currently watching : succession season 4 finale (again lol)
current obsession : sakura haruno (all day every day)
currently reading : a dialogue — nikki giovanni and james baldwin (1973)
currently working on : with love, birdy (tim drake) + the summer i met the graysons (mark grayson x reader x dick grayson) + unnamed barbara gordon phone sex fic
last internet search : catfishing : the wikipedia guessing game (i take this very seriously btw)
Currently Watching: YouTube 😭 besides that Supernatural and The Boys
Current Obsession: unfortunately out of print comics, especially X-men. (why can’t we have anything nice) I’m also really into trading cards right now. My wallet HATES my current hobbies
Currently reading: nothing. I’m in a lil slump and I can’t pick what to read next. Probably gonna continue the dark phoenix or start the uncanny x-men? Something X-Men.
Currently working on: trying to finish sensitive. But I still don’t have a laptop in my flop era.
Last internet search: Comic book Harold to find the X-Men reading order
No pressure tags! @clemeowntine @reginaphalangelobster @saturnst4rs @sozzoe @twentytomidnight @skeeets @infinictus
AWWW THANK YOU FOR THE TAGGGG!!!
Last Song: Be Like A Woman by Chris Rainbow.
Currently Watching: The Mandalorian!! I'm on episode 8!
Current Obsession: Star Wars & Resident Evil!!
Currently Reading: Superior Spiderman, I think its pretty good actually!! I'm gonna read Marvel's Midnight series once it releases as well.
Currently Working On: A Mandalorian Fanfic and some wuh luh wuh fanfics for my resident evil womennnn... 🤤
Last Internet Search: Carlos Oliveira Shirtless. You will not question me why I searched that... (I wanted to see that happy trailllll)
୨﹒˖˚──﹕luckys note ; aaaaa hello this is the final part of the fic woooo!!! im gonna be so honest rn... im so done w this fic i couldnt wait for it to end cuz that took me way too long and i lowkey had no more ideas on what to even do with it at one point 😭 i hope everyone who read it had enjoyed!!! more fics is also in the works!! hollis one shot and a hollis and roman possible smau 🤤
୨﹒˖˚──﹕wc ; 9.3k
୨﹒˖˚── part seven
· · ──────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ──────── · ·
The next morning you wake slowly. For a few seconds, you’re still somewhere between sleep and consciousness, warm and comfortable beneath the blankets. The room is quiet.
Then you feel it. The weight of an arm draped across your waist. Warmth pressed against your back. A steady heartbeat beneath your cheek.
Suddenly everything comes rushing back. Roman is here. He's right next to you.
Your eyes open immediately. For a moment, you don’t move. You simply lie there, staring at the faint outline of your bedroom wall while your heart stumbles somewhere inside your chest. He’s still here.
The realization settles over you slowly. Not a dream. Not a memory. Not something you imagined because you missed him too much.
He’s actually here. He's lying in your bed, sound asleep next to you. You can feel the warmth of him behind you, his arm still wrapped around your waist possessively even in sleep.
A smile tugs at your lips before you can stop it. Carefully, trying not to wake him, you shift onto your back.
The movement is small but Roman immediately reacts anyway. His arm tightens slightly around your waist.
Even asleep, he reaches for you. The thought does something dangerous to your heart.
You turn your head slowly and for the first time, you get to see him like this. Not surrounded by music and shadows and cigarette smoke and flashing lights, not on stage, searching for your face in the crowd even if he's only seen you once. Not teasing you or challenging you. Not hiding behind that infuriating smile.
The early morning darkness softens every sharp edge of him. His hair is a mess, even worse than usual. A few dark strands have fallen across his forehead and for once he isn’t immediately brushing them away.
His face looks younger somehow. The permanent tension that always seems to settle somewhere in his shoulders has disappeared completely. His expression is peaceful.
You don’t think you’ve ever seen him peaceful before. The realization makes your chest ache unexpectedly. Because everyone always sees the same version of him.
He's confident, cocky and mysterious. The boy your mother is convinced will ruin your life. The boy everyone assumes has everything figured out.
But lying here now, asleep beside you, he looks nothing like that. He just looks tired. Vulnerable.
You study him quietly, taking your time. Almost like you're memorizing him. Memorizing this. Because for the first time since meeting him, there isn’t anywhere else either of you needs to be.
Your eyes drift downward. His hoodie is gone. You remember that vaguely. Somewhere during the night it ended up abandoned on your bedroom floor. Now he’s wearing only a dark t-shirt that’s slightly wrinkled from sleep.
One of his hands remains loosely curled against your waist beneath the blankets. His fingers twitch occasionally.
You don’t know how long you spend simply watching him.
Five minutes. Or maybe it was ten. Maybe longer.
The room remains silent around you.You can pretend just for a little longer, that this is how the rest of your life is gonna be like. Asleep in your bed with him by your side.
You reach out before you can stop yourself. Your fingers hover briefly near his face then gently brush one of the dark strands of hair away from his forehead.
The movement is careful. Roman doesn’t wake. But something in his expression shifts slightly. His eyebrows relax and his breathing deepens.
Your chest tightens. God, you are completely gone for him. The realization arrives so suddenly it nearly steals your breath.
This is not a just a crush. Not infatuation. Not whatever excuse you’ve been feeding yourself for months. Its something much bigger.
You love him.
The thought settles heavily inside your chest. And for the first time, you don’t try to run from it. You don’t argue with it. You don’t tell yourself you’re confused.
Because after everything that happened, the lies, the fights with your parents, the distance...
The way missing him physically hurt. There isn’t much left to deny. You love him. That thought alone is extremely terrifying.
Your eyes sting unexpectedly. You blink quickly. The last thing you need is to start crying while Roman is asleep beside you. That would be embarrassing.
A small smile pulls at your mouth. You can already hear what he’d say. Probably something annoyingly sweet that would only make things worse.
You glance back at him. Still asleep. Still peaceful. Still completely unaware of the crisis happening inside your head.
Your gaze drifts toward the window. The curtains remain slightly open. Beyond them, the sky is changing.
The darkness is beginning to thin. A faint gray-blue glow spreads across the horizon.
You stare at the growing light for a long moment. The knot in your chest tightens instantly. Roman needs to leave.
The fact that your mother already suspects everything makes you even more terrified. The fact that if she finds him here it's gonna be the end of you. Of both of you, actually. You squeeze your eyes shut briefly and exhale heavily. You don’t even want to imagine it.
