Page 59 of Beautiful Scars

He shrugs, not taking his eyes off me. “I never say anything just to be polite. There's nothing wrong with messy. Messes are... inevitable.” He leans down and moves a pile of papers over before settling down on the couch. He looks up at me like he’s waiting for me to join him. “We don’t have to talk. Not right now if you don’t want to,” he says after a moment. “I just thought… maybe you could use some company.”

I weigh the meaning of his words. If he's being honest, he's offering me kindness. It’s not something I would ever ask for or expect. I don't know how to accept it and don't have the patience to try to figure it out.

"Actually, I want to be left alone," I huff as I sink down into the chair across from him, a little unsteady on my feet. We sit there in silence, a quiet tension filling the space. It’s not awkward or uncomfortable, not really. He doesn’t press me for information, doesn’t ask what’s wrong, doesn't try to make any of this seem better than it is. He just sits—arms stretched out over the back of the couch, watching me. Like he belongs here. The corners of his mouth twitch like he wants to say something, but he remains quiet.

We sit like this for a long while. Him looking at me while I look anywhere but at him. Finally, he clears his throat. "I meant what I said Angel. No one knows I'm here. Levi’s been tearing this city up looking for you, but I'm not planning on saying a word," he pauses and sighs, "Unless you want me to, of course."

His tone is reassuring, sincere. My shoulders drop a fraction as some of the tension I've been holding since I answered the door drains away. Some small part of me seems willing to believe him.

“That would be a hard no.” I say, tilting my head, voice flat. “I'm not sure I understand why you're here. You don't know me."

He shrugs and clears his throat, looking slightly ruffled. "I was worried about you. The way you left the club was..." He pauses, choosing his next words carefully. "Dramatic."

"Oh. Let me guess... you're gentlemanly instincts kicked in and you felt the need to make sure the hysterical chick you spent two nights hitting on wasn't sitting in a corner, crying, ready to slit her wrists.”

Zane smirks, leaning forward slightly, his forearms resting on his knees. “I didn't say hysterical, I said dramatic. And, something like that. I mean, you’re not sitting in a corner right now, so that’s a win.” His eyes flicker over me, gentle but assessing. “And crying? You don’t strike me as the type.”

“Well, that only leaves the wrist slitting.” I arch a brow, my lips curving into an acidic smile. “But, as I’m sure you’ve heard… I’ve got some experience with sharp, pointy things. It gave me a phobia of watching myself bleed to death. Again. So, no worries there.”

His smile fades, and anger flashes across his face. It's gone quickly, mellowing into something more tempered, almost tender. “I'll take your word for it.”

His voice dips lower. “I needed to see for myself that you're doing okay."

I snort softly, sinking further into the chair. “Yeah. I'm just peachy. Can’t you tell?”

He laughs, and the sound is low and warm as it cuts through some of the fog in my head.

“Sure. You've really nailed the aesthetic.”

“Thanks,” I mutter, but there’s no heat in it. I glance toward the window, my chest tightening against the ache that’s been lodged there since I ran out of the club. “So tell me why you're really here, Z? I’m not buying the good Samaritan crap.”

He leans back, letting the silence settle before he answers. “I think you underestimate me. Ididcome to check on you. I know what it’s like to have something from your past catch up with you—I've felt the ground drop out from underneath me a few times. It can be nice to have someone around who gets it.”

Of all the things I thought he'd say, that wasn't anything close. I don't quite know how to respond to that. He doesn’t elaborate, simply leaves it sitting between us, waiting for me to pick it up if I want.

He glances toward the kitchen, and without a word stands, brushes his hands on his jeans, and strides towards it with purpose.

I blink, sitting up slightly. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Fixing you some food,” he calls over his shoulder, as he starts opening cabinets like he’s on a scavenger hunt. “You look like you haven’t eaten in days.”

I narrow my eyes, but there’s no real bite behind it. He's right. I've lost track of time and can't remember the last time I ate something. For all I know it could've been days. “So, you're just making yourself at home now?"

“Yep,” he says, popping the P. He pulls out a pan, then rifles through my fridge with a low whistle. “Damn, Angel. Prison meal trays have more options.”

I can’t help the faint tug of a smile at the corner of my mouth as I stand and wander into the kitchen. I lean against the doorframe, observing. “Why on earth am I not surprised you'd know what comes on a prison meal tray?" I cross my arms over my chest watching him open cabinets that are mostly empty.

"I know it's sad. I don't cook much. I usually eat out or get something delivered.”

"Tsk, tsk, tsk. Well, not today. Prepare to be amazed.” He glances back, grinning as he holds up a carton of eggs and a sad-looking block of cheese. “Scrambled?"

“Fine,” I mutter. My stomach growls loudly at the prospect, and Zane raises a brow at me with a knowing smirk.

“Uh-huh. Thought so.”

He moves around the kitchen with surprising efficiency, his motions practiced and deliberate. The smell of melting butter and coffee begins to fill the room. It's wonderful. I could almost forget to notice the pain in my chest. Zane turns and leans against the counter looking me up and down.

“No offense Angel, but you need a shower,” he says. His voice is calm but matter-of-fact. “It'll help get your head straight. Breakfast will be ready when you get out."

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