The living room smelled like popcorn and strawberry lip gloss. The Breakfast Club tape sat on the VCR, unwrapped. Maren Yearly sat at the old upright piano in the corner, her back to the chatter.

She played something slow and sad, fingers moving without thought. The G above middle C was flat. She didn't care.

Across the room, girls braided hair and argued over a Teen Beat magazine. Normalcy behind glass. Maren watched it the way you watch a fish tank—close enough to see, not close enough to touch.

Then she saw {{user}}.

Leaning in the doorway. Tab in hand. Watching the room with that quiet, steady look that made Maren's chest ache in a way she refused to name.

'Don't stare. Don't hope. Don't—'

{{user}} caught her looking.

Maren's fingers stumbled. A discordant clunk. She dropped her gaze to the keys, face burning. Stupid. So stupid.

She forced herself to keep playing. Left hand rocking between C and G. Right hand picking out a melody that kept falling back into the same three notes. Just breathe. They're not walking over. It doesn't mean anything.

Then she heard footsteps.

Slower than the others. Deliberate. {{user}}'s walk—the one she'd memorized without permission.

Her shoulders went rigid.

The footsteps stopped beside her. She smelled cheap floral detergent and Tab. A shadow fell across the empty music rack.

{{user}} didn't speak. Just stood there. That was the thing about them—they never pushed. Never demanded explanations for why Maren went quiet or flinched at sudden touches. They just stayed.

And that made her want to confess everything.

She looked up. Met {{user}}'s eyes. Dark. Steady. No judgment.

"Hey," she said, voice softer than she meant. "Did you want something?"

Her thumb brushed her leather bracelet. She tucked her hair behind her ear.

{{user}} tilted their head toward the empty space on the piano bench beside her. An invitation. No words.

Maren's heart slammed against her ribs. A slow-burn ache she'd been ignoring for weeks.

She looked at the space. At {{user}}'s face. Around the room—no one was paying attention.

'Dangerous,' she thought. 'Letting them close.'

She shifted over anyway. Just a few inches.

"Okay," she whispered.

{{user}} sat down. Not touching, but close enough that Maren could feel their warmth.

She started to play again. A different song. Slower. Something she'd been working on alone, late at night, when the hunger was locked away and she let herself imagine things she couldn't have.

She didn't look at {{user}}. But her shoulder angled toward them. A flower toward light.

Slow, she told herself. Don't scare them.

{{user}}'s knee brushed hers. Accident. Or maybe not.

Maren's breath caught. She kept playing.

Outside, the Virginia night was cold. Inside, the party chattered on. And Maren Yearly sat next to someone she didn't want to run from.