When you open them again, the room somehow feels different. The spell from last night is breaking. Morning is coming and with it, consequences.
You look back at Roman. He's somehow still asleep and still holding tightly onto you.
Part of you wants to let him sleep. Just for another five minutes. Because the second he leaves, everything becomes complicated again.
The fights. The conversations. The questions. All of it comes rushing back.
Reluctantly, you reach up and brush your fingers gently against his shoulder. “Roman.”
Nothing. You almost smile.
You nudge him again. “Roman.”
A quiet groan. Okay, that's progress.
His face scrunches slightly before he buries it further into the pillow. You actually laugh. The sound is quiet, soft.
Roman opens one eye immediately. His gaze lands on you and for a moment, he's confused. Sleepy. Completely unfocused.
For a second he just stares. Then recognition slowly returns. “Oh.” He whispers like he's starting to remember. Even half asleep, the first thing he does is smile when he sees you.
“Morning.” His voice is rough from sleep. Lower.
Your stomach flips violently. You hate him. You really do.
“Morning.” You whisper back.
Roman closes his eyes again as if he’s decided being awake was a terrible mistake.
“Roman.” You nudge him again but he just squeezes his eyes harder, burying his face into your neck.
“No.” He mumbles over your skin, leaving a soft kiss into the crook of your neck.
You laugh again. “Roman, come on.”
“No.” He whines and his arm tightens around your waist.
“You can’t go back to sleep.”
“Watch me.”
“Roman.”
“Five more minutes.” He mumbles again.
“That’s not how this works.” You reply.
“Feels like it should be.”
You roll your eyes despite smiling.
Roman finally opens both eyes. His gaze drifts toward the window. The second he notices the sky, his expression changes. Reality catches up to him too.
“Ah, right.” He exhales a deep breath.
“Yeah.”
Roman stares at the ceiling for a moment. Then lets out a long sigh. “I hate mornings.”
“I do too.”
Roman turns his head toward you again. The humor fades slightly from his expression, something softer taking its place.
For a second neither of you says anything. You simply look at each other. And suddenly the fact that he has to leave feels unbearable.
Roman reaches up slowly. His knuckles brush lightly against your cheek. “Hey.”
Your throat tightens immediately. “Hey.”
His gaze searches your face like he's studying you. Like he’s trying to memorize something.
“You’re thinking too much.” He says quietly.
You laugh weakly. “I always think too much.”
“Yeah, you do.” Roman’s thumb brushes your cheek. “But you’re doing it more than usual.”
Because if you say what you’re actually thinking, you’ll probably cry. And neither of you needs that at five in the morning.
You shake your head slightly. “It’s nothing.”
“Liar.”
Your smile trembles. Roman notices immediately like he always does.
His expression softens. “Come here.”
You’re already right beside him. But you move closer anyway. As close to him as you physically can.
Roman pulls you against his chest immediately. You bury your face against his shoulder. His arms tighten around you. For a long moment, neither of you says anything. Just holding on to each other, trying to steal a few extra minutes from the morning.
Eventually Roman exhales softly above your head. “We should probably move.”
You groan immediately. “No.”
A quiet laugh vibrates through his chest. “That’s what I said.”
“Then let’s not.” You murmur.
“I don’t think your parents would appreciate that.”
Unfortunately, he’s right. You hate that.
Roman presses a kiss into your hair. Then another. And another. Each one somehow making it harder to let him go.
When you finally pull back, neither of you looks particularly happy about it.
Roman sits up slowly, running a hand through his already disastrous hair.
You watch him.
He turns back to you. “What?”
“Nothing.” You shake your head softly.
“You’re staring again.”
“I like to look at you.” You say before you can think.
Roman grins. “You're cute.”
Your chest aches because somehow everything already feels like goodbye and you hate it. You hate how quickly one night can disappear.
Roman stands eventually. Retrieves his hoodie and his pants from the floor. He pulls them on quickly, along with his boots.
And just like that, pieces of the version everyone else knows begin returning. The confident posture. The teasing smile. But you know what’s underneath it.
Roman notices your expression. His face softens immediately. “Hey.” He calls out to you.
You look up. He steps closer, tilting your chin upward gently. “I’m not disappearing.”
The words hit harder than they should. Because that’s exactly what you’re afraid of. Roman sees it written all over your face.
“I’ll text you.”
You nod.
“I’ll call you.”
Another nod.
A faint smile touches his mouth. “And maybe next time I’ll use the front door.”
A surprised laugh escapes you. “Good luck with that.”
“Yeah.” Roman winces dramatically. “Actually, maybe the tree is safer.”
For the first time all morning, you genuinely laugh.
The sound makes him smile too. Then the moment quiets again. The sky outside grows lighter. Time is finally catching up to both of you.
Roman glances toward the window. Then back at you. Neither of you moves. Neither of you wants to.
Finally, he leans down and kisses you. Slow. Warm. Filled with promise. A promise that this isn't the last time.
When he pulls away, his forehead rests briefly against yours. “Text me.”
“I will.” You nod softly.
“You better.” He warns.
“I will.” You repeat again.
Roman studies your face for one last second. Then reluctantly steps toward the window. And suddenly the peace begins slipping away with him.
· · ──────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ──────── · ·
The second Roman disappears from view, the silence feels different. He hasn’t been gone for more than a few seconds. Yet somehow the room already feels emptier. You remain standing by the window long after he’s disappeared behind the neighboring houses, your fingers curled tightly around the frame.
The morning air is cool against your skin. The sky continues brightening slowly. The world waking up around you. But all you can think about is the fact that Roman was here. Actually here. Not a dream. Not a fantasy. Not another late-night phone call. He stood in your room. Sat on your bed. Held you.
The realization sends a strange mixture of warmth and panic through your chest. Eventually you force yourself to close the window. The soft click seems impossibly loud.
You freeze immediately. Listening. Waiting. Nothing. The house remains silent. No footsteps. No voices. No sound from downstairs. Still, your pulse refuses to slow. You turn around slowly. And immediately regret it.
Because now you’re looking directly at the evidence. The blankets are tangled. The pillows are a disaster. Your room looks nothing like it usually does. Nothing like the careful, orderly space you’ve spent years maintaining.
For a moment you simply stand there staring. The sight makes your stomach flip. The room feels different now. Not physically. Emotionally.
Like something shifted during the night. Like it isn’t entirely yours anymore. Your gaze drifts toward the floor. Roman’s presence lingers everywhere. Not in obvious ways. Just small ones.
