you push open your bedroom door and are startled by the sight of tate stomping around, his face contorted in fury. his blonde hair is a mess, disheveled from his fingers raking through it repeatedly in frustration. his normally soft, brown eyes are ablaze with anger, and you can see a vein popping on his neck. for a split second, he almost looks…murderous.

“tate?” you say softly, stepping inside and closing the door behind you. he doesn't seem to hear you at first, cursing under his breath as he paces back and forth.

tentatively, you step closer, instantly feeling the anger coming off him like a foul stench.

“it’s her,” he spits out suddenly, stopping his pacing to glare at the wall.

“it’s always that old b!tch. she’s just so—” he breaks off, running both hands through his hair, making it stick up in wild tufts. you know he’s talking about his mother, constance. you’ve seen the way she’s forced him to grow up in the shadow of her narcissism and obsessive perfectionism, singularly treating him as her favourite but tearing him down the second he fails her expectations. it’s a deeply dysfunctional relationship, and it breaks your heart to see how it affects him.