[southerngirl41]

Cherry Part 3

Roman x OC

Warnings: 18+

Catch up here: Part 1 Part 2

Roman felt his throat tighten at her words, the sting of humiliation creeping up his neck. “No, that’s not…” He shook his head as if he could physically will the misinterpretation away. The laughter that bubbled up in Maren’s throat cut through the air, and in that moment, he recognized the truth in her expression; she wasn’t mocking him, she was testing the foundation of this bizarre interaction to see if it would hold.

“What do you think you’re offering?” she challenged, but her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. Her gaze lingered on him, assessing, challenging, but he could sense a thread of curiosity woven into her tone, a flicker of something alive beneath the surface.

“Honesty,” he said, and the words surprised him as they tumbled out, raw and unfiltered. "Too many men wear masks. And I’m tired of wearing mine.”

She tilted her head, letting the words settle between them. He saw the flicker of interest ignite in her expression, but it was tethered tightly to wariness. What had he just offered her? Did he even know?

He forced himself to say it. “I want company but not a relationship. I’m newly divorced, in the public eye. I need something discreet… someone to talk to.”

The admission hung there, exposed and embarrassing, but also, in its way, a relief. Roman pressed on, afraid that if he stopped now she’d laugh him into the ground. He tried to conjure reasons that would sound noble or, at the very least, not pathetic; the scrutiny, the endless speculation, the fact that even his smallest gestures could be sucked into the rumor mill and spat out as scandal. But the real reason, what he couldn’t say, was that he didn’t know how to be alone, and couldn’t stand the idea of someone knowing that about him.

He could see how it must sound to her; the man who wants the perks of intimacy without the bother of commitment, who wants warmth and proximity but can’t risk the fallout of being truly known. He imagined trying to explain it to her as if she were a therapist, as if there was something to confess other than the sheer humiliating banality of loneliness. He was surprised by how badly he wanted her to understand, to believe that he was not just another cliché, another man looking for an arrangement with no consequences.

Maren’s eyes narrowed, and he could tell she was running the math, tallying his motives against a lifetime of similar offers. He braced for the verdict, for the inevitable recoil or scoff. But she just sat there, listening. Maybe she was tired of pretense, too. Maybe she found his naked neediness, his inability to dress it up as anything else, refreshing, or at least more honest than the alternatives.

Roman struggled to clarify, to add ballast to his confession. “Look, I’m in the middle of a mess. There are lawyers, press, all of it. I can’t… I don’t want anyone getting chewed up by that, including you, it wouldn’t be fair. But I can’t do the whole solitude thing, either.” He paused, recognizing the feverish note in his own voice. “I’m not asking for anything you don’t wanna give. Just your company, sometimes. Nothing more. No complications.”

He realized as he said it that he was making a promise he could not actually keep. There was always more. There was always the secret, clamoring hope for a little mercy, a little understanding, maybe even a touch of redemption. But he’d said his piece, and now he could only watch to see how she would parse it.

He expected her to tell him to fuck off. Instead, she leaned back and regarded him with the grim, appraising detachment of a mechanic looking at a car that had returned for the same repair for the second time. Roman had the sudden, superstitious thought that she could see every woman he’d ever disappointed lined up behind him in this very booth, all of them silently rooting for him to fail.

He tried to smile, to show her he could read the room, but what came out was more of a grimace. “It sounds… cheap when I say it out loud,” he admitted, hating himself for how small it sounded, how transactional. “But I don’t know how else to ask.”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she flicked her gaze across his face as if searching for a tell, some hairline fracture in his veneer that might betray a hidden catch. Her silence felt strategic, the first volley in a negotiation, not of numbers, not exactly, but of boundaries and blame.

“What do I get out of this?” she asked at last, and the question landed between them not as a demand but as a dare. She wanted to see whether the proposition would collapse under the weight of scrutiny, whether he was prepared to itemize the transaction or was too cowardly to acknowledge its fundamental imbalance.

He tried to read her tone but found it slippery, poised on the edge between irony and genuine curiosity. 

“What do you want?” he countered, and the words sounded both brave and desperate, like a man who’d decided he’d rather be shot than flayed alive.

For a brief, bracing instant, he wanted her to name her price, to tell him exactly what it would take to make this weird, brittle arrangement bearable for them both. But just as quickly, he realized how easily that could become a trap, how any answer she gave might only deepen his shame or expose his motives as hollow. He braced himself for the worst, for the most transactional version of the future, and waited to see who she would decide to be.

She turned away from him for the first time since they’d sat down, letting her gaze slide beyond the window, and spoke with a candor so leveled it seemed to flatten the air between them. “Nothing really does me any good except money.” The words dropped neat and heavy, a foregone conclusion rather than a confession, and Roman felt his stomach clench at the completeness of it. She didn’t say it with bitterness or regret; it was the grim efficiency of someone who’d run out of other explanations.

He found himself nodding, not in judgment but in a strange kind of solidarity. He’d spent his own life making every transaction look like an act of generosity, hiding the ledger even from himself. “I’ve got money,” he said, and it was almost a relief to say it plainly, without the frills. He could feel the torque of possibility in the space between them, like a door cracking open in a room he’d always assumed was locked. “Tell me how much you want.”

Maren bit her lip, and he could see her weighing the next move, the precise calculation of risk and reward. For a moment, her bravado flickered, and in its place he saw something almost childlike, a flash of old hope that maybe this time the answer wouldn’t cost her too much. “Can you pay my rent?” Her voice was flat, but underneath it, Roman thought he caught a tremor of embarrassment, or maybe just the weariness of having to ask.

“Yes.” The word was out before he’d even considered the true implications of it, before he could interrogate what he was actually agreeing to. There was something exhilarating about his own recklessness, as if by flinging himself into the arrangement he might outpace the shame that trailed him everywhere. The way she looked at him after he said it, though, told him that she knew exactly what loop they were about to enter together.

She exhaled, and for an instant, the tension in her shoulders softened. “It’s not that much,” she said, almost apologetic, as if she’d expected him to balk or haggle or turn the thing into a test. “It’s just…I don’t have a safety net. I don’t have anyone else.” She shrugged, and Roman saw all at once the perverse pride that came with being beholden to nothing except necessity. “That’s what I need. Not flowers or gifts or any of that bullshit.”

Roman was surprised to find that he wanted, more than anything, to make her believe he wasn’t just another charity case for her to loathe. “I can do that,” he said, and his voice was steadier than he felt. “If that’s what you need, I’ll take care of it. If there’s anything else, I’ll take care of that too.” He knew he was supposed to feel cheap or degraded, but he didn’t. He felt, if anything, a strange surge of hope, as if the arrangement might offer him a kind of absolution.

Maren tilted her head, assessing whether he was bluffing or deluded or simply too naïve to grasp what he was signing up for. “You sure?” she asked, and there was an edge to it, the sense that she was testing for a weak spot.

Roman nodded, and for the first time, he let himself admit how badly he wanted someone to need him, even if it was only for the most mercenary reason. “I’m sure.”

The exchange hung between them, charged with the weight of new possibilities. Roman felt something like exhilaration flicker in his chest; the prospect of being needed, however transactional, held an uncomfortable appeal. He watched Maren’s expression shift, scrutinizing him as if searching for cracks in what he’d promised.

A part of him wanted to scream that this was not just a business arrangement, that he had come to her out of something deeper than need, but the words wouldn’t form. Instead, he sat there, feeling the weight of money in his pocket and the warmth of her presence across from him.

“Fine,” she said finally, and her voice cut through the tension like a knife. “If we’re doing this, let’s set some boundaries.” Her gaze locked onto his, holding him as though she was trying to read the truth etched into his features.

“Name ‘em.” Roman nodded softly, trying to read in her face whether the offer was a trap or a test of character. He wondered if her next words would be a price list or a set of conditions, and braced himself for either.

Maren leaned forward, placing her forearms on the edge of the tabletop. She spoke with a slow, deliberate calm, as if to prove neither of them was going to flinch first. “No coming to the club,” she said, her voice surprisingly gentle. “You can wait outside for me, but don’t come in.” There was no trace of apology in the statement. It was a rule, and she delivered it with the impersonal authority of a prison guard reciting the schedule for yard time.

Roman felt the shape of the boundary before he understood it. There was something deeply final in the way she said it: no coming to the club. He tried to summon the old defense mechanisms, the reflexive jokes or sly retorts, but they wouldn’t come. He imagined himself standing outside on the curb, hands in pockets, watching the neon sign flicker in the late-night gloom while she worked behind the blacked-out windows. The thought made him ache, not just with jealousy but with the sick, needy longing of someone who had already accepted the terms of his own demotion.

He realized he had always constructed his own rules for intimacy, some elaborate system of push and pull, always keeping the upper hand. Now, for the first time, he was caught in someone else’s logic, and he found it both humiliating and intoxicating. 

Maren glanced up at him, as if to check whether the first rule had landed. “I mean it. Don’t come in.” She didn’t wait for his answer.

She wasn’t done. “Don’t ask about other people, either.” It was the kind of rule that revealed its own history, a legacy of past men who had wanted to be the exception, the sole customer, the one who could privatize her attention. She watched him carefully, waiting for him to bristle or protest.

He didn’t. Instead, he nodded, as if he had already internalized the logic. He imagined the other men, their names and faces fungible, interchangeable, and felt a strange kinship with them, a brotherhood of the perpetually excluded. He wondered if that would make it easier or harder, knowing he was just another line in a ledger, just another transaction to be scheduled and then forgotten.

She seemed to sense his agreement, or at least his willingness to abide. “You can text me, but don’t call unless you text first,” she said, voice growing more clinical with each stipulation. “No posting about me. No pictures. And never, ever show up at my apartment unannounced.” The rules came out in a cascade, each one clearing a little more space between them, each one a fortification against the sort of neediness she had learned to anticipate and preempt.

Roman found himself wanting, absurdly, to thank her for the clarity. All his life, the boundaries had been implicit, mutable, their violation only detected after the fact. Here was someone telling him the outline of her own vulnerability, and he felt oddly honored to receive it.

Maren finished her inventory of rules and looked straight at him, as if challenging him to find a loophole or make a fuss. Instead, he just nodded again, this time with an embarrassment that bordered on gratitude. He wondered what it meant that he was willing to take her on her own terms, that he was even a little grateful for the transactionality of it.

“Okay,” he said. “I got it.”

“Now, tell me yours.” She said with such directness that Roman almost flinched. The question hung in the air between them, a reversal he hadn't anticipated. 

"My rules?" He shifted in the booth, the vinyl seat creaking under his weight. The question caught him off guard, no one had ever asked him what he needed, not in a way that felt like an actual invitation to answer.

Maren nodded, her expression softening just slightly, as if she'd caught him in the act of forgetting his own humanity. "Yeah, your rules. This isn't just me laying down the law. If we're doing this, I wanna know what you need too.

Roman stared at his hands, at the cuticles he'd been picking at all week. He realized with sudden clarity that he'd never actually articulated what he wanted from anyone, not really.

“I guess, don't leave anything at my place. I got kids… and they run their mouths.”

"Fair enough." Maren nodded

Roman cleared his throat. "Also, I need to know... if you don't want to see me anymore, just tell me straight. Don't ghost." The words came out more vulnerable than he'd intended. "I've done enough of that to other people to know how it feels.

She studied him with renewed interest, as if his honesty had recalibrated her assessment. "I don't ghost." she said. "I don't have time for games.”

"And one more thing." Roman's voice dropped lower. "If we do this, I need you to be present when we're together. I don't want you thinking about someone else or just going through the motions." He felt his face warm, embarrassed by the transparency of his need. "I want you to be there with me. Is that too much to ask?"

Maren's expression shifted, a flicker of something almost like respect crossing her features. "No, that's not too much. I can give you that." She paused, then added, "As long as you can give me the same."

“I will.” He nodded but then raised a finger, “But also, I like to give gifts. I know you said you didn't need them but I'd like to give you things from time to time," Roman continued. "Not as part of the arrangement, just because I want to." The words felt clumsy as they left his mouth. He was trying to carve out some small corner of genuine connection within the transactional framework they were establishing.

Maren raised an eyebrow, her skepticism evident. "What kind of things?"

Roman shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. "I don't know. Small things. Something I see that makes me think of you." He cleared his throat. "Not necessarily expensive... just thoughtful.”

For a moment, she seemed to be weighing whether this was some kind of manipulation tactic. Then her expression softened just slightly. "Okay," she said. "But nothing that feels like an obligation to me."

"Deal." Roman felt an unexpected surge of relief. It was a small victory in a larger negotiation that felt increasingly like a surrender. He found himself wanting to prolong this conversation, to delay the moment when they

"So that's it then," she said. "We have a deal?”

Roman nodded, his throat tight. "We have a deal."

She extended her hand across the table, not for a handshake but with her palm up, an invitation. When he placed his hand in hers, her fingers closed around his with surprising strength.

She regarded him for a moment, the faintest shadow of relief passing across her face. “Good,” she said. “Then I think we’ll get along fine.”

———

Roman paced the length of the living room, the city sprawling out beneath him through the floor-to-ceiling glass. The penthouse was massive, immaculate, and entirely devoid of warmth. It looked less like a home and more like a high-end furniture showroom that happened to float forty stories above the street.

He checked his watch. 7:15 PM.

The driver he’d sent should be pulling up to her apartment complex right now. When he had arranged it that afternoon, it had seemed like a simple, practical gesture. Don’t make her drive. Keep her safe. It was the kind of logistical problem-solving he was used to from a decade on the road. But now, staring at the sterile marble countertops and the catered spread from a five-star Italian place he’d never actually eaten at, he realized how it actually looked.

He had sent a luxury transport to pick up a woman he'd paid for her time, to bring her to an ivory tower.

He dragged a hand down his face, cursing himself. He was treating this like a VIP meet and greet, hiding behind his money because he was terrified of just being a guy asking a girl to dinner.

At 7:42 PM, the soft, electronic chime of the private elevator echoed through the cavernous room.

Roman stiffened, rolling his shoulders back instinctively as the polished steel doors slid open.

Maren stepped out into the foyer. She wore a dark, ribbed turtleneck tucked into vintage Levi's, and a pair of heels. She carried a jacket over one arm. The outfit was a deliberate armor: utilitarian, unimpressed, and distinctly out of place against the backdrop of Roman’s millions.

She didn't look at him right away. She stopped just outside the elevator, her eyes scanning the sprawling, minimalist expanse of the penthouse, the floating staircase, the abstract art he hadn't chosen, the dizzying drop of the skyline beyond the glass.

"Maren," he said, taking a step forward, his voice a low rumble in the quiet.

She finally turned her gaze to him. Her expression was unreadable, a cool, guarded mask that made his chest tighten.

"A private driver in a blacked out SUV, Roman?" she asked, her voice dry. She tossed her jacket onto a pristine white suede armchair without asking. "My neighbors think I either got arrested by the feds or recruited by the cartel."

Roman winced, rubbing the back of his neck. "I just didn't want you to have to deal with traffic. Or an Uber."

"Right," she said, stepping further into the room. She ran a hand lightly over the back of a leather sofa, testing the texture. "And the penthouse? You couldn't handle a booth at an Olive Garden, so you brought me to Bruce Wayne's depression den?"

"I don't know how to do a normal date," he admitted. The honesty spilled out of him before he could stop it, stripped of any defense. "I haven't taken someone to dinner in fifteen years. Everywhere I used to go, people stared. People take pictures. I didn't want an audience."

Maren paused. The sharp, defensive edge in her posture softened just a fraction. She looked at him standing in the middle of his empty fortress, a man who had conquered the world and now had nowhere to sit.

"You really live up here all by yourself?" she asked, the sarcasm fading into something closer to quiet disbelief.

"Yeah."

She looked back out at the glittering grid of the city, the millions of lights reflecting faintly in her dark eyes. "It’s beautiful," she said softly, before turning back to him with a faint, crooked smile. "It's also the loneliest room I've ever stood in."

Roman felt the breath catch in his throat. He had expected her to be intimidated by the money, or repulsed by the flex. Instead, she just saw straight through the marble and glass, right to the hollow center of it all.

"I ordered food," he said, gesturing awkwardly toward the dining table, desperate to break the tension. "It's Italian. Probably cold by now."

“Warn it up for us, I’m hungry.”

The dining table was too long. It felt like they were shouting across a canyon, the silver candlesticks and silk napkins acting as barriers rather than decor. After three bites of a risotto that tasted like money and effort, Maren set her fork down with a definitive clack.

"I can't do it," she declared, pushing the chair back. "The air is too thin up here. My brain is starting to think I’m a different person."

Roman looked up, a piece of bread halfway to his mouth. "Is the food bad? I can call–"

"The food is fine, Roman. It’s perfect. That’s the problem." She stood up, grabbed her wine glass and plate, and headed toward the massive floor-to-ceiling windows. She sat right on the floor, kicking her heels off, leaning her back against the cold glass. "Come here. Sit. Get off the throne for five minutes."

Roman hesitated, then followed. Sitting on the hardwood floor in a four-million-dollar penthouse felt like a sacrilege, but as he settled his large frame beside her, the room felt slightly less like a museum.

"Look at that," Maren said, gesturing to the grid of lights below. "From up here, it looks like a circuit board. Clean. Quiet. You can’t smell the exhaust or hear the sirens. You can’t see the trash overflowing on 4th Street or the guy sleeping outside the 24-hour pharmacy."

"That’s the point of being up here," Roman said quietly, staring at his own reflection in the glass. "To not see it. To not be in it."

"Right…" she countered, though her voice wasn't bitter; it was curious. "My apartment smells like my neighbor's Newport cigarettes and damp carpet. If I want a view, I have to stand on my toilet to look out the window above the shower. My world is loud, Roman. It’s crowded."

She turned her head to look at him, her dark eyes sharp. "You’ve spent your whole life trying to get away from the crowd. I spend my whole life trying to survive inside of it. You’re lonely because you’ve locked everyone out. I’m lonely because I’m surrounded by people who don't actually see me."

Roman felt the familiar ache in his chest, the one he usually drowned with gym sessions and silence. "I thought the money would buy peace," he admitted, his voice barely a rumble. "I thought if I worked hard enough, I could build a wall high enough that no one could find me anymore. But you’re right. It’s just a very expensive cage."

"The difference is," Maren said, taking a slow sip of her wine, "you can leave your cage whenever you want. You have the keys. I’m still trying to save up enough for a deadbolt."

She reached out, her fingers grazing the fabric of his sleeve. "You look at me and see someone who's 'free' because I don't have the pressure of a legacy. I look at you and see a man who has everything but doesn't know how to enjoy a slice of pie without thinking about how long it will take to work it off."

"You’re not wrong," Roman chuckled, finally meeting her gaze.

Maren’s eyes glinted with mischief, or maybe it was sympathy, a flicker that softened the line of her jaw. “I googled you today,” she announced, as if it was something confessional. There was no accusation in her tone, only the wry amusement of someone who had stumbled onto an inside joke, then realized she was the punchline.

Roman winced so hard it was practically a flinch; he scrubbed a hand over his beard. “Oh fuck,” he muttered, not looking at her. He braced for the parade of tabloid headlines, the clickbaited biographies, the freeze-frames of him snarling or shirtless, sometimes both.

Maren just shrugged, swirling her wine. “You’re kind of a big deal. Like, your Wikipedia page is insane. It’s like a whole ecosystem.” She paused, searching his face with an anthropologist’s curiosity. “Does it ever get weird, seeing your entire life chopped up and reassembled by strangers?”

Roman blew out a breath. The weight of his own reputation felt suddenly corporeal. “It’s not really my life, though. It’s some slightly more unhinged version of me. The Roman people want to see bleed.” He picked at a loose thread in his pants, the gesture almost boyish. “Most days I pretend it’s just background noise, but sometimes…” He cut himself off, embarrassed by the vulnerability.

She cocked her head. “But sometimes it gets under your skin anyway?”

He nodded, silent.

Maren leaned in, toes pointed toward him, as if proximity might diffuse the strangeness. “I guess I didn’t realize how famous you were. I knew you were a wrestler, but I figured you just had a lot of neck tattoos and opinions about protein powder. Not… all this.”

Roman managed a lopsided grin. “You’re not the only one who’s disappointed.”

She sipped her wine, still watching him. “I’m not disappointed,” she said. “I just have more context for why you live in a spaceship forty stories above the earth.”

He could have deflected, made a joke about the altitude or the air quality, but he let her words settle. Here she was, sitting on the floor with him, not running or fawning, just trying to connect the viral video version of his life with the man who couldn’t even host a dinner without feeling like an imposter.

“I thought,” she continued, “that maybe you googled me, too. You know. Rule of symmetry and all that.”

He shook his head, genuinely surprised. “I didn’t. Figured if you wanted me to know something, you’d tell me.”

“You really are old school.” She flashed a smile, quick and crooked. “Well, if you do google me, my last name is fake, and my alma mater is a lie, and my favorite color is green but I only own black.”

Roman laughed, the sound coming out rawer than he meant it to. “It’s a good color. It suits you.”

She grinned, then let her shoulder rest against the glass, a small gesture of comfort in a space that had never known it. “I don’t care about your headlines, Roman. Just so you know. But I like that you’re honest about hating ‘em.”

He went quiet, letting the city’s glow fill the silence.

Maren tipped her glass to catch the last luster of the city lights through the wine’s pale surface. She swirled the remnants, then looked at Roman sideways, her voice a notch softer than before. “Can I have some more wine?”

Roman didn’t hesitate. He was grateful for something to do with his hands, grateful for the chance to serve her in the most minor possible way. “You can have anything you want,” he replied, the words coming out with a note of sincerity that surprised even him. He reached for the bottle and poured slowly, careful to angle the mouth just right, the stream of pinot grigio catching in the glass with barely a ripple.

He filled her glass well past what a sommelier would consider decent. She accepted the gesture without comment, just a small, secret smile sliding across her lips as she brought the rim to her mouth and sipped. Her knees were drawn up now, her bare toes flexing against the cool wood. She looked less like a guest in his fortress and more like a woman in her own living room. 

Roman refilled his own glass, but he didn’t drink. He watched her instead; the loose way she held the stem, the way her eyes drifted away from him after each sip, as though she was measuring the distance between herself and everything else in the world.

They sat that way, side by side in the glow of the city, the hush between them easy and companionable. It wasn’t the kind of quiet that pressed in; it was the kind that expanded, giving them space to breathe.

She tilted her head back, exposing the graceful curve of her neck as she let the wine settle. It caught the fading light, and for a fleeting moment, he understood the allure of being free, of not being tethered to expectations or roles defined by others. He recalled her casual confidence, the way she'd laid bare the truth about their realities without a trace of pretension or jealousy.

“You really don’t have to pretend with me,” she had said, yet he felt the pretense still lingering, an old habit he struggled to shake. “I mean, we have no past together. You can be anyone you want to be while we're together.”

Roman leaned back against the glass, feeling the cold chill seep through his shirt. He couldn’t shake the sensation of vulnerability creeping in again, a reminder of everything he had shut out. He glanced sideways at Maren, her profile illuminated by the city’s glow.

“Anyone I wanna be?” The words felt strange on his tongue, heavy with an irony he could not shake. The thought of being anything other than Roman, this version of Roman, seemed both liberating and terrifying. “Not sure what that would be.”

Her laughter was light, like a breeze fluttering through the curtains, almost spontaneous. “I don’t know, a chef, maybe? You could literally do anything except stay in this penthouse staring down at all of us.”

He frowned at her teasing, feeling a familiar flush of irritation rising. “Do I look like a chef?”

“Why don't you cook for me next time and see?”

“Maybe I will,” Roman said, though the idea felt like a strange challenge. Had he ever actually prepared a meal for anyone ? The thought of flour and spices replaced by the sanitized sterility of takeout containers left him feeling both incredulous and intrigued.

But the change in her smile sent a ripple through him, she was genuinely amused, not mocking. “I know you can pull it off.”

He shrugged, feeling foolish now. “We'll see.”

Maren rolled her eyes exaggeratedly, lifting her glass triumphantly. “You're Roman Reigns, you can do anything!”

The laugh surprised him; loose and unguarded, not the kind he performed for crowds. He hadn’t expected her to be like this. He leaned in without meaning to. “I like seeing you smile,” he said, low enough that it was almost just for himself.

She glanced at him, then away. “I have to get to work soon.” She pressed her palm flat against the floor and pushed herself up.

“I’ll be there later to walk you to your car.”

Maren shook her head, “You really don’t have to.”

“I know,” Roman shrugged, “I want to.”

To be continued... (sorry for the weird cut off... didn't have a great place to end the chapter!)

@madhatterbri @femdisa @fearlesschimera @fafomama @xbriexx @jstarr86 @ctinadiva @vebner37 @cyberdejos2 @raya-hunter01 @crxssjae @bebesobrielo @empressdede @brie-mode-activated @mzv11 @sayyestoheav3nn @jaded-human @cutttteeee @bloodlinesbabe93 @abadbitchblogs @yana3sworld @eatlifthockey @leighla3 @mindairy @mselenalovebug @transparentphantomface @pittieprincess22 @christinabae @rose-blisse-blog @sgt-peppers-coffee-club @jennifuz @empire1081 @xnightmarexpunkx @hodgepodge-musings @thenortherner1 @ariiael-monae @trippinsorrows

[watchinglee2]

It’s Just Business - Roman Reigns x Female Reader

Plot: You attend a high-stakes dinner to secure a major brand collaboration with Roman Reigns, where his subtle, sweet flirting quickly escalates into an invitation to his hotel suite. There, he seduces you with the promise that sealing the deal with rough, intense sex on the bed is “just business,” and you give in to both your desire and the opportunity, letting him fuck you senseless until the contract is yours.

Warnings: smut

Word Count: 2.51k

It’s Just Business

The silk of your dress clung to every curve like a second skin, the deep emerald green catching the low light of the restaurant and making your skin glow. You’d chosen it carefully—professional enough for an intern pitching a multimillion-dollar brand collab, but just revealing enough to remind Roman Reigns that you weren’t just another suit in the room. The neckline dipped low enough to hint at the swell of your breasts; the hem skimmed mid-thigh, showing off the smooth length of your legs in strappy black heels. You knew exactly what you were doing. The deal had to close tonight. Your future at the agency depended on it.

Roman Reigns sat across from you like a king on a throne, broad shoulders filling out the tailored black button-down that stretched across his chest. The top two buttons were open, revealing a glimpse of smooth, tattooed skin and the thick column of his throat. His dark hair was pulled back into that signature bun, a few loose strands framing the sharp angles of his jaw. Those eyes—deep brown, almost black under the candlelight—never left you.

“You look stunning tonight,” he said, voice low and velvet-smooth, the kind of tone that made your stomach flip even though you’d rehearsed this meeting a hundred times. He lifted his glass of whiskey, the ice clinking softly. “That dress… it’s doing things to me I probably shouldn’t admit over appetizers.”

You laughed, soft and practiced, crossing your legs under the table so the slit in your dress parted just a fraction. His gaze dropped immediately, tracing the exposed skin of your thigh before sliding back up to your face. “Flattery won’t get the contract signed any faster, Mr. Reigns.”

“Roman,” he corrected, leaning forward slightly. The movement made the fabric of his shirt pull tighter across his pecs. “And I’m not flattering you, sweetheart. I’m stating facts. You walk into a room and every man in it forgets why he’s there. Including me.”

Heat bloomed low in your belly. You’d watched hours of his promos, studied the way he commanded arenas, but nothing prepared you for the real thing up close. He was massive—six-foot-three of solid muscle that made the chair beneath him look small. When he smiled, slow and predatory, the dimple in his cheek softened the edge just enough to make your pulse stutter.

The waiter brought the main course—seared scallops for you, a massive ribeye for him—and Roman waited until the plates were set before he continued.

“Tell me again about this collab,” he said, cutting into his steak with precise, powerful strokes. “Your company wants my name on a fitness line. Apparel, supplements, the whole package. But I don’t sign just anything. I need… incentive.”

You launched into the pitch you’d memorized: market projections, target demographics, the exclusive limited-edition “Tribal Chief” collection that would sell out in hours. He listened, nodding, but his eyes kept drifting. They lingered on the way your breasts rose and fell with each breath, on the delicate gold chain that disappeared between them, on the curve of your hip when you shifted in your seat.

“You’re good at this,” he murmured when you finished. His fork paused halfway to his mouth. “Smart. Driven. And damn, the way that dress hugs your ass when you walked in…” He shook his head, chuckling darkly. “I’m supposed to be focused on numbers, but all I can think about is how those heels would look wrapped around my waist.”

Your breath caught. The flirtation had been subtle at first—compliments on your ideas, questions about your career—but now it was blatant, laced with heat. You felt it between your thighs, a slick warmth that had nothing to do with the wine.

“Roman…” you started, trying to steer back to business.

He leaned in, voice dropping to a rumble that vibrated through your bones. “Relax. I’m just admiring the view. You’re a beautiful woman who knows what she wants. I respect that. Hell, I like it.” His eyes flicked down again, slow and deliberate. “A lot.”

Dessert came and went. He paid without letting you see the bill, then stood, offering his hand. When you took it, his palm was warm, calloused, swallowing yours completely. “My hotel’s two blocks away. Penthouse suite. We can go over the final details somewhere more private. No waiters. No distractions.” His thumb brushed the inside of your wrist, sending sparks straight to your core. “Unless you’d rather call it a night and let the lawyers handle the rest?”

The implication hung heavy. You knew what he was offering. You also knew the agency had been chasing this deal for six months. If you walked away now, the internship could turn into nothing. And God, he was looking at you like he already owned you.

You swallowed. “Lead the way.”

The elevator ride up was silent except for the soft ding of floors. Roman stood close enough that you could smell his cologne—something dark and expensive, cedar and smoke. His hand rested lightly on the small of your back, thumb tracing lazy circles over the silk. Every touch felt electric.

Inside the suite, the city lights glittered through floor-to-ceiling windows. A king-sized bed dominated the room, crisp white sheets turned down like an invitation. Roman poured two glasses of whiskey from the bar cart, handing you one.

“Sit,” he said softly, nodding toward the edge of the bed. You did, crossing your legs again, the dress riding higher. He didn’t sit. He stood in front of you, towering, and loosened the top button of his shirt. “You know why I really brought you here.”

Your heart hammered. “To discuss the contract.”

A slow smile curved his lips. “Partly.” He stepped closer, big hands sliding into his pockets. “But mostly because I’ve been hard since the moment you walked into that restaurant. That dress… the way your tits look in it… the way your ass sways when you move.” His voice stayed gentle, almost reverent. “You’re fucking perfect, sweetheart. And I want you. Bad.”

You set the glass down, fingers trembling. “Roman, this is… I’m here for the deal. Not—”

“I know.” He dropped to one knee in front of you, still somehow eye-level because of his size. One large hand settled on your knee, warm and steady. “And I’m a man of my word. The contract’s already signed in my mind. But business is business. Sometimes you have to sweeten the pot.” His fingers traced up your thigh, slow and teasing, stopping just beneath the hem. “Let me make you feel good. Let me show you how much I want this partnership. How much I want you.”

His touch was soft, almost worshipful, but his eyes burned. You felt yourself leaning into it, thighs parting just a fraction.

“This is wrong,” you whispered, even as your body betrayed you.

“Is it?” He leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “Or is it just business?” His breath was hot. “You want the deal. I want you. We both get what we need.”

Your resistance cracked. He was so close, so big, so undeniably hot. The scent of him, the heat rolling off his body, the way his hand felt on your bare skin—it was too much. You needed the contract. You needed him.

“Okay,” you breathed.

The moment the word left your lips, something in him shifted. The sweetness stayed in his voice—“Good girl”—but his hands turned possessive. He stood, pulling you up with him, and kissed you like he’d been starving for it. His mouth was hot, demanding, tongue sliding against yours with a low groan that vibrated through your chest. One massive hand cupped the back of your neck, the other gripping your ass hard enough to make you gasp into his mouth.

He walked you backward until your knees hit the bed. “Take the dress off,” he ordered, voice rougher now. “Slow. Let me watch.”

You reached for the zipper at your side, sliding it down. The silk pooled at your feet, leaving you in black lace bra and matching thong, garter straps framing your hips. Roman’s eyes raked over you, dark and hungry.

“Fuck,” he growled softly. “Look at you. These tits…” He palmed one breast, thumb flicking the nipple through lace until it pebbled. “So full. So soft.” He leaned down, mouth closing over the lace-covered peak, sucking hard enough to make your back arch. His teeth grazed you, then he switched sides, devouring you while his free hand squeezed your ass.

You moaned, fingers threading into his hair, pulling the bun loose so thick black strands fell around his face. He straightened, shrugging off his shirt. The sight of his bare chest—chiseled abs, tribal tattoos swirling over smooth brown skin, the sheer width of his shoulders—made your mouth water.

“On the bed,” he said. “On your back.”

You obeyed, heart racing. He followed, crawling over you like a predator. His weight pinned you deliciously as he kissed you again, deeper, messier. Then he sat back on his heels, hooking thick fingers into your thong and dragging it down your legs, leaving the garters in place.

“Keep the heels on,” he murmured, almost sweetly. “They look too good on you.”

He spread your thighs wide, big hands gripping the soft flesh. “So wet already,” he praised, voice low. “All for me?” Two thick fingers slid through your folds, circling your clit before pushing inside you—deep, stretching you open. You cried out, hips bucking. He pumped them slowly at first, curling to hit that spot that made stars burst behind your eyes.

“Roman—oh God—”

“That’s it, sweetheart. Say my name.” He added a third finger, scissoring, stretching you roughly while his thumb rubbed tight circles on your clit. The wet sounds filled the room, obscene and perfect. “Gonna make this pussy come before I even get my cock in you.”

He didn’t stop until you shattered—back bowing, thighs shaking around his wrist, a broken moan tearing from your throat. Only then did he withdraw his fingers, bringing them to his mouth and licking them clean with a low groan.

“Delicious,” he said, eyes locked on yours. “Now I want more.”

He stood just long enough to shove his pants and boxers down. His cock sprang free—heavy, thick, veined, the head already glistening. It was huge, easily nine inches, curving slightly upward, and your mouth went dry at the sight.

“Roman…” you whispered, half awe, half nerves.

He stroked himself once, twice, smirking. “You can take it. I’ll make sure of it.”

He climbed back over you, lining up. The blunt head nudged your entrance, then pushed in—slow at first, letting you feel every inch stretch you open. You gasped at the burn, nails digging into his shoulders. He paused, kissing your forehead almost tenderly. “Breathe, baby. You’re doing so good.”

Then the sweetness fractured. He snapped his hips forward, burying the rest of his cock in one brutal thrust. You screamed—pleasure and pain twisting together—as he bottomed out, balls pressed against your ass.

“Fuck, so tight,” he growled. “Gripping me like you were made for this.”

He didn’t give you time to adjust. He pulled back and slammed in again, setting a punishing rhythm. The bed creaked under the force. Each thrust drove the air from your lungs. His hips snapped hard, skin slapping skin, the wet squelch of your pussy echoing.

“Roman—too much—fuck—”

“You can take it,” he grunted, one hand pinning your wrists above your head while the other gripped your hip hard enough to bruise. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? The deal sealed with my cock buried in you.” He angled deeper, hitting your cervix with every stroke. “Say it. Say ‘it’s just business.’”

“It’s—just—business,” you sobbed, the words breaking on a moan as another orgasm built fast and vicious.

He laughed, dark and satisfied, then released your wrists to hook your legs over his shoulders. The new angle let him pound even deeper. Your heels dug into his back. Sweat slicked his chest, dripping onto your breasts as he fucked you like an animal—relentless, powerful, every muscle in his body working to ruin you.

“Look at these tits bouncing for me,” he snarled, leaning down to suck one nipple hard, biting just enough to sting. “So pretty when they shake like that.”

He flipped you suddenly, manhandling you onto all fours. Your face pressed into the pillow as he re-entered you from behind in one savage thrust. His hand fisted your hair, yanking your head back so he could growl in your ear.

“Arch that back. Ass up higher. That’s my good girl.” He spanked you—hard—then again, the crack echoing. “This ass was made to be fucked.” His pace turned feral, hips slamming into you so hard the headboard banged the wall. One hand reached around to rub your clit in rough circles while the other kept your hair in a tight grip.

You came again, screaming his name, pussy clenching around his cock like a vice. He didn’t slow. “That’s two. Gonna give me one more before I fill you up.”

He pulled out, flipped you onto your back again, and drove back in. This time he hooked your legs around his waist, grinding deep, circling his hips so the head of his cock rubbed that perfect spot inside you over and over. His free hand wrapped around your throat—not choking, just holding, thumb stroking your pulse.

“Come on, sweetheart. Let me feel you milk my cock.”

The orgasm hit like a freight train. Your vision whited out. You clenched around him so hard he groaned, deep and guttural.

“Fuck—yes—good girl.” His rhythm stuttered. “Gonna come. Gonna flood this pussy. Take every drop for the deal.”

He slammed in one final time, hips flush against yours, and came with a roar. You felt the hot pulse of him—thick ropes filling you, spilling out around his cock as he kept grinding through it. His body shuddered, muscles flexing, sweat dripping.

For a long moment he stayed buried deep, breathing hard. Then the roughness melted. He kissed you softly—sweet, lingering—brushing damp hair from your face.

“You okay?” he murmured, voice back to velvet. “Did I hurt you?”

You shook your head, dazed and sated. “No. God, no. That was…”

He chuckled, pulling out slowly. A rush of warmth followed, his cum leaking down your thighs. He watched it with dark satisfaction before grabbing a warm cloth from the bathroom and cleaning you gently.

“Stay the night,” he said, sliding under the sheets and pulling you against his chest. One thick arm wrapped around you possessively, the other stroking your back in slow, soothing circles. “The contract’s yours. Fully signed. But tomorrow… we can talk more business.” His lips brushed your temple. “Or we can do this again. Your choice.”

You nestled closer, body still humming, the city lights painting golden stripes across his skin. You’d come for a deal. You’d left with so much more.

And somewhere in the haze of pleasure, you smiled.

It really was just business.

[whowrotethenote]

SHOW ME. ⋆ weak spot short.

pairings. black fem oc (milagra) x roman reigns warnings. smutttt. profanity. age gap (10+). ex boyfriend's dad. word count. 4.5k

His days began and ended the same when she couldn’t be with him. 

With her. 

Staining thoughts. Wondering and wishing for her return. 

If he had it his way she’d never work. Never have to bear the burden or hustle and bustle that came with labor. She’d marinate in his bed all day, soak her scent into his sheets, while he waited on her hand and foot.

