35. Roman
Roman
I’m halfway through practice when I realize something’s fucking wrong.
Damon hasn’t texted me all day.
At first, I thought maybe he was just busy—lost in his paintings or dealing with his usual broody bullshit—but as the hours passed, the silence started gnawing at me. Now, standing on the ice, my gut twists with something ugly.
I pull my phone out of my bag between drills, swiping to our texts. Nothing. I try calling, but it goes straight to voicemail.
The longer his silence stretches, the worse the feeling in my chest gets.
“Bishop!” Coach barks. “Get your head in the fucking game!”
I nod, shoving my phone back in my bag, but it’s pointless. My focus is shot, my legs feel heavy, and every time I skate toward the puck, my mind is somewhere else. With him.
Something isn’t right.
I barely last another five minutes before I skate over to Killian. “Cover for me.”
He frowns. “What? Where the fuck are you going?”
“Damon’s place.”
His expression changes then when he looks at me properly. He doesn’t ask why, doesn’t tell me to wait—he just nods. “Go.”
I don’t waste another second. I skate off, ignoring Coach’s shouts behind me as I unclip my helmet and toss it onto the bench. I rip off my gloves, grab my phone, and check for the hundredth time.
Still nothing.
Fuck this.
I call an Uber before I’ve even finished untying my skates, yanking them off and shoving them into my bag before booking it out of the rink. Damon’s apartment isn’t far, but every second that ticks by in that car feels like an eternity.
Something’s wrong. I fucking know it.
By the time I get to his building, my jaw clenched so hard it aches. I practically sprint up the stairs to his floor, skipping the elevator because I can’t fucking wait.
What if I’m too late? What if something—
No. Fuck no, I can’t think like that. When I reach his door, I don’t bother knocking since he gave me a key. But the second I step inside, the smell of paint hits me—thick and cloying, heavy in the air like he’s been at it for hours.
And when I see him, my stomach fucking drops.
Damon’s standing in front of a canvas, completely zoned out, his hands covered in black paint, his body unnervingly still except for the slow drag of his brush across the canvas. His eyes aren’t clear. Not like they had started to become these past few weeks. They’re hazy. Like he’s gone. Like he’s somewhere else entirely.
“Damon,” I say, stepping forward, but he doesn’t react.
I swallow hard, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Babe,” I try again, softer this time. “Talk to me.”
Nothing.
Fuck.
I move closer, close enough to see the canvas properly now, and my chest tightens.
It’s just… black. Layer upon layer of black paint, uneven strokes, some parts still wet and glistening under the dim light. It’s messy. Chaotic. And it fucking scares me.
“Damon,” I say again, and this time, I reach out, my fingers brushing against his arm.
He jerks and the brush clatters to the floor as he snaps out of whatever trance he was in. His eyes dart around wildly before finally landing on me, and for a second, there’s nothing but raw confusion in them.
Like he doesn’t even know where he is. Like he doesn’t know me. Fuck, it’s like Caleb all over again.
His chest rises and falls in quick, uneven breaths, his fingers twitching at his sides. He finally blinks, and when he looks at me, it takes him a second to see me. I’ve never hated anything more than the fucking emptiness I see in his eyes right now.
“Hey,” I say, my voice softer now as I cup his face in both my hands. “You with me, baby?”
His brows furrow like he’s trying to piece himself back together. And then, as if the weight of whatever was pulling him under hits him all at once, his knees buckle, and he sinks to the floor.
I catch him before he hits the ground. “Fuck,” I mutter, gripping his shoulders, trying to pull him out of whatever this is. His hands are shaking, smudges of black paint staining my arms as I hold onto him.
For a long moment, he doesn’t say anything. He just breathes, unsteady and shallow, his hands twitching against his own thighs.
Then, his voice breaks through the silence. “Why didn’t you come to Caleb’s funeral?”
I freeze and the room goes deathly silent. My whole body locks up, my breath catching in my throat. “What?”
Damon’s eyes are still on his hands, but there’s something lethal in his tone when he repeats it. “Why didn’t you fucking come?” He finally looks up, and there’s a sharp edge to his expression, his green eyes cold and accusing. “You were his best friend. You were supposed to be there.”
I swallow against the lump in my throat, my jaw clenching. “I couldn’t.”