You can still picture him sitting on the edge of your bed. Still hear his voice. Still feel his arms around you. Heat immediately floods your face. “Oh my God.” You press both hands against your cheeks.
The memories arrive far too easily. You bury your face in your hands. This is impossible. How are you supposed to go downstairs and act normal after this? How are you supposed to look your mother in the eye?
Your stomach twists violently. The answer comes instantly. You’re not. You are absolutely not going to be normal. Not today. Not for the foreseeable future.
With a groan, you begin fixing the bed. Or at least attempting to. The process takes significantly longer than it should because every few seconds you find yourself staring blankly into space. Thinking. Remembering. Overthinking.
You smooth the blankets. Then smooth them again. Then once more for good measure. By the time you’re finished, the bed looks almost normal.
You stare at it suspiciously. Would your mother notice? Probably. Your mother notices everything. The thought immediately restarts the panic. You glance toward the bedroom door. Still silence.
Every minute that passes without confrontation only gives your imagination more time to work. Maybe she heard something. Maybe she woke up. Maybe she checked your room. Maybe...
You stop yourself for a moment. If she’d checked your room, the police would probably be involved by now. That thought almost makes you laugh. Instead, anxiety continues growing steadily inside your chest.
You move around your room searching for anything else that looks suspicious. A pointless task. You’re not actually looking for evidence. You're looking for something to stop your thoughts from spiraling.
But the longer you spend cleaning, the more questions begin crowding your mind.
Did anyone hear the window?
Did the tree make noise?
Did Roman trip over something outside?
Did a neighbor see him?
Did your father wake up?
Did your mother wake up?
The question settles heavily in your chest. Because deep down, you already know the answer. Probably. Your mother has always been a light sleeper. Always. You remember countless nights growing up where she somehow heard things nobody else noticed.
A creaking floorboard. A cabinet closing. The television left on downstairs. She notices everything. And Roman climbing through your window isn’t exactly subtle.
You sink onto the edge of your bed. Suddenly exhausted. The adrenaline from the night has finally started wearing off. Leaving anxiety in its place.
You glance toward your phone. A new message waits on the screen. Roman.
Your chest immediately tightens. You don't open it yet.
Despite everything, you smile. Then another message. This time you open it.
Roman:
you dont regret anything we
did last night?
The simple question hurts more than it should. You stare at it. Your thumbs hover over the screen. Eventually you type back.
You:
ask me again after
breakfast
The response arrives almost instantly.
Roman:
please dont say that
You hesitate. Then, you answer.
You:
sorry, i'm just scared
Three dots appear. Disappear. Then reappear. Finally, he replies.
Roman:
text me after
no matter what happens
Your chest aches. You stare at the message for several seconds before typing back.
You:
i will <3
You lock the phone immediately afterward. Because if you don’t, you’ll keep staring at it. And right now you need to focus. Or at least attempt to. With a sigh, you push yourself off the bed. The shower helps. A little. The hot water gives you something else to think about for a few minutes. Something other than Roman. Something other than your parents. Something other than the possibility that your life is about to implode before breakfast. But the relief doesn’t last.
The second you shut off the water, reality returns. Waiting patiently. You dry your hair. Get dressed. Brush your teeth. Complete every step of your morning routine with painstaking precision. Anything to delay going downstairs. Anything to postpone the inevitable.
Eventually, however, you run out of excuses. Your room is clean. You’re dressed. Your hair is dry. There is literally nothing left to do. The realization makes your stomach sink. Because now all that’s left is facing them.
You stand in front of your bedroom door for a long moment. Listening. The house is awake now. You can hear movement downstairs. Cabinets opening. Footsteps. The familiar sounds of morning.
Which somehow makes everything worse. Because nothing feels normal anymore. Not after last night. Not after Roman.
You swallow hard. Your hand settles on the doorknob. For a second, you consider staying upstairs forever. A tempting option. Unfortunately unrealistic. Eventually you take a deep breath, open the door and step into the hallway.
Immediately, your pulse begins hammering. Each stair creaks beneath your feet, every step bringing you closer. Closer to your mother. Closer to your father. Closer to whatever conversation is waiting downstairs.
The smell of coffee reaches you before the kitchen does. Your stomach twists. The closer you get, the harder it becomes to breathe normally. Because now you can hear them. Talking quietly.
The sound abruptly stops the moment you reach the bottom step. Complete silence. Your heart nearly stops. And suddenly you know. Maybe not everything. Maybe not exactly what happened. But enough. They know enough.
The realization settles heavily in your chest as you stand frozen at the end of the hallway. For one brief second, you consider turning around. Going back upstairs. Jumping out the window yourself. Anything.
But it’s too late now. You’re already here. So you force yourself forward toward the kitchen. Toward your parents. Toward whatever comes next.
You force yourself to keep walking. One step. Then another. The kitchen comes into view.
Your mother is sitting at the table with a mug of coffee between her hands. Your father sits across from her, reading something on his phone.
Neither of them looks up immediately. That should make you feel better. Instead, it makes your stomach twist harder. Because it feels deliberate. Like they’re waiting.
You step into the room. “Morning.”
Your voice sounds strange. Too bright. Too careful.
Your mother finally looks up. “Morning, sweetheart.”
Normal. She's completely normal. Which is somehow terrifying.
You move toward the counter, trying not to rush. Trying not to look guilty. Trying not to look like there was a boy climbing out of your bedroom window less than two hours ago.
The coffee machine suddenly seems incredibly fascinating. You focus on that. Anything but them.
“Did you sleep okay?” Your father asks casually.
You nearly drop your mug. The question is innocent. Probably. Yet your pulse immediately spikes.
“Yeah.” The lie comes too quickly. Too automatically. You hate that. “Why?” You add.
Your father shrugs. “No reason.”
You nod. The silence returns.
You pour yourself coffee. Your hands are shaking slightly. You pray nobody notices. They definitely notice. You sit down. The chair scrapes against the floor. The sound feels obnoxiously loud.
Your mother takes another sip of her coffee. Still watching you.
You stare into your mug. Maybe if you don’t make eye contact this entire conversation will somehow end. A stupid plan. But it’s the only one you’ve got.
“You look tired.” She comments.
Your stomach immediately drops. You force a laugh. “Thanks.”
Your mother doesn’t smile. “You do.”
The knot in your chest tightens. “I didn’t sleep much.”
The second the words leave your mouth, you regret them. Because now you’ve admitted something. And your mother catches it instantly.