But Roman knew—that kind of thinking—it was wrong. Toxic misogyny plaguing the nation since the dawn of time trickling down on him like the devil whispering in his ear. 

He couldn’t sit still. He cleaned the house spotless. In between tasks, all he did was reach for his phone. The whole day becoming a waiting game of when she would reach out for him. 

He was a lone wolf. It had always been like that. Group activity became a chore. Just something he had to do to justify his existence. And after the death of his wife, and his son’s departure from home as if it were on fire, he lost the will to even pretend. A simple routine, he developed. He left the house only when he had to. Everything he needed was there already. 

With the exception of his players, there was really no one depending on him. No one to tell all the little things to—the new flavor of greek yogurt he found, his new personal record for miles ran, or what he learned about the most random sea creature while waking up to the discovery channel somehow. 

Milagra became that person overnight. He couldn’t wrap his mind around it. How he was able to move through life all on his own for so long, comfortable in loneliness, letting it grow around him like weeds and tangling his limbs in the vines of it—just for her to come around and infect him with warmth. A warmth that his days fell bland without. Incomplete. Imagine waking up and the sun never rises. The panic. The internal mayhem. 

Living in darkness, just going through the motions until something happened—good or bad. He let the light in like she suggested, and now he couldn’t remember how to maneuver in the dark. 

Three weeks. That’s how long it took for him to form his addiction. 

It was a Sunday night. Roman wiped down the last surface after dinner. No logic in the act of checking his phone for notifications knowing that she was in the air by now. He clicked over into a different thread, named by two emojis—a football and owl. 

duffy’s tonight!

It was the last text in the group chat from one of his linebackers. Every other day there was a new suggestion, a new outing. A reason for his players and colleagues to bond and get the most out of these years. Roman only participated when he absolutely had to. Wins after big games, somebody celebrating a birthday or milestone, or one of his players reaching out to touch graduation. Any other time, he’ll read the texts for awareness, and went on with his day. 

But not tonight. Something about tonight was different. 

Those vines of solitude were creeping up on him and he didn't want to suffer in compliance. So he did something he hadn’t done in ages. He got dressed and went out. Left the confines of his comfy estate to socialize on his own accord. 

Duffy’s was a sports bar—everything, but low-key—sitting on the boulevard, a mere ten minutes from campus. A go to for locals, faculty, and students alike. Roman towered over nearly everyone as he stepped in. Always aware of the dragging stares from women of all ages and sorts, accompanied by acknowledgment from a handful of students and some of his coaches. 

The lack of space already suffocated his mind and body. He was completely out of his element. 

He made it to the bar, getting lucky with an open corner seat right by the blown up screen, showcasing a college basketball game. It was one of those nights, despite it being the night before an official week of work and school. Too much traffic at the bar. He found himself constantly shifting, making space for strangers to squeeze their orders in. Handing out it’s okays, or you’re goods, whenever they bumped him a little too hard. 

Only an insignificant thirty minutes in and he felt his body shutting down. His social battery, he remembered she called it once, dying. One bar at a time. He shouldn’t have, but he ordered a beer, sipping the ice cold liquid slow, praying it didn’t take the toll his head imagined it would. 

Pulling his phone out again, his thumb swiped up, unlocking it, just to stare at the same messages living in their thread. 

Depending on how I feel when I land I might just have to call it a night

Boarding now

The game had five minutes left in the second half now. He made a silence promise to himself that he would call it a night after it ended. Dreading the wrestling match with sleep he’d have to endure without her soft body under his. 

“Sorry, man.” A young random offered after squeezing and brushing up against Roman’s strong bicep. His phone buzzed in his hand and all was forgotten. 

Home

Miss you so much

They came back to back and he didn't waste a second making work of his keyboard after loving the first message. He typed—I miss you too—but ended up erasing it. Not enough. I can’t wait to see you again—but he deleted that one, too. His thumbs danced over the bright screen. All he really wanted to do was beg her to come save him, if just for the night. 

He ran his fingers over and down the length of his scruffy beard. Biting into his bottom lip—he just did it. 

Show me.

The bubbles appeared, disappeared, and reappeared. His chest opening up and the world around him fading a bit. The skin of his forehead tightening with focus. 

Until he felt a heavy hand pat down on his shoulder. 

“I didn’t know you were coming out tonight, Roman.” He nearly jumped out of his skin. Tearing his attention away from the phone, his only connection to her. He turned to find one of his assistant coaches. A younger one from the pack. “Now it’s gonna snow,” he teased.

“I know right.” He chuckled to himself at the same time he felt the phone buzz in his hand, burning a hole. “How is everything? How’s Jayda?” He set it down, replacing it with the beer, so he didn't get the urge to check it in the middle of conversation. He hated when people did that.

“About to pop any day now.”

“You excited yet?”

“Yeah—yeah I think I am. Fatherhood is…” He shook his head. The thought too heavy to finish. 

“I know—trust me. I remember going half crazy at this stage. Always wondering if I was ready or not. I’ma let you in on a little secret, though. You’ll never really be ready. You just have to be. Learn along the way.”

Jamal nodded, slow at first, tasting his words before deciding if they were good enough to swallow. “Yeah. Absolutely,” he agreed. He spread his large hand and Roman caught it, bringing each other in for a one handed hug, ending with strong pats to each other’s back. 

His mind became a storm of the memories when he found himself in Jamal’s shoes. Much younger than him. Still in college trying to figure himself and his place in this world out; and somehow he was expected to help a little person do the same. Such a different time. A different him. Unrecognizable. An extension of him that died when he watched them lower his wife six feet under the dirt. 

Reaching for his phone mindlessly, looking for a distraction, he found it, remembering how it buzzed just before he put it down. Two images, is what the notification hinted at. The air sucked out of his midsection at the unveiling of them. 

Her top half—two full breasts, brown nipples pebbled, making the blood in his veins thicken and his dick jump desperately. Swiping, he had to lick the dessert she made of his mouth. This angle was from behind. Her ass perched up, tan lines on either cheeks. Evidence of her weekend voyage to the tropics. He sighed deeply and adjusted himself as discreetly as possible. Mouth watering back up at the sight of her lips poking through. 

Zooming to get a better look, that’s when he noticed it. The dark cherry wood of a dresser he sees every day. Is she?—

“Wassup coach!”

His heart beat against his ribcage, begging to be set free, hearing his cornerback’s deep voice just inches away. In under a second he managed to lock the phone and hold it close to his peck like a newborn baby. Head swiveling to find the source of the voice. 

“H-hey-w-wassup, man.” He cleared his throat. 

“What you doing up and out so late?” He held his finger up to the young bartender moving at the speed of light before promising to come back his way. 

Roman’s mouth moved a bit, but nothing came out. All he could see was her naked body. Waiting for him. Ready for him in his territory. He held two big palms, one over the other, over his manhood when it jumped again. 

He shrugged, facilitating a brief moment of laughter between them both. “I can tell,” Isaiah admitted. 

Roman checked the time on his watch, squinting. “It is getting pretty late.” Time was of the essence. He stood, placing a fifty dollar bill under his half drunken beer. 

“Make sure she gets that, for me. Not too many of those.” Roman nodded to the shot glass of something clear. “Class tomorrow, boy.” His hand came down over Isaiah’s muscular shoulder blade twice before he practically raced to the door. Nodding to everybody he knew on his way out, barely maintaining eye contact. The last thing he needed was for someone to stop him on his pursuit to her. 

The door to the bar hadn’t even made it to the hinges before he was FaceTiming her, and two rings passed, before it ended. His legs carried him fast as they could without looking too anxious. After two more failed attempts, a text came through.

Yes, those are from today lol. Like five minutes ago…

The tires to his GMC screamed against the pavement. 

“Milagra!” He ascended up his stairs, two at a time. Heavy and wide strides down the hall to his room. A hand on his door when he heard it. The enticing voices from the band, The Troop, over the beat of one of their gems. All I Do Is Think Of You. It fit better than a tailored Italian designer suit. 

Roman never thought he’d feel these things ever again. Devotion. Exhilaration. Hedonism. 

Home in a another person. 

Heartbeat accelerating when he pushed it open, he could already smell her. Strong, but feminine. 

He let go of all the air in his lungs with just one breath. Was he greedy for always wanting this when he stepped foot into his bedroom? Was he blessed and highly favored for always eventually getting exactly what he wanted? Her. 

Laid in the middle of his bed like the most expensive display in a museum. On her stomach, in nothing but baby pink Skims underwear. Her dainty feet, arched in the air as her chin made a home against her palms. 

He didn't know where to pay the most attention to. The line in her curved back, her soft and glowing skin, the curls sprouting from her head that she barely showcased. The line of her supple breast sinking into his comforter, or the curve of her ass. 

Her face. That’s where he made camp. 

“Hi,” he greeted, still breathless from his strenuous pursuit up the stairs. 

She chuckled to herself and even the sound of that made a string of heat cascade to his core. “Hi,” she said back. “What are you doing out the house this late, Papa?” She teased. 

He shrugged, words still a hard concept to grapple with. “Missed you too much.” He didn’t have the moxie to play games anymore. To dance around his feelings like some emotionally stunted teenager. 

“So, come here.”

Floating, he made it to her in four giant steps. His heavy sneakers sinking into the plush carpet. He didn't even allow shoes up here. 

Milagra’s smoky eyes weren’t modest about the line they trailed, from his face, down to the hefty bulge in his black sweats. Brown eyes flicking back up once more, asking permission. If only she know, all the things she already gained full access to at any time. 

In response, he unzipped his hoodie before throwing it somewhere. Lifting the shirt underneath slightly, and tugging the waistband of his pants and underwear down. She watched the whole ordeal liek the climax of an action packed film. Clit pulsing and begging for stimulation, knowing her owner, her best handler, stood close by. 

Like an extra limb, it hung from the dark hairs, too heavy to stand straight up. Every vein aggressive under the low ceiling lights. Milagra took ahold of it, still amazed at his size. How hard he got for her and she only held him. 

A kiss, soft with the comfort of finally returning to him, landed on the pink mushroom head, drawing his balls tight. She tugged on them while she wrapped her mouth around the head, swirling her tongue over the muscle’s circumference. 

“Mmh,” he almost growled. Her mouth had a spell in it. Something wearing him thin until he was nothing. She let go and he immediately missed her. She held a tongue out for him. His playground. Sliding himself back and forth, the spit connecting them even when he pulled away. A lump of curls filled his hand before he pushed himself deep inside. 

“Fuck.” His head hung back, easing his way past her limits, finding a steady rhythm. A favorite soundtrack of his, the suction of him hitting deep into the back of her throat, before he felt her hand on his hard thigh. He let go, and she struggled for air. Her suffering a reward. Evidence of her willingness to lose something, if it meant he’d gain something. Still with a hand to her head, he guided his stiffness back into her wet mouth. 

He peeped movement. Her hand sliding under herself and inside of her panties. Her hips rolling into her hand, and he lost focus. Watching made it decadent, but he couldn’t deny the loosening of all his discipline, watching her fuck herself.

“Show me,” he whispered, a cloud of steam surrounding his words. She shuffled to switch positions. Laying on her back, exposing the wet spot plaguing her panties. With a finger she yanked them aside to show him. Two fat lips sticky and shining with her excitement. 

“That’s my landing strip,” he noticed. A smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth remembering their dilemma before she left for her work trip. She hummed with a nod, finger resting on her mouth, soaking in the cage of desire in his eyes. A man with a big appetite, tasting food from Florida to the hills of Europe— he never wanted to put something in his mouth so bad in his life. 

Rougher than he meant to, he maneuvered her to the edge of the bed, before kneeling on one knee. His personal alter. 

Licking, from the bottom up one good time, his warm tongue made first contact. It was always the best one. She was so reactive. Everything he did meant something to her body. It was appreciative of all movement, like someone that had to work for everything finally being handed something. 

He did it again. Finishing with a strong flick at the top, his eyes trained on that pretty face. “I swear there’s nobody prettier.” His compliment didn’t sink deep into her, for he wrapped his mouth around the bud poking through her lips, sucking gently. 

He snatched a gasp from her parted lips. Back arching and disconnecting from the bed. Toes pointed and nearly cramping. Possessed by pleasure. She was supposed to be the conductor of this orchestra. She had plans to run the show. And he stole it. Came in, sniffed around, assessed, and took over. Same thing he did months prior when she walked through his door for the first time. 

He kept lapping at her, taking note of every area that made her jump or tighten. Pulling her closer when she shoved him away. Locking her legs in his hold. Licking up and down her folds with a stiff tongue. Twisting to the side she buried her helpless moans into the material of the covers. 

Without abandoning her clit, he slid a finger in, then another. She was full and drunk off just that. What the hell would she do with his dick?

Using muscle memory and he felt and curled his digits in the same fashion that had her exploding just before she departed.

“Oh my god,” she gasped. 

Slurping and sucking, he was a like a machine, made with one mission—making her cum. 

Holding her down, he didn't stop just because she came. He kept going, simply because he liked the taste. 

Milagra laid in a daze as he stepped out of his sneakers and sweats. Turning on all fours after gaining a sense of reality back. The exact way she dreamed of him taking her, savagely, in her dream just the night before. 

“Stay just like that,” he instructed huskily. More shuffling, she listened until a hand came down on her ass. He rubbed and coated himself in her. Slapping it on her clit a few times. Every movement drawing up the meter of anticipation. 

Pushing, he broke past all of their longing. 

She sucked in a heap of air through clenched teeth, opening up for him. Her soft flesh settling around his hardness. It hurt so good. 

“You okay?”

She nodded hastily. “Just fuck me, please.” She appreciated it, but she didn't come straight off a five hour flight for good manners and delicacy. 

She didn't need to tell him twice. 

Diving all the way in, she felt it in her chest. All the blood in her body pumping to full speed. Contracting around him. Her body was confused. It didn't know whether to pull him in or push him out in a state of emergency. A breech of some kind. 

But he made himself familiar. Building up a steady rhythm, hands gripping from the the meat sitting at the top of her ass. She looked for releases, biting down on her own forearm, crumbling the thick duvet in her hands. 

“Keep that ass up for me.” 

She lasted longer than he expected. Eventually his assault had her body sliding down until she was lying flat. 

The difference in size was always more apparent in this situation. His hard body looming over hers, caging her in, punishing and protecting her in the same mission.

“Creamin’ on this dick. Fuck.” They collided. A cruel sound filling his bedroom, overpowering the music. Squelching and the slapping of hungry skin. “She talking to me, Mila.”

She stuck her tongue out for him to take. He latched on, covering her entire mouth in sloppy passion. This angle—so focused on getting to her mouth, he always forgot how deep it could get, until she reminded him. Her moans ascending in volume and carelessness. 

“It’s so big, Roman.” Her upper lip curled into a snarl before opening, nothing, not even air making it out of the canal of her plump lips. “Oh my god,” she gasped. 

“Sucking on me.” A gruff praise that turned her up. She met him thrust for thrust as long as she could, but she was no match for him. His strength, his mileage. It defied his age. 

“Turn around, baby. I wanna see you.”

It was a task, but she pulled her weight over until she landed on her back. Legs spreading, showing him the sticky white mess. His long arm reached over her for a pillow, tucking it under her hips. 

She reached down, while he reached back to remove his shirt. Hand full of him, rubbing it up and down her center, side to side, smacking, bucking  her hips to meet it. Roman didn't stop her. He just stood and watched in awe as she put on a show. Biting down on his lip so hard he almost drew blood. It went on for awhile until she couldn’t take the self-inflicted torture. Sinking him back into his sanctuary. 

“Ooou,” she winced. He was impossibly hard inside of her. Fingers wrapping around hers to pull her hand from his abdomen. He started slow, watching her face twist in heat. Her eyes running from his. Distracted by his abs crystalizing and partly embarrassed. She begged for it and could barely handle him. Biting off more than she could chew. Grocery shopping on an empty stomach. A dangerous sport. 

“Oh my god—”

Bashful, her hands came over her face. She couldn’t imagine how she appeared. Only knew how she felt. Him inside of her, penetrating more than her body. It always ran deeper than the physical. A wave of intimacy she wasn't all the way accustomed to. 

He wasn’t having it.  

“Uh-uh.” He grabbed at her hands before taking them, pinning them to the soft bed. 

A fool. He made a fool of himself. Driving into her wetness, pelvis to pelvis, staring deep into those sultry, solid brown eyes. He could see everything he was doing to her. Her pussy holding on for dear life, until it sucked the life from him like a leech. 

He pulled out, at the last possible second, like always. He sighed deep, frustrated with his own body. A new battle he just wasn't used to. What the fuck was she doing to him?

“Roman,” she demanded his attention, softly. Grabbing at his beard. “It’s okay,” she assured. 

And it was. As long as he could get it back up and restart the race, she didn't give a damn how fast he came to his end. 

She sucked it again, until he stopped her, almost bussing again. They ended the way they usually do. In his favorite position. Under her, holding her, mouth to her ear, as he took control. Talking to her. 

“You like the way I fill that little pussy up?” He whispered fiercely into her ear. “Tight—pretty pussy.” His voice—it’s like it was orchestrated for love-making and all the nastiness in between. “Missed this shit.” His hits developed a clinginess. More reluctant to pull away before shoving himself back inside. “Give daddy one more?” 

Listening, she placed flat palms on his chest. Leveraging herself to slam her lower half up and down on him. He gripped and spread, encouraging her movements, but ultimately she was in control. Fucking herself on him, leading the way to her own end zone. 

Nothing was better than this. This is where he found peace. Found his will to see another day. 

More ferocious, yet sloppy her motions grew. She was closer than close. She could feel the heat of a new sun. Clenching down on him. White liquid coating the hairs on his pelvis. His hands grabbed for her, bringing her in close to safety. 

Her hips, they kept going, they were driving themselves now. Grinding back and forth, the skin of her ass dimpling, as the savage in her unveiled itself. An ungodly and otherworldly scream, a chrysalis in her chest first, and then breaking, finding freedom up her throat. 

It took her body a moment to realize it—that they had passed the finish line. Gradually it shut down. Shaking and bucking. Dying out. She didn’t even recognize how tight she held him back. He was the only thing keeping her there. Grounded. The only tangible evidence of reality as she came down from her trip. 

Breath coming out in shakes. Her eyes fluttered open. The next sensation she felt—his hands—starting their descent from bliss. His routine. Rubbing and kneading the skin of her back, her arms, cupping her neck. 

Sleep was a thief. Slick, quick, and efficient. Taking her without even leaving trace. 

The next time milagra opened her eyes, she found herself still wrapped in the safest place on earth. She tried to unravel herself from the heat of his tight hold, chuckling when he shook his head, gripping tighter. She turned so she could see him. Roman dragged his eyes open, centering on her in the dark room. 

“Stay.” He suspended her in place with just his eyes. Everything was just so much better when she was there. Food tasted better on his tongue. Music sounded more robust—he could hear every instrument and feel as though he lived every lyric. 

“I have to go in the office tomorrow. I just wanted to see you before I had to go back—to real life.” Her heart was heavy. This was always the worst part. The little moments they stole, it’s all she could think about when she wasn't with him. So short and sweet—the tryst—she thought she imagined it all somedays. 

He curved his palm so the soft line of her jaw fit into it. The pad of his thumb resting on the plump flesh of her bottom lip. “This is real life,” he whispered back. “As real as it gets.”

The organ we tax with love skipped a beat under the protection of her ribs. She shook her head so subtly he couldn’t see it. 

Real life. 

Nobody knew about the things that went on in his estate. The way she escaped the fast life of Miami to find solace in his home for days at a time. 

More importantly, his son, the tie that connected them from the beginning, was still in the dark. She hadn’t spoken to him in months, but she thought of him constantly. His smile and the way it would drop had he known. His love for her and the way it would harden into something more vicious if he could see them right now. 

Real life. 

The thought of it—knowing she wasn't alone in this—it made her giddy. Pins and needles of felicity all over her skin. She was so ready to start over. Go harder—further. Do all the things she couldn’t do before. Feel all the things. 

But at the same time, it curated a sense of fear. Clawing at her neck like an animal trying to break free. For she knew that meant the time would eventually have to come, when what they gave birth to in the dark, would have to come to the light. 

la's language★. this is set literally a couple days before part two starts. nasty nasty business lol. i barely proofread this so if you find mistakes, pls pretend you didn't. the sfw alphabet will be up tomorrow instead. i was proofing and found spoilers. some things y'all shouldn't know yet🙂 so be on the look out for that tomorrow night. hope i didn't disappoint friend @thekittysmeow k, bye ♡.

disclaimer. navigation. weak spot mstrlst. rr mstrlst. main mstrlst. taglist. about me.

[sayyestoheav3nn]

friends with benefits: part one

⭑ warnings: lil smut. messy. slightly toxic, idk.

⭑ word count: 2.5k

⭑ a/n: my bad guys, i kind of put this on the back burner and forgot about it….but, roman’s interview yesterday along with how fine his ass looked during the rumble, gave me a ton of inspo to finally be able to finish it. 🥲💗

⭑ divider credit: @anitalenia

⭑ if you would like to be added to my tag list, click here.

Friends with benefits.

No feelings, no attachments. It was simple.

Or at least it was supposed to be….because in reality it couldn’t be further from the truth. The truth was they weren’t friends. From the moment Malia met Roman, that was made pretty damn clear. 

Most of the time, she couldn’t fucking stand him. 

Roman was an arrogant, egotistical asshole, who by now had managed to piss her off more times then she could count. From their first interaction, she knew he’d be a thorn in her side. The one and only reason she forced herself to tolerate him, was due to a very simple fact….

Her sister was marrying his brother. 

And to make matters worse, she was paired with him to walk down the aisle. Meaning every rehearsal, dinner, or photoshoot she somehow managed to be stuck within his orbit. Yet, no matter how much Roman irritated her, she refused to complain or risk doing anything to ruin such an important moment.

She told herself she just had to survive the week. That having to see him so often was just temporary. And maybe that would've been the case.

If only she never would’ve sent those damn photos….

It all happened so quickly.

What started as an unforgettable and touching ceremony, transitioning to an even more beautiful reception, somehow still managed to be weighed down by her mistake from the previous night. The embarrassment aided by her memory causing Malia to down her third—maybe fourth—glass of champagne. 

That same champagne being one of the reasons she was in this situation in the first place.

Just a night before the wedding, what was supposed to be a relaxing spa day ending with some well deserved rest, turned into a disastrous fuck-up of a lifetime.

Such a simple mistake really.

A mistake that—in her defense— was driven by her ovulation along with the inability to fall sleep. 

After twisting and turning for God knows how long, Malia slowly felt her hormones get the best of her. Because as the hours of the night progressed, so did her horniness. Which is exactly what led her to impulsively drink one too many glasses of wine before propping her laptop on the hotel bed. Liquor coursing through her body as she proceeded to set her camera, her oversized T-shirt quickly discarded leaving her breasts on full display as she posed, her pierced tits perked as she flaunted her new—pink heart—nipple rings. Malia’s tipsiness only growing as she continued to pose, drunkenly giggling as she snapped one final photo with her back arched as her laced thong slightly peeked through. 

If only she would’ve stopped there.

Because without even realizing, and in the haze of her slight inebriation, the pictures Malia was trying to send to her—occasional—fuck buddy, somehow ended up being sent to Roman.

Pictures that were never meant for him to see…

She remembers the exact moment her heart sunk into her stomach. How her smile instantly dropped the moment she unlocked her phone only to see Roman’s message on her screen. The way the moment felt so fucking mortifying that it was almost instantly sobering.

Roman: If you were horny you could’ve just said that, pretty girl.

Despite the absolute utter humiliation Malia felt, she decided to try and brush it off, refusing to give him the reaction she knew he wanted.

Malia: Sending them to you was obviously an accident. Please drop it.

Roman: Whatever you say…

Roman: The titty piercings suit you, btw.

Malia: Are you always this fucking annoying?

Roman: Only when I wanna be.

It seemed the more Malia attempted to ignore Roman, the more he seemed to enjoy teasing her. Which was exactly why she’d spent most of the reception avoiding him. 

The open-bar upstairs happened to be the area where she visited the most when she wasn’t conversing with friends or family. Malia quietly stood near the balcony studying the sea of people downstairs, smiling to herself as she watched her younger sister, more radiant than ever, sharing laughter with her husband. She took a swig of her wine as her gaze slowly shifted towards the downstairs bar, her eyes instantly landing on Roman. And as much as she hated to admit it, it was hard to ignore the way his black on black tuxedo somehow managed to accentuate his chiseled features, his big arms and broad shoulders practically battling against the fabric of his suit. The way his beard was neatly trimmed and sharp the same way his jawline was.

A  few younger women surrounded him, causing an evident look of irritation to grow on his face as he slowly brought his drink to his mouth. His scowl apparent as two of them obnoxiously giggled at whatever he said.

Confusion set in as she watched his eyes scan the room, almost as if he was looking for someone…and it was when he looked up and their eyes met that made her realize who he was searching for. That annoying ass smirk of his returning as he glanced at her. Malia blew a breath out as she rolled her eyes, quickly setting her glass down as she made her way towards the dressing room. The last thing she needed was for him to ruin the well-appreciated buzz she currently had. 

She sighed in relief when she stepped in and noticed she had the room to herself, a make-up touch up would be needed considering how alcohol tends to slightly flush her cheeks. Malia sat at the vanity, beginning to powder her face only to be interrupted moments later with a knock at the door. The subtle scent of his cologne hitting her as soon as she opened it.

Roman’s glossy eyes scanned her before he basically invited himself in, “You really think avoiding me is gon’ make me disappear?”

She crossed her arms, scoffing, “A girl can only dream.”

A dangerous smile tugged the corner of his lips. His eyes slowly trailed over the valley of her breasts as he stepped closer, “It’s a shame those pictures weren’t meant for me you know…”

Her eyes settled on his thick pink lips as she responded mockingly, “Oh really…and why is that?” 

Roman grinned as he stepped even closer, carefully studying her reaction as he backed her into the vanity, his mouth now slightly hovering over the shell of her ear as he muttered ,“Because I would’ve made it worth your while...”

She hated this. 

Hated the fact that his words sent a shiver down her spine, how his stupid smile widened as she felt her cheeks redden. Despised the way the smell of whiskey on his breath felt just as intoxicating as he did in this moment. 

“It’s clear you can have any bitch you want, why the fuck is bothering me so damn amusing—”

Malia gasped as Roman’s lips crashed into hers, the alcohol on each others tongues instantly mixing as his body pressed into hers. Before she knew it, he was lifting her on the vanity. Their breathing growing frantic as he kissed her with hunger and urgency. She moaned as Roman groaned into her, his big hands began prying her thighs apart resulting in her granting him the access he so desperately needed.

Roman discarded his suit jacket proceeding to kneel in front of her. Malia’s soaked panties were practically ripped off as he stared at her slick pussy hungrily. “Been wanting to taste your fine ass all day.”

“Then what are you waiting for?”

Her body tensed the moment Roman’s big arms wrapped around her thighs pulling her towards him, his long tongue gliding across his bottom lip as her cunt fluttered in anticipation.  

“Be careful what you wish for, sweetheart…”

Malia bit back a moan the second his tongue swirled against her clit, her hands firmly gripped the counter in an attempt to steady herself as he greedily submerged his tongue inside her. “Shit,” she whimpered as her hips subconsciously bucked into him.

“So fucking sweet…” Roman’s fingers tightened their grip against her thighs as he groaned. His beard now soaked and glistening as he devoured her with a need she wasn’t sure she’d ever experienced. Men who could successfully eat pussy were a rarity in her opinion. While his cockiness initially intrigued her, she honestly wasn’t expecting him to actually be able to back it up. 

It was clear she couldn’t of have been more wrong.

“Fuck, Roman,” Malia’s head rolled back, the speed of his tongue flicks rapidly increased as she squirmed against him. 

The dressing room now filled with the sloppy, wet sounds of him devouring her with complete and utter fervor. The way his agile tongue catered to her sensitive clit had her on the verge of coming undone then and there.

“This what you needed, pretty girl?” Roman’s index and middle finger teased her tight opening as he continued to lap at her cunt relentlessly. “Needed daddy to get you nice and wet in order for you to shut the fuck up?”

Malia’s mouth parted, her back arching as his huge fingers plunged deeper, expertly curled and angled hitting her special spot, “I—I still can’t f—fucking stand you.”

Roman looked up at her with an amused grin, “This wet ass pussy seems to say otherwise, baby…” The steady rhythm of his fingers fucking her while his talented mouth worshipped her, had her vision blurring. “Thought about this shit all fucking night.” Roman’s eyes darkened as she clenched around him. His words obviously holding more power over her than she was letting on, only encouraging him more. “Go ahead, come in my mouth like a good little slut.”

“S—Shit,” with every second that passed Malia could feel that familiar pressure building in the pit of her stomach. Her thighs tightening around him as she rolled her hips against his face. The volume of her moans increasing as he worked his skillful tongue while simultaneously pumping his big fingers in and out of her.

“Don’t hold back, give it to me…”

Malia cried out as her orgasm took over, the way Roman’s tongue continuing to lick her clean as her body convulsed had her seeing stars. He slowly pulled his fingers out, eyes on hers as he brought them to his mouth, the sight alone making her pussy pulse. Roman’s lips slammed back into hers with a desperate force making her to moan the moment she tasted herself on his tongue. 

His hard erection pressed into her as he started to kiss her neck, his big hands trailing the span of her back as he reached for her zipper. “So pretty when you’re mad.”

“Shut up.”

“Still got a smart ass mouth, huh?”

“Did you really think giving me head was going to stop that?”

He chuckled, that annoying smirk suddenly tugging the corners of his lips, “You’re right, maybe I should’ve shoved my dick down your throat instead…”

Malia’s hand reached down palming Roman’s hardened member, a taunting smile formed on her face noticing how his jaw clenched as he let out a pained groan, “So shut me up then.”

Present

There was no doubt another argument between them was about to take place. It almost felt like any moment they weren’t fucking, they seemed to argue. 

If Malia was being honest, there were a few moments where Roman was a little more tolerable. Moments where they actually were able to hold a conversation without bickering.

Rare and few, but still… something. 

That along with the monstrous thing that hung between his legs, kept her coming. Literally and figuratively. Because when it came to sex, there was no denying he was easily the best she’d ever had.

Not that she’d ever in a million years tell him that.

Malia paused, taking a deep breath as she reached his door step. She’d been dreading this. This was the longest Roman had went without responding or reaching out to her. And while, she normally wouldn't give a fuck, let alone stress over a man who was just a fuck-buddy…there was a part of her that felt slightly guilty. 

Their last argument had been the biggest one to date. 

Truth be told, she couldn’t help but to feel partially at fault. In her defense, it’s not like they were exclusive. But, going on a date with someone she knew he hated, probably wasn’t the smartest idea. 

It’s not like she fucked the man or even planned to, it was simply a dinner date that she felt bored enough to entertain.

What she wasn’t expecting was for Roman to have a business meeting at the same damn restaurant.

If looks could kill, the man she walked in with would’ve been dead in a matter of seconds. She’ll never forget the way Roman’s jaw ticked as he attempted to keep his composure during the rest of his meeting. The way he followed her when she went into the bathroom and somehow ended up in between her legs, fucking and releasing every fiber of his frustration while possessively claiming her as if she was his territory. 

She thought that meant he was over it by then, but given the fact she hadn’t heard from him since, proved otherwise. 

Malia knocked at his door, after giving it a moment and hearing no response she decided to test her luck by turning the doorknob. And to her surprise, the door was actually unlocked. 

What the fuck.

Loud female moans filled Roman’s Miami condo as Malia felt her breath hitch in her throat. She quickly followed the sounds that led her to his master bedroom. The last thing she was expecting to see was Roman in bed, eyes shut as his big hands fisted through the hair of the two women who were sloppily sucking his dick. 

“So this is why you’ve been fucking ignoring me?”

Roman’s eyes shot open the second he heard her voice, she watched as the women got out the bed, quickly scattering like roaches, “Malia…what are you—”

Malia laughed humorously, “Wow…and to think I came here to fucking apologize…”

“Malia…”

“We’re not a couple, Roman. Feel free to fuck any bitch you want. But over three weeks of texts and calls and you couldn’t even give me the decency of a single fucking reply?”

Roman’s eyes avoided hers as he remained silent. His reaction alone causing her to scoff. 

“If you have no interest in fucking me anymore, my suggestion is for you to actually get the balls and fucking say it.”

“Malia—”

“Fuck you.” Malia slammed the door behind her, storming off without looking back. Deep down she knew that maybe she had no right to be angry, but whether her feelings were rational or not, didn’t change that she felt hurt and betrayed. 

So many different emotions ran through her, leaving her more fucking confused than ever.

The one and only thing she knew for certain, was the fact that two could play this fucking game.

[fantasylynd]

Skin: Roman Reigns

Summary : you and roman have one night to make it worth it.

Warnings: fem reader, implied age gap, daddy kink, p in v, spanking (once), oral (fem receiving), implied cheating, biting, hickeys, markings, light cum control, creampies

a/n: so uhm i haven't wrote smut in a very long time😭 wrote this instead of doing my job while this song was stuck in my head😅. this was proofread all of ONE time so pls excuse any grammar mistakes or misspellings 🫶🏽 feedback and comments always welcome and appreciate whether it's on the post or in my inbox!! requests are open MWAH 💋💋

The walk down the hall of the 67th floor of the hotel was one you were too familiar. You kept your head down, arms hugging yourself to keep your trench coat from opening up by mistake. The sound of your heels softly hitting the carpet from your strut to the room the two of you have occupied every time he is in your city. It's second nature to you now, walk through the lobby and head straight to the penthouse elevators, greet Matthew who is somehow always working on your weekend, go up in silence, exit with your head down and head to room 6763.

You reached the door and slipped the keycard that was left at your apartment the day prior, out of the pocket of your coat and held it up to the door. The door unlocked and you pushed the door open slowly. He wasn't there yet, that wasn't a surprise. You had about an hour to prepare yourself for him to get there. It was routine for you to arrive first. He always has things after shows to take care. You didn't mind it. You need the time to prepare yourself. You told your best friend about how you needed the time alone and she joked saying the chief gives you anxiety. It was true in the beginning. He has this aura about him that made you shake in your heels. He commanded attention and obedience, something you weren't used to giving up so easily. He broke you down every weekend and built you up to be everything he wanted but knew he shouldn't have. His perfect little secret willing to do whatever to please him in the few hours where it was just you and him.

You smiled to yourself softly as you thought back to the very first time you and Roman shared a night together as you sat at the vanity tucked away in the corner of the suite. You pulled your phone out and turned on your bedroom playlist to give the dimly lit room some ambiance when a notification pops on your screen.

Daddy👑:

30 minutes.

You smiled to yourself and locked your phone. You spent the next moments fixing up the light makeup you applied because he likes your natural face better than any of your makeup looks although he loves those too, he just prefer you natural. You were adjusting your hair a bit when you heard the familiar click of the hotel door unlocking. You brought your bottom lip in between your teeth in anticipation as you heard the door open and close. Roman didn't say a word as he locked eyes with you through the mirror. He just tossed his keys on the table by the entry way, slid his jacket off and tossed it on the same table before slowly making his way over to you. His hair hung down and in front of his face. The evidence of the his job still on him the closer he got to you. He stood behind you and placed his hands on your shoulders, squeezing them gently before he grabbed the collar of your coat and pulled it down your shoulders slowly. Your breath hitched in your throat as his fingers tips brushed against your skin. He lowered his head a placed a soft kiss on your bare shoulder as he dropped his hands down to your waist where the belt of you coat as tied tightly. Roman began to untied the belt and he press soft kisses along your shoulder and up to your neck. You sighed and tilted you head to give him the access he needed to suck a gentle hickey on your neck. The belt of your coat came undone and he went to pull the coat off entire but you grabbed his hands to stop him. He pulled are from the area of neck he was marking his claim and looked up at you. You tilter your head and smiled at him softly.

"Hi." You said softly

"Hi baby." He smiled, kneeling down besides you and resting his forehead on yours before pressing a soft kiss on your lips

You smiled softly into the kiss. Roman cupped your face in his hands, biting you bottom lip gently. You let out a moan, mouth parting slightly allowing Roman to slip his tongue in your mouth. Roman's hands dropped from your face to finally pull your coat off, the fabric now irritating him. He wanted to see you, all of you and the coat was keeping it from him.

Roman pulled away and looked you up and down with a hungry look on his face. He stood up straight and motioned his head towards the bed. You stood up slowly from your seat at the vanity and slid passed him, making sure to rub your barely covered ass against his growing erection forming in his jeans. Roman bit his lip and let his hand connect to one of your cheeks. You gasped and bit your lip before crawling onto the bed slowly. You made it to the middle of the bed and rolled over to lay on your back. Roman stood at the foot of the bed, eyeing you down like a predator who found his prey. In a sense that is what you were. He hunted you down the first night you two meet and hasn't let you go since he got his hands on you.

Roman grabbed you by your ankles and pulled you towards the edge. He opened your legs so he could crawl between them but you raised your foot, still fastened in your 5 inch heels, and placed the sole on the middle of his chest. He grabbed your foot and looked down at you with an amused look on his face.

"Shirt." you said

Roman chuckled and dropped your foot down gently on the bed before he grabbed the bottom of his shirt and slipped it up and over his head, making a show of it. He threw his shirt down on the floor and flex his muscle slightly, just the way you like before he grabbed on of your feet again and held it up in front of his face. He pressed a soft kiss on your ankle, eyes locked on yours, as he slowly undid the buckled on your heel and sliding it off as he pressed soft kisses along the top of your foot before switching to the other and doing the same thing. He spread your legs once more and began to kiss up your leg, every now and then sinking his teeth into your skin making your arch back as you moaned. He pressed a soft kiss onto your soaking, thong covered pussy making you whine at the contact. Roman chuckled lowly against you sending a wave of vibration up your body as he continued to kiss up you body until he found himself in between your breast.

"Stop teasing." You whined arching back, hands resting on his shoulders.

He props his head up a little bit to look at you. "Daddy can't take his time with you? I get you all to myself for one night and you want to rush me?" he chuckled as he pressed soft kisses on your left breast over the shear bralette you wore. "You know I love to see you fall apart first."

"Then hurry up and break me."

