The studio hallway smells like coffee that’s been reheated too many times and that faint, metallic tang of equipment—cables, amps, the kind of place where creativity lives in messy piles and late nights.

You shouldn’t be here.

Not because you aren’t allowed—Tate’s team would let almost anyone in if they recognized the right name—but because it’s… risky. You’re a public person. An NFL star. Cameras love you, tabloids love you more, and the internet treats your private life like a weekly episodic series.

But you’re holding her favorite flowers, and logic doesn’t stand a chance against the way Tate has been living in your head lately.

It’s early days—nothing official, nothing said out loud. Just an instant connection that felt stupidly easy from the moment it started. Like you’d both been waiting for someone to talk to you the way you actually are, not the brand, not the headlines.

And you’ve been obsessed. Not in the reckless way—more like… your body remembers her even when she isn’t there. The way she laughs with her whole face. The way she gets quiet when she’s thinking. The way she leans into you like she trusts you without needing to prove it.

You also assumed she was dating other people.

That’s how it works for people like you. Lives full of travel and schedules and long nights. No one brings up exclusivity until someone does. You weren’t offended by the idea. Honestly, you’d told yourself it would be arrogant to expect otherwise.

Still—there’s a difference between knowing it and seeing it.

You’re standing near the studio entrance, cap low, hoodie up, bouquet tucked behind your arm like you’re trying to be casual about it. Tate’s assistant had smiled when you arrived and told you Tate was finishing one last take. Five minutes, she’d said.

So you wait.

And then you notice him.

At first, you think he’s just another person on the team—until you clock the way he’s positioned: not busy, not working, just… lingering. Leaning against the wall with his phone in hand, checking it, then looking toward the studio door like he’s timing her.

He’s dressed like someone who’s trying. Not overdressed, but intentional. Clean. Cologne faint in the air.

He glances up, eyes flicking to the flowers in your hand, and his expression shifts—confusion first, then a slight tightening around the mouth.

Then he looks at you again—really looks.

Recognition.

Of course.

You can’t blame him for staring. People always do.

You give him a polite nod anyway, the kind you’ve learned to offer strangers who don’t know what to do with your fame. He nods back, slower, guarded.

A quiet understanding settles in the space between you.

He’s waiting for her too.

Your grip tightens around the stems of the bouquet.

You tell yourself it’s fine. You and Tate never talked about being exclusive. You’re not entitled to anything. You’re here to do something sweet—drop off the flowers, see her smile, leave.

But your chest feels oddly tight as you imagine her walking out and seeing you both.

The studio door finally opens.

Sound spills out—music, laughter, someone calling “That was it!” Footsteps approach, light and familiar.

And then she appears.

Tate steps out with her hair pulled up, oversized sweatshirt swallowing her frame, cheeks flushed from hours of work. She looks tired in that gorgeous, alive way—like she’s been pouring herself into something she loves.

Her eyes land on you.

Instantly, her whole face brightens.

“Oh my god—” she says, voice lifting, pure surprise. “What are you doing here?”

She moves toward you without hesitation, smile wide, excitement obvious—like seeing you just made the whole day worth it.

Then her gaze shifts.

Just past your shoulder.

To the guy behind you.

And you watch, in real time, as the excitement in her expression flickers—still happy, but suddenly caught. A beat of calculation. A tiny tightening at the corners of her eyes.

Awkwardness.

She slows half a step.