31. Damon
Damon
The canvas in front of me is streaked with chaotic lines and bold strokes. It’s not the kind of painting you show off at a gallery, but it’s mine. It’s raw, messy, and imperfect—kind of like the thoughts that have been swirling in my head since Roman left for that damn away game three days ago.
I push my glasses up the bridge of my nose with the back of my hand, careful not to smear paint all over them. They’re just basic black frames, nothing fancy, but they’re a necessity when I’m working on details. My eyesight’s shit when it comes to fine lines, and I’ll be damned if I let a blurry brushstroke ruin the vision in my head.
The apartment is quiet, save for the faint hum of music playing from my phone speaker. I’ve got a half-empty cup of coffee on the counter and paint splattered across my bare chest, but I don’t care. I’m too lost in the rhythm of the brush against the canvas, in the way the colors bleed together like they’re alive.
The painting is supposed to be abstract, but I can already tell it’s taking on a form I didn’t plan. The sharp edges and bold colors have softened, the lines twisting and curling into something more familiar.
Roman.
It’s not an exact likeness—more an impression of him, the way he feels rather than the way he looks. I’ve painted him before, sketched him in my notebook like some kind of obsession, but this is different. This feels… intimate in a way I can’t quite put into words.
He’s been gone three days, and I’ve told myself a thousand times not to miss him as much as I do. But the asshole has this way of sneaking into my head, even when I’m trying to focus.
I don’t know what it is about him—the way he smirks when he’s being a cocky bastard, the way he leans against my bike like he fucking owns it, or the way he lets himself unravel when we’re alone. All of it has me twisted up in a way I don’t think I could fix, even if I wanted to.
The painting helps, though. It always does. I add another layer of shading to the background, the brush dancing over the canvas with precision, and my shoulders loosen. I don’t even realize I’m being watched until the back of my neck prickles.
The feeling pulls me out of my focus, and I glance up, blinking as my vision adjusts. That’s when I see Roman.
He’s standing in the doorway with his duffel bag over his shoulder and his eyes locked on me. His mouth is slightly open, and I can tell from the faint flush creeping up his neck that he wasn’t expecting to walk into this.
I smirk, wiping my hands on a rag and stepping back from the canvas. “How long have you been standing there, baby?”
He doesn’t answer right away, his gaze trailing from my face to my chest, then back up again. “Since when do you wear glasses?” he asks, his voice a little breathless.
I shrug, reaching up to take them off. “Only when I’m painting. My eyesight’s crap for smaller details.”
But before I can remove them, he’s walking toward me, his bag hitting the floor with a dull thud. His strides are quick, and then his hands are on my face, tilting it so I’m forced to meet his gaze.
“Don’t take them off,” he says, his voice almost commanding.
I raise an eyebrow. “Didn’t realize you had a thing for glasses, Hotshot.”
His cheeks flush deeper and I barely have time to process it before his lips are parting mine, his hands sliding from my face to the back of my neck, pulling me closer like he’s afraid I’ll disappear. The kiss is messy and heated, and I can feel the faint tremble in his hands as he grips me tighter.
When he finally pulls back, we’re both breathing hard, my glasses are fogging up and there’s a dazed look in his eyes that makes my chest tighten.
“You’re more excited about me wearing glasses than the fact that I’m right here in front of you?”
Roman huffs out a laugh, but he doesn’t let go of me. “Shut up,” he mutters, his thumb brushing against my jaw. “You just—you look good, alright? Fuck, you look so good.”
The way he’s looking at me—like I’m something worth getting flustered over—makes my pulse pick up. I’m not used to this, to someone looking at me like this, and it’s both terrifying and addicting.
Then he kisses me again. His hands move, one sliding into my hair and the other gripping the back of my neck. He tilts my head to deepen the kiss, and I can feel the heat radiating off him, the sheer intensity of his need.
“Fuck,” he mutters against my lips, his breath hot and shaky. “I missed you.”
I manage to get my hands on his hips, grounding myself as he presses closer. “I noticed,” I say, smirking against his mouth, but it comes out breathless.
