#mabel x reader

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And maybe that was the worst part.

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

She told herself it didn't matter.

Because you were not funny. You were not charming.

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

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

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

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

God, it was infuriating. You were infuriating.

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

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

Which is totally normal.

Totally sane.

Totally not bordering on a hyperfixation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Always.

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

God, she hated you.

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

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

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

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

"I have emotional strength," Anika shot back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anika perked up. "Five?"

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

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

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

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

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

You blinked. "Hey."

"Shut up," she said, chewing slowly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She wasn't going because of you.

Obviously not.

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

Totally normal reasons.

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

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

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

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

Great.

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

Totally fine.

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

Or try to talk to her.

Or exist within her peripheral vision.

___

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God.

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

Her phone buzzed. Again.

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

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

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

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

Whatever.

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

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

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

She always handled that.

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

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

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

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

She never had to explain anything if she was drunk.

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

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

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

Just another night. Same as always.

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

She started walking.

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

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

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

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

She didn't slow down.

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

Same as always.

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

Mindy spotted her first.

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

And then there was you.

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

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

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

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

But it was too late. The ritual had begun.

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

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

It felt normal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not because you looked good.

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

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

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

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

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

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

No chance.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you caught it.

Of course you did.

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

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

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

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

And enough to make your smirk deepen.

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

Which, of course, you were.

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

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

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

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

You shrugged one shoulder, your smirk never dropping.

"Scared you can't keep up?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tara followed a beat later.

The tequila hit her tongue hot — too hot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe it was that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It should have. God, it should have.

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

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

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

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

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

She hated it.

But she smiled anyway.

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

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

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

No.

It was just the alcohol.

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

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

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

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

You were too relaxed.

Too comfortable.

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

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

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

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

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

Tara almost laughed in your face.

Almost.

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

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

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

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

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

Tara hesitated — but only for half a second.

Because fuck it. It was just dancing.

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

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

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

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

The music was loud enough to drown everything else out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It all felt like slow motion.

Too vivid. Too loud inside her own head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it made her furious.

Furious that she couldn't look away.

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

Furious that her pulse stuttered every time you shifted closer.

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

Of course this was happening. Of course it was.

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

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

This wasn't supposed to happen.

It couldn't happen.

Not when she hated you.

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

You were cocky. You were smug.

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

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

And that was exactly the problem.

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

And Tara Carpenter didn't lose.

She didn't fold.

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

Especially not you.

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

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

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

Great.

Exactly what she needed.

As if this wasn't already a fucking disaster.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The world kept tilting anyway.

She hated this.

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

Hated the heat clinging to her skin.

Hated you for making it worse without even trying.

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

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

That same stupid electricity sparking just from you being near.

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

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

Your voice was low and stupidly smug in her ear.

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

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

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

She scowled harder at the wall in front of her.

God. She hated this.

You didn't let up, of course.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You'd definitely heard it.

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

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

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

Your eyes locked.

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

Straight to your mouth.

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

Hated the way the thought hit her like a punch:

That she could just lean over and kiss you.

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

The thought should have mortified her.

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

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

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

It wasn't like you knew.

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

"Wanna make out?" you said.

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

Tara's whole body locked up at once.

Her fists clenched hard against her thighs.

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

She stared at you, open-mouthed, furious —

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

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

It was to say yes.

And that terrified her more than anything else.

Because it wasn't just the alcohol talking.

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

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

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

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

But you?

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

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

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

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

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

You looked good.

Too good.

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

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

Inviting.

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

And your mouth.

God, your mouth.

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

She wanted to blame the shot.

Both of them.

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

She felt high.

Not drunk — high.

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

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

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

Like it was funny.

Like it wasn't about to ruin everything.

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

Long enough for her brain to scramble for something.

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

None of it will matter tomorrow.

You're drunk. She's drunk.

This isn't real.

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

So she didn't have to take it seriously.

She didn't have to mean it.

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

You were already watching her.

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

Your lips looked soft.

Mocking.

Like they were daring her.

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

Hard.

Fast.

Just to wipe that look off your face.

The thought made her stomach flip.

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

But you weren't going to hear those thoughts.

So what did it matter?

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

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

Your eyebrows ticked up, just slightly.

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

Tara barely had a second to breathe.

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

Too close.

And then your mouth touched hers.

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

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

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

They parted for yours like they knew how.

The kiss deepened.

Slower than she expected.

Sloppy, yes — but controlled.

You kissed like you were making sure she felt it.

Every inch of it.

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

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

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

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

She kissed you harder.

Or maybe you kissed her harder.

She didn't know anymore.

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

It wasn't clean or careful.

It was messy.

Unsteady.

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

Your lips parted again, and she followed.

Breath hitched.

Tongues touched.

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

Your lips tasted like cheap liquor and something sweeter underneath.

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

It was chaotic.

Uncoordinated.

Hot.

Her heart was hammering.

You kept kissing her like it was easy. Like you weren't even thinking about it.

And she couldn't stand how badly she wanted to keep going.

How her body leaned into yours like it needed to.

Every second of it was wrong.

Every second of it felt too good.

But Tara didn't pull away.

Not yet.

Your hand was still resting at her hip, light but grounding, and her fingers curled unconsciously against your leg, needing something solid to hold onto. Her lips moved against yours again — slower this time, deeper. Like she couldn't help it. Like the heat simmering in her chest had nowhere else to go.

She didn't even try to think anymore.

Didn't care.

Her thoughts were loud — messy, tangled, barely strung together.

She shouldn't be doing this.

She shouldn't want this.

But she did.

God, she did.

She kissed you harder, angling her head to the side, and you met her without hesitation — like you'd been waiting for that exact pressure, that exact urgency.

Her legs shifted against the couch, thighs tightening involuntarily as your hand brushed up her side — not even high, not even skin — and still it sent a jolt right through her.

She was drunk.

That had to be it.

It had to be.

Because she could feel it now.

Low in her stomach. Between her legs.

A slow, pulsing heat — the kind that wouldn't go away. That never just went away.

It was ridiculous.

So fucking ridiculous.

But you tasted good.

You felt good.

And when your lips dragged slightly down to the corner of her mouth — just enough to make her breath hitch — Tara realized she didn't just want to kiss you.

She wanted more.

Her mind raced.

Images flashing too fast to stop — her hands gripping your shirt, your mouth lower, your body under hers — and she wanted to shake herself.

Yell.

Do something.

But all she did was kiss you again. Again and again and again.

She could barely think, barely breathe, could feel herself pooling between her legs — warm, aching, needy in a way that made her want to scream.

It was humiliating. It was infuriating.

And it wasn't stopping.

You shifted slightly, pulling her closer without even trying — and Tara let you.

Let you kiss her like you owned her.

Let your tongue slide against hers with that same cocky rhythm.

She wanted to push you back.

Push you down. Pull your hair. Something. Anything.

Because she needed more.

Even if she couldn't say it.

Even if it killed her.

The thought alone made her dizzy.

Not the alcohol. Not the heat.

Just you.

You, sitting there like you hadn't just lit her whole body on fire.

You, staring at her with those eyes like you knew exactly what she wanted and how badly she wanted it.

And fuck — she hated that she couldn't hide it anymore.

Not with her lips swollen from yours, not with her chest rising too fast, not with that hungry, throbbing pull between her legs that wouldn't stop gnawing at her.

Her mind twisted in circles — a thousand reasons why she should stop, why she had to stop.

This wasn't her.

She didn't do this.

She didn't want this.

But that voice was buried now — drowned under the heat, the rush, the way her thighs squeezed together like they had a mind of their own.

The only thing louder than her thoughts was the ache.

She wanted to lean back in.

Wanted to taste your lip gloss again, to bite your bottom lip and hear you gasp.

Wanted to see just how far you'd let her take it.

Instead, her body moved on instinct.

Sharp. Sudden.

She pulled away — barely — lips parting from yours with a sound too soft for how hard her heart was beating.

She sat there for a second, just breathing.

Just staring.

Your eyes locked with hers, confused but already glinting with that same smugness you always had.

And still — she couldn't look away.

Her hand twitched. Fingers curled.

"Come on," she muttered — voice low, tight, like the words cost her something.

Then she grabbed your wrist.

Not rough. Not gentle.

Just determined.

You didn't say a word.

Didn't ask where you were going.

You just followed.

She pulled you through the crowd, heat and bass and sweat pressing in from every side.

Bodies crushed together — laughing, moving, swaying — and Tara didn't look at a single one of them.

She didn't care.

Didn't slow down.

Her grip on your hand tightened as she shoved through, weaving past shoulders and spilled drinks and sticky floors.

The music was louder now, the air thicker, and she could barely breathe — but she didn't stop.

Because you were still behind her. And your hand was still in hers. And she needed more.

Wherever this was going —

Whatever happened next —

She needed more.

And oh, did she get it.

She barely registered the room as she dragged you inside — the faint whir of a ceiling fan, the messy tangle of an unmade bed in the corner, a dresser with half-open drawers.

It didn't matter. None of it did.

The second the door clicked shut behind you, Tara's hands were on you again — shoving you back against it hard enough to rattle the frame.

You let out a breathy laugh — smirking — and Tara wanted to punch it off your face.

Or kiss it.

Apparently her body decided for her.

Because the next thing she knew, her mouth was on yours again, hot and rough and starving.

She felt you grin against her lips — cocky and pleased — and it made something furious and electric twist deep inside her.

She kissed you harder.

Sloppier.

Your bodies crashed together, uncoordinated and messy.

It was all teeth and heat, lips sliding and tugging, hands scrabbling for something to hold onto.

Tara barely remembered how to breathe.

Her hands fisted in the hem of your shirt, tugging you closer, feeling the way your body molded into hers.

You were warm — too warm — and the heady smell of you, your perfume and sweat and beer, filled her lungs until she was drunk off it.

Drunker than she already was.

You tilted your head, deepening the kiss, and Tara almost whimpered — feeling it all the way down to her knees.

The way your tongue brushed against hers, teasing, coaxing.

The way you bit down gently on her bottom lip, pulling it between your teeth for just a second before letting go.

Fuck.

She pressed her whole body against you, chasing the feeling, desperate to steal more.

And all she could think — all she could fucking think — was:

More.

More.

More.

Her hands moved before her brain could catch up — yanking at the hem of your shirt, dragging it upward in one rough pull.

You didn't resist — you even raised your arms to make it easier — and Tara barely tossed it somewhere across the room before her eyes dropped automatically, hungrily.

You were wearing a black bandeau bra — simple, tight, strapless. It hugged your chest perfectly, the curve of your breasts pressed up and together — smooth and effortless and unfairly fucking hot.

Tara stared for a second longer than she meant to, heat punching through her chest so sharp it almost hurt.

And then she was on you again.

Her hands framed your face, grabbing you roughly, and she crashed her mouth back onto yours like she could erase the thoughts racing through her head if she just kissed you hard enough.

You made a low sound in the back of your throat — something between a laugh and a moan — and suddenly, you started walking forward, guiding her with you.

Tara stumbled a step back, caught off-guard, but didn't think, didn't care — she just followed, letting herself be pulled wherever you wanted her.

It was messy, chaotic, bumping into furniture, nearly tripping over shoes left on the floor. The floor kept tilting under her feet, the alcohol swirling through her blood like fire.

But none of it mattered.

You didn't give her time to overthink.

Before she could fully process it, the back of her legs hit the edge of the bed —

And your fingers were already at the hem of her shirt, bunching it up and over her ribs.

Tara didn't move at first.

Didn't breathe.

She just let you.

Arms raising slightly, letting you peel the fabric up and off — another piece of herself surrendered without even a second thought.

Her head spun so violently it almost made her laugh.

And then your eyes flickered down — blatantly — lingering at her chest. Tara didn't even have time to brace for it.

She was wearing a black lace bra — something strappy, barely-there, a little too much push-up if she was being honest.

The way your gaze darkened made heat lick straight down her spine. You smirked, slow and lazy, like you had all the time in the world.

"Fancy, Carpenter," you murmured, voice low and teasing.

Tara opened her mouth — maybe to tell you to shut the fuck up — but then you tilted your head, grinning even wider.

"Did you pick this out just for me?"

Your hands slid up without warning — fingers tracing lightly over her ribs before cupping her breasts through the lace.

It wasn't even that rough, but it didn't have to be.

Tara almost moaned.

Almost.

Her knees went a little weak, her body flaring hot all over — and god, it pissed her off how easily you could get to her.

Instead of giving you the satisfaction of hearing her fall apart, she grabbed your face again — rough, desperate — and pulled you back into her.

"Don't remind me that you're you,” she growled into your mouth.

And then she kissed you — hard, messy, almost feral — her hands fisting tight in your hair like she needed something to hold onto just to keep herself grounded.

Tara kissed you like she was trying to knock the smugness right off your face — open-mouthed and clumsy and a little too desperate.

Your hands stayed right where she hated them — cupping, teasing — your thumbs brushing over the lace in a way that made her hips stutter forward without meaning to.

And somewhere in the swirling, drunken haze of it all, Tara had the fleeting, stupid thought that maybe she regretted what she said. Because doing this — this — with you didn't make her hate you more.

It made it hotter.

Made her want to crawl out of her own skin.

Before she could sink too deep into that terrifying realization, your hands slid down to her waist — gripping tight — and without warning, you pushed.

Tara stumbled backward with a sharp gasp, the backs of her knees hitting the bed.

She let herself fall — dropping onto the mattress with a bounce — glaring up at you like she wanted to murder you and kiss you at the same time.

You just smirked down at her, maddeningly calm, stepping in even closer. Your knees bumped against the edge of the bed, and for half a second, neither of you moved — the air thick between you, your breathing ragged and shallow.

And then — slowly, lazily — Tara spread her legs apart, leaving just enough space for you to step between.

She tilted her head back against the bed, looking up at you with dark, furious eyes — like she was daring you to fucking do something about it. Tara could already feel herself slipping.

Her thighs tensed where they framed your hips, her chest heaving with every shallow breath.

She didn't know what it was — the alcohol, the heat, you — but she needed something.

Needed you to move, to touch her, to do something.

If that meant bending her over and fucking her until she forgot her own name, then so be it.

She didn't care. She just needed it.

