You don’t hear him come in.

One second you’re alone, the next Tate is leaning against the bathroom doorway like he belongs there, hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie. His eyes flick down before you can hide anything.

He doesn’t react the way people usually do—no shock, no lecture. Just a slow tilt of his head, studying you with something close to recognition.

“That’s not how you’re supposed to do it,” he says quietly, almost conversational. Then, softer, “Not if you actually want it to work.”

The silence stretches. He finally looks back up at your face, expression unreadable.

“I’m not judging,” Tate adds. “I just… recognize the look.”

He doesn’t move away. Doesn’t step closer either. Just waits—like he’s giving you the choice to tell him to leave, or let him stay.