The media storm died slowly.
For weeks, the campus buzzed with questions, accusations, and whispered fear. Students passed each other with wary glances, and professors walked with their heads lowered, as if afraid someone might call them out next. Posters lined the bulletin boards: Believe Survivors. End the Silence. Speak Up.
Tara had become a name — not just among students, but across the city. Articles were published. Podcasts reached out. Some wanted to interview her. Others wanted to tear her down. But through it all, she stayed grounded. Not because she was used to it — but because she didn't do this for recognition.
She did it for the girls who never made it back.
She sat now on the hood of Aaron's car, parked at the edge of a small cliff that overlooked the sea. The breeze was sharp with salt. Her eyes were distant, lost in the crash of waves far below.
Aaron passed her a thermos. "It's actually good coffee. I swear."
Tara took it with a small smile. "You say that every time."
"I mean it this time."
She sipped. It was… okay. Better than usual.
They sat in silence for a few minutes. No danger. No fire alarms. No one hunting them.
Just wind and water.
"You haven't slept much," Aaron said gently.
Tara tilted her head. "Have you?"
"No. Not really."
They both laughed softly. But the tension still sat between them — the kind not born of danger, but of something closer. Something unspoken.
"I've been thinking," she said after a while. "About what comes next. What we're really doing."
"Saving people," he said.
"I don't want to become someone who only sees the world as broken."
"You're not. You just see where it's cracked — and you try to fix it."
She looked at him, and for the first time, didn't look away.
"I don't want to do it alone," she said.
Aaron met her gaze, unwavering. "You're not alone. Not anymore."
The wind picked up. Tara blinked once, hard, and turned back toward the sea. She didn't kiss him. Not yet. But something between them shifted — slow, warm, inevitable.
Back on campus, Jessie shoved a half-eaten croissant into Tara's hands and dragged her into the café.
"You need sugar. You're starting to look like you've been surviving on logic and caffeine again."
Tara chewed obediently. "Thanks, Mom."
Jessie rolled her eyes. "I'm serious. No murder. No conspiracy. Just sit. Eat. Be a human."
They sat at a small table near the window. It was bright out. People were laughing around them — real, normal college laughter.
Jessie sighed. "It feels weird."
"What does?"
"Normal life."
Tara smiled softly. "It's supposed to feel weird. That means we made it through something."
Jessie poked her straw into her drink. "You know… there's a guy in my lit class who keeps asking about you. Thinks you're some kind of crime-fighting genius."
Tara groaned. "I don't even know what day it is."
"I told him you're taken."
Tara raised an eyebrow. "I'm not."
Jessie smirked. "Maybe not officially. But come on, Tara. You and Aaron? You two practically radiate tension. The slow-burn 'we're-partners-but-also-maybe-soulmates' thing? It's painful to watch."
Tara didn't answer. She just looked out the window, her heart tight and light at the same time.
Jessie's voice turned gentle. "You deserve something good, you know."
"Maybe," Tara said. "Someday."
That night, the three of them ordered takeout and sat on Tara's floor surrounded by files they didn't have to look at. They laughed about stupid professors. Jessie recited terrible poetry from her class. Aaron tried to guess everyone's drink orders based on personality.
Tara leaned back against the couch, her head on Aaron's shoulder. He didn't move. He didn't speak. He just let her be there.
And for once, Tara let herself be soft.
The storm had passed.
But she knew another would come.
It always did.