Her whole body ached with it — restless, buzzing, desperate — and she barely lasted ten seconds under the weight of your stare before her patience snapped clean in half.

"Are you just going to stand there fucking stare," she snarled, her voice low and wrecked, "or are you going to fuck me?"

Tara propped herself up on her elbows like it might make her look tougher —like it might somehow hide how desperate she was underneath all the glaring.

Your mouth fell open slightly at her words, caught somewhere between a smirk and actual shock —like you hadn't expected her to say it out loud.

You let your gaze rake down her body, slow and lazy, and when you looked back up at her, your smile was downright cruel.

"Wow," you said, voice dripping with mock-sweetness. "Someone's needy, huh?"

You leaned in, one hand bracing on the bed beside her hip, your mouth just barely brushing her ear.

"Poor little princess," you whispered. "Should I help you out?"

Tara muttered a "fuck you"under her breath — something sharp and furious— but her hands were already moving.

Shaky, rushed, desperate.

She grabbed at your belt first, fumbling with the buckle like it personally offended her, her fingers clumsy with alcohol and want. She yanked it loose hard enough to make the metal clatter, then popped open the button of your jeans, dragging the zipper down in one rough pull.

And fuck, there it was — hard and heavy against the fabric, clear as fucking day.

The sight made her head spin worse, made something low and tight pull deep in her stomach, but she didn't let herself stop to think about it — not even for a second. She shoved at your jeans until you stepped out of them, until they hit the floor with a messy thud.

Her heart thundered, wild and wrecked against her ribs, but she didn't move away — not yet.

Her hands hovered there for half a second, like she was caught between hating herself and wanting you more than she'd ever wanted anything.

Tara's mouth actually watered — hot and heavy and shameful — and she clenched her jaw tight like that could somehow make it stop.

Before she could even think about it, you were already moving again — your hands sliding down her sides, gripping tight at her hips. And then you were tugging at her skirt, so much easier than the fight she'd had with your jeans.

All it took was a little lift of her hips, and the fabric slid right off, pooling somewhere forgotten at the edge of the bed.

And fuck — she was wet.

She knew it.

You probably knew it too.

The thin black lace of her panties — delicate and stretched tight over her — left absolutely nothing to the imagination. Tiny little bows sat at each hip, the material riding low enough to make her look even more wrecked than she already was.

Your eyes dragged down her body slowly, like you were memorizing every goddamn inch.

And Tara, stubborn as ever, tilted her chin up — like she wasn't seconds away from begging you to touch her already. You didn't even hesitate.

Your fingers hooked into the delicate black lace at her hips and tugged, slow and deliberate, dragging the soaked fabric down her thighs. Tara didn't move at first — didn't even breathe — but the second they were off, she let her head fall back against the bed, her elbows still propping her up, gaze tilting up toward the ceiling.

The room spun around her, thick and heavy and slow, but she didn't care.

Not when she could hear the faint shuffle of you undressing too, stripping off that last piece of clothing between you.

She didn't even have to look to know you were naked now.

She felt it — the heat rolling off your body, the slow, deliberate weight of your gaze dragging across every inch of her.

Her chest rose and fell fast, uneven.

Her thighs pressed together for just a second — instinctive — but then she forced herself to relax them again, stubborn even now.

Waiting for you to make your move.

You still weren't doing anything.

You were just standing there, hovering over her, like you had all the time in the world — and it made her insane.

Tara threw her head up from the bed, snapping in a wrecked, furious voice, "God, could you be any slower?"

But she barely had the words out before you finally pushed into her.

Her breath punched out in a strangled, desperate moan, her head falling back again, slamming lightly against the mattress.

Her bare legs immediately wrapped themselves around your waist, locking you in place, like she couldn't stand the thought of you pulling away even for a second.

"Fuck," she gasped, low and broken, her voice raspy from how much she needed this — from how much she hated how good you felt inside her.

Without thinking, she tried to grind up into you, desperate for more, desperate to chase the dizzying pleasure curling in her stomach —but your hands clamped down on her hips, hard enough to bruise, forcing her to stop.

You didn't let her set the pace. You didn't even let her move.

You held her exactly where you wanted her — then shoved her hips deeper against yours, guiding her exactly how you wanted it: hard, rough, relentless.

Pushing her into you, dragging her back, pushing her forward again — over and over, like you were using her body to fuck yourself, like she wasn't even given a choice.

And God, it was good.

Every drag, every thrust was blinding —

Tara could feel you everywhere, splitting her open, filling her until her thighs were trembling from the force of it.

She bit down on a moan, fingers clawing uselessly at the sheets beside her, barely able to breathe through how fucking good it felt —how good you felt —how much she hated it and loved it and needed more anyway.

The rhythm was brutal.

Your hips crashed into hers again and again, rough and relentless, dragging these helpless, wrecked sounds out of her throat with every thrust. The bed squeaked under the force of it, your bodies slamming together, slick and messy and perfect.

It felt fucking fantastic.

Tara couldn't stop herself — couldn't even try to stop — moaning over and over again, broken, desperate sounds ripping free of her lungs like she had no control over them anymore.

It was euphoric. It was almost too good.

Her mind was spinning so violently she swore she might black out, the pleasure building under her skin like fire.

Fuck, you were so good at this. FUCK

So fucking good it made her angry.

She squeezed her eyes shut tight, tried to ground herself — but when she opened them again, when she saw the way you were looking down at her —so cocky, so goddamn smug, so fucking hot — she had to throw her head back again, moaning even louder, because fuck, she couldn't take it.

Her body betrayed her, gave her away completely, hips bucking up to meet yours every time you snapped forward into her.

And even if her brain was screaming at her not to say it —not to admit it —every single wrecked, desperate sound coming out of her mouth was saying it for her.

You were making noises too — low, heavy grunts punched out from your chest — but Tara barely even noticed. She was too far gone, too consumed by the feeling of your cock stretching her open again and again, your body pinning her down so perfectly she never wanted you to stop.

And then, of course — you just had to fucking smirk.

"Geez, Tara," you said between rough breaths, that infuriating grin tugging at your mouth, "if I knew this would shut you up, I would've done it ages ago."

You shifted your hips with a brutal snap, driving yourself harder into her just as she opened her mouth to fire back — and the only thing that came out was a wrecked, desperate moan.

"Yeah, well— maybe you should've—" Her voice cracked, the words collapsing into a breathless whimper when you slammed deeper, grinding mercilessly against that perfect, aching spot inside her.

Tara's head fell back against the mattress, her whole body jolting with every sharp, perfect thrust. She tried to scramble for the sheets again, tried to cling to anything to ground herself, but her hands were useless, clutching nothing but air.

Every time you moved, it was overwhelming — relentless and raw and fucking perfect — and it made her legs tighten around your waist like she was scared you might pull away.

Her breath was stuttering now, spilling out in broken little gasps that only made you smirk harder. And when you pushed in again, harder, rougher, she whimpered so loudly it almost sounded like a sob.

Fuck, she hated how good it felt.

Fuck, she hated how fucking good you felt.

Her hands scrambled uselessly against the bed — grabbing fistfuls of the messy sheets, tangling in her own hair, clawing at her flushed face — but nothing grounded her, nothing eased the brutal, overwhelming way you were slamming into her.

She felt like she was going to snap.

She wanted to snap.

The bed creaked under the force of it all, the air thick with rough breaths and low grunts. Tara's entire body burned — from rage, from need, from how fucking good you felt ruining her.

And you just kept going. Kept fucking talking.

"You sound so pretty when you're desperate," you panted against her ear, smirking because you knew what you were doing to her.

Tara's jaw clenched so tightly it ached. Her whole body tensed under you — furious and humiliated and desperate all at once.

"God," she snarled, her voice low and wrecked, "shut the fuck up.”

You just chuckled darkly under your breath — and pushed even deeper, harder, like you were punishing her for even thinking she had the right to tell you what to do.

Tara threw her head back against the bed, a choked moan breaking out of her throat — furious at herself for how fucking good it felt, furious that she was the one begging now, without even needing to say a word.

And it only got worse.

Rougher.

Harder.

Better.

The slap of your bodies hitting echoed in the room, each thrust forcing little desperate sounds out of her no matter how tightly she bit her lip to hold them back. Her thighs shook where they were wrapped tight around your waist, the sheets she clawed at were useless under her hands, and fuck —that heat in her lower stomach was starting to grow.

A dangerous, simmering pit that started as a little thrum — a warning — and then kept building, sharp and dizzy and huge, way bigger than anything she was used to feeling.

She knew what it was.

She knew she was about to come — fuck, she was about to come — and it scared her how fast and hard it was coming.

It was like her whole body had turned traitor. It was like she couldn't stop it even if she wanted to.

And you must have felt it too — the way her body started tightening around you, the way her nails dug harder into the sheets — because you only fucked her rougher, dirtier, faster.

And Tara couldn't hold back anymore.

She gasped out something — something wrecked and half-broken — her head pressing back harder into the bed, her mouth falling open on a silent cry.

You were right there with her, dragging her closer and closer to the edge, like you wanted to watch her fall apart. Like you fucking needed it.

And Tara didn't stand a fucking chance.

One more thrust — brutal, rough, deep — and she was gone.

Her whole body tensed hard, legs locking tighter around your waist, her back arching sharply off the bed as a broken moan ripped straight from her chest.

It slammed into her all at once — fast, wrecking, almost violent — like something had snapped inside her. Her vision went white around the edges, her fingers clawing helplessly at the sheets, at her own hair, at anything she could grab.

Her hips bucked without her even meaning to, grinding desperately against you like she still needed more even as her orgasm ripped through her.

And you —fuck, you lost it too.

The second her body clamped down around you, tight and soaking wet and shaking, you cursed low under your breath and slammed into her one final time, burying yourself as deep as you could go.

You spilled inside her with a wrecked grunt, your hips grinding into hers, trying to ride it out as your body shuddered with the force of it.

It wasn't clean. It wasn't soft.

It was messy and hot and frantic — both of you coming so hard it almost hurt, both of you falling apart into each other like you didn't care if it fucking killed you.

Tara barely even realized she was whining until it was already out of her — high and wrecked and fucking needy, her whole body trembling as you finally, finally stilled.

And for a second, neither of you could breathe.

The only sounds were the wet, sticky slap of skin, the broken, panting breaths you both tried to catch, and the furious hammering of Tara's heart in her ears.

You pulled out of her slowly, dragging a low whimper from Tara's throat that she tried — and failed — to swallow down.

The second you were gone, she let herself collapse fully onto the bed, chest heaving, skin flushed and slick with sweat.

You hovered above her for a moment, both of you panting, just staring at each other. Tara glared up at you — or at least, she tried to.

But her anger didn't land the way it usually did; she was too fucking tired, too wrecked, too spent for her eyes to sharpen into proper daggers.

It was more of a seething, half-lidded glare now. One that didn't scare you at all.

And that was when it hit her —what had just happened.

What she'd just fucking done.

It felt like the alcohol evaporated out of her bloodstream in one horrifying instant.

Her heart hammered in a completely different way now — heavy and sick. For a second, she thought she might be sick.

What the fuck had she done?

The shame hit her first — hot and brutal — almost strong enough to drown her.

She hated herself for it. Hated you for it.

Hated how fucking good it had felt.

And that was what saved her —the memory of how good it felt. The sharp edge of her panic dulled, just a little.

The anger simmered lower, curling into something she could almost stomach.

Still — she had to get the fuck out of there. Now.

Tara shot upright so fast it made her dizzy, scrambling across the bed, snatching up her underwear and yanking it up her shaky legs.

Her skirt came next — wrinkled and inside out, but she didn't give a shit — she just needed it on.

As she struggled to tug it back into place, she looked up at you —still half-naked, still smirking like the smug piece of shit you were.

"Not a word about this to anyone," she snapped, her voice low and wrecked and shaky, "Okay?"

And you — of course — just smirked wider.

___

At first, Tara didn't think much of it.

She figured she was just still hungover — the party had been brutal, after all. She hadn't exactly treated her body well that night.

Half a bottle of vodka, God knew how many shots after, plus whatever the hell she'd eaten off some random guy's plate at three in the morning... it made sense she still felt like shit days later.

That was all it was. Hangover.

Or maybe she ate something bad.

Maybe that sketchy half-burnt pizza from the gas station.

Maybe some stomach bug going around campus.

Or maybe — worst case scenario — she was just getting sick. Some late-winter flu. Something that would pass in a few days if she just drank enough Gatorade and slept it off.

Because seriously, what else could it possibly be?

She shoved the thought away. Refused to let herself even consider anything bigger than that.

But then the days passed.

And the nausea didn't go away. It just got worse.

Creeping up on her in the middle of class — making her have to fake-cough into her sleeve just so she wouldn't gag in front of everyone.

Gnawing at her stomach late at night when she tried to sleep, making her curl tighter under the blankets, teeth clenched, trying to will the feeling away.

It felt like her body was rejecting something. Like it wasn't even hers anymore.

By day five, even the smell of coffee — something that usually got her through her worst mornings — made her stomach flip.

By day six, brushing her teeth made her gag so hard she had to sit down on the bathroom floor for ten minutes after.

Still, she told herself it was nothing.

Stress, she thought, scrubbing her face at the bathroom mirror with angry hands. College. Lack of sleep. Nerves.

Maybe her immune system was just wrecked.

Maybe it was her period coming and being a bitch about it.

It had to be something like that.

It had to be.

She kept telling herself that —over and over, louder and louder —right up until she opened her calendar app one morning and her whole body went cold.

Because she was late.

Really fucking late.

Her stomach twisted.

Not from nausea this time — from panic.

She counted again.

And again.

Counting on her fingers like a dumbass because her brain couldn't make the math make sense.

No matter how she spun it, it had been almost two months.

Tara had sat back against her bed, staring blankly at the ceiling, trying not to hyperventilate.

Trying to tell herself she was wrong.

That it was still stress, still nerves, still something normal.

It's not that, she told herself, breathing through her nose, gripping the blanket so tightly her knuckles turned white. It's not that. It's not that. It's not that.

But deep down —deep, deep down —she already knew exactly what it was.

She could keep lying to herself.

She really could.

