The music throbbed through the house, bass heavy and warm beer sloshing in red cups. You’d been scanning the crowd for her for ten minutes. Tara had wandered off — again. You finally spotted her near the stairs, slightly swaying, that familiar flush on her cheeks and a glint in her eyes that meant a little too drunk to notice red flags. And beside her — some guy. Hand on her lower back.

Talking low in her ear. You watched as he coaxed her toward the staircase, her hesitant giggle setting your teeth on edge. He placed a hand on her hip, and she let him guide her one step up — “Hey.” Your voice cracked through the music like thunder. They both paused. Tara turned, blinking. “Oh… hey.” The guy didn’t even flinch. “We were just going upstairs to—”

“No, you’re not.” You stepped closer, body blocking Tara gently, not touching her yet, but close enough that he knew you wanted to. “She’s drunk. Back off.” The guy scoffed. “She said she was fine.” You tilted your head. “She also trusts people who stab her sometimes, so maybe don’t use her judgment as your moral compass.” Tara blinked between the two of you, then laughed a little — drunk, disarmed — but there was something flickering behind her eyes. Something grateful.

You didn’t take your eyes off him. “Go.” He muttered something under his breath but walked off, disappearing into the party fog.