She shrugs but there’s a pink flush on her cheeks. “He makes really good nachos.”
“Is it getting serious?”
“I don’t know,” she shrugs, then smiles. “Maybe.”
“Text me later?”
“You’ll be busy,” she teases, eyeing both Carter and Tate on her way out.
“Cassie.”
She winks and disappears into the hallway. I stretch, closing the bracket window and rotating in my chair.
Carter’s watching me like he’s waiting for a cue. “You okay?” he asks softly.
“Actually… yeah.”
He smiles, relieved. “I was thinking about making dinner. That okay with you?”
I blink. “You want to cook?”
“I make a mean stir fry,” he says, heading for the kitchen. “Stay in here, relax. Get a few rounds in or nap.”
I smile. Thank fuck for men who cook. “Thanks, Carter.”
“Don’t thank me until you taste it,” he calls over his shoulder, disappearing down the hall. Tate stays behind, still leaning against my desk.
I shift slightly. “You don’t want to help him?”
He snorts. “You think he wants help?”
Fair enough. I spin slowly in my chair to face him. “You gonna hover or pull up a chair?”
He grabs my stool, spins it around, and drops into it backwards, arms draped over the back.
I remember the first time I seen him sit like that. He was mid-rant, headset half-off, mouthing off about some trash sniper who kept spawn-killing him, and he dropped into his chair just like that. Backward, cocky, loose-limbed and fuming. Fuck, it was hot. Stupid hot.
“So, what’s going on?”
I swallow. He saw the screen earlier. I could lie, but I don’t want to. “I didn’t want to say anything yet,” I begin, twisting my fingers in my lap. “Because I didn’t want it to turn into a whole thing.”
He waits. Patient, but clearly already tense.
“It’s Dylan,” I say. “He’s in the bracket.”
His entire body stills. He doesn’t speak at first, just breathes once, sharply before his jaw tightens. “Does Carter know?”
“Yeah. I told him first.”
“And you didn’t tell me at the same time because…?”
“Because I knew you’d react like this.”
He leans forward, eyes locked on mine. “You mean rationally? Like someone who wants to break both of his wrists for what he did to you? And I know I don’t even know the half of the shit Haven.”
“I just didn’t want it to be about him,” I say quietly. “I want to win for me. Not because he’s watching. Not because of what he did. I want to prove I’m better, that I got out.”
He stares at me for a long moment then he reaches out, pressing his hand to my thigh. “You already did,” he says. “Just by surviving him. You don’t have to prove a goddamn fucking thing.”