Roman didn't say a word. One of his hand found a place on your waist as your legs wrapped around his torso. His other hand slid under your back and his fingers unhooked your bra with a certain finesse you've only experienced with him. You let him slip the bra off as his mouth latched onto your tiddie. He moaned as he began to suck no your nipple roughly as his fingernails dug into the meat of you waist. He slipped your nipple out his mouth and went to kiss along the other parts of your breast, biting and sucking on it until he marked you up the way he likes before switching to the other one.

You were soaking through the thin fabric that covered your aching pussy. Roman's pants slowly getting wetter and wetter the longer he continued litter your tiddies with wet kisses and hickeys. You wanted to beg for him to just fuck you already but you know if you do it will just take him longer to actually do so. Roman knew it was getting to you by the way you kept rutting up against him trying to chase some type of friction. Normally he would pin you down to the bed and force you to be grateful for what you receive but he also felt his self control slowly slipping away as the moments passed on. It's been the months since he was able to back Las Vegas and be with you.

Roman started to kiss down your sternum and down your stomach until he kissed the waistband of your thong. He grabbed the material in his teeth and began to pull them down slowly as he lifted your ass off the bed so he could slid then down and off you.

"Fuucckk." You hissed under your breath as you watched him take your panties and shove them in his pants pocket before he stood up and unbuttoned them. You were watching him, focused on his fingers until he snapped his fingers.

"Eyes up here." He said pointing at his own. "Do not look away from me."

"Yes daddy." You said doing as he said, eyes locked on his as he let his pants fall to the floor and his boxers immediately after

He knelt back on the bed, pushing your legs apart a little wider before lowering his head down and in between your legs. "Do not stop looking at me or I will stop, understood?" he commanded as he placed one of your legs over each of his shoulders.

"Understood. " You panted, twitching at the feeling of his breaths hitting against your aching pussy

Roman and decided to tease you a bit because he gets off on seeing you squirm so he blew on your pussy causing you to close your eyes instinctively as your thighs automatically went to shut. Roman raised a hand and brought it down to smack you on the side of your ass.

"Keep your eyes on me. I will not say it again." he said rubbing the area he just hit.

Roman dipped his head lower and let his tongue slide in between your wet lips.

"Oh my god." You moaned as Roman began to lick on your pussy.

Your juices began to flow down his face and into his beard as he lap at your wetness as if he was dying from hydration and your pussy was all that could save him. Roman shoved his face deep as it could go. His nose rubbing against your swollen clit as his tongue pressed inside you. The visual of a man like Roman feverishly eating you out, tongue going in and out of your pussy was enough for that familiar tighten of your stomach to come much quicker than expected. Roman gripped onto your thighs, nail sure to leave a mark on your skin as he looked up at you, taking your arching clit into his mouth. Your mouth hung slack as your legs tried to close but Roman was holding one down on the bed as he brought his other hand in between your legs, sliding two of his large fingers into you.

"Fu-Fuck Daddy I'm going to cum." You moaned propping yourself up on your elbows to get a better look at him

"Ask nicely." Roman growled against your pussy, fingers pumping in and out of you creating a bigger mess all over his face with your juices

"Can I cum please Daddy can I cum? I'm so close." You begged eyes filling with tears as you tried to hold it back as much as possible but it was getting harder with every suck Roman gave your clit. "I been so good for you. Please daddy." You sniffles reaching down with one hand to push the hair that has fallen into his face out the way so you can see him clearly

Roman didn't pull away to give you a verbal answer, he just tapped your thigh twice which was your guys nonverbal signal for yes. You fell back, hand now gripping his hair as your body arch damn near off the bed as you came on his face. Roman pinned your hips down as he continued to finger fuck you and lick on your pussy until you came down from your high and pushed his head away before you got overstimulated.

Roman kissed the inside of your knee softly before sittting up on his knees and pulling his fingers out of you and using your cum and juices stroke his throbbing erection. He grabbed you by the hips and pulled you closer to him. He grabbed his dick and lined the tip up to your pussy and slowly pushed his way inside. Roman let out a hiss as he forced his way inside your tight pussy, the warmth of it almost too much for him to bear. He leaned down and pressed his lips onto yours. You didn't care that you could taste yourself on his lips as you wrapped your legs around his waist once he bottomed out. Roman placed a hand by your head and used his other to caress your face softly as he deepened the kiss, taking the time to let you relax and adjust to his size.

"Fuck me please." You whispered against his lips as you let your legs loosen a bit around him, arms wrapping around his neck

Roman slowly moved his hips to slid out of your pussy slowly making you gasp and tightening your hold around his neck. He slid back inside you with the same slowness, taking in the faces you make and etching them in his memory. He slowly started to increase the speed of his thrust, the sound of your wet pussy filling the room drowning out the music you and Roman both forgot about. Roman hair fell over his shoulders and down into your face. You grabbed his hair and held it in a tight first slightly tugging on it as he fucked into harder. You tried to keep eye contact but Roman found that sweet spot and it caused your eyes to roll back as you pulled on his hair a bit harder. Roman moaned at the feeling of you pulling his hair before capturing your lips into a heated kiss again. You felt that familiar tightening in your stomach and Roman felt you tighten up around him.

"You gonna cum already? Aren't you being greedy? I haven't came once." Roman grunted as he slammed into you

" 'm not greedy." You protested

"You are. " Roman stated bringing a hand up to stroke your cheek softly to contrast the roughness of his thrust. "Daddy has you spoiled maybe I shouldn't let you cum until you show me you are grateful."

"No! No, no, no daddy please! I won't do it. I won't I promise."

Roman pressed a kiss on your lips. "I know baby." he said pulling out causing the tears that built up in your eyes to actually fall down your face. Roman wiped them away with his thumb before forcing you to turn onto you stomach. He brought your leg in until you were on your knees and grabbed both of your arms and brought them behind your back, holding them together, leaving you face down into the mattress. Roman grabbed his length and pushed back inside you with no warning. You moaned into the mattress as he fucked you from behind. The sound of his balls hitting up against you mixed with his grunts and curse words slipping out of his mouth was pushing you closer and closer to your climax.

"You like when I fuck you like this?  Look you baby, you droolin'." He laughed wickedly as he leaned over you and licked up the drool that was coming out your mouth from the way it was hanging open and he plowed into you. "God your so fucking tight baby, I'm so close. Just a little longer okay? Just wait for daddy." he moaned as let go of your arms and wrapped his arms around you tightly, fucking into you deeper

"Oh fuck I'm going to cum." Was all you managed to get out before your body began to do it's familiar shake when you start to cum

"Fuck." Roman cursed as you squeezed around him, ripping his orgasm out of him. His thrusts starting to become messy and sloppy as he fucks his cum in and out of your creaming pussy. Your nails digging into his arms as you held onto him as he fucked you threw it. "Fuck baby fuck." he cursed resting his head in between your shoulder blades as he slowly brings his thrusts to a stop. He released you and allowed you to collapse down onto the bed underneath him. He slowly slid out of you and laid down next to you, hand searching for yours.

"You did so good for me baby." He said bringing your hand up to his mouth to press a soft kiss to it. "Was that coat new?" He asked stroking the top of your curls gently

You nodded your head yes still unable to find your words as you soaked in that post orgasm high.

"It's cute but next time you don't need it." He said

You turned to look at him with a look of confusion on your face.

"You don't need to wear anything. I want you in nothing next time. Just skin." He said pulling you on top of him. "No shoes, no shirt, no skirt, nothing just skin." he listed off adjusting you on top of him so your pussy was lined up right on top of his quickly growing erection.

"Just skin? Already naked?"

"Mhmm, just skin."

[youluvego]

Warnings | 18+ only | MDNI| profanity, smut, angst(maybe, chile irdk)

Word Count | 2.2k

Summary | His self perception has taken a turn for the worst. His lover knows just the cure.

Author's Note | this is my first fic, I have no idea what I am doing. please excuse any typos or poor grammar, i'm new here.

She watches him walk around backstage, the way he pulls on his shirts when they cling too tight. The constant adjusting of his pants to cover his abdomen. The way he sucks in his stomach when cameras are near. 

It takes her back to years prior when he insisted on wearing the spandex under his vest to make himself smaller. She despises that time. When no matter what he did, he was the most hated.Having to constantly prove his worth day in and day out. 6'3 270 pounds. he was not a small man and she couldn't understand his obsession with wanting to make himself look as such. 

All the work it took over the years. All the bland chicken and broccoli he'd ingested to sculpt each muscle in his body into that of a statue. All the changes he'd made, and yet one stupid interview had the ability to reverse it all. 

He isn't himself, despite his protests she can tell that something is off. The way he clings to her after every hug and kiss like she might disappear if he doesn't hold on tight. Spending extra time in the mirror after his showers, he thinks she doesn't notice but she can tell he's tearing himself apart. 

His usual shorts and t-shirt being replaced by long sleeves and loose pants. The way he went from sleeping in his boxers to wearing pajamas, something shes never known her lover to be fond of. His hours of weightlifting being extended due to the extra cardio he insists is necessary. "holding water" he'd called it. It pissed her off.

Roman has always known he was attractive, but it wasn't until recent years that he felt comfortable to show off his carefully sculpted physique. Of course she noticed his change in behavior immediately— but never more than when they made love. A reserved man, but he was a skilled lover always wanting to see her reactions to his ministrations and vise versa.

So why is it that this man, so brazen in the bedroom is requesting to keep the lights off? She always abides not wanting him to take her confusion as rejection but now things have gone too far.

----

They lay across the couch, entangled bodies illuminated by the TV on the wall. Soft moans and smacking lips increasing in fever. She begins pulling at his clothing ready to feel his skin on hers. It's only when his hands knock hers away with a sudden request to leave his shirt on that she pauses. Hes back on her immediately trailing kisses along her ears and neck. He can't be serious she thinks. For weeks she allowed him to take refuge in the darkness of their bedroom and now his timidity is becoming exasperating.

The extra fabric clings to his skin as he thrusts into her, Her hands grip onto the shirt like she wants to tear it off of him, he secretly wishes she would. Her brown skin glistening from the light of the TV is a stark juxtaposition to his covered torso. It fills him with regret. Regretting his choice to keep the lights off all this time. Regretting his choice to wear this fucking shirt and not be able to feel her skin against his. Wanting to see her but feeling disgust at the thought of her seeing him.

In all the years they've been together never not once has he known her to be vain. To stop loving him because his body has changed, but his confidence has been shaken. It makes him angry thinking about it and as a result his thrusts pick up speed. Grunting out when he pushes her knees further up her chest until she's damn near folded in half. 

"Fuck baby—" 

Glasses askew as she throws her head back. Hands reaching around for something to grip on as he pummels into her. 

He leans closer getting into her face. Tongue spread wide licking from her neck up into her mouth. Snaking around and swallowing her moans. She can hardly breathe let alone speak as he questions her. 

"You love me?" he asks, hips still sliding into hers. Sticking together with the mess they've made. 

Wet squelches and soft grunts is the only response he gets.

"Huh?" he grabs for her chin pulling her in closer, nuzzling his face into her cheek. Softly biting at the skin of her jaw.

"You love me baby?" he asks again before sloppily kissing her, preventing her from answering. Their jaws covered in a mixture of spit and sweat but neither seems to care. 

"Tell me" he barks out hips moving faster and crushing harder against her pelvis. There's tears forming in her eyes now and shes squeezing down on him hoping that'll get the point across.

Its not enough. He needs to hear it from her, needs to hear her say it. He's starving for it, needs to know she still loves him the way he does her.

He lowers her legs. Wrapping them around his waist laying himself down, putting all his weight on her. He wraps his arms around her, tucking his head into her shoulder thrusting so deep that it has her eyes rolling back. The couch groans from the force of their movements. Her body goes rigid, brown eyes blind from pleasure. 

Shes clinging onto his shoulders trying to pull him in as close as she can. Wanting to be in his skin, wishing he could feel how much she loves him in this moment. Her body is trembling so hard it makes her teeth chatter. She wants to tell him, shes trying her hardest but hes still fucking her. 

Hand tucked between them, fingers rubbing fast against her clit. Still taking her breath away even as water begins to squirt out of her, soaking their lower halves. He never lets up not even when she starts bucking against him. 

"I c-cant" she begs clawing at his back.

"I can't" I can't I can't"

"I can't take it" she sobs out louder running her hands lower until she feels the hem of the damned thing.

"Take this off, I want to feel you please" she desperately pulls at the shirt. Running her hands underneath and along the skin of his back and sides hoping he'll take if off to appease her. 

He lifts his head, eyes hot. A mixture between anger and sadness. His thrusts begin to slow. Just like that their bubble has been burst. Slowly he sits up, unwrapping her legs from around him, leaning down and kissing her knee. 

At the same time he moves to leave, she sits up, grabbing onto his arms to stop him.

Standing up and spinning around. Pushing him backward onto the couch where she once lay. 

"I think you're hiding from me" she accuses.

He sucks his teeth rearing up preparing to argue. 

"Tell me I'm wrong" she demands crossing her arms over her still nude chest.

"I'm not doing this with you" flicking his hands in dismissal. He stands up once again preparing to flee. Not wanting to face the truth.

"Prove it then" she challenges, intercepting him and reaching out a hand toward his shirt. Both hands find purchase on the hem inching it up higher and higher on his silhouette . He lets her.

She takes the time to admire him, running her hands across his brawny chest and abdomen. She makes eye contact as she slips the shirt over her own head letting it swallow her frame. He grunts, hands reaching to try and remove it before she takes a step back. 

"Take that off" he murmurs obviously bothered by her covering up. 

"you don't like that huh?" she taunts, pushing him back down onto the plush fabric. 

Sinking to her knees in front of him, she lets her hands glide from his ankles up his calves and onto his broad thighs. 

Sly fingers grabbing hold of his now softened dick, tugging it back to life. Taking her time enjoying the feel of it in her hands. Mourning the feeling of it inside her. 

He glares down at her almost angrily, like a predator stalking its prey. 

Raining kisses up and down his thighs, hands still moving up and down unhurried. She gazes longingly as his tip begins to leak, rubbing her thumb across the head collecting the essence. 

"You've been hiding from me" she whispers staring right back into his wide eyes. Soiled thumb dipping between her lips.

She peers up at him, glasses sliding down her nose, her hand begins to move faster, she leans back down tongue swirling around the sensitive tip watching as it swells and leaks even more. 

"I'm not" he bucks up unexpectedly barely able to control himself with his eyes squeezed shut and head tossed toward the ceiling.

She raises her free hand to his face, grabbing for his jaw, wanting him to see what shes doing, to see how much she loves him. Keeping eye contact as she bobs her head, spit running down onto her hands creating a sticky mess. 

"You're not?" She questions hands still moving. Tongue flicking back drawing circles around the sensitive tip of him.

He raises his head, struggling to keep his eyes open, body trembling barely able to form a coherent thought.

"Give me the rest, I know you have more come on baby you can do it" she says squeezing him tighter, arm beginning to burn trying to keep up the pace, thumb running across the head every time her hand meets the top of his dick. It pulses in her hand hot to the touch and ready for release. Her mouth slides down sucking on his balls at the same time her nose brushes against the bottom of his dick. 

"Fuck" he groans out.

His head falls back again feeling vulnerable and no longer having the strength to watch her as his back arches off the couch, whole body trying to escape the pleasure that shes physically pulling from him. 

She watches his body lock up, sweat drips down his face—head thrown back and mouth open with an inaudible yell. His strong hands gripping the cushions as if he might rip them to pieces. She leans down and places a kiss onto his left knee, feeling his muscles flutter as he tenses up. She holds onto him and watches while he comes again, body coiled tight and begging for reprieve.

Brushing her other hand along his strong thigh, offering him some comfort as her strokes come to a leisurely pace. His release lands on his stomach and coats her fingers mixing with her spit.

Watching him slacken as the tension begins to ease, body still trembling and chest heaving as small grunts continue to leave his lips . Giving the head of his dick one last kiss. Letting it fall down onto his thigh and he whimpers out as a shiver runs through his body. She uses the bottom of the shirt she wears to clean off his stomach. She uses her mouth to clean her hands, sucking her fingers clean as she watches him sprawled out in bliss. 

Ever so gently she crawls back up onto the couch and into his lap. Wrapping her arms around his neck and leaning in to inhale his scent. One hand caresses his head as she trails kisses along the side of his face. The other glides across the expanse of his chest, caressing the smooth skin pulled taught over his burly frame. 

"I love you" she whispers into his ear

Nuzzling into the crevice where his neck meets his broad shoulders. His heavy breathing in her ear masking the sounds of the TV. Trying to get a hold of himself, and failing, as her hand continues its descent down his chest onto his stomach that caves in on itself as her fingers slip across. 

"Baby—" he weakly tries to grab for her arm, attempting to stop her torment. She leans in close to him, mouths only a breath apart. 

"shh" she murmurs, nipping at him. His hands claw at her body, the only thing stopping them from being skin to skin is the shirt she took from him. It rides up now, her bare skin exposed to the cool air in their home. Goose Bumps raise up on her skin as he continues to paw at her, trying to find any source of connection.

"Just love you that's all. Just wanna show you", pressing a chaste kiss against his lips —dragging her nose across his face and breathing in again. she could never get enough of his scent.

He sits up weakly, hands moving to the fabric hiding her body. He moves quick dragging it up, and over her head tossing it away with the rest of his forgotten garments. Dragging her close and tucking his head into her neck, breathing in. She can feel his heart pounding against her chest. Can feel the pulsing of him coming back to life against her ass. 

"Come on baby, let me show you how much I love you"

author's note: this is my first ever pic, posting this was so scary but writing it was so fun. I just kept giggling and going "omg who wrote this???" I literally just had this idea randomly in the middle of the night.

[dj-fr3nch-t1p]

Personal Trainer Part 1

MDNI EXPLICIT 18+

Description:

"You think you got what it takes?"

"I know I do."

He smirked, running his eyes over her generous curves. When he met her gaze, it was with a dark look that had nothing to do with their casual conversation

"I'll be the judge of that

Author's Note: Excited about how this came out. Inspired by Romans gym videos- Boy look good!!!!!

Content Warning: SMUT. Roman being somewhat of an asshole

Taglist: @potatosackk -comment or message me if you want to be added for the next part

Word Count: 4749

Link to Part 2

Makenzie relaxed into the tub of steaming hot water and sighed. God, she ached all over

He was an asshole. An absolute pain in the ass.

A demanding, hellbound, ripped, sexy-

Asshole, Mackenzie reminded herself sternly. Roman Reigns was a bona fide asshole.

She sighed again and shifted in the water, barely stifling a groan when her tired muscles protested at the small movement

Yes, her trainer was most definitely an asshole. She’d never felt this level of fatigue in her entire life. She winced, knowing that if she was in this much pain after the workout, tomorrow would only be worse.

Stupid Roman.

In the safety of her own bathtub, Makenzie’s thoughts ventured to places she wouldn’t even let them go while face-to-face with the man. But here, within the comfort of her own four walls, she was less restrained,

A soft sigh had escaped her lips before she could even summon the urge to smother it. Makenzie's lips curved into a smile as she relaxed even more, her hands moving gently beneath the water,

She traced the soft skin of her thigh, her smile growing when she felt the added firmness that hadn’t been there five weeks ago.

Her body had adjusted quickly. After only a week under her new trainer's guidance, she’d noticed a marked difference. And the longer she’d stayed with him, the more her body began to change.

Mackenzie’s lower lip crept into her mouth as her hands moved upward, trailing over her stomach. She felt the slight roundness at the bottom, stroked the curvy sides of her pronounced waist, and smiled when she reached the swell of her heavy breast

Her dark nipples had already hardened, peeping above the water despite her fatigue. She smiled, reaching up to roll them with her thumbs. She shuddered when pleasure feathered down and out from her own touch, her thighs parting automatically. Mackenzie grimaced when the movement cost her several twinges of pain. Reality swept back in when she remembered the reason she was naked and soaking in her bathtub

Roman Reigns

“Freaking asshole”, she muttered under her breath. “He’s insane.”

If she were honest with herself, she wasn’t averse to the guy. She just wasn’t in the mood to admit that she felt anything other than animosity to the man who had spent the last five weeks showing her the meaning of the phrase ‘no pain, no gain’.

Mackenzie had signed up for the boot camp on her own accord. There had been no self-deprecation behind it. No vague hints from friends- nothing like that. It had all been for her. As long as she’d been kicking and breathing, her mother had told her she had a mind of her own. There were very few things that Makenzie wasn’t game to do.

Including signing up for a notoriously difficult boot camp five weeks before her 30th birthday photoshoot.

“God”, Mackenzie grunted, pushing herself upright. “ Is it meant to hurt this much?”

She pushed a stray curl out of her face, annoyed. Without warning, the handsome face of the man who’d put her in this predicament flashed through her mind. Her lips twisted

Asshole

And it wasn’t like he hadn’t warned her, alongside her fellow bootcampers, either. From day one, he’d been clear about what exactly he was going to put her and everyone else through.

Roman Reigns' first words echoed in her mind.

“If you're looking for an encouraging speech, you should leave right now.”

Makenzie had stifled the urge to roll her eyes, but the tall, clearly built man standing in front of her group hadn’t been anything other than dead serious. He continued his blunt introduction, “If you’re looking for someone to hold your hand and tell you that fucking up is okay, you should leave right now. I’m not here to be your therapist or watch over your shoulder when you’re in the kitchen making the tough decisions. You have to do your part.”

He stopped a couple of steps away from Makenzie. She took him in; all of him. The bronzed skin, broad shoulders, fine features. He looked like he’d been carved from marble and then dipped in whatever golden tan mixture it was that god reserved for a select few, lucky souls. Roman was devastatingly handsome. She wasn’t blind

Well, if she was going to die via boot camp, at least it’d be with eye candy benefits.

He glanced over at her, meeting her eyes and grazed down her body.

She swallowed. Was it just her, or did his eyes linger longer on her than on anyone else? She blinked, the moment passed and he resumed talking.

“I’m not here to be your mother. So, if you’re looking for that, you should turn around and walk your ass out the door.”

His assistant, a man names Jimmy, laughed, crossing his strong arms over his chest. “Tell them what you’re here for Roman.”

The handsome man glanced over at his partner, and the corner of his mouth pulled up

“I’m here to get that ass in shape!”

Makenzie blinked away the memory. Her ass was in shape, alright. Her body showed more definition, her curves had either shrunk or grown in the right proportions, and she was fitter than she’d been in a long time.

But she’d also gained something she hadn’t counted on

A little more than a passing interest in Roman Reigns. It might have just been her imagination, but sometimes his hands lingered longer than she thought they should have. She’d look up and catch his eyes on her- but only because she’d been looking up to find him in the first place. She shook her head, rueful. Maybe he just enjoyed seeing a curvy woman in his gym for once. Every time Makenzie walked in the doors, she noticed there weren’t many built like her inside the four walls.

She sighed. The water was getting cold

Suddenly, her phone beeped. Makenzie glanced over to the small stool she’d left it atop of, squinting.

Flash flood warning.

“Huh”, she murmured, reaching for her towel. “Bad weather.”

Shrugging, she began to lever herself out of the bath, trying to keep her groans of pain behind gritted teeth. Just a few more weeks of this, she told herself. A few more weeks and she’d get her photoshoot over and done with. No more gym, ice cream Fridays, and thankfully no more Roman Reigns

Just a few more weeks.

“Come on Makenzie, get those knees up.”

“I-” She took a deep breath. “Am.”

The asshole was in an especially assholey mode today. Makenzie grunted, her teeth grinding together.

“No talking, Makenzie. Just do it.”

“I-can’t!” Makenzie gasped, doubling over. She sucked in huge gulps of air, lightheaded. “Oh my God…I need to breathe.”

“Did I tell you to stop? Get back in the game, Makenzie. NOW”

Makenzie silently vowed that when she caught her breath, she would kill this man. Either that or refuse to pay him. She’d see just how he felt about that. Asshole.

“Move Makenzie.”

Makenzie couldn’t take any more. Seething, her head jerked up and she glared at her looming trainer.

“Get out of my face, Roman. Go ride someone else, for god’s sakes,” she snapped. She dashed the sweat from her brow chest, still heaving. “I’m just catching my breath!”

He stood straight and crossed his arms. Despite her temper, her stomach flipped at the look in his eyes. “What did you say?”

She swallowed. Instead of answering, she looked at the ground, suddenly aware of every eye in the room being trained in her direction. “Nothing”, she breathed out.

“That's what I thought. Now get those damned knees up and keep going.” He wasn’t done with her, though.

“You want to look good for that photoshoot or not?”

Makenzie glared at him. “That's low.”

He shrugged. “It’s the truth. So do you?”

“You know I do. But that doesn’t mean I can’t just take a short break.”

Roman shook his head, stepping closer towards her. Makenzie became aware of just how broad and tall he was. She was no shrimp, but he was easily a foot taller than her, and much, much more solid. He looked down at her, his eyes dark.

“These little moments are what make the difference, Makenzie. When you keep going even though you don’t want to. When you grind through another set, even when you don’t think you can. You think getting gains is easy? It's not. The moments you keep going, even when you want to quit, those are the moments you make them.”

Makenzie fell silent. She heard him. She understood him. But in that moment, all she was really aware of was how close to her he was standing. Roman up close was a potent mix of man. She swallowed, dragging her brain back to his words.

It didn’t help, though. Because in the next moment, the man that Makenzie thought was a hard assed, hard-nosed trainer, reached out and gently hooked a finger beneath her chin, tilting her face up till their eyes met.

For just a moment, she saw his gaze soften

“Get back in line, Makenzie. I don’t ask, but I’m asking you now. Understand?”

She stared at him, dumbfounded. The frustration she’d felt earlier was fading. As if sensing it, Roman stepped even closer and leaned forward to murmur in her ear.

“I don’t know what’s got you down today, but shake it off. You’ve got more to give, I know you do. Whatever it is that’s bugging you, come and work it off with us. With me. You’ll feel better after.”

Makenzie knew she was off her game. Woke up late, work was aggravating, and forgotten to eat. She had no energy.

Sighing, Makenzie slumped forward. “Alright, one more set, but if I fall out, you’re gonna be the one carrying me out of here.”

His laugh was low, eyes glinting with mischief, “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

With that, he finally stepped back, giving her much-needed space. Without another word, he turned and headed towards the opposite end of the gym, leaving her with a newfound fire inside of her.

Jaw set, she powered through the rest of her sets, every rep fueled as much by stubborn pride as by strength. By the time she racked the final weight, her arms trembled, but the satisfied smile on her face said she’d won her own battle.

Grabbing her towel and bag, she headed toward the exit, sweat-damp curls sticking to her skin — tired, yes, but more alive than when she’d walked in.

That's when he appeared again, leaning casually against the wall by the exit. His gaze swept over her, lingering just long enough to make her pulse quicken, and a slow, teasing smile curved his lips.

“Look at you,” he murmured, voice low and rough with amusement. “Didn’t think you had it in you… But now I’m wondering what else you’re capable of.”

She shot him a glare.“Careful. Keep pushing me, one day I’m gonna be strong enough to beat your ass”, she said with a promise

He threw his hands up in mock surrender, “ Oohh, me and you one on one, can’t wait for our first match,” he said with a wink

She rolled her eyes, trying to hide the faint smile on her lips as she brushed past him, making her way to her car. Her heart was still racing from the workout and from him, but a smile couldn’t help but stretch across her face.

Other bootcamp members passed her, waving as she made her way through the parking lot. She raised her hand to them distractedly, preoccupied by Roman’s flirtatious actions.

When Makenzie unlocked her door and slid behind the wheel, however, the engine wouldn’t turn over. She tried the keys three more times. Still no luck. Hungry, sore, tired, flirty personal trainer wandering around in her mind. How could the day get any worse? Makenzie squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to be patient. A few seconds later, there was a knock on her window.

Startled, she looked up to see the smiling face of a woman in her class. Kim. The blonde-haired woman smiled and motioned for her to open the door.

“Is everything alright?”

Makenzie shook her head, pointing towards the hood of the car. “I don’t know what's up. It's just not starting.”

The kind woman bit her lip. “Hmm. Wait a second. I’m not gonna be any help, but I think I know someone who can help. Wait just a minute.”

Makenzie nodded, her relief palpable. She shot Kim a grateful look. “Thank you.”

“It’s no problem, honey. You wait right here.”

Makenzie was thanking her lucky stars for Kim’s good Samaritan act. That was right up until the woman came back

Makenzie’s stomach dropped

Behind her was the last person she wanted to see. Roman.

“Roman’s a qualified mechanic,” Kim said, smiling. “And he also happens to remember the promise he made our mother that he’d always listen to his older sister.”

Makenzie stared at Kim. “Sister?”

Kim’s eyes grew wider. “Yes. I don’t know why but he doesn’t like to tell people,” she whispered. “I think I’m too nice for him. Might ruin his image.”

Roman was casually leaning against the car, devilish smirk in place. Makenzie glanced at him, then quickly back to Kim. “Your personality never seemed to rub off on him?” Kim seemed to think this was hilarious. She laughed, then reached out to give Makenzie’s arm a warm pat. “I'd better go. Husband’s waiting for me in the car. See you at the next torture session.”

And just like that, Kim disappeared. Makenzie swallowed, then looked up at Roman. He was gazing at her with a smug expression.

“Looks like someone needs rescuing,” he teased. He brushed past her and before she could give out a smart response, he was behind the wheel, flicking the key and then searching for the lever for her car's hood. She watched as the hulking man slid easily from her car and moved towards the front.

Overhead, thunder clapped. Dark clouds rolled across the sky, rumbling overhead as distant thunder growled like a warning. She suddenly remembered the flash flood warning from last night. Urging citizens to be prepared for what tomorrow's storms could bring.

“Your battery is dead. I think you left your lights on.”

Makenzie’s cheeks burned with embarrassment. Of all days, how could she have forgotten such a simple task?

“I don’t have any jumper cables on me. Do you have insurance?”

Makenzie nodded

“Good. Call them.”

Makenzie pulled out her phone but before she could dial the number for her insurance company, her phone flashed black and died. Her eyes widened

Really? She thought to herself

“What?” Roman set the hood back down, clicking it into place. His were on her.

“I-uh, my phone just died.”

He stared at her for a long moment then let out a deep laugh.

“Your day is going terribly right now.”

Makenzie stared at him in disbelief. But unfortunately, he was right. Hungry, sore, tired, no phone, and an annoying personal trainer as her witness.

The first fat drops of rain spattered the windshield.

“You don’t have to rub it in, you know.”

“Let's be real, Makenzie, even if you could reach someone, the storm is about to be here, so no one's gonna be in a rush to come save you.”

As if to further prove his point, the rain fell harder now, drumming against the roof of the car and soaking the pavement around them. Thunder rumbled close enough to make the air vibrate, and the wind whipped her hair across her face. In a few seconds, she was soaked.

“Lock the car and come with me,” he yelled out over the rain.

“But I-”

“I said, lock the car and come with me, stop being stubborn, you can come to my place, it's not far.”

And that's how a very frustrated and very wet Makenzie managed to end up in the passenger seat of her personal trainer's car.

Back at Romans' place…….

Makenzie hung up the phone and gazed out the window. It was pouring. She watched as the storm raged across the city. Sheets of rain lashed against the windows, and the wind howled through the gaps in the building, rattling the panes and sending leaves and debris tumbling across the streets below.

“So?”

The sound of Roman's voice startled her, and she looked up from where she was sitting at the windowsill. He’d changed. And showered. His long locks were wet, and droplets of water still clung to his smooth, bronzed chest. Makenzie pursed her lips. She met his gaze with her own.

“Nothing, no service in this weather.”

“Told you.” “Well,” she retorted, “when a company tells you they offer twenty-four-hour roadside assistance, you tend to believe what they say.”

He shrugged. “Yea only if you’re gullible.”

Makenzie pinched the bridge of her nose. This man. He might have been something else in the gym, but what he had in muscles clearly deprived him of manners. She sighed. “I’ll call a cab. I can get out of your hair.”

Roman arched an eyebrow. “You do see the weather in front of you, right? They’ll be out of commission in weather like this.”

“I’ll bet you they won’t.”

He shrugged. “Bet you fifteen push-ups they’re not.”

Five minutes later, Makenzie had lost the bet. She handed Roman’s phone back to him with protest, “I can only do like ten push-ups max.”

He didn’t even hesitate. “Guess you better stop trying to quit in the middle of workouts then.”

With an exasperated sigh, she threw her hands up to her head. “I’m hungry, I’m tired, I’m sore, and I’m already tired of being around you.” Her tone was blunt.

“Sounds like somebody needs a snack and a nap,” he drawled, eyes flicking over her with a mixture of amusement and concern. “Lucky for you, I’ve got food here… and a couch you can collapse on if you’re done yelling at me.” And with that, he padded back out of the living room.

“I’m not staying with you,” Makenzie called out to his retreating back. A really good looking back. “I’m going home. Where I don’t have to put up with my satanic personal trainer.”

“Bet you ten more pushups we’re going to have a sleepover tonight.”

The weather turned even shittier.

Only an hour after Romans prediction, the weather had got even worse and even Makenzie’s best friend had wormed out of picking her up until the morning. Annoyed, she’d barely been able to take what she was fast learning was Roman’s smug-ish, smirk-ish, smile.

“You’re not smart, you know.” He’d come out into the living area where she was perched sulkily on his couch. His arms were full of blankets, sheets and a pillow. With a flourish, he dumped them on her lap. She was wearing an oversized shirt he’d lent her, and a pair of shorts. She’d showered and eaten was beginning to feel a little sleepy.

“I disagree,” Roman sank down beside her, jostling her with his weight as he did so. “ But feel free to tell me your ill informed opinion of why you think I’m not a smart man.”

Makenzie pushed the blankets off shooting him a disgrunted look. “Coercing a woman into exercise is the dumbest move any man could make.” She huffed. “Thirty push-ups? I’m not doing it.”

“Definitely not in the shape your in.”

She glared at him, “you are so rude.”

He shrugged. “I’m right. I could get you into that shape though”

Makenzie snorted. “Please. Not without getting yourself strangled in the process.”

“You keep threatening me with bodily harm like I can’t pick you up and throw you”

Makenzie didn’t respond, she looked out the window suddenly imagining the idea of him picking her up and wrapping her legs around his waist. Meanwhile Roman picked up the remote, turning on the television in front of them. She glanced out the corner of her eye, studying his chiseled features for a moment.

“Whatever you want to ask, just ask. Stare at me any longer and my nose will start growing.”

She flushed glancing away. “Thanks. For everything. I just realized I haven’t said thank you at all.”

“Wow I thought my heroic duties were gonna go unnoticed”

She rolled her eyes, “don’t get to full of yourself, just trying to be polite”

Somewhere along the way the pair were engrossed in movie. Roman had relaxed and so had she. She wasn’t aware they were sitting so close until his thigh brushed her knee.

“Sorry.” Makenzie felt that warm feeling from her face, spread through her body. She swallowed. “It’s fine.”

A few minutes later Roman looked at her sideways. She could feel his gaze. She glanced at him. “What?”

He was silent. Finally he murmured. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry?”

“Yea”

“For?”

“Always riding you in the gym. I can tell I really got under your skin today. Thought you were gonna leave”

She gave him a disbelieving look. He smiled but it wasn’t smug. This time it was genuine. Makenzie felt her stomach react to that smile.

“Are you always such a jerk in the gym?”

He actually snorted at that one. “A jerk?”

“Yea a jerk,” she repeated. “A loud, pushy, annoy-

“Okay I get it”, he said drily. “And no. I’m not. Maybe with you more than others.”

“And can I ask why of all your loyal subjects, you decided to single me out?”

Roman’s smile faded a bit. He gazed at her intently. Mackenzie felt compelled to maintain his intense gaze. She couldn’t look away. His voice was almost a whisper when he spoke again.

“Because you got guts. I push you because I know you can do more. You push back with a smart ass response. Can’t lie, I like seeing you fired up.”

Mackenzie was suddenly aware of her own breath. Why was she breathing so loud? She could hear her own heart pounding in her ears. She swallowed, suddenly having a dire need for water.

“You like picking on me?”

With a gleam in his eyes, “I'm not trying to pick on you, I just didn’t want you to leave.”

He was closer than he had been a second ago. When had he gotten that close? Makenzie stared at him, confused. This was Roman. Pain in the ass, mean, but looks-wise, he was God's gift to women. But also her personal trainer. Who was supposed to be helping her get in shape, not be the one in her late-night fantasies.

“What are you doing?” she whispered, rooted in place on the couch. The couch in his apartment. The couch where they were supposed to be watching a movie and waiting for the heavy storm to pass.

“The only thing I’ve wanted to do since you first walked into my gym”

And with that, he kissed her.

Mackenzie gasped, shock and lust passing through her when their lips met. Pure fire pressed into her soft lips, and suddenly, all she could feel, touch, and taste was Roman. Her eyes fluttered closed, and she moaned softly into his mouth.

And then she felt his tongue. She couldn’t help herself as more moans left her mouth when Roman's confident tongue swept across the seam of her lips. His tongue pushed softly forward, meeting hers with a tiny flick that had her pressing forward, eager for more.

The next few minutes were a blur. Soft moans and low sounds of pleasure and rushed breaths all melded into one moment, and Makenzie managed to wriggle her way into Roman's lap. Her fingers weaved through his hair, her lips eagerly pressed against his, and her thighs straddled his lap.

Suddenly, she pulled back.

“What are we…doing?”, she rasped, “ I don’t even like you”

She might not have liked his fierce training style, but she liked the way he kissed her like no one had kissed her before.

He held a firm hand to her lower back and pulled her body snug to his.

“I bet 50 push-ups that by the end of the night, when I’m finished, you’ll be in love with me”

And he kissed her all over again.

Eventually, kissing turned to more. Her hands slid down his chest, and his slid up her thighs. In an almost mad flurry of movement, Makenzie had slid her hands down the front of his pajama pants and discovered that an impressive physique wasn’t the only thing Roman was packing.

“Oh my, go-” his lips muffled her words.

Mackenzie’s reaction to Romans' thick length was cut short, but when his hands began to pull upwards at the hem of her shirt, she let him pull it over her head in one hurried movement.

He broke the kiss just long enough to take in some quick breaths, his eyes dropping to her bare chest. The lust in his eyes was unmistakable; his eyes roamed over her exposed chest with a desire that almost filled the room.

Her fingers wrapped around the head of his shaft, twisting and rubbing the sensitive end in a way that had him letting out needy grunts. Which had to be the sexiest sounds she had ever heard in her life. Her eyes flickered to his throat, where she saw the frantic beat of his pulse—a confession of the fire building inside of him.

