Chapter Fifteen
Zane
Morning slips through the window, slicing pale stripes across the ceiling. Dust drifts in the light, slow and aimless, the only thing moving in the room. The couch digs into my ribs, springs pressing into skin, and my neck’s fucked from the way I passed out.
I should move, but I don’t. Not yet. The air still holds her scent—warm, faintly sweet, threaded through the quiet.
She’s still here.
Skylar.
Sprawled across my mattress, curled into herself, one leg bare where the blanket is tangled low around her thigh. Her light brown hair’s a fucking mess, wild across my pillow, strands catching the morning light in golds and chestnuts. She’s still out cold, breaths soft, lips parted.
And for once, I don’t have to pretend I’m not watching her.
My eyes catch on that scar. Just above her brow. Small, almost nothing, unless you’re looking.
And I was. On that rooftop, pretending I didn’t give a shit when every part of me wanted to ask her how she got it. Wanted to know what hurt her. Who?
But I held back because I didn’t want her to see how much space she’d already taken up in my chest.
Even now, it fucks with me.
That tiny flaw pulling at something buried deep, something I don’t have a name for. The part of me that wants to trace that scar with my thumb. The part that wants to kiss it.
She’s not all gloss and bullshit.
She doesn’t mask the things she’s been through or try to pretty them up for anyone else.
She doesn’t cake on fake smiles or hide behind layers of make-up pretending she’s never been touched by the world.
She wears it all. Quiet. Unapologetic. Real.
And fuck, that’s what makes her perfect.
I told myself last night it’d be gone. After I dragged my fucked-up tired body into the shower and wrapped my hand around my cock, jerking off to the memory of her scent, her mouth on me up on that rooftop.
I swore that’d be enough. That getting off would clear her out of my fucking system. But fuck, that was a lie.
I came fast, and this morning I’m still hard. Still strung tight. That same brutal want’s right there, clawing under my skin, begging to be fed.
She fucking undoes me.
Every look, every breath, every fucking inch of her makes me forget who I am. This girl could ruin me without even trying… and the worst part… I want her to.
I push up from the couch before she opens those eyes and catches me staring.
My steps are slow as I walk barefoot to the kitchen, the floor cold beneath me. I fill the kettle and flip it on. One of the few things I’ve bought in some half-assed attempt to make this place a home.
It still feels empty.
The cold bites at my skin.
I should throw on a shirt. A hoodie. But I don’t. The cold is easier to deal with than the heat pulsing low in my gut. It’s better than the hard cock I’ve been trying to ignore since I opened my eyes.
I reach into the cupboard and pull out two chipped mugs. They’re mismatched and rough around the edges, same as everything else in this place.
Behind me, I feel it… that shift in the air.
That quiet pause that says she’s awake.
I don’t turn around.
“You own any shirts?” Her voice is rough from sleep, but still edged with that attitude that I love.
I smirk at the counter. “Why? You jealous the couch got more action than you did?”
“Please. I’ve seen stray dogs with better manners.”
I glance over my shoulder, just in time to catch her eyes dragging over my body before she snaps them away.
“You sure about that?” I ask with a smirk on my face. “Because you’ve been staring at me for a solid three seconds.”
She snorts. “I was checking for lice.”
I grin. “Nah, you were checking out the goods. Don’t worry. It happens a lot.”
She rolls her eyes so hard I swear I hear it.
“Jesus. Your ego must need its own fucking postcode.”
The kettle clicks off.
I pour the coffees and grab hers from the counter, carrying it over without asking if she wants one.
Pure hospitality, right?
Or maybe it’s just that doing shit for her doesn’t feel as fucked as it should. Not that I’d ever tell her that. She’d never let me live it down.
Skylar sits up in the bed, legs folding beneath her, hair messy and falling into her face. She takes the mug from my hand without looking at me, fingers curling tight around the ceramic.
While her eyes are on the coffee, mine are somewhere they shouldn’t be.
Her strap slips off her shoulder, turning skin into temptation and cotton into a fucking weapon. Her nipples are hard against the fabric, twin triggers wired straight to my cock.
Fucking hell.
I shift my weight, jaw tight, trying to think about anything else.
Barbed wire.
Broken teeth.
But she’s sitting there in my bed, wrapped in sleep and heat and everything I shouldn’t want, and my cock’s already got its own fucking plans.
I turn back to my cup, eyes on the counter, trying not to look at her.
