ire

The glittery wings were bent from being stuffed in the dress-up bin too many times, and the tulle skirt was a little too short after a year-long growth spurt, but she didn't care. It made her feel pretty, so she wore it.

Her mom tried to talk her out of it, and Sam sighed like she was already embarrassed on her behalf, but Tara had been stubborn even then.

She had marched out the door, wings bouncing with every step, and refused to acknowledge the weird looks from other kids.

It was the same when she cut her own bangs in the first grade.

She had gotten bored, found a pair of dull craft scissors, and decided she wanted a change. The result was uneven and way too short, a jagged mess that made her mom gasp when she saw it. Sam winced and tried to smooth it down for her, saying she'd regret it when she looked back at pictures.

Tara just shrugged. It was her hair. If she didn't care, then why should anyone else?

That was how she had always been—bold, impulsive, never second-guessing herself. She wasn't reckless, not really, but she never understood the point of worrying about what people thought.

Her parents didn't know where it came from.

Sam was careful, always weighing her choices, always thinking ahead. She cared about things like reputation, about saying the right thing and making the right impression. She was the responsible one, the one who took after their mom, the one who fit into every expectation placed in front of her.

Tara was different.

She did things because she wanted to, because they felt right in the moment. She never thought too hard about whether she should. And when people questioned her, when they looked at her like she was weird or childish, she never let it get to her.

When she was eight, she declared that she was going to be a superhero for career day, no matter how many times her teacher told her to pick something realistic.

And when she was ten, she ran straight into a fight with a kid twice her size because he made fun of her friend's lisp. She had come home with a bloody nose and a proud grin, and Sam had scolded her the whole time she was pressing an ice pack to her face.

"You don't just fight people, Tara," Sam had said, exasperated. "What if he had really hurt you?"

"He didn't," Tara had replied. "And he won't make fun of her again."

That was what mattered to her—doing what she felt was right, standing by the choices she made, never letting anyone make her feel small.

And shame? That wasn't something she carried.

When other kids went through awkward phases, blushing at old photos or cringing at past decisions, Tara barely blinked. She had no regrets, no embarrassment. She never understood why Sam stressed over things like reputation or what people might whisper behind her back.

Tara didn't let people's opinions shape her. She never had. She was bold, confident, completely sure of herself in a way that most kids weren't.

But that didn't mean she was immune to normal things. Crushes, for example.

Her first celebrity crush had been Heath Ledger in 10 Things I Hate About You. She was barely old enough to understand what a crush was, but she knew she liked watching him. He had that effortless charm, that mischievous smile—she figured that was what people meant when they said someone was attractive.

But as she got older, that crush faded.

She expected another one to take its place. That's how it worked, right? You grew up, your tastes changed, you found someone new to fawn over.

Except... she didn't.

At least, not the way she was supposed to.

Because when she rewatched the movie, waiting for that familiar feeling to settle in at the sight of Heath's smirk, it never came. Instead, she felt something entirely different—something she didn't understand—when Julia Stiles appeared on screen.

It wasn't just that she admired her. It wasn't just that she thought she was cool. It was the way her stomach flipped at the sharpness of her voice, the confidence in her posture. It was the way she suddenly found herself hyper-fixated on the little things—her smirk, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear, the sharp glint in her eyes when she delivered a cutting remark.

And it wasn't just her.

It was the girl in her chemistry class with the pretty hands. The soccer captain who always had her hair in a messy bun. The stranger she saw at the mall, dressed in a leather jacket and looking effortlessly cool.

But she didn't get it.

Because that wasn't supposed to happen.

She had always been confident in who she was. She never questioned herself, never second-guessed her choices. But this? This threw her off. It didn't fit into the version of herself she had always known.

So, for the first time in her life, she did the one thing she never thought she would.

She ignored it.

At least, she tried to.

But it was impossible to ignore something that followed her everywhere. Her eyes drifted—unintentionally at first, but then with growing awareness. The girls in her classes, the ones at the mall, the cashier at the grocery store. It wasn't just about noticing them, either. It was the way her stomach tensed when a girl laughed in that soft, pretty way, or the heat that crept up her neck when one of them brushed past her too closely.

And then there were the movies.

She used to argue hard whenever Mindy and Annika suggested a rom-com over a horror flick. But lately? She still huffed, still acted annoyed, but the protests weren't as strong as before. And when a sex scene came on, she didn't roll her eyes or fake gag anymore.

Because the problem was, she was watching.

Not the man. Never the man.

Her focus lingered elsewhere—on the curves of a woman's body, the softness of her skin, the way her lips parted on a moan. Tara didn't mean to stare, didn't mean to feel anything, but she did.

And that terrified her more than any horror movie ever could.

Not because she thought it was wrong. Tara hadn't grown up in a religious household, where being gay was condemned, or in a place where she'd been taught to believe it was unnatural. Her family never gave her any reason to think she couldn't be whoever she wanted, love whoever she wanted.

She had lesbian friends, gay friends. Mindy was out and proud, never hesitating to call a girl hot in the middle of a conversation. No one ever looked twice. It was normal. Accepted. Fine.

So why didn't it feel fine for her?

She knew it wasn't wrong—she wasn't stupid. She'd never side-eyed anyone for being into girls, never thought twice when someone came out. But somehow, when it was her—when the label curled around her throat and squeezed—it felt different.

Tara had spent her whole life knowing exactly who she was. She had never been unsure. She was bold. Confident. Unapologetic. She cut her own bangs with safety scissors when she was six and shrugged when Sam gasped at the mess she made.

She wore her Halloween costume from last year to school in the middle of March because she liked it. When she made a decision, she stuck to it, never second-guessed herself, never hesitated.

But this? This wasn't something she chose.

It crept up on her, slithered into her brain like an unwanted thought, a splinter she couldn't pull out. And it was infuriating, because she had never questioned herself before—never felt like she had to.

And yet, here she was.

Staring too long at girls in her classes, feeling her chest go tight when a woman laughed a certain way, blinking too fast at the TV whenever a female character undressed.

This wasn't supposed to happen to her.

It was okay for other people to be gay. She never questioned that. It was fine, normal, good for them. But when she looked at herself, at the thought of admitting it, of saying it out loud—it felt impossible. Like it didn't belong to her. Like the rules were different for her, even though she knew, logically, they weren't.

Maybe that was what scared her the most.

That for the first time in her life, she wasn't sure of herself.

That for the first time in her life, she felt ashamed.

She hated it. Hated how it made her feel like a stranger in her own skin, like she had something to hide when she had never hidden anything in her life.

And the worst part? Mindy was starting to notice.

Or maybe she wasn't. Maybe she was just being Mindy, teasing for the sake of getting a rise out of her like she always did. But Tara felt exposed all the same, like she was standing in the middle of a room with a spotlight on her, like any second now someone would call her out and she wouldn't have a damn thing to say in return.

It started small.

It started with little things. A smirk when a pretty girl passed by. A knowing look when Tara stumbled over her words around someone attractive. A casual, So, you got a thing for brunettes now? when Tara glanced at someone for half a second too long.

It was nothing. Just jokes. But every time, Tara felt a spike of panic she couldn't shake.

Because she wasn't used to this—this hesitation, this awareness of herself. Normally, if someone called her out on something, she'd just own it. Shrug it off. Yeah, so what? But now, the idea of admitting anything made her stomach twist.

She could play it off, roll her eyes, throw a sarcastic comment back. But Mindy wasn't stupid. And she wasn't letting it go.

One night, they were walking back from a party when Mindy casually nudged her side and said, You totally froze up when that girl talked to you.

Tara scoffed, stuffing her hands into her jacket pockets. I did not.

You did. And you were blushing.

I don't blush.

Mindy had just grinned, like she had already made up her mind. Uh-huh. Sure.

Tara had let it go, pretended it didn't bother her. But later, alone in her room, she caught herself replaying the interaction in her head, her chest tightening with frustration.

Why did she care so much?

Why did it matter what Mindy thought?

Maybe because deep down, she wasn't entirely sure Mindy was wrong.

And if Mindy could see it, then who else could?

That was what scared her the most. Because Mindy wasn't wrong. That was the worst part.

And whenever Mindy made comments about it, Tara would scoff, roll her eyes, shove her shoulder, mutter something about reaching—

But every time, her pulse would quicken, her ears would burn, and she'd feel the panic rise in her chest like a tidal wave.

It wasn't just the waitress at the diner, the one with the dimples and the low-cut uniform. It wasn't just the girl in her sociology class, the one with the raspy voice who always showed up with a cold brew and a half-smirk. It was everywhere.

At the gym, when she caught herself watching the way a girl tied up her ponytail, the smooth shift of her muscles.

At the grocery store, when she found herself staring just a little too long at the woman reaching for something on the top shelf, her shirt lifting just enough to reveal a sliver of her stomach.

At movie night, when she no longer protested the romance movies Mindy and Anika picked—because she didn't mind watching them anymore.

That was the real problem. Because she still hated the cheesy dialogue and the unrealistic plotlines, but whenever there was a sex scene, whenever a woman undressed, Tara wasn't looking away.

She didn't want to.

And that terrified her.

Because it wasn't just a thought anymore, wasn't just something lurking in the back of her mind that she could ignore. It was becoming real, something she couldn't control. She started feeling like people could see it—like it was written all over her, like she had a neon sign above her head flashing Tara Carpenter likes girls.

And maybe nobody actually noticed. Maybe nobody gave a damn. But it didn't matter because she felt exposed anyway, like someone could call her out at any second. Like Mindy's teasing wasn't just teasing anymore—like it was an accusation.

It was in the way people looked at her, in the way her own skin felt too tight, too obvious. She started overthinking every little thing—how long she looked at a girl, whether she was staring, whether her voice sounded different when she spoke to someone pretty. Whether she was acting different.

And the worst part was that she didn't even know if she was right. She didn't know if people actually saw something in her that she hadn't seen before, or if she was just losing her mind over nothing. But it didn't matter. The fear was there, real and suffocating, and it was eating her alive.

So she did the only thing she could think to do.

She got a boyfriend.

Or, more accurately, she asked Chad out.

It wasn't some grand realization. It wasn't even a well-thought-out decision. It was desperation. Panic. Like a reflex, like slamming the brakes at the last second before a crash.

And Chad just happened to be there.

And in a way, it made sense. She'd known him forever. Before high school, before college, before parties and liquor and sneaking out when Sam wasn't looking. He was familiar. Safe. He liked her. Everyone knew that.

Ever since sixth grade, people had whispered about it. Girls in their class used to giggle and nudge each other whenever Chad so much as looked at her. It was obvious.

He was the guy who always found excuses to talk to her, who laughed a little too hard at her jokes, who got weirdly competitive when she dated someone else, even when there was no reason to be.

So when she asked him out, there was no hesitation.

He said yes before she even finished the sentence.

And that was supposed to be it.

She had a boyfriend now. That was supposed to fix everything.

It was supposed to make things go away—the butterflies in her stomach, the heat crawling up her neck whenever a girl smiled at her, the way she noticed things she wasn't supposed to notice.

It was supposed to make Mindy shut up.

It was supposed to be easy.

But it wasn't.

If anything, it only got worse.

At first, she told herself it was working. That it was fine. She had a boyfriend. She was in a relationship. If people had questions before, they wouldn't anymore.

And it wasn't like she hated Chad. He was sweet. Affectionate. A little too eager sometimes, but that wasn't new. And for a while, she let herself believe that this was how it was supposed to be.

But then he kissed her.

And it wasn't bad. There was nothing wrong with it. His lips were soft, his hands were warm, he knew what he was doing. But for some reason, Tara felt wrong.

Like she was trying to force something that wasn't there.

And maybe that would've been fine if it was just the kissing. If it stopped at making out on his couch, at him pulling her into his lap at parties, at his arm draped lazily around her shoulders.

But it didn't stop.

And that was when the real problem started.

Because the first time they had sex, she didn't feel relieved.

She felt nothing.

No spark, no excitement, no rush of pleasure or warmth curling through her stomach. Just the uncomfortable realization that she was waiting for it to feel like something more.

And it never did.

She knew what sex was supposed to feel like—what it was supposed to do to her. But with Chad, it was just... there. Mechanical. Predictable. And all she could think about was whether it would be different if it were a woman.

Would a woman's lips feel softer than Chad's? Would her moans be louder? Would Tara's own moans sound different—less forced, less careful—if she wasn't holding back, if she actually wanted it?

Would the right spots be hit without her having to guide him there?

Would she ache for it the way she was supposed to?

She didn't know.

But she wanted to.

And THAT was the worst part. Because she wasn't supposed to be thinking about this. She wasn't supposed to be comparing. But every time Chad touched her, every time his hands slipped under her shirt, every time he pressed her into the mattress and murmured her name against her skin, she found herself wondering.

Would it feel better?

Would it feel right?

And once that thought was in her head, it wouldn't leave.

No matter how hard she tried, no matter how much she wanted to be normal, it wasn't working.

And with every day that passed, she started to realize—maybe it never would.

That thought alone should have terrified her. Should have made her try harder to make things with Chad work, to prove to herself that this was just a phase, a weird glitch in her brain that she could push through.

But instead, it just made her angry.

Because she had done everything RIGHT. She had played by the rules, followed the script, done exactly what she was supposed to do. And yet, here she was, stuck in her own damn head, questioning things she shouldn’t be questioning.

And it didn't help that you existed.

You weren't someone that necessarily stood out in a crowd—not in the way Mindy did, always loud, always on, impossible to ignore. But Tara knew you.

Everybody did.

Because you weren't just out, you were openly out. Unapologetically. The kind of gay that didn't need to be announced because it was just there. The way you dressed, the way you carried yourself, the way you talked about girls without ever hesitating.

Mindy was the same way, sure, but Mindy was Mindy. She had always been that way—loud, cocky, the self-proclaimed expert on all things queer.

But you? You weren't loud. You weren't in people's faces about it. You just were. And for some reason, that made it so much worse.

Because it meant Tara couldn't ignore you.

And she had tried.

God, had she tried.

But no matter what, her eyes always seemed to find you at parties, leaning against a wall with a drink in hand, laughing at something someone said. Or in class, when you stretched in your seat, the hem of your shirt riding up just a little. Or when you passed by in the hall, chatting with Anika about some girl you had hooked up with the weekend before.

It made Tara's stomach twist in ways she didn't understand.

Because she wasn't jealous. Not really.

So then why did she care?

Why did it bother her so much?

Why did she hate how easy it seemed for you? How you never hesitated, never stumbled over your words, never had to second-guess every single thing you felt?

Maybe that's why she had looked at you that night at the party.

Maybe that's why she had kept looking.

And maybe that's why, when she finally realized you had caught her, she couldn't bring herself to look away.

The party had been the same as every other frat party—loud, overcrowded, the air thick with cheap beer and sweat and the distant scent of weed. The living room was packed, music shaking the walls, bodies pressed together, some dancing, some just using it as an excuse to grope each other. The kitchen was worse, sticky floors and an overworked fridge stuffed with liquor bottles, people shouting over each other as they took shots, beer pong cups scattered across every available surface.

It wasn't Tara's scene. Not really. But Mindy had dragged her out, Anika too, and after a couple of drinks, the haze had settled in just enough to make it bearable.

And then she had seen you.

She hadn't even known you were going to be there. But one second, she was standing near the edge of the living room, half-listening to some guy rant about his business major, and the next, her eyes had locked onto you—and everything else just faded into background noise.

Because you weren't just there.

You were hot.

Tara had always known you were attractive in the way someone KNOWS things without really thinking about it. She had eyes. She wasn't blind. But that night, it hit her. It knocked the air from her lungs, settled thick and heavy in the pit of her stomach, made her pulse in places she shouldn't have been thinking about.

The alcohol made it worse.

She should've been angry—angry that you were here, that you were making her feel things she didn't want to feel. But she wasn't.

She was just staring.

Her grip tightened around her cup, her lips parted slightly as she took you in—your outfit, the way it hugged your body in all the right places, the effortless confidence in the way you carried yourself.

You weren't wearing something basic, like a black cat or a schoolgirl outfit. No, you were dressed as something that exuded confidence, something cocky—mafia boss style, but with a spin that made it impossible to ignore.

A fitted black blazer, tailored to perfection, cinched at the waist with a sleek belt. Underneath, a deep-cut silk blouse, the first few buttons undone just enough to tease, the fabric clinging to your frame in a way that made it hard not to look.

The skirt was short—really short—hugging your hips before stopping dangerously high on your thighs, paired with sheer black stockings that ran smooth down to your heels.

A fake cigar rested between your fingers, just for the effect, and a thin gold chain sat against your collarbone, glinting under the dim party lights. The whole look screamed power, control— trouble.

Tara's body reacted before her brain could catch up.

Her stomach tightened. Her thighs pressed together instinctively, and she felt a rush of heat spread through her—low and needy and completely out of her control.

Because you weren't even trying. You weren't flirting with her, weren't giving her any special attention. You were just existing—laughing with your friends, a drink in hand, head tilting back slightly as you said something that made them all grin.

And yet, Tara felt like she was the one being hunted.

It wasn't fair.

It wasn't normal.

And the second you turned your head, the second your eyes met hers, the smirk that tugged at your lips was enough to make her stomach drop.

Because Tara had never expected you to actually notice her.

She had been staring, sure—longer than she should have, more obviously than she meant to. But the idea of you catching her? The idea of you actually seeing her? That hadn't even crossed her mind.

She was frozen for a second, unsure if she should look away, pretend she hadn’t been blatantly checking you out.

But before she could decide, you were already moving—pushing off the counter with an effortless kind of confidence, weaving through the crowd like you had all the time in the world.

And you didn't hesitate. Didn't stop. Walked straight up to her like you had known her for years, like there was no question about it, like this was something that had always been meant to happen.

For a second, she thought you were going to say something cocky. Something teasing, something about the way she had been looking at you, something that would make her panic spike even higher.

Instead, you had just said her name.

Like it was obvious. Like of course you knew who she was.

Tara didn't even remember what she had said back, because her mind had been caught on you. On the way you leaned in a little when you talked, the way you smelled like expensive perfume and vodka, the way the room was too loud but she could still hear you.

And the worst part? She could barely even keep her gaze up.

Her eyes kept drifting—down to the smooth skin of your collarbone, the gold chain resting against it. Lower, to where your silk blouse was open just enough to show a teasing amount of cleavage.

She had snapped her gaze back up quickly, hoping you hadn't noticed.

You had.

After that, she didn't remember much. At least, not in detail.

She remembered you handing her another drink, remembered the feeling of your fingers brushing hers. She remembered how your lips looked around the rim of your glass, how you licked a drop of alcohol off your bottom lip without thinking. She remembered how close you stood, how the warmth of your body practically wrapped around hers, even though you weren't touching.

And she remembered that the second she was with you, she stopped thinking about HIM.

Chad was somewhere—probably off doing some stupid drinking challenge with his teammates, yelling over a game of beer pong, flexing or showing off or whatever the hell he and his sport-obsessed friends did. But the important thing was that he wasn't here.

And Tara didn’t care.

He didn't cross her mind once. Not when you leaned in to say something against her ear, your breath warm against her skin. Not when you laughed at something she said and touched her arm, your fingers grazing her through the sleeve of her jacket. Not when your eyes flicked down to her lips and back up again, slow, deliberate.

And definitely not when she found herself tilting her head, when the alcohol made her bold enough to not overthink, when she kissed you before she could stop herself.

That part was hazy.

All she knew was that one second, you were standing close, and the next, her lips were on yours. And she didn't regret it. Not even a little.

She didn't know who pulled who. Didn't know how it had escalated so quickly. All she knew was that at some point, your fingers curled around her wrist, and she let you guide her through the crowd, past the bodies pressed together, past the couples making out in dark corners, past the booming music.

And then you were in a bedroom.

And that was where everything really started.

Tara barely remembered how you got there. One moment, the party had been a blur of flashing lights and pounding music, the heat of bodies pressing in on her from all sides.

And then, suddenly, it was just you. Just the two of you, the noise of the party fading behind a closed door, leaving nothing but the sound of her own breathing and the pounding of her pulse.

Fuck.

She should have hesitated. She should have thought about Chad. But she didn't.

Not when you were this close, your scent filling her nose—something dark and sweet, like vanilla and smoke. Not when your fingers brushed her wrist, sending a spark up her arm. Not when your gaze flickered down to her mouth like you already knew exactly what she wanted.

And then your lips were on hers, and—fuck.

It wasn't like kissing Chad. With him, it had always been easy, predictable. She knew what to expect, what it would feel like. But this? This was something else entirely. Your lips were softer, but the way you kissed her was anything but. You didn't just kiss—you took. You grabbed her, pulled her into you, kissed her like you owned her.

Tara barely even noticed when her back hit the door. Not when your hands slid beneath her top, fingers ghosting over her ribs, dragging up her sides. Not when your knee pressed between her thighs, making her suck in a sharp breath.

She had never felt like this before.

