Page 78 of No Save Point

His brows furrow, the tension softening just slightly, the way his fingers ease against my skin like he’s trying to understand, trying to make sense of what I’m saying.

So I keep going. “Tate makes me feel reckless,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. “Like I can lose control, like I can give in to the parts of myself I’ve always kept locked away. The less softer side I show to everyone. And you—” I exhale, moving closer to him and pressing my forehead against his. “You make me feel like I don’t have to be afraid of that, of anything. That no matter what, I have a soft place to fall.”

Carter’s breath stutters, his arms tightening around me, his forehead pressing harder against mine like he’s trying to memorize this moment, like he’s trying to hold onto it before it disappears.

When he finally speaks, his voice is low in a way I don’t think I’ve ever heard before. “You can.”

The words hit me deep, sinking into my chest, filling every empty space inside me, every doubt, every fear, until all that’s left is him, his voice, his warmth, his promise.

Carter doesn’t say anything else, he doesn’t need to. His arms just tighten around me, pulling me closer, holding me like he’s afraid to let go, like if he does, I might slip through his fingers, might change my mind, might leave before either of us is ready for it. But I can’t change my mind. Not about him, not about Tate and not about any of this.

I let my body sink into his, let the warmth of him press into every aching muscle, every sore spot, every bruised and wrecked part of me, and I don’t think I’ve ever felt this kind of exhaustion before. Not just the kind that settles into my limbs, but the kind that makes my mind slow down, that makes my thoughts finally quiet, that makes it impossible to focus on anything but him.

In the morning, I have to leave. I have to go back to my world, back to my apartment, my routines, my carefully constructed independence. Back to pretending this thing between us is just a moment, not something that’s been burrowing under my skin since the first time Carter messaged me. Back to acting like the weight of his eyes on me doesn’t make me feel seen in a way that terrifies me.

Carter buries his face against my hair, his lips brushing over my temple, his voice low and wrecked as he whispers, “Sleep, Haven,” I know that, at least for tonight I don’t have to think about anything else. So I let my eyes close, let my body melt into his, let myself stop fighting against whatever this thing is between us.

38

Carter

The morning light filters in through the blinds, casting long streaks of gold and pale blue across my room, soft and quiet, the kind of light that makes everything feel suspended in time, like the world hasn’t quite woken up yet.

But I have, and so has the weight of everything Haven said last night. I glance down at her, still tangled up in my sheets, my shirt swallowing her frame, her hair a dark mess against my pillow, her breathing slow and steady, completely fucking exhausted from everything that’s happened over the last few days.

She’s leaving today. The realization almost burying an ache in me.

All I know in this moment is that I can’t let her go without talking to Tate first. I carefully ease myself out of bed, making sure not to jostle her, my muscles aching as I push myself to my feet, still feeling the lingering soreness.

I move quietly through the hall, avoiding the creaky floorboard near the end, feet cold against the hardwood as I pause outside Tate’s door.

He’s awake, I can feel it. I don’t knock. I push the door open, stepping inside, and sure enough, he’s sitting at his desk, his mask discarded on the nightstand, his hair a mess, his hands gripping the edge of the chair like he already knows why I’m here.

His eyes slowly find me, unreadable, guarded. Sometimes I wonder if he even really sleeps.

I cross my arms, leaning against the doorframe. “We, uh we need to talk.”

Tate exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face. “Yeah,” he mutters, voice rough from exhaustion. “We fucking do.”

He leans back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest, he clearly knows what this is about. He knows why I’m here, and I know him well enough to know that he’s already figured out a way to twist this conversation in his favor before I even say a word. I don’t give him the chance.

I step inside, shutting the door behind me, the click of the latch sealing us in, forcing this conversation to happen whether either of us wants it to or not.

“Haven told me what she’s thinking,” I say, my voice steady, even though my pulse is hammering against my ribs, even though this feels like stepping into some kind of dangerous territory, some place neither of us have ever been before. “About you, about me. About… all of this.”

Tate’s jaw tightens, his fingers tapping against his bicep, his expression almost unreadable, but his silence says more than enough. He’s letting me talk, he’s waiting. So I keep going. “She doesn’t know what to do with this, Tate,” I admit, running a hand through my hair, exhaling hard, trying to shake the tension out of my shoulders. “She’s confused as hell, and honestly? So am I.”

Tate lets out a low breath through his nose, his gaze looking past me for half a second, like he’s searching for an escape route, like he’d rather be anywhere but here. I won’t let him run from this, not this time.

I step closer, standing directly in front of him, forcing him to look at me, to face this, to deal with what we’ve gotten ourselves into.

“Do you even know what you’re doing?” I ask, voice quieter now and treading more careful. “Or is this just another game to you?”

Tate’s eyes snap back to mine, a sharp edge cutting through his expression, but it’s not anger. “You think this is a game to me?” he says, his voice low, almost bitter. “You think I don’t fucking know exactly what’s happening here?”

I clench my jaw, fists curling at my sides, because that’s not what I meant, but fuck, maybe it is. Maybe I need to hear him say it. I need to know what the hell is going on inside his head before this whole thing spirals even more out of control.

“Then tell me,” I demand, my voice firmer more fucking desperate. “Because I know how I feel about her. I know what this means to me. But you—” I shake my head, narrowing my eyes. “I don’t trust you not to fuck this up, even if you don’t want to.”

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