“Ahh shit”

She’d slid her thumb directly over his head, making short, rapid circles across his slick head. Roman swore, and his head arched back again. She resumed her previous pattern of twisting and pumping his thick hard on.

“Makenzie.” His voice was hoarse. His fingers wrapped around her wrist. “You want me to cum in your hands or what”

A mischievous smile tugged at her lips. “I wouldn’t be mad if you did.

To prove her point, she squeezed him harder and stroked him faster. Roman swore. In a move that showed her just how strong he was, he hefted her upward, wrapped an arm around her and slid his hand down the front of her shorts.

Makenzie’s eyes widened when she felt his long fingers brush against her soaked pussy. She gasped.

In this position, she couldn’t see anything. He’d hefted her up so that she was still straddling his thighs, but her head was over his shoulder. She still had a grip on his length, could still stroke and pump him, but she could no longer see her own hand. His face was buried in her neck, his breath coming out in warm, rapid pants.

And his fingers had found her entrance and were steadily pushing in and out of her.

She gasped, squeezing him harder. Stars swam in her eyes

They were both hard and wet, in a rush to get to each other. They hadn’t even bothered to strip. Instead, Roman had his hands stuffed in her shorts fingering her, and she had her hand stuffed in his pants pumping him.

She couldn’t take much more. It was too much. His fingers felt too good. His length felt even better in her hands and it was only a few moments later that Makenzie’s hips began to arch back onto his fingers, pushing him deeper. She was moaning on the very edge.

Roman groaned into her neck, his entire body tense around her. In one swift movement, he removed his fingers from inside of her and found his way to her clit.

Makenzie jerked in his arms, crying out when he began to rapidly rub her sensitive clit. It was too much. She couldn’t take any more. Surrendering, she wrapped her free hand around his shoulders, and her entire body went rigid. With a loud cry, she came.

Roman’s muffled groan at her release was followed by a sudden twitch in his hard length, and suddenly, she felt her fingers covered in his release.

He left his fingers inside her, still gently stroking her as she moaned and rocked against him, working out the last waves of pleasure.

Eventually, they both slid their hands free, and Makenzie sat back down on his lap. Their movements slowed, but the air around them still hummed with electricity. Neither spoke, both knowing that what had just happened was only the beginning of a very long night.

Link to Part 2

[dj-fr3nch-t1p]

Personal Trainer Part 2

MDNI EXPLICIT 18+

Description:

"You think you got what it takes?"

"I know I do."

He smirked, running his eyes over her generous curves. When he met her gaze, it was with a dark look that had nothing to do with their casual conversation

"I'll be the judge of that

Author's Note: SORRY FOR THE WAIT. Really didn’t think people would like this story that much, but thank you for the likes and reblogs, glad people are enjoying the story. One more part after this to tie everything together, then on to the next Roman Reigns story about cheating, revenge, and a little BDSM 

Content Warning: SMUT with a side of buildup and story

Taglist: @potatosackk  @lovemelittlesquiller @reignseclipse

 -comment or message me if you want to be added for the next part

Word Count: 4517

Link to Part 1 READ FIRST

He was staring at her, just as shocked as she was at what had happened. Roman, however, seemed to recover faster. His hands found their way to the waistband of her shorts. When he tugged, it brought her back to reality with a thud.

Makenzie swallowed, wriggling away. “Gotta use the restroom.”

Roman frowned. He lifted his arms to stop her moving, but she was too fast. His brows knitted together when she slid out of his arms. “Makenzie wait-”

But she already ducked off into the shelter of his bathroom. Eyes wide with disbelief over what she’d just done, she let out a quiet gasp.

Had that really just happened?

She thought back to the tantalizing image of Roman's head thrown back and lips parted in a low groan of ecstasy.

It happened, and she wanted more

She grinned to herself, still warm with exertion, and began to wash her hands free of the evidence of their hookup. She squeezed her eyes shut as she felt the coolness of the water attempt to calm the fire inside of her. But her body betrayed her, still buzzing with adrenaline and desire that couldn’t be calmed just by cold sink water.

He was her trainer. The person who was supposed to push her, guide her, and keep her on track for her looming photoshoot. And yet, here she was, hiding in his bathroom because she couldn’t stop replaying the feel of his mouth against hers.

When Makenzie finished at the sink, she realized she had a problem.

She looked at her topless reflection and bit her lip. Her shirt had been tossed over her head somewhere in the living room, leaving her with nothing to cover up with. Her only choice was to walk back into the living room and face her personal trainer bare-chested. No more hiding, she thought

A few moments later, Makenzie walked out into the living room with a bare chest clad only in the shorts he gave her.

Roman was still on the sofa. He looked up when she padded out and his eyes widened. Immediately, they dropped to the sight of her breast. She didn’t attempt to cover up. Makenzie saw his jaw tighten, then his eyes slowly dragged up to meet hers again.

“Wasn’t good for you?”

Makenzie felt her insides scramble all over again at the thought of their encounter

“It was great actually,” she said brazenly. 

“Then why hide in the bathroom?”

“I wasn’t hiding, I was thinking,” suddenly feeling overexposed, she began to search around the living room for her shirt. “Where did that shirt go?”

“Why?” his eyes followed her around the room as she began her search

“Because I can’t just walk around your place half-naked.”

Romans' gaze roved over her again. “Why?”

Makenzie stared at him in disbelief, “How many push-ups is it gonna take for you to help me find my shirt?”

Roman finally stretched to his feet. When he took a few steps toward her, she felt like she’d shrunk a few inches. “1000”

“You can’t be serious.”

He closed the distance between them once more, and in a gentle move, he lifted his hand to hold her chin up, forcing her to maintain eye contact. “You should lose the shorts too. I wanna see all of you”

Makenzie’s skin tingled where he was touching her. Quietly, she asked, “Are you gonna be naked too, or just me?”

Roman was silent. For a moment, he didn’t say anything. And then a slow, heated smile spread over his lips. “If you want me naked, you have to promise not to go run and hide in the bathroom again.”

Makenzie met his stare with a flirtatious smile and reached for the waistband of her shorts and pulled them off. She tossed the garment somewhere over her shoulder. “Your turn.”

His smile grew. “As you wish.”

Roman made stripping an art form. Makenzie thought he’d been sexy before, but that was nothing compared to watching him get naked. Her mouth went dry when Roman reached for the hem of his shirt with teasing slowness, drew it overhead. When he tossed it to the side with a lazy flick, her eyes widened.

Maybe there were benefits to personal trainers after all, she thought. They looked pretty damn good naked. Roman soon distracted her again by tugging down the waistband of his shorts. If she’d thought his torso was mouth-watering, it was nothing compared to what came next.

Roman held her gaze. He kept it as he stepped out of his shorts and kicked them easily to the side, where his shirt was. 

He was the sexiest thing she’d ever seen.

Makenzie’s heart was about to give out at any second. Either that or set a new world record. She stared at him open-mouthed.

Just when she thought he couldn’t do anything else that would get her going, he did. He chuckled. A low, deep, manly sound that Makenzie instantly became hooked on. Roman laughed, and those intense, dark eyes of his crinkled at the sides.

“Are you gonna stare at me for the rest of the night or get in the bed with me?”

“What happened to sleeping on the couch?” she questioned

“Fuck the couch. You’re in my bed tonight. No buts either. I don’t want any unless it's yours up in the air. Got it?”

Makenzie, dumbstruck, just nodded.

“Good.”

And with that, he reached for her.

Makenzie saw him coming, though, and this time, she was more than ready. She met him halfway.

When his mouth descended on hers, she was pressing up on her toes, eager to meet him. He kissed her roughly, urgently. One of his hands wrapped around her curls, tangling in it and pulling it back not so gently, forcing her to tilt her face upward so he could plunder her lips with his own.

When Makenzie felt his arm wrap around her waist, pulling her up against his body, she moaned.

God, the sensation. Her skin rubbed against his hard, firm body, setting hers on fire. Her breasts pressed up against his body, causing her nipples to harden as they rubbed against him.

She moaned, her thighs clenching together as her stomach registered the hot, throbbing, velvety feel of his erection between them. A delicious ache began to grow between her legs, and she let her thighs part, grinding down gently against one of his when he slipped it between them.

Roman tore their lips apart, breathing heavily. He stared down at her, eyes dark and heavy.

“Fuck,” he whispered raggedly. “ I can feel you on my thigh.”

She was so wet she could feel her other set of lips drowning in her own pool of wetness.

“I think we should go to the bedroom. Don’t you?” Makenzie's gaze was on his lips. She reached up, her fingers tangling in his hair.

He didn’t answer. Just leaned forward and kissed her again. It was in a series of hard kisses, ass squeezes, and soft moans that Roman maneuvered her from the living area to his bedroom. In the end, he’d given up trying to steer her backwards and had simply bent, yanked her into his arms, and picked her up.

“Shit!” Makenzie had gasped, feeling the ground disappear. It was only for a few seconds, however. She was being pulled into his arms, and then in the next moment, she was tumbling through the air again, only this time, she landed on a soft surface. Roman toppled forward with her, catching himself above her on his forearms.

Makenzie’s lips parted in a saucy retort, but he was already on her, kissing her fiercely. Her eyes closed, and of their own accord, her fingers slid up and over his shoulders, then into his hair. Her heart thudded in her chest when she felt him shifting on top of her, his long, broad body settling between her thighs.

“Roman,” she breathed, kissing him back. “This is crazy.”

“I know.” His voice was rough. So were his hands. His hands were everywhere. In her hair, on her chest, squeezing her breasts, and then thumbing over her nipples. Makenzie could barely keep up. Her body was one huge mess of sensation.

And still she wanted more.

Her thighs parted. Impatient, she wrapped her curvy legs around his waist. Roman’s lips had slid from her mouth to her neck. Then she felt it. Felt his thick and heavy erection settle right in the place she wanted him the most, she heard him groan.

“Makenzie.”

She was gasping by now. “Yes?” 

Her pulse thundered in her ears. This was nuts. She’d never been this turned on before. Her body was screaming for the hard length she could feel the very beginning of, to be inside her. 

“Not yet.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck, and her thighs tightened around him.

“Yes, yet,” she countered breathlessly. “Yes, now.”

He was resisting her. She could feel it. She was wrapped around him like a soft, curvy boa constrictor, and Roman was still trying to hold himself back. She could feel the tension in his body as he resisted her downward pull.

“Roman,” she protested, squirming under him. “Don’t tease.”

Roman finally lifted his head. He withdrew enough to meet her eyes. Her chest rose and fell as she stared up at him with an eager face. His eyes were narrow. Dark. 

“I want to taste you first. Get you ready”

She shifted impatiently beneath him. Enough so that her warm, slippery cunt pushed up against the tip of his cock, sending a jolt of pleasure through her. It made her whimper, and him grunt. He glared down at her.

“Does that feel like I’m not ready?” She arched an eyebrow. “I’m ready to feel you inside of me”

He looked down at her with a smirk. “Hold on to me.”

Makenzie gasped when he began to sink inside of her, feeling the thick bulge of his length press up against her, searching for entry. She moaned, but he kissed her, silencing the sound and bearing down even more with his hips. Her fingers dug into his shoulders, her hips shifted, and suddenly, the pressure gave way, and he sank deep inside of her slippery folds.

Roman was breathing hard above her, his face tight with pleasure. “Damn,” he cursed, his eyes squeezing shut. She felt his hips flex again, and he pushed even deeper inside of her body.

Makenzie’s fingers sank deeper into the muscles of his shoulder. Beneath him, she made a small, whimpering protest

His eyes boring into hers, he reached down, squeezing her hip and holding her still beneath him. “Almost in there”, he rasped, “you good?”

She considered shaking her head. She really did. She didn’t know if any more would fit inside her.

Roman had withdrawn, then sank inside of her again in one slow, deliberate thrust. All thoughts of objecting flew out of Makenzie's mind. Forget stopping. She was a fan of this, she realized. A big fan. A soft sigh left her lips, and she shot Roman a soft smile. “I am…so good.”

“Yeah,” he replied, voice hoarse. “You are.”

And with that, he gave one final thrust and sank home. Makenzie’s back arched, and her lips parted, but no sound left her mouth. Romans' grip on her hip tightened even further, and she could feel his eyes on her, watching her carefully. She was in heaven

“Oh…shit,” she whispered raggedly. He was pressed up hard against her, completely embedded in her body and Makenzie was loving the sensation. She sucked in a shuddering breath. “ Roman. Stay there. Just for a moment. That’s just…perfect.”

He stilled, holding her, letting her adjust. Finally, he murmured, “I could make it better.”

She laughed. Breathless, she finally relaxed back into his pillows. Her arms slid from his shoulders to his chest, and she gave him a playful push. “I doubt it,” she grinned. “That’s what they all say.”

“They’re not all me. Stay still.”

This time, it was Makenzie’s turn to be surprised. Roman didn’t withdraw like she expected. Instead, her mouth fell open in disbelief when he settled his weight on his forearms and began to grind his groin steadily into her own.

“Oh, my-ohhh,” Makenzie’s hand shot to his shoulders, gripping them tightly as she felt the effects of his circling hips between her legs. Her body shuddered. He was hitting everything inside of her, she thought wildly. Every. Damn. Thing.

“Good?” He rasped above her, watching her face as she began to come undone.

“Mm-hm!”

She was squirming now. Despite his death grip on her hip, Makenzie was trying to helplessly to meet his movements. As if reading her mind, the man between her thighs began to add a slow, steady rocking. As well as the tantalizing pressure on her sensitive clit, she felt the effects of him plunging softly into her welcoming cunt.

She was done for.

Makenzie barely lasted another minute of the exquisite torture before she gave a sharp cry and arched up beneath him, her body taut with pleasure. She gasped as she came, he heart thudding almost painfully in her chest and her body clamping down around Roman's steady thrusting.

“Oh my, God,” she groaned, shuddering. “That’s amazing”

When she floated back down to earth, he was looking down at her with a smug expression.

“What’s that look for?”

His smirk only grew wider. “Because. If you thought that was good, just wait until we really get started.”

And despite the fact that she’d just come, Makenzie’s heart gave an excited little flutter.

This time, she didn't question Roman. She just surrendered.

“Alright, Makenzie, you’re doing well, just one more set.” Jimmy's calming voice fades into the back of Makenzie's mind as she went through the sequence of workouts.

Ever since her sensual sleepover with Roman, she’d been pushing herself the extra mile. Although the assistant coach was nowhere near as fiery as Roman was, for once, Makenzie wasn’t letting the change in style affect her own drive.

She’d been pushing herself. Hard.

“Doing great, Makenzie. Keep it up.” Jimmy gave her shoulder a pat and left her to continue her leg curls in peace. 

“Shoot,” she gasped, letting the weight fall back down onto the machine. Makenzie collapsed forward, stretching her legs out. They felt like jelly after the grueling strength routine she’d soldiered through that day. But she’d made it,

She reached for her water bottle and looked around the gym, taking note of the others there with her. Her eyes passed over the room several times before she realized that she was actually looking for Roman. She shook her head at herself, biting her lip to stop herself from smiling.

Head in the game, she told herself. She had work to do.

Makenzie knew she needed to focus. She had to push herself. Her birthday photoshoot was looming, and she was determined to look her absolute best. She could finally take some time off work and focus on the things she’d been neglecting.

Things like her sex life.

The thought flashed through her mind before she could stop it, and before she knew it, she was reminiscing about her recent experience beneath Roman Reigns' talented hands. She swallowed hard. The man had the meanest mouth she’d met, but when it came to using it in the bedroom, she’d immediately forgiven him. That mouth was good at doing much more than just telling her off in the gym.

Blowing out a long breath, Makenzie stretched to her feet. The thought of Roman’s smart mouth had reminded her of an earlier thought. She’d decided that in order to meet her goals, she wanted to pick up on some nutritional advice too. 

She’d come to boot camp today, intending on asking Roman if he could point her in the right direction. She told herself it had nothing to do with trying to get him alone, either.

Nothing at all.

“Alright, folks, that’s us for the day. I’ll be locking up in fifteen. Make sure you grab everything on the way out; otherwise, the nearest charity will thank you for your kind donation.”

A ripple of low laughter met Jimmy’s call. It was closing time.

Just then, Makenzie saw the man she needed to talk to. Roman’s broad, unmistakable shoulders appeared in the corridor just to the side of the gym’s entry and then disappeared once more.

He was headed for the office.

“Thanks, Jimmy!” Makenzie waved to the other coach and he gave her a friendly nod. “You mind if I just catch up with Roman for a second?”

“It's your funeral.”

Makenzie paused. “Hm. He’s in one of those moods?”

Jimmy nodded, picking up a rag and cleaning off a treadmill while he spoke. “He might need a woman's touch to pull him out of it,” Jimmy winked, chuckling. “Because he’s been a downright asshole to everyone else.”

Makenzie bit her lip. After a moment, she added, “So if I’m not here tomorrow, call the police and tell them to check the bathrooms for my remains.”

Jimmy laughed, waving her away. “ Go on, girl. I got you.”

“Thanks. See you tomorrow.”

Makenzie ducked out of the gym’s strength training room, plodding down the same corridor that she’d seen Roman disappear down moments earlier. She came to the door of the office. It was ajar. Feeling slightly nervous, she pushed a palm flat up against it and pushed.

“Roman?”

He didn’t look up when she poked her head into his office. Makenzie paused, taking in the sight of him. He wasn’t dressed for coaching. He wore slacks and a crisp, collared shirt. She swallowed, wondering if there was a single outfit on earth that this man did not look drop-dead gorgeous in.

Probably not

“Roman.” She tried again, louder this time. His head jerked upwards.

“Hi,” Makenzie waved at him sheepishly. “Are you busy?”

His eyes narrowed. “What do you want?”

Oh. Well, okay then, Makenzie thought. His bothered tone took her back for just a moment. Then her instincts kicked in, and she frowned at him. 

“Is that how you address everyone who comes into your office to ask for your help?”

Roman's lips thinned into a tight line. He nodded at her. “Come in.”

“Thank you,” she said, pushing the door fully open and stalking inside. Makenzie didn’t miss the way his eyes scanned down and across her chest, then over her thighs. She was having trouble keeping her own gaze on his face. The open vee of his shirt left a small, alluring part of his chest exposed and she remembered briefly what it’d felt like to press her lips to the exact same spot.

Focus, Makenzie. Focus.

“I need some diet advice.”

Romans’ eyes lifted back up to her face. He blinked. “Yeah. You do.”

“Excuse me?”

“I can count the times I’ve ordered pizza on one finger.” His face was completely straight. “Almost a decade of eating clean, and the one night you stay in my apartment, that all turns to shit the following day. So yes, Makenzie. I think you do need some diet advice.”

She stared at him, slightly amazed. “You have the social skills of an ape,” she breathed. “I still don’t know how you made it this far in life.”

At that, Romans’ eyes crinkled in the corners.

“God Dammit,” she glared at him. “You’re pulling my leg again, aren't you?”

He snorted softly. “Yeah, but you could still use some diet advice. The fact that you asked me where the whipped cream was halfway through a blow job is a dead giveaway.”

If her skin wasn’t the shade of creamy chocolate, Makenzie would have been pink.

She choked out, “I was being creative.”

“Very creative,” he winked, “But that's too much sugar if you want to be in shape for your birthday.”

“I think I should have asked Jimmy for advice.”

At that, Romans face lost all sense of humor. He frowned.

“What kind of help do you want?”

Makenzie hid her smile. His tone held the slight hint of jealousy. Not letting on that she’d pulled the oldest trick in the book on him, and that it’d worked, she shrugged. “You know. Recipes. General advice. Extra workouts to do at home-”

“You don’t need extra workouts.”

She arched an eyebrow. “You told me to push myself.”

“You can push yourself when I’m in the gym to watch you-” Roman paused. With an air of restraint, he muttered. “ When I’m done handling business here, I’ll tell you how to push yourself. I’ll push buttons you didn’t know you had. And I can help you with a diet.”

She looked at him with a sly smile. “I don’t think I want to wait on you, Roman. There are plenty of others who can help me. I just want some names from you. That’s all.”

He didn’t budge. Roman Reigns. That’s the only name you need to know.”

Makenzie couldn’t believe this. She stared at him from across his desk, contemplating his stubborn refusal to give her what she was asking for. She was still standing, looking down at him with a mixed feeling of delight and dismay in the pit of her stomach. Delight because he clearly wanted to help her, and dismay because she really couldn’t afford to wait.

“Roman. I really appreciate you wanting to help me, I really do. But I need someone who is around now.”

“You can wait a few days.”

She frowned. “No, I really can’t.”

“Let’s say I give you a meal plan right now. I bet you won't even follow it past a few days before you're back to eating junk.”

Makenzie glared at him. Arrogant man. Irritated and feeling a little challenged, she leaned forward and planted an open hand on the paper he’d looked away from her to study. Slowly, Roman’s head rose, and his gaze met hers.

“You’re rude,” she told him. “And I don’t appreciate you thinking that I can’t handle a simple diet.”

“I just don’t think you’ll actually stick to it, that's all.”

Makenzie exhaled, but didn’t look away. Neither did she. Finally, eyes sharp with determination. “Wanna bet?”

Roman glared at her for what seemed like an eternity. Eventually, he leaned away from her. Makenzie didn’t know what she was expecting him to do, but it definitely wasn’t to stretch to his feet. And she most definitely did not anticipate him coming around the desk to grasp her chin with his finger and thumb. She stared at him, the feel of his fingers sinking into her skin.

“What has gotten into you?” He murmured, studying her face. “Me riding your ass for weeks didn’t inspire this kind of reaction. So why the sudden interest?”

Makenzie swallowed. “Nothing.”

“Right.” Roman's tone was flat-out disbelieving. “That’s why you’re on the brink of harassing your personal trainer in his office, ‘nothing’,” he mimicked her. “Bullshit.”

Makenzie relented. His thumb had shifted now, it was sliding along her jaw, then his fingers were brushing her sensitive skin behind her ear. And all the while, he was staring at her like he couldn’t decide whether to put her over his knee or kiss her.

And if she were honest, Makenzie didn’t know which one she found more appealing either.

“I just want to be ready,” she murmured unsteadily. His fingers were playing havoc with her voice box. And her nerves. And her… everything. She gulped, “Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“I can’t think when you’re touching me like that.”

“Good.”

Roman leaned towards her. Makenzie saw it happening in slow motion. She saw his handsome face lower itself towards her and felt his fingers slide from her jaw to her throat, keeping her in place. She could have stopped it. But she didn’t

Instead, Makenzie’s lips parted, and she met him with an open and welcoming mouth.

He kissed her hard. Makenzie moaned into the feel of his mouth slanting across hers and pressed up against him, eager for more. She was fast learning that with Roman, there was no other pace. When it came to her and to him, there were only two guarantees.

Fast. And hot,

“You. Are. Infuriating.”

Romans’ voice was rough. Between kisses that all seemed to melt into one. Makenzie realized his hands had left her throat and instead roved downwards. She was still wearing her workout clothes, still damp with sweat, but Roman didn’t seem to care. His long fingers were at her breasts in a moment and she moaned when his large hands cupped and rolled her soft curves through the support of her sports bra.

She pulled back, breathing heavily. “You’re hardly a cup of sweet tea yourself.”

In an instant, Roman had shifted. He’d bent and wrapped his arms around her waist. Makenzie knew what was coming. She braced herself, eyes widening. “Roman, wait-ahh!”

He’d swept her into his arms. 

She gasped, flinging her arms around his neck. In the next second, her thundering pulse was growing even more rapid underneath the slick warmth of his tongue. Makenzie gasped, only half aware that they were moving. When the room spun, and her back thudded against the wall, she realized he’d pinned her just beside the door she’d walked through a few minutes earlier.

Which was still wide open.

“Roman the door.”

“Fuck it,” he growled against her neck. “Wrap your legs around me, Makenzie.”

She sucked in a shallow breath, her thighs clamping around his waist. His lips moved from her neck to her collarbone, then to the swell of her breast just visible above her bra. Makenzie shuddered, arching up against the feathered warm touch of his lips against her skin.

Against him, she shifted; she felt a familiar ache begin to bloom.

Before Makenzie could put words behind her body’s craving, Roman worked his way up and once again, found her lips.

He withdrew, breaking the kiss and looking down at her. His breath was heavy, rapid, much like hers. Makenzie stared up at him, the reason for her visit in the first place all but forgotten as she waited expectantly for his next move.

But it never came.

Instead, Roman leaned forward, pressed one more kiss to her forehead, and plainly said, “30 days, no sweets, not even a cheat meal, and no complaining when I push you ‘too hard’ while I’m coaching you.”

“A month!” she sputtered out, “No sweets?!?! Are you crazy?”

Makenzie blinked rapidly, incredulous. She licked her lips, suddenly furious with herself for being sucked into Roman's ruse so easily. Swallowing hard, she pushed at his chest. He moved back too easily. He was expecting her to push him away.

Roman just stood there calmly watching her irritated reaction to the terms he just laid out

“Can’t handle it?”

Makenzie stood there for a second, stunned into silence. But then her shoulders squared. She lifted her chin and met his amused gaze.

“Fine,” she said. “Thirty days. I’ll do it.”

[dj-fr3nch-t1p]

Getting Even Part 1 Roman Reigns Fanfiction

MDNI EXPLICIT 18+

Description: When Amber finds out her long-term partner is cheating on her, she only wants one thing. Revenge. What she doesn’t expect, however, is help in the most unexpected form. Roman Reigns.

Author's Note: Feels like this is the filthiest mess i have ever written. BE WARNED LOTS OF SMUT.

Other stories

Content Warning: SMUT with a side of buildup and story

Taglist: @potatosackk  @lovemelittlesquiller @reignseclipse

 -comment or message me if you want to be added for the next part

Word Count: 4584

"I'll bet your frigid ass girlfriend never did this for you."

The sultry voice echoed into the room. It came from a busty raven-haired woman on her knees, a cock embedded in her voluptuous cleavage. Its red head shone with pre-cum, the liquid seeping across the woman's bulges of flesh as the man it belonged to titty fucked her.

"Did she?" The woman insisted, her eyes gloating as she stared up into the camera lens. "Did she ever let you fuck her like this?"

"No," the hoarse groan came from out of view. The camera shook, the man clearly struggling to hold it up as the screen tilted, out of control. "Fuck, no. She'd never let me do this to her, the frigid bitch."

Amber hit the kill button on the screen, shutting down the recording. She was sitting at her kitchen table, frozen to the bone, although the sun shone through her windows; the warmth meant nothing to her. She didn't need to see anymore to prove that her long-term boyfriend of the past five years had just screwed another woman. And not just any other woman. 

It was Jennifer Riley. The other woman in the recording was none other than his best friend's wife.

Amber was frozen in her chair, remembering how she and her boyfriend, Cody, had often shaken their heads over the other woman's promiscuous behavior. Copious amounts of affairs behind her husband's back, screwing anyone who so much as gave her a second glance, had given her an ill reputation.

Amber had always wanted to blow the lid on the other woman's infidelity. Cody had always stopped her, saying that it wasn't any of their business.

Well, he'd just gone and fucked the thing that 'wasn't any of their business'.

Her cellphone rang, and with a sense of dread, she considered letting it go.

Amber knew exactly who it was and what the call would be about. The man whose name flashed up on her screen had been the one to send her the video, after all.

Finally, she picked it up.

"Fuck you, Roman," she hissed before she could stop herself. Amber was furious, white-hot rage pooling in her veins, and although she knew it wasn't his fault, she couldn't help but lash out at Roman for sending her the footage. "What good do you think this does, showing me this? Is this your kind of sick way of getting back at him, by going through me?"

"Amber, stop and think for a moment, you really believe I'd use you like that?" Romans' deep voice slid through the receiver, cutting through her anger like water through an open flame. "We're friends, aren't we?"

She swallowed, still angry. The fact that her boyfriend had cheated on her turned her world upside down. Her emotions were a swirling vortex of rage and disbelief. Romans’ voice cut right through the middle of it.

Over the years, she'd come to know him almost as well as Cody knew him. So yes, despite the fact that she was lashing out at him for sending her evidence of their spouse's infidelity, she did consider him a friend.

"What's your point?" she glowered. "If you have one then make it. I'm still deciding who to string up first and if you piss me off, you might just make the top of the list."

"Believe me, Amber. You'll want me on a list, but not the one you're thinking of." 

Roman paused, and it gave her time to register the fact that for a man who'd just found his wife's library of homemade sex tapes starring other men, he was strangely calm. Her stomach clenched in anticipation. 

"Let me ask you again, we're friends, aren't we?"

Amber bit her lip, her eyes squeezing shut as she whispered her answer. "Yes.

We're friends."

"Good," he murmured. "And friends look out for other friends, don't they?"

Guilt pricked at her conscience.

Until now, she'd managed to keep her other emotions aside from rage, bottled inside. But something in Romans’ voice tipped her over the edge. A scalding tear slid from beneath her closed eyelid, sliding in a wet track down her cheek. Not only had she failed to see through her own boyfriend's folly, but she'd allowed herself to be talked out of being honest with Roman.

A wretched sob escaped her.

"I'm sorry," she choked. "You're right. I knew about Jen…..both of us did. I knew about it, and I didn't say anything." She laughed, bitter as she dashed the wet tear from her cheek with a stubborn gesture. "But for god's sake, I didn't think this would happen. I can't believe that he-"

"Amber," Romans’ low voice held a gentle edge to it. "Amber, it's okay. It'll be okay."

A knock at her front door sounded.

Startled, she called out, "Just a minute!' Making a quick excuse, she hung up on Roman, blurting out that she'd call him back as soon as she could. Secretly, she was grateful for the excuse, pelting towards the door in hopes of a distraction.

When Amber pulled back the door, it revealed a tall, broad-shouldered man. His jaw was tense, a muscle working visibly beneath the beard covering it. But most noticeable was the blazing look of quiet fury in his brown eyes. He tucked away a cellphone, an obvious sign of having finished a conversation.

Amber's throat seized, making her quiet exclamation almost inaudible.

“Roman.”

—

He was getting a divorce.

Amber uncorked a bottle, sloshing the red liquid into two long-stemmed glasses.

She handed one to Roman, settling down on the sofa next to him with a heavy sigh.

He thanked her quietly, taking the glass from her.

"You're settled on it, then?"

He nodded, the fire from earlier still smoldering in his eyes, despite the fact that they'd been talking for hours now. "Yes. She won't change. I know Jennifer too well to fool myself into thinking that she would." He lifted the glass to his lips, taking a long sip from it before turning his gaze on her. "And you?"

Amber had been watching him from the corner of her eye. She thought Jennifer was an idiot. Roman was the kind of man that any other woman would have been grateful to have come home at the end of the day. He was reserved, yes, and tended to veer towards the quiet side, but he was gracious, intelligent, and thoughtful. It was more than she could have said about Cody, who was loud to the point of being tactless at times.

Not to mention Roman sported a body both long, broad, and toned. In a way that suggested hours spent at the gym. As if he didn't have enough going for him already, he was also wealthy.

She cleared her throat, staring down into her cup. He was still married, she reminded herself firmly. 

"I haven't gotten that far yet."

He drained the rest of his cup, setting it down before turning to her. 

"You seem awfully calm for a woman who just found out her husband's been having an affair."

Amber said nothing. She did, however, lift her cup and drain it in one swift go.

Roman watched her with a knowing look on his handsome face. "Don't believe what you see," she retorted coldly. "There's not a part of me that doesn't want to shove him dick first into a meat grinder, right now."

Roman chuckled, shedding the long overcoat he'd been wearing. The smell of his aftershave drifted her way, strong and alluring. She poured herself a cup and drained it just as fast. 

"For someone who supposedly just found out about his wife screwing his best friend, you seem pretty calm yourself."

"I've known for a while."

Amber almost spat out her wine. "What?" She stared at him incredulously. "You knew?"

Roman gave her a bored look. "Of course I knew."

She was on her feet in a flash. Outraged, Amber glared down at the man sitting calmly on her sofa, perfect in his composure. "And you were planning on telling me when?"

He frowned, "You're hardly the one to lecture about withholding information, don't you think?"

Her mouth opened and closed uselessly. Of course, he had a point. "But you knew about the both of them." She blinked rapidly, struggling to see why Roman had kept the secret for so long. "She's your- she's your wife, Roman? Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

The man slowly stretched to his feet, eyes guarded. "It doesn't anymore, no."

Her mouth dropped open.

"What kind of man are you?"

That seemed to get a reaction from him. Roman's brows knotted together, and he stared down at her with an intensity that took her breath away. How he managed to appear so imposing in complete silence was beyond her.

"It might have mattered if Jennifer hadn't gotten wind of my supposed bankruptcy." He watched her face as he delivered the news, seeing understanding dawn on her face. "It might have mattered if she hadn't filed for a divorce the minute she heard the lie fed to her by one of our lawyers." Roman’s gaze fell to her lips, parted and taking in rapid little breaths that made her breasts rise and fall. "It might have mattered...if she was actually my wife. Yes.

But she isn't, not anymore."

He stepped closer, watching her face as he carefully stretched forth a single finger, stroking her jaw softly.

He might as well have shocked her. The skin he touched flushed immediately, ultra-sensitive to his touch. Amber inhaled sharply, knowing she should have moved away, but unable to persuade herself to. It'd been so long since a man had touched her. She couldn't remember the last time her boyfriend, Cody, had looked at her the way Roman was looking at her now.

Hell, she didn't know if he had ever looked at her the way this man was looking at her right now.

"And funnily enough," he murmured, "during the entire time, all I could think about was you."

Her heart skipped a beat.

Roman’s words held a forbidden ring of truth, familiar to her as if they were her own thoughts.

“I’ve always thought Cody didn’t know what he had,” Roman whispered, close enough for Amber to feel the heat radiating from his body. And damn it all if she didn’t want him even closer. “ A woman like you…you’re wasted on him, Amber. I never understood why someone like you settled for someone like him.”

She smiled faintly, color marring her cheekbones. “Sometimes you take what you can get.”

Roman shook his head slowly, eyes filled with warmth. “You deserve more.” Pausing, he cupped her jaw, tilting her head up to meet his smoldering gaze. “And I think you want more than you’re letting on. Tell me, Amber. What is it you really want?”

Amber fought with herself. All her life she’d been taught to play it safe; to be dependable. She’d become an expert at molding herself to suit others' needs; Cody’s in particular.

Cold, silent fury settled deep in her bones, mixing with the primal need that was fast developing for the man only inches away from her. She knew what she wanted.

And Roman was just the man to help her get it.

“I want to do the same thing that he did to me,” Amber's eyes narrowed with determination. Satisfaction spread across Roman’s expression as she spoke. “I want him to see what he could have had.”

She smiled, a plan unfolding.

“I want revenge.”

Amber gazed into Roman’s steady stare with her heart in her throat. She almost couldn't believe the words that had come out of her mouth.

I want revenge.

Did she? Did she really want to make Cody feel what she'd felt when she'd seen the video... what she was still feeling even now? A small voice inside of her grew louder and louder with each passing second. Yes, it was screaming inside of her.

Yes, you want this. Through the haze of thoughts, she remembered all the

'business trips' her boyfriend had taken at short notice, suddenly doubtful that he'd really been working. Then there were the late nights he'd told her were spent at the office.

Her resolve hardened into a decision. Yes, she wanted this, she realized. And Roman was the perfect man for the job.

"One bad deed deserves another in return." Her smile was dark as she leaned forward, watching Roman’s pupils dilate in anticipation when she ran her hand softly over his chest. "A hard lesson would do both of them some good, don't you think?"

Roman's lips curved into a knowing smirk.

"I don't give a fuck about either of them right now," he murmured, leaning forward to meet her halfway. "But if you're part of the deal, then consider it done."

Then he kissed her.

Ravished her would have been a more accurate description. Amber couldn't help the surprised gasp that tore out of her at the intensity of Roman’s kiss. She expected gentle, tentative perhaps, given that he was such a reserved man. Instead, she found his warm lips moving against her own with rough insistence that eclipsed his ever-calm exterior. 

Her fingers twisted in his shirt, reacting to him as he coaxed her lips apart and his tongue slid heatedly against her own.

She moaned, giving in to his demands. It'd been so long since someone had touched her like this.

Increasing the tempo, he kept her enthralled with his mouth while sliding both hands down and around to grip her ass, pulling her against him. Amber's stomach clenched in anticipation when she felt him against her lower belly, semi-hard already.

"Roman," she tore her lips away. "Wait. Listen to me. There's something else I want."

Speaking in rushed tones, Amber told him her plan, watching as the dark look smoldering in his eyes turned into something more primal, lustful. A few short minutes later, Roman shook his head and gave her a look of unadulterated want.

"You're sure you want to do that?"

She nodded.

"That's a twisted version of revenge," Roman's eyes gleamed, clearly liking her plan to get revenge on her unfaithful boyfriend. "You sure you're willing to go through with it?"

Amber refused to back down. "Yes," she nodded. "I've made my decision. I'll show him exactly what he's been missing. If you can't help me then I'll find someone who can-"

"I don't think so," he shook his head and reached forward to pull her into his arms again. "Like hell I'm letting another man lay his hands on you after you just explained what you want him to do to you." 

A tremor raced through his body, and he wrapped his hands around her waist. Amber responded to the pressure of his touch, letting him turn her until her bottom fit snugly against his pelvis, the shape of his full, erect cock grinding up against her through the thin material of her dress. She shuddered, already wet.

"The only problem is," Roman leaned forward to nip gently at her neck, chuckling when she shivered in response. "I don't think I can wait until the next time we meet. I need something now."

Amber hesitated, blushing as she admitted out loud, "We can't. I don't have any condoms in the house. Cody and I haven't...we haven't had sex in a long time." 

Heat crept across her cheeks. It'd been months since she'd bothered to keep any sort of contraceptive on hand; she'd even stopped taking the pill. Cody hadn't been interested in sex with her for some time now - with her only, as it seemed he'd been very interested in Jennifer.

"Ignorant asshole," Roman murmured against her skin, "Cody has no idea what he has." 

His hands skimmed the hem of her dress, sliding it up until her smooth thighs were bared. His fingers traced her skin, enjoying the feel of her softness.

"If I had you waiting at home for me, I'd enjoy making you cum so many times you'd beg me to stop, every single night."

Amber moaned softly, unbelievably turned on. Her reservations were fast fading away. Roman might have been her boyfriend's best friend, but the fact was beginning to matter to her less and less.

"You smell so good," he muttered against her skin. "I've thought about this for so long now, Amber. I'm going to enjoy fucking you until you scream."

