The arrangement between you and Tate McRae has always lived in a strange, comfortable gray area.

It started years ago—back when both of you were younger, less careful, both famous but still figuring out how to survive the kind of schedules that make normal relationships almost impossible.

You’re a professional athlete. Your seasons are brutal. Her life runs on tour buses, studios, and red-eye flights.

So you made something easier. No expectations. No promises. No pressure. Just each other.

Whenever both of you were single again—after some breakup, after some fling burned out—you’d find your way back. A late-night text. Dinner that turned into staying over. Staying over that turned into a few weeks of acting suspiciously like a real couple.

Until one of you met someone else. Then it would stop. No fights. No jealousy. Just a quiet understanding.

And eventually—months later, sometimes a year—you’d drift back into each other’s orbit again.

It worked. Or at least, it always had. Tonight feels different.

You’re stretched out on the couch in your apartment, a game playing quietly on the TV that neither of you is really watching. Tate is sitting beside you, wearing one of your sweatshirts that’s way too big for her. Her hair is messy from earlier, when she arrived with no warning and dropped her bag by the door like she belonged here.

You’ve been like this all evening—close, comfortable, teasing each other the way you always do. She stole your food earlier. You argued about music in the car.

Normal. Easy. Except now she’s quiet.

You notice it when she stops laughing at something you said and instead just looks at you. Not the playful look you’re used to. Something heavier.

“You’re staring,” you say.

She blinks once, like she forgot you could see her doing it. “Am I?”

“Yeah.”

A small smile pulls at her mouth, but it doesn’t reach her eyes this time. “You ever think about how weird this is?”

You glance at her. “What is?”

“This,” she says, gesturing lazily between the two of you.

You shrug. “It works.”

“That’s not really an answer.”

“It’s the truth.”

For a second she doesn’t say anything. The TV flickers light across the room, reflecting faintly in her eyes.

“You know what the worst part is?” she says quietly.

“What?”

She leans back into the couch, looking up at the ceiling like she’s thinking too hard. “When people ask me about relationships,” she says, “I always say I’m single.”

She continues, voice calm but thoughtful.

“And technically that’s true. Because we’re not anything.”

She turns her head toward you again.

“But then I come here,” she says. “And we cook dinner together. And I steal your hoodie when you fall asleep. And we act like we’ve been together for five years.”

Your jaw tightens slightly. You know this territory. It’s the part you usually avoid.

“You knew what this was,” you say carefully.

“I do know,” she replies quickly. “That’s the problem. I used to like it,” she admits. “The no-strings thing. The disappearing and coming back. It was easy.”

You glance down at her hand. “Used to?”

She lets out a quiet breath. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

You shift slightly, suddenly very aware of how close she is—her knee pressed against your thigh, the familiarity that’s built up between you over years of this strange cycle.

“You’re overthinking,” you say.

“Maybe.” She looks at you again, this time more directly. “But tonight I was driving over here,” she says slowly, “and I caught myself hoping you weren’t seeing anyone else.”

That lands harder than it should.

She watches your reaction closely. “See?” she says softly.

“See what?”

“That look you just did.”

“What look?”

“The one where you start calculating how to respond without promising anything.”

You let out a small breath through your nose. “Tate—”

“I’m not asking you for anything,” she says quickly, holding up a hand. Her voice isn’t angry. If anything, it’s tired. “I just think I’m starting to get sick of pretending this doesn’t mean more than it does.”