With Chad, she had always been able to keep a part of herself detached. But with you? There was no thinking. No overanalyzing. Just the sharp, intoxicating press of your body against hers, the way your mouth trailed down her jaw, her neck, biting just hard enough to make her gasp.

Her hands moved on their own, slipping beneath your blazer, pushing it off your shoulders. She barely had time to register the sound of it hitting the floor before her fingers were on the buttons of your shirt, fumbling as she pulled it open.

And then she saw you.

The smooth curve of your shoulders, the way the dim lighting cast shadows along your stomach. The black lace of your bra, barely covering your chest. She couldn't stop staring. Couldn't stop wanting.

You grinned like you knew exactly what was going through her mind, and then your hands were on her thighs, gripping tight as you lifted her onto the dresser. Her legs parted without hesitation, wrapping around your waist as your lips crashed back against hers.

Tara didn't remember how her top came off, only that suddenly she was half-naked, her back pressed against the mirror, your hands roaming her body like you needed to touch every inch of her.

And then you were lowering yourself, trailing kisses down her chest, over her stomach, sinking to your knees between her thighs.

Her breath hitched.

Chad had never done this.

And when your mouth pressed against her, when your tongue flicked against her in a way that made her spine arch—

She knew.

This was what she had been craving all along.

And Tara still remembered it.

It wasn't just that it had felt good—it was the way it had felt right. The way her body had reacted to every touch, every flick of your tongue, every bite, every fucking thing you did to her like she had been waiting for it her whole life without even knowing.

She had never felt euphoric before. Never felt her limbs go weak, her head go light, her stomach twist with something dangerously close to desperation. But that night, with your hands gripping her thighs, your mouth between them, your voice murmuring something low and filthy against her skin—it was like a switch had flipped.

With Chad, it had always been just...fine. Nice, in the way that it was supposed to be.

He touched her the way a boyfriend should.

He kissed her the way a boyfriend should.

He made sure she was taken care of, in the way that a boyfriend should.

And Tara had always figured that was enough.

But this?

This was something else entirely.

It was the way you didn't just kiss her—you devoured her. Like she was something to be tasted, something to be enjoyed. It was the way your hands gripped her like you needed her closer, the way your nails dragged over her thighs, the way your tongue moved like you knew exactly how to make her fall apart.

And fuck, did she fall apart.

She had never been this loud before. She had never shaken like this, never clutched at the sheets, never let her head fall back, mouth open, eyes squeezed shut as you pulled every single sound out of her like you owned them.

And you did.

Because it wasn't just what you were doing—it was the way you did it. The way you looked up at her with those fucking eyes, the way you didn't stop, not even when she swore she couldn't take any more, not even when her legs trembled around your shoulders.

And when she finally did come apart, gasping your name, head thrown back, body arching, back hitting the mirror so hard she thought it might crack—she had never felt something like that before.

She knew it was wrong.

She should have felt guilty. She should have felt sick to her stomach, ashamed, horrified at what she had just done. She had Chad—sweet, loyal Chad—waiting for her somewhere downstairs, probably wondering where she had disappeared to. She had a boyfriend, and she had just—

But it didn't feel wrong.

It should have. God, it should have. She should have been scrambling for her clothes, should have been choking on regret, should have been thinking of ways to explain it away. But instead, all she could feel was the aftershocks still pulsing through her body, the ghost of your hands on her skin, the warm, lazy hum in her limbs.

It didn't feel like a mistake.

It didn't feel like something to regret.

It felt like something she had needed.

But she should have pushed you away.

She should have looked at you with disgust, should have spat out some excuse about being drunk, about making a mistake, about how this wasn’t her, about how this couldn’t happen again.

But she didn't.

Because it didn't feel like a mistake.

And when you moved closer, when your fingers trailed lazily over her bare skin, when your lips brushed against her neck as if you were inviting her to take more—to take everything—Tara didn't pull away.

Instead, before she could even think, before she could stop herself, she heard herself asking if you could do this again sometime.

The words had slipped out so easily, like she had been waiting to say them, like they had been sitting on the tip of her tongue for months, just waiting for the chance to be spoken.

And when you smirked, when you leaned in and murmured something she could barely register through the haze in her head, when your lips brushed over hers one last time before pulling away—Tara knew.

She wasn't going to stop.

She couldn’t stop.

Because no matter how wrong it was, no matter how much she should have felt guilty—she wanted it. And that was the worst part.

Or maybe the worst part was that it happened again.

She should have known it would.

Because the moment she walked out of that frat house, the moment she left you behind in that bedroom, she couldn't stop thinking about you. About what had happened. About how fucking good it had felt.

She should have felt guilty.

She should have gone home, called Chad, done something to make this feel like a mistake. But instead, she laid in bed that night, staring at the ceiling, body still humming, hands gripping the sheets because she couldn't fucking sleep—because she wanted more.

And then, a few days later, she got a text.

meet me in ten.

No context. No explanation. Just an address and a ticking clock.

She shouldn't have gone.

But she did.

She told herself she wasn't going for that, that she just wanted to see what you had to say, that she just wanted to—fuck, she didn't know. But she found herself getting in her car anyway, her hands tightening around the wheel the closer she got.

The address you had sent led her to an empty parking lot just outside of town, the kind of place people went when they didn't want to be seen. Your car was parked in the farthest corner, backed up against a row of trees, tinted windows hiding whatever happened inside.

It was the perfect spot.

And Tara knew exactly why you had picked it.

Her heart was pounding when she parked beside you. Her body was already warm, already tingling with anticipation as she climbed into your passenger seat.

And the second you looked at her—smirking like you knew she had been thinking about this all fucking week—she realized she had been waiting for this to happen again.

That was how it started.

One meeting turned into two.

Two turned into three.

And then, before she even knew how it had happened, it became a routine.

Every Sunday.

A text. A location. Your car parked somewhere no one would find you. And then hands on skin, lips crashing together, nails dragging, teeth biting, clothes being pushed aside because neither of you ever had the patience to take them off completely.

She knew it was fucked up.

She knew it was wrong.

But that didn't stop her from showing up every damn week.

And the worst part wasn't that she was lying.

It was how she was lying.

Because of all the excuses she could have used—homework, hangouts with Mindy, anything that actually made sense—the one she found herself using the most was that she was going to church.

Fucking church.

She didn't even believe in anything. Had never been the type to sit through a sermon, had never even entertained the idea of faith, and yet—somehow—Chad never questioned it.

Maybe it was because he was just that gullible. Maybe it was because he wasn't used to suspecting her of anything. Or maybe it was because, despite knowing her for over a year, he didn't know her as well as he thought he did.

Either way, every Sunday when she told him she couldn't hang out, when she said she had to go to mass, when she put on some half-assed ugh my mom’s making me go tone, he just accepted it.

Told her to have fun.

Asked her what the sermon was about later.

And Tara had to sit there, staring at her phone, trying to come up with some bullshit answer while still catching her breath.

Because she hadn't been in church.

She hadn't been in church.

She hadn't been praying.

She had been on her knees, mouth wrapped around your cocky little smirk, hands digging into your thighs. She had been moaning a name that wasn't his, head thrown back against the seat, panting like she had just run a marathon.

She had been gripping the leather interior with trembling fingers, legs wrapped around your head with the strength of metal bars, back arching so hard she thought she might snap in two.

And Chad had gone about his Sunday completely clueless.

___

"Fuck." Tara moaned, breath hitching, nails digging into your back as her head hit the window.

Like every other Sunday.

The windows were fogged up, streaked with condensation, the air inside thick with heat and the sharp scent of sweat.

The car rocked slightly with every movement, the backseat cramped but familiar, the leather sticking to her skin. It had been like this every time—fast, desperate, no hesitation.

You'd barely gotten inside before she was pulling you to the back, mouths crashing together, hands tugging at clothes, both of you too impatient to take your time.

Now, she was spread out beneath you, thighs trembling against your shoulders, fingers tangled in your hair as your tongue worked her over like you had all the time in the world.

Her skirt pushed up, undergarments long forgotten, her shirt still halfway on, bunched up under her ribs from when you'd shoved it out of the way. The feeling of your mouth on her was enough to send her spiraling, but it was the way you held her there—firm, unrelenting, like you had no plans of stopping anytime soon—that made her body shake with every flick of your tongue.

She could hear herself, the obscene wet sounds mixing with her ragged breaths, the moans she couldn't hold back no matter how hard she bit her lip. She had never sounded like this before, not with Chad, not with anyone.

It was a different kind of pleasure—overwhelming, raw, like her entire body was caught in a storm she couldn't control. Every Sunday, it was the same. You had her unraveling, melting under your touch, forgetting everything except the way you made her feel.

She didn't even realize she was grinding against your face until your grip tightened on her thighs, holding her still as you sucked at her clit just right. Her back arched, a sharp cry spilling from her lips, her mind blanking completely. Fuck. She was close. Already. Again. It was always like this with you.

And Chad had no idea.

Tara's head tilted back, lips parting, her breath coming in short, desperate gasps. "Oh my—fuck, just like that—" Her voice broke around the words, half a moan, half a plea.

She could barely think, her mind slipping into static, body tightening under your touch. Every drag of your tongue sent another pulse of pleasure through her, her hands fisting the fabric of your jacket like it was the only thing keeping her grounded.

The air was thick, heavy, carrying the sound of her moans, the quiet creak of the leather beneath her, the wet, obscene noises of your mouth working her over.

It should've been embarrassing—the way she was falling apart so quickly, the way she could already feel the heat coiling in her stomach, twisting tighter and tighter—but it wasn't. Not with you.

Your grip on her thighs tightened as you hummed against her, and Tara nearly lost it. A broken cry ripped from her throat, her body jerking, hips bucking up against your face. "Oh, shit—" Her fingers scrambled for something to hold onto, one slipping into your hair, gripping tight. "Don't stop—don't—"

Like you ever would.

She felt the way you smirked against her, cocky as ever, before your tongue flicked over her clit in slow, deliberate strokes that had her whimpering, her legs shaking. "Jesus, you're so—fuck." Her voice was wrecked, raw, words tumbling out before she could stop them.

She wanted to say something more—something coherent—but the way you sucked at her clit, the way your nails dug into her hips, the way she could already feel herself spiraling again—

She was gone.

Tara came with a strangled moan, her whole body tensing, back arching, thighs tightening around your head like she never wanted to let go. Her hands gripped your hair, pulling, as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over her, leaving her breathless, trembling. Her head lolled back against the window, eyes squeezed shut, lips parted as she tried to catch her breath.

And then she felt it—your hands smoothing over her thighs, your mouth pulling away, your breath warm against her skin. She forced her eyes open, still hazy, only to be met with your gaze—dark, intense, that fucking smirk tugging at your lips. Like you knew exactly what you'd just done to her.

But you weren't judging.

You just watched her, taking in the way she was still trying to recover, the way her chest rose and fell, the way her skin was flushed. Then, slowly, you dragged your hands down her legs, prying them from where they were still locked around you, letting them fall slack against the leather seat.

"So," you mused, voice low, teasing. "What excuse did you use this time?"

Tara bit her lip, still catching her breath, her fingers twitching against the seat as she let out a shaky little laugh. "Would you believe me if I said shopping?"

You raised an eyebrow, amused.

Shopping. That had been the excuse this time. And for a moment, Chad had actually questioned it—had cocked his head, confused, when she told him she was heading out alone. Shopping wasn't really her thing, at least not solo. But then he just shrugged, distracted by something on his phone, and that was that. No suspicion, no follow-up questions.

Tara had almost felt guilty for how easy it was. Almost.

She should have felt guilty now, too—sitting there, legs still weak, skin still flushed, while you smirked at her like you knew exactly how ruined she was.

But the moment she saw you shift, reaching for your bag, zipping it open with a deliberate slowness, guilt was the last thing on her mind.

"Well," you murmured, pulling something from inside, "I've done some shopping."

Tara's breath caught when she saw what it was.

A strap.

It was sleek, black, and bigger than Chad's actual one—noticeably so.

Tara swallowed. You and she had talked about this before. The first time you brought it up, she had barely hesitated before agreeing, because she had been sure—certain—that the whole P in V thing would be different with you. Better. More enjoyable. And after everything else you'd done to her, she had no doubt about that.

Still, she found herself shifting in place, heart picking up, torn between excitement and nerves. She hadn't done this with you before. Hadn't done this with any girl before. But fuck—just the sight of it, the thought of it, had heat curling low in her stomach all over again.

Tara gulped, eyes locked on the strap, but her mind was already ahead—already picturing it all before it even happened. How it would feel. How you would feel.

You didn't move yet. Just scanned her face, like you were waiting for some hesitation, some sign that she would be scared off. But she wasn't. She couldn't be.

Your smirk deepened, head tilting just slightly, the unspoken question clear in your eyes—want to?

Tara nodded. Too fast. Too desperate. She knew that. But she did.

So she moved without thinking, shifting onto all fours, her knees pressing into the worn leather of the backseat. Her back arched slightly, her hands splayed out in front of her as she tried to steady herself, breathing uneven.

Behind her, she could hear you—hear the rustle of fabric, the soft sound of buckles being adjusted, the quiet exhale you let out as you fit the strap into place. Then the warmth of your hand running down her back, over her hips, fingers brushing between her thighs before you paused.

Her stomach tensed at the thought. At the thought.

She swallowed hard, her fingers curling into fists where they rested against the seat. Then your hands were on her again—trailing down her spine, over the curve of her hips, fingertips brushing against her thighs, teasing her. She shuddered at the touch, hips rolling back instinctively, already seeking more.

You let out a quiet chuckle, low and teasing, before pressing yourself against her, letting her feel the weight of it. She sucked in a breath, her entire body tightening at the sensation alone.

You asked if she was ready.

She barely managed to whisper yes before you pushed in.

Her mouth fell open, a sharp, broken sound leaving her as her body stretched around you. Her arms nearly gave out beneath her, and her head dropped forward, forehead pressing against the window.

It was almost like the pleasure rushed straight to her eyes, like it was so intense she couldn't even see for a moment—just a wave of heat, of pressure, of something she had never felt before.

The first thrust was slow, teasing, like you were letting her feel every inch of it before pulling back just as carefully. Even that had her sucking in a sharp breath, fingers twitching against the seat beneath her.

The stretch, the fullness—it was overwhelming in a way she hadn't expected. It was nothing like before. It was so much more. And when you did it again, thrusting just a little deeper, just a little harder, a gasp tore from her lips.

You didn't stop. Your hips snapped forward again, finding a rhythm that was steady but deep, every push forcing her further into the seat. The car rocked just slightly with each movement, the damp heat of the space making every sensation ten times more intense. The sounds of it—of skin meeting skin, of wet, filthy noises between her legs—filled her ears, mixed with the ragged breaths leaving both of you.

And the moans.

Tara bit her lip, trying to quiet herself, but it was impossible. A moan ripped from her throat as you hit a spot that made her whole body jolt, the muscles in her stomach tensing. Her head tipped forward, forehead pressing harder into the window, fogging it up even more. It was getting harder to hold herself up, her arms already trembling from the effort of staying up on all fours, but she couldn't bring herself to care.

Not when you sounded like that.

The breathy little grunts leaving your lips—low and raspy, like you were getting just as lost in it as she was—made something coil tight in her stomach. She wished she could see you. She tried to picture your face behind her, how your brows must've been furrowed, how your mouth was probably open, panting, the way your jaw clenched every time she clenched around you.

"Jesus—" The word came out of her before she could stop it, breathless and desperate, her voice shaking. She felt you smirk against her back, your lips ghosting over her spine before nipping at her shoulder, sending a shiver down her body.

"What's wrong, baby?" you murmured, voice dripping with amusement.

Tara's breath hitched.

It wasn't just what you said. It was how you said it—so low, so full of amusement, like you knew exactly what you were doing to her, like you loved watching her fall apart beneath you. And baby. Fuck, she hadn't expected that. The way it sounded coming from your mouth—rough, teasing, possessive—sent heat surging through her body.

She whimpered, fingers clawing at the seat. Her hips rolled back against you, desperate, wordlessly begging for more.

Then.

A buzzing cut through the thick air, sharp and insistent, demanding attention.

Tara barely registered it at first, still too caught up in the aftershocks of everything—her heavy breathing, the way her body still pulsed around you, the lingering heat of your hands gripping her hips. But then you stopped moving, and her moan died in her throat, leaving only the sound of her own ragged breaths and that damn vibration filling the car.

Then she turned her head slightly, trying to glance back at you.

You didn't look worried. Not even a little. If anything, you looked amused. Your eyes gleamed with something dark, something teasing, as you tilted your head toward the phone in a silent suggestion. Check it.

Tara swallowed. Her whole body felt hot, sweat sticking to her skin, thighs still twitching around you. The last thing she wanted to do was answer her phone right now, but the vibrating didn't stop. Whoever it was, they weren't giving up.

She exhaled sharply, adjusting her weight on her knees before reaching forward, stretching as far as she could without moving off of you. It wasn't easy. Her back arched deeper, pushing her against you even more, making her even more aware of where you still were, thick and unmoving inside her.

She tried to keep quiet, to focus, but the angle sent a wave of pressure through her core, and a quiet, breathy moan slipped out before she could stop it.

She clenched her jaw, swallowing hard, and finally grasped the phone. Her fingers were slick with sweat, struggling to get a grip as she flipped it over in her palm. She held it tightly, worried it might slip right out of her hand with how weak she felt.

Her breath was uneven as she turned the screen over, eyes flicking to the caller ID.

Her stomach dropped.

Chad.

Tara's grip on the phone tightened as she stared at Chad's name on the screen, her pulse hammering against her ribs.

Her first thought was that she couldn't possibly answer. There was no way. Not like this—shaky, breathless, body still stretched and filled, the heat of you pressing against her skin. She wasn't even sure if she could form a coherent sentence right now, let alone talk to Chad without him immediately knowing something was off.

Slowly, as if in a daze, she tilted the phone just slightly so you could see.

Your gaze flicked down, taking in the name without any hint of concern, and Tara swore she saw the corner of your mouth twitch up like you were actually enjoying this. Like it amused you how completely fucked she was in this moment.

She gulped, feeling her breath hitch, fingers twitching around the device. Her mind spun, spiraling into every possible excuse she could come up with, every reason she had to not answer. Maybe she could just ignore it—say she was busy, say she didn't hear it, say her phone died. He wouldn't suspect anything, right? He never did. He never even—

Your voice cut through her thoughts, low and smooth. "Answer it."

Tara's breath caught in her throat. She blinked, eyes snapping to you, like she wasn't sure she'd heard you right. "What?"

Your smirk deepened. You leaned in, just enough for her to feel your breath ghost over her shoulder. And then, slower this time—deliberate, teasing, dripping with amusement—you repeated, "Answer the phone."

Her body tensed. Her stomach flipped. Her throat felt like it had closed up completely. There was no way. She shook her head, already stammering, "I—I can't—"

But before she could even finish, you gripped her hips and pulled her back onto the strap, burying yourself deeper with one swift motion.

Tara choked on a loud, surprised moan, her body jolting, the phone nearly slipping from her fingers.

She barely had a second to recover before your voice came again, low and firm and completely in control.

"Answer him, Tara."

So she did.

Because she couldn't say no to you—not when you made her feel like this. Not when her whole body was on fire, every nerve ignited, pulsing with heat. Not when you fucked her like you did, when you had her melting into every single touch, when you knew exactly how to make her fall apart.

Her finger shook as it hovered over the screen, hesitation tightening in her chest. But then, with a sharp inhale, she slid her thumb across to accept the call, bringing the phone up to her ear.

The device was warm, heated from the stuffy air in the car, and when it pressed against her flushed skin, she felt the contrast—felt just how overheated she was, how wrecked she already looked. Her breath wavered as she tried to pull herself together, forcing a swallow past the lump in her throat.

Then, as steadily as she could manage—sweet, happy, normal—she breathed out a soft, "Hi, baby."

It almost sounded real. Almost. If not for the slight tremble in her voice, the way it wavered at the edges, betraying her.

Chad didn't seem to notice. "Hey, babe," he greeted easily, his voice light and casual. "You still at the mall? They're closing soon, just wondering when you're heading back."

Tara's stomach twisted. Still at the mall. She barely stopped herself from laughing at the irony. She hadn't been anywhere near the mall. She hadn't been walking around all day, hadn't spent the afternoon wandering stores, browsing through clothes, or carrying shopping bags.

No, she'd spent it in your lap. On her back, on her knees, on all fours. She'd spent it with your hands all over her, your mouth on her, making her come over and over again until her legs had trembled and she thought she might actually black out from the intensity of it.

Chad kept talking, completely oblivious. "Mindy and Anika are having a movie night. Thought we could go, but if you're too tired from walking around all day, I get it."

Tara parted her lips, just about to answer—

And then you moved.

Her breath hitched violently as you pushed back inside her, slow but deep, making her grip the phone tighter. Her eyes fluttered, jaw clenching as she struggled not to react.

You weren't done with her. Not even close.