“No?” She asks, but it feels more like she already knows.
You shake your head. “No.”
A pause. Then, she continues. “Neither did I.”
Your fingers tighten around your mug. There it is. The first crack. The first warning.
Your father slowly lowers his phone. Not dramatically. Not angrily. Just enough to let you know he’s paying attention now too.
You suddenly wish Roman had stayed. Which is insane. Because if Roman were here, you’d probably pass out from sheer panic.
Your mother sets her mug down carefully. The sound is soft. “I woke up around three.”
You stare at the table. Every muscle in your body locks.
“Oh.” That's all you manage to say.
Another pause. Longer this time.
“I thought I heard something.”
Your heartbeat pounds against your ribs.
Don’t panic. Don’t panic. Don’t panic.
“I don’t know...” Your mother continues. “Maybe I imagined it.”
You nod immediately. “Probably.” The answer comes too fast. Way too fast.
Your mother’s eyebrows lift slightly. Just slightly. “You think so?”
Your throat feels dry. “Well…” You shrug. Trying to look casual. Trying and failing. “It’s an old house.”
Your mother studies you. The silence stretches. Your father says nothing. Which somehow makes everything worse. Because he’s listening. Waiting for you to confess. You can feel it.
“I got up to check.” Your mother says eventually.
Your heart stops. You stare at her. Unable to help yourself. And she notices. A tiny flicker crosses her face. Not satisfaction. Recognition. Like she’s finally seeing exactly what she expected to see.
“I looked outside.”
Your stomach twists violently. “Mom-”
“You know what I saw?”
The room suddenly feels too small. You shake your head.
Your mother leans back slightly. Her eyes never leave yours. “The tree outside your window.”
Your pulse beats in your ears. “The tree?”
“Yes.”
You force yourself to breathe.
Your mother tilts her head slightly. “The branch was broken.”
Your chest tightens. Roman. The branch. The branch he’d joked about.
“I don’t know how that happened.” She says. The words are calm. “But it wasn’t broken yesterday.”
Nobody speaks. Nobody moves. You can’t even look at your father. You know if you do, it’ll make everything worse.
Your mother sighs softly. Not angry. Not yet. Just tired.
“So...” You whisper, unable to form a single coherent thought.
“So...” She repeats. “Is there something you want to tell us?”
There it is. The opportunity. The same one she’s been giving you for months. Tell the truth. You know that’s what she wants. You know it. And yet the familiar instinct rises immediately. Protect yourself. Lie. Protect Roman. “It’s probably just-”
You stop. The words die in your throat. Your mother’s expression changes instantly. Not because of what you said. Because of what you didn’t. Because she saw you stop. Saw you hesitate. Saw you decide.
For a moment, nobody speaks. The kitchen is silent except for the faint ticking of the clock on the wall. Your heart feels like it’s trying to break through your ribs. You could still lie. You could tell her it was an animal. The wind. Anything.
She wouldn’t believe you but you could try. Instead, you stare down at your hands. And for the first time since meeting Roman, you’re tired. Tired of hiding. Tired of sneaking. Tired of being afraid.
The words come quietly. “Roman was here.”
Silence. Complete silence. You can’t look up. Instead, you stare at the table. At your coffee. At literally anything except your parents.
The world feels frozen. Then you hear your mother exhale. A long, slow breath. When you finally force yourself to look up, her eyes are closed. Not angry. Not shocked. Just exhausted. Like she’d already known. Like hearing it out loud only confirmed what she’d been dreading.
Beside her, your father rubs a hand over his face. Nobody yells. Nobody explodes. And somehow that hurts more.
Your mother opens her eyes. “You let him into this house.” Not a question. A statement.
You nod.
Her gaze holds yours. “And he climbed through your window.”
Another nod. A long silence follows. Then your father speaks for the first time. His voice is calm. Dangerously calm. “How long has this been going on?”
Your stomach twists. Because you know this conversation is only beginning. And for the first time, there are no more lies left to hide behind.
You swallow hard. The question hangs in the air between you. Simple. Direct.
Your father’s gaze remains fixed on you. Not angry. Just waiting for the truth.
You stare down at your hands resting in your lap. They look small suddenly. You hate how badly they’re shaking.
“How long has this been going on?” Your father repeats.
You open your mouth. Close it and try again. “I don’t know.”
The answer sounds weak. Pathetic.
Your father’s brow furrows slightly. “You don’t know?”
“I mean…” You struggle to find the words. “I don’t know when it became this.”
Your mother doesn’t look away. Neither does your father. The silence stretches so you force yourself to continue. “At first we were just talking, texting.”
Your mother’s jaw tightens immediately. You notice. You keep going anyway. “We called each other almost every night.”
“He'd text me. I'd ignore him for a bit. But I couldn't ignore him for long. I tried, but I couldn't.”
Your mother’s eyes close briefly. Like she’s already heard enough. But when she opens them again, she’s still listening. “So all those times you said you were talking to Marie?”
You look away. “Some of them.”
Your mother lets out a short laugh. Not because anything is funny. Because she’s hurt. And that sound makes guilt crash into your chest.
“Mom...”
“Some of them.” The words come back to you quietly. She nods to herself. “Okay.”
The disappointment in her voice hurts far more than anger ever could.
Your father leans back in his chair. His expression unreadable.
This is the first time you deliberately kept something from your parents. You don’t even remember why it happened the way it did. It all happened gradually. One small lie becoming another. Then another. Until suddenly entire pieces of your life existed outside this house.
“I don’t know why all of this happened. I'm sorry.” You whisper. And for once, it’s the truth.
Nobody speaks. The kitchen feels unbearably quiet. Your mother stares at the table. At her coffee. At anything except you.
Finally she asks. “Did you ever intend to tell us?”
The question nearly breaks your heart. Because the answer should be yes. It should be. But every time you imagined the conversation, you imagined exactly this.
The disappointment. The judgment. The fear. You imagined losing him. And every time, you chose silence instead. Your hesitation answers for you.
Your mother’s face crumples slightly. Only for a second. But you see it. And suddenly the guilt becomes unbearable.
“Mom.”
She shakes her head. “No.” Her voice is quiet. Dangerously quiet. “I just want you to answer.”
You stare at her. At the woman who has spent your entire life protecting you. Worrying about you. Loving you. Even when she drives you absolutely insane.
And suddenly you realize she’s not asking about Roman. Not really. She’s asking whether you trusted her. Whether she mattered enough to tell. Whether she’d already lost her daughter before she realized it.
