The air in Calgary is colder than you expect.

Not sharp exactly—just clean, wide, the kind of cold that feels honest compared to the manufactured climates of Los Angeles studios and New York penthouses. When you step out of the car in front of the house, your breath fogs lightly in front of you, and for a moment you just stand there taking it in.

This is her world.

The place where Tate McRae grew up before stadium lights and global tours and the strange gravity of fame pulled her everywhere else.

You adjust the sleeve of your coat slightly, suddenly aware of everything—how tall you look in boots, how recognizable your face is even when you’re trying not to make it obvious, how intimidating you must seem walking up a normal suburban driveway when half the world knows your name from billboards and lingerie campaigns.

You feel Tate’s hand slip into yours. “They’re gonna love you,” she says softly.

You smile at her, though your stomach flutters anyway. “You say that like you’re not introducing them to the Victoria’s Secret catalogue.”

She laughs quietly. “They know you’re a person.”

You hope so.

The door opens before you even reach it.

Tanja McRae greets you with warmth that’s immediate and genuine—arms open, eyes bright in the way mothers look when they’re seeing someone important to their child for the first time. Todd is right behind her, tall and steady, the kind of presence that feels quietly protective without trying.

“Hi,” Tanja says, smiling wide. “You must be freezing.”

“Not too bad,” you reply politely.

She pulls you into a hug anyway, and it’s warm and sincere enough that some of your nerves loosen. But the moment she steps back and actually looks at you, something shifts.

Her eyes widen just a fraction.

You recognize that look. You’ve seen it a thousand times in airports, in restaurants, in backstage dressing rooms when someone suddenly realizes the person in front of them isn’t just another face in the room.

It’s not rude. Just… startled.

“Wow,” she says before she can stop herself.

Todd clears his throat softly, but he’s staring too.

You give them the smile you’ve perfected over years of public life—gracious, soft, reassuring. The one that says I promise I’m not as intimidating as I look.

Inside the house, it gets a little strange. Not uncomfortable. Not hostile. Just different.

Tanja offers you tea three separate times in the first ten minutes like she’s afraid you might be too delicate for normal hydration. Todd asks if the chair at the kitchen table is comfortable enough. Someone apologizes for the lighting in the living room as if you’re evaluating it for a photoshoot.

You sit there trying not to laugh, answering every question kindly.

“Yes, the chair is perfect.”

“No, I don’t need special water.”

“Yes, Calgary is beautiful.”

Across the room, Tate watches it happen in slow motion.

She sees the way her parents glance at you when you aren’t looking. The way they sit a little straighter, speak a little more carefully, like they’ve accidentally invited royalty into their home instead of their daughter’s girlfriend.

You’re being treated like a guest of honor instead of, well, a person.

Dinner doesn’t help.

Tanja keeps insisting you take the best portion of everything. Todd pulls out a bottle of wine like it’s a formal occasion. At one point he actually says, “We don’t usually have company like this.”

You tilt your head. “Like what?”

He immediately looks embarrassed. “I mean—someone famous.”

You smile gently. “I promise I’m just here for the food.”

Tate snorts into her drink.

But even later, when everyone moves into the living room, the feeling lingers. You’re sitting on the couch beside Tate when Tanja brings out dessert.

“Here,” she says, placing the plate carefully in front of you first.

You blink. “You don’t have to serve me first.”

“Oh,” she says quickly. “I just thought—”

“She’s not made of glass,” Tate says suddenly. “She’s literally the least high-maintenance person I know,” she continues, grinning slightly.