Chapter Twenty
Zane
The morning creeps in slowly through the window, with that dull gray light that never quite touches everything.
My eyes open, and then I feel her. Warm. Soft. Pressed against me.
Skylar.
Her thigh is draped over mine, skin smooth against my hip, her head resting under my chin. Her breath ghosts across my chest, each exhale hitting me harder than it should. My arm is already around her, hand splayed low on her back.
Fuck.
I can’t breathe.
She fits against me too well. Too fucking natural.
Every part of her molded to mine like she belongs there. My cock twitches, traitorous as hell, pressed against her thigh. But it’s not just her body. It’s the weight of her in my arms. The way her fingers curl against my stomach even in her sleep.
I stare at the ceiling, trying to steady the pounding in my chest.
I should have gotten up already, pulled on my jeans and fucked off, pretending none of this had happened.
But here she is, curled into me, breathing against my skin, and I can’t bring myself to pull away.
Fuck. I’m in trouble.
I don’t fucking move.
Not a twitch.
I don’t fucking breathe for a moment.
I lie there, staring at her like she’s some dream I never deserved.
Her lips are parted, breath real slow, lashes casting shadows across her cheeks.
She looks peaceful in a way I’ve never been.
In a way I’ve never seen her. Fuck, she looks soft, not in a weak way, but in an untouched-by-this-fucked-up-world way.
That this world hasn’t clawed at her skin or dragged her through broken glass just for daring to exist. As if no one’s ever broken her, and I know that’s bullshit, because I’ve seen her cracks.
Hell, I’ve kissed half of them.
But right now… she’s whole. And I’d burn the world down to keep her that way.
Fuck me. I wanna be the one who keeps the cold out. Make sure there’s food in the fridge and my hoodie on her back. I want her to know what it feels like to be safe. Not because she can’t handle shit. She’s tough as hell. But because no one’s ever protected her.
I’m already in too deep and I know it because I think I’m falling in love with her.
And that thought alone nearly fucking kills me.
It crawls up my throat, burns through my chest, and I can’t swallow it back down.
I don’t want it. Don’t need it.
I’ve spent my whole goddamn life building walls high enough to keep this kind of shit out. Needing someone makes you soft. It fucks with your head. Makes you reckless… weak.
But she’s sleeping beside me in one of my shirts, skin warm against my sheets. The collar’s slipping off one shoulder, and the sight of her wearing something that’s mine hits differently. It is dangerous and too fucking real.
That weakness presses into my chest until it hurts to breathe.
She digs up shit I poured concrete over and promised myself I’d never touch.
Now all of those emotions are clawing to the surface, wild, messy and fully fucking alive.
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.
“Didn’t hear you come in.”
He strolls over to the bench, grabs his shitty black coffee from the corner where he hides that old-ass thermos.
Rainer leans back, watching me with that half-grin that says he knows too much.
“Got a new kid on trial,” Rainer says, casual as ever.
I arch a brow. “Yeah?”
“Mason. Nineteen, maybe twenty. Couple priors. Petty shit. Foster kid.” He shrugs.
My gaze drags to the far side of the shop.
There he is.
Crouched low, hands dunked in a tray of degreaser, scrubbing parts with practiced ease. Dark hair buzzed on the sides. Ink snaked down both forearms. Shoulders broad. Frame solid. He’s got the build of a guy who’s taken hits and thrown harder ones back.
I know the kind. I used to be the kind. I guess I still am.
His hands are busy, but his eyes tell the real story. He’s not focused on the tray in front of him. He’s clocking the exits, the tools, the layout. Me.
Every glance is calculated. Measured. Sizing up the shop and the people in it. Working out who are the threats and who aren’t.
I know that look. Used to wear it every day.
Still do, when it counts.
And right now, I’m the threat he hasn’t figured out yet.
Good. Keeps things interesting.
The stairs creak, cutting through the quiet hum of the shop.
Light footsteps.
Skylar, bag slung low on her shoulder, jeans painted on, hair a little messy from the morning rush.
She steps into the workshop, and everything slows.
My throat goes dry. My pulse forgets what steady means.