Tears sting your eyes. “I wanted to.” The words come out broken. “I really did.”
Your mother’s eyes lift to yours. “But?”
You inhale shakily. “But I knew what you’d say.”
The room goes still. Your mother blinks as if she isn’t sure she heard you correctly. “What does that mean?”
Your chest tightens. Because you’ve never said this out loud before. Never. Not to her. Not to anyone. “I knew you’d hate him.”
Your mother’s expression changes immediately. Hurt flashes across her face. Then frustration. Then something else. Something deeper.
“I don’t hate him.”
“You didn’t even know him.” The words escape before you can stop them.
The second they do, regret follows. But it’s too late. Your mother’s eyes widen. The air feels heavier instantly.
Your father shifts slightly in his seat, watching both of you carefully. Your mother lets out a slow breath. Then another, trying to stay calm. You can see it. Trying very, very hard.
“You are right.” The admission surprises you. “I don’t know him.” Her voice trembles slightly.
“But do you know what I do know?”
You don’t answer.
Your mother stands abruptly. Not angry. She's restless. She begins pacing slowly across the kitchen. And somehow that’s worse than yelling. Much worse.
“Every time you left this house I worried.” Her voice grows stronger. “You’d tell me you were with Marie.”
She turns toward you. “You’d tell me you were studying or reading with her at the café. You’d tell me you were shopping.” She takes a few steps, walking closer to you. “And the whole time I knew something wasn’t right.”
Your throat tightens. “Mom-”
“No.” For the first time, her voice cracks. Not with anger. With emotion and that immediately silences you.
Her eyes are glossy now. Bright with tears she clearly doesn’t want you to see. “Do you have any idea how scared I’ve been?”
The question lands like a punch. Your chest aches. “I wasn’t trying to scare you.”
“I know that.” The answer comes instantly. That’s what hurts. She knows you weren’t trying to hurt her. And somehow everyone ended up hurt anyway.
Your mother laughs weakly, wiping at her eyes. “I kept telling myself it was a phase. That once we talked to you about it, it would stop.”
Your stomach drops.
“I kept telling myself you’d come talk to me.” Another tear slips free. She doesn’t bother hiding it. “I kept waiting.”
The room is silent. You can’t breathe properly. Because suddenly you aren’t seeing your mother as an obstacle. Or the person standing between you and Roman. You’re seeing someone terrified of losing her daughter. And that’s infinitely harder.
“I didn’t know how.” The confession escapes before you can stop it.
Your mother freezes. You stare at the floor.
“I didn’t know how to tell you.” The words keep coming now, months of fear finally spilling out. “Because I knew you had already planned everything out for me. The church, the college, my whole life... You had it all planned out for me. And every time his name came up…” Your voice shakes. “You’d already decided he wasn't what you wanted.”
Your mother’s face falls. You continue anyway.
“I knew what you’d think. I knew you’d tell me to stay away from him.” Your vision blurs. “And maybe I should have listened.” The words hurt to say. Because part of you still wonders. Part of you still hears her warnings. Still hears every awful possibility.
Your mother watches you carefully now. Listening. Maybe for the first time in months. “I was scared too.”
The admission makes her blink. You laugh weakly through tears. “I still am.” Your voice breaks. “Do you think I don’t know this could go wrong?”
The tears finally spill over. “I know.” You wipe them away angrily. “I know people leave.”
Your mother goes completely still.
“I know all of that.” Your voice drops. “But I care for him him anyway.”
The words settle over the kitchen. The silence around the table is intense.
Your mother’s eyes close slowly. Like she’s absorbing the impact.
Your father looks away first. Toward the window. Toward the morning sunlight. Anywhere but you.
Nobody speaks for several seconds.
Then your mother opens her eyes again. And when she looks at you now, something has changed. Not approval. Not acceptance. Understanding. Or maybe the beginning of it.
“Do you love him?” The question comes softly. As though she’s giving you one last chance to reconsider.
You don’t reconsider, just blurt out. “Yes.”
The answer is immediate. Certain.
Your mother’s shoulders drop. Like something inside her finally settles. Not happily. Not peacefully. It just settles. Because now she knows the full truth.
You love him. This isn’t a crush. It isn’t rebellion. It isn’t a phase. And she can see that. Your father finally exhales. Long and slow. Then he speaks. The first time in several minutes.
“Did he stay here all night?”
You nearly die. “Dad.”
His expression doesn’t change. “It’s a reasonable question.”
Your face burns. Your mother pinches the bridge of her nose, clearly regretting every life choice that brought her to this moment.
You stare at the table mortified.
Eventually, you answer. “Yes.” The answer is barely audible.
Your father nods once. “Did he treat you respectfully?”
The question catches you completely off guard. You look up. So does your mother. Your father remains calm.
You blink. Then nod without any hesitation. “Yes.”
Your father notices. So does your mother. The certainty in your voice. The lack of doubt. The complete absence of hesitation.
Something passes between them. A look. A conversation neither of them says out loud. Then silence returns.
For a long moment, nobody speaks. Until finally your father folds his hands together and looks directly at you. “Then I think it’s time we meet him.”
The room freezes. Your brain actually stops working. “What?”
Your father doesn’t look away. “If he’s important enough for you to protect him this much...”
You close your eyes. Oh God.
“If he’s important enough for all of this.” He gestures vaguely. Months of lies. Arguments. Heartbreak. Everything. “Then I would rather meet him than keep imagining the worst.”
Your mother stares at him, clearly surprised.
You are too.
Your father looks toward her. Then back at you. “We don’t have to like him.” Your stomach twists. “But we should at least know who he is.”
The kitchen goes quiet again. Your mother remains standing. Thinking. Processing.
Finally she exhales, long and slow then looks directly at you. “I still don’t approve of how any of this happened.”
Your heart sinks slightly.
“But.” The word stops you. Your mother swallows. Her voice softer now. More vulnerable than you’ve heard in years. “But I am tired of hating someone I’ve never met.”
Your breath catches. She looks away briefly. Then back. “If he means that much to you.”
A pause.
“If he really cares about you.”
Another pause. Longer this time.
“Bring him here.”
And suddenly everything changes. Because for the first time since meeting Roman there might actually be a future that doesn’t involve hiding.
The words hang in the air.
Bring him here.
For a moment, you’re convinced you’ve imagined them. Your mother’s expression remains serious. Your father’s too. Neither of them takes it back.
You stare. “What?” Your voice comes out smaller than intended.
