her shoulders.
Jenna hummed, giving a small nod and a sleepy smile.
Angel was the only description you could think of when you looked at her.
You whistled lightly for Angelo, who trotted to your side without hesitation, tail wagging. His wounds were healing well. He still limped slightly if he moved too fast, but he was recovering better than either of you had hoped. Stubbornly loyal. Your gentle giant guardian.
With one hand on the cart handle and your machete strapped to your hip, you guided the trolley out through the garden gate, turning right toward the forest trail. The wheels rolled smoothly on the grass and hard-packed soil - a small mercy. You couldn’t help but glance at Jenna every few steps, checking for pain, for tension. But she was gazing forward, cheeks touched by sunlight, eyes half-lidded, looking like something painted in a better world.
The walk took longer this time - but not in a bad way. It was slow, patient. The kind of walk that made you notice things: wildflowers pushing up through cracks in the stone path. A small toad hopping out of the way under a bush. The songs of birds calling to each other across branches.
When you reached the lake clearing, Jenna smiled faintly. Her hand brushed yours when you paused the trolley near the dock.
You helped her out gently and leaned her back against a large tree with roots shaped almost like a chair. She looked stronger today. Pale, still tired - but stronger.
The cabin door creaked as you opened it, and you scanned the shadows like always. Still empty. Still yours. It even smelled a little like cedar and old soap.
Most of the weapons were where you left them. You offered Jenna the smaller guns, not wanting to overburden her. She tested the grip of a compact revolver in her hand and drew in a long breath, thumb brushing over the worn steel.
“I’m not letting anything catch me off-guard again,” she said softly, and for the first time in a while, her voice didn’t shake when she said it.
You understood. You carried enough guilt to last a lifetime - but you weren’t letting her feel helpless again.
You slung one of the heavier rifles over your shoulder, checked the ammo boxes, and tucked a few extra magazines into the side pouch of the cart. Not everything could come home today. But you took what mattered.
The kitchen offered a few more treasures - vacuum-sealed snack nuts, old boxes of crackers, a few canned fruit cocktails with faded labels. You brought what you could. Left what wasn’t worth the weight.
When you turned to Jenna - still perched in the cart now, chewing on popcorn - she was looking at you like she could finally breathe.
“Let’s head back out,” you said, and she nodded.
She didn’t need to say she felt better.
You could see it in her eyes.
And for the first time in days, maybe longer… you let yourself feel better too.
-
Jenna looked like a queen in repose, half-blanketed in her wheeled lounge contraption, one leg tucked up, the other stretched out on the padded boards. Her head tilted back against the cushioned rest, a faint smile ghosting her lips as she popped another piece of lentil caramel popcorn into her mouth. She caught you watching and smirked. “You sure you don’t want a turn?”
You huffed a laugh, adjusting your grip on the handle behind her. “Oh, I’m fine. You’re a feather. Besides, it builds character.”
“Character,” she murmured, stretching her arms above her head in the sunlight. “Right. You just like pushing me around.”
“Guilty.”
Angelo padded ahead at a steady pace, tail swaying, nose low to the ground. Every so often he’d dart sideways into a patch of grass or sniff aggressively at the base of a tree, then loop back around. The rhythm of the three of you moving through the forest felt… right. Peaceful. The kind of peace you didn’t think would ever exist again after the world went to hell.
You curved around a bend in the path, and the trees opened suddenly into a clearing. A meadow, really - long grass bending in the breeze, dotted with wildflowers in purples, yellows, and soft blues. To the left stood a playground: faded metal swings hanging limply from rusted chains, a plastic slide long overtaken by moss and vines. Benches and picnic tables sat scattered along the edge of the clearing, some toppled, most weather-worn and cracked.
Jenna’s breath caught. “Woah.”
“I know,” you murmured. “Like something out of a dream.”
You wheeled her toward the nearest bench and let the trolley roll gently to a stop. She sat up straighter, eyes tracing the old swing set with a mix of nostalgia and sadness. You stepped forward, pulled a bottle of water and a sandwich from the side compartment, then held one half out to her. She accepted it wordlessly, and together you sat in the quiet of the field, chewing slowly, sharing silence and sunshine.
Angelo found a stick in the grass - large and slightly curved like a shepherd’s crook. He brought it to you proudly, tail wagging, ears perked.
You grinned. “Oh, this is a good one.”
You gave it a short toss and he bounded after it with a delighted bark, his entire body full of energy again. Jenna chuckled, the sound soft and airy.
You tossed the stick again, and this time he chased it toward the old picnic table. You didn’t even notice the way he paused - the way his head jerked slightly upward.
But Jenna did.
“Y/N,” she said gently.
You looked at her.
Angelo had gone still.
His hackles rose. His tail stiffened. He dropped the stick.
And then, with a low rumble in his throat, he turned toward the trees behind the swings and began to growl.
Your hand went to your machete instinctively.
Then you saw her.
Small. Frail. A little girl - or what used to be one - stepping into the clearing with a shuffling, broken gait. Her dress might’ve once been pink, now almost grey-black with blood and decay. Her skin hung loose over bone, flesh rotted in places down to the sinew. One arm dangled awkwardly. Her face was sunken, eyes milky and staring.
She stumbled forward, drawn by the scent or the movement or just… sound. There wasn’t much strength left in her body. Not much movement left at all. Her head tilted slightly as if curious.
You and Jenna both sighed at once. Not out of fear. Out of heartbreak.
Jenna whispered, “She’s just a kid…”
You nodded.
But she wasn’t a kid anymore.
You stood, drawing the machete from your thigh holster, the weight familiar in your grip. Jenna looked away, her hand reaching out to brush Angelo’s fur.
“I’ll handle it,” you said quietly. “It’ll be quick.”
Then you stepped toward the little girl, your boots sinking softly into the grass.
-
The air felt heavier now. Not threatening, not hostile - but changed. You and Jenna didn’t speak for several minutes after the clearing. There wasn’t anything left to say.
You continued your slow walk down the overgrown trail, pushing her in the trolley cart in gentle silence, the wheels crunching quietly over patches of wild grass and loose gravel. Angelo padded just ahead, ears alert, tail swaying low. Even he seemed subdued after what had happened.
You gripped the trolley handle a little tighter. The last hour had been peaceful - too peaceful. A rare breath of something like normal. And then that little girl.
No. That walker.
That’s all she was now. Whatever she used to be- whoever loved her - had been gone for a long time. You told yourself that, again and again, every time you felt that twitch of guilt behind your eyes.
She didn’t scream. Didn’t lunge. She just… shuffled out. Small and broken. And you couldn’t let her suffer anymore.
Your fingers brushed against the still-warm hilt of your machete, and you looked away from the trail, letting the woods swallow your thoughts.
The sun was high overhead, beams of warm gold streaking through the tree canopy above, painting the trail in patches of soft light. It was a beautiful day. Bright. Vibrant. The kind of day you used to spend lounging in parks, reading books you never finished, or walking aimlessly with headphones in. Now you spent it pushing your half-healed partner through the woods, always ready to kill.
You weirdly wouldn’t have traded it for anything.
After another half mile, you noticed the trees beginning to thin on the left side of the trail. Jenna adjusted the blanket on her lap and squinted forward. “What’s that?” she asked, voice soft from the painkillers and trauma.
You followed her gaze, stepping slightly off the path to peek through a thinning wall of leaves.
Cabins. Dozens of them. Smaller than the first cabin you’d found near the lake, but still solid structures. Weathered wooden siding. Steep shingled roofs. Most had private docks stretching out into the lake’s vast blue skin, and from here you could see a handful of small boats, some still bobbing gently in the rippling water.
“Holy shit,” you muttered. “Lakeside real estate.”
Jenna smiled faintly. “Swanky.”
“I wouldn’t mind holing up in one of those.” You scanned the area, eyes narrowing with thought. “We should come back. Check inside. There’s gotta be supplies. Maybe even another generator.”
Jenna leaned back slightly, brushing a breeze from her face. “Looks peaceful.”
“Looks can be deceiving.”
You were about to turn the trolley when something caught your eye on the opposite side of the path. Up ahead, maybe a hundred metres, there was a break in the trees - a rise, a soft hill curving upward, just tall enough to obscure the view beyond it.
And nestled against the slope, almost hidden unless you were looking for it, was fencing. Tall, clean, metal fencing.
Your breath caught.
“Wait here,” you murmured. You looked at Jenna, then at Angelo, who met your eyes with a soft huff. “Angelo - stay. Guard her.”
He obeyed instantly, trotting up beside the trolley and sitting dutifully against the side of the frame. You smiled - pretty sure that he didn’t even understand what you asked. Jenna looked confused, but she didn’t protest.
You jogged lightly up the hill, eyes scanning the horizon as the view opened wider with every step.
At the top, you found it.
A gated community.
Damn this neighbourhood was just full of rich people homes.
Several houses scattered across the sloping landscape, some smaller and neatly kept, others sprawling with balconies and wide porches. There was a barn at the far end. And a chicken coop, though you couldn’t see if anything still moved inside. A narrow road stretched off into the woods, cracked and dusty, probably leading back to the main road system - or whatever was left of it.
You didn’t know what you’d expected.
Certainly not this. A whole community, tucked into the edge of the forest like a forgotten dream.
Your heart beat faster. Excitement? Hope?
Or dread?
You stepped back down toward the path where Jenna waited, arms folded gently over her lap, Angelo resting beside her.
As you returned to her side, she looked up expectantly. “Find anything?”
You nodded. “This might be worth checking out. And I think I saw an intersecting road that could lead us back here by car - if we ever want to come back.”
Jenna raised an eyebrow. “We might want to?”
You shrugged, not ready to answer that yet.
Instead, you looked out at the lakeside cabins again. Angelo yawned.
And for a single moment, the three of you stood together in the shade of tall trees and distant possibilities, quiet and aware that somewhere, something had just shifted.
-
The key slid into the lock with a soft click. The tumblers shifted. It had been weeks since he’d heard the sound - something so domestic, so ordinary. Still, it didn’t feel like coming home.
The heavy wooden door creaked open.
He stepped inside slowly, deliberately, drawing in a long breath through his nose.
Familiar air. Not his - but still familiar.
The boots on his feet thudded against the wooden floor, too loud in the stillness of the house. The smell was clean. Too clean. Bleached corners and dried pine. The air carried a faint hint of woodsmoke and distant candle wax.
His eyes flicked around the room.
Two plates sat drying on the rack near the sink. A pan. A single mug.
Everything was eerily spotless. Even he thought so- which is saying something.
He walked forward.
Cupboards opened, one after the other, doors swinging wide without urgency. The pantry still had some items. He hummed thoughtfully to himself.
