Page 160 of Broken Pieces
I sip mine too, the mug heavy in my hands. My eyes stay on him, watching over the rim, watching every goddamn detail. The stiffness in his shoulders. The way he avoids looking at me.
There’s something he’s not telling me.
“Did you go looking for it?” I ask, voice low, almost afraid of the answer. “For the fight?”
He smirks. It’s not amusement. It’s defense. Deflection. A mask.
“Is that what you think of me?”
“I don’t know what to fucking think, Zane.” My heart thuds hard enough that I can feel it in my throat. “You disappear all night. You won’t tell me where you were, and now you look like someone used you as a fucking punching bag.”
His gaze lifts, finally meeting mine. There’s no warmth in it. Just something hard, a wall I can’t climb, no matter how hard I try.
“I said I handled it,” he mutters, sharper now.
I set the mug down on the old stool beside the bed. My hands are shaking, fingers curling into fists against the blankets.
“I’m not stupid.”
The words hang in the air, heavier than they should be.
I lean back against the headboard, pull my knees up, and wrap my arms around them. My chest is too tight.
“If you want to shut me out, fine. Do that. But don’t stand there and feed me bullshit.”
His jaw ticks. A muscle jumps near his temple.
“I’m not lying.”
“You’re not telling me the truth either.” I scoff under my breath.
His eyes stay on the floor, on a crack in the wood that doesn’t matter. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink.
And that’s what fucking kills me.
“Are you in trouble?” I ask, voice quieter than I mean it to be. My heart is thudding with something I don’t want to name.
He finally looks up. Just for a second. “No.”
But it’s not the kind of no that settles anything.
“But you can’t tell me where you were?”
He drags in a breath through his nose, eyes already gone cold again. He doesn’t even try to lie.
Instead, he turns. Walks back to the sink and drops his mug in it. That’s the end of the fucking conversation, apparently.
I sit there frozen, knees tucked under my chin, arms still wrapped tight around myself like that’ll hold me together.
He pulls on his jeans, shirt, and boots by the door. Every move is silent. He walks to the door, opens it without a word, and leaves.
The door shuts behind him with a soft click.
I stare at the spot he just left. There’s a weight pressing down on my chest, crawling beneath my ribs, settling in.
Something’s happening—something I’m not allowed to know about.
He’s slipping through my fingers, inch by inch, and I don’t know how to stop it without breaking us or myself.