She’s herself again—the girl who could cut you open with a look and make you thank her for it.
Her eyes find mine.
Every time they do, it’s a punch straight to the ribs.
She smiles. That smile that strips the air from my lungs and reminds me how fucked up about her I really am.
I nod, pretending I’m not burning from the inside out. Pretending my cock isn’t half-hard from a single fucking look. But my body’s already betrayed me. It’s wired. Buzzing. Begging.
She moves past the workbench, throws Rainer a quiet “Morning.”
He starts to reply, but I don’t hear him. Because that’s when I fucking see it.
Mason.
The moment she appears, he looks at her.
His hands stop moving. He openly and shamelessly checks her out. His jaw clenches. I see his head tilt. It’s deliberate, like he’s memorizing every inch of her. Before his stare drops to her ass, and it lingers.
Heat floods my chest. Heavy. Possessive as fuck.
The air feels thinner.
My grip on the wrench tightens until my knuckles ache. I could bash it through the bench just to stop the urge to put it through his fucking head.
He keeps watching her until the door swings shut and she’s gone.
Then his eyes flick to me.
I stare back.
I slam the hood of the car harder than I need to.
The bang echoes through the shop, and Mason flinches just enough to feed the fire already clawing at my chest.
“You eye-fucking her or are you just fucking dumb?” I ask, voice sharp enough to cut steel.
His head lifts.
There’s surprise in his eyes for half a second, before that fucking smirk slides across his face, slow and smug.
“Didn’t know she was yours.”
Yeah. This prick and I? We’re gonna get along real good.
“She’s not.” My voice stays calm, smooth as oil, but my hands are curling into fists. The kind that would have already broken jaws by now. The kind that wouldn’t mind doing it again. “Doesn’t mean you get to stare at her like she’s yours to take.”
He shrugs; it’s casual, real fucking smug.
“She doesn’t seem like the kind that needs protecting.”
I step toward him. Only one. It’s enough to make the air shift.
“No one said she did. But if you wanna keep chewing your food with your own teeth, keep your fucking eyes off her.”
Rainer doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t move, but I feel the weight of his eyes, steady and silent, watching every second.
I turn back to the bench, muscles tight, heart beating loud enough I can feel it in my fucking throat. My hands won’t stop shaking. Not from rage. Not from whatever the fuck Mason stirred up.
It’s from fear.
Because I’m not supposed to be this guy who wants to knock another guy’s teeth down his throat just for looking at a girl.
But then again, she’s not some random girl.
She’s Skylar.
There’s no version of this where I come out clean.
No path I walk down this road that doesn’t cut me open.
Every step drags me deeper towards her, drowning in something I never wanted in the first place. And still, I keep fucking going.
Rainer’s boots sound across the concrete behind me. He doesn’t speak straight away, just stands there, his silence pressing against my back. That old-school kind of silence that cuts deeper than any words.
When he finally moves, he strolls up beside me, coffee in one hand, gaze sharp beneath the brim of his cap.
His eyes flick to Mason first.
Quick. Measured as if he’s calculating how bad this could get. Then they land on the tools scattered across the workbench, before they glance up to look at me.
“Kid,” he says, voice rough from too many years of smoking. “You wanna lose everything?”
I don’t meet his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means if you keep throwing punches at ghosts, you’ll lose the few things worth holding on to.”
“I’m not swinging at shit.”
He lets out a slow breath, the kind that says he’s seen this story play out too many times and never once with a happy ending.
“Then learn to fight without your fists and start using your fucking head.”
I grit my teeth. “That’s what you think I’m doing?”
He takes a sip of his coffee. “That girl upstairs. The one you can’t stop watching. Yeah, that’s exactly what you’re doing.”
My throat locks up. Words build, but they don’t come out.
Rainer’s voice comes again. “You can’t fix the shit that made you. None of us can. But you don’t have to drag it into what’s left of your life.”
Then he walks off.
Leaves me standing there in the quiet with too many truths.
I stare down at my hands.
“Learn to fight without your fists.”
I know what he means.
And, fuck, I hate that he’s right.