Tate shrugs, entirely unbothered. “Maybe I was.”

I stiffen instantly, I know that tone. That’s not just him stirring the pot, that’s him playing with fire just to see what happens.

Haven’s not backing down. She leans forward, elbows on her knees, eyes locked on him. “Well, congrats. You got your big boy dramatic reveal. What now?”

Tate’s smirk deepens, and I swear to god, I feel my entire body go rigid. “Depends,” he drawls, pushing off the doorframe, taking a few slow, deliberate steps forward. “How much of our little history have you told my brother?”

My stomach drops. Haven frowns, genuinely confused, not realizing what the hell he’s doing yet. “What history?”

Tate lifts a brow. “Oh, come on. You mean to tell me you don’t remember all those little one-on-one matches? The trash talk? The wagers?”

Haven shifts slightly, brows furrowing like she’s trying to remember, trying to decide if there was something she missed.

I snap before I can stop myself. “Fuck off, Tate.”

Tate turns his smirk on me, slow and sharp. “Why? Don’t like the idea of your girl knowing how much time she’s spent with me?”

“Tate,” I grit out, low and warning, my hands curled into fists at my sides, my entire body locked down tight. Because if I don’t physically stop myself, I might actually put him through a fucking wall.

Haven blinks between us, processing, finally catching up to whatever game Tate is playing, whatever trap he’s laying out in front of her, whatever the fuck he’s trying to stir up just for the fun of watching me lose it. He just grins wider, like this is all going exactly how he wants it to.

I lean back against the couch, arms crossing over my chest, keeping my body relaxed, my expression neutral, like I’m completely unbothered by whatever game he thinks he’s playing. “I know what you’re doing,” I say, voice smooth, controlled, just enough weight behind it to let him know I’m not biting. “And maybe you’re reading a little too deep into it.”

The smirk twitches at the edges. Barely, but I catch it. He likes to push buttons, likes to set fires and watch people scramble to put them out, likes to know he’s the one steering the conversation. I just flipped the fucking script on him.

I see the moment he decides he doesn’t like that. The slow, measured inhale through his nose, the way his jaw tics before he smooths it out, the way his eyes flick to Haven like she’s suddenly the more interesting part of this equation. I don’t like that, not one fucking bit.