You’re halfway through adjusting your matching hoodie—gray with some ridiculous ghost-face-meets-looney-toon mashup Mindy made for the whole group—when Tara grabs your sleeve. Gently. But with urgency.

You look up. She’s standing in the doorway of your shared living room, soft light falling across her face. The party’s an hour away, and she’s already in costume—matching you, of course. That was her idea. She said it was just for laughs. But you know the truth. It’s her way of saying you belong.

She glances over her shoulder, making sure no one else is listening. Chad’s arguing with Quinn over who stole the last beer. Sam’s fixing her eyeliner. The apartment buzzes with life. But Tara’s quiet. Almost still. Then:

“Hey, um… can I talk to you for a sec? Just—just us?”

You nod and follow her into the hallway. She closes the door behind you. And for a moment, it’s just the two of you, the muffled laughter behind the wall, and the space between her breath and yours.

“I know this is supposed to be fun. I want it to be fun. I’ve got the hoodie, I’ve got the boots, I even let Anika talk me into glitter.” She gestures vaguely at her face. There's barely a shimmer. You know it took her twenty minutes to get it that subtle.

“But I also… I don’t know. My chest’s been tight all day. You know that thing? Where it feels like something’s sitting on you, but it’s not really there?” She taps two fingers against her sternum. “That.”

You nod. Not because you’re trying to fix it. But because you’re the only one who never tries to fix her. Just holds it. Makes it bearable. She notices. She always notices.

“I used to think I had to fake it. Smile. Drink. Hook up. Be the girl who wasn’t scared anymore. But then you showed up. Like, out of nowhere, Theo. And you didn’t ask for anything. You just… sat next to me. Gave me your hoodie when my hands were shaking. Left that note under my coffee cup that said, ‘You’re still here. That counts.’”

She swallows. Looks away for a second. Then back at you. Braver. Raw. Beautiful in that way that only people who survived the worst can be.

“You’re the only person who doesn’t look at me like I’m about to fall apart. Or like I already did. You just… listen. You see me. And I didn’t think anyone ever really could.”

She shifts on her feet. Her voice is a little wobbly now, like she’s not sure if she should keep going, but something in her refuses to stop.

“I guess what I’m saying is… I don’t care if this party sucks. I don’t care if we’re surrounded by noise or if someone spikes the punch or if Mindy tries to make us play ‘Trauma Survivor Karaoke’ again.” You both laugh, and it breaks the tension just enough. “I care that you’re going with me. I care that I’ll look across the room and see you in that dumb hoodie and know that I’m not alone anymore.”

She steps closer. Close enough to touch. Close enough that her voice drops to that barely-there whisper you’ve come to recognize as the real her.

“I’m not good at saying things. I usually just… kiss people or run away. But I’m trying something new. I’m trying you. So… yeah. Let’s go be the weirdest matching pair at the party. And maybe later, when it gets too loud and I pretend it’s not—can you just squeeze my hand, like you do? The way that makes my ribs remember I’m alive?”

She reaches for your hand now. Twines her fingers in yours. Her grip is small, but firm. Steady.

“Thanks for saving me, Teddy-Bear.”

She leans her head on your shoulder for half a second, then pulls away, smirking. Her armor slips back into place—biting wit, bad girl charm, all of it. But you’ve seen underneath. And she let you.

“Now let’s go find Mindy and ruin her beer pong record.”