Chapter 23
Haven
My hands are shaking. Every inch of me buzzes with energy, my heart slamming so fast against my ribs it feels like I’m sprinting in place.
Five minutes before the match starts, I’m sitting cross-legged in my chair, trying not to start shaking again.
Tate’s behind me, his hands ghosting over my shoulders but not touching. Times like this makes me wish he’d stop being so reserved still.
Carter’s crouched beside me, rubbing slow circles into my calf. “Breathe,” he murmurs.
I do, in, out and again.
Tate doesn’t say anything, but when he slides my headset over my ears, his fingers linger—pressing just hard enough to ground me. His thumb drags once along my neck. “They’re not ready, but you are.”
I almost didn’t sign up for the tournament.
I told myself it was because I didn’t have the time, or the the focus.
Or the team. But the truth is I was scared.
Scared that I wasn’t good enough anymore.
That I’d step back into the spotlight and fall flat on my ass in front of a hundred thousand spectators and every ex who ever said I was wasting my time.
I never wanted to play perfect. I just wanted to be taken seriously.
But this whole tournament has exposed every nerve. Every insecurity and every reason I stopped streaming seriously in the first place. This game isn’t just a game anymore. It’s my name, my pride and my voice. I don’t want to lose it again.
The match ends with a single shot. Final kill with the victory screen. My name flashes across the leader board—ranked high enough to secure a place in finals. Finals, fucking finals.
[HavokHearts qualifies!!!]
[FINALS BAYBEEE]
[I KNEW SHE COULD DO IT]
[NOONEGHOST + HAVOK 4EVA]
[wait is that Carter in the background??]
I barely hear the pounding in my ears over the avalanche of messages, subs, and raids hitting my screen like a confetti bomb. The notifications won’t stop, my overlay is practically stuttering trying to keep up. I cover my mouth with both hands, blinking hard. I did it.
I actually fucking did it. “Holy shit,” I whisper, half laughing, half crying, staring at the screen like if I blink it might all disappear.
Carter’s hands cup my face, grounding me instantly. “You did it, sweetheart.”
I nod, eyes wide. “I… yeah. Yeah, I did.”
Tate leans in from behind my chair, his arm draped casual over the backrest, his breath warm against my ear. “You just broke the goddamn internet, pretty girl.”
I can’t help the smile that tugs my lips—quick, fragile, real. For one second it feels golden, untouchable.
Then the lobby resets. The familiar white noise of notifications fills the screen as I click through menus, queuing up for the post-match breakdown. My cursor hovers, stuttering just for a heartbeat when a name drops into the list. Dylan.
The letters burn against the glow of the monitor. My stomach flips, tightens, like the air got pulled out of the room.
My mouse hand shakes. The stream overlay feels bright and too exposing, so I kill it with a click. The camera light blinks out
Carter is on me instantly, pulling me into his chest like he’d been waiting for the moment I’d drop the mask. I fold into him, inhaling the steady, grounding warmth of him. My pulse is a wild animal, but his heartbeat thuds calmly.
When I glance sideways, Tate’s upright, shoulders tense, eyes still locked on the dead lobby screen.
His jaw flexes, hands curling into fists against the back of my chair.
“He’s still watching you, even when you think you’re winning, he’s there. Circling. Waiting to slip back in.”
My throat works around a swallow, but it doesn’t ease the ache in my chest. He’s right. I can still feel it, that stupid, traitorous flinch that tore through me the moment I saw Dylan’s name.
He’s got his mask hooked around his fingers, swinging it absently like he’s trying not to throw it across the room. He’s not saying anything, he doesn’t have to.
Carter brushes his lips against my temple. “You okay?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
He doesn’t call me on it, only kisses me again, slower this time, and lets me keep pretending I’ve got it together. The silence stretches, I push myself up and straighten my hoodie, forcing a smile. “Let’s get out of here.” They both look at me.
I grab my keys off the hook by the door. “We need to grab an air mattress, remember? You two are playing musical chairs with my bed every night, and I’m over it.”
Carter is in the passenger seat, Tate in the back and my hands have stopped shaking, mostly. They don’t say anything when I turn up the music just a little too loud.
Carter reaches over and taps his fingers once against my thigh. “You know you’re kind of a legend now, right?”
“I’m just tired.”
“Legends get tired.”
Tate mutters from the backseat, “Legends also drive faster. Some of us want dinner before midnight.”
I laugh, too quietly. I squeeze Carter’s hand a little tighter on the console. They let me pretend everything’s fine, that’s why I keep them close.
I don’t know what I expected from a Tuesday night store run, but it wasn’t a boost of ego and a secondhand embarrassment spiral.
We’ve barely made it past the front entrance when it happens.
Carter’s fingers are loosely laced with mine, his thumb brushing over my knuckles every few steps.
Tate is trailing behind us, hood up, hands in his pockets, the definition of I’m just here to tolerate the fluorescent lights and get this over with.
I’m halfway down the home goods aisle when someone gasps.
“Oh my god… wait. Are you HavokHearts?”
I freeze.
