It started with a photo.

Not even a good one. Grainy, taken at a weird angle, zoomed in like someone had no idea how subtlety worked. You weren’t even looking for it. It was just there—tagged under a fan account you never followed, sitting like a ticking bomb in your DMs.

“Uhh this who she with when she told you she had rehearsals?? 👀”

You clicked on it.

Tate. Outside a café in L.A., laughing. Her hand brushing someone else’s shoulder. Someone with bleached hair and sharp features and a smile way too easy.

Findlay.

You recognized him vaguely from a few of her stories. Her background dancer, maybe? You hadn’t met him yet. She always said he was “a riot,” but your schedules never lined up.

And now here he was, in your messages, all angles and energy, sitting across from your girlfriend like he belonged in her life in a way you suddenly didn’t.

You stared at the photo for too long.

She hadn’t mentioned any coffee date.

She hadn’t said anything about seeing anyone that day.

Just “long rehearsal, talk later. xx.”

You knew you shouldn’t spiral. But the spiral didn’t care.

It had teeth.

You didn’t text her about it at first.

You tried to be rational.

She was allowed to have friends. Of course she was. And she worked with dancers every day—people who touched her waist, lifted her by the ribs, moved in sync with her in ways you’d never understand.

You knew that.

But something about that picture—something about the way he leaned in, the way she smiled back—sent you spiraling.

It wasn’t jealousy.

It was fear.

Of not being enough. Of not belonging in her world. Of her realizing that the guy from college with scuffed sneakers and a half-finished degree didn’t quite fit beside red carpets and record deals.

So when she walked through your apartment door later that night, you didn’t even let her drop her keys before it came out.

“You didn’t tell me you were meeting someone today.”

Tate blinked, still holding her phone, still mid-step out of her shoes. “Hi,” she said slowly. “Hello to you too.”

You didn’t smile.

She paused. Her brows furrowed. “What’s going on?”

“I saw the picture,” you said.

She tilted her head. “What picture?”

“The one with you and that guy. The dancer. Findlay.”

Her lips parted, but no words came out.

You could feel your stomach twist even tighter.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you asked. “You said you had rehearsal. Not coffee. Not lunch. Not… whatever that was.”

Tate stared at you like she was trying to process a language she hadn’t studied in years.

Then she laughed once—sharp. Not amused. Wounded.

“Are you seriously doing this right now?”

“Doing what?” you shot back. “Asking why you lied?”

“I didn’t lie,” she snapped. “I did have rehearsal. We grabbed food after. I didn’t mention it because it wasn’t a thing.”

“You were touching his arm.”

Tate dropped her bag.

“Touching—are you serious?” Her voice rose. “He’s gay.”

You blinked.

“What?”

“Findlay’s gay,” she repeated, arms flung wide. “As in, literally not attracted to me. At all. He’s my best friend, and if you’d ever bothered to come to a damn rehearsal, you’d know that.”

You stood there, silent. Burning.

She ran a hand through her hair, pacing. “Do you have any idea how humiliating this is? That you think I’d cheat on you, let alone in public? That you looked at a single photo and decided you don’t trust me?”

“I didn’t say I don’t trust you,” you muttered, ashamed now. “I just—I panicked.”

Her eyes flashed. “Panic is one thing. Accusing me is another.”

“I didn’t accuse you—”

“You did. With your tone. With your silence. With that look you gave me when I walked in. You already decided what you wanted to believe.”

You swallowed hard.

And she softened. Just a little.

“I love you,” she said quietly. “I’m with you. I go out of my way to protect what we have. And you think I’d risk all of that for someone I choreograph with?”