In medieval culture, an event like a royal christening is not a private party; it’s the public social event of the year. To not invite any person of rank to such an event is a deadly insult.
Maleficent is certainly someone you wouldn’t want at a party, but she’s also someone powerful enough that only a fool would ever dare treat her with such blatant disrespect. The only way the King and Queen could possibly have gotten away with not inviting Maleficent was to not invite any of the fairies at all; inviting the other fairies and excluding her is explicitly taking sides in the conflict between the fairy factions.
Which means they made themselves her sworn enemies, and she responded by treating them as such from then on. If you actually get into analyzing the social dynamics of the scene, it’s very clear that Maleficent was willing to show mercy at first by giving the King and Queen a chance to apologize for their disrespect to her. She doesn’t curse Aurora until after she gives them that chance and they throw it back in her face with further disrespect.
And yeah, if the King and Queen had done the properly respectful thing and invited her, Maleficent would have given Aurora a scary awesome present. Moreover so would the other fairies, because at that point both sides would be using it as an opportunity to show off and one-up each other. What they gave her before Maleficent showed up was basically just trivial party favors by fairy standards.
Sam had tried once, maybe twice, to let someone get close. But people always wanted more than she could give, and when she failed to meet their expectations — when she wasn't open enough or warm enough — they left. Or judged. Or flinched the second her last name came up in conversation.
So she stopped trying. It was easier that way. Keep it small. Tara, Mindy, Chad — even that felt like too much, sometimes.
She didn't like when new people showed up, either. Especially the ones who wormed their way into Tara's life — the ones who made her laugh in a way Sam hadn't heard in months, who knew what she was studying, what she was struggling with, who called her smart and meant it.
Tara had always let people in easier than Sam did. Even as a kid, her little sister never needed convincing — she just trusted people, let them get close, believed that kindness meant safety. But after Woodsboro, after everything they'd survived, that kind of trust wasn't a strength. Not anymore.
Sam had tried to teach her that. Tried to set rules, boundaries, warnings. But Tara never really followed Sam's rules — not when they were kids, and definitely not now. Not when she was older, smarter, and convinced she could handle herself.
People like that didn't show up without wanting something. And Sam had gotten very good at spotting what people wanted.
Which was why her stomach had twisted the second Tara mentioned that one of her professors had recommended a tutoring option after Tara bombed a test she swore she had studied for.
Sam hadn't liked the sound of that. Not the vagueness, not the fact that this mysterious "help" came in the form of a single person, and definitely not that the sessions were happening weekly, sometimes twice a week, in offices or on quiet corners of campus. If Sam had to imagine the perfect setup for someone trying to get close to her sister — trying to study her, learn her schedule, her trust patterns — this was it.
It was the dream Ghostface scenario.
But Tara hadn't seen the danger. She'd barely even humored Sam's warnings. All she cared about was passing the class.
"I'm sorry," she'd snapped one night, exasperated, "so you'd rather I fail psych just to avoid anyone who isn't already on your vetted list?"
And the worst part? She had a point. Because even though Sam hated the situation, she also knew Tara couldn't afford to fall behind. The last few months had already been hell enough. She didn't want her sister to drown in school stress on top of everything else.
So she'd bitten her tongue. Let the tutoring sessions happen. Let this person — this professor — circle closer and closer around the one person Sam couldn't afford to lose.
But she was watching. And the second something felt wrong, she would step in.
She tried not to be dramatic about it. That was the promise she'd made to herself when Tara first mentioned the tutoring thing. Just be calm. Be rational. Reasonable.
It was only one session. The first one. That meant there was still time to shift the plan, make it safer, more controlled. Time to keep things from going sideways before they even started.
She brought it up the morning Tara was supposed to meet you. While Tara was shuffling around the kitchen — still in pajama pants, hair tied messily back, sleep heavy under her eyes as she half-blindly prepared the coffee. Sam stayed seated at the table, pretending to scroll through her phone. Waiting for the right moment. Keeping her tone easy.
"I could come with you," she said finally, watching as Tara dumped spoonfuls of grounds into the machine. "Not for the whole time. Just to check things out. You said it's in the library, right? I could sit a table away. Pretend I'm studying or something."
Tara didn't even glance at her. "No."
Sam blinked. "Just no?"
"I don't need a babysitter," Tara muttered, reaching for the milk as she moved to pour cereal into a chipped bowl. "Tutoring's already bad enough. Do you want me to wear a giant I'm failing sign too?"
Sam had tried not to bristle. She really had. But that stung more than she expected it to.
It wasn't that she thought Tara was weak, or dumb, or incapable. If anything, she was proud of her for being willing to get help. But that didn't mean Sam had to trust the person giving it. Especially not someone she'd never met. Especially not in this city, after everything they'd been through. You didn't just let strangers get that close — not anymore.
So she tried again.
"You could have her come here," she said, keeping her voice measured. "Just this once, maybe. You know... do the session in the apartment. That way you're comfortable, it's a familiar place, I'm around—"
"I said no," Tara cut in sharply, this time turning to look at her. "That would be weird. I don't want some random girl I've never met walking into our apartment just because you're being weird about this."
Sam opened her mouth, then shut it again. Random girl. She hated the way Tara said it like that — like it was nothing. Like being careful was something to roll her eyes at.
Sam blinked, her temper flaring. "Random? I thought you said you knew who she was."
Tara rolled her eyes. "I do."
"But you've never met her?"
"I've heard about her," Tara argued, crossing her arms as she leaned against the counter. "Other students know her — she tutors, like, half the psych department. And Professor Perry said she's smart as hell and actually gets the material. That's more than enough."
Sam let out a humorless laugh. "So now word-of-mouth and one professor's opinion make someone safe?"
Tara didn't answer. She just looked at her — annoyed, a little tired. Like she'd already had this argument in her head a dozen times and nothing Sam could say would change her mind.
Sam exhaled slowly through her nose, still watching Tara move around the kitchen. "How old is she again?"
Tara didn't look up, turning towards the fridge instead. "I don't know. Twenty? Twenty-two, maybe"
"Right," Sam said. "So she's, what, a couple years older than you? And she's just... made a career out of tutoring undergrads?"
Tara let out a dry laugh as she pulled out the carton of milk and shut the fridge with her hip, "Jesus, Sam."
"I'm just saying it's weird," Sam pressed. "She's not a TA. She's not on payroll. But she's spending her time helping psych majors for free?"
"For free?" Tara turned then, eyebrows raised. "Who said anything about for free?"
Sam blinked. "You're paying her?"
"Of course I'm paying her. What, did you think she was just doing it out of the goodness of her heart?"
Sam didn't answer.
Tara shook her head, her voice sharpening. "I'm trying to pass this class, Sam. I don't need some guilt-tripped pity sessions. I need actual help."
"And you think she's the answer?"
"She gets it. Professor Perry literally said she's one of the best students she's ever had — and that if anyone could explain the material, it'd be her."
Sam's jaw clenched. "Right. The twenty-year-old genius who just happens to be available and interested in helping you."
Tara turned away again, putting a cup down on the counter hard enough to make a point. "You'd rather I fail?"
"That's not what I—"
"Look, Sam," Tara cut in, finally turning around fully. Her coffee steamed in her hand, her expression sharp. "I'm going to this session. You don't have to like it. You don't have to approve. But I'm going."
Sam stared at her, lips parting slightly, like maybe she still had something to say. But Tara didn't wait.
She turned and left the kitchen, footsteps heavy against the floor, retreating to her room without another word. The door didn't slam — Tara wasn't like that — but the quiet click of it shutting still felt final.
She didn't speak to Sam for the rest of the morning. Didn't come out for breakfast, didn't offer a goodbye. When Sam heard the front door open a little after eight, she didn't even get a glance on the way out. Just the sound of keys, the rustle of a backpack strap, and the dull thud of the door closing behind her.
So that was how Sam's day began — and how it stayed. Eight hours behind the counter at the café, apron on, dish towel in hand, wiping down tables that never seemed clean enough. Her mind wasn't there, not really. Not in the espresso shots or the lukewarm tip jar or the regular who always asked for too much syrup.
It was with Tara. With you.
Somewhere in that crowded library, probably at one of the back tables where no one really looked twice. You'd be sitting together, talking. You'd be asking her questions, and Tara would be answering them. Laughing, maybe. Smiling.
Sam hated how much it bothered her — hated the way her stomach turned every time she pictured it. Because it shouldn't have been a big deal. It was just one session. One hour. Nothing.
But it didn't feel like nothing.
It felt like letting her sister walk straight into something she couldn't see — and being told not to get in the way.
After that, it just... continued.
One session turned into two. Two turned into a weekly thing. And soon it wasn't just tutoring anymore — not the way Tara talked about it.
She'd come home with that buzz in her voice, the kind she used when she liked something but didn't want to admit how much. When she'd drop your name into stories about her day like it wasn't anything — like you were just there. Like a given.
"You'd think this class would make more sense," she'd mutter, flipping through a highlighted packet on the couch. "But even she said the material's kind of trash. So, y'know, not just me."
She. Not the tutor. Not some girl from the psych department. Just you now — casual, assumed, familiar.
Sam hated how familiar it sounded.
She tried to be normal about it. She really did. She'd ask how the sessions went, nod along when Tara talked about how smart you were, how patient. How you made things make sense in a way her professor didn't. Sometimes, Tara would laugh and say you reminded her of someone — some dork from high school or a character from a show she liked. Sam would pretend to laugh, too.
But she didn't like it. Any of it.
Sometimes, she managed to keep her mouth shut. She'd just hum and change the subject or excuse herself to go do dishes that didn't need doing. But sometimes the words slipped out anyway.
"Just... don't get too close," she'd said once, barely loud enough to count. Tara had looked up from the couch with a frown.
"What does that mean?"
Sam hadn't answered. She just waved it off. Something about boundaries. About how tutoring was tutoring, and maybe it should stay that way.
But Tara didn't listen. She never really had.
"She's not a serial killer," she said once, dryly, when Sam had brought it up again. "She's literally a TA. You're acting like I'm going on tutoring dates with Ghostface."
Sam hadn't even dignified that one with a response. Just stared at the wall, jaw tight.
Because it wasn't just about danger. It wasn't just about keeping Tara safe. It was about the way things shifted. The way your name came up more and more often, the way Tara spoke about you like she already trusted you.
And Sam knew her sister. Knew how she let people in too easily. Knew how she looked for softness in places that didn't always deserve it.
And she knew — even if she couldn't prove it yet — that something about this wasn't right.
Still, she kept her mouth shut. For a few days, at least. Let Tara have her little victories. Let her pretend this was just school and help and nothing else.
But when another Friday came around — the end of Tara's second full week of sessions — Sam offered to pick her up. Said she'd be in the area anyway. Didn't mention that she'd gotten off work early, or that she'd planned it that way.
The campus was mostly cleared out by then. Late afternoon, sun starting to dip, the building quiet except for the dull hum of vending machines and the occasional echo of footsteps down the hall. Sam found the classroom easily — tucked near the end, just like Tara had texted — and leaned against the wall outside.
The door was open an inch.
Inside, she heard voices. Her sister's — light, relaxed, full of something warm. Then yours, steady and calm, with this almost annoying gentleness in it. Not flirty. Not even particularly enthusiastic.
Just familiar.
Sam didn't move. Not yet. Her hand hovered near the door, but her eyes caught the angle between the wood and the frame. She looked.
Tara sat at one of the desks, papers scattered in front of her, pen twirling between her fingers as she laughed at something. Across from her was you. You were relaxed, leaned back just slightly in your chair, speaking with your hands as you explained something she clearly didn't get the first time — but you weren't annoyed about it. You weren't even trying hard.
It just looked easy.
Like you'd done this before. Like you knew her. Like the two of you knew each other.
Sam's jaw clenched.
She didn't know what she expected — maybe boredom, maybe formality, maybe even tension. But not this. Not Tara smiling like that, not you smiling back. Not the air in the room feeling warm in that settled way. She couldn't hear everything, but she didn't need to.
It was the way Tara kept looking at you. The way you kept looking back.
Too comfortable. Too fast.
You were sitting on the other side of the desk, one ankle tucked over the other, posture relaxed in a way that didn't scream "teacher" but didn't cross into casual either. You wore a dark long-sleeve, something fitted but simple, sleeves pushed halfway up your arms. Your hair was a little messy, but not in the careless way — in the intentional way. Like you didn't care, but still managed to look too put-together.
Not flashy. Not even particularly intimidating. Just... cool. And older.
Mid-twenties, maybe. Comfortable in your skin. And it showed — in the way you tilted your head when Tara said something dumb, or how your smile curved at the edge like you were holding in a laugh.
There was nothing overtly inappropriate about the scene. No lingering looks, no touching, no boundary crossed.
But Sam didn't like the way Tara kept leaning in a little. Or how you mirrored it — subtle, automatic, like you were just used to the rhythm of talking to her.
She could already hear Tara's voice in her head: "It's not like that."
It didn't matter.
She hated the way you looked at her sister. Even worse, she hated how comfortable you were with it — like this was routine. Like you'd both gotten used to each other way too quickly.
Her hand curled into a loose fist at her side, and just as she was about to push the door fully open, you glanced up and noticed her.
You looked straight at her. No startled double-take. No awkward scramble. Just a blink — slow and even — before you stood.
You were tall. Not taller than Sam, but tall enough that it was the first thing she noticed. The second was your expression: polite, faintly warm, like you'd been expecting someone eventually. You offered her a hand, voice smooth and professional.
"Hi," you said, smiling just enough to show it was real. "You must be Sam. I'm—"
She didn't take it.
"I'm just here to pick up my sister."
The words weren't rude, exactly. Just... cold. Dry. Dropped like a pin in the middle of what had been an easy, flowing moment.
There was a short silence after that — not awkward, but definitely clipped. A shift. Like someone had hit pause and turned the temperature down.
You didn't flinch. You just let your hand fall naturally back to your side, the smile on your face slipping into something more neutral. Not offended. Not even surprised. Just... reset.
"Of course," you said simply, still holding eye contact for a beat longer than necessary. "Tara's made real progress."
That was when Sam felt it.
The tone of it. The quiet confidence. The way you said her sister's name like it wasn't borrowed — like it belonged to you too. Like you'd earned the right to say it that way.
Sam hated it.
She hated how you said it. Like you were proud of her. Like you had any idea who she really was.
Not because it was flirtatious — it wasn't. Not even close. But it was familiar. Warm. Like you knew her. Like you were proud of her. Like you saw something in Tara that maybe even Sam hadn't been able to get her to show lately.
She didn't say anything. Just stared at you with that same cool expression, shoulders square, hands in the pockets of her coat. Still holding her ground in the doorway like she had every right to stand there, to interrupt, to judge.
Tara stood behind you, finally rising from her seat and brushing a hand over the top of her backpack. The sound of the zipper gave the moment somewhere to land.
"Hey," she said, turning toward the door. Her voice was lighter than usual. Easy. "You're early."
"Traffic was light."
Sam's eyes flicked to her sister now — finally. Tara was still in the same shirt and jeans she'd left the apartment in that morning, hair pulled up into a messy knot that somehow still worked. She looked relaxed. At ease. Like she wanted to be here.
Like she wasn't in a rush to leave.
You didn't say anything else, just smiled again — smaller this time, polite, purely professional — and turned back to your things. Your hair fell in front of your cheek as you bent slightly over your notebook. Neat handwriting. A few color-coded tabs poking out from the corners.
Sam watched all of it.
You were older than Tara, that much was clear. Twenty-one, maybe twenty-two. Something about you was put-together in a way college students weren't usually — like you actually slept, actually planned. You wore a soft sweater tucked slightly into black jeans, the kind of look that seemed effortless but wasn't. Your jewelry was minimal — just one small ring and a pair of earrings. Gold. Clean.
Everything about you was... neutral. Soft. Harmless.
Sam didn't believe that for a second.
Tara slung her bag over one shoulder as she reached for her phone. "Same time Monday?"
"Yeah," you replied, glancing up at her with a small nod. "Unless you need to move it."
"No, Monday's good."
You told her to have a good weekend. Then you glanced at Sam again and added, with simple sincerity, "Take care."
And then you walked out — calm, unbothered, collected. Like you didn't feel the strange charge still hanging in the air. Or maybe you just didn't care.
The moment the hallway swallowed your footsteps, Tara turned to her sister.
She shot her a look — one that could've cut glass. Short, sharp, annoyed.
"She was being nice," Tara muttered under her breath. "You could've just said hi."
Sam didn't answer at first. Just crossed her arms, jaw tight.
"She's friendly," she said finally, voice flat.
"She's not a stranger," Tara snapped back.
Sam raised an eyebrow. "She's still new."
"She's literally my professor," Tara said, brushing past her on the way to the door. "And she's helped me more than anyone else."
Sam stood there for a second, catching the door with her hand before it could swing shut behind Tara. She followed, a step behind, her mouth set in a hard line.
It wasn't jealousy.
But something in her felt off-kilter. Like she'd just lost a round in a game she didn't agree to play. Like she'd watched someone else pull Tara further out of reach — and hadn't even been given a chance to stop it.
The car ride home was quiet at first. Just the low hum of the engine and the occasional sound of Tara shifting in her seat, tapping her nails against her phone screen as she texted someone — probably you.
Then she started talking.
Not about anything major. Just bits and pieces from the session. The chapter she finally understood. The way you explained something using examples no one else had thought to use. How it just clicked. How smart you were. How easy you made it feel.
Sam stared ahead at the road, hands locked at ten and two, the muscle in her jaw twitching.
Tara didn't notice. Or maybe she did and didn't care.
"She said something today about cognitive frameworks," Tara added, adjusting the volume of her own voice like she didn't even realize she was smiling. "The way she broke it down — like, actually made sense. It's kind of insane how good she is at this."
Sam didn't respond.
She just tightened her grip on the steering wheel.
Tara knew better. Knew not to trust people so quickly. Not to let them too close, too fast.
And yet here she was — windows down, backpack half-zipped, talking about some twenty-something tutor like she'd known her for years.
Sam felt it again. That quiet, gnawing sense of something slipping just beyond her reach.
And this time, it wasn't going away.
The sessions didn't go away after that day either — if anything, they started happening more often. What began as scheduled weekly meetings turned into casual text exchanges, late-night reschedules, extra time added "just to review a few things." Tara talked about you more often, too — not in any way that would normally matter. Just in passing. Offhanded mentions of things you'd said, concepts you'd helped her understand, the books you recommended that she "actually kind of wanted to read."
At first, Sam told herself it wasn't that deep.
But over the next few weeks, it started to feel deeper.
You were always around. Or if you weren't, it felt like you had just been. Tara would leave the apartment with her hair barely dry from the shower, always rushing, always saying she didn't want to be late — not for class, but for you. She started staying later after school, coming home in better moods, more talkative. More sure of herself in the way she explained her ideas.
It wasn't that Sam didn't want her to be doing better. That wasn't it.
But something about it rubbed against every protective instinct she had.
Because it wasn't just about the studying anymore. Sam could hear it in the way Tara spoke — more relaxed, more familiar. There was this warmth in her voice, one she rarely let slip for anyone else.
You were no longer just her professor. You were becoming a part of her life. Softly, gradually, without Sam's permission.
She noticed it everywhere. In the extra coffee mugs on the counter sometimes — one of them not theirs. In the new books stacked on Tara's desk, all borrowed. In the small, thoughtful things: a sticky note Tara had saved with reminders in your handwriting. The way she mentioned something "you'd" said about learning styles or memorization techniques, like you were a mutual friend they both had.
And then there was that afternoon.
Sam came home early, the front door still halfway unlocked. She had just stepped into the apartment when she heard it — the low sound of laughter coming from outside. She walked to the window just in time to see Tara shutting the passenger door of your car, backpack slung lazily over one shoulder, smiling at something you'd said through the window. She lingered. So did you.
Nothing inappropriate. Nothing obvious.
But Sam felt it anyway — the way you both fit into that moment like it had been practiced a dozen times before.
When Tara came inside, Sam didn't say anything right away. Just gave her a quick look and went back to wiping down the kitchen counter, as if it hadn't meant anything.
But later that evening, when she passed Tara's room and saw her curled up on her bed with a textbook open — the corner of a napkin used as a bookmark, with your handwriting on it again — she couldn't help herself.
"She drives you home now?" Sam asked, leaning in the doorway.
Tara didn't even look up. "Sometimes. If we finish late."
Sam nodded slowly, arms crossed. "That's nice of her."
Tara finally glanced over. "Why do you sound like that?"
"Like what?”
"You know what."
Sam just gave a faint shrug and said nothing.
From that point on, her interactions with you became clipped. Cool. The kind of polite that almost bordered on passive-aggressive. Never outright rude — never something anyone could really call her on. But enough.
A slightly too-long pause before answering your greetings. A dry "huh" when you offered a compliment about Tara's progress. A subtle edge to her voice anytime your name came up.
She didn't trust you. She didn't like that she couldn't explain why.
And worst of all — she didn't like how much Tara seemed to.
You weren't around often, not directly. Tutors weren't supposed to linger, and Sam figured you knew that. But still — you existed. Within earshot, within reach, inside her sister's life in a way Sam hadn't agreed to. And somehow, you were still always there.
A name in passing. A quiet chuckle when Tara remembered something you said. A phone vibration Tara answered a little too quickly.
It got under Sam's skin more than she'd admit.
She didn't know how to place you, and that bothered her. You were kind, but never too familiar. Professional, but not stiff. And worst of all, you never gave her a real reason to be mad at you. You never overstepped — not obviously. Not directly. But there was something about you she couldn't shake, something that made her feel like she was being quietly replaced.
Whenever you and Sam crossed paths, the tension lived in the smallest details.
You'd greet her, polite, neutral — "Hi, Sam" — and she'd nod once without looking up from whatever she was pretending to do.
You'd say something encouraging about Tara's work, and she'd mutter, "She's always been capable."
You'd offer a small joke once, lightly, while Tara was laughing beside you — and Sam's smile wouldn't even reach her eyes.
None of it was loud. But it stung, even if no one else seemed to notice.
What made it worse was how Tara started talking about you like you were something more. Not just her professor. Not just a tutor. But a person. Someone funny. Someone helpful. Someone she liked.
It wasn't romantic — Sam could admit that. She wasn't being irrational.
But it was something else. Something worse.
It sounded like Tara considered you a friend.
That part burned. Because Sam knew what that meant. Tara didn't let people in like that — not often, and definitely not gently. But she let you in, and Sam didn't know what that said about you, or worse, about her.
She tried not to care. She really did. There were a thousand ways to reason herself out of it. But every time she heard your name from Tara's mouth, something in her bristled.
She wanted to push you out — cut the cord, find some polite excuse to stop the sessions, make Tara study with her instead.
But she already knew how that would go.
They'd tried before. It ended with slammed doors and Tara storming off, her voice sharp with irritation. "You're not helping," she'd snapped once, back when Sam tried to reteach her freshman psych notes. "You're just making me hate this."
And then you had entered the picture.
And Sam had stayed out of it. At least on the surface.
But the thing that really got to her — the moment that kept replaying in the back of her mind — was the time Tara had invited you over.
It had happened weeks ago, maybe longer, but Sam still thought about it.
Tara had done it without telling her. Said it was because she focused better at home. Said she'd clean the place herself. Said Sam would be at the café all afternoon, anyway.
You had tried to decline, as far as Sam could tell. You'd said you preferred public or campus spaces. But somehow, Tara had worn you down — and for a few hours, you'd been sitting in their living room, with your notes spread out across the coffee table and Tara's knee bouncing as she scribbled down whatever you were saying.
Sam didn't even find out until later — days later, when she noticed a notecard with your handwriting stuck inside one of Tara's textbooks and asked where it came from.
"Oh," Tara had said, way too casually. "That was from when she came here. I needed help before the midterm. You were at work."
Just like that. Not a big deal. Nothing to be defensive about.
But Sam had flipped. Not in front of Tara — not fully — but enough. Her jaw tightened. Her voice dropped an octave.
"You let her come here?"
Tara rolled her eyes. "I didn't let her. I asked her. And it's not like I let her into my room or anything."
"You didn't think to tell me?"
"I didn't think you'd care."
That part stung most of all.
Because of course Sam cared. Because this was her space. Her sister. And it felt like you'd stepped into it — not forcefully, not arrogantly, but comfortably. Like you belonged.
And Sam wasn't sure if that said something about you.
Or something about how far she'd already been pushed out.
But more than that — more than the invisible lines you seemed to cross without hesitation — it was the certainty that got to her. The comfort. The trust.
Because Sam didn't trust anyone.
Not really. Not anymore.
Not after everything they'd survived. Not after what people turned out to be. After how easily someone could smile at you — offer help, offer kindness — only to drive a knife through your spine the second you let your guard down.
She had learned that lesson the hardest way possible. And it was burned into her now, bone-deep.
So when she saw Tara relaxing around you — smiling without effort, leaning in to listen, opening herself up — something in Sam twitched. Alarm bells, sirens, something.
You were new. Polite. Well-spoken. Friendly. All the things Amber had been, too.
That was the worst part.
You didn't seem dangerous. You didn't act suspicious. And that made Sam trust you even less.
Because the ones who meant it — the ones who planned it — never did.
So no, she didn't think you were just some harmless academic. She didn't care how many degrees you had, or how patient you were with Tara's questions, or how helpful your notes might've been. She cared about why. Why you were here. Why you'd agreed to help in the first place. Why you were still sticking around even now.
And whether or not you were waiting for the moment Tara finally let her guard down just enough.
She couldn't prove it — not yet. But Sam had learned how to live with that kind of doubt. She carried it everywhere now. Like instinct. Like armor.
And even if she was wrong about you — even if you were just... you — that didn't stop the fear from crawling up her spine every time she saw Tara laugh in your direction.
Because Sam didn't just worry about losing her sister.
She worried about watching it happen. One slow, trusting step at a time.
And that was why Sam felt this deep, burning rage every time she saw you.
Because she knew. Or at least, she thought she did.
