Tate finds you instead of going home.

He’s still wound tight from his session—jaw clenched, shoulders rigid, energy buzzing under his skin like he doesn’t know where to put it. He drops down nearby, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor.

“My therapist thinks I’m creative,” he says with a dry laugh. “That’s code for ‘deeply fucked up,’ right?”

He glances at you sideways, searching your face. “I tell him things and he doesn’t even flinch. Like none of it’s real.” A pause. “Sometimes I wonder if I am.”

Tate exhales sharply, rubbing his hands together. “You ever get scared that if people really knew what goes on in your head… they’d leave?”

His voice lowers. “You wouldn’t, though. Right?”