His eyes snap to mine instantly, wide and wrecked, his throat bobbing as he swallows hard. I know that look. That deer-in-headlights, caught red-handed, holy-shit-please-don’t-call-this-out look. I shift slightly, letting my fingers graze over my knee, pretending to be casual when I’m absolutely not, my stomach twisting at the way his body still hasn’t relaxed, at the way he looks like he wants to be anywhere but here. But it’s too late. I already know. And I don’t let it go. I tilt my head, voice softer now, testing, teasing, waiting. “You good?”

Carter makes a low, strangled sound, something between a groan and a curse, his hand dragging through his hair in pure frustration, his entire body still so tense it’s a miracle he hasn’t snapped in half. “Fuck, Haven,” he mutters, shaking his head, voice rough, almost like he’s pissed at me but more pissed at himself.

And maybe he is. Maybe he’s pissed that his body is betraying him. Maybe he’s pissed that I noticed. Maybe he’s pissed that Tate was right.

I press my lips together, watching him, waiting, letting the silence stretch between us, letting him stew in it until he finally, finally looks at me again.

I keep my voice light, steady, just to see what he does when I say it. “You sure you don’t want to talk about it?”

His breath shudders out of him, his fingers flexing again, his whole body still locked up like a live wire. “Haven.”

My name is barely a word. More like a warning. His fingers twitch, his breath comes rougher now, his gaze locked onto mine like he’s fighting some internal battle and losing miserably, then he moves.

It’s not a sharp movement, not sudden or rushed, not the kind of desperate reaction I might have expected from someone in his position. His hand comes up, slow but sure, his fingers brushing along my jaw, just barely there, just enough to test, just enough to give me the chance to pull away.

I don’t, can’t. Not when he’s looking at me like that, like he’s trying to memorize every single thing about this moment, like he’s trying to ground himself in me before he completely drowns. His thumb drags along my cheek, his touch hesitant but warm, steady but uncertain, like he’s never done this before but already knows exactly how he wants to. And then, in a voice so low, so wrecked, so desperate I feel it straight in my chest, he asks, “Can I kiss you?”

I don’t answer right away, I let the question sit in the space between us, let it sink in, let myself feel the weight of it, the weight of him, the weight of what this means, because he didn’t just ask because he wants to.