He pulls back just enough to look at me again, his cheeks flushed and his lips slightly swollen. “You’ve been hiding this from me the whole time?” he asks, his gaze dropping to the glasses.
“I wasn’t hiding anything,” I protest, though my voice lacks conviction.
Roman raises an eyebrow, smirking. “Right. You just conveniently forgot to mention how fucking good you look in these?”
“Jesus, you’re ridiculous,” I mutter, trying to look anywhere but at him, but he doesn’t let me.
“Say what you want,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing over my jaw. “But I’m keeping this image locked in my brain forever.”
He leans in again, pressing another kiss to my lips, softer this time but no less consuming. His hands stay on my face, holding me in place like he’s afraid I’ll slip away if he lets go.
When he finally pulls back, he looks at the canvas behind me, his brow furrowing. “What are you working on?”
I glance over my shoulder, shrugging. “Nothing special. Just… something.”
His eyes narrow slightly, and he steps around me to get a better look.
“Is that—” He stops, tilting his head as he studies the painting.
I don’t say anything, waiting for him to connect the dots.
“It’s… me?” he says finally, his voice quiet.
“Yeah,” I admit, scratching the back of my neck. “Guess I missed you more than I realized.”
He turns back to me, a slow smile spreading across his face. “You painted me?”
“Don’t get a big head about it,” I mutter, the heat creeping up my neck as I try to act like this isn’t a big deal. But the way he’s looking at me? Yeah, it’s a fucking big deal.
He steps closer to the canvas, his fingers twitching at his sides like he wants to touch it but knows better. “You didn’t just paint me,” he says, his voice quieter now. “You—shit, Damon, this is incredible.”
I huff out a laugh, shoving my hands into my pockets. “It’s not done. Just… started it to kill some time.”
He steps closer to the painting, his fingers brushing against the edge of the canvas, careful not to touch the wet paint. “You’re really fucking good, you know that?”
I shrug, grabbing my cup of coffee and taking a sip. “I’ve been doing it a long time.”
“Still,” he says, glancing at me over his shoulder. “This is… I don’t know, it’s kind of wild. Knowing you were thinking about me when you did this.”
I snort, shaking my head. “I wasn’t thinking about you. Not exactly.”
His brow furrows, and he turns fully to face me. “What do you mean?”
I set the cup down, crossing my arms as I lean back against the counter. “When I paint or sketch, I don’t really think. It’s more like… instinct. I let my hands do the work and try not to get in the way.”
Roman watches me, his eyes fixed on mine, and I feel the weight of his attention like a physical thing.
“Sometimes,” I continue, my voice quieter now, “things just… show up. Images. Shapes. Faces.”
“Faces,” he repeats, tilting his head slightly.
I nod, glancing at the canvas before looking back at him. “Yeah. And lately… it’s been yours.”
His expression shifts, softening in a way that makes my chest tighten. He takes a step closer, closing the distance between us until he’s standing right in front of me.
“So, what you’re saying,” he says, his voice teasing, “is that I’ve been living in your head rent-free.”
I roll my eyes, but the blush creeping up my neck gives me away. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Too late,” he says, grinning as he leans in and presses a quick kiss to the corner of my mouth. “But seriously, Damon… this is fucking amazing.”
I try to look away, but he doesn’t let me, his grip keeping me locked in place. “It’s not amazing,” I argue, though my voice lacks bite. “It’s just… you.”
“It’s not just me,” he says firmly. “And you know it.”
My throat tightens, and I swallow hard, trying to shove down the emotions threatening to bubble up. “Don’t make it weird,” I mutter, though my voice cracks slightly.
He smiles, soft and teasing, but there’s nothing mocking in it. When he pulls back, his smirk is back, his eyes glinting with mischief. “So, how many times have you painted me?”
I groan, shoving him lightly. “Don’t push it.”
He laughs, grabbing my wrist and pulling me into another kiss. “Admit it,” he murmurs against my lips. “You can’t get enough of me.”
And as much as I want to deny it, I know he’s right.