Page 97 of Next Level Up
She’s in the middle now. Exactly where she should be, exactly how we work best.
The silence is thick for about five seconds before Tate’s knee bumps mine under the blanket. I don’t move. Neither does he.
“…Your knee’s in my zone,” he mutters.
I sigh. “You don’t have a zone. It’s a bed, not a battlefield.”
“You’re in my zone by default.”
“You’re literally curled around the same girl I am. Maybe stop pretending this is a turf war.”
Haven groans before finally settling between us. “Oh my god. Both of you shut up, I am the zone.”
My arm stays wrapped around her waist. Tate doesn’t say anything for a while, neither do I. But I can feel him wide awake.
Haven shifts slightly, her back pressing closer into my chest, her leg brushing his under the blanket. Tate moves a second later, just enough that his hand finds her thigh under the blanket.
Haven’s breathing starts to slow, but not all the way.
“Comfortable?” Tate murmurs.
She hums, barely audible. “Yeah.”
My thumb drags once against her side. “Good,” I say quietly.
Tate exhales through his nose, shifting closer, his knee pressing more firmly against hers and against mine. Haven shifts again, caught in the middle of it, her hand coming up to rest over mine. “Go to sleep,” she mumbles.
I press a kiss to the back of her shoulder. “Working on it.”
Tate huffs quietly. “You talk too much.”
“You’re still awake too,” I shoot back.
“Unfortunately.”
“Night, Hav.”
She hums again, softer this time. I watch the outline of Tate across the bed in the dark, barely visible, but I know he’s still looking too. Same as I am, for the same reasons. My grip on her eases just enough to let her breathe deeper.
28
Haven
Ican’t breathe. Okay—I can, technically. It just feels like every breath has to fight its way in through the tightness in my chest and the constantbuzz of nerves that’s been living in my skin since I qualified for finals.
There’s just a few days left until I walk into a live arena, into a tournament stage where thousands of people will be watching, judging, dissecting every move I make.
There won’t be a comfy chair or my familiar lighting setup or my chat spamming stupid emotes.
It’ll be me and a hundred eyes waiting to see if the streamer girl chokes under pressure.
That thought eats me alive.
I sit at my desk, fingers clenched around the edge, staring blankly at my monitor like it might magically spit out instructions on how to keep my shit together. I haven’t even played yet today, and I already feel exhausted.
My leg starts bouncing before I even register it, the heel of my foot tapping against the floor.
I try to stop it but it just starts up again a second later, like my body’s decided we’re panicking whether I’m on board or not.
