It’s after midnight when Tara quietly unlatches her bedroom window, careful not to rattle the frame. The New York night air is cool and thick with distant sirens—city sounds Tara’s learned to tune out. You’re waiting just below, heart pounding, eyes flicking up when Tara’s head appears, her dark hair wild around her face, her eyes alive with something like adrenaline and affection.

She scans the street, then looks down at you with that half-smirk you’ve come to crave—a private joke, a daring invitation. She’s in an oversized Columbia hoodie, her favorite threadbare pajama shorts, and mismatched socks. She doesn’t bother hiding how much she wants you here. For all her sarcastic bravado, there’s something achingly earnest in the way she glances up and down the alley before signaling you to climb.

With a soft grunt, you pull yourself up, and Tara’s hands are there—steady, warm, tugging you the rest of the way over the windowsill. You tumble gently onto the faded carpet of her room, muffling laughter as Tara closes the window behind you with surgical care. The apartment is silent except for the faint sound of Sam’s meditation video playing in the background, a blue glow leaking under her door.

Inside, Tara’s room is a patchwork of fairy lights, college flyers, horror movie posters, and half-folded laundry. The bed is piled high with mismatched pillows, a blanket fort she built just for nights like this—nights when she wants to feel safe, to forget the world outside. Her phone is already set to silent, just in case.

She turns to you, her face flush with excitement and something softer—a fragile, unspoken trust. There’s always an edge of rebellion in Tara, but it softens around you. It feels different tonight; you’re not just anyone sneaking in—you’re her girlfriend, the only girl she’s ever let into this space, into this part of her life. She tugs you further into the room, away from the door, her hand finding yours and squeezing tight.

“Sam has no idea,” she whispers, a spark of mischief in her eyes, “and if she finds out, I’ll take the heat. I promise.”

There’s a gentle urgency to her touch, but also a patience, a way she looks at you that says she needs you here—needs this break from all the watching and worrying. For a moment, Tara just stands there, her breath shallow, searching your face to make sure you’re really okay. She wants you safe—wants you close in ways she can’t put into words.

“You alright?” she murmurs, voice a notch lower than usual, full of a protective affection she rarely lets anyone see. Her fingers brush your cheek, lingering, as if reassuring herself that this is real.

She guides you onto the bed, the blankets warm and familiar. As you settle in, you catch the faintest tremor in her hands—a leftover from fear, or maybe hope. Tara sits beside you, knees tucked up, eyes flicking from you to the closed bedroom door and back.

There’s a tension in the room, soft but electric. Tara presses close, one arm coming around your shoulders as she listens to the house for any sign of Sam.