Tate’s moping around, slamming cabinets in the kitchen, pacing back and forth in the hall, his mood dark but his mouth shut. He hasn’t said a word about last night. Not a single fucking thing. That’s worse than if he was running his mouth.

Because it means something got to him. I just don’t know what. Haven shifts slightly, curling into me more, sighing like she could fall asleep right here, right on me, like she’s completely comfortable being in my space. And then she kisses my neck. Soft. Barely there. I suck in a breath, my muscles locking up.

But she does it again. A slow, lingering press of her lips against my skin, warm and teasing, her fingers tightening against my stomach. I swear to fucking God, she’s going to kill me. I groan, low, quiet, barely controlled—but it doesn’t fucking matter.

Because Tate hears it. From the kitchen, where he’s been slamming cabinets and pretending not to sulk, he hears me. And it pisses him off. I can feel it before I even turn my head. The sharp shift in his energy, the way the air in the room changes, thickens, tightens around us like a vice. She fucking feels it too. Because she does it again.

Another kiss. Another slow drag of her lips against my skin. Another deliberate press of her mouth to the edge of my jaw.

Like she knows. Like she’s doing it just because Tate is here. Like she’s poking the bear on purpose.

I exhale hard, fighting against the way my body reacts, the way my cock twitches at the attention, the way my grip tightens on her waist like I’m trying to steady myself.

Yeah, he’s not taking it well. I hear it. The way his movements get sharper, heavier, more forceful.

The way his fists clench against the counter, his breathing controlled but just a little too slow. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

Haven’s lips curve against my skin. Because she’s definitely not fucking kidding.

Tate finally makes his entrance, and of course, the first fucking thing out of his mouth is bullshit.

He steps into the living room, arms crossed, an easy smirk pulling at his lips as his eyes wandering between me and Haven. “Shouldn’t you be sore, little brother?” He tilts his head. “Or are you just that fucking needy?”

Haven snorts, pressing her face against my shoulder like she’s trying to muffle her laugh. I glare. “Go fuck yourself, Tate.”

Tate just chuckles, already turning on his heel, heading toward the stairs. “I would, but someone wore me out last night.” And with that he’s gone.

Haven lifts her head, watching as he disappears, her brown eyes still shining with amusement. “He’s truly something, you were right,” she mutters, shaking her head. “And chaotic as fuck.”