Chapter 11
Haven
Istretch out in bed as the sheets twist around my legs, the faint smell of Carter clinging to my pillow. He must’ve slipped out early, hopefully to start coffee.
Last night’s kiss still lingers on my lips. So does the look on his face when he said he didn’t want to ruin this. After dinner Tate said he was tired and practically forced us out of my living room. Carter and I ended up watching YouTube videos until we fell asleep.
I press my palms to my eyes, I’m exhausted. I climb out of bed, pull on one of Carter’s hoodies, and pad down the hall. I hear low voices, both of them. Kitchen clatter, the sound of Tate laughing under his breath.
The two of them together in the same room always feels like a coin spinning in the air. It could land on heads, or it could land on fire.
I take a second before entering the kitchen. Just breathe I remind myself. They’re sitting at the counter, Carter is fully focused on one of my puzzles he dumped out onto the table, of all things. They both look at me instantly.
Carter softens first, like he always does. “Morning, sunshine.”
Tate’s eyes stay on me longer. I grab a cup of coffee and lean against the counter, trying to pretend like my entire world isn’t currently twitching under the surface of normal.
They’re both in my space now and this is so much different than their one night spent a couple of weeks ago.
Our relationship is now running into real life, real situations.
They’ve brought their rivalry, their chaos, their gentleness, their fire and I’m the one trying to hold it all together.
There’s the tournament, the bracket and the name I’ve been avoiding since the day it dropped.
His name now haunts the third slot under mine. I stir cream into my coffee like it might dissolve the thought of him. The first sip almost holds to that promise before Carter breaks the silence.
“Everything okay?”
I glance up. Tate is watching me too. Less gentle, more alert. I nod quickly. “Yeah. Just… tournament stuff.”
It’s not a lie, but it’s not exactly the truth either. It’s not just the tournament. It’s everything, the weight of all of this crashing together. The pressure to win, the chaos I’m balancing between them. The very real possibility that I could lose myself in the middle of everything.
I can’t fall apart. Not when everything I want is in this room, and everything I’ve run from is waiting on the other side of the leader board.
I escape to my room under the pretense of needing to check a few emails. I close the door gently behind me, slide into my desk chair, and open the tournament dashboard again.
The screen illuminates every line of the bracket. My name sits near the top. I stare at it like it might change. Then D7LAN cuts through the high.
My heart thuds against my ribs. That familiar tightness returns, winding up beneath my skin, curling sharp in my stomach.
I know I’m better than I was when he knew me.
I’ve trained, I’ve grown, I have people now.
I have Carter’s steady belief in me. I have Tate’s total protection. I have Cassie’s unwavering support.
But still… seeing his handle makes it all crash back. The way he talked over me during matches. The gaslighting. The manipulation. The way he made me feel like I was never enough—even when I was carrying the team.
A knock sounds on my bedroom door. “Come in.” I wipe my eyes, I promised myself I wouldn’t cry over this bullshit again.
Cassie pushes it open, a box of pastries in hand. “I brought food and judgment. Which do you want first?”
I exhale a shaky laugh. “Judgment, obviously.”
She plops onto the edge of the bed and hands me a cinnamon crumble. “What’s up with your face? You look like you just saw a ghost, are you okay?”
“No,” I say honestly. “But I will be.”
She watches me for a second, then says, “Do Carter and Tate know about Dylan then, like the full actual story?”
“Carter knows the gist,” I admit. “I haven’t told Tate really yet.”
She raises a brow. “What, because you’re worried he’ll lose it and break someone’s neck?”
“Exactly,” I say, managing a smile. “But also because… I don’t want this to become about Dylan. I want it to be about me. Proving I’m better now, that I made it out.”
She leans forward, serious for a moment. “It can still be both, you know. You can want to win for you and want to make him eat shit. They’re not mutually exclusive.”
I laugh, and it actually feels good.
She stands and brushes crumbs off of her jeans. “Let me know if you want to scream into a pillow. Or shove an HDMI cable somewhere inappropriate.”
“You’re such a good friend.”
I’m just finishing my crumble when the door slowly opens, “I smell sugar,” Carter says, peeking in with that boyish grin that makes my stomach do stupid flips.
Tate follows him. “You guys hoarding pastries in here?”
Cassie sighs dramatically. “Can’t even have a breakdown with baked goods in peace.”
Carter hops onto my bed beside her and grabs a crumble. “You like us.”
“I tolerate you,” she says, before turning to me and rolling her eyes dramatically.
I snort.