Her head dipped forward, eyes squeezing shut as you dragged out again, the pace torturously slow. She could hear it, could hear how wet she was, how easily you moved inside her, and the realization sent another wave of heat crashing through her body.

She started nodding—at nothing, at Chad's words, at whatever he was saying—just to distract herself. Just to have something to focus on besides the way you were ruining her.

But then you picked up the pace.

Faster. Harder.

Tara's breathing grew heavier, her mouth falling open as her fingers gripped the phone like a lifeline.

Chad finished talking, clearly waiting for a response.

She gulped, trying to focus, trying so hard to make her voice sound normal.

"Y-yeah, uhm—"

Her breath caught, her body jerking as you rolled your hips just right. She had to bite her lip—hard—to keep herself from making a sound.

You weren't making it easy.

You were deep, hitting the perfect spot every single time, making her entire body feel like it was burning.

Her lips trembled, fingers tightening around the phone as she struggled to push out the words. "I'd—" she inhaled sharply, voice breaking, "—I'd love to go."

Her thighs twitched. She tried so hard to keep herself still, to not move against you, to not push back for more.

She could feel your smirk. Could practically hear the amusement in the way you exhaled through your nose, in the way you didn't stop, didn't slow down.

She sucked in another shaky breath.

"I—" she panted, each syllable shaky, "I'm leaving soon. I'll—" her voice hitched again as you thrust just right, "—I'll text you when I-I'm done."

There was a short pause before Chad's voice came through again, casual, completely unaware.

"Why are you so out of breath?"

Tara's heart practically stopped.

She had to think fast. Her brain scrambled for something, anything, that would make sense, that would explain why she sounded like this.

"I—" her voice wavered, still breathless, "I'm just—trying to make it to Nordstrom before they close."

The lie slipped out before she could even process it.

And the worst part?

He fucking believed it.

"Alright," he said, not suspicious at all. Not even a little. "Just text me when you're on your way home."

Tara could barely focus, barely even hear him over the pounding of her own heart.

And then—then—he added it. The three words she'd been waiting for, dreading, knowing it was coming.

"I love you."

Tara squeezed her eyes shut. "I love you too," she panted out, forcing the words past her lips, rushing to get it over with—

But then you thrust forward. Hard.

So fucking hard.

A sharp cry ripped from her throat before she could stop it, before she could even think. It wasn't just a moan—it was loud, raw, completely unfiltered, and so obviously not the sound of someone running through a mall.

Her eyes flew open, her whole body freezing as panic crashed over her like a wave.

Oh, fuck.

Her mouth hung open, heart hammering, hands clenching around the phone. She felt like she couldn't breathe.

"What the fuck was that?" He let out a small laugh. Not mad. Not suspicious. Just genuinely confused.

Tara's stomach twisted.

She could feel your breath against her skin. Could feel the way you stilled, the way you were watching her, waiting to see what she'd say.

Her brain was a fucking mess, completely scrambled, thoughts running too fast, too panicked.

She had to fix this.

Quickly, she squeezed her eyes shut again. "I stubbed my toe," she rushed out, her voice tight, breathless. Then she forced out a hiss through her teeth, as if to sell it. "Fuck, that hurt."

Chad chuckled on the other end of the line, that same stupid little laugh of his that made Tara's stomach twist. Completely oblivious. Completely unaware of what was happening, what had been happening for weeks now. "God, babe, you're so clumsy."

Tara barely managed to force out a weak "Mhm." It was all she could get out without completely giving herself away.

But the truth was, that sound wasn't for him.

It was for you.

Because she was desperate.

And she needed you to keep going.

She was so fucking close—every muscle in her body was tensed, her thighs trembling where they pressed against the leather seats, her breath coming out in shallow little gasps as she tried to keep some level of composure. And you knew it. You fucking knew it.

She felt the way your hands flexed against her waist, felt the teasing drag of your fingertips as they traced up her stomach, slow, calculated, making her shiver. Felt the way your hips barely moved now, holding back, waiting, making her want to fucking scream.

She wasn't going to make it if Chad kept talking.

Her jaw clenched, and she could already feel herself slipping, feel the heat pooling lower, spreading through her entire body. The pleasure was too much, too overwhelming, and she couldn't be on the phone with Chad when she came.

Her fingers gripped the phone so tightly her knuckles turned white, the screen slick against her sweaty palm. She couldn't even register what Chad was saying anymore, his voice a distant, meaningless hum in the background.

"Well, alright," he finally said, sounding distracted, like he was half paying attention, "just hurry up before they start the movie without us."

You shifted behind her, your fingers pressing just a little harder against her burning skin, and Tara's breath hitched.

She couldn't do this anymore.

Her voice came out rushed, breathless, almost strained—"Yeah, I will—bye."

She fumbled with the phone, barely managing to end the call before her entire body gave out, slumping forward onto her forearms as she let out a shaking exhale.

And then, the second the call disconnected, you slammed into her again.

Her forehead pressed against the window as she let out a choked gasp, her entire body trembling. She was so fucking close—so close she could taste it, feel it in every inch of her, her thighs burning, her back arching as she tried to push herself back against you.

She wasn't even thinking anymore. Couldn't think.

Not with how fucking deep you were, how perfectly you hit every spot inside her that had her toes curling and her fingers twitching uselessly against the seat.

She felt your hands tighten around her hips, grounding her, holding her exactly where you wanted her. And then—

"Good job, baby."

Tara's breath stuttered.

"You did so good."

And that—that was the last straw.

Her entire body tensed, pleasure hitting her so hard it nearly knocked the air from her lungs. And then she broke.

She came with a loud, uncontrollable moan, her back arching, her arms giving out beneath her. The orgasm ripped through her in wave after wave of unbearable pleasure, leaving her shaking, gasping, crying out as you kept going, dragging it out, making it last until she couldn't even fucking breathe.

The car was silent except for the sound of heavy breathing. Tara felt like she could still hear the blood rushing through her ears, her body tingling in the aftermath. She barely registered the feeling of you pulling out until the loss of contact made her whimper slightly, her legs trembling as she collapsed fully onto the seat beneath her.

Her arms felt weak. Her thighs burned. And her chest heaved as she tried to catch her breath. You weren't much better, panting as you sat back, but fuck—Tara was completely spent.

Still, she did what she always did. Without a word, she forced herself to sit up on shaking arms and began fixing her clothes, her fingers clumsily pulling her underwear back up, straightening her skirt, smoothing out the wrinkles in her shirt. She was still flushed, her skin still burning, and her hair was an absolute mess, but at least she didn't look completely wrecked.

You watched her, an amused glint in your eyes, and then, just as she was running her fingers through her tangled hair, you smirked.

"How's that toe you stubbed?"

Tara froze for a second, then let out a breathless laugh, rolling her eyes as she shoved you lightly. "Fuck you," she muttered, but there was no real heat behind it—just the kind of teasing exasperation that made you grin wider.

She reached down, grabbing her shoes from where they had ended up discarded on the floor. She slipped them on, lacing up her white Converse with slightly shaky fingers. When she was done, she glanced back at you, hesitating for just a second before pushing open the car door.

The cool night air hit her instantly, and she took a deep breath, stepping out onto the pavement. But before she shut the door, she turned back around, looking at you over her shoulder.

"Next Sunday?"

You smirked, leaning back against the seat as you met her gaze.

"Next Sunday."

Jealousy wasn't something she dealt with, at least not in the same way other people did. She told herself she wasn't the type to stew over what someone else had or waste time feeling resentful.

But looking back, there were moments—small, fleeting ones—that didn't quite fit the version of herself she liked to believe in.

When she was little, the first spark of that unfamiliar emotion would hit when someone snatched a toy out of her hands. It wasn't sadness or disappointment—it was sharper, hotter, and before she even realized what she was doing, she'd yank the toy back, sometimes with enough force to send the other kid stumbling.

She didn't mean to hurt them, not really, but the instinct to make things fair—or at least fair by her standards—was too strong to ignore.

Her teachers called it "trouble controlling her temper." Her mom called it a "phase." But it kept happening.

There was the time in first grade when another girl in her class got to play the fairy princess during dress-up. Tara had been stuck with the frog costume.

She'd sulked in the corner, watching the other girl twirl around in sparkly wings, until something inside her snapped. The girl didn't see it coming when Tara stomped up, grabbed the glittery wand, and broke it clean in two.

She didn't even regret it until she was sitting in the principal's office with her mom glaring at her from across the room.

By the time she was nine, Tara had lost count of how many times she'd been dragged to the teacher's office. Sometimes it was for yanking a classmate's hair after they showed off a new toy she didn't have. Other times, it was for shoving someone too hard during recess when she thought they were bragging about something they shouldn't have.

Her teachers always asked the same question: "Why did you do it, Tara?"

She never had a good answer.

Her mom tried everything—calming techniques, time-outs, grounding her from TV or playdates—but none of it worked.

The truth was, Tara didn't know why it bothered her so much when someone else got what she wanted. All she knew was that the feeling burned in her chest, hot and heavy, until she had to do something to let it out.

She couldn't pinpoint what the feeling was, not even as she got older—when she was supposed to be able to handle her emotions better, to control the bursts of anger and the bubbling rage that seemed to come out of nowhere.

It wasn't jealousy though. She was sure of that.

Jealousy felt petty, childish, like something people dealt with in middle school when they saw someone else wearing the same pair of shoes but in a better color. Tara wasn't petty, and she definitely wasn't childish. At least, that's what she told herself every time the heat rose to her face, her fists clenched so tight her nails dug into her palms, and her vision blurred with that same fiery haze she'd felt since kindergarten.

It didn't make sense to call it jealousy. Jealousy implied weakness, didn't it? Like you couldn't be happy for someone else because you wanted what they had. Tara didn't think she wanted what anyone else had—she just hated the idea that they had it at all.

She didn't think it was anywhere close to jealousy—not until Chad broke up with her.

At first, all she felt was heartbreak, raw and overwhelming, the kind of sadness that made her chest feel hollow and heavy all at once. There was anger too, bubbling beneath the surface, but she pushed it down, unwilling to let him see that part of her. Tara told herself that staying calm was the only way to keep control of the situation, even as she listened to him try to explain himself.

He had said he didn't feel the same anymore, that something between them had changed. He wasn't sure when it had happened, but he no longer felt the love they once had. His voice had been quiet, hesitant, as if he didn't want to hurt her more than he already was. He told her it wasn't her fault, that she'd been a great girlfriend and that he still cared about her.

The words sounded like they should've been comforting, but they weren't. They only made her feel worse. Love didn't just disappear, did it? And if it did, what did that say about her? She couldn't wrap her head around how everything could change so quickly, how something that had seemed so solid could slip through her fingers without warning.

For days after the breakup, she replayed his words in her mind, searching for some clue, some sign she might have missed. The sadness lingered, a constant ache she couldn't shake, and when the anger flared, she shoved it back down where it belonged. It wouldn't change anything, and it wouldn't bring him back.

At first, she thought heartbreak was all she'd have to contend with. But then, as the days stretched into weeks, another feeling began to creep in—something darker, sharper, and impossible to ignore.

That dark, sharper, and impossible-to-ignore feeling had only grown worse. In fact, it had become unbearable when she saw Chad a few weeks later.

With you.

She hadn't been prepared for it. In hindsight, maybe she should've been. They had gone to the same school—it had only been a matter of time before she ran into him again. But Tara hadn't expected him to look so... fine. Like nothing had happened. Like breaking up with her hadn't fazed him in the slightest. And she especially hadn't expected to see him with someone else.

You had been standing next to him near the lockers, your body slightly turned toward his as you spoke. She hadn't been able to hear what you were saying, but whatever it had been, it had made him laugh. That same, familiar laugh that had once been hers to hear.

Her chest had tightened, the weight of it pressing down on her like a physical force. It had been the first time she had seen him since the breakup, and heartbreak hadn't been what she had felt then. No, it had been something else entirely. It had been hot and all-consuming, curling its way through her like wildfire.

Her gaze had locked on the way you had reached out, your fingers briefly brushing his arm as you spoke. It had been such a casual, effortless gesture, but to Tara, it had felt deliberate. She had clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms as she had struggled to steady her breathing.

She hadn't wanted to look at you. She hadn't wanted to acknowledge the way your presence, your closeness to Chad, had made her feel. But she hadn't been able to tear her eyes away.

It hadn't been fair. Chad wasn't supposed to move on so quickly. He wasn't supposed to look this happy, not when she had still been trying to piece herself back together. And you—God, you hadn't been supposed to be so... perfect. So at ease, standing there with him like you had belonged.

Tara's stomach had churned, a bitter taste rising in her throat. The feeling bubbling inside her had been almost painfully familiar, a twisted echo of the jealousy she had felt as a child.

She could still remember the heat of it, the way it had burned through her tiny body when someone had gotten the last cookie in class or taken the swing she had wanted on the playground.

Back then, her jealousy had been wild and unrestrained, often spilling out as anger—pushing, hitting, shouting until someone had intervened.

But this hadn't been the same. She wasn't a kid anymore, and she had known better than to lash out. And yet, the anger had simmered beneath the surface, waiting for her to slip, to let it spill over.

Her jaw had tightened as she had forced herself to look away, her fists clenching at her sides. Chad hadn't been hers anymore, she had reminded herself, no matter how much she had wanted him to be.

She hadn't had the right to feel this way, to be so consumed by jealousy over someone who had clearly moved on.

But knowing that hadn't made it stop. The jealousy had still been there, sharp and unrelenting, twisting inside her like a knife.

It had dug in deeper with every passing day, lodging itself in a part of her she didn't know how to reach, let alone remove.

It didn't help that Tara knew exactly who you were. Of course she did—everyone in Woodsboro seemed to know everyone.

The town was too small for anyone to go unnoticed, their business too easily whispered about or pieced together.

She had known who you were since kindergarten, though, in moments like these, it felt like a cruel twist of fate that you hadn't been one of the kids she'd shoved in a fit of childish rage.

Maybe if you had been, she wouldn't feel so powerless now. She could have at least claimed to have gotten her frustration out once, a long time ago. But no. You had been one of the few to escape her younger wrath, and somehow that made this worse.

It wasn't just that, though. Tara couldn't think about you without hearing her mother's voice in the back of her mind, muttering something about how she wished Tara were "more like you."

Her mother said things like that about plenty of kids, especially when Tara landed herself in trouble at school. But the way she spoke about you had always felt different—like she meant it.

You were polite, diligent, the kind of kid parents liked to hold up as an example. Tara had hated it back then, hearing those comparisons tossed her way whenever she acted out. Now, remembering it made her blood boil.

You weren't a stranger to her. Not really. How could you be when Wes had spent all of middle school hopelessly infatuated with you? His crush had been embarrassingly obvious, even to people who weren't paying attention.

Tara remembered the way he'd stumble through his sentences whenever you so much as glanced in his direction. How he'd linger near your locker as though working up the courage to say something, only to turn red and scurry off when Amber caught him at it.

Amber had loved teasing him for it. She'd nudge his arm and whisper loud enough for everyone to hear, calling him love-struck and pitiful. And Tara? She'd roll her eyes and laugh right along with her.

She hadn't understood the appeal back then. Sure, you were nice. Polite, from what people said. But to Tara, you'd just been another person in the hallways, someone she could name but not care much about. Wes's hopeless pining had been little more than background noise to her.

But now... now that memory left a bitter taste in her mouth.

Not that she'd ever had a real problem with you. If anything, she'd been indifferent toward you all these years. You were nice, she supposed. Everyone said so, and it wasn't hard to believe.

You dressed well enough to stand out without trying too hard, cared enough about your grades to keep them respectable, and generally managed to avoid any kind of trouble. There wasn't much about you that people could complain about.

Tara hadn't spoken to you much. Maybe a couple of times, when group projects forced you together or when politeness demanded it. But it had never gone beyond that, never lingered in a way that mattered. You were a passing presence, just one of the many faces she'd seen over the years, easily forgotten once you were out of sight.

At least, that was how it used to be.

Now, it felt like you were everywhere. And worse, you weren't just a face in the crowd anymore. You were always laughing, always smiling, always looking so damn perfect. And you weren't alone. You were with Chad. His arm slung around your shoulders like you were his.

And that, Tara couldn't ignore.

You were with her Chad. Her boyfriend.

Or at least, that's what her mind insisted on calling him, despite the breakup. Despite everything. He was still hers. He had to be. There was no way he wasn't, not when she could still feel the ghost of his hand in hers, not when her chest tightened every time she thought about him laughing at something you said. It wasn't right. It didn't feel right.

You didn't belong under his arm like that. You didn't belong anywhere near him.

Tara's jaw clenched as the image burned itself deeper into her memory: the way his arm had draped over your shoulders so effortlessly, like it was the most natural thing in the world. It wasn't. It couldn't be. That spot was hers—had been hers for so long that seeing anyone else there made her stomach twist with something jagged and unbearable.

And it didn't help that you didn't even look good there. Not to her, anyway. You didn't fit the way she did. You didn't mold into his side like you belonged there, not like she had. Chad was tall, broad-shouldered, and Tara had always thought they looked balanced together. She'd fit neatly under his arm, a perfect complement to his size and presence. You? You just looked... wrong.

At least, that's what she told herself as her eyes lingered on you for too long, darting between the way you smiled at him and the way he smiled back at you.

Her chest tightened further, the edges of her jealousy sharpening with every second.

She tried to tell herself not to care. Really, she did. She told herself that it didn't matter anymore, that Chad wasn't hers, that this—whatever this was—wasn't her business. He had every right to move on. She even tried repeating it in her head, like some kind of mantra: It’s over, it’s over, it’s over.

But it didn't work. It never worked.

It wasn't just the jealousy, though that was certainly the loudest emotion screaming in her chest. It was the helplessness that came with it. The same helplessness she'd felt back in kindergarten, when that dark, fiery feeling had bubbled up inside her and she hadn't known what to do with it. Back then, she'd pushed people, shoved them, let her rage and frustration spill out in any way it could.

Now? Now she was older. Supposedly more mature. She was supposed to be able to handle her emotions, wasn't she? But standing there, watching Chad lean into you, laugh at something you said like it was the funniest thing in the world, Tara felt that same fiery frustration rise in her chest.

She didn't shove people anymore—didn't let that dark feeling spill out like she used to—but that didn't mean it wasn't still there, simmering just below the surface. And now, as she stood frozen in the hallway, all of it—every last ounce of it—was directed at you.

Because you didn't belong there.

You didn't belong with Chad.

You didn't belong in the picture she still couldn't stop replaying in her head: you laughing at something he said, him pulling you closer, the two of you looking... happy.

Tara bit the inside of her cheek, hard enough to taste blood. She told herself to turn away, to stop looking, to let it go. But it was impossible. Just like it had been when she was five years old, that feeling burned too brightly, clawed at her too viciously to ignore.

And now, as she stared at you from across the hallway, she realized she didn't know how to make it stop.

She couldn't stop seeing it—couldn't stop feeling it. You and him. It was burned into her mind, an image so vivid it felt like it had been seared there with a branding iron. Every time she closed her eyes, it was there. You and Chad. Laughing together. Holding hands. Kissing.

Tara's hands clenched into fists at her sides. She hated it. She hated you.

She hated the way you were always smiling, like you didn't have a care in the world. She hated the way you stood so close to him every day, the way his arm so casually rested on your shoulders. She hated the way you looked at him, and the way he looked at you. Like you were the only person in the room. Like you were perfect.

You weren't even that cute. That's what she tried to tell herself, over and over again. You weren't anything special. There were plenty of other girls in Woodsboro prettier than you, smarter than you, more interesting than you.

But it was a lie.

Because you were beautiful.

You were effortlessly beautiful in a way that made Tara's stomach churn. She hated the fact that she couldn't use your looks as an excuse. She hated how good you looked with Chad, how perfect you seemed together, how easy it was to see why he'd chosen you.

And that made her hatred burn even brighter.

Most nights, she couldn't sleep. The second her head hit the pillow, her mind would start spinning, and the thoughts would creep in—dark, ugly thoughts that wrapped around her like a vice. She could see it so clearly, almost like it was happening right in front of her.

You touching him in places she was supposed to touch. You undressing him, his hands roaming over your body instead of hers. You kissing him, making him moan, sitting on top of him—doing all the things she was supposed to do.

It made her blood boil. It made her want to scream.

The images were relentless, vivid and visceral, and every one of them felt like a knife twisting deeper into her chest. Sometimes, the anger was so sharp it made her want to claw at her own skin, like she could rip the feeling out of herself if she just tried hard enough.

But no matter what she did, no matter how hard she tried to push the thoughts away, they always came back. They stayed with her, haunting her like a ghost she couldn't escape.

And every time, the hatred burned hotter.

It wasn't fair. You weren't supposed to have him. You weren't supposed to be in his arms, weren't supposed to hear his laugh up close, weren't supposed to know what his lips felt like. You didn't deserve any of it. You didn't deserve him.

He was hers. He'd always been hers.

But now, he wasn't.

And it was all because of you.

And this wasn't like any other time. Not even close.