And maybe she would've kept lying, would've shoved it down and ignored it and pretended it wasn't real,

if it hadn't been for that night.

The night she ended up hunched over the toilet, sweating and shaking, the taste of acid clawing up her throat.

No warning. No time to pretend it was something else.

It hit her halfway through brushing her teeth — one second she was fine, the next she was dropping her toothbrush into the sink and bolting for the bathroom like she was being hunted.

And as she wiped her mouth, breathing hard, hands clutching uselessly at the cold tile floor —it sank in.

Cold.

Sick.

Unavoidable.

No more excuses.

She didn't remember making the decision.

Not really.

One minute she was pacing her room, hands trembling, heart crawling up her throat —

and the next, she was standing in some grimy drugstore aisle, blinking under the too-bright fluorescent lights, staring at a wall of small pink boxes like they were a firing squad.

She grabbed the first one she saw.

Didn't read the label.

Didn't check the price.

Just threw it into her basket, keeping her head down, as if someone — anyone — might see her.

Might know.

The walk to the register was a blur.

The cashier barely looked up.

She paid in cash.

She didn't even wait to get home.

She just —well.

The bathroom at the back of the store was disgusting.

The kind of disgusting that made her hover awkwardly over the toilet, chewing on her thumbnail, breathing through her mouth because the smell was so bad.

She didn't care.

She couldn't care.

The box was torn open with shaky fingers.

The instructions were left crumpled on the floor.

She didn't need to read them anyway.

Everyone knew how these things worked.

It was over before she even realized she had started.

A few minutes that felt like years.

She sat there — cold, half-numb — perched on the closed toilet lid, arms wrapped tight around herself like it could somehow keep everything from slipping out of her control.

She didn't look at it at first.

She couldn't.

Just sat there, staring at the wall, feeling the seconds bleed out slow and awful, until every heartbeat felt like it could crack her ribs wide open.

And when she finally forced herself to glance down —just a glance, nothing more —it was there.

Blunt.

Undeniable.

Positive.

Tara didn't even have time to think.

Her stomach lurched viciously, and she was barely able to twist around and yank the toilet lid up before she was gagging into the bowl, retching hard enough that her whole body trembled.

It wasn't the same kind of nausea as before.

This was something worse — something heavier.

Shock.

Terror.

Grief.

When she finished, she just stayed there — bent over, forehead resting against her forearm, the test lying on the counter behind her like some cruel, stupid joke she couldn't wake up from.

She didn't know how long she stayed there.

Five minutes? Ten? An hour?

Time didn't feel real anymore.

Eventually, she forced herself up, stumbling to her feet on shaky legs.

She paced the small bathroom, bare feet slapping against the tile, hands buried deep in her hair like she could physically tear the panic out of herself if she just pulled hard enough.

Muttering under her breath.

Cursing herself.

Cursing you.

"What the fuck," she whispered hoarsely, dragging her hands down her face. "What the fuck."

She couldn't breathe right.

Her chest felt too tight.

Her mind kept spinning in wild, useless circles.

Who the fuck was she supposed to tell?

Sam?

Absolutely not — Sam would kill her. Not even just yell — actually kill her.

Mindy?

No way. Mindy would ask a million questions. She'd want to know who. When. How.

Anika?

Same thing. Just softer. And worse.

Chad?

Tara almost laughed — a sharp, broken noise that didn't sound right at all.

Chad wouldn't even listen for more than ten seconds.

He'd probably just high-five her over the sex and completely miss the part where her whole fucking life was falling apart.

Which left you.

The last option.

The last person she wanted to talk to.

Because this?

This was your fault.

Maybe partly hers, sure — she wasn't stupid — but mostly yours.

And the thought of calling you made her stomach churn all over again.

She didn't even remember saving your number.

She didn't even remember getting it.

But there it was — staring back at her from the cracked screen of her phone, mocking her.

Her thumb hovered over the call button.

Her heart pounded so hard it hurt.

And then, before she could think better of it, she pressed it.

She pressed call.

And every second that the phone rang, her panic grew louder, shrieking inside her chest.

One ring.

Two.

Three —

You answered, your voice so casual it made her want to scream.

"Well, well," you drawled, smug and slow, like you were grinning already. "Couldn't get enough, huh? Already calling me back?"

Tara swallowed.

Hard.

The words sat like a rock in her throat.

She opened her mouth — nothing came out.

Because saying it out loud would make it real.

Saying it out loud would shatter whatever thin, desperate hope she still had that this was some sick mistake.

You didn't say anything either.

The teasing dropped into silence — just the faint crackle of the line between you, waiting.

And then you said, more cautious this time, "...Hello?"

Tara squeezed her eyes shut.

Felt her hands start to shake.

And before she could stop herself — before she could take it back — she forced it out in a broken whisper:

But the moments lingered in her thoughts, clinging to her like the remnants of a dream you could never quite shake off. She'd lay in bed late at night, the quiet stretching between the heavy silence of the room, and she could feel the weight of everything she had said to you, everything she had walked away from.

She never expected to feel so torn.

The decision had been made—final. She knew there was no turning back from it. It had to happen, didn't it? She had convinced herself, time and time again.

She had broken the two of you apart for reasons she couldn't even fully explain to herself.

There was guilt, there was the ache of knowing she'd hurt you, but there was also this strange, unsettling sense of rightness that came with the choice, as if it was something that had been fated. And yet, that didn't make it easier. It didn't make it feel less wrong.

Her thumb always hovered over the phone screen, a draft message staring back at her, begging to be sent. She had typed it countless times, each time deleting it before her finger could press the button. "Are you okay?" was always the start.

But it wasn't enough. She wanted more than that. She wanted to reach out, to make sure you were alright, but how could she? After everything she had said. After what she had done. It would be unfair to you, wouldn't it? To just show up and ask how you were doing after tearing everything apart.

You deserved so much better than that.

She remembered how you looked at her, the hurt behind your eyes that she couldn't erase, no matter how hard she tried.

How the words had come out wrong, stumbling over her tongue, rambling in a way that didn't make sense but still left a mark on both of you.

And then, the way you had looked at her. The tears that almost spilled from your eyes. The quiet "oh" that you had whispered, like it was a small admission of defeat. Jenna's chest ached at the memory. She had never wanted to cause you pain. She had never wanted to be the one who broke you.

But it was done. It had to be.

She could still hear your voice in her head, soft and pained. She could still see the shimmer in your eyes as you fought to keep it together. It made her want to call you, to text you, to ask if you were okay, even though she knew deep down that she had no right.

But then there were those moments—the quiet mornings when she woke early, unable to sleep, and the first thought in her mind was of you. It was a fleeting thought, quickly smothered by the reality of the breakup, but it was there, always there. Were you okay? Were you getting better? She had to know, even though she didn't deserve to.

The longer Jenna sat with these thoughts, the more her guilt gnawed at her. The more she questioned herself. Was it too late to fix it? Was it too late to reach out to you? Maybe it didn't matter.

The doubt never fully left her.

It sat in the pit of her stomach, twisting every time she thought about what she had done. Why had she done it? Why had she walked away from you, from everything you two had built together, when it felt so wrong?

Every time Jenna tried to convince herself it had been the right decision, a voice in her head pushed back. It was like trying to convince herself that she hadn't torn a part of her soul away when she ended things. It didn't make sense. Not when she loved you.

She loved you so much.

It was more than just the small things—the way your hand fit perfectly in hers, the way you'd laugh about the stupidest things, making her forget about the weight of her world for a while. It was more than that.

It was how you made her feel like she could breathe easier when you were around, how you understood her in a way no one else could.

You saw her for who she really was, not the façade she put on for the world, not the parts of herself she kept hidden behind layers of insecurities and fears. You made her feel safe, and loved, in a way that made her heart ache just thinking about it.

The way your voice would soften when you spoke her name, like it was a secret only the two of you shared. The way you held her after a long day, arms tight around her like you could protect her from everything.

How could she have done that? How could she have let go of something that meant so much to her?

She thought about the quiet mornings when you would be the first to wake up, your messy hair still wild from sleep as you stretched and groggily smiled at her.

Every piece of her own brokenness seemed to fall into place when you were by her side. It felt like home. And yet, now she had walked away from it. Moved away from it.

And now, all she wanted was to go back. To rewind time, to find the courage to say something different.

She wanted to go back to that night, to that moment when she had sat across from you, her heart breaking into a thousand pieces as she uttered the words that had torn everything apart.

She wished she could have just pulled you close and told you how much she loved you, how much she needed you, and how scared she had been.

But it was too late now. The words had already been said.

Now, as the days passed and her thoughts spiraled, Jenna found herself wishing she had said anything. Anything to stop the hurt. Anything to fix it.

It got to the point where she found it harder to focus at work, her mind constantly drifting, her thoughts veering toward you when they shouldn't. Even though ending things with you was supposed to make work easier.

It was as if everything she touched, everything she read, had some trace of you in it. Some days, when she stared down at the lines of the script in front of her, your voice would fill the silence, echoing the way you would help her work through the scenes.

It was like you were there with her, coaching her through the dialogue, offering small pieces of advice that always seemed to make everything fall into place.

Sometimes, the simplest words—lines she had read a hundred times before—felt like they carried something more.

She would hear them in your voice, almost like a phantom whisper, and for a moment, it was like nothing had changed. For a moment, you were still there beside her, as you always had been.

She missed you so much that it felt almost suffocating. It was strange, because the pain of it seemed bigger than just a breakup.

It was as if you had died, and the thought of never seeing you again had left an empty, hollow feeling in her chest. But that was ridiculous, wasn't it? It was just a breakup. People broke up all the time. It wasn't a funeral. You hadn't died, and yet, it felt like a part of her had.

She caught herself thinking that maybe she could go see you tomorrow, that maybe she could find the courage to face you, to apologize, to make things right.

But then the harsh truth hit her: she was the one who had ended it. She had been the one who said the words, who took the step that closed the door.

If there was any death here, it was the death of the love that once was, and she had killed it herself. She was the one who had let it die.

She wished she could go back and do it all over again, even if that meant facing the hard parts. Anything to bring you back into her life. But it was too late now.

She had already made the choice. And she had to live with it, even though it felt like a slow kind of death.

For weeks, it seemed like everyone on set had noticed that something was off with Jenna too. It wasn't anything obvious—she still showed up on time, still gave her all to every take, still cracked the occasional joke between scenes. But there was a heaviness to her presence that hadn't been there before, a quiet distraction that lingered in her eyes or the way she'd zone out in moments she normally wouldn't.

Nobody said anything. Maybe they thought it wasn't their place, or maybe they just chalked it up to the pressure of work. Either way, they left her alone, offering polite smiles and tentative questions about how she was doing but never pushing for more.

Everyone except Mila.

Mila was one of the first people Jenna had worked with in the industry, and over time, they'd grown close—close enough that Mila had been one of the few friends Jenna introduced to you.

The three of you had hit it off immediately. Mila's easygoing personality and sharp sense of humor made her easy to like, and before long, she had become part of the small circle of people Jenna trusted implicitly.

You and Mila had bonded quickly during visits to set, sharing inside jokes and late-night conversations that blurred the lines between friendship and family. Mila had been there through a lot—both the good and the bad—and while Jenna hadn't told her about the breakup, she couldn't help but wonder if Mila had noticed the shift in her mood.

Jenna had told Mila everything once. But now, she hadn't told her anything.

Not about the breakup. Not about why her smile felt more forced than usual. Not about how she struggled to keep it together some days.

Still, Mila noticed. She always did.

Her usual teasing had shifted in recent weeks, replaced by quiet, searching glances. Sometimes, Mila looked at Jenna like she was on the verge of breaking, as if she could see cracks forming beneath the surface that Jenna wasn't even sure were there. And that look... it confused her.

Had you told Mila?

The thought had crossed Jenna's mind more than once, an anxious flutter in her chest as she replayed your last conversation in her head. You wouldn't have said anything, would you?

You weren't the kind of person to share personal things like that without a reason. But the way Mila looked at her sometimes—with that mixture of pity and quiet concern—it was hard not to wonder.

For days, Jenna tried to shake the feeling, brushing off Mila's attempts to talk or check in with excuses about work or being tired.

But Mila wasn't one to pry, but it was clear that Jenna wasn't herself, and eventually, she decided enough was enough.

"You need a night out," Mila announced one evening, catching Jenna off guard in her trailer. "Just us. A girls' night. Go somewhere loud, have a couple of drinks, and, I don't know, live a little."

Jenna hesitated, her fingers pausing over her phone screen as she looked up at Mila. "I don't know if—"

"Don't even try to talk your way out of it," Mila interrupted, crossing her arms as she leaned against the doorframe. "You've been all... weird lately. Everyone's noticed. It's time to shake it off. Besides, I already have the perfect place in mind."

Jenna opened her mouth to protest again, but Mila didn't give her the chance.

"And hey," Mila added, her tone softening just slightly, "you should invite Y/N. I haven't seen her in forever."

The words hit Jenna like a punch to the stomach. She froze, her brain scrambling to catch up as Mila continued, oblivious to the shift in her expression.

"What?" Jenna finally managed, her voice quieter than she intended.

"Y/N," Mila repeated casually, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "You know, your girlfriend? Bring her along—it'll be fun."

The realization sank in slowly. Of course Mila didn't know. Jenna hadn't told anyone about the breakup, not her family, not her closest friends—not even Mila. She couldn't bring herself to say it out loud, to admit that she had ended something that had meant everything to her.

"Oh," Jenna said after a moment, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Yeah... sure. I'll, uh, I'll ask her."

"Great!" Mila said brightly, grinning as she clapped her hands together. "It's settled, then. This Friday. You, me, and Y/N. It's going to be great."

Jenna nodded, pretending to go along with the plan as her chest tightened with guilt. She couldn't even imagine how she was supposed to explain this to Mila—let alone face the thought of actually seeing you again.

But for now, she pushed those thoughts aside, plastering on her best fake smile and hoping Mila wouldn't notice the cracks beneath it.

"Yeah," Jenna said softly, her voice barely audible. "It'll be great."

___

The week passed faster than Jenna wanted it to, each day slipping away like sand through her fingers.

By Friday morning, she found herself regretting not protesting harder when Mila had first brought up the idea.