Tate shakes his head and slinks over to my desk, his eyes darting to the tournament bracket still up on my screen. He doesn’t say anything, just leans against the edge watching me like he knows I’m trying to act normal when I’m not even close.
“Anyway,” Cassie says, standing. “I should head to James’.”
I raise a brow. “James?”
“Yes, James. The guy I’ve been seeing, I mentioned him before.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “Seeing or… seeing?”
She shrugs but there’s a pink flush on her cheeks. “He makes really good nachos.”
“Is it getting serious?”
“I don’t know,” she shrugs, then smiles. “Maybe.”
“Text me later?”
“You’ll be busy,” she teases, eyeing both Carter and Tate on her way out.
“Cassie.”
She winks and disappears into the hallway. I stretch, closing the bracket window and rotating in my chair.
Carter’s watching me like he’s waiting for a cue. “You okay?” he asks softly.
“Actually… yeah.”
He smiles, relieved. “I was thinking about making dinner. That okay with you?”
I blink. “You want to cook?”
“I make a mean stir fry,” he says, heading for the kitchen. “Stay in here, relax. Get a few rounds in or nap.”
I smile. Thank fuck for men who cook. “Thanks, Carter.”
“Don’t thank me until you taste it,” he calls over his shoulder, disappearing down the hall. Tate stays behind, still leaning against my desk.
I shift slightly. “You don’t want to help him?”
He snorts. “You think he wants help?”
Fair enough. I spin slowly in my chair to face him. “You gonna hover or pull up a chair?”
He grabs my stool, spins it around, and drops into it backwards, arms draped over the back.
I remember the first time I seen him sit like that. He was mid-rant, headset half-off, mouthing off about some trash sniper who kept spawn-killing him, and he dropped into his chair just like that. Backward, cocky, loose-limbed and fuming. Fuck, it was hot. Stupid hot.
“So, what’s going on?”
I swallow. He saw the screen earlier. I could lie, but I don’t want to. “I didn’t want to say anything yet,” I begin, twisting my fingers in my lap. “Because I didn’t want it to turn into a whole thing.”
He waits. Patient, but clearly already tense.
“It’s Dylan,” I say. “He’s in the bracket.”
His entire body stills. He doesn’t speak at first, just breathes once, sharply before his jaw tightens. “Does Carter know?”
“Yeah. I told him first.”
“And you didn’t tell me at the same time because…?”
“Because I knew you’d react like this.”
He leans forward, eyes locked on mine. “You mean rationally? Like someone who wants to break both of his wrists for what he did to you? And I know I don’t even know the half of the shit Haven.”
“I just didn’t want it to be about him,” I say quietly. “I want to win for me. Not because he’s watching. Not because of what he did. I want to prove I’m better, that I got out.”
He stares at me for a long moment then he reaches out, pressing his hand to my thigh. “You already did,” he says. “Just by surviving him. You don’t have to prove a goddamn fucking thing.”
“I want to,” I whisper.
He nods. “Then I’ll be right here. Just say the word and I’ll back you up on stream, off stream, whatever the fuck you need.”
I sigh. Somehow, with the weight of Dylan’s name sitting heavy in my chest, Tate’s presence grounds me.
He’s not softness, but he’s a storm at my back.
I trace my fingers along the edge of my desk, still feeling his words in the air.
He doesn’t look away, just stays right there, present. Maybe that’s makes me ask. “Tate?”
“Yeah?”
I pause, then look over at him. “Will you sleep in my room tonight?”
He doesn’t answer right away and I don’t blame him. He doesn’t do comfort the way Carter does. He doesn’t do soft edges or shared pillows or late-night vulnerability that doesn’t end in sex. There’s sharp corners and brutal honesty and bruised silence when things get too close.
“You sure?” he asks, his voice quieter now.
“I just…” I swallow. “I don’t want to be alone. Not after all of that.”
His jaw flexes. Like he’s chewing on all the things he won’t say out loud. That he doesn’t do this, he doesn’t know how. That the idea of being in my bed, close but not hiding behind heat and distraction, is somehow more intimate than all the other lines we’ve already crossed.
He doesn’t deflect or give me attitude, just leans back slowly and looks at me like he’s trying to memorize the shape of my need and match it with something he’s never given before. “Yeah. I’ll sleep in here tonight.”
I nod, lips pressed together too tight. He glances away quickly like he’s regretting how open he just let himself be.
The apartment smells like garlic, sesame oil, and Carter’s overachieving perfectionism. He’s somehow turned what I assumed would be basic stir fry into a full spread, noodles, veggies, a perfectly seared steak, and a smile that makes me want to kiss the seasoning off his cheek.