Mouth slightly open, eyes wide, shocked, like she doesn’t know whether to be offended or something else entirely. I try to think of something to say. Some way to recover. Some way to undo whatever the fuck just happened. But there’s nothing. There is absolutely nothing, because Tate, doesn’t miss. I am so, so fucking screwed.

15

Haven

Carter looks like he’s short-circuited. Like his entire brain just blue-screened and rebooted, but the system won’t turn back on.

His shoulders are locked, his jaw tight, his hands flexing and clenching like his body is actively fighting itself, trying to form a response, trying to do something, anything, but failing spectacularly.

And I should be mortified. I should be pissed, embarrassed, scrambling to change the subject, pretending that Tate never just walked in here, dropped a nuke on our heads, and left like a satisfied ass.

Instead, I’m just sitting here, watching Carter break down in real time, and I kind of… like it. I like the way his lips part slightly, like he wants to say something but physically can’t. I like the way his ears are tinted red, how his fingers twitch against his knee, how his leg bounces once before he forces himself to still. I like how he looks, wildly thrown off, completely unprepared.

Carter is all big, warm energy, excited to see you, always ready to make you feel like the most important thing in the room. He’s easy, open, unguarded in a way that’s rare as hell.

Tate is clearly a fucking hellhound. Guarded, dark energy, calculated in everything he does, ready to sink his teeth in the second he finds something worth biting.

Tate has Carter in a choke hold without even being in the room. I cross my arms, shifting slightly, watching the tension in Carter’s jaw, watching the way his knuckles flex against his thigh, still looking like his entire world is crumbling beneath him.

Before I can talk myself out of it, before I can let the moment slip past, before I can pretend that Tate’s words didn’t just plant something in my head that I suddenly need to fucking know. I lean in slightly, voice quiet, testing, teasing. “Do you?”

Carter blinks once, slow, too slow, like his brain is trying to drag itself back to life.

I tilt my head slightly, eyes locked on his. “Do you think about me when you—”

His exhale is sharp, harsh, a single curse slipping out under his breath, his fingers tightening, his knee bouncing again, like his body is actively fighting itself. And I know I should stop. But Carter is so caught in the moment. So instead of backing down—I push. Just a little. I lean in, voice softer, slower, smoother. “Do you touch yourself to the thought of kissing me Carter?”

Carter inhales sharply. I wait. I need to hear him say it.