She knew what this was. The slow disarming. The calculated softness. The ease with which you'd slipped into Tara's world. The careful way you stayed polite, professional — likable — while making yourself impossible to ignore.
She saw it coming.
She felt it in her gut, the way she used to before a knife came down — the heavy, sick pulse of something about to snap.
You were going to hurt Tara. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But it was coming. Sam could feel it.
And yet... she wasn't sure. Not completely.
Because what if you weren't like the others? What if you were just some regular person — kind, patient, weirdly generous with your time? What if you were actually helping?
She couldn't exactly pull you aside, corner you in some hallway and accuse you of plotting murder. Not without proof. Not without risking Tara looking at her like she was crazy again.
So instead, Sam just stood there. Watching. Seething. Caught between her instincts and her doubt.
Because no one was that soft for no reason. No one stuck around that long — gave that much — without wanting something.
No one looked at Tara the way you did unless they meant something by it.
And Sam didn't know what it was yet.
But she was going to find out.
Because that was what Sam did. She knew how to spot danger — she had to. Her whole body lived in it, breathed in it, woke up every morning already braced for whatever was coming. It was survival now, the way her shoulders never quite relaxed and her jaw never fully unclenched.
And still, somehow, all that tension had to go somewhere.
She wasn't stupid — she knew she walked through life with a fuse already half-burned. Most days, it just sat there, simmering under the surface. But on bad days — really bad days — it felt like the whole world was just waiting to strike the match.
And today had been hell.
The espresso machine broke down mid-rush. The new girl on register kept messing up orders and blaming Sam when customers got pissed. Some guy knocked over a tray of drinks and left without apologizing. And worst of all, her manager — who always pretended she was "just trying to help" — hovered the whole time, correcting Sam like she'd never worked a food service job in her life.
By the time she clocked out, her shirt was soaked with milk, her shoes were sticky, and her hands stung from scrubbing dried syrup off counters someone else was supposed to clean.
All she wanted was to get home, shower, and sit in silence.
But when she stepped into the apartment — dropped her keys onto the kitchen counter and kicked off her shoes — the first thing she saw wasn't quiet.
It was you.
There again, sitting beside Tara at the table. Books and papers spread across the surface, a cup of coffee in front of you like this was your place. Like you lived here.
Sam stood still for a second, frozen in the doorway. Not because she was surprised. Just because of course this was happening.
Of course Tara had invited you over again.
Of course you were laughing softly at something, that same effortless calm in your voice as you leaned over to point at something in her notes. Of course Tara was smiling — open and easy in a way Sam didn't get to see anymore.
Sam didn't say anything. Not yet.
She just dropped her bag a little harder than she needed to, loud enough that the both of you looked up.
Tara blinked. "Hey. You're home early."
"Yeah," Sam said. Voice flat. "Finished my shift."
You smiled — polite, as always. "Hi, Sam."
She didn't answer. Just gave you a look, sharp and unreadable, before turning toward the fridge like you hadn't spoken at all.
She could feel her pulse behind her eyes. Could feel the shift in the room — not dramatic, but enough. Enough to light the fuse a little more.
Because there you were again.
In her space.
In Tara's space.
And Sam could already feel what was coming.
The tension wasn't just in her shoulders anymore — it had spread. Crawled under her skin, curled hot behind her ribs. That low, seething burn that told her something needed to snap.
She headed straight for the sink.
The dishes were still piled up from last night — bowls streaked with congealed sauce, two mugs stained with dried coffee rings, a plate with crumbs hardened onto it like glue. She stared at the mess for a second, jaw tightening.
Of course.
Of course Tara hadn't done them. Because why would she? She had you here. Sitting cozy at the kitchen table. Like you were both college roommates or something.
Sam turned the tap on. Hot — too hot. It scalded her hands when it hit her skin, but she didn't flinch. Just grabbed the first mug and started scrubbing.
One by one, she cleaned them — not carefully, but fast and rough, her fingers slipping from the soap. The sound of plates clattering against each other echoed through the kitchen. One slammed down a little too hard against the next, sharp enough to make Tara glance over.
"You okay?" she asked, casual, half-distracted.
"Fine," Sam muttered.
She wasn't listening. Not really. She didn't want to hear.
But she couldn't not.
Your voice drifted over the clatter — low, calm, patient. Sam couldn't make out every word, but she didn't need to. She knew the sound. That soft, level tone people used when they cared. The kind of voice you used to walk someone through something, to keep them from giving up on themselves.
And Tara responded. Sam heard it in the tiny confirmations, the small hums of understanding. The way she said "Ohhh, okay, that makes sense now," like her world had just unlocked another door.
She didn't sound bored. Or defeated. Or irritated the way she did when Sam tried to help.
No — Tara was focused. Present. Engaged.
And then you said something else — Sam couldn't hear what — but it made Tara laugh.
That light, easy laugh that Sam hadn't heard in weeks.
It made something snap loose in her chest.
She dropped a plate into the drying rack harder than she meant to. It clanged loudly, unmissable. Tara flinched a little at the sound, just barely, and Sam's knuckles turned white around the sponge.
Her stomach twisted.
Because she knew she wasn't being fair.
But rage didn't care about fair. Rage only needed an opening. And Sam could feel it rising now, flooding in fast. Her thoughts turning sharp and cruel, already searching for somewhere to land.
And you, sitting there in her kitchen like you belonged, were the easiest place to start.
Sam dropped the last plate into the sink with a sharp, glassy clink — loud enough to break whatever calm had been hanging in the air.
You flinched. Just slightly. But Sam caught it.
She reached for the dish towel, hands still wet from the heat of the water. She wiped them dry, slow and deliberate, gaze already shifting to you — not polite or casual or curious. Just hard.
She wanted you gone.
"Isn't it time for Y/N to head home now?"
Your head turned, caught off guard by the sudden edge in her voice. You looked surprised. Maybe confused. But you didn't answer right away — which only made her jaw tighten further.
Sam tilted her head just enough to keep the tension sharp. "That's your name, right?" she said, voice low but flat. "Y/N?"
You nodded slowly, uncertain. "...Yeah."
Tara's pencil stopped moving. She looked up from her notebook, frowning just enough to notice.
"She'll leave when we're finished," she said, not rude — but firmer than before. "We're almost done."
Sam didn't move. Didn't blink.
Tara's voice came again, slightly sharper this time. "Why are you in a rush? You just got home."
Sam opened her mouth. Closed it. A million biting things sat on the tip of her tongue — things she could say, accusations she could throw. But none of them would land right. Not yet.
So she just shrugged once. "Didn't realize tutoring needed hours every other night."
Tara rolled her eyes. "Jesus, Sam."
You said nothing. Still seated, still quiet — like you didn't know whether to excuse yourself or stay frozen in place. You looked over at Tara like maybe she would tell you what to do.
And that made Sam's chest clench.
Because now you were waiting on Tara. Like she was your person. Like she made the call. Like she decided when it was time for you to go.
And Sam couldn't fucking take it.
The dish towel hit the counter with a slap, and she turned fully to face you both — barely managing to keep her tone level, but the fury bled through anyway.
"How long is this tutoring thing supposed to go on?" she asked, her arms crossing as if that could contain the heat in her chest. "Or is this just... a new hobby?”
You looked up, confused. Tara turned toward her sister, brows already drawing together.
"Or is this really just tutoring?"
The question landed sharp and sudden, cutting through the ease in the room like a blade.
Sam didn't stop. Didn't breathe.
"Because I don't know many professors who go out of their way like this for one student. Who text late at night. Who show up multiple times a week. Who laugh like that in someone else's kitchen."
Your throat tightened.
Tara straightened in her seat. "What the hell are you talking about—"
"I'm saying," Sam went on, louder now, eyes fixed on you, "that maybe you're not helping her because you care about her grades. Maybe it's something else."
A silence fell — not the usual kind. Not awkward or paused or uncertain.
This was thick. Charged.
"Sam," Tara said, voice low, warning.
But she wasn't done.
"You're what — three years older? You think she's special? You think she needs you? Or are you just bored enough to pretend you're doing this for free out of the kindness of your heart?"
Sam didn't stop. Her voice was low, sharp, dripping with that kind of condescension that didn't even try to mask itself anymore.
"Or is this some little fantasy for you? Tara — the shy, smart student. You — the helpful, older mentor. Is that what this is?"
Your mouth parted slightly, like you were about to speak — like you wanted to explain, to clear it up, to understand. But Sam cut you off before a single word escaped.
"Don't," she snapped. "Don't give me that look like you don't know what I'm talking about."
Tara's chair scraped against the tile, harsh and sudden. But Sam kept going.
"You're too invested. Too available. Too fucking interested. No one just gives this much of a shit about someone they barely know."
You flinched, visibly this time, but Sam didn't care. She was breathing fast now, eyes locked on you like she couldn't look anywhere else.
"Showing up here like it's normal. Acting like you're part of her life. Laughing at everything she says. Do you think she doesn't notice that? Do you think I don't?"
Tara said your name — quiet, a warning — but Sam kept talking like she hadn't even heard it.
"You're not her friend. You're not her fucking therapist. And you're definitely not just her tutor. So what are you?"
That one echoed. That one stuck.
You looked stunned, pale — like the room had shifted underneath you. Because you hadn't thought of it like that. Not even close.
But Sam had. Over and over. For weeks. She'd built it up in her head, let every laugh and every lingering glance rot into something suspicious, something dangerous, something she knew had to be real.
"You're obsessed," she muttered, almost like it was the only thing that made sense anymore. "You don't even see it, but it's fucking obvious."
And then, silence.
Still and tight and ugly.
Because she'd finally said it. Every accusation she'd held in, every awful thought she'd spun in her head — out loud, no way to take it back.
And now it just sat there between you all.
Burning.
That was it. That was the one that landed.
Because even Tara didn't speak for a second.
And Sam knew she'd gone too far. But for a moment, it felt right. Like throwing a punch in a dream. Like finally saying the thing that had been rotting in the back of her throat for weeks.
She wanted to regret it. But she didn't. Not yet.
Not when you were sitting there, stunned, trying not to show how much it hurt.
Not when Tara's face had gone still. Cold.
Not when Sam finally, finally, felt like she had a little power back. FINALLY
___
Everything shifted after that night.
You hadn't raised your voice.
Hadn't argued. Hadn't even defended yourself.
You'd just blinked — once, slow — like you were still trying to make sense of what you'd heard. Then you stood up, collected your things with quiet, deliberate movements, and offered a strained, polite, "I think I should get going.”
Tara had shot up from her seat. "Wait — you don't have to—"
But you were already shaking your head. Already forcing a smile that didn't quite reach your eyes.
"It's fine. I've got a lot to do anyway. Tell me how the chapter goes."
Tara had followed — not close enough to stop you, but close enough that it felt like she wanted to.
"I'll text you," she'd said, just as you reached the door.
You gave a soft nod. "Yeah. Sure.”
And then you left. Quiet. Shaken. Gone.
The door had barely clicked shut before Tara turned.
"Thanks," she snapped, voice sharp and unforgiving. "You ruined everything."
Sam hadn't said anything. Not right away. Not because she didn't have a defense — but because none of it would've made her look better. Not when Tara was glaring at her like that. Not when it was already so clear whose side she was on.
Tara shook her head, hands on her hips like she needed something to hold herself together.
"All you had to do was be normal," she muttered. "Just once."
Sam stood in the kitchen, jaw clenched, hands still damp from the dish towel she'd twisted too tightly a few minutes earlier. Her chest ached — from the mess, from the things she'd said, and worse, from how much she'd meant them. Not consciously. Not completely. But enough.
"You always do this," Tara bit out, stepping forward. "You don't like something, so you burn it down. Just because you can't keep your temper in check—"
"She's too close," Sam cut in — too fast, too defensive. "She's not just tutoring you. You don't see it."
"No, you don't." Tara's voice trembled, but it didn't lose its force. "She actually gives a shit about me. She helps me. She shows up. And the second that threatens your little control complex, you tear her apart."
"She could be dangerous," Sam hissed. "You think I'm just paranoid? You think I haven't seen people like her before?"
Tara's laugh was sharp, cold. "You've never seen anyone like her before."
And then she was gone — disappearing down the hallway with quick, angry steps and a slammed door, choosing silence over staying in the blast radius of her sister's fear.
Sam had stayed in the kitchen, motionless, surrounded by everything she'd created. Plates still wet in the sink. One of your notes left behind on the counter. Her breath heavy in her chest.
And for the first time, something like regret had a place to sit.
A week passed.
Tutoring didn't happen.
There were no texts asking if Thursday still worked, no last-minute reminders or reschedules. No shared notes left on the counter. No sign of you at all.
But Tara didn't bring it up. Not once. And Sam didn't ask.
Still — she noticed.
She noticed everything.
She noticed the way Tara's phone barely left her hand now. How she wasn't scrolling through socials or mindlessly watching reels like usual — she was in her messages, always, staring at something, rereading, typing something out and then deleting it. Stopping. Starting again. Changing her mind.
She noticed how Tara would get a reply, and it would quiet her even more. How she'd go still for a second, like she was trying not to react to it. Like whatever she got back wasn't what she was hoping for. Not angry. Just... disappointed. Or maybe sad. It was hard to tell — Tara was guarded now in a way Sam hadn't seen since their first year in New York.
And Sam could connect the dots.
Because Tara didn't just stop texting people for no reason. And Tara didn't just sigh after checking her phone unless she was waiting for someone.
You were still responding — that much was clear. But your replies were short. Not cold, exactly. Just formal. Like someone pulling away carefully, hoping not to cause a scene.
And Sam didn't ask if Tara had reached out again.
Didn't ask how often you texted, or if Tara was the one keeping the conversation going.
She didn't ask if the silence between you and the apartment was mutual — or if it was just what happened after someone realized they weren't welcome anymore.
But she thought about it.
At night, mostly — when the apartment was too quiet, and Tara hadn't left her room in hours, and Sam was doing that thing she always did: reliving every conversation she'd ruined by saying too much too fast. She replayed it all. The plates, the glare, the way you'd flinched. The sound of her own voice, low and cruel and far too confident. The way your face had gone still when she'd said your name like it was something ugly.
She didn't regret the instinct — not entirely. But she regretted how it stuck now. How she'd meant for you to leave, and now you had, and it didn't feel the way it was supposed to.
And Tara wasn't letting it go either.
She wasn't yelling anymore. No slamming doors. No full-out confrontations.
Just cold. Every time she spoke to Sam, it was with a new kind of distance. A deliberate chill. One-word replies, long silences. Conversations that used to last ten minutes were over in ten seconds. If Sam asked how school was going, Tara would shrug. If she asked what she wanted for dinner, Tara would say she'd eat later. If she asked anything else, Tara wouldn't even look up from her phone.
It was punishment. Not loud. Not dramatic.
But it was punishment.
And Sam didn't say anything back, because she knew exactly what this was. Tara was waiting for her to admit it. To say she'd gone too far. To take it back. But Sam didn't.
Because they were both stubborn. Always had been.
Tara thought the silence would break Sam first.
Sam thought Tara would get over it.
And in the meantime, the apartment stayed quiet.
But it wasn't like things stayed broken forever.
Eventually, the next Thursday came. And then the one after that.
And the sessions started again.
No one had asked. No one had said anything. The text from you had just come in — simple, direct.
Still good for tonight?
Tara had stared at it for a long time before replying.
yeah. of course.
And you'd shown up. Right on time. Notebook in hand. Polite smile. The same way you always had.
But it wasn't the same.
Because you weren't asking about Tara's week anymore. You weren't laughing at her sarcastic comments, or telling her weird stories about your walk over. You didn't bring her favorite snacks. You didn't call her out for zoning out during a grammar question or gently tease her about always skipping the last page of assigned readings.
You were still kind. Still patient. Still you, technically.
But something in your voice had changed. Detached, maybe. Just enough that it made it clear: you weren't her friend right now.
You were her tutor. That was it.
And Tara noticed it right away.
The first night, she kept waiting for the shift — like you were just tired or stressed, and it would wear off once you got talking. But it didn't. You stayed focused. Friendly. Distant.
By the second session, it was a pattern.
You asked the right questions. You corrected her answers. You said goodnight with a soft smile and the same quiet professionalism she hated hearing from her professors.
Tara didn't say anything about it. Not during the sessions. Not after.
But it was obvious something had changed.
And when she finally asked — when you were packing up your things one night and she just blurted it out — she regretted it almost instantly.
"Did something happen?"
You looked up, caught off guard.
Tara knew something had happened. She also knew what had happened. Who had happened.
She didn't know why she'd asked. But she continued anyway, she needed to hear you confirm her sister had ruined yet another thing in her life.
Tara tried to soften it. "I mean... did I do something?"
And you'd hesitated. Not because you didn't have an answer. But because saying it out loud felt like picking sides.
"No," you said carefully. "Nothing you did."
Another pause. Your bag slung over your shoulder. A small shrug.
"It's just... I don't want to cause trouble."
Tara's stomach twisted. "You're not."
You gave her a look. It wasn't mean. It wasn't angry. It just... was.
Then you looked down, fiddled with the strap of your bag, and said, "I think maybe I just overstepped."
That caught Tara off guard. "What?"
You offered a small, careful shrug. "Your sister doesn't want me around. I get it."
Tara's jaw tensed. "That's not—"
"It's okay," you cut in, too quickly. "It really is. I'm still happy to help you. This doesn't have to be awkward."
But it was awkward. It had been awkward for days. Ever since Sam said what she said and you just... stopped acting like any of this mattered to you beyond homework.
And Tara wasn't stupid. She could hear it in your voice — how hard you were trying to make it sound like none of this bothered you. Like you weren't hurt. Like it wasn't still happening every time you walked through their door.
"I'll talk to her," Tara said suddenly. "About what she said. She had no right—"
"No, no—" you rushed to cut her off, already shaking your head. "Please don't. I don't want to make this a thing. She doesn't even have to be there."
Tara blinked. "What?"
You hesitated — then tried to make it sound casual. Like it wasn't a big deal. "I was just thinking... maybe we could start meeting somewhere else. Library, coffee shop, whatever. It'd probably be easier for both of us."
And you were smiling when you said it. That same smile you'd been using all week — polite, easy, and completely not real.
Tara stared at you, and slowly, the pieces clicked into place.
You didn't want to come over anymore.
You weren't just pulling back — you were scared. Scared that Sam would say something else. Scared she'd come into the kitchen again, cold and calm and cruel, and throw another grenade into something that had once felt so safe.
"Right," Tara said quietly. "Sure. That makes sense."
She didn't fight you on it. She could tell you didn't want her to.
But she didn't know what pissed her off more: that you were pulling away, or that you were being so damn nice about it.
Because it meant she couldn't even be angry at you.
So instead, she'd taken it out on Sam.
That night, after you left — again — Tara had followed Sam into the kitchen and snapped, "She's still uncomfortable, by the way. In case you were wondering."
Sam hadn't even looked up. "She came back, didn't she?"
And Tara had rolled her eyes so hard it hurt. "Yeah. Because she's nicer than you. Not because she forgot what you said." NICER THAN YOU
Sam had said nothing. She didn't apologize. Didn't explain. Just stood there like she always did — quiet, unreadable, like that made her immune to being wrong.
And Tara had tried again, the next night. Tried to get her to talk about it, or at least acknowledge that she'd messed everything up.
But Sam just shrugged her off again. Told her she was being dramatic. Said maybe if you were that quick to switch up, you were never as genuine as you looked.
And Tara hated her for it. Hated her for acting like none of this mattered. Like you didn't matter. Like Tara hadn't just spent weeks actually feeling okay for once — and now it was all ruined.
And even worse: you weren't even angry. You were just... gone in a way that made it feel like you weren't coming back.
Like you'd already decided it wasn't worth the mess.
Tara could feel it.
And so could Sam — though she'd never admit it out loud.
She noticed the cold shoulders. The one-word answers. The silence between rooms that used to be filled with laughter.
But unlike Tara, Sam didn't take it as a loss.
She took it as confirmation.
You were pulling away — fine. But that didn't mean you were harmless. If anything, it made you more suspicious. More calculated. Because Sam had seen people like you before. Friendly. Charming. Helpful. Too helpful. Always ready to show up, always quick to care — until you got close enough to do damage.
And she'd let you get too close. She'd waited too long.
So she started paying attention.
Not to Tara. Not anymore. This time, she watched you.
She didn't mean to at first. It wasn't like she'd planned anything. But she'd been walking back from the store when she spotted you leaving the library — alone, earphones in, hoodie pulled up like you didn't want to be noticed.
And she'd just... paused.
Watched you cross the street. Watched you duck into that little café you always went to after your study sessions.
It didn't mean anything.
Except it did.
Because the next day, she lingered a little longer in the same neighborhood. And the day after that, she changed her shift so she could take the later train — the one that passed by campus around the time you usually left.
It was never anything direct. Never anything obvious. She just kept ending up where you were.
To make sure.
To be sure.
To prove she was right.
Because something was off about you. Something had always been off. You were too careful. Too nice. You'd formed a bond with Tara like it had been planned — slow, natural, believable — and then you'd backed away the second you were confronted.
That wasn't normal. That wasn't how innocent people acted.
And Sam couldn't shake the feeling that you were still waiting — still watching. That the second she let her guard down, you'd try again. Try to win Tara back. Try to pull her further out of reach.
So she followed.
Not because she was obsessed. Not because she was afraid of losing her sister.
But because she knew something was wrong with you.
And she needed to see it for herself.
At first, it was just once or twice. A passing glance. A coincidence. That's what she told herself.
But then it was three times. Four. Then she started recognizing your schedule — the classes you must've been leaving based on the time, the path you always took down the side of campus, the small moments you didn't think anyone saw.
You usually had your headphones in. You never walked fast. Always polite when someone stopped you — a student needing help, a professor who knew your name — but you never lingered. Never smiled.
You answered everything kindly, patiently. You were never short. Never rude.
Just... distant.
Like you were only halfway there.
It was the same in the café you always went to. You sat in the corner with your laptop open, a notebook pressed flat to one side. You didn't scroll your phone or check your reflection or look at anyone walking in. You didn't laugh. You didn't eat with friends.
You just sat there, sipping coffee that probably went cold too fast, scribbling something into the margins of papers you didn't even have to grade.
Like you were trying to keep busy just to keep from thinking.
By the end of the second day, Sam could see it clearly. You weren't dangerous. You weren't calculated. You weren't planning anything.
You were just... sad.
Moving through your day like a ghost.
And the worst part? Sam hated that she noticed. Hated that it made her feel anything.
So she buried it.
Started making excuses — for herself, for Tara. She wasn't following you. No. She was just taking a different route home. Just checking out a bookstore she'd never noticed before. Just passing by the quad at the same time your tutoring sessions usually ended. That's all.
And when Tara asked what she'd been up to all afternoon — where she'd gone, what she'd been doing — Sam didn't even hesitate.
"Errands."
"Walked around a bit."
"There's this new place opening on 9th."
"Needed some air."
None of it true.
But all of it necessary.
Because she had to be right.
Had to believe there was something she was missing. That you were putting on an act. That she just hadn't caught it yet.
Because if she had been wrong — if she'd said all those things to someone who didn't deserve it — if that was what had shattered everything...
She wasn't sure she could live with it.
So she kept watching.
Even after the truth had started to make itself obvious.
The fifth time she followed you — it was almost by accident. She'd told Tara she needed to go to the pharmacy. Something about prescriptions. Vitamins. Whatever came out of her mouth fastest. She didn't even care if it made sense.
She just needed to see.
You took the bus this time. A short ride. She followed in her car, always two cars behind. Parked on the street and waited, engine still running, trying not to feel like this was completely insane.
You didn't go into a store. Didn't meet up with anyone. You walked for a while down a quieter road, a small paper bag tucked under your arm. You turned into a cemetery.
That was the first time Sam had to turn her car off.
You stayed there for a long time. Almost an hour, just sitting on the grass. You didn't cry. You didn't do anything dramatic. You just sat there, legs crossed, facing the headstone like you were waiting for someone to talk back. After a while, you laid down a small bouquet of flowers from the bag. Daisies. Nothing expensive. Just quiet.
You stayed until the sun started to dip. Until the light caught your profile and made you look younger.
That image stayed with Sam for days. It made her feel something, which pissed her off even more.
But she didn't stop following you.
She went back the next day. Not to spy — or so she told herself. Just to check the grave. Just to... understand.
And that's when she saw it:
In loving memory of Harper L/N
Beloved Daughter, Sister, Granddaughter and Niece
★ November 20 2002
✞ April 23rd 2021
More than anything we could've wished for.
She didn't need to do the math. That birthday year— that was the same as Tara's.
It hit her like a punch to the ribs.
Because suddenly it all clicked. You hadn't seen Tara as some new shiny thing to manipulate or get close to. You hadn't seen her as a project. You hadn't been calculating.
You'd just seen her.
Someone the same age. Someone who reminded you of someone else. Someone you couldn't save.
Sam stood in front of that headstone for a long time, arms crossed so tightly it hurt her ribs.
But even then, she didn't let herself believe it was that simple. That clean.
She'd lost people too. She'd buried people too. People she loved. People who died screaming.
And just because you were grieving didn't mean you were safe.
Just because you were sad didn't mean you were right.
So she walked back to her car with her jaw clenched, heart pounding, trying to forget the flowers you'd left behind.
And trying even harder to forget the way you sat there like you didn't have anyone left.
But she couldn't.
She tried.
She went home, showered, changed, scrolled through her phone like everything was normal. She even laughed at something on TV, once — loud, forced, stupid. She kept waiting for it to pass. That ache in her chest. That image of you, cross-legged in the grass, hands folded like you were praying without meaning to.
But it didn't pass.
Days went by, and it stayed.
It stayed when she made coffee in the morning. When she cleaned up Tara's mess in the kitchen. When she passed your building by accident on the way to the gym. That name —Harper— it clung to the walls of her brain like smoke.
And what frustrated her most — what actually made her angry — was that she started to feel sorry for you.
Sorry.
After everything she'd told herself, after every reason she'd built up for why she was right to push you away — now she felt sorry?
