Page 33 of No Save Point

Haven

Carter looks like he’s short-circuited. Like his entire brain just blue-screened and rebooted, but the system won’t turn back on.

His shoulders are locked, his jaw tight, his hands flexing and clenching like his body is actively fighting itself, trying to form a response, trying to do something, anything, but failing spectacularly.

And I should be mortified. I should be pissed, embarrassed, scrambling to change the subject, pretending that Tate never just walked in here, dropped a nuke on our heads, and left like a satisfied ass.

Instead, I’m just sitting here, watching Carter break down in real time, and I kind of… like it. I like the way his lips part slightly, like he wants to say something but physically can’t. I like the way his ears are tinted red, how his fingers twitch against his knee, how his leg bounces once before he forces himself to still. I like how he looks, wildly thrown off, completely unprepared.

Carter is all big, warm energy, excited to see you, always ready to make you feel like the most important thing in the room. He’s easy, open, unguarded in a way that’s rare as hell.

Tate is clearly a fucking hellhound. Guarded, dark energy, calculated in everything he does, ready to sink his teeth in the second he finds something worth biting.

Tate has Carter in a choke hold without even being in the room. I cross my arms, shifting slightly, watching the tension in Carter’s jaw, watching the way his knuckles flex against his thigh, still looking like his entire world is crumbling beneath him.

Before I can talk myself out of it, before I can let the moment slip past, before I can pretend that Tate’s words didn’t just plant something in my head that I suddenly need to fucking know. I lean in slightly, voice quiet, testing, teasing. “Do you?”

Carter blinks once, slow, too slow, like his brain is trying to drag itself back to life.

I tilt my head slightly, eyes locked on his. “Do you think about me when you—”

His exhale is sharp, harsh, a single curse slipping out under his breath, his fingers tightening, his knee bouncing again, like his body is actively fighting itself. And I know I should stop. But Carter is so caught in the moment. So instead of backing down—I push. Just a little. I lean in, voice softer, slower, smoother. “Do you touch yourself to the thought of kissing me Carter?”

Carter inhales sharply. I wait. I need to hear him say it.

His fingers dig into his jeans, his jaw so tight it looks like it might crack under the pressure, his chest rising too slow, too heavy, like every breath is a battle. His knee bounces again, his fingers flex, and when he looks at me, it’s different. He swallows hard, like he has to physically force the words up his throat. And then, barely above a whisper. “Yeah… I don—didn’t mean to,” he says, the way his eyes meet mine for half a second before he forces himself to look away, like it’s too much, like it’s too real now that it’s out in the open.

Then, softer this time, weaker, more like he’s admitting it to himself than to me, “Fuck, Haven. I feel so guilty about it now.”

I realize something in that moment, Carter isn’t just frozen because he admitted it. He’s frozen because he’s Carter, of course he feels guilty for wanting me. For thinking about me in ways he doesn’t think he’s supposed to. For not being able to stop.

I move slightly, watching the way his jaw clenches like he’s bracing himself for me to be horrified, for me to push him away, for me to finally decide that maybe coming here was a mistake after all.

But that’s the thing, where he’s all wrong. Now I’m the one who can’t breathe. I shift even closer, closing the last bit of space between us, my knee pressing against his thigh, my fingers dragging lightly along his arm, tracing the ridges of his forearm, feeling the heat of his skin beneath my fingertips. His breathing stutters, his hands clenching against his jeans like he needs something to ground himself, something to stop himself from completely unraveling.

But I’m not letting him get his footing. Not when he’s spent this entire time convincing himself he doesn’t get to have this, doesn’t get to have me, doesn’t get to want me the way I know he does.

I shift my weight, tilting my head, letting my fingers slip lower, barely brushing over the back of his hand before I let my palm rest there fully, my grip light but firm, like I’m daring him to move first, like I’m daring him to pull away when we both know he won’t.

He swallows hard, the muscles in his throat working, his lips parting like he wants to say something, like he wants to tell me this is a bad idea, that we shouldn’t be doing this, but the words don’t come. He just sits there, tense, unsteady, unsure.

I let my fingers spread slightly, let my palm settle more firmly against his, watching his reaction, that shift of his shoulders like he’s bracing for something he doesn’t even know how to handle. He’s so goddamn nervous, his entire body locked up, and it’s making something settle hot and deep inside me.

I lean in just slightly, letting my lips part, my voice softer now, deliberate, making sure he hears every word I’m about to say. “There’s nothing to feel guilty about.”

His eyes snap to mine instantly, and for the first time since Tate left the room, he looks desperate. Like he needs me to mean it. Needs me to say it again, to rewrite the script that’s been playing in his head for god knows how long, the one where he doesn’t get to have this, doesn’t get to have me.

His breathing picks up, his fingers twitching like he wants to curl them around mine but doesn’t trust himself to make the first move, like if he lets himself have even a fraction of what he wants, he won’t be able to stop.

I tighten my grip, just barely, just enough to let him feel the pressure, just enough to let him know I’m still here, still touching him, still choosing to be right here with him. His body shudders, his lashes flickering slightly, his throat working around another rough swallow. He doesn’t move, like a man holding onto the very last shred of his self-control, like he thinks if he stays perfectly frozen, if he doesn’t react, if he doesn’t acknowledge what’s happening, maybe it won’t be real, but it is. I let my fingers flex against his, slow, the heat of his skin beneath mine making something throb low and heavy, because he’s so goddamn tense, so clearly overwhelmed by the weight of whatever he’s feeling right now, and I can feel every ounce of it in the air between us.

I shift closer, slow enough that he could stop me, but he doesn’t. He just sits there, locked up, barely breathing, watching me with wide eyes, like he can’t quite believe I’m still here, still touching him, still pressing my fingers into his palm like I want him just as much as he wants me. And just to make sure he really understands that, I give him a little more. I let my other hand move, dragging up his forearm, slow and warm, my nails barely skimming the muscle there, my touch light but unmistakable.

His reaction is instantaneous. His whole body shudders, a sharp inhale stuttering through his chest, his fingers curling so tight against his knees that I almost think he’s going to tear the denim.

I tilt my head, watching him, waiting for him to say something, to stop me, to finally break the silence that’s been hanging between us like a wire pulled too tight. And finally, after what feels like forever, his lips part, his breath shuddering, his voice low and strained and so fucking guilty. “Haven…”

It’s barely a word. More like a plea. Like he wants me to stop but also wants me to keep going, like he doesn’t know which one will kill him faster. I let my nails drag just a little lower, watching the way his jaw flexes, watching the way his breath catches, watching the way he’s so painfully, obviously, completely fucking unprepared for this.

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