Chapter 28
Haven
Ican’t breathe. Okay—I can, technically. It just feels like every breath has to fight its way in through the tightness in my chest and the constant buzz of nerves that’s been living in my skin since I qualified for finals.
There’s just a few days left until I walk into a live arena, into a tournament stage where thousands of people will be watching, judging, dissecting every move I make.
There won’t be a comfy chair or my familiar lighting setup or my chat spamming stupid emotes.
It’ll be me and a hundred eyes waiting to see if the streamer girl chokes under pressure.
That thought eats me alive.
I sit at my desk, fingers clenched around the edge, staring blankly at my monitor like it might magically spit out instructions on how to keep my shit together. I haven’t even played yet today, and I already feel exhausted.
My leg starts bouncing before I even register it, the heel of my foot tapping against the floor.
I try to stop it but it just starts up again a second later, like my body’s decided we’re panicking whether I’m on board or not.
I tighten my grip on the edge of my desk like if I can just hold onto something solid enough I won’t completely spiral out of myself. My eyes drag back to the monitor, like maybe if I stare at it long enough it’ll feel normal again. But it doesn’t, it just looks like a screen.
I open a match just to stare at the lobby before I switch over to my settings instead, flipping through options I have memorized, like there’s some hidden fix buried in there for whatever the hell is wrong with me right now.
I exit out again, I can’t even warm up.
That’s the part that really gets me, what happens when I’m not in my room, when there’s no reset button? No closing the tab and pretending it didn’t happen?
For a split second—just one, quiet and terrifying—I think about not going at all. Until I hear the knock.
Carter’s voice calls through my shut door. Him and Tate had let me sleep in this morning. “Hey, sweetheart. You okay?”
Then the door creaks open and Carter peeks his head in, he sees me at my desk. The way I’m trying to holding myself still. I watch it hit him—the way his brow furrows, his whole body softens.
He doesn’t say anything, just walks in and wraps his arms around me from behind, his chin resting on my shoulder, heart pressed to my back like he’s trying to slow the beat of mine with his. “Hey,” he whispers. “Talk to me.”
I shake my head, I don’t have the words. He presses a kiss to the side of my neck, “Okay. Then just let me hold you for a minute.”
And he does until Tate strolls in. He takes one look at me, then at Carter, and sighs like we’re all so very dramatic. “Right,” he says, clapping his hands once. “Up. Move. Out of the chair.”
I blink at him. “What?”
Carter looks confused too. “Dude, she’s having a moment—”
“She’s about to have a new setup,” Tate interrupts. “Get up.”
“What are you—Tate , seriously—”
He stalks toward my desk like a man on a mission, unplugging cables, sliding my keyboard aside, grabbing the little tools he brought from home like he’s been waiting for an excuse to do this.
“You’re stressed. Your gear’s half-broken.
Your monitor’s laggy as hell. This isn’t a panic fix, it’s a performance upgrade. ”
Carter finally catches on. “You’re upgrading right now?”
“No,” Tate corrects, dragging a new monitor box from his duffel bag that I definitely didn’t see before. “We are.”
“You two planned this?” I ask, still not moving from the chair.
Carter smiles against my shoulder. “Technically I just bought snacks and let Tate build the spreadsheet, I’m of no use in this area.”
“There was a spreadsheet?”
Tate smirks. “Color-coded.”
Carter’s half leaning into me when Tate moves past us, brushing my chair just enough to make it swivel an inch to the side.
“Careful,” Carter mutters, not sharp, but not entirely joking either.
“If she falls over from that, she’s got bigger problems than finals.”
I huff out a quiet breath, but Carter’s arm tightens slightly around me, his chin still hooked over my shoulder.
“She’s been up for hours,” he says, softer now. “You could try not bulldozing her for five minutes.”
That gets Tate’s attention. “I could,” he agrees easily. “But then nothing would get fixed.”
Carter exhales through his nose, a quiet almost-laugh that doesn’t quite land. “You’re a real ass sometimes Tate.”
Tate replies, reaching for another cable, “you’re still here whining.”
Carter doesn’t answer that but his hand slides down from my shoulder to lace briefly with mine before letting go, like he needed the contact more than he expected.
Twenty minutes later I’m halfway under my desk, arm stretched awkwardly behind my PC tower trying to swap out a cable that decided now was the perfect time to fray, when Tate crouches beside me with a new USB. “Wrong port,” he mutters, nudging my elbow to the left. “That one’s power only.”
I grunt. “You’re just making this up.”
“I’m literally not. Your cable management is offensive.”
“Your face is offensive.”
He huffs a low breath, which might be a laugh, and hands me the right cord. “You know you’re not just here because of luck, right?”
I pause. Still half upside-down, one leg awkwardly splayed under the chair. “What?”
“You earned it.” His tone is weirdly even. “All of it. The bracket spot. The stream numbers. Every kill you landed. That wasn’t some random dice roll.”
I blink at him, stunned into silence.
He shrugs. “Even if it was, luck’s part of the game. And you play it better than anyone, even me pretty girl.”
I stare at him for a moment too long. He looks away immediately, like he’s allergic to eye contact. Or feelings. Or both.
“Okay,” he says, standing. “That’s enough character development for one day. You smell like HDMI dust.”
