Page 9 of Next Level Up
He leans back. “Guess it’s game on, then.”
I leave his room without another word, letting the door click shut behind me. He’ll do it. I know that look in his eyes—half guilt, half warpath. That mix of protectiveness and pride that only Haven can drag out of him.
I pause at the top of the stairs, one hand braced against the railing, and let the silence settle in around me.
It’s strange how still the house feels without her here. We’ve lived in it for over 3 years together, Tate and I, but it hasn’t really felt like a home until recently.
And now our home is walking into a tournament bracket with a guy who broke her down, with a name that still makes her voice go quiet. I told her I’d give her space. I meant it, but that doesn’t mean I’ll leave her to face it alone.
I head back down into the kitchen, through the back door and onto the porch. I lean against the railing and breathe. There’s still time. For training, for plans. For whatever this thing becomes when the bracket starts. But tonight it’s just the calm before, and I’ll be damned sure Tate and I are ready for Haven.
3
Haven
By the time I get home, I’ve forgotten half the things I went out for and bought double of everything I didn’t need. Classic avoidance behavior. Avoid one emotionally destabilizing situation by creating five smaller, dumber ones. Spend money, ignore problems, pretend everything’s fine while your brain quietly lights itself on fire in the background. Healthy and thriving. Absolutely nailing adulthood right now.
The sun’s starting to set when I pull onto my street. The quiet noise of the engine is the only thing keeping me grounded as I turn into the complex and spot the familiar cracked pavement outside my building. A couple of kids are still out with scooters, and the flicker of my porch light that hasn’t worked properly in months reminds me how long it’s been since I’ve reported the damn thing.
I park slightly crooked and leave it like that. My hands tremble just a little on the steering wheel before I peel themoff and drag myself out of the car. I keep thinking about the tournament.
It’s not fear exactly; it’s more like static, like my body hasn’t decided yet whether to freeze or explode. I hate that he still gets that from me, even now. I should be over it.
I make my way inside after a few moments, my keys hit the dish by the door. My shoes get kicked off somewhere near the rug, and before I can talk myself into spiraling about Dylan all over again, I head straight for my room and my desk.
It’s a mess. Cables everywhere, an empty red bull can balancing on top of my PC tower like a shitty gamer trophy. I sigh.
Ten minutes later, I’ve wiped down the desk, cleared out the mystery snack graveyard, and rerouted my microphone cables so they’re not trying to choke me every time I lean back. I even dusted under the keyboard. Who am I?
It helps. Moving and touching things. Putting my space back in order, because everything else still feels out of order.
I remember one night, months before it ended—sitting right here at this desk, tears running down my face because my audio wouldn’t sync no matter what I did. I didn’t know, then, that Dylan had logged into my back-end settings. I just thought I was losing my mind, thought I was broken. He sat behind me, arms crossed, watching me spiral and saying nothing. Until I asked him what I should do. His response? “Maybe you’re just not built for this, Haven.”
I’ve never forgotten the way he said it. Flat and dismissive. Like I was a nuisance, a glitch in his perfect little system. I hope he sees every win and it eats at him. Every clip, every highlight, every moment where I’m better than he ever let me believe I could be. I hope it sits in the back of his mind and rots there, knowing he tried to make me smaller and failed.
I pass the hallway wall on my way back from tossing the trash, and my gaze catches on the collage taped up next to the door.
It’s full of fan art, digital sketches, stylized portraits, a few ridiculous meme edits Cassie printed out just to annoy me.
My followers did this. Some of them say I helped them feel seen. Some say I make them laugh, and my stream is the highlight of their day. One girl mailed me a letter after her first victory, thanking me for the courage to even try. I run my fingers along the edge. I haven’t stopped wondering what he’ll say the first time we’re in voice comms together again. If he’ll even recognize my voice. If he’ll pretend we were ever something real. I hate that he gets to be in this part of my life. Still, after everything. My phone buzzes on the desk.
Carter:You make it home okay?
I smile, sinking into my chair.
Me:Barely. I panicked and bought a 3-pack of Red Bulls I didn’t need.
Carter:So you had a religious experience
Me:Basically
Carter:You wanna game later?
I blink. The tension in my shoulders eases just enough.
Me:Yeah. I’d like that.
Carter:Cool. Just us tonight? Or are we inviting chaos?
