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Tara has always been a child of exploration. Not the kind who packs a backpack and hikes through forests or scales foreign mountains—no, her kind of exploration happened in the forgotten places—the in-between spaces. Abandoned houses, shuttered stores, overgrown backyards filled with the ghosts of lives once lived. She loved the silence—the secrets.
But she hasn't explored like that in a long time.
High School took that part of her. She let it. School was demanding, and the pressure to keep her life in order forced her to shut off the parts of herself that wandered. But now, finally, she has a break. Time to breathe. And with it, a sudden, undeniable pull back to something old. Something familiar. Something hers.
She grips the steering wheel a little tighter as she turns off the freeway and onto a narrow dirt path just beyond the outskirts of Woodsboro. The road is rough and overgrown, like even the earth has tried to forget what's at the end of it. But Tara remembers.
She parks the car and grabs her bag, stocked carefully with water bottles, a few snacks, her inhaler, flashlight, flare gun, and her phone. She's always been prepared. Calculated. Some people call her cautious. The truth is, she just knows how quickly things can go wrong. Especially in places like the one she's about to enter.
The gas station looms ahead, crumbling and shadowed by the setting sun. Her chest tightens at the sight. She hasn't been back here in years, but the memories are instant. This was her favorite place when she was younger. A hideout. A sanctuary. When things got too loud at home or too quiet, she'd come here. And sometimes, Amber would meet her. They carved out their own little kingdom here—two girls against the world.
Back then, Tara used to wonder if Amber was more than just her best friend. The way she watched her. The way she knew her. They were never apart for long—not unless they had to be. Amber used to say things like "You're mine" in a joking tone, but even then, Tara could feel the seriousness beneath it. And maybe that's what scared her the most. Because she knew—deep down—she felt the same.
As Tara steps inside, a gust of wind rushes through the broken windows. Leaves dance across the cracked tile. Empty wrappers and torn pages from old magazines rustle at her feet. It's like the place has been holding its breath, waiting for her return.
She walks past the faded shelves and broken vending machines, deeper into the back where the circle of lawn chairs still waits—some rusted, some folded, but all still there. And then her eyes catch on a familiar one.
A black lawn chair.
Amber's.
Her heart twists at the sight. She hasn't seen Amber in years. Not since middle school, when Amber was dragged to New York against her will. She didn't want to go. Tara remembers the look on her face the last time they spoke—desperation, fury, and something darker. Something that said I will come back for you. I always come back.
Tara exhales slowly, her fingers tightening around her flashlight. She feels a little dizzy. Like, part of her never stopped waiting.
And then, a creak. A soft but deliberate step from the far end of the gas station.
Tara's instincts flare. She spins, flashlight raised, heart in her throat—and there, half-cast in shadow, stands a figure.
A girl.
The light hits her face, and she flinches, shielding her eyes. But only for a second. Then she drops her arm and looks straight at Tara. Calm. Still. Watching.
"Figured you'd be here," she says softly.
Tara's breath catches. Her body freezes. She'd know that voice anywhere. That voice was burned into her bones.
"Amber," she whispers.
Amber's smirk is lazy, but there's something predatory behind it. "Hey, shortstack," she says, stepping forward. "Still coming back to our place, huh?"
Tara can't stop herself. She moves before she thinks, running into Amber's arms, clutching her like she might vanish if she lets go. And Amber wraps around her without hesitation, anchoring her in place. Her grip is strong—not just tight, but possessive. Like she's staking a claim.
"I thought you were gone," Tara says, muffled against Amber's shoulder.
Amber lets out a low chuckle, brushing her fingers up and down Tara's spine. "I was. But I couldn't stay away. I tried." Her voice drops lower. "I missed you too much."
Tara pulls back just enough to look at her. "You didn't call. You didn't text."
"I know," Amber says. Her expression is unreadable, but her eyes—her eyes burn. "It wasn't safe. But I watched. I kept track." She brushes a piece of hair behind Tara's ear. "I know where you've been. Who you've been with."
Tara shivers, but doesn't move away. She doesn't want to. Her voice is barely a breath: "You were watching me?"
Amber nods once. "Of course. You're mine, Tara."
Tara's eyes widen—and then narrow. Her lips twitch into a crooked smile.
"You still talk like that," she murmurs.
"Still mean it," Amber replies. "And don't pretend you don't like it."
Tara doesn't. She does. That fierce, intense need—the way Amber holds her, the way she looks at her like there's nothing else in the world—it's intoxicating. Tara's always been a little like that, too. She remembers how jealous she used to get when Amber talked to other girls. How angry she got when Amber left without saying goodbye. How much she hated the idea of someone else having any part of her.
Amber leans closer, whispering against her ear, "I came back for you. I'll always come back for you."
Tara closes her eyes. "You won't leave me again?"
"I'd burn the whole world before I did," Amber breathes.
They fall into silence, forehead to forehead, hands gripping each other like lifelines. It's not just a reunion—it's possession. Not just love—it's a need. If anyone else tried to come between them, they'd tear them apart.
Eventually, they sit side by side in the lawn chairs, like old times. But it's not like old times. Not really.
Because now, they know what they are to each other. Not friends. Not just ex–best friends reunited. Something else. Something sharper. More consuming.
As Amber tells her about New York, about the fights she got into, the trouble she ran from, the applications she sent out—including one to Blackmore University—Tara listens with an intense focus. Like she's memorizing every word and making sure no detail slips away.
Amber reaches for her hand. Squeezes it.
Tara squeezes back.
No matter what comes next, one thing is certain.
They belong to each other. And they always will.