He posts his first tweet before I can stop him: found out my girlfriend is hotter than me AND better at shooters. please respect my privacy during this difficult time.
The notifications start rolling in immediately. Likes. Replies. One that says “YOU’RE THE SWEET ONE? OMG I GET IT NOW.”
“You’re causing chaos,” I mutter, absolutely delighted.
Carter wiggles his brows. “Just trying to keep up with the mask-wearing menace.”
As if on cue, Tate rounds the corner into the living room, sipping an energy drink and looking generally unamused. “You tweeting now?”
Carter lifts his phone. “Yep.”
Tate raises an eyebrow. “Cute.”
“I try.”
“Don’t get cocky.”
“Too late.”
I’mhowling as Tate plops down on the other end of the couch, eyes bouncing between us. “You gonna tell your followers how you cried during her last match?”
Carter flips him off.
Twitter explodes when Carter posts a second photo me in the new setup, the soft lighting making everything look a little more surreal than it should. He’s in the background, the caption reads
her:aiming for finals.me:aiming to stay conscious when she looks at me like that.
I throw a pillow at him.
His replies are chaos. “we get it, you’re in love.” “sir this is a wendy’s.” “can we clone him???”
But the last one gets me. “no wonder nooneghost is so feral, if I had to compete with that for her attention I’d be unhinged too.”
Carter sees it and grins over at me. “Too much?”
I shake my head, cheeks warm. “Not enough.”
It’s nearly midnight by the time we climb into Tate’s car.
The streets are quiet, punctuated only by the low hum of streetlights. I’m tucked into the passenger seat, Carter curled up in the back, his legs too long for the space but not complaining, hoodie strings clutched in his hands like a comfort object.
Tate drives with one hand on the wheel and one draped lazily over the shifter.
“Where are we even going?” I ask, voice soft, eyes half-lidded as I lean into the doorframe.
“Nowhere,” he mutters. “Just out.”
We drive in silence for a while. Carter hums quietly under his breath in the backseat, occasionally commenting on the odd bumper sticker or weird mailbox we pass. Tate’s voice rumbles low when he does respond with short, dry observations that make me smile even when I’m too tired to laugh.
Eventually, my eyes get too heavy to keep open. I shift, curling my legs up in the seat, head resting against the cool glass and I fall asleep.
I don’t remember when we stop. But I wake to warmth. Carter’s voice is low in my ear. “Hey, sweetheart. You’re home.”
My lashes flutter. I blink into his chest, he’s carrying me. “You didn’t have to—” I mumble.
“I wanted to.”
I smile into his chest.