Closets were opened. Linens. A sewing kit. A few jackets that didn’t belong to him. None of this mattered, but it amused him to look. Someone had worked hard to make this place feel like home again.
That just made it better.
He walked upstairs next, his footsteps measured and precise. Each room was opened and inspected. The main bedroom. Still blood on the mattress cover. Faint stains. Someone had scrubbed it raw. That kind of thing never really goes away, though.
He stood in the doorway for a long moment.
Then he turned around and went back down the stairs.
His pace didn’t falter as he crossed the living room and slid open the door to the garden. The air outside was fresh - heavy with damp earth and wild herbs. Sunlight spilled across the stone path, casting long shadows from the grapevines twisting along the trellis.
He stopped in front of the rainwater collectors.
His fingers flexed.
Then, with a sudden, deliberate shove, he knocked the first one over.
Water splashed across the patio, soaking into the cracks. He tipped the next one. And the next. Until they all lay spilled and useless.
He didn’t smile. He didn’t frown either. His face remained blank, almost detached. It wasn’t about rage.
It was about undoing.
He circled the back of the garage next. Found the wire that connected the generator to the villa. He knelt. Pulled a knife from his belt.
One clean slice.
The connection severed.
No lights. No fridge. No comfort.
Not yet done, he returned to the garden.
Rows of new vegetables - small, eager things - just beginning to break the soil. Little hopeful green shoots in uneven rows.
He stepped forward and planted his boot onto the first row.
Crushed it.
Then the second. The third. He walked slowly, methodically, across the garden bed, grinding his heel down into the soft earth, mashing the sprouts into nothing.
He stood there for a while after. Just breathing. Just watching.
Then he turned.
He walked back through the villa, slower this time. Unzipped his backpack as he moved toward the pantry. He took what he could - jars, cans, boxes, anything sealed or useful. Stuffed them into the bag until it bulged.
He glanced once toward the stairs - toward the room where she bled.
Summary- You had been a psychic ever since you were a child, but recently you had been overwhelmed by how many spirits were contacting you, giving you no time to yourself anymore. Seeking out Lydia Deetz, you go to her home for advice.
Requested by @perfectartisanwerewolf
Warnings- Ghosts, probably some timeline issues, morbid facts, talking about the afterlife, more of my ghost facts (Tell me when you're getting sick of them)
When you met the Deetz family, it was several years after the whole "Ghost House" incident. They had always been kind to you and your family.
The ghosts in Winter River were more plentiful than most people knew. It happened to be a very quiet and uneventful town, but your life never had a dull moment here. You were constantly sought out after Lydia had moved. Now the deceased flocked to you for guidance.
Apparently, they described your psychic abilities as "A shining light in the never-ending darkness". Which would be flattering if they hadn't always been around you for every second of your day. Some spirits followed you to the grocery store, to school, and even sat at your desk while you were sleeping, waiting for you to awaken.
You wanted to help them; you really did. It was just that the only privacy you got now a days was when you excused yourself to use the facilities.
Recently there had been a death in the Deetz family, so Lydia had returned to town with her daughter to attend the funeral and help her stepmother, Deelia. It was like a saving grace to have someone else help with the spirits around the place.
Walking up the giant hill to their home with a stack of books in your hand was proving difficult, but you needed Lydia's help desperately. You waited patiently after knocking on their door, shifting your weight from one foot to the other.
Lydia welcomed you into their home with a smile. After making your way to the couch and placing your books on the table, you took a quick look around the room. There were still many of Deelia's sculptures, most of them unsettling to say the very least.
Your attention shifted back to Lydia as she sat across from you. Talking about ghosts with anyone else might have been awkward, but not with her. She was almost like a second mother to you.
Even now as you sat in the house, you could sense spirits lingering just outside your line of sight.
"I agree, it can be overwhelming, you just need to learn how to set boundaries with them." She explained simply and you nodded.
"I thought I did, but I guess I could try and be sterner with them?"
Her smile grew and you both turned as you heard footsteps descending the staircase. Astrid was in the middle of putting on her sweater to leave the house when she stopped and stared at you, as if in a trance. You smiled and offered her a small wave, trying to be polite.
Your smile awakened something in Astrid. Like a light at the end of a tunnel. A breath of fresh air, or a missing puzzle piece to finally complete a part of herself that had been missing for years. The world faded as all she could focus on was you. She snapped out of it with a cough, finally making her way to stand in the living room with you both.
Lydia introduced you and in turn introduced her daughter, Astrid. It took a moment for her to regain her composure before she muttered an almost completely quiet "Hi."
On the inside, her heart pounded against her chest, but she fought to remain uninterested in anything that involved her mother. Especially now that it seemed like a complete stranger could easily occupy her mother's attention without even trying. It was frustrating.
It was an odd experience, how you made her heart pound. She wasn't sure if it was from jealousy or something more, so she opted to ignore it and continue her journey out the door.
A frown grazed your lips, confused by her behavior before you shifted back to continue your conversation from before. Lydia spoke up first. "Astrid can't see ghosts like we can. The living ignore the strange and unusual."
That didn't seem to brighten up your mood even in the slightest.
"You're saying Mrs. bright eyes can also supposedly see ghosts? Great, here I thought she seemed normal. Is there anyone normal in this town?" Astrid scrunched her nose and picked at her food as she sat at the kitchen table.
"Whatever makes us more money, maybe she could be on your show Lydia!" Deelia smiled as she continued eating, only half paying attention to their conversation.
"Maybe you would be more interested if you talked to her about it, Astrid. It could be good for you to have some friends in this town." Lydia suggested, trying to stray away from yet another argument with her daughter.
"Ghosts are everywhere, you may even see one without even realizing it. Have you ever seen someone walking on the side of the street, but when you look back they're gone?" You smiled; your books open in front of you as you spoke enthusiastically to Astrid.
You sat in her room, a stark contrast from your own. While you liked the paranormal and macabre, her room seemed more... gloomy.
Did you know how much light you radiated? Or the shimmer that appeared in your gorgeous eyes whenever you spoke about this mumbo jumbo? Astrid didn't care for spirits or the paranormal. She believed it was all fake, but the way you spoke to her and the way you looked, she swore she would follow you anywhere.
She simply nodded, trying to snap out of that trance you put her in. Sometimes she believed you must've been a witch instead of a psychic, because how had you possibly gained so much power over her cold heart?
"Are there any here now? You know, ghosts?" her eyebrow raised curiously, just thinking of an excuse for you to speak more.
"I know there is one here, but I haven't been able to place it. It's a male energy."
"Do you use candles or sprinkle some paprika on stuff for rituals?"
Her enthusiasm was great, if not a bit misplaced and incorrect. Your smile widened as you laughed, a freeing sound.
"I've been talking forever, how about you tell me something you're interested in? I know you don't care about this stuff"
Astrid froze, fearing that you caught her. She cleared her throat and blushed softly, looking away as she wracked her brain for anything interesting to say. "Did you know that Mount Everest has a certain area called 'Rainbow Valley' because of all the multicolored jackets and climbing gear that's still attached to the mummified corpses of those who failed to get to the top and froze to death?"
Your head tilted and silence loomed between you both before she spoke again.
"A cult leader named Jim Jones poisoned 918 people by forcing them to drink Kool-Aid mixed with cyanide, chloral hydrate, valium and Phenergan. It was considered one of the largest intentional losses of life since 9/11." She continued talking, trying her best to fill the silence.
Your giggles made her stop digging a deeper hole for herself. You looked amused and not terrified in the least. "Why Kool-Aid?"
"Probably because it was the cheapest" Astrid smiled wide at you, happy that you didn't see her as some sort of creep.
The next morning, Astrid was determined to gain more information about spirits, wanting another chance to spend time with you. She even went as far as to ask her mother for help, which she would deny until the end of her days.
Surprisingly, it wasn't as painful as she thought it would be. It was actually nice to have a common interest. Or so Lydia thought at least. Meanwhile she was interested in you, and not in fact her mother's psychic abilities.
By the time you showed up at her house, she opened the door to you and smiled softly, gesturing for you to come inside. She soon regretted that action as if you would think she was a dork for gesturing like a ringleader in some cheesy circus movie.
You didn't seem to notice her inner turmoil, simply enjoying the fact that she invited you back, saying she had something to share with you.
Sitting on her bed with your legs crossed, you leaned your head in your hand as you gave her your full attention. Everything you did seemed to light a spark in her chest.
"I learned some stuff about ghosts and wanted to run it by you. Maybe I could add it in with my history facts" Astrid spoke with a little more enthusiasm, as if excited to share with you.
She took a deep breath as she tried remembering all of the things her mother had previously told her. "Is it true that there are different types of ghosts? And that they're not all humans?"
You nod your head and sit up a little straighter. "Yes. There are many different classifications of ghosts, including non-human ghosts that never had a soul. Those may include poltergeists, which are simply manifestations of negative energy in a certain space. Thats why you can't communicate intelligently with a poltergeist, because they have no soul or sense of being. They're just energy."
That actually caught her attention, maybe the paranormal wasn't as fake as she thought it was. How could someone possibly come up with a lie that detailed in such a short amount of time? She sat beside you and resisted the urge to kiss you right there and then. Never in her life has she been attracted to someone simply because of their interests and passion when speaking about them.
"Will you go uh... ghost hunting with me at Dracula's castle this summer? I was planning on going there alone after... after my dad passed away. But I'd like you there."
You smiled brightly and wrapped your arms around her shoulders, hugging her tightly. "I would love to"
Bonus:
Lydia stood a careful distance away from Astrid's bedroom door. She wanted to give her daughter some privacy, but she was overjoyed to see the smile return to Astrid's face. The one that had been lost since her father.
She argued that it was to see what about you made her so happy. As she leaned in closer, she heard a gruff voice behind her, making her jump.
"Thats our daughter alright" He spoke, munching on a bucket of popcorn. He leaned against the wall smugly, watching Lydia with a smirk.
Her smile vanished as she stared him down. "Beetl-" She began to utter before he waved his hand dismissively.
"Alright, alright. Your Kid" He huffed out an annoyed sigh before vanishing.
A/N- I finally finished writing this one and I hope that it's to your liking! I tried my best. Usually, I base the reader off of myself to make writing it easier but I tried to switch it up a bit this time.
Thank you all for your patience with me writing this, and I'm sorry for the delay.
Please send in more requests! Next I will be working on a lost boys fic and the second part to the tom riddle series
summary: After the bitter loss for Crackstone and ultimate triumph for Nevermore. Wednesday felt so out of place, and she failed to recognize the reasoning behind it—but in the end, she awakened to reasons to stay.