Tara had always known her temper was a problem. She'd been told that enough times growing up—by her teachers, by her mom, by anyone who'd had the misfortune of crossing her when she was angry. But this? This was different.

She'd never felt this way before.

She'd tried everything to stop it, to keep herself from unraveling. Everything her mom had suggested back when she'd first started noticing how intense Tara's outbursts could be. Taking deep breaths, counting to ten, picturing a happy place—none of it worked. It never had.

And when her mom's suggestions fell flat, Tara had turned to the internet, searching desperately for anything that might help. Techniques to control anger, ways to keep herself calm, tips to avoid losing her temper. She'd read every article she could find, watched every video, tried every trick. Not because she cared about managing her emotions—no, she just wanted to avoid her mom forcing her into some anger management program or therapy session she'd be stuck in for months.

But now? Now, she couldn't even pretend to have control. Nothing worked. Nothing.

Her heart pounded in her chest, her skin prickled with heat, and the jealousy burned so hot and sharp that she felt like she was coming apart at the seams. It wasn't just anger anymore. It was something else entirely, something darker and more consuming.

Tara felt insane.

Because no matter what she did, no matter how hard she tried to push it down or ignore it, the feeling wouldn't go away. It wrapped around her like a second skin, suffocating and unbearable, until there was only one thought left in her mind:

She had to get rid of you.

It wasn't even a question anymore. It was a fact, plain and simple. There was no other way to fix this, no other way to make the feelings stop. You had to go.

At first, Tara thought about spreading a rumor or two. Nothing big, just enough to make you and Chad fight. Enough to plant a seed of doubt, to tear apart whatever connection you had with him. It sounded perfect at first—until she realized how easily it could blow up in her face.

Chad would figure it out eventually. He'd find out Tara was behind it, and then she'd lose any chance of getting him back.

She thought about telling you to leave, to move away, to go anywhere but here. But that was ridiculous. You'd never listen.

She thought about kidnapping you.

The thought came and went so quickly it almost startled her. For a split second, her mind flickered to the idea of forcing you out of the picture entirely, taking control in a way that left no room for argument.

But no. That was insane.

...Wasn't it?

Tara clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms hard enough to hurt. She was spiraling. She knew it. But she couldn't stop.

Nothing else would work. Nothing except you being gone.

She didn't know how, she didn't know when, but Tara knew one thing with absolute certainty:

You couldn't stay.

You didn't belong here. You didn't belong with Chad. You didn't belong anywhere near him, near her, near this town.

You didn't belong anywhere.

And Tara? Tara was going to make sure of it.

She toyed with possibilities. But none of them seemed right.

Kidnapping you crossed her mind more than once though. Briefly.

But it was stupid, insane.

Because what would she do when she had you?

Just keep you there?

It seemed suiting, but it wouldn't work out.

But she couldn't help thinking it—if only because she was running out of options.

And then, the thought hit her. It came out of nowhere, sharp and sudden, like a knife to the gut.

She could kill you.

At first, the thought had hit her like a slap to the face, sharp and jarring in its absurdity. It had seemed insane. Because it was insane. What kind of person even thought something like that, let alone seriously considered it?

But as the days dragged on, the idea didn't fade. If anything, it took root. The more Tara thought about it, the less insane it seemed. Her anger, that relentless, boiling rage, started to simmer. It didn't disappear entirely—not even close—but it

lessened.

For the first time in weeks, she could breathe.

The idea itself was enough at first. She didn't need to act on it. Just thinking about it was enough to bring her some semblance of peace. She let the fantasy play out in her mind like a sick little movie: you, out of the picture, gone forever. It didn't matter how or when—just that it happened.

And for a few days, she was happy with just that. She let herself exist in that space, in the calm that came with imagining a world where you didn't exist. A weekend of relative peace, of daydreams that made her anger feel manageable.

But then Monday came.

And Tara saw you again.

You were standing in the hallway, smiling up at Chad like he was the only person in the world. His arm was slung casually around your shoulders, his head tilted toward yours in that stupid, familiar way that made Tara's stomach twist.

It was like being set on fire all over again.

Her chest burned, her vision blurred, and that fleeting peace she'd found over the weekend vanished in an instant. The rage came roaring back, hotter and more vicious than ever, tearing through her like a wildfire.

Because the thought of you being gone wasn't enough anymore. Not when you were right there, so close, so perfect, so fucking smug without even trying.

Tara's fists clenched at her sides, her nails digging into her palms until they left crescent-shaped indents. Her jaw tightened, her teeth grinding as she stared at you, as she watched you.

You didn't belong there. You didn't belong under his arm. You didn't belong anywhere near him.

And now? Now, Tara knew what she had to do.

It wasn't a matter of if anymore. It was a matter of when.

Because just thinking about it wasn't enough. Not anymore.

She was going to kill you.

And she was going to feel better for it.

___

Tara had everything prepared.

The thought of it had consumed her, growing like a rock inside her chest, feeding off her every waking moment until it was impossible to ignore.

And now, it was time.

She had spent days balancing on the edge of dread and longing, torn between the weight of what she was about to do and the twisted satisfaction she knew it would bring. It wasn't something she wanted—not really. But it was something she had to do. The only way to end the torment that had been eating away at her since the moment she saw you with him.

So Tara had done her research, gathering every scrap of information she could. She watched you closely—closer than ever. She had listened, observed, bided her time until the perfect opportunity revealed itself.

And it had.

It had been math class on Monday afternoon, and Tara had been lucky enough to snag a seat directly behind you and your friends. Normally, she would've tuned out your conversation entirely, drowning it in her thoughts. But this time, she had leaned in, careful to catch every word.

You'd been talking about the upcoming math test, about how you'd be studying for it Wednesday afternoon. Alone.

Your parents were going to be at some lame work conference, and they'd decided to take your younger brother along to make a trip out of it. You'd rolled your eyes as you explained how stupid it all sounded, but Tara hadn't cared about your opinion.

All she cared about was the opening.

You'd be home. Alone.

It was perfect.

Tara's pencil had hovered over her notebook as she pretended to take notes, but her mind wasn't on algebra. It was spinning with possibilities, with plans, with the kind of clarity that had eluded her for weeks.

When the bell rang and you left the room with your friends, Tara sat frozen in her seat for a moment, her fists clenched around the edge of her desk. The pounding in her chest felt louder than the shuffle of students leaving the classroom, louder than the voices in the hallway.

Because now, it wasn't just an idea.

It was a plan.

Wednesday. After school. It would be done.

And finally, finally, she would feel better.

Wednesday came, and Tara felt something she hadn't in weeks. Happiness.

It wasn't the fleeting, muted kind that came and went without leaving a trace. No, this was sharp, visceral, alive. She could feel it buzzing beneath her skin, coiling around her chest like a warm, electric current.

She didn't remember the last time she'd woken up this excited. It was like every nerve in her body had been lit aflame, pushing her through the motions of her morning routine with a sense of purpose she hadn't felt in so long.

Because today was the day.

Every second that ticked by brought her closer to it. To you. To the end of the endless cycle of rage and jealousy that had consumed her. She could picture it already—vivid, perfect, satisfying.

You'd be scared, of course. How could you not be? She imagined the way your eyes would widen, the way you'd stammer out a pathetic plea. You'd try to push her off, scramble for an escape, but it wouldn't work.

It wouldn't work because you were weak. You weren't like her. You didn't know what it meant to fight, to claw your way through something until you got what you wanted. You'd crumble like paper.

And then you'd be gone.

She could see the aftermath so clearly it almost felt real. Chad, walking through the school corridors alone, his shoulders slumped with the weight of grief. His face twisted in pain as he thought about you.

And then—then he'd come back to her. He had to. It was inevitable, wasn't it? He'd remember how good things were with her, how much better they could be now that you were out of the picture. He'd pull himself to her, broken but needing her to put him back together.

It was all Tara could think about.

The entire day felt like a blur, her mind too preoccupied to focus on anything else. Teachers droned on and on about tests and essays, classmates chatted about meaningless things, but none of it mattered. Nothing mattered except what was waiting for her after school.

And yet, the anger was still there.

It simmered beneath the surface, coiled tight in her chest, a constant reminder that nothing was done yet. You were still there, still laughing and smiling and making her blood boil with every second that passed.

In English class, she caught sight of you leaning over Chad's desk, your voice low as you explained something to him. Grammar, maybe. Whatever it was, Tara didn't care.

What she cared about was the way he was looking at you. That stupid, soft smile, the same one he used to give her.

It made her stomach turn.

You didn’t even know what you were doing, she thought bitterly, her fists clenching beneath her desk. You didn't know him. You didn't know how to help him, not like she did. You weren't supposed to be there, leaning over his shoulder, pointing at his textbook like you had any idea what you were doing.

Tara's jaw tightened, her teeth grinding together as she stared at the two of you.

But it was fine. It wouldn't matter soon enough.

By the time the final bell rang, she was practically buzzing with anticipation, her hands trembling as she shoved her books into her bag.

Because today was the day.

And by the time it was over, you'd be gone. Forever.

By the time last period rolled around, Tara could barely contain herself. She was bouncing her leg under the desk, the rapid up-and-down movement making the surface wobble slightly. It wasn't stress, though. Not even close.

It was excitement.

Because in just a few hours, everything would be different. You'd be gone.

She'd spent the entire day anticipating this moment, and now that it was so close, she could hardly breathe. Her chest felt tight, but not in the way it used to when the anger consumed her. This was something else—something electric, like a firework waiting to explode.

When the bell finally rang for the last time that day, Tara practically shot out of her seat. Her heart was pounding, her pulse thrumming in her ears as she sprinted to her locker, dodging through the crowded hallway like her life depended on it.

She grabbed her things in a flurry, barely paying attention to what she was stuffing into her bag. The details didn't matter. Nothing mattered except getting out of there as quickly as possible.

The walk home was a blur. She couldn't even remember the route she took, but she knew it was fast because she'd gotten there in record time. She practically burst through the door of the apartment, slamming it shut behind her with a force that rattled the frame.

The space was empty, just as she'd hoped. Sam wasn't home, probably still at the café down the street where she worked long shifts most afternoons.

Tara didn't waste any time. She stormed into her room, yanking her bag off her shoulder and dumping its contents onto the bed. Books, hair ties, pens, and random scraps of paper spilled out in a messy heap. She didn't bother organizing any of it, her focus locked on what came next.

She started packing what she'd need instead.

First came the basics: a pair of gloves she'd swiped from the closet, a small hand towel, and a few cleaning supplies she'd found under the sink. Just in case.

Then there was the book. She'd borrowed it from the library earlier that day, an afterthought at the time, but now it served a purpose. If anyone asked what she'd been doing when you turned up dead, she'd have an alibi.

And then there was the knife.

Tara headed to the kitchen, her hands trembling slightly as she opened the drawer where Sam kept the cutlery. She stared at the knives for a moment, her breathing shallow as she considered her options.

Finally, she picked one.

It wasn't the largest or the sharpest, but it felt solid in her grip. Familiar, almost.

She held it for a moment, staring down at the blade as it caught the light. Her reflection stared back at her, warped and fragmented in the metal, but she didn't flinch.

She took a deep breath, steadying herself before tucking the knife into her bag.

This was it.

She was ready.

Tara zipped her bag shut and slung it over her shoulder, not even sparing a second thought for the knife or the other incriminating items inside. Evidence of what was about to happen was tucked away in plain sight, but the thought didn't concern her. Why would it? She wasn't going to get caught.

She paused in the doorway of the apartment, pulling out her phone to double-check the address one last time. It was burned into her memory by now, but a quick glance wouldn't hurt. She'd found it easily enough a week ago, scouring the school directory that had been left out in the counselor's office during one of her "mandatory check-ins." Your address had been listed next to your emergency contacts, all neatly typed out.

Perfect.

Satisfied, she slipped her phone back into her pocket and stepped out into the hallway. The stairwell echoed with her footsteps as she made her way down, each step slow and deliberate. She wasn't in a rush. Not yet.

The walk to your house wasn't short, but it wasn't unbearably long either. Just far enough to give her plenty of time to think, to imagine, to savor the anticipation building in her chest like a drug.

Tara was thrilled.

Not just because of what she was about to do, but because of how clever she'd been about it. The idea had struck her like lightning, and the more she thought about it, the more genius it seemed. She wasn't just solving a problem—she was removing it, erasing it entirely.

As she walked, her thoughts grew darker, more vivid. She pictured you in front of her, on your knees, crying and begging her to stop. But she wouldn't stop. She'd pin you down with a strength you couldn't fight against, her hands steady, her resolve unshakable.

Her gaze flicked down to her white Converse, and she pictured them splattered with red. Blood staining the canvas, dripping onto the pavement, marking every step she took.

She imagined your blood on her hands, warm and slick, streaked across her fingers like war paint. She pictured your face as she hovered over you, the way your eyes would widen with fear, the way your mouth would open to scream—only to be silenced.

The image sent a thrill through her, a jolt of satisfaction that made her grin.

To anyone else, these thoughts would be horrifying. Disturbing. Insane.

But to Tara, they were... liberating.

She couldn't wait.

Tara had dreamt about this moment. Every detail had been mapped out in her mind, as vivid and meticulous as if it had already happened. She hadn't missed a single thing while planning it.

She knew exactly how it would go.

You'd answer the door, your steps light as they always seemed to be. When the door swung open, you'd greet her with that confused little smile, the one that would tug at the corner of your lips as you tried to figure out what she was doing there.

She could already imagine the polite mask you'd pull on, hiding the confusion behind your soft smile as you asked—probably in that gentle, saccharine voice Chad loved so much—what she was doing at your house.

And Tara would match your politeness, feigning a warm, almost apologetic smile as she began to speak. She'd tell you that you'd left the classroom before the teacher had a chance to hand you a paper—a makeup assignment for the math test you were apparently struggling with. She'd tell you how she'd volunteered to bring it to you, mentioning offhandedly that your house was "on the way" to hers.

It wasn't.

But you were probably stupid enough to believe it.

Tara could almost see the way you'd nod, your suspicion melting away as you stepped aside to let her in. And that's when she'd set her plan into motion.

She'd unzip her bag slowly, her movements deliberate, casual, as if she really were pulling out a sheet of paper. She'd even keep talking, her voice calm, explaining how the assignment wasn't that difficult, just a review of material you should already know.

But when her hand came out of the bag, it wouldn't be holding any paper.

It would be holding the knife.

The image was so clear in her mind, so vivid that it felt real. She could see the shock on your face, the way your smile would drop, the way your eyes would widen. She'd let you stand there, frozen and clueless, for just a moment before she lunged.

The first stab would be quick, precise. She'd aim for your stomach, the blade plunging in before you had a chance to react. And as you stumbled back, clutching at the wound, she'd step inside, closing the door behind her with her free hand.

It wouldn't stop there. It couldn't.

She'd keep going, stabbing again and again, her movements frenzied but deliberate, each strike fueled by the rage that had been festering inside her for weeks.

By the time you hit the floor, Tara would already be kneeling over you, her knife rising and falling with a terrifying rhythm.

She'd finish it. Completely.

Tara found herself smirking at the thought, her steps quickening as she neared your street. The plan played out in her head like a movie she'd already watched a hundred times, each scene perfectly clear, perfectly executed.

The thought of it all—the fear in your eyes, the blood on her hands, the peace that would finally follow—was almost enough to make her laugh.

By the time she reached your street, her smirk had settled into something more fixed, more certain. The weight of the knife in her bag wasn't something she second-guessed. There was no hesitation in her steps, no flicker of doubt in her mind. She had played this moment over so many times that it felt inevitable, like she was simply walking through a prewritten script.

And then she saw your house.

That perfect, suburban home—one of those places that looked like it had been plucked from a family sitcom. The kind of house where nothing bad was ever supposed to happen. The driveway was empty, just like it was supposed to be. No parents home. No witnesses. But that didn't matter.

What mattered was that you had all of this.

Tara felt her stomach twist in something that wasn't quite anger, wasn't quite jealousy, but a poisonous mix of both. The house itself was nice—not a mansion, but big enough that she knew you had space that was yours. No sharing. No constantly moving from one place to another. You had stability. The porch light was already on despite the sun still clinging to the sky, because you had parents who actually cared if you got home in the dark.

Parents who were probably normal.

Not like hers.

And it wasn't just the house. It was everything. The car parked on the curb—the one that she knew was yours and not some shared family vehicle. The way your front yard was neatly kept, the way there was a welcome mat in front of the door, the way it all screamed a life she never had.

It made her hate you even more.

But that hate only made her more certain. Because soon, none of it would matter. Your perfect house, your caring parents, your stupid little car—they would all be meaningless.

Soon, the only thing you'd have was a gravestone with your name carved into it.

And that made her happy.

Tara forced herself to relax as she walked up the front steps, adjusting her bag on her shoulder. She let out a slow breath, schooling her expression into something neutral. She wasn't just about to commit murder—no, she was just a classmate doing a favor, dropping off an assignment.

The thought almost made her laugh.

She reached the front door, lifting a fist and knocking twice against the wood.

The house was quiet. Peaceful.

But soon, Tara imagined, it would be fuller.

Fuller with screams.

And then—she heard it.

A soft, thoughtless hum from the other side of the door. Light, airy, clueless.

Her hands twitched at her sides, damp with sweat before she even realized it. A sick, twisted heat pooled in her stomach, curling around her ribs like a vice, because for the first time all day, something foreign crawled up her spine.

Nerves.

Real, undeniable, nerves.

She clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms.

No. No. That wasn't right. She had waited for this.

She had planned, dreamed, prepared for this exact moment. She was supposed to feel good. Excited.

Not like this.

Not like her body had turned against her.

Tara's jaw tightened, anger sparking white-hot beneath her skin, because that was your fault, too.

Of course, it was.

You were the one who made her feel this way. You were the reason her mind had been tangled in knots for weeks, the reason she couldn't breathe without choking on the thought of you, the reason everything felt so wrong.

And that was why she was here.

She sucked in a sharp breath, planting her feet firmly on the doorstep, pushing the shaking from her hands, the sweat from her palms.

Because it didn't matter.

It didn't matter that her heart was hammering against her ribs. It didn't matter that her mind was racing.

All that mattered was that you were coming.

And then—

A quiet shuffle of footsteps.

Closer.

Tara's stomach twisted.

Another step.

And another.

The shadow of movement from behind the glass.

And then—

The door clicked as the lock turned.

The handle shifted.

And Tara stopped breathing.

The door swung open.

And there you were.

Tara didn't know what she had expected. She had run through this moment in her head too many times to count, had pictured every detail—the way you'd react, the way she'd feel, the way it would finally happen. But none of those versions had prepared her for the real thing.

Because the real thing was you—standing there, so normal, so alive in a way that made something tighten in her chest.

You hadn't even looked to see who it was before your lips curled into a soft, polite smile, like answering the door and finding someone waiting for you was just another part of your evening. Like she was just another part of your evening.

And Tara—

Tara froze.

Her grip tightened around the strap of her bag, fingers stiff, nails pressing into her palm. The weight of it suddenly felt too heavy, dragging her down, pinning her in place.

You weren't looking at her yet, not fully, but she could see the moment it registered. The way your eyes flickered, widening just a little before settling, before you adjusted.

Tara swallowed hard, throat dry.

She hadn't planned for this—for the way time seemed to slow, for the way her pulse slammed against her ribs, not in anger but in something else, something unreadable. She had prepared for every possible scenario, had thought through every single step. She knew exactly what she had to do.

So why the fuck wasn't she doing it?

Why was she standing there, frozen, when this was exactly what she had been waiting for?

Her stomach twisted, a sick, sudden nausea creeping in.

She had to say something.

She had to move.

But she just stood there, staring.

It was like her body had short-circuited, her mind blanking out in a way it never did. She had pictured this moment a hundred times, had mapped it out in her head with a precision so sharp it felt real—but now? Now, standing in front of you, with your stupid soft smile and your wide, expectant eyes, everything felt wrong.

She was supposed to have control.

She was supposed to speak first.

But before she could force a single word out of her mouth—

"Oh my God, Tara!"

Your voice hit her like a slap to the face.

Not just because of the voice—bright, warm, too friendly for what this moment was meant to be—but because of how you said her name.

Wrong.

You stretched out the A like it belonged there, like you had never even considered the right way to say it.

Tara's stomach twisted, her nose scrunching slightly before she could stop it.

She hated when people did that.

It wasn't even complicated. It wasn't hard.

Tara. Short. Sharp. Simple.

Why the fuck would it be anything else?

But then—before she could even say anything, before she could snap at you the way she wanted to—you noticed.

Not in the way most people did.

You didn't fumble over yourself, didn't look nervous, didn't react like someone who had just made a mistake in front of the wrong person.

No.

You just... realized.

"Oh—sorry. It's Tara, right?"

And this time, you said it right.

Tara felt something hot crawl up her spine.

You didn't wait for her to correct you.

You didn’t need her to tell you you were wrong.

You figured it out on your own.

And yet, you still smiled.

