Page 129 of Broken Pieces
I reach out before I can stop myself, brush a strand of hair from her face. My fingers move carefully, tracing the soft skin of her cheek.
She stirs, her nose scrunching, then relaxes again. Her lips part, a quiet sigh leaving her.
I lean in and press a kiss to her cheek. Barely there. Barely a breath. But it hits too fucking big. Too honest.
That’s when I know I need to get the fuck out of here.
I shift carefully not to wake her, peeling myself away even though every cell in my body protests it.
The moment her warmth is gone, my chest aches in a way I can’t fucking name.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, I drag a hand over my face. I can’t be here when she opens her eyes. I can’t let her see me this raw, this close to losing the armor I’ve spent my whole fucking life building.
She stirs again, mumbling something, her voice soft and drowsy.
I lean down, keeping my tone steady, casual, even though my heart’s still slamming against my ribs. “Rainer’s expecting me.”
She doesn’t wake.
I stand there for a second longer, watching her, fighting every fucked-up instinct screaming at me to stay.
Then I walk away.
Because that’s what I do best.
It’s a lie. Rainer’s not waiting for me at all.
I throw on my jeans, boots, and the first shirt I find, fingers fumbling as if they forget how to work.
Everything seems too big. My hands. My chest. The space between every breath.
I move fast, down the stairs, two at a time, as if I don’t stop, nothing will catch me. Not the guilt.
The workshop’s dead quiet. Only me and the ghosts I dragged in.
I lift the hood of the car I was working on yesterday and get to it. Wrench in hand. Tighten a bolt. Loosen another. Pretend I’m doing something that matters. But my head’s shot. All I see is her in my bed, in my shirt.
Every move reminds me of her.
The press of her skin against mine. Those sounds she made when I touched her. The way she looked at me like I was worth saving.
If she stays, I’ll burn. But, fuck if she leaves, it’ll hurt just as much.
That’s the truth of it.
I’ve got grease coating my knuckles, and a wrench clenched so tight it might snap. But it’s not the busted alternator that’s fucking with me.
It’s Skylar.
I force my ears to stay tuned to the rhythm of the engine, but all I hear is the sound of her breath catching against my chest, the ghost of her lips brushing my jaw, soft, warm and fucking unforgettable.
I twist the bolt harder than I should. It snaps in my grip, the crack sharp as a gunshot.
“Fuck.” I throw the broken piece across the concrete. It skitters, spins out near the wall.
“You always this charming in the morning?” Rainer’s voice cuts through the haze.
I push off the engine and wipe my hands on a rag that’s already soaked with grease.
