Chapter 22
Carter
Ilay there for a minute, watching her as soft golden light spills in through the curtains, her hair fanned out across the pillow beside me.
The tiny crease between her brows that only disappears when I brush my fingers down her cheek and she subconsciously nuzzles into it.
God, I love her.
I slide out of bed quietly, grab a hoodie off the back of her desk chair, and quickly go barefoot into the kitchen. There’s a little leftover pancake mix in her fridge from the last grocery run, so I get to work.
By the time Haven shuffles out I’ve got a plate stacked high with pancakes and a pan of sizzling bacon going on the stove.
She freezes in the doorway, rubbing her eyes. “Are you seriously cooking again?”
I glance over my shoulder. “Thought I’d feed you before your next emotional spiral.”
She groans, flopping onto a bar stool like she’s still exhausted. “You’re never gonna let me live it down, are you?”
“Nope,” I say with a grin, sliding her a cup of coffee. “But I’ll keep feeding you through it.”
She takes a sip, then looks up at me over the rim of her up. There’s something different in her eyes now—softer, but weighted. When she sets it down, I can already tell the question’s coming.
“Hey,” she says gently. “Last night… when Tate got up mid-movie. Was he okay?”
I pause. I know what she’s really asking and it deserves the kind of answer that doesn’t come with a light hearted joke.
I lean back against the counter, folding my arms. “He gets overwhelmed sometimes,” I say. “But he won’t say it half the time. Not even to me.”
She frowns, confusion flickering behind her eyes. “But why wouldn’t he just… say something?”
I let out a slow breath. “Because we didn’t grow up in a house where talking about your feelings got you anything but hurt and shut down.”
Her brow furrows. I continue.
“Our mom… she wasn’t cruel, exactly. But she wasn’t there either.
Not in the way we needed. Emotionally checked out.
Always tired. Always waiting for the next shitty boyfriend to disappoint her or hit her or disappear.
Tate saw the worst of it. He was always trying to step between it.
And I think at some point, he figured the best way to protect everyone was to just… absorb the damage.”
Haven’s lips part, her fingers tightening around the handle of her cup.
“He doesn’t like silence because it reminds him of the nights when we didn’t know if yelling was coming or worse.
He doesn’t like showing pain, because the second someone noticed he was hurting, it made him a target.
And he definitely doesn’t like being touched when he’s not in control of it, because back then touch was never soft. ”
I watch her eyes glaze, just a little. But she doesn’t look away. She just listens.
“So when he left the room last night? It wasn’t because he didn’t want to be near us. It was because he felt too much, too fast. And his first instinct is always to pull back before he bleeds on anyone.”
Haven’s jaw trembles. “But… he came back.”
“Yeah,” I nod. “Because that’s what he’s learning to do now with you.”
She looks down at her hands like they’ve just become something sacred.
I take a step closer. Tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
“He’s trying, Haven. I know he seems invincible sometimes, but he’s still carrying a thousand pounds of shit he never asked for. And he doesn’t always know how to set it down.”
She nods, swallowing thickly.
I tilt her chin so she’ll look at me. “But he’s choosing this. Every day, this weird, beautiful thing we’re building. He’s choosing to stay.”
A tear slips down her cheek. She laughs quietly, brushing it away. “God, you guys make it impossible not to fall harder every day.”
I smile. “That’s the plan.”
She looks at the coffee like it’s a love letter and smiles around the rim. “You’re unreal.”
“I get that a lot,” I say, flipping a pancake. “Mostly from you. Usually while I’m—”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” she warns, hiding her grin behind her cup.
She’s rinsing off her plate in the sink when I finally say it.
I lean against the counter, arms crossed, pretending I’m not watching the way her shoulders tense just slightly when she realizes we’re alone. Tate went out for some air a few minutes ago.
“I saw you last night,” I say, “After Tate’s tweet got a lot of attention.”
She freezes for a second, then slowly sets the plate in the drying rack, her back still to me.
“I know you tried to laugh it off. And I know you let me pull you back in with popcorn and dumb movies and soft kisses like it didn’t bother you.”
She turns around now, leaning against the sink, arms crossing tightly over her chest. “Carter…”
“I’m not calling you out,” I say gently. “I’m just… saying I see it.”
She looks down, lashes brushing her cheeks.
“And I’m still here.”
That makes her look up with those beautiful wide eyes.
“I see how much pressure you’re under. I see how you’re trying to hold it all together. I see how scared you are that this thing with me and Tate is gonna blow up in your face.” My voice cracks just a little, but I keep going. “I see you, I’m not going anywhere.”
Her mouth parts, but no words come out. So I step in closer. Rest a hand against her waist, my thumb brushes the hem of her hoodie.