Her mind struggled to process the fact that it was actually Roman whispering these things to her. She'd never even heard him curse before. When she swore, it was trivial, but hearing him curse made the words seem cruder, dirtier. It made her thighs squeeze together in anticipation.

"I can take care of that," he whispered, fingers sliding back to her hips, digging into her soft flesh as he ground gently against her pantie-clad ass. He was intuitive, seeming to know she wanted him. Amber bit her lip, holding back another groan. "Just say the word."

"Can't...don't have...protection." Amber was fighting a losing battle. Soon, she'd throw caution to the wind and beg him to fuck her, condom or not. She needed something badly. "We can't, Roman."

"So innocent." He grasped her jaw roughly, turning her head to kiss her again.

She whimpered into his mouth, so ready. "There are other ways to get what we both want, Amber. Let me show you."

Amber gasped, control steadily slipping away. With the plan she'd proposed to Roman, it made little sense to deny him any longer. Dimly, she registered the fact that despite his outward appearance, Roman seemed to be far more sexually adept than she'd first figured. His hands were experienced, seeming to know almost intuitively where to touch her and how to elicit the gasps and moans that now poured from her in a steady flow.

"Amber." Her name was almost a growl against her neck.

Too far gone to deny him any longer, Amber gave him a choked reply, beyond the point of caring what he had planned as long as he satisfied the gnawing ache between her legs. She wanted him in a way that she'd never wanted another man before. Not even Cody.

"Yes," her voice was a strangled whimper. "Yes. Whatever you want, just make me- ooh!"

Amber was airborne. Roman had picked her up, making her shriek as he hauled her towards her kitchen table. She barely had time to register the fact that he'd picked her up as if she weighed no more than a sack of potatoes before her ass hit the hard surface. She hissed in pain, opening her mouth to protest.

Roman didn't give her a chance; however, a hand fisting into her hair with a rough jerk. A cry welled up in her throat, pain lancing through her as he tugged sharply, exposing her throat. Her protests were swallowed in her own hoarse groan when his lips attacked the sensitive surface. Amber had thrown her hands forward in a surprised act of defense, but soon they were weaving into his thick, dark hair, holding him against her.

"Yes," she moaned softly, feeling him move between her thighs. His cock was hard, pressing up against her through their clothes. She opened her thighs, inviting him to grind up against her. Her muscles strained as she tried to worm closer, satisfy the throbbing in her own pussy. "I need more. Give me more, Roman."

"Gladly."

With a move of practiced ease, he tugged her hair until Amber fell backwards onto the table's flat surface, gasping in surprise. Roman’s lips curved, and his eyes darkened as he took in the sight of her laid out in front of him. Amber stared up at him, breathless. Her eyes drifted down to the impressive bulge in his slacks, his cock straining against the material. She licked her lips.

Roman smirked, leaning forward. Slowly, he arched over her, hands linking with her own as he pinned her beneath him. He let his pelvis collide gently with her panty-covered pussy, smiling at her gentle whimper.

"You have no idea how beautiful you look, Amber." He held her gaze as he ground against her, teasing them both. She wondered dimly how he could be so restrained. She was a mess. A needy, whimpering mess. "Spread across your own kitchen table, legs spread and almost begging to be fucked." He kissed her roughly, claiming her as if he had every right to. As if she were his. "Do you want me to fuck you?"

She tore her lips away, narrowing her eyes at him. "I thought that was obvious."

He chuckled, enjoying her indignant tone, "A man still likes to hear it out loud."

He leaned forward, teasing her with his lips as he kissed the side of her mouth, then the other side. Eventually, she was following him, wanting to feel his lips on hers, but still he denied her. "Tell me, do you want me to fuck you? Don't be shy, Amber. Tell me what you want."

He had her captive. Try as she might, she couldn't budge him. Her lips screamed out for his lips, wanting to feel his tongue against her own. Her nipples strained against her top, begging for friction. Most of all, her pussy ached, almost painfully in its need to be stroked and filled. To be fucked.

Roman had tortured her to a point of no return.

"Yes!" She finally cried, all traces of self-consciousness gone. "Yes, Roman. I want you to fuck me. God, please. It's all I can think about right now. I want to feel your cock inside me, filling me up." 

Amber was desperate, thinking only about how good he'd feel thrusting into her dripping sex; she wanted to feel him stretch her, to take her without reservation. She wanted it rough, raw, and dirty.

"Good," he backed off her just a fraction. Enough for her to see the wicked gleam in his brown eyes as he smiled broadly at her. "Remember that when I come back tomorrow."

Her mouth fell open.

"What?"

Roman grinned lazily down at her, enjoying the shock and then the outrage as it passed through her features. She glared up at him, "You are not leaving me here like this."

"No," he agreed, still amused. "But I'm not going to fuck you just yet."

Amber almost screamed in protest.

That was until he backed away and reached forward, pulling her towards the edge of the table, her ass almost hanging off the edge of it. He clucked his tongue, almost like he was scolding her. 

"I'm not going to fuck you just yet, you'll need to remember how this felt if you're going to keep up your nerve for tomorrow." 

He reached forward until he could slide her dress up around her waist, fingers drawing a lazy pattern across her navel. "But I'll give you something to think about, until then."

Not giving her a moment to puzzle out his words, Roman gripped her panties at the sides and then pulled. Hard. Sharp pain dug into the wet folds as the material hitched up and gave away, making her arch upwards, gasping.

"Shit," she swore loudly in shock. "That hurts- oh shit!"

Distracting her from the pain, Roman arched over her in one fluid movement, his head sinking down on her chest. Amber arched up even further, her gasp turning into a cry of pleasure as his teeth clamped around her nipple. Not giving her a chance to recover, Amber felt the shreds of her panties tugged away, her thighs being shoved apart as the deft movements of his fingers replaced the material, searching out her clit.

When he found the bundle of nerves, Amber convulsed, sobbing in pleasure.

Her hips moved unconsciously towards his hand, seeking out more.

"Yes, yes!" Her fingers wove even more tightly into Romans's hair, tugging at the strands as she undulated against him. "More. Touch me more, that feels...so fucking...good."

He stopped.

Gasping in surprise, Amber looked down at him, blinking away the haze of pleasure. 

"Wait. Roman? What are you doing?"

"Giving you what you want," he replied, voice tight. Seconds later, Amber felt the reason for his pause. Her eyes widened as she felt the unmistakable length of a hard cock sliding between her wet pussy lips. She jerked away, panicking for a second. Roman held her like a vice, fingers digging into her hips as she tried to twist away. "Amber, wait. Hold still."

"Fuck, no!" She protested, fingers tearing at his as she tried to wriggle out of his grasp. "Roman, I told you that we couldn't-"

He thrust.

Amber groaned, deep and low. He was moving. But he wasn't penetrating her.

Roman's thick cock slipped toward her entrance, grazing it lightly, parting her lips for just a second...before sliding forward to hit her clit.

"Oh my god." She gasped, totally taken in by the new sensation. Her lips parted, and her breath came in harsh little pants as the most sensitive part of his body rubbed against the most sensitive part of hers. "Oh my fucking god!"

As if seeing her resistance melt away, Roman released her hips, giving a long groan of his own as he pressed a thumb on top of his own hard length, then used his other hand to hold her puffy labia apart, sliding his cock through her slippery slit, slowly, then faster.

Jolts of pleasure shot through Amber's body, flaring into hot white sensation every time he hit her clit.

"Oh fuck," she gasped, hands raking through her own hair as she grasped at something, anything, fast approaching the point of no return. She felt the skin of his thighs hitting the back of hers as he thrust, her own arousal leaking from her and creating wet sounds as his cock raked through her parted lips. "Oh fuck, Roman…ah, ah…..ahh!"

Roman grunted, pressing himself even harder against her. In a move designed to send her over the edge, he thrust all the way forward, covering her clit and stopping to grind against her in a series of short, hard thrusts; rough and insistent.

Amber screamed, throwing both arms out against the table as she came violently. Her body arched upwards, freezing for a moment, before convulsing wildly, tears pooling in her eyes and then spilling over as she was raked by pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. 

Gasping, Amber was barely aware of the fact that Roman had fisted his own cock, pumping it through his clenched hand until there was a long, low groan and warmth sprayed her spread thighs. He came quickly, in a series of quick thrusts and grunts, his cum decorating her bare pussy in a series of white, ropey spurts.

In a move that surprised them both, Amber forced herself weakly to her elbows, dipping a finger into his cum before bringing it to her mouth and licking it clean.

She laughed weakly at the expression on Roman's face.

He grinned at her, chest still heaving as he worked to get his breath back. "And?

How's it taste?"

Amber laughed softly, her own chest rapidly rising and falling as she drifted back down to earth after their combined high.

"It tastes like I'm going to need an encore tomorrow."

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[whowrotethenote]

pairing. bipoc male oc (tino) x black fem oc (milagra) x roman reigns summary. milagra and her boyfriend tino spend the holiday weekend with his dad. we're family, he told her. a cracked door that opens wider when tino is called into work for an emergency surgery and she’s left with his estranged, widower, father. warnings. profanity. smut. infidelity. boyfriend's father. age gap. slow burn. angst. mentions of parental death and grief. word count. 23.6k. disclaimer. navigation. rr mstrlst. main mstrlst. taglist. about me.

i. home • the white rabbit.

“Don’t forget—we’re stopping by my dad’s for Thanksgiving.”

But of course she had forgotten. 

Together for what felt like ages, and they couldn’t have been further apart. 

She would forget about him too, if he hadn’t been smothering her since his most recent fuck up. A fuck up she was willing to bury in the dirt, before pouring the foundation for a new house atop of it. Why? Because Tino Reigns was no fuck up. He had made a mistake. At least that’s the terminology that helped her sleep next to him still.

They met a couple years and some change before. In the sky, on a Delta airbus that held one hundred and fifty-seven passengers—and they were sat next to one another in first class. It was a night flight and instead of sleeping like everyone else, or getting lost in the brain eating dimension of technology—they chose to stay up. Talking lowly, as to not disturb anyone, about their love for eighty’s R&B, and plans of traveling the world before they had kids. They exchanged numbers and he showed up at her doorstep with flowers and tickets to see New Edition. 

At least that was the story he chose to tell everyone. Clean-cut, cute, and something to tell their kids, had they ever settled in a good season of their relationship long enough to have them. 

The truth was much more complicated, as it always is. 

The pair did meet in the sky on a Delta flight. They weren’t sat next to one another directly. They were an aisle away. And it wasn't until Tino, moving too fast and too inconsiderate, tried to get up while a flight attendant was making her way down the aisle with two full cups in her hand, that their paths crossed. 

Pants soiled, he had no choice but to accept Milagra’s offering of Essentials sweats from her carry on. They barely fit, for he was six foot flat and pushing two hundred and forty pounds. They rippled in a shared laugh at that alone for a good five minutes. They talked about why they were in Houston—her to see family that she always regretted moving away from when she visited, but the moment she landed back in the Magic City, the nostalgia wore off. He was sent there to do attend a research seminar by the hospital that recently promoted him. They compared careers, fitting like a puzzle at the way they chose to reconstruct things with sharp objects—him with a blade and her with a pencil. 

They pondered on where they’d want to fly next. Her most likely to Greece and him back to the motherland—the island of Samoa. And it was then, that Milagra really looked at him beyond the blur of a handsome stranger, that she had no intention on talking to after she debarked—and she traced the intentional inked armor going down his right arm. 

He told her how he grew up—in a family of giants—literally and figuratively. A football coach for a dad and a slew of cousins or uncles who wrestled professionally. 

One topic rolled into the next as they hungrily whispered to one another across the way—like young girls under a blanket at a sleepover—stopping every time a body walked by and cut through them. Before they knew it, it was five minutes until landing. 

Tino got all the way to his apartment in Downtown Miami before realizing he never even got her name, let alone her number—but he remembered where she said she worked. He found her on their LinkedIn and showed up one day. No flowers.  Barely a plan and the continuous headache that wouldn’t go away until he found her again. 

And the tickets to see New Edition were hers. She had planned to go with another man who caught a convenient case of the flu and canceled on her. Tin0 was his stand in. 

Milagra found herself with him every day after. She fell into his life the way a chef would add garnish to his meal. 

Their relationship coasted on steady waters for all of two years. Not bad, but nothing to flood the group chat about with think pieces. Until recently. 

They didn’t have sex—at least that’s what he told her. He did admit that the lines between coworker, friend, and lover had been stirred until it became a new substance that even he couldn’t name. Lines were crossed and he looked up one day and she was occupying a space Milagra was meant to fill. 

Milagra was grateful for even that confession, knowing most men wouldn’t even have offered her that.  She understood. He was a trauma surgeon, as she was. Together, their eyes had seen the worst of what the human body could go through. More hours spent at the hospital than in their homes. He was used to her. She was available. Milagra got it—she understood—and so her understanding morphed to bitter acceptance. 

But she wasn’t as green as she allowed him to believe. She knew she would only ever receive the watered down version from his mouth. The same way he pulled apart and molded the story of how they met, until it looked and sounded like something digestible. 

So, she took his confession, already knowing in order to get to the truth she’d have to multiply it by ten.

What else was she meant to do? She didn’t have any proof and she didn’t want it. That would mean she had to go—and she didn’t want that. It was strange though, because she didn’t necessarily want to stay either. 

She had just grown comfortable. Feeling like she belonged in a spot since she had been placed there for so long. Like unmoved furniture, worn out by years and familiarity. 

Where else would she go?

At the ripe age of thirty, where things were supposed to be finally be falling into place or falling completely apart to come back together, the thought of being alone and having to get to know someone else—the way they liked their eggs, if they snored, or guessing about the secret family they had hidden—and those thoughts scared her more than the thought of staying with a man that cheated on her—maybe. 

Tino wasn’t a bad guy. He had his shit together. He went to church on Sundays, did things for Milagra before she had to ask, and maintained a body that beaches couldn’t wait to see. He was charming. He talked about starting a family like a man who actually wanted to be a father, instead of one who just liked the comfort of family. He could fuck. And he did the dishes after she cooked without complaining. 

He came with his own toolbox of bullshit—but what man didn’t? And still, he was the genius and prominent surgeon who saved lives, and she was his pretty girlfriend who couldn’t sink her claws into a stable career. Until about five months ago, when an unsought offer from a well known architectural company arrived to her email. She accepted of course, but wished she hadn’t when she discovered from a late night lurking session on her boss’s Facebook, that he and her boyfriend were old dorm mates in undergrad. 

A handout. Just another reason to be grateful and stay attached to his hip. 

Milagra made up for it. She earned her spot and put the work in. Went from new hire, to Senior, to Director. An ascent he couldn’t claim. No, that was all her. 

His warm hand cupped the nape of her neck. “Did you hear me, baby?”

“Yeah,” she answered looking up at him, now. The blue light of her computer screen bouncing off her soft brown skin. “Just the day or?”

“I haven’t seen him in a while. And this’ll be your first time meeting. I think we should make it a weekend thing.”

His father, Roman, lived an hour up the map and, closer to the coast. Tino graduated high school and fled, thinking he could outrun the grief of losing his mother, or at the very least not be reminded of it every time he walked past the empty master bedroom—and past the guest room where his father chose to sleep instead. Her ghost haunted them both in different ways. 

“Are you sure? The hospital…”

“I’ll let them know tonight. They’ll probably just have me on call.”

“And when they call?” She asked, watching him grab the rest of his stuff to walk out the door for the night shift. He gave her a look. One that said everything but offered nothing. A pattern of his, she noticed. She just couldn’t expect too much out of him. He spread himself too thin.

Milagra always wondered if that was a trait he inherited from his mother or his father. A question she’d have to answer herself the following week. Tino rarely spoke of either. His mother was dead and had been for over a decade now. Car wreck. It was the single tragedy that forced him to double down on the trauma surgeon route. Fixing and patching people from freak accidents that he imagined was his mother. And every time he spoke of his father, it was cold and distant, like he too was already buried six feet under. 

“Good night, Tino.” She dismissed him, focusing back on the proposal from work he temporarily distracted her from. She already decoded what the silence meant. If they called, he’d go. 

She should’ve been weary, anticipating being left with a strange older man, regardless of his relation to her boyfriend—only, she wasn’t. A part of her hoped this week flew by so she could get to the good part and finally meet him. 

Roman was an enigma. That shady yet integral character the series always mentions, but doesn’t show up until the last season.  

“I love you,” he told her as if love was their only issue. If that’s all it took, they’d be married with four kids.

Milagra waited until the last second before she knew he’d make something out of it before she sighed and said—

“Love you too,” stalely.  

She heard his heavy steps retreat to the front door before it shut, leaving her in a familiar space—alone. 

The first thing she did was minimize her work window to open a private one. 

He was the complete opposite of his son as far as aura was concerned—or at least that’s how he presented himself. 

Tino was like leather. Traditional and straight to the point with a hint of edge. 

Roman was alligator skin. 

The head football coach at Florida Atlantic University—and boy, he looked it. Built like a man that would put you straight on your ass if you tried him. Roman hardly ever smiled in the pictures she found. The most he offered the camera was the hike of his upper plump lip at the corner into a smirk, and a crinkle at the corner of his eyes. 

Always going above and beyond for his team. Taking the boys on trips, or surprise NFL games in the sky box—most likely a gift from his college buddies that made it big. 

Roman—as stoic as he appeared online—seemed like a beacon of light to anyone that crossed his path. A devoted helper. But he himself, was a loner. Milagra could tell. Fishing trips accompanied by no-one—most likely a plan Tino was supposed to be apart of and ended up flaking. New recipes or old ones he attempted in his kitchen. Catching the game every Sunday in his theater room. Gardening on his massive front lawn. Or even the random projects he assembled and carried out around his estate. The most recent one was the stone wall, sunken fire pit he added to his backyard. Nice to the eyes, but Milagra would’ve modeled it just a little different based on the aesthetic of the rest of the house from the pictures she saw. 

These were all things she could pick up from Instagram alone. 

The internet was a scary place. 

Milagra leaned back in the kitchen table chair, gripping her other wrist above her head, chewing on her bottom lip. A picture of him, towering over two other women, who she assumed to be Tino’s aunts, staring back at her through her MacBook. 

She wondered if the shared holiday weekend was his or Tino’s idea. 

Either way, up until the actual day they left, it was all she could fucking think about. In the shower, before bed, at work. She was even dreaming about it. 

A parasite of some sort, infiltrating her mind with images and scenarios she was just guessing at. 

What was her brain searching for among all the obscurity?

It was banal to imagine things you hadn’t yet encountered—but for her mind to keep going back to him, like the most catchy part of a song—it was tortuous. 

And now she sat in the passenger seat of Tino’s cocaine white, GMC Acadia, watching palm trees follow them up with narrow winding highway, having nothing but the opportunity to heighten her curiosity and imagine all the things she couldn’t see yet. 

The ride was an hour long constant of listening to the radio—eighty’s R&B because he knew it to her favorite—and the occasional turn of the volume knob for him to say something she only acknowledged with a dragged hum or shortened laughed. Hoping he couldn’t sense something was off with her. 

They traveled up the length of the circular driveway laid with cobblestone. Tino gripping her hand tighter, watching her steps. The door was already unlocked when he opened it and let her step in first, her heels echoing in the high-ceiling foyer that was lit up to the point where you could see every corner of the space. She couldn’t tell if her sudden warmth had to do with the actual temperature of the house, but it made her scratch the back of her neck before smoothing over the skin. 

She could hear music coming from somewhere deeper in the house. A house that breathed life for a family of at least five or more, but as far as she knew, it was just him. 

She wasn’t facing the throat of the house when he came walking down one of the spiral steps. Only heard Tino’s acknowledgement. 

“Dad, this is Milagra.” His hand urged her forward gently as she had to crane her neck up, trying to remember how to speak. “Milagra, baby, this is my old man.” She could hear him, but he might as well had been in another room. 

No amount of pictures, from Tino’s home office or the internet, could’ve prepared her for him. He was so big. Taller than she imagined, spreading wider as her eyes trailed up his stature, like the grandest tree sitting in the forrest. He was dressed like a man who was indeed in the comfort of his own home. Black t-shirt that conformed to the muscles in his arms, no shoes, and sweats that hung like they had been there all day. His skin had a glow to it. The sun-kissed tan giving every part of him even more definition. His hair was pulled back strictly—the most structured thing about him, other than his body. It carried the kind of shine one’s did after just wetting it. It was dark, like he had dyed it the richest jet black on the shelf—but Milagra found comfort in the grey hairs kissing the frame of his roots and even hiding in his beard. A tell sign that he had been here awhile. 

She appreciated it. The grey hairs and the way his clothes hung off him. It made him appear more human. More normal. Considering he looked like something manufactured in a lab solely for the female gaze. 

“It’s nice to finally meet you, Mr. Reigns.” Her hand came up and he looked at it with just his eyes as if he didn’t know what to do with it. 

“Roman,” he corrected her. “I’m not that old.” And like the sun’s head peaking over the darkness of the sea’s depths, he offered light, and smiled at her. Not a full one, but it cracked enough to make her feel safe, despite her heart fluttering against her ribcage. 

“You’re like fifty,” Tino teased. 

Ignoring his son’s jab, he kept his gaze on the new face—heart-shaped with soft and languid features  like a timeless oil painting. Her skin had a natural bronze and richness to it, like the grand canyon almost. The black dress she wore, fell on her shoulders in a way that the deep lines of her collarbones were exposed. The skin carried a shine, letting Roman know that like him, she paid attention to the details, taking her time after showering to give the spots she knew would be seen extra love and attention. He had to tear his eyes away from the small beauty mark that sat intimately on the left slope. 

“And what’s with all this formal stuff?” The skin between his brows crinkled. “We’re family,” were the last two words she heard before the world blurred and faded away around her like a dream. 

Those arms she had to tear her eyes away from came around her, embracing her body like he had known it for years. 

Bitch, hug him back.

She had to coach herself. Everything about him was distracting. His cologne wasn’t harsh, in fact it was therapeutic. Something she could get used to. She slid her hands up to palm his back and could’ve melted into a puddle of nothing at his feet. 

She could remember that this is how it started. The moment the air stretched and gave out before it grew unbelievably thick between them. 

The hug lingered for a second longer than strangers were meant to be in each other’s arms, before they both pulled away. 

Whatever they just birthed, evident in the gaze they refused to let go, even after pulling apart. 

“You didn’t tell me she was a model, too.” He looked to his son whose smile matched his own and it was in that moment Milagra could see that the smile she thought he inherited from his mother, he had actually snatched right off of his father’s face. 

Milagra stood beside her man, feeling his hand snake around her waist in a way that it hadn’t in months as she tried to find her words. 

“Y’all can come on. I got dinner in here.” Roman’s sunk a hand into his sweats pocket, nodding his head in the direction he led them. 

“What’d you make?” Tino’s figure walked side by side with his dad’s slightly larger frame as they trailed off into their own conversation. 

Milagra however, fell three paces behind them, admiring the handiwork of whomever designed this place, as she ventured further inside.

“What is that?” Roman turned back to her with tight brows, as if the thought had bothered him—lingering in his head like the scent in his nose since he hugged her. “That scent?”

She stared at him for longer than she wanted to, his pace slowing like a car running out of gas, as he gave her an opportunity to catch up. 

“It’s uh—Mugler. Alien Goddess.”

“Mm.”

“You don’t like it?”

“No—I do. It’s strong, but feminine still.”

It was probably the first time in Milagra’s thirty years on this planet that someone—a man especially—paid her such an intentional compliment. It wasn't as simple as you’re pretty, you smell nice, or I like your bracelet. He somehow gave life and personality to a fragrance she wore nearly everyday. 

“Thank you,” she told him not even knowing if it was really a compliment. The half smile tugging at one side of his mouth as she passed him to get into the dining room, told her it had to be. 

He went all out. 

Turned a simple Thanksgiving dinner for three into a banquet of luxury. All the food, colorful and still steaming somehow, assorted on silver trays that lined the length of the table and shone under the low hanging crystal chandelier. Meats, side, and sauces. In the middle he arranged a line of those water-filled cylinders where the mini candles could float. Strategically, white lei flowers were sprinkled in between everything. And the cream cloth lying beneath it all, made everything look that more regal. 

“I didn't know what your diet was like,” he explained from behind her. “And this one here is not good with details. So I just made a whole bunch of stuff. Do you eat meat?”

She was grateful she did, otherwise she would’ve just had to imagine what the glazed salmon tasted like on her tongue—or how tender the lamb was. 

She nodded, too occupied with appreciating not the just the spread, but the design of it all. He really had an eye for beauty. The kind that only someone who paid attention to everything could possess.

“Really outdid yourself this time, huh?” Tino smiled, peering over everything with the eyes of a man that hadn’t ate a home-cooked meal in years. 

“I don’t think I ever seen anybody make salmon or lamb for a Thanksgiving dinner,” Milagra looked to Roman.

“I haven’t done turkey in years.” He points to his son quickly. “He never liked it. His mom neither.”

Tino’s face fell flat and she could tell by the look in his eyes he wished his dad didn't just say that. Roman cleared his throat and the sound of his chair scraping the wood was unbelievably loud in the newfound tension. 

He sat at the head with his son and his girlfriend on either side of him—all in one corner despite the grandness of the table. 

They ate, and she made sure to at least get a forkful of everything just to confirm that it pleased her tongue as much as her eye. Tino cleared his plate and was now on his second one. In the corner where they sat, Roman let them pick out an aged bottle of wine from the stone wall wine cellar, accentuated by LED backlighting. From Italy of course. 1982 Chateau Lafite Rothschild. 

He popped it open for them. “I love that sound,” he smiled fully at her for the first time that night.

Like a newcomer, she let them do most of the talking. Tino caught him up on all the outrageous cases that came through. Someone with a shard of glass in their face from a bar fight. A girl whose hair clip was lodged into the back of her skull from a car crash. Another woman with something stuck up her ass. 

It wasn’t until they were nearing the end of their night, almost as if Roman was saving the best for last, did Milagra become the star of the show.

“Mila,” Roman’s voice interrupted the silence. She sat up even straighter in her chair and gave him her full attention, letting her fork rest on the plate. He made even the sound of her own nickname feel regal in her ears. Carrying the end of it like he was used to saying it. “Tin0 told me you went back to school recently?”

Swallowing what was left in her mouth, she eyed Tino, not sure what to make of them having conversations about her.  He always seemed too busy for even himself. Six feet between his own mind and everything else going on around him. So, to hear that he chooses, in the scarce five to ten minute conversations he carries with his dad, to talk about her, made her feel oddly closer to Tino in that moment. Maybe they weren’t as far apart as she thought. 

“Yeah, I decided to go back for my masters.”

“What are you studying?”

“Communications with an emphasis in applied linguistics.”

Roman’s brows rose slightly. “Say that shit five times in a row.” Milagra could see Tino shaking his head at the unsolicited dad joke. She on the other hand, found it cute.

“I know it’s a little different from what I’m doing now but…”

“Nothing wrong with that. Education is endless. Who says you have to stick to one lane?” Your son does, she thought but didn't dare say out-loud. In fact, she could tell by the tightness in Tino’s mouth that he was swallowing the urge to disagree. “What made you choose that route, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Well”—she shifted in her seat to match his stance. She tried being respectful, but Tino had barely gave any input. It might as well had been just her and Roman at the table. “I travel sometimes for work. A lot of International businesses consult my office for the architectural design of their construction projects—which means communicating with a lot of people whose first language isn’t always English.” She shrugged. “I thought it’d be helpful for the job, considering I’m the Director,” she lied. 

All those things were true. She traveled for work. Her office mostly did business with international companies. She was the Director of Interior Architecture, and a degree in language would help in her daily job responsibilities. But none of that was the real reason she grew a sudden interest in language. She read the novel Babel by R.F. Kuang in undergrad and wanted desperately to switch her major, but knew her parents would turn their noses up at the sound of anything other than the high paying field she was already knee deep in. Now, with a degree and established in her field, she utilized the extra time to go back and do what she couldn’t before. 

Adults didn't usually walk around proudly offering the fact that they were spending thousands of dollars to study a field they acquired from a fictional, fantasy novel. Milagra, almost always the only black woman in a room full of men, was always hyperaware of appearing more serious than she actually was. So, she kept the real reason she went back to school to herself. 

“And you already know three languages?” He wasn't even eating anymore. Only Tino’s silverware hit his plate and his father had angled himself in a way that suggested he and Milagra were the only ones at the table. Milagra took note of all of this while simply nodding to his question. 

“I’m surprised you remember all this. I told you this—what—when we first moved in together?”

“It was just so impressive, I couldn’t forget it. What is it? English, Spanish, and…”

“French,” she added. “And I’m learning German right now as an elective.” His eyes urged her to keep talking, like he liked the sound of her voice as much as she got lost in his. “Tino tried to teach me Samoan. I think that’s one I really got sit and focus for. That’s definitely not a language you learn in passing.”

“Yeah. I grew up speaking it and I still struggle at times.”

“You’re half Italian, right?”

“That’s right.”

“Do you speak it at all?” 

He switched his gaze between both of her eyes. Under the light they were a solid amber. Something he noticed after hugging her in the foyer, but he didn’t get a chance to really revere them the way he wanted to. He had never seen the color on someone up close. 

“I tuoi occhi sono—”

“—Baby, did you know the Cowboys were playing this weekend?” Tino interrupted with his phone in hand. 

Her pouty lips parted for a beat before she actually spoke. “Oh, damn. I forgot.” She waved a hand. “Dak is benched this game because of the injury. This is gonna be a hard watch. I don’t even know if I wanna see this.”

“Wait a minute—you watch football?” Roman’s brows nearly connected in the center. 

“I grew up in a football family. My father played, and both of my brothers did. Didn't really have a choice but to learn the game.”

“Brains, beauty, and you know your way around a playbook. Where does it end?”

“Alright, old man.” Tino’s voice was like nails on a chalkboard at this point. “You’ve passed your compliment limit. One more, and I’m gonna think you’re trying to take my woman.”

His head went from side to side, and the line of his dimple deepened. “I don’t want no problems.”

No denial, just evasion. 

It was quiet for only a second before Tino’s phone vibrated in his hands and he wasted no time rising from his chair. 

“I gotta take this. It’s the hospital,” he said before leaving them alone. 

Milagra’s eyes traveled back to Roman, holding her breath when she found him already looking to her. She offered a tight lipped smile and he returned it. 

“The food was really good, Mr. Reigns—I mean Roman.”

“Thank you. I tried not to overcook, but I don’t know, I enjoy it. Enough for us to last the rest of the weekend.”

She nodded, looking at all there was left, before they fell into another silence. Not uncomfortable, but it felt forced. Like they both had something to share, but chose silence instead. 

Milagra reached for her glass, with only a sip of the wine left in it, trying not to be overly aware of his eyes watching every step of the way. He waited until she accepted the last gulp of it before speaking again. 

“Everything okay with you two?”

His tone held no infliction, but it didn’t need it. The question itself is what threw her off balance. 

“Why would everything not be okay?” She pressed. Pushing a smile through to make sure her face didn't match the tension in her tone. “Has he said something?”

He shook his head. A lie. She could tell from the same pout he wore that his son adopted every time he was withholding something. “I’m just curious, is all. Just asking in general.”

She finished the rest of her water off, grateful she hadn’t taken her eyes off of his, otherwise she would've missed the lick of his lip after he made a trail of her neck as she swallowed. 

“Everything is all good from this side.” The glass clinked on the table between them. “Unless, you know something I don’t.”

Folding his lips in, his chest rose and fell with a barely audible deep breath. She had never wanted to get inside someone’s head more than she did in this moment, at his table, under the heat of all the candles lined over the cloth of it. 

His eyes said a lot, but she didn't receive any of it. It was like listening in on a conversation of a dead language she never bothered to learn. Pointless. She could hear the foreign words—see the truth dancing behind his eyes—but she didn't know what any of it meant, because she didn't know him. 

“Let me refill that for you,” he offered, rising up and taking her empty glass to retrieve another bottle from behind her. Leaving her, her confusion, and all that he chose not to say at the table. 

“I got bad news.” Tino appeared, tapping his phone against the opposite hand. Eyes burning holes into Milagra, who chose peace, not returning eye contact. 

Here we go, she said to herself.

“What’s going on?” Roman inquired in the middle of unscrewing the cork. 

“They need me.”

“Are you kidding me? It’s Thanksgiving.” Roman’s eyes flicked to Milagra, expecting her objection too. But he was trying his hand at a game she had never won before. She didn’t see the point. “HCA is like an hour away.”

“You know how it is—especially during holiday season. Folks get drunk—get reckless—bodies start piling up in the ER.” He looked to his girlfriend again, waiting until she lazily dragged her gaze to meet his. 

“I’ll be back as soon as I can be—I swear. You gonna be okay here?”

Did she have a choice?

“Of course she is,” Roman answered for her. “We’re just gonna finish this off and watch old videos of you getting potty trained.”

All three of them wore smiles, two of theirs only half genuine. She wouldn’t pick a fight in front of his father. There was no fight left in her. It was what it was. 

“I’m okay,” she assured him. “Go make somebody else’s Thanksgiving.”

ii.    roman’s estate • i forgot what color yearning was. 

It was the kind of night where sleep had wrapped a hand to cover her nose and mouth, but every time she slipped, it brought her back to life. 

Milagra was restless. The day exhausted her, but not enough to have a decent night’s sleep. The bed was too cold and unfamiliar. The crickets chirping were the most soothing thing about it all. That and the sound of the pool’s filter flipping the water in and out from the cracked sliding door. 

And the thing that kept her up the most was her mind remembering who slept on the other side of the house upstairs. 

She rose until her back hit the headboard, listening for a second, trying to search for any evidence of him being up too.

When she deemed it safe enough, she swung her legs over and into Tino’s slippers. Once she made it into the vast hall, she realized just how eerie this situation was. She tried to take in account the tour he gave her before they split ways, before ending up in two different rooms she hadn’t seen prior. She recognized the family portrait in the hall that led to the kitchen. She stopped in front of it, finding Tino’s small face and a head full of thick curls, tucked between Roman and his mother. 

God damn she was beautiful. 

Full and voluminous, spiral curls cascaded along both shoulders. She wasn’t smiling, but her face illuminated the way only a woman that was at peace would. 

Women in Milagra’s age range always did that thing where they would see another woman and immediately pull out their ruler and scales. Measuring their own shortcomings and comparing the most minute details. And she was no different. It wasn't intentional or even malicious. It was just habit. 

But every time she saw a picture of this woman—and it wasn't often—she found less and less differences. They had that same baked honey complexion, full lips, and long stemmed noses that flipped slightly at the tip. A jawline that was softer than angular, with chins that tapered at the ends rather than came to a sharp tip. 

Roman looked much younger. A connected mustache into a goatee vacant of any gray hairs, that emphasized his strong jawline. 

They looked happy. 

Not in a picturesque way. The portrait could’ve easily found its way into a sociology textbook, demonstrating the concept of family. But it was so much more than that. They looked like people that would do anything for one another. Like only fate brought Tino’s mom and Roman together. Pictures were worth a thousand words.  

Why did tragedy have to strike where it wasn't needed the most?

Every time she thought of it, she nearly shed another tear for Tino. 

Tip toeing the rest of the way down the hall, she rounded the corner and his broad figure stopped her dead in her tracks. 

He was on his laptop, the blue light reflecting in the glasses that sat low on the bridge of his nose, sharpening his already defined features. His bun worn out from the day. AirPods tucked in his ear, so she didn’t think he’d hear her if she snuck to get a cup of water and dipped out.

But he must’ve felt her instead. 

The minute she took another step his eyes ventured up and a light-hearted smile tugged at his lips. She returned it, stepping forward, and messing with the end of Tino’s shirt she wore over the same sweatpants she gave him on the plane ride.  

“Down here to keep me company?” 

“I was um” —she twisted her body slightly back to the kitchen—“I couldn’t sleep. And I got thirsty.”

“There’s cups in the cabinet over the stove,” he directed. “Here, let me get it.” 

His slippers scraped across the floor as he made his way into the kitchen, grabbing a mug for her without even so much as stretching his arm fully. 

She looked around the aggressively Tuscan style kitchen, looking  straight out of a reality TV show of some rich family in New Jersey who probably owned a chain of pizza stores up the coast. The shiny surfaces of marble counter tops and dark wood furniture with low hanging chandelier lights. 

“Thanks.” She accepted it, after watching him fill it with the water from the fridge. 

“You good?” She nodded in the middle of sipping. Knowing she should hurry up and go back to bed, but she wanted to stay. 

“Can’t sleep?” She asked with her own eyes burning from the failure of rest. 

The muscles in his long arms flexed when he placed flat palms on the island. “Something you said earlier—when you were talking about Dak—it made me think about how good he is with his mid-range accuracy. I just been up looking at some of his highlights from last game to show my quarterback. I’ve been trying to get him to limit his risky throws.”

“Oh, he’s one of those quarterbacks.” Milagra laughed at his eyes rolling up. 

“The quarterback is one of the most important players, but he’s going through this stage where he thinks he’s the most important player. Smelling himself and making careless mistakes.” She nodded. “That’s one position I do not envy. I’d rather help the guy than be the guy.”

“Defensive tackle, right?” She recalled his position from college.

“Yeah, how’d you know?”

She spoke without thinking. “You still have your highlights up on Instagram—”

Fuck, she screamed internally. 

He squinted playfully. “Were you cyberstalking me?”

“It was for research purposes,” she bit into her bottom lip. 

At least it started off that way. One too many pictures of him with his shirt off and she was storing each one in her mind to pull out later, for the nights Tino wasn’t home, and she needed some extra imagination. 

“Oh, okay. I see,” he laughed. 

Her mouth stretched in a yawn that taunted her, knowing if she tried she would fail at sleeping. 

He pulled at a drawer and pulled out something that shone briefly under the little light near the sink, before he handed it her way. 

It was a Twix bar. 

But only someone that knew her would know that she liked them, and specifically always indulged this late at night when she shouldn’t. 

“Hey.” Her lightbulb went off, eyes burning, as she fought to keep them open, if only just to stare at him. “You were cyberstalking me, too.”

“Research purposes,” he explained with that smile again. He looked so much better with it. She wished he did it all the time. “I had to know who my son was dating. He talked so much about you, but it was like pulling teeth to get him to bring you here. He slipped up one day over the phone and said your whole name. Milagra instead of Mila.” His lips—she couldn’t stop tracing them. She had just learned about pronunciation and how it varies from person to person based on factors like jaw structure, the atmosphere and region they learned to speak in. She liked the way he carried the A’s in her name and the way his lips opened up to put it in the air with a slight southern drawl. She watched the whole time as he recounted the story like it was a fond memory he thought of often. “Your Facebook was outdated.” He waved. “Your Instagram, though? Told me everything I needed to know.”

