Tate blinks. Haven blinks, and I walk straight past both of them and drop onto Tate’s bed, stretching out like I fucking belong here.

That does it. Tate leans back in his chair, arms crossing, expression shimmering with something almost suspicious. “Alright,” he says slowly. “What the fuck is this?”

I shrug. “Just getting comfortable.”

Tate tilts his head. “You’re not mad?”

I grin. “Nah. I get it. If I were you, I’d want to sit under Haven too.” Haven chokes on air. This isn’t the reaction he expected. He thought I’d lose it. That’s exactly why I don’t, because there is nothing Tate hates more than being predictable. And now? Now he has no fucking clue what to do with this. For the first time in a long time, he’s off his game.

Tate exhales, dragging a hand down his face, muttering something under his breath before gripping Haven’s waist and practically lifting her off him, setting her on her feet like she’s been evicted. “Alright,” he sighs. “Get the fuck out.”

Haven stumbles slightly, still in shock, still trying to compute the fact that this entire situation just flipped sideways. I grin, pushing up from his bed, stepping past him before clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Sweet dreams, big bro.”

Tate scowls. “Shut the fuck up Carter.”

I crack up, reaching for Haven’s hand and pulling her with me as I turn toward the door, dragging her out and down the stairs before Tate can decide to start talking shit again. And when I glance over at Haven, she’s still trying to process what the fuck just happened. Yeah. That makes two of us.

Haven drops onto my bed when we get back to my room, like the day has finally caught up with her, her body sinking deep. She exhales, the kind of breath that carries weight, not exhaustion, not comfort, but something heavier, something that lingers between us as the room settles into quiet.

The only source of light is the TV across the room, casting shifting patterns onto the walls, painting her skin in dreamy hues, making her look almost dreamlike, almost untouchable in the dim glow.

Her fingers fiddle absently with the hem of my hoodie that she’s still wearing, twisting the fabric between her hands, her brows pulling together just slightly, the way they do when she’s deep in thought, when something’s taking up space in her mind but she isn’t sure how to let it out. And I already know. Because I feel it too.