Page 93 of Broken Pieces
My tank top is too tight, too thin, doing nothing to hide how hard my nipples have gone under the fabric.
His eyes don’t move. Just stares for one heartbeat too long before moving across the room.
I try to breathe through it, but it’s useless. My mouth has gone dry. My skin burns. Every nerve hums under the weight of him. And through it all, one truth keeps pulsing in my head.I am so fucked.
Zane crosses the room, the floorboards creaking under his bare feet.
He opens the cupboard on the back wall, reaches in, and pulls out a spare pillow. Every inch of him is coiled with that restless energy he wears like a second skin.
He tosses the pillow onto the couch, then turns and walks back over, dropping down onto it. One arm hooks lazily over the backrest; the other drapes across his stomach. His legs spread wide. His head tips back, eyes slipping closed. He’s a storm pretending to be still. But every part of him thrums with tension. Ready to break.
The room falls quiet.
Only the soft hum of the fridge breaks the silence, paired with the slow, rhythmic tick of the clock by the window.
Every second drags, stretched thin by the weight in the air. Even my breathing sounds too loud, too obvious, as if it might give me away.
Zane shifts, the couch groaning beneath him as he adjusts. His body moves slowly, weighed down by the kind of exhaustion that seeps into your bones.
“Are you planning to stay up all night?” His voice cuts through the silence. A breath slips out of him. It’s almost a sigh, like the day’s finally caught up to him and there’s no fight left to hold it back.
I gather up the papers and set them on the floor.
My hand finds the old lamp beside the bed.
With one click, the light vanishes, throwing the room into shadows.
I lower myself onto the mattress, the springs groaning beneath my weight. The blanket comes next. I drag it up and clutch it close, his scent bleeding into my skin. It crowds my lungs and fogs my head, curling around every thought until my chest starts to ache.
I glance across the room.
His silhouette shifts on the couch. He’s lying down now, one arm tucked behind his head. The other resting across his stomach. I can’t tell whether his eyes are closed or if he’s watching me the way I’m watching him. But my skin burns at the thought of it.
God help me if he says my name right now, because I’m on the verge of doing something stupid.
Chapter Fifteen
Zane
Morningslipsthroughthewindow, slicing pale stripes across the ceiling. Dust drifts in the light, slow and aimless, the only thing moving in the room. The couch digs into my ribs, springs pressing into skin, and my neck’s fucked from the way I passed out.
I should move, but I don’t. Not yet. The air still holds her scent—warm, faintly sweet, threaded through the quiet.
She’s still here.
Skylar.
Sprawled across my mattress, curled into herself, one leg bare where the blanket is tangled low around her thigh. Her light brown hair’s a fucking mess, wild across my pillow, strands catching the morning light in golds and chestnuts. She’s still out cold, breaths soft, lips parted.
And for once, I don’t have to pretend I’m not watching her.
My eyes catch on that scar. Just above her brow. Small, almost nothing, unless you’re looking.
And I was. On that rooftop, pretending I didn’t give a shit when every part of me wanted to ask her how she got it. Wanted to know what hurt her. Who?
But I held back because I didn’t want her to see how much space she’d already taken up in my chest.
Even now, it fucks with me.