She’s probably in her early twenties, wearing ripped jeans and a beanie.
My mouth opens. “Uh—yeah?”
“Oh my god!” she practically squeals. “I knew I recognized you. I watch your streams all the time! You’re so good! And that last match? INSANE.”
Heat floods my face. I laugh, awkward and dazed. “Thank you. That’s—wow. That’s really sweet.”
Carter squeezes my hand gently.
The girl beams. “Are you streaming again tonight?”
“I might,” I hedge, still caught somewhere between flattered and stunned. “Kinda depends on the caffeine situation.”
Tate snorts behind me.
The girl glances at Carter. “Is that your boyfriend?”
Carter grins, easy and golden retriever-charming. “Kinda.”
She tilts her head. “And… who’s he?”
Tate looks up. His eyes flick to me, then to her. Then back to the LED lights in her hand like he’s calculating how long it would take to end this conversation.
She smiles at him. “You’re hot. You look like that guy from those edits.”
Tate’s jaw ticks. Carter clears his throat. “He’s not a fan of TikTok.”
Tate deadpans, “I don’t fuck with fairy lights either.” I almost choke trying not to laugh.
The girl flushes and stammers something about watching my stream later before disappearing down the aisle. The second she’s gone, Carter nudges me with his shoulder.
“Look at you. Getting recognized. Getting flirted with by strangers and dragging TikTok into the store experience.”
I shake my head, still stunned. “That was the first time that’s ever happened.”
“You handled it like a pro.”
“She wanted to pet my face,” Tate mutters behind us.
“She did not.”
“She looked like she wanted to.”
Carter squeezes my hand again. “Proud of you, sweetheart.”
Maybe it’s ridiculous, maybe it was only thirty seconds of fame; but for the first time since the tournament started… I don’t feel small.
Back at the apartment, it takes less than five minutes for the air mattress to cause drama. “I told you to grab the pump,” I mutter, digging through the bag like it’s going to magically produce one now. “You said it had one built in.”
Carter shrugs, unfolding the crinkly plastic mess of beige regret in my living room. “The box said self-inflating.”
Tate holds up the plug. “It’s self-inflating if you’re a wizard, maybe.”
“I am a wizard,” Carter says with faux dignity.
I grab a throw pillow and launch it at his head. He grins, tossing it right back.
Eventually, after enough bickering to count as foreplay, Tate gives in and google solutions while Carter manually blows into the mattress.
It works. Sort of. Enough for the mattress to resemble something halfway between a raft and a sad bean bag. “It’s perfect,” Carter declares, arms spread. “Five stars. Would crash again.”
Tate scoffs and flops down onto it, testing the give with a hand. “You bought a glorified pool float.”
“Yeah, but now we don’t have to rotate bed nights like divorced co-parents,” I chime in, tossing a folded blanket his way.
He catches it midair, stares at me, then at the mattress. He sighs like the weight of the world now rests in this twenty-dollar mistake.
When we’re finally curled up on the couch with leftovers and reruns playing low in the background, something in my chest finally starts to uncoil.
Carter’s head is on my shoulder, arms wrapped loosely around my waist. Tate is on the other side of me, arm slung across the back of the couch, fingers lightly grazing my shoulder every time he shifts.
No one’s talking. Exactly where I want to be. My head tips sideways against Carter’s shoulder. His hand moves automatically to cradle the back of my neck, thumb brushing skin. Tate shifts just enough to tuck the blanket tighter around my legs.
It’s past midnight when I wake up again, the TV long since gone dark. The only light in the room comes from the soft glow of the microwave clock and the moon outside, silver-washing the furniture in quiet.
I don’t move. Carter’s breathing is deep and even, one arm still snug around my waist, his thumb resting against the hem of my hoodie like he forgot to let go even in sleep.
Tate’s still on my other side, head tilted back on the cushion, one leg half-draped over mine like he’d gone down fighting the air mattress and gave up here instead.
I stare up at the ceiling, my heart doing that annoying soft thump it only does when I think too long about how good this feels.
And then I feel Tate’s fingers.
They brush against the ends of my hair, slow and absent. The softest graze of his knuckles as they trail down the edge of a curl, then lift again. Again, like a pattern he can’t stop tracing.
I don’t open my eyes fully. “You ever gonna admit how soft you are?” I whisper, barely audible.
He grunts under his breath. “You were twitching.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You were,” he insists. “Couldn’t tell if it was a bad dream or a processing loop. So I…” He trails off.
I smile. Let my fingers find his thigh and give it a lazy squeeze. “So you played with my hair until I settled.”
“Shut up.”
I hum. “You’re cute.”
“Deadass shut up.”
Carter groans softly, shifting behind me. “Are you two flirting or fighting?”
“Both,” I whisper, grinning.
Tate mutters something unintelligible but his hand doesn’t move.
It just settles back into my hair again, slow and soothing.
. I let it lull me back under. If this is what midnight feels like between the three of us—soft touches, quiet confessions, safety tucked between sarcasm and skin—then yeah. I could get used to it forever.