“Oh, yeah? What’s everything?” She pressed tearing the gold rapper. 

“You just turned thirty last month. Born in Connecticut, but you moved to Houston for high school. FAMU for undergrad. Gym rat. You can play the piano. You really, really like Turks and Caicos—eighty’s R&B—and your guilty pleasure is warm apple pie with vanilla ice cream. No one makes it like your grandma—so you say. And your favorite late night snack—a Twix bar.” 

Her lips turned down as she nodded, impressed. “All that from a damn Instagram page. I gotta work on my mystique.” She snapped one piece, holding it out and he took it. 

“The internet is a scary place.” He stared at her for a minute and she stared back. She could tell he had more to say. “You know what I didn’t see much of?”

“What?”

“My son.”

She rubbed her moisturized lips against one another, thinking of a way to climb out of this one. 

“Your generation likes to advertise things they cherish. Mine not so much. Monitoring spirits online and whatnot.”

“Sure,” his curved lips said, but his eyes captured doubt. 

Milagra was impressed at how easily he could read her. It seems he could do a lot that his son couldn’t. 

The difference was like night and day. 

The difference in being looked at and being seen. Only downside was that in being seen, that means he saw everything. 

His silence grabbed at her guilty conscience.

“I love your son.”

“Never said you didn’t. Pictures on social media aren’t the currency of love.”

She didn’t want to talk too much. Relationships were supposed to be sacred. All that keeping certain stuff between you and your partner stuff. But it was obvious that Roman knew things. His cards weren’t even close to his chest, he was hiding them at this point. 

“Why did you ask me that earlier—if he and I were okay?” He did that thing with his lips again. The same one Tino did when he was about to lie. “Please don’t lie.”

He laughed. It should’ve angered her, but it sent a chill down her spine instead. The low rumble of it.

“He told me you two were supposed to come by a couple months back—for his birthday—and then he canceled last minute. Might’ve mentioned something about you two going through a rough patch.”

She couldn’t tell if he was being vague because he lacked all the specifics, or if he didn’t want her to feel embarrassed at the fact that another woman had inserted herself into a dynamic meant for two. 

Either way, that was not a conversation you had with your somewhat father-in-law.

“We have our differences,” she confessed. “Every couple does. Some days we’re bread and butter. Others we’re oil and water. I appreciate that we don’t always see eye to eye. It keeps things interesting. Like the whole going back to school thing and getting my masters in communications.”

“Yeah, what’s up with that?” His tone suggested that he might’ve already heard Tino’s side of things. 

“Tino thinks it's…chaotic. Unstable.” She lifted one side of her mouth to soften the blow. “Can’t please everybody. I have trouble pleasing myself some days.”

“I hear that,” he agreed. “I love my son, but he’s one of those people that lives life in a straight line—or tries to anyway. I thought it would wear off after his mom died. Once he realized how short life is.” He poked his bottom lip out. “All it did was grow. Nothing wrong with it, I guess. I just wish he didn’t try so hard to put everybody else on such a narrow path.”

“Yeah,” she chuckled to herself. “I appreciate him though. Structure is good, sometimes.”

Too much structure—perfection—it could get so boring. 

Their relationship wasn’t extravagant, but it wasn’t below the bar either. It just was. Mediocracy was sometimes the biggest let down in life. The idea of just existing when there was a clock counting down that none of us could see. 

If Milagra thought about it too hard—all the time wasted just being—it got hard to breathe. 

“Too much of anything isn’t good for you.” 

This was dangerous. She liked to believe the conversation was lighthearted and innocent in nature, but there was nothing passive about the way he stared into her soul. Him listening, was the most intimate thing that had happened to her in months. 

She covered her mouth, yawning again. Hopping down on tired legs she walked toward the sink to wash the mug out, but he grabbed it. Their fingers touching for just a second, but it burned with something. 

“I got that. Go ‘head. Go to bed.”

She turned the same way she came from, trying not to still feel his fingers on hers. “Roman,” she called back. He raised his eyebrows looking back at her. “Thank you.” Knowing exactly what she meant, he just offered a soft smile that revealed the lines on the rim of his cheeks with a slight nod. 

“We should do this again some time.”

In that kitchen, the previously uncharted pair had tended to whatever they gave birth to from the hug in the foyer. Their own little thing, outside of Tino. 

It’s what was expected of her or any other daughter-in-law to be, right? Isn’t that the whole reason Tino finally brought her all the way here? To bond?

These were all the ice packs she used to soothe the heat bubbling within her core. 

Milgara didn’t believe in coincidences—things happening just to happen. So far, every instance, every interaction, every decision in her life had meant something. Small strokes of a higher being’s paint brush, that made a bigger picture. Even had she not took on those beliefs, the things that transpired between herself and her boyfriend’s dad that weekend, were too potent, too in her face, to just be meaningless. 

And the more she found herself rejecting it—the bigger it swelled. Until she had no choice but to look. 

Them running into each other the next morning… 

She was in the middle of zipping up her hoodie, when the door to a room she remembered him saying led to the gym came creaking open, and out he walked. Shirtless. Every seam that made up his body pulled tight from the exhaustion of his workout. 

“I was—um.” She had to clear her throat of that thick and heavy feeling of lust before she continued. Lines drew themselves on her forehead like she was trying to remember her lines. “I was just gonna go for a walk,” she explained.

He nodded wiping the streaks of sweat still running down his body like he was fresh out of a shower. Every deep breath he pulled in, the muscles of his core flexed and then settled, and flexed again. God, please don’t do that, she begged to herself. 

“I would join you, but I just got my cardio in,” he smiled wryly. Milagra swallowed nothing and everything at the same time, thinking of all the ways she could’ve helped him achieve his goal. He didn’t make a move, yet. Almost like he was waiting for an invitation, anyway. “You can use the treadmill down there if you want. I think we’re supposed to get some rain soon.”

“No—it’s fine. I thinks it’s better for me to get some fresh air right now,” she admitted. Roman’s sweats hung looser now, one side dipping more than the other, exposing a defined v-line. Something thick and obviously needing attention, pressing firm against the material, creating extra lines. 

Milagra didn’t even think he was doing it on purpose. Any of it. That’s what made it all the more enticing. The innocent nature of it all. Him not knowing that her wet hole was clenching on nothing, while imagining sliding down and filling herself with the natural bulge in his sweats. 

“Right,” he agreed as if he could read the filthy thoughts invading her mind. 

How the hell could a man his age still manage to upkeep his body like that? She fished through all the words of the three different languages she knew, and still couldn’t find any. So she turned on her heels, until his deep and exasperated voice pulled her back like a puppet on a string. 

“Have you talked to Tino? I tried to call him a little while ago.”

“He texted around five. I guess I missed his call. He said he was still tied up and he’s trying his best to get back before noon.”

Milagra found herself at the silver refrigerator, refilling a bottle that was already full, as to not have to look at him. His peck had flexed and so did her clit at the sight, so she fled for safety, deeper into the kitchen, behind the island, just a few steps away.

But safety was a dying concept now. This was his yard, and she was losing reasons to defend herself. It wasn’t long before his heavy steps were coming in behind her. 

“Something I meant to ask you last night—is he always this caught up with work? I know he’s in trauma and all, but to have to leave so quick at night like that?” He leaned on the counter, folding his arms across his chest.

She shrugged. “Pretty much. If that’s who even really called—” She snapped her own mouth shut, eyes tight, once she realized what she had done. Turning in place she finished screwing the top back on her bottle while shaking her head. “I didn’t mean that.” 

“Yeah, you did.” His mouth tilted in a smirk that was less mischievous and more comforting. “You just didn't mean for me to hear it.”

Milagra had said too much and her stomach jumped with embarrassment.

“I’ll be back. Should I leave the door unlocked?”

“Yeah, that’s fine.”

She couldn’t have gotten out of there fast enough. 

What the fuck was she thinking?

She started at a decent pace, finding her way down to the main road they came in on, palm trees covering one side, and on the other the water sparkled from the sun’s early rays. She ran and ran, until the feeling of her lungs burning overrode the feeling of guilt and embarrassment. It worked, but there was a third feeling that superseded all of them. One she couldn’t place. And it lingered and stayed stuck in her chest like heartburn. 

Sure enough, the rain started. It was one of those light showers that almost felt sticky because of the humidity. Every time it rained, she thought of her grandmother. A small and everything but fragile black woman from the Dominican Republic that refused to speak English regardless of her knowing it. 

La lluvia significa nuevas bendiciones, cariño—she would tell her. 

New blessings. That’s what rain was supposed to represent. 

It hadn’t rained on Milagra in a while. 

She tried to be grateful for the things she already had—for some don’t get the blessing of stability. The comfort of knowing things would be a certain way when they made it home. 

But sometimes it felt like a prison for her. 

When she arrived back, skin slick with sweat and rain, she uncovered her head from the hood, walking deeper into the house, past the two spiral staircases, until she remembered which way the kitchen was. She found it and him, dressed as comfortable as he had the night before at dinner. His hair in a looser bun as he leaned over on the island, iPad in hand, the sensual voice of Anita Baker serenading the entire open area in a love spell. Sweet Love. Timeless classic. 

It was becoming clear that everything Milagra came to love about Tino, he had adapted from his father. 

A few things laid out on the counter being him. A carton of eggs, challah bread, heavy cream, coffee creamer, thick-cut bacon, and seasoning, amongst other things. She wasn’t in the kitchen enough to make sense of all he was making. And before she could do a one-eighty, his eyes found hers. 

He turned the volume down before rising to full height. 

“You cook?”

“Barely. Just the basic stuff. We’re pretty boring at home. Tino likes it simple. Eggs, avocado toast and sausage works for him.”

“Come.”

So, then came Milagra’s personal favorite—the cooking lesson…

Everything he had assembled turned out to be the ingredients for French toast, beef bacon, and something she never had—quiche. 

Elbows on the counter she observed more than the food. Stealing glances at his full biceps as he added all the makings for the French toast first. He made the same expressions his son did when he was focused on a task. Top plump lip slightly curved. 

“Coffee creamer?” She asked.

He talked and poured at the same time. “The vanilla—it’s what gives it that sweet flavor,” he explained. 

She shut her mouth. He was the expert. 

“Gotta hurry up before Mr. No Sugar For Breakfast gets back.”

She chucked softly watching him dip the thick cuts of bread into the liquid mixture and into the pan, while simultaneously tending to the bacon in a separate one. The strong aroma of the brown sugar he added to it, making her realize just how hungry she was. 

Milagra hopped in his place, watching over and switching out the bacon and French toast while he prepared the quiche.

There was something oddly intimate about cooking with someone. Preparing things with care and precision to feed someone. 

They collaborated on the rest of breakfast with ease. While waiting for the quiche to bake, he had her helping with lunch. An old dish, crab rangoon, he hadn’t made in while, but he figured it was safe enough for her to grasp the concept of. 

The filling he did on his own, talking her through his regimen and letting her taste after.

“You wanna try?” He offered, after folding the first couple of wontons himself. 

She hesitated, but eventually slid in the spot in front of him as he kept a safe distance behind her.

“You only need a tiny bit, maybe half a spoon at the center,” he instructed watching her scoop some out of the bowl to place in the center of the wrapper. “Then you wanna wet get it wet—the edges.” She pressed her lips together not wanting to laugh at his choice of words. He had angled his head down to get a look in her face, worried when she wasn't talking. “Oh, stop it.” He waved her goofiness off. 

“So many other ways you could’ve said that.”

He shook his head and she listened nonetheless, wetting the corners. 

“Bring the corners together to meet at the top.” He leaned further, making sure she was doing it right. “Now pinch the edges, so nothing leaks out when it fries.” His long arms came around her body. “Like this.” He did it himself as she watched. His stoic and focused face, dangerously close to the side of hers. She could see every grey hair. Even the ones poking form where his hair faded on the side of his temple. 

He caught her staring, but she couldn’t bring herself to look away or pretend she hadn’t been looking at all. His eyes softened at the corners. 

But that’s when she felt it. Something pressing against her lower back. The moment she felt the urge to back up more, to feel it more, she snatched away completely. 

“I think I should go shower. I’m starting to smell myself,” she lied. 

“You sure it’s not the crab?”

“I’m sure,” she lied.

He didn’t push further. He just nodded in a way that she couldn’t tell if he knew she was full of shit or not. But she didn’t even let the awkwardness of the situation settle into their skin before she turned and made her way to Tino’s bedroom. 

The shower she made cold on purpose. 

Then, of course there was the fishing incident….

Tino ended up coming back around eleven. Apologetic and willing to compromise by participating in an activity he hated when he was younger, that his dad loved for some reason—fishing. 

She sat in the back seat of his truck, listening to the mindless chatter of men and trying not to get butterflies whenever their eyes snagged in the rearview mirror. 

There was a calm lake just a few miles out from his estate that he bought. She waited, off to the side, enjoying the scenery of nature and the muscles in his back when he untied his flybridge catamaran from the dock, while Tino moved everything they brought with them on it. She pulled her Chanel shades atop of her head to keep the hairs blowing from sticking to her lip gloss. 

Roman rose and their gazes found one another again. He offered that wry smirk, tilting one side of his mouth and she returned a tightlipped smile, pretending none of it meant anything. 

There was this glitchy silence between them now, as if saying anything, even conventional, around Tino was wrong. 

They got settled after Roman drove further out. She stayed under the shade while they hung off the back piece with their hooks. From where she sat with her hardcover of R.F. Kuang’s Katabasis wedged in her hands, she could see the sides and backs of them. She could stare without consequence. His tongue darting out to lick his full bottom lip. The excitement of watching but not seeing his eyes behind the dark shades he wore, not knowing if every time he turned his head slightly to the right, if he too was catching glimpses of her. The veins in his hands when adjusting the rod. And then in an act of terrorism, she’s sure, he relieved one arm from the confines of his black tee and let it rest on his shoulder, exposing the ripples in his stomach and his defined chest. 

She had to take a deep breath. Rereading the same page she had been on for the duration of the ride.

“Mila,” Roman called out sternly. “Why don’t you come give this a try.”

It’s like he couldn’t stand the thought of her being left out. 

Placing the bookmark inside, she sat it down and padded barefoot out to them, using the metal bar to not slip and fall. 

“Here.” He handed the long rod to her and took ahold of it like a baby discovering a new toy. He adjusted her hands and got behind her. Not again, she thought. But nothing could happen this time with Tino sitting just a few feet away—right?

This might’ve been worse. His voice directly on her ear, his big hands wrapped around hers firmly to wind the hook up, and his chest flexing with every move on her back. 

He let go, allowing her to do it on her own, but his hand rested on her bare thigh and she stopped breathing completely, not wanting to react and alarm Tino. It wasn’t even scandalous in nature. A thoughtless kind of intimacy reserved for people you considered enough. Like handing off the hand sanitizer at the table of a restaurant. So, she settled into, hoping he never took it off. 

And then the tattoo…

She couldn’t even remember who brought it up. It was probably Tino. He had been talking about getting something added to his sleeve back home, so she’s sure that’s what jumpstarted the whole ordeal surrounding tattoos. 

Then Roman chimed in. Telling them he was done with the ink, that he’s had enough. And just as Milagra went back in time to just a couple hours before when she watched the patterns on his chest jump, he looked to her, asking if she had any. 

She suddenly felt naked when his eyes traveled the length of her arms looking for clues, until they settled on her inner right wrist. 

It was small. Something she could hide in the corporate world with long sleeves. A semi-drunk night with her college roommate and line sister that she thought she’d regret, but had only grown more attached to as the years went on, and the ink lost its initial intrusion and innocence. 

Two snakeheads facing the opposite of one another, open-mouthed, and made to look like the outline of a butterfly. 

It happened so fast—too fast in Milagra’s mind because she was too consumed with trying to register the feeling of his skin on hers again. His fingers—warm and dominating—took ahold of her wrist. He bent down to a point where she was face to face with the thick hairs sprouting from his scalp, inhaling the strong scent of conditioner he put in it. 

Her mouth went dry preventing her from speaking. Even as he smirked to himself and said, “strong, but feminine”—again, with that intentional compliment. 

And then he did the most dangerous thing ever. His large thumb swiped over the skin, soft, with care. 

For the rest of the fishing trip, she found herself rubbing the same spot, trying to remember exactly how his fingers felt. 

They had dinner together again that night. Not like the night before. This was one was less formal. Instead of the dining room, they made camp in the living room, eating leftovers from the prior night. On the longer couch she sat, plate in her hands, careful to not spill anything on the cream material, with Tino between her legs on the floor. 

“I can’t believe this is the new age dating,” Tino said. “There’s no way in hell I’ma go as far as to tell someone I love them without even seeing their face.”

Love Is Blind played in front of them on the set of four plasmas Roman had hanging, arranged to look like one continuous screen. 

Milagra shook her head laughing softly. “Yeah, unfortunately looks do matter,” she added. “I don’t know though. I feel like for women this is the safer route. Making a man get to know you—love you before he’s even touched you.” She couldn’t see, but he made a face at his dad causing Roman to laugh. “What?” She chuckled, lowering her head to see him better. 

“If you say so.”

“Dating is hard for women,” she argued. “Y’all rarely ever have the right intentions.”

“Oh, no you don’t.” He stopped her. “You could’ve gotten that off maybe five years ago. It’s hard for everybody now. Social media fried everybody’s brain. Too much expectation. Too much comparison. Dating always seemed like work. Like I was the hiring manager at HR or some shit. Not with this one, though.” He looked up at her, head rested on the inside of her thigh. “Nah, you were the one doing the interviewing.”

She dug two fingers into his clavicle making him squirm. 

“What about you, Dad?” The word tasted kind of bitter on her tongue. “You’re not dating?” Milagra feigned a smile, in case she was poking a sore spot. It had been over a decade since Tino’s mother passed. Grief had no expiration date, but Milagra just hoped, he had gotten past it far enough to know there was something else out there for him. That love didn't die with her. 

His mouth turned upside down but his eyes smiled when he shook his head. 

“Oh, please,” Tino spoke through a grin. “Don’t get all shy now. There was women calling this house nonstop the last time I came up.”

Milagra swallowed the taste of something bitter like jealousy, not liking how hard it was to push down.

His broad shoulder went up for a second. “They call. That doesn’t mean I answer. Mostly the players’ moms or older sisters, but I don’t mix business with pleasure,” he explained. 

“I keep telling him he needs to get back out there. Can’t spend every holiday and birthday with me, man. I think it’s time you get back in the field.” 

Roman’s eyes—they were like vortexes. They sucked Milagra in and she got lost for every single time, forgetting about the world that actually existed in front of her. Every time he looked at her she felt that spotlight. Being seen—she wasn't used to it. 

Before she knew it his mouth moved again. “Only for the right one.”

With the look in his eyes, it always looked like he was trying to tell her something else, other than what his mouth was conveying. An inside notion only they understood. 

Or maybe she just wished that they had that piece of something meant only for them. Was she making it all up? Did she long for connection that much that she was imagining every crumb as a grand gesture?

“Gotta let the light back in before it gets too dark,” she added. 

He bit into the pink flesh of his bottom lip, letting her words and the meaning behind them run its course, before telling her, “I like that.”

Even deeper into the night, Milagra laid in the sad grey sheets of the king-sized bed, alone, as she was used to. It was much more humid than the night before, so the air thrusted through the vents harsher. She hated artificial air. It was too demanding. Goosebumps rose on her soft skin against her will. She ended up leaving the door that led to the veranda open, just watching the sheer curtain dance every time the wind pushed them. 

 She didn't even know why she was waiting up for him. It’s not like they’d have sex. They barely indulged in the late night debrief that most couples do. He’d stay on his side. She’d stay on hers. A book in her hand, while he read one from his phone—disconnected from the pages of whatever he was reading, how he was with almost everything else in his life. No more than five words between the two of them, unless something big happened that day, before either flicked the switch. Then they’d lay, backs usually turnt to one another, overly aware of the other’s presence in the bed. At some point in the night, because they still longed for one another, or at least the tightly threaded connection they once shared—they ended up tangled in each other’s web. His leg over hers. Her arm draped across his abdomen. 

It was pathetic. The way she still somehow longed for it. 

Milagra dosed off after a while. Thinking she was dreaming when she heard voices, she stirred to get more comfortable. Those voices—she recognized. One was Tino’s—rushed and avoidant. The other held base. Powerful but comforting. It was Roman’s.

They weren’t yelling, but they weren’t whispering either. 

They grew quiet and she didn’t hear anything at all, until the she recognized the timing of Tino’s heavy footsteps, and she contemplated pretending to be sleep. She gave up the act once she heard him mumble something under his breath. 

“What’s wrong?” She turned in the duvet. 

“Nothing, baby. Go back to bed.” Not listening she just stared until he climbed in and did the thing that confirmed her suspicions of something being off. He got in close and draped an arm around her midsection. Not in a mindless way. It couldn’t have been, because that would suggest it was habit. His arm didn’t just rest, but he curled it over until his warm hand met the other side of her waist, and he held her there as if he couldn’t sleep unless it was like this. 

And he did—he went straight to sleep. Hefty breathes from his nose hitting the top of her head. 

She couldn’t sleep. Even with the comfort of him actually being in bed that night. Carefully, she lifted his heavy arm from around her, grateful that he was such a deep sleeper. 

She hadn't even thought deeply about why she had gotten up or what she’d do once she made it out of the room, but her subconscious did—brought her feet through the same route they had traveled just the night before. Once she reached the portrait in the hall, she saw that reflective, blue shadowy light that only a TV in the dark could cast. The closer her steps got she heard the voices to match. 

He was there again. This time his back was to her and she didn’t know what made him turn around, but he did. 

“Can’t sleep again?”

She shook her head. “I’m starting to think you’ve got insomnia, too.”

His eyes lingered over her for a few seconds more with a look she couldn’t read. It made her self-conscience of what she was wearing and wished she stopped to put on her robe. She had on Tino’s t-shirt again, but it pirated the shorts she had on, making it look as if she had nothing on underneath. The sensitive skin of her nipples brushed against the fabric of the tee and she was too scared to look down and see if they were visible. 

“Just looking at old pictures.” He held up the stack he was currently going through. Once buried in the closet, with the rest of the memorabilia that had his late wife’s scent on it. Tonight, he decided to pull it out. Too often, he found himself trying hard to remember the feelings he had only ever felt when she was still here. It wasn't that hard to conjure, anymore. Some of them were sneaking up on him and coming back in increments. 

Milagra made her way over, using his oblivion as an opportunity to smooth over her nipples, hoping they would go down, before peering over him at a safe distance behind the couch. “You know, this time fifteen years ago, we had just moved into this house?”

“I didn’t know that. I thought y’all always lived here. In Boca.”

He shook his head. “Before this we lived in a small beach town. Pensacola. All the way on the other side. It’s like a nine hour drive. We didn’t get here until I got injured—Jaguars released me—and then one of my college teammates offered me a job as a head coach up here at FAU.”

In the picture he held, he and a teenage Tino were standing in the circular driveway outside. Roman had a firm hand on his shoulder as they both wore that lopsided smirk that wasn't mature enough to be a smile. She laughed inside at Tino’s full afro of curls and how big he was even back then.

Roman slid the picture to the back to reveal the next one. Tino in a cap and gown, holding a mock diploma in hand, the proud colors of his school she recognized from the same shirt she wore—orange and blue for the University of Florida. Cords and sashes draped around him colorfully as he sat in the dirt next to a tall obelisk headstone.

“Man, I wish she could’ve saw this,” he said more to himself. “She wouldn’t believe the things he’s doing now. Saving lives.” 

She crept around to sit next to him and get a better look. He was barely even doing the smirk thing. His eyes were puffy and red from having to get himself together before taking the picture. 

She couldn’t imagine. He was only sixteen when it happened. They hadn't even been in this house a full year before he and his father had to rifle these unfamiliar streets, looking for any sign of her, desperate, when she hadn't come home from a store run. Just for them to circle back home, those flashing blue and red lights greeting them. Two officers, ashamed to tell the two men, who had already felt it before he even said it—that their everything was gone. 

“Must’ve been really hard to raise Tino on his own.”

He blew out a big rush of air from his mouth, reminiscing. “For a long time, it was like he refused to acknowledge that she was gone. I didn't wanna force him to grieve. Everybody does it at their own pace.” His eyes lowered gradually to the picture again, and she could see all the memories swarming his mind. Some good. Some bad. All necessary. 

“What was she like?” The words flew out of her mouth before she could catch them. She easily lost control around this man. He was just a stranger a little over twenty-four hours ago, and now she felt like she had the golden ticket to his most vulnerable self. He extended a familiar warmth, the same one you’d get from that girl at the summer camp that you easily vibed with and would never forget, even though you’d probably never be as close to again. Or a a cousin you only see during holidays, but it feels like you might’ve grown up in the same house together every time you get in each other’s orbit. “He never talks about her.”

He hesitated at first. A blank stare across his stiff features and she almost regretted asking the question—regretted even getting out of bed before he turned his head to her and his face softened. 

“She always had her hand in everything. She wanted to be everything,” he smiled lazily. “I think that’s what I admired about her the most. She never limited herself to one thing, you know?” Milagra’s eyes trailed off for as second, wondering what she’d think of her. She glanced over at the TVs, noticing he was watching a home movie. Tino in a yard she didn’t recognize, kicking a soccer ball around. He waited until her eyes peered back up to his to say the next part. “Strong, but feminine.”

She didn’t know what to make of his words. He handed her something she didn’t even think she had the capacity to carry.

“It’s cruel,” she whispered in pain almost. “What happened to y’all.”

“Damn, right it is.”

“I try not to question God—but sometimes it’s hard not to when things like that happen.”

“I took a long break from Him after that. I stopped going to church. Didn’t even think to touch a Bible. It just didn’t make sense. None of it. Why did I get left with this hand and all the sinners get to live out their fantasies—happy?” She could listen to him talk all day. His voice was calm, passionate, and careful, like he had rehearsed these very lines to recite for her. “Then, I really had to think about it. I can’t see everything—all the variables involved. He can. I only see from my small, selfish lens. I don’t know why that had to happen, but it did. He doesn’t make mistakes. Now Tino’s a surgeon, of all things. My wife’s one life for all the hundreds he’s saved. I think I can live with that.” He used a hand to smooth down the hairs of his thick beard. “It took me a long time to get to this point—bur I’m at a place where I’m at peace and I’m happy.” He nodded approvingly at himself before looking to her.

He had those kind of eyes that made you self conscious in silence, wondering what he could be figuring out. She could tell he listened to the gaps as much as when she filled them. 

Milagra kept it all together on the outside. Her hair—if not in its naturally curly state, slicked back in a single tight braid at the nape of her neck—was usually straightened with her ends clipped bluntly with not a flyaway in sight. Clothes always ironed, even her socks at times—she never left the house without earrings. And in the bag that matched her outfit of the day, she made sure floss, hand lotion, and those mini stain removers were packed. 

But on the inside she was a jumbled mess. She lost her train of thought from the slightest interruptions. Milagra could barely make a sound decision without changing her mind at least five times before. And she found herself dotting over the answers she gave people in her head forever, before even saying them aloud—to the point where there was almost always a three to five second window of silence between the question someone asked and her answer. 

That was one of the first things she noticed about Roman. Their conversations dragged—not just because he always managed to pull more out of her, not wanting her voice to go silent—but also because he too, took that bout of silence before responding. Most men were blunt in a detrimental fashion that made Milagra’s stomach fold over itself. She worked with them—arrogant pricks they were—and even grew up in a house with three men who never failed to “tell her like it is.” Roman stood apart from all of them. He gave thought to his words, she noticed. Filtered over them before their delivery and she appreciated that. 

Even the way he was able to take those jumbled thoughts she sometimes let slip through the cracks and help her give order to them. Setting things straight and affirming them. 

“Are you happy?” He finally asked the question he had been meaning to since their first conversation. 

Her face dropped—grew even flatter with every thought. 

Was she?

For the past year, it felt like all the things around her were stuck in place. Nothing unordinary. Nothing to double back at.

And then Tino went and did whatever he did with his coworker and she regretted all the times she longed for excitement—for something—anything—to just happen. 

You have to be careful what you wish for. 

She couldn’t bear the uncertainty that would attach itself to a simple yes if she spoke aloud, so she just nodded instead. He looked her face over, waiting for her to explain, as if it was impossible for her to just be that—happy. 

“Happiness and familiarity are twins. Sometimes it’s hard to tell them apart.”

His words weren’t hard to understand, but her heart beat aggressively against her ribcage trying to decode why he would tell her such a thing. Did he not want her with his son? Did he not want them to be happy? Or at least appear that way?

A part of her fell wroth at how clearly he could understand their situation. She thought she was doing a good job—hiding. Pretending.

“I think we should just finish looking at the pictures,” she told him and they both knew it was a lie. Neither had the heart in that moment to recognize it as such. 

That thing from the foyer, the kitchen—she was trying to suffocate it, but it had grown rapid like unkempt weeds. 

Milagra eventually dosed off. The heaviness of her head gradually falling until it landed on the oddly comfortable muscle of his shoulder. Roman sighed of relief the moment her head finally molded into him. He didn’t move her. He didn’t mind the extra weight. The warmth of another person—her. It felt good to be needed for something—for someone to lean on him. Serving a purpose—even if it was as small as a pillow. 

For so long, he had just been existing, alone. He forgot what this felt like. 

The intimacy of someone feeling safe enough—calm enough in his presence to sleep.  

Shadows from the Peace Lily pots on the veranda danced along the drapes when Miagra opened her eyes the next morning. She ended up in Tino’s old bedroom, not remembering how she got there. The water from the shower was hitting the floor with vigor and that’s when she lifted, spotting his shoes by the ottoman. 

Tino. 

She stilled for a moment, last night a dreamy haze, as if she had been drinking or if she imagined it. 

With a heavy heart and pulsing mind, she forced herself out of bed. Brushed her teeth while his tall, shadowy figure moving behind the glass. She studied herself finding it hard not to compare, yet again, to the woman in the home videos with her current boyfriend and his father. 

She wondered if that’s what they both saw. The same elongated nose and soft features. Clinging onto any part of her, so much that that they forget she wasn't her. 

Hearing the water stop, she made her way back into the room to make the bed. The pungent aroma of that brown sugar bacon had crept its way through the cracks of the door. 

“Let’s just stay an extra day.” Milagra’s heartbeat stalled. She was grateful he was still in the conjoined bathroom, otherwise he would’ve seen the exact moment she stopped making the bed, freezing in place,  and made something out of something. “Make up for all these fucking calls I keep getting.” His voice grew closer. A towel wrapped loosely around his waist like it begged to be set free. He had a decent build—one you would expect from a six foot surgeon who strained his muscles in the gym at least three times a week. The thick curls he inherited from his mother were tapered down the sides and weighed down by the water he just left. Only his right arm and right calf covered in the intricate patterns of his culture. “Feels like I’ve been there, more than here.”

“Isn’t that how it always is?” Milagra muttered, but he heard her clear as day. 

As she rounded the end of the bed to get his side, he stopped her with a hand wrapped around her bicep. “Mila.” He used those eyes. The same ones that always made it seem like he needed her or his entire world would fall apart. Now, she regretted letting her smart remark slip through. She kept doing that. Saying things meant to live and then die in her mind. This wasn't like her. 

“You act like that’s such a shock. I said this would happen back home. They call and you go. It’s always been like this.” His brows wrinkled at the fierceness in her voice. Hand slipping down to her waist.

“Baby, it’s not like I’m leaving to go sit around, twiddling my thumbs.”

She softened her voice. “That doesn’t make it any better—that doesn’t make it feel any better. You barely see your dad as is. It’s that time of year where family means more than anything else and you’re like a ghost. Here one minute and gone the next.” She could see him retreating. His grip on her slipping and his eyes going distant. “I’m not trying to make you feel bad. It’s just something to think about.”

They were in a stance, where their bodies were just an inch apart, as she talked directly under his gaze. 

“You’re right,” he yielded. “I’m sorry.”

She pressed her lips together. She didn’t need him to be sorry. Just better. More aware. 

Realizing he was still stuck on her, she felt his stare heat up, morphing into something harder and desperate. He leaned in, his soft lips, and the hairs above them, fell on hers, and he released a breath like he had been waiting to do that for months. 

When he repeated his actions, she found herself as desperate as him. Easing her tongue into his mouth, tangling in a heated battle. Her grip on his forearm tightened and he used his other hand to hold the back of her neck before sucking the skin right under her jaw. 

The hardest part of his desire now pressing into the fabric of the weak towel and into her stomach. She breathed from her parted mouth, eyes fluttering once he found that spot that sent a direct signal to her core. 

His palms crept under the band of her shorts, squeezing and kneading the flesh of her ass. Struggling to open her eyes again, she fled from the prison of pleasure for just a second, turning her mind back on. 

She missed him and she craved sex. He hadn’t touched her since the news of his betrayal and he was in desperate need of the opportunity to extend his apology, all the while seeking comfort and the security that she wouldn’t slip from his grasp despite everything. And with all the tension from deprivation of him, and the storm brewing between herself and his father—she was more than ready to give him that opportunity. 

But she just had to know one thing first. 

“Were you really getting called into the hospital?” And just like that she threw a blanket over their fire and put it out. 

He stopped mid suck of her neck, plump lips dragging off her skin now, pulling back until he could see her face again. 

“What?”

She didn’t repeat herself.  

Face contorted in confusion or pain now, he bent his knees to plop down on the edge of the bed. She stood in front of him, unwavering, and trying to ignore the slip of his hard dick through the towel. 

“I can’t believe you would even ask me some shit like that. You said you trusted me.”

“I trust that you would tell the truth, not that you wouldn’t do it again.”

He scoffed. “What the fuck is that even supposed to mean? I told you everything because I knew it was a mistake. Meaning I wouldn’t do the shit again.” His voice was solid now. 

“I didn’t know you had it in you the first time, but you expect me to not be on edge, after the fact?” Her brows rose. 

Back snd forth, they sparred, voices matching the last notch of the other, until they forgot where they were. 

“You don’t trust me,” he said, as if he was realizing it in that moment for the first time. “The fuck are we even doing, then?” Not having the answer, she just shook her head. “If I wanted to be over there, that’s where I’d be. I’m busting my ass—running back and forth on the highway—just to make it back to you.” He stretched back, grabbing his phone from its place near the pillows. “You wanna check my phone now? Is that going to make you feel better?” He held it out and she backed away. “No—here.” He shoved it further her way. “That’s what you on, now? Go ‘head take it.”

“Tino, stop! You’re not the victim.”

“Well, then tell me who is! How do you stay with someone you don’t trust?”

Three solid knocks on the door cut between their heat as they stared one another down with pinched expressions. 

“Yeah?” Tino answered with all of his frustration. 

The door creaked and Roman appeared. 

“Breakfast is ready.”

Neither responded. Not with words anyway. Tino rose from his spot on the bed after tossing his phone down, rushing past her and him to retreat back into the bathroom. 

Milagra stood there, not moving, as if he was still there on the edge of the bed—lost. She didn’t mean for any of that to happen, but in the deepest part of her she felt relief. The calming and satisfaction of knowing he cared somehow. It was twisted and it barely made sense to her. 

Her head snapped to the door where Roman had half of his body inside, boring a hole into her face. Waiting for something. Saying everything and nothing at the same time. 

Their hourglass was running its last bit of sand. 

Every exchange she had with him it was like coming to an orgasm, waiting for the big drop, for it to be snatched away. Closer they got to the edge, every time. Stopping because they both knew it. 

That line was too dangerous to cross. There was no going back. 

Before she even bent the corner, she already knew he’d be there. Waiting for her. She could feel him. And if anything she learned about him this weekend proved right, he could feel her, too. 

Tino had left a couple hours prior. An emergency surgery for one of the patients he worked on Thursday night whose body wasn't taking to the medication. 

Milagra tried hard. She really did. 

She could feel the doom of something and it kept her tossing and turning in the sheets of the vast bed, until she finally gave in. Free-falling into the inevitable. She knew from that moment in the foyer. Every little instance, every snagging of their eyes, the hiking of his top lip into a slight smile of admiration or amusement, every pry into their relationship, every flick of his gaze her way when Tino had to go. 

It all made its way down on her sight like rain on a windshield until she couldn’t see clearly anymore. 

He muted the TV after catching her figure in his peripheral. Some tape from a practice before his players went on break. It distracted him from the storm brewing under his very roof that he was getting sucked into. 

She sunk into the couch next to him, eyes fluttering. 

A tenseness in his expression, almost as if he didn’t want to talk about anything, if not what he overheard. 

“I’m pretty sure you heard—earlier,” she whispered as if Tino was still there. 

He shifted on the soft couch, interlocking his long fingers.

“I wish I didn’t interrupt. I wanted to hear your answer.”

“My answer?”

“To his question,” he revealed. “Why do you stay with someone you don’t trust,” he repeated his son’s words softly as not to offend her. “I think I know why. And that’s why I stopped it. I don’t think he can handle the answer.”

It was like he found the one loose string to their relationship, and he pulled and pulled until the whole structure unraveled.

This wasn't supposed to happen this way. She had planned to ride it out. Starting over was a task and she already had a home. Empty and lonely as it was. All she wanted was to be seen—tended to. And in three days this man had done all of that which his son couldn’t in almost three years. 

He didn’t lean in too. Barely moved a muscle. Instead, his head shifted to the right, so subtly, she would’ve missed it if she wasn’t already inching toward him. A gesture that told her everything she had been guessing at all weekend. 

He felt it too. 

The last stretch of space and she almost didn’t do it. But her eyes shifted down, catching a glimpse of his parted pink lips in the dark. Waiting for her. Open arms. And she fell into it. 

Softy as first. Simple. Just one peck that lingered until she found the strength to pull away. 

Stiffly, he eyed her. He wanted her to come to him. He had to make sure she needed it before he made his move. So, she leaned in again. Lips pressing into his. The hairs living overtop his lip pricking her a bit. Again and again she did it. Until his hand curved into the space of her upper neck, long fingers tangling into her scalp, pressing her against him. 

He entered her mouth tongue first. Full throttle now. He was ashamed to have imagined this very scenario. Their flesh smacked together loudly in the silence. She could hardly breathe, chest tight, but she didn’t care as long he didn’t stop. 