She could've said she had something else to do—work, a family obligation, anything that sounded remotely plausible. Or better yet, she could've just told Mila outright that she didn't want to go.

Because she didn't.

Jenna didn't want to go out, didn't want to pretend to have fun, and she especially didn't want to sit through an evening where Mila expected you to show up.

The thought of it made her stomach twist, the kind of anxious churn that left her restless and exhausted all at once. She hadn't even texted you about it, and she didn't plan to. How could she, knowing what Mila was expecting versus what she would actually get?

Still, as much as she hated the idea, the more Jenna thought about it, the more she realized that this might be the right time to say something.

A month had passed. Thirty long, aching days since the two of you had broken up, and she still hadn't told anyone. Not her family, not her friends, and certainly not Mila. But Mila wasn't blind. She had to know something was going on, even if she didn't know the full story.

Maybe you'd told her.

The thought was both a comfort and a weight, lingering at the back of Jenna's mind as she tried to figure out what Mila did—or didn't—know. If you had said something, then it wouldn't be a surprise tonight when Jenna finally admitted it.

If Mila asked, of course.

Jenna wasn't planning on volunteering the information. But if Mila pressed, if she brought it up with that quiet concern she always carried lately, then maybe it was time to stop dodging the question. Time to stop pretending everything was fine when it so clearly wasn't.

And who knew? Maybe saying it out loud—finally letting someone else in—would take some of the weight off her shoulders.

Or maybe it would just make everything worse.

Jenna arrived at the bar later than she'd intended, though she couldn't bring herself to care. The thought of lingering too long, standing awkwardly with Mila before things really got going, had filled her with dread.

She'd spent way too much time overthinking her outfit, too—something casual but not too casual, like she wasn't trying too hard to look like herself when she didn't feel like herself at all.

The place was already buzzing by the time she walked in. Music thumped softly under the hum of voices, and the low lighting made the bar feel warmer than it had any right to. Jenna spotted Mila almost instantly, leaning against the counter with a drink in hand.

She was talking to someone Jenna didn't recognize, but the moment Mila saw her, she perked up and waved her over.

"Finally! I was starting to think you'd stood me up." Her tone was light, teasing, but it carried just enough of a playful jab to make Jenna smile despite herself.

"Yeah, sorry," Jenna said, slipping into the seat beside her. "Traffic." It was a weak excuse, but Mila didn't press.

"Don't worry about it. You're here now." Mila signaled the bartender, sliding a drink over to Jenna. "Figured you'd need this."

Jenna laughed softly, lifting the glass. "Thanks. What is it?"

"Something not too crazy," Mila replied, swirling her own drink. "Didn't think you'd want to dive straight into tequila shots."

Jenna took a sip, letting the conversation flow naturally from there. It was easier than she expected—Mila always had a knack for making things feel effortless. They talked about work, swapped a few jokes about the chaos of the set, and somewhere along the way, the glasses kept refilling.

By the third—or maybe fourth—drink, Jenna was starting to feel the edges of her tension blur. Mila was, too, her laughter coming easier, her cheeks flushed pink.

Her now for what it seemed like sixth drink hovered near her lips as she sat back, her gaze lazily drifting around the room. She took a small sip, her movements slow and deliberate, almost giving the impression she'd forgotten Jenna was even sitting there.

The silence between them stretched, filled only by the low hum of music and scattered voices, until Mila suddenly stiffened. Her eyes widened with a spark of realization, her expression snapping to life.

"Oh my god, right!" she blurted out, the sharpness of her voice cutting through the din. "Where's Y/n? Is she okay?"

The words hit Jenna like a sucker punch, the casual tone unable to disguise the weight they carried. Jenna froze mid-sip, the glass slipping from her lips as her breath caught in her throat. She coughed, the sudden burn forcing her to set the drink down hastily, her fingers trembling as the glass met the table with a sharp clink.

Her chest felt tight, heat blooming beneath her skin—not just from the alcohol, but from something heavier.

Of course Mila would ask that. She had invited you for God's sake.

That detail had slipped Jenna's mind entirely in the haze of the evening, or maybe she'd pushed it aside on purpose. Now it was front and center, leaving her no room to deflect.

She glanced at Mila, already regretting the defensive edge in her voice as she snapped, "Yeah. Why wouldn't she be?"

The words came too quickly, too sharp, and the moment they left her mouth, Jenna wished she could take them back. They weren't just defensive—they were revealing, betraying a tension Mila clearly wasn't expecting.

Mila froze, her brows lifting in mild surprise at the tone. For a brief moment, she looked unsure of how to respond, and then her expression shifted again. Her lips parted as if to speak, but no sound came out, and instead, she fidgeted, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Oh, nothing," she said at last, though her voice had lost its usual breezy confidence. She brushed a strand of hair behind her ear and gave a dismissive laugh that didn't quite reach her eyes.

"I just thought maybe something was wrong? I don't know. She didn't come, so I just wondered."

The nervous energy radiating from her now was unmistakable. Her hand moved to adjust her glass, her fingers drumming against the surface of the table before falling still. She looked everywhere but at Jenna, as if avoiding her gaze would somehow soften the tension hanging in the air.

Jenna narrowed her eyes slightly, her stomach tightening as she watched Mila's sudden shift in demeanor. Something was off—Mila wasn't just making small talk. She was circling something, and Jenna could feel the subtle crackling undercurrent of panic in the way Mila's gaze darted around the room, as if searching for an escape.

Jenna's fingers curled around her glass, the condensation slick against her palm. The question lingered, sharp and unspoken, in the space between them. Why was Mila so nervous?

"Actually I...Uh" Jenna's voice wavered, caught somewhere between a lie and the truth. Her hesitation felt damning, and she hated how small it made her feel. "I didn't ask her."

The admission hung in the air, heavier than she'd intended, and Jenna flinched inwardly at the way it sounded—cold, thoughtless. Nothing could be further from the truth, but Mila didn't know that, and Jenna could already see the gears turning behind her friend's eyes.

"What? Why?" Mila's brows shot up as she leaned forward, her curiosity sharpening with the movement. Her fingers curled loosely around her glass, but her full attention was fixed on Jenna now, the question hanging in the air like a dare.

Jenna froze, her hand hovering mid-air with her drink still in her grasp. The room around her blurred into a haze of muffled conversation and dim light as her thoughts screeched to a halt. She hadn't thought this far ahead—not tonight, not here, not with Mila.

Was this it? The moment she finally said it out loud?

Her stomach churned, and her grip on the glass tightened as the weight of the unspoken truth pressed harder against her chest. What was the point of keeping it to herself anymore? Mila would find out eventually—everyone would.

Besides, when else was she going to say anything? At the table read? Where the cast, producers, and half the crew would be there to overhear? No. That wasn't how she wanted it to come out.

She inhaled sharply, a shallow breath that did nothing to steady the trembling in her hands. The drink clinked softly as she set it down on the table, her fingers still clutching the rim like it was an anchor.

"Because, uhm..." The words felt foreign on her tongue, her voice shaky as her gaze darted down to the table. She could feel Mila's eyes boring into her, waiting.

Her throat felt dry, the lump forming there making it harder to speak. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to look up just enough to meet Mila's gaze.

"We... we're not together anymore."

The words tumbled out unevenly, quiet but heavy, and the silence that followed was deafening. Jenna's stomach dropped, her pulse pounding in her ears as she watched Mila's face shift through a range of emotions—surprise, confusion, concern.

For a second, neither of them moved. Mila blinked, her lips parting as though to respond, but no sound came out. She glanced at Jenna's hand still gripping the glass and then back to her face, her expression softening slightly.

"What?" Mila said again, but this time her voice was softer, almost disbelieving. She leaned back in her chair, her fingers nervously tapping against the table. "I—since when?"

Jenna's jaw tensed, her teeth pressing together as she tried to find the words, but none came easily. She felt exposed, vulnerable in a way she hadn't expected, and the weight of Mila's question made her chest tighten even more.

"Not long ago," Jenna finally said, her voice flat, like she was trying to smooth over the jagged edges of the truth. "It's... complicated."

It wasn't complicated.

Yet Mila nodded slowly, her brows furrowing as if she were trying to piece something together. The nervous energy from earlier was gone now, replaced by an unfamiliar kind of stillness.

Jenna could feel Mila's unspoken questions hanging in the air, but she didn't have it in her to answer them—not here, not now. She picked up her glass again, her fingers trembling just enough to make the drink ripple.

Mila opened her mouth as if to speak but hesitated, her lips pressing into a thin line instead. "I—I didn't know," she said finally, her voice careful, almost apologetic.

Jenna shook her head quickly, as if to wave it off. "It's fine. Really. It's not..." She trailed off, unsure of how to finish that sentence. It wasn't fine, but admitting that felt like too much.

The silence between them returned, heavy and unyielding. Mila shifted uncomfortably, her gaze flickering toward the door as if searching for an escape, while Jenna stared at her glass, the weight of her own words settling deep in her chest.

Mila didn't respond right away. Instead, she leaned back in her chair, her gaze dropping to the table as though she were trying to puzzle something out. Her fingers toyed with the edge of her napkin, folding and unfolding the corner absentmindedly.

Jenna could see the wheels turning behind her friend's eyes, the way Mila's lips pressed together as if she were holding back a question. The silence between them stretched, thick and uncomfortable, and Jenna shifted in her seat, wishing she'd said anything else—anything to steer the conversation away from this.

But then Mila looked up, her expression caught somewhere between hesitation and concern. Her fingers stilled against the napkin, and she inhaled softly, her gaze flitting to Jenna's before darting away again.

"Is..." Mila began, her voice quiet and careful, like she wasn't sure if she should even be asking. She bit her lip, her brows knitting together as she seemed to second-guess herself. "Is it because she's... sick?"

The question hung in the air, stark and unrelenting.

Jenna blinked, her thoughts skidding to a halt at Mila's question. Sick? The word echoed in her mind, but it didn't stick, didn't make sense. She stared at Mila, trying to piece together the sudden turn in the conversation.

Her first instinct was to assume she'd misheard, that the low hum of music or the alcohol in her system had muddled her perception. But the look on Mila's face—hesitant, nervous, but serious—told her she hadn't.

Jenna frowned, her confusion deepening as she scrambled to connect the dots. Sick? What the hell is she talking about? The word didn't fit anywhere. You weren't sick. At least, not in any way Jenna knew of.

Did you have a cold?

Her stomach churned uneasily. Was Mila talking about someone else? Or was this some poorly worded attempt at... what? A metaphor? A joke? Jenna didn't know, but she felt a sudden, inexplicable sense of dread curling low in her chest.

Her grip tightened on her glass, the condensation slick against her fingers. Mila's question replayed in her head, each syllable dragging her further into her own confusion.

Mila had said it like it was obvious, like it was something Jenna should already know, and that only made the knot in her chest tighten further.

A faint heat crept up Jenna's neck, frustration mixing with her unease. She hated not understanding, hated the way her mind was now running in circles trying to grasp something she clearly didn't have all the pieces to.

Jenna's heart thudded faster, her thoughts a jumble of fragmented possibilities that led nowhere. Her confusion was quickly giving way to something sharper—irritation, panic, a gnawing need to demand what are you talking about? But she couldn't bring herself to speak, couldn't do anything but stare at Mila and hope she'd explain herself before Jenna had to ask.

She wet her lips, suddenly aware of the dryness in her throat, and willed herself to keep her expression neutral, though she could feel the tension pulling at her features. She didn't want to look clueless—vulnerable—but she had no idea what Mila meant, and it was beginning to eat at her.

Her fingers drummed restlessly against the side of her glass as she glanced at Mila again, searching her face for some kind of clue.

Mila froze, her eyes widening slightly, a flicker of surprise flashing across her face. It wasn't shock exactly—it was something subtler, like she'd just realized she'd let slip something she wasn't supposed to say. Her hand stilled mid-air, clutching her glass, and her gaze darted away from Jenna as though avoiding eye contact would somehow erase what she'd said.

Jenna felt her stomach drop, unease prickling at her skin. Her grip on her drink tightened as she leaned forward, her brow furrowing. "What?" she asked, her voice sharper than she intended. "What do you mean, sick? Does she have a cold or something?"

Mila flinched at the question, her face tightening into an expression that only made Jenna's anxiety spike. Mila swallowed, then shifted uncomfortably in her seat, her fingers tapping lightly against the glass she held.

"You... you don't know?" Mila finally said, her voice soft, barely above a whisper.

The way she said it—the hesitant tone, the words themselves—sent a jolt of panic straight through Jenna. Her heart skipped a beat, her chest tightening as a chill spread down her spine. Why was Mila framing it like this? Why did it sound so heavy, so dangerous?

Jenna's throat felt dry, her words coming out unsteady. "Don't know what?" she said, her voice rising slightly as she fought to keep calm. "What are you talking about?"

Mila hesitated again, her teeth catching her bottom lip as if she were debating whether to say more. Her gaze flickered up to Jenna's face, studying her with a mixture of wariness and something that almost looked like pity.

"When did you guys break up?" Mila asked carefully, the question quiet but deliberate, like she was trying to piece together a puzzle.

The question caught Jenna off guard, and for a moment, she couldn't respond. Her mind spun, trying to connect the dots Mila was implying but not fully saying. She blinked, then looked down at the glass in her hand as if it might hold the answer.

"It was..." she began slowly, her voice trailing off as she tried to pinpoint the timeline in her mind. Her thoughts felt scattered, disjointed, as she realized how much time had slipped by without you.

"September," Jenna said finally, the word feeling heavy on her tongue. She stared at the condensation pooling at the base of her drink, her voice quieter now, almost distant.

The realization sank in as she said it aloud, a wave of emotion hitting her in its wake.

Three months.

She hadn't even thought about it in those terms until now, but it was true. Three months of getting through each day without you. Three months of forcing herself to push forward, even though the weight of it had felt unbearable at times, even though it was her fault.

And now here was Mila, looking at her like there was some crucial piece of the story Jenna didn't know. The unease grew stronger, twisting in her stomach, and her voice came out softer, more fragile than before.

"Why does that matter?" she asked, the question hanging in the air like a challenge and a plea all at once.

