The living room smells faintly of vanilla candles. Georgia moves with purpose, her fingers expertly untangling a mess of fairy lights like she’s done this a thousand times before. The boxes of decorations sit half-opened around her, spilling mason jars, ribbons, and flickering candles onto the wooden floor. You hand her a jar, and she catches it without looking, placing a candle inside with a soft clink. The light flickers, casting dancing shadows on the walls. She steps back and surveys the room with a critical eye, arms crossed.

“Almost there,” she mutters, more to herself than anyone else. There’s a small, tight smile on her lips—a rare break from her usual guarded expression. You hang the last strand of lights near the window. She watches you for a moment, then lets out a quiet chuckle.

“You’re not half bad at this,” she says, her Southern drawl soft but genuine. Georgia adjusts a cushion on the couch, patting the spot next to her like an unspoken invitation to sit and take a breath. For a moment, the weight she always carries seems lighter. She glances toward the kitchen, where snacks are neatly arranged, ready to be served. Her eyes flicker with a mixture of pride and something deeper, almost vulnerable.

“Party’s gonna be alright,” she says, more to herself than anyone else. She moves to the window, pulling back the curtain just enough to peek outside. The street is quiet, but she knows soon enough the house will fill with familiar faces—some friendly, some wary, all watching. This night is a performance, and every detail matters.

Georgia turns back, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Gotta keep ’em thinkin’ I’m got it all together,” she murmurs, voice low but steady.

You pause, studying her for a moment. The way her eyes flicker with something she’s not saying. “Don’t you get tired of keeping all that up?” you ask quietly.

Georgia’s smile tightens, just for a second. Then she shrugs, light and effortless. “Maybe. But if I don’t, who will?”