Your mother sighs. The kind of sigh that sounds like it comes from somewhere deep inside her. “I said bring him here.”
Your stomach twists violently. Because a few minutes ago, that was exactly what you wanted.
Now? Now it sounds horrifying. Roman. Here. In this kitchen. Sitting across from your parents. Answering questions. Talking to your father. Looking your mother in the eye. The image is so absurd that you almost laugh.
Instead, panic immediately begins building in your chest. Your father notices this time.
"It's funny..." He comments.
“What?” You look at him, confused.
“You weren’t this nervous when he was climbing into your bedroom.” He jabs.
“Dad.” Heat floods your entire face.
Your mother immediately closes her eyes. “Oh, for God’s sake.”
Your father lifts both hands. “I’m just saying.”
You want to disappear. Immediately. Preferably forever.
Unfortunately, nobody seems interested in helping with that. The room falls quiet again. This time the silence feels different. Not quite as tense. It's still uncomfortable. But different.
Your mother finally sits back down, looking exhausted. The conversation has clearly taken something out of her. You notice it now. The dark circles beneath her eyes. The way she keeps rubbing her temple. The fatigue hidden beneath weeks of worry. And suddenly the guilt returns.
You stare down at your hands. “Mom.”
Her gaze lifts immediately, softer than before. You swallow hard.
“I’m sorry.” The words come out broken. Because they’re not just about Roman. They’re about everything. The lies. The sneaking around. The arguments. The nights she spent worrying. All of it.
Your mother’s face crumples slightly. Just for a second. Then she looks away. Toward the window. Anywhere but you. And somehow that hurts. Because your mother has always been strong. Seeing her look fragile feels wrong. Like seeing something you’re not supposed to see.
“You know...” She says quietly. “I kept thinking this would end.”
Your chest tightens.
She laughs softly. Without humor. “I thought eventually you’d come to your senses.”
You almost smile. Not because it’s funny. Because it sounds exactly like her. Your mother shakes her head. “I thought one day you’d wake up and realize I was right.”
A long pause. Then she speaks again. “Instead, you fell in love with him.”
The words settle heavily between you. Your eyes immediately sting. Your mother notices. And for the first time all morning, she reaches across the table. Her hand settles over yours. Warm. Familiar. Comforting. The way it used to when you were little. The contact nearly breaks you. Because you’ve spent so long fighting her. Defending yourself. Defending Roman. That somewhere along the way, you forgot how much you missed simply talking to her.
Your mother squeezes your hand. “You are still my daughter.”
Your throat closes instantly. Tears blur your vision. “I know.”
“Do you?” The question is gentle. Not accusing.
You look down. Unable to answer immediately. Because honestly? For a while there, you weren’t sure. Every conversation became an argument. Every concern felt like criticism. Every warning felt like judgment. Somewhere along the way, the distance between you grew so large neither of you knew how to cross it.
Your mother squeezes your hand again. And suddenly you realize she’s been feeling it too. The distance. The loss. The fear.
“I’m sorry...” You whisper again.
This time she doesn’t tell you it’s okay. Because it wasn’t. Instead, she nods slowly. Accepting it. Accepting the apology. Accepting the hurt. Accepting all of it.
Beside you, your father shifts in his chair. The sound breaks the moment. Everyone seems grateful for it. Even your mother. She pulls her hand back. Wipes discreetly beneath one eye. And immediately regains some of her composure.
Your father clears his throat. “So.”
The single word makes your stomach drop. Your mother gives him a warning look. He ignores it.
“So.” He repeats. “Tell me about him.”
Your heart nearly stops. “What?”
Your father looks genuinely confused. “If he’s coming over, I should probably know something.”
You blink. Several times. Trying to process the fact that this conversation is apparently happening.
Your mother folds her arms. Watching and listening.
You suddenly feel weirdly protective. Which is ridiculous. Roman is perfectly capable of defending himself. Probably too capable. Yet the thought of them judging him still makes your chest tighten.
Your father notices your hesitation. “What?”
“Nothing.” You shake your head quickly.
“Then talk.”
You stare at him. He stares back. The silence stretches. Eventually you sigh. “His name is Roman.”
Your father immediately deadpans. “Right. Now something that we haven't already heard.”
Your mother actually laughs. A small sound. But enough. The room immediately feels lighter.
You groan. “Dad.”
“I’m trying.”
“You are not.”
“I absolutely am.”
Your mother shakes her head. A smile threatening her mouth despite herself. You stare at both of them. And suddenly everything feels surreal.
An hour ago you were preparing for the worst. Now your father is making jokes. Life is ridiculous.
“So.” Your mother speaks this time. Gentler. “What do you like about him?”
The question catches you completely off guard. You blink. “What?”
“What do you like about him?” She repeats.
Your mouth opens. Then closes. Because the answer should be easy. Shouldn’t it?
But suddenly every reason feels too personal. Too vulnerable. Too difficult to explain.
Your parents wait patiently. You stare down at the table. Thinking. “He listens.”
The words come quietly. Your mother’s expression softens immediately. You continue.
“He remembers things. Little things.”
A soft exhale escapes you. “He makes me laugh.”
Your father nods slowly.
You smile faintly despite yourself. “And when everything gets complicated…” Your throat tightens. “He stays.”
Silence. Nobody jokes this time. Nobody interrupts. The honesty settles over the room.
Your mother looks down briefly. Then back up. And something in her expression changes. Not approval. Not acceptance. But understanding. For the first time, she isn’t seeing Roman as some faceless threat. She’s seeing the person her daughter fell in love with.
And that’s different. Very different.
Eventually your father stands. Stretching slightly. The conversation has clearly exhausted everyone. Especially you. He grabs his coffee mug. Heads toward the sink. Then pauses halfway there.
Without turning around, he says. “Invite him for dinner.”
Your heart immediately jumps.
Your mother looks surprised. “So soon?”
Your father shrugs. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it properly.”
Your pulse pounds.
Dinner. An actual dinner. With Roman. And your parents.
The thought is somehow more terrifying than him climbing through your window.
Your father finally looks back. A faint smile touching his face. “Besides.”
You already know this isn’t going to be good.
“If he survived the tree, he can survive me.”
You bury your face in your hands.
Your mother laughs.
For a moment, nobody says anything. The laughter fades. The kitchen grows quiet again. But it isn’t the same silence as before. It isn’t waiting for someone to say the wrong thing. The kind of silence that comes after something difficult has finally been said.
