Page 93 of Hymns of the Broken

She tries to look away, but I tilt her chin back toward me, thumb gentle but insistent, needing her to see the truth in my eyes.

“You’re not background noise, Sawyer. You’re the goddamn melody. The part I can’t get out of my head, no matter how loud the rest gets.” My thumb brushes her cheek. She blinks, swallowing hard, lips trembling like she wants to believe but can’t quite reach it.

“I’m not good at this,” I admit. “Feelings. Comfort. All that shit. But I know what I feel when I look at you. I know what I’d do to keep you.”

I lean in, brush my lips against hers—slow, reverent. She doesn’t pull away, but she doesn’t lean in either. She’s still holding herself tight. Still bracing for the fallout.

“I don’t want you because Riot does. I wanted you the second I saw you. Before I even knew your name.”

Her breath catches. She’s trembling, not from fear—but from the weight of everything she’s never let herself believe.

“I’dburn this entire tour down before I let anyone treat you like you’re not enough again.” My hand finds her hip, grounding her, letting her feel how serious I am

“I just… I don’t understand,” she whispers. “You want me. He wants me. But why? I’ve never been the one people chose. Not without conditions.”

That hits harder than I expect. The doubt in her voice. The way she still questions her own worth. I see myself in that—same poison, different wounds.

I reach for her slowly. My hand slides over her thigh, then up her waist, grounding her, steady.

“This isn’t a game,” I say. “Not for me.”

Her eyes flick up. There it is—that flicker of hope. Fragile. Scared. But there.

“I don’t care what Riot wants,” I say, jaw clenched. “He’s not part of this moment. You are. You and me. You’re not some prize in a tug-of-war. You’re the one thing I’d never risk losing.”

Her breath shakes.

“You flinch every time someone gives you something good,” I whisper. “Like you expect it to be ripped away. But I need you to try to believe that this isn’t conditional. I’m not here for perfect. I’m here for you.”

I pause, letting my hand rest flat on her ribs.

“I see the way you’ve started to fight back against that voice in your head. The one that tells you you’re unlovable. I see you trying. And fuck, Sawyer—I’m so proud of you for that.”

She goes still.

I don’t even know if she realizes she’s shaking, but I feel the moment something shifts. Her breath hitches. Her hands stop fidgeting. And then slowly—almost cautiously—she leans into me.

Not because she thinks I’ll save her.

But because maybe, just maybe, she believes I won’t leave.

She folds into me like she’s giving herself permission to let go for the first time.

I wrap my arms around her. Hold her like I mean it. Because I do.

“And ifRiot wants to be around?” I pause, adding a dark edge to my voice now. “He’d better learn to tread carefully. Because you might not see it yet… but you’re not just wanted, Sawyer. You’re fucking worshipped.” I mean it. I’d drop to my knees for her. Set fire to every stage I’ve ever stood on if it meant she’d believe it.

She exhales a broken sound—half cry, half gasp—and then leans into me like she’s giving in to something for the first time.

And fuck if that doesn’t undo me.

I lean in, kiss her slow—like I’ve got all the time in the world to worship her lips. Her breath catches, and her arms wrap around my neck, pulling me closer. She makes a tiny, wounded sound—hope and relief bleeding through.

“Jasper…”

God, the way she says my name—soft, breathy, desperate—it does something to me I’m not proud of. My cock stirs, thickening, pressed against her thigh.

“I need you to remember this,” I whisper against her lips. “What it feels like when it’s just us.” My voice is shaky—almost pleading.