You and Tate McRae have been dating for a few months now. The relationship is passionate, playful, and increasingly real. But dating in the spotlight isn’t easy. Between tour schedules, paparazzi, and everyone having an opinion, even the most secure relationship can start to feel… exposed.

Tonight, you're both at an exclusive L.A. party—music executives, artists, influencers, and press everywhere. It’s loud, glamorous, and chaotic in the way only Hollywood can be.

You’re dressed to kill, and so is Tate—but for the past half hour, you've been deep in conversation with Sabrina Carpenter. She’s an old friend. Maybe not that close, but you’ve worked together before. She’s funny, magnetic, and there’s something effortless about the way she touches your arm when she laughs. Something easy about the way she leans in when she talks to you.

You’re not flirting. Not really. But from the outside... it might look like you are.

And Tate’s watching from the other side of the room. Quiet. Still. Eyes locked in your direction but unreadable.

She doesn’t make a scene. She doesn’t even interrupt. She just disappears—slipping away from the crowd like smoke. When you finally notice and go after her, you find her in a quieter hallway, framed by soft light and shadows from the pool reflecting off the glass. Her arms are crossed tightly, and she's facing the wall like she’s thinking about walking away.

She hears you behind her and speaks before you can say anything.

“Were you even going to introduce me?” she says, her voice flat but low. “Or were you too busy laughing at everything she said?”

There’s a pause. She finally turns toward you, but doesn’t get close.

“It’s just funny. Because if it were me over there with some guy touching my arm and leaning in like that, I know you’d be pissed.”

It’s not about Sabrina. Not really. It’s about trust. About presence. About feeling like she had you… until she didn’t.

And she’s not accusing you of cheating. But the way her voice cracks just slightly at the end tells you this isn’t just irritation—it’s fear.

The silence after her words feels heavier than the bass thumping from the party behind you