You sit there staring at the table, trying to process everything that just happened.
Your mother stands first, gathering the empty mugs from the table. The familiar motion feels strangely comforting. Normal. Like every other morning you’ve spent in this kitchen. Except nothing about this morning is normal.
You watch her carry the dishes toward the sink.
“Mom.” You call out to her quietly.
She pauses and looks over her shoulder.
You immediately lose whatever confidence you thought you had and your stomach twists. Your hands tighten together beneath the table.
Your mother waits.
You swallow. “Are you still angry?” The question slips out before you can stop it.
The room grows still again. Your father stops moving too.
Your mother’s face softens instantly. She sets the mug down carefully before turning toward you completely.
For a moment she simply studies you. And suddenly you feel younger. Not like the girl who spent the night with Roman. Not like the girl who lied for months. Just her daughter.
Your mother’s expression grows sad. And somehow that’s infinitely harder. “I was angry.”The words come quietly.
You nod. You already knew that.
“I was hurt.”
Another nod. You knew that too.
Your mother crosses her arms loosely, looking down for a second before meeting your eyes again. “I think part of me still is.”
Your chest tightens. But before you can say anything, she continues. “That doesn’t mean I stopped loving you.”
The words hit harder than expected. Your vision blurs again.
“Sweetheart.” She whispers to you softly.
Your throat closes. Because suddenly you realize how scared you’ve been too.
Not just of losing Roman. Of losing this. Your family. Your mother’s trust. Your father’s respect. Somewhere deep down, a part of you had convinced yourself that if the truth ever came out, everything would break.
And yet here you are. Still sitting at the same kitchen table. Still loved. Still theirs.
Your mother walks back toward you slowly. Then rests a hand against your shoulder. The gesture is simple. Familiar. “You don’t have to keep choosing between us.”
Your breath catches. Immediately.
Your mother sighs. “So stop acting like you do.”
The lump in your throat becomes painful. Because she’s right. In a way, you’ve been treating it like a choice.
Roman or your parents. Love or family. Freedom or loyalty.
When maybe it never had to be that simple.
Your mother squeezes your shoulder once. Then lets go. You watch her move back toward the counter. Neither of you speaks for a moment.
Then your father clears his throat. You immediately know he’s about to make things worse. You can feel it. “I still have questions.”
You close your eyes. Your mother groans. “Please don’t.”
“I have legitimate concerns.”
“You always have legitimate concerns.” She says.
“I do.”
Your father looks toward you. Completely serious. “Did he really climb that tree?”
Heat floods your face for the hundredth time this morning. “Dad.”
“I’m asking.”
“Why?” Your mother asks this time.
“Because that thing is at least twenty feet tall.”
Your mother presses her hand over her eyes. “Oh my God.”
Your father shrugs. “What? That’s impressive.”
You stare. Speechless.
Your father notices. “What?”
“You are impossible.” You roll your eyes.
He nods. “My question is fair.”
For the first time all morning, you laugh. A real laugh. Not forced.
The sound surprises even you. Your mother smiles faintly. And suddenly the tension that’s been living in this house for weeks eases slightly.
Not gone. Not completely. But enough to imagine something beyond constant fighting.
Your phone vibrates suddenly against the table. The sound makes your stomach drop.
Your parents both look down. You freeze because you already know who it is.
Roman. Of course it’s Roman. Probably wondering if you’ve survived breakfast.
Your father notices your expression first. Then the phone. Then your expression again.
A slow smile appears. “Oh, that’s definitely him.”
You want to disappear. Instantly. Your mother raises an eyebrow. Your face burns. Neither of them needs confirmation. The silence confirms it for you.
Your father gestures toward the phone. “Well?”
You stare.
“Answer him.” He gestures towards the phone.
You blink, certain you’ve misheard. “What?”
“Answer him.” Your father looks genuinely confused. “He’s probably wondering if we’re burying you in the backyard.”
Your mother actually snorts. You stare at both of them. Completely speechless. This cannot be real. There is absolutely no way this conversation is happening.
Your phone vibrates again. Another message. Slowly, carefully, you pick it up.
Roman’s name fills the screen.
Roman:
everything okay?
pls keep me updated baby
A small smile pulls at your mouth. The reaction doesn’t go unnoticed. Your mother sees it. And something in her expression shifts. Just slightly. Because she sees it. The thing she’s been fighting against for months.
You type back quickly.
You:
i'm alive
His response arrives almost instantly.
Roman:
i was starting to get worried
Your heart immediately betrays you. The smile appears before you can stop it. And this time your mother definitely sees. She exchanges a look with your father. One of those silent parent conversations that somehow contain entire paragraphs.
Your stomach flips. “What?” You ask suspiciously.
Your father shakes his head. “Nothing.” Which means absolutely something.
Your mother sighs softly. Then looks at you. Really looks at you. For a long moment. “Invite him over on Sunday. After we're done with church.”
Your breath catches. “What?”
“Sunday.” Your mother’s voice remains calm. “Sunday at 7. I want him here for dinner.”
You stare for a bit before nodding. "Okay." You stutter for a second. "Okay, yes. I will." You say hurriedly. "I'll let him know."
· · ──────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ──────── · ·
Sunday arrives much faster than you expect. The entire week passes in a blur of nerves. Roman pretends he isn’t nervous. Which would be far more convincing if he hadn’t called you three separate times on Saturday asking what your father likes, what your mother likes, whether he should wear a button down shirt, and if bringing flowers would seem desperate.
“You are panicking.” You tell him over the phone.
“I’m not panicking.” He says through the speaker way too fast.
“You called me four times.”
“Three.” He corrects.
You pinch the bridge of your nose, smiling. “Roman.”
A beat of silence. Then, quieter, he says. “Okay, maybe a little.”
You spend most of the call laughing. Because somehow the boy who climbed a tree in the middle of the night without hesitation is terrified of sitting at a dinner table.
By Sunday afternoon, you’re nervous too. The house feels different. Your mother keeps rearranging things that don’t need rearranging. Your father insists he’s perfectly calm despite spending suspiciously long amounts of time reading in the living room.
Nobody says much. Everyone is waiting. Including you. Especially you.
When the doorbell finally rings, your heart nearly stops. You freeze. From the kitchen, your mother looks up. Your father lowers his newspaper. The entire house seems to hold its breath. And suddenly this feels far more terrifying than sneaking around ever did.
“Well?” Your father says.
You stare at him. He raises an eyebrow. “Are you planning on making him stand outside all night?”