"I'm sorry, I totally suck at names," you added, your voice easy, a small, amused sigh slipping through a quiet giggle.

A giggle.

Like this was nothing.

Like you weren't standing in your doorway, staring at someone who had come here to kill you.

Tara's grip on her bag tightened.

You weren't nervous.

Not even a little.

Why weren't you nervous?

You were supposed to be. Yet she was the one that was.

Tara didn't know what the fuck was happening to her.

This wasn't right.

She was supposed to be in control. She was supposed to be sharp, precise, already halfway inside your house by now, setting her plan into motion.

But instead, she stood there.

Frozen.

Silent.

She couldn't speak.

Her body acted before her mind caught up, lips pressing together in something barely resembling a smile. Thin. Tense. Fake.

"It's fine," she mumbled, her voice lower than she intended.

It wasn't fine.

Nothing about this was fine.

And yet, you still didn't ask her what she was doing here.

You didn't look suspicious. You didn't hesitate. You didn't ask.

Tara could feel something bubbling in her chest, frustration twisting in with something else, something hotter, sharper.

Why weren't you asking?

Why weren't you wary?

Why weren't you treating her like a stranger who had no reason to be on your doorstep?

But before she could dwell on it for too long, your face lit up even more—

And you started talking.

"I've actually been wanting to speak to you for a while."

Your voice was too warm. Too light.

Tara's jaw clenched.

"This whole thing with Chad..."

You trailed off, tucking a bit of hair behind your ear, tilting your head ever so slightly as your eyes flicked to her face—

Waiting.

Waiting to see if she reacted to his name.

And fuck, she did.

She hated that she did.

But you didn't seem to notice.

Or maybe you did, but you didn't care.

You just continued, words spilling out like you had been holding them in for too long.

"I wanted to ask if you guys were fine before... yeah, you know."

Tara didn't need you to finish that sentence.

She knew exactly what you meant.

Before you.

Before Chad moved on.

Before you ruined everything.

Her nails dug into the strap of her bag.

And still, you didn't stop talking.

"I know we're not friends and barely know each other," you admitted, still looking at her with that same softness. That genuine fucking softness that made her stomach twist in ways it shouldn't.

"But you're really nice," you went on.

Tara almost laughed at that.

Nice.

You thought she was nice.

And then—

"I just didn't want to make you uncomfortable or, you know... secretly hate me."

The way you said it was almost casual, like it was just a thought, something light, something small—

But Tara felt her heartbeat slam against her ribs.

You didn't know.

You had no idea.

And for the first time since she got here, she felt a flicker of something close to panic.

You didn't hate her.

You weren't afraid of her.

You thought she was nice.

What the fuck was she supposed to do with that?

Tara tried to reason with herself.

If she just did it now, everything would be fine.

If she just said what she planned to say, if she reached for her bag, if she pulled out the knife instead—

It would be over.

It would be done.

You would be nothing but a mess on the floor, and Chad would be devastated, and he would come crawling back, and everything would go back to how it was supposed to be.

So why wasn't she moving?

Her fingers twitched against the strap of her bag, but her body stayed rooted to the spot.

She wanted to.

Oh, how she wanted to.

She had dreamed about this moment.

Had imagined the way you'd look at her—terrified, confused, realizing too late what was about to happen.

She had longed for it.

And yet—

She couldn't.

For some stupid, inexplicable reason, she couldn't.

Something in her wouldn't let her.

What the fuck was she even thinking earlier?

Why did she think this would be easy?

Why did she think she could just walk up here and do it like it was nothing?

Her head felt too full, a war raging behind her eyes, pushing, pulling, twisting.

She wasn't supposed to hesitate.

She wasn't supposed to second-guess herself.

She was supposed to kill you.

So why was it suddenly feeling impossible?

You studied her face as she stood there, silent.

To you, it probably looked like she was still hurt over Chad.

Like she was standing here, struggling to find the right words, caught up in old feelings she hadn't moved past yet.

And when she didn't answer, you didn't take it the way you should have.

You didn't question why she was just standing there.

You didn't wonder why she was looking at you like that, like something wasn't clicking in her head.

Instead—you invited her in.

You stepped back, opening the door a little wider, glancing at her with the same warm expression you had greeted her with.

"Do you want to come inside?"

Tara blinked.

For a second, she thought she misheard you.

But you weren't kidding.

You were actually letting her in.

You, the person she had been planning to kill, were offering to welcome her into your home.

You didn't even know her.

And when she didn't immediately respond, you just smiled a little and added, "Only if you want to."

That was it.

No hesitation. No suspicion. No fear.

Why weren't you scared of her?

Why weren't you acting like someone who was about to die?

Her fingers clenched tighter around the strap of her bag.

She should leave.

She should end this.

She should do what she came here to do.

And yet—

Almost without thinking, she found herself nodding.

Slowly, stiffly.

And then she was stepping inside.

Her body was acting on its own, ignoring the part of her mind still screaming at her to just fucking do it already.

She heard you close the door behind her.

She stood there, fists tightening at her sides, eyes flickering around your house—your nice, warm, safe house that made her sick.

And then you were talking again, so casually, so easily.

"I'm trying to study for the math test, but it's not going really well."

You let out a small, light laugh, like this was nothing.

Like she was just a friend stopping by instead of a fucking killer in your home.

Tara didn't know why she followed you.

Why her feet carried her further inside instead of turning around and doing what she was supposed to do.

She barely processed the way you walked ahead of her, leading her through the house like she belonged there.

Like she wasn't holding a knife in her bag.

Like she wasn't planning to use it.

Her fingers curled tighter around the strap, knuckles aching from the pressure, but she still didn't stop.

She stepped past the entryway, eyes flickering over everything she could see—the framed artwork on the walls, the coat rack near the door, the way the house smelled warm, lived in. There was something painfully normal about all of it. Too normal. It made her stomach turn.

And then her gaze landed on it.

The photo sitting neatly on the shelf above the couch.

She didn't mean to stop. Didn't mean to let her focus linger. But she did.

It was you.

Your family.

Your mom, your dad, your little brother.

All of you smiling, arms wrapped around each other like you had never known anything but happiness.

Her throat burned.

Her chest felt tight, like someone had wrapped their hands around her ribs and squeezed.

She didn't know why.

She didn't fucking know why.

All she knew was that she hated that picture.

Hated the way you had that.

Hated the way she couldn't even imagine a photo like that of her own family.

Most definitely not framed in the living room.

Her mouth pressed into a hard line, her grip tightening around the strap of her bag.

The weight of the knife sat heavy inside, like it was taunting her.

She should reach for it.

She should pull it out and remind herself why she was here.

But her body still wouldn't move.

And that made her furious.

Why the fuck was she just standing here?

Why wasn't she doing anything?

It would be so easy.

A few steps. A flick of her wrist.

Blood against the perfect little life you had.

A stain.

A reminder that nothing was ever really safe.

So why couldn't she do it?

Her fingers twitched at her sides.

Her pulse pounded in her ears, drowning out everything else—until your voice cut through the haze.

"Tara?"

She blinked.

Snapped back to the moment.

You were looking at her now, head slightly tilted, waiting for her to follow you further inside.

She forced her jaw to unclench, tearing her eyes away from the photo and moving again.

She followed you into the living room.

And that was when she saw the mess of notes and open notebooks spread out across the coffee table.

Pens scattered. Pages half-filled with numbers and formulas. Homework left abandoned mid-thought.

She stared.

She didn't even know why.

Maybe it was because it was so normal.

Like you had no idea what was standing right in front of you.

Like she wasn't supposed to be anything other than some classmate stopping by with an assignment.

Her fingers twitched against the strap of her bag.

Maybe if she just—

Your voice cut through the silence again, still light, still unbothered.

"You can sit down if you want."

You motioned toward the couch, as if this was just normal.

As if she wasn't standing in your house, her heart hammering, her mind completely unraveling.

Tara swallowed hard, forcing her feet forward.

One step.

Then another.

She made it halfway across the room before stopping again, her breath catching somewhere in her throat.

She shouldn't be here.

She shouldn't be doing this.

She should just grab the knife, should just do what she fucking came here to do.

But she couldn't.

You don’t need to give Sam another reason to not want you around her little sister. You had to wake her up and get her home in time…but she looks so calm while resting, you couldn’t help but notice the bags under her eyes in the past few days.  

It made you wonder if the nightmares had started again, if that was the case then she most likely hasn’t been getting much sleep. So how could you just wake her up? But you’ll get her grounded and probably murdered by Sam! 

While you’re fighting with yourself on this you hear shuffling and look down to the younger Carpenter. Her eyes are heavy as she tries to open them. 

“What time is it?” Tara mumbles but clear enough that you understood her. She saw you shift a bit nervously. “Y/N..what time is it?” she asks with more strictness in her voice.

“Eleven forty eight” You reply and her eyes widen, she looks at the clock then back at you. 

“Shit! Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit,” Tara says as she frantically gets off of you and grabs her things. You get up and talk as you follow her around.

“Your apartment isn’t that far from me, don’t worry if we leave now we can make it in time” You state, trying to ease her anxiety. 

You’re both putting on your shoes and as soon as you stand up Tara grabs your hand and runs out the door, dragging you through your apartment hallway and down the stairs to your car.

You make it with only two minutes to spare. “Okay we’re here, now go before you get another lecture” You remarked. 

“Kinda need you to come up with me though, you’re my alibi” You instantly sigh when that sentence leaves her mouth. “Tara, you know Sam hates me and she kinda scares me not even gonna li-” 

“One minute and thirty two seconds left!” Tara exclaimed. You opened the car door and she gave you a quick smile before hooking her arm into yours and dragging you into the apartment building.

She’s always dragging you around. Not like you ever complained about it. 

You both make it up to the apartment and as soon as she unlocks the door you're met with a few faces. Mindy, Anika, Ethan and Chad are playing monopoly. Snacks are scattered around and a couple beer cans were there. 

They all instantly look at you and Tara, awkward silence fills the air and you’re not sure what to do. You end up giving a tight lipped smile and raise your hand to greet them. 

“I was just uh dropping her of-” before you could finish your sentence Sam enters the room and you instantly shut your mouth when you see she seems annoyed. 

“Where were you Tara?” the older Carpenter immediately asked. “Movie night at Y/N’s. Where else?” Tara responded with an attitude.

“So she didn’t help sneak you off to another frat party?”

—-

Ahh, there it is. You knew it would be brought up at some point the next time you saw Sam. A few weeks ago you had snuck Tara out to a frat party but when you came back you were met with a very, very displeased Sam Carpenter. 

She started lecturing Tara and in an attempt to take some of the blame off of her you cut in. 

You dumb, dumb, adorable fool Tara had thought to herself when you start snitching on yourself.

“It was me. She wanted to go but gave up cause you said no. So I uh came up with the ‘bright’ idea to come by her window, sneak her out and take her with my car. I kept an eye on her! Promise to-”  Tara cut off your rambling with a look that said to stop talking. 

Sam took a deep breath in and out while rubbing her temples. She ended up grounding Tara for two weeks and she wasn’t allowed to go see you in that time. You were a bad influence! How could she let you near her little sister again?

Come on, seriously coming in through her window. Who did you think you were, Christian Slater? 

Tara was eventually ungrounded and you were the first person she went to. Sam was annoyed by this, she didn’t get Tara’s obsession with you but Chad and Mindy just smirked at hearing Tara practically dashed out the door to go see her ‘friend’. 

—-

Now, back to the super awkward tension in the air. “Welp” you exclaimed, slightly throwing your hands in the air. “This has been spectacularly awkward but it’s getting late so I should probably get going.” 

“Great, leave” Sam said, walking to sit down not before earning a scowl from Tara.

You turn to Tara,"I’ll see you, tomorrow?”

“Of course,” she said as she looked up at you. “We’ll meet at our usual coffee spot.” You couldn’t help but notice how Tara’s stare lingered on you. She glanced down at your lips for a quick moment then looked back into your eyes. 

Did she..want you to make a move? 

No! Of course not. Why the hell would she?

“Text me when you get home” she says and you nod.

“You look pretty..” You said lowly, almost mumbling. 

“What did you say?” she asks, a blush appears on her face.

“Uhh I said you look shitty, goodnight Carpenter!” You said quickly and ran out the door.

Her friends watched the whole thing, but Tara was so caught up in the moment she forgot everybody else was there. She bit her lip and smiled. 

You’re such a fucking dork..an incredibly cute dork she thought to herself.

Somehow Tara roped you into agreeing. Plumbers were expensive, and with paying rent in New York while also paying for college, they were already on a tight budget. You offered them a cheaper price, and you honestly didn’t mind giving Tara a favor.

That was before you remembered Sam would be there too.

You have known Tara all of five months, and in that time you haven’t exactly left the best impression on her older sister. Sam has already caught you sneaking in ten times—you got lucky every other time—and it didn’t help that you had an attitude. 

Tara wanted nothing more than for Sam to get to know you—to not just go off the you she made up in her head. So, when Sam found out you would be coming to fix their kitchen sink… she figured it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to give you another shot. Besides, she was doing this for Tara. She wasn’t sure as to why Tara was so persistent on it, but all she knows is that Tara wants you and her to get along. 

—

You walk up the stairs to the shared apartment after getting buzzed in by Tara. Once you get to the door you knock and the door opens.

“Hey,” Tara greets.

“Hey back,” you reply. Tara moves to the side, letting you in. Once you’re inside you look at Tara once again before smiling to yourself.

“You’re very punctual,” she remarked—watching as your eyes wandered.

“Yeah, well, it was either this or more apartment hunting with Danny.”

“You’re moving?”

You shrugged, “I don’t know. Don’t really get the point—the apartment’s fine. He says there’s ‘interior damage’ or whatever. Nothing I can’t fix.”

“Who knows; a new place could be nice.”

“I guess. He’s kinda eyeing the vacant apartment that’s not too far from yours.”

“Really?”

“Yeah… not saying it’s a sure thing but if we do move, can you promise you won’t get sick of me?”

“Sick of that face? Never…” She gently pinched your cheek teasingly; heat rushed to your face. 

“Did you change your hair?” You asked suddenly, changing the subject.

“What?”

“Your hair looks…different.”

“So segway’s not your thing, huh?” 

“Is it?” 

“Uh, no. I wear it like this a lot. Why?”

“Just…” You shrug, “Different.”

“Oh. Bad ‘different’?” She tugged on the hem of her shirt, suddenly feeling nervous for some reason. 

You smirk, about to answer her question, but turn your head when you hear a noise coming from down the hall. It sounded like Sam yelling a curse before Tara looked back at you with a light chuckle.

“The sink hasn’t been putting her in the best mood,” she elaborates. 

“She’s usually in a good mood?” You quip with raised eyebrows, tone laced in sarcasm. Tara scolds you with a look, causing you to back down. “Alright, alright.” 

“This fucking sink is driving me insane–” Sam cuts herself off, stopping in her tracks when she sees you. 

“Oh. Y/N. You’re here,” she says and you simply nod at her words. “Refreshing to see you use the front door for once…” She murmurs but you and Tara hear it. Tara scolds her with the same look she gave you just moments before. 

“If you want there’s Dr. Pepper in the kitchen,” Sam reluctantly offered. You looked at Tara then at Sam before briefly nodding. 

After a few seconds of silence, Sam clears her throat. “Okay, well, everything’s in the kitchen if you want to get started. The toolbox, and gloves are all there. If you need anything else just call one of us.” 

Tara looks between you and Sam before speaking up, “Come on, I’ll show you.” She extends her hand, gesturing to the direction of the kitchen. You begin to walk in that direction but before Tara follows behind, she gives Sam a look.

“I’m trying,” Sam huffed. 

“Well keep it up pleasee,” Tara requested as she walked away to the kitchen. 

By the time she was there, you were already setting up. “Question,” She states.

“Yes?” You put the pair of gloves in your back pocket, looking over at Tara.

“You come over. You seem to have a very firm grasp of the English language. You put together several full sentences—even using a couple of words that contain two or more syllables. And then my sister appears, and suddenly we need a thought bubble over your head to understand what you’re thinking. Can you tell me why that is?”

You looked down at the four-way silicone key in your hand before looking at Tara again with a  response. “The verbal thing comes and goes.” 

Tara sighed, lightly rolling her eyes. “I would really appreciate it if you would try to get along with my sister.”

“I took the Dr. Pepper,” you stated as a matter of factly. 

She furrowed her eyebrows, “I know.”

“Personally, I think it’s a little crazy to put lemon in Dr. Pepper—buuuut I took it anyhow.” You reached for the bucket and rag as you heard Tara huff.

“Stop it.”

“Ooo, stern face,” you say as you lift the tool and bucket to place by the sink. Tara continues, following you as you crouched down by the sink.

“Look. I went out on a limb for you, trying to get my sister to give you the benefit of the doubt. Okay? So, I don’t think it would hurt you to try to be nice.”

You put down the wrench you had just picked up, now fully turned and standing to look at Tara as you spoke. “Why?” You simply asked, taking off your jacket.

“Why?” Tara mirrored.

“Yeah. Why?” 

“Because she’s my sister—and she and Danny are dating.”

“So?” You tossed your jacket on top of a nearby chair.

“What do you mean ‘so’?” She asked incredulously; her eyebrows stayed furrowed.

“So, just because she’s your sister or Danny’s girlfriend doesn’t mean that I automatically have to get along with her,” you stated with pure conviction, rolling up your sleeves. 

“Y/N, my sister is a great person. She’s also my best friend—so if you care about me at all you will take that into consideration,” Tara was now crossing her arms as she stood her ground. “And you will be mildly polite to her.”

You couldn’t help but smirk, looking her up and down before responding. “What makes you think I care about you?” Tara didn’t need eyes to know you were smirking and enjoying this way too much.

She blushes, looking down at the ground and shaking her head as she grows flustered. “I–I don’t mean care-care. Like—care. I mean if you like me at all—not like-like! I just meant that–” Tara stumbles over her words, tucking in a loose strand of hair behind her ear. You watch her with amusement, a soft smile grazing your face as you let out a light snort.

“If you think of me remotely as the sort of person you could occasionally stand to talk to then you will try to get along with my sister. That’s all.” 

Your eyes never pulled from her once, only looking at her with fondness as you finally said something. “Okay,” you nod.

“Okay?”

“Can’t guarantee that it’ll work but I’ll try,” you confirm. 

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome…” You glance at the sink then back at Tara. “Should probably get to work.”

“Right. Sorry—go ahead.” She turns to walk away, looking at you one more time before leaving the kitchen. You crouch down by the sink again, not meeting her gaze but feeling it. She doesn’t see how you grin to yourself; your mind being plagued with thoughts of the younger Carpenter.

Guess it wouldn’t hurt to make an effort. 

—

Later that night, you decided to stop by Tara’s window for a surprise visit. You looked at her for a few seconds—admiring how peaceful she looked—before lightly tapping on her window. She turned to look at the window, a grin grazing her face when her eyes meets yours.

She lifted the window with a smile as you looked up at her fondly. “Hey,” you finally said after the window fully opened, expression never faltering as you leaned your head against the window frame.

“Hey back,” she replied. “Didn’t you say something to Sam about not coming through the window anymore.” Tara heard from Sam that you managed to hold somewhat of a conversation with the older Carpenter, actually making an effort to try with her. No matter how awkward it might have been on your end, at least you tried.

“You talk about me with Sam?” You asked smugly.

She rolled her eyes with an infectious smile. “Just get inside.”

“I didn’t hear a no~” You say in a sing-song voice. Tara pulled you in by your sleeve, roughly, might you add. “Watch the shirt,” you complain while you’re pulled inside her room.

“Quirk it.”

“How gentle,” you sarcastically complimented; you dusted your pants off with your free hand, not commenting on how Tara still held a grip on your other arm. 

“So,” Tara began as she sat on her bed—dragging you with her, “What are we watching tonight?”

“I can’t do Freaky Friday again.”

“Fine.”

“How about Cursed?” You inquired. Tara was leaning her back against your chest; she looked up at you with those beautiful brown eyes.

“That movie’s terrible.”

“One-hundred percent, but Milo Ventimiglia is in it.”

“Doesn’t he only have like six minutes of screen time?”

“But in it, nevertheless.”

“You drive a hard bargain… Get the laptop?”

You respond by reaching over to the night stand, grabbing her laptop. You hand it to her and she opens it on her lap. 

Tara would never comment on how she was the only one who got this side of you—the gentle, kind, and considerate side. Well, when she wants to see you squirm she comments on it. But for now, she’ll keep it to it herself.

-----------

A/N: the urge to write a paper on how jess mariano is a truly misunderstood character grows each & each day...

For her part, Ani also doesn't let your illicit affair slip, talking to Lulu as if you're not even there. "What a fucking waste of time, Lu!" Ani spits, turning to her best friend and fellow dancer who's leaning back against the brick wall, vape poking out from her mouth. "Did you notice the way those assholes have been acting all night? Not tipping for shit, and sure as hell didn't wanna go into a private."

