It had been a perfect evening—at least until the cameras started flashing.

Tate had just finished a stripped-down acoustic set at a hidden little venue tucked behind a café in the quieter part of downtown L.A. It was one of those rare nights where she didn’t have to be Tate McRae, pop sensation. Just Tate—your Tate. The one who squeezed your hand when she got nervous before her set, who winked at you mid-song, and who collapsed into your arms backstage after the applause finally died down.

You were both wrapped in the kind of peace that only comes after a night that went exactly how you’d hoped. She wore an oversized hoodie, the hood pulled up over her messy, still-slightly-damp hair. A beanie tucked most of it in, just enough to pass unnoticed. Her hand was linked with yours as you slipped out the back door, laughing quietly about something one of the backup guitarists said.

For a moment, it really felt like you’d gotten away with it. Like you’d have a quiet ride home, maybe stop for milkshakes, and crash on the couch watching some awful reality show.

You were wrong.

The moment you turned the corner, the world lit up.

Flash after flash. Dozens of them—paparazzi had been waiting. Lying in shadows, behind cars, crouched behind the dumpster. You didn’t even hear them until they were right there, swarming.

“Tate! Tate! Who’s the guy?” “Tate, are you two official?” “Did you write that last song about him?” “Tate, look this way! One smile, c’mon!”

The questions blurred together. The lights were like explosions—blinding, relentless. Tate’s hand squeezed yours tighter. She shrank beside you, trying to duck her head, but the cameras kept coming, closing in fast. Too fast.

Your instincts kicked in.

You stepped in front of her, chest out, shielding her from the worst of the barrage. You held your free hand out in warning.

“Back off,” you said, voice low but firm, scanning the chaos. “She’s not doing interviews tonight. Give her space.”

But they didn’t care. If anything, the refusal made them more ravenous.

One of them—older, heavier, with a camera the size of your head—shoved forward. His lens was practically in Tate’s face, barking something about how this was “public property.” You caught the way Tate’s mouth tightened. You knew her tells. She was seconds away from panic mode.

“I said back off!” you snapped this time, raising your voice over the storm, arm flung out protectively.

And then—crack.

The camera guy lashed out without warning. Maybe it was reflex. Maybe he was just that much of an asshole. His fist connected with the side of your face. It wasn’t clean, but it was hard enough to send you reeling.

Pain exploded across your cheekbone as you stumbled a step back.

“TATE, GET HIM BACK—!”

“Are you kidding me?!” someone shouted.

“Are you— oh my god, are you okay?!” Tate’s voice cut through everything.

She was instantly at your side, both hands on your face, her eyes wide with alarm and fury.

The swarm hesitated. Not out of guilt—but shock. Someone had actually gotten hit. Phones were up. Someone was yelling for security. A venue bouncer sprinted from the alley, shouting and pushing cameras aside. Another paparazzo tried to de-escalate while someone else doubled down on getting footage.

But all you could hear was Tate.

She touched your cheek gently, cringing when she saw the red bloom of the forming bruise. Her hands were shaking.

“You’re bleeding,” she whispered, like the fact had just hit her.

“I’m fine,” you said, dazed. “It’s not that bad.”

“You’re not fine.” She turned, barking at the crowd, “Are you happy now?! You got what you wanted, right? Get away from him!”

It was the most furious you’d ever seen her—and you’d been dating for almost a year.