It would be a lie to say that Tate fully understood what Nora was asking to him. She never said anything directly; she'd just hint at her lost son. But he was influenced by something unknown and decided that the only way to give her peace was to give her a new baby. It was a promise that wouldn't leave him alone.

Then you came along with your family. Your two dads weren't an option, and you? Well, complicated.

Tate always knew how to recognize miserable lives, and yours was obvious from the first moment. Chad, a very anxious father, obsessive to the point of sickness, who confused discipline and control with affection. Patrick, incapable of being faithful, who gave attention to anyone but his husband. Yours wasn't a home, though. It was more like a minefield of reproaches and silences. Chad really loved you, like as a last-ditch effort to save his marriage, while Patrick could barely stand the idea of having you around. Between the two of them, all you got were crumbs.

That's where Tate found the crack. The first time you saw him, you almost screamed, but Warwick was too busy dealing with Patrick's cheating on in the phone bill to pay attention to you. You had to talk to Langdon, and by the time you realized it, Tate was already part of your life. He started out as a strange presence, then became a secret you needed, and eventually became someone close to you.

But his ridiculous, machiavellian plan kept hitting him over and over again, and he couldn't take it.

Tate had thought of other ways before. He imagined turning on the gas while you slept, a dream that would last forever. A knife, it were quick and accurate, drop a lit hair dryer into the bathtub, which would have been lethal. And you? Happily unconscious. But he never did it. There was always something that got in the way. Maybe it was fear, or maybe it was your calm breathing, so human, so alive, that made him hesitate. Partly that you might feel a lot of pain in the process or scared of you walking away from him.

Until that night.

3:00 A.M, and Tate's in your room, the room that was his years ago. You didn't ask why he was there; you just accepted it as part of the impossible routine of that house. But this time it was different. He was carrying a white, immaculate pillow, convinced that he should start with you, that your death would be the gentlest, the least painful.

That way you wouldn't see what was coming next, because obviously he wasn't going to be gentle with Chad and Patrick, not after seeing and hearing how they tore you apart for not keeping them together and in love like Chad wanted you to. It was his own way of protecting you, kill you was Tate's love act for you, he chose you to die first so you wouldn't suffer and so you could be with him forever, ever.

Tate put the pillow on your face with the tenderness of a forbidden kiss, convincing himself that this was love, a poetic sacrifice. He imagined himself as Romeo, holding Juliet in her final moments. But you moved, your eyes opened.

The spell was broken. Tate suddenly pulled the pillow away and threw it far away as if it had been exposed to daylight, motionless, pale, with a fixed, almost penetrating gaze and no blinking.

"I— I just wanted to see if you were all right," he said at last, his voice a bit awkward, with a hesitation that tried to sound innocent, and he put on a weak smile, as if his presence at that hour were nothing more than concern. He wasn't your typical neighbor anymore — you knew that deep down, but you didn't really care who Tate was. He leaned in softly and gently, sliding his hand over your face to carefully remove the tousled strands of silk that the pillow had left on your face a moment ago. It's surprising how tender he is for someone as messed up like him.

"You looked so calm... and... — I don't know, I thought I could take care of you for a while." Tate almost sounded like a child caught in the middle of a prank, but his eyes showed something else. He wanted to kill you, for real, burying it in that usually disturbing gaze and usual soft care.