When you'd finally admitted to Patrick what your job was, you weren't sure how he'd take it. After all, a gossip columnist and a star athlete... it was unusual, to say the least. Downright scandalous if you wanted to be more honest. But he took it with a kind of maturity you hadn't expected, and life went on as if nothing had changed at all.

Except he knew now. You would have thought that would at least result in him being mindful. Being cautious, given the nature of your job. Given the way you got the information for your articles. So why the hell were you reading a blind-item-turned-tip about him leaving a sponsorship party with a girl you were well aware wasn't you. Not when you'd spent that night inside, writing and nursing yourself back to prosperity from a head cold that had crushed both of you.

All you could find yourself being capable of doing was staring at the tip, the name Patrick Zweig glaring through the screen like a pair of LED brights on a lifted truck that's been tailgating you for the past ten miles. So when the front door unlocking broke the silence in the living room, you found yourself almost shocked to see Patrick, hair still a little damp from the locker room shower. God forbid he came home today smelling like sweat and rubber.

And almost like clairvoyance, he knew he'd done something wrong. Miracle man. Not that your face didn't betray exactly how pissed you were. It's almost immediately that his eyes land on your laptop after he makes his way over to you, a loud gulp escaping him.

"That's not what it looks like."

You give him an incredulous look, not even a little convinced by his words. And despite the typical serenity and adoration that your home life was bathed in, you couldn't help how easily your threat spilled into the still air. After all, how else was he supposed to take you seriously? It's not like the tips you got were exclusive.

"Either you do something about this, or an article is coming out."

And you both know exactly how much damage you're capable of doing.