“Wow,” I deadpan, climbing out after him. “Such a soft boy.”
“Say that again and I’ll rewire your headset backwards.”
I roll my eyes, but under the rush of adrenaline, the chaos of finals looming, and the weight of everything riding on this next match I feel it. Grounded, because Tate Hart might be a walking red flag with a god complex and an insult quota—but he believes in me.
An hour later, my whole setup’s transformed.
New mic arm, the new headset Carter bought me, two stacked curved monitors with built-in light filters, and a mechanical keyboard so clicky it sounds like pure joy. There’s even a footrest.
Tate adjusts the mic stand one more time while Carter plugs in the final cable and flashes me a smile that could burn through every one of my doubts. “It’s yours, baby,” he says softly. “All you have to do now is use it.”
I look between them, Tate leaning on the desk in his ridiculous ripped jeans and combat boots, and Carter still barefoot in flannel pajama pants, yawning.
I feel okay, I might even be ready.
I’m curled up on the couch, sipping one of the obnoxiously bright energy drinks Tate swears by, when Carter sits down across from me with that specific kind of expression on his face.
The one that means I’m about to do something stupid, and I need you to love me through it.
“What?” I ask, narrowing my eyes.
He bites back a grin and holds up his phone. “So… I may have made a Twitter account.”
“You didn’t already have one?”
“I mean, I had one. Technically. I just didn’t use it. But now…” He pulls up the screen. “It’s time.”
“Oh no.”
“Oh yes.”
He types something in furiously, and I lean forward, squinting to read over his shoulder. The bio alone is a disaster. @Carter_Hart: golden retriever. professional simp. only streams when she makes me.
“You can’t be serious,” I say, laughing.
Carter beams. “Oh, I’m very serious.”
He posts his first tweet before I can stop him: found out my girlfriend is hotter than me AND better at shooters. please respect my privacy during this difficult time.
The notifications start rolling in immediately. Likes. Replies. One that says “YOU’RE THE SWEET ONE? OMG I GET IT NOW.”
“You’re causing chaos,” I mutter, absolutely delighted.
Carter wiggles his brows. “Just trying to keep up with the mask-wearing menace.”
As if on cue, Tate rounds the corner into the living room, sipping an energy drink and looking generally unamused. “You tweeting now?”
Carter lifts his phone. “Yep.”
Tate raises an eyebrow. “Cute.”
“I try.”
“Don’t get cocky.”
“Too late.”
I’m howling as Tate plops down on the other end of the couch, eyes bouncing between us. “You gonna tell your followers how you cried during her last match?”
Carter flips him off.
Twitter explodes when Carter posts a second photo me in the new setup, the soft lighting making everything look a little more surreal than it should. He’s in the background, the caption reads
her: aiming for finals. me: aiming to stay conscious when she looks at me like that.
I throw a pillow at him.
His replies are chaos. “we get it, you’re in love.” “sir this is a wendy’s.” “can we clone him???”
But the last one gets me. “no wonder nooneghost is so feral, if I had to compete with that for her attention I’d be unhinged too.”
Carter sees it and grins over at me. “Too much?”
I shake my head, cheeks warm. “Not enough.”
It’s nearly midnight by the time we climb into Tate’s car.
The streets are quiet, punctuated only by the low hum of streetlights. I’m tucked into the passenger seat, Carter curled up in the back, his legs too long for the space but not complaining, hoodie strings clutched in his hands like a comfort object.
Tate drives with one hand on the wheel and one draped lazily over the shifter.
“Where are we even going?” I ask, voice soft, eyes half-lidded as I lean into the doorframe.
“Nowhere,” he mutters. “Just out.”
We drive in silence for a while. Carter hums quietly under his breath in the backseat, occasionally commenting on the odd bumper sticker or weird mailbox we pass. Tate’s voice rumbles low when he does respond with short, dry observations that make me smile even when I’m too tired to laugh.
Eventually, my eyes get too heavy to keep open. I shift, curling my legs up in the seat, head resting against the cool glass and I fall asleep.
I don’t remember when we stop. But I wake to warmth. Carter’s voice is low in my ear. “Hey, sweetheart. You’re home.”
My lashes flutter. I blink into his chest, he’s carrying me. “You didn’t have to—” I mumble.
“I wanted to.”
I smile into his chest.
Inside, Tate’s flicking on the lamp near my bed, setting down my overnight water bottle and pulling back the covers like he wasn’t the one who growled about not sharing beds just two nights ago.
Carter sets me down gently, brushing the hair from my forehead.
“Jacket off,” Tate orders. “Arms up.”
I let them undress me like I’m made of spun sugar. Carter changes my shirt into one of his oversized ones. Tate helps me step out of my jeans, tugging the covers up and tucking me in without a word.
I blink up at them both. “You sleeping in the bed again?”
Tate sighs. “Yeah.”
Carter grins. “You didn’t even argue this time.”
“I’m exhausted, but if you snore one mo—.”
“I do not—”
“You whimper in your sleep, Carter. Whimper.”
I laugh into the pillow, and then I feel Carter curl in beside me, one arm looping around my waist. Tate joins from the other side, cooler against my back.
We don’t talk much after that. There’s just the sound of our breathing and their heartbeats.