A/N: been a while.. change of aesthetic?? y'all likeyy?? ooc wednesday, (weds pov, buttt the half bit's on thirdpov, js a little mix if y'all don't mind).
Warnings!: literally nothing other than my writing, per usual, again ooc wednesday.. (y'all can tell me if there are warnings I should put up!) inaccurate versions of fallen angels, keep in mind that idk what the heck im doing, js use ur imaginations its fine!
wc: 2.6k
part 2 || Masterlist
Ever since Nevermore, ever since I've been held captive here it's all been nothing but a nuisance.
My cello wasn't helping me relieve tension as much as it did then, Thing and Enid were becoming unbearable with every passing second, I had no objection since, but change is inevitable.
I heavily sighed as I combed my bangs with my fingers, inhaling deeply as I felt my fingers soak in sweat, but the wind was further from being warm enough for me to be drenching so much.
Decompressing was all I've done this weekend, and it wasn't working, not a shred was. A trip to Jericho didn't suffice, nor did aiding Eugene with his bees, even with Enid's banters—it all ended with a bittersweet taste on the tip of my tongue.
These things didn't always feel so critical to me, not after defeating Crackstone. This extends beyond that, that I required a departure, for no more than a single night. It was all too ineffable, too complex.
I took ahold of my sweater, not sparing any glances on the confused looks thrown at me. All sensations merged into a formless mist, I didn't care what they'd told me before I had closed the door, about my safety, was it?
Death trembles in my presence.
Somehow, a part of me was torn away from me the night I defeated Crackstone. And it eludes my grasp that missing piece that's slowly killing me.
It unsettled me profoundly, vague and smudged, uncertain, like an aspect of my being was divided—slowly succumbing to the depths of hell.
I wasn't aware of my surroundings as I should've been, which resulted in me being in this peculiar encounter.
"What's a girl like you doing here, out in the cold?"
What seemed to be a girl my age—too nosy for her own good, stood tall and mighty by the tree's branch, clothing all in pitch black. It peaked my interest on how out of the ordinary this interaction is. It's uncanny, as though this experience echoes a distant reverie. But, that interest didn't linger much further, the girl looked harmless after all. I scoffed and turned to leave to take another route away from this girl, not one bit was I threatened nor invested by some lunatic perched atop a tree's log.
"Hey, I asked you a question."
"My presence here is entirely unrelated to you." Letting out an annoyed huff, I exhaled sharply in irritation. "At least share your name with me?" I don't need to double-take, her voice was devoid of warmth, at that I almost pitied her.
Almost.
So much for a night stroll.
_
"Wednesday, where have you been?! We were worried sick!"
I hum, not daring to spare them even just an ounce of an empathetic glance. "You could've been really hurt back there." Enid presses while trying to make eye contact with me, failing miserably. "I don't need you mothering me, Sinclair. I possess the ability to manage independently."
I huffed in annoyance, how come I've defeated Crackstone and still have worried remarks thrown my way? I am an Addams.
"We're just looking out for you. You haven't been yourself lately, you've been brooding and grumpy at everything, every time! And that's a bad thing, for me and Thing, at least.. As your roomie slash bestie, I'll be on edge. Let me care for you, Wednesday."
Exhausting, each day mirrored the one before, an endless repetition. I thrived for the thrill of mystery and gore, now I rot in my room thinking I could solve everything all in one night, it's so blood curling as I appear unable to make any meaningful advancements.
Now all I want to do is leave this wretched town and never come back, ever again.
"If you'd thought of caring for me for a minute, I would prefer if you stopped reiterating the same concerns, it's infuriating me." Stepping away from Enid, I took off my sweater and placed it somewhere on my bed that I didn't care enough to look, then groggily made my way to my desk.
"Wed—!"
"It's my writing time, silence would much be preferred at the moment." I still devoted myself into my writing time, even when I've had my time today, I still had this itch to write more, to express everything all over again.
I heard Enid huff and puff while fixing herself to her bed, I quietly sighed as I began typing away from the essence of existence, onto the vision I've created.
_
Time seemed to be keen on agitating me every passing second, it was like watching paint dry and my patience were gnawing thin.
I wasn't always favourable of learning something in class that I already knew the answers to, what I needed was to explore myself more, every inch and ounce of emotion radiating off of me was becoming unbearable.
Whilst the forest became some place I tend to visit often, I can't help but feel a sense that I was being watched every time I step foot in that godforsaken woodland. I was too guarded not to notice, but why was it that I felt wary when in results I'd see nothing out of the ordinary.
Each night afforded me the opportunity for reflection, it was all in the grasp of my hands, however tonight, I was unable to fully analyse my thoughts, something was pulling me back. Perhaps it was the lack of emotion on putting up with the people that shows that they care about me. That somehow, they hoped in someway, I changed.
Tonight, is different. The moon's gleaming light, the wind's embrace, all seen and felt in one night. While the wolves howled and growled, with the owls coos and the leaves' soft rustling.
I felt indifferent, but that didn't last, an unsettling emotion inside of me growing at a pace I can't keep up with.
Werewolves.
Unfortunately, I failed to register it sooner. Tonight's full moon.
However, before I could turn and break into a sprint, a werewolf twice my size gallops right in front of me, its razor-sharp teeth glossing, waiting to gnaw at something.
Not a minute to waste, the howler lunged itself towards me, but before it could've marked it's territory with mauling me to death, a figure appeared right at the last second, then I felt myself being lifted up from the scene unfolding.
The scent of my saviour, the caress of their hair down to my neck. My eyes sealed shut as I felt a soft impact with the ground, which, not at all felt like the ground.
"You can open your eyes now." Their voice sounds... familiar?
I made a sharp sudden glance, tilting my head lightly, it was that girl. And, against all odds, we were lodged high in the branches of a tree. I stepped to the side and held on the tree with my right hand for support.
She lets go of me and cheekily smiles at me, she was taller than I anticipated. "You're welcome."
"I had no intention of inquiring about your rescue." I say with a huff. And suddenly, the realization finally struck. "You. You've been the one stalking me like some madman, weren't you?"
She hummed with amusement and enthusiasm, "Mhm! And I'm glad I did, you should be glad too—"
"Get me down. Now." Initially, I would've been curious to how we got into such a position, but it died down quickly realising how childish this psycho actually is.
She took ahold of both my wrist and led them to grab onto her shoulders, her hands finding it's way onto my hips, but before I could protest, I felt a gush of wind suddenly making me hold onto her tighter.
Perhaps it was the dark that really blinded me to who or what was in front of me.
She looked...
"You're surprisingly weightless.. You.. can let go now."
I cleared my throat and jolted away from the feathered girl, she had gloves on—almost seemed as if she didn't plan on having much contact with anybody.
She looked rather divine under the moon's gaze if you'd really give the time to view such-
"Do you, uhm... want me to accompany you back?"
I lightly huffed, seeing how nervous she seemed, says so much.
How coy, with what seemed like a winged beast however, only merely a voice soft as a whisper, like a shadow that invites the chase.
But I showed no interest, I spun my heel, quietly but quickly making my way back in the school grounds.
I hear soft crunches of leaves trailing behind me. "You know, it's impolite to have a girl ask questions and not be answered a second time."
"I've been made aware." I shiver from the cold breeze, gritting my teeth as I shove my hands into my hoodie's pockets. I feel a presence, or rather a wing luming over me. I furrowed my brows as I turned my head towards the girl.
"You're cold, are you not? The heat of my wings can help you." She lightly says, with her hands tucked away from behind her.
"I'm Y/N by the way."
I wanted to be cautious and guarded, I did. But, maybe this was something, for a moment that could help me feel at ease, that didn't immediately send me spiraling.
I felt my lips, faintly upturn. And this time, I didn't try to stop it.
. . .
Much to my demise, I find myself intrigued and rather impatient. That I had the need to get into that woodland again. To see that dreadwing.
But to my dismay, I didn't feel any eyes luming over me. A possibility, she may have finally found the forest depressing and uninteresting.
I decided to walk around the woods, to seek out answers and to loosen up. Yet, in the past hour, I have been reduced to nothing but unease and clammy hands.
Whatever parasite that's crawling in my skin right now is, I'm finding it unpleasant. I express this with the utmost conviction.
The walk back to the school grounds felt heavy, and wet, considering the weather wasn't too favourable of me tonight. I huffed as I felt my soggy socks up to my core, to my teeth.
I feel agitated, about everything. And my clothes sticking too much into me isn't helping.
It only took a mere sharp turn for me to start erupting, an obnoxious outcast is in my way.
I let out a grunt, as I was taken aback.
"I urge you to move, you imbecile." I grumbled out and heaved while I shut my eyes, I couldn't grasp what was tormenting me. It's too cold out, thus I couldn't think with precision. I scoffed, ready to snark out petty remarks, but..
There Y/N was, in a black and white nevermore uniform much like mine with her black silked gloves on, her brows furrowed, her black flowy wings twitching subtly, as if dumbfounded she'd met me this way.
Why is she in a nevermore uniform?
"You attend Nevermore?"
I stood, stunned. Mistakenly asking without the intention of actually knowing if she does or not.
Like a child who just got offered candy, her eyes lit up, seemingly excited somebody's finally asked her.
She hummed and nodded in agreement. "I just enrolled, someone showed me around, and! while I wore my uniform! looks good doesn't it?"
"Morbid."
"You say that like we aren't wearing the same ones."
Rolling my eyes, I sighed and continued my walk to my dormitory, leaving the dumbfounded girl alone, while my chest caved in as my heart wrenched itself free.
I am experiencing heightened emotions, perhaps it was the weather with its frivolity, and these obnoxious clothes embedding itself on me.
_
The next day didn't guarantee that undying pleased emotion that bugged me the moment my eyes opened. If anything, it's intolerably provoking.
There that walking bird was, walting through the door whilst the class was just about to start, the way these misfits didn't dare miss a second to gawk. As if, profane and profuse envy.
Perhaps resentment, with the way her wings perfectly harmonise every aspect of her being, who wouldn't envy such wings? Desires dressed in bitterness.
"Is this seat taken?"
I lightly tilted my head towards her, a piercing look staring right at her. But, she didn't seem fazed, I scoffed and turned my attention back to my textbook, hearing the girl softly titter, and the chair beside me scraping.
Throughout the lesson, I couldn't help but inspect her further from my visual periphery, with the sound of her feathers lightly ruffling, how her finger taps impatiently on the desk, how her eyes roam through every bit and particle in the room, how her skin looked so fascinatingly soft and smooth-
"Hey, can you teach me more about botany after class ends?"
I subtly shook my head, my wandering mind leaving a shiver to my nape.
I readjust on my seat, while I feel eyes lingering on me.
