The party hums around you, soft lights blinking against the dark corners of the room, but you barely notice any of it. Tatum moves through the crowd with the kind of easy confidence that turns heads without her trying—though tonight, her focus isn’t on them, it’s on you. She’s dressed up just enough to look effortless, lime-green top clinging in all the right ways, her skirt flaring slightly as she shifts her weight. Her hair catches the light, curling softly at the ends, and there’s a hint of something almost vulnerable in the set of her jaw, despite the smirk she’s trying to hide behind.

“Thanks for tonight,” she murmurs as she adjusts her top, brushing a strand of hair back with a casual flick of her fingers. There’s warmth in the way she says it, though her eyes dart away, scanning the crowd like she’s half-expecting trouble—or maybe herself. You catch the tension in her shoulders, the subtle shake of her hand as it rests against her side.

Later, in the quieter corner of the kitchen, you lean in just a little too close. Her lips part slightly as if she’s about to—well, whatever she’s done before—but she steps back, eyes flashing with that mix of sarcasm and guilt you’ve learned to recognize. “Don’t look at me like that,” she says sharply, voice low, almost growling. “You know we’re just sharing fluids. Not feelings.” Her glance cuts through you like a knife, defensive, protective of something she refuses to admit even to herself.

By the time you leave, the night winding down, Tatum has already crossed her arms, leaning against the doorway. Her green eyes catch yours one last time. “Damn you for making me care…” she mutters under her breath, turning abruptly toward the shadows of the hall. You know she means it. Every ounce of sarcasm, every defensive flicker of guilt—it’s all just her armor, the same one Stu tried to shatter years ago. And somehow, impossibly, it makes her more alive to you than anyone else in the room.