Page 76 of Scattered Glitter

“I don’t need anyone,” I reply coldly. “I don’t need you coming in here and acting like you can make it all better. You can’t.”

He doesn’t move. He doesn’t run, doesn’t leave like I expect him to. He only looks at me, his eyes soft as he takes a breath as if steadying himself. “I know I can’t make it… whateveritis… better. I’m not here to fix stuff.”

His words catch me off guard, and the fight leaves me. My shoulders sag from long-held exhaustion.I’m so tired. So fucking tired of fighting.

I look away when my eyes start to burn, and I hate myself for it. “I don’t know if I can do this,” I whisper, barely loud enough for him to hear.

He reaches out, his fingers hesitantly brushing against mine, but I don’t pull away. “You don’t have to do anything. Just… let me stay. We can have breakfast, talk about nothing, really, and if it’s too much, I’ll leave. Just eat breakfast with me, Sparkle.”

I close my eyes and swallow thickly, trying to shut out the emotions swirling inside me. When I open them again, he has that stupid, hopeful look in his eyes, and thefamiliar war rages inside me all over again. A battle between the instinct to push everyone away, to protect them and me, and the desperate, pathetic part of me that craves warmth and connection, something to keep the emptiness at bay.

And just like that, my stubbornness loses the fight.

Seems it always does when it comes to him.

“Fine. Breakfast.”

He smiles, and it’s so genuine that my heart physically aches.

Hottie opens his arms as if he wants to hug me, but I press a hand against his chest, keeping him at arm’s length. “There are plates in the kitchen.”

He nods, not missing a beat, and turns to leave the room. Without him standing so close, I take a deep breath, and the air suddenly feels a little more breathable. Quickly, I shed the towel and pull on a G-string and jean shorts, then a bra.

When he returns, he’s balancing two plates with croissants in one hand and my coffee mug from the bathroom in the other. He sets everything down on my nightstand, then glances at the rumpled sheets and starts to make the bed, straightening the blankets.

I grab a gray cropped T-shirt from my drawer and slip it over my head, wanting something plain to cover the scar, something that isn’t glitter. Then I gather my still-damp hair and tie it back in a ponytail. When I turn around, he’s sitting on the edge of the bed.

Hottie pats the space beside him with a hopeful smile when he catches my gaze, and I huff but move to sit next to him anyway. He hands me a plate, and we start eating the croissants in silence.

Taking a bite of the buttery, flaky texture makes me moan without thinking.

“See?” Hottie grins, his eyes lighting up. “Told you they’re good.”

I reluctantly nod, taking another bite. Theyaregood. Too good for me to pretend otherwise.

He watches me enjoy them for another moment before he starts talking again. “So, did Annabelle move out?”

I shrug, still chewing. “She’s in the midst of it. Why?”

“Just because there’s only her name on the doorbell.”

“You checked the doorbell?”

He almost looks apologetic. “Only because I’d like to know your name.”

“I told you my name.”

“I want to know yourrealname.”

“I want a lot of things too.”

His grin fades slightly, replaced by something less teasing. “You really don’t like to talk about yourself, do you?”

“Nope,” I admit, around a mouthful of the buttery goodness.

“What do you like to talk about, then?” He tilts his head, studying me. “I mean, I get that you don’t want me to know private shit, but we can still talk aboutsomething,right?”

The question gives me pause. What’s safe? What’s a topic that keeps things distant, not letting him get too close or let me get too attached?

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