Page 89 of Broken Pieces
There’s no softness in him. He’s always been hot. Infuriatingly so. Even when I hated myself for noticing.
I listen to the soft crackle of bread toasting in the pan.
A moment later he flips the sandwich, checks the edges, presses it flat with the back of a spatula.
My stomach clenches without warning. I hadn’t realized how long I’d gone without food that didn’t come from a vending machine.
I watch him slide the toast onto a plate, then turn toward me.
He doesn’t ask whether I want it. Just walks over and holds out the plate, the grilled cheese still steaming. Melted cheese spills from the edges, thick and golden where it seeps through the crust. The bread’s burnt around the corners.
I look up.
His eyes meet mine, and something shifts low in my stomach. That stare doesn’t waver or soften. The weight of it pins me in place, dragging heat through my chest and down between my thighs. My body twitches with the urge to move, to do something, anything, before I drown under the pressure.
I reach out and take the plate, using the motion to break whatever the hell is happening between us.
“Thanks,” I say too quickly, dropping my gaze to the food.
The first bite scalds my tongue. I chew slowly.
It’s good. Greasy. Heavy. The kind of warmth that sticks to your ribs. Better than anything Dolores ever ruined in her kitchen.
Zane leans against the counter, arms folded. His eyes stay on me, steady and unreadable.
“You feed everyone who shows up at your door?” My voice catches in the middle. I hate that he hears the crack.
His brow lifts. “Why? You planning on moving in?”
“I didn’t say that.”
I take another bite, chewing slowly, doing anything to buy time.
The bread’s gone soft at the edges, but the taste still beats anything I’ve had in weeks.
“So,” he says, “turning eighteen. Not all it’s hyped up to be, huh?”
I glance up at him.
“Didn’t expect you to remember.”
He shrugs. “Hard not to. It’s the kind of day people either celebrate or run from.”
“Guess I’m the second kind.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
I go back to chewing, the warmth of the sandwich sitting heavy in my chest. I’m too aware of him standing there, not looking away. The quiet stretches, not quite uncomfortable. Just full.
I nod toward the room. “So what’s the deal with this place? Doesn’t really scream long-term.”
He pushes off the counter and rinses his hands under the tap.
“Rainer lets me stay here. He owns the building. Said if I showed up in the garage on time and didn’t trash the place, I could crash here for now.”
“So... foster care, but with tools and engine grease.”
“Pretty much. No caseworker though, which is a plus.”