I tell myself she’s just passing through, just some fucked-up detour I got dragged into.
I repeat it like a fucking prayer. That she doesn’t matter.
But my body’s calling bullshit on that, because every fucked-up part of me is tuned to her.
The mattress creaks behind me.
I grab my coffee from the counter, turn around, and lean back against it.
She pushes the blankets down and swings her legs over the side of the bed. Miles of fucking skin, smooth and bare.
My eyes drop without permission. Those long legs, that make a man forget how to breathe. The kind of legs you want around your waist, around your throat that could squeeze the fucking life out of me.
My eyes track every step as she crosses the room, hips swaying just enough to make it hurt.
She moves to the wooden table I dragged in off the curb last week and sets her coffee cup down.
She grabs my hoodie from the back of the chair.
My fucking hoodie.
Pulls it on without asking, the hem brushing her thighs, sleeves hanging past her fingertips like she’s trying to hide inside it. She tugs the hood up and burrows in, disappears into it as if it belongs to her.
I don’t know why the fuck seeing her in it hits me the way it does.
But it does. Hard. Right in that place I pretend doesn’t exist.
She sits down and picks up her coffee, both palms wrapped around the cup like she needs the warmth. She brings it to her mouth, takes a slow sip, eyes on nothing.
We sit in silence for a few minutes. It’s thick, loaded, crawling with shit I can’t quite name.
If she were anyone else, I’d have already made a move. I would’ve had her up against the wall, her moans in my mouth and her legs around my waist.
But she isn’t just anyone.
She scares the shit out of me. Not because she’s mouthy and hard to read, but because she makes me feel, and I spent my whole life not feeling a fucking thing.
And I don’t know what the fuck to do with that.
“Thanks for the bed,” she says finally.
“Didn’t figure you’d want the floor.”
She snorts, but it’s short-lived. Her gaze flicks across the room, landing on the mess, the chaos I call home.
“This place… it’s not what I pictured.”
I arch a brow. “Yeah? What did you picture?”
She takes a slow sip from her mug, eyes skating over the couch, the counter, the stained wall near the door.
“I don’t know. Something filthier. More empty bottles, less furniture. Maybe a thong hanging off a ceiling fan. A pile of lace and bad decisions on the floor.”
I huff out a breath through a crooked grin. “Harsh assessment.”
She meets my gaze, steady. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
“Well, you’re the first chick that’s been here.”
Her brows lift. “Bullshit.”
“Swear on my shitty furniture.”
She studies me for a second, searching for the lie. “Guess that explains why the place doesn’t reek of cheap perfume and regret.”
I can’t help it. My mouth curves.
“Give it time.”
She rolls her eyes and brings the mug to her lips, hiding the smirk she doesn’t want me to see.
And fuck, it’s almost a smile.
I finish my coffee in one long swallow and set the mug down.
Then I pull on my jeans, drag on my boots, and reach for my shirt.
I pause when I feel her eyes on me.
I turn slowly and catch her watching.
Her eyes drop fast, pretending she wasn’t just checking me out.
She can hide her eyes all she wants, but I know what I saw. And fuck, I like that she was checking me out more than I should.
“You need somewhere to crash, this place will do,” I say, keeping my voice as casual as I can. “Just until you get your shit sorted.”
Her brow lifts, that teasing glint back in her eyes.
“Are you offering me a home, Zane?”
I scoff, tugging my shirt over my head.
“Don’t get misty-eyed. You snore, you’re gone.”
She smiles and for a second, I forget what fucking day it is.
“I mean it,” I say, “You can stay as long as you need.”
She nods, and I move for the door. Just before I step out, I glance back over my shoulder.
“But don’t burn the place down.”
Her smile tilts. “No promises.”
I shut the door behind me and take the stairs fast, feet heavy, breath tighter than it should be. The air shifts as I step into the workshop. It’s quiet, too quiet. Rainer’s not even in yet.
I’m never here this early. But I couldn’t stay up there. Not with her in my hoodie, looking at me like I’m something worth trusting.
I needed to get out before I did something fucking reckless. The kind of mistake I’d taste on her mouth and feel in my bones.
I drag a hand through my hair, jaw clenched, muttering curses under my breath, every one of them aimed at myself.
I’m in trouble. Real fucking trouble. And every part of me knows it.
And I just told her to stay with no fucking clue what that’s going to do to me.
Fuck me. What the hell was I thinking?
