“D-do you have bread?”
My chest aches at the innocence of his question. Of all the things to ask for, to want, and he just wants something simple.
The corner of my lips tip.
“Yeah, bub.”
Chapter 8
Tristen
Emmett hasn’t stopped staringat me.
I felt his gaze latch onto me the second my leather jacket was shucked off, all through making toast for both of us that included peanut butter on mine, and it’s still on me as I take our dishes to the sink.
It prickles over my inked skin, making the hair on my arms lift with interest.
It’s unsettling.
My chest clenches and I clear my throat. “Do you need anything?”
Those deep honey eyes narrow when I turn to face him and lean back against the counter. Twitch when I cross my arms. Drop when I pop a brow.
He’s staring somewhere between my stomach and my thighs, not really looking at anything, but there’s something to the way his cheeks darken. It adds just the slightest amount of color to his pale face, but it’s enough to slam my brows together.
“What’s wrong?”
“Why are you being so nice to me?” he blurts to my kneecaps and my brows pinch even further. My chest aches even deeper.
“It’s common decency, Em.” The heel of my palm digs in between my pecs.
His shoulders are stiff, squared like he’s holding the weight of something more than just his baggy shirt, and his breathing is short puffs I can almost hear from across the room.
“I invited you here. That means you’re my guest and I get to be nice if I want to.”
There’s a sound that comes from his thinned lips that’s on the verge of a whimper and it’s a pained thing I never want to hear again.
“You shouldn’t have,” he murmurs to the floor.
Dropping my arms, I take a step closer to Emmett and immediately regret it when he flinches.
Frozen in the middle of my kitchen, I watch as Emmett buries his face in his hands and repeats his broken words.
You shouldn’t have. You shouldn’t have.
“No take-backsies,” I mutter and chance another step closer when his shoulders begin to shake. “Emmett, it’s okay.”
“No!” he roars and shoots to his feet. “It’s notokay. It’s not!”
He yanks his sleeves over his fists and balls them tight, scrubbing at the tears running down his face with the scratchy fabric.
When he starts biting them, I rush forward, only to stop before touching him.
My hands hover over his, so close I can feel the anguish rolling off him in waves of heat and desperation.
“Hey.Hey,” I emphasize when he bites harder. “Can I see these?”
“No.”