It made her want to slam a door. Throw something.
Because she knew what she saw. That closeness. That softness Tara saved just for you. And it had terrified her. Still did. Because feelings like that could make people blind. And Sam knew better than anyone what happened when you stopped looking over your shoulder.
So why couldn't she stop thinking about the way your fingers smoothed the grass beside that grave?
Why couldn't she stop remembering how you'd smiled — once — the very first time she met you, before she even had a reason to be suspicious?
Why did she keep replaying how quietly you sat there, like you weren't waiting for someone to rescue you, just... sitting with it. Like that's all you had left.
And why — why — did she feel like she'd seen that same kind of quiet before, in the mirror, years ago?
It pissed her off. All of it.
She didn't want to care.
She wasn't supposed to care.
But now that she'd seen it — really seen it — she couldn't stop.
And worse than that, she wanted to apologize.
Not out of guilt. Not out of obligation. Not even because Tara would've told her to — because she hadn't told Tara. Wouldn't. That would've only made things worse. Tara would've gotten upset, said Sam couldn't keep treating people like suspects just because she didn't know their stories. She would've said that again, like it was something new.
But Sam always had the same answer.
You don't know what people are.
That was the rule. The thing that had kept them alive. Amber had smiled at them too. So had Quinn. So had Ethan.
But even saying that to herself didn't land the same anymore. Not since she'd seen you there, knees tucked up in the grass like you'd already learned how to live without being comforted. Not since she heard that name.
Harper.
She didn't even know who that was. And yet it haunted her.
So yeah — she wanted to apologize.
Not because anyone told her to. Just because... she needed to.
But the chance never came.
She kept waiting for you to come back to the apartment. For another tutoring session to happen, like before. She'd come home from work on edge, hoping you'd be there, half-expecting to hear your voice. She even stopped at the store once just to buy more of that tea you drank, the one with the ridiculous name she always rolled her eyes at.
But the table stayed empty. The door stayed shut.
And Sam didn't ask about it. She wasn't stupid. She already knew why.
She told herself maybe it had just moved to the library or a café or wherever else people studied. But deep down, she knew that wasn't it. You weren't coming back. Not while she was there. Not if you could help it.
So she tried something else.
"I'll pick you up," she offered, casual, when Tara mentioned a session one night. "If it's late."
She said it again the next time. And the next.
Tara didn't question it much — just shrugged, said "sure," tossed her bag in the car like it didn't matter. But Sam knew what she was doing. She was creating a window. A sliver of opportunity. One hallway, one sidewalk, one parking lot. That's all she needed.
But every time, it ended the same.
You were "in a rush."
Always with that same tone. Light, polite, no sharp edges. But no room either. No pause long enough for Sam to get a word in.
And she told herself it didn't mean anything. That maybe you were in a rush. Maybe you had somewhere to be.
But she didn't believe it.
She'd seen it in your eyes. That flicker of avoidance. Like you were expecting her to say something and wanted to be gone before she could.
And once, when you'd barely nodded goodbye and disappeared across the street, Tara had muttered something under her breath — just loud enough for Sam to catch.
"She doesn't want to talk to you."
Sam didn't say anything back. Just clenched the steering wheel harder and watched you go.
She couldn't blame you.
But that didn't stop her from wanting another chance.
And eventually, it got to the point where she wasn't just hoping anymore — she was planning. Watching the calendar. Tracking your sessions like they were appointments that mattered to her.
When Tara mentioned the library, Sam said she'd pick her up again — casual, like always. But this time, she left work early. Parked two blocks down. Walked over and stood across the street, leaning against a brick wall with her hands in her jacket pockets, trying to look like she wasn't waiting for anything.
But she was.
She was waiting for you.
She heard your voices first. The soft hum of goodbye. Papers being tucked away, zippers closing. And then the doors opened, and there you were — smiling at something Tara said, gentle and brief, like a reflex you hadn't totally lost yet.
You saw her before Tara did.
Your smile dipped — not completely, but just enough. A quick, soft flicker of nerves across your face, like a kid caught sneaking out. You didn't stop walking, didn't freeze, but Sam could tell you didn't know what to do either. Like maybe you were hoping someone else would make the decision for you.
Tara clocked her a second later.
"Oh," she said, half a groan. "You're early."
Sam shrugged. "Figured I'd come straight here."
You nodded, quiet. Almost like you were trying not to disturb anything.
Tara turned back to you, her voice all easy again. "See you Thursday?"
You nodded. "Yeah of course. Bye."
You stepped back, already starting toward the sidewalk, but Sam cut in before you could escape.
"Actually..." Her voice came out steady, but her heart wasn't. "I'd like to talk to Y/N real quick."
You both looked at her. Tara blinked.
"Why?"
"I just—" Sam shifted her weight. "Just a minute. In private."
Tara's eyebrows knit, defensive before you even needed her to be. "Why? What's going on?”
"Nothing," Sam said quickly. Too quickly. "It's not like that."
Tara didn't move. "I'll stay."
"No," Sam said, sharp. She softened it. "Please."
That just made Tara squint harder. "Why should I—"
"Because I need to say something I should've said weeks ago," Sam cut in, firm now, eyes locked on Tara's. "And because I need to say it without you standing there glaring at me the whole time."
Tara opened her mouth again, but hesitated.
And that was all Sam needed.
"Go wait in the car."
Tara looked at you once — just a flash — before stepping back, clearly unhappy but not arguing anymore. She shoved her hands in her pockets and started walking, slow and sulky, like she expected to be called back any second.
Then it was just you and Sam.
And that silence — it hit hard.
You were still standing there, clutching the strap of your bag like it gave you something to do. You didn't look angry. You didn't look anything, really. Just unsure. Bracing for something. Or trying not to.
Sam didn't waste time.
"I was wrong," she said.
Your eyes flicked up to hers, surprised — but not shocked.
"I don't have an excuse," she went on. "I was wrong. About a lot of things. And I'm sorry."
You didn't speak right away. You just looked at her. And then you nodded — once, small.
"Thank you."
That was it. Just those two words. No hesitation. No bitterness.
And Sam didn't know why, but it knocked the air out of her.
Because she hadn't expected it to be that simple. She hadn't expected you to be that simple.
She thought maybe you'd glare at her. Say nothing. Turn away.
But you hadn't.
You forgave her like it was easy.
Like it wasn't the first apology you'd ever gotten. Or maybe it was — and that's why you took it so quietly, so carefully. Like it mattered.
And after that, Sam couldn't stop seeing it. That thing she'd been trying not to notice.
The way you kept your head down when you walked through crowds. The way you laughed with your shoulders tensed, like you weren't sure if it was allowed. The way you waited outside buildings for a few seconds longer than necessary, like you weren't in a rush to go home.
The way Tara always texted you first.
The way you never asked for anything.
The way no one else really said your name.
She hadn't seen it before.
Now she couldn't unsee it.
And when you murmured a quiet bye and turned to leave, she stood there a second longer than she meant to. Watching you walk down the sidewalk with that same steady pace, bag strap slung over your shoulder like always, hoodie pulled up half-shielding your face from the wind.
No flinching. No final glance back. Just gone.
Tara was waiting in the car with her arms crossed and a scowl on her face when Sam finally got in.
She didn't ask what was said.
And Sam didn't offer.
But the silence was lighter than usual.
That night, Sam couldn't sleep. Not from guilt — or not only that — but something else, something that felt like the tight ache of wanting to redo something. Like the feeling you get when you leave a conversation too early and realize too late there was more you could've said.
So the next time there was a tutoring session — back in their apartment again — Sam didn't hide in her room. She didn't come up with errands to run or excuses to leave.
She stayed. Kept the kitchen door open. Made dinner slow enough that she had a reason to hover nearby.
You greeted her politely. Nothing more. And that made her insane, in a way she didn't expect. Because the apology had been real. She meant it. So why did it still feel like you were folding in on yourself every time she walked in the room?
She tried to let it go.
But the next session, she made enough pasta for three. Left a bowl on the table where you were working and said, "You can have some if you want." Not warm, not cold — just flat, casual. Like she wasn't holding her breath.
You blinked. Hesitated. But then you said thank you. Ate half of it. Said goodnight before you left.
Small things.
After that, it got harder to tell what was guilt and what wasn't.
Because it wasn't just dinner. She started looking up articles she thought you might like — weird ones, sometimes, about obscure history or psychology or whatever you'd once mentioned offhand to Tara. She'd forward them through Tara at first, never directly. But then Tara got annoyed.
"Why don't you just send them to her yourself?" she muttered one night, not looking up from her phone.
So she did.
And it didn't stop there.
Movie night came around — something Tara insisted on every Friday — and Sam found herself asking, too casually, "Is Y/N coming?"
Tara had raised a brow. "No. Why?"
Sam shrugged. "Just thought she might want to. You could invite her."
"You want her to come?"
"I don't care."
But she did.
Because she kept checking the clock during the opening credits.
Because when you actually did show up the next week, something inside her unclenched.
You sat on the far end of the couch, quiet as ever, legs pulled up, sleeves hiding your hands. And Sam watched you when she wasn't supposed to. Watched the way you leaned toward Tara when you whispered a question. The way you smiled at the screen when you thought no one was paying attention.
And when you laughed — actually laughed — Sam didn't even hear the punchline. Her brain just froze, stunned.
She found herself wanting it again. That sound. That version of you.
She wanted you to look at her like that, just once.
And that's when she realized something had changed. Somewhere in the middle of all that guilt and all that trying, something had shifted.
It wasn't about proving a point anymore.
It wasn't about earning forgiveness.
She just... liked you.
More than she should.
And what scared her most wasn't the fact that she felt it. It was the fact that she needed you to feel it too.
And that... made her angry.
Because she wasn't supposed to like you.
That wasn't what this was.
You were Tara's friend — quiet, steady, harmless. Kind in a way Sam didn't know what to do with. You weren't part of her life. You weren't supposed to matter. And yet — now — she caught herself checking the apartment calendar. Looking for the days Tara had scribbled little "tutor 4pm" notes with hearts over the i's. She found herself staring at the clock fifteen minutes before your sessions were set to end, wondering if she had time to fix her hair or change her shirt or at least look like she wasn't waiting.
And then Tara had said it.
"Why are you suddenly inviting her to everything?"
Sam blinked from where she stood at the stove. "What?"
"You never used to care. And now it's like — dinner, movies, sending her articles? It's weird."
Sam clenched the wooden spoon in her hand.
"It's not weird. I'm being polite."
"You've never been polite," Tara said, only half teasing.
"I'm trying," Sam snapped.
Tara raised both brows. "Try a little less. You're freaking her out."
And maybe she was. Because even when you smiled now — soft, polite, quiet — it never quite reached. It felt cautious. Like you were waiting for something to snap.
So one afternoon, after another session in their apartment — another polite goodbye, another tight smile — Sam didn't let it go.
You'd just slung your bag over your shoulder when she followed you toward the door. Tara had already wandered off toward the kitchen.
"Hey," Sam said, a little too quick, voice catching.
You turned, mid-step. "Yeah?"
She opened her mouth.
Closed it.
Tried again.
"I don't—" she paused, hand half-raised like she needed to physically pull the words out. "I don't hate you."
You blinked. Confused.
She kept going — because stopping would be worse.
"I know I acted like I did. For a while. And I probably came off... hostile. But I didn't— I mean, I don't. I was just..." She let out a breath through her nose, short and irritated. "It doesn't matter. I was wrong. That's all I'm saying."
You stared at her for a beat. Not cold. Not defensive. Just... surprised.
Then you said, gently, "I don't dislike you either."
Sam's chest tightened.
"I just didn't want to get in the way."
She hated how fast her heart moved at that. Like the idea of you feeling in the way lodged itself somewhere behind her ribs.
"You weren't," she said quickly, and softer than she meant to. "You're not."
You nodded. "Okay."
Another silence.
Sam could still hear Tara clinking something in the kitchen, like she was giving them space on purpose — but just barely.
She looked at you, really looked, and realized how much of herself she saw there now. How she'd judged too fast and held on too long and maybe missed a dozen chances to be decent — to be kind — just because she'd been afraid.
Afraid of what it meant to want something soft. Afraid of you.
"I'm sorry," she said again.
You smiled. Not all the way. But it was real this time.
"Thank you," you said.
Then you opened the door and left — like you always did.
But for the first time, Sam stood there smiling, too.
She didn't mean to keep watching the door after it closed.
She just... did.
And for the rest of that evening, she felt like something had shifted. Not huge. Not dramatic. But real. Like a door had cracked open somewhere between you.
She wasn't chasing you out of guilt anymore.
She knew it as clearly as she knew her own name. Guilt had driven her before — that sharp, sour taste of regret in her mouth, the sleepless nights turning over your face in her memory like a puzzle she couldn't solve. But now it was something quieter. Slower. Almost peaceful.
She wanted to know you.
That was it.
Not to fix what she'd broken. Not to earn forgiveness. She just wanted to know you — to be near you, to make you laugh, to hear your voice when you weren't just speaking for Tara's sake. She started noticing the way her day felt better if she knew you were coming over. How she lingered a little too long in the living room under the excuse of folding laundry when you and Tara were studying. How she listened more closely when you spoke, even if it wasn't to her.
And you — you changed too.
Gradually. Carefully.
It showed in how you stopped rushing out the door. In how you stayed behind a few extra minutes to finish a sentence or to ask Sam if she wanted any of the leftover tea. In how you started making eye contact again. Longer. Softer. Less afraid.
One night, Tara fell asleep early on the couch, half-buried under a throw blanket with a textbook open across her stomach. You stayed — you didn't have to, but you did — helping Sam clean up the mess of takeout containers and notebooks without being asked. Sam offered to walk you home.
You said yes.
It was a short walk. Barely ten minutes. But neither of you spoke for most of it. Just the sound of your shoes on the pavement, the occasional hum of a passing car, and the way Sam's hand kept brushing yours by accident.
She didn't apologize for it. You didn't pull away.
At your building, you turned to her like you almost wanted to say something — but couldn't find the words. And Sam, who usually had nothing but sharpness and suspicion in her mouth, just gave you a small nod.
"Get home safe," you murmured.
"You too," she said, like it was habit now.
You lingered a second longer, and then went inside. And Sam walked the whole way home with her hands in her jacket pockets and a strange ache under her ribs — warm, familiar, terrifying.
She didn't see it happening. Not exactly.
It was just that one day, she realized she'd stopped thinking of you as Tara's friend.
You were just you.
It was in the way things quieted around you. How the air in the apartment felt different when you were there — not tense anymore, just aware. The kind of silence that made you listen more carefully. The kind of silence Sam had never been comfortable in, until now.
You started answering her texts more often. A couple of emojis at first. Then a few words. Then full sentences.
You laughed at something she said once — something stupid, something she hadn't meant to be funny — and it caught her completely off guard. It made her feel light. Stupidly, dangerously light.
And she started to notice things.
Not just the way your voice softened when you were tired, or how you'd tug on the sleeves of your sweater when you were thinking. But how being around you didn't feel like a risk anymore. It felt like a want. A quiet, steady want that built itself into her routine without asking permission.
She caught herself cooking more than she needed. Making enough for three even when Tara wasn't home. Asking if you wanted to stay, even when it was late, even when you probably had other places to be.
You didn't always say yes. But sometimes you did.
And those were the nights that lingered.
One of them — after dinner, after Tara had left to crash at a friend's — you stayed. You sat beside Sam on the couch, the TV humming in the background, both of you watching it without really watching.
You didn't talk much. Just shared the same space.
That was new.
And that was when she noticed — how close you'd shifted. How your knee almost touched hers. How you didn't move away.
She didn't know what it meant. Not really. But she knew how it made her feel.
It didn't happen all at once.
But it happened.
And when it did, she didn't fight it this time.
She let herself want you.
Not in the loud, reckless way she used to want things — not like impulse or desperation or fear. This was different. Quieter. Slower. Something that built over time and stayed even when she tried to brush it off.
She started noticing the small things.
How your laugh sounded when Tara wasn't in the room. How you always sat with one foot tucked beneath you. How your fingers fidgeted with the frayed edge of your sleeve whenever you were too tired to filter your thoughts.
She started listening more.
Asking things she'd never cared to ask before. About your day. Your classes. Your favorite movies — even the dumb ones. She made fun of you for liking Twilight but secretly looked up the soundtrack just to hear what you heard in it.
And it wasn't guilt anymore that made her care. It wasn't regret.
It was you.
The way you leaned into her when you were tired.
The way you said her name now — like it didn't hurt anymore.
The way she wanted to keep you in the room just a little longer, every time.
She didn't tell anyone. Not Tara. Not even herself, not really.
But it was there, always. Quiet and stubborn. Settling under her skin.
It showed up in the way she kept sitting closer.
In the way her knee brushed yours and didn't move.
In the way she didn't pretend to care about the show playing in front of you — just let the silence settle between you, comfortable now, soft in a way she couldn't name.
And then
And then you turned to look at her. Smiled.
So did she.
And for a second, neither of you moved.
You were the one who looked away first — down, almost shy — like maybe you were about to say something but didn't.
And Sam... she wasn't thinking when she reached for you. She wasn't planning.
Her fingers brushed your wrist, so gently it almost wasn't there. But you looked up again, and this time you didn't step back.
She kissed you before she could talk herself out of it.
Soft. Careful. Not like a question, but not like an answer either — more like a quiet thing passed between people who didn't know where they stood but knew they wanted to.
You kissed her back.
Not for long. Not urgently. Just long enough for her to know it wasn't a mistake.
When you pulled away, you didn't speak. You just looked at her like maybe you were still trying to believe it happened. And Sam — Sam didn't say anything either. She only watched you nod once, breath shaky.
And in that moment — on that couch, the TV still playing some half-forgotten movie in the background — Sam didn't feel guilty. Or confused. Or scared.
She just felt... full.
Like every version of herself that had pushed people away, that had ruined things before they could matter — all of it had fallen quiet, just long enough to let this happen.
You pulled back first. But only barely.
You looked at her — a little stunned, a little breathless — and she could feel it in the air between you. That shift. That something.
She didn't speak.
Didn't have to.
Because for the first time, she wasn't chasing you to make something right.
She wasn't trying to fix what she broke.
She just wanted you. And you wanted her, too.
And in that moment, she thought — without panic, without fear —God, I think I'm falling for her.
summary: Tara begins to question her own emotions, especially when the thought of losing Y/n's attention unexpectedly stirs something deeper.
word count: 5.3k
warnings: slight violence
————
"Is Y/n dying?" Mindy asks with genuine curiosity looking back at you and Tara. "What the fuck is wrong with her face?"
The five of you had just gotten off the subway and exited the station, but your mind was still stuck a few moments behind. Tara had wrapped her arm around yours and spoken the five words that made your heart skip a beat: Keep your eyes on me.
Since then, you hadn’t been able to function. Stiff as a board, your brain was in a daze, replaying those words over and over. Now, you were walking aimlessly, arm-in-arm with Tara, trailing behind Mindy, Chad, and Sam, who were a good distance ahead.
"I think it might have something to do with Tara," Chad chimes in, glancing back at you both.
That comment got Sam's attention and she finally turned to see what was happening. "Yikes she does look—hold on why would Tara be responsible for whatever is going on with Y/n's face?" She asks with a raised brow, looking at the twins genuinely confused.
"Look at her arm," Chad says, pointing at Tara. "It’s wrapped around Y/n’s."
"She's looking up at her like Y/n put the stars in the sky," Mindy laughs.
Sam squints her eyes still confused. "So? Tara's finally warming up to Y/n. I spoke to her a few weeks ago about how Y/n is good for her."
"Her arm is around Y/n's," Chad states again with more emphasis.
"I hold my friends by their arm all the time," Sam shrugs like it's no big deal.
"Oh honey... did you say friends?" Mindy says gently wrapping her arm around Sam's shoulders like she was trying to soften the blow. "You know Y/n has the hots for your sister right?"
Sam wasn't stupid. There was instances in the last six months where the thought had crossed her mind. The way you always glanced at Tara after one of Mindy’s outrageous jokes, just to see her reaction. The way you went silent every time Tara got too close. The way your cheeks flushed crimson whenever Tara did something particularly sweet or kind.
Sam sighs. Deep down, she knew. The way you were attentive to Tara wasn’t just friendly—it was something more.
When she’d encouraged Tara to give you a chance, it wasn’t about dating—it was about letting someone in, letting someone care for her. But now, watching you and Tara in this new light, the possibility of her little sister entering her first relationship suddenly felt real.
That’s what unnerved her. Not you, specifically. She liked you. And if anyone was going to date Tara, she was glad it would be you.
"Don’t worry, Sam," Chad says, trying to reassure her. "Y/n’s a total dork. She can’t even admit to herself that she likes Tara. She just genuinely cares about her, even if she only gets to do that as a friend."
"Dude," Mindy cuts in, laughing so hard she’s clutching her stomach, "you literally helped Y/n get into your sister’s pants!"
“You gave Y/n first class tickets to take your sister to Pound town!” she adds in between laughs.
Chad groans, dragging a hand down his face. "Why are you like this?"
Sam felt her blood run cold. She changed her mind—maybe she did have a problem with you.
————
Meanwhile, about twenty steps behind the group, the younger Carpenter sister was freaking out for a completely different reason.
Sure, she hadn’t expected to enjoy the feeling of her hand resting on your bicep this much. That was its own problem. But what was really throwing her off was the deafening silence. Why weren’t you saying anything?
She’d called your name a few times now, but you hadn’t so much as blinked in response. She considered taking her arm away. Maybe she’d overstepped. It had been a bold move—not just saying what she did but closing the space between you two like this.
It was a stark contrast from what's the usual between you two—her throwing violent insults your way, half the time just to see how you’d react.
Okay maybe it makes sense why you weren't responding. Still, was it too much to ask for a little reaction?
Fearing she’d made you uncomfortable, Tara began to pull her arm away.
"No! Wait—" you blurt out, snapping out of your daze at the loss of contact. The words hang in the air, and the realization of what you just said slaps you in the face. Your face flushes red. "I mean—wait, not no! You can keep your hands to yourself if you want!" you stammer, awkwardly backpedaling as you take a step closer to the road to create a distance between you two.
She just told you that you can keep your eyes on her and you told her she can keep her hands to herself.
In that moment, you’d honestly prefer to be hit by a car than embarrass yourself any further in front of Tara.
You brace yourself, expecting her to roll her eyes, to call you an imbecile, to tell you to get over yourself. Maybe she’d point out that she doesn’t need you to give her permission to keep her hands to herself—that she has full autonomy. Or worse, she’d say something cutting, like how she’d never touch you in a million years, even though she was the one who had grabbed your arm in the first place.
But instead, she laughs.
And it’s not a mean laugh. It’s soft, warm, and unexpectedly genuine, catching you completely off guard.
Not that you were complaining, but
What the fuck is she doing?
————
"What the fuck am I doing?" Tara mumbles to herself.
“That’s what I want to know,” Mindy fires back with a teasing smirk, leaning closer to Tara who was seated across her on the table.
Fortunately for you, soon after you heard the melodic sound of Tara’s laugh that made your brain short-circuit, the bar you were all heading to came into view giving you the perfect excuse not to dwell on it—or, more accurately, to avoid melting into a puddle of feelings. For the first time ever, Tara had laughed because of something you did, and the thought alone made your heart do a happy little somersault.
Upon entering the dive bar, you excused yourself to go to the bathroom while the rest of the group found a table to be seated at. Thankfully, the bathroom was empty, so you were able to think out loud.
“What even is my life right now?” you muttered to yourself as you leaned over the sink with a goofy smile. Catching your reflection in the mirror, your face was beet fucking red. Oh no. Did Tara notice how red you were? You groaned, covering your face with your hands.
How did things change so fast? How had it gone from her hating your guts, calling you Ghostface at every opportunity, and throwing insults your way—barely even sparing you a glance—to this?
Mindy had told you to stop chasing Tara, to ignore her, to let her come to you. You’d managed to stick to that advice for maybe an hour, and somehow, this was where it got you.
Not that you were complaining—oh, you definitely weren’t—but wow, this was a lot to handle. Your heart felt like it might burst from how warm and fluttery it was. Tara was kind of adorable… and terrifying. Mostly adorable. Okay, maybe all adorable.
"Fuck, this girl is going to be the death of me."
————
Outside, Mindy, Chad, and Tara stayed at the table while Sam headed to the bar to scope out the scene.
"Sooo… did I just see you holding Y/n’s arm?" Mindy asked, probing Tara for more answers.
Tara groaned dramatically before dropping her head onto the table with a quiet thud. "Yes," she mumbled, her voice muffled against the surface.
"What the hell happened in the two weeks we didn't hang?" Chad questions. "You couldn't stand her last time we hung out. And you're pulling the Carpenter rizz?"
"I don’t know!" Tara whined, her words still muffled by the table." Sam talked to me okay? And I guess I was being harsh to Y/n."
"Uh-huh, sure," Mindy replied, her grin widening. "But that still doesn’t explain why you were holding her arm. That’s a huge leap from ‘I hate Y/n, she’s totally Ghostface,’ to... this." Mindy explained, clearly enjoying the situation.
"Unless," Chad cut in, his grin matching Mindy’s as he wiggled his eyebrows, "there was always some hidden feelings under your 'supposed' hatred for her..."
Tara’s face shot up from the table, bright red as she glared at them. "There are no hidden feelings!"
Mindy gasped, clutching her chest like she’d uncovered a scandal. "Oh my God, there totally is! Admit it, Tara—you’ve been waiting for this moment for a long time!"
"Absolutely not!" Tara protested, her voice climbing an octave.
"You have," Chad teased, leaning closer with a conspiratorial whisper. "And you loved it."
Tara groaned again, hiding her face in her hands, as Mindy and Chad erupted into laughter.
"Shut up!" Tara muttered, but the small smile tugging at the corners of her lips betrayed her completely. She sighed, trying to compose herself. "I don't like her like that, okay? She was just ignoring me today, and... I guess it sucked not having her care about me like she usually does," she mumbled, hoping the explanation would get the twins off her back.
