His fingers dig into his jeans, his jaw so tight it looks like it might crack under the pressure, his chest rising too slow, too heavy, like every breath is a battle. His knee bounces again, his fingers flex, and when he looks at me, it’s different. He swallows hard, like he has to physically force the words up his throat. And then, barely above a whisper. “Yeah… I don—didn’t mean to,” he says, the way his eyes meet mine for half a second before he forces himself to look away, like it’s too much, like it’s too real now that it’s out in the open.

Then, softer this time, weaker, more like he’s admitting it to himself than to me, “Fuck, Haven. I feel so guilty about it now.”

I realize something in that moment, Carter isn’t just frozen because he admitted it. He’s frozen because he’s Carter, of course he feels guilty for wanting me. For thinking about me in ways he doesn’t think he’s supposed to. For not being able to stop.

I move slightly, watching the way his jaw clenches like he’s bracing himself for me to be horrified, for me to push him away, for me to finally decide that maybe coming here was a mistake after all.

But that’s the thing, where he’s all wrong. Now I’m the one who can’t breathe. I shift even closer, closing the last bit of space between us, my knee pressing against his thigh, my fingers dragging lightly along his arm, tracing the ridges of his forearm, feeling the heat of his skin beneath my fingertips. His breathing stutters, his hands clenching against his jeans like he needs something to ground himself, something to stop himself from completely unraveling.

But I’m not letting him get his footing. Not when he’s spent this entire time convincing himself he doesn’t get to have this, doesn’t get to have me, doesn’t get to want me the way I know he does.

I shift my weight, tilting my head, letting my fingers slip lower, barely brushing over the back of his hand before I let my palm rest there fully, my grip light but firm, like I’m daring him to move first, like I’m daring him to pull away when we both know he won’t.

He swallows hard, the muscles in his throat working, his lips parting like he wants to say something, like he wants to tell me this is a bad idea, that we shouldn’t be doing this, but the words don’t come. He just sits there, tense, unsteady, unsure.