Mila's expression shifted as she looked at Jenna, her features softening with a guilt so palpable it made Jenna's chest ache.

There was something about the way Mila's eyes rested on her—sad, full of hesitation and regret—that made Jenna feel small, like a little kid who had just been caught doing something wrong but didn't know what it was.

The weight of that gaze was unbearable, and Jenna found herself straightening in her seat, as if good posture could somehow shield her from the impact of whatever Mila was about to say.

Her heart hammered in her chest, the seconds stretching unbearably long as Mila opened her mouth, hesitated, and then sighed quietly.

"Jenna..." Mila said softly, her voice almost trembling. She paused, her eyes dropping to her hands for a moment before meeting Jenna's again.

The next words landed like a punch to the gut.

"Y/N has cancer."

The words hung in the air, heavy and unyielding, echoing in Jenna's mind as her entire body went still. For a second, it didn't even register—like Mila had spoken a foreign language Jenna couldn't translate. The room seemed to tilt, the muted background noise fading as all Jenna could hear was the faint ringing in her ears.

"What?" she breathed, her voice so quiet it was almost inaudible. The word felt foreign in her mouth, like it wasn't enough to encompass the sheer disbelief coursing through her veins.

Jenna's heart pounded so hard it drowned out every sound around her.

Cancer?

No. It couldn't be true. It just couldn't. Her head swam, and she blinked rapidly, as if trying to clear her vision or wake herself up from whatever cruel dream she'd stumbled into. Mila's words echoed over and over, growing louder with each repetition until they were almost unbearable.

There was no way. No way. You would've told her. You had to have told her, even though she broke up with you. Right? Jenna gripped the edge of the table, her knuckles white as her thoughts spiraled. You wouldn't keep something like this from her. You couldn't.

The idea that you might have felt the need to tell Mila instead of her made her stomach churn. When had it happened? How long had you known? And why hadn't you come to her, at least for this? She couldn't stop the questions from flooding her mind, each one more agonizing than the last.

Her lips parted, and for a moment, nothing came out. Her voice felt lodged in her throat, trapped behind the whirlwind of disbelief. Finally, she forced the words, shaky and unsure, as if saying them out loud might make Mila realize how impossible they were.

"When did she tell you that?"

Mila's eyes flicked downward, and she bit her lip nervously, her hands fidgeting in her lap. The air between them thickened with unease, Mila seeming to grasp how heavy her revelation truly was. She exhaled sharply, as though trying to remember something she wasn't sure she wanted to recall.

"A week ago. Maybe two," Mila said finally, her voice quiet, tentative.

The answer made Jenna's breath hitch. A week ago? Two? She felt like the world tilted, like her chair was suddenly unsteady beneath her. She stared blankly at Mila, trying to process how you could've known—really known—and said nothing to her. Her mind flashed back to that awful night, the night she shattered everything, and she realized just how long it had been. Nearly three months. Three months without you. Three months of thinking the pain was one-sided.

And yet, you told Mila.

The betrayal mingled with guilt, forming a storm that twisted in her chest until it felt impossible to breathe. Why didn't you tell her? Why did you think she didn't deserve to know?

Her hands fell to her lap, trembling slightly as the adrenaline coursing through her body rendered the alcohol utterly meaningless. For the first time all night, she felt stone-cold sober.

"What type?" she asked suddenly, the question tumbling from her lips before she even realized it. It felt necessary. Urgent. As if understanding the specifics might make it more manageable, something she could wrap her head around.

Mila hesitated, her discomfort evident as she glanced away and then back at Jenna. She looked almost apologetic, like a woman who'd accidentally unleashed a tidal wave and now couldn't stop it.

"She told me it was... something in the lungs," Mila said slowly, almost wincing at the words. She faltered, clearly unsure of how to phrase what little she knew. "And I don't really—when I asked her how serious it was, she didn't really say..."

Mila trailed off, reaching for her glass. She drank deeply, the motion unnervingly casual for such a serious conversation. It felt wrong, somehow—her nonchalance juxtaposed with the chaos unraveling in Jenna's chest.

"But it can't be that serious, right?" Mila added, her tone nervous but edging toward hopeful, as though willing Jenna to agree.

Jenna couldn't reply. Her throat burned, the words catching painfully on the realization that she didn't know anything. Nothing at all.

Her hands clenched into fists in her lap, nails digging into her palms as her mind raced. The possibilities were endless, and they all sounded worse with every second of silence. Lungs. Something in the lungs. A dozen horrific images flashed through her mind, each more unbearable than the last.

And you hadn't told her. Not about this. Not about anything.

She swallowed hard, her eyes flicking down to the table as a horrible, crushing helplessness settled over her. What was she supposed to do now?

Jenna's thoughts began racing, rewinding through every moment she could remember with you. Every interaction over the past few months played back like a fragmented reel in her mind, and she realized with growing dread that there were signs.

She'd noticed you'd lost weight—nothing drastic at first, just subtle changes. Your cheekbones had become more defined, and the jeans you loved wearing had started sitting looser on your hips. She remembered teasing you about it lightly, asking if you were trying out some trendy diet. You'd laughed it off, brushing her concern away, and she hadn't pressed.

And the cough. God, the cough. It had started as something minor, almost unnoticeable—a soft clearing of your throat here and there. But it stuck around. Over weeks, maybe longer, she'd noticed it lingering, deepening. There were times when it sounded almost painful, raspy, like you were struggling to catch your breath after a fit. She'd asked once or twice if you were okay, and you'd shrugged it off, blaming it on the weather or a cold you couldn't quite shake.

Now it felt obvious. Too obvious.

Had you known back then? Had those symptoms already been signs of something so much worse, and she'd completely missed it?

She remembered other things, too, things that felt insignificant in the moment but now came rushing back like flashing warning signs she'd ignored. You'd gotten tired more easily, saying you needed to lie down after errands that wouldn't have phased you before. Jenna had chalked it up to stress or exhaustion, something manageable. You'd stopped joining her for long hikes, claiming your legs felt "off," though you'd never been specific about it.

And then there was the bruise. A vivid purple mark on your arm that you couldn't remember getting. She'd joked about you being clumsy, and you'd laughed along, but she remembered how quickly the color had darkened, how long it had taken to fade.

Her stomach churned at the realization that all of it—every small, seemingly disconnected thing—might have been connected. How hadn't she seen it before?

She gripped the edge of her chair tightly, her knuckles white as her mind spiraled further. When had you known? Were you already aware back then? Were you coughing while lying in her bed, pretending everything was fine, knowing it wasn't? Had you looked at her across the breakfast table, silently carrying the weight of something she couldn't even begin to fathom?

Her chest tightened, her breaths quick and shallow as the guilt crashed over her like a wave. If you had known, if you'd been dealing with this alone, why hadn't you told her? Why hadn't she noticed?

Every moment she hadn't pushed harder, hadn't questioned further, now felt like a failure. She should have seen it. She should have known. But she hadn't. She'd let you brush it off, just like she let you slip away when she ended things.

The thought that you might have been carrying this secret—this unbearable burden—during those final months together made her feel sick. It was unthinkable. She was unthinkable. Too wrapped up in her own emotions to see what had been happening right in front of her.

Her eyes burned, but she refused to cry, not here. Not now. She didn't deserve the release. All she could do was sit there, hands trembling, head spinning, replaying every moment that now screamed at her with a truth she hadn't wanted to see.

The guilt hit Jenna like a physical blow, a crushing weight that left her breathless. She had broken up with you. She had walked away from the one person she loved most in the world.

What if, in the moment she ended everything, claiming her work was too demanding, that she couldn't give you what you deserved, you had been silently carrying this? What if, while she was drowning in her own stress, you were drowning too—but in something far worse?

Her stomach twisted painfully, her chest hollowing out as the realization settled deeper. The words she'd said that night came rushing back to her. The look on your face, the way you'd nodded. She hadn't noticed it then, but there was something in your eyes—something heavy, resigned, like you weren't just letting her go but bracing yourself for something far bigger.

God, had you known? Had you sat there, holding that secret, letting her leave because you didn't want to make her stay out of pity? The thought made her stomach churn violently.

She pressed her palms against the table, needing something to ground her as her head spun. All those months.

Three months.

Ninety days she had spent convincing herself she was doing the right thing by focusing on her career, by staying away from you so you could move on. Ninety days where she'd justified her choice as selfless, when in reality, you had been the one suffering. Not her. Never her.

She broke up with you because she said she was "overwhelmed." That was the excuse she gave. She'd cried about deadlines, interviews, and sleepless nights while you—you—were fighting something that made all of that seem meaningless.

The shame was unbearable. It was suffocating. How could she have been so blind? So selfish?

The memory of your voice haunted her now, the way you'd tried to reassure her when she broke things off, even as you were clearly heartbroken. How had she missed it? The exhaustion in your tone, the fragility behind your words?

Her throat tightened, bile rising as she imagined what you must have felt—knowing you were sick, facing something unimaginable, and having the person you loved walk away from you. She had abandoned you. And for what? Because she claimed to be suffering from her workload? The idea made her want to scream.

Her hands trembled as she ran them through her hair, gripping tightly, as if that could stop the onslaught of guilt. She'd made you feel like you weren't enough when the truth was, she wasn't enough. She hadn't been strong enough to stay, to notice, to see you.

She wanted to believe you hadn't known back then, that you hadn't been aware of the cancer when she left. But even if you didn't, it didn't matter. Because you'd faced this alone. And now? Now it felt like she'd been gone at the very moment you needed her most.

The rest of the night was nothing like Jenna or Mila had envisioned. What was supposed to be a casual girl's night out—a break from the chaos of work and life—had turned into something suffocating, something heavy. Neither of them knew how to recover from the bomb that had just been dropped.

Mila seemed to be trying, though. She fiddled with her glass, attempting a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, occasionally throwing out a lighthearted comment about the music or the drinks. But her voice was thinner now, her movements stiffer, as though she wasn't sure if it was okay to pretend everything was normal.

Jenna didn't even try. She nodded when Mila spoke and murmured vague responses, but her mind was elsewhere. Her chest felt tight, her breath shallow, as if all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room. She couldn't focus on anything Mila said; her words blurred together, meaningless and distant, like background noise.

She kept fidgeting—picking at her nails, twisting her rings, pushing her drink away only to pull it back closer. Her legs bounced under the table, her body humming with restless energy that had nowhere to go. Every time Mila glanced at her, guilt flashed across her face, but Jenna couldn't bring herself to reassure her. She couldn't bring herself to do anything except sit there and try not to scream.

Her mind raced. Over and over, she replayed what Mila had said: "Y/N has cancer." The words felt like a brand, seared into her skull, impossible to escape. She wanted to text you, to call you, to demand answers—but what would she even say? Did you know how much she wanted to see you right now? Did you even want to see her?

It wasn't supposed to be like this. She was supposed to come here tonight to tell Mila about the breakup, to maybe cry a little and then laugh it off over a second drink. Instead, all she wanted was to go home. To be anywhere but here.

Her phone sat heavy in her bag, and she had to physically stop herself from reaching for it every other minute. What would she even say if you picked up? Would you pick up? The thought of hearing your voice again both thrilled and terrified her.

She wanted to know everything. When did it start? What type? How bad was it? Were you okay? Were you scared? Did you hate her for leaving you? The questions screamed in her head, louder and louder, until her temples throbbed.

Mila broke the silence with a forced laugh, trying again to steer the conversation to something normal, but even she gave up halfway through her sentence. She took another long sip from her drink, her gaze darting around the bar, clearly uncomfortable.

"I think I should head home," Jenna blurted, her voice cracking slightly.

Mila's eyes widened, and she nodded quickly, almost relieved. "Yeah, yeah, of course. Do you want me to come with you?"

"No," Jenna said too quickly, shaking her head. "I just—I need to..." She trailed off, unable to finish the thought. Mila didn't press her.

The walk out of the bar felt surreal. The music and chatter faded into a dull hum, her footsteps heavy against the floor. By the time she stepped outside, the cool night air hit her like a slap, but it did nothing to clear her head.

Jenna's hands were shaking as she unlocked her car. She slid into the driver's seat, closed the door, and just sat there. The keys dangled uselessly in her hand as she stared blankly at the steering wheel. She didn't cry. She couldn't. All she could think about was you.

She needed to see you. To hear your voice. To know the truth. But she didn't know if she had the right to reach out—not after everything. So she just sat there, torn between guilt and longing, until the weight of it all became unbearable.

The house was dark when Jenna got home, the only light spilling in from the streetlamp outside. She hadn't bothered to turn on the lights, her coat and bag left discarded by the door. The quiet was almost oppressive, the kind that made her chest feel even tighter. She kicked off her shoes and made her way to the couch, collapsing onto it without even bothering to take off her scarf.

Her phone burned in her pocket, but she didn't take it out right away. She sat there for a moment, staring blankly at the coffee table. The familiar space, usually comforting, now felt foreign. Nothing felt normal anymore—not the cushions under her, not the faint ticking of the clock on the wall, not even her own breathing.

She pulled her phone out with trembling hands, unlocking it and staring at the blank call screen. Your number was still there, at the top of her recent contacts, even though she hadn't called you in months. Her thumb hovered over your name. She didn't know what she was even going to say. Was it true? Why didn't you tell me? Why did I have to find out like this?

The first time she called, it rang once before she hung up. Her heart was pounding too hard, her stomach twisted into knots. She tried again, this time letting it ring through.

No answer.

The third call was the same, and by the time the voicemail picked up, Jenna was biting her lip so hard it nearly bled. She dropped the phone onto the couch cushion beside her, leaning back and covering her face with her hands.

You didn't want to talk to her. That had to be it. Why else wouldn't you pick up? She couldn't blame you. Not after what she'd done. But the thought of you sitting there, seeing her name light up on your screen and choosing to ignore it, made her stomach churn with guilt and dread.

She picked up the phone again, her fingers trembling as she opened the messaging app. What could she even say? How could she even begin to ask the question clawing at her throat?

She typed and deleted the message three times before finally settling on the only words she could muster.

is it true?

Her finger hovered over the send button for a moment, her chest heaving with shallow breaths. Then she hit send, tossing the phone onto the coffee table like it burned her.

