The guy looks at Tate, but she's staring at me like she doesn't recognize me, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, forehead scrunching.
He gets the message. Grabs his beer and moves to a table on the other side of the room.
Tate stands up slowly but says nothing. That's worse than yelling, worse than throwing her beer at me. She just stares for three long seconds, then reaches into her pocket and drops a ten-dollar bill on the bar before walking out.
The door closes behind her with a soft click.
Jason whistles low from behind the bar, miming a slow hand clap. "Well, you fucked that up."
Yeah, no shit, Sherlock.
The rain started while I was inside. That fast rain that comes from nowhere, pelts down hard and turns everything slick and gray. Tate's already halfway across, jogging, one hand on her head, heading toward her cafe, and her clothes are soaked through, hair plastered to her forehead.
"Tate."
She doesn't turn around.
I catch up to her at her door. She's fumbling with keys, hands shaking—from cold or anger, I can't tell.
"Tate, stop."
"Go away, Tom."
"We need to?—"
"I said go away."
She gets the door open and walks inside, but I follow.
The space is dark except for the ambient streetlight through the front window, painting everything in weak amber light. Boxes everywhere—stacked against walls, clustered in corners.
Tate whirls around to face me.
Her face is furious. Soaked. Beautiful in a way that makes my chest tight.
"What the hell was that?"
"He was hitting on you."
"So?"
"So, you're mine."
The words come out before I can stop them. Tate stares.
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me."
"I'm not yours, Tom. You don't get to … y-you threatened that guy for talking to me!"
"Yes."
"That's insane!"
"Probably."
Tate's mouth opens, closes, and opens again. No sound comes out. She's speechless, and I'm not backing down.
