Page 42 of Hymns of the Broken
“You came all the way back here for questions?” I tilt my head, waiting for the next lie.
She crosses her arms, defensive. “You’re the one who’s been messing with my head all day.”
I grin wider—not a lie.
She’s fire when she’s mad. I’d bottle it if I could.
“Messing with your head?” I take a step forward, close enough to watch her breath hitch. “You think that’s what I’m doing?”
She tries not to react, but her hands twitch at her sides.
“I don’t know what game you’re playing,” she says, “but I don’t have time for it.”
I laugh under my breath. “This isn’t a game, Little Sin, games have rules. I don’t.”
I take another step toward her, and I reach out and tug her into the room. As soon as she crosses the threshold, I tap the button to shut the door behind her. The click makes it sound final.
Now it’s just the two of us.
And all her questions?
They’re about to get answers she’s not ready for.
SAWYER
The room’s barely lit—just the amber glow of string lights draped over a rack of clothes and a TV flickering silently in the corner.
“So either you couldn’t sleep, or you just couldn’t stop thinking about me,” his tone is cocky—but his eyes give him away.
He’s not sure whether I’ll stay. Not sure what I want.
Instead, I whisper, “You’re full of yourself. You think you’re so hot, don’t you?”
He steps closer, and the oxygen gets thinner, my chest tighter, every nerve ending sparking like it’s waiting for him to touch me.
“You came to me,” he says.
He’s right. My feet dragged me here before my brain could talk me down. Ever since that backstage wall moment—his hand on my throat, his voice in my ear, his mouth inches from mine—I haven’t been able to think of anything else.
“I just wanted to talk,” I say.
“No… you wanted to feel something.”
One hand slides into my hair. Like he’s been imagining this touch for days. His other hand hovers near my jaw, fingers brushing the corner of my lips, then drifting across my collarbone, down my arm, and it stops at my hip. His hand squeezes as if he’s imprinting his hand on me.
“I watch you, you know,” Jasper says quietly. “I see the way you flinch when someone raises their voice. The way you shrink when someone moves too fast. You carry pain like it’s etched into your skin, and you pretend no one notices… I notice.”
My pulse stutters. “How long have you been watching me?”
His mouth curves, not into a smile, but something darker. “Not long, but long enough to know you’re not nearly as invisible as you try to be.”
I swallow, my voice unsteady. “Why? Why pay attention to me like that?”
“Because I know what it looks like,” he says. “My past wasn’t a white picket fence, Sawyer. It was broken locks, shattered glass, and screaming behind closed doors that never got opened.”
The admission punches air from my chest. “So… you’re saying you think we’re the same?”
“I’msaying I recognize the way you survive.” His eyes meet mine, dangerous but cracked open, raw. “I know what it looks like when someone gets good at pretending they’re fine.”
