Chapter 31
Carter
The VIP room smells like cold coffee and stress sweat.
It’s a little too bright in here for me, the overhead fluorescent humming just loud enough to be annoying—and the cheap leather couch I’ve been sitting on creaks every time I shift. There’s a muted stream playing on one of the monitors across the room, just a few seconds behind the one on my phone.
I can’t stop watching.
My knee bounces restlessly as I watch her dominate another round, her voice sharp and controlled over comms, her aim lethal. Every time her name flashes with another elimination, I feel it like a shock to the chest.
Haven fucking Thomas. I can’t look away.
It’s not just that she’s good—she’s always been good—it’s that there’s this intensity behind every movement now. She’s finally letting the world see what I’ve known from day one, and god, I’m so proud of her.
So fucking proud I can’t breathe straight. I glance toward the screen again, just in time to see the kill cam replay her final shot, dead center.
Like actually hits me. I don’t want to do any of this without her. It’s twisted and messy and complicated, but it’s real.
And I think—I think I’d rather deal with all the chaos of this trio than spend one more second without it.
I stretch out my legs, trying to force some blood back into them. The VIP room’s full now, people trickling in after their own matches or nervously waiting on someone they love to play next.
A girl flops down into the chair next to me. Tall, with sharp eyeliner and a bright pink crop top with CLUTCH QUEEN across the chest.
“God, I swear if my girlfriend doesn’t stop tunnel visioning and actually uses a flash, I’m gonna lose my mind,” she groans.
I blink. “Oof. What game?”
“Valorant.” She grins. “She’s cracked but forgets utility exists. What about you? Who’re you here for?”
I glance at the screen, where Haven is locked into her next round. Then to the side monitor, where Tate is slicing through his bracket like the demon he is.
“Uh… both,” I say, a little sheepish. “My girlfriend and—uh, her other boyfriend.”
She freezes and I brace myself.
But instead, she lights up. “Oh my God, are you that Carter?”
I blink again. “That Carter?”
“You’re on TikTok! Well, not you-you. But like, she is and NoOneGhost. And there was this whole thing where people were speculating and then she posted that one clip with the voice and everyone lost their minds—” she starts scrolling on her phone like she’s about to pull out visual evidence.
“There’s this whole thread, right? About how Haven’s mouse pad in the background of her streams matched Ghost’s. And someone spotted your voice in the background of a clip and made a four-minute YouTube video about it.”
“Seriously?”
“Oh, and the ‘What if Ghost and Carter are both in love with her’ theory? That one’s got fanart now.”
I blink. “Fanart?”
“Yeah! It’s kinda spicy.”
I have absolutely no idea what to say to that.
Another person slides up to us, a guy in a StreamerHub hoodie. “Wait, sorry, are you talking about Haven? And Ghost? And—” he points at me “—you?”
I scratch the back of my neck, trying to smile without cringing. “Uh. Yeah. I guess.”
“Dude. That’s insane. You’re like… the golden retriever. The sweet one.”
I laugh under my breath. “That’s a first.”
“Bro, your girl’s a legend. And Ghost?” He whistles. “Guy gives me nightmares. But in a hot way.”
I blink slowly. “Can’t wait to tell him that.”
More people drift over like I’m the eye of some weird fandom storm and before I know it, I’m fielding casual questions about how this whole thing works, how we met, what it’s like sharing someone like Haven.
Someone asks if I get jealous and someone else asks if I’ve ever played against my brother. Hah.
I take a deep breath and do my best to keep up, smiling, shrugging, laughing where it fits.
It’s a lot, but it’s also kind of cool. They’re proud of her, they’re cheering for her and that means more to me than I can put into words.
I look back at the screen again. She’s laughing into her mic, eyes bright, completely locked in.
God, I love her.
And Tate as unhinged, infuriating, and smug as he is—he’s part of this too. Part of her. Part of me, whether I like it or not.
We’ve always been at odds, but in the middle of all this madness, we’ve found a way to stop tearing each other apart long enough to hold onto something worth keeping.
One of the monitors shifts feeds again, and this time I don’t immediately look back to hers. I know where she is. I know what she’s doing. Instead Tate’s match fills the screen.
He’s deeper into his bracket now, the kind of match where people stop messing around and start playing like they actually have something to lose.
You can feel it in the pace, in the way the players move more carefully, think a little longer before committing.
He doesn’t, or at least, it doesn’t look like he does.
He’s still fast. Still aggressive and pushing in ways that should be reckless but somehow aren’t. Every move has a purpose behind it, even when it looks chaotic on the surface.
I watch him take a position, hold it just long enough to force the other player into a bad angle, then move before they can recover. I shift my weight, arms crossing tighter across my chest without me really thinking about it.
He finishes the round without much effort, barely reacting when it ends, like it was always going to go that way.
I let out a slow breath, eyes lingering on the screen for a second longer than I mean to.
“Yeah,” I say quietly, more to myself than anyone else. “You’re not losing either.”
Of course they’re both going to keep climbing until there’s nowhere left to go but straight into each other.
The arena lobby is still beyond crazy.
Haven’s between us, her hoodie back on and her hair tucked back.
A girl in a HavenHexed hoodie actually gasps when we pass. “No fucking way.”
Haven gives her a little wave, cheeks pink. “Hey!”
