36. Damon
Damon
Roman sleeps like he’s got nothing to worry about.
Flat on his stomach, arms sprawled, face half-buried in the pillow. His dark hair is a mess, sticking up in places from where I ran my fingers through it earlier. His lips are slightly parted and his breathing deep and even.
I watch him, barely blinking, my chest tight with something I’m too scared to fucking name. I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve him. And yet, here he is, curled up in my bed, wrapped in my sheets, sleeping like he belongs here. Like he’s always belonged here.
Like I belong to him.
I swallow hard, dragging a hand through my hair. My body still feels wrung out, and my mind is still sluggish from everything that just happened. From everything he just said.
He loves me.
I should be happy. I should feel relieved. But all I feel is terrified.
I lean back against the headboard, my fingers twitching against my knee, my gaze locked on the slow rise and fall of Roman’s back. He sleeps so easily. Like he doesn’t have a single doubt in his head about this—about us.
Like he actually believes that I can love him the way he deserves.
And fuck, I want to. But I don’t know how.
I exhale through my nose, shifting slightly so I can get a better look at him. Even now, bruised from the game and exhausted from the past few days, he still looks fucking beautiful.
It’s not fair. None of this is fucking fair. I wasn’t supposed to feel this way. I wasn’t supposed to let him in. I wasn’t supposed to let this happen. I was supposed to break him. Ruin him. Destroy him. Not fall in love with him.
But Roman is the kind of person you can’t help but get addicted to. He’s reckless and stubborn as hell, but he’s also the first person who’s ever looked at me like I was worth something.
And that’s fucking dangerous.
I sigh, rubbing a hand over my face before looking back at him.
You don’t have to fight alone.
I hate that those words hit me as hard as they did. Because I do have to fight alone. I always have. That’s the way it works.
You don’t drag people into your shit. You don’t let them see the ugly parts of you. You keep your fucking head down, take your meds, and pray to whatever the fuck is out there that you can keep your own mind from turning against you.
But Roman doesn’t give a fuck about rules. He saw the worst of me, he saw me unravel and fall apart.
And he stayed. I don’t understand it. I don’t trust it. But fuck, I want to.
I want to believe that he’s not going to wake up tomorrow and realize I’m not worth the trouble. That he’s not going to look at me and see a fucking burden. That he’s not going to leave. I close my eyes, letting my head fall back against the headboard, exhaling slowly.
No one’s ever fought for me before. Not like this. Not the way he does.
And maybe— just maybe —I could let him.
I don’t even realize I’m moving until I’m reaching for him.
Roman’s always been warm, but pressed against me like this, he’s practically radiating heat. I wrap an arm around his waist, pulling him closer, and he makes a noise in his sleep—this quiet little huff—his body shifting instinctively into mine.
It’s cute. Too fucking cute.
I stare at his face, his stupidly pretty face, all soft in sleep, his lips slightly parted, eyelashes resting against his cheekbones. And I feel this insane urge—this sudden, overwhelming need to bite him.
It’s not fair how adorable he is. I glance at his arm sprawled across the sheets. A perfect target.
Fuck it.
I lean down and bite. Not hard—just enough to sink my teeth into his skin and feel him. Roman jerks awake with a loud groan, yanking his arm away as he twists onto his side to glare at me.
“The fuck was that for?” he mutters, his voice thick with sleep, eyes barely open.
I smirk, propping myself up on one elbow. “Couldn’t help it.”
He blinks at me, still half-asleep, lips parted, hair a fucking mess. His eyes scan my face like he’s trying to figure out if this is real or if he’s still dreaming, and then he looks down at his arm where my teeth marks are already starting to fade.
“Motherfucker, you bit me,” he says, outraged.
“You looked too goddamn cute,” I mutter, unapologetic as fuck. “Had to do something about it.”
He groans again, rolling onto his stomach and burying his face into the pillow. “You’re a fucking menace.”
“You love it,” I say, smirking against his shoulder as I lean in and bite him again, but this time, he lunges. In a flash, he twists around and tackles me, knocking me onto my back, his weight pressing me into the mattress.
“Fucker,” he grits out, straddling my waist as he tries to pin my arms down.
I grin up at him. “You’re slow as fuck when you wake up, Hotshot.”
“Shut up,” he mutters, his fingers digging into my wrists.
I could flip him in a second, but I don’t. Because watching Roman all worked up, his hair a mess, his lips swollen, his muscles flexing as he tries to hold me down?
Yeah.
I’ll fucking let him win.
He narrows his eyes, noticing the way I’m not really fighting back and his lips curl into a slow smirk. “You’re letting me win,” he accuses, shifting his weight lower.
I shrug. “Maybe.”
“You cocky piece of shit.” Then—he fucking tickles me and I lose it.
“Fuck!” I bark out, thrashing as his fingers dig into my ribs. “You cheating little—”
Roman cackles, dodging my attempt to grab him, his grip tightening as he goes for my sides again. “Say I win,” he taunts, the tone of his voice smug as he leans in closer.
“Never,” I wheeze, desperate to keep a straight face.
He grins, his hands relentless. “Say it, bitch.”
I’m shaking now, my body jerking under his weight as I try to twist away. Fucking asshole. “Fine!” I gasp, chest heaving. “You win!”
Roman stops instantly, grinning down at me like he just won the fucking Stanley Cup. “Damn right, I do,” he mutters, looking way too pleased with himself.
I scowl up at him, trying to catch my breath. “I let you win.”
“Sure you did,” he says, rolling off me and stretching like some smug little shit. I watch him for a second, still winded, my ribs sore from both his attack and my own laughter. I should be pissed, but I’m not. Because for the first time in what feels like fucking forever, I don’t feel like I’m drowning.
And it’s all because of him.
Roman fucking Bishop.