"No."
My brows twitched in amusement, and my lips itching to let out a sigh. On my peripheral vision, she wore the expression of a puppy caught mid-mischief, scolded but still stubborn.
Class ended, but this bird didn't seem to take the hint.
"Come on, please? You're the only person I know here! And I-"
"Would you just still your tongue." I grumbled out such displeasure. I always take into account of the times I've been in a moment of dissatisfaction, but this was breaking my sanity, too much.
_
Things were a little under the weather for Wednesday, it had been a week since you had asked her for botany notes and such.
After you asked, you didn't bother asking again, instead, you began asking Bianca Barclay herself, asked if she had extra time for tutoring you. And that's what set Wednesday ablaze.
She disliked every passing second she'd seen you with Bianca, laughing and giggling, walking to class together. She didn't understand how one mere tutor could lead to that. She loathed it.
"Howdy Roomie!" Enid skips and squeaks while calling out for Wednesday, the raven haired girl only letting out a grumble.
"Well someone here woke up on the wrong side of the bed, what's got your mind tied up in a knot?" She snickers while already knowing the answer. "Hmm, maybe a certain black winged beaut can help you out?—"
"You clearly don't know what you're saying. I'm fine, and I don't need anybody's help."
No. She didn't take a tolerable liking towards you, not ever.
"Fine, just don't say I didn't tell you so!"
Before Wednesday quipped a remark, Enid's already strutted herself away from her. She scoffed and began turning to leave, but abruptly halts when she hears you laughing just inches away from her, she glances up and sees you with that loathsome siren. Again.
The ache in her heart couldn't find the reason why. Why every time you pass by her with your welcoming grin would send her knees to buckle, why each time you tear your lingering gaze away from her and towards that siren, the smug look she receives from Barclay without fail, makes her blood curl. The way Bianca swiftly hooks her hand to your forearm, taunting her, ridiculously excruciating—due to the fact that you didn't give enough effort to push her away.
Well that was what Wednesday felt, yet she didn't dare speak a word.
Yet, your concerned gaze goes unnoticed by the Addams. Too busy understanding something much more complex, some thing she wants to annihilate to bits.
______+______
A/N: not proofread idk im too lazy and its too long, deleting ts if i can't get a second or even a third part out LMAOO ts hs been in my drafts for MONTHS.
Summary: To anyone on the outside, and to Tara’s friends, you were Tara’s fierce protector, the MMA fighter who’d take anyone on for Tara. The Guard Dog, as Amber called you. You had no idea you’d have to protect her from people who claimed they loved her. It didn’t matter. As long as you and Tara had one another there was nothing you wouldn’t be able to survive.
Story warnings: Scream violence, family issues, trauma, angst, certain sensitive topics
Word count: 3.8k
Story masterlist / First part / Previous part
-You're the fire that warms me when I'm cold, you're the hand I have to hold as I grow old-
~X~ September 2037 ~X~
No matter how many times she thought about it, Tara couldn’t wrap her head around the passage of time. In a few days your children would turn ten, a few months ago you turned thirty-six and she would be thirty-five in a few months. Mindy and Anika adopted three wonderful children that would turn four next month, and even Chad got married and had a kid of his own on the way! Sam was forty, and she somehow managed to settle down with the female cop that infiltrated the cult over a decade ago, and it was about damn time. Frankly, Tara was grateful to the woman for having the patience to deal with Sam’s uncertainties and doubts in herself.
The point was, the time was passing way too quickly, it felt like she gave birth to Zack and Susan just yesterday and now they were slowly but surely entering their rebellious phase. Well, sometimes, and for small things, but Tara dreaded the moment they’d start arguing with you and her over everything. Soon they’d be teenagers, exploring the world through a fresh perspective, learning more about themselves, truly falling in love for the first time, and all the other things Tara frankly wasn’t ready for.
You on the other hand remained fairly chill about it, saying it was part of growing up and that you couldn’t protect them from everything. Speaking of you, you were on a business trip, to negotiate a deal and handle some minor inconveniences with a partner company. You’d come back tonight, and Tara hoped she could deal with the mess before you arrived.
The entire kitchen was almost at the point of no return, almost messed up beyond all recognition, and Zack and Susan loved it. Tara, however, wondered why she came up with this idea in the first place. “Zack, sweetheart, bring me the cream,” she asked the boy as she took a deep breath and prepared to remove the cake mold around the layered cake she and the twins made.
“Mommy, this isn’t going to hold,” Susan poked the upper layer and it moved! Why were cakes like this?! She made great food these past few days, breakfast, lunch, dinner, as long as it wasn’t really complex, sweets, or any pastry aside from the simplest ones, she more or less could make it, but cakes would one hundred percent be her downfall!
“Nonsense, we followed the recipe, and I watched Y/N make these plenty of times before!” Tara remained hopeful. It would be fine, she did watch you do this even before Zack and Susan were born, even before you two got together. She could do it. So, what if the sink was filled with dirty dishes, or if there was flour all over the counter, or if the stove desperately needed cleaning and the kids and her had cream and filling and chocolate all over their hands and faces and clothes. The cake would be amazing. Maybe a bit too sweet, because she foolishly allowed Zack to add sugar to the filling, and maybe, just maybe, Susan spilled a bit too much vanilla extract into it, but it would be fine.
“Sue is right, Mom, though Mom is more whipped than this cream so we’ll be fine,” Zack set the whipped cream next to her and climbed onto the chair to watch the impending doom he was so sure would transpire the moment Tara removed the cake mold. He was so much like you it wasn’t even funny. Calm, not bothered by most things. Susan picked up some of your traits as well, but Zack was like a sponge when it came to you, picking up your traits and habits.
“It’ll be fine,” Tara said, more to reassure herself than anything else and, with her eyes closed, finally removed the mold, only to feel the layers of the cake the three of them spent hours making just falling apart.
This was why you handled the cooking, you, unlike Tara, could make anything. And you, again unlike Tara, actually loved doing it.
“See? We told you,” Susan ripped off a small piece of the sponge, dipped it into the filling and put it in her mouth. “At least it tastes good?” she offered as Tara nearly dropped her head down on the table.
She would have done it, if Zack didn’t put his hand between her head and the messy table. “Thanks, Zack,” she sighed, lifting her head up and just sitting down on the chair. This was, in one word, a disaster.
Before the boy could reply Tara heard the sound of car pulling into the driveway and, despite the mess in the kitchen, she smiled, taking the apron off and watching through the kitchen window as you stepped out of the car with your bag hanging from your shoulder and a bounce to your step. You could have parked inside the garage, but you were clearly impatient to see your family once again.
“Mom!” Zack exclaimed, running toward the doors with a large grin on his face and Susan immediately followed him, just as happy to see you again after five days apart.
“Clean up first!” oh, who was Tara kidding, this was the longest the twins spent away from you, of course they wouldn’t realize how messy they were. It didn’t help that the kids were as attached to you as she was, they loved you, looked up to you, relied on you. You were everything your or Tara’s parents failed to be, their support and protection and Tara felt lucky she could raise the twins with you. You made one hell of a team if she could say so herself and the twins were happy, and actually excited to spend time with the two of you, unlike Tara or you were when you were their age.
She smiled when she heard your laughter. “Who let you two loose in the kitchen?” you laughed and she heard both of your children laughing and shouting, she couldn’t see what was going on, but she was certain you just lifted them up, and sure enough you walked through the kitchen doors with Zack and Susan in your arms. “Another year or two and you’ll have to take turns, you’re getting a bit too big,” you laughed and kissed their cheeks as they hugged you tightly.
“We tried to make a cake for you,” Zack spilled the beans.
“We made a mess,” Susan fake-whispered to you and then pointed around the kitchen for you to see.
“Well,” you took the horror slash crime scene in front of you in as Tara just sheepishly smiled at you. “There are words that could be used in this situation,” you chuckled, lowering the kids down and walking over to Tara.
She just looked at you, too exhausted by the failure to get up and greet you. And, well, unlike the twins she was aware of how messy she was. Although, your clothes were already stained, so maybe adding a few more stains wouldn’t hurt.
“I missed you so much,” you kissed her as you wrapped your arms around her waist and pulled her up, and Tara hooked an arm around your neck.
She deepened the kiss and caressed your cheek, leaving a bit of whipped cream on it. “It’s a complete failure,” she chuckled softly when she pulled back and looked you in the eyes, and she still saw the same intense, absolute love she saw all those years ago. All these years and the love you felt for her didn’t fade even a bit, in fact, it just got stronger with time.
You took her hand and brough it to your lips to taste the whipped cream. “This is fine,” you said and glanced at the filling. “That’s not thick enough though. And you forgot to put the whipped cream on the edges,” you told her, just from one glance seeing where the main issues were.
Well, you were the one who handled the cooking, not Tara.
“Can we fix it?” Susan asked as you lowered Tara back down.
“Maybe next time, I wanna eat what you guys made for me,” you said, and so you just freshened up a bit and came back to the kitchen to enjoy the end results of your family’s efforts. It was just another thing she loved about you, because it didn’t matter that the cake was a mess, Tara, Zack and Susan made it for you, and to you that meant it was perfect as it was.
“See,” Zack grinned at her, and Tara noticed that his grin looked a lot like yours. “Mom is more whipped than this,” he reminded her, causing you to ruffle his hair.
“I mean, I can’t argue against that,” you laughed, taking another bite of the cake.
“Sue got an A for her drawing, by the way,” Zack suddenly said, and Tara watched with a wide smile as Susan blushed when you, proud of her, got up and kissed the top of her head.
“I’m proud of you, Sue,” you smiled, hugging your daughter when she wrapped her arms around you.
Susan shrugged. “It’s just the usual stuff,” she said, though the smile on her face gave away the fact that she enjoyed the praise.
“Maybe, but,” you pulled Zack into a hug as well. “we’re both still proud of you. Both of you. No matter what you get at school, as long as you’re happy and put effort into what you’re doing, we’ll both always be proud of you,” you told them, and it was something both you and Tara told them as often as possible. No matter how big or how small, no matter if they succeed or fail, you would always be there to celebrate with them or cheer them up.
And Tara got up to hug the three of you at the same time. It felt good to have her entire family with her again, even if you were away for only five days.
~X~
It was late at night when you and Tara finished returning the kitchen to the original state. “Did you three have a whipped cream fight?” you asked incredulously as you brought the ladder to clean a few bits of whipped cream stains that somehow ended up on the ceiling.
Tara chuckled uneasily. “I’d like to tell you how that happened, but this whole night feels like a fever dream,” she sighed as she slumped into the chair, exhausted and sleepy, but not complaining for even a moment. Hell, she wanted to clean this all up alone and let you rest. As if you could rest knowing she was fighting the kitchen mess all alone.
