The fight had started over something small, as fights often do. A careless word in the car on the way to the venue, something about scheduling and priorities, about how many times you’d had to rearrange your own life to orbit hers. Tate had snapped back without thinking, defensive in that quicksilver way she sometimes was. You knew she didn’t mean it, not the way it came out, but it landed sharp.

By the time the SUV slowed in front of the carpet, silence had stretched between you like a taut rope. You stared out the tinted window, jaw tight, while she fussed with her lip gloss in the reflection, her own expression unreadable.

“Ready?” her manager chirped from the front.

Neither of you answered.

The door opened, and the roar hit—paparazzi flashbulbs, fans screaming your names, reporters leaning so far over the barrier you worried someone would topple. The world was waiting for you two, the couple everyone insisted was perfect, the fairytale pairing of two rising stars hopelessly in love.

And so you went.

Tate reached for your hand, and though your stomach still burned with leftover anger, you gave it. The cameras couldn’t know. You pasted on the smile you’d been trained to wear and let her lace her fingers through yours.

“There they are!” a voice shouted from the press line. “The couple of the year!”

Tate leaned into you then, resting her head on your shoulder like she always did, that practiced intimacy that had once been so effortless. The crowd cooed. She kissed your cheek, soft, quick, the kind of gesture that would be on every entertainment site before midnight.

Inside, though, you were stiff. Every touch felt like salt on the fresh cut of your temper. You wanted to sulk, to pull away, to demand space—but instead you squeezed her hand and tilted your head toward hers, the picture of devotion.

“Smile,” she murmured through her teeth, the shape of it perfect for the cameras, though her tone carried the edge of your unresolved fight.

You did. Your grin in the photographs was dazzling, your posture easy, but your heart was nowhere near it.

Reporters barked questions: What’s your next collaboration? How’s it feel being the most shipped couple in the industry? Wedding bells anytime soon?

You laughed at all the right moments, Tate’s arm tucked at your waist, your chin tilted just enough toward her to sell the fairytale. Anyone watching would have thought you were deliriously happy. The internet would melt tonight with hashtags about how in love you looked.

Only you and Tate knew the truth—that every step was a performance.

When you finally ducked inside the venue, the noise of the carpet muffled behind thick glass, Tate exhaled sharply. She didn’t let go of your hand, though. Instead, she tugged you into the shadow of a marble column, her expression softer now, remorse bleeding through the cracks of her stubborn pride.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, so quiet you almost didn’t catch it. “I shouldn’t have snapped.”

You swallowed hard, the ache in your chest easing just a little. The mask slipped—the sulk, the anger, the pretend smiles—and what was left was the girl you loved, the one whose fingers were trembling slightly against yours.

The fight wasn’t fixed, not yet. But as she looked up at you with wide, regretful eyes, you realized that even when you were furious, even when the cameras forced you into a lie, you couldn’t imagine not standing beside her.