He draws his brows together and his lips part like he wants to say something, but he just stares at me as if he’s searching for something I can’t fucking give him. Then he shakes his head and scoffs under his breath. “That’s it? You couldn’t?”
My chest feels like it’s caving in. “Yeah.”
Damon breathes out, dragging a hand through his hair, smearing paint through his dark curls. “You loved him.”
I flinch. “I know.”
“You were with him for three fucking years.”
My heart stutters. “I know, Damon.”
He stands abruptly, his body tense, his fists clenched at his sides. “Then why the fuck weren’t you there?”
I squeeze my eyes shut, exhaling slowly, trying to push down the way my stomach fucking churns.
Because I saw him.
Because I climbed into his window like I always did.
Because I walked in and—
I get to my feet and shake my head, my throat so fucking tight I can barely get the words out. “I couldn’t, Damon. I—” I break off, raking a hand through my hair, trying to steady myself, but it’s fucking impossible.
“I found him,” I finally say, and Damon stills, his beautiful green eyes widening in shock. But I have to push through. I fucking need to tell him.
“I found him,” I repeat, something cracking inside me as I say it out loud to the one person who could break me. “I climbed through his fucking window that night, just like I always used to, and he was just—”
I choke on the words, my breath shuddering. “I saw him, Damon,” I rasp. “I saw him, and I just—I froze. I couldn’t fucking move. I couldn’t breathe as I watched him swaying. I—” I squeeze my eyes shut and try to catch my breath. “And when I finally did move, I just—” I swallow, shaking my head. “I fucking left.”
Damon doesn’t say anything. He just stares at me, his eyes stormy, like he’s trying to make sense of something that doesn’t make sense at all.
I force a breath into my lungs, barely holding myself together. “And today, when you weren’t answering your phone, when you were so fucking quiet—” I break off, shaking my head as my stomach twists. “I was scared. I was fucking terrified of walking through that door and finding out I was too late again.”
His breath hitches and something flickers in his expression, something raw and painful and too fucking real. For a long moment, he doesn’t say anything. Then, finally, he moves.
His grip on my wrists tightens as he yanks me forward, crushing me against his chest, his arms wrapping around me so fucking tight I can barely breathe. I freeze for half a second before I melt into him, my body sagging against his.
I fist my hands in the back of his paint-streaked shirt, clinging to him like he’s the only thing keeping me standing. His heart is hammering against mine, his breath uneven, his fingers digging into my back like he’s holding on just as much as I am.
“I’m not leaving,” he mutters against my hair, his voice unsteady. “I’m here, Roman.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, my throat closing up and I don’t know how long we stand there, gripping each other like the world is trying to tear us apart. But neither of us lets go.
His breathing is steady now, but his shoulders are still tense, his body coiled like a wire stretched too tight. I need to do something. Anything. Without a word, I pull back and grab his hand, lacing our fingers together. He doesn’t resist, doesn’t pull away. That alone tells me more than words ever could.
“Come on,” I murmur, giving his hand a small tug.
He blinks at me, slow and dazed, like he forgot I was even here. “What?”
“Shower,” I say simply. “You’re a fucking mess.”
A huff of something almost like amusement leaves him, but he doesn’t fight me when I pull him toward the bathroom. He lets me lead him, lets me take control, and for once, I don’t think it’s because he wants me to—I think it’s because he needs me to.
Inside the bathroom, I reach for the hem of his shirt and push it up over his head. He lifts his arms without hesitation, revealing ink-covered skin, his tattoos stretching over his chest and arms.
I don’t linger. Not like I usually would. This isn’t about that.
His sweats go next, and then mine, and then we’re both standing there naked, and I try to ignore the way his eyes flick over me like he’s looking for something he can’t find.
I step into the shower first, turning the knob and waiting for the water to heat up before glancing over my shoulder. Damon is still standing there, frozen, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.
“Damon,” I say, keeping my voice steady and holding out my hand. “Come here.”
A muscle in his jaw twitches, but he listens, stepping into the stall behind me. The second the warm water hits his skin, his body relaxes, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders little by little.
Neither of us speaks. The only sounds are the steady rush of water and our quiet, measured breaths.
I grab the soap and lather it between my hands before reaching for him, rubbing gentle circles along his arms, his shoulders, and his chest. The paint smears and drips down the drain, black mixing with clear water, swirling in a slow spiral before disappearing completely.
