The house was finally beginning to look like a home.

At least you thought so.

You’d spent the better part of the day moving things around the new living room. There was still a half-unpacked box labeled “KITCHEN—SORT??” sitting under the window, but the record player was spinning, the walls were freshly dressed with art Tate had picked out in Brooklyn, and the new couch—the one you both hated at first and now sort of inexplicably loved—sat right beneath your proudest accomplishment.

The curtains.

They were… bold. You’d stood in the store for over thirty minutes, arms crossed, tugging at your hoodie strings, holding up swatches under fluorescent lights that made everything look a little sick. You couldn’t find the ones Tate had sent—something pale and expensive-looking, the kind of curtains you’d find in a magazine spread titled “Soft Minimalism Meets Scandinavian Sunrise.”

But those were gone. Sold out.

And what were you supposed to do? Leave the windows bare like a psychopath?

You had to act. And you did. With confidence.

The result now hung dramatically over the floor-to-ceiling windows: thick, textured fabric in a kind of greenish-orange paisley that reminded you of a retro movie theater, or maybe your grandmother’s basement, depending on the lighting. They made a statement.

You hadn’t figured out what that statement was just yet, but you were sure Tate would see the vision.

Right?

The front door opened with a mechanical click, then a thump as it shut again.

“Babe?” Tate’s voice called out, muffled and distracted. “I’m home. I grabbed dinner and I’m literally—so dead. My feet are crying.”

You smiled and wiped your hands on your jeans. “In here!”

You heard the soft sound of her sneakers slipping off, the rustle of a paper bag, and the quiet steps of someone exhausted but content.

Then the silence.

It lasted maybe three seconds. Maybe four.

Long enough for your heart to drop a half-inch in your chest.

“Wait,” Tate said, slowly entering the living room, sushi bag in hand. “Wait… what are those?”

You turned, trying to play it cool. “The curtains! Surprise! They didn’t have the ones you sent, but I got creative.”

She stared.

Not at you.

At them.

The color drained from her face the way it does when you realize you left your phone in an Uber.

“I—” she started, then took two slow steps toward the window like she was approaching a body at a crime scene. “No. No, no. No way.”

“They’re not that bad.”

“They’re horrific,” she said, her voice cracking at the end like the word hurt to say out loud. “They’re like… like something you’d find in a Vegas casino where people go to die.”

You opened your mouth, trying not to smile. This wasn’t great, sure, but she couldn’t really be that mad—

“I literally texted you. I sent links. I double-checked the store name. What part of ‘get the white linen ones with brass hooks’ translated to… this?”

“They didn’t have them!” you said quickly. “I was already there, and there was this pushy mom arguing over blackout panels, and honestly, it got weird fast. I panicked!”

Tate turned, eyes wide, blinking in disbelief. “So you panicked… and bought these?” She gestured to the curtains like she was invoking a curse.

“They looked different in the store!”

“No, they didn’t. They never do. That’s the first rule of fabric shopping. I sent screenshots, babe.”

You folded your arms, defensive now. “Okay, but I put effort in. I even held them up to light. There’s texture!”

“There’s trauma!” Tate snapped, throwing her hands in the air. “These look like they belong in a motel where no one checks out!”

Her voice echoed a little too loud in the mostly empty room.

She sighed and dropped the sushi bag a little harder than necessary on the coffee table, rubbing her face with both hands as she paced once. “I was picturing something light. Clean. Not—whatever fever dream this is.”