Page 105 of Hymns of the Broken

That’s the moment something inside my chest cracks open. The last of my walls crumble inhishands like they were never really mine to hold up.

“I don’t want to be broken anymore,” I whisper, my voice trembling, betraying everything I’ve tried to keep locked down.

His lips brush over my temple as if he’s promising to seal every fractured piece of me back together.

“Then let me help you stay whole,” he murmurs. “Let me carry some of that weight, Sawyer. Even if you’re not ready to give it to me yet.”

I pull back slightly, enough to see his face. His eyes are softer now. His thumb traces slow, gentle circles under my chin, a touch so careful it almost undoes me.

“Get some rest, Trouble,” he says, his voice rough but warm. Then, that dangerous smirk flickers, softening around the edges.

“You’ve got two fucked-up boys falling for you.”

And then he’s slipping out the door before I can fall apart, before I can ask him to stay, before I can figure out what the hell I’m supposed to do with all this longing burning a hole in my chest.

I stand there a minute, the warmth of his hand lingering on my skin, my own hands shaking, and finally let myself hope.

I could belong to both of them.

I could belong to myself.

JASPER

I should’ve gone back to bed.

Should’ve put on music, grabbed a bottle, punched a wall—anything to drown out this tight ache in my chest after seeing her like that. Vulnerable, spinning out in doubt. Not because of me. Not entirely.

Because of him.

The hallway is dark, shadows long against the walls; I’ve been listening to his footsteps for an hour. Trying to ignore him, and the thoughts of what I want to do versus what I should do. Unfortunately, they’ve led me right to his fucking door.

I don’t knock.

I walk right in.

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed now, shirtless, sweats riding low on his hips, hair a mess like he’s been pulling at it. There’s a light on, painting everything in amber and shadow. He looks up, frowning—jaw tight, eyes wary.

“What?” he asks bluntly.

I shut the door behind me, hard enough to make the picture on the wall rattle.

“She’s in her room,” I say. “Alone.”

His brows pinch, like he’s trying to figure out where this is going, why I’m here. I can hardly believe what I’m about to say.

I take a step forward. Then another, until the air between us is charged, heavy with the negative feelings we have toward each other.

“You wanted time alone with her? You got it.”

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, muscles tense. He looks surprised, but he doesn’t say a word.

“She’s scared, Riot.” My jaw works. “Not of you, but of us. Of herself. Of this whole fucked-up thing.”

Still nothing. Buthiseyes say more thanhismouth ever will.“I told her she’s not a game,” I go on, voice low. “If you want her, show her. Because the girl in that room—she’s been lied to, used, thrown away by every man who ever said she mattered. She’s so fucking used to being disposable that she’s questioning both of us just for wanting her.”

His fingers flex, white-knuckled on his knees.

“So if you’re going to her,” I continue, “don’t sneak in like some secret. You’re not a side piece, and she’s not a phase.”