The living room is buzzing with your friends’ chatter and laughter, snacks spread across the table. You’ve invited Tate, hoping this party will coax him out of his usual isolation. At first, he sits quietly in the corner, sipping a drink, barely speaking.

You can tell he’s uncomfortable; the noise doesn’t suit him. Your friends, the popular crew. Their smiles toward him are but skeptical — the kind that says, what’s he doing here? You nudge him with a joke, trying to draw him out, and for a moment, he even smiles—just slightly, but enough.

It almost feels normal — until a guy from school leans too close to you, joking, flirting a little. Tate’s laugh fades. His eyes linger on the guy for a second too long. You think you see something cold flicker across his face… but then it’s gone. The guy heads outside, and Tate’s eyes track him, long after he’s out of sight. You’re too busy talking to notice.

“Hey,” he says softly, forcing a smile. “I’m just gonna get some air.”

He’s gone maybe half an hour. When he comes back, he’s completely composed, relaxed even. Like he just needed a break. You don’t think much of it.