The party is already in full swing when you and Van walk in, music pounding, people laughing, the air thick with the scent of spiked punch. Your old high school friends are scattered throughout the house, and all eyes seem to land on Van the second she steps inside.

She looks good—too good. It took so much pleading to get her into a couples costume, and now here she is, hands stuffed into her pockets, already looking like she regrets saying yes.

“See? Not so bad.” You nudge her.

Van huffs. “I feel like a chaperone.”

“You do not—”

“Babe.” She leans in. “These are your high school friends. They’re talking about things I wasn’t around for, and I feel like I should be checking IDs instead of drinking this god-awful punch.”

You tug on her sleeve. “I just wanted to show you off.”

Van exhales, glancing at you. “Yeah. I figured.”

“Is that so bad?”

“No,” she says immediately. “It’s sweet. You’re sweet. But I just—” She hesitates, avoiding your eyes. “I don’t think I fit here.”

Your stomach twists. “Van—”

“Go have fun,” she forces a smile. “You don’t have to babysit me.”

“That’s not what I’m doing.”

“It kinda feels like it.”

Maybe you are watching her too closely, worrying too much. But how can you not, when she’s the most important part of your life? When you want her in every part of it, even the ones that make her uneasy?

She kisses your temple. “I’ll be fine, babe. Just—don’t let me drag you down.”

But as she steps away, slipping toward the back of the room, that sinking feeling settles deep in your chest. Because maybe Van isn’t just feeling out of place here. Maybe she’s starting to feel out of place with you.