Page 32 of No Save Point

He crosses his arms over his chest, and lets his eyes slide deliberately over to Haven. “So,” he chuckles. “You finally pieced it all together, huh?”

Haven huffs out a dry laugh, her arms crossing over her chest as she tilts her head at him, like she’s still sizing him up. “Not like you made it hard. You literally left your dumb mask lying around like you were hoping I’d recognize it.”

Tate shrugs, entirely unbothered. “Maybe I was.”

I stiffen instantly, I know that tone. That’s not just him stirring the pot, that’s him playing with fire just to see what happens.

Haven’s not backing down. She leans forward, elbows on her knees, eyes locked on him. “Well, congrats. You got your big boy dramatic reveal. What now?”

Tate’s smirk deepens, and I swear to god, I feel my entire body go rigid. “Depends,” he drawls, pushing off the doorframe, taking a few slow, deliberate steps forward. “How much of our little history have you told my brother?”

My stomach drops. Haven frowns, genuinely confused, not realizing what the hell he’s doing yet. “What history?”

Tate lifts a brow. “Oh, come on. You mean to tell me you don’t remember all those little one-on-one matches? The trash talk? The wagers?”

Haven shifts slightly, brows furrowing like she’s trying to remember, trying to decide if there was something she missed.

I snap before I can stop myself. “Fuck off, Tate.”

Tate turns his smirk on me, slow and sharp. “Why? Don’t like the idea of your girl knowing how much time she’s spent with me?”

“Tate,” I grit out, low and warning, my hands curled into fists at my sides, my entire body locked down tight. Because if I don’t physically stop myself, I might actually put him through a fucking wall.

Haven blinks between us, processing, finally catching up to whatever game Tate is playing, whatever trap he’s laying out in front of her, whatever the fuck he’s trying to stir up just for the fun of watching me lose it. He just grins wider, like this is all going exactly how he wants it to.

I lean back against the couch, arms crossing over my chest, keeping my body relaxed, my expression neutral, like I’m completely unbothered by whatever game he thinks he’s playing. “I know what you’re doing,” I say, voice smooth, controlled, just enough weight behind it to let him know I’m not biting. “And maybe you’re reading a little too deep into it.”

The smirk twitches at the edges. Barely, but I catch it. He likes to push buttons, likes to set fires and watch people scramble to put them out, likes to know he’s the one steering the conversation. I just flipped the fucking script on him.

I see the moment he decides he doesn’t like that. The slow, measured inhale through his nose, the way his jaw tics before he smooths it out, the way his eyes flick to Haven like she’s suddenly the more interesting part of this equation. I don’t like that, not one fucking bit.

Haven adjusts beside me, exhaling just a little too fast, like she’s been holding her breath, like she doesn’t quite know how to sit in this moment now that Tate has turned his attention to her.

I glance at her, catch the way her fingers curl against her knee, the way she’s suddenly too aware of the way both of us are looking at her, the way heat creeps up her neck.

She’s flustered. Not just from Tate’s presence, not just from the weight of his gaze, but from the fact that I just dismissed whatever angle he was trying to play, shut down whatever idea he was planting before it could take root. I just made it clear that whatever Tate thinks happened between them? It was nothing.

Tate doesn’t like being nothing. His smirk returns, but it’s different now, colder. He finally pushes back. “Yeah?” he murmurs, stepping further into the room, not breaking eye contact with me, not even glancing at Haven now, like he’s only talking to me. “Then why does she look like she’s not sure you’re right?”

My stomach fucking drops, because I feel it the second Haven stiffens beside me. He fucking sees it too. And for a brief, fleeting moment, I think he’s finally going to leave it alone. That he’s had his fun, that he got what he wanted, that he’s going to disappear upstairs without throwing another goddamn grenade into the room. Of course, I should know better.

He pauses in the doorway, cocks his head slightly, like he’s considering something. Then, with that same deliberate confidence that makes my blood pressure skyrocket, he finally speaks. “Alright, Carter,” he say, voice low, making it somehow even worse. “You can stop being a pussy now and kiss her—”

I already know I’m about to regret existing.

“—like you wish you could while you touch yourself at night.”

The air fucking disappears from the room. My stomach drops straight to the goddamn floor. Haven inhales so sharply it’s like she just got slapped.

Tate fucking walks back upstairs like he didn’t just ruin my entire existence in one sentence. Like he didn’t just shatter the fragile fucking grip I had on this night.

I don’t move, I physically cannot move. My pulse is pounding, hammering, my entire body locked in place, my jaw tight enough to break, my muscles tense like I just got hit by a goddamn truck.

I realize Haven is still staring at me. I turn my head, hesitant, reluctant, already knowing I’m going to hate whatever expression she’s wearing. Yep, she looks like she just got her entire fucking world flipped upside down.

Mouth slightly open, eyes wide, shocked, like she doesn’t know whether to be offended or something else entirely. I try to think of something to say. Some way to recover. Some way to undo whatever the fuck just happened. But there’s nothing. There is absolutely nothing, because Tate, doesn’t miss. I am so, so fucking screwed.

15

---