The wait was excruciating. Every second stretched into eternity, her eyes glued to the screen even though no reply had come through. She didn't know what she'd do if you didn't answer.

But you did.

Her phone buzzed, and she snatched it up with both hands, her pulse thundering in her ears as she opened the message.

what are you talking about?

The words hit her like a wave of icy water. Jenna's stomach twisted, her heart lurching in her chest. Did you not know she knew? Or were you pretending not to know? Either way, the confirmation that she'd have to say more made her hands tremble even harder as she tried to think of how to respond.

Jenna stared at your reply, her mind spinning. What are you talking about? It was almost cruel how normal the words looked on the screen, like they hadn't just completely uprooted everything she thought she knew. Like they didn't force her to put her fears into words that she didn't even know how to face herself.

She started typing, then deleted it, her fingers trembling as they hovered over the keyboard. She couldn't write it. Writing it would make it real, and Jenna didn't know if she could handle that. The word alone carried too much weight, a weight she never imagined she'd have to face—not for you, not for anyone, and certainly not like this.

Her jaw clenched as she tried again, typing out the letters slowly, deliberately, as if each one could shatter the phone in her hands.

cancer

That was it. That was all she wrote because if it were true—if you really had cancer—you'd understand what she meant. She pressed send before she could overthink it, then stared at the screen, her heart pounding in her chest so hard she thought she might pass out.

The reply came quicker than she expected, but it didn't make it any easier.

yes

Jenna's stomach dropped as the world seemed to tilt around her. The room felt like it was spinning, but she couldn't move, couldn't breathe. Her thumb hovered over the keyboard, but for a moment, she couldn't even think. Then, another reply came through.

i'm sorry.

Her chest ached at those words. Sorry? Sorry for what? For being sick? For not telling her? For everything? Her fingers shook as she typed back, her mind racing with a thousand questions, none of which felt like they'd ever be enough.

why didn't you tell me?

The reply didn't come as quickly this time. Each passing second was agonizing, the silence feeling louder than it had any right to be. Jenna stared at her phone, her breathing shallow, her thoughts spiraling.

i was going to. but you made it clear we were done.

i didnt know how

Jenna dropped the phone onto her lap, her hands shaking so hard she couldn't hold it anymore. The words were a slap in the face, brutal in their honesty, and she couldn't even argue against them. You were right. She had been the one to leave. She had been the one to shut the door on you, and now you were sick—seriously sick—and she hadn't even known.

She picked up the phone again, staring at the screen as if it could somehow give her the answers she didn't have.

im so sorry, she typed, her thumbs trembling as she hit send. It was all she could think to say, but it felt hollow, inadequate.

The reply came a moment later.

me too.

Jenna stared at your last message, the words sinking deep into her chest like a weight she couldn't shift. Her heart pounded as her fingers hovered over the screen, uncertain, scared, and desperate all at once. She needed to know more—she had to know more.

She typed quickly, her breath catching in her throat.

where are you?

The reply came a moment later, and Jenna's stomach dropped as she read it.

at the hospital

The hospital? Jenna blinked at the screen, rereading the words as panic gripped her chest. Hospital. Why? Was it that serious? It couldn't be that serious, right? But why else would you be there? Her mind spun, racing through possibilities, each one worse than the last.

She gripped her phone tighter, her pulse roaring in her ears. Why hadn't you told her? Why hadn't you called or messaged her before it got to this point? And then it hit her—of course, you hadn't told her. She'd left you. She'd broken up with you and walked away.

Her head fell into her hand as guilt crashed over her again, harder this time. She had shut the door on you, and now you were in the hospital. Alone. How long had you been there? Days? Weeks? The thought made her feel sick.

Jenna's fingers shook as she typed, her desperation clear in every movement. She started the message and deleted it three times before finally forcing herself to just write the truth.

can i come see you? i really want to see you.

Her thumb hovered over the send button for a moment, her chest tightening. Was it too much? Too sudden? She wasn't sure if you'd even want to see her, but she couldn't stop herself from asking. She pressed send and let the phone fall to her lap, her heart racing as she stared at it, waiting for a reply that felt like it might never come.

Jenna's phone buzzed with your reply, and her stomach flipped as she read it.

visiting hours ended like 25 minutes ago.

She exhaled shakily, the weight of the evening pressing down harder. Of course, they had. She should've guessed, but that didn't stop the frustration and helplessness from clawing at her. She needed to see you. She couldn't wait another day knowing you were there, in the hospital, without her.

Her fingers flew across the screen, her desperation evident in the hasty, unpolished message.

can i come tomorrow?

ill come first thing in the morning

The response didn't come right away, and Jenna stared at her phone, her chest tightening. The seconds dragged, each one stretching endlessly. Finally, her screen lit up again.

if you want

they open at 8.

The simple reply stung more than she expected. It wasn't cold, but it wasn't warm either. It was neutral, distant—so unlike how things used to be between you. She hated that, hated how far apart you'd grown. And it was all her fault.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she typed again.

how are you?

The message felt inadequate, but she didn't know what else to say. She needed to know, even if she was terrified of the answer.

Your reply came quickly, short and to the point.

been better

Jenna's breath hitched, the two words slicing through her like a blade. She stared at the screen, her thoughts a jumble of guilt, worry, and overwhelming sadness. She wanted to ask more, to press for details, but her body was betraying her.

The alcohol, which had burned through her emotions like fuel all evening, was now taking its toll. Her eyelids grew heavier, her body sinking deeper into the couch. She typed out a half-formed message, her fingers sluggish and uncoordinated.

i really

The phone slipped from her hand as sleep overtook her, her mind still spinning with thoughts of you, the weight of everything crushing her even as unconsciousness claimed her.

The room was dark, quiet except for the soft hum of her breathing, but the tension in her face remained, even in sleep.

___

The next morning came far too quickly, the harsh light seeping through Jenna's curtains and forcing her awake. Her head throbbed with a relentless ache, and her mouth was dry, but none of it mattered. Her stomach twisted in a way that had nothing to do with her hangover as the events of last night flooded back into her mind.

She didn't linger in bed. She couldn't. The longer she stayed still, the more the anxiety clawed at her chest. Swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, she winced as the cold floor met her bare feet. She fumbled for the ibuprofen bottle on her nightstand, nearly knocking it over before popping two into her mouth and washing them down with a long gulp of water. The relief wouldn't come fast enough.

Jenna moved through her morning routine like a ghost. She grabbed a piece of toast but barely took two bites before tossing it aside. Her jeans were pulled on hastily, paired with a wrinkled hoodie she found draped over the chair in her room. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and paused, her reflection startling. Her hair was disheveled, her face pale and drawn. For a moment, she thought about fixing it, but the thought of wasting another minute when you were waiting...

Her hands shook as she pulled on her sneakers. Her heart raced, her mind spinning with a million thoughts, none of them coherent. All she knew was that she needed to see you. She needed answers, reassurance—proof that this was all a misunderstanding. You had to be okay.

The drive to the hospital was torturous. Every stoplight seemed longer than usual, every slow car ahead of her made her grip the steering wheel tighter. Her knuckles turned white as she stared straight ahead, her jaw clenched. She barely noticed the December chill in the air, her focus so singular it made the world blur around her.

When Jenna finally walked through the hospital doors, the sterile smell hit her immediately, sharp and unnerving. Her sneakers squeaked against the polished floor as she hurried to the reception desk. An older woman sat there, her glasses perched low on her nose, typing away on her keyboard. Her kind, weathered face didn't ease the tightness in Jenna's chest.

"I'm here to see Y/N Y/L/N," Jenna blurted, her voice tight and trembling. She leaned forward on the counter, her eyes wide and desperate.

The receptionist nodded, her fingers moving across the keyboard. Jenna watched every movement as if it held the answer to everything. She clutched her phone in her hand, her nails pressing into her palm. The seconds dragged, each one heavier than the last.

Then the woman's expression shifted. Her typing stopped, and she looked up at Jenna. The pity in her eyes made Jenna's stomach drop.

"Oh, honey..." The woman's voice was soft, careful, like she was afraid Jenna would shatter if she spoke too loud. "I'm so sorry. She passed earlier this morning. Around four o'clock.”

Jenna blinked, her breath caught in her throat. She didn't understand the words at first; they didn't make sense. Passed? Passed where? The realization hit her all at once, sharp and suffocating.

"No," she whispered, shaking her head. Her voice cracked, and she could feel the tears rising. "No, you're wrong. I-I talked to her last night. She was fine. She was—"

The receptionist leaned forward slightly, her voice softer now. "I'm so sorry, sweetheart. It happened very suddenly."

"No," Jenna said again, louder this time, though it came out more like a plea. Her legs felt weak, and her vision blurred as tears filled her eyes. She clutched the counter, trying to keep herself steady, but nothing felt solid anymore.

Her mind raced, flashes of you from the last time she saw you, the sound of your voice from last night, the messages—everything crashing into her all at once. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't think. You were supposed to be here. You were supposed to be waiting for her.

Jenna's knees nearly buckled, but she caught herself, stumbling back a step. She felt like she was falling, like the entire world was falling. You were gone. Gone before she could tell you how sorry she was. Before she could apologize for everything, for breaking up with you, for not seeing the signs, for not being there when you needed her the most.

She wanted to scream, cry, do anything to release the suffocating weight in her chest, but she couldn't move. Her tears spilled over, hot and unrelenting, as the receptionist gently asked if she needed someone to call. But Jenna barely heard her.

„Do you think it can be like this?“ You turned your notebook into Tara´s direction. She red the notes and noded her head. „Great, so we just need to make the conclusion.“

You were sitting opposite of each other in one of the back tables. Behind your back was a big window with a sigh to a whole campus.

„Yeah, I think it´s perfect.“ You looked at the girl in front of you. Her bangs got longer, you wonder if she wants to cut it again or let it grow. She was wearing a dress to her knees with a flowers on it. The weather today was pretty good despite the grey clouds above your heads. It looked like it would start raining anytime soon.

Your eyes scanned the room. There wasn´t a lot of people today, everybody was probably studying at home for exams or taking class. You caught eyes of the girl on the other side. She was sitting alone with just book in her hands and caffee by her side. Your eyes met and she smiled at you, which you return.

It was almost time for the exam so you both agreed to do it later in your apartment. As soon as you both stepped outside you could feel the drops of water falling onto your skin. With fast steps you came inside the campus but still with your clothes wet. You looked at Tara and saw how her strands of her were stuck on her forehead from the rain.

You burst out laughing. The girl turned to you with angry eyes. „Stop laughing!“ She pushed you into your chest and you stumbled a little. Tara was holding her phone with the front camera trying to brush her wet hair and clean the mascara that was now on her eyelids.

„I´ve seen you looking worse.“ You said as you adjust the strap on your shoulder.

„You look worse all the time.“

Your mouth hung down as you kept looking at her back as she kept walking away from you into the hallways of the campus. No, you won´t leave it just like this, she will eat it with a winch.

-

You were standing in a aisle of a small shop by the corner of the neighbourhood were you lived. One of your hands was holding a small shopping basket and the other one was holding milk as you were reading the back of it.

The notification of your phone cut you from it as you put the milk back and took your phone to check the text from Ethan. Last time you shared the class you talked about the video games and how you enjoy playing them. After that he asked you if you wanted to play with him some time, which of course you couldn´t decline.

„Are you intolerant?“ Your whole body twinched at the sudden voice you heard behind you. You almost dropped your phone as you were trying to put in back in your pocket. With a quick motion you turned around.

„Oh, I´m sorry I didn´t want to scare you.“ The girls eyes widen with apologizing look in her eyes.

„It´s fine, you just caught me off guard.“ You said to her. She was familiar to you but you couldn´t really remember when did you see her.

She laughed at your words and looked behind you again. „Yeah, I saw that you were deep in the reading the back of the milk.“ The girl teased you a little. „You were trying to find lactose-free milk or something?“

„Uhm yeah.“ No, you didn´t have a reason to read it you just wanted to and it would look dumb if you said that you just wanted to read it. What the fuck would she think?

„Oh then I think you are looking the wrong way, the lactose-free is over there.“ She pointed at the direction of the other side of the shelf.

„Ah! My bad, looks like you know it better than me.“ You rubbed the back of your neck with a nervous smile.

The girl bit the side of her cheek gently looking at the ground and then up to you. „No problem, if you need anything else just tell me, I´ll be glad to help.“ She smiled.

By that smile you already knew who it was, the girl from the cafeteria. Damnit, she really needed to see you now? In your homeless fit for no one’s eyes to see. You were sure nobody would see you so you grabbed whatever was under your touch. Fucking embarassing.

You laughed nervously and thanked her making your way to the direction she was pointing earlier.

You need to buy this milk now you stupid imbecile.

„I recommed you this one.“ She grabbed the milk from the shelf. „It´s probably my favourite.“ This girl can´t rest, can she?

„You seem like you know what you are talking about.“ You said.

„Oh yes! I only drink these types of milks.“

You softly grabbed the milk from her hands and put that in your basket with a embarassing smile on your face.

„Uhm thanks for advice I guess... uhm see you next time?“ You turned around and walked away from the girl. The vibe felt pretty embarassing so you felt urge to just walk away with her eyes still following you.

-

Tara was now again in your room finishing the project. Every time you spend time with the girl you needed to hold yourself on a leash but these past weeks when you were together, just you and her alone you felt like you were doing some kind of patience class.

How many times you held yourself from jumping on her because of the anger or holding the tongue behind your teeths because of some offending shit she said. That little brat didn´t know how to act but you couldn´t change that. Well, not like you tried.

You hummed to her as you brought her glass of water she asked earlier. The girl noded with her head taking the drink from the desk slowly learning back her back against your gaming chair. You sat back on your bed as always continueing with your work.

„I´m so glad we are finally at the end.“ She said with her eyes closed and her head tilt back.

„Yup.“

She looked at your way. „You know, I´m pretty surprised.“ You rised your eyebrows at her. „I mean the first day I was sitting on the floor and look at me now.“ She spin herself around on your chair. „I´m sitting in your spot.“

„So?“

Tara stopped and looked back at you. „I calmed down your agressive ass.“

„Mine agressive ass?“ you asked in disbelive with a high voice. „Last time I check you were like that. I don´t even know how that much of evil can fit into your small ass body.“

„See! I wouldn´t be like that if you weren´t! I was saying something nice and you are you again!“

„Me?! You- Argh!“ this is exactly what she wants from you Y/N... Don´t let her get into your head.

