Page 64 of No Save Point

Tate blinks. Haven blinks, and I walk straight past both of them and drop onto Tate’s bed, stretching out like I fucking belong here.

That does it. Tate leans back in his chair, arms crossing, expression shimmering with something almost suspicious. “Alright,” he says slowly. “What the fuck is this?”

I shrug. “Just getting comfortable.”

Tate tilts his head. “You’re not mad?”

I grin. “Nah. I get it. If I were you, I’d want to sit under Haven too.” Haven chokes on air. This isn’t the reaction he expected. He thought I’d lose it. That’s exactly why I don’t, because there is nothing Tate hates more than being predictable. And now? Now he has no fucking clue what to do with this. For the first time in a long time, he’s off his game.

Tate exhales, dragging a hand down his face, muttering something under his breath before gripping Haven’s waist and practically lifting her off him, setting her on her feet like she’s been evicted. “Alright,” he sighs. “Get the fuck out.”

Haven stumbles slightly, still in shock, still trying to compute the fact that this entire situation just flipped sideways. I grin, pushing up from his bed, stepping past him before clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Sweet dreams, big bro.”

Tate scowls. “Shut the fuck up Carter.”

I crack up, reaching for Haven’s hand and pulling her with me as I turn toward the door, dragging her out and down the stairs before Tate can decide to start talking shit again. And when I glance over at Haven, she’s still trying to process what the fuck just happened. Yeah. That makes two of us.

Haven drops onto my bed when we get back to my room, like the day has finally caught up with her, her body sinking deep. She exhales, the kind of breath that carries weight, not exhaustion, not comfort, but something heavier, something that lingers between us as the room settles into quiet.

The only source of light is the TV across the room, casting shifting patterns onto the walls, painting her skin in dreamy hues, making her look almost dreamlike, almost untouchable in the dim glow.

Her fingers fiddle absently with the hem of my hoodie that she’s still wearing, twisting the fabric between her hands, her brows pulling together just slightly, the way they do when she’s deep in thought, when something’s taking up space in her mind but she isn’t sure how to let it out. And I already know. Because I feel it too.

Tomorrow. The weight of it sits between us like a fucking barrier neither of us wants to acknowledge, stretching into the space, filling the silence with everything that hasn’t been said yet. She doesn’t have to say the words for me to know she’s thinking about leaving, about getting back in her car and making the drive home, about how this, whatever this is has to shift back into something different once she’s gone.

And I fucking hate it. I rub a hand over my face, dragging my fingers through my hair, my stomach tightening with the kind of frustration I don’t even know how to voice. I don’t want her to go. Not tomorrow. Not ever. But what the fuck am I supposed to do about that? Because the truth is, I have no idea how to ask her to stay longer.

I grab the remote pressing random buttons until something, anything comes on the screen. Some action movie, loud and fast-paced, bullets flying, explosions lighting up the frame like a goddamn fireworks show. It should be enough to drown out the thoughts hammering through my skull, should be enough to shove the reality of tomorrow into the background, at least for a little while. But it doesn’t work. Because I can still feel her. She shifts slightly, pulling her knee up to her chest again, her fingers resting against her lips, her eyes darting toward me, catching the way I’m gripping the remote just a little too tightly, the way my jaw has been locked since she sat down.

She doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches. Feels it. And then, softly, hesitantly. “Carter?”

I force myself to keep my gaze on the TV, but I feel her turn toward me, the warmth of her body so close, the quiet weight of her attention pressing in on me. “What’s wrong?”

I should’ve known she’d catch it. She always does. I don’t answer her right away. I keep my eyes locked on the screen like the flashing images of car chases and shootouts are enough to drown out the mess in my head, but it’s pointless. Haven’s looking at me, not just glancing, not just waiting for a casual answer, she’s reading me, peeling me open with nothing but her presence, with the way she always knows exactly when something is wrong.

