The second Tate stepped out of your car, flip-flops brushing the gravel driveway, sun catching the edge of her sunglasses, you knew you were screwed.

Not because of her—she looked effortlessly perfect, like always. Oversized tee tucked into vintage jeans, hair pulled back in a messy knot that somehow still made her look like she belonged on the cover of a magazine. She carried a peach cobbler you’d convinced her to bake from scratch, even though she claimed she couldn’t cook anything that didn’t come with choreography.

Not because of the setting, either. Your grandma’s backyard was as harmless and nostalgic as they came — checkered picnic tables, the scent of grilled corn in the air, kids darting around with water guns, and classic R&B playing from a Bluetooth speaker someone definitely stole from their job.

No.

You were screwed because everyone had already spotted her.

And your cousins had that look in their eyes — the same one they got when someone walked in with a tray of wings or announced a game of backyard football.

Predatory.

Excited.

Dangerous.

“Yo,” whispered your cousin Jaylen, appearing beside you like a ghost as you helped Tate carry drinks toward the folding table. “That’s her, right? That’s Tate McRae?”

You gave him a warning glance. “Yeah, and she’s also my girlfriend. So maybe start with ‘hi.’”

But he was already on his phone.

So was Marcus. And Darius. And Bri. And even little Olivia, who was ten and had already asked if she could do a TikTok dance with her “so my page can blow up.”

Tate hadn’t even set down the cobbler yet.

You looked at her.

She was smiling — that practiced, patient, I’ve-done-this-a-million-times smile. But you knew her too well. You could see the subtle shift in her jaw, the way her fingers flexed slightly when she was suppressing the urge to disappear.

“I’m so sorry,” you muttered under your breath.

She glanced sideways and whispered back, “This is still better than press junkets.”

⸻

Ten Minutes Later

The patio was now basically a meet-and-greet.

Your cousins had her pinned in like a prized attraction at a pop-up museum.

“Tate, can I get a selfie?” “Tate, wait—smile one more time, my front cam glitched.” “Can you tag me when you post this?” “Omg, say ‘Hi besties’ for my story—no, wait, with a peace sign—Tate, please—” “I told my followers you might sing. Will you? Just like fifteen seconds?”

You stood awkwardly by the cooler, watching the circus unfold, doing your best to politely shut down the ones who asked if they could use her to promote their TikTok merch or “get her manager’s email.”

It was like no one remembered she was a person.

She handled it with grace, of course.

She always did.

She smiled and posed. She laughed when she didn’t have to. She said, “of course” to a million things she shouldn’t have to say yes to. But every time your eyes met across the yard, you could see it.

The slow draining of her battery.