Damon doesn’t move. He just watches me, his green eyes shadowed and unreadable. I don’t push and I don’t say anything. I just keep working, my hands slow and methodical, tracing over his ribs, his stomach, and his arms again. Washing away whatever the fuck today was.
His throat bobs as he swallows. “You don’t have to—”
“I know I don’t have to,” I say, cutting him off. “Just let me.”
A long beat of silence.
Then, finally, he nods.
I move down to his hands, lifting them between us. They’re still trembling, the black paint clinging to the creases in his palms and under his nails. I take my time, running the soap over his knuckles, his fingers, then the ridges of his wrists.
By the time I finish, his breathing is slow and even, and his body looser under my touch.
We still haven’t spoken as I turn him so the water can rinse the rest of the suds away. Neither of us acknowledges the way his head tips forward, just barely resting against my shoulder. Neither of us know what the fuck to say.
So we don’t. We just stand there, letting the water wash it all away.
Damon doesn’t fight me when I turn off the water. He doesn’t say anything when I step out first, grabbing a towel and holding it open for him. But the second I start patting him dry, his whole body locks up.
“The fuck are you doing?” he mutters, his voice tight.
I don’t react. Just keep working the towel over his arms, his shoulders, and the ridges of his spine. He’s still damp, his curls dripping onto his forehead, but he’s warm now—his body no longer trembling under my hands.
“Drying you off,” I say simply.
Damon clenches his jaw, his fingers twitching at his sides. “I can do it myself.”
“I know you can.” I keep my voice calm and steady, like I’m dealing with a skittish animal.
His eyes narrow, his whole body tense with something volatile. “Then stop.”
“No.”
He glares. “Roman—”
“You’re exhausted,” I interrupt, draping the towel over his shoulders. “And you need to rest.”
Damon bristles. “Don’t fucking baby me.”
I inhale slowly through my nose. “I’m not.”
“The hell you aren’t.” He takes a step back, fists clenched. “You think just because I had a bad fucking day you have to play caretaker now? Wrap me up nice and fucking neat and put me to bed like I’m some fragile—”
“I’m not babying you,” I say, cutting him off. “I’m looking after you. Because that’s what you do for the people you love.”
The second the words leave my mouth, Damon freezes. His whole body goes still, his breath stalls, and his green eyes widen; pupils blown wide. I watch in real time as his entire expression shuts down like I just punched him in the gut.
“What?” he croaks.
I meet his gaze, unflinching. “You heard me.”
His head shakes—once, twice. A violent movement, like he’s trying to physically reject what I just said. “No. No, you—” He lets out a short, humorless laugh, running a hand through his wet hair. “You don’t love me, Roman.”
“Yes,” I say, stepping forward. “I do.”
Damon flinches. “No, you don’t.” His voice is sharper now, more desperate. “You can’t.”
I let out a short breath, something breaking in my chest at the way he’s looking at me. “Why?”
His lips press into a thin line, his entire body taut with resistance. “Because I’m not something you can fucking fix!”
I knew this was coming. I knew he’d twist it into something it’s not, turn it into an attack, a weakness, or a flaw. So I close the space between us, but I don’t reach for him. Not yet.
“I don’t love you because I want to fix you,” I start. “I love you because you’re you. Because you piss me the fuck off and challenge me and make me feel things I don’t know how to deal with. Because you’re the first person I’ve ever met, besides Kill, who doesn’t bullshit me. Who doesn’t let me get away with shit.”
Damon shakes his head again, his throat working like he’s struggling to swallow. “Roman—”
“I love you,” I continue, my heart in a fucking vise, “because you make me want to be better. Because when I’m with you, I don’t need pain to get through life. Because I see the way you fight your demons every single day, and you don’t even realize how fucking strong that makes you.”
His breath shudders.
“And I know that you think you have to fight alone,” he looks away when I say this, his jaw tight and his hands shaking. “But you don’t have to. Not anymore.”
He squeezes his eyes shut, his throat bobbing. “I don’t know how to do this,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper.
I step in even closer, my forehead resting against his. “Yeah, well. Neither do I.”
Damon huffs out something almost like a laugh, shaky and raw. But he doesn’t pull away. And when I guide him to the bed, he lets me. When I climb in beside him, he lets me.
And when I wrap my arms around him, holding him together the way I know he needs, he finally lets go.