He’s awake, I can feel it. I don’t knock. I push the door open, stepping inside, and sure enough, he’s sitting at his desk, his mask discarded on the nightstand, his hair a mess, his hands gripping the edge of the chair like he already knows why I’m here.

His eyes slowly find me, unreadable, guarded. Sometimes I wonder if he even really sleeps.

I cross my arms, leaning against the doorframe. “We, uh we need to talk.”

Tate exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face. “Yeah,” he mutters, voice rough from exhaustion. “We fucking do.”

He leans back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest, he clearly knows what this is about. He knows why I’m here, and I know him well enough to know that he’s already figured out a way to twist this conversation in his favor before I even say a word. I don’t give him the chance.

I step inside, shutting the door behind me, the click of the latch sealing us in, forcing this conversation to happen whether either of us wants it to or not.

“Haven told me what she’s thinking,” I say, my voice steady, even though my pulse is hammering against my ribs, even though this feels like stepping into some kind of dangerous territory, some place neither of us have ever been before. “About you, about me. About… all of this.”

Tate’s jaw tightens, his fingers tapping against his bicep, his expression almost unreadable, but his silence says more than enough. He’s letting me talk, he’s waiting. So I keep going. “She doesn’t know what to do with this, Tate,” I admit, running a hand through my hair, exhaling hard, trying to shake the tension out of my shoulders. “She’s confused as hell, and honestly? So am I.”

Tate lets out a low breath through his nose, his gaze looking past me for half a second, like he’s searching for an escape route, like he’d rather be anywhere but here. I won’t let him run from this, not this time.

I step closer, standing directly in front of him, forcing him to look at me, to face this, to deal with what we’ve gotten ourselves into.

“Do you even know what you’re doing?” I ask, voice quieter now and treading more careful. “Or is this just another game to you?”

Tate’s eyes snap back to mine, a sharp edge cutting through his expression, but it’s not anger. “You think this is a game to me?” he says, his voice low, almost bitter. “You think I don’t fucking know exactly what’s happening here?”