Carter doesn’t hesitate, the second I settle under his blankets, the second I sink into his bed like it’s where I’m supposed to be, he crawls in beside me, his body still warm from the shower, his scent surrounding me, clean, familiar, something I could get used to. He pulls me close. I melt into him.

Carter’s arms are warm, steady, wrapped around me like he never wants to let go. I’m drifting, my body completely spent, exhaustion pulling me under, the steady beat of his heart against my ear lulling me into a perfect, hazy calm.

A voice from the doorway snaps me alert for a moment. “Goodnight, Pretty girl.”

My eyes flutter open, Tate, leaning against the doorframe, mask off now, but still unreadable, still so fucking him. I don’t even get a chance to respond before he shifts his gaze, glancing at Carter, exhaling slowly, like the next words pain him. “Night, little brother.”

Carter grumbles, his grip on me tightening slightly, his voice heavy with exhaustion but still laced with irritation. “Go to bed, Tate.”

Tate just nods, the corner of his mouth tilting up and then he’s gone.

I blink up at Carter, still wrapped in his warmth, still exhausted, still barely able to keep my eyes open. He sighs, pressing his face into my hair, his hold on me never loosening. “Ignore him.”

I hum in response, my breath slowing, my body finally relaxing again.

24

Carter

The second I wake up, I know something’s wrong. The bed is empty, missing the one thing I swore I fell asleep holding. I sit up fast, my heart slamming against my ribs, my brain still groggy but already panicking. Where the fuck is she?

My feet hit the floor, my breath uneven, last night flashing through my head like a fever dream.

Haven, beneath me. Tate, as he took her next. Me, letting it happen. Wanting it. My stomach twists, my entire body wired with the kind of tension that shouldn’t be there first thing in the fucking morning. I yank on a hoodie, shoving my hands through my hair as I stumble out of my room, down the stairs, heart still hammering. And then I hear them. Voices. I step into the kitchen, and there she is. Sitting at the counter, coffee in hand, legs curled up in the chair, looking like she belongs here, like she’s always belonged here. And sitting across from her?

Tate. Like nothing happened last night. Like he didn’t fuck her right next to me, didn’t pull her onto his lap, didn’t—.

I freeze, reality slamming into me all at once. Last night happened. And no we’re here.

Tate lifts his mug, nodding toward me. “Morning.”

I swallow hard, trying to process, trying to make sense of why this feels so fucking normal when it should be the opposite of that.