At least Zack and Susan got too tired to make a fuss about their bedtime.
You climbed down from the ladder and approached Tara. “I appreciate the thought, Love,” you said, getting behind her and massaging her shoulders and neck slowly.
“That’s the spot,” she sighed contently and closed her eyes, just surrendering to the sensations of your touch over her shirt, well, your shirt, but at this point it was a shared closet. “How did your business trip go?” she asked while you lowered your hands to massage her back, or at least whatever you could reach above the chair.
“Eh, they were being greedy so I went and made it very clear we were paying them enough already, but I might need to look for another export company soon enough,” you said, thinking over the past few days. “Oh, and I managed to make a good deal, the company should earn a bit over a million from it, so that’s always a good thing,” you told her more, going into details on the deal and the work you did over the past five days.
All the while Tara nodded, congratulating, and praising you every now and then. Safe to say, you didn’t have to worry about money, and with how things were going Zack and Susan would be fine and able to pursue any interest.
~X~
Next morning you and Zack came back from the two-mile-long morning jog. Zack’s been training with you almost every morning, nothing too intense, but he went with you on a jog and did some cardio with you as well. He had no interest in martial arts though and just liked being active, and he liked to focus on the training he did do.
You followed him into the home gym you set up and, as he sat down to rest from the jog, you put on your gloves and began shadow boxing. It was one of your favorite exercises, as you moved in response to the imaginary enemy, maintaining the speed and power behind your hits as the doors opened.
You grinned, but you didn’t stop training. “Drawing again, Sue?” you asked, effortlessly switching from one stance to another.
“Yup!” Susan sat down next to Zack with a notebook and a pencil in her hands. While Zack had no interest whatsoever in martial arts, Susan did, though not the way you did. Instead of training or developing an interest in the uses of martial arts, she was mesmerized by the motions, the stances, the artistic side of it as she called it. Repeatedly she captured your movements and stances as she drew sketches, she later turned into detailed pencil drawings. She could easily depict a small fight scene through her drawings, and she was technically still nine. You were eager to see where her talent would take her. And while Zack lacked the more artistic talents, he had his own share of skills, mostly rooted in logic and math.
So, as you continued going through the motions you found yourself thinking you were the luckiest person in the world. You had two wonderful children and Tara with you, and absolutely nothing would make you happier than spending the rest of your life by their sides.
About an hour later, while you were in the middle of punching the sandbag you and the twins heard the doors upstairs opening and Tara came down with laptop in hand. “Baby you need to see this,” the urgency in her voice made you quickly take the gloves off, but the excitement in her eyes told you whatever she had to show you was good news. So, you took a few extra moments to wipe the sweat off your face as she set the laptop on the table.
Zack and Susan ran over to the laptop and paused. “UFC?” Zack read, puzzled.
You raised an eyebrow, that was the last thing you expected, but you leaned against the table and looked at the mail you got. “An invitation for the charity event? All the money made from the ticket sales will be donated,” you read, grinning as you saw the details.
“Is it because we have money?” Susan asked.
Now that you thought about it, you never really told them you were once a world champion. It just never came up.
Tara placed her arms around their shoulders and pulled them a bit closer. “Let me tell you a tiny little secret about your mom,” she winked at you and you pretended to not pay attention as the kids got excited over the idea. “Your mom used to be a world champion, the strongest female MMA fighter in the who world,” she fake-whispered.
“What?! Mom?!” Zack exclaimed, looking from Tara to you and back as if he couldn’t believe that.
“That’s so cool!” Susan shouted and ran over to her phone. From the corner of your eye you could see her Googling you and sure enough she found the proof of Tara’s claim. “It’s true! Look Z, she knocked one lady out in one punch!”
“No way!” Zack ran over to her, and you just smiled as you pulled Tara into a hug.
“You look happy,” you muttered against her neck.
“Mhm. I know you’ll accept,” she said and placed her arms on top of yours. “All these years and you’re still so strong,” she whispered as she turned her head and kissed your cheek. “My badass, adorable, MMA fighter.”
“I’ll show you adorable,” you grumbled, annoyed that she still pulled that out every now and then.
Tara looked a little too pleased with that. “I’m counting on that,” she spoke quietly, just for you to hear her. “Mmm, Daddy.”
Fuck. She was going to be the death of you.
~X~
A month later you were more or less back in fighting shape and ready to fight. You felt good, light on your feet, with explosive punches and fast kicks and while you weren’t too confident in your grappling all these years later you had to admit that was never your go-to approach to begin with. So, here you were, once again in the octagon, surrounded by the fences and the crowd screaming your and your opponent’s name.
“You sure you don’t wanna give up, I’ll even bring you a chair so you can rest, after all, you might as well be a hag in the cage,” the girl was close to her prime, in her early twenties and, from what you heard, current world champion.
You just unzipped your jacket and tossed it outside to the team the organizers gave you and the girl paled a bit. She looked a bit like Anya now that you took a moment to look at her, only without any respect. “I’m good, brat,” you smirked bouncing on your feet and rolling your shoulders to warm up a bit.
The bell rang and the round began, and in that moment everything else disappeared, nothing mattered but the fight. Your body moved on instinct, with barely any thought in your head as you rushed the woman and landed a few quick, precise jabs.
She stumbled back, still completely open as you went for the haymaker and stopped right before your fist collided with her face. “Come on,” you pulled back and clapped a few times before beckoning her to come closer.
Her eyes narrowed dangerously as you smirked. She was faster than you gave her credit, but you weaved and dodged all of her attempts to hit you. You weren’t even keeping your guard up as she tried to go for your jaw. You just leaned back and brought your fist up, more bopping than hitting the side of her head, but she bared her teeth and tried to go for a haymaker.
You ducked and while her weight was off balance hooked an arm behind her knee and slammed her onto the floor. You didn’t follow up on it though, and instead just took a few steps back. You held up two fingers as she just blinked, looking at you as if she couldn’t believe what was going on. “One more chance, use it wisely, brat,” you said.
It wasn’t like you wanted to humiliate her, it was just that your instinct was to go for the killing blow, you needed to wait for the adrenaline to pass so you could follow all the rules. She tried again, though more cautiously this time. She was more precise, more focused, if you weren’t as relaxed and if she already wasn’t fighting at the pace you were setting she would have been a challenge, as it was, you just glided around the octagon, swaying and moving out of the way of her hits. She tried to knee you, but you just blocked her knee and pushed her back slightly. She stumbled and you went for a high kick. Her eyes widened, but once again you stopped before you could land the hit and stepped back once more.
“Warm up is over,” the easygoing smile disappeared from your face, leaving only complete focus on the fight. The cheers of the crowd became louder when you caught her in a clinch before she could even figure out that you went on the offensive. You hit her twice, breaking her hastily put up guard and then hit her face. While she regained her composure you went for a spinning back kick to the side of her head, ending the match with only a few hits and before the first round even ended.
“And the winner by knock-out is Y/N L/N!” the announcer shouted as the crowd cheered and you raised your arms high. You looked to the front row, to Tara, Zack and Susan cheering for you and, driven purely by emotions you swiftly climbed over the fence and ran over to them.
“Mom you were awesome!” Zack ran into your arms and Susan followed just a few moments later.
“Yeah? Your mom can still kick ass?” you lifted them up and kissed their cheeks.
“We have the strongest mom,” Susan giggled as her and Zack took the belt the judge was trying to give you. He looked uncertain but you just nodded, lifting your kids up higher as they raised the belt up high.
It was a short reunion with the octagon, only one fight, but you remained undefeated in your career, and you were satisfied. You fought one again, with rules and regulations and still won despite all of your instincts telling you to dispose of your opponent. And you got the chance to fight in front of your children, to show them who you once were, before the company, before training became just the way to stay in shape and capable of keeping your loved ones safe.
Eventually they gave the belt back to the judge and just hugged you tightly. With Zack and Susan still in your arms Tara stepped closer. Her eyes softened as she caressed your cheek, and then she just hugged both of your children and you at the same time.
It took years of trial and error, years of fighting to keep you and Tara and everyone else you loved alive, and you’d fight again if there was ever the need to do so. But right now nothing mattered but your family, and no matter what, as long as Tara and your children were by your side you would never be…
Lost.
A/N: So, that’s the finale, as far as the main story goes. As for the future of this story I want to do some side stories, some that are completely canon to Lost, and some that are more what-ifs than anything else. So, maybe I’ll write a few chapters about what would have happened if Tara called R over the night Amber first attacked her. Or maybe I’ll write something you request, so go ahead and tell me if there is something you’d really like to read. Truly, how often I come back to these two is as much up to you as it is up to me. Either way, thank you for reading!
Summary: To anyone on the outside, and to Tara’s friends, you were Tara’s fierce protector, the MMA fighter who’d take anyone on for Tara. The Guard Dog, as Amber called you. You had no idea you’d have to protect her from people who claimed they loved her. It didn’t matter. As long as you and Tara had one another there was nothing you wouldn’t be able to survive.
Story warnings: Scream violence, family issues, trauma, angst, certain sensitive topics
Word count: 4.5k
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-I have so much to say but you're so far away-
The room he sat in was the last place he’d associate with the woman who owned this apartment. The walls were hidden behind shelves, filled to the brim with books. Books in English, Russian and German, he guessed, ranging from classics to modern literature, from massive encyclopedia to magazines, and there wasn’t a speck of dust anywhere near them. The last time he saw the woman she was fifteen and so stuck in her martial arts training he doubted she ever touched a book. Perhaps he was, as a twelve-year-old in awe of her, simply mistaken. The room had a vintage feel to it, with heavy table in the middle of it, and two tall armchairs on each side. The chandelier above him didn’t seem like it was often used, instead it was there more for aesthetics, instead, he believed the lamp on the table was used for reading during the nights. The woman lived alone, after a brief marriage that ended in a divorce, and he didn’t really know the details of her relationship.
There weren’t many people who intimidated him. Sidney Prescott did, with her refusal to be defeated by one of the Ghostfaces despite already being past her prime. Samantha Carpenter did as well, her brutality against Richie Kirsch and his father a year later was frightening. His cousin frightened him even more.
Anya Golubeva lost her title when she fought against you, but she regained it right away and considering you were forced to retire, she reigned supreme for the next three years, until she went and retired, now, at thirty-seven, she was still a formidable fighter. She would be the counter to you, a fighter that spent even more time training, a fighter that nearly defeated you, because that match could have gone either way. Thomas made a mistake, he made you angry, he got cocky, she wouldn’t, because she knew exactly what you were capable of.
