Los Angeles evenings had their own golden rhythm — the kind of sunset that made the sky look like it had been painted in soft watercolors, the breeze warm but easy. You and Tate hadn’t had a proper day together in weeks. Between her nonstop rehearsals, late-night writing sessions, and your own calendar full of work and meetings, it felt like your lives barely intersected anymore.

So tonight was sacred. Just the two of you, wandering down Venice Beach, iced coffees in hand, talking about everything and nothing, like you were still the same twins who shared a bedroom in Calgary.

Tate, naturally, couldn’t just walk. She was hopping up onto the low concrete barrier that lined the boardwalk, balancing precariously like a tightrope walker. Her black hoodie flapped in the ocean breeze, her sneakers scuffing against the edge.

“Get down before you crack your head open,” you warned, sipping your coffee.

She glanced over her shoulder with a grin that was equal parts daring and smug. “Relax. I’ve been doing this since I was a kid.”

“Yeah, and you still fell into Mom’s rosebush when you were twelve,” you shot back.

Her laugh carried in the wind, and you couldn’t help but smile. But the smile vanished a second later when it happened—quick, clumsy, inevitable. Tate misjudged her landing, her sneaker slipping against the rough edge.

You watched in horror as she tumbled forward, hands slapping against the pavement to break her fall.

“Shit—Tate!” You dropped your coffee and rushed to her side.

She sat up with a hiss, clutching her palm. When she lifted it, you saw the angry scrape tearing across her skin, fresh blood welling up bright and stark against her pale hand.

And just like every other time in your life… your stomach flipped.

“Nononono,” you muttered, stumbling back a step. The sight of blood — even a smear, even a scratch — was enough to send your body into instant revolt. Your throat tightened, your skin prickled, and before you could will yourself to be strong, to help your twin, the nausea surged.

“Oh my god, you’re not—” Tate started, eyes widening.

But you were.

You bent over the sand and threw up, the sound horrifyingly loud in contrast to the gentle rush of waves in the background. Pedestrians glanced over, a mix of concern and disgust flashing on their faces as you gagged and spat, clutching your stomach.

“Unbelievable,” Tate muttered, her voice sharp but not without a trace of humor. She cradled her bleeding hand and shook her head at you. “You’ve been doing this since grade school, and you still can’t handle blood.”

You groaned, wiping your mouth with the sleeve of your hoodie. “You think I want this to happen?!”

She raised her injured hand for emphasis. “Well, I think it’d be great if, for once in my life, my twin didn’t vomit instead of helping me.”

You winced, trying not to look at the scrape again. “Ugh—stop waving it around! You’re going to make me go for round two.”

Despite her injury, Tate snorted, biting her lip to keep from laughing outright. “You’re actually pathetic.”

“And yet you still hang out with me,” you shot back weakly, still hunched over but trying to salvage some dignity.

“Not sure why at this point,” she teased, though her eyes softened. She shifted her hoodie sleeve carefully over her palm to stem the bleeding, then nudged your arm with her knee. “Come on, drama queen. I’ll take care of myself, like always.”

Guilt burned hotter than the nausea. You forced yourself upright, swallowing hard, determined not to puke again. “I’m sorry, Tate. I swear one day I’ll get over this.”

“You’ve been saying that since you were thirteen,” she said, rolling her eyes. But then her lips curled into a small smile. “It’s fine. You’re still my favorite twin—even if you’re completely useless in a crisis.”

You groaned. “Please don’t tell Mom about this.”

“Oh, I’m definitely telling Mom,” Tate said, grinning now despite the blood. “And Dad. And Findlay. Honestly, probably Twitter too.”