Tate is silent. Until he isn’t. He shifts, rolls onto his side, props his head on his hand. “Well, Pretty girl,” he says, “how’s that body count looking now?”

I should smack him, but instead I laugh. Carter huffs beside me, still trying to catch his breath, his voice hoarse, ragged, completely spent. “Really Tate.”

Tate chuckles, completely unbothered, stretching his arms behind his head like he didn’t just fuck the life out of me. I groan, rolling onto my side, my limbs feeling like dead weight, my body still pulsing with the aftershocks of everything that just happened. “Fuck, I think my soul left my body,” I mutter, trying to process how the hell I’m supposed to move after that.

Carter lets out a breathless laugh, and Tate just smirks like he knows exactly what he did to me. I blink up at the ceiling, debating if I even have the strength to sit up, let alone make it to the bathroom, before finally sighing. “Can I use your shower?”

Carter immediately sits up, like he’s about to help me, like he’s already ready to make sure I’m okay.

Tate just grins, as he lazily drags a hand over my hip. “If you can make it there.”

And honestly? That’s a big fucking if. Carter is already sitting up, already reaching for me, already back to being exactly who he is, soft, sweet. “Come on, Haven,” he murmurs, brushing his fingers over my arm, careful, gentle, like he knows I need it. “Let me help get cleaned up.”

I blink up at him, still trying to process how the hell I’m supposed to stand, and he must see it, because before I can even attempt to move, he’s already pushing himself up, already offering more. “I can get you some clothes,” he adds, “something comfortable. Some sweats, a hoodie, whatever you want.”

God. This man. This man who just split me open, filled me up, lost himself inside me like he’d been waiting his whole life for it and now he’s here, offering me warm clothes and a gentle touch like this is any other night.

I exhale, nodding, letting him help me up. My legs are jelly, my muscles ache, but Carter is there, his arm steady around my waist, guiding me toward the bathroom like he already knew I wouldn’t make it on my own.

The second we step inside, he starts the shower, adjusting the temperature, making sure it’s perfect, steam rising around us before he finally turns back to me.

And then, his voice drops, softer now, hesitant. “Do you…” he trails off, exhaling like he’s trying to find the right words.

I tilt my head, blinking up at him. “What?”

His fingers twitch at his sides, his gaze flicking toward the water before meeting mine again. “Do you regret what happened?”