“So, cousin, what brings you to me?” Anya walked through the door, holding a tray with two cups of coffee. “This far from home?” she sat down, at ease in her home, at ease because there truly wasn’t much that could hurt her.
Cousins… Yet he was nothing like her. Despite his admiration for her, Igor wasn’t a good fighter, he had no talent for martial arts, or sports in general, he didn’t have the dedication needed to overcome the lack of talent either. No, he wasn’t the best fighter, but he had other skills, he was a good hunter, resilient, good with knife and various guns, and, if he could say so himself, he was conventionally good looking, dark hair and blue eyes, in good shape. He could have been so many things, he could have had so many different interests, but in his youth he, much like Richie Kirsch and Amber Freeman, and many before and after them, developed a fascination with Stab franchise, and, more importantly, with Ghostface.
“I,” he hunched a bit, making himself seem smaller, trying to remind Anya of how he was as a child. She used to protect him when they were really young, before his parents moved and he had to transfer to another school, he hoped she would still have that instinct to protect her family. “got into trouble,” he spoke slowly, regretfully, just for a moment glancing up to meet her eyes and then immediately looking down. “With a cult, and now I don’t know how to get out,” there, he said it. He also believed he was an acceptable actor, capable of fooling people.
He heard Anya lowering her cup and leaning forward. “What cult?” she sounded more concerned than anything. Family was always important to her. That was why he was certain he could get her to help him and the cult. If she believed she was doing it to save him then he had a chance to convince her.
Instead of telling her anything, he pulled out the mask with a bear painted on the side. His Ghostface mask.
“Ghostface?” her eyes widened as she watched the mask. “Why? You’re neither young nor stupid?” she demanded, so forcefully he genuinely flinched at her tone.
“I didn’t realize they were serious, I swear! I thought they’d stop after Richie and Amber got killed, but they didn’t! At that point it was too late to back out, they knew me, they’d kill me!” he exclaimed, frantically grabbing the mask and shoving it back into his bag. He moved as if he was about to leave, as if he gave up on her.
“Fine, fine, settle down,” Anya calmed down first, and now she once again looked more concerned than anything else. That got him to sit back down, and he had to cover his face, pretending to clutch his head in desperation to hide the small smirk he couldn’t suppress. “What changed now?”
He dropped his hands, his expression the perfect mask of desperation. “If you can help me get rid of one person I can walk away,” knowing how it sounded he quickly raised his hands. “No one will know it was us! Please, it’s either her or me!”
She remained silent, and he just hoped this would work out, that Anya would be willing to at least hold you back enough for someone to finish you off if she didn’t want to actually kill you.
“Who is it?” she asked after several long, dreadful minutes.
“Y/N L/N,” Igor said, and her eyes narrowed. For a moment he feared she’d reject him, but instead, she nodded. Perhaps the sting of loss caused resentment toward you. Or perhaps it didn’t matter who it was, as long as she thought she was doing it to protect a member of her family.
~X~
No one knew where you were.
No one knew where you were.
No one knew where you were.
Those words repeated in Tara’s mind as she stared at the wall in front of her. She didn’t say a single word since Danny gave in and told her what he knew.
Sam being involved shook her, but somehow she decided she would deal with that later, you on the other hand… You were gone. No one knew if you were alive, or if you were hurt, or who had you. No, that was obvious. Ghostface had you. She barely registered a glass of milk and a plate filled with pancakes being set down on the coffee table next to her. They smelled nice, but the smell only reminded her of you not being by her side.
“Tara, you need to eat, for your baby if not for yourself,” Danny crouched next to her, likely trying to get her to look at him. And she did, for a brief moment she did look at him, and she saw the apology in his eyes.
Pancakes. Of course he went with that. It didn’t take long for anyone to find out how often you made them for Tara. They were her comfort meal, a meal she didn’t feel bad to ask for while you were kids, the first meal you made after you two got together, and then again and again, every time exactly how Tara loved them.
Danny knew how to cook, definitely better than Sam, but not as well as you did. You did work as a cook back in Woodsboro for almost two and a half years, so it wasn’t really fair to compare him with you. She still nodded, picking up the plate and began eating more out of obligation to your child than anything else. She barely ate two pancakes when her phone buzzed, signaling she got a message.
Tara frowned and saw it was a photo, and then her eyes widened, and she dropped her fork, and she had no idea how she didn’t immediately throw up the pancakes she managed to eat. “Danny!” she yelled, making him run back into the living room.
“What?!” he frantically looked around for an intruder, but Tara just got up and showed him the message she got. It was a photo, of a muscular woman whose face was covered by a Ghostface mask tied to a chair. “Is that Y/N?” his voice wavered a bit, as he spoke what went through Tara’s head when she saw the photo.
A moment later an address popped up and Tara grabbed her jacket ready to leave right then and there, consequences be damned she’d get to you. She needed to see you. She needed to be with you.
She needed to help you.
“Wait, we need to call Kirby,” Danny grasped Tara’s forearm just firmly enough to keep her from leaving.
“I need to get to Y/N!” she shouted, yanking her arm away from him.
“We don’t know when the photo was taken! It’s an obvious trap, Tara!” he argued back, this time choosing to step between her and the doors.
“I don’t care, she might be there!” she knew she was being unreasonable, that you’d berate her if you knew she was willing to just walk into such an obvious trap, but she knew you’d do the exact same thing. No, not only that. If the positions were switched, you would have went to Kirby demanding information so you could start looking for Tara. Even if it meant rushing into whatever location Kirby managed to connect with the cult.
Luckily, Danny understood her by now. “We’ll go, okay? But we need to call Kirby first, in case we need a back-up,” she could work with that.
So, she sent the photo to Kirby as Danny set up a Zoom call and while they waited for Kirby to join it, Tara just looked at the photo.
Finally, Kirby joined them. “Hey, Tara, Danny. Tara, I’m sorry we kept these things from you,” Kirby opened with that, but Tara shook her head, there’d be time for that conversation later. She could complain and be annoyed later, once you were back by her side, once she could make up for the time the two of you spent separated, then she could deal with her friends keeping her in the dark.
“Can you do anything?” Danny asked.
“Not much, but the address does match a warehouse near the harbor,” she said, sharing her screen and showing the map as well as some photos of the warehouse. It was old, clearly not in use anymore and abandoned until the cult decided to start using it.
“It’s not Y/N,” Tara suddenly declared. “It’s not her, I know it isn’t her,” she knew it, even if three weeks passed, this wasn’t you. Ghostface would taunt her with your face, or at least show a scar so she wouldn’t have any way to doubt it was you. And the woman wasn’t as muscular as you, she was muscular, no doubt about that, but not as much as you. So, no, it wasn’t you.
She was still going to walk right into that warehouse, because there was a chance someone there knew where you were, and she’d never forgive herself if she let this opportunity go. If she had to go alone, she would,
“Tara, listen to me, you’re pregnant, don’t get both of you killed by being reckless,” Kirby told her, but Tara was already getting up.
“Either come and help, or don’t do anything, but I’m not waiting here for someone to tell me what’s going on. You’ve already proven you won’t tell me anything anyway,” she snapped, glaring back at the screen before putting her jacket on and grabbing the biggest knife Danny had.
“Shit! Tara, wait!” she heard Danny running after her, but she didn’t slow down, she just glanced back, saw that he also had a knife and smiled appreciatively at him. “Well,” he shrugged. “I can’t let you go alone,” he said.
~X~
The warehouse was abandoned a long time ago, the windows were broken, glass was everywhere, and there was a lot of dust. So much, in fact, that Tara coughed a few times when they stepped inside. There were a few exits, through the windows, though that would likely be very painful unless they could open the window before jumping through. The doors they just came through and there were two sets of stairs leading to the first floor, that might give them a chance to maneuver if needed.
“There’s nothing here,” Danny said as the two of them looked around, for clues, for any sign of presence, for anything really. All they saw was the chair the person on the photo was tied to. The fact that the chair was whole was just another proof to Tara that you weren’t on the photo. If you were, and if you were untied, you would have fought back, and that chair would have been at least damaged if not in pieces and stained with blood of your captors.
They heard them before they saw them. The boots stepping on the shattered glass, steps indicating there were at least two people with them. Tara pulled her knife out and turned around, pointing it toward Ghostfaces.
“Where is Y/N?” she demanded, for the first time coming face to face with the redesigned Ghostface, the robes were the same, the mask was almost the same. These two had animals painted on the side of the mask. One had a bull, the other and elephant. A way to differentiate each other now that there were so many of them. At least the entire cult didn’t come to greet her.
And Sam somehow got involved with them. For how long? Why didn’t Sam just come to her? She’d get those answers eventually, she needed to focus on here and now.
The one with a bull just tilted his head to the side, as if feigning confusion. The two remained silent, slowly approaching her and Danny.
“We’d rather avoid a fight, just tell the lady what she wants to know,” Danny warned them, stepping in front of Tara and she had to admit, he did look imposing, even with two Ghostfaces coming closer and closer.
One of them lunged forward, aiming to stab Danny, but he clashed his own knife against the Ghostface’s blade and closed the distance to land a good punch to the side of Ghostface’s head. Tara’s eyes widened slightly, she knew you and Danny often sparred, but she didn’t realize Danny could hold his own outside of sparring. And he was proving he could hold his own, as he went for the neck with his knife, after all, they needed just one Ghostface alive.
But he stopped, his hand shaking as if he just realized what he was about to do. Tara jumped in, ready to finish the job he clearly couldn’t while the Ghostface was still dazed from the punch. She managed to stab the Ghostface’s chest and stomach, before the other could step in. She pulled away, knowing better than to stay in one place for long as the other Ghostface, the one with the bull painted on the mask pulled his partner back and engaged Danny in combat.
Danny deflected and dodged several stabs, but he struggled to find another opening to land a hit himself. Finally, he got an opportunity to kick the Ghostface away just as the one Tara stabbed was getting ready to jump back in.
“Run!” Danny exclaimed, ushering Tara toward the stairs. They were out in the open, and there was a good chance someone else was in the building with them, so staying in the middle of an open space wasn’t the best option for them. Not right now. And… a small part of both of them, hoped that maybe, just maybe, you were held here despite not being on the photo.
Tara took off, running for the stairs with Danny right behind her as the Ghostface duo chased after them. Though risky, the moment Ghostface duo began climbing up the stairs, Danny abruptly stopped and slammed body first into one of them, sending them down the stairs and just barely managing to stay on his feet. He grunted though, and Tara could see the handle of the knife sticking from his side.
“Shit!” she exclaimed and stopped, ready to go back down for him.
“Keep going!” he began running again, pushing through the pain and Tara could see the determination in his eyes. “I’m going to yell at Sam when she comes back. If she was here we could have easily taken these two,” he complained jokingly, mostly to reassure Tara.
