#constance langdon

You guys were sitting on the floor of the room, leaning against the wall, all chill, listening to the song Wicked Game. Tate was drawing—or more like doodling—on your hand, which was resting on his knee, with some pen he found around there. The lines were kinda crooked and abstract, but if you had a sensitive soul and a sharp eye, you could see some real art in it. And you did, which is why you and Tate clicked so well.

When your parents put you in the rehab clinic because of your anger issues, you freaked out. At first, that place just made things worse—you yelled, smashed stuff, even cried out of anger. Not because you were a bad person, but sometimes the world was just too much, and you wanted to disappear. Some people saw you as bad, but really, you were just misunderstood. Same as Tate.

At first, you were scared of him, since he was there for almost causing a massacre, but got stopped before he could—and because he set his stepdad on fire. The stepdad didn’t die but got seriously hurt.

For a long time, you avoided Tate because, no matter your anger, you’d never hurt anyone. But then one time, you two got stuck in the same room for about three hours, so you had no choice but to interact. Since that day, you’ve been inseparable.

Everything changed after that. He told you his story and how he ended up there. At first, you were hesitant and scared, but then you saw he wasn’t as tough as he looked—actually, he was pretty sensitive.

Tate wasn’t a saint. He had meltdowns, crises, heavy nightmares, and intrusive thoughts. But he was trying to change. Really trying. He did therapy sessions, took his meds, wrote his feelings in a journal like the therapist told him. And he admitted it was working. He even said that, even inside the clinic, he was living the best part of his life, because now he could control himself—and had what he thought he’d never have: a real friend.

You were getting better too. You, who spent years swallowing screams, pretending everything was fine, breaking things just to feel something, were now learning to breathe. Learning to speak before exploding, learning to trust.

Your connection was intense. Almost magnetic. When you were in the same room, it felt like time stopped and it was just the two of you. Some days, you didn’t even talk—just sat together in comfortable silence. Other days, you laughed loud, teasing each other, poking, talking nonsense. And every day, noisy or quiet, there was this energy running between you two.

You couldn’t help but think how handsome he was, and how kind he was to you. You couldn’t deny maybe you were falling for him, but you’d never tell him—you didn’t want to risk what you had if he didn’t feel the same. But he did. He felt even more. He was totally head over heels, like his heart was gonna explode, but like you, he didn’t want to mess things up.

Right there on the floor, with the pen scratching your skin and the shy smiles exchanged, you could feel something had shifted. Or maybe it was always like that, but now it was clearer.

Tate doodled without really looking at what he was doing, eyes lost on your intertwined hands. He muttered something quietly and you just laughed, shaking your head while resting your head on his shoulder.

He was drawing a crooked flower on the back of your hand, the pen tip paused for a second, he looked at the drawing, made a face, and chuckled softly.

“This looks horrible,” he said, pointing at the wonky flower.

“I like it,” you answered without hesitation, and he smiled even more like he still wasn’t used to compliments.

He stayed quiet for a few seconds, staring at the drawing again like maybe, by some miracle, he could fix it with his eyes. But it wasn’t about the drawing, it was about the moment. You knew that, and so did he.

“No one ever says they like the stuff I do. They say it’s weird,” he murmured, still with that small, almost insecure smile, like he was confessing something painful.

You looked at him with that lonely smile—you’d been called weird and worse many times. But now you started to see it might actually mean something good, especially if it connected you to someone else.

“So, we can be weird together,” you said, poking his ribs.

Tate jumped a bit, pretending to be scared, and threw his arm around your shoulder. You laughed together, the sound echoing softly in that cramped clinic room where the air usually felt too heavy. But there, with him, it felt lighter.

Then suddenly, a sharp knock on the door made you and Tate turn at the same time, startled, like you’d been caught doing something wrong—when all you were doing was just existing in peace for a few minutes.

“Tate Langdon, you have a visitor,” said a deep voice. It was Nurse Mark, one of the few who didn’t look at you like you were animals ready to attack.

Tate sighed and got up slowly, legs numb. You stood up with him, and he grabbed your hand instinctively, like he still needed support.

“Want me to go with you?” you asked quietly.

He just nodded and you didn’t question it.

You walked the clinic halls, your steps echoing on the tiles. Tate was quiet. Different kind of quiet than usual.

When you reached the visitation room, you let go of hands—you already knew who it was before you even saw her. You could feel it in the air. That kind of tension only family can bring. Constance Langdon was there, standing with a coat way too fancy for that place, perfect makeup.

“Tate, darling,” she said, opening her arms with that fake little smile that felt more like a mask than real affection.

Tate froze. You saw his shoulders stiffen, his jaw lock, and he just stepped back.

Constance hesitated. The smile dropped for a second. You didn’t know the whole story, but enough to know her presence was like a blade deep in his chest.

“Tate, darling, please… I just wanted to talk.”

“I have nothing to say to you,” he said, voice firm and annoyed.

Constance stepped closer, clearly irritated but still pretending to be nice.

“I’m your mother, Tate. Don’t treat me like that.”

Your whole body shivered. You wanted to pull him away. But before you could, Nurse Mark—who’d been standing aside—approached.