My body moves on autopilot, hands buried in grease and busted engine parts, but my mind is still stuck in that apartment, on her.
Skylar.
I told myself not to look when she left for school. But I saw her go.
One bag slung over her shoulder. The school one. Which means the other one with all her shit is still upstairs.
Every time I spoke to Rainer, she was the only thing on my mind. My focus was fucking shot, and I knew it. I wasn’t present, not with the tools in my hands or the job in front of me.
Rainer noticed, I know he did. He saw her leave this morning. Watched her walk out while I stood there, pretending I wasn’t watching too.
I waited for him to say something. To call me out and remind me that hook-ups aren’t supposed to be crashing in the room he gave me.
But he didn’t say a fucking word. Just wiped his hands and slid back under the old Chevy he dragged into the workshop this morning.
He slides out from under the car, grease streaked up his forearm, a rag already in hand. The concrete under him is stained from years of engines bleeding out.
“Give me a hand with this,” he says, voice rough from age or smoke or both.
I move toward him.
The metal frame is rusted to shit, but there’s a curve to it. That kind of old-school shape that’s more muscle than shine.
“Who owns it?” I ask, running my hand along the edge. “It’s rough, but it’s got that vintage thing going on. The kind I’ve always had a soft spot for.”
He snorts under his breath. “This old guy was cleaning out his shed. Said it hadn’t been touched in over twenty years. I gave him a hundred bucks and towed it in this morning.”
“You planning to flip it?”
He wipes his hands and shrugs. “Nope. Do you want it?”
I don’t even think. “Yeah.”
Rainer nods, as if he knew I’d say that.
“Keep it here if you want. Tinker with it in your spare time.”
Most people see me as a fuck-up first and never look past it. But Rainer never has. He doesn’t treat me as some fucked-up foster kid. He just sees me. And for once, it feels like I’m not being measured against all the shit I came from.
I brush my hands off on my jeans and hold out a hand. “Appreciate it.”
Rainer grips it and gives a solid handshake.
He moves across the workshop and grabs his water bottle from the bench. Takes a long drink, then caps the lid.
“The girl who left this morning. She yours?”
The word sticks. “Yours.”
The thought hits hard. Too hard but I shake it off before it settles.
“Nah,” I say, clearing my throat. “Just helping out a friend.”
He doesn’t say anything, just waits. Steady and patient, giving me room to either speak or walk away.
“Her name’s Skylar,” I say eventually. “She aged out yesterday. Foster home kicked her out.” I rub a hand over the back of my neck. “I told her she could crash with me just for a bit. Until she gets her shit together.”
Rainer watches me for a beat. Then he nods once. “That’s fine.”
We work in silence, both of us buried in our own tasks.
Rainer sticks to the Chevy, grumbling under his breath about bolts that won’t budge. I’m at the bench, stripping down a busted alternator, hands deep in grease.
By the time I drag myself up the stairs for lunch, my shoulders ache and my stomach’s already growling. I haven’t eaten anything, and it’s catching up to me.
I always eat the same thing. Grilled cheese, cheap bread, whatever slices of cheese are left in the fridge. The same one I made for Skylar yesterday.
I shove open the apartment door, ready to zone out for ten minutes.
Then I stop.
The apartment is clean.
Not just clean. Fucking spotless.
The coffee table’s wiped down. The dishes I left in the sink are washed, dried, and stacked with military precision.
The ratty throw blanket I used last night, the one I left half off the couch, is now folded tight over the armrest. My boots are lined up by the door, straight and even, which is already weird as shit.
The floor’s been swept. The counter’s been wiped down. The garbage is gone. She even scrubbed the grime off the stovetop, the same shit I’ve ignored for weeks.
I blink.
She’s not here, but the air still holds her. That soft, sweet scent I caught last night. The one that stuck in my head and hasn’t let go since.
I step inside.
The space feels quieter somehow, not in a hollow way, but settled. Warmer. Lived-in. Touched by someone who gave a shit. Someone who didn’t have to, but still took the time anyway.
There’s a note on the kitchen counter.
Torn paper, edges uneven, the corner curled up slightly, looped writing in black ink.
You live like a raccoon.
You’re welcome.
I stare at it for a long time.
Then I laugh.
I fold the note slowly, pressing the crease hard with my thumb. I slide it into my wallet and tuck it behind the card I never use.
I close the wallet shut and shove it back into my pocket, then move to the stove to make lunch.