The plan was simple.

Dinner. Just dinner. A table for two at the quiet Italian place in West Hollywood she said reminded her of a tiny trattoria she’d fallen in love with in Florence. No cameras. No fans. Just dim lights, her hand in yours, and the kind of conversation that only happened when the world stopped spinning for a second.

You had the whole thing mapped out in your head.

What you didn’t account for was reality.

You were barely out of the car when it began.

“Oh my God—TATE?!”

A girl in high-top Converse and glitter on her cheekbones sprinted across the sidewalk, phone outstretched. “Can I please get a picture? Please—I’m literally shaking.”

Tate’s hand slipped from yours, instantly polite. “Of course! What’s your name?”

The girl squealed something inaudible. Tate crouched down to her height, posed, smiled.

You stepped back, waiting.

One fan turned into three. Then four. Someone yelled her name from across the street. You glanced up and saw the unmistakable glint of a camera lens behind the tinted window of a black SUV.

You swore under your breath.

Tate rejoined you ten minutes later, cheeks pink. “I’m so sorry.”

You offered a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “You sure you want pasta and not, like… a private island?”

She laughed. “Maybe next time.”

You managed to walk two blocks before a woman pushing a stroller gasped, “Tate McRae?! My niece LOVES you—”

More photos. More fans. More “Can I just—” and “This is crazy but—” and “Sorry, I never do this, but…”

You watched her handle it all with grace. Kindness. Patience.

But by the time you actually reached the restaurant, the little moment you’d imagined—the magic of just being with her—felt frayed at the edges.

The hostess smiled too brightly. “Right this way, Ms. McRae.”

“Under a fake name,” you muttered.

“I heard that,” Tate said with a smirk as you followed her inside.

The table was tucked in a quiet corner, but the hush didn’t last long. Halfway through your burrata, a man two tables over “accidentally” dropped his fork and asked for a photo while crouching beside her.

Tate gave you a look this time—apologetic, helpless.

“I’ll say no if you want me to,” she whispered.

You shook your head. “You don’t have to.”

But she saw it—the tightness in your jaw, the way you hadn’t touched your wine, how your fingers tapped the edge of your plate.

When he left, she leaned closer, voice low.

“You hate this.”

“I don’t hate you,” you said.

“That’s not what I asked.”

You exhaled slowly, pressing your thumb to the back of her hand. “I just miss you. I miss having you without the entire world tagging along.”

Her eyes softened.

“Then let’s leave,” she said, suddenly. “Right now.”

“What?”

“We’ll get the pasta to go. Eat it in the car. Or at home. Or on the kitchen floor. Just us.”

You hesitated. “You sure?”

“I don’t need to be seen,” she said. “I just need you.”