"Fuckin' cheapskates. Tell me about it, girl," Lulu agrees. "I convinced this old dude back to room 6 and for what? Barely enough cash to cover my cab fare home!"

"You'd think they could show a little appreciation, y'know? Buying overpriced drinks and getting sloppy drunk, but not a fucking dime to show for it," Ani scoffs, accent sharp and biting. "I forgot how much this place sucks. Two weeks away and I'm already bitching."

"If he didn't take you on that Disney World honeymoon, you should sell the ring and go yourself, at least," Lulu offers.

"Yeah, tell me about it. Maybe if Jimmy stops being such an asshat about the 'long leave' I took."

They've been swapping this cig and vape as they talked for the last ten minutes, something you had to start counting since Jimmy told you to limit the dancers' smoke breaks to 15 minutes, tops. If you give Ani some extra time to cool off on the down low, no one had to know. She still had that faraway look in her eye sometimes, after coming back from her 'failed marriage' as Diamond would call it.

Your footsteps crunch on the pavement as you approach the two, clipboard in hand. Ani stands up straight at the sight of you, and you hate the way she tenses up, jaw set. You miss the stolen flirtation, the steamy glances she'd throw your way, and the touches you'd let graze over Ani's skin when no one was watching. Miss the way she'd laugh at your jokes even if no one else heard them. Miss the way she'd roll her eyes but melt into your touch whenever you held her.

"Five minutes 'til you have to go back in, Lulu. Think Jimmy mentioned one of your regulars is coming?" A little white lie. You wanna talk to Ani, wanna get things sorted after the last time you two 'hung out'. She's been avoiding being alone with you since last Tuesday, when you left before she woke up, so you haven't had the chance to explain. Explain that it was a family emergency, explain that you didn't plan on leaving her, explain that her bed is one of the few places you can actually rest and relax. 

Fuck. You're so sprung.

"Oh, Peter?" Lulu giggles, already fixing up her skirt and her hair at the mention of her regular. "Alright, I'm heading back in. You coming with, Ani?"

Ani's arms cross over her chest, something you can tell is a defensive posture but hopefully Lulu only takes as the same annoyance at the Headquarters cheapskates. "Nah, I'll just finish this," she tells her friend, flicking off some ash from her cigarette and giving Lulu an 'I'm fine' smile. "Go on ahead, I'll see you inside." The blonde accepts this easily, flashing you a polite goodbye as she enters through HQ's double doors.

A beat. Ani isn't looking at you, apparently having decided that the glowing ember at the end of her cig is fascinating. She passes it to you wordlessly but doesn't wanna be the one break the silence. Fair enough.

You sigh. Taking a quick drag since she offered, your words come out with the smoke into the hazy air. "Can we talk? I know I fucked up, but-"

Even that is enough to make the stripper scoff, a bitter laugh escaping her cherry red lips. "Talk?" Anora shakes her head. "Last time we talked, you left." An accusatory finger jabs at your chest, the pointed acrylic of her nail digging in and making it hurt almost as much as her hateful tone. "Before the crack of dawn. Without. A. Damn. Word." Her voice rises with each word, and you glance towards the door to make sure no one overheard.

"Listen to me. I had an emergency. Family shit." Her bitter expression softens the slightest bit, going from a grimace to a frown. "Not that I gotta explain myself to you, since you made it plenty clear we're just fooling around but... I'm not the type to fuck around on a woman I care about."

"Care about?" Ani nods, all sarcastic as she nods and finally, finally looks up into your eyes. "Don't make me fucking laugh, OK? I don't have time for this. I got shit to do. Break's almost over."

"I'll tell Jimmy your break just started now," you barter, but she just laughs, stubbing out her cigarette on the wall and turning on her heel. "Don't run away."

Before you realise it, you've grabbed her elbow. Anora stops. She didn't have to, your touch is barely holding her there, and she could stomp away easily if she really didn't want to hear you out. It tells you she wants to hear this. Wants some assurance that this isn't it, this isn't all you see her as. "Run away? You're the one who ran off, you jackass." And you hate the implicit comparison in that, hate that she's seeing you like her immature dirtbag of an ex.

"I didn't mean to. I should've told you, I know. I didn't think about how it'd look." It's not an explanation but it'll have to be enough. "And I do care. I thought I made that obvious."

She looks at you for a long moment, staring, searching for something in your eyes like she's desperate to believe you. That you really do care, in some fucked-up small way.

"Oh yeah? You care?" she says, in that higher voice she puts on whenever she's mocking whatever poor soul got on her bad side. It stings, but not so bad as the idea that she thinks she's hard to care about. Finds it impossible now, after her runaway pathetic excuse of a husband that left her broken and back on the Headquarters' roster.

"Yes, I do."

She rolls her eyes, but there's no affection in them now. Not like the last time she did it when you two were cuddled up in her bed. "So what was the emergency? Hm?" Ani tilts her head, stalking closer, getting up in your space. "No, actually, you know what? Fuckin' tell me a single thing you know about me that isn't about how good of a fuck I am, or how I feel stretched out on your fingers."

Without skipping a beat, you surprise even yourself when the next words fall out of your mouth. Little things you've noticed when you sleep over, like how she decorates her space or what things make her pretty face fall. "You collect those stupid little Disney figurines that they sell in mystery boxes but don't open them right away because it gives you something to look forward to," you tell her. "Your full name's Anora Mikheeva. You don't like the way it sounds when someone pronounces it wrong, but you don't like when they pronounce it right either. Sounds like your sister when she's yelling at you."

Blinking rapidly, she looks at you like you've grown a second head. You think for a moment that you said too much, showed Ani all your cards, before she starts laughing. "Fuck. What are you, a stalker?" And well, the way she smiles now actually looks impressed. "Fine. I guess you don't just wanna get into my panties, whatever. Kinda sweet of you."

Ani's gaze drops to the ground again, and she kicks at a pebble with the toe of her pleaser. She chews on her bottom lip as she thinks about what you said. You're right, of course, she's got those cute little fuckers lined up on her shelf because they make her smile each afternoon when she's fixing up her hair tinsel. The mystery boxes are a little thrill she gives herself, a silly hobby that makes her feel like a kid again. Cause she grew up too fast.

"Well, so what?" Ani says, but her voice lacks its usual bite. She wants to stand her ground, but she's unconvinced. Noticing things like that is nice, but doesn't explain how you could leave without warning, doesn't convince her that she's cared about for once. "That don't mean shit. You don't know the real me." She wraps her arms around herself tightly, feeling suddenly vulnerable. "No one does." Ani shakes her head, trying to dispel the thoughts racing through her mind.

Your fingertips linger on her skin, as she shifts her arm away, but at least she doesn't turn to go. "I want to," you tell her. "Give me a chance to try."

The train blares its horn, rattling Ani's entire room as it passes by. Cheap rent, Ani had explained the first time you stayed over and jerked awake to the sound, startled by the sudden noise and movement. She hadn't even opened her eyes, just stayed cuddled up on your chest. She's used to it. Even after months of dating her, it wakes you up everytime, which makes Ani laugh, teasing and calling you 'Princess and the Pea' for being so sensitive. So right now you're wide awake, checking your phone to see if she'll be home soon.

wifey💕: on the subway now! keep the bed warm 💋

You smile, sending back a kiss of your own. "stay safe," you type.

It's 4am when Ani slips into the room. Her harsh expression (or resting bitch face as she sometimes refers to it as) softens when she sees you, and she quickly sheds her coat, scarf, and beanie as well. "Why are you still up, dummy? You're gonna fall asleep on the fuckin' job, I swear..." she chastises.

"Sorry, babe," you whisper, stretching and shifting over to your side of the bed to let Ani into the sheets. "I knew you were coming home soon is all. Wanted to see you come in."

Your sleep shirt, like most of your clothes really, has these distinct splotches of oil on them. Made worse by your bad habit of wiping your hands on whatever's around. After years in the garage, you've learned to not bother with trying to keep clothes looking clean. The very worst of them get turned into rags or purely as sleep clothes since you don't like wasting anything. 'Waste not, want not' is a deeply-rooted mantra from when you didn't have the money to dispose and replace things so easily.

"I'm just saying." Ani shrugs, slipping the rest of her clothes off too. Fluid in her movements, as if her commute clothes were made to be taken off just like her HQ attire.

Your eyes trail over her frame appreciatively, taking in the rose tattoo at her ribcage that makes you smile, or the slight muscle of her core and arms. She's fit. She needs to be to work the pole like that, but can't put on too much muscle to turn away the knuckleheads that frequent Headquarters. Stupid but it brings in the dough, as Ani would say.

"Don't blame me if you smash your finger in a door again 'cause you weren't paying attention," she says, giggling when she throws her tank top at you. You catch it, give it a deep sniff. "God, you're so gross!" Ani complains. There's that laugh you were looking for.

"I'm not that clumsy." You frown, but it's hard to keep on when she's giggling like that. "It just clipped me, I didn't lose a nail or anything."

After slipping one of your larger shirts on - which almost comically swallows up her frame - she finally slips in beside you. You kiss Ani's cheek, and let her cuddle into you. Even if you know you smell of grease and gasoline and she's gonna cuss at you and say you need a shower. Burrowing her nose into the crook of your neck, she inhales you deeply, letting your scent fill her lungs. With the way she hums, you know she's content. Soothed. Letting the night melt away, all the pressures of the club or the bullshit from Diamond. She doesn't have to be on, not when she's here with you.

"Some of your body glitter's still on ya," you tell her. Your finger dabs at the corner of Ani's neck, which must have been missed by her makeup wipes.

She shivers at the contact. You used to be insecure of the fact that your hands feel like sandpaper but Ani sure seems to love it. One time she told you it was weird that you've never seen her as 'Ani'. The way she is in the club, she meant. No makeup, no heels, no cute little outfits. Of course, she likes to glam up when you two do make the time to go out on dates, but it's not similar to what she puts on for the club. Doesn't have to think about balancing the right amount of cling to show off her assets with the ease of removal.

With you, Ani said she felt like the girl she was before all this. Before the club, before Vanya, before the glitter and glam. There's nothing sexy about your lives, really. Both of them working shit jobs, living paycheck to paycheck. But for some reason, she found it comforting.

"Well, I missed you."

She's so tired. Never enough sleep, always on the go. But your body is warm and solid and she can relax. Just for a bit. "I missed you too," she mumbles. "Even if you fuckin' stink or whatever."

Ani lifts her head to look at you, eyes soft. "What time you gotta be at work?

"In a few hours," you answer in a groan. You didn't want to be reminded of it. You hate leaving before she wakes up, hate the way her body always tries to cling to you by instinct. Feels wrong, even if you know it's necessary. "The new apprentice, Jon, he still needs to be trained. He keeps texting me dumb ass questions. Like, dude, change the oil, you don't need my permission!"

"Mm I getcha. Like sometimes I show new girls the ropes. I remember Lulu being the newbie once actually," your girlfriend shares. "Poor thing. She was scared shitless when she mixed up a song request and didn't know how to play it off like a pro yet."

Ani tells you about the 'fresh meat' sometimes, how they're usually gone within the month when they realise the gig's not their thing. Usually 18-21, the type of girls that got told they were pretty enough times to want to make some coin off of it but without any dance training to speak of. The established girls do their best to make the space inviting and fun. To guide them to the right classes, how to manoeuvre around the club and look impressive on the pole without getting hurt. But ultimately it's their choice. Leave or stay.

Mostly, your definition of 'training' is trying not to yell at the poor kid, unless it's a safety concern obviously. He's an idiot and fixing his mistakes is a pain in the ass, but you don't want him quitting. It'll be more annoying to find a replacement since you've already spent the last few months making sure he can do shit without your supervision. The garage is small, started off as a glorified chop shop that you converted with some friends,

You must have gotten lost in your thoughts for a while, because Anora laughs at your scowl and shoves you. "Geez, who pissed you off? You're not even listenin' to me now huh?" she complains from her spot on your chest.

"Sorry, sorry. Just the apprentice. Broke a 10mm bolt today."

"Boooo. Speak American. What the fuck is a millimeter." Her eyes roll at the excuse and the metric system, and her sheer... Anora-ness makes your bad mood lift and a smile crack.

Which is where the idea comes from. "Do you have any days off soon?" you ask.

Anora shrugs. "Yeah, this Thursday. Why?"

"I want you to visit the shop! Come on. Didn't you always say you wanted to come and 'see what I do all day'?"

Her nails scrape up your arms, and her words are mumbled and muffled against your chest. A vibrating sensation that tickles you. "What would I even do there though? No offense, I'm sure it's riveting, but you can't exactly entertain me if you're working. Plus, when I said I wanna visit I meant I wanted to drop in sometime, give you coffee or something. Not... what, sit there and look pretty?" Anora laughs at the image, shaking her head against you. It's clear she thinks she'll just be a burden if she comes, that she'll do more harm than good.

"For one, I'd be a lot less stressed explaining myself over and over to him if you were at the shop. I could pretend I'm explaining to you," you say, trying to convince her.

Honestly, the idea of Ani 'sitting there and looking pretty' has already won you over. Who wouldn't want their gorgeous girlfriend there to impress with their mad car skills? You've been dreaming of this moment since you were a teen, fixing up a rusted hunk of a truck. Looking back it's embarrassing, but you were convinced that if you got it up and running, your crush would've swooned and asked you to give her rides to school then and there. Explaining your passion to a beautiful girl, showing off your hard work and how you could help her... it's a fucking dream.

Anora giggles. "Oh, I'm sure. You just wanna flex your mechanic brain and your stupid sexy muscles." Tilting her head up, she flashes those big brown eyes at you and you're gone. She's so heartbreakingly perfect like this. No makeup, bags under her eyes, the natural pout of her lips. Tired, from all the hard work and effort she puts into everything she does.

"Come on, please?" you ask, tilting your head down in response so your forehead meets hers. Skin to skin, gaze to gaze. Her nose presses into yours. "I wanna spend more time with you. I wanna show you what I do. Bonus points that it'll help me not scare off the new kid."

Anora nods sagely, like it's a sacred task you're entrusting to her. Her arms wrap around your neck, keeping you pressed against her. She's definitely not complaining about how you smell now. "Alright, grease monkey. I wanna be wowed."

--

"OK, you might remember this one. That's what I attached my cables to when your car wouldn't start," you say, gesturing to the battery, particularly to the red end in case it looks familiar to her.

To you, it's unforgettable how the normally cool and confident Ani was shaking in her leather boots when you told her to clamp it. Like she thought she'd get electrocuted then and there. Anora grasped you so hard, and your heart thumped at the knowledge that she trusted you'd never let something bad happen to her.

Ani leans against the wall, watching you work under the hood of a car. Her arms are crossed, one foot kicked up behind her, resting against the wall. She's putting on her best 'cool girl' attitude, but inside, you know she's fascinated. You know your shit.

"So, like, what's all this stuff do?" Ani asks, gesturing vaguely at the engine. "It's all just metal and wires and shit to me. Rusted shit."

You chuckles, wiping your hands on a rag before taking hers. "Well, babe, this here's the heart of the car. The engine. Makes it go vroom vroom," you teases, revving an imaginary engine.

Ani rolls her eyes but smiles. "Okay, smartass. But like, what do all the parts do?"

You take the time to point to the different components, explaining in layman's terms. The specific car you're looking at is one from a regular customer, so you've run maintenance on it for years. You tell her stories of the parts you had to replace, especially the shitshow last month when you had imported specific parts from Japan and the apprentice misplaced them.

Ani listens intently, asking questions when she doesn't understand. She grins like she's won the lottery whenever you tell her she asked a great question. You involve Jon too - if it seems like something he should be able to handle, you make him answer it. Correcting him when he gets something slightly wrong, or if you wanted a more detailed explanation. It makes you laugh when Jon messes up his words because Ani is just that gorgeous. As for the complicated ones, you're patient, breaking it down so she grasps the basics.

"So, like, this is why it's important to get your oil changed regularly," Ani says, tapping the oil pan. She's squatting down to watch you as you're laid out on the dolly. "Cuz if it's all gunked up, the engine can't, what, lubricate itself or something? No lube is rough, I get it." She sighs, patting the hood like she's empathising with it.

That makes you chortle, never prepared for Ani's crass jokes or references to your very active sex life. "OK, hold on, no lube has always been your idea!" you protest, giving a weak kick from underneath.

"I didn't say I didn't like it~"

"Alright, masochist." Rolling your eyes now, you focus on her actual observation. "And to your previous point, exactly," you beam, proud of her. "See? You're a quick learner."

Ani preens under the praise. "I got a good teacher."

She helps you out from under the Nissan Tiida, sliding you back out. Work's slow sometimes. The city's got a lower amount of people who own their own cars, and you don't like the monotony of working on the same make over and over, so you don't usually go for fixing up taxis or rented cars. This specific one has been a passion project, something you toy around with when there's not much to do. You've wanted to take it home for a while, but you've been holding off. Not until it's perfect.

"Alright. What's, mm, that one?" Anora asks.

Standing up, you come up behind her, your warm breath on her neck as you lean over to see what she's pointing at. "That's the intake manifold. It brings in the air and fuel mixture the engine needs to run. Sometimes it cracks and leaks out more air than it should."

Ani nods, trying to wrap her head around it. "Okay, I think I get it. So, like, if this thing's fucked up, the car won't run right? Or at least the engine will go fucky."

"Pretty much," you confirm, wrapping your arms around her waist now. Jon's off on a lunch break. You make him go pick up burgers at a spot a few blocks down when the shop's quiet like this. Means less time of him hassling you. "But don't worry, I'll always make sure our ride is in tip top shape."

You press a kiss to her hair. The tinsel in it always falls straight down, which is why Anora straightens her hair every day to make it look right. With you, all natural without anyone else to impress? Her hair's got her natural waves, looking healthy and sleek.

Ani melts into your embrace, leaning her head back against your shoulder. "I know you will, babe. You're the best."

The two of you stand there for a moment, just enjoying each other's presence. You can't help it. You wanna tell her everything, there's a compulsion in you. Then you pull away, taking Ani's hand. "C'mon, I wanna show you something."

You lead her to the car you were just working on, opening the driver's side door. It's not flashy, not luxurious or even running perfectly yet. But it's got its charm. The seats are comfortable unlike leather which gets hot quickly, it's surprisingly spacious on the inside, and the wooden look of the interior detailing makes it look and feel cozy.

"What are you-"

"I bought it for us. Out of pocket," you explain, helping Ani into the passenger seat. "It wasn't cheap, but it's been sitting in the shop for months, and I just couldn't let it go to waste."

Ani runs her hands over the dashboard, the textured cream seats. It's not new, but it's been lovingly restored. All by you. No way you'd let Jon touch this. "It's beautiful," she breathes. "Did you do all this?"

You nod. Her awed look makes you push out your chest a little, ego thoroughly inflated. "Most of it. I had a friend look at the AC, but yeah. This is all me, babe."

Ani turns to you, throwing her arms around your neck. "I love it. I love you. You're amazing," she gushes, peppering your face with kisses.

"I figured it was time we had a real car. One that's ours. No more borrowing beaters or taking the subway everywhere. Even if you say it's alright and you like the subway." You return the 'I love you' and pucker your lips for her to kiss.

"Thank you," Ani whispers, cupping your face in her hands. "You're the best partner a girl could ask for. I mean that. Who the fuck fixes up a whole car just to surprise their girlfriend?"

"Anything for you, princess," you murmur against her lips.

"Princess?" Anora playfully shoves you away. "You're fucking high."

But you mean it. You wanna spoil her to the best of your abilities, wanna make her feel like a princess even with your meagre funds and lack of time together. You want to make her feel like the most special girl in the world.

"How about I take you for a spin in our new ride?" you offer. Your hands grip the steering wheel, the polished wood under your hands. "And the best part! No more relying on the subway. I know this isn't exactly rolling in style but..."

Anora shakes her head, taking your hand. It's calloused and rough, but the way she holds it makes you feel like you could be tender in your own way. Makes you appreciate that your hands and hard work is the way you show it, not by blowing cash. "It's perfect," she tells you. "Because you did it, because you wanted to provide. That's all I need."

"Better than the limos Ivan rode you around in?"

Anora rolls her eyes, looking at you like it's a stupid question. Because how could she even compare the two when you're in front of her, giving her everything you can? "No competition, baby. I thought I wanted that, back then, but you're what I was really waiting for."

It's so mushy and vulnerable, coming from her. Just straight from the heart. "I'm nothing special," you attempt to refuse.

"She's broke, huh?" Mr. Day asked, bringing you out of your thoughts. You glanced up and saw him leaning against the door frame of the barn.

"She ain't broke," you said with a shake of your head. "She just needs some love." You gave him a teasing smile. "Which you ain't givin' her."

"S'pose not," he huffed.

"Hope you been givin' your family more love than your truck," you continued as you pushed yourself up to your feet. Oil covered hands tried to brush stray pieces of straw off your jeans and left black stains in its place. "Ain't nothin' more important than family."

"Well now you sound just like your daddy," Mr. Day chuckled. You turned your head so he couldn't see the grimace his words caused.

