There are exactly three things you knew about Tate McRae when you started dating her:

1. She doesn’t do drama.
2. She doesn’t like being lied to.
3. And she definitely doesn’t do pranks.

But somehow, somewhere between late-night YouTube spirals and comments from fans who think they know your relationship better than you do, you convinced yourself this was a great idea.

Your audience had been begging for it.

“PLEASE do the ‘caught in bed with someone else’ prank on Tate!!” “She’s too chill. I wanna see her go off lol.” “I need to know what unhinged Tate looks like.”

Well. So did you.

So you set it up.

The room was dimly lit, with the curtains drawn just enough to let in that soft golden hour glow. You positioned your vlogging camera perfectly on the shelf across from the bed—just far enough away to capture the whole scene, but not obvious. The audio was already rolling.

You fluffed the sheets. Adjusted the pillows. Took a deep breath. Then reached under the covers and positioned the star of the show:

A disturbingly realistic blowup doll, complete with a brunette wig and an oversized hoodie you hadn’t worn in months.

Honestly? You creeped yourself out a little. It was too lifelike. And its face—not quite human, not quite cartoon—was staring off toward the ceiling like it had seen things.

You almost felt bad.

Almost.

Then came the sound of keys in the door. A gentle jingle. The deadbolt twisting.

She was home.

You immediately dove under the sheets beside the blowup doll, heart pounding. You heard Tate drop her bag—soft thud, keys on the entryway table. The usual rhythm of her return.

“Babe?” she called out. Her voice echoed up the hallway. “Why’s it so quiet?”

You stifled a laugh. You could feel it—this was going to kill on YouTube.

Then the steps. Sharp, confident. Her sneakers on hardwood. You closed your eyes like you were asleep, holding your breath.

The bedroom door creaked open.

And everything happened very fast.

At first, it was silence. Just her standing there.

Then—

“What the f—”

Her voice dropped an octave. Low. Dangerous.

You peeked out with one eye and caught a glimpse: Tate, frozen in the doorway, eyebrows drawn, her jaw set in a way you’d never seen before.

“Are you kidding me?”

You had never seen her move so fast.

In a blur, she stormed across the room, ripped the comforter back like a magician pulling off a tablecloth, and stared directly at what she thought was another girl in bed with you.

“GET UP—”

Her hand was already around the doll’s synthetic ankle. She yanked it half out of bed in one go, the wig tilting sideways, revealing the half-deflated neck and the truly haunting painted smile.

She paused.

Blink.

“What the—” she muttered, stepping back. “Is that… a doll?”

The silence was deafening.

You burst out laughing.

Tate slowly turned to you, her expression unreadable—somewhere between absolute disbelief and the kind of betrayal reserved for betrayals that include PVC plastic and synthetic hair.

You sat up, hands raised. “It’s a prank! Babe—it’s a prank, the camera’s rolling—look!”

You pointed toward the corner, grinning like a kid who just got away with stealing candy.

She didn’t laugh.

She looked at the camera. Then at the doll. Then back at you.

“Are you serious right now?”

You nodded, still chuckling. “Come on, you gotta admit, you went feral. Like, full ‘protective girlfriend ready to throw hands’ energy.”

Tate blinked again, then narrowed her eyes. “I almost caught a charge for assaulting a doll. Do you know what that would’ve done to my reputation?”

You tried to inch toward her, but she held up a hand.

“You put a human-looking doll in our bed. In my hoodie. Do you realize how insane that is?”

You paused. “I… I mean… it’s kinda funny.”

She stared at you.

Then—finally—she cracked.

The tiniest, most reluctant smile tugged at the corner of her lips. She tried to hide it, but it spread.

“You’re lucky it wasn’t a real person,” she said. “Because I was about to throw her through that window.”