It had started small — Tara needing to hear from you first thing in the morning. A text. A call. Something. Then it became her showing up unannounced more often, clinging a little longer during hugs, sleeping at your place even when she had nothing packed.

You didn’t mind, not really. If anything, it made you feel needed. She was so tough around everyone else, all sharp edges and sarcastic remarks, but with you she softened, melted, became something raw and open. Something broken, maybe, but still trying.

Right now, she was curled against you on the couch, legs tangled with yours, her face buried in your neck like she wanted to disappear into you entirely. The TV flickered something in the background, but neither of you were watching. Her grip on your shirt was tight — always tight.

“You’re not gonna leave, right?”

She murmured, so quietly it barely counted as a question.

You didn’t answer, because you never did. You just stroked her hair slowly, gently, the same way you always did when she got like this — like her heart was held together with tape and your silence kept it from splitting open.

That’s when Sam appeared in the doorway, arms crossed, concern written all over her face.

“Tara…”

Sam’s voice was careful, like she’d rehearsed this a dozen times.

“You can’t keep depending on her for everything.”

Tara didn’t even look up. She just held on tighter, as if Sam’s words threatened to pull you away. As if letting go meant being alone again. You met Sam’s gaze, and she softened, sighed, and stepped back without another word.

Tara mumbled something against your neck — something about how people always leave. That you’re different. That she needs you, more than she should.

“Don’t leave me.”