"Yeah, that makes sense," Mindy replied casually to Tara’s surprise. Well, that was easy.
But then Mindy smirked, leaning back in her chair. "So, it shouldn’t bother you that Y/n’s getting hit on at the bar right now, huh?"
Tara froze. "What?" she snapped, whipping her head around so fast it was a miracle she didn’t pull something. Her eyes darted frantically toward the bar. "Where is she?"
The brunette turned back around so Mindy could answer her, and that’s when she realized—she’d walked right into her trap.
Mindy burst into laughter, slapping the table. "Oh my God, you’re so obvious!"
Tara frowned and crossed her arms as Chad joined in on the laughter, both of them clearly enjoying how flustered she’d become.
————
You finally leave the bathroom once you feel like you can function like a normal human being again. It doesn’t take long to spot your friends at their table—sometimes, you swear you have a built-in Tara radar, always able to sense exactly where she is.
As you make your way over, your eyes are drawn to her, bathed in the soft red glow of the bar lights. She looks stunning, her features highlighted by the warm hue. She’s speaking animatedly to the twins, her hands flying up to cover her face in between bursts of conversation, a mix of shyness and excitement that makes her even more captivating.
Sometimes you wish you weren't the awkward human you were, and met Tara in better circumstances. A world where Ghostface didn't exist as well. Maybe then—maybe then you two could be something?
Your heart leapt at the thought. And you felt almost guilty for thinking the way you do. You never wanted it to seem like you only treated Tara with kindness because you had some sort of ulterior motive. It made you feel guilty. But it was getting difficult denying it any further. Maybe it was seeing her in this setting, so relaxed, so beautiful—maybe it was her touch and words earlier that sealed your fate.
But all you wanted right now was to slide into that booth beside her, feel her hand on your arm again, and be the person she could lean on.
You really liked Tara.
And you also really needed a drink.
————
"Okay, hold on—help me out here," Mindy says, holding her hands up. "If you do have some kind of interest in her, then why, and I say this with love, were you such a massive dick to her?"
Tara groans, letting her head drop back dramatically against the booth. "I wasn’t trying to be! It just... happened," she mumbles, rubbing her hands over her face, as if she could wipe away the embarrassment. "I don’t know, okay? She just gets under my skin. She’s so infuriatingly... nice. And smug. And—"
"Hot?" Chad offers with a teasing grin, earning a glare from Tara.
"I wasn’t going to say that!" Tara snaps defensively, though the red creeping up her neck betrays her.
Mindy snorts. "Oh, sure. That’s why you grabbed her arm like she was the last person on Earth. Real subtle Carpenter."
Tara exhales hard, crossing her arms and slouching down in her seat. "I didn’t plan that, okay? She was ignoring me. I didn’t like it. And I panicked."
Chad raises an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair with that smug big-brother energy. "Sooo, you panicked and held her arm? You panic-flirted?"
"I did not panic-flirt!" Tara protests, sitting up straighter, her voice pitching higher with frustration.
"You so panic-flirted," Mindy grins, leaning closer. "Face it, T. You’ve got it bad. I mean, you did just admit you didn’t like her ignoring you. That’s classic 'please-pay-attention-to-me' behavior."
Tara opens her mouth to argue, but freezes. She can’t deny that part—because it’s true. Too true. She didn’t like the way you’d suddenly stopped caring, stopped looking her way like you always did. It left her feeling... off-balance.
"Fine," she mutters, looking away as her fingers trace patterns on the table. "Maybe I didn’t hate it when she cared."
Chad and Mindy exchange a glance before turning back to her with matching smirks.
"Uh-huh," Mindy drawls. "And maybe you didn’t hate holding her arm."
Tara groans again, sinking lower into the booth like she could disappear into the cushions. "I really need you both to shut up right now."
"Why am I getting interrogated? And more importantly, where are the drinks? Sam? Y/n?"
"Wouldn't you like to know."
————
You weave your way through the crowd, finally making it to the bar, where you flag down the bartender and order a drink—something strong to calm the storm brewing inside of you. Taking a seat, you take a deep breath, letting the hum of the bar settle around you.
"Another round," a familiar voice says beside you, and you turn your head to find Sam, casually gesturing for the bartender to line up several drinks. You blink, surprised.
"Sam?" you ask, brow furrowing. "What are you doing?"
Sam doesn’t look at you as she responds, eyes focused ahead, her tone completely serious. “Mourning.”
You stare at her, processing. “Mourning?” you repeat, confused. “Who… who died?”
Sam finally turns to you, expression deadpan. “My baby sister.”
You freeze, mouth opening slightly as your brain short-circuits. “Tara? Tara died?” you ask, voice rising in disbelief as you whip your head toward the booth where Tara is very clearly alive and animated, still talking to the twins.
Sam sighs dramatically, shaking her head. “Not literally. Spiritually. She’s about to get into her first relationship.”
Your face contorts into the human equivalent of the surprised Pikachu meme. “Her what now?”
Sam gives you a look, like you should already know. “Oh, don’t play dumb. You’re the relationship.”
You nearly choke on your drink, sputtering. “Me?!”
“Yes, you,” Sam replies matter-of-factly, grabbing one of the drinks the bartender sets down but not leaving just yet. She leans against the bar, eyeing you like she’s assessing your soul. “And don’t make that face. You’re the one she’s been all smiley and weird about lately.”
You blink at her, utterly lost. “Smile-y? Weird? What—Tara doesn’t even like me like that.”
Sam raises an eyebrow. “Oh, really?”
“Yes, really,” you insist, though your voice wavers slightly.
Sam just smirks, sipping one of the drinks slowly. “You’re even worse at lying than you are at hiding how red your face is right now.”
Your hand flies to your cheek like you can stop the blush burning there. “It’s the bar lights!” you blurt defensively. “They’re red. They make everything red.”
"But I'm not lying I swear! She hates me remember? I'm supposedly Ghostface?" You ramble, trying to jog Sam's memory, because what in the world is she talking about. Tara likes you?
Sam chuckles under her breath, shaking her head. “You’re a mess.”
“Thanks,” you mutter, sinking further into yourself before glancing up at her. “But seriously… what do you mean me? I thought you were mourning because of some jerk she’s into—”
“Oh, I still think you’re a jerk,” Sam interrupts, though there’s a teasing glint in her eye now. “But you’re a tolerable one.”
You blink again, confused. “I’m… tolerable?”
“For now,” Sam confirms, narrowing her eyes at you in a way that makes you feel like you’re back in high school, being questioned by a teacher. “But listen to me, Y/n—I don’t care how flustered you get or how much you like her, I’m watching you. If you so much as make her frown, I’ll know. You’ll regret it.”
The seriousness of her tone makes you sit up a little straighter, but there’s still something soft in the way she says it—like, beneath the overprotective big-sister act, Sam really does care.
“I wouldn’t do that,” you say quietly, surprising even yourself with how genuine you sound. “I’d never hurt her. Ever.”
Sam studies you for a long moment, like she’s trying to read the truth straight from your eyes. Finally, she gives a small nod, satisfied. “Good. Because she deserves someone who looks at her like she’s the best thing to ever happen to them.”
Your heart stutters at her words, and you look down at your drink, trying not to smile too obviously. “I already do,” you admit softly, almost to yourself.
Sam pauses, her expression softening ever so slightly. “Yeah. That’s what worries me,” she mutters, more to herself than to you, but before you can ask what she means, she straightens up. “Now come on. I’m not carrying all these drinks by myself.”
You blink up at her, still a little dazed by the conversation, but you quickly grab a couple of glasses and stand up to follow Sam back toward the table.
But as you rose, the sudden sound of shattering glass and the murmur of rising voices pull your attention toward the commotion. A crowd begins to form in the center of the bar, the tension thickening with every heated word exchanged. It’s only when the circle shifts slightly that you spot her—Tara, her small frame squared off against a guy who looks a little too angry for the situation, and a girl glaring daggers at her.
You and Sam exchange a glance before rushing over, the protective instinct in both of you kicking in instantly.
“Look, I said I’d buy you another drink,” Tara says, her tone calm but laced with frustration.
“Yeah, well, maybe watch where you’re going next time dumbass,” the guy snaps, his voice dripping with condescension.
“Okay then maybe don’t stand in the middle of the fucking bar like a human traffic cone,” Tara bites back, her words sharper than you’ve ever heard from her.
The guy’s girlfriend steps in, practically seething. “Who do you think you are? Bumping into him like a slut and then acting like it’s his fault? God, you’re so full of yourself!”
Tara rolls her eyes. “Trust me, I do not want your man. This isn’t that deep.”
The guy snickers, leaning closer to Tara. “Yeah, right. With that attitude? You’d be lucky if anyone wanted you.”
You feel your chest tighten with anger, but you force yourself to take a deep breath. You step forward, hands up in a gesture of peace, trying your best not to escalate things.
“Hey, let’s all just calm down,” you say, your voice cracking slightly under the pressure. “I’ll get you a drink, okay? On me. No big deal.”
The guy turns to you, sizing you up before sneering. “Who the hell are you? Her little lapdog?”
That stings more than you’d care to admit, but before you can respond, he takes a step closer to Tara, clearly trying to intimidate her. Tara doesn’t back down, her glare unwavering, but his shoulder roughly “brushes” against hers in what’s definitely not an accident.
The nudge sends Tara stumbling backward, but thankfully, she lands against Sam, who steadies her instantly.
And that’s when all hell breaks loose.
Something snaps inside you, and before you can think it through, your fist is already flying. It connects with the guy’s jaw, sending him reeling back a step. The bar erupts in gasps and shouts as the guy recovers, glaring at you with fire in his eyes.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he growls, lunging at you.
Chaos ensues. Tables scrape against the floor as people back away, forming a wide circle. You’re barely aware of Sam pulling Tara further back, her voice sharp as she tells her to stay put.
The guy swings at you, but you dodge, adrenaline coursing through your veins. “I was trying to be nice!” you shout, your voice somehow still awkward despite the situation. “But nooo, you had to go and—”
His next punch grazes your shoulder, and you retaliate, landing another hit square in his side.
“Y/n!” Tara’s voice cuts through the noise, and for a split second, you falter, glancing in her direction.
That’s all the guy needs to get a cheap shot in, his fist connecting with your stomach. You stumble back, the wind knocked out of you, but you manage to stay on your feet steadying yourself by having your palm planted on a nearby table.
Unfortunately luck wasn't on your side, and the table had a broken bottle on it, the jagged glass slices into your palm. You wince, but thankfully, the chaos around you masks the pain, and no one notices it.
Suddenly, Chad steps in between you and the guy, his broad frame blocking any further blows. “Alright, enough,” he says, his voice firm, but not without a hint of warning. “You don’t want to take this any further bro. Trust me.”
Before the guy can respond, Sam steps in too, her hand flashing a taser from her waistband, her expression icy cold. “I suggest you walk away,” she says, her voice steady and threatening. “Unless you want to leave here with more than just a bruised ego.”
The guy hesitates, clearly debating whether to push his luck. But the bartender steps in then, a burly man who looks like he’s seen his fair share of bar fights. “Alright, that’s enough!” he barks. “You—out. Now.”
The guy glares at you one last time before grabbing his girlfriend’s arm and storming out, muttering curses under his breath.
As the crowd disperses and the bar settles back into its usual hum of activity, you turn to Tara, who’s staring at you with wide eyes.
“You okay?” you ask, your voice hoarse.
She nods, her gaze softening as she takes a step closer to you. “Are you?”
You wince, clutching your stomach. “I’ll live. But, uh, maybe next time, don’t antagonize the guy holding the drink?”
Tara scoffs but smiles faintly. “Maybe next time, don’t throw punches for me.”
Sam snorts, crossing her arms. “No, by all means, keep throwing punches. Just learn to dodge better.”
You laugh weakly, glancing between the two Carpenter sisters. “Noted. So… anyone else need a drink, or is it just me?”
Tara shakes her head, her smile growing, her face red. “It’s just you. But… thanks. For standing up for me.”
Your heart skips a beat at her words, and despite the ache in your hand, you can’t help but smile back. “Anytime.”
You catch Tara glancing at you, her expression softer then ever, and for a moment, she seems to be looking at you like she’s seeing something more than the awkward dork you think you are.
And in that instant, she can’t help but think you're even more amazing than she already knew. But before she can fully process it, Chad suddenly approaches, glancing at your hand, his face faltering in concern.
“Hey, are you good?” he asks, his eyes scanning your hand. “You look like you're in pain.”
You wince, still trying to play it off as no big deal. But Chad catches sight of the blood trickling from the glass cut on your palm, and his eyes widen. "Holy shit, dude, we need to take you to a hospital."
You shake your head quickly, your voice still a little shaky. “It’s just a scratch, really. I’ll be fine.”
But Tara, her brows furrowing in concern, steps forward, and glances at your hand and gasps. “That’s not just a scratch,” she insists, her voice filled with worry. “You’re bleeding bad. Get up—Mindy call an Uber.”
You open your mouth to protest again, "No hospital, I'm fine I just need a first aid kit." Sam steps in with a calm, no-nonsense tone. “On it, I'll ask the bartender.”
Tara, who’s been silently observing the whole time, takes charge. Her voice is soft but firm as she grabs the first-aid kit from Sam’s hands once she rejoins the group. “I’ll do it,” she says, her gaze never leaving yours. “You’ve done enough tonight. Let me take care of you.”
Mindy, who’s been watching the exchange with a smirk, suddenly chimes in, a teasing edge to her voice. “Look at you, Y/n. Who knew you had this much of a protective streak? Tara’s got you all worried, huh?”
You feel your face flush, but before you can respond, Tara shakes her head at Mindy’s comment, her worry deepening. “She’s hurt, Mindy. It’s not funny.” Her voice softens as she turns back to you, “You’re really gonna be okay, right? I— I don’t want you to be hurt.”
You can see how much she cares, and it makes your chest tighten with emotions. Tara’s usually so tough, so guarded, but right now she’s nothing but concerned.
You try to reassure her, even though the tenderness in her gaze makes it hard to keep your cool. “I’m fine, really. You don’t have to worry so much.”
But Tara doesn’t seem convinced, her lips pressing into a thin line. “I can’t help it,” she admits softly, her voice almost a whisper. "I care."
The weight of her words lingers in the air, and for a moment, everything feels a little clearer between you two. Tara doesn’t just care for your safety—she cares about you.
She gently guides you to an empty booth, pulling you away from the noise and chaos of the bar. It’s just the two of you now, in your own little corner of the world. You slide into one side of the booth while she settles on the other, a table separating you, but it somehow feels closer than ever.
The silence stretches between you both, and for a moment, neither of you says anything. You hold your hand out toward her, palm facing up, your fingers trembling slightly from the sting. Tara’s gaze softens when she sees the injury, and with a quiet sigh, she reaches for the first-aid kit.
Her movements are slow, deliberate, as she opens the kit, pulling out antiseptic and gauze. You watch her, your heart pounding for reasons you can’t quite explain. She carefully dabs the cotton swab in the antiseptic, then presses it gently to the cut. You wince, a sharp sting jolting through your palm.
“Sorry,” Tara murmurs, her voice low and soothing. She frowns, her brows knitting together in concentration as she takes more care, dabbing at the wound more carefully this time. “I’m trying to be gentle. You’re not a fan of this whole ‘injured’ thing, huh?”
You chuckle softly, still feeling the burn of the antiseptic. “Nope. Not my favorite thing," your voice coming out a little more awkward than you intended.
"I can't believe a dork like you got in a fight."
You let out a small laugh, trying to hide the fact that her words have made your heart race. “I’m not a dork,” you protest weakly.
Tara raises an eyebrow, a teasing glint in her eye. “Really? Because I could’ve sworn you were about to pass out the second I touched your hand.”
You blush even harder. Tara’s smile is warm, genuine, and it makes the sting of the antiseptic a little easier to bear.
“It’s not the touch,” you mumble, “it’s just... you’re too close.”
She laughs softly, a sound that makes your heart flutter. “Yeah? Guess I’ll just have to keep getting closer, then.”
Her words, teasing as they are, send a warmth rushing through you. You try to play it cool, but inside, you’re an absolute mess. The way she cares for you, even in such a simple moment, makes everything feel... different. It’s like a tiny shift in the air, making you want to stay in this little bubble of quiet with her forever.
Tara looks up at you, the gears turning in her head. Was she being unfair right now? Giving you mixed signals.
She continues cleaning the wound, but now with even more care. She choses her next words carefully not wanting to sour the mood, “I'm really sorry for how I treated you. I think with everything that happened last year, I was scared to let new people in, and so I was wary of you even though you’ve been nothing but amazing to me. I guess I just had my guard up and it was unfair and—"
"I know Tara, I forgive you don't worry," you smile at her. And its pure and genuine, and Tara knows that you mean that whole heartedly.
As Tara finishes bandaging the cut on your palm, she gently flips your hand over to check for any other injuries. Her fingers graze across the back of your hand, and she notices the bruised knuckles. For a split second, she pauses, her breath catching in her throat.
Her eyes linger on your hand—on the faded bruise, evidence of the fight you’d just gotten into—and for some reason, she can’t help but think it’s... hot. The way your hand looks, bruised but still strong, it makes something in her chest tighten. You got into a fight for her.
She quickly shakes her head, trying to push the thought away, but it lingers. What the hell is wrong with me? she thinks, her face flushing slightly. Tara quickly looks up at you, trying to mask her sudden embarrassment with a forced nonchalance. But you're just sat there beaming at her, telling her its okay for how she treated you in the past, that you forgive her.
Suddenly, Tara couldn’t just take it anymore. The way you were looking at her, so soft, so genuine, made her heart flutter in a way she couldn’t ignore. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, and then, without warning, she leaned forward, her eyes locking with yours.
“You know,” she started, her voice low and teasing, “Mindy said you were incapable of acting first.”
You blinked, confusion flashing across your face. “What?” you asked, not sure where she was going with this.
Tara smirked, clearly amused. “And that if I wanted something to happen, I’d have to be the initiator.”
You furrowed your brow, still not understanding. “What are you talking about?”
Tara’s smile widened, and she leaned in a little closer, her voice dropping even lower. “I find that hard to believe, given how you just got in a fight for me. I know there’s a little boldness in you.”
Your heart skipped a beat at her words, and before you could even process what she was saying, she added, “But I guess so do I.”
Without warning, Tara reached across the table, her hand grabbing the front of your shirt. You froze, your breath catching as she pulled you closer, her face just inches from yours. Your heart raced as she leaned in, and then—before you could even think—her lips were on yours.
It was soft, tentative at first, like she was testing the waters. But then it deepened, and everything around you seemed to fade away. The kiss was warm, gentle, but there was an undeniable intensity to it, as if she was pouring everything she felt into that moment. Your uninjured hand instinctively reached for hers, feeling the pulse of her heartbeat against your fingertips.
When the kiss finally broke, both of you pulled away, breathless. Tara’s eyes were wide, a soft blush coloring her cheeks as she looked at you, her lips still tingling from the kiss.
You blinked, your mind racing, and then you couldn’t help but grin, a nervous laugh escaping you. “Damn... I should’ve gotten into a fight a lot sooner.”
Tara rolled her eyes, but her smile was all warmth, and you could see in her eyes that there was something deeper. Something unspoken, but undeniable.
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 | Part 22 | Part 23 | Part 24
You stopped hearing the conversation between Abigail and Joey. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. Your eyes were locked in on the map on the screen. You knew the address. Of course, you knew the address, it’s where your life ended.
You shook your head when your vision started to change. You pressed your eyes closed, trying to calm yourself down. You already lost control once; the last thing you needed was to do it again. Joey didn’t need to worry about you. You had to keep it together, it didn’t matter what the address said, it didn’t matter whose name was on the bank account, the only thing that mattered was Grace.
You were snapped out of your thoughts when you felt a hand rest on your shoulder. You whipped your head around, your yellow eyes meeting Joeys brown ones. You quickly ducked back down, turning your head far enough so you wouldn’t risk her catching a glimpse.
“Hey,” Joey said softly, as if she were talking to a child or scared animal. “Look at me.”
You shook your head, turning further away when she tried to redirect you to face her.
“Please,” somehow her voice softened even more. “Look at me.”
You let out a sigh, resigning yourself to your fate. You didn’t fight back this time as she reached across, gently turning your chin to face her.
You knew she was in front of you, but you kept your eyes closed for a second longer. You slowly released a breath; your heart was still pounding in your chest, which you attempted to ignore as you slowly opened your eyes. They were still glowing, but Joey didn’t turn away in fear, she just tilted her head and looked at you like she always seemed to.
“Talk to me,” she whispered.
You slowly released a breath. “The guy who I was with, the one who fought with me, saved me, the night I turned,” you said.
“Cody.”
It wasn’t a question, but you nodded anyway.
“His name is on the account but that’s impossible.”
“Are you sure? I mean you got turned that night maybe-”
“No,” you cut her off. “He died for me. We barely knew each other, and he sacrificed himself so I could escape. There’s no way he could have survived.”
“But maybe-”
“No!” You snapped, a warning growl slipping out.
You shot to your feet and began pacing. Joey hadn’t flinched once, she just slowly stood, her eyes tracking your every movement.
“No,” you shook your head. “He’s dead.” You looked at Joey through tear filled eyes. “It can’t be him.”
“Okay,” Joey said as if it were that simple, as if your word was enough. “Okay.”
You were being irrational. This person had covered their tracks so well. Abigail had to dig and go through who knew how many contacts to get the name she did. You couldn’t believe it though. Even if Cody had managed to survive that night you couldn’t believe the guy who fought by your side and died for you would ever come after you and someone you cared for like this.
“If it’s not him,” Joey continued. “It’s someone who had to know about that night. That the two of you were together.”
You furrowed your brow. “That’s not possible,” you said.
Joey was looking for alternative solutions. You appreciated it, truly, but everyone besides you died that night. You were sure of it.
“The address,” Joey said, seeming to drop it for the moment. “Do you know it?”
You looked down at the floor. You knew it, the second you typed in the coordinates and saw the area you knew it. You were all too familiar with that place, even if it looked to just be empty land now.
“It’s where everything happened,” you said. “Where I was turned.”
Joey straightened her back and shot you a look. You couldn’t deny it; it didn’t look good. The name on the account was Cody, the guy who died for you that night, and the address, it all led back to the place where you turned, where you and Cody killed an entire pack.
“It has to be revenge of some kind,” you whispered. “For what happened there.”
You crossed your arms, furrowing your brow as you thought back to it all. “Only Grace knew that address,” you said.
“So, this would have to be someone from before,” Joey concluded. “Someone who either was there that night or someone who knows what happened.”
“We killed them all,” you said. You gave a shake of your head, none of it made sense. “And why now? This happened years ago. Why wouldn’t this person come after me right away?”
If it were actually someone from back then, it would have been a lot easier to find you before you even met Grace. The person could have found you and killed you during your first full moon, if not before. It would have been so much easier to take you out before you had help and before you got more comfortable with what you were.
“What does Grace have to do with this?” You asked. “She wasn’t even there,” you flung your hand up in aggravation. “She literally had nothing to do with what happened.”
“But she’s important to you,” Joey said, not bothering to hold back. “Maybe it has nothing to do with her or what the two of you have been doing. It could simply be just because you’re close to her and she’s a way to get to you.”
You clenched your jaw. Somehow that made it worse. If it was someone coming after both of you for what you did, it made sense. Someone only coming after you and Grace just being collateral didn’t sit right with you. Either way, they would have been watching for a while to know how close you and Grace were, to know that, despite it obviously being a trap, that you’d run to her.
“That means she’s still alive,” you said. It wasn’t just wishful thinking; it had to be true. “They would know if they harmed her, they’d have nothing.”
Joey nodded. She either didn’t want to argue with you because the alternative implied Grace was already dead or she agreed with you. Joey might have been trying to be nice and calm you, but you didn’t think she’d hold something like that back. If she truly didn’t believe Grace was alive, she would speak up, there would be no reason for you to go carelessly charging off to certain death in that were the case after all.
“Okay, so what’s the plan?” Joey asked.
You sighed as you glanced back at the computer. “You should go home,” you said. You couldn’t ask her to go with you, to risk her life for something that was clearly your fault. “Be with your son.”
A shiver ran up your arm when you felt Joey take your hand. You looked back at her, not seeing any doubt in her eyes.
“I’m coming with you,” she said it like she hadn’t considered another option.
“I don’t know what we’ll be walking into,” you tried to argue.
“Probably a trap,” she shrugged, as if it were that simple.
You huffed out a laugh. It seemed there was nothing you could say to get Joey to stay away.
“I’m with you,” Joey whispered, taking a step closer.
You glanced down as she took your hand in her own. The hair on the back of your neck stood up as she placed her other hand on your cheek. You naturally leaned into her touch as you flicked your eyes up, meeting her own.
“Okay,” you whispered.
There was no point in arguing. It wouldn’t go anywhere different, all it would do was waste more time. You just had to make sure Joey was properly equipped for anything that might be awaiting you and that you kept your eye on her the entire time.
There was no real plan, besides going to the location of where the house used to be and save Grace. There was no guarantee she would be there; it was probably still just a lot filled with the burnt remains of the mansion. You had a feeling though, too much of what you learned connected back to you and what happened that night, there was no other spot that made sense to keep Grace, not if whoever took her wanted you to come after her.
You raided the weapons room, grabbing pretty much every gun and knife you could find. You and Joey each fit what you could on your person and loaded up the bigger stuff into the trunk of your Jeep. You even grabbed the comms and had them set up so all you would have to do was tap the earpiece once you got there.
When everything was packed, you each hopped into the vehicle. You clenched your fists before typing the address into the GPS. You didn’t need to look at it; you had it memorized in the back of your mind. You were pretty sure if you wolfed out or relied on just your instincts you wouldn’t have even needed the GPS.
You pulled out your gun, checking the clip one last time. You stared down at the silver bullets. You weren’t taking any risks; there was a high probability whoever you were dealing with was either a werewolf or was working with them.
A shiver ran down your spine as Joey rested her hand atop of yours. You released a shaky breath before putting the clip back in the gun and shoving it in the back of your waistband.