“Can you wait outside?” he asked, gentle but firm. “This is... a private conversation.”

You hesitated, eyes meeting Tate’s.

He said nothing. Neither yes nor no. You wanted to stay for him but knew you couldn’t. So you left the room, frustrated, and sat on a bench nearby. You planned to wait just a few minutes, respect the space, like the nurse asked—but honestly, your whole body screamed something was wrong. You tried to distract yourself, staring at the grimy white tiles on the wall, but the clock seemed to mock you with its slow tick-tock. Five minutes. Ten. Almost fifteen. Then an hour passed. Then two.

You’d left the bench, gone to the bathroom, the common room, the bedroom, but Tate still hadn’t come out.

So you got up from your bed and started pacing the halls. At first calm, then faster. You asked around at reception, occupational therapy, the nurse’s station. Nothing. No one had seen Tate leave the visitation room.

Then you had a thought: the garden. That forgotten corner of the clinic nobody cared about. A place you two discovered weeks ago, when you escaped a boring lecture. The flowers were always wilted, the bench old, the fountain broken. But it was the only spot that felt even a little like fresh air. And, most importantly, peace. So you knew he’d be there.

As soon as you got there, you saw a figure sitting on the bench. Messy blonde hair, hunched over, shoulders shaking slightly.

It was him.

“Tate,” you called, approaching carefully. He didn’t respond. Just wiped his face with his sleeve, trying to hide it.

“I hate her. I hate all this,” his voice broke. “I should’ve run out of that damn room.”

You crouched in front of him, still sitting on the bench, took his hands and gently pulled them from his face.

You brushed his hands away softly and saw his red eyes, tear-streaked face, trembling fingers, and paler-than-usual complexion. It broke you.

“I should’ve told her to fuck off the minute she opened her mouth,” he said through clenched teeth, voice muffled by anger mixed with sadness. “But I just… froze. Like I was six years old again.”

You sat beside him on the bench, still holding his hands.

You were so pissed at Constance. You knew a big part of Tate’s problems came from his mom, and here she was again, saying cruel things just when he was trying to get better. But you hoped he wouldn’t let it drag him down.

“She told me everything was my fault. That she didn’t make it as an actress because of me and that I ruined her life since the day I was born,” he took a deep breath, staring at the flowers in front of you both, “Like I asked to be born in that shitty house.”

Your throat tightened. It wasn’t the first time he’d let that slip, but every time it made you sad for him.

“I get it,” you said. Not automatically or empty, but genuinely. Your parents weren’t as bad as his mom, but far from perfect. “Sometimes I feel the same way with my parents. Like it’s all my fault. But it’s not, Tate. What they did to us… it’s not our fault.”

He slowly turned his face to look at you, eyes heavy with exhaustion. The kind of look that wants to believe.

“And we’re trying to get better—that says a lot. So whatever stupid shit your mom said, it’s not true. Yeah, we all messed up in the past, but we’re making up for it and showing them they’re wrong about us. And that’s more than a lot of people do,” you said, brushing one of his blonde curls away from his melancholy face.

He gave you a small smile, a few tears still falling, but you made sure to wipe them all away. He looked at you with a genuine smile. Comfortable silence fell between you for a few seconds. You rested your head on his shoulder, and he sighed deeply, leaning his head on yours.

The garden breeze blew gently, and you stayed there, quiet, for what felt like forever—in a good way. Your presence calmed Tate down and made him more in love. He felt like kissing you right then, and he would’ve, if a rough voice hadn’t interrupted.

“What the hell is this crap here?”

The harsh, gruff voice hit the air like a punch. You and Tate jumped simultaneously. He pulled his head off yours, and you turned toward the garden’s iron gate. There was a monitor: a closed-off guy, arms crossed, always with a hard, pissed-off look. You and Tate didn’t know his name but nicknamed him Mr. Evil Mustache.

“You two know this area is restricted. Not a free roam spot, especially outside supervised activity hours,” he said, stomping toward you like he was marching to war.

Tate sighed and looked at the floor, like he’d been caught smoking behind someone’s back (which happened often when he got to the clinic). You got up slowly, trying not to roll your eyes.

“The door was unlocked…” you muttered, holding back your irritation.

“That doesn’t mean you’re allowed to be here,” the guy snapped. “Rules are rules. You know that. How many times do I have to say it?”

“We weren’t doing anything wrong, you know that,” Tate said, voice trying to stay chill, but you knew he was holding back irritation. “We were just trying to breathe a little.”

“Take your breathing to your room,” he replied dryly. “Since this is your third offense this week… you’ll spend your rest hour cleaning the kitchen for three days, starting now.”

“Seriously?” you blurted, louder than you should’ve. Tate gently grabbed your wrist, asking you to chill.

“You want me to make it two hours?” he asked, fake calm only making things worse.

You swallowed hard and dropped your head, stomach twisting with pent-up anger. It wasn’t fair. You were just trying to be human for a few minutes.

Tate stood up beside you, and you both started walking in silence, following Mr. Evil Mustache down the hall.

You didn’t hate that place and didn’t feel like a prisoner or anything, but those strict rules—especially from certain people—drove you nuts.

