Page 5 of No Save Point

I send it, and hope like hell she knows I mean it. Every fucking word. I drum my fingers against the tabletop, staring at my phone like it might fill the silence for me. Like maybe she’ll text again. Like maybe just hearing from her again will calm this chaos in my chest.

Not that I’m counting the seconds or anything.

The restless energy hasn’t left me since she agreed to come. It’s been riding me hard all morning, making it impossible to sit still, to think straight, to do anything except replay every message we’ve sent over the last year in my head like some hopeless idiot.

Maybe I am, I’ve been falling for her since the first time she laughed at one of my stupid jokes in chat. Maybe I never stood a chance the second she called me her favorite with that grin in her voice.

All I know is that tomorrow, I finally get to see her. Truthfully, I’m scared shitless I won’t be enough.

I should do something productive. Burn off some tension, work through it. Before I internally combust, I lace up my running shoes, shoving my earbuds in as I step outside. The air does little to cool the heat under my skin, but at least the steady rhythm of my feet hitting the pavement gives me something to focus on. One mile. Then two. The ache in my legs feels good, grounding, but my thoughts refuse to slow down.

By the time I make it back home, my hoodie is damp with sweat, my lungs burning in a way that feels more like frustration than exertion. I roll my shoulders as I climb the steps to my place, pushing my damp hair back before it falls into my eyes.

The dirty blonde waves always need a trim sooner than I remember to schedule one, but I like it better on the longer side. Tate says it makes me look like a stupid California surfer who ended up in the woods.

He says it like it’s an insult, but I’m pretty sure that just means I’m the hotter twin. Not my fault he went for dark hair and tattoos. Right now though, there’s only one girl I actually care about impressing.

I shove the thought aside and push open the door—only to catch a football straight to the gut.

“Shit—” I grunt, catching the football before it can knock the air out of me.

Hunter’s laugh echoes through the house. “Nice hands, man. Still garbage, though,” he teases. He’s sprawled on my couch, legs kicked up.

Hunter’s been in my life longer than my first bad haircut. He doesn’t knock. Doesn’t ask. Just shows up, raids my fridge, and starts running his mouth like it’s part of his morning routine. I toss the ball onto the counter, shooting him a look. “Did you know you’re an idiot?”

He grins. “Yep. So, what’s the occasion? You never texted me back last night.”

I head to the fridge, grabbing a water bottle as casually as I can. “Haven’s coming tomorrow.”

“No fucking way.”

I crack the cap open, trying to smother the stupid grin that keeps threatening to take over. “Yeah.”

Hunter sits up so fast the couch creaks. “So this is actually happening? The internet girlfriend you never shut up about is coming here? To see you?”

“She’s not my—” I shake my head, cutting myself off before I can lie. “It’s not like that.”

Hunter laughs like I just told the dumbest joke of the year. “Carter. Buddy. Do you even hear yourself? You talk about this girl like she’s the second coming of Christ.”

I take a long sip of water instead of answering, because he’s right.

It’s not just the way Haven plays like she was born with a controller in her hands or the way she can trash-talk anyone into the dirt but still turn around and be everyone’s favorite person. It’s not even how every damn message from her makes me smile. It’s that I’ve spent the past year watching her from a screen, wanting more.

Hunter nudges me with his foot. “What’s your game plan? Gonna confess your undying love? Or wait ‘til she gets here and just hope she figures it out?”

I roll my eyes. “She doesn’t see me like that.” Not the way I see her.

He raises an eyebrow. “And whose fault is that?” I don’t answer. There’s another problem. A six foot two problem with a shitty attitude and a neon mask.

Hunter must of read it on my face. “You told Tate yet?”

I cough out a laugh. “He knows.”

“And?”

“He’s pretending he doesn’t care.” That part stings a little. Not because I want a fight, but because deep down, I get it. I know what it feels like to want her too much. To hide behind distance and timing and pretend it’s not eating you alive.

Hunter lets out a low whistle. “That’ll last all of five minutes.”

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