Page 35 of Next Level Up
“I want to,” I whisper.
He nods. “Then I’ll be right here. Just say the word and I’ll back you up on stream, off stream, whatever the fuck you need.”
I sigh. Somehow, with the weight of Dylan’s name sitting heavy in my chest, Tate’s presence grounds me.He’s not softness, but he’s a storm at my back. I trace my fingers along the edge of my desk, still feeling his words in the air. He doesn’t look away, just stays right there, present. Maybe that’s makes me ask. “Tate?”
“Yeah?”
I pause, then look over at him. “Will you sleep in my room tonight?”
He doesn’t answer right away and I don’t blame him. He doesn’t do comfort the way Carter does. He doesn’t do soft edges or shared pillows or late-night vulnerability that doesn’t end in sex. There’s sharp corners and brutal honesty and bruised silence when things get too close.
“You sure?” he asks, his voice quieter now.
“I just…” I swallow. “I don’t want to be alone. Not after all of that.”
His jaw flexes. Like he’s chewing on all the things he won’t say out loud. That he doesn’t do this, he doesn’t know how. That the idea of being in my bed, close but not hiding behind heat and distraction, is somehow more intimate than all the other lines we’ve already crossed.
He doesn’t deflect or give me attitude, just leans back slowly and looks at me like he’s trying to memorize the shape of my need and match it with something he’s never given before. “Yeah. I’ll sleep in here tonight.”
I nod, lips pressed together too tight. He glances away quickly like he’s regretting how open he just let himself be.
The apartment smells like garlic, sesame oil, and Carter’s overachieving perfectionism. He’s somehow turned what I assumed would be basic stir fry into a full spread, noodles, veggies, a perfectly seared steak, and a smile that makes me want to kiss the seasoning off his cheek.
“This is excessive,” I say, eyeing the table as I pour drinks.
“It’s necessary comfort food” he says, handing me a plate.
Tate sighs and grabs a fork. “It’s anxiety manifesting in soy sauce.”
Carter shrugs. “Whatever works.”
We eat at the table, shoulder to shoulder, half-laughing through failed attempts with chopsticks and teasing jabs. Tate insists on stealing from both our plates. Carter complains, but offers him extra anyway.
For a minute it’s easy. When I glance between them, I feel it settle inside me. The ache, the hope, the way I want this to work so badly it almost hurts. I don’t say that, instead I finish my noodles and nudge Tate with my foot under the table. He kicks me back, gentle.
An hour passes and the kitchen is clean, the table cleared, the apartment is quiet except for the low buzzing of the fridge and the occasional creak of the floorboards as we move around each other.
Tate leans against the counter, nursing the last few sips of his drink. Carter finishes wiping the stove, then tosses the towel over his shoulder and turns toward us with that soft little glow he always wears when he’s proud of himself.
“So,” he says, dragging out the word, “which one of you do I have to bribe for bedroom rights tonight?”
Tate lifts a brow. “You’re on the couch.”
Carter freezes. “Wait—what?”
“Haven asked me to stay in her room.”
Carter blinks. “So I don’t even get a vote?”
“You got the bed last night.”
“I shared the bed last night.”
Tate smirks. “Not with me, you didn’t.”
I try not to laugh as Carter glares at him. “Fine,” he mutters. “But I want that thick blanket.”
Tate tosses him a pillow from the hallway closet after I tell him where they are without missing a step. “You want a nightlight, too?”
