Page 5 of Broken Pieces
This is my territory.
My fucking table.
The one place I sit where no one dares to touch me or piss me off. I carved my name into the wood to remind myself I was still here, proof I existed in a world determined to make me invisible. Every splinter, every crack in this scarred surface is mine, proof I’ve endured, proof I’ve claimed something in this place where nothing shakes me.
Until him.
One look and the ground tilts. One grin and the fire burns to life. I was fine before he showed up in this shitty place where his swagger fills the doorway and his eyes drag me under. Now I’m burning, furious at the way he can walk in here and make me feel everything at once.
And I hate the part of me that doesn’t want him to stop.
I throw punches because it’s easier than letting anyone get close. I’ve perfected the art of pushing people away before they think about reaching for me.
Being near him is dangerous in ways I don’t want to admit. Not his body or his voice. Not even the grin slipping too easily into my bloodstream and threatening to tear something loose.
It’s the way he looks at me.
The way his eyes move past every wall I’ve spent years building, past the barbed wire I’ve wrapped around my skin just to keep the world from getting in.
And fuck, it terrifies me.
Because he hasn’t touched me. Even so, I can feel it.
The pull, an unraveling, a fault line shifting inside me beneath his stare. The ache of finally being seen.
He doesn’t say a word, just stares. His gaze moves slowly across my face. Down over the line of my jaw. Then up, lingeringon the scar above my brow. The one I don’t talk about, the one no one ever has the balls to ask about.
He sees it. Despite this, he doesn’t look away.
His eyes refuse to rush. Every movement is precise. Intentional. A stare turned into touch. The kind you don’t consent to but feel anyway, sinking under your skin, memorizing the parts of you no one’s ever taken the time to know.
His gaze drops.
Lower.
Fixes on my mouth.
And everything stops.
The noise.
The air.
The world.
It all collapses, suspended in a silence laced with want and warning.
My breath catches. My pulse skips. Every instinct inside me screams to move. To shove him back before this crosses a line I won’t come back from.
But my body doesn’t listen.
I stay frozen, chest tight, skin humming like it’s waiting to be touched.
The twist of his mouth is cocky, confident, filthy in a way that dares me to call him out. And he knows exactly what the fuck he is doing.
“Not tonight, sweetheart,” he says, then turns.
The words land hard.
