Carter doesn’t let me go right away. Even after Tate’s ridiculous outburst from down the hall, even after my laughter fades into the quiet hum of the room, even after I pull back just enough to see his face. He just stays there, holding me, looking at me like he’s memorizing something, like he’s afraid I’ll slip away if he lets me go. And then he kisses me again. Slower this time. Softer. Like he’s saying everything he doesn’t know how to put into words.

I melt into it, letting my fingers tangle in his hair, taking my time, drawing it out, savoring every second. Because God, I like kissing him. I could do this all night.

My stomach on the other hand has plans. A quiet grumble breaks through the moment, and Carter pulls back just enough to smirk. “Guess that means we should figure out dinner, huh?”

I groan, burying my face against his shoulder. He chuckles, pressing one last kiss to my temple before pulling away completely. “Come on, let’s go downstairs. We’ll find something.”

Turns out, Carter can cook. Like, actually cook. I watch in mild shock as he moves through the kitchen like he’s done this a thousand times before, grabbing ingredients, chopping vegetables, searing chicken in a pan with an ease that almost feels unfair. “You didn’t tell me you were secretly a chef.”

He snorts. “I’m not. I just grew up cooking because someone had to.”

I tilt my head. “And Tate didn’t pull his weight?”

“Tate burns cereal.”

“Why am I not surprised.”

A voice cuts in from the doorway. “I heard that, fucker.”

I turn to see Tate strolling into the kitchen, looking mildly offended, like he just woke up from a nap he definitely didn’t take.

He eyes the pan Carter’s working over, nodding slightly. “What are we making?”

Carter gives him a look. “We?”

Tate grins. “Yeah, we.”

I shake my head, sitting at the counter, watching the two of them fall into an effortless rhythm of bickering while Carter actually makes dinner and Tate pretends to help.

Honestly It’s kind of perfect. Just a quiet night, a home-cooked meal, and a moment where for once I don’t feel like I’m caught between them. I just feel like I’m here.

28

Carter

The living room is quiet, except for the low noise of the tv and the occasional clatter of silverware against plates. Haven is curled up at the end of the couch, balancing her plate on her lap, her bare feet tucked under her, looking so fucking comfortable here it makes something pulls in my chest.

Tate is sprawled in the armchair, legs kicked up on the coffee table, eating like he hasn’t had a real meal in days.