You walked in heavy silence. The older man’s footsteps echoed ahead.

“That guy’s got a talent for ruining anyone’s day, huh?” you whispered to Tate, who let out a short laugh.

“I swear I’m gonna slip a laxative in his coffee one day.”

“I’m in,” you said, and this time you both smiled like partners in crime.

You followed the monitor to the kitchen—a big room, but empty now. As soon as you were alone, the door slammed, the lock clicking, making it clear you were stuck there until further notice.

Tate sighed deeply, leaning on the sink with arms crossed.

“That’s it. Our rebellion’s been crushed successfully,” he said, using a dramatic voice.

You laughed.

“Yeah. But I still got plenty of plans,” you joked with a mischievous smile.

“Can’t wait to hear them all,” Tate smiled back.

You noticed the kitchen wasn’t too messy, so the work wouldn’t be bad—probably just washing dishes and putting a few things away. You decided Tate would wash and you’d dry and store.

The smell of heated frozen food made the kitchen feel kinda depressing, like the rest of the place. The light flickered in a corner, and someone left an empty cereal box on the counter. But somehow, with you there, it all seemed less unbearable.

Tate watched you from the side, washing dishes and getting wet in the process, while you dried a pan. Even with your messy bun and tired face, you looked angelic to Tate.

You were his angel. Since you met, the only thing you did was save him and make sure he was happy every day. Even in that not-so-great setting, he found peace—a peace he never felt in all those years. All thanks to you, and he was so grateful.

Beautiful. He thought, looking at you. Again. Fourth time in two minutes. Ridiculous.

You were talking about something, excited, and he loved seeing you happy like that. But he wasn’t really paying attention to what you said—just your lips, how soft and kissable they looked.

“Hey…” Tate started, dropping whatever he was holding, drying his hands, turning to look at you, finally getting courage. “Did you know you’re really pretty?”

You blushed immediately. You weren’t usually shy with compliments, especially from Tate, but something about that moment set your cheeks on fire.

“Why are you saying that out of nowhere?” you asked, laughing embarrassed, looking down.

Tate stepped closer, cautiously. The weak kitchen light hit his face from the side, highlighting the delicate but intense features you admired. He shrugged, with that awkward vibe like he rarely admits feelings.

“I’m just saying what I think,” he said, shrugging but with a steady voice. “’Cause I keep thinking it all the time… and never say it.”

You swallowed hard. Your heart raced like you’d just run a marathon, but you couldn’t stop looking at him. He didn’t look away either, which was rare. Tate usually avoided eye contact, like he was scared to be seen too much. But now he was here, opening up in a new way.

You’d waited so long for this moment but now felt totally awkward and shy, even if happy. You didn’t know how to handle compliments, so Tate kept talking during your silence.

“You’ve always been pretty. But today, when you helped me with my mom, you looked even more beautiful.” He chuckled softly, scratching the back of his neck, a bit embarrassed. “And I realized I never told you how important you are to me. In every way.”

You didn’t know what to say for a few seconds. Just stared at him, feeling that whirlwind inside your chest. That kid who used to scare you was now your safe place. And he just called you beautiful with such truth you couldn’t doubt it.

“Tate…” you whispered, trying to organize your thoughts.

“You don’t have to say anything. Don’t need to say you feel the same. I swear it won’t change anything—you’ll always be my favorite person here,” he tried to laugh again, but you saw the nervousness in his eyes because your reaction wasn’t exactly positive.

But then you dropped the dish towel on the counter and stepped closer, gathering courage.

“I think so too,” you said suddenly, no beating around the bush. “That you’re handsome. And you make me feel… safe. Alive. Happier than I thought I could be.”

Tate’s eyes widened a bit, shock written on his face, but a small smile started forming on his lips. You laughed at his expression and on impulse, raised your hand to stroke his face, which now looked like a kitten just adopted.

He blinked a few times, then gave that goofy smile, like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“You serious?”

“You want me to show you how serious I am?” you answered, moving your face closer, so close you could smell the cheap clinic soap mixed with him.

“Please…” he said, voice dragging like he was drunk on your beauty and the mutual feeling for him.

You were so close you could hear your hearts pounding together—mixed, way too fast. His scent filled your nose, making everything more intense.

The hand on his face started trembling, but you didn’t pull back. He closed his eyes, waiting for what was coming, holding himself back from exploding right there.

You took a deep breath, gently pulled his face closer, just to erase the last centimeter between you, and then pressed your lips to his. Nothing forced, nothing rushed. A light, shy touch, like you were scared to break what was already so fragile and precious.

His hands gripped your waist, pulling you closer, and your body reacted automatically, pressing fully against him.

The whole world disappeared inside that kitchen—no more flickering light or frozen food smell, just the two of you.

The kiss, shy at first, grew more intense. You both making up for lost time and all the feelings bottled up in that kiss.

When you finally pulled away, breathless, eyes still locked, silly, slightly awkward smiles appeared on your faces. Tate pressed his forehead to yours.

“I never thought I’d like a punishment this much,” you said, smiling and pulling him into a tight hug, running your fingers through his soft curls.