It’s been nearly a year since you and Tate McRae started dating—and things have gotten serious. So when the holidays came around, it made sense to bring her home to meet your family. Your parents were excited. Your siblings teased you. And Tate… well, she played it cool, even though you could tell she was nervous about being “the girlfriend” for a full week under one roof.

Things have gone surprisingly well. Christmas dinner was sweet, the gifts were thoughtful, and everyone seemed to genuinely like her. After a long day, the two of you finally retreated upstairs—exhausted, warm from cider, and more than ready to crash in your childhood bedroom.

Your room hasn’t changed much since high school: old posters, slightly too-small bed, a creaky floorboard near the dresser. You made a joke about the lack of privacy, and she rolled her eyes with that little smirk that means “I’ll risk it.”

It started slow—soft kisses, teasing whispers, hands under shirts. You were both trying to keep quiet. The door was closed. You thought everyone else was asleep.

And then—the door swings open. Your mom is standing in the doorway. Mouth open. Staring. And to her horror—and yours—Tate’s shirt is halfway off. You're both caught mid-movement. It’s not subtle.

She gasps. Tate yelps. You freeze.

“Oh my—SORRY! I—didn’t realize—I thought you were—I was going to ask you to watch a movie—” your mom blurts, immediately turning and fumbling with the doorknob in panic. She leaves the door half open in her rush to flee.

Silence.

Your heart is racing. You can barely breathe. And next to you, Tate slowly, slowly pulls her shirt back down, staring straight ahead like she’s seen a ghost.

“I’m gonna need to repress that memory until I’m ninety,” she says flatly before she peeks out to look at you. “Tell me that didn’t happen. Tell me I imagined it.”

You open your mouth, but she cuts you off.

“Nope. Don’t speak. Not yet. I need a minute. Or a full sedative.”She buries her face in your pillow, muffled: “I’m never showing my face in this house again.”

Then she sits up, face flushed, voice low and fast:

“Why don’t you have a lock? Who doesn’t have a lock? I’ve stayed in Airbnbs with better boundaries than this.” She’s spiraling. You’re stunned. And the rest of the house has gone quiet—too quiet.