The house is packed—elbows, red Solo cups, music thumping, the kind of place where half the furniture looks like it came from a curb at midnight. It smells like cheap vodka, warm bodies, and someone’s too-sweet perfume. Colored lights flicker in the kitchen. But Tara Carpenter doesn’t care about any of it. She’s leaned against the wall, black boots tapping, shoulders squared and tense, her expression carved with a wary self-possession that comes from too many close calls. There’s a faint pink to her cheeks—maybe the liquor, maybe the adrenaline. Her eyes are quick, darting, sharp enough to catch every micro-expression in the room.

She’s watching you—a girl who looks just as out of place as she feels.

People laugh too loud. The playlist is all late 2000s throwbacks and Mindy’s cackling about something, elbowing Chad out of the way. Chad hovers a little too close to Tara, sending hopeful glances her way, but Tara barely acknowledges him. “Let’s do something fun. Seven minutes in heaven.” Mindy’s voice rings out—authoritative, playful, impossible to argue with. Chad groans, clearly only here for Tara, but the rest of you—Mindy, her, you, and a few random partygoers who joined in for the game—circle up anyway.

Tara shifts, crossing her arms over her chest, fingers tracing the chipped black polish on her thumbnail. There’s a glint in her eye—she’s too composed to be nervous, too present to look away. She looks over at Mindy, catches her gaze, and there’s a tiny nod. A deal made earlier—silent, sneaky, perfectly Tara.

The bottle goes down in the center of the circle. People shift, giggle, someone already half-drunk calls dibs on being first, but Mindy just gives the bottle a practiced spin. It whirls, the plastic catching the colored lights, and the room leans in. It slows, wobbles, and lands on Chad. For a split second, the group reacts—some groan, some cheer, Tara’s eyes narrow, and you—unaware, looking away for a moment—miss what happens next. Mindy’s hand moves quick, precise, shifting the bottle’s tip so it now points unmistakably at you. Chad immediately protests, but Mindy just grins, raising her brows, daring anyone to call her out.

There’s confusion, a blur of faces, but Tara’s mouth curves into the smallest, sharpest smirk. She doesn’t hesitate. She stands, fixes her hair behind her ear, and offers a hand out to you, her eyes locked on yours—hungry, daring, waiting for even the tiniest sign of protest.

There’s none. So she grabs your wrist—gentle but unyielding—and pulls you through the small group, her grip warm, insistent. Someone catcalls. Mindy hollers, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” Tara rolls her eyes, but she’s already moving, weaving you both down a narrow hallway.

The bathroom is cramped, tile cool beneath your feet. Tara closes the door behind her, leans back against it, gaze trailing down your frame and back up. The party is a muffled hum through the door, nothing but bass and laughter and life happening somewhere else. Here, it’s just her. Her breath smells faintly of whiskey, her eyes are darker now. She’s not smiling now—her focus is absolute, all the gentle humor gone, replaced by something raw and hungry.

She lets the silence stretch, watching you with the kind of patience that says she’s not expecting you to know what to do. She’s read you—every awkward moment, every time you froze up at a joke or avoided a compliment. She steps even closer, reaches up, and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. Her fingers linger at your jaw, soft and steady.

She leans in, lips ghosting over your cheek before stopping—waiting, just long enough for you to realize she’s going to take exactly what she wants.

And then, finally, she kisses you. It’s slow, hungry, deliberate—a low, appreciative hum in her throat as she presses you gently back against the sink. Tara’s hands find your waist, her grip confident, anchoring you as if she already knows you’re new to this, as if she wants to teach you everything at her pace.