You waited until the pasta was on the table.

Not because you were trying to bribe her with carbs — okay, maybe a little — but because you knew Tate was usually in her best mood when she was curled up in one of your oversized sweatshirts, barefaced, and stealing bites of your plate with no shame.

The candles flickered low. Her phone was upside down on the counter — a rare win. You poured her a glass of wine and tried to play it cool.

“So, uh…” you started, spearing a piece of grilled chicken. “The guys are planning something.”

Tate didn’t look up at first. “What kind of something?”

“Like a trip. Just us. A week.”

She paused mid-chew. Looked up.

“Where?”

“Barcelona. Maybe Ibiza after, depending.”

Now she really looked at you. Brow raised, fork frozen in the air. “You’re going to Spain. With the guys.”

“Yeah.”

“All of them?”

You nodded, already bracing.

Tate set her fork down with exact precision — a bad sign. “So… like a full-on boys’ trip? Like shirtless boat pics and tequila shots and badly made decisions?”

“Not necessarily badly made,” you said, trying to sound light.

She blinked. “Are you serious?”

You leaned forward. “Hey—Tate. It’s not like that. It’s just time with the guys. We’ve been talking about doing something for a while.”

“And now’s the perfect time?” she asked, tone sharper than usual. “When I’ve got two weeks off and we were finally supposed to spend real time together?”

“I didn’t say I was leaving tomorrow. I just wanted to talk about it.”

“Okay,” she said slowly. “So talk.”

You sighed and pushed your plate back. “Tate, I love you. You know that. And I’m not trying to get away from you. It’s just… I don’t know, I need this. Not to escape, but to just… decompress. Reset. I miss my friends. I miss feeling like I’m allowed to breathe without cameras or being someone’s plus-one.”

Her face softened, but only a little.

“So you feel like you can’t breathe with me?”

“That’s not what I said,” you said, instantly. “But when we’re together, it’s always so… public. I love us, but I also need to remember who I am when I’m not your boyfriend in every headline. Just a guy with his friends.”

Tate stood, slowly. Walked to the sink and leaned against it. Her arms crossed.

“You know what bugs me the most?” she said finally. “That I trust you — I do — but I also know how these trips go. I’ve seen it. I’ve had friends come back with stories and guilt and regrets and suddenly the version they gave their girlfriend didn’t line up with the pictures on some random girl’s phone.”

You stood too. “You think I’m like that?”

“No,” she said quietly. “I think the situation can make anyone messy.”