I inhale deeply, exhaling just as slow, my grip flexing around the remote before I toss it onto the nightstand, letting it clatter against the wood as the noise from the TV turns into background static. My fingers twitch against my thigh, my entire body wired too tight, and before I can think too hard about it, before I can stop myself from acting on the need to be closer to her, I reach out, my hands finding her waist, fingers pressing into the soft fabric of her hoodie as I pull her into my lap.

Haven lets out a soft gasp, her balance shifting as she moves with me, instinctively bracing her hands against my chest, her wide brown eyes locking onto mine the second she settles against me. My arms wrap around her, grounding me just as much as I hope I’m grounding her, my palms spreading against her lower back, keeping her there, needing her there.

Her brows pull together, concern flashing across her face, her voice softer now, careful. “Carter,” she murmurs, her fingers curling slightly against my shirt. “Talk to me.”

I exhale sharply, my grip on her tightening, my forehead dipping just slightly toward her shoulder before I force myself to meet her gaze again, because I need to say it. I need her to hear it. “I don’t want you to leave,” I admit, my voice rough, quieter than I meant for it to be but somehow heavier than I expected. “I know you have to, I know this was just a visit, but…” I shake my head, my jaw clenching, frustration burning in my chest. “Fuck, Haven, I don’t want this to be over.”

Her expression shifts, but she doesn’t pull away, doesn’t brush it off, doesn’t give me some easy, distant response. Instead, she shifts again, her fingers moving, trailing along the side of my neck, her touch light but firm, like she’s letting me know she’s here, really here, in this moment with me. “It’s not over,” she says softly, her thumb brushing against my skin, her voice steady, sure. “Just because I have to leave doesn’t mean this ends.”

I stare at her, swallowing hard, trying to hold onto those words, trying to believe in them the way she does, but there’s a part of me, this deep, aching part that worries the second she walks out that door, everything shifts back to how it was before.

I don’t want that. I don’t want her to just be a voice in my headset, a name in my chat, a presence that exists in pixels and messages and missed calls. I want her. Here. With me. “Tell me you’ll come back,” I say, my fingers pressing slightly deeper against her back, needing the reassurance, needing something solid to hold onto. “Tell me this wasn’t just—” I pause, shaking my head, forcing myself to breathe before meeting her gaze again. “Tell me this isn’t just a one-time thing.”

Haven’s eyes soften, something warm, something certain settling in them, and when she speaks, her voice is quiet but unwavering. “I’ll come back.”

I stare at her, my breathing just slightly uneven, my pulse pushing too hard against my skin as her words settle in, as her fingers trace light patterns along the back of my neck, grounding me and undoing me at the same time. The weight in my chest hasn’t lifted, not fully, but something about the way she says it, like it’s a fact, not a maybe, keeps me from spiraling further.

Then, she tilts her head, a small, teasing smile playing at her lips, her gaze bounces between my eyes, my mouth, like she’s completely aware of the effect she’s having on me. “Carter, you’re literally fifty miles away,” she says, amusement laced through her tone, her fingers still absently toying with the hair at the nape of my neck. “Do you really think I’ll be able to stay gone for long?”

Her words, the way she says them so easily, like it’s not a question, like it’s not even a possibility that she wouldn’t come back, like being apart is actually what sounds ridiculous to her. She’s sitting in my lap, warm and solid and real, her voice threading through my system, every little movement she makes sending a slow-building ache through my body, every shift of her weight pressing her closer, the soft drag of her fingertips against my skin. I grit my teeth, swallowing against the heat creeping up my throat, my hands flexing where they rest against her waist, feeling the slow pull of gravity trying to drag me deeper into her, deeper into this fucking feeling that’s threatening to swallow me whole. She has no idea what she’s doing to me right now. Or maybe… fuck, she definitely does.

Her smile turns just slightly softer, her weight settling more fully against me, her touch dragging lower, and I feel my control slipping, fraying at the edges, the lines between tension and something hungrier blurring so fast it makes my head spin. I move beneath her, trying to focus, trying to breathe through it, but she’s already leaning in, her breath warm against my cheek, her voice a quiet tease.

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