You moved your hand to take Joey’s within your own. You gave her hand a squeeze and a thankful smile.
You relaxed back into the seat and turned the key in the ignition. You gave Joey one more glance before gripping the wheel with both hands. You didn’t even bother turning on the radio, you wouldn’t have been able to focus on the music anyway, your mind was only on Grace.
The car naturally slowed to a stop. You blinked a few times, coming back to the present. You looked around, your eyes widening slightly at the realization of where you were. It seemed you had completely zoned out during the drive, and you were now staring straight ahead at the road you had walked down when you escaped. It was the closest thing to a main road in the area before the driveway that would lead to the mansion.
You let out a shaky breath and turned the wheel to begin making your way down the road. You inched along it. Despite the desire to get to Grace you couldn’t press the gas pedal any harder.
You shifted in your seat, attempting to force yourself to relax. You didn’t know what you were walking into, but you needed to be at your best.
You slowed to a stop once again when you got to the driveway. Trees still hung over it, covering it in darkness. You flipped off your lights and turned down the road. You didn’t want to give whoever was after you another advantage.
Joey didn’t say anything the whole time. She couldn’t see in the dark like you, but you felt her eyes on you.
The path to the house was just as you had remembered it. The grass and trees were overgrown from the years of not being cared for. The vegetation had even started to flow into the road but not enough to hinder your driving.
As you emerged from the trees you saw what used to be the house, half was gone, the other half was charred and falling apart. It was clear no one had put in any work to restore the place. It didn’t seem like anyone had touched the place, let alone was actively living there, since you burned it down.
As soon as the car rolled to a stop not too far from the house several bright white lights kicked on. You couldn’t help the snarl you let out as you brought up a hand to block the light. You could barely make anything out, but the lights reminded you of the kind at a football stadium.
Peeking through your fingers you could just barely make out a humanoid figure standing in the light. You jumped out of the car and charged forward without a care as to what you might be running into.
You stopped in your tracks when the person came into view. It was a man; half his body scarred from burns. You didn’t care about any of that though, you were focused on Grace, who he had bound and gagged. He held her in front of him, preventing you from getting a clear shot if you even attempted it.
Grace fought against him, but she had nowhere to move. He had her pressed against his body, his hand wrapped around her neck as his claws grazed her skin.
A deep growl ripped out of you as you flashed your eyes and teeth at him. He just chuckled, tightening his grip just enough to draw blood.
“I knew you’d come,” the man said.
Your only response was a snarl. The man clearly knew you and Grace, clearly you had wronged him in some way. You still had no idea who the hell he was. You knew it wasn’t Cody; it wasn’t his voice. It didn’t sound familiar though, it wasn’t one of the men from that night, not one of the ones who spoke at least.
Your nose twitched as you tried to catch a scent. There was nothing familiar about the man. The only scent you recognized was Grace’s and the dried blood she was covered in.
“Let her go,” you growled.
You heard the click of Joeys gun from beside you, but your eyes remained locked on the man holding Grace.
Your head twitched to the side when there was a crack of a branch from nearby. You let out another snarl and stepped closer to Joey, sticking your arm out just enough for her to know not to move.
A slight breeze swept through and that’s when you picked it up. You felt a chill run down your spine as, out of the darkness, just at the edge of where the light ended, several people stepped out. They didn’t stop until they were beside the man, three people on each side of him. You flashed your teeth; they were all werewolves.
“You’re surrounded,” the man said, speaking like someone who knew they had won.
“I’ve had worse odds,” you said.
You weren’t even trying to sound badass. It was true. The night you were turned there were more werewolves and you were only human then. This time, not only were you on even playing field, you had Joey, who was a decent shot, and if you could get Grace away from the man, she would be a threat all on her own.
“Oh, I’m aware,” the man growled.
You narrowed your eyes at his tone of voice. He didn’t just believe what you said, he knew it to be true. There was only one way for that to be possible though.
“Who are you?” You asked.
“Joshua,” the man said. “Joshua Rowan”
You looked at him, having absolutely no idea who that was. He said it like it meant something. You had never heard of anyone by that name or even with that last name before.
Joshua let out a humorless chuckle. “You massacre my entire family, and you don’t even have the decency to know their name.”
You furrowed your brow. You had never killed an entire family. Well, that was a lie, the only family you had ever taken out was…
Your eyes widened with realization. Your eyes focused on the face of the man. Your captors wore masks and then they turned into werewolves. You only ever saw their faces in the painting. At the time you were more focused on one face in particular. Joshua wasn’t the man from that night. He was scarred, he was older, you couldn’t remember details about the people in the painting, but you knew he was one of them. His hair matched the others; he had a similar facial structure as well. He looked the same age as you now, which would mean a couple years ago he would have been an adult, but still on the younger side compared to the majority of the family.
“How?” You whispered.
You killed them all. You knew you killed them all. You and Cody took out the few you could and for the rest you led them down to the basement where Cody ended it. You counted. You knew you had them all, there wasn’t a single one missing. You counted them as they ran down the steps and the rest were either dead or in the cages. They were all dead.
Joshua let out a humorless chuckle as he pulled Grace a little closer. He ran his nose up her neck, taking a big whiff. He flung his head back and his eyes rolled to the back of his head as he took in her scent. The action gave you a perfect view of his face, the burn marks, healed, not as bad if they were on a human, but bad enough to scar even a werewolf. With burns like that he had to not only have been there that night but had to have been one of the ones in the basement.
“Part of my cell collapsed due to the fire,” he said. “I had nothing to cover me when I ran through the flames.”
His eyes got a distant look in them but his grip on Grace never loosened.
“I couldn’t focus on anything, the heat, the smell, the howls of my siblings as they burned,” he whispered, his eyes filling with tears.
He blinked a few times, clearly trying to get his emotions back under control. “The stairs were gone,” he continued.
You and Cody had made sure the gasoline was everywhere. You didn’t want the risk of any of the wolves following you. The stairs had been an obvious place, a way to cut off their escape. And it worked.
“One of the windows close to the ceiling broke,” he said. “I squeezed through, the shards of glass digging into me as I clawed my way out.”
He looked up, meeting your gaze. His eyes were still filled with unshed tears, but you couldn’t miss the pure hatred underneath it all.
“When I woke up everything was gone,” he said, his tone not matching his glare.
“You killed my family,” he said. “Now I’m going to kill yours.”
“Your family tried to kill me!” You snapped. “You kidnapped people to hunt them down for your own sick twisted pleasure!”
Joshua just rolled his eyes. “Pack dynamics,” he said it like it was explanation enough. “We have to hunt, eat, form bonds, it’s the best way,” he shrugged like it was completely normal. “And we only grabbed those that wouldn’t be missed.”
Your finger twitched at your side at the implication. While someone probably would have noticed your absence, they wouldn’t have tried too awfully hard to find you. Cody though, he was someone worth remembering. He didn’t have any family, but he wasn’t just some nobody that wouldn’t be missed.
“Guess you wouldn’t get it,” he said with a smirk. “You’ve never had a pack.”
“I’ve never needed one,” you growled. “And I certainly don’t need one to kill you.”
Joshua let out a chuckle as if you had said something amusing. “Don’t you know, lone wolves die?”
You narrowed your eyes. You didn’t have a pack for a few reasons, and you highly doubted that would change after you killed Joshua. Grace was all you ever needed, and now Joey. There was always strength in numbers but that didn’t mean you were weaker by any means. You just had to be smarter about your attacks.
“Is that why you formed this little pack of lone wolves?” You asked, gesturing to those surrounding him.
It was obvious Joshua was the alpha. Just as it was obvious, the others weren’t a typical packed. There were dynamics, there was an order about things. Every pack had it. At a glance you could usually tell who was in what role. It was obvious Joshua’s pack wasn’t a family though. While they did flank him there was clear disorder. It was a bunch of random people thrown together. You wouldn’t be surprised if he turned most of them to force them to be in his pack, so he had more numbers against you. The ones he didn’t turn were probably lone wolves, ones that were kicked out of their pack, or theirs died, or were like you, turned and then left to deal with it alone. If he searched, he would have found them and it wouldn’t take much convincing you were sure, the offer was probably something about joining and pack and having a sense of belonging if they helped him kill you.
“They were more than eager to be given a sense of belonging,” he snarled.
You only let out a little hum of acknowledgement. You were sure that was definitely true. Of course, a bunch of people most likely forced to turn would be devoted to following Joshua. There were no flaws in that logic at all.
“Why don’t we leave the others out of this,” you suggested. You just needed to get Grace away from him. “This is between you and me.”
You didn’t even know of Joshua’s existence. He clearly blamed you for what happened to his family and had been planning his revenge ever since. He wasn’t wrong, you did kill his entire family. You didn’t regret it. Despite your current predicament you wouldn’t change anything about that night, well, you wouldn’t change killing the entire pack at least. In your defense, they were clearly terrible people. Other packs, while they may have killed humans occasionally, they didn’t seem to hunt them for sport.
He shook his head. “Not satisfying enough,” he said. “You deserve to suffer the same way my family did.”
He looked down at Grace, and a devious smile slowly took over his face. “And I know just having a to start it.” he whispered.
You let out a growl but before you could move a shot echoed through the air. Joshua ripped his hand back, sending Grace stumbling forward.
She fell the ground, but she was back on her feet, not looking back as she ran towards you. You looked past her, your eyes still refusing to leave Joshua. He put his hand around his wounded arm, the blood gushing between his fingers.
His eyes were burning a bright yellow as they glared into you. He pulled back his clawed hand, letting the blood drip to the ground.
You let out a snarl and charge forward before he could make his move. Despite it not being a full moon his anger was enough to force a shift and, in his place, stood a large dark grey wolf. The blood from his wound was already starting to dry and matt the fur together.
You leaped over Grace just as he lunged for her, swiping your claws across his face. He stumbled back, a large gash now across his entire face.
He blindly swiped out, his longer arm managing to catch you and sending you flying. You pushed yourself up, bringing a hand to your side and wincing as soon as your finger touched the open wound.
You collapsed to the ground as your leg snapped back. Your back arch as it snapped back, your arm snapped in the wrong direction. You were triggering your shift just like him, but unlike him you were inexperienced, the change wasn’t quick and effortless.
You tried to focus on anything, but you brought a hand to your ear as the gunfire was amplified. All the pain went away when you were gripped by the throat and hoisted into the air. You clawed at the hand gripping you, but your claws barely seemed to get a reaction out of him.
Your other leg snapped back, forcing a pained growl out of you. The exhaustion from the shift was already seeping into your bones. You weren’t even going to get a chance to complete the shift, you were going to die well before that.
You glanced to the side, trying to get one last look at Grace and Joey. Despite being covered in blood Grace, now no longer bound of gagged, held a shotgun, swinging it around, blasting the other werewolves as soon as they started coming at her. She moved as if the weapon was a part of her. Joey kept hold of her handgun, firing at the wolves as she moved.
Your golden eyes flicked back down to Joshua. Your skin itched as your blood began to heat up, begging for you to stop fighting and let the wolf out. You gritted your teeth, flashing your canines that were now on full display.
You gripped Joshua’s clawed hand with your own and slowly began to peel his fingers from around your neck. You used what strength you could to swing the bottom half of your body forward and kick off his chest.
You flipped backwards and when you landed you had fully completed the transition. Your vision became red as it narrowed in on Joshua. You let out a loud growl then lunged at him.
Joshua met you blow for blow. You bit and clawed at each other. His wolf was bigger, but you were leaner. It was the first time you had ever been aware when in your full wolf state. You couldn’t think about what that meant, your only priority was killing Joshua.
A shot rang out then there was a howl, drawing Joshua’s attention. You glanced over to see Grace standing above one of the other wolves, the shotgun in her hands still smoking and aimed at what used to be the wolf’s head.
Joshua shook his head, smacking the side as if he were trying to focus. Wolves in a pack made them connected, while most saw it as a benefit since it made them stronger it also meant they felt everything each other did. He wanted numbers to beat you but anytime a member of his pack did he would feel it as well.
You took the distraction and slashed your claws across his face, leaving a large gash across his eye. Before you could swipe at him again, he lashed out, swiping his arm wildly but managing to get you on the chest.
As you stumbled back one of the other wolves tackled you. They had you pinned, snapping at your neck until they were shot in the shoulder. The wolf stumbled off you with a whimper the wound on its arm burning from the silver bullet. You looked up to see Joey standing over you. She met your eyes for a moment and for once you didn’t see fear.
You didn’t have time to dwell on it before more howling drew her attention. While she shifted her focus, already firing her gun as she moved away from you, you went back to your own target.
You jumped up, landing directly on the wolf who had attacked you. It tried to claw its way out from underneath you, but you dug your claws into its leg, keeping it in place. You latched onto its neck with your fangs and gave it a twist, not releasing until its head was lying limp between your teeth.
You looked up, the wolf’s head lulled to the side as you glared at Joshua. He backed up, letting out a whimper before shaking his head and snarling at you.
Another growl was cut off as the sound of a shotgun blast echoed through the air. Joshua flinched, snapping his head back to where another member of his pack fell.
You released the wolf, letting it fall lifeless to the ground. You jumped over its body, tackling Joshua before he could get his bearings again. You held him down, your claws digging into his throat as you let out a loud roar directly in his face.
He snapped at you, but you held on, pushing his head further into the dirt. Your claws dug further into his neck with a bit more pressure you would be able to rip out his throat.
Something hard crashed into, sending you off Joshua and rolling on the ground. When you tried to get up you were hit again, forcing a yelp out of you.
You lifted your head, your eyes burning gold as you glared up at the other wolf. You let out a snarl then a series of shots rang out, all of them going right through the wolf’s torso. The wolf collapsed and then Grace stepped forward, her shot gun resting at her side as she raised her other gun and delivered one final shot to its head.
Grace whipped around, naturally holstering the weapon as she grabbed the shot gun again. She fired at the other wolf that had started to charge at her, forcing it to turn and run.
You started to push yourself back up, taking the chance to survey the land. Joey was facing off against another wolf. You got to watch as she shot it straight in through the eye as it ran at her, sending it to the ground. That left just the wolf Grace was about to end and Joshua.
As if you summoned him, claws dug into your back, easily tearing through the skin as you were lifted into the air. You let out a pained growl as you couldn’t move around to try and get a hit on him.
Several shots rang out and suddenly you were dropped to the ground. You pushed yourself up, so you were standing on all fours. Your eyes flicked to Joey who had her gun raised and facing your direction, the wolf she had been dealing with left dead on the ground behind her. You followed her gaze to see Joshua stumbling back but still standing.
Joshua took a step forward when Joey fired another round. He kept pressing forward despite the bullet wounds riddling his body. You could see the layers of blood that now coated his fur and were starting to cause it to clump together.
You powered through the pain, already feeling your wounds slowly stitch themselves back together as you lunged forward, tackling Joshua before he could take another step. You knocked one of his clawed hands away as you used your other hand to slash his throat. Joshua’s hands fell limp to the side after the first slash, but you continued. You took turns, slashing one hand then the other across his throat until his head was nearly decapitated from his body.
You stood tall on your hind legs and looked up at the dark sky and let out a roar as you stood over his body.
You slowly turned to face Joey once again. The gun twitched in her hands, her finger resting over the trigger. You took a couple steps away forward and she stepped back, still refusing to fire the gun.
You looked away from her as you continued to stumble to the side, before collapsing completely. You clawed at your head as your body started to heat up again and the pain set in.
You weren’t sure how much time passed, it couldn’t have been long given that it was still night. When you opened your eyes, you weren’t seeing through the wolves. You looked down at your hands, seeing they were once again human, though they were still caked in blood.
You attempted to push yourself up, but your knees quickly buckled from under you. Grace and Joey were at your side in a second, one of them shrugging off their jacket and draping it over your shoulders.
One of them, it smelled like Joey, helped you to your feet and over to the car. You heard Grace doing something, but you didn’t have the energy to try and find out what. You were helped into the back of the car, and you just laid there, sprawled out across the back seat as best as you could.
You tried to keep your eyes open, you could hear talking but no one else had gotten into the car. When the driver and passenger side doors were opened, your nose twitched as it caught the scent of burning skin and fur. The doors shut and you heard mumbling, but it sounded far away.
You felt something brush against your cheek and you couldn’t help but lean into the warmth. You tried to open your eyes, but your eyelids were just too heavy. You let out a sigh and resigned yourself to passing out.
you and lara are on an expedition in the jungle… things don’t exactly go as she’d planned.
hello!!! my first time writing for lara<3 also first x reader fic ive written in like 10 years hahaha(im unc💔) played tr for the first time a month ago and then ate up rise and shadow in like two weeks😭 shes soo sexy hehehe i need her in bed with a horrible cold…. anyways… enjoy this lil sickfic that turned somehow into 6k words
Somewhere deep in a South American jungle, you wake up on day four of the trip Lara had planned. She’d been researching an artifact located in some hidden ruins her for months, and the second she decoded the coordinates, she was packing her bags. With great hesitation, she allowed you to accompany her, but only after you’d begged and pleaded the entire time she packed.
So far, the two of you had made good progress, and she said last night that it was probably only a day’s more travel before reaching the ruins.
You turn over, expecting her to be up and reading through the documents she’d picked up or skimming over a map to make sure you were heading the right way. To your surprise, Lara’s still sleeping beside you, her chest rising and falling peacefully. Your brow furrows as you look at her, though, because it’s just so unlike her. Looking up at the sky, you can see it’s still relatively early in the morning, probably about 9:00, and she’s usually up before the sun.
You carefully get up, trying your hardest not to wake her, but she stirs anyway, her eyes fluttering open as she sits up.
You smile at her sleepy face and mussed hair. “Good morning.”
A soft groan. Lara rubs her eyes with the heel of her hand. “Morning.”
This is definitely not the time nor place, but her voice in the morning sends chills up your spine. You bite your lip and force your eyes away. “You sleep okay?”
“We slept in,” she says, and you can’t tell if she appreciates the extra sleep or if she’s irritated by it. “We should get going.”
You nod and she rises to her feet, swaying a bit before quickly correcting her balance. She packs her bag in silence and you tilt your head, deep in thought. Lara doesn’t seem to be in a necessarily bad mood, but it’s certainly not a good one. Her shoulder might be bothering her from her fall yesterday.
Suddenly, she turns around and looks at you, catching you staring. “What?”
“Nothing,” you say, but you know she doesn’t believe you.
“You’re staring at me.”
You bite the inside of your cheek to suppress a smile. “Hard not to.”
Lara gives you a flat look. “Are you coming?” She asks, slipping on her backpack, “or are you going to watch me walk away, too?”
You ignore her comment, frowning as she rolls her shoulder with a slight grimace. “Are you okay?”
“A bit sore, but I’ll manage,” she smiles softly at your concern. “Come on, love.”
So you trail behind her, wading through knee-high grass and brush. After what feels like miles of walking, she leads you to a dilapidated bridge that makes your stomach turn. It’s barely connected to the rope on one side, the boards rickety and swaying in the slight breeze. You look down, a huge mistake, and your breath hitches at the distance between where you stand and the fast-flowing river beneath you. One wrong move—
“Don’t look down,” Lara chides gently, taking your hand. Her voice is still a little raspy, deep in a way that usually doesn’t last a few minutes past waking up. It makes you look at her but she clears her throat quietly and steps forward.
She drops your hand and instructs you to wait there as she tests the stability of the bridge. The wood creaks terribly under her feet and Lara turns back to you, about to give you the signal to follow when a board gives out, snapping loudly and she nearly falls.
“Shit!”
You gasp, watching helplessly as her hands struggle to find purchase, but she does, and yanks herself back up. She takes a breath and looks back to you, shaken. “I’m alright,” she calls, despite her unsteady voice. “Come on.”
Every muscle in your body tightens and you swallow thickly. Fear paralyzes you, but her reassuring little smile leaves you no choice but to follow.
Carefully, agonizingly slowly, you step onto the wood, grimacing at the groan it makes under your boot. You keep your eyes glued to Lara and she watches you, almost looking proud.
Somehow, a miracle, maybe, you both safely cross and you hug her tightly. She drops her head onto your shoulder with a deep breath.
You speak lowly, afraid to shatter the peace and stillness of this moment, and tell her you love her. You mean it.
She inhales to speak, but quickly turns away, giving a few polite coughs into her arm.
You hand her the canteen and watch her take a sip. She whispers it back before returning the water to her lips.
Her hand swipes across her mouth, removing the droplets that lingered. You realize you’re staring again, so you look past her at the lush jungle that awaits you.
Lara coughs softly and meets your eyes. You’re about to ask her if she’s alright, but she speaks first. “Ready?”
You shake your head and the two of you share a smile, she squeezes your hand before sighing and beginning to walk towards the jungle.
After walking through a mile of nothing but trees, something catches Lara’s eye.
It’s a small cave with water flowing out of its mouth, its entrance half covered by vines, overgrown and thick.
You try to hide your hesitation. You don’t like the dark or tight spaces but you’d rather be with her than alone. So, with a nervous swallow, you follow behind her.
The ceiling is low, so you end up crouching, but it lengthens out as the cave expands into a vast center with multiple paths divided on both sides of the river.
Lara’s about to guide you down the path furthest on the left when a loose stone rolls somewhere to your right and your head snaps in that direction, as does Lara’s.
A large mountain lion, or some kind of big cat, stalks from the shadows lining the wall. It hisses, bares its’ teeth, and without thinking, Lara steps in front of you, inserting herself between you and the animal.
“Lara!” You whisper, your jaw dropping as she steadies her weapon.
“Stay behind me,” she breathes, and with two ear-piercing shots, it falls to the floor.
You share an exhale, a quiet breath of relief. Her hands shake as she holsters the gun, but she’s quick to guide you forward.
You look away as Lara drops to a crouch and begins to skin the animal. You follow her through the cave in silence, save for a few sniffles that pique your concern.
She discovers a small black box with an old knife inside. It has intricate carvings and Lara shares a little history excerpt with you.
You listen intently, then frown when she turns to the side and stifles a sneeze into her wrist. A hoarse apology follows and you bless her quietly.
“You sound a little stuffy.”
Lara sniffs, a wet sound. “I’m alright.”
She’s quiet after that and you’re not sure if you’ve offended her. She doesn’t speak again until you’re both out of the cave, the sunlight beating down on you once again. After the dreary darkness of the cave, the cold lingering in the shadows, the afternoon sunshine is welcome.
It was welcome, at least, it was an hour ago. Now, the heat and humidity hits you at full force, pressing down into the air in a suffocating way. Not only are you both caked in mud and bits of plants, but a thick layer of sweat covers your skin, your tank top sticking to your back.
As Lara continues a few steps in front of you, also glistening from sweat, you watch her stagger. She trips over a large protruding root of a tree, and you hurriedly rush to catch her before she goes falling to the ground.
You make it, barely, just in time to grab the strap of her backpack to keep her steady. “Shit,” you sigh softly in relief. “You okay?”
“Fine,” she breathes shakily, and steps forward to continue. “Thanks.”
Before she can walk away, you grab her shoulder. “Hey.”
Still not meeting your eyes, Lara inhales, and your tongue almost forms the words to ask her what’s wrong by the time she twists to the side. Silently, she sneezes toward the ground.
“Bless you,” you murmur at the same time she apologzes in a whisper.
“I’m okay,” she mumbles as she finally looks at you, a faint blush on her cheeks. Like she already knew what you were going to ask. Her voice betrays her, though, breaking. “Lost my footing.”
She clears her throat and sniffs softly, turning away. “Just a bit further, then we’ll take a break.”
You sigh. She said that thirty minutes ago.
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · · · · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · · · · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
After another hour or two, after getting covered in mud, swimming through a giant river, avoiding piranhas, navigating tight spaces and holding your breath for far longer than you’d ever thought possible, you resurface onto land and begin to dry off. It’s quick, with the sun beating down on you, and your whole body screams to sit for a minute.
Lara notices, or feels the same way, you’re not sure, but shows you to a secluded spot amongst the trees, a small clearing perfectly shaded underneath thick leaves.
She sits roughly onto the wet dirt. The tree bark is rough, scratches against her exposed shoulders.
Lara pulls her knees to her chest, backpack sat at her feet. She fiddles absentmindedly with the zipper as you look at her in concern.
Her eyes meet yours, and her lip quirks into a small smile before she scoots a bit to make room for you to sit beside her.
You crawl next to her, your thighs touching, but you wish to be closer. She’s thinking, busying her hands like she always does when she’s deep in thought and you wish she would just talk to you, tell you every thought that swirls around in her beautiful mind.
You lay a hand on her thigh and her eyes flick to yours, her fingers still feeling the grooves of the zipper. “What are you thinking about?”
She hums softly, her expression conflicted for a moment before she turns away to sneeze. Straightening, Lara turns back to you and clears her throat softly. “Nothing.”
You hum, too, not buying that at all. “Are you hungry?”
“Not really.”
A sigh leaves you before you ask her if she’s okay.
Lara sighs, too, heavily. Suddenly, you can feel the irritation radiating from her. “I’m fine.”
You question her, a mistake, but she doesn’t seem very fine. You can’t help but notice her obvious decline since this morning. Her coughs have gotten a little more frequent, punctuated by increasingly tired sneezes and wet sniffles.
“I’m fine,” she repeats, her tone clipped. “Even if I wasn’t…” there’s a brief pause, and when she continues, it’s softer, almost private, like she’s telling herself, “I have to keep going.”
You’re at a loss for words. She’s suddenly grumpy, her mood changed instantly, but her stubbornness remains unwavering. As you think of what to say, Lara rises to her feet, dusting dirt from her pants.
“Finished?” She asks, not unkindly. “I’d like to get there tomorrow. We had a good pace going, but sleeping in set us back a few hours.”
Silently, you stand up and follow her back onto the path. Traversing through endless jungle terrain, through dark, vast caves, you notice, with a note of sadness, that Lara’s not checking over her shoulder for you as often. She’s not even telling you facts about the monuments you stumble across, just traces her fingers over the stone and mumbles to herself.