"Sometimes he's right," you managed to chuckle back. If he picked up on the double edge of your words, he didn't acknowledge it. It was better that way.

"Well, he can be right again," Mr. Day said as he stretched his hand out in your direction. "Come on in, now, Mrs. Day made lunch."

You walked forward, suddenly focused on trying to wipe the oil off your hands. Mr. Day's hand rested lightly on your lower back, guiding you back to the house while you were now otherwise distracted. His other hand reached out to hold your forearm, helping you not trip up the stairs. By the time he opened the front porch door for you, you had managed to get absolutely no oil off your hands.

"Afternoon, Mrs. Day," you said with a smile and a little wave.

"Better wash those hands off 'fore you touch anything in this kitchen," she said with a pointed look that then directed you to the kitchen sink.

"Yes ma'am," you said with a sag in your shoulders. It made you feel like a child getting scolded for playing in the mud.

Only once she had declared your hands "good enough" did she have you sit down at the table for lunch. It was the perfect lunch, in your opinion; sandwiches, chips, and an ice cold coke. Mrs. Day really knew how to put the charm on.

"How are your brothers holdin’ up?" She asked once everyone had started eating.

"They're…" you hesitated. Perfect Christian family, your father's voice echoed in your head. "They're great," you finally said with a polite smile. "Just goin’ ta classes.”

“And that fella of yours?” Mr. Day asks.

You almost laughed. Instead you took a bite of your sandwich and took the time to chew before answering.

“Beau is fine,” you said with a small smile to yourself. “He should be back from the rodeo tomorrow mornin’.”

“How’d he do?” Mr. Day asked around his own mouthful of food. “Calf ropin’, wasn’t it?”

“Team ropin’,” you said with a nod. “Think he said him and his partner got third?”

“Well that ain’t half bad,” he mumbled. “Lorraine and RJ are s’pose to get back from that film thing tomorrow, too.”

The mention of Lorraine got your heart pounding in your chest, threatening to rise up out of your throat. Everything about her got your body reacting in ways you couldn’t quite describe. The mere mention of her name got your palms sweaty, your thoughts foggy, and your mouth dry.

But then the mention of RJ made you feel sick to your stomach, like when you drank warm milk after it had been sitting on the counter all morning. The thought of him touching Lorraine, or kissing her, or even talking to her made you irrationally angry. It wasn’t something the good lord would want from you.

Too bad you didn’t really care.

“The four of you should go down to the lake tomorrow,” Mr. Day mused aloud. “Give you all a day or two to relax before gettin’ back down to business.”

“Only if y’all behave,” Mrs. Day scolded. She didn’t wait for either of you to finish your lunch before taking the plates to the sink. You quickly got up to help.

It was the Southern thing to do.

“Go on home, sugar,” Mr. Day said when you finished drying the plates.

“I need to finish your truck,” you said as you leaned your hip against the counter. “She’ll never get fixed if you keep sendin’ me home after feedin’ me.”

“I think she can last a little longer,” he said with a light chuckle. “Go home. I’ll tell ‘Raine y’all can meet up around 2.”

“When the sun’s shinin’ down?” You complained.

“It’s good for you. You’ve been locked in that chapel for so long you’re gettin’ mighty ghostly-”

“-John,” Mrs. Day interrupted. You had to turn away from her so she couldn’t see you laughing. “That’s blasphemy.”

“Preacher’s daughter is here, she’ll forgive my transgressions,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Won’t you?”

“In a heartbeat,” you replied.

“You’re both blasphemers,” Mrs. Day huffed before walking away.

You and Mr. Day tried to stifle your laughter to avoid getting in trouble again, but you couldn’t help it. Only when Mrs. Day beat you both with the hand towel did you both stop, shouting your “sorrys” as you ran outside. You called out your goodbyes and hopped into your daddy’s truck before going back home.

“You’ve gotta be quiet,” you mumbled against Lorraine’s lips. Her fingers scratched against the back of your neck in response before pulling you back to her.

You let her lead, pulling you with her until her back hit the wall with a *thud*. You tried to tell her to be quiet again but she didn’t let you pull away. Her arms tightened around your neck. Your own hands slid under the hem of her shirt, resting on her waist. She shivered, giving you all the approval you needed to trail your fingers up her sides, stopping right below her breasts.

"Please," she whimpered against your lips.

Oh, how that gave you such unholy thoughts.

You didn't bother removing her bra; there was too much risk involved. But you had no shame in pushing it up just enough for your hands to cup her breasts. The smallest moan fell from her lips and you had barely brushed your thumbs against her nipples.

"Quiet, 'Raine," you whispered.

But before she could answer, you softly squeezed one of her nipples between your fingers. She moaned into your mouth that time, and you couldn't help your little chuckle before doing it again. Her back arched, pushing the rest of her closer to you. All you needed to do was put your knee-

-you shoved Lorraine into the coats when you heard the door click and open. You spun around just in time to see Jimmy looking in, quickly meeting your eyes.

"I'm goin' to see Liz," he said. "If Pap asks, I'm out studyin' with Blaine."

"You better not get her pregnant, Jim,” you said quickly, almost forgetting why you were in the chapel closet in the first place. “I can’t protect you from daddy forever.”

“I ain’t gettin’ her pregnant, god,” he huffed. “You know too much.”

“It’s on account ‘a I’m your big sister,” you said with a pointed finger, “and if you get her pregnant before you marry her, I’m gonna tan your hide.”

“You got me shakin’ in my boots,” Jimmy taunted with a roll of his eyes. “I’ll see you later.” He turned to walk out but leaned in through the doorway once again. “Bye Lorraine.”

You locked eyes with Jimmy and froze. There was a small smirk on his lips that you wanted to smack off. But then you heard rustling behind you, and his smile grew when you felt Lorraine’s hands on your waist as she leaned out from behind you.

“Bye, Jimmy,” she said sheepishly.

“Not a word, Jim,” you said with a slight shake of your head.

“You scratch my back, I scratch yours,” he said with a smile. “I’ll tell Liz y’all said hi.”

Both you and Lorraine mumbled goodbyes as Jimmy finally shut the door and left. You let out a shaky sigh and turned around to look at Lorraine. By all accounts she looked embarrassed with her flushed cheeks and guilty smile. But the flush could still be from the fact that she was turned on.

You would be in the same boat.

“I told you to hush,” you mumbled.

“Then keep me quiet,” Lorraine said before she wrapped her arms around your neck and pulled you in for another kiss that had your stomach twisting into knots.

Oh this girl would be the death of you.

You were still remembering that day at the chapel while you watched Beau finish clearing out the trailer. It was a tough job, watching your fake boyfriend clear out the trailer with his fake friend. The way they laughed and couldn’t keep their eyes off each other was almost embarrassing. They were disgusting, truly. They needed to learn the definition of discretion.

“Howdy, beautiful,” Beau said with a smile when he finally approached you after cleaning back up.

“Afternoon, handsome,” you teased back.

When he was close enough, you wrapped your arms around his neck as he gave you a kiss on the cheek. It was simple, much more conservative than most couples. But it was a line you both had settled on. After all, it wasn’t like either of you were interested in each other. You both had… other fascinations.

“Bye, Huck,” you called out to Hucksley when you started climbing into your daddy’s truck. “I’ll bring him back in one piece.”

“Have fun, you two!” He shouted back with a big ‘ole grin and a wave.

“He likes you,” Beau said when he started driving over to the Day ranch. At the rate you were going, you would both get there just before 2. And then you could finally see Lorraine again.

“Y’all able to get some alone time this trip?” You asked. You didn’t bother looking at him, instead opting to look out the window.

“Little bit,” he said. “You get to see Lorraine yet?”

“No,” you sighed. “She went off with RJ. Again.”

“You know he is her beau,” he said with far too much gumption. “It’s almost expected she go with him.”

“That don’t mean I have to like it,” you said quietly.

“Now you know how Huck feels when I'm with you,” he said. “It ain’t easy, but it’s what we gotta do.”

You didn’t bother answering him. You knew he was right, he was always right. Hell would freeze over the day your daddy found out Beau was nothing more than a front so everyone thought you were both having normal relations. If anyone found out about your feelings for Lorraine, or his and Huck’s relationship, your lives would be over.

But that didn’t make it any easier.

What did make it better was seeing Lorraine standing on the porch with Mr. Day. She was staying out of the sun but that didn’t hide the brilliance of her smile. The scarred side of her face was turned away from the road - a habit she had picked up recently - but you didn’t care. She was home, and oh so close. It made your palms sweaty.

You didn’t wait for Beau to park the car before throwing the door open and jumping out. The ground was still rushing underneath you and you stumbled, but quickly regained your footing. All you wanted to do was run up the porch and hug her, letting her know just how much you had missed her over the past two weeks.

But your feet slowed to little more than a walk when RJ came out of the house with a bag in hand. Right. He was there too. Your smile fell into little more than a grin as you forced yourself forward and up the porch. Lorraine turned and gave you those soft, pitiful eyes that made your knees weak.

And the moment was ruined when RJ wrapped an arm over her shoulder.

“Thought you’d never make it,” RJ said with an irritating grin that had you grinding your teeth.

“My fault,” Beau answered as he finally stood behind you. He dutifully put his hand on the small of your back, just like any good boyfriend should. He always did play the part exceptionally well. “Huck and I took a bit to unload the trailer.”

“Congratulations by the way,” Mr. Day said.

“Thank you, sir,” Beau replied. “Coulda done better, but ain’t half-bad.”

“Would you let me film you some day?” RJ asked. “It’d make a good movie.”

“We’ll see, camera boy,” Beau said with a chuckle.

How he could be so casual around RJ was beyond you. The man caused you to want to do un-Christianly things to him. Whether it was his obnoxious smirk, or his stupid hair, or his dumbass glasses. Every single aspect of him got your blood boiling, and him wanting to film Beau was just the icing on the cake.

“Y’all should skedaddle before it gets too late,” Mr. Day said. “Should be plenty of daylight left to pitch the tents.”

“We can take my daddy’s truck,” you said. Lorraine’s eyes were broken, and butterflies instantly erupted in your stomach. "Plenty of space for everything."

Everyone agreed before grabbing their things, telling Mr. and Mrs. Day goodbye, and loading up the truck. Two tents, food, sleeping bags, and small backpacks with some extra clothes and necessities. It was as if you were all professionals. And you were, if you were being honest.

Well. Everyone except RJ.

"In the cab, pardner," Beau said to RJ once everything was loaded. "We'll let the ladies ride in the bed."

"Yeah, alright," RJ mumbled. He gave Lorraine a quick kiss on the lips before getting in the cab.

It made you sick.

Lorraine was perfectly capable of climbing into the bed of the truck all on her own, you knew that. But you couldn't stop yourself from holding your hand out to help her up. She flashed you that smile that you loved so much and climbed in, sitting on the left side. Her bad side.

You didn't bring it up as you climbed in next, sitting down directly beside her and immediately grabbing her hand. It wasn't like anyone could see, you were both surrounded by gear and the truck was already pulling away. She twisted her hand just enough to interlock her fingers with yours and suddenly things weren't so bad anymore. Things almost felt right.

"How was the shoot?" You asked even though you didn't exactly want to know.

"Rocky," Lorraine said; her first word to you in two weeks. "Nothin' went right so we gave up for the weekend."

"Did you join this time?" You continued.

She didn't answer. Her face was turned away from you and your fingers ached to pull her back. To make her look at you so you could see her eyes, caress her scars, kiss her soft lips. But all she ever did nowadays was turn away from you.

It had started after that very first film they did, when she had gotten shot. All you remembered was Mr. Day calling in the middle of the night to let you know she was in the hospital. Nothing had ever put the fear of God into you quite like that night.

Now she always did her best to sit on your left side so you couldn't see her face. It didn't matter how much you kissed her or tried to comfort her, she always turned away from you. The only time she didn't was when she was coming undone beneath you and had plenty of other things on her mind.

"How's Roy?" She asked instead. It was answer enough; she had done a scene or two for the film.

"Can't eat, can't sleep, hootin' and hollerin' cause he thinks he's still in 'Nam," you said with a shrug. "Daddy says we can pray it out of him."

"I'm sorry." Lorraine squeezed your hand lightly before pulling it into her lap and playing with your fingers.

It was your turn not to answer. You didn't want to talk about your veteran brother, or her smut film, or your preacher daddy. Nothing about Beau or RJ or Huck or anything else. You just wanted to talk about her; anything and everything you could possibly find out.

Not like you, Lorraine, Beau, and Huck had all been friends since you were in diapers and knew each other inside and out. That meant nothing.

Lorraine leaned over and rested her head on your shoulder as the truck continued to bounce down the dirt road to the lake. It was hot and humid and you were sweatin’ like a whore in church. But you still let your own head fall on hers and pulled her closer. You could handle the uncomfortable weather if you had her with you.

“I missed you,” Lorraine said softly before practically cuddling deeper into you.

“Missed you too,” you answered. 

There was a desperation to kiss the top of her head, tell her you loved her again. A desperation to pull her into your lap and kiss away the frown that you knew she had on her lips. To show her how much you loved her and give her something to take her mind off of whatever was bothering her.

But the truck pulled to a stop at the lake and she pulled away. It put a lump in your throat when RJ came around and helped her out of the back of the truck. Beau did the same for you, of course, shooting you a sympathetic smile in the process. It didn’t make you feel any better.

“Wanna help me pitch the tents?” He asked you while RJ took Lorraine to the lake, ignoring all the bags in the back.

You nodded and started to grab everything you could. If you “accidentally” left RJ’s bag in the back of the truck, you could be forgiven. Things happened, you know? The Big Man in White would forgive you for any transgressions. Beau started up a conversation for nothing more than to pass time.

It helped.

The sun was just starting to kiss the horizon when RJ and Lorraine came back, a smile on his face and a slight frown on hers. But that frown turned upside down when you admitted “oh I’m sorry, RJ, I must have forgotten your pack.” He grumbled and left to grab it while Lorraine turned around to hide her smile.

It was the little things in life.

“Hey ‘Raine,” Beau called out while RJ was still gone. She turned around to look at him. “Why don’t you and sweetness over there go get some firewood?” He gestured his head to where you were finishing putting the cooler down on the ground.

Oh that sneaky bastard.

She nodded once and waited for you to join her before walking away. You both knew where the firewood was, you had grown up around this lake. It just gave you a nice opportunity to be close to her; you thanked god for Beau every day of your life.

“Beau’s not very sneaky,” Lorraine said once you were both out of earshot of the boys.

“No he ain’t,” you laughed, “but I love him anyway.”

“RJ doesn’t like him,” she continued. “Thinks he’s fake.”

“Bold words,” you grumbled. You didn’t like talking about RJ; he always seemed to be the topic of conversation during the few moments you got alone with Lorraine.

It seemed Lorraine picked up on it because she reached over and grabbed your hand, slotting her fingers between yours and stepping closer. Her skin was just as sweaty as yours thanks to that Texas sun, and your hands were sliding against each other and were all clammy. And it was perfect.

“How’s seminary?” Lorraine asked. You didn’t necessarily like that question either, but you could at least talk about it.

And you did. You both started talking, going over what all had been happening since Lorraine had started traveling with RJ more often. How you and Jimmy were primed and ready to go to seminary, just needed to find out which one. How Lorraine was really starting to enjoy filming, and even sometimes being in the films. You teased her about the promiscuity, which she promptly shoved you for.

“Better watch out, ‘Raine,” you continued, “the flames of Hell might devour you for your sin of the flesh.”

“Oh shut up,” she huffed, but there was a smile on her face. “I think you commit the same sin.”

“I’m not at fault,” you said. You stopped abruptly and Lorraine was yanked back by your hand. With only a little bit of finesse, you pulled her into you until she had to look up at you. “I fell victim to a temptress.”

“Is that what I am?” She asked. “Your temptress?”

You looked down at her and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She went to turn away, to hide the scars covering the entire left side of her face. But you cupped her cheek instead, keeping her still and looking at you. It broke your heart to see her desire to hide away. Did no one remind her how beautiful she was?

“No,” you said softly, eyes trailing over every scar and freckle on her face. “You’re my whole world.”

You didn’t have to make the first move; Lorraine was more than willing to stand on her toes and kiss you. Just a peck, always just a peck at first, almost as if daring the other one to pull away. But it always led to the same thing. You bent down and cupped both of her cheeks, pulling her into another kiss that had butterflies crawling over every inch of your insides.

The moment her hands gripped your shirt collar, you knew you were done for. That needy, whiny grab that was so full of want and desperation, pulling you closer until you threatened to topple over. It gave you that little push to go a bit further, gently biting her bottom lip to draw out the tiniest moan from her.

You thanked God for whoever had invented the little snap buttons on your shirt. Lorraine's slender fingers could pop them open instantly, and you shivered from both the sudden brush of air and her fingers on your chest. Her skin was hot on yours, scalding like hellfire, and it felt heavenly.

A coyote howled in the distance and you quickly straightened, pulling Lorraine closer to keep her safe. It was getting far darker than you had expected and you knew better than to get caught in the open by a pack. You knew she could hear your heart racing in your chest, and she placed a comforting hand on your now-bare stomach.

"We should get back," you said quietly; you certainly didn't want to alert any coyotes to your location.

"We didn't get firewood," Lorraine said just as quietly. Her breath tickled against your chest.

"Beau and I got some while you were gettin' indecent with RJ," you said before immediately stiffening up.

You weren't supposed to admit that.

"And what, pray tell, are we doin'?" Lorraine asked in what you, Beau, and Huck had dubbed her Scolding Mother voice.

"Sinnin'," you said without hesitation. You were already in trouble, no use trying to get out of it.

"Y'all are bastards," she said with a huff and an elbow to your stomach. You coughed and doubled over, giving her the perfect opportunity to start walking back to camp without you.

"Be careful," you whisper-shouted as you ran after her, your fingers trying desperately to button your shirt back up. “Lorraine!”

You were in a state of complete disarray when you both got back to camp. RJ and Beau were already building the fire; well, Beau was forcing RJ to try and do it. He was failing miserably and you wanted nothing more than to laugh, but the look Lorraine gave you shut you up.

“Need some help, RJ?” You asked when he failed for the fifth time to get the fire started.

“I’ll let you try,” he said with a shake of his head and a shrug. The three of you knew it was his way of saying I can’t do it.

You knelt down and got the fire started in one go. You had to stay on the ground for a few minutes too long so you could stop yourself from looking so smug about it. By the time you stood up, convinced the fire would stay steady, Beau and Lorraine were finishing up preparing for dinner and RJ was messing around with his camera.

“You always have that with you?” You asked him, gesturing your head to the device in his hands.

“Never know when you’ll stumble across the perfect shot,” he said with a smile.

Laughter had you turning your head to see Beau and Lorraine with large smiles on their faces. She looked at peace, like she was actually happy to be there with him. There was no intent to hide herself, or keep quiet, or act a certain way. She was just laughing and pushing him around and talking ceaselessly.

It was the perfect shot, and RJ was missing it.

“Quit it,” you told Beau, who was waving a knife around all willy nilly. “You two go sit down before you hurt somebody.”

“Yes mother,” Beau said with a roll of his eyes. Lorraine said nothing but smiled and walked away to sit beside RJ.

Everyone kind of did their own thing after that; you cooked the stew for dinner, Beau got his guitar out and started picking a few tunes, and Lorraine and RJ were sitting together, whispering about something. Every now and then she would look up and meet your eyes for a moment before focusing on RJ once again.

Beau noticed, as he always did, and decided to make light of the situation. He started strumming a tune, singing horribly off key and inviting you to join. You shook your head and protested and did your best to ignore him, but how could you when he was giving you that smile? It was no wonder he had managed to pull Huck in.

You both continued to sing as terribly as possible, laughing when the coyotes started howling in harmony. He cracked open a lukewarm beer and handed it to you before grabbing one for everyone else and then himself. It was disgusting, but you couldn’t complain too much because it was about the camaraderie, not the taste. About knowing you were all just out having fun, enjoying the reprieve from the real world.

For a moment you could almost believe you were out there with Lorraine, free from the prying, judgmental eyes of the world. When you handed her a bowl of stew and her fingers brushed against yours, sending a shiver down your spine and a heat in your belly. When she smiled at you while RJ and Beau were talking, as if you were the one she was with.

But then RJ would kiss her on the cheek, or wrap his arm around her, and you felt sick to your stomach. The world certainly knew how to play its sick jokes. You knew what your daddy would have to say about it. It's a temptation from the Devil himself to lust after another woman. Guilt started gnawing at your heart, piece by piece until it was beating wildly and you feared you would pass out.

“We should get some sleep,” Beau proclaimed once talk had died down. Maybe he had noticed you starting to lose every ounce of sanity you had left. You hoped he didn’t. “Plenty more fun to be had tomorrow.”

Everyone mumbled their agreements - you just stared off into the fire - before standing up and stretching. Sitting on the hard ground was always tough on the joints no matter how young you were. Once everyone started getting ready, you cleaned up and put out the fire, your mind still dwelling on the guilt your daddy continued to instill in you even from afar.

