Chapter Twenty-Five
Skylar
It’s past midnight when I give up pretending to sleep.
The fan rattles over in the corner.
Zane lies beside me, bare chest rising slow, the kind of rhythm that makes my insides ache.
One arm’s flung across me, fingers brushing the top of my thigh.
Even unconscious, he’s touching me. Always.
It’s instinct for him now. Possessive in a way that some part of him is terrified I’ll vanish if he lets go.
I sit up slowly, careful not to wake him. The sheet slips down my chest, cool air dragging over my skin. The window’s cracked open, moonlight spilling in and cutting across the floor, catching the edge of his jaw and the shadows between his abs.
It’s been hours since he came home from the garage, exhaustion in every line of his body. But instead of crashing, he went straight for the weights in the corner.
I probably should have looked away, but I didn’t.
I sat there, without a trace of shame, watching his muscles working under that inked skin, the way his shirt clung to his back before he pulled it off and cast it aside.
Every drop of sweat, every flex and bite of tension in his jaw.
I took all of it in like a goddamn addict.
And now here I am, still staring.
He looks younger in sleep.
Less worn down by the weight he never talks about. No scowl carved into his features. No bite behind his stare. Lips, soft, opened around his breath, lashes long and dark against his cheek.
He looks so peaceful.
It’s a breathtaking kind of beauty.
My eyes drift to the ink on his collarbone, the way it disappears beneath the sheet and curves around muscle. It makes me want to trace every line with my mouth. Kiss it slow until he wakes up, rolls me under him and fucks all the noise out of my head.
I should lie back down.
But I don’t.
I stay sitting, watching the rise and fall of his chest. I could sit here all night staring at him and still not figure it out.
Why someone who doesn’t let anyone in... let me. Or why a person who’s all fists, fire and fuck-off attitude, kisses me so slowly some nights, I swear it’ll break me.
I reach down, touch the edge of his wrist where his fingers still rest against my thigh. And I wonder how long before he realizes he’s got my whole fucking heart in that hand.
I climb out of bed, careful not to wake him, the sheet dragging off my legs as I move.
I cross the room in nothing but my underwear. Each stride is more weighty than usual.
I grab the first scrap of paper I can find. A crumpled receipt from the corner of the nightstand, bent and smeared with old ink.
I smooth it against the wall, pressing my palm flat to hold it still. My fingers tremble. I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste blood.
Then, I write.
The pen scratches across the paper, rough and fast, as if I don’t get it out now, I never will. My hand shakes. Not because I’m unsure. I know exactly what this is.
I’m not scared of you.
I’m afraid of what I feel.
I’m shaking because it’s the truth.
Every second with him chips away at the girl I used to be.
The one who flinched at kindness.
Who kept her guard up even in sleep.
The one who let no one close enough to matter. Now I let him touch me, hold me. Breathe against my skin.
And what’s left of me now freaks the hell out of me.
I fold the note, cross the room and tuck it into the back pocket of his jeans. He always leaves them hanging off the edge of the chair.
I slip back into bed, the mattress dipping under my weight, and curl in close. Chest to his side, head near his shoulder. His skin is now warm and familiar.
He shifts, breath catching, arm sliding around my waist without waking. His breath brushes the side of my face. It’s soft. Barely there.
I close my eyes and try to let that be enough.
But it still isn’t enough.
My mouth wants to say it. My heart already has.
I love you.
It resides there, quiet, behind my lips. The truth that could either save me or destroy everything.
He stirs a moment later, muscles shifting beneath my cheek.
I freeze.
The words sit heavy on my tongue, still burning from how close they came to leaving my mouth.
Three fucking words that could change everything.
I swallow them back because he’s not ready for that kind of weight in the dark. Not yet. Perhaps never.
His voice breaks the silence, rough, thick with sleep. “You’re awake.”
I nod against his chest. “Couldn’t sleep.”
He hums in response, a deep sound that vibrates under my cheek. His lips brush the top of my head, his mouth lingering there for a beat longer than necessary. The kiss that says you’re mine with no need for words.
“C’mon,” he says, voice husky.
I pull back just enough to look at him. “What?”
His eyes crack open, still heavy with sleep, but there’s something in them. A flicker of mischief. That spark I only ever catch in the quiet, when he lets his guard slip for half a second.
He looks boyish for a moment. Not broken or guarded. Not the guy who’s spent his whole life surviving instead of living. Just… him. Stripped down. Soft in a way he never lets the world see.
“Roof,” he says again, like it’s obvious.
I blink up at him. “It’s the middle of the night.”
“Exactly,” he says, grinning slowly. “Best time.”
He gets up, boxers hanging low on his hips, muscles flexing as he stretches. He goes across the room and gets the bottle of whiskey from the floor close to the desk, and pivots towards me.
His free hand reaches out.
I take it.
His fingers close around mine, and we move together toward the roof.
The tin roof creaks under our feet as we get to our usual spot.
We sit side by side, legs stretched out, the whiskey bottle between us, catching the moonlight.
The city hums below. Lights blink. Somewhere, a siren cries out. But none of it touches us.
Up here, it feels as if the world doesn’t exist beyond this rooftop. It’s just us. Two fucked-up people holding onto something neither of us knows how to name.
He tilts the bottle toward me.
I take it, sip once, let the burn slide down my throat. He watches me, mouth twitching at the corner.
Zane’s head tilts back, eyes on the sky. “I used to come up here when I needed to think.”
I hand him back the bottle and rest my hands behind me.
“What about now?”
“Now I come up here to breathe.”
For a while, we sit there in silence; the bottle moving between us.
“You ever think about what comes next?” He asks, breaking the stillness.
I glance at him, catching the way his thumb rolls over the glass, slow and distracted.
“What do you mean?”
He shrugs. “Tomorrow. Next week. When this all goes to shit.”
My heart loses its rhythm. The ease of the moment slips, and I feel the familiar pull of anxiety clawing at my ribs.
“You think it will?” I ask.
“Everything does eventually.”
I shake my head. “You don’t know that.”
“I do,” he says with no hesitation.
He takes another, longer drink before speaking again.
“People leave. Things break. That’s the world, Sky. You get something good, and it slips through your fingers, no matter how tight you hold on. That’s how it goes.”
I study his profile.
His words are meant to sting, but they come across as the words of someone who has weathered countless farewells and lost faith in permanence.
“Maybe,” I say quietly, “but not everything that breaks stays broken.”
That earns me a glance.
One of those long, unreadable ones that steals the air from my lungs. His eyes flick over my face, like he’s trying to figure out what kind of fucked-up magic it takes for someone to have hope still even after the world’s tried to rip it out of them.
He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, the bottle hanging loose between his fingers.
“You talk like you still believe in shit.”
“Maybe I do.”
“Even after everything you’ve seen?”
“Maybe because of it.”
His eyes don’t leave mine. They narrow just enough that I know I’ve touched something he didn’t want touched.
A memory.
A scar.
Something that still bleeds even if he swears it doesn’t.
After that, he laughs. It’s simply a breath of sound that catches in his throat. A laugh that tastes more like pain than amusement.
“You’re something else, you know that?” he murmurs.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” His voice drops another octave, rough and soft all at once. “Fucking impossible.”
He pauses, eyes still on me. The smirk fades, replaced by something quieter, something that hits deeper. “But you make everything seem easier. Even when it’s not.”
Then he adds, almost under his breath, “You make me want to stay.”
It shouldn’t make me smile. But it does.
Because despite all his walls, all the sharp edges and fuck-off energy he throws at the world, this—him saying that—is more intimate than any kiss he’s ever given me.