She pressed her fingers up the fabric of his cotton shirt, feeling the rippling muscles over his tight skin. Traveling the length down, past the waistband of his sweats and the strings, sliding over the hard and thick muscle. Roman’s breath picked up against her mouth, falling deeper into the kiss. Her hands. He hadn’t felt a woman’s touch in some time. Not one like this. He slow cooked this one on his own. Tender. 

So, he slowed his pace, and took his time, making her settle—surrender. Gliding his tongue over every inch of her mouth, wanting to feel every part. Memorizing her. 

It jumped under her palm, as he imagined what her warm mouth would feel like stretched over him. 

That one act, made time real again for her. She snatched away, standing like the couch had caught fire. 

She stared into the gloss of need over his eyes. 

And before he could open his mouth to say something, she walked away briskly. The last thing she needed was to hear his voice. That would’ve made what just happened too real. The acknowledgment of it. 

Milagra tossed and turned. In heat. Flashes of the scene unfolding in her mind. From her point of view. What it looked like from someone else’s viewpoint. His. All of it. 

Her body was burning up from the inside out. 

It was so big. 

She licked her lips with closed eyes. The pain of yearning for something forbidden, unbearable. 

She couldn’t take it anymore. She had twisted and turned every which way, but nothing could release this feeling coiling like the tightest spring inside of her. 

Flipping the cover open, she stepped out, bare feet hitting the carpet, as she didn’t even bother to tighten her grey cotton robe. 

Her body was unreliable as is, and they still carried her to the other side of the house and up the last side of the spiral steps. A territory she hadn’t ventured before. She held onto everything on her way. The bannister, the walls—purposely not looking at the pictures lining them. 

At the very end, two wall sconces, dimly lit, as if he left it on for her to find her way. The door was cracked open already and she pushed it the rest of the way. 

It was as grand and alluring as him. A dungeon of sorts. Dark wood pillars on the four corners of the canopy bed, vacant of any drapes. A fur throw, overtop the thick duvet. Every surface shined, no evidence of prints or dust. She was floored at how well he kept this place up with no hands to help. Small ceiling lights dimmed, but she could see everything. To her left she found the dresser, the same cherry dark wood finish as the bedpost, with carvings on the edges. 

There were no pictures in here, despite them being showcased all around the rest of the house. The watch he had on when they were downstairs was laid on it. She fingered the gold antique figurine of a butterfly before picking it up, feeling the weight of it. 

They must’ve meant something to him—butterflies. The way he ran his thumb over her wrist. 

There was so much you could tell about a person from their room—the sacred walls, witnesses to their most raw selves and intimate acts. Masturbation. Crying. Talking to themselves. Laughing at a memory that no one else could see. Sleeping. Or getting dressed from the shower. 

That’s when she heard it—the shower. 

Setting the butterfly figurine back down she nearly floated to the sound. Like she was an assassin in  a fantasy novel suddenly remembering her target. She came in here for something. 

This whole trip, she realized, she had been looking for something—someone. 

There was an extra wall that blocked the conjoined bathroom’s entrance from the rest of the room. With every step, she breathed in more steam. He had been in there for a while. 

She touched the walls as she went, like a toddler, trying to familiarize herself with new things. She made it past the threshold, his stretched figure looming behind the frosted glass. She could make out his tanned skin and the dark hairs resting on his shoulders. 

Without even thinking, and before she could change her own mind, she slid the glass door open with a light creak. 

He didn’t flinch, almost as if he expected her. Her heartbeat accelerated at the side of his bare back, the deep line in the center leading to his ass. 

He turned just his upper body, face wet from where he had it placed directly under the waterfall head. When his eyes landed on hers it was like electricity. Then they ventured further down where he noticed her robe was basically undone. The space between her breast, the hills of them and the hard peaks under the cotton fabric made harder at the sight of him. Her bare stomach and the tiny stud that sparkled above her belly button—even the tiny space of hair above her mound—it all had him sucking in air from his nostrils. He was hanging on by a thread.

He made eye contact again and she refused to breathe until he spoke. “Go back to his room.”

Stone cold and sure like he was ordering a child to tie their shoe before they fell. 

“No.”

She surprised herself even, with the rebellion in her voice. It was too late to turn back now. 

The kiss, they could maybe push further out, until years passed and they only saw one another three times a year—maybe—and it became so distant, they convinced themselves they imagined it. But this—her showing up in his room, the tie to her robe loose, as she feigned for him to turn around so she could see everything—there was no mistaking or forgetting this. The whole thing was a declaration. The only thing that could’ve made her intentions more clear, was the act itself. 

In one swift move he had yanked her inside and under the water with him. Her back flexed and she stifled a wince when he corned her into the hard and wet, polished limestone walls. Her breathes coming out in tasked shakes and she was sure he could hear. Thriving off of it when he released his own huffs of primal air. 

He steadied himself, two big hands on either side of her head. 

He really had never seen eyes like hers before. Crusted with gold in between the solid brown. The prettiest two planets he had ever seen. 

Newly transformed curls spiraled, sticking to her face. Neck craned up, she wanted so badly to see what he saw. To notice about herself the things he did. 

In her peripheral it jumped. Eyes darting down at the monster between them, she sighed a breath of relief. Rubbing her thighs together. It was huge. Thick and long, sprouting from the dark hairs. Tan as he was, curving to the muscles of his left thigh. 

His tongue rested in the corner of his mouth, tracing the slope of her breast that had been exposed now from the rush of getting dragged in. He was hungry for the contrast of the dark nipple in comparison to her caramel skin. 

She watched his tongue and his lips part ways, like he was rehearsing and going over in his mind first what he would do to her. Like he had to get this right or there’d be no other chances. 

“You are fucking perfect,” he told her. 

She wanted to kiss him so bad it almost hurt. And when he leaned in closer making a line for her lips, a soft whimper escaped her, before he switched his course and nudged her head to the side with his, landing the kiss on her neck instead. 

Mouth parted, he is all she could feel. 

With his lips on her skin, she’d be a fool to stop this. She simply just didn't have that much strength left in her. He had found her weak spot—literally and figuratively.

“—Dad!” Tino’s baritone voice barreled through, decimating the cloud of  smoke around them. 

Roman’s jaw locked in place. Milagra’s breath picking up as her whole body tensed. 

“Yeah,” he answered with a steady tone. 

“You seen Mila? She’s not in my room.”

Her eyes projected onto him before they shifted to the door she couldn’t see, past the frosted glass. 

He let Tino’s question linger before he spoke again. 

“Check the pool, son. I don’t know. I’ve been in here.”

Tino’s silence dragged as if he wanted to say something else. The suspense had them both frozen in place, barely breathing. 

“Alright.” 

They waited a solid five seconds. She pushed off the shower wall, under his arm, sliding the door open, blinking rapidly as if her reality was distorted. 

“Take a shirt and sweats. The gym,” was all he said. 

She followed directions, quietly without a word. Everything around her seeming distant and cold, now. His shirt covered most of her and she opted for shorts instead, that could’ve been mistaken for Tino’s. Her bare feet softly hitting the steps, listening out for any sign of Tino, before she brushed past the right spiral staircase, to the hall, hand on the handle, right before she heard him. 

“Mila?”

“Yeah?” She jumped watching him bend the corner, still dressed in dark blue scrubs. 

“What’s going on?”

“I was…” She looked into the dark leading down to the steps, a hand pressed to the door still. “I was working out. I couldn’t sleep.” She cleared her throat, but it was still thick as if it was anticipating bile.

All of her angst cleared away when his upper lip tugged in a smirk and he stepped in closer to her. “A hard one, huh?” He fingered her newly formed curls, not used to her wearing it natural enough. 

“Yeah.” She forced a small laugh, before her knees gave out and she lowered onto the top step. 

“Are you okay, baby?” He lowered onto the floor with her. 

Of course she wasn’t. She couldn’t hold one single thought long enough. She was everywhere. All over the place.

Staring into his eyes, the sincerity in them, it made her stomach fold with guilt. In a feeble attempt to justify all that happened, she opened her mouth to ask a deadly question. One, she promised herself she wouldn’t. 

“Did you sleep with Madeline?”

Her voice was timid. Almost as weak as she felt on the inside. Rims of her eyes already conjuring tears. 

His jaw tightened and his eyebrows curved with sympathy. “Why do you ask me questions you don’t really want the answer to?” His eyes blotched with sadness before he blurted the answer in a rush. “No. No, I didn’t.” 

Her heart stopped. 

Relief and guilt fighting to the death inside of her.

“I couldn’t,” he said. “All I could think about was you.” Guilt had won—took the knockout and stood fiercely. 

Not once, had she thought of him in that shower, until she heard his voice. 

“How I wished it was you instead of her—kissing me—showing me attention,” he continued. “That was selfish of me. Knowing I’m not even home enough to get all those things.”

They fell heavy down her face. 

God, what had she done?

She bit into her nail so hard, she heard the sharp crack of the acrylic. 

“I’ll say it a million more times if you need me to. I fucked up. I’m sorry, Milagra. I just want to start over. Okay? Can we? Can we just start over and forget about all the bullshit?” He whispered. Face contorted in pain, watching hers spill from her eyes. 

She sat nearly trembling as he waited for her answer. She could’ve ended it right then and there. Told the truth and wiped the slate clean. Start over, as he said. But her treachery wasn't as simple as his. 

He wished Madeline had been her, but when she closed her eyes, it was Roman’s face she saw. It was his voice she’d hear in her dreams. 

She nodded vehemently. She leaned into him and they hugged for the first time in months. Squeezing, he inhaled the scent of her, swallowing hard when he thought he smelled his father for a second. 

Tino got called into the hospital again. They were eating breakfast when it happened. The TV not too far in the living room held the low hum of some sports show. Stephen A’s boisterous persona echoing and reaching them in the next room. The aggressive clink of everyone’s fork to the plate replacing the conversation nobody could bear to have or hear. 

So much had happened in the past three days and it had drained all three of them. 

His phone vibrated against the table and they all felt it. She already knew what it was even before he sighed and put his fork down. 

“I think I should just leave with you.”

He turned his head to her. “Yeah. Okay.”

She got up before him. Roman’s eyes hot on her tail. She cleared what was left of her plate into the trash and dropped everything in the sink, not having the patience to wash anything. 

She managed to pack her bag and his while they lingered in the kitchen, saying their last remarks. 

“We’re all packed,” she announced. Swiping her hands down the material of her tights. 

Him and his dad slapped hands before pulling one another into a hug. Roman went for her bag, but she was faster. Gripping the handle to hand it off to Tino. 

The easiest way for her to navigate these last seconds without imploding, was to erase his existence altogether. So, she did just that. Never looking his way but feeling those heavy eyes on her every move. Waving small, and muttering a goodbye before slipping into the truck. 

It made her sick to her stomach. All that led up to them, the things they gave life to, for it to end like this. Crash and burn. Stuck between whether leaving it as is was wrong or right. 

The last of him, she saw through the side mirror, standing in his all black ensemble, a hardened look. 

And it couldn’t have been more obvious that he was looking for her. Looking for something. A small inkling, a wave, any gesture to let him know it wasn’t all for nothing. 

She had shown him something he thought would be missing forever. A piece of himself he buried with his wife. And a young and off limits Milagra dug it up just to kill it again.

iii.    home • doing it wrong. 

Milagra thought the endless loop of imagination her brain inherited before meeting this man was tortuous. In that case, whatever it was now doing, after not just meeting him, but smelling him, letting his voice and breath travel up the spot behind her ear, and feel the teasing of his skin—this was closer to death. 

A week had passed since they left his father’s estate. 

Her and Tino were as okay as they had always been. A pimple patch over the obvious red blotches of things wrong with them, but they loved each other enough to see it through. After their conversation on the steps that night, vowing to start over, she felt a new sense of closeness to him. The same kind you’d feel after going through something traumatic with a friend. Like helping them survive the loss of a parent.

And she really wanted to take this clean slate thing serious, but the slate had dirt on it that only she could see. A whole pile covering her undeniable attraction to the man he called dad. And it wasn't just physical. God, how she wished it was just a physical thing. Fantasies of fucking him didn’t satiate her hunger. It was more than that now. Days of him listening to her, and her listening back—him seeing her and her seeing him. She had to catch herself sometimes. Blanked out, staring into space, thinking about the things you only consider when you actually consider someone. If he ate at all. If the silence of that haunted house made him uncomfortable. If something happened to him, who would he even call that could get there fast enough?

Every time the phone rang and she hard Tino say, what’s up dad, her heart stuttered in her chest. Every new post he made on social media, she was just waiting for him to hint at almost sleeping with his son’s daughter. 

She was losing her mind in the calmest way possible. 

Already think of excuses to never go back. 

It was a Friday night. She had nothing to do. No work and she had been released on winter break from school after acing every final, despite her clogged mind. 

Tino’s figure appeared in the doorway. She expected him to go for the walk-in to get ready to go, but he was dressed comfortably in sweats with his bare chest on display.

“Hospital just called,” he announced settling until he was comfortable enough to lay still. “Said they don’t need me anymore.”

Milaga turned to look at him, the book in her hand folding in on itself with her thumb as a temporary bookmark. She waited, sensing he had more to say.”I was thinking, maybe, Patrick and I can have some fun. I know he’s been missing me. We don’t talk as much.”

A wrinkle formed in her brow line as she chuckled softly. “Boy—what?” 

Tino didn’t have any friends or coworkers named Patrick—and he sure as hell didn’t volunteer to spend time with any of his family outside of his father. 

Patrick wasn’t a person. Patrick was what a young Milagra named the birthmark erotically placed on her pelvis, that just so happened to be shaped in a deformed star. Thus, came the name Patrick Star. 

Tino grinned lazily. “You heard me.”

Before she could respond his large body was already on the move. 

She erupted in light giggles, like a school girl who had never been touched before. 

His mouth was relentless. On her chest, her lips, her neck, and back to her lips again. A small whimper fled her throat, feeling him through his sweats. 

She watched him leave open-mouthed kisses onto every inch of her waist. Fingers sliding into the elastic of her shorts.

“You are fucking perfect,” he whispered. 

Lying stiff as a piece of wood now, she warped back to the week before, when he uttered the same sentiment. 

She could hardly feel his lips on her inner thighs, sucking and biting. Staring up at the ceiling she remembered everything clearer than before. That same pit of yearning deepening. He managed to pull the shorts down, exposing her wet center, but her hands came over his. 

“What’s wrong, baby?” He peaked up at her. 

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t—I’m sorry.” 

His hand came down next to her head on the pillow as his face twitched in confusion. His mouth opened and closed in the same second before he sighed. She saw the exact moment where he chose to give up, all his fight eating itself. 

Biting into his bottom lip until the skin turned yellow, he slid off her. The tears already welding up in her eyes watching his back until he disappeared somewhere else in the house. 

He never came back. She waited for him, in the same position he left her, and closed her eyes in the darkness, after realizing he wouldn’t. He always had a heavy walk, and she could hear him moving about in the house. 

She was punishing him still for the same crime she had committed—sure, that hers was much worse. But nothing felt right with him anymore. The little light to their flame was already dying out before, and Roman’s intrusion blew it out completely.

The tears stained her pillow. She didn’t know where to go from here. 

The night and the next day flew by. For once, he was home, but he spent his time alone, in his office. She’d linger in the kitchen across the way, running through lines she could say. Watching him through the glass panels of the door, his glasses rested just above the tip of his nose, brows scrunched—like his father. All her words dried before she could build the courage to say something. 

At night she just laid in bed. Back flat on the comforter, legs crossed at the ankles.

She didn’t know how to fix this without knocking everything down first.

She heard the bedroom door creak, but she didn’t have the strength to look up. He made his presence known anyway. Sliding next to her, matching her position with a flat back to the bed. 

Milagra couldn’t stand the silence. It wasn't something she wanted to sit in when so much weighed over them. 

“Do you wanna talk about last night?” She asked. Peering over at him, when he shook his head. 

“No, we don’t have to. I do wanna talk about something else, though.”

“What?” Her heart doubled in size, pumping more blood than ever before. Every second he didn’t open his mouth, time stretched. 

“When I told you about me and Madeline”—Milagra cringed inside at her name. Jaw clenching. 

She was more than a fuck up. Madeline pumped life into the problem they had been pretending was dead. “You didn’t react,” he finished. His voice didn’t harbor anger. She found no sadness in it either. It was the same as them. Just there. “You didn’t yell. You didn’t even cry. Not that I wanted any of those things from you. But you didn’t give me anything. I just wanted something. Something to let me know you were in this—that you cared. And, I’m not saying that’s why I did it. It had nothing to do with you. I had a moment of weakness. That shit came and went.”

She felt him move. It appeared in front of her seconds later. A small blue velvet box. Her hand shook when she took ahold of it. Holding her breath the entire way until she popped it open. 

“I’ve had it for a couple months now. Way before the Madeline bullshit.” It was beautiful. He did listen when it counted. 

She remembered their first anniversary, drawing her dream ring on a napkin at the resort’s beachfront restaurant. It was simple. Strong but feminine. A studded gold band with the center cut just enough for the diamond marquise ring to slide the through the space atop of it. 

“Last step, was for you to meet my Pops. I couldn’t do it without his approval. He said you passed with flying colors. That you reminded him of my mom,” he added. And that’s when she heard it. The crack in his voice. It forced the heavy tear to finally roll down the side of her smooth face. “I know you don’t think I pay attention—everybody thinks so—even dad. But I don’t have to have my eyes on you all the time to know that you’re unhappy.” She sniffed. Fighting to keep her composure before the cry became ugly as the truth. 

He did it this way because he already knew. If he had it his way, he would’ve bought out some rooftop. Flew her family out, so they could witness their love in real time. But he knew they were at the end of their road. This was it for them. Last night confirmed it. This house was no longer a home. It was just familiar. There was barely any love left. 

The box snapped when it shut before she handed it back to him. The last bit of hope he had withered away. She was sobbing silently now. 

It was over. 

She felt the pain and the relief of release at the same time. Like being released from prison with nothing. Not a damn thing to your name. Nothing to fight for. But at least you’re free. 

They both knew it was wrong, to turn over and hold each other as close as they did, clinging. Her fingers gripping the cotton of his shirt, tears spreading on the material. All he did was pull her in tighter. 

They slept just like that. Cradled and molded into one another. Their last night together and they spent it holding onto the lat bit of love they had for one another. 

They wanted a clean slate and they composed just that—a clean break. Seamless. A war with no casualties. 

He offered for her to stay as long as she needed, but her bags were already packed and she was out the door with them by noon the next day. He wasn't even there to see her off. A sign that she was going the right way. This needed to happen. It was long overdue. 

Her new home was a hotel downtown that was convenient and close to work. Half her days were spent working, dotting over illustrations and recalculating measurements three times over—and the other half of her days she spent on Zillow looking for something that felt homely enough. And she wondered if that would ever happen. If she would ever feel that safety and comfort of home again. The chip of paint behind the headboard from it knocking against the wall too much. The faint brown spot on the living room carpet where he made her spill her coffee, demonstrating a punch from the fight that aired the night before. The smell of his Men’s Dove body wash all over the bathroom. 

She settled into a condo not too far from the hotel a month after the breakup. It wasn't quite the homely feel she had already missed, but every day that she used her key to open the door, and every small pot bought or piece of furniture she moved—it started to feel familiar. And that was the best she could hope for. 

Tino had texted the week she moved in, asking if she had found something. Said, if she needed help moving in, he was there. She knew he was just being his normal generous self. Extending the hand he didn’t have. He wasn't there and that was the issue. But she thanked him anyway and did the hospitable thing which was lying and telling him she’d call if she needed him, knowing she would rather call her brothers or father who lived hours away. 

Out of the blue, in the wee hours of the night, she got a call from a random Florida number, while curled up in her new bed. She watched it ring, not recognizing it. Only seconds after it stopped, her heart pummeled over itself at the text on the banner. 

It’s Roman. 

She clicked it immediately. The bubbles popping up in the thread as she anticipated his next words. They disappeared, and then reappeared. She could hear her own breathing, shallow, as he held the phone tight in the dark. 

I just want to know you’re okay. I just talked to Tino.

Her thumbs danced over the keyboard. She didn’t know what was safe to say. 

You have no family this way. It’s not safe. I think at least one of us should have your address. Extra layer of protection. 

She stared at the words for nearly five minutes. Rereading them to make sure she wasn’t reading too fast and misinterpreting it. Eventually, she texted her address back, thinking maybe he’d come. 

He never did. It was delivered and read. 

Milagra found herself the following days, just waiting—for a text—a call—a knock on her door. Anything. 

Maybe it was just as simple as he said. An extra layer of protection if she needed it. 

Two months had coasted by in her new place, living her new single life, and she was starting to get comfortable in it all. Her classes were back in full swing after the winter break and she buried herself in distractions as to not have to look up and face the changes in her world. 

It was a Tuesday morning and she chose to work from home. Fresh out of a meeting she went downstairs, looking for the new edition to her collection of classic literature novels. But she found something else in the black boxed locker. 

It was another book. Or at least that’s what it felt like through the plastic carrier bag. Her name printed on the label. 

She rushed back upstairs, kicking the door closed, before tearing it open. The wrapping fell revealing a cookbook. The Classic Italian Cookbook by Julia Della Croce. Her brows pinched, opening it from the back and flipping until she landed on the title page.

His name is languid in cursive. Under it a small note. 

Na e toe aumaia le malamalama i totonu.

She sped-walked to her laptop. Glancing back and forth between his writing and the keyboard to type it into google. The translation that came up, had her plopping down onto the bed. All of a sudden it was months before, and she was suffocated with that feeling she couldn’t escape. 

You brought the light back inside.

He had opened a door she thought was locked, and she wasn't looking to shut it this time. Not without her on the other side of it. 

iv.    roman’s estate • i took the long way.

It took Milagra all day to figure out that she was going back.

Truth be told, the minute she saw his name etched neatly in cursive inside that book, she felt the distance between herself and him shortening, as the hours counted themselves down. 

She stepped out of her truck, sneakers hitting the cobblestone. 

She switched her outfit at least four different times back in her condo. From something too sexy, to something too homely, and another that was too formal—until she settled on dad jeans and a tank top. 

There was the smallest twinge inside of her that told her this could go completely wrong. A disaster. Rejection was a silent killer. And she didn’t know what she’d do if this was for nothing. 

She didn’t even get the chance to knock before the door swung open. 

They stared, no words between them, just yet. Observing each other. Looking for changes. 

He always looked so comfortable. Like something she could wrap her arms around and get lost in. 

“You drove all the way down here?” He looked out to where her truck was parked. “By yourself. It’s late.”

“I needed the drive. To clear my head,” she lied. Her head was just as jumbled, if not more, than when she left Miami. 

Neither of them moved or spoke for what seemed like forever. Roman thought long and hard about what it meant—letting her past this threshold. He had always been a man of constraint and discipline. His body showed so. His bank account. The strength of his faith. His sex life and relationships with women or lack thereof. 

Milagra had managed to penetrate every solid temple in just three days. She worried now, how desperate this was. The context going clearer to her. She wondered if he could smell it on her. The sheer vulnerability and thirst for someone to just look at her and save her from her own self-inflicted misery. It seemed like the perfect idea when she was on her way. The grand gesture of a knight drawing his sword for the princess. Now, she just saw it as weak and pathetic.

She took a step back. 

“Come on,” he said. The door opening wider. 

“I don’t know if I need to to grow up—if I’m still looking at love through the lens of a little girl—but there was never that spark—that moment where I said to myself—yeah, this is where I’m supposed to be. I don’t feel that. The spark,” she finished. Chest expanding and minimizing from the shortness of breath from her ramble. From her anxiety. From the exhaustion of love’s side effects. All of it. 

He was unusually quiet. Sitting stiffly on the other side of the island. She feared that she had messed it all up. 

Had he come to his senses and realized how fucked up it all was? How impossible it could be?

“You asked me before, if I was happy,” she continued. “And that familiarity and happiness were twins. Easy to confuse.” He nodded. “I couldn’t tell them apart before. I can now.”

Nothing. He offered nothing. Just shifty eyes and the roll of his broad shoulders. 

“What did he say?”

“That he was lost,” he answered. “And I told him that sometimes lost is the best thing to be. Now you can go anywhere. Start over.”

Again, with that look. The one that implied he had a secret message hidden for her in his speech.

She shook her head. She couldn’t do this. Sit here and pretend. 

“Roman—” 

She stopped herself when he rose from the stool. 

In suspense, she couldn’t keep her eyes off of him. He paced the length of the island, stopping the end closer to her. A large hand covered his own mouth, smoothing the hairs around it down, before resting his palms on the smooth surface. 

“He’s my son,” he reminded her and a part of himself. 

“I know,” she said firmly. “I know,” she repeated in a rushed whisper. 

“I love him. I’m supposed to protect him. I’m all he has left.”

“I know,” she said, exhausted. 

He let the air around them go cold for a minute, head swarming with the loneliness he’s worn over the years and gotten comfortable in, clinging to it like a second skin. 

And then she came. Out of nowhere. And they say that’s how it usually happens. 

He peered up at her, lifting and rounding the corner to stand in front of her. The ball was in his court now. The cookbook was just the worm on the hook. He couldn’t let her go on, thinking it meant nothing. That she meant nothing. She caught it and now she was here. 

Everything happened in reverse from the first time. It was now Milagra who sat stiff, as he leaned in. She licked her lips and that was the only invitation he needed before pressing his into hers, setting her on fire. 

He did it again. Added three more down the length of her jawline. 

“I feel it.” Another one, caught on the skin right below her ear. “Damn right I feel it.”

Her breath left her in shakes. Nothing but adrenaline and need coursing through her veins. Fueling her. 

He lifted her up, wrapping her legs around his waist, all the while exiling his son from his conscience. He could have this. He deserved this. He deserved her. Fasted for over a decade for someone like her. 

Roman carried her up the length of the staircase the same way he carried her months before—like she and all that she came with didn’t weigh a thing. Eating off one another, desperate to finish what they started. The hunger and passion just as potent as before. Pungent like food that had been sitting out just waiting. 

He released her, and she fell gently on the bed. Her dyed black strands surrounding her, draping over the fur throw. She watched the entire time, as he reached behind to slide the black shirt up and off. Grabbing the hem of her tank, he cracked a smile at her before lifting it over her head. Her D cups spilling out, hitting the cool air as she giggled. 

He came back up. Fists digging into the bed on either side of her head, muscles flexed. 

This was really happening. 

She planted two hands over the hair of his beard, bringing him down to her, tasting him again. Getting used to him. Familiar with his taste. The girth of his tongue and the rhythm of his passion. 

His hands went for the button of her jeans next. Kissing the skin above, running chills everywhere his lips brushed. He caught a glimpse of the almost star shape on her pelvis, smiling to himself. They were barely off when he hooked his hands to the back of her knees, pressing until he could see all of her, glistened under the dim lights. One last look and one last chance to stop him, and she didn’t. So, he dove in, face first. Licking and sucking in a French kiss as if it were the lips on her face. The back of her head dug into the mattress. Writhing and moving against his mouth. Getting away was useless. His grip was too strong. It always had been. 

His hand came down somewhere between her hip and ass, eyes shut, licking around the most sensitive area. Moaning to himself, feeding his new addiction. Venturing down, he kept the pressure of his thumb on her clit, but couldn’t resist burying his face deeper. She giggled, pushing at his strong shoulders, not used to the sensation. Wickedly, he smiled before rising, turning her on her stomach and pushing his sweats down and off. 

She gasped. The hardness of his tip rubbed up and down her slit, almost entering. Pushing back, she couldn’t take it. They had played enough games. Teased each other to the point of madness. 

“Roman—please.”

So, he pushed. They were both starved. Pushed past the mental block of betrayal and her walls all at once. Entering and covering himself in a form of ecstasy he hadn’t danced with in years. 

He was in control at the start. Moving at a safe pace, making her feel every vein, every piece of skin she was missing. In and out, a hand locked on the small of her defined back, right above the meaty flesh of her ass. It was a sight to see. Stretching her out. The white cream gathered at the base. Her breath hitched and he struggled to keep himself in check. He dreamed about it. Some so real he woke up missing her wrapped around him—a feeling imagined. His hand not even cutting it close. 

She was everything he ever wanted. Starving for knowledge. Passionate. Ambitious. Leaning into her feelings. Strong. A woman. 

A woman that made him lose control. 

His demeanor shifted. Something teetering the line of anger or frustration, guiding the motions of his hips. Driving into her. Deeper. Faster. Rougher. Her breaths turned to whimpers. Whimpers turned to moans. Moans transformed into screams. She couldn’t recognize her own voice. 

His strokes accelerated. From precise to choppy and needy. He couldn’t focus on anything else. 

Milagra clawed at the covers, taking it. She would take anything from him. This older man held the key to all of her locked doors. 

His hand slithered between her and the bed to find her clit. Rubbing tight circles over the slippery flesh. His strong leg, knee pushing hers up, as he laid all of his weight on hers. He pushed and pushed. The muscles of his ass flexing every time he drove in deeper. Their skin slick. Mingling together in a groove—grinding as one. Their labored breaths filled the room. She pushed back when he did, ensuring they were never apart. 

“I want all of it.” He pushed further and further until there was nowhere left to go. “I want all of you,” his gravelly voice whispered on the side of her face. 

She gasped, when she felt it kick inside her. The first spurts of his release didn’t make it to where he intended, before he pulled out and left the rest of it on her ass. 

Two sets of knuckles pressed deep into the mattress as he hovered overtop her still, catching his breath, coming back to reality. 

Gripping the bone of her hips he pushed her over to the other side. Clearing her face of all her hair before licking into her mouth with a new sense of yearning. 

He reared back on his knees and she rose to hers. He was hard as a rock still. Heavy with a string of clear liquid still leaking from him. 

She never wanted to taste something so bad in her life. 

“You don’t have to do that,” he told her in the midst of getting pushed on his back.

“I want to,” she said. Eyes smoldering. She would’ve done anything in that moment. 

She took ahold of him in her hands that seemed to shrink in size compared to him. Moving the skin along she licked her lips, admiring at first. Kissing the tip like a gift she had been dying to unwrap, before taking it all the way down, gagging herself on purpose. The strings of spit following her release of it, evidence to her purposeful suffering. 

His stomach hallowed. This wasn’t his usual thing. They all struggled too much or their desire to look pretty while doing so always ruined it. But she always looked pretty to him. 

“Such a pretty girl.” He couldn’t help but tell her so. Sliding his hand down the hill of her arch before stroking her hair. “So fucking pretty for me.”

He gripped the base, sliding the swollen tip back and forth over her dripping tongue. 

“Suck it.” He guided it inside as she closed in on him. Cheeks hallowing in. “Fuck.” She released it with a slight pop before spitting on it. Taking the tip back in and repeating her actions two more times before he lost control. Gripping a handful of hair, his hips pushed off the bed, hitting dead center in the back of her throat. She struggled to breathe, mouth full, running her nails over the skin of his chest where his peck flexed under the ink of his tattoo. He slowed down. Wanting to feel everything. The warmth of her mouth, every piece of wet flesh. His dick hardened to a painful degree, begging to release again. “Come on.” 

She climbed overtop of him and he immediately strived for connection again. Holding it for her to ease down on. She moved against his hard body, not wasting a second to show her appreciation. Grinding back and forth with a hand to his knee, her swelling clit kissing the hairs on his pelvis. Clinging onto her hips, he watched, mesmerized. Infatuated. 

The swinging of her breast. The muscles in her core. The small whimpers breaking from her swollen lips. Thick hair falling over her face. The skin of her neck, shining with sweat every time she dropped her head back. The tan lines decorating her. 

He gripped her breasts in his hands, sliding his fingers over the hard tips of her nipples. 

“So fucking sexy.” His thoughts came to life. He loved everything about her. “Give it to me. Urghnn,” he growled at the tightening of her pussy around him. 

To gain some control he dug the heels of his feet into bed, huge thighs striking up into her. 

“Oh my—f-fu-f-fuck! Roman,” she cried. Clawing at the meat of his muscles. 

“I know, baby. I know.”

His lips snarled over his teeth at the sight of her breast bouncing. Hands struggling to hold onto him.

Their eyes found each other. The heat in his chest spread, smoldering to a new fuel. A need for closeness. He rose up, pressing his chest to hers. 

“Wrapped around me so tight,” he sighed of relief. “Almost like you need me.” 

Burying his face into the flesh of her chest, he inhaled. Strong but feminine. The compliments replayed in her mind. His tongue snaked out to lick the top of where her chest rounded. He always paid attention to the parts that everyone else ignored. 

His hands were greedy. Gripping and feeling every inch of her skin, traveling the map of her body with no destination, until he settled on wrapping his strong arms around her waist. Holding her, letting her their bodies mold and stick to one another. 

The whole experience was new for Milagra. She had sex before, but not like this. Not in a way that she ached for connection and wanting to come out of her own body. It was usually just about pleasure. Feeling good and hitting the goal post. This was different. She just wanted to be as close as close could be. She wanted him to feel what he’d done to her inside. When words weren’t enough, this is what it should be like. This is what the creator intended. The thing that separates us from animals. 

She rocked with him, never wanting it to end. She could do this very thing forever. Melting into his strong hold. His arms a barricade. She had never felt so safe. 

Somewhere in the euphoria they had stopped moving completely. Her fingers tangled in his beard and hair. Noses gliding alongside each other as they chased the high of kissing. Something so simple. A lost art, they perfected. Leaning into each other’s movements. Making up for where the other lacked. 

His tongue flexed in a way that reminded her of how he ate at her just minutes before. Moving to her neck, he sucked on that spot without even being coached. 

They just fit. 

She started moving again. Riding with her clit brushing against him. 

“You feel so fucking good to me,” he declared into the skin stretched across her throat. More fuel. She sped up. He switched his position, feeling her squeeze the life out of him. She was close. That fast. That’s how it happens when a different organ—the heart is leading. 

Up on his knees, he held her in place. Balls slapping against her ass with every thrust. It was like he had done this before. Like someone had already shown him the map to her treasure, and he studied hard before his voyage. 

Up and down he moved her. It crept up on her like a snake slithering over a rock. Unexpected regardless of her search for it. Just like him. It started at the center where they met and exploded through every part of her like a cancer. Weakened her and gave her the strength of a hundred men. She fell back from his hold, until her head hit the comforter. Still, with a grip on her hips, he didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. He’d give whatever she needed, make the ride smooth as he could. 

She rode out the waves of pleasure, body twitching, until she couldn’t feel anything else. He forced himself to retreat again, within seconds. Exploding on the softness of her tummy. 

It was over. They made it to the other side. 

“Holy shit.” He huffed. Finally resting. It was like coming down from a high. 

She covered her face to hide the stretch of her smile. He invoked a girl-like giddiness in her. 

She was okay. For the first time in a long time—she was okay. Not just there. She had ascended. 

She just hated that it had to happen at the expense of someone else she loved. She suddenly felt the scales of her own skin. 

The muscles in her face fell. Subtle, but when someone saw you, they could see every shift. He bit into his bottom lip, already knowing where it hurt. Settling until he found a comfortable position over her, the muscles of his arms trapping her on either side, yet again. His brown eyes bounced around on her face, reading every thought. 

“Everything can be fixed,” was all he said. She nodded. Listening. Understanding. They’d figure it out. 

He didn’t know how his son would react. It was too far out for him to grasp. He had no plans on loving this woman in the dark. That wasn't his style anyhow. He was too grown for games. He knew he waited too long for this. He tried to stifle his wants with something else and it didn’t work. 

He tried. He tried for Tino. He tried for her. He tried for himself. He tried to bury this feeling within his chest, and all it did was sprout from the ground, blossoming. They had given too much life to it in just the three days spent together. 

She infiltrated his mind and got stuck there. Her ghost walked around this house like his deceased wife’s did. He was tired of living with them. The ghosts. That, he did know. So that’s what he chose to focus on. Not the unknown. 

His lips folded in for a second, contemplating his next words. “I looked everywhere for you,” he confessed. Those words drew everything in her together, sewing her insides tight. 

She could see all of it. Their entire existence as far as they could go. Something she just couldn’t do with his son. 

Cooking lessons at the wee hours of the morning. Some eighties band who’s one album charted for weeks playing from his iPad. Massaging him after a workout. Him popping up on her at work to bring his latest tried recipe. On the side of his team’s game, cheering them on and taking notes of the things he couldn’t see. 

This was the spark she had been waiting on for so long, that she didn’t even think existed anymore.

Just when she thought she’d give up the search, at the end of her road, ready to turn back—here he was. The whole time. Closer than she could’ve ever imagined. 

“I took the long way.”

la's language★. so just as a big fuck you to the anon(s) who had an issue with me still using this man as writing inspo, i decided to finish this piece. i wrote this sooo long ago. i'm talking back when he and solo did the tribal combat match. only, it was half this size because in the original when she came to the shower, they just did the nasty, and that was the end. idk what made me change it and add to it. this version just feels better. i was going to break it up into parts and make a mini series but i took some stuff out so it can just be a oneshot. i did have another route this could have went, that i wouldn't mind exploring if you all want to read that version too. just lmk. anyways, happy reading! if you read it, or even just a portion of it, i am forever grateful. feedback is always welcomed ♡

[dj-fr3nch-t1p]

MDNI EXPLICIT 18+

Description: When Amber finds out her long-term partner is cheating on her, she only wants one thing. Revenge. What she doesn't expect, however, is help in the form of her partners best friend and husband of the other woman.

Author's Note: Just another excerpt from an upcoming story. This time I actually made a cover for it. Photo from pinterest (they have all the good Roman pics)

Content Warning: SMUT (not yet) with a side of buildup and story.

“I’ve always thought Cody didn’t know what he had,” Roman whispered, close enough for Amber to feel the heat radiating from his body. And damn it all if she didn’t want him even closer. “ A woman like you…you’re wasted on him, Amber. I never understood why someone like you settled for someone like him.”

She smiled faintly, color marring her cheekbones. “Sometimes you take what you can get.”

Roman shook his head slowly, eyes filled with warmth. “You deserve more.” Pausing, he cupped her jaw, tilting her head up to meet his smoldering gaze. “And I think you want more than you’re letting on. Tell me, Amber. What is it you really want?”

Amber fought with herself. All her life she’d been taught to play it safe; to be dependable. She’d become an expert at molding herself to suit others' needs; Cody’s in particular.

Cold, silent fury settled deep in her bones, mixing with the primal need that was fast developing for the man only inches away from her. She knew what she wanted.

And Roman was just the man to help her get it.

