Fuck. I blink hard, forcing myself to snap out of it, forcing myself to turn the heat crawling up my spine into something sharp, something irritated, something I can throw at Tate to get him to shut the hell up before this gets worse.

I push up from the couch, tilting my chin, making sure Tate knows I am absolutely not letting him get the last word on this.

“You know like I said,” I say, voice steady, masking the fact that I am so very much not steady inside. “You do a lot of talking for someone who wasn’t invited into this conversation.”

Tate just grins, lazy and cocky, his eyes flicking over me like he’s already gotten exactly what he wanted. “Yeah?” he says, stepping toward the kitchen, already reaching for a glass from the cabinet. He fills it with water, taking his time, drawing the moment out, making sure I know he’s in control of this conversation, that I can snap at him all I want but he’s still the one pulling the strings. Then, just as I start to turn away, just as I think maybe he’s done, he opens his mouth one last time. “You can fight it all you want, Pretty girl.”

The glass lifts to his lips, and he takes a slow, deliberate sip before lowering it again, smirking over the rim. “But you’re thinking about it now, aren’t you?”

My stomach plummets, my pulse kicks up, my entire body locking up like I just got caught. Because fuck him. He’s right, and he knows it.

Tate doesn’t wait for an answer. He just downs the rest of the water, sets the glass down with a quiet clink, and strolls back toward the stairs like he didn’t just ruin my fucking night. Carter is still silent beside me, still lost, still probably trying to process what the hell just happened.

I don’t know how long we sit there, the weight of his words still hanging in the air, still pressing down on both of us. But when I finally look at Carter again, really look at him, I see it. I can’t ignore it. His jaw is locked, his breath coming slow, like he’s actively trying to control it. His hands flex against his thighs, his fingers curling, gripping, like he needs something to hold onto, something to ground himself before he completely unravels.

I should say something. I should absolutely not lean in, tilt my head, and say, “Carter…?”