Another hour passes of briskly walking in tense silence, and you’re struggling to keep up with her. At some point, she’d picked up her pace and you’ve had to maintain a light jog just to keep up. You’re not sure if she’s moving so quickly just to spite you, but you’re getting tired of being slapped by branches and plants that she’d stopped holding for you. You try to break the ice.
“Lara?” You call softly. She says nothing, doesn’t even turn your way, so you say her name again in case she didn’t hear.
There’s no response again, not even a pause in her swift steps.
“Lara!” Your voice raises to be heard over the sound of twigs snapping and the grass under your feet rustling.
“What?” she says pointedly, the word thick with blooming congestion.
“Can you slow down for a second?”
“Keep up,” she huffs between wet coughs. “We’ve still got daylight.” She’s very hoarse now, barely a fragment of her actual voice.
You gasp softly, shocked by how husky and deep her voice has gotten in just a few hours, and wonder if that’s why she’s been so quiet.
Lara turns around to face you, and when she meets your eyes, there’s a waver in her sharp demeanor, but only for a moment. Your hand, autonomous, goes to her cheek on its own accord. You caress her face and use the proximity to study her— she’s pale, her nose flushed an irritated pink, and dark circles cling to her the delicate skin under her watery eyes.
She shudders under your touch but quickly stiffens, the mask slipping back in place as quickly as it fell.
“Lara,” you murmur, concern laced delicately into your tone. “Let’s take a break.”
“I’m alright,” she smiles weakly. It’s probably meant to console you, placate you into believing that she really is alright, but it just looks tired, sickly, and it makes you sad. A little mad, too, actually, because she would never let you act this way, obviously brooding and sick. She’s been moping around, sniffling and pretending that everything’s fine when she’s only been getting worse as the day slips away.
“Bullshit,” you mutter, raising your hand to her forehead and press it there before she can bat it away. Your fingers meet the warm skin of her forehead and concern settles in your chest. “You feel warm.”
Lara’s smile dissolves into a subtle scowl and she pulls away. “It’s hot.” She clears her throat and turns around. “Let’s keep moving. We’ll stop for the night soon.”
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · · · · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · · · · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
The sun is getting low now, the sky a brilliant combination of pink and orange. Darkness will soon settle over the land, yet Lara’s still trekking on, sniffling frequently. Her soft sneezes also permeate the silence between you two, along with the chirping of insects and birds.
You continue walking until it’s dark out, and by now you’re definitely wanting to retire for the night, your feet ache with every step, blisters forming on your heels. You can feel a few itchy spots from where bugs have bitten you and multiple cuts sting across your upper body and legs.
“It’s getting dark,” you mumble, mostly to yourself because you know she’s still cross, hasn’t really acknowledged your presence since the last conversation you’d had. You can definitely understand why Lara’s irritable, she’s definitely miserable, if her panting, congested breaths are anything to go by. So you’re trying not to take her behavior personally, but it is starting to prove difficult.
She ignores you, like she’s done for the better part of half the day. Instead, Lara shines her flashlight to illuminate the ground under her feet and continues on.
You stop, waiting for her to notice and she does, of course she heard your footsteps halt suddenly, but Lara walks a few steps further before turning around. “Are you alright?”
You don’t move. “I’ve been asking you that all day.”
“I’ve told you that I’m fine.”
Hot frustration bubbles in your chest. Yes— despite her runny nose, low-grade fever, and all of her other symptoms she’s dead-set on ignoring, Lara insists she’s fine. You’re sick of it.
“Lara,” you sigh.
Her brows crease slightly. “What?”
“Can you stop?”
She huffs and crosses her arms over her chest. You wonder if it’s to warm herself up, considering she’s shaking just standing there. “Stop what?” she asks, her voice congested and so telling of how ill she is.
“Come on,” you say, not meaning to sound so exasperated. “Stop pretending.”
She looks like she wants to interject, probably to reiterate just how fine she is, her brows still furrowed in irritation. You continue on, not letting her continue this charade or walking any longer. “It’s still warm out here and you’re shivering!”
Lara scoffs and you finally step forward, walking up to her. Up close like this, you can really see how tired she is, the flush on her cheeks and dark circles under her eyes worse than earlier. She’s a little sweaty and definitely dirty and a little shaky and you absolutely ache to hold her until she’s well. You put a hand on her jaw, touch soft, gentle. “Let’s just stop for the night. Please?”
Lara sighs heavily, seemingly debating something, arguing with herself. “Okay,” she breathes, and with that, she sags, like the mask had gotten too heavy to bear anymore. She gives you a weak smile, the slightest, cutest quirk of her lip. “Sit down,” Lara says lowly, “I’ll go find us something to eat.”
“I got it,” you move your hand to her shoulder.
She looks at you and suddenly she looks exhausted, even more so than she did a second ago. She’s been steadily getting worse throughout the day, but she hasn’t complained once. Your heart clenches for her, how she feels like she can’t even take a break when she’s clearly not well.
You lean in and press a kiss to her warm, dirty cheek. “You sit.”
Her eyes close at your touch and she leans into it for a moment, looking like she could fall asleep standing up with your hand on her face. After a few seconds, with a soft sigh, she pulls away. Lara looks at you, her expression more serious. “I’ll get the fire started then.”
You want to fight her, say you’ll do that, too, but you can see the hardened look in her eyes. She aches to be helpful and productive and you know that, her fierce determination never wavering, even when she was obviously coming down with something.
So give her a nod and a last squeeze of her hand before turning around back towards the jungle you came from.
Leaving the clearing, your eyes scan for movement in the sudden darkness. The thick trees seem to have soaked up the last of the evening sun, leaving you with no light and a slight sense of fear. Twigs snap in your direction and your heart races for a moment before your brain stops buffering and clicks on the flashlight attached to your chest.
You roll your eyes at your own foolishness, easily spotting the woodland creatures with the newfound light. A chunky rabbit hops by your feet and you ready your bow and arrow.
Your mind continues playing back your earlier conversations with Lara as your fingers situate the arrow. It’s only now that you’re alone that you realize she hadn’t been moving so fast to spite you, or because she was angry with you, but to get you as far ahead as possible. Maybe she knew she was sick all along, and knew that if she admitted it, you’d have made her stop and rest. Maybe she knew that she wouldn’t be able to make good progress in the days to come.
The arrow goes through its neck and you sigh softly, feeling guilt for killing the small animal. But… Lara needs to eat something, and you’re hungry, too. Sorry, little guy.
You pick up the rabbit and retrieve the arrow, then turn around to make your way back to Lara.
At the campsite, you see Lara sitting in front of the fire. She’s holding her shaky hands in front of the flames, trying to warm up, though the sweat on her forehead shines in the light.
“I got this,” you announce, holding up the rabbit. “It’s not much, but…”
Rough, crunchy coughs seize her chest and you cringe sympathetically at the sound. “Look at you,” she says, voice hoarse and breaking. It sounds painful. “Good job, sweetheart.”
Your initial fawning at the praise is replaced with concern for how horrible she’s sounding. You shush her softly. “Your voice, baby, don’t talk.”
She coughs again. “I could do for a cup of tea right now.”
A quiet laugh escapes you. That was probably the closest she’d get to admitting she was sick. “Yeah? I’ll make you tea the second we get home.”
Lara laughs a little, too, then shifts uncomfortably. “I’m… sorry…” she whispers, “about earlier.”
“Babe.” You discard the rabbit at her feet and sit beside her, your knees touching. “It’s okay.”
Her lips press together, and she looks upset and a little guilty. “It’s not.”
“It is,” you wrap an arm around her waist and hug her. “I know you don’t feel good,” she slumps against you, her skin warm. You press a kiss to her hair and pull away just enough to look her in the eye. “It’s okay.”
She opens her mouth, but you lean in and kiss her softly, effectively stopping her from weakening her voice further. Lara pulls back quickly, her mouth parted slightly.
You already know the words about to spill from her lips, so you kiss her again. “I don’t care,” you mumble against her mouth.
A blush, different than fever, spreads over Lara’s cheeks. In truth, you really don’t care if she’s sick. You can’t think of any reason you’d ever not kiss her.
Your lips trail down to her neck and you suck a spot on her collarbone. She moans quietly, then coughs, and you pull away with a wry smile. “Wait,” she whines stuffily.
Though you’d love nothing more than to ravish her here, make her gasp and moan and make her feel so good she forgets all about her fever, make her come until she cries, you think it’s for the best that she eat and get some sleep. “I’ll make it up to you,” you promise with a final kiss to her chapped lips.
She whines again, pouting playfully. Then, Lara bends down and picks up the rabbit. Your hand moves to grab it from her, but she holds it closer to herself and kindly insists it will be faster if she does it. You let her to keep her happy, let her feel useful like you know she wants to. At least she’s sitting down, conserving energy.
You try not to look as she skins the animal, making expert cuts, and soon she sets it over the fire. She sniffles as the flames crackle, you wish for the thousandth time that you could take this illness away from her.
She doesn’t eat much, and neither do you. She continues to soak up the warmth from the fire until she’s fighting to keep her eyes open. You extinguish the flames, ash smoldering in its place and leaving you in a blanket of darkness.
When she lays down, it’s obvious that it’s harder for her to breathe. She tucks her head into the crook of your neck, then jerks away to cough. She doesn’t settle back against you, probably so she wouldn’t have to keep moving away. Her coughs are more frequent now, heavier. After this fit leaves her particularly winded, she sags into your side with wheezing breaths.
“Poor baby,” you murmur, brushing hair from her face. “You sound awful.”
Suddenly, Lara shuffles away, remembering with a heavy feeling of shame that germs exist, she’s definitely contagious and she doesn’t want you to feel this way too. You already miss the pressure of her body against yours.
“What are you doing?” You ask, sitting up.
“I don’t want—” she cuts herself off with another set of coughs, harsh, hacking— “to get you sick.”
As if you weren’t going to get sick from having her tongue in your mouth. “Honey,” you wrap your arms around her and pull her back against your chest. “c’mere.”
Her head rests on your shoulder so she can cough away from you. You switch between rubbing gentle circles between her shoulder blades and patting her back when her coughs get intense. You pat her arm and she scoots off so you can sit up to pass her the water.
Lara sits up and takes a few sips of the water before looking back to you apologetically. “Sorry.”
Your brows furrow in confusion. “Sorry for what, baby?”
She averts her eyes, visibly shameful.
“You’re okay.” You assure her and gasp softly, remembering you’d brought something that might actually prove useful. Digging in your bag, Lara watches you curiously with an amused quirk of her lip.
From your bag, you grab the book of natural herbal remedies you’d bought for a camping trip a few years ago and flip it open, skimming through the pages.
“What are you doing?” Lara asks, leaning over to see the book.
“Gonna make tea,” you mutter, concentrating on the passage in front of you. You’d definitely seen a few of these herbs on your expedition today, so you’re more than confident you can find something to help her.
She inhales softly but is otherwise quiet, and after a few seconds of silence, you look up to see her smiling softly at you, her eyes damp. “You’re so sweet, love,” she says, voice thick with illness and emotion. “Thank you.”
You smile back and lean forward to press a kiss to her lips. “Be right back.”
Again, back in the jungle, tendrils of fear swirl in your stomach. You can hear animals snorting, bugs chirping, twigs snapping and leaves rustling, all natural sounds, but in the dark, it’s definitely unsettling. Your flashlight illuminates the plant life and you crouch down to inspect the surrounding succulents.
It takes you only a few minutes to find what you need; some medicinal herbs for mucus, sore throat and inflammation. You walk back to camp and the fire’s light once again shines throughout the clearing. While you were gone, Lara revived the fire and left a small tin of water boiling.
You know she’s a bit of a British snob about tea and you warn her it may not be up to her standards taste-wise, but it should help her feel better enough to get some sleep. She just shakes her head and thanks you quietly, leans heavily into your side as your arm drapes around her shoulders.
The tea steeps for a few minutes before it’s cool enough for her to drink. She honors you by offering the first sip and you take a small mouthful of the hot drink. Tasting the herbs on your tongue, your nose crinkles. It definitely tastes like plants, but there’s a nice minty aftertaste.
Lara takes a careful sip and smiles as she brings the cup down from her mouth. “It’s not bad,” she coughs to clear her throat. “Thank you.”
About halfway through the drink, you can hear she’s already starting to sound less horrible, her breaths easier, a little less congested. She takes another few polite sips before setting it down.
You sit in front of the fire together for another few minutes before Lara’s almost asleep against you. “Hey,” you whisper into her hair. “Lay down.”
She shifts, mumbling sleepily but blinks awake, soft brown eyes on you as you put out the flames.
You lay down beside her and she crawls into your arms, shivering. You lay this way for a while before you can feel yourself starting to fall asleep.
A soft sneeze startles you, your eyes shooting open as you gasp. “Bless you,” you murmur, putting a hand on her thigh as she sits up beside you to tend to her nose.
“Th-thank you,” she whispers between hitching breaths, her wrist pressed to her flushed nose. A sharp inhale, then she twists away from you slightly, sneezing again.
“Bless you, Lara, here—” you sit up, quickly pulling a small cloth from your bag and handing it to her.
She takes the rag and promptly sneezes into it, keeping it close to her face. A second passes, then she politely blows her nose. When Lara removes the cloth, she gives a cautious sniff. “Thank you,” she murmurs, blushing softly. “Excuse me.”
You smile at her manners, even sick like this, she’s still proper, and you think it’s so cute. You lay down and open your arms for her, she crawls right in, resting her head under your chin. It doesn’t take long for you to fall asleep, warm and as comfortable as you can be laying on the ground.
Lara lays awake, and after what she thinks is about thirty minutes, finds herself uncomfortably warm. She figures you’ve long been asleep and presses an apologetic kiss to your neck before turning around, her back to you.
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · · · · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · · · · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
The first time you wake, you blearily open your eyes to pitch blackness. In the back of your mind, you think you couldn’t have been asleep for very long. Sleep calls to you, and you almost drift back off, but you become suddenly very aware of a faint trembling behind you.
You shift, turning around and your heart breaks, sympathy bubbling in your chest. Lara’s definitely feverish, you discover the heat radiating off of her skin after brushing damp hair from her eyes. You feel so awful and helpless, hate that all you can do is wet a ratty cloth you’d found and drape it across her forehead.
She shifts at the new cold sensation, whimpering in her sleep. You kiss her head and rub her back, aching to make her more comfortable, wishing you could take her fever for yourself and give her even a glimpse of relief.
You hardly sleep, too worried that she’ll get worse and you won’t be able to help. Trying to rationalize with yourself doesn’t work, you know she’s probably going to be fine, she’s just got the flu or something, but it’s not like you can get a thermometer or real medicine to help. In the middle of the jungle, you’re completely alone, and that fact is comforting and terrifying.
After the second time you wake to check on her, you don’t go back to sleep again, choosing instead to hold her and make sure she’s okay.
You’ve rewet the cloth probably five times now, and after watching her sleep for a while, you look up. The night sky’s clouds part, revealing the sun peeking through, beginning to light the sky.
Awake, tired, you lay stiffly on the ground beside Lara. You can’t say you got more than a few hours of sleep, but you don’t mind at all— you’re happy to care for her in normal circumstances, but something about her fever flushed cheeks and sleepy whimpers really stir something protective inside of you.
You watch her sleep for a little longer until her eyelids flutter open and she wakes with a sniffle. Lara blinks, then seems surprised to find you awake.
“Morning,” she murmurs sleepily, her voice barely a whisper as she removes the cloth from her head.
“How are you feeling?” You lay a hand on her cheek and she struggles to keep her eyes open at your cool, soothing touch.
Lara’s quiet, taking a second to evaluate her symptoms. She closes her eyes and focuses on her body, then groans softly. There’s still a vague ache in her throat, her head pounds worse than it did yesterday, her body aching and weak just lying here. Stupidly, naively, maybe, a small part of her had hoped that she’d be better in the morning, miraculously recovered and healthy. It seems, unfortunately, that is not the case.
Briefly, she thinks of saving face, telling you she’s okay and ready to move, to find the hidden city and get this artifact and get the fuck out of here. But it’s obvious you’re too observant for that, replacing “good morning” with a question of how she’s feeling. She tries to sit up, but slumps back to the ground. Her chest rises in a shallow breath before seizing with a cough.
“Not well…” she says. It’s definitely not ideal, but it’s honest and you’re proud of her. “But I can keep going.”
“Just because you can doesn’t mean you should,” you say, tone gentle but stern. “It’ll be okay if you rest for a little longer.”
Wordlessly, Lara lays back down and you can’t believe that actually worked. Her eyes stay trained on yours, scrutinizing you and she tilts her head. “Did I keep you up?”
“No, baby,” you say softly as you smooth back hair from her face.
“Do you think—” she coughs lightly, her voice a little more clear— “I can’t tell that you didn’t sleep?”
You feel your face heat up and you look away, tearing your eyes from the brown ones bearing into you. You’re caught between not wanting to lie and not wanting to make her feel bad.
“Sweetheart,” she murmurs. Her hand, a bit clammy, comes to your chin and turns your face back to hers. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault,” you say quickly, hoping the guilt hasn’t already set in. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
A small smile pulls at her lips. “Of course you did,” she moves her hand to your cheek, caressing your face. “My love.”
You blush again at her attention before she pulls back and shifts, making room for you to lie beside her. You can take a hint, luckily, so you crawl next to her, and she settles against you instantly. Her skin is hot against yours, her breath coming in congested little puffs, warm against your neck.
You stay this way for a few minutes before you can feel her breathing start to even out, but she’s trying to force herself to stay awake. You kiss her on the head. “Don’t fight it, Lara. Get some sleep.”
She falls asleep, and you make sure she’s really out before you feel comfortable letting yourself take a little nap too. You hope she feels better when she wakes, but something tells you she’ll only be worse.
You startle awake, patting the empty ground beside you, your heart pounding in your chest. Your eyes shoot open, darting around to look for Lara, and… you fight the urge to roll your eyes at her, sitting up, a tattered old map in her hands. She’s mumbling quietly, probably trying to work out where to go next, when she notices you’re awake. “Morning,” she says quietly, giving you a cheeky smile.
“Lara. Why didn’t you wake me up?” Your voice is thick with sleep and Lara gives you a soft smile.
“You looked like you needed the sleep.”
You huff, as if she doesn’t need the sleep herself, you wonder how long she’s been awake, if she’d even be honest if you asked her. Rising to her feet, Lara holds out her hand for you and you accept it.
She insists she’s okay and ready to go, but you’re hesitant. She’s still shaky and pale, but she does feel a little less warm than she did earlier…
You agree only under the condition that she’ll let you know if she feels worse, make her promise she won’t try to minimize her pain or act like she’s okay if she’s not.
So, your journey begins in mid morning, resuming your previous path through the jungle. You and Lara walk side by side and you’re more than ready to catch her if she falls over, which could prove to be a real possibility as she teeters unsteadily beside you.
You continue deeper into the treeline and Lara doesn’t speak, but you can hear how badly she’s struggling to breathe. The air is damp, humid and sticky, and it’s a little hard for you to breathe. You can’t imagine trying to gasp for this wet air through congested lungs.
Her cough comes back with vengeance, and you regard her worriedly. You suspect the flush on her cheeks is from more than just the exertion of walking, but the return of her fever. Maybe it never left, you thought, just laid dormant in her bones, waiting.
Though she hasn’t complained or mentioned it at all, you know her head hurts from the semi-permanent crease in her eyebrows, the slight downpull of her lips. She’s still wheezing quietly and your heart aches for her, you can’t imagine how badly she’s feeling. But you know it must be awful when she actually agrees to rest. “Wanna sit down for a minute?”
She nods, wiping sweat from her face. You take her by the hand and guide her to a shady spot underneath some thick trees. Lara plops down and takes a deep breath, hugging her knees to her chest.
“How are you feeling?” You ask, worried, handing her the canteen.
Her hand shakes as she holds it, tightens her grip to take a small sip. “Worse, actually.”
You frown. God, you feel so bad. She looks so sick and tired and you wish she was at home, in your bed, warm and clean from a shower and medicine in her system. You wonder why she didn’t say anything earlier, but you don’t press.
“But I’m okay,” Lara sniffs and looks away sheepishly, sets the water down beside her. “Don’t worry about me, love.”
“I always worry about you…” you watch her as she twists the end of a strap on her bag around her finger. “Do you want to eat?”
Her lip curls in distaste. She’s pale, you’ve never seen her so washed out, and you can see how dizzy she is as she sways softly sitting down. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. “Not really…”
“Wanna try to lay down?” You ask, crouching down in front of her to check her temperature.
Her eyes flutter closed and she leans into your hand. “I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep,” she mutters.
“That’s okay,” you kiss her temple. You’re not sure she’ll have any trouble falling asleep, as she’s practically there just sitting up. “Even if you don’t sleep, you need to rest.”
Taking a seat on the ground beside her, you pat your lap, inviting her to lay her head on your thighs.
Lara accepts and her eyes close immediately, her pained grimace fading as your fingers circle her temples with gentle pressure. “Is your head hurting?” you ask, hoping she doesn’t try to dismiss your question or change the subject.
Her lip turns, the faintest ghost of a smile and huffs a small, congested breath that almost sounds amused. “Everything’s hurting.”
To your surprise, and concern, she’s so feverishly delusional that she’s smiling admitting she feels so poorly. At least she’s smiling, which you suppose is something. You massage downwards, underneath her eyes and rub her sinuses gently. A soft moan slips past her lips. “Fuck,” she whispers. “Thank you.”
You swallow harshly, your throat suddenly dry. “Of course,” you whisper back, voice unsteady. You don’t mean to be a little turned on by her pleasured moans, but she has that effect on you.
You continue to apply gentle pressure across her face before your fingers make their way to her hair and start playing with the long strands of her ponytail. Though unbrushed and unwashed, her hair is beautiful, thick and soft and your favorite shade of brown, besides her eyes.
You rake your fingers through her hair for a long time, the repetitive soothing motion lulling her into relaxation, boneless and heavy as she lays against you.
She’s fighting sleep, looking up at you with misty, needy eyes. She looks so soft and, oh, you love it when she’s vulnerable and open like this. So often Lara is independent, stoic almost to a fault. She doesn’t complain, nor does she like to let people in, see her in a state like this, and you’re so lucky to be able to baby her. You bend down and press your lips to her forehead, then her cheeks before pecking her lips.
“I’m sorry you don’t feel good, baby.”
She hums sleepily. “I’m glad you’re here with me.”
You smile, wide and lovestruck. “Me too. Get some sleep.”
[ROTTR/SOTTR] Lara Croft x Female Reader - "Mutual"
[Requested by anonymous: "Hi, I would like to ask for a headcanon in which Y/N and Lara have been friends since they were teenagers and as they grow up Lara feels a secret crush on her best friend but doesn't know how to tell her, because she thinks Y/N doesn't feel the same."]
Summary: Lara's known you all her life, and you've always been there for her through thick and thin. It was only a matter of time before she ended up falling for you.
Word Count: 2k
Content + Warnings: Brief mentions of jealousy + yearning
- - - - [Masterlist] - - - -
[A/N]: So sorry this took so long, hun! I was overwhelmed with a whole bunch of requests between my own personal stories, so it took me a while to see your message. I hope this matches what you were hoping for.
Enjoy!
You met Lara when you were both teenagers
You had both been sent to the same boarding school, and although neither of you liked being there, you still managed to hit it off
You were one of the very few people at the boarding school she could tolerate, and eventually you became the only one she actually enjoyed being around
More often than not, she’d end up sneaking out of her room and into yours
After a while of this, combined with realizing she wasn’t entirely worried about getting caught beyond small punishments, the head of the school decided the two of you would share a room from then on so she’d stop causing issues at night
This helped the two of you grow even closer, which Lara was incredibly thankful for
Studies and grades were never really an issue for her, but she was more than willing to help you with whatever you needed to work on
Even if it wasn’t something she was studying herself, she would still figure it out so quickly and immediately find an easier way for you to understand it
She’s the main reason you ended up getting good grades
If it weren’t for her offering to reteach the subjects you didn’t understand (since the teachers often refused to elaborate any further, even after lessons), you likely wouldn’t have graduated on time
Instead, you both finally completed primary and secondary school without much issue
When high school rolled around, you both managed to find your own ways to leave the boarding school, and you ultimately ended up in the same high school, much to your relief
Before the events of the game, I can see Lara actually getting along relatively well with others. She didn’t actively seek out new friendships, since she prefers to be alone most of the time, but she wasn’t one to shy away or cause problems
Still, even with the occasional friend she would make, you were the only one she actually preferred spending her time with
You understood that she would hardly talk during most hangouts – unless she found a new study that caught her interest – so she didn’t feel pressured to constantly hold a conversation
It was nice to just be able to read in silence while you were there with her
Your presence was comforting, one of the only sense of familiarity and stability that she had anymore, and she found herself wanting to be around you more often
It was surprising to her
Having other people around, especially when she wanted to focus on one of her studies or touch up on some of her skills, always brought her constant annoyance
It was the main reason she spent most of her time alone
You, however, quickly became the exception
Even after meeting Sam when you both made it into college, Lara still preferred to spend the majority of her time with you
There were a handful of times where you and Sam would both come over, though those became more and more rare after she started to feel a sense of what she could only describe as jealousy
She knew Sam would never hurt her – same with you – but it always pained her to see you and Sam getting along so well
A lot of the time, Lara wondered if you preferred Sam over her
Whenever your attention would only be focused on Sam, she wanted to say or do something just to get your eyes back on her
Anytime you’d ask if Sam wanted to join in, Lara would lie and say that Sam was busy with something else
Of course, she couldn’t always fall back on this lie
It had to be believable, and she didn’t want you growing suspicious of her wanting to deliberately leave one of her best friends out
So, unfortunately, there were times where she had to invite Sam over anyway, just so you didn’t see through her lie
And this continued for a long, long time
She wasn’t even entirely sure why she wanted to be alone with you so much
It wasn’t until after visiting Yamatai that she finally began to piece everything together
Nearly losing Sam hit her hard enough, and it started to make her think of what she’d lose if she nearly lost you, too
Nightmares became common, and you’d usually find her awake at the oddest hours of the night
Your presence helped her sleep through them sometimes, mainly because a lot of them revolved around different ways she could lose you, but more often than not, she would give up on trying to get enough sleep
The thought of losing you felt so much heavier than the thought of losing Sam, though she didn’t understand why
Months passed, and after talking with Jonah about it a few times, she realized something
She had fallen for you
That’s why it stressed her out so much more – you were everything to her, and you had been for a long time
Reflecting on her childhood with you made her realize that she’d actually had these feelings for a long time, they’d just grown stronger over the years
She began to wonder if you felt the same, and her mind starting filling itself with different fantasies of sharing a life with you
So desperately, she wanted to tell you how she felt
But she was terrified that sharing her feelings would only drive you away
She’d already lost her family a long time ago
If she had any shot of building a family with you, that meant there also stood a chance that she could lose you, too
A year passed where she was helplessly yearning for you
She could often be seen staring at you, and if you weren’t in the room, she would almost constantly talk about you to whoever would listen
Jonah would tease her about it occasionally, even though she always shrugged it off, but he finally decided to sit her down one night for a talk
“Alright, little bird, what’s on your mind?”