The girl’s eyes widen even more when she sees me, then Tate and her mouth drops. “You’re with both?”
Tate smirks behind his mask. “Got a problem with that?”
She shakes her head too fast. “No! God, no. That’s hot as fuck.” Then she sprints back toward her friends, yelling that she just saw all three of us.
Haven groans under her breath and yanks her hood farther down. “We need caffeine, now.”
I spot a vendor with a neon sign that says Respawn Roast and steer us that way. “Stay behind me,” I mutter, tossing Tate a look. “Try not to snarl at anyone.”
“No promises.”
Haven snorts, pressing her hand to my lower back while we wait.
We finally reach the counter, and Tate orders something black. Haven gets a caramel thing that smells like a sugar coma. I ask for a vanilla latte and brace for the judgment.
Tate leans over. “What’s it like being a basic bitch and a simp?”
I take a sip and raise my brows. “You’re literally wearing a mask indoors. You don’t get to judge.”
We drift toward a half-empty bench near the wall, sinking into the cushions just as a few more people drift by with recognition flashing in their eyes. One of them—a tall, bleach-blond guy with a too-tight hoodie and a smug smirk—starts veering our way.
Haven goes still.
My chest tightens. And that’s when I see him. Dylan. Of fucking course. He’s walking like he owns the place, like he didn’t just get obliterated by Haven less than an hour ago. And for a second, I think he’s going to pass us without a word.
Then he sees her and changes direction. But before he gets within six feet, Tate’s standing up.
He just stares and somehow, it’s worse than his saying anything at all.
Dylan freezes like he’s hit an invisible wall, his jaw ticking and eyes bouncing between all three of us. Then he scoffs under his breath and veers off toward the far side of the lobby, disappearing behind a crowd of photographers.
Haven exhales hard. “Okay, I officially hate this place.”
I squeeze her hand. “You’re good, babe. He’s not touching you. Not even close.”
Tate sits back down slowly, arms crossed. “Would’ve been fun if he tried.”
She leans her head on my shoulder, her fingers reaching to curl around Tate’s sleeve, too.
We sit there, sipping our overpriced coffee, watching the crowd move like some bizarre circus—and for a second, everything’s quiet.
We’re back in the competitor zone now, that stretch of rows lined with PCs, dividers barely keeping out the buzz of the crowd beyond.
Tate’s back at his own spot a few feet away stretching his neck like a boxer about to step into the ring.
Haven’s sliding her headphones over her ears, adjusting her mic, fingers twitching like she’s charging herself up.
This match, It’s him again. Dylan. The rematch she didn’t ask for—but sure as hell isn’t going to back down from.
The chat explodes before the countdown even starts.
“Oh shit, the ex!”
“Is this gonna be toxic or sexy?”
“He doesn’t stand a chance lmao.”
I watch from the VIP room, heart in my throat. I want to be closer, I want to hold her shoulders. I want to scream for her and tell her she’s going to be fine. But I can’t So I stand there.
The match starts. And Haven devours him.
She doesn’t play like she’s trying to win she plays like she’s settling a score. Every shot is another thing he said, another thing he did, another wound she’s spent the last year stitching up herself.
The first kill is surgical. A clean headshot from across the map that makes the whole Twitch chat howl.
The second one? Up close. Personal. When the game cuts to the kill cam, it’s her eyes we see.
I look over at Dylan. He’s two stations down, and even he looks rattled now.
The third round? She baits him, draws him in and then lights him up.
I lose track of how many kills she racks up after that. The scoreboard is a blur.
By the time the final score pops up flashing with Haven’s victory and Dylan’s complete humiliation—there’s a slow, stunned silence across the competitor floor.
Haven rips off her headset and stands, chest heaving, flushed from head to toe, and I swear she glows. Not from the win but from the freedom.
I push down the small set of stairs to meet her, and she doesn’t hesitate to throw herself into my arms.
She hits me hard enough that I have to take a half step back to keep us both upright, but I don’t let go.
My hands come up automatically, one at her back, the other bracing her at the side. Her breathing is uneven against my chest.
“You okay?” I ask quietly, even though the answer’s obvious in the way she’s holding onto me.
She nods, but she doesn’t pull away. “I felt that one,” she says after a second, her voice a little rough around the edges. “Every second of it.”
“I know,” I tell her, my hand moving slightly against her back. “You didn’t leave anything on the table.”
She lets out a breath that almost turns into a laugh, her grip on my hoodie tightening for a second before easing.
When she finally leans back, it’s slow, like she’s not quite ready to let the moment go just yet. Her face is flushed. “You watched it all?” she asks, searching my face like she needs the confirmation even though she already knows.
“Every second,” I say without hesitation.
Something shifts in her before she glances past me toward the screens on stage I don’t have to turn to know what she’s looking for. Tate’s still in. I bring my attention back to her, brushing my thumb once along her side, grounding both of us back into the same space.
“Top three,” I remind her, my voice quieter now but just as certain.
Her eyes snap back to mine.
“Top three,” she repeats.
Tate sidles up next to us within a few moments. “You made him your bitch pretty girl, I’m proud.”
“Language,” I say.
“Grow up,” he shoots back. Haven laughs into my shoulder, and I feel her body start to relax just a little.
“Top three now,” she murmurs. “I’m so close.”
“You’re unstoppable,” I say, kissing her temple. “And we’re right here.”