You breathed out the air from you chest and calmed your nerves. Tara smirked at you, in her eyes she won, like every time.

After that both of you were quiet once again and focused on the work. After finishing you went through the whole thing, scanning it and trying to correct the flaws that were left. Your strong focus was cut by Tara´s deep breathing. At first you thought she was just getting frustrated at something she found in her phone but as the seconds were passing by it was worse.

Of course.

You slowly stood up and left your room. You made your way into her bag that was left in the hallway of the apartment. She must have it here. Your hand went into her bag and was trying to find her inhaler. There wasn´t anyway she wouldn´t have it in her bag right? At the end of the day, her health was depent on that little thing.

When you finally found it you brough it to her. Her hand was already on her chest and her eyes were closed, trying to calm herself.

„Here.“ You took her hand that was resting on your chair and put the inhaler into her palm. She looked at the object you handed her and then up at you with her big brown eyes. You huffed and took her hand up to her mouth to use the inhaler.

Finally after when Tara´s breathing was calmed you stepped back and sat on your bed still looking at the brunette.

„Better?“ she noded at your words giving you a small thank you. She looked somehow ashamed of herself, looking into her hands that were resting in her lap. Suddenly her head shot back at you with wide eyes.

„You were digging in my purse?!“

„I just saved your life!“

“I figured I’d let you sleep in; guess I won’t make that mistake again.” You smiled to yourself knowing what was coming next.

“You better not wake me up,” Mabel mumbled again but didn’t remove her face that was pressed into your back. You chuckled and turned around in her grasp.

“Morning,” you whispered again, this time looking into her big brown eyes.

“Morning,” she smiled and leaned forward and captured your lips in her own.

When you broke the kiss Mabel buried her head in your chest again. You spent so many mornings exactly like this, you didn’t see yourself ever getting tired of it. “Are we there yet?”

“Really? Are we there yet?” You teased.

“Shut up,” she whined but she made no move to get away from you.

“We’re not too far away, actually…” you couldn’t help but smile. “We can finally see land,” you pointed across the sea to the little bit of land that could finally be seen on the horizon.

Mabel whipped around so fast; you had never seen her eyes so wide as she stared across the ocean. You couldn’t help the small smile on your face as you watched Mabel slowly walk forward, trying to get a better visual of the horizon. Her eyes were on land, but your eyes were only on her.

You followed her, draping your arms over her shoulders as she leaned back into you. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered.

You couldn’t help but smile. “Yeah,” you whispered back. You couldn’t make out any details, but it was enough, the sun still rising made it even more beautiful. This was what you had always dreamed of, as much as you wanted this, you never actually thought it was possible. You definitely never imagined having the girl you were madly in love with right by your side.

You stood there, appreciating the moment until you had to run back to the wheel. It wouldn’t be good for you to get all this way and then never actually make it. While you continued to drive the boat, Mabel went to cook something up for breakfast. You had plenty of food stocked up, but you couldn’t wait until your feet got on land and you could find a restaurant or a café or some sort to take Mabel to.

Mabel came up from under the boat, showing you a bowl of oatmeal. “Take the wheel?” You asked, already holding out your hand to take the bowl and switch positions.

Mabel shook her head and before you could even pout, she scooped up some oatmeal and held the spoon out for you. You rolled your eyes but happily ate it off the spoon. Mabel took classes, she knew very well how to take over for you. She had done it several times, she mostly did it when you needed a nap, but if you were awake then you were in charge of driving the boat, Mabel would do anything to not have to do it, including feeding you.

After a few bites you stole the bowl from her. You appreciate when she’d feed you like that but sometimes, she just didn’t move fast enough for your liking. You shoved three quick spoonfuls in your mouth and handed her back the bowl so you could grab the wheel again.

After a few more hours you finally reached land and docked the boat. Mabel came up from below deck with each of your passports and everything else you’d need to be allowed to officially enter Greece.

By the time you went through everything and were officially standing on dry land again it was early afternoon. The two of you decided to take it easy and just walk around, see the sights and enter a few shops. You were going to be there for almost a month, so you had time to see everything, you just needed a day to regain your land legs after being on the ocean for so long.

After some shopping, mostly done by Mabel, the two of you took a break at a small café. You each got a pastry to snack on and some coffees. Mabel’s eyes were wide as she watched the people pass, a mix of tourists and locals. Your eyes stayed on her though. You were the one who had always wanted to go to Greece, but you couldn’t stop staring and Mabel as she took everything in for the first time.

“So, what’s the plan for the rest of the day?” Mabel asked before taking a sip of her coffee. “Exploring old ruins and pretending you’re a Greek hero?” She tried to hide her smirk behind the cup.

You chuckled with a shake of your head. She could joke all she wanted; she was still the one who not only chose to date you, but also travel the world with you.

“That is definitely on the agenda,” you said seriously.

Mabel sat the cup down and her smirk completely disappeared. She opened her mouth but eventually let out a sigh. She clearly knew when it was a losing battle.

Your mind started to wander, you went through a lot of shops, all with amazing stuff. You hadn’t bought anything, but you could probably go back and buy stuff to dress up, maybe even find a place that sold swords. You started nodding to yourself, it would be an epic photo shoot, but there was a chance Mable would break up with you. You shrugged; some risks were worth taking.

You mentally patted yourself on the back at the image of the Greek hero you created in your head. You’re sure you could come up with something amazing. Your eyes widened, the sword was a priority, but you definitely wouldn’t walk away from a shield as well.

You would work on buying all the stuff, see the sights and scope out good locations, and then once you had everything and your locations picked out you would force Mable to help with the photoshoot.

With a game plan set you looked up to see Mable narrowing her eyes at you. You quickly shifted your eyes away and brought your own coffee to your lips. You would wait to tell her; she couldn’t try and stop you if you already had everything bought after all.

You cleared your throat and sat up a bit straighter. “Just want to take it easy today, maybe turn in early,” you finally continued, letting out a yawn as if to prove your point.

“We can come up with a plan tonight?” You suggested. “We’re here for a bit but there’s a lot to see,” a smile slowly started to spread across your face. “And I want to take the boat to some islands nearby, explore a bit, maybe have a picnic.”

Mabel’s eyes softened at that, no longer seeming suspicious about what you were planning. She gave a small smile as she nodded in agreement to the plan.

The two of you finished up your coffees and went on your way again. You hit up multiple shops as you made your way back to the boat. Once again Mabel seemed to buy from almost every single store. You didn’t purchase anything but made note of a few places to come back to.

Before getting back on the boat the two of you stopped by a nearby restaurant. You had an early dinner, filled with discussions about what you both wanted to do. A lot of your interests overlapped, and you were going to be there for a while, so you had time.

When you got back to the boat the sun was just beginning to set. Mabel forced you to take a picture, the two of you together with the sunset behind you. You didn’t put up much of a fight and were quick to pull her into a kiss before she could make sure the picture was satisfactory.

While you went down to get the few things settled for the night, Mabel made a post with the picture. It was only a moment later when you could hear her walking around up top, talking to what was probably Charlie, and the other guys, if you knew them as well as you thought you did.

You laid down in bed and started scrolling through your phone when Mabel came down. You tilted your head, looking past your phone as she made her way over to you, gracelessly jumping onto the bed beside you.

“How’s everything back home?” You asked.

“Good,” Mabel mumbled sleepily. With half closed eyes she slipped under the covers and cuddled into your side.

“They miss you,” Mabel said. “Asked that we bring them presents.”

You let out a silent chuckle. You clicked off your phone and plugged it in for the night above your head. You got comfortable and wrapped an arm around Mabel so you could pull her closer. It was much earlier than either of you usually went to sleep but it had been a long day and a long journey, as soon as you closed your eyes it was as if sleep took you.

You slept soundly through the night, the ease of the boat gently rocking back and forth at the dock bringing you a familiar comfort. Even the various noises around the port and from other boats coming and going didn’t seem to bother you.

When you woke up, you sleepily opened your eyes, quickly noticing the lack of warmth beside you. You sat up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes to clear your vision. Mabel was nowhere to be found and based on how cold that side of the bed felt she hadn’t just woken up.

When your vision cleared you flung your legs over the side, stretching as best as you could as you stood up. You looked around, still not finding any sign of Mabel. You grabbed your phone and saw a text from her saying she got up early to go for a morning walk and get breakfast at a café, but she would make sure to bring you something back.

You smiled and shook your head. For someone who practically hated sunlight and would black out her windows so she could sleep the afternoon away, she sure didn’t seem to have an issue rising early when on vacation.

You decided to get ready for the day as you waited for Mabel to return. You grabbed something small to eat, unsure as to what Mabel would be bringing you back.

You furrowed your brow at a noise up top. You tossed your trash away and ran up the steps. When you got up top, you raised a hand to shade your eyes but saw nothing.

You dropped your hand and glanced around the boat. You found nothing and Mabel clearly wasn’t back yet. You intended to forget it and head back down into the cabin when what sounded like a bucket scraped against the dock.

You hopped off the boat and began taking a look around the dock. There were several other boats docked, most owners weren’t out and the few that were clearly didn’t seem to be concerned about the noise.

When checking around the dock you heard a small whimper and whipped around. Your gaze softened and you crouched down as your eyes landed on a puppy.

“Hey, buddy,” you whispered, holding out your hand.

The puppy leaned forward, giving a sniff in your direction but didn’t move. You kept your movements slow as you got closer, managing to maneuver the puppy out of the space it had managed to squeeze itself into between a couple crates.

The puppy wiggled as you got it in your arms but seemed to calm down when it realized you weren’t a threat. You could still feel its little heart beating against its chest as you ran your hand over its fur, trying to calm it.

You gave the puppy a once over, taking note of the lack of collar and the dirty fur that was beginning to get matted. You looked up and down the dock, seeing no signs of someone who might have dumped it. In your check of the puppy to make sure it was otherwise okay, you took note that it was definitely a boy.

“Come on,” you whispered.

You held onto the puppy as you hopped back on the boat and grabbed your phone. You looked up the nearest vet’s office and went on your way, making sure to send Mabel a quick text that you were running an errand but would hopefully be back soon.

The vet’s office was half an hour away by foot, but you couldn’t complain. The walk was nice and getting the puppy checked out was the most important thing. You then had to wait an hour before the doctor could get you in since you were a walk in and they had other clients.

The puppy didn’t wiggle too much throughout the walk and once the two of you were inside the vet’s office he seemed content to stay in your lap. He had just begun to close his eyes when the doctor walked out.

You followed him to the backroom and gave him all the information you could, which wasn’t much.

When you set the puppy up on the table he backed away from the doctor and back into your arms. You couldn’t help but smile with how easily you gained his trust.

You finally managed to get him to relax enough that the doctor could look him over. You weren’t a vet, so you had no idea what was going on but the doctor didn’t seem concerned about much. The only comment he made was that the dog looked healthy all things considered, but needed a bath before his fur got so bad that he would need to get shaved.

The vet sent the puppy to another room with a woman and when he came back, he was all cleaned and smelling fresh. He happily ran over to you and began kissing your face when you picked him up.

“Do you know what breed he is?” You asked.

“Labrador,” the doctor said.

“Chipped?”

The doctor shook his head, making you frown.

“I can recommend you some good shelters,” the doctor said. “If you don’t want to keep him.”

You opened your mouth, but when your eyes fell back onto the little guy on your lap you hesitated.

“I don’t know,” you sighed. “We’re here for a bit but we’re sailing around the world.”

The doctor let out a knowing hum. He was rather close to the docks, so he probably saw plenty of people come in with their pets. It wasn’t crazy to sail with pets, especially dogs, it just required a lot of work. The dog needed all its shots, and you would need to make sure to have all the paperwork before you left the country and for you to enter the next one. It was an entire process, nothing you weren’t willing to do, but it was quite tedious.

“I’ll need to talk to my girlfriend,” you said.

The doctor nodded. You looked down at the puppy on your lap, when he lifted his head, looking at you with his big brown eyes, you knew your decision was already made.

You thanked the doctor for everything before you exited the room. As you handed the receptionist your card to the pay for the visit you asked about setting up another appointment for shots. She happily made an appointment and was able to get you in only a few days from now.

You tucked the puppy under your arm and pulled out your phone to find the nearest pet store. As you looked down at him you knew you would have to convince Mabel. You were lucky she loved you enough to put up with your antics, you just hoped she loved dogs even more.

You had been gone half the morning already when you walked into the pet store. You hadn’t heard from Mabel, so you hoped that meant she had decided to take her time and wasn’t sitting back at the boat alone.

You grabbed a small bag of puppy food, a leash, a collar, a couple bowls, and you couldn’t help but let the little guy pick out a toy. The toy he was determined to get was a plush duck that was practically the same size as him. You were going to wait on making a tag, figuring you and Mabel could decide on a name together, though you already had a couple thoughts.

You got the collar and leash around the puppy, paid for the items, threw the bag of food up onto your shoulder, and the two of you were on your way. The puppy trotted alongside you, carrying his duck in his mouth, the neck flopping with each moment as its head brushed against the ground. There was no doubt in your mind that Mabel wouldn’t fall in love with him.

When you finally made it back to the boat it was about midday. You were surprised to see Mabel still wasn’t back. You couldn’t complain though, it gave you time to get the puppy comfortable and come up with an argument so good she wouldn’t be able to say no to the dog.

 You poured some food into one of the bowls and filled the other with water before setting them down under the kitchen table. There wasn’t a lot of space on the boat, but you would make it work.

While the puppy scarfed down the food you got a text from Mabel saying she was on her way back. You messaged her saying you were back on the boat, and she replied saying she was still bringing you something from the café.

After the puppy licked the bowl cleaned, he ran over and jumped on his duck. He rolled around as if he were trying to tackle the duck. He chewed on the bill, whipping his head back and forth, letting out adorable little grunts.