She blinked, her brows furrowing
“What’re you talking about?”
“You know what I’m talking about. You know who I’m talking about, too.”
She instantly turned away, crossing her arms over her chest and shaking her head
“No, I don’t.”
He chuckled, bringing her attention back to him
Her features softened
There was no animosity in his tone when he spoke again, no sense of judgement or mockery found
“You love her, Lara. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Besides, anyone can see it. I just don’t understand why you can’t tell her.”
Her eyes lowered, body leaning forward until her elbows rested on her legs
A small, shaky sigh slipped through her lips while she shook her head
“Because I know she doesn’t feel the same way about me, Jonah.”
“How are you so sure about that?”
She opened her mouth, then closed it, then repeated the motion a few times
There were so many words on the tip of her tongue, but none of them would form
Her voice wouldn’t let her express her worries, it never did
At length, she sighed again, this time much louder
“She just doesn’t. I don’t know how to explain it, but I just know she doesn’t.”
“I still think you should give it a shot. I think you’ll like her answer more than you think.”
Even though she denied the suggestion, she still found herself leaning more towards following his advice day by day
It was getting to the point where she couldn’t go a single day without thinking about how you’d react if she confessed to you
She couldn’t take it anymore after seeing someone random flirting with you when you were both out at a cafe
She didn’t step in, knowing you would handle yourself just fine, but you could tell she was more upset about it than you were
The entire drive back to her place, she was practically pouting, her eyebrows pinched together and her lips pulled back into a small sneer
You finally asked her what was wrong once you were halfway there
She turned to you, simply staring for a second
After a moment of saying nothing, she sighed
“I guess now is a good time.”
“Huh?”
She turned to you, her eyes now softening
She went on to explain how irritated she got when the random person at the cafe kept flirting with you, followed by how she has something she needs to finally get off of her chest
When you pried further, you saw her face glow red for the very first time
“I think… I think I’m in love with you,” she blurted, keeping her eyes on the floor of the car
You froze at her confession, quickly growing equally as shy
“Oh. That’s, uh, not what I was expecting you to say at all.”
She turned away again, scoffing
“Just tell me you don’t feel the same so I can get on with everything.”
“But I do feel the same.”
You watched as she stayed in place for a second
She was still facing away from you, but you didn’t fail to catch how her eyes widened a fraction and her brows lifted
Slowly, she turned to face you again
“You do?”
“Of course I do.”
“And you’re not just saying this to make me feel better?”
You laughed quietly, shaking your head and letting your hand fall on her arm
“No, of course not. I really mean it, Lara. I’ve had feelings for you for a long time, actually, but I figured you wouldn’t feel the same, so I just kept it to myself.”
She couldn’t remember the last time she felt so relieved to hear something
Her lips curved up into a smile and she lowered her head, now uncharacteristically sheepish
“Oh. I didn’t know.”
“Neither did I.”
The rest of the ride was silent, but it was comfortable
It felt incredible finally getting her feelings out, even if the confession didn’t go the way she wanted
After making it back, she was quick to step out of the car and walk to the other side, pulling your car door open and helping you get out as well
The two of you headed to her room, where you sat on the bed while she moved to her desk
It was awkward trying to think of what to say, but she finally asked the question that had been burning in her mind for years
“Will you be my girlfriend?”
If it was even possible, her eyes lit up even more when you said yes
After finally calming down from everything that had happened, you opened up about how long you had been feeling the same way about Lara
Her heart hammered against her ribs with every little admission to how much you’d been wanting to take things a step further, and she eventually found herself sitting next to you on the mattress
Slowly, she took your hand in hers
“I’m not the best at this stuff. I mean, I’ve never been with anyone before, so I can’t guarantee that I’ll be exactly what you need, but I can promise you that I’ll try. I want to make this work.”
You grinned at her then, your smile mirroring hers, and you shifted your hand a bit to squeeze hers reassuringly
“I want this to work, too. I know things won’t always be perfect, but if you’re willing to give this a chance, then I am, too.”
She hummed, nodding
“But,” you added a moment later, “could you promise me something?”
She nodded again
“Of course. Anything at all.”
“Promise me that, even if things don’t work out the way we want them to, you won’t ever leave?”
That familiar shimmer glistened in her eyes again, one that you adored so much
Her hand returned the action from before, squeezing your palm softly against her own
“I promise. I’ve waited so long to be with you. I’m not going anywhere.”
Started on: December 28th, 2024
Finished on: December 28th, 2024
Summary: Lara's birthday is coming and you decide to surprise her.
No warnings, i guess. Just pure, tooth-rotting fluff. SFW.
Words count: 1306
English is not my first language.
There were two days left until your girlfriend's birthday. Five days ago, you left under the pretext of visiting your parents for a week. But that wasn't the case. Right now, you were in the abandoned catacombs under Varanasi.
You and Lara were both archaeologists. You met on one of your joint expeditions and had been together for almost a year. You thought hard about what to give Lara, as it was her first birthday that she would celebrate with you. Of course, you wanted to do everything to make her feel special on this day.
Lara told you about her most memorable birthday, which her dad had organised for her when she was a child. You still remember the sparkle in her eyes as she recalled it, how passionately she talked about that little "expedition" in the basement of Croft Manor. And you also remember how that sparkle faded at the end of the story when she said it was the best birthday of her life. Now Lara didn't attach much importance to her birthdays, limiting herself to cozy get-togethers with Jonah, and once with Sam and Roth.
So you came up with this idea - to give Lara the artefact she once mentioned. She said how much she wanted it and had almost gotten it, but the temple collapsed at the very last moment.
The Eye of Shiva — a precious stone that fell from a statue of Shiva in India.
You couldn't know for sure if the stone had survived, even Lara didn't know. So there was a risk that this expedition would be in vain. However, by a "magical" (although, maybe the stone really did have some magical power?) coincidence, you find Shiva's Eye unharmed in the lower tiers of the temple, stuck between the collapsed boards.
Time was running out. It was already the day before Lara's birthday when you were on your way home. The trip promised to be long, and you still had to buy a festive package for the mineral. The perfect gift for the perfect girlfriend, yeah?
You arrive in England late in the evening, terribly nervous, because it was already almost 11 PM. You had to get home before midnight.
You managed to pop into a gift shop, and choosing the wrapping took up some of your precious time, because you wanted to make Lara so happy. You choose a small dark blue velvet box with a shiny bow of the same colour. Inside the box is a small cushion on which the mineral looks perfect.
And now, on the doorstep of Croft Manor, you try to catch your breath so you look less out of breath. After all, you were visiting your parents, not some ruins in India, right? When your breathing becomes more even, you finally open the door. Before you is a view of an empty living room, illuminated by the warm light of the fireplace. The time is 11:57 PM. You made it just in time.
Approaching Lara's office, you see her silhouette sitting on the floor with her back to the door, sorting through endless papers and photos. As usual. But how glad you are to see her, even if you'll later scold Lara for working so late, overworking again.
The clock strikes midnight. You tiptoe into the room and, leaning down, you gently hug Lara from behind.
"Happy birthday, darling"
You feel Lara flinch with surprise, but she recognises your touch and your voice from a thousand others.
"Oh, you're back, sweetheart!" Her joyful voice is like music to your ears. Lara quickly gets to her feet and rushes to hug you. You hug her tightly in return. "You have no idea how much I missed you" She whispers.
Lara pulls back slightly, her arms still wrapped around you. Her gaze involuntarily slides over your face and she notices a hint of dirt on your skin. Although in the dim light it was difficult to see. Lara runs her thumb over your cheek, wiping away the dust. Her eyebrows furrow slightly in confusion.
"Where did you get the dirt on your face? Look at yourself, you look like you've been on an expedition, not visiting your parents." Lara chuckles as you gasp at her words. You didn't want her to find out before it was time.
"Uh, I- never mind!" You quickly wipe the remaining dirt from your cheek. "I have a present for you."
Lara raises her eyebrows in curiosity. She clearly didn't expect you to arrive at midnight with a gift. You take off your backpack and reach inside, pulling out a dark blue velvet box and handing it to her.
Lara, without even taking the box, almost starts to thank you, but you urge her to open it at first.
Lara unties the bow and carefully pulls the lid of the box up, while you nervously fiddle with the edge of your shirt in anticipation. The little box finally opens, and at that moment, Lara's eyes widen.
"The Eye of Shiva... but how- where did you get it? The temple..."
Lara looks at you with that knowing look when the puzzle in her head has been solved. However, her face still clearly shows surprise. "You weren't visiting your parents, were you?"
You look at the floor, awkwardly twisting from side to side. You didn't want to deceive your girlfriend, but you wanted to surprise her so much.
"Well... sort of..."
"'Sort of'?" Lara's surprised voice sounds louder. "That... That was very dangerous! Going on an expedition alone, and to ruins at that, where everything could collapse at any moment!"
From the tone of her voice, you can tell that she is very worried. You can't help but feel guilty for deceiving Lara. Not when you know how much she fears losing her loved ones. You just stare at the floor, your arms behind your back.
A brief silence hangs between you and her before Lara throws herself into your arms. Her grip is strong, perhaps too strong, but you don't mind at all. You hug her back.
"You're such a crazy girl," Lara's trembling voice is muffled against your shoulder. "My crazy girl."
You let out a soft huff of laughter, giving her a tight squeeze, knowing that she liked the gift. Lara pulls away, and you could swear you saw tears glistening in her eyes, but she quickly blinks them away.
"Just no more surprises like that, okay? If anything, we'll only go on expeditions together."
You smile, deeply appreciating her concern for you. Her love for you was literally palpable.
"I just wanted to make you feel special."
You say softly as your hand gently caresses Lara's cheek.
"You make me feel special every day, my dear. I appreciate this gift immensely, but with you, I don't need much to be happy."
You pull Lara into an unexpected but infinitely tender and loving kiss. She responds willingly, and you feel butterflies fluttering in your stomach as you feel the softness of her lips against yours.
When you finally pull away, Lara's eyes are filled with adoration and boundless love.
"I like this kind of surprise much better."
Her gentle whisper is like a caress to your ears. You cannot resist the urge and plant another soft kiss on her cheek. Lara looks as if she has fallen in love with you all over again, although you know she will surely scold you again for putting yourself in such danger. But you don't mind at all. Not when Lara is standing in front of you, head over heels in love.
Lara insists on helping you clean up, and soon you will be sleeping peacefully in each other's arms. You fall asleep thinking about how many surprises await your beloved girlfriend, because there was a whole day ahead.
This is my very first work soo criticism is welcomed!! (but maybe don't judge too hard okay) Hope you enjoyed this :3
lara comes home and finds you sick. as your girlfriend, she’s the only thing that can make you feel better. she tries her best to do that.
hiii! this was a request but now its for all of you 💕 i hope u enjoy<3 cross posted to ao3 so u might have seen it there first!! apologies for typos or weird formatting im just too lazy to edit this <3
The Croft Manor didn’t feel like home to Lara, not since her father died. The estate was too big, full of dusty rooms that reminded her of how alone she was. That changed, though, when you came into her life. She decided to abandon her London flat and return to the manor, bringing you, and the light, laughter and love you carry, along with. You make it feel like the proper home she’d been missing all this time.
Lara opens the door, tossing her bags and stepping out of her mud-caked boots. The first floor is completely dark, silent, which isn’t unusual for this late hour. She’d boarded the first available flight back and landed at midnight, and is now just getting inside at what she thinks is almost two in the morning. Sometimes, though, when she returned from an expedition, she could find you awake, on the couch in front of the fireplace, or sometimes in the library or other various places when you couldn’t sleep.
You’ve told her that you struggle to sleep sometimes when she’s not here, as you don’t like not knowing where she is, if she’s safe. She wonders, briefly, if you’re having that same trouble tonight, as she drags her tired body up the stairs. The promise of seeing you, holding you, and falling asleep next to you is the only thing that’s kept her going for the last week, and now that she’s finally home, she can’t wait.
She continues up the stairs and down the hallway, quickly looking at every room for a strip of light, any sign of life, until she reaches the bedroom where she’s sure you are.
The door is ajar, the lights are off, and it’s silent. Her eyes quickly adjust to the thick darkness, making out the shape of you lying under the covers. Lara wants to wake you, selfishly, but decides against it, instead watching your chest rise and fall for a moment. She can tell you’re asleep, and she’s thankful you are, considering the time. Quietly, she turns toward the bathroom, a shower now the only thing left to do before she can lie down.
Lara sighs softly as the hot water cascades over her, penetrating the dull ache in her muscles from days of strenuous activity and sleeping on the ground. She washes her hair twice and vigorously scrubs herself clean, rushing slightly so she can go to sleep. Exhaustion weighs heavily on her, and with the warm water, she’s getting more tired by the second.
You wake suddenly, eyes burning as you open them. Your symptoms have only gotten worse over the course of two days, but you thought if you went to bed early tonight, you would wake up feeling better.
How wrong you were.
Your throat burns, your head pounds fiercely, and the need to cough is almost incessant. Your body aches, deep in your bones, and now that you’re awake and aware of just how terrible you’re feeling, a quiet whine escapes you. Not only do you feel exceptionally ill, but Lara is still gone on her stupid expedition and you haven’t heard from her in a week. You miss her so much that it hurts. Your chest aches, feelings of longing and loneliness manifesting into physical pain. Your exhaustion, fever, and Lara’s absence are all too much to deal with; you’re overcome with a wave of tears, helpless.
Over the sound of your tired cries, you don’t hear the shower, the sound not registering through the haze in your mind. You can’t hear her soft footsteps as she enters the room, a towel wrapped around her. Her wet hair sticks to her shoulders before cascading down her back in long waves.
Lara pauses in the doorway, about to write off the sound she heard as you making noise in your sleep, until she hears another one of your choked cries. Her chest tightens with panic as she realizes you’re not sleeping any longer, but crying lowly, and she quickly moves to your side of the bed.
“Sweetheart,” she whispers, fear bleeding through her tone, hand resting on your blanket-covered shoulder. “What’s wrong?”
You sniffle, choking on tears. Through the haze of both fever and exhaustion, you can’t quite tell if she’s here or if you’re imagining her presence, in the throes of a vivid fever-dream. Your voice comes out unsure, shaking. “Lara?”
“Yes?” she says quickly. “What’s the matter?”
You sniff again, hiccuping, trying in vain to stifle the sobs scraping your throat. You cough, deep and painful as opposed to the ticklish feeling in your throat yesterday. “Are— are you— real?”
Her heart breaks, she can literally feel her chest hurting from how scared you are. Lara rests a hand on your wet cheek and her breath hitches at the unnatural heat, her panic in full force. “I’m here, love,” she murmurs, brushing her thumb over your cheekbone. Her voice is low, soothing as her touch despite her alarm. “Are you not feeling well?”
The tenderness in her voice brings fresh tears to your eyes, you know she’s really here now and you can’t stop crying, equal parts relief and anguish. You shake your head— you feel awful, she’s the only thing that can make you feel better— but you couldn’t get the words out if you tried. Lara understands, though, because she’s actually an angel. She shushes you softly, only to calm you down, console you so you stop crying and don’t make yourself feel worse.
“I missed you,” you whisper, thick with emotion, tears easing.
“I missed you, too— so much, sweetheart, you have no idea,” she kisses your forehead, your cheeks. “How long have you felt poorly?”
“Don’t know,” you mumble, your eyes closing as she caresses your face in her cool hand. You do know, of course, that you had woken up two days ago with a sore throat, malaise you couldn’t shake. But fever works in tandem with exhaustion, sleep still clawing at the edges of your consciousness, so the words don’t come out like they should.
Lara feels horrible, guilty that she’s so unreachable during the trips she takes. She had no idea you were unwell while she was across the world. Shame rises like bile in her throat as she thinks of you, crying and feverish like this, alone, without her here. You couldn’t even call her if you wanted to and it’s not fair to you. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers, sounding on the verge of tears herself, against your hair.
“’S okay,” your tongue continues to feel foreign in your mouth, slurring with the sleepiness intensified by her gentle touch and kisses. You wish you could tell her to lie down, or had the strength to tug on her arm. Your eyelids flutter open and you notice she’s still in her towel with a small smile on your lips.
Lara smiles too, soft as the rest of her. “Do you need anything? Have you taken anything?”
You grumble, a noise that is supposed to mean ‘no’ to both questions, the vibration in your throat emitting a coughing fit. You just want her to hurry up and lie down so you can steal her warmth, greedily soak up the heat from her body as she holds you.
Through barely opened eyes, you watch her quickly rifle through drawers and wonder briefly if she can read your mind, if maybe she really is an angel. She slips an oversized shirt of yours on, and with a smile, you notice it looks much better on her. You watch her walk to the bed, and though you don’t have the energy to do anything about it, you appreciate her body, her muscular but still soft thighs, the swell of her breasts under your shirt, and her beautiful, tired face that smiles back at you.
Instead of lying down and wrapping you in her arms, Lara continues standing, brushes hair from your face before feeling your forehead. Her tongue clicks, a soft noise of disapproval. “God, you’re burning up. Can you sit up for me?”
You whine, wanting nothing more than to fall asleep with her. Regardless of the fevered tears threatening to spill from your eyes, you sit up with her assistance. Through heavy lids, you watch as she digs in the nightstand, the clattering of objects and your sniffling filling the silence. Her thumb brushes over your bottom lip and you look up, meeting her eyes, shining with concern and love. Your lips part, sticky and horribly dry, the tip of the thermometer is cold in your mouth and you fight the urge to cough.
Her voice is a whisper, smooth and sweet. “Good girl.” She brushes her fingers gently over your features, tracing your cheekbone, down your jaw as it measures your temperature. Your eyes close, soothed by her delicate attention. Her eyes flick to your lips, chapped, she notes with a fleeting thought to wet them for you. You really haven’t the slightest clue of how much she missed you, your laugh and sweet smile, your eyes, your mouth—
A harsh series of beeps startles you both back to reality. You cough as she removes it, the fit intense. She frowns, brows furrowing as she pulls the device out to read it, the little screen flashing red angrily. You whimper at the piercing sound, feeling worse the longer you have to force your tired body to stay upright.
“My poor love,” she murmurs, cool fingertips kissing your flushed cheek, wiping the few tears that leak from your eyes. “What hurts?”
“Everything,” you want to say, but instead you start crying again, embarrassed to be so needy and emotional, but too weak to stop yourself. You curse this fever for making you act in ways you’d rather not, worried that all of these emotional outbursts will make your girlfriend think you’re weak, immature. Lara doesn’t shy away from you or your bouts of tears, quickly sits beside you, pulls you into her lap. She doesn’t flinch as your hot, wet face presses into her neck.
For a few minutes, she holds you tightly, rocking you both slowly. You feel a kiss on your head before she pulls away, gently tilts your head up to look at you. She feels another deep pang of pity, sympathy warm in her chest; you look back at her blearily, eyes watery, your cheeks flushed and baby hairs stuck to your face. She smooths them away. “What can I do to help you feel better?”
“Can you hold me?” you ask, trying and failing not to sound desperate, like you’re begging, pleading for her attention. “Please, Lara?”
Your vulnerability, clinginess, bring a smile to her face. It’s cute, how much you need her, ache for her comfort, her touch, her presence. You don’t even need to ask but she loves that you do—her sweet, polite, good girl. “Let’s get you taken care of first,” your girlfriend responds softly, only wanting to ease your misery.
Silly Lara doesn’t understand that she is all you need to feel better, her touch, her comforting presence a balm. Since you cling to her, keeping her in place, she continues to hold you in her secure embrace for another minute. Soft kisses are pressed to your hair, her hand smoothing up and down your back.
“Okay,” she pulls away regretfully. She’d love nothing more than to hold you all night, for all time, like you’d pleaded for tearfully. That is her plan, to keep you close tonight, but her first priority is lowering your fever, knowing you’ll feel better, get more restful sleep if it goes down. She can hear your congestion— thick sniffles and soft mouth-breathing— and it was definitely worsened by crying.
“Lara,” you whine, shivering slightly as she fully separates from you.
“I’ll be quick,” the promise is quiet and sincere, accompanied by another kiss to your face.
Lara leaves you alone, snotty against the pillowcase, and your eyes close involuntarily as you fight to stay awake. True to her word, she returns with medicine, a glass of water, and another box of tissues since the one beside the bed was empty. On her way past, she kicks the tiny trash can by the vanity to your side.
You look so pitiful like this, cheeks and nose flushed, shivering as you’re curled up under the blankets. You open your eyes, her fingers touching your cheek before parting your lips, slipping the pills into your mouth. Steadily, she holds the glass for you, and you can only take a few sips before your throat hurts too much.
Finally, she lies down beside you, her own exhaustion obvious in the flutter of her eyelids as her head hits the pillow, body sinking into the soft mattress. She’s so thankful to be home, going to sleep in an actual bed, your shared bed, with the love of her life.
Lara doesn’t make you wait any longer, pulling you into her arms, flush against her chest. You tuck your head under her chin and she kisses the top of your head. “Goodnight, love. Feel better.”
You’re already asleep, your body working hard to fight the horrible virus invading your cells. A sleepy snuffle against her neck brings a smile to her face and she finally closes her eyes, letting the darkness sweep her away.
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Lara wakes up, and through the sleep-induced fog, she doesn’t realize why for a moment. Then, it registers in her brain that she is fucking hot. Another second passes, and with her mind a little sharper, she notices that she’s wet— not in any fun or enjoyable sense of the word. No, she’s damp with sweat from your feverish body that lay trembling still pressed against her. Her fingers brush your hair aside and lay across your forehead, hot to the touch. Any remaining shred of drowsiness is instantly ripped away from her, leaving her with a slight sense of alarm at your high fever.
“Love,” she whispers, rubbing your arm that’s covered in goosebumps. “Wake up.”
Upon waking, you immediately moan in discomfort, your muscles incredibly sore and you feel disgusting, slick with sweat, your tank top stuck to your back. Your head’s still pounding and when you open your eyes, your vision swims, even in the darkness of the bedroom. “Lara—” you try to say her name, but it comes out a wet cough instead which only exacerbates your headache.
“Can you walk?” she asks, her voice still raspy with sleep. You severely doubt your coordination, your ability to sit up is barely there, but you nod anyway and she helps you up, bears the majority of your weight easily as she helps you to the bathroom. She sits you on the closed toilet lid, turns the tap on, and starts to peel your tank top from your body. You shiver as the cool air hits your hot skin, and Lara feels awful for subjecting you to this discomfort, but knows it’s for the best to bring your fever down.
She eases you into the cool water, hums sympathetically as you shiver. “Poor baby,” she murmurs, cupping her hands full of water and spilling it down your back.
Tenderly, with such gentle care that you almost start crying again, Lara washes your hair and your sensitive skin. She smiles softly at you, eyes so fond and concerned that it makes you ache. After assuring that you’ll be okay for a few minutes, she leaves to quickly change the sheets that are still damp with your feverish sweat.
When she returns, it’s with a fuzzy towel. She wraps it over your shaking shoulders and dries you off, then guides you back to bed. With a quick glance at the clock, Lara sees it’s still early, the sun won’t rise for another half hour and you’re not due for medicine for another two.
You lie down and she has to forcibly remove the blankets from your weak grip, your soft whine making her feel a little guilty, but she just wants to make sure you don’t overheat again, and assures you she’ll give you all the warmth you need. You’d rather cuddle with her than with blankets, so you begrudgingly let her.
It doesn’t take long for sleep to claim you, once you’ve tangled your legs with hers, her arms solid around you, the comforting pressure of her body against yours. Her rubbing your back soothingly only makes it easier to fall asleep.
Lara sleeps for a little longer, but she’s worried about you, worried that you’ll wake up crying and she won’t be able to comfort you, so she keeps waking up. After another fitful period of half-sleep, she brushes her hand softly to your forehead, a little cooler than a few hours ago, but still too warm for her liking.
You wake up when she moves, leaving the bed to go to the bathroom. Seeing her leave makes you sad, but you know she will come back quickly. And she does, hearing your wet coughs through the wall makes her hurry, washing her hands swiftly.
“Hi,” she smiles seeing you awake, looking back at her sleepily. “How are you feeling?”
You try to talk, but instead of words, your throat makes a strangled hiss, your voice gone. She shushes you immediately, and with a promise to return with tea, leaves you alone again.
A few minutes pass, and your girlfriend comes back holding a cup of tea and a much smaller cup of medicine. The sight of the dark red liquid almost makes you gag, you know it’s going to taste horribly, coat your throat in that minty, burning sensation you hate so much.
She coos softly at you, asks you to take it, even says please, so you do. It’s just as disgusting as you knew it would be, but her praise makes you feel a little better. You originally decline breakfast when she asks you, but at her sad, worried eyes, you nod and she smiles, pleased that you listen so well for her.
