You were there when the attack happened. Well—technically—you were the first one there. You'd been in town for your usual Judo training session when the call came through. Tara. Hospital. Critical.

You dropped everything and ran.

You stayed the entire night. Sat outside her room, half-conscious, blood still on your sleeves from when they wheeled her in. You dozed off in your gi and Carhartt jacket, hunched in a plastic chair, refusing to leave until they told you she’d made it through surgery.

You survived that night. And the next one. And the ones after, with whatever was left of your group.

You were there when Tara shot Amber—point blank—while you bled out, gasping for breath from the knife wound in your back. The scent of smoke. Blood in your mouth. Her face the last thing you saw before passing out.

Now, months later, college life looked different. The group had scattered and regrouped in new places, pretending at normal. Tonight was supposed to be normal too. A party. Music, lights, laughter. But the room shifted whenever you walked in—conversations dulled, glances lingered too long. Some whispered when they thought you couldn’t hear. Others didn’t even try to hide it.

You knew why. Being one of the quiet ones didn’t help, and neither did the rumors. The accusations. That you and Sam were somehow behind the bloodshed. That you were dangerous.

So you kept close to Mindy and Chad that night. The ones who knew. The ones who had been there, too.

Then that guy—Frankie—put his hands on Tara. Drunk. Smiling too wide. You barely heard what he said before grabbing him and sending him tumbling down the stairs. Tara’s laughter had barely started when Sam showed up and ended it with a taser to Frankie’s groin.

Later, you were in Tara’s room. She lay on her bed, one leg dangling off the edge, hair a mess, cheeks still flushed from the alcohol and adrenaline. You stood by her desk, ibuprofen bottle in hand, tapping it against your lower lip as she went on about how you didn’t need to keep protecting her.

You didn’t answer. Not at first. You just watched her, the light from her desk lamp softening her features.

Then she said something that caught you off guard.

“What you did tonight? It’s not helping your reputation. People are already uncomfortable around you.”

You tilted your head, voice low. “Why would I make them uncomfortable?”

Tara sighed, pulling her knees to her chest. “It’s your reputation,” she said gently, barely meeting your eyes.

You chuckled. “I have a reputation?”

She nodded slowly, biting the inside of her cheek. “You’re just… kind of…”

“Spooky?” you offered, your voice almost a whisper.

She looked down at her lap, then glanced back up, hesitating before giving the slightest nod.

Your eyes searched hers, quiet, steady.

“Do you think I’m spooky?” you asked, softer now.

Her breath caught for a moment. The tension in the room thickened—not fear, but something else. Something more delicate.

Her voice was quiet. “No. Not spooky. Just…”

“Just what?” you pressed, but not unkindly.

She looked at you then, really looked. “Just… intense. Like you’re always five seconds away from doing something reckless. Or brave. Or both.”

You moved closer, slowly, setting the bottle on her nightstand. “That’s not spooky,” you murmured.

She shook her head. “No. But it scares people anyway.”

You sat on the edge of her bed, close enough that your knees almost touched. “Do I scare you?”

She paused. Smiled, just barely.

“Only when you’re not around.” She whispered.