I need to know, I need to hear it from someone who understands him. Someone who can make sense of the way Tate looks at me, the way he pushes me, taunts me, plays with me like I’m his favorite thing to mess with.

Carter’s jaw tightens. His arms flex where they’re wrapped around me, his body shifting slightly, his breath slow, measured, like he’s trying to find the right words.

After a long moment, he sighs. “Yeah,” he murmurs, voice low, tired, something unreadable laced in it. “I think he does.”

Something sharp jabs in my stomach, unexpected, the answer sitting heavier in my chest than I thought it would. “Then why…” I hesitate, licking my lips. “Why is he like that? Why does he act like he doesn’t give a fuck at all sometimes?”

Carter scoffs, shaking his head, a humorless laugh slipping past his lips. “Because he’s just… Tate.”

I let Carter’s words sink in, settle over me, press into my skin like something permanent, something that shouldn’t surprise me but still does. Maybe, deep down, I’ve always known. Tate doesn’t do feelings. He doesn’t give them, doesn’t take them, doesn’t let himself be seen. But with me, he’s been reckless.

He’s never hidden the way he wants me, not behind a mask, not behind a screen, not behind his usual arrogance and detachment. It’s always been there, threaded through his teasing, his taunts, the way he’s tested me for months, the way he pushes and pulls, the way he won’t just fucking leave me alone. Maybe he never wanted to.

Carter lets out another quiet breath, his fingers tracing patterns along my hip, his hold on me tight, like he’s grounding himself just as much as he is me. “Tate…” His voice drops lower, a hint of something softer. “He doesn’t know how to just like someone, Haven.”

I tilt my head, my eyes locked on his, my throat tightening. “What do you mean?”

Carter’s lips press together, his brows pulling in like he’s debating saying more, like he’s weighing how much to tell me, how much I should know, how much is his to share. Then, quietly, he says “He only knows how to want.”

A slow, unsettling realization that makes too much sense. Tate doesn’t do soft, doesn’t do sweet, doesn’t do things carefully. He takes. He demands. He pushes and pushes until he gets what he wants, and even then, it’s like he’s testing how much more he can have. I swallow hard, my fingers curling into Carter’s shirt, my thoughts a tangled mess of things I don’t know what to do with. Maybe Carter sees it, because his arms tighten around me, his lips brushing my forehead, his voice softer now.