She turns to leave and before you can stop yourself, you reach for her hand, gently taking her fingers in yours. “Wait,” you rasp. You thought she might ask you to explain yourself, but it seems she is much more in tune with you than you thought, and carefully helps you out of bed and down the stairs. She’d prefer if you stayed in bed, not spending energy unnecessarily, but knows you just don’t want to be alone, can’t bear to let her out of your sight anymore, so she happily leads you to the couch and drapes a thin blanket over you.
Your eyes slip closed against your will, and you struggle to find the strength to open them. You let the ambience of her quietly bustling in the kitchen lull you into a gentle state of relaxation.
She pauses by the couch, wondering if you’re sleeping or just have your eyes closed, but you pull your hand out from under the blankets to rub your dry eyes, blinking in surprise when you catch her standing there. A light breakfast of toast and another cup of tea is presented to you and you sip the hot drink carefully, closing your eyes as it slides down your aching throat. You only manage a few bites of toast before it hurts too much and she nods, a sad, understanding smile on her lips.
She starts a fire at your request, and warm and comfortable in her lap, you fall asleep with her nails scratching softly through your hair.
Lara continues to hold you, even falls asleep herself, for over an hour, before she has the desire to go over the stuff she’d brought home from her trip. Carefully, to not wake you, she gets up and grabs her bag by the door, and sits at the kitchen table. She splays the contents of her bag over the wooden surface, mesmerized by all of the little trinkets and documents she picked up. Flicking through the photos on her camera, she doesn’t notice the time passing, only stopping when she hears your shuffling footsteps behind her.
With a pink tint to your cheeks and the blanket wrapped tightly around your shoulders, you shiver, wobbling in the entryway. She shoots up, quickly walking to you and looping a steadying arm around your waist. “What are you doing up?” she chides you gently, guiding you to the chair beside hers.
“Don’t feel good,” you croak, sounding and feeling pathetically miserable, barking coughs into your arm. Being sick always made you a little emotional, whiny even, and you’ll definitely feel embarrassed later. Shame will set in when your mind is cleansed of the feverish fog; for now, though, all you are concerned with is her being next to you.
“I’m sure,” she says gently. “Can I get you some tea, love?”
Tiredly, you nod, and before walking away, Lara presses a kiss to your warm head. You rest your head atop your arms, slumped over the table as you listen to the ambient sounds of her making tea— the quiet ding of the spoon against porcelain, the hiss of the kettle, before she quickly snuffs the sound to not aggravate the headache she knows is plaguing you.
She sets it down on the table in front of you and you raise your heavy head at the sound. She gasps quietly, sympathy softening her features as she looks at you. “Oh, you don’t look well at all,” she tucks hair behind your ear, her hand lingering to hold your cheek.
You moan, a low sound in your throat in lieu of a sarcastic remark, leaning into her touch. She strokes your cheekbone gently for a minute, then insists you drink your tea, wishing she could do more to help. She brings you another round of medicine and hopes your fever breaks soon.
You take small sips as she shows you all the things she’d collected while she was gone. After you finish most of it, she leads you back to the couch and you curl into her side. She hugs you tightly, your body still trembling slightly, switches between playing with the ends of your hair and running a comforting hand over your back. You can feel yourself growing more tired with each pass of her hand, but you’re tired of being tired. Once she notices you’re fighting to stay awake, Lara shifts a little to let you lie across her lap. You sigh contentedly as her hand resumes its comforting motion, petting your head and it’s not long before you’re asleep.
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You wake in the early evening, the afternoon a blur of tea and warm naps. You’re alone on the couch, drool staining the cushion and you wipe your mouth with a clammy hand. You try to inhale through your nose, blocked still, and it makes you cough. You turn your head, still throbbing, and your burning eyes land on the coffee table where a fresh glass of water sits, inviting you to a cold, refreshing sip.
Upon hearing your coughing, Lara sets down the ladle she’s been stirring soup with and promptly appears at your side.
You look up at her and smile, a lilt of chapped lips, and as if healed by her presence alone, you almost feel a little better just seeing her.
“Hi,” your voice comes out a hoarse whisper, but your eyes are light with love, adoration for the beautiful woman in front of you.
“Hi, baby,” she smiles, bending down to kiss your forehead. She pulls back and her words are murmured against your skin. “You’re still a bit warm.”
You hum, so in love. “I’m so glad you’re home.”
“Me too,” she keeps her face close to yours, your eyes locking. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”
You accept her apology, of course, assure her it’s not her fault. “You’re here now.”
Lara turns to leave, to check on the soup she’d left simmering on the stove, when you sneeze, sniffling heavily afterward. She passes you a few tissues, “bless you, love,” she murmurs, kisses your temple before going to the kitchen.
You struggle to sit up but manage, feeling dizzy as your body adjusts to being upright. Lara carries a bowl and a cup of tea, notices your skin has paled a few shades while she was gone. “Are you alright?” she sets the dishes down and bends to get a closer look at you.
You nod stiffly, mutter a quick “dizzy” and close your eyes, hoping it will stop the room spinning, and moan quietly.
Holding the glass of water to your lips, Lara encourages you gently to take a sip, and you do, the coldness feeling nice in your dry mouth, soothing down your sore throat. Another minute passes and you carefully open an eye, testing if your vision still swims. It seems to have stopped for now, so you gratefully accept the bowl, but Lara shifts, keeping it from you. She holds a hand under the spoon as she brings it to your lips, blowing on the liquid to cool it for you.
“I can—”
Lara cuts you off by putting the spoon in your open mouth and you splutter a bit, caught off guard. You can’t taste anything but it’s warm and you greatly appreciate the gesture. Less than half the bowl remains before you shake your head at the next spoonful, feeling full, hot, and subtly nauseous. She hopes you don’t throw up as you’re looking sickly pale again. You make her eat her own bowl and watch her, making her blush at your eyes on her while she slurps quietly on the broth.
After she’s done, she questions if you’re up for a shower or if you’d rather have a bath. You’re tired of feeling useless, though, and it’s a little embarrassing to be bathed, even if you were incapable of doing it yourself, so you convince her you feel well enough to stand for a shower. A cool hand to your forehead, a slightly worried bite of her lip, but she agrees, since you feel a little less warm than you did earlier. Still, Lara walks you up the stairs, arm secure around you, and into the bathroom. She turns the shower on and helps you out of your clothes before undressing herself.
You can’t help but stare, gawk at her stunning body. She notices, a soft blush creeping over her cheeks with a smile. Under the water, she holds you steady, worried you’d fall if she let go. It proves to be a challenge, washing both of you with mostly one hand, but Lara does it and makes it look easy. She washes your hair, shielding your eyes as she rinses the shampoo out. Goosebumps prickle your skin as she slides the soap over your body.
Quickly, she washes herself and you watch through sleepy eyes. Out of the water, you’re freezing, but trying not to let her know, keeping your jaw clenched to stop your teeth from chattering. You sniffle to keep your nose from running onto your lip and she turns to face you.
“Cold, darling?” she asks, her voice soft enough to almost be drowned out by the shower. So much for her not finding out, observant little bastard. You love her so much, you don’t even know where to put it all.
Once out of the shower, you’re wrapped in a towel and dried off, led to the dresser. Lara helps you step into light pajamas before getting dressed herself. You sit up in bed, your back against the headboard and she sits beside you, her hip against yours. You’re not feeling particularly tired at the moment, so you maneuver yourself into her lap, your head resting on her thighs. Her hand automatically comes up to stroke your wet hair, she looks down fondly at you when you speak, your voice a little timid, hesitant. “Lara?”
“Yes, love?”
“Can you read to me?”
Her smile widens, a small laugh leaving her lips. “Of course.” Leaning over, she plucks a book from the stack on the nightstand, Don Quixote, a classic. The bookmark left inside is about halfway through, and she starts from there, as you’re obviously not absorbing the information. No, you just want to hear her voice, she knows, and thinks it’s adorable. She really does love you so much, would never deny you anything, especially not something so simple when you asked so plaintively, like you were scared she’d say no.
Lara keeps her voice low and even as she reads, pausing every few pages to not speak over your coughing or to bless you sweetly.
After a few chapters, each display of illness from you grows more weary, the flush on your cheeks darker, sweat beginning to bead on your forehead. The book is shut gently as the night comes to a close. Lara eases you off her lap, pads off to the bathroom to run a tea towel under cool water. She wrings it out so it doesn’t drip on you and cause you even more discomfort.
Back in the room, she places it on your forehead and you sigh, immediately getting a taste of relief as the cold rag settles over your skin. Lara smiles, warmth bubbling like champagne inside of her at your soft sigh, the slight change in your breath as pleasure momentarily outweighs your misery.
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
Blinking awake, you notice you’re alone again in the bed, the sheets beside you cold with Lara’s absence. You wonder where she is and force yourself up, legs wobbling underneath you as they struggle to support your weight. Carefully, with a death-grip on the railing, you make your way downstairs, almost falling over when a loud knock at the front door startles you.
Your brows furrow, wondering who would be knocking this early, and your heart rate spikes with anxiety. Scenarios flash through your mind, each worse than the last. You walk quietly to the door and peer through the peephole, relaxing a little when you see it’s just Jonah standing there.
You unlock the deadbolt and open the door, meeting him face to face. His expression is solemn, and you can tell he’s been crying. Your heart sinks again.
“Jonah?”
“Hey…” he says softly. “Can I come in?”
You step aside and let him in, locking the door behind him. He walks to the couch and plops ungracefully onto the cushions. “You might wanna sit down.”
He confirms, choked up, your worst fear. Your face crumples, and with a heavy sob, you fall against him. He holds you, his tears wetting your hair. He tries to spare you the details, but you demand to know what happened to her. Trinity, of course, the fucking cunts—
You gasp, unable to see anything through the complete darkness. Your surroundings gently come into view after a moment of panic, the layout of your shared bedroom becoming clear. Quickly, too quickly, you turn to check for Lara, nauseating dizziness overtaking you as your hands fumble to feel her, make sure she’s here and alive.
She doesn’t stir as your fingers paw at her neck, though, selfishly, you wish she would. You know she’s exhausted, coming home from a long, exerting trip to immediately jump into caring for you, and you’d feel awful to wake her. You can’t help but wish she were up with you, whispering sweet nothings into your ear, kissing you, rubbing your back. Suddenly, a profound feeling of loneliness brings a fresh onslaught of tears. A choked sob escapes your lips, you cover your mouth with your hand to prevent any further noises from coming out, but she moves a little with a sleepy hum.
At your answering sniffle that you try to stifle, Lara rouses, laying a loving hand on your shaking back. “Oh, baby,” she says, thick with sleep, “come here.” She pulls you against her, stomach dropping at the hot tears soaking her neck. “What’s wrong?”
You can’t speak through the tears, the grief of losing her, even in a dream, still raw, a fresh wound you can’t bring yourself to pick at yet. You just cry a little harder, and she holds you tighter in response. Since you can’t seem to talk, Lara doesn’t know what’s wrong, and with a hand to your forehead, she assumes it’s because you’re feeling worse again. She does exactly as you wished she would, kissing your head, whispering promises that you’re alright, she’s got you. And you know she does. “I’m so sorry you don’t feel well, angel.”
You cough in response, and after maybe ten minutes of her rocking you softly, your cries dissolve into wet sniffles. She reaches for the tissues and pulls a few between her fingers, gently pulling your face from her neck, holding your cheek in her hand. She tenderly wipes the tears and snot from your face, then kisses your forehead, and when you feel her lips against yours, you pull away, wrenching yourself back from her grip. “Stop, Lara,” you mumble, turning to the side to cough. “You’re gonna get sick.”
She takes your face in her hands again and makes you look at her. “Don’t worry about that,” she kisses your mouth once more in reassurance. “I’d fuck you just like this if you’d let me.”
A soft, amused laugh spills from your mouth. She can see you processing, considering as the thought crosses your mind. You, of course, would let her, but you don’t like to receive without giving, and you’re currently in no state to fuck her like she deserves. You’re genuinely too tired, feel too frail to do anything, it feels as though even lying here breathing is too much work. Lara knows you don’t feel well, it’s been made very clear, but it shows her just how sick you truly are; you never deny her anything, especially sex. Though she was mostly kidding, it does worry her.
“Why were you crying, sweetheart? Are you feeling worse?”
You want to tell her, open your mouth and let the words spill out, how she was taken from you, murdered, you’d never see her again and there was nothing you could do about it; but even the thought of mentioning it, speaking the words aloud, makes you upset, tears threatening to sting your eyes again, so you just nod weakly. You don’t want to make her feel bad either, she loves exploring and traveling and you don’t want to take that from her, you just wish you could protect her forever, always keep her safe.
She nods, too, and leaves despite your hoarse protests, returning with a fresh cup of water and more disgusting nighttime cold medicine. You take it without argument, blushing as she murmurs praise of how good a girl you are, her good girl. She eases you onto your back and crawls beside you, promising to stay with you, be here when you wake up, with multiple kisses across your face and the top of your head.
You lie together, legs intertwined and you put your cold feet against her shin, making her gasp. The quiet darkness of the bedroom doesn’t scare you now, instead, it’s comforting, along with her warm body against yours, her hand absentmindedly stroking smooth lines up and down your back. The last thing you feel before you fall asleep is a kiss to the top of your head.
When Lara wakes in the morning, she’s pleased to see you’re still sleeping, mouth open and snoring softly. She leans on her elbow to take a sip of your water, brows creasing when she notices it’s a bit painful to swallow. Maybe she also slept with her mouth open. She tries to breathe through her nose, cringing when it proves fruitless, a thick wall of congestion blocking air from passing through.
She knows she’s in for a long few days, but all that really matters to Lara is that you’re taken care of, that you know she loves you and there’s nothing she wouldn’t do for you.
Summary: You like Lara, but does Lara like you back..?
CW: slightly suggestive towards the end, tiny bit of angst with comfort, it’s all fluff trust, blood (not a lot tho), reader with her dramatic ahh confession lmaooo, gays and bonfires brooo, two usually emotionally unavailable individuals admitting they like each other, short & sweet, 2.5k wc
Note: wowwww, first time writing for miss Lara Croft.. kinda nervous here..
The campfire crackled loudly, echoing off the empty cave walls. You sat near the entrance, orange flames warming your front, while the chilly night wind sent shivers down your spine.
Lara moved around the small space, throwing more stray twigs into the fire you found earlier to keep it going, praying it survives the entire night.
You wince after another cold breeze brushes against your skin. The deep gash on your arm stings and throbs uncomfortable, reminding you of your unattended wound.
The brunette perks up at the sound, tossing the last stick in the pit of flames, dusting her pants off before coming around and taking a seat right next to you.
Lara hesitately reaches out, fingertips ghosting the irritated skin surrounding the injury before flinching from your loud hiss of pain.
“We need to get that cleaned.”
She reaches over into a brown bag, rummaging through it as you watch, eyebrow raised and a small smile creasing the corner of your lips.
Lara finds the first aid kit, and pops it open to see what’s been left over. She glances, eyes spotting the medical gauze and quickly snatching the item up in her grasp.
As she unravels the bandages, she looks up at you through her lashes, and my god you don’t like how your heart speeds up and your stomach starts twisting in uncomfortable ways.
“This is going to hurt.”
You laugh, but as soon as she applies pressure and begins wrapping the cut, the sound turns into a groan of pain. Lara quietly apologizes as she continues, watching your blood seep and turn the white bandages red.
She goes over the area a few more times, making sure it's secure before tying it. You exhale sharply, moving your arm around in a circular motion to get the feel of everything.
“Is it good? And it’s not too tight, right? Not cutting out any blood circulation?” Lara asks.
You give the Croft a nod, the throbbing still there but it’ll have to make do until you two get back to civilization.
Lara pulls her attention away to put the med kit back in the bag, which gives you plenty of time to just look at her. I mean, the Lara Croft is sitting right next to you, she bandaged your wound, checked up on you and even let you be her partner on this expedition, knowing damn well it’s usually Jonah or Sam.
“You should check yourself,” You break the silence, causing Lara to raise her head back up and tilt it to the side in confusion.
The action reminded you of a puppy. She reminds you of a puppy, it’s sickly adorable and endearing.
You stare at each other for a few seconds, you scan her up and down, from the tip of her boots to the top of her head. You take in all the tiny bruises and cuts you can spot, her flawless skin smudged with dirt and dust and sweat, her dark gray tank top soaked in water from earlier but she’s still the most gorgeous woman you’ve ever seen.
Even if she’s caked in old temple grime and blood that’s hers (and sometimes isn’t).
“Your wounds,” You continue where you left off. “You should fix your injuries, even if they’re tiny.”
“Oh..” Lara mumbles, but then pushes a stray strand of brown hair behind her ear, the smile she was trying really hard to fight against breaking out across her face.
“That’s really sweet of you, Y/n. But, you should be more worried about yours.” Lara tries to shrug off your words, clipping the bag closed.
“I could say the same thing about you, Lara.” You raise a brow, fingers idly playing with your knife.
The brunette pauses, then shakes her head amusingly and straightens herself back up.
You two bathe in the peaceful quietness, the flames from the campfire burn bright, heating up the small cave relatively fast.
Your fingers mindlessly continue to twirl the blade, keeping your hands busy as your mind races and processes all the things that went down today.
Then the British woman beside you sighs, drawing you out of your daydream.
“God, I—I’m so sorry, Y/n. I got you in this mess, dragged you into it and now look—“
Now Lara is staring directly at you, the campfire long forgotten. Guilt and worry paint her features, brows frowned deep and it looks like she’s on the verge of crying.
A puppy. A cute, guilty puppy that got told no or they know they did something wrong. A clingy puppy that refuses to leave your side.
Lara Croft is a fucking puppy. And you hate how it makes you want to do anything and everything for her, drop everything for her, give her the whole world if you could.
As if she doesn’t have the money to buy the whole world..
But, A for effort.
“You’re hurt and we’re not anywhere closer to the artifact and Trinity could be ahead of us—“
“No, hey. Don’t start.” You grab the brunette by her shoulders, stopping her from spiraling any further.
“All of this isn’t your fault, none of it is.” You make sure you choose your next words carefully. “Things happen, it’s inevitable. But for everything that has gone down this whole trip, none of it was your fault.”
“You didn’t put me in this mess, you didn’t give me any of these cuts.” Your hold moves down from Lara’s shoulders to her arms, grip still firm but reassuring.
“I did, not you. I knew what was at risk when I accepted your offer to assist you on this expedition, what I was getting myself into.”
You pause, sinking in Lara’s features. The orange hue from the flames and her big brown eyes adds this domestic feel to this conversation, prompting bufferfiles to go crazy in your stomach. Her bottom lip is jutted out, almost like she’s pouting, and my god.. the things it’s doing to you.
You’re trying so hard to focus, you really are. To cheer Lara up, to reassure her that everything will be okay. But when she’s looking at you like that, all you can think about is how you would kiss every single scar on her skin, and whisper sweet nothings against her lips.
You swallow, forcing your mind to reel back to reality. Right, bad time to be giving Lara bedroom eyes.
“So stop blaming yourself. Stop thinking that you have to carry all this weight on your own, and trust me, I’ve been there.”
Your hands drop from Lara’s arms, and you don’t notice the flash of disappointment in her pupils at the loss of your touch.
“Just loosen up, and be less stubborn.”
You nudge her shoulder a little with your fist, prompting a cute giggle to slip from her lips.
God, the things you would do to hear that giggle all the time.
“I’m glad you decided to tag along,” Lara smiles at you, knees brought up to her chest as she rests her forearms on them. “Even if it didn’t go as I thought it would.”
You decided to take small bold steps, scooting a tad bit closer to the British.
“Yeah.” Your eyes subconsciously trail down to her lips. “I’m glad you asked me.”
Maybe you shouldn’t be staring this long, yearning this hard for a woman who hasn’t shown clear interest in any romantic relationships. But you’ve seen the way she looks at Sam, how Sam looks at her, how Lara would do everything to rescue Sam. Shit, she destroyed a whole island for Sam, someone she’s known since uni years.
How can you compete against that..?
Lara notices the change in your face, the slight frown in your brows and how your eyes drift to the side, away from her, forcing yourself to be hypnotized by the dancing flames from the campfire.
With no words being spoken, Lara reaches out, her fingertips brush alongside your jaw, directing your attention back on her, though she does fumble awkwardly.
She stares you down, refusing to break eye contact, and her beady eyes make it so difficult to look away.
“What’s wrong?”
She whispers, like a secret is being spilled and wants only you to hear. Her accent sounds thicker, something you would usually tease her about but right now it feels like you can’t function properly.
Her thumb grazes over a small scar on your cheek, and all these strong emotions are making you nervous.
It’s funny, really. You can kill and incapacitate a man twice your weight and size for a relic, but simply cannot confess your feelings to a woman you’ve yearned for, was always so baffling to you.
I mean, you were never really good at communicating your emotions anyways.
You’d rather bottle them up and throw said bottle in the sea than have to come face to face with how you feel.
But at this very moment, it would be pointless to lie your way out.
The worst Lara could do is leave you stranded in Syria and force you to find your way back to civilization yourself when she rejects you, it’s all good.
Just another Tuesday.
But, Lara is too nice and wouldn’t do that to you.
Unless you’re really a dick and a fat one at that.
You go to speak, but the words die in your throat. Your mouth opens and closes, still debating on how to drop the ball to the brunette. The British in any normal circumstances would’ve laughed at your puzzled look, but something in her gut is telling her now isn’t the time for harmless jabs of teasing.
Lara waits, and she is unbelievably patient. The cracking of the fire and the chilly Syria breeze don’t register in your ears or against your skin, as she continues to caress that same scar on your cheekbone.
“Y/n?”
That’s what tips you over the edge.
Lara’s voice, Lara’s brown eyes staring at you, Lara’s fingers on your face. Lara’s kindness and care.
Lara Croft.
Oh. My. Fucking. God. You’re so in love with Lara Croft.
“I like you.” You finally spill out.
“I like you, and not in the way you’re immediately thinking. I have these intense emotions for you, anything you do, they spark up. You being around triggers it. Just hearing your voice, or your name, or seeing your face causes butterflies in my guts and makes my heart do backflips. I can’t think straight, you make me act like a fool with one look and I feel like I’ve won the jackpot when you smile at me. A genuine, beautiful smile tossed my way.”
You take a breather, grabbing her wrist and tilting your head slightly to the right to press a soft kiss to the inside of her palm.
“I like you, Lara Croft. And you don’t have to like me back, and I might be asking too much for you to just forget and for our friendship to remain the same…”
Now you can’t look her in the eyes as you say this.
“But, please. If you decided to leave and want nothing to do with me anymore.. leave after this expedition is done, okay? That’s all I’m asking.”
If Lara decides to leave, she wouldn’t be the first to do so.
The silence loses its peaceful factor, it’s deafening. All you can hear is Lara and your breathing, and your heart hammering loudly in your ears.
As more seconds pass with Lara not saying anything, humiliation and embarrassment burns deeper into your chest.
This was a mistake.
“Look, you know what, just forget I said anything at all—“
You find the courage to look back at the Brit, only for your words to die in your throat. You expected a look of disgust, not interested in your feelings or confession, a look that screamed rejection.
But what stared back at you was anything but rejection.
Lara’s face flushed a pretty pink, her eyes kinda wide and lips parted to speak but nothing came.
Now, it’s your turn to be confused.
Lara shakes herself out of whatever daze she was in, and shyly avoids eye contact. The tips of her ears getting redder and the blush deepening.
“Oh.. I didn’t know..” The hand that was in your grasp falls back onto her lap.
Here comes what you’ve been dreading the most.
“But, you like me.. yes?”
You give a slow nod.
“I like you too.”
Huh..?
That’s not part of the script.
“What?” You respond before your brain can stop you, eyebrows raised high up to your hairline.
Lara gives you a cute smile, the ones that always made your heart squeeze up from adorableness.
“You heard me, Y/n.”
You must be hearing wrong then.
For some reason, you can’t fathom that Lara reciprocates your feelings. Maybe it’s unhealed trauma resurfacing, maybe it’s inevitable that all good things come to an end and you rather disappoint yourself sooner than later.
But when Lara’s hand finds itself back on your cheek once again, gently caressing the skin, and a look of reassurance plastered on her beautiful face, you start to feel your walls crumble and ease in at the possibility that she does like you back.
More silence hangs over you both, and you don’t shy away from pressing a warm kiss to her wrist, moving down her forearm before pulling Lara closer.
She gasps softly, the tip of her nose brushing against yours, lips so close yet not close enough.
“So, a date after this expedition?” You charmingly ask.
Lara giggles, arms wrapping around your shoulders, both your hands rest on the ground right by her hips, waiting for when you have permission to touch.
“Why? You don’t like this one now?” She tilts her head to the side like a puppy once again, one hand moving up to cradle the back one your neck, fingertips playing with your baby hairs.
That’s your permission to move.
Your hands move to her hips, practically manhandling the shorter woman into your lap. Lara laughs, which quickly turns into a soft moan as you kiss her cheek and travel down to her jaw and neck.
“Mhmm, no this expedition is wonderful.” You mumble against her warm skin, finding a spot to gently suck on.
“But, maybe visiting the museum in London or a less life threatening dig sight would be more appropriate for a first date. Don’t you think so, love?”
The brunette hums absentmindedly, lost in your touch as she guides your hands from her hips to underneath her tank top, melting into your chest as your thumbs stroke her toned but soft tummy.
“Mhm.. y-yes.. that sounds lovely..” Another soft moan slips out, your cold hands sending a nice shiver down Lara’s body. “Can we talk about date plans later.. please?”
“Just..” her words almost die in her throat as she watches behind half-lidded eyes you kiss and suck at her collarbone.
“Keep touching me.” Lara shyly requests.
A task you definitely can’t say no to.
And like the fool you are, you nod so quickly you might’ve given yourself whiplash.
The rest of the hours get drowned in quiet intimacy and a lot of catching up. Trinity and the relic are forgotten for the night. With the only things you want to remember in the morning being how Lara feels against you, or how she gasps out your name, and how you feel like the happiest woman on planet earth.
