I blink. Once. Twice, out of all the things I expected him to say, that was not one of them. “You… talked,” I echo slowly, dragging the words out like I’m waiting for the punchline.

Carter nods. Tate snorts.

“Like… talked, talked?” I ask, skeptical. “Not screamed at each other? Not nearly threw punches? Not tried to get each other to shut the hell up with juvenile threats and general testosterone-fueled bullshit?”

Carter shakes his head. “No, Haven,” he says, eyes warm, lips twitching. “Like, we actually talked. About… everything.”

I shift my weight, watching him carefully, feeling the weight of his words settle in, feeling the way my heart gives an unexpected thud against my ribs. If they talked about everything, then that means…

“So you two actually figured something out?” I ask, my voice quieter now, more careful, because I don’t know if I’m ready to hear the answer.

Tate rolls his eyes, setting the spatula down, grabbing his coffee again like this whole conversation is already exhausting him. “Look,” he mutters, tilting his head toward me. “All you need to know is that we aren’t gonna make you pick, and we aren’t gonna fuck this up for you, aren’t going to treat this like a competition, alright angel?”

I search his expression, for the usual smirk, the challenge, but this time, there’s something calming behind his words, something real. I glance back at Carter, who nods, his eyes locked on mine, his hands bracing on the counter like he’s waiting to see how I’ll react, like he’s hoping I believe him.

I let out a slow breath, nodding, my lips parting, my heart kicking against my ribs as I try to figure out what to say, but before I can even get the words out Tate clears his throat, setting his coffee down. “Only condition, and I’m saying this again so she hears it. He throws a look at Carter. “I never, and I mean never, want your cock anywhere near my face ever again.”

I snort so hard I almost choke on air, covering my mouth as laughter bubbles up uncontrollably.

Carter groans, rubbing his temples like this conversation is physically hurting him. Tate shrugs, completely unbothered, picking up his coffee again, sipping it like he didn’t just say that while I’m trying to hold myself together.

We finish breakfast and Carter helps me bring my bag to my car, the cool morning air wraps around me, my fingers curling around the door handle. The weight of the last few days sits heavy between us, but I can’t let it end like this. I refuse to.

Instead, I smile. I tilt my head, meeting Carter’s warm, conflicted gaze, then turn my attention to Tate, whose arms are still crossed, whose expression is carefully unreadable, whose dark eyes haven’t left me since we walked outside.