“RJ, you’re in the tent with me,” Beau said quickly. “I ain’t invokin’ the wrath of a man of god.”

He didn’t look happy about that proclamation at all, but what could he do? He had grown up a Southern man too, he knew how seriously people took such a thing. So he nodded once, grumbling an agreement before climbing into the tent with Beau hot on his heels. Beau gave you one look before zipping up the tent and leaving you alone with Lorraine.

Alone with Lorraine.

Oh god.

You took far too long gathering your things before heading to the tent. Double and triple checking that the fire was out, looking out for coyotes, checking for rattlers, making sure the food was properly put away. Only when you could no longer find anything to do did you finally venture into the tent where Lorraine was already waiting.

Your breath caught in your throat when you saw Lorraine sitting in the tent, lantern on and book in hand. She had her chin resting in one small hand as the other turned the page. Her hair fell over her face, creating a sheer curtain that you could barely see through. The tanned skin of her shoulder was bare to the world as her too-large sleep gown hung off her arm.

Just the sight of her was enough to make you want to praise the heavens, singing her gospel until God felled you from heaven himself. You would give up the very promise of heaven if it meant you could go to bed seeing her like that every night. The deepest pits of hell could not persuade you from loving her with every beat of your heart and every breath that she pulled from your lungs.

"You're starin'," Lorraine mumbled in her sleepy voice, the one you would die for.

"You're plum wore out," you said as you finally managed to get your body moving again. You zipped the tent up behind you and moved to get on the small pallet beside her.

"Long trip home," she said with a sigh. Slender fingers placed the bookmark in its spot before placing the book beside the lamp and blowing it out.

You laid down in silence, staying as still as possible so as to allow her to go where she pleased. You're acting like you've never slept with her before, your mind taunted you. And it was right, but there was a guilt that was still gnawing at your heart, chomping at the bit to devour you, body and soul.

"You ain't gonna face me?" Lorraine asked, her mouth so close to your ear that it sent a shiver down your spine.

"Sorry," you whispered as you turned on your side and ended up face-to-face with her.

"You're thinkin' real hard tonight," she said. You couldn't really see her in the dark, but you heard shuffling before you felt her hand resting on your cheek.

It felt like the touch of god himself.

"I'm alright," you said. Part of you hoped she would believe you.

Part of you hoped she wouldn't. 

"It's just you and me tonight," she said. Her fingers scratched gently against your skin, just enough to keep you grounded.

Tonight, your mind emphasized. It was just you and her tonight. When the sun came up she would go back to RJ, and you would go back to Beau, and no one would think twice. It would be as if nothing had ever happened, as if she hadn't made you want to prostrate yourself at her altar.

"You and me," you said to yourself. If you said it enough, you could believe it.

"I don't wanna fuck tonight," Lorraine said, making you blink in the dark at her complete 180.

"You… you don't?" You asked. "May- may I ask why?"

"All I ever do is fuck," she said, her lips now brushing lightly against yours. “I want you to remind me what love feels like.”

Oh. Oh, you could do that. It was all you ever wanted to do. There wasn't a single thought in your head when you felt her lips press against yours. No thoughts as you wrapped your arm around her waist, pulling her body flush against yours. She was warm and soft; she was yours.

You rolled over onto your back, gently pulling her with you until she was laying on top of you. It always amazed you how small she was, how her weight on you meant nothing as she straddled your stomach. Both of her hands made their way to your neck while yours went under her shirt and to her hips. Her skin was already slick with sweat thanks to the summer heat.

She bit your bottom lip as your hands slid up her sides, caressing every inch of skin they could find. Gentle touches until you reached the sides of her breasts. Her breath caught in her throat when one of your thumbs lightly brushed against her nipple, immediately followed by a shiver down her back.

“Don’t tease,” Lorraine mumbled against your lips. 

You hummed your acknowledgment and leaned up into another kiss, but continued to leave the lightest of touches. Brushing a knuckle against her nipple, softly kneading her flesh. Only when she was least expecting it did you do anything more, rolling a nipple between your thumb and forefinger and swallowing her moan.

The simple touch had her rolling her hips against your stomach. Even with her panties on, you could feel her arousal on your stomach. Just the knowledge that you had such an effect on her was enough to convince you that she had too many clothes on.

She whined when you removed your hands from her breasts. A needy, breathy sound that quickly disappeared when you pulled her gown up. Her lips parted from yours just long enough to get the gown over her head before she leaned down, instantly kissing you again.

Your hands rested on her hips, just tracing patterns on her skin as she continued to roll her hips. Her movements were slow, methodical. She was working herself up, not trying to get off just yet.

"Take it off," she mumbled as her hands fidgeted with the hem of your shirt. Well, it was Beau's shirt, but no one cared.

"Yes ma'am," you answered before sitting up.

Lorraine slid into your lap while her hands tugged at your shirt, attempting to assist you. But you could tell she was already too desperate, too distracted to be of any genuine help. As you pulled your shirt off, her own hands quickly replaced it, running over every inch of skin she could reach.

"I missed you," she said breathlessly. Her hands trailed from your neck down to your breasts, giving them the same teasing treatment you had given her.

"I missed you too " you answered just as breathlessly before her lips closed around one of your nipples and drew a moan out of you.

She loved to do that. She loved to interrupt your thoughts with her actions, whether it was a gentle bite here or the scratching of her nails on your back. And she did just that, biting down just hard enough to pull a gasp from you before soothing the sting with her tongue.

You let her continue for a few moments; it was one of her favourite things to do. All the while you massaged her hips, her thighs, could practically feel the heat from her core. She was still working herself up.

"Come here," you said, gently pulling her face back up to yours.

You couldn't see her in the dark but you could imagine the lust-drunk look she was giving you as you laid her down on the pallet. Both of your hands were on either side of her head, caging her in. Your thigh strategically placed itself between her legs and she took no time in rutting against it.

Her arms wrapped around your neck, pulling you into another kiss. One thing about Lorraine, she loved to be kissed. To taste you, feel your tongue on her lips, your lips on her skin. If you were kissing her then you loved her, and she couldn't have been more right.

"More," she said with another desperate grind against your thigh.

You lowered yourself down to your elbows before shifting your weight. Your body was tilted ever so slightly so as not to crush her while one of your hands finally made its way back down her body. If the sweat was anything to go by, you knew exactly what you would find when you slid your hand in between your thigh and her panties.

The wetness on your thigh and stomach had already told you how worked up she was, but when you actually felt how soaked her panties were, you couldn't help but sigh. She just made it so easy to tease her, to run your fingers over her so lightly that all she could do was whine and squirm.

"Stop teasin'," Lorraine whined, pulling a smile from you.

"Take these off too," you said in reply.

She had never moved so fast in her life, you reckoned. But almost within an instant she had kicked her panties off and laid bare beneath you. You wished the lantern was on so you could see her. See her kiss-swollen lips and her freckled skin, the blush on her cheeks or the almost bashful look in her eyes. You wanted to see her; all of her.

But she clearly felt you were taking too long, because she grabbed your hand and placed it exactly where she wanted it. You dipped your finger into her arousal and up to her clit once. She threw her head back with a moan at the same time as you.

"Jesus, Lorraine," you said as you bent down to kiss her neck. "You're so fuckin' wet and I barely touched you."

You could feel the vibrations of her moan against your lips as you continued to kiss down her body. Your fingers slowly circled her clit, putting the lightest amount of pressure just to keep her worked up. You kissed her collarbone, her chest, left little love bites on her breasts. Her hips rolled with your fingers as you kissed lower, across her stomach and to her hips. Extra kisses for her hips, one love bite on each before being soothed with your tongue.

"Please," Lorraine whimpered just loud enough for you to hear.

How could you say no to that?

The first swipe of your tongue already had her back arching and her fingers tangling themselves in your hair. She tasted like the nectar of heaven, something you could only ever find from her. Any semblance of self control dissipated and you dove back in like you had been parched for a thousand years.

Her hips wriggled below you with every touch on her clit. Flat broad licks always brought out the low moans from her while the quick kitten licks had her whining and her thighs shaking.

"You gotta be quiet, 'Raine," you said when you picked your head up for a moment to try and see her face.

Her fingers removed themselves from your hair before cupping your cheeks and pulling you back up. Part of you was upset you couldn't taste her anymore, but then she pulled you into another kiss. This one deep and slow. She liked your bottom lip and you quickly parted your lips, allowing her to taste herself on your tongue.

"Then keep me quiet," she said before immediately kissing you again.

She was going to be the death of you.

With your mouth now preoccupied, your fingers went back to work. Rubbing slow, wide circles on her clit to make up for the few seconds of lost contact. Lorraine sighed through her nose, the air tickling your cheek. But you were tired of teasing her. It had been too long for you to tease her all night.

You pressed two fingers against her entrance lightly, giving her time to tell you no. One of her hands left your face and grabbed your wrist, pushing you completely into her. You both moaned into each other, her at the feel of your fingers and you at how tight and warm she was.

Sometimes she liked it harder, faster, but not tonight. Tonight you went with slow, deep strokes. Every time you would pull out, you would curl your fingers just enough to hit that sweet spot that had her toes curling. Her hips rolled to meet your hand, pushing your fingers just that extra bit deeper to have her a sweaty, moaning mess below you.

You didn't stop kissing her when you moved your thumb to her clit, adding that extra sensation. Her nails dug into the back of your neck and your wrist, but you didn't care. She would bite your lip every time your fingers thrusted into her deeper than usual. She was coming completely undone.

All it took was one more circle on her clit before she came, clenching around your fingers and moaning into your mouth. You kept thrusting slowly, softly, helping her ride it out until she could gently come back down. You could feel the welts on your neck and wrist, but it didn't hurt. You stayed completely still until you could feel her body start to relax again, only then removing your fingers slowly.

"I love you," she whispered with a husky, exhausted voice. "I love you."

"I love you too, Lorraine," you whispered back before laying down beside her and pulling her until you could curl your body around her.

She interlocked her fingers with yours and pulled your hands tight to her chest. You felt her lips press kisses into each fingertip, the kisses getting slower and slower until you could feel her even breathing. Part of you wanted to laugh; she always fell asleep so quickly.

The other part was screaming. Reminding you that she wasn't yours. That come morning, she would go back with RJ like nothing had ever happened, and you would be alone again. You would never get the girl, and one day he would even take her away from you.

You closed your eyes and pulled her impossibly closer, feeling the warmth from her skin. The Texas heat was unbearable even in the dark, and it was humid and you were both sweaty. But the touch of her skin on yours was worth it. You left lingering kisses to the back of her bare neck as she continued to sleep.

"I love you, Lorraine," you whispered into the dark for no one but god to hear.

“Come on, T, one movie,” you said as you jogged to her side. “One shot.”

“When are you planning on this movie?” Tara asked with a sigh. Her side eye was fantastic. “Sam is always home.”

“She goes to therapy, right?” You asked. She hesitated for a moment, but nodded. “I’ll come over while she’s in therapy and then bail before she gets back.”

You couldn’t hear it thanks to the students still surrounding you, but you saw her shoulders sag as she sighed. Her hand brushed yours once and it was like a jolt of electricity going up your arm. It was nice and brought a smile to your face. The little downturn of her eyebrows indicated she was thinking.

“She leaves the apartment at 5:30 on Friday,” Tara said as she pulled to a stop once again and looked up at you.

“That’s right before the frat party,” you said. “I thought you wanted to go to that?”

“You can have either the party or a movie,” Tara said with a raised brow. “Don’t be greedy.”

“I’ll take the movie,” you said as you raised your hands in surrender. “If Sam leaves at 5:30, I’ll be there at 5:31.”

“Oh my god,” Tara mumbled before walking off. “Just don’t get caught.” She turned around for a second, walking backwards and pointing at you. “And you’re buying the snacks.”

You watched her walk off, a ridiculous smile on your lips as you turned around and started your own walk back to your apartment. Finally, a date with the elusive Tara Carpenter. Well, she hadn’t called it a date. But it was absolutely a date. All you had to do was bring snacks.

Shit, what snacks did she like?

Friday evening came around faster than you had been ready for. Not to get things wrong, you were beyond excited; but once you started the walk to Tara’s apartment, the nerves started to settle in. You had some cheap beer in your backpack and as many snacks as you could shove in there; jerky, candy, chips, even some popcorn.

You were about to walk up the steps to the apartment building doors when you saw Sam walking down.

“Shit,” you whispered to yourself, quickly slipping into the alley beside the building. 

You pulled your hood down over your head and leaned against the wall. Shit, you thought, you probably looked like some sort of creep just hanging around the alley. Had Sam seen you? Hopefully not, this was your one shot, Samantha Carpenter was not going to ruin it.

And she didn’t. She walked right by you without sparing a second glance. You let out the breath you had been holding and slowly poked your head out from the alley. She continued to walk away with her back to you, but you felt like she was watching you. Like she knew you were there, about to go up to her apartment and ravish her sister.

Okay, you weren’t actually going to ravish Tara, you were both sober this time and you very much respected her boundaries. Maybe next movie date.

Only once you were beyond positive that Sam was gone did you finally walk into the apartment building. The stairs taunted you; they knew you hated long walk ups. But Tara was up there, and that gave you a renewed strength to start the long trek. Until you were huffing and puffing near the door, and you had to lean against the wall for a second to catch your breath.

“Need my inhaler?”

Shit.

You turned your head to see Tara standing in the now-open doorway, the smallest smile playing at her lips. She was holding up the inhaler in one hand and she was taunting you. And wouldn’t you know it, you weren’t even upset.

“Only if we shotgun it,” you said with a smirk.

“Oh my god, just shut up and get inside.”

She ushered you in, checking outside - probably for Sam - one more time before shutting the door behind the both of you. You had been in the Carpenter’s apartment once or twice before, but only in passing. Once when Mindy had snuck you in for a movie marathon and the one time you had to help Quinn with a project. It was a nice apartment, though you noticed it looked more like a temporary living space than a home.

Tara led you down the hallway, and you both stopped when you heard moaning from the other side of the wall.

“Get it, Quinn!” You called out, doubling over when Tara elbowed you in the side.

“Shut up,” she threatened, but the moans stopped and you both heard rustling. Tara sighed as you walked out of the hall just as Quinn opened the door.

“You getting lucky too?” Quinn asked Tara, who groaned and walked into what you assumed was her own room.

“Movie night,” you said with a shrug. “But if anyone asks, we absolutely fucked.”

“Unless it’s Sam?”

“Unless it’s Sam,” you confirmed.

“My lips are sealed,” Quinn said with a wink before closing her door, and you quickly made your way into Tara’s room.

It looked far more lived in than the rest of the apartment. Hell, it actually looked like a college kid lived there. The rest of the apartment was clearly Sam’s decorating (or lack thereof), but in her own space the real Tara came out. Colours, posters, character. It was nice.

And far cleaner than your own room back at your apartment.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a prick?” Tara asked when you closed the door behind you.

“What did I do?” You shot back.

“You better not go telling everyone we hooked up,” she said.

“Oh please,” you huffed, setting your backpack down on her bed and letting her dig through everything. She quickly popped the tab on one of the beers. “I wouldn’t dare ruin Tara Carpenter’s perfect reputation.”

“I don’t need everyone knowing I associate with you,” she continued.

But you could see the shimmer in her eyes as she pulled out your laptop. You told her the password without hesitation so she could look at your movie collection. She skimmed and you got everything else out of your bag, setting it all up on her dresser. A hum and a pointed look had you throwing the pack of M&Ms onto the bed before you climbed up next to her.

“I’m not watching that,” you said when she went to start Hereditary.

“Excuse me?” She asked indignantly. “Why not?”

“It’s overplayed,” you said, gently pushing her hand aside to find something else. “And dare I say, overhyped.”

“I’ll kick you out of my apartment.”

“This is better.” You ignored her statement and exasperated look completely. “Trust me.”

“Annihilation?” She asked as she took a closer look. “I bet you only watch it for Natalie Portman.”

“Well yeah, I’m not blind,” you scoffed. “But it’s also a great movie. Phenomenal score.”

“Wow,” Tara said softly with a nod of her head. “That was so incredibly lame.”

“Shut up and drink your beer,” you huffed, pushing her gently with your shoulder as you popped the tab of your own drink.

Not even ten minutes into the movie, you were leaning against the headboard while Tara was leaning into your side. Her knees were pulled up to her chest but her head rested on your shoulder, and you could no longer focus on the movie. Not even Natalie Portman could distract you from the feel of Tara leaning into you, her breathing in sync with your own.

Midway through the movie, you felt her shift and sling her left arm around your waist. You tried your best to play it cool, to not show her how nervous and giddy it made you. Instead you just wrapped your own arm around her shoulder. You looked down at her hand, fiddling with the hem of your shirt and saw the scar on her hand.

It had made you sad at first when you had heard about all the hell she had gone through. Everyone else at Woodsboro too, of course, but especially her. The first one, not expecting anything to go wrong, caught alone and terrified. You had nearly cried when you found out.

But then it made you mad. Furious, even. Enraged that someone would go out of their way to hurt Tara. No, not someone, that her girlfriend had gone out of her way to hurt Tara simply to make a statement. Fucking clout chasers, the lot of them. It was a good thing Amber was dead, because you would have killed her yourself.

You hesitantly let your hand fall on top of hers. She stiffened against you, but slowly relaxed when you didn’t move to do anything further. Only once she settled a bit did you rub your thumb against her knuckles, gently over the scar. She sighed and leaned further into you as you massaged the sensitive skin.

Oh, she was playing you for a fool. And she was winning.

“Hang on, listen to this,” you said once the movie hit its climax. You leaned forward to turn the volume up on your laptop. “Listen to the swell of the music, how it steadily gets a little louder, a little more advanced.” You looked down to see Tara staring at you. “What?”

“You really pay attention to movie scores,” she said with the slightest uptick of the corner of her mouth. “Like, really pay attention.”

“It’s not that weird,” you said quietly. “You and Mindy geek out over your “elevated horror” or whatever you call it.”

“I’m not complaining,” Tara said defensively, finally sitting up and shifting so she was facing you. “It’s just… a different thing to focus on.”

“Different?” You asked. “It’s probably the most important part of a movie. Imagine The Babadook without any music.”

“It would still dominate,” she answered. “Your music only enhances the experience, it doesn’t create it.”

“It would be mediocre at best and you know it,” you said.

“Like you?” She asked, leaning forward until her face was right in front of yours.

“Oh sweetheart, you know I’m far better than that.” Your eyes fell to her lips; she was smirking at you. Taunting you again.

“I think I forgot,” she said. You could almost feel her lips brushing against yours. “You might need to remind me again.”

“Only if you say please,” you said. You wanted to taunt her back, but she had you wrapped around her little finger. You were hooked.

“In your dreams,” she whispered before leaning forward and pressing her lips against yours.

It didn’t take long before her hands were on your neck and you pulled her into your lap. The movie was long forgotten and you could hear the crinkle of snack wrappers underneath your legs, but you didn’t care. All you cared about was her lips on yours, her fingers brushing against your neck, how soft her hips were.

“I’m still not convinced,” Tara whispered into your ear. Your fingers dug into her hips.

“You’re a brat,” you told her, but you couldn’t help your smile. Especially when she laughed lightly, her breath fanning across your neck.

She pulled away just long enough for you to pull her shirt over her head before kissing you again. Your hands instantly found her waist, your fingers lightly crossing her skin, remembering everything from your hookup all those weeks ago. Each scar and freckle and ticklish spot. Her skin was warm and soft; you had missed it.

Her own fingers were playing with the hem of your own shirt when the door flung open, and you both flinched and turned to look. Sam was standing in the doorway, her mouth hanging open as her eyes flicked between both you and Tara. You could feel your cheeks and neck flush as embarrassment started to set it.

“Seriously?” Sam asked, now not even looking at you. “While I’m at therapy?”

“You didn’t want me going to the frat party,” Tara defended, “so I didn’t.”

“You couldn’t have picked someone better?” Sam asked, now looking at you with an unimpressed face.

“Hi Sam,” you said meekly.

“Tara, put your clothes back on,” Sam huffed without an ounce of hesitation or remorse. “And you, get out of my apartment.”

“Or what?” You asked with a nervous chuckle. “You’re gonna stab me?”

Everyone fell silent. Both Sam and Tara looked at you with faces that you had seen plenty of times before. It was fairly neutral, but with the slightest raise of a brow and a sigh of irritation. It was a look that said “please shut the fuck up.” Again, a look you knew very well.

“Get out,” Sam said again.

“Yes ma’am,” you mumbled instantly.

Sam watched you the whole time you packed things back up, slipping your laptop into your backpack and putting your shoes and jacket back on. You turned to tell Tara bye, but judging by the looks of both Carpenter sisters, you just shut your mouth, gave them a closed-mouth smile, and nodded once.

“See you in class, Tara!” You called out once you reached the door.

“Don’t come back!” Sam shouted in return.