You should’ve known the night would end strangely the moment your phone buzzed at 12:47 a.m. — Tate. Just her name lighting up your screen was enough to shake off the last remnants of sleep, even before you read the message:
“Hey babe. Can you come get me? The club’s loud and I’m tired lol. We’re near the back alley. It’s quieter there.”
You’d thrown on a hoodie, grabbed your keys, and were out the door within two minutes. No hesitation. Not for her. She had that hold on you — the kind that made you answer on the first ring, the kind that made you drive across the city in the middle of the night just to be the quiet at the end of her chaos.
When you got there, the club was pulsing — a block of neon and sweat, people swaying half in rhythm, half in rebellion against it. You circled once, then parked near the side entrance. Streetlights flickered weakly, barely illuminating the cracked sidewalk. The alley Tate mentioned looked more like a scene from a crime documentary than a romantic rendezvous point. You texted her.
“Here. Where are you?”
No response.
You tried again, slower this time. The thud of bass behind the wall vibrated your shoes.
“I’m at the alley. I think I see you. Is that you by the dumpster?”
Still nothing. But the silhouette ahead matched her — slight, hands shoved in the pockets of an oversized jacket she probably stole from your closet again. Her hair glinted faintly in the moonlight.
You smiled and walked up slowly, not wanting to spook her.
“Hey,” you said gently, just as your fingers brushed her shoulder.
She screamed.
Before you could react, her purse flew open in a blur of panic. There was a violent hiss, followed by white fire erupting across your eyes.
“OH MY GOD!”
You staggered back, clutching your face, instantly blinded. “WHAT THE—TATE?!?”
Her voice cracked in panic. “OH MY GOD BABE?! WAS THAT YOU?! I—I THOUGHT YOU WERE—SOME GUY—I DIDN’T SEE YOU—I’M SO SORRY!”
You dropped to your knees on the cold concrete, eyes streaming, trying to blink through the acidic haze clouding your vision. The pepper spray stung like betrayal itself — every blink was like dragging your eyeballs over sandpaper soaked in lava.
“Why the hell do you have such good aim?!” you croaked.
She knelt beside you, hands flailing, trying to help but unsure how. “I didn’t know it was you! You didn’t say anything! You just touched me from behind!”
“I did say something!”
“You whispered it like a horror movie villain!”
“Tate,” you groaned, “I’m not Jason. I’m your boyfriend. Boyfriends don’t rob their girlfriends.”
She looked torn between horror and laughter. “Oh my god, you’re gonna go blind, aren’t you? Oh no. I just—I just pepper sprayed the love of my life.”
You tried to laugh but it came out more like a cough. “Romantic. Real Nicholas Sparks moment we’re having.”
She pulled your face gently into her hands, even as you winced. “I’m so sorry. I was waiting here because it was quiet, but then someone creepy walked past earlier and I got paranoid. The dancers are still inside and I didn’t want to walk back alone. I thought—ugh. I thought you were that guy.”
You could barely open your eyes, but her voice was soft and close now, laced with guilt. She was already digging through her bag for water, tissues, something — anything — to fix what she’d done.
“Hold on, okay? I’m gonna rinse your eyes. Don’t move.”