“You two better be prepared to get your asses handed to you on stream when I get back home.”

Carter lets out a small huff of laughter, shaking his head, something easing in his shoulders. Tate sighs, rolling his eyes, but there’s the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. “Talk all the shit you want, pretty girl,” he says, arms still folded across his chest. “Doesn’t mean you’re winning.”

I grin, fingers tightening around the door handle, trying to keep it light, trying to ignore the way my chest already hurts. “Oh, you better hope I don’t.”

Before I can open the door, Carter steps forward, wrapping his arms around me. He presses a kiss to my temple, then pulls back just enough to look me in the eyes. “Drive safe Haven,” he says quietly.

I nod, swallowing hard.

Tate steps in next, his hug quick. He kisses my cheek, then mutters. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

I manage a small laugh, “No promises.”

They both step back, giving us all space. I slide into the driver’s seat, shut the door behind me,

I watch as Carter and Tate head back toward the house, they briefly pause at the door, glancing back at me. I raise a hand, and they return the gesture before disappearing inside.

I turn the key. The engine rumbles to life, but I don’t drive right away. Not because I’m hesitating, but because leaving feels a little like peeling skin. My pulse pounds in my ears. Every inch of me aches from everything we did, from everything I don’t want to leave behind. I finally pull away, watching the house shrink in my rear view mirror.

40

Carter

The house feels different.

Not physically, everything is exactly where it should be. Nothing’s moved, nothing’s missing. Just the air feels heavier.

We just got home, work was long and draining. My shoulders are tight, my hands still a little sore. Tate dropped his keys on the table without a word and disappeared upstairs the second we walked in. I’m just standing here, trying to shake off the kind of restlessness that isn’t from the job.

I head to the fridge, pull out a water bottle, and take a long drink. The silence wraps around me, thick and weirdly loud. Tate hasn’t said much since this morning.

I watch him disappear down the hall, hear the familiar creak of his bedroom door, hear the faint hum of his PC powering on. A minute later, his voice comes through the walls, low, controlled, slipping into the version of himself that exists when he’s on stream. The cocky, unbothered, untouchable version of him that doesn’t give a fuck about anything.

It’s a good act. One of his best, but it’s still an act.