Heat floods your face. You move toward the front door, your pulse hammering. The second you open it, Roman is standing there.
And for a moment, you almost laugh. Because he’s clearly scared. Dark button-down shirt. Dark jeans.
Hair actually styled for once.
And in one hand he's holding flowers.
You stare.
Roman immediately notices. “What?”
“Flowers?” You raise an eyebrow.
His face instantly reddens. “I'm trying to be polite.”
Your smile grows. “You are.”
“Good.”
There's a quick pause between you before he speaks again. “I almost turned around three times.”
You laugh. The sound helps. His shoulders loosen slightly. Only slightly. Then his eyes find yours fully. And something soft settles over his expression. The familiar look that always makes your chest ache.
“You okay?” He asks.
You nod. “Are you?”
“No.”
The honesty makes you laugh again. Roman exhales. Then glances past you toward the house, immediately looking concerned.
“How bad is it?”
You step closer, lowering your voice. “My mother likes flowers.”
Roman visibly relaxes. “A point for me.”
“My father is harder to please.”
Roman sighs dramatically. “I knew it.”
The sound of footsteps behind you makes both of you turn. Your father appears in the hallway.
Roman straightens so quickly it’s almost painful to watch. You bite the inside of your cheek. Your father notices. His expression remains completely neutral. Which somehow makes everything worse for Roman, at least.
“Good evening, sir.” The words come out of his mouth so formal you nearly choke.
Your father studies him. Then the flowers. Then him again.
“Good evening, Roman.”
Roman blinks, unsure of what to say or do in this moment.
“These are for you. Well, I mean for your wife but-.” Roman mumbles before stopping himself. You chuckle quietly.
Your father nods once. Then steps aside. “Come in.”
The relief on Roman’s face is almost comical.
Dinner starts awkwardly. Painfully awkwardly. Everyone tries. Nobody quite succeeds. Your mother thanks him for the flowers. Roman thanks her for dinner. Your father asks about his work. Roman answers.
Then everyone runs out of safe topics at the same time. The silence that follows is brutal. You want to disappear. Fortunately, Roman recovers first. He starts talking about work. Then about Hollis. Then somehow a story involving a broken bicycle and an angry neighbor.
To your complete shock, your mother laughs. Actually laughs. Roman immediately looks stunned. As though he hadn’t expected that outcome. Neither had you.
The evening slowly becomes easier after that. Not perfect. Just easier. Your parents ask questions. Real questions. Not interrogations. Questions.
Roman answers honestly. Never trying too hard. Never pretending to be someone else. And maybe that’s what changes things. Because your parents have spent months imagining some version of him.
A dangerous version. A careless version. A version that never actually existed. Now they’re finally meeting the real one. The one who remembers his best friend's coffee order. The one who calls his grandmother every Sunday. The one who gets nervous. The one who worries. The one who loves you.
The biggest moment happens during dessert. The conversation drifts. Then your father asks it.
"Roman." Your father simply says. The room quiets. Roman immediately looks up.
Your father folds his hands together, looking directly at him.
“Why my daughter?” You stop breathing. Your mother looks down at her plate. Roman goes completely still.
For a second, nobody says anything. You want to rescue him. To answer for him. To stop this. Then Roman looks toward you briefly.
And when he speaks, his voice is quiet. Steady.
“Because she’s different.”
Silence. Complete silence.
Your heart forgets how to function. Roman continues before anyone can react. “She’s kind. She cares about people.”
He pauses briefly before continuing. “She’s stubborn.”
You immediately glare at him.
Roman almost smiles. “Very stubborn.”
Your father hides a laugh behind his hand.
Roman’s gaze returns to yours. And suddenly it feels like you’re the only two people in the room. “She makes everything better.”
The words hit you like a punch. For the first time all night, nobody has a response.
Not your father. Not your mother. Not even you.
The conversation eventually moves on. But something changes after that. The tension softens. The walls lower.
By the time dinner ends, the atmosphere feels entirely different from when it began. Your mother hugs you before starting the dishes. Something she hasn’t done in weeks.
Your father walks Roman to the front door. You nearly die watching it. Certain this is where the interrogation finally happens.
Instead, your father pauses beside him. “Drive safe.”
That’s it. Just two words.
But you see Roman’s expression. The slight surprise. The understanding.
Roman nods. “I will.”
A moment later you’re following him outside. The evening air is cool. The sky dark. The porch light glows warmly behind you.
For a while neither of you says anything. You just stand there, letting the night settle around you.
Finally Roman exhales. “I think your father threatened me three different ways.”
You laugh immediately. “He likes you.”
Roman looks horrified. “That’s what liking me looks like?”
“Pretty much.” You shrug.
“I dont even want to know what hating me would look like.”
You laugh again. And suddenly all the tension from the week disappears. Roman shakes his head, looking back toward the house.
The light glowing through the windows. Your parents are still inside.
“They’re not what I expected.”
You smile softly. “They’d say the same thing about you.”
Roman glances toward you. Something gentle appearing in his expression. “I'd hope so.”
The silence that follows feels comfortable. Easy. Not the painful silences you’ve become used to. Just peace.
Roman reaches for your hand like he’s done a hundred times before.
This time you don’t have to look over your shoulder. You don’t have to hide. You don’t have to let go. Your fingers lace together.
The realization settles between you both. You can see it happen. The understanding. The relief.
All the sneaking around. All the lies. All the fear. For the first time, it’s over.
Roman squeezes your hand. “You know.”
You look up. “What?”
A grin appears. “Climbing through the window was much easier than this.”
You groan immediately. “You're stupid.”
“You like me though.” He smiles.
"Oh, shut up." You smile back at him.
His thumb brushes lightly against your hand. “We’re okay now, right?”
The question comes quietly. Not because he’s unsure about you. Because he’s unsure about everything else. The future. Your family. The road ahead.
You look at him. Really look at him. And suddenly all the fear that once surrounded him feels distant. Like something from another life.
You smile. “We’re okay.”
The words settle softly between you. Roman steps closer. His forehead rests briefly against yours. The porch light glows warmly behind you. Somewhere inside the house, your parents are probably discussing him.
Marie is undoubtedly waiting for updates. Tomorrow will bring new problems. New worries. New uncertainties. But for the first time in a very long time, none of it feels frightening.
Roman squeezes your hand once. You squeeze back. And together, you take the first step forward. The future still unwritten.
But finally, you don't have to keep it hidden. Finally, you have nothing to worry about.