“And I know I’m probably the softer option. The easy one. The sweet one.”
“Carter—”
“But I’m also the one who would crawl through glass if you said you needed me. I’d drive through a hurricane, through the fucking apocalypse, if it meant making you feel safe again.” I lean in to press my forehead to hers. “Because I love you.”
I whisper it again, softer this time. “I love you, Haven.”
She exhales like she’s been holding it in for days.
Maybe she has, and then her hands are in my hair, pulling me down into her, and we’re kissing like she knows I mean every single word.
We don’t speak for a moment after. Her forehead rests against mine, our breathing uneven.
I can feel her hands trembling where they’re still tangled in my hair. I know mine are just as unsteady.
“You meant it,” she says finally.
I nod. “Yeah. I mean it.”
She pulls back enough to look at me, her voice barely a whisper. “No one’s ever said it like that. Like it wasn’t a risk.”
“It’s not,” I say. “Not with you.”
Tate’s got his bag slung over his shoulder when he pokes his head into the kitchen. “Gonna head out for a few hours need to grab a couple things from home. I’ll be back before dinner.”
“Want me to go with?” I ask, not even sure why.
He just raises a brow. “No. You’ll just ask me if I’ve tried different oat milk brands again.”
“That was one time.”
“You said ‘but it’s frothy.’”
I flip him off as he grabs his keys and heads out. The door clicks shut behind him.
I glance over at Haven, who’s now sprawled across the couch with her laptop open and an evil little grin tugging at her lips.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Haven…”
She turns the screen toward me, eyes bright with mischief. “So I may or may not have found a totally legitimate, completely unscientific kink quiz.”
I blink. “You’re joking.”
Her grin widens. “You said you’d be open-minded.”
“That was before I knew you were gonna interrogate my sex life with a Buzzfeed-style checklist.”
“It’s not Buzzfeed,” she says. “It’s kink-compatibility-matching. Very serious research,” she wiggles her brows.
I groan and drop down beside her. “Fine. Hit me.”
She cracks her knuckles. “Okay, first question. Do you like being praised?”
I blink. “I mean, yeah?”
Her lips twitch. “That didn’t sound confident.”
“I don’t know how to answer that.”
“Pretend I’m a therapist.”
“You’re definitely not my therapist.”
She smirks. “Wouldn’t be very professional of me if I were.”
She taps the answer box and glances at me from under her lashes. “So that’s a yes?”
“Sure.”
“‘Sure’ doesn’t sound like a man who’s been called a good boy before.”
My throat catches. “That’s—”
Her grin sharpens. “Gotcha.”
I scrub a hand through my hair. “You’re insufferable.”
“You’re red,” she sing-songs.
“Next question,” I groan.
She obliges, barely holding back a laugh. “Do you like being degraded?”
“…Define degraded.”
She tilts her head. “Like, called names. Talked down to. A little mean, if you’re into that sort of thing.”
I stare at her. “You say that way too casually.”
“Scientific tone,” she says with mock seriousness. “It’s part of the quiz.”
“Uh-huh.”
“So… yes or no?”
I swallow. “I don’t think so?”
She hums, clicking something. “Soft no. Got it.”
“Soft no?”
“Yeah, like under the right circumstances, maybe.”
“I never said that.”
She grins. “You didn’t have to.”
I groan. “You’re literally evil.”
“Evil but thorough.”
Her knees bump mine as she scrolls. The laptop shifts and lands half across both our thighs. I can feel the warmth of her leg against mine, her skin brushing my jeans.
“Next one,” she says. “Do you like giving up control?”
I open my mouth then close it. The silence stretches just long enough for her to notice.
“Ohhh,” she says softly, grin curving slow and dangerous. “That’s a definite yes.”
“Don’t sound so pleased about it.”
She leans in, eyes flicking between my mouth and the quiz. “Just collecting data.”
“Sure you are.”
“Purely academic.”
“Uh-huh. You’re writing your dissertation on my ability to say no.”
She laughs, a breathy, teasing sound that hits me square in the chest.
Then she scrolls again, reading the next one out loud, slower this time. “Do you like giving control?”
I glance over. “Isn’t that the same thing?”
She shakes her head. “Nope. This one’s about whether you like… watching someone else fall apart because of you.”
I can feel the pulse in my throat. “Yeah,” I say quietly. “That one’s a yes.”
Her breath catches, but she covers it with a smirk. “Knew it.”
She scrolls down, her voice almost too casual now. “Alright, last one for now.”
I brace myself.
“Would you ever let someone tie you up?”
My brain short-circuits. “Like—like actually?”