Tara nodded, seeing through him, but still appreciating the gesture.
They reached the top of the stairs and realized every door was locked. The only way out was back down, and the Ghostface duo split to cover each side of the stairs.
Tara looked at Danny and then looked toward the Ghostface she stabbed. She’d handle that one. So, they waited as the Ghostface duo began slowly climbing toward them, they stood, back to back, ready to fight the two.
And it ended so quickly Tara barely registered what was happening. Danny took initiative, attacking the one with bull on the mask. He ducked under the blade, grabbed the Ghostface’s leg and pushed him down to the ground, grappling the way you usually did when you were in a rush. This time he didn’t hesitate, and stabbed his knife through the Ghostface’s chest several times.
Tara on the other hand clashed her knife against Ghostface’s, she stepped to the side, slicing quickly and managing to cut through the robe, but not through the flesh of Ghostface’s arm. Her eyes widened slightly when she saw Ghostface swinging his arm toward her head and just barely managed to grab and stop it from hitting her. Thinking fast she lifted her leg, kicking Ghostface between the legs. Ghostface grunted, but didn’t fall to his knees, instead he tried to stab her again.
Tara dodged the blade, but hit the wall and in her daze she couldn’t move out of the way. She could only put her arms between her attacker and her stomach. The knife never came though, as a gasp came from Ghostface in front of her. She opened her eyes and saw a knife sticking out of the Ghostface’s neck, courtesy of Danny. Both Ghostfaces were dead, both killed by Danny.
“Damn,” he took a step back, letting the dead Ghostface fall to the ground. “Guess we’ll have to find clues some other way,” he said making Tara nod.
“Thanks, let’s get out of here,” she wasn’t any closer to finding you, but two enemies were dead.
Danny nodded and the two of them began walking to the doors, carefully watching for any movement.
A loud sound pierced the silence, pierced right through the illusion of safety and Tara’s eyes widened when she saw blood staining Danny’s shirt. She watched in horror as he looked down, shakily touching the red spot just below his chest that was growing larger with every second. “Danny!” Tara cried out, somehow managing to catch him before he fell to the ground. There was too much blood, as hard as she tried, as much as she pressed her palms against the wound, she couldn’t stop the bleeding and his breathing was getting shallow. “Stay awake, you hear me! Come on, you need to yell at Sam for leaving, remember?”
He chuckled a bit at that. “I’ll leave that to you,” he said and moved her hands away. “They hit my liver,” the blood, the bullet going through it, the stab wound, Tara just sat back, tears streaming down her face. There was nothing she could do. Even if she could call an ambulance, they likely wouldn’t make it in time.
Not that it mattered. Footsteps came from behind her, and she turned around just in time to see three Ghostfaces approaching her. Three marks, bear, fish, and monkey, and the one with bear on the mask was carrying the gun. He was the one who shot Danny, she was sure of that. No… he may have pulled the trigger, but Tara was the one who brought them there, she was the one responsible for putting them in danger.
“Don’t resist, or else,” that voice, the same voice she heard when Amber first attacked her, the same voice that so often haunted her nightmares, she heard it again and this time… instead of pointing a knife at her, the monster pointed a gun at her stomach. “I heard you played a game like this once, only there isn’t an MMA fighter to save you,” Tara narrowed her eyes, but didn’t move. She couldn’t move, she couldn’t risk it, not when there was nothing she could do to save him.
The Ghostface holding the gun motioned toward her and Danny.
“Let her leave,” Danny demanded with what little strength her had left as he tried to sit up.
“I don’t think so,” one of the other two Ghostfaces said as one grabbed Tara’s arms and pulled them behind her back. She heard the click of handcuffs, felt the cold metal around her wrists and knew there was absolutely nothing she could do.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” she knew it was over, she knew exactly what would happen next, she still flinched when she heard Danny yelping as he was slammed back onto the ground and then she heard the knife slicing through his neck.
“There, just like Samantha cut Richie’s throat,” one of them said and Tara dared to look at him, dead, with blood pooling around his body. His eyes that once held so much love for her sister now stared forward, lifeless.
~X~
She knew she should have assigned someone to watch over Tara, and now she was gone and Danny was dead. Kirby sat with her head between her hands and photos laid on her table. The Ghostface she was sure was Sam, the tied-up woman she was sure was you, even if Tara denied it, and painted masks, and other photos she had painted a picture she couldn’t understand.
“Tara is right, this isn’t Y/N,” Gale Weathers being there definitely wasn’t helping.
“How are you so sure?” Kirby demanded. They couldn’t see any scars to confirm if it was really you, but there weren’t as many women as muscular as you.
“It’s not her style. If she even suspected this photo would reach Tara she would have given them hell,” Gale gave her a cheeky, though small smile. “Besides, if someone can recognize Y/N underneath all this it would be Tara.”
Kirby had to agree with that. While she wasn’t there when Richie and Amber did their killings, she was very much aware of what you did for Tara, and while she never got to see you actually hurting someone, she did get to see how protective of the younger Carpenter you were. She had the front seats experience when you came into a bar her and Sam were at once to confront Sam. It was civil, but she could feel the tension, the barely restrained anger on both sides.
It was baffling, really, watching you and Sam argue, after years of seeing the two of you getting along. Sam was never as happy as she was at your and Tara’s wedding, and she more than once expressed how much she appreciated your protectiveness over Tara. And then it was like someone snapped their fingers and the relationship fell apart along with Sam.
And now no one knew where you were, Tara was captured, Danny was dead, Chad, Mindy and Anika couldn’t come, or they would not only be in danger but would be able to kiss their careers goodbye and Sam was… likely a Ghostface. How did it all fall apart like this?
Knocking on the door brought her out of her thoughts and she looked up just as Sidney walked in. “Since when does Ghostface try to blow up cars?” she demanded, distraught, filled with panic and almost desperately looking for answers.
“What?” Gale asked, just as puzzled by the question as Kirby.
Sidney slumped into one of the chairs and leaned her head back as she dug her fingers into her hair. “He called me, said I’ll never see my family again. I managed to call Mark and get him, and my children get out of the car. Less than a minute later the car exploded,” she explained, stunning Kirby and Gale. Fury burnt in her eyes and Kirby was reminded of how formidable Sidney was. “I need to get this fucker before he harms my family.”
Gale approached her and placed a hand on Sidney’s shoulder. “We’ll get them Sid,” she promised and caught Sidney up with the situation. From suspecting Sam, to your situation, to Tara being captured and Danny being killed.
“I want Tara alive as much as you two, but how do we know she was just kidnapped? Why would they keep her alive?” Sidney asked and Kirby would be lying if she said that thought didn’t cross her mind when she first realized Tara wasn’t at the warehouse. Gale was the one that reassured her.
“It’s not their style, to take someone and kill them somewhere else, even if this Ghostface doesn’t operate the way we’re used to,” Gale told Sidney the same thing she told Kirby.
Kirby sighed, frankly, even if she agreed now that Tara was alive she still wasn’t entirely sure what the actual reason she wasn’t killed was, but she had her suspicions. “It’s either Y/N, or Sam that they are afraid of,” that was the core reason. “I don’t think they’ll kill Tara just yet.”
“If Tara is alive, they can blackmail one or both of them, if they kill Tara, those two won’t let that go,” Gale agreed and took the photo of Ghostface with dog mark. “Guard dog,” how ironic.
“Even if Sam joined them, she’d turn on them if they hurt Tara,” Sidney agreed, now seeing the logic. “We need to find Y/N.”
And that was the plan, because even if they couldn’t count on Sam being sane enough to help them, they could count on you. Especially when you learn that Tara was captured.
Kirby’s phone rang and all three of them nearly jumped out of their skin, but Kirby relaxed when she saw the name of one of her colleagues. “Yes?”
“Special Agent Reed, we identified the number the message came from. It belongs to Samantha Carpenter,” there was no doubt anymore.
Sam was Ghostface, there was no longer any doubt about that in Kirby’s mind. And either she sent the message to Tara, or someone was using her phone.
There was a chance that Sam was too far gone.
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❥ warnings: mild spoilers for the movie. read at your own risk. test driving writing for ridley. completely self-indulgent fluff/comfort fic. wordy. meh ending. only cross posting until the tag takes off.
It’s 8 pm when the familiar lights of the Kintner’s car illuminate the quiet street. As they pull into the driveway, you rush down the entrance stairs, rubbing your damp palms over your jeans. You’d been waiting for hours since Ridley told you they were boarding the plane to return home with the news that she needed to talk to you about something terrible that had happened.
Ridley is in the passenger seat. She doesn’t even wait for Elliot to finish parking before she throws the door open and jumps out, hurtling straight into your open arms with so much force it nearly knocks the wind out of you. You gladly let the momentum guide you into a spin, squeezing the shorter girl closer as you breathe her in deeply.
Ridley smells… not great. But she’s in one piece. She’s back, safe, and, most importantly, in your arms again. You have every reason to be overjoyed.
“You’re back.” You say, your voice muffled by her hair against your lips.
Ridley nods against your neck. “You’re here,” she whispers, her voice cracking. “I missed you.” Her grip on your arms is fierce, and her nails are unforgiving on your skin. It’s wonderful.
“Course I’m here, Rid; where else would I be?” you chuckle and kiss her clammy forehead. Her hair feels like straw against your lips, but her skin is warm and soft. She’s very alive. “I came as soon as you called.”
Ridley leans back and slides her hands up to cradle your face. Her eyes dart between yours and across your face frantically as though she were committing you to memory. You brush your lips over her knuckle as she swipes a thumb across your cheek, allowing her all the time to do as she pleases.
“I missed you so fucking much my heart hurt.” Is all Ridley murmurs before she pulls you down, pressing her mouth to yours fiercely. Her teeth clack against yours at first, yet you can’t bring yourself to care when Ridley slides a hand up your neck and into your hair as the other clutches your arm for purchase. You hug her around her waist securely, her body melding against yours like the perfect puzzle piece.
Ridley sniffs. You pull back and rest your forehead against hers. Her eyes are shiny, and her lashes are wet. The tip of her nose is bright and warm, and her chin quivers with the effort to keep down the sob bubbling in her throat.
“Are these bad tears?” you ask, brushing away a fat tear from her chin.
“No.” Ridley breathes shakily and gives you a watery smile as she shakes her head. “I think I got overwhelmed. These past few days were a lot, and with everything going on, seeing your face,” Ridley pauses, swallowing hard. “I’m just so happy to see you. I didn’t know if I ever would again.”
