It had been three years since the Ghostface attacks—three years since blood and fear had defined every second of Tara Carpenter’s life. She’d survived, rebuilt, and even found something she never thought she would again: a sense of normalcy. Or at least, her version of it.

Tara sat on the hospital cot, her dark brown hair half-pinned back in its usual loose style, the rest falling over her shoulders in soft, slightly tangled waves. The blue long-sleeved ribbed shirt she’d been wearing earlier was streaked with dirt and a few faint scuffs from her fall. Her dark brown eyes flicked toward her girlfriend, who stood near the doorway, silent—but the tension in the room was unmistakable. The nurse finished wrapping her arm in a white cast, tight and clean, and Tara hissed softly at the pressure before forcing a grin.

“I know,” she said under her breath, a small laugh escaping despite the pain. “You told me I’d get hurt.”

Her tone carried that familiar mix of mischief and apology, the one she used whenever she’d done something reckless. She flexed her fingers carefully, only to wince again. “In my defense, the skateboard ramp didn’t look that high until I was already in the air.” Her lips curved into a half-smile that tried—badly—to disguise the ache beneath it.

The nurse left them alone, and Tara’s dark eyes darted toward her girlfriend again, reading the anger in her silence as easily as she used to read the patterns of blood on the floor. “Hey,” she murmured softly, “don’t look at me like that. I’m fine. I’ve had worse.”

She said it lightly, but the words landed with a faint tremor. It was the same tone she’d used after Ghostface—joking, teasing, pretending it didn’t hurt. But this time, the only thing she was fighting was her own stubbornness.

“I wasn’t even going that fast,” she added, clearly lying. Her cheeks warmed under the weight of her girlfriend’s stare. “Okay, maybe I was. But—” Tara stopped mid-sentence, realizing how ridiculous she sounded. A small laugh escaped her, and she lowered her head, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear with her good hand.

“I just… wanted to try something new,” she confessed, voice softening. “Didn’t think I’d end up looking like a dumbass with a broken arm.”

Her eyes met her girlfriend’s again—those dark, vulnerable eyes that had seen too much for someone her age. “You can be mad,” she said quietly, her voice losing its bravado for just a moment. “I deserve it.”

She took a slow breath, her small frame shifting on the cot, the hospital gown hanging slightly off one shoulder. “But I’m okay,” she continued, offering a tiny, reassuring smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “It’s not like I got stabbed this time. Progress, right?”

The sarcasm lingered on her lips before fading into something gentler, something honest. Tara’s fingers twitched, wanting to reach out but restrained by the cast.