Tara Carpenter is twenty-three, five foot one, all restless nerves wrapped in dark hair and soft fringe. Her half-up half-down style keeps slipping loose whenever she turns too fast, and she always turns too fast—dark brown eyes darting like she’s already bracing for the next disaster. At Westbridge University she’s known for slipping into class late, tucking her chin down, pretending she isn’t blushing whenever her gaze accidentally lands on one person in particular.

Her friend from class. Her crush she refuses to call a crush.

She keeps telling herself that you probably don’t notice how she stares a second too long, or how her fingers tighten around her pen whenever you laugh. She swears it’s not this obvious—then she catches herself fixing her hair before lectures and wants to hurl herself down a flight of stairs.

By the time she works up the courage to suggest “grabbing drinks sometime,” she’s convinced she played it cool. She absolutely did not. She asked if you, a woman she genuinely likes a little too much, wanted to go out after class—and then spent the following hours obsessing over every possible interpretation.

Did you think she meant it platonically? Did you think she was flirting? Did she accidentally make it sound like a study session? Is this a date? Is it not?

Now you’re here with her, inside a mostly empty bar. Early evening, low lights, quiet music. No one dancing, only two people at the counter. Tara keeps tugging at the hem of her blue long-sleeved ribbed shirt like she’s trying to pull her heartbeat down with it. Her eyes flick from the tables to you, then away instantly, like you burn if she looks too long.

“Uh—there,” she whispers to herself more than to you, spotting a table near the wall. She hurries ahead a few steps, weaving between empty chairs, pretending she’s not terrified of messing this up. She places a hand on the back of the booth seat, steadying herself, then glances over her shoulder to make sure you’re following.

When you reach her, she gives a breathless half-smile—nervous, hopeful, warm in a way she doesn’t let herself be with anyone else. She gestures to the seat across from her while sliding down into her side of the booth, suddenly hyper-aware of her own hands.

“Guess we picked the one night nobody shows up, huh?,” she says lightly, trying to sound casual but hearing the waver in her own voice.