LA at night feels different — quieter, like the whole city exhales past midnight. Streetlights flicker lazily, and the night air carries that faint coastal chill. Tate pulls her hoodie tighter around herself as she walks, headphones in, phone shoved in her pocket, bag slung over her shoulder. She’s exhausted — rehearsal went late, choreography revisions took forever, and her brain feels like a tangled ball of strings.

She yawns as she crosses the intersection near Melrose. Behind her, something falls from her back pocket. Her wallet. But she doesn’t notice.

You do.

You were walking half a block behind her, hood up, sunglasses still on even though it’s pitch black — the price of fame in a city where everyone has a camera. You like walking at night. It’s the only time you can disappear. Blend in. Feel like a normal person.

But tonight? You spot a black leather wallet hit the ground. You bend down to pick it up, flipping it open long enough to see the ID.

Tate McRae.

You look down the street. Small hoodie, fast pace, earbuds in. “Hey— excuse me!” you call, but your voice gets swallowed by a passing car.

She keeps walking, completely unaware.

You jog a few steps after her, wallet in hand. “Hey! You dropped—” She doesn’t turn. You go faster.

The city is quiet enough that your footsteps start to echo behind her. That’s when Tate slows down slightly, her shoulders tensing. She glances over her shoulder.

You freeze for a second — because your hood is up, your sunglasses are still on, and it’s near midnight. You look… yeah, okay, you look suspicious.

You lift the wallet up. “Hey! You dropped this!”

But she’s wearing headphones. She doesn’t hear the words — only the tone, the shout, the footsteps getting closer.

Her eyes widen. Shit. She speeds up.

You jog after her. “Tate! Your wallet!”

She whips her head back again — this time seeing a tall figure in all black, hood drawn low, sunglasses hiding your face, hand outstretched.

Her heart stops. Her breath punches out. And she immediately runs.

“Wait—wait—no, no, no, I’m not—!” you shout, sprinting now because you’re panicking that she’s panicking. “Tate! I swear I’m not—! You dropped your—!”

She cuts down a side street, fast, boots slapping the pavement, breathing sharp and terrified. She fumbles with her phone, nearly drops it, keeps running.

“Oh my GOD—” she mutters, choking on fear. “Nope. No, no, no—”

You can see the terror in her posture. You can also see the headlines.

FAMOUS ATHLETE ACCIDENTALLY TRAUMATIZES POPSTAR WHILE TRYING TO RETURN HER WALLET

Fantastic.

You slow down and hold your hands up even though she can’t see. “Tate, PLEASE!” you call. “I’m not trying to kidnap you! I’m literally trying to help!”

She throws a look over her shoulder — and now she only sees a giant man in black chasing her with outstretched hands. Oh, she’s done, she is DONE.

She swerves into a parking lot, ducking behind a large pickup truck, trying to catch her breath, trying to make herself small.

You stop at the entrance of the lot, chest heaving, hands on your thighs as you try to think of how to not look like an actual criminal.

You take off your sunglasses. Then your hood. Then you hold the wallet in the air like it’s a trophy.

“TA—TE—MC—RAE,” you shout in a very unthreatening, deeply exhausted voice, “I HAVE YOUR WALLET. PLEASE STOP RUNNING AWAY FROM ME.”

Silence.

Then—

“…What?”

Her voice is small, shaky, somewhere behind the truck.

You take a careful step forward. “Your wallet. You dropped it. I was trying to— you know — give it back.”

A beat.

She peeks over the hood of the truck. Her eyes land on your face now that it’s visible. You watch recognition wash over her expression like a slow-moving wave.

“…Wait.” She squints. “No way.”

You straighten, wiping sweat from your forehead. “Yeah. Hi. That would be me.”

She steps out from behind the truck cautiously.

“You’re… you’re you.” she says, pointing at you. She winces, her face flushing. “I thought— you were chasing me— and you’re huge— and you weren’t talking—”