I tighten my grip on the edge of my desk like if I can just hold onto something solid enough I won’t completely spiral out of myself. My eyes drag back to the monitor, like maybe if I stare at it long enough it’ll feel normal again. But it doesn’t, it just looks like a screen.
I open a match just to stare at the lobby before I switch over to my settings instead, flipping through options I have memorized, like there’s some hidden fix buried in there for whatever the hell is wrong with me right now.
I exit out again, I can’t even warm up.
That’s the part that really gets me, what happens when I’m not in my room, when there’s no reset button? No closing the tab and pretending it didn’t happen?
For a split second—just one, quiet and terrifying—I think about not going at all. Until I hear the knock.
Carter’s voice calls through my shut door. Him and Tate had let me sleep in this morning. “Hey, sweetheart. You okay?”
Then the door creaks open and Carter peeks his head in, he sees me at my desk. The way I’m trying to holding myself still. I watch it hit him—the way his brow furrows, his whole body softens.
He doesn’t say anything, just walks in and wraps his arms around me from behind, his chin resting on my shoulder, heart pressed to my back like he’s trying to slow the beat of mine with his. “Hey,” he whispers. “Talk to me.”
I shake my head, I don’t have the words. He presses a kiss to the side of my neck, “Okay. Then just let me hold you for a minute.”
And he does until Tate strolls in. He takes one look at me, then at Carter, and sighs like we’re all so very dramatic. “Right,” he says, clapping his hands once. “Up. Move. Out of the chair.”
I blink at him. “What?”
Carter looks confused too. “Dude, she’s having a moment—”
“She’s about to have a new setup,” Tate interrupts. “Get up.”
“What are you—Tate , seriously—”
He stalks toward my desk like a man on a mission, unplugging cables, sliding my keyboard aside, grabbing the little tools he brought from home like he’s been waiting for an excuse to do this. “You’re stressed. Your gear’s half-broken. Your monitor’s laggy as hell. This isn’t a panic fix, it’s a performance upgrade.”
Carter finally catches on. “You’re upgrading right now?”
“No,” Tate corrects, dragging a new monitor box from his duffel bag that Idefinitelydidn’t see before. “We are.”
“You two planned this?” I ask, still not moving from the chair.
Carter smiles against my shoulder. “Technically I just bought snacks and let Tate build the spreadsheet, I’m of no use in this area.”
“There was a spreadsheet?”
Tate smirks. “Color-coded.”
Carter’s half leaning into me when Tate moves past us, brushing my chair just enough to make it swivel an inch to the side.
“Careful,” Carter mutters, not sharp, but not entirely joking either.
“If she falls over from that, she’s got bigger problems than finals.”
I huff out a quiet breath, but Carter’s arm tightens slightly around me, his chin still hooked over my shoulder.
“She’s been up for hours,” he says, softer now. “You could try not bulldozing her for five minutes.”
That gets Tate’s attention. “I could,” he agrees easily. “But then nothing would get fixed.”
Carter exhales through his nose, a quiet almost-laugh that doesn’t quite land. “You’re a real ass sometimes Tate.”
Tate replies, reaching for another cable, “you’re still here whining.”
Carter doesn’t answer that but his hand slides down from my shoulder to lace briefly with mine before letting go, like he needed the contact more than he expected.
