Page 3 of Broken Pieces
Trouble doesn’t need fists.
It moves the way he does, every step a reminder he was built to destroy. And every inch of me fucking feels it.
He doesn’t utter a single word. His presence says enough.
The room shifts, the air turning heavy, silence stretching until it presses hard against my chest. Every inch of space bends, drawn tight to the gravity he carries without effort.
And I can’t stop myself.
I fucking stare.
His hair falls in careless strands across his forehead, framing a face cut sharp enough to wound.
High cheekbones. A jaw carved from stone, built to grit through pain without ever breaking. His mouth is pure temptation, curved in a way that pulls dangerous thoughts to the surface, the kind of curve making sin feel inevitable.
He is beautiful, and he fucking knows it.
Cocky awareness runs through every line of him, every inch of confidence he wears as easily as the leather on his back.
And then those fucking eyes.
Storm-gray, cold and unreadable until they lock on me. When they do, the rest of the world disappears. He doesn’t simply look—he strips people bare.
His stare drags across my skin. There is no trace of innocence to mistake it for sweetness.
This isn’t the shallow hunger I’ve seen in boys who only care about what’s under your clothes.
This is something else.
Something darker… heavier.
The kind of hunger that doesn’t ask. It fucking takes.
A violation built from his stare scraping over my skin, cutting down to bone, prying at every place I’ve tried to bury. There is something twisted in it. Something broken.
And the worst part?
I don’t look away.
I fucking burn beneath it.
Whatever he’s hiding in his stare cuts me open, sinking too deep, crawling beneath my skin.
One corner of his mouth lifts, dragging with it a dangerous kind of arrogance. It’s cockiness born in blood and bruises.
He leans against the doorframe as if the room belongs to him, arms crossed, body loose but edged with restraint, every line of him radiating a challenge meant only for me.
The silence stretches, thick with his smug dare, a question pulsing in the air neither of us speaks aloud.
Who will break first?
Who gives in?
Who loses?
I hold his stare, refusing to flinch, even as the heat coils tighter between us.
I lift my chin and let my mouth curve into the coldest fucking smile I can summon. A smile meant to wound, meant to scream I’ve already won even if the inside of me is bleeding raw.
