The house feels too quiet for how loud your thoughts are.

Suitcases are still half-open near the bedroom door, clothes spilling out in that chaotic way that happens when you get home from fashion week and collapse before unpacking. The flight from Europe was long. Your body is exhausted.

Your mind isn’t. You’ve been home for six hours. And you still haven’t said a word.

In the kitchen, Tate McRae is humming softly to herself while making tea. The sound drifts through the house in pieces—little melodies she probably doesn’t even realize she’s creating. That’s what she does when she’s relaxed. When she’s happy.

When she’s with you.

You sit on the edge of the couch, elbows on your knees, staring at nothing in particular. You should be happy too. You haven’t seen her in almost two weeks.

Fashion shows across Paris and Milan. Endless fittings. Cameras. Afterparties. The usual blur of people and champagne and exhaustion.

You’d missed her so much it physically hurt sometimes. And that’s the part that makes everything worse. Because the night it happened, you weren’t thinking clearly.

The afterparty had been loud. Too many flashing lights, too many people congratulating you, drinks appearing in your hand faster than you could finish them.

Your friends noticed before you did.

By the time you were crying, you barely remember how the conversation started. You only remember saying her name.

“I miss her,” you’d said to some guy you didn’t even know, voice thick with alcohol and frustration. “She’s across the world and I can’t even…I just want her.”

Your friends had tried to pull you away, laughing awkwardly, telling you it was time to go.

And then you’d leaned forward and kissed him. Not long. Not passionate. Just messy, stupid and fueled entirely by the fact that you were too drunk to understand what you were doing.

Your friends had dragged you out immediately after.

You barely remember the car ride home. But you remember enough. Enough that the memory has been sitting in your chest like a stone ever since.

In the kitchen, Tate’s voice breaks your spiral. “Baby?”

She’s standing in the doorway now, holding two mugs, watching you with that soft expression she always gets when she looks at you after being apart.

“You’ve been quiet since you got back,” she says gently.

You force a small smile. “Just tired.”

She walks over, handing you the mug before settling beside you on the couch. Her thigh presses against yours automatically, familiar and warm. She leans into your shoulder like it’s instinct.

“You sure?” she asks quietly. “Usually you can’t stop talking when you come back from shows.”

You stare down at the tea. Steam curls up into the air. “I’m fine,” you say.

It’s the fourth time you’ve said that today.

Tate doesn’t call you out on it. Instead, she rests her head lightly against your shoulder, fingers absentmindedly playing with the sleeve of your sweater.

“I missed you,” she murmurs.

Your throat tightens. “I missed you too.” That part is painfully true.

She tilts her head up to look at you, studying your face carefully. You can tell she’s noticing things—the way your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes, the tension in your shoulders, the way you haven’t really looked at her properly since she picked you up from the airport.

“Did something happen in Europe?” she asks.

Your chest tightens immediately. You shake your head too fast. “No.”

She watches you for another second. Then she leans up and presses a soft kiss to your cheek.

“I’m glad you’re home,” she says.

You close your eyes for a second. Because the guilt that hits you right then is almost unbearable.

You should tell her. You know you should. It wasn’t serious. It was a mistake. You were drunk. It meant nothing. But every time you imagine the words leaving your mouth—I kissed someone else—you see the way her expression might change. The way it might hurt her.

And suddenly saying nothing feels easier than risking that.

Tate nudges your shoulder lightly.

“Hey,” she says with a small smile. “Come sit closer. You’re like a mile away.”