It was one of those nights where the city wouldn’t stop buzzing. Flashbulbs still echoed in Tate’s head even though she’d left the red carpet hours ago, their strobe-light flashes burning across her eyelids whenever she blinked. The photos were already everywhere—her hand looped through Kid Laroi’s arm, her smile perfect, her body turned toward him like she was exactly where she wanted to be.

She hated all of it.

By the time she reached your apartment, her hoodie was pulled so low over her face that she looked like she was trying to disappear. Her driver had dropped her off two blocks away so no one would catch her on camera. She walked fast through the shadows, rain misting the air, and by the time you opened the door, her chest was rising and falling like she’d just run miles.

“Tate—” you started, surprised, but she was already inside, already throwing her hood back, already moving toward you like she couldn’t stand another second apart.

She didn’t even say hello. She just buried her face against your chest, her hands fisting in your shirt, shaking.

You closed the door with one hand, the other wrapping around her shoulders, holding her tight. “Hey. What’s going on?”

Her voice was muffled against you. “I can’t do this anymore.”

You stroked her back, trying to anchor her, even as your stomach twisted. You knew exactly what this meant. “The PR thing?”

She pulled back just enough for you to see her face. Mascara had smudged beneath her eyes, her lips trembling from the effort of holding it all in. She looked exhausted—soul-deep exhausted, like she’d been carrying something far too heavy for too long.

“They make me hold his hand. Smile at him. Act like—like I love him.” Her voice cracked on the word. “And the whole time, all I can think about is you. How I can’t even look at you the way I want to in public. How I have to pretend with him when all I want is to be real with you.”

“Tate—”

She shook her head quickly, pacing now, her arms hugging herself tight. “I hate it. I hate him. He’s not even mean, he’s just… fake. Everything feels fake. And then I come home, and I can’t even text you without worrying someone will see. I can’t kiss you at a party, can’t stand next to you without people asking questions. Do you know how much it kills me to see you in the crowd and not be able to run to you?”

Your throat tightened. You wanted to tell her you knew, that you felt every ounce of the distance too, that the secrecy dug into you like glass. But she wasn’t done.

“I didn’t sign up for this. I signed up to sing, to dance, to share myself with people through my music—not to sell a lie about who I love.” Her hands were shaking now, pulling at the sleeves of her hoodie. “And the worst part? Everyone thinks it’s real. They write about us, they make edits of us, and I just sit there screaming in my head because it’s not real. You’re real. We’re real.”

You reached out, catching her wrist gently, pulling her back toward you. She resisted for half a second before collapsing, like her body had been waiting for someone to tell her she could stop holding it together.

You pressed your forehead to hers, brushing her damp hair back. “I know,” you whispered. “I know, Tate. And I hate it too. But listen to me—you’re not alone in this. You’ll never be alone in this.”

Her eyes fluttered shut, and you felt her breath shudder against your lips. “I don’t know how much longer I can pretend.”

“As long as you need to,” you said softly, cupping her face in both hands. “But when you’re with me, you don’t have to. No cameras, no managers, no headlines. Just us. Always just us.”

The tears finally slipped free then, and she didn’t fight them. You kissed them away, slow and careful, until she melted against you completely, her lips finding yours with the desperation of someone who’d been starving.

The kiss wasn’t polished or pretty—it was raw, almost frantic, but it was honest. More honest than any staged photograph or orchestrated smile.