Page 40 of Wreckage

I studied him momentarily, deciding I had nothing better to do, before answering softly, “Purple.”

He nodded like he was storing that piece of information away for later. “Mine’s blue.”

I frowned slightly. “Why do you want to know?”

His smirk faded into something more thoughtful. “It doesn’t feel right not to know.”

Something in my chest fluttered at his words. I wasn’t sure what to do with this version of Troy—the one who asked about me, who wanted to know me.

Still, I answered his next question easily, the conversation flowing despite my initial hesitation.

“What do you want to do after college?” he asked, his voice quieter now.

I hesitated before replying, “It’s dumb.”

Troy tilted his head. “Try me.”

I swallowed and forced the words out. “I want to dance.”

His expression didn’t change; he didn’t mock or dismiss me like I had half-expected him to.

But I still laughed humorlessly, gesturing to my swollen ankle. “Not that it matters anymore.”

Troy’s jaw tightened. “Of course, it matters.”

I sighed. “Troy?—”

“You’ll succeed,” he interrupted his voice firm. “Because you’re strong. And I believe in you.”

My breath caught.

I wasn’t sure what stunned me more—the certainty in his voice or the way my heart swelled at his words.

Heat rose to my cheeks, and I turned my face away, only for Troy to chuckle softly.

“I like it when you’re bashful,” he murmured.

I didn’t know what to do with that.

I barely had time to process the warmth curling in my stomach before his fingers reached out, tracing along my jaw carefully, slowly. His gentle touch mapped the bruises and small cuts along my skin.

My pulse stuttered, and the air between us charged with something new. His green eyes drank me in, and I felt exposed under the weight of his gaze.

He brushed a piece of my loose hair, which had fallen from my braid behind my ear, his fingertips lingering against my temple before he finally spoke again.

“Will you make me a promise?”

My breath shuddered as I whispered, “What kind of promise?”

Troy shifted closer, his warmth seeping into my skin. His forehead lowered against mine, his breath mingling with mine in the cold air.

“Promise me that you’ll leave here,” he whispered. “Even if I don’t.”

A lump formed in my throat. “Troy?—”

“Promise me that you’ll become a famous ballerina,” he continued softly. “That you’ll dance. Even when things feel impossible.”

Tears burned at the corners of my eyes. He was asking me to believe in something. And against all odds, I did.

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