“You had me worried I wouldn’t either,” you admit. “I almost thought—”
You missed Ridley so much these past two days that you almost forgot where you are. You break apart at the sudden and suspiciously loud slam of Elliot’s door but don’t let go of each other. Ridley hardly seems as concerned with PDA as she usually would be and stays tucked under your arm, hugging you tightly around your waist as though even an inch of space between you would be too great a distance.
“I’ll tell you later,” Ridley murmurs. You tap your fingers against her arm in understanding.
Elliot greets you with a tired smile as he rounds the car and walks over. You wonder whether you should shake his hand or not. You’ve never been on the best terms with him by extension of Ridley, but it seems like no one has the energy for all that today.
“Hello, Mr.Kintner. It’s nice to see you again.” And for the first time, maybe ever since you’ve been with Ridley, you mean it. By the softness in his eyes, you know that he knows it.
“You know what? Right back at you,” he replies honestly. He stays rooted in place for a long, awkward moment, hands in the pockets of his slacks. If you were closer, this is where you’d offer him a hug. He seems to be considering the same thing.
After a stretch of silence, and without parting from you, Ridley opens an arm wide toward her father. Elliot momentarily drums his hands over his trousers, seemingly considering declining. He meets Ridley’s eyes, and there’s an understanding amongst them that you are not privy to. He nods to himself as he closes the distance between you.
One of his arms encircles Ridley’s shoulder, and the other hooks over yours. His presence is strange and unfamiliar to you but not unwelcome. Especially not when this seems to be just the thing Ridley needs. She presses impossibly close, practically sandwiching herself between the two of you. You complete the hug, wrapping your arms around her and Elliot.
Ridley sighs deeply. It’s like a weight lifts off her chest.
“I don’t know what happened,” you start, measuring your words, “but I’m really glad you’re both safe. I was worried about you all weekend, and I feel like I can finally breathe again.” It’s aimed more at Ridley, but Elliot doesn’t point it out.
Instead, Elliot delicately extracts himself with a small laugh. He regards you kindly.
“You have no idea what we went through.” He pauses, a thought suddenly occurring to him. “Wait, you don’t actually know what happened yet? Ridley didn’t tell you?”
This, at least, is as surprising to Elliot as it is strange to you. There is nothing, especially of import, Ridley wouldn't tell you.
At this, Ridley reappears, finally extracting herself from your embrace. “The service was terrible,” she replies pointedly, “remember?”
“And the messages that did manage to be delivered were horrifying.” You add, biting back a grimace. “Eventually, Rid called me before you boarded the flight but said she’d wait to explain until she got home. I was imagining the worst the entire time.”
“Well,” Ridley starts, smiling sheepishly. “Your worst is still not close to what happened. You’re probably going to want to sit down for this.”
“Well, fuck. That sounds fun.” Ridley brightens. “You know I’m ready to hear about it, but I’m sure you’re both exhausted. I made you dinner while you were gone. If you'd like, I can reheat it for you while you settle back in. You can tell me your story before I return home, yeah?”
“You made us dinner?” Elliot asks hesitantly, pleased.
“You’re leaving?” Ridley looks up at you, her dark, round eyes pleading.
“You need to rest, based on what little I’ve gathered. I couldn’t possibly wait until tomorrow to see you, but I don’t want to intrude tonight. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“Honestly?” Elliot says. His eyes drift between Ridley and you contemplatively. His shoulders slump. “I’m going to bed straight after dinner. Dying is exhausting, you know? But you’re free to stay. I’m sure Ridley would love the company.”
“Dying?” you echo in bafflement.
“Really?” Ridley‘s eyes light up. “She can?”
“If she wants.” Her father confirms, waving a hand. “It’s nice to have a familiar face that’s not out to get us, anyway.”
“I think I have some questions,” you interject, eyes shifting from Ridley to Elliot.
“And I have a lot to tell you,” Ridley promises. She takes your hand, leading you inside. “After dinner.”
***
You’re already flopped on Ridley’s bed when she reappears from the bathroom, towel-drying her hair. You busied yourself by staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars dotting her bedroom ceiling, but sleep had overtaken you, and your eyes were slipping. You look up as she sits by your legs, sending her a drowsy grin.
“Better?”
In place of an answer, Ridley carelessly tosses the towel back into her bathroom and crawls up to snuggle into your side, sighing deeply. She drops her entire weight on your body; despite this, you feel a wave of peace you hadn’t felt the whole time she was gone. This feels right. You weren’t the one who left, but now you feel at home.
“Mhm.” She tucks the top of her head beneath your chin, her ear against your heart. “Much better. This is just what I needed.”
You wrap an arm comfortably around her body and bring her closer until your cheek is smushed atop her head.
“You going to tell me what happened now?” You trail your fingers
“I will. I just need to soak this up for a little bit first.”
“Okay, baby. Take your time.”
***
“Do you notice anything different about me?” Ridley scoots back, allowing you to study her entire frame carefully.
You hum, eyes raking across her face. Your brow twitches as you think. Something does look different about her, but you can’t quite put your finger on it. You shift closer to your knees, coming to a stop before her. Ridley’s lips twitch as she looks up at the ceiling, giving you access to contemplate her appearance.
You gently take hold of her face, chin in hand, guiding her to look to the left, then the right. She’s beautiful as always. “I feel like there is,” you begin. “Your skin feels so soft and smooth… Wait-” You do a double take, cradling her face between both hands.
“Is it… your acne? I swear your skin was irritated when you left…” you trail off, lightly thumbing the apples of her cheeks, where, for so long, Ridley struggled with cystic acne. “It was pretty bad right here.”
The lack of scarring is fascinating.
Ridley meets your eyes, her own crinkling joyously. She breaks out into a smile, beaming.
“That’s what it is, then? What happened?” You touch the smooth, supple skin of her cheeks in awe.
“What do you think?” She asks instead, showing off both sides of her face proudly.
“You look beautiful, Rid.” You breathe. “I mean, you always did to me, you know that. But your skin is so… healthy and glowy. Did they give you a new serum or something?”
“Well, see … that’s the thing. Sit down now.” She pats the spot next to her by the headboard, turning serious. “This is going to sound crazy, so you might not believe me, but I swear on my mom that this is exactly what happened.”
“Okay…” you trail off, puzzled. You take her hand, though, and give it a gentle squeeze. “I trust you. No matter what you tell me or how hard it is to believe, I know you will be truthful.”
“Thank you.” Ridley sighs. “Things would’ve been entirely different if you’d been there with me,” she murmurs with a weak smile.
She takes a deep breath and begins recounting the events of the weekend, from when they landed in Canada to when they boarded the plane to return home. By the time she’s finished, her voice is hoarse, and you’re stunned in silence.
“Holy shit, Rid,” Is the first thing that flies out of your mouth. “Just to make sure, this isn’t a joke, right?”
“No, no. This happened. I promise—”
“Okay, okay, I believe you.” You wrap an arm around her to appease her and pull her into your lap. She curls into you like it’s second nature, throwing her legs on the bed as your arms encircle her. “But, holy shit. That is insane.”
Ridley being here safely with you feels even more incredible now that you know everything she went through to survive and return.
“I know.” She agrees, twisting her rings around her fingers. Quietly, she asks, “So… what do you think? Do you believe me? Really?”
You lick your lips as you collect your thoughts. It’s a fact that everything Ridley just told you sounds fantastical and ridiculous, but she’s not lying. You’re confident about that. You can’t fake sweats, tears, and a racing heart when all you’re doing is telling a story. Not unless you’re reliving it in your mind.
Which is clear Ridley did.
“Well, like I said, it’s insane. But I believe you. I know you, and I trust you. I have questions, but I really want to know how you are. Mentally, emotionally, everything. You think this is going to come up in therapy?”
Ridley smiles faintly at your response. The earnestness in your voice lifts the anvil on her chest. It’s just like you to worry about her instead of asking the million other questions she knows she’d have if the roles were reversed. She leans her head on your shoulder.
“You know what? This might sound crazy, but—”
“Crazier than what you just told me?”
“Just a little.” Ridley gnaws her bottom lip, twisting the ring on her thumb more insistently. You take her hand and intertwine your fingers together. She sighs deeply, continuing slowly, “I don’t feel… bad about what happened.”
“Really?”
“I mean, don’t get me wrong.” She leans into the warmth of her chest, but her gaze is far away now. “Seeing my dad die in my arms is going to stick with me, but everything else…” Ridley pauses, searching for the correct words to label her feelings.
After a prolonged silence where you patiently rub circles on her back, she gives up with a shrug. “What happened happened,” she says plainly. She meets your gaze, deep wells of melted obsidian piercing through you for any signs of discomfort or disgust over her raw honesty. “I feel like it was meant to be, you know? I, for one, will not lose any sleep over the Leopolds; that’s for sure.”
“No one mourns the wicked.” You tuck a strand of hair behind her ear and kiss her forehead, nuzzling your nose into her.
“I’m thankful for that. I know it’s incomparable, but my god, I thought I was going to die of a heart attack before I ever saw you again. A few of the messages you tried sending me did make it to me, and to say that they had me stressed would be the understatement of the century. I had no idea if I was going to see you again. I felt so powerless. I hated knowing that you needed help, and I couldn’t do anything to offer any.”
Now that you know what happened, you can finally laugh the stress away. It’s not funny, but it’s all so bizarre. It just feels good to get it out of your system.
“I actually didn’t think about how you’d feel.” Ridley’s brows furrow, and her lips purse, eyes awash with guilt. “I’m sorry.”
“Of course you didn’t. You were trying to survive. I don’t blame you for that; you certainly don't need to feel bad about it. I’m just thankful you’re back.”
Ridley nods. She finds herself too tired to argue with everything finally out of the way. For tonight, she can be content with accepting your support.
“You didn’t ask me the other things I’m sure you wanted to know,” she mumbles instead, eyes sliding shut as she listens to the pleasant thump of your heartbeat.
“If I did, I doubt you’d even hear them,” you reply, laughing slightly. Ridley smiles, twisting in your lap to face you. She nuzzles back into your arms. “There’s plenty of time to talk about that tomorrow. Think it’s time for you to get some sleep.”
Ridley hums in agreement as you adjust yourself more comfortably against her pillows, keeping an arm around her small frame.
“Kiss.” Ridley mumbles, angling her face toward you. “Now.”
You meet Ridley’s demand with a chaste kiss. You pull back momentarily to take in the satisfied look on her face. You swoop back in to steal a longer kiss when her eyes flutter open, which she happily melts into with a quiet moan.
Less than a minute later, Ridley is out like a light. Her lips are pressed unceremoniously to your cheek as her breath flutters evenly against your skin. You quickly follow suit, soothed by her body's lively warmth and familiar scent.
