I take it out sometimes, trace the edges of his photo, remember how he’d let me look through his telescope on the roof of their Planetary Science building. “One day,” he’d said, adjusting the lens for my small hands, “you’ll make your own discoveries up there.”
A different kind of legacy than what Mother and Father have planned. The Spencer Family Foundation’s newest board member, following Drake into the corporate world - that is their vision for my future.
The house isdark when I get back. Unusually quiet - Freddie’s likely at the gym where he’s been living since Alex left for California, and Troy and Ethan are out on their last night before they leave for summer.
I should enjoy the silence. Instead, it creeps under my skin, too familiar. Reminds me of dinners alone in the Spencer mansion--Drake away at his elite Europeanboarding school, just me and our housekeeper Joan’s footsteps echoing through empty halls.
This house is different. Usually bursting with life - movie nights sprawled across mismatched furniture, impromptu parties spilling onto the back porch, Freddie and Alex’s laughter from the kitchen. Tara curled in our beaten-up armchair, asking random questions about European monarchs that only she cares about while Troy and Ethan battle through late-night NBA tournaments.
Sometimes I retreat to my room, overwhelmed by all the noise, all the people. But even then, the sounds of life seeping through my walls remind me I’m not that lonely kid anymore.
My room is like a sanctuary after the long day. Everything in its place, no mess, no surprises. I settle at my desk, opening my laptop to Chess.com. ButterBoi69’s waiting for their next move, probably thinking they’ve got me cornered.
Amateur.
Except... I stare at the board, frowning. They’ve actually set up a pretty clever trap. If I move my bishop like I’d planned?—
A knock at the front door interrupts my analysis. I wait for someone else to get it until I remember I’m alone. The knock comes again, more insistent.
“For fuck’s sake,” I mutter, pushing back from my desk. If this is another freshman looking for last semester’s party house I’m going to flip.
I pull open the door and every curse dies in my throat.
Tara Hawkins stands on our porch, soaked to the bone and somehow still vibrating with that endless energy of hers. She’s a human sparkle even drenched in rain. Tara isloud, bright, unapologetically herself in a way that disrupts my carefully ordered world. She’s exactly the kind of person I usually avoid - which is probably why I can’t stop thinking about her in ways I definitely shouldn’t. Especially considering she is Troy’s little sister.
She’s creating a puddle on our welcome mat in what appears to be dinosaur-printed pajamas, her hair plastered to her face, mascara slightly smudged under her eyes. She’s shivering, arms wrapped around herself, looking small and lost in a way that makes my chest tight.
“Jesus, get in here,” I say before she can speak, pulling her inside by her elbow. She’s freezing. “What the hell were you thinking, walking here in the rain?”
“I ran, actually,” she says with a weak attempt at her usual smile. She’s clutching her phone like a lifeline, and there’s something in her eyes I’ve never seen before. Fear.
Every protective instinct I didn’t know I had kicks in. This isn’t just Troy’s little sister anymore. This is Tara - who brings coffee to everyone during finals week, who leaves encouraging notes on our doors, who fills every room she enters with light.
“Stay here,” I say, already heading for the stairs. “I’m getting you a towel.”
“Alfie, wait?—”
“I’m getting you warm first.” My voice comes out rougher than intended, but I can’t handle seeing her shiver like that. “Then you can tell me what’s wrong.”
I take the stairs two at a time, trying not to think about how small she looked in the rain. The first clean towel I find is the soft navy one Gran sent me - too expensive for a college house, but perfect for a girl who’s dripping onour hardwood. I grab one of my UMS sweatshirts too, a thick gray one.
When I get back downstairs, she’s standing exactly where I left her, arms wrapped around herself, water pooling at her feet. Something about the sight - Tara Hawkins looking small and vulnerable - feels fundamentally wrong.
“Here.” I drape the towel around her shoulders, pretending not to notice how she leans into the warmth, or how her eyes flutter closed for just a moment. The gray sweatshirt swallows her when she pulls it on.
“Now,” I say, keeping my voice steady, “what kind of problem has you running through the rain in dinosaur pajamas at this hour?”
She holds up her phone.
Oh fuck.
3
TARA
If you’d told me a week ago I’d be sitting in the dean’s office with Alfie Spencer at 8 AM on a Monday, both of us facing potential expulsion, I would’ve laughed in your face. But here we are, and the dean of University of Mountain Springs is giving us his best disappointed-father look over his wire-rimmed glasses.
Alfie’s doing his scary bad boy routine beside me, which is really not helping our “we’re very sorry and responsible” narrative.
