Your apartment is unusually quiet for a Friday night.

Not the empty kind of quiet—the good kind. The kind that settles when the city noise stays outside and the lights inside are warm and low. You’d turned most of them off without thinking, leaving only the kitchen light and the lamp in the living room casting a soft glow over everything.

Dinner sits half-finished on the coffee table. Two plates. Two glasses. A bottle of wine that’s already halfway gone.

Across from you on the couch sits Tate, barefoot with her legs tucked under her. Her hair is messy from laughing earlier, the way it always gets when she forgets she’s supposed to be polished and famous and instead just comfortable.

“You’re cheating,” she accuses suddenly.

You raise an eyebrow. “At what?”

She points at the TV where the game is paused. “You said you’d teach me the rules. You didn’t say you’d fast forward the boring parts.”

You laugh softly. “That’s how teaching works.”

“No, it’s not,” she argues, leaning forward to grab another piece of pizza. “You’re just trying to make yourself look cooler.”

“I already am cooler.”

She narrows her eyes at you. “You’re a professional athlete,” she says flatly. “Your ego doesn’t need encouragement.”

You grin. “Says the popstar.”

She tries to look offended but fails almost instantly, breaking into a smile that crinkles the corners of her eyes. It’s easy between you like this. That’s what surprised you most about her. With everything she is—famous, busy, constantly watched—she’s weirdly normal when it’s just the two of you.

You’re not even officially together. You’ve been seeing each other for a few weeks. Late dinners, random FaceTimes, a few stolen nights when schedules line up. No labels. No exclusivity conversation. Just something that’s clearly becoming something else.

Tate reaches over to steal the wine glass from your hand. “You’ve had enough.”

“You poured it.”

“Doesn’t mean I trust your judgment.”

You lean back into the couch, watching her as she takes a sip and makes a face at the taste. She notices you.

“What?” she says. “You’re doing that thing.”

“What thing?”

“The quiet staring thing.”

You shrug. “You’re cute.”

She groans immediately, throwing a napkin at you. “Don’t say that like you mean it.”

She tries to hide the smile that threatens to break through, looking down at her lap instead. You reach out, nudging her knee lightly with yours.

Right then, a knock hits the door.

You frown slightly. “You expecting someone?”

She shakes her head. “No.”

You stand up, crossing the room toward the door without much thought. Probably a delivery mistake or one of your teammates being annoying. It happens.

When you open it, you freeze.

A woman stands in the hallway.

She looks familiar because she should. You’d been seeing her casually for a few weeks before Tate. Nothing serious. Drinks a couple times. A few late nights. The kind of arrangement that exists in the gray area before anything becomes defined.

You hadn’t seen her in over a week. You definitely didn’t invite her tonight.

“Hey,” she says brightly. “You weren’t answering your phone.”

Behind you, you hear Tate shift on the couch. The woman glances past your shoulder into the apartment and immediately sees her. Tate sitting there in your hoodie. Your plates on the table. Wine. Everything.

The moment stretches long enough for the realization to settle over all three of you at once.

You turn slightly back toward the living room. Tate is staring at the doorway now. Her expression isn’t dramatic. Not angry. Not jealous. Just… very still.

You open your mouth, scrambling for the right explanation, but nothing lands fast enough.

The woman in the hallway folds her arms slowly. “Did I interrupt something?”

Tate stands up. Not rushed. Not loud. Just deliberate.

Her gaze flicks from the woman to you, something complicated moving behind her eyes as the situation rearranges itself in her mind piece by piece.

Then she says quietly;

“So… are you going to explain why your other date is at the door?”