Page 118 of Broken Pieces
He still sleeps on the couch.
Every night, without fail, he tosses a pillow down, drags a blanket over himself, and stretches out as if it’s nothing. He never asks for the bed or tries to crawl in beside me, even though I want him to.
But he looks.
When he thinks I’m not paying attention, I catch him watching me. Eyes dark. His expression unreadable, but his body is tense as if he’s fighting something hard.
Maybe he’s just wired that way.
Zane isn’t sweet.
He’s all bite and swagger. Smokes too much. Talks too little. Walks around like the world owes him a fight.
But then he tosses my favorite chocolate bar on the bed without saying a word, and it fucks with me.
Because I don’t know what that means.
Perhaps it is nothing.
Maybe I want it to mean something.
But it’s hard to tell with him.
Some nights he’s quiet, stretched out on the couch in just his sweats, arm over his face, jaw slack with exhaustion.
Other nights he’s wired, pacing the floor or working the weights hard, sweat dripping down his back, shoulders tense as if he’s trying to outrun something in his head.
But no matter what version of him I get, there’s always something there between us.
When he walks into the room, his eyes flick to me for half a second, long enough to make sure I’m still here.
The way he keeps making sure I have what I need without ever asking what that is. The way he doesn’t talk about anything real, doesn’t offer explanations or promises, but still leaves the heater on when it gets cold. Still makes enough food for two and makes space for me without ever saying the words.
And that’s what fucks me up the most.
The way this place feels more like home than anywhere I’ve ever been.
Even when he’s being an emotionally unavailable asshole.
I want him.
All of him this time.
But I have no idea if he wants me back. And I sure as shit aren’t going to be the one to say it.
I glance up again and catch the flex of his biceps as he curls the weight, the way his mouth drops open slightly as he exhales.
My thighs press together. I turn back to my homework, trying to blink it away.
“You keep staring like that,” he says suddenly, voice rough, breathless from the set, “and I’ll start thinking you want something.”
I snap my head up.
He’s watching me now, weight hanging loose in one hand, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. That cocky, dangerous, stupidly hot smirk that drives me insane.
“You wish,” I fire back, though my voice sounds thinner than I want it to.
He drops the weight with a dull thud, his eyes never leaving mine.
