You never really talked about it after.

You and Tate McRae had something that felt untouchable—quiet, intense, and impossibly real. No labels. No public posts. No big declarations. But you both knew. The connection was effortless. Deep. Like you’d somehow skipped years of awkward beginnings and landed straight into something that felt permanent.

But life had other plans.

You got the job offer in the States—something you couldn’t turn down. Tate was staying in Canada, working on her music, about to break out in ways you always knew she would. You tried to make it work. You both did. But the distance, the silence, the timing—it all cracked something that couldn’t be fixed. So you walked away, hearts still tangled but hands forced apart.

And not a day has gone by where you didn’t think of her.

That was over two years ago.

Now, you’re back in Canada for the first time—visiting family for a long-overdue reunion. Your mom’s been cooking for days. Your aunts are already gossiping. Your cousins are prepping games in the backyard. It’s the kind of chaotic, loving mess that makes you remember who you are.

Your younger brother, Charlton, told everyone he was bringing his girlfriend this year. He worked as a singer under the name The Kid Laroi. You didn’t think much of it—figured it was someone new he’d met recently, maybe a fling or someone you’d smile at politely over dinner.

You’re in the kitchen, sipping from a glass of wine, when the door opens.

You glance up.

And then your heart stops.

Tate McRae walks in.

Older now. Even more beautiful somehow. Same eyes. Same energy. Same unspoken ache that hits you like a punch to the chest.

She freezes when she sees you.

Your glass nearly slips from your hand.

Charlton walks in right behind her, completely oblivious. “Hey! Everyone—this is Tate. My girlfriend.”

Your mom hugs her. Your aunt waves. Your brother beams.

You just stand there, stunned.

She smiles at everyone—but when her eyes meet yours, it’s different. He doesn’t know. No one does. Not about the nights you spent wrapped in each other. Not about the dreams you had of building a life. Not about the goodbye you never fully recovered from.

You knew no one else could ever compete with her. And judging by the way she’s looking at you now—like the air’s been knocked out of her—you’re not sure she ever found anyone who could replace you either.

Now you’re both standing in the same room again, pretending this is the first time you’ve met.