Not even five minutes later did the puppy’s head flop to the side. He let out a yawn and buried his head against the duck; one paw tucked under the toy while the other was draped over the top like he was hugging it. You couldn’t believe that he crashed mid play session. Not that you could blame him, he had quite an eventful day.

You pulled out your phone and snapped a picture. It was sure to be only one of many you’d end up taking of the little guy.

There was shuffling around up top. You glanced at the puppy, but he didn’t seem bothered, only letting out another yawn. As quietly as you could you ran up top to greet Mabel.

“Hey,” she said, her face brightening as soon as she saw you. “I brought you something from a little bakery I passed.” She showed off a white paper bag and began unrolling the top. “I don’t remember the name, but I think you might like it.”

“Thanks!” You smiled, taking the bag from her. You took a peek inside and your eyebrows shot up; it did look delicious.

“What have you been up to?” Mabel tossed her things on one of the seats. “I didn’t realize you had errands today, I would have waited.”

You opened your mouth but didn’t even know where to start. “They were unintentional errands,” you said vaguely.

Mabel turned back to you, furrowing her brow. She narrowed her eyes as you suddenly found anything but her interesting.

“What aren’t you telling me?” She asked, taking a step closer.

You opened your mouth, your eyes darting from her to any other part of the boat.

She took another step closer, wrapping her arms around your center. She tilted her head, making her eyes seem bigger as she blinked at you. You knew that look well, you could never say no to that look, and she knew it.

It wasn’t like you were trying to keep a secret from her. The only reason you didn’t tell her about the puppy before was because it seemed like too big of a conversation to have on the phone. You wanted to keep the little guy and were trying to think of a solid argument but hadn’t decided on the best course by the time she got back.

You opened your mouth but before you could get anything out, a small thud came from the cabin below.

“What was that?” Mabel asked.

You sighed and dropped your head in defeat. She had already turned away from you and was making her way down the stairs.

You followed behind, stopping on the steps as she stood at the bottom of the stairs, staring at the puppy. The little guy seemed to have woken from his nap and was jumping around.

“I can explain,” you said.

Mabel turned around, raising and eyebrow. She crossed her arms as she moved away from the stairs, allowing you to step down and go to the dog.

“I woke up, you were gone,” you started recounting your morning. “And then I heard a noise and it turned out to be,” you gestured to the little guy.

“Then of course I couldn’t leave him,” you said, gesturing with your hands. “I had to make sure he was okay, so I had to find a vet.”

Mabel just stared down at you, her arms crossed, clearly unimpressed with your story. You wrapped your arms around the puppy and looked up at her, trying to make her see how adorable the two of you were.

“The vet said he’d get me a list of shelters,” you added. “So, in the meantime I picked up a few things but…” you looked down at the little guy and then back up at Mabel.

Mabel sighed, her shoulders slumping in defeat for an argument she didn’t even try and have.

“He is pretty cute,” she said, unable to fight off a smile.

She crouched down and the puppy ran over her to her, doing awkward hops as he wasn’t used to the floor yet. Mabel laughed and wrapped him up in her arms.

“Aren’t dogs like a lot of work?” She asked. “I know they are without being on a boat, so I can’t imagine-”

“You’re right,” you cut her off. “I’ve already started looking into it. He’ll need shots for different countries, paperwork, and we’ll need certain things for the boat, like a place for him to go potty. But…” you looked down at the puppy in her arms, clearly already attached to the little guy.

Mabel sighed and ran her fingers through the puppy’s fur. She looked down at him for a second before looking back up at you with a soft smile, telling you she was already going to relent.

“What’s his name?” She asked, clearly knowing you already had an idea.

“I was thinking Ody,” you said, trying to keep your voice neutral.

“Hi, Ody,” Mabel smiled as she started to play with him. “I like it.”

You smiled to yourself. It seemed you wouldn’t have to fight her on his name either.

“Wait,” Mabel’s fingers paused mid pet.

Her head snapped up to you, her eyes narrowing once again. You put your hands behind your back and shuffled back and forth on your feet. Your eyes suddenly found the ceiling very interesting.

“Ody,” she repeated.

“Ody,” she whispered as if the name held a secret.

“Ody!” She said, shooting you a glare. “Like, Odysseus?”

She crossed her arms. Her glare lost any heat it might have had as Ody jumped up, attempting to lick her on the face.

“I mean…” you said with a small shrug. “We could go with Argos?”

“Why does that name sound familiar?” Mabel asked, furrowing her brow.

You glanced at her before quickly looking away.

“Wait,” she stood up. “Wasn’t that Odysseus’s dogs name?” She crossed her arms.

Your eyes darted to her and away again. “Maybe…”

You suddenly bent down and scooped up the puppy. You held him out in front of you, directly in Mabel’s face.

“Come on,” you said. “Doesn’t he just look like an Ody!”

Mabel tried to seem unimpressed for a few seconds before her shoulders relaxed and a smile broke out onto her face. You broke out into a grin and pulled her into a hug, squishing the puppy between the two of you.

After that you showed Mabel everything you had gotten for Ody so far. She seemed satisfied but commented that he needed much more. You tried to hide a smile, you knew she’d spoil the little guy.

Despite just getting home she leashed up Ody, grabbed your hand dragged the two of you off the boat. All three of you walked down the dock, Ody running between your feet, trying to trip you, when he wasn’t trying to get into everything.

The two of you went on a small walk through the streets, stopping to allow Ody to sniff anything and everything. The three of you slowly made your way back to the pet store you had stopped at to buy what you assumed would be more than you would be able to carry back to the boat.

On the walk you made sure to search more about everything you’d need to get done and all the different shots Ody would need. You started to make a list. You knew it would be a lot, and everything would need to be in order before you left Greece.

You hadn’t even been in the country a week, you were only in your second day. It was actually your true first day there, since the day before you made port, though it was early.

Honestly, he doesn’t have the biggest sweet tooth, but being young he still craves them a bit.

Knows the basics about baking in general but only with box sets, so he’ll stay out of your way in the kitchen.

Won't ever decline anything you give him, opting to either eat them right then and there, or hide them for later. (And away, safe from Mabel.)

Normally whenever he heard the sounds of someone in the kitchen, assuming it was Mabel, he would walk the other way immediately. But now that you’re spending more time in there he’ll take the gamble of peeking in, hoping it was you baking and not Mabel ready to drag him in.

This time he was lucky, finding you washing up all your used dishes and putting away the leftover ingredients. Standing in the doorway until you noticed, waving him over. “Dipper, you’re just in time!” Hopping on the spot as you stepped out of the way, revealing a whole bunch of cooled cookies.

“I tried some different flavours this time,” Grabbing one of each to shove into his hands, which he almost dropped. “There's classic chocolate chip, white chocolate, uhh… What else?” As you rambled and thought he took a bite of each, silently ranking them favourite to least favourite, not that he’d ever tell you.

“And oh! Hazelnuts, oreos and s'mores!” “You made s’more cookies?” “Yeah, this one was a small batch, I’ll get more stuff tomorrow.”

While yes, she bakes pretty often, you’ll always be the better chef around! (And she’s not afraid to admit it, sometimes.)

This girl will never shut up about ‘How good these are!’ ‘Even Waddles loves them!’ (It’s true, you have found him scarfing down a whole pile of your baked goods.)

Occasionally (And if you let her) she’ll join you, while she enjoys baking just spending time together is enough for her.

As soon as the door opened Mabel ran off, skidding into the doorframe. Smelling something very familiar and delicious. “ARE YOU BAKING AGAIN!” Your only response was to laugh, of course she would notice, really, you’d be an idiot thinking she wouldn’t.

“Yeah, they’re in the oven right now, so I’m just cleaning up.” “I’LL HELP!” God, she was excited about your baking. “Why don’t you pile up the dirty dishes while I start the sink.” In no time you had finished the dishes, everything was clean, dried and put away.

Reaching for a hanging cabinet, but this one was just out of reach. Stretching to your limit but unable to grasp the handle, about to turn around and ask Mabel for help only to be jolted upwards. Looking down to find Mabel's toothy grin looking right back atcha.

“Whatcha grabbing? More dishes? Decorations? Is it the icing? SPRINKLES!?” Laughing once again as you grabbed, as you could guess (And Mabel.) the icing and sprinkles. Being dropped back down when you had the items. “I think they’re ready for the toppings.”

Stan doesn’t go around flaunting his love for baked goods, but he doesn’t really hide it either.

But he does openly compliment anything you make, even if it’s not his favourite, he’ll make it positive.

He may not like to spend a lot of money on anything really, but he’ll throw you a wad of cash to buy whatever you need. (As long as he gets the first taste test.)

“Where ya going toots?” Arms wrapped around your waist, his head sitting on your head. One of your hands held your car keys, well, they were Stans but he’s given you permission to take the ‘Stanmobile’ out. “Gotta buy some more ingredients.”

His body pulled away from yours, hands digging into his suit pockets before pulling out a decent wad of cash. Grabbing a few notes (Which were 100s btw) and passing them over to you, “Make me my favourite later.” “Oh I will~”

He’ll scarf down plates full of your stuff, he hasn’t eaten anything this good in years! (And no he is not exaggerating, thank you!)

Always takes something with him on every adventure he goes on. (At first he was nervous to ask, but now he’ll try to ‘bribe’ you for anything. (Both of you know he doesn’t need to.))

Part of him is curious about how well supernatural ingredients would go, he would never force you to do it, but that means he would. So at least watch over him. (But by gods, don’t let him eat anything he makes. Who knows what would happen, and you don’t want to know.)

Hearing the front door slam open you peeked out of the living room, only to find Ford stumbling by, into the kitchen with a large box. After gently shutting the door (With this amount of abuse you don’t think it’ll last much longer.) you followed him, watching him pull and lay out plenty of things on the counter.

“Hope you were going to clean up after yourself?” “AH!” Throwing something between his hands for a few seconds before calming down, “Oh! Y/N, I was, don't you worry.” “With everything you brought in here? I will.”

Quietly laughing to himself, “I don’t blame you, but how well would these bake?” “Ford, honey, I just bake, you’re the one who knows about these guys.” Gesturing to the box, “I guess you’re right.”

Very similar to Stan in the sense, she won’t go out of her way to admit her love for sweeter things but will if asked.

If you’re willing to make more she’ll take a bunch for her friends. (They all love them, even if some won’t admit it.)

Brings some to work with her, which makes her shifts actually bearable.

“I’ll see you guys later.” Lifting her hand as a quick wave before turning to leave, “Wendy!” Looking back to find Lee rushing towards her, skidding to stop just before hitting her. Throwing her a now empty container, which surprisingly enough, was still in one piece. “You gotta bring more of those snacks, they were amazing!”

“I’ll let them know.” Now that she was finally able to leave the group, she started her tract home. Pulling out her phone to send you a quick message, nothing much really. (It was a whole paragraph.) Watching you respond, pause then send the message, along with a picture. ‘Already ahead of you!’

Tapping into the image to find you back in the kitchen, flour covered every surface. There were other ingredients on the floor and everything, really. She couldn’t stop her laughter, taking a pause in her steps to catch her breath. ‘I’m on my way, don’t make a bigger mess.’

Luckily she wasn’t that far from home, and it was also a good thing that her family loved you. (They wouldn’t let you live down that image.) Letting her spend the night to help you clean and finish baking.

Absolutely will not go anywhere near the kitchen when you’re in there. (He may love you, but he also loves being clean.)

This doesn’t stop him from rushing in the second everything is cleaned up, impatiently waiting until the food is finished. (You will have to stop him from eating them hot, because he will whine about being burned.)

Will never share them with anyone else, the only exception is at the Tent of Telepathy.

Placing the hot tray onto a cooling rack before shutting the oven door, it’s been hours since you started baking. As Gideon wanted some baked goods to hand out to anyone who comes by the Tent of Telepathy, and that meant you had to bake it all.

Although he made sure to pay you for it, so it wasn’t a complete loss. But that's when you heard a door slam open and footsteps running down the hall, watching as Gideon entered the room. His first stop was the currently cooling tray of cookies, not the others that were cool and in containers.

“Gideon do–” It was too late, his hand touched the tray first. “OW!” Guiding the hand under some running water as he complained, “Why were they hot?” “I just pulled them out from the oven, those ones,” Pointing at multiple containers put to the side, “Are for you.”

Huffing as he removes his hand from the water to dry it off, grabbing the containers before leaving the room.

Honestly, she never thought about baking in general really. (There’s always been butlers or chefs, or whatever to do it for her.)

Doesn’t have the biggest sweet tooth, but will eat any of your less sweet items. (It better not be messy, otherwise she’ll (lovingly) wipe it on you.)

Sometimes she’ll sit around and watch you bake, she secretly finds it interesting but it’s highly likely she won’t join you for a while.

“What did you make this time?” Even as her face showed disinterest her tone gave her away, “This one is funfetti!” Handing over the cupcake, watching as she made her way through the wrapper. Trying to avoid the icing, although she wasn’t successful, a small chunk smeared over her fingers.

Clearly unhappy with it, the fact you were waiting next to her and no tissues or anything nearby. Reaching over to ‘subtly’ wipe the icing onto your shirt. “HEY!” “These aren’t that bad.” “Don’t ignore me!” You tried to stand in front of her, except that she kept turning as well.

“Pacifica!” “You should probably check on the other ones.” Oh yeah, you probably should.

Sometimes you forget that he can actually eat as he doesn’t do it much. (That’s until you watch him eat some deer teeth. Which is so disturbing…)

There have been so many times where he comes to bother you for some food, then just leaves with it. (You have no clue what he does with them but you can only assume someone else* is eatting them. (*Ford))

He will try to bake on his own with ‘non-human’ ingredients even if you try to stop him. (They end up inedible, even to other demons. Like fuck, he’s terrible.)

It was fucking comical how Bill entered the room, floating through the window towards the tray of cookies. Staying afloat for a few extra seconds before dropping to sit on the counter, batting his eyelashes at you. “No Bill, they’re still hot.” “WHO CARES?” Grabbing a handful (Which was like 2.) before shoving it into his mouth (Eye? Honestly man, you have no idea anymore.). “Are they good at least?” “HMM, THEY'RE ALRIGHT. COULD DO WITH SOME ꀤꈤꁅꌃꀭꀸꈤꍟꊼ.” “What.”