I hum. “You’re cute.”
“Deadass shut up.”
Carter groans softly, shifting behind me. “Are you two flirting or fighting?”
“Both,” I whisper, grinning.
Tate mutters something unintelligible but his hand doesn’t move. It just settles back into my hair again, slow and soothing.. I let it lull me back under. If this is what midnight feels like between the three of us—soft touches, quiet confessions, safety tucked between sarcasm and skin—then yeah. I could get used to it forever.
24
Tate
The kill shot lands clean with the final score.
The chat blows up instantly with the announcement that I qualify for the tournament. Exploding with caps-locked usernames, fire emojis, and edits quickly being spammed in real-time. My headset buzzes with static from too many notifications trying to come through at once. Subs pour in like rain.
My hand drops to my thigh and lands on Haven’s hand.
We’ve been sitting like this for half the match, her curled up on the edge of the couch next to me, the gaming chair angled enough to keep her in my periphery with her knee touching mine.
I reach over and grab my phone from the desk before I can change my mind. I snap a pic, making sure not to include my face. Just my hand draped possessively over hers, with myfingers curled over her delicate ones; clear enough to make my point. Mine. I post it with the captionFor motivation.
That’s all it takes as my feed detonates within seconds. Screenshots, theories and instantly fast fan edits dropping. Some catch the matching hoodie sleeves. I don’t reply to a single one before I mute the alerts.
I sit back in my chair my hand still covering hers, Haven shifts under my hand, just enough to pull my attention back. She slides her hand out and stands up, heading toward the kitchen. “I’m gonna grab a snack.”
Carter doesn’t say anything, which is how I know something’s off.
He’s sitting on one of the recliners, half-heartedly clicking through a digital storefront like he’s trying to care about game skins and add-on packs, but he hasn’t actually selected anything. His foot taps against the floor, restless. He hasn’t looked at me once since I grabbed my phone.
The post has already hit four digits of engagement.
I glance at him again. He’s pretending he’s not clearly spiraling about something stupid.
So I break the silence. “You gonna pout over there all day, or…?”
His eyes dart up, startled. “What?”
“You’ve had the same skin highlighted for ten minutes. If you’re trying to impulse-buy your feelings, at least commit.”
He exhales, sits back in the chair, rubs the back of his neck like he’s trying to scrub off the tension. “It’s not— I’m not pouting.”
I raise a brow. “You sure about that?”
He shrugs, his eyes glancing toward the phone still in my hand. “Just… You post shit like that and the whole internet melts. I say one thing about Haven on stream and it’s like I’m soft-launching my shame.”
Ah. There it is. I set my phone down, screen face-up, the photo still visible. “You jealous, little brother?”
Carter’s mouth twists. “No. Maybe. I don’t know.”
“Honest,” I say dryly.
He shoots me a glare, but it’s all frustration and none of the fight. “It’s not like I want the same attention you get. You live in the spotlight while I’m barely figuring out how to stream without tripping over my own mic.”
“But?”
“But sometimes it feels like everyone’s watchingyou. Like I’m… less in it. Less seen.”