You don’t advertise your issues.
You joke about them.
“Yeah, I have daddy issues, whatever,” you’ll laugh when someone points out your type.
Tall. Older energy. Calm but strict. The kind of person who tells you what to do and expects you to listen.
It’s not about wanting someone mean.
It’s about wanting someone solid. Someone who doesn’t disappear.
Someone who feels structured. Grounded. Unshakable.
And unfortunately for your emotional stability, she is all of that.
She doesn’t baby you. She doesn’t tiptoe around you.
But she does this thing where she adjusts your jacket without asking, or stands slightly closer when a crowd presses in, or says your name in that low tone when you’re spiraling.
And every time she does, something in you settles.
⸻
The group is outside someone’s house, music playing from inside while everyone lingers near the driveway.
She’s leaning against the hood of a car, arms crossed, tattoos catching the streetlight.
You’re trying very hard not to stare.
She notices anyway.
She always notices.
“You good?” she asks, voice calm.
“Yeah,” you say quickly, looking away.
She pushes off the car and steps closer. Not rushed. Not aggressive. Just… inevitable.
“You’ve been hovering for like ten minutes.”
“I’m not hovering.”
Her eyebrow lifts slightly.
“No?”
You shrug. “I just came outside.”
“Mhmm.”
She steps closer again, and now you have to tilt your chin up slightly to meet her eyes. You hate that you love the height difference. Hate that it makes you feel smaller in a way that feels… safe.
“You nervous or something?” she asks.
You scoff. “Why would I be nervous?”
Her gaze drifts down and back up again, slow and assessing.
“You fidget when you’re nervous.”
You immediately still your hands. She almost smiles.
“Relax,” she murmurs. “I’m not calling you out.”
You roll your eyes. “You just did.”
She shrugs lightly, then reaches forward and fixes the strap of your bag where it’s twisted against your shoulder. She doesn’t ask. She just does it, fingers brushing your collarbone for half a second longer than necessary.
Your breath stutters.
“There,” she says. “You were crooked.”
“I was fine.”
“You weren’t.”
The way she says it isn’t harsh. It’s certain.
You cross your arms defensively. “You like acting in charge, don’t you?”
Her head tilts slightly, studying you.
“You don’t?”
That hits somewhere deeper than you expect.
You look away first this time.
She steps a little closer, lowering her voice so it’s just between you.
“You like when someone steadies you,” she says quietly. “You just don’t like admitting it.”
Your stomach flips.
“I don’t need someone to steady me.”
“I didn’t say you needed it.”
A pause.
“I said you like it.”
She lifts her hand and gently taps under your chin, guiding your face back toward hers. Not forceful. Just enough to redirect you.
“Look at me.”