“I want to do the same thing that he did to me,” Amber's eyes narrowed with determination. Satisfaction spread across Roman’s expression as she spoke. “I want him to see what he could have had.”

She smiled, a plan unfolding.

“I want revenge.”

[southerngirl41]

The Ruins of Us- 2.1

Roman x OC

Warnings: 18+

*I've had several people ask about Roman and Nicole's marriage. So, I wanted to dive a little into that. We'll call this chapter 2.1 This one is a shorty, around 2k. Also, I wrote this while halfway watching a movie...so, I hope it makes sense.*

Catch up here: Part 1, Part 2

Part 2.1

One year ago:

“You’re never here when I need you,” Nicole’s voice sharp and brittle, slicing through the kitchen’s morning hush. The word “never” landed with its usual finality, as if the entire history of their marriage could be reduced to a single, bottomless absence. Roman sat at the edge of the counter, fingers curled around a mug of coffee he didn’t remember filling, and tried not to rise to the challenge in her tone. But the pressure inside him, the slow, chronic clench that had built for years, was always waiting. “Maybe if you actually told me what you expect out of me, I’d fuckin’ know,” he snapped, surprising himself with how much venom he could still muster.

Nicole was already moving, frantic and kinetic in her old pajama pants and a faded t-shirt, hair up in a rough knot. She loved to pace when she got like this, circling the perimeter of her anger, touching random objects for ballast: the fridge handle, the chairback… “I do tell you, Roman,” she spat back, eyes never quite meeting his. “I tell you every goddamn day. You just don’t listen. You’re always somewhere else, always with your head up your own ass or with her-” She broke off, not wanting to say the name, but the shape of the accusation was a living thing in the room.

Roman felt the familiar heat in his cheeks, the embarrassment that came with being known so completely by someone who no longer liked him. He tried to sound reasonable, tried to pitch his voice lower, softer, but it always came out defensive. “Nicole, you keep acting like I’m the only one who screwed up here. Like none of this would’ve happened if I was just…what, less of myself?” He paused, groping for words that meant something, but all he found was the old, stale air between them. “We both know it’s not that simple.”

She stopped pacing, hands braced on the sink, and stared out the window at the backyard. Her shoulders shook, just once, but he saw it. “You think because you say sorry, because you show up for breakfast now and then, that it fixes anything? I don’t care if you’re sleeping on the couch or in someone else’s bed,” she said, voice low and vibrating. “I care that I wake up every morning and it’s like sharing a house with a fucking ghost.” She was crying now, silent tears, more angry than sad. “You’re not even here when you’re here,” Nicole hissed.

Roman wanted to reach for her, to put a hand on her shoulder, but he knew better. He’d lost the right to that kind of comfort months ago, maybe years. Instead he sat there, a big dumb lump of a man, mug sweating in his grip, and listened to the soft, wet hiss of her grief. It felt like getting his ass kicked in slow motion.

He tried to say her name. The word stuck. He tried again. “Nicole, please. I’m trying. I want-” But he didn’t know how to finish, because the truth was he didn’t know what he wanted. He only knew that he was tired of being the villain and even more tired of being the victim.

She wiped her face with the back of her hand and turned, finally facing him head-on. “You want me to tell you what I expect? I expect you to be honest. I expect you to admit you’ve already checked out. That you were gone before you ever touched her, and that you’re still gone, even now.”

Roman pressed his palms flat on the countertop, the cold tile biting into his flesh, and let the anger lift his voice until it felt alien in his own mouth. “Let’s not forget how we got here, Nic.” He hated the way it sounded, hated the precision with which he could cut her, even now.

For a moment it seemed that would be the end of it, another volley in the endless cold war of their mornings. But Nicole didn’t flinch, didn’t look away, didn’t let the words collapse into the silence that sometimes masqueraded as mercy. Instead, she squared her shoulders, her jawline clean and hard, and met his gaze dead-on.

“Yes, I fucking know I cheated on you, Roman.” The words came out jagged, stripped bare of all the old euphemisms and cowardly half-truths that had haunted their arguments for months. Her hand trembled as she gripped the edge of the sink, white-knuckled, like she was bracing herself against the pull of a black hole. Nicole’s chest hitched as she inhaled, the confession pulling at every muscle in her body. “Like I don’t replay it in my head every time I see you across the table, every time the kids ask if we’re okay. Like I don’t remember exactly what I did, every second of it. Don’t you dare pretend you have the monopoly on guilt.” Her voice didn’t break, but it hovered so close to the edge that Roman felt his own throat tighten in sympathy.

He was still, caught off-guard by the force of her admission, by the way she stepped into her own failure like it was armor instead of shame. His mind scrambled for a response, something equal to the weight she’d just placed between them, but he had nothing. He had spent so long blaming her, then blaming himself, then blaming the shape of their life together, that he’d forgotten what it was like to meet in the open, both of them stripped of pretense.

Nicole’s eyes shone with unshed tears, and her lips curled, disgusted with herself and with him for making her go first. “I fucked up,” she said again, softer this time. “But I never expected you’d go and do the same thing, Roman, not with her. You think that makes us even?”

Roman flexed his jaw, felt the old pattern of tension clench up along his teeth and ride down to his shoulders. Even now he could feel a perverse relief uncurling in his chest, like he’d been waiting years for her to say it, to absolve him by matching his worst with her own. He stared at the shadow her body threw onto the tile, the jagged outline of her arms, and thought: It’s never fucking even. Not the way people pretended. Not when you paid for it in different currencies- hers in guilt, his in humiliation, and both of them bankrupt before the first affair even had time to fade.

He wanted to say that, or anything else. He wanted to launch a plate at the wall, or maybe just close the gap between them and let their bitterness collapse into friction, the way it used to before “sorry” calcified into the only language they shared. Instead, Roman gripped the counter until his fingers numb, and waited for the next punch.

But Nicole didn’t flinch. She wiped the tears on her sleeve, quick and disgusted, and when she looked back at him she had that edge, the one that used to draw him in and make every fight its own kind of foreplay.

“You going to therapy?” she asked.

Roman set his jaw, “Told you I wasn’t gon’ go.”

Nicole’s mouth twisted. “You love to fuck up, but you can’t even pretend to fix it. Typical.” She shoved a hand through her hair, breaking apart the careful bun she’d forced it into, and let the strands go wild around her face.

“Because I’m the only one that fucks up around here?”

Nicole snorted, a sharp sound. She jabbed a finger at Roman, her nail just short of the bone. “You think you can just coast through life on charm and an apology? You want to impress me, try finishing something. Try being honest for once in your goddamn life.”

He felt the words coil under his skin, hot and mean, but he stayed on the stool, hands knotted around the mug. “Was I supposed to come crawling back? Make some grand gesture?” It came out harsher than he’d meant, the old habit of escalation. He caught the wall of her back reflected in the kitchen window, the way she braced against the counter as if she could stabilize the whole house with sheer will. “I did what you wanted. I left.” He said it quieter, less for her than himself.

The silence hovered, thick with all the unsaid things that used to fill their nights: who would take the kids to school, whose turn it was to sleep in, the endless grind of logistics that now seemed like a kind of mercy. In the old days, it would have ended in shouting or in bed, both of them too stubborn to bow first.

He tried for a long, slow inhale, but the kitchen air felt thick with nine years of this exact stalemate, the kind where every molecule of it had been recycled through a dozen of their previous fights. Nicole’s new favorite trick was weaponizing silence: she let it spool out between them, every second stretching like a rubber band on the verge of snapping.

Roman stood and scraped the chair across the tile. “Let’s just admit that our marriage is over and move on.” He let his own anger gutter. It was always easier to torch shit than to tidy it up. He didn’t want to argue, really. He just wanted her to look at him and see something worth salvaging, even if all that was left was the courtesy of an ending.

“The kids will be devastated…”

“Were they devastated when you stepped out on our marriage?” Roman asked. “Were they devastated when you called me a piece of shit in front of ‘em? You think that’s helpful, dumping it on their heads? Great job, Nic.” His hand shot out, caught the edge of the counter, knuckles tight. “Don’t think for a second you weren’t the one who made this unfixable.”

“Don’t put this on me,” she said, not turning. “You’re the one who ran away, Roman. Only difference is I stopped pretending a long time ago.”

He could see the vein at Nicole’s jawline stand rigid as rebar; she looked like she’d never relax again. He remembered, suddenly, how gentle her face used to look when she slept, how the anger went slack, how in the first years he could have reached across any divide and pulled her back. Now she looked at him like a stranger.

He watched her move through the kitchen, marveled with a dull, almost scientific curiosity at how efficient she could be with rage. Every gesture so calibrated. He remembered her teaching their son how to tie shoes, the same flick-of-the-wrist neatness. In some liminal part of his brain, he wondered if he’d fucked up their kids for good, or if they’d grow up and realize all parents lived by double standards.

Nicole twisted a bottle of water open and gulped half of it before she spoke again. She wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. “You want to be the sad, misunderstood one so bad. I get it. Football, wrestling, everyone expecting you to be the golden boy, maybe you don’t know how to turn it off. But your demons are boring.” She twisted the cap back onto the bottle, slamming it with a little more force than necessary. “You can blame your dad for the number he did on you. You just never fucking grew out of it!”

Roman almost laughed, bitter and hollow. He wanted to deny it, but the words hung there, stuck in the space between them. He let his hands drop to his sides, limp, the urge to punch a wall replaced by the simple need to leave. Nicole braced herself on the counter, breathing through her nose, the edges of her eyes gone shiny. All his old instincts-protect, repair, erase, flexed and then fizzled, useless now. She didn’t want protection, just honesty, and it made him ache with a different kind of loss. He grabbed his phone off the island, palmed his keys, and for a second thought about smashing the mug against the tile. Instead, he left it sweating on the counter; a useless monument to everything they weren’t going to fix.

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[southerngirl41]

The Ruins of Us

Roman Reigns x OC

Warnings: 18+

*I'm back on my Roman bullshit... that is all.*

*****

Part 1:

“You jeopardized your entire career. And for what!” Talia’s voice trembled through the quiet kitchen of Roman’s Penthouse, sharp and high, the word “what” fracturing at the edges like splintered glass, as if she couldn’t believe he’d done it, wouldn’t even let herself consider that he'd done it on purpose, much less.

Roman stood across from her in nothing but sweatpants, his brow slick with a layer of nervous sweat, the remnants of sleep still clinging to the corners of his eyes. He said nothing at first, letting the question hang like a guillotine between them. The silence lengthened, a thickening fog. Then he pressed his palms against the countertop, flattening them as if to steady himself against the tilt of the world.

“For you,” he said at last, voice raw, “I risked it for you.” The words sounded childish and grandiose at once. His lip quivered; he caught it in his teeth. Talia laughed, not kindly, a brittle sound that shivered in her throat before dying away. She hunched her shoulders, as if bracing for some invisible blow, but her eyes glistened with something sharp and frightened.

“You think that makes it better?” she said, barely above a whisper, but with enough venom to poison. “No one was supposed to know about us! We made a promise. You'd let me do it on my terms! When I was ready. "

He stared at the sink, the browning bananas dangling from their hook, the blob of melted ice cream in the bowl they’d shared before bed. He didn’t want to look at her. He wanted to freeze the world at that fraction of a second between her words and his next move, pin it like a specimen, study it for the correct answer. There was a hum in his skull, in the walls. The clock above the pantry read 5:03 am.

They’d said it would be a small thing, a brief flash of animal pleasure, a dirty secret between co-workers. Instead, it had metastasized, grown vines, sent roots through the tectonic plates beneath their lives. Now almost seven months later Talia’s fingernails clicked against her coffee mug, counting off silent seconds, a Morse code he didn’t speak.

“I thought this was what you wanted,” Roman said, and the words felt fraudulent as counterfeit bills. He could feel, even before finishing the sentence, how stupid it was. Of course that wasn’t what she wanted. No one in their right mind wanted this. Late-night calls, the scraping secrecy, his name on the line, her career... But he’d ignored the math, convinced that love would find spaces between the facts.

But the secret between them was a chasm now, and she was looking not at him, but at something just past his shoulder, a point of escape, maybe, or forgiveness, or just a little bit of empty air.

He forced a breath, and it caught in the tight place between his ribs.

“I did it for you,” he said again, and this time he could hear how stupid it was. Because he'd done it for himself. Selfishly. The words felt slippery in his mouth, like they were trying to get away from him before she could pin them down. “Everyone was talking already… I just- confirmed it.”

“But, I didn’t want you to confirm it!” The coffee in Talia’s mug had gone cold. She kept gripping it, as if warmth might still rise up through her hands, if only she could hold on hard enough. Roman wanted to say something to make her un-hunch, to smooth the tension in her shoulders, but his mind was a chalkboard scrawled with lines and angles and nothing added up.

“They were gon' find out,” he tried. “It was just a question of when.”

She scoffed, a windy, mirthless sound. “You made  us a target, Ro. Then handed them the fucking bullet.”

He opened his mouth but couldn’t find any more words on the shelf.

“I had a plan,” Talia said, each syllable methodically peeled off her tongue. “I was going to be the one to tell the world.” Her hand pinched the bridge of her nose, leaving a red crescent where nail hit skin.

Of course she had a plan. She always did.

She had started to cry at some point, but the tears were quiet, running sideways along her cheek toward her ear, hair soaking them up. Roman moved as if to reach for her, then stopped, awkward, his hands raw and unfamiliar. He fidgeted with the drawstring of his sweatpants, twisting it until his fingers ached. He hadn’t thought beyond the confession. He’d never been good at aftermaths.

She scrubbed her thumb across her cheek, leaving a wet streak. “You're going to lose everything.” The way she said “You” ripped at his heart, not gentle. Not “we” not “us,” despite everything that had gotten them to this moment. “You.”

Roman wanted to tell her she was wrong, that things would work out, that rules were meant to be bent, especially for people like them, but Talia’s eyes, pink-rimmed and stubborn, told him to shut up for once. He leaned against the counter, wishing it would collapse and swallow him.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and meant it, but the words sagged in the air, threadbare and tired.

Talia looked down, swirling the dregs of her coffee. Her shoulders trembled once. “You’re not sorry. You needed the attention. You always do this.”

He didn’t know what “this” was, but it sounded ugly, and true. He tried to summon anger, but only came up with weariness. In another life, this would have been the part where he knelt, wove his fingers through hers, and begged forgiveness. Instead he hung back, watching the shadow of her as the first rim of sunrise painted the kitchen window with that yellow-gold that meant day was coming whether he wanted it or not.

She set her mug down slowly, as if glass might break if she rushed. “I’m going to go...,” she said.

She turned on her heel and walked out, her bare feet thudding soft regret into the hardwood. No suitcase, just a tote bag waiting on the banister, bristling with receipts and half-read books and the charger she always stole from his nightstand. Roman heard the stairs creak under her, sharp at first, then duller as the carpet runner muffled her exit.

He lingered, wiping crumbs from the counter, picking at them with thumbnail and forefinger one by one, flinging each into the sink. The mechanical rhythm steadied him, in a way. He found himself staring at the rim of beige foam at the bottom of her mug. He ran the tap and watched the coffee swirl away, then turned it off fast, so the silence rushed back in and thumped through his ears.

Adrenaline soured into something sullen and sticky in his blood as he went to the front hall. Talia was bent over the bag, her hair curtained her face. He reached for words but all he could imagine was his voice, echoing back at him, every syllable peeled apart and examined from every angle until it shrank to nothing.

He hovered, stupidly behind her as she tossed the bag over one shoulder. The strap caught a lock of her hair and dragged it across her cheek like a lash.

He tried to make his voice gentle. “Talia. Wait.”

She brushed past him, so close he caught the wind of her perfume, the minimalist kind that whispered rather than shouted. It was stupid, the way a scent could loosen his knees. He followed her to the door, his throat suddenly dry.

"What about your—” he started, but she was already digging for her keys in the bottom of the bag. Talia’s fingers moved with their own impatient logic. There was nothing for her here, and he’d made sure of it. Maybe that was what she meant by “this.” A pattern, like the veins that ran through the marble floors, flaws repeating, ingrained, impossible to polish out.

She paused with her hand on the doorknob, her profile cut sharp against the bright outside light. Her lips parted, as if she might round on him and say something final, something that would close the case. Instead she tightened her grip and left.

*****

Roman sat slumped in the black leather chair in his locker room, picking at a hangnail until it bled, and only then did he realize that his hands were shaking. He wondered if Talia would turn up at work, or if she’d already drafted the resignation letter, or maybe a more formal complaint.

It didn’t matter. The deed was done.

He changed into his black cargos methodically, slipped his boots on, the laces needled through every hole with more force than necessary. He wanted to feel the old pre-game thrumming in his muscles, that burn of competitive hunger, but the locker room had never felt so small. Maybe the others sensed it. They all saw the posts, the comment threads, the little leaks of gossip that ran through Gorilla.

Roman Reigns torrid affair with ring announcer Talia

WWE ring announcer Talia’s secret affair with a married Roman Reigns

Scandal rocks WWE locker room

Click here to read the latest shocking WWE Roman Reigns rumor

Roman wanted to click the links and read them, punish himself with the full measure of public exposure, but he already knew what they’d say. He’d seen the same cycle play out for others, seen the blood in the water and the sharks that followed. He rubbed the spot between his brows where the headache pooled thickest, then pulled up his hood and waited for his call time. 

He flexed his fists, straightened, rolled his shoulders until the vertebrae popped in staccato relief. It was always cold in Gorilla, but the chill clawed deeper today, like a hand inside his rib cage. He had never felt less like seizing the moment. Fighting felt immaterial. The real war had already detonated.

There was always waiting at the threshold, the last buffer between reality and the ring, Roman’s name next on the call sheet, and the anxious shuffle of crew and producers and the undercard talent. Paul Heyman lingered nearby, thumb busy with his phone, attention flicking between screen and Roman. Paul had always been the closest thing to a handler, or whatever it was you called a man whose job was to press every advantage, real or imagined. Paul didn’t say anything, but he gave Roman a look both expectant and wary, as if hoping for a miracle but prepared for a parking lot brawl.

Roman cleared his throat, the words catching in his mouth. “You see it?” he said, the question too small for the room, too small for the scope of the disaster now mapped across every phone and screen in the building.

Paul didn’t look up, but his thumb stopped its endless flicking. “Everybody’s seen it.” The words landed hard sending ripples across the surface of Roman’s composure. Paul’s face betrayed nothing, but the pause after said everything. The news had breached the membrane, left the realm of rumor and become a living thing, a story with its own momentum. Roman heard a cough from the far end of Gorilla, the kind that tried to bury a laugh, and imagined all the eyes on him now, some hungry, some pitying, some quietly grateful the crosshairs had shifted away from them for once.

For a second, Roman hoped for a sympathetic word, a reassurance that it would all die down by the next news cycle, but there was only that heavy pause, thick with calculation and something like disappointment.

Roman glanced down at his own hands, finding the knuckles white, the lines of his fists as stark as a roadmap. The locker room buzzed behind the partition, but in Gorilla the air had gone still, the only movement the twitch of backstage monitors. Roman tried to remember to breathe. He had been in championship matches with less adrenaline in his system.

Paul leaned in, voice pitched so only Roman could hear. “It’s not going to blow over,” he said, not unkind, but with the fatalistic pragmatism of a man who had watched many careers dissolve in real time. “You need to do some damage control.” He tapped the phone with a fingernail, as if to underline the point.

Roman’s jaw tightened. A surge of old, useless anger flashed through him, the kind that never accomplished anything except making him feel briefly less hollow. He caught himself before saying something stupid, something that would make the hole deeper.

In the silence, Paul’s phone vibrated again. New messages. New angles. More blood in the water.

He didn’t regret it. Not really. Roman said it under his breath, quiet enough that it didn’t seem to register to anyone in the room. Maybe because he needed to hear it out loud, or maybe because if he didn’t say it, the words would calcify in his chest and choke him out. He didn’t regret what he’d done with Talia, or the way he’d blown up his own life, not even the part where the world now howled for his humiliation. He regretted the aftermath, yes, the mess, the raw nerves and the bitter taste that lingered, but not the thing itself. The risk. The exposure. The way she’d made him feel alive, unsettled, real.

He could see the story playing out in his mind, the tidy version he’d tell himself if he had time to turn the whole saga into a fable: Roman Reigns, the perennial company man, the architect of his own downfall, finally punching a hole through the glass box he’d been sealed in since debut. Maybe it was selfish to want something that vivid, something that sweet and dangerous. Maybe it was what everyone expected of a man like him. 

He’d spent over a decade packaging himself as indestructible, the Stoic, a man immune to ordinary disaster. But Talia had curled around his routines, found the seams, made him porous. She called him out on his shit. She made him break his own rules. And when he’d confessed, he’d done it with that same old bravado that had carried him through a thousand matches: eyes forward, shoulders squared, daring the world to knock him down. He didn’t regret it.

He wanted it.

Roman felt the eyes on him now, a dozen unseen gazes burning holes through the curtain. Every person in Gorilla, every phone, every camera backstage, they all knew. The gravity of it pressed down on him, a lead blanket. If regret wanted to creep in, it would have to fight through layers of stubbornness, pride, and the strange relief he felt for having detonated the secret himself. He almost welcomed the punishment. At least it was honest. He wondered if Talia would ever forgive him for being this weak, this vain, this selfish. Most of all, he wondered if she’d ever want to see him again after what he’d cost her.

Cost himself…

Because strangely, that was all she was concerned about; him.

Roman’s name flashed on the monitor. His cue. He rolled his shoulders, exhaled hard, and let the regret slide off him like sweat. He had a job to do, and for the next fifteen minutes, it would be the only thing that made sense.

*****

He went straight for the shower in his bus, slamming the door behind him and letting the steam wring the feeling from his skin. He scrubbed at himself with the bar soap until his skin burned, until his scalp ached from the roughness. He pressed his forehead to the tile. For a minute he could almost stop hearing the crowd’s thunder, could believe he was anonymous. Just a guy washing off sweat and bad decisions.

When he switched the water off, the chill returned, even sharper. He towel-dried on autopilot then threw on the first clothes he grabbed.

Talia wasn’t waiting in his bed this time and absence lingered like a ghost. He’d never noticed how loud an empty room could be.

He closed his eyes and replayed that last look, the way she’d refused him even the small final cruelty of a good, clean argument. He would have preferred that. Instead, like a grenade, Talia had pulled out the pin and placed it delicately atop the ruin he’d made.

He peeled himself from the sheets, reached for his phone, scrolled until the blue light hurt, swiped and swiped again. Messages. Missed calls. The group chat with his cousins bloomed with memes and gifs of his own face. Roman almost laughed. He pictured Jimmy, hunched in his rental, reading the rumors out loud to his brothers and snorting between sips of energy drink. He didn’t mind their jokes, never had, not even when it was brutal. They’d keep him honest. He wondered if any of them would call, or if they knew better than to play at real advice.

46 new texts, three missed calls from Heyman and one from his wife. He would answer none. Let the world go blue in the face screaming for him.

A notification: “TALIA’S RESPONSE TO ROMAN REIGNS SCANDAL—SEE WHAT SHE SAYS HERE.” His thumb shook as it hovered above the link. He clicked it despite himself. No real statement. Just a photo, Talia taken from a distance, crossing the parking lot to her rental car, bag slung across her chest like armor. There were paragraphs of speculation in boldface, but not a single word quoted or confirmed, not even a denial. Just the implication of movement, Talia on her way to anywhere that wasn’t here.

Roman’s phone buzzed in his hand, a gentle, persistent vibration that felt like an accusation in his palm. He glanced at the screen, at the photo of Nicole, his wife, the mother of his kids. The image was old, taken on a family vacation before any of this, before the frost had started to creep into their house. He’d never changed it, not even when she’d stopped smiling like that in real life. He answered the call, voice hoarse: “Yes, Nicole?”

There was a pause on the other end, the kind that meant she was weighing every word, measuring the exact trajectory for maximum damage. He could hear the dull background noise of their kitchen, the clatter of dishes being stacked or unstacked, the low whine of a kid’s TV show somewhere in the background. It almost leveled him, how normal it sounded, how it contrasted with the grenade that had gone off in his own life.

“We agreed,” she said finally, voice even but cold as the tile under his feet, “that you wouldn’t go public with your…affair.” She let the last word hang, like she wanted to see if it would sting him, or if he’d flinch. Roman didn’t flinch. He didn’t have enough nerves left for that.

“I know,” he said, but the words felt hollow, unconvincing even as he said them. He didn’t know if he was lying to her or to himself. “I never meant—”

“Don’t bullshit me, Roman.” Nicole’s anger wasn’t hot; it was glacial, the kind that moved slowly and destroyed everything in its path. “You think I can’t do the math? The story drops the exact day I filed for divorce, and suddenly you’re trending everywhere. You think that’s a coincidence? You're trying to vie for the upper hand.”

He closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t control what they post, Nicole. You know how they are. They’d do anything for a click.”

She was quiet for a moment, just the sound of her breathing, measured and tight. “You know what the worst part is?” she laughed bitterly, “It’s not even the cheating. It’s that you’d rather be the bad guy in public than actually talk to me. You made a choice, Roman. Don’t pretend you didn’t. You don't do anything by chance. Talia may not know that about you, but I do.”

The words hit harder than any headline. He thought about saying something, about trying to explain, but there was nothing left that didn’t sound like a press release. He’d stopped being able to talk to his wife somewhere along the way, replaced conversation with silence, or with the cheap adrenaline of the next match, the next city, the next whatever.

Nicole’s sigh came through the phone, sharp and final. "Is she that important to you? Important enough to risk it all?" she asked, voice brittle as glass.

“Maybe.” he sighed, He felt the words slip out. There, he’d said it. The core of it, the shit he wasn’t supposed to name. Maybe it was easier to be hated, to get gutted clean and start from nothing, instead of picking through the rot of a failed marriage and pretending it could ever be fixed.

On the other side of the call, Nicole made a small noise, it could have been relief, or disgust, or maybe nothing at all. “At least there's one thing you didn't lie about,” she said, a grim little medal he wasn’t sure he earned.

“Are you going to see the kids this weekend?” she asked, brisk now, efficient, the mercy of logistics. “They’re expecting you and for once, I hope you'll actually show.”

He shoved his free hand through his hair, scalp stinging where the hot water hadn’t quite erased the night before. “Yeah, I’ll try.”

To be continued...

@madhatterbri @charmed1990 @eringobragh420 @femdisa @fearlesschimera @caramara3 @purplementalitybluebird @fafomama @xbriexx @jstarr86 @ctinadiva @isabella-2025 @vebner37 @jeyusos-girl @cyberdejos2 @thesamoanqueen @raya-hunter01 @crxssjae @iguessilikewrestlingnow @visionarymode @bebesobrielo @empressdede @brie-mode-activated @msbigredmachine @mzv11 @thetribalqueen @headoftheetable @sayyestoheav3nn @nicolewoo @jaded-human @cutttteeee @trippinsorrows @trentybenty @surdelcielo @electronicwitchsandwich @bloodlinesbabe93 @abadbitchblogs @yana3sworld @mindairy @jackson-nickthedate @eatlifthockey @leighla3 @mselenalovebug @transparentphantomface @pittieprincess22 @christinabae @miss-kuki-nz

[reignspears]

[empressdede]

Tangled In The Ashes - III

Part Three

Roman sat back on the worn leather couch in Jimmy’s garage, a half-empty bottle of Casamigos in one hand and his phone face down on the table. His jaw clenched as Jey and Jimmy argued across the room like two loud-ass sitcom brothers.

“She texted you again?” Jimmy asked, eyebrows raised as he passed Roman a fresh blunt. “How many now?”

Roman shrugged and took a hit. “Three… maybe four.”

Jey whistled. “And you ain’t answer none of ‘em?”

Roman shook his head.

Jimmy leaned forward. “You tryna win a trophy or be a grown-ass man? Talk to her.”

“She let that man punk my kid,” Roman snapped, sitting up straighter. “I ain’t got nothin’ to say to her right now.”

“Punk your kid?” Jey echoed. “Bro, he took the Switch. Ain’t like he put hands on him.”

“Yet.” Roman gritted his teeth. “You think it starts with a slap? Nah. It starts with access. Then control. Then next thing I know, some dude’s coaching my son on how to be a man while I’m just the side parent who comes around on weekends.”

Jimmy sat back, rubbing his beard. “You sound like a man who still love her.”

Roman didn’t respond.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” Jimmy pressed.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to,” Jimmy said. “All this energy? The fact you pulled up at 11PM using a key from two years ago? That ain’t just father-of-the-year energy. That’s my-woman-done-pissed-me-off energy.”

Roman took another sip from the bottle. “She’s the mother of my child. I got a right.”

“And now she’s the woman you ghostin’,” Jey added. “You fallin’ back all quiet like you didn’t storm in that house ready to square up.”

Roman rolled his eyes. “She should’ve stopped him. That’s the part y’all keep ignoring. She let another man step in on my son. That ain’t love. That’s disrespect.”

“So what now?” Jimmy asked. “You gonna keep ignoring her forever?”

Roman didn’t answer right away. He rubbed his temples, frustrated.

He wasn’t trying to be petty.

But something about seeing Melo cry like that… it lit something in him. Something primal. He could still hear his son’s voice.

“Tyler took my game, Daddy.”

Roman hadn’t even thought. He’d just moved. Like instinct.

And the way Amaya looked at him that night?

Yeah… he saw it.

That look.

The one that said I forgot how good it feels when you protect us like that.

And he hated how bad he wanted to see that look again.

But she’d made her bed.

Since she was trying to play house with someone else.

Let her.

“You ask me?” Jey said, cutting into his thoughts. “You need to go remind yourself who the fuck you are. Lay up with somebody else. Let Amaya feel it for once.”

Roman raised a brow. “You serious?”

“Dead,” Jey said. “She ain’t the only one who can be laid up with somebody. You single, bro. Play your role.”

Jimmy threw a hand up. “Or—and hear me out—maybe don’t act like a high schooler with a bruised ego.”

Roman shook his head. “Y’all giving me whiplash.”

Jimmy shrugged. “Look. Do what you want. But if you still love her, bro? Don’t play games. Don’t pretend you don’t care when you do. That’s how you lose the whole thing. The woman, the family, all of it.”

Roman stared at the table.

His fingers tapped against the glass bottle.

“I don’t know what I want right now,” he admitted.

“Bullshit,” Jey said.

Roman shot him a look.

Jey held up his hands. “I’m just saying. If you really didn’t want her, you wouldn’t have pulled up like that. You damn sure wouldn’t be sitting here looking like you lost your best friend.”

Roman stayed quiet.

Jimmy spoke again, softer this time. “Maybe you just mad cause you ain’t in control no more.”

Roman let that sink in. He hated how true it sounded.

But the twins knew their cousin, knew he wouldn’t pour out his feelings out in the open. At least not sober, so Jey lit another blunt, eyes squinting against the smoke as he leaned back on the couch the three of them sat on.

“You thinking ‘bout callin’ her?” Jimmy asked, nudging Roman with the edge of his boot.

Roman didn’t answer right away. Just sipped from the bottle and stared out at the tv like he was waiting for something to happen.

Then Jey chuckled suddenly. “Man, forget all that soft shit. Remember how we jumped ol’ boy?”

Roman finally cracked a smile, low and cold. “How could I forget?”

Jimmy laughed, shaking his head. “Yo, that was wild. I ain’t even think we was really gon’ do it.”

“Cap,” Roman said, voice dry. “You just didn’t think I was serious.”

Jey smirked. “I knew you were serious the second we pulled up and you turned that music off.”

“Tyler thought it was gonna be a convo,” Roman muttered, shaking his head. “A little man-to-man chat.”

“Boy was wearing slides,” Jimmy added, laughing. “Didn’t even lace up. Had no idea we was about to jump him old school.”

Roman’s jaw clenched slightly at the memory, but the smile stayed. “He touched my son’s stuff. Disrespected me in my bloodline. That’s all I needed.”

Jey leaned forward, grin wide. “Bro, the way you walked up to him and said, ‘You still got that same energy?’ I almost lost it.”

“And his face?” Jimmy added, eyes wide. “He froze. Looked at all three of us like he was in the final level of a video game he didn’t know he entered.”

“He got scared real quick.”

Roman’s voice lowered. “He should’ve.”

They all went quiet for a moment, each reliving it in their own heads.

The three of them had walked up without raising their voices. No yelling. No posturing. Just presence. Three solid walls of muscle and blood ready to make a point.

Roman had spoken first.

Calm.

Measured.

“You think you can put your hands on my kid’s stuff? Act like you the man in that house?”

Tyler stammered something about intentions.

Roman didn’t let him finish.

First hit came fast.

To the gut.

Then Jey caught him with a hook to the side of the face. Jimmy swept his legs.

It wasn’t a full-on beatdown—more like a lesson. Painful, but pointed.

Roman made sure he didn’t bleed.

But he wouldn’t forget.

“He won’t ever look at a Switch the same,” Jey said now, chuckling.

“Damn sure won’t talk slick again,” Jimmy added.

Roman’s smile faded just slightly.

“I didn’t do that just for me,” he muttered. “I did it ‘cause I needed him to know. Melo ain’t to be touched. Not by nobody that don’t share his blood. Period.”

Jimmy nodded. “And if she don’t get that… then maybe she never will.”

Roman leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the bottle hanging loosely in his grip.

“She used to know, though.”

Silence settled between the three men again.

“She still loves you,” Jey said finally. “You ain’t gotta be a genius to see that.”

“Then why she let that dude get comfortable?” Roman muttered. “Why let him think he could step in?”

Jimmy tossed his empty cup into the grass. “Same reason you ain’t stepped up yet, bro. She’s tired of waiting.”

Roman didn’t respond.

But in his chest?

The fire was reigniting.

And this time?

He wasn’t sure he’d be able to hold it back.

It started with a whisper.

Then a stare.

Then a full-blown sideways comment at the grocery store.

“Tell your baby daddy he got hands,” a voice muttered as Amaya reached for a pack of strawberries. She blinked, heart skipping. She turned instinctively, but the woman who said it was already halfway down the aisle, smirking like she’d just dropped a bomb and was proud of the fallout it would cause.

Amaya stood frozen, her hand hovering over the fruit. The cold from the produce shelf clung to her fingertips, but the rest of her felt flushed—suddenly too hot beneath the buzz of the fluorescent lights.

Hands?

What the hell did that mean?

She tried to brush it off. Told herself she misheard. Maybe the woman wasn’t even talking to her.

But that night, the rumors came crashing in like a tidal wave.

This time, from her cousin Darnell over FaceTime.

“Yo,” he said casually, licking barbecue sauce off his thumb, “you still talkin’ to that Tyler dude?”

“I guess,” she replied, curled up on her couch in an oversized hoodie. “Why?”

He snorted, shaking his head. “Might wanna check on him. Heard he got ran down by some Samoan muscleheads.”

She sat up, heart slamming against her chest. “What?!”

“Man, Roman and his people put hands on that dude outside the gas station. Over what, I don’t know. But bruh got snuck. Ain’t even throw one punch back.”

Amaya stared into the screen, her mouth suddenly dry.

“Roman?” she whispered.

“That’s what I heard,” Darnell said. “You know I got ears everywhere. Somebody said it was Roman, his cousin with the red braids, and the one with the grill. All three of ‘em walked up calm like they was just there to talk—and then boom. Tyler caught that work. Didn’t even get a punch off.”

Amaya’s stomach turned. The room felt like it tilted under her. She ended the call early, her ears ringing, her thoughts spiraling so loud it was like her own brain betrayed her.

Roman jumped Tyler?

Over Melo?

Over her?

She didn’t know what to feel.

Because somewhere between fury and fear…

There was something else.

Her emotions were everywhere. Anger flared first—what the hell was Roman thinking?

This wasn’t how grown adults handled co-parenting. This wasn’t how you protect your child. This was control. Pride. Ego on full display.

But then…

Beneath all of that…

There was a sick, twisted pull in her chest.

That deep, low ache that Roman always managed to awaken in her—no matter how far she tried to run from it.

She hated herself for feeling it.

A part of her she hated—hated—felt protected.

Not just protected. Claimed.

And that… that pissed her off even more.

Because Tyler didn’t deserve that. He might’ve been awkward. He might’ve overstepped. But he tried. He respected her. He showed up.

She tried texting him.

Amaya: You really jumped Tyler?

Delivered.

Read.

No reply.

No surprise there.

Roman had been ignoring her since that night—like she was the one who crossed him.

And maybe she did.

Or maybe they both had.

Amaya buried her face in her hands.

How had it come to this?

Roman hadn’t texted.

Hadn’t explained.

Hadn’t offered so much as a damn “you good?”

And here she was—still thinking about him.

Still wondering what part of that fight was about Melo… and what part was about her.

And the worst part?

She already knew the answer.

It was both.

And that’s what scared her the most.

Because she wasn’t sure how to live in a world where Roman was both the man that has sides of him she needed to protect her child from… and the one her heart still wasn’t ready to close the door on.

________________________

Two days later, Roman pulled up in front of her house like it was just another Tuesday.

No warning. No heads-up. No apology.

Just him, in his usual black tee and sweats, gold chain resting on his chest, hoodie down, hair freshly washed the way it fell over his face.

His truck door shut softly, and he made his way to the front steps like nothing had happened at all.

Amaya stood in the doorway, arms folded, heart slamming against her ribs.

“You really thought you could just show up?” she said, before he even knocked.

Roman looked her up and down, calm as ever. “Ain’t no need to stand outside. I’m here for Melo.”

“You’re here for Melo,” she echoed, voice rising. “You sure you’re not here to finish what you started with Tyler?”

He didn’t blink. “He around?”

She nearly slammed the door in his face.

“No,” she snapped. “He hasn’t been around. He hasn’t even called.”

Roman stepped forward until he was under the awning, towering above her.

“Then why you mad at me?”

“You jumped him, Roman.”

“He had it coming.”

“That’s not the point.”

He gave her a long, unreadable look. “Then what is?”

Amaya shoved the door open fully and stormed back inside, knowing he’d follow. And of course—he did.

Because Roman never waited for permission.

He walked in like he still lived there.

“Three grown-ass men, Roman?” she threw over her shoulder. “Really?”

“I didn’t say I needed help. They came ‘cause they wanted to.”

“So it was a group decision to stomp out the man I was seeing? What, y’all take votes now?”

Roman didn’t respond.

He didn’t need to.

The silence said enough.

Amaya turned to face him, voice cracking now. “Do you even care how that makes me look? What people are saying about me? About Melo?”

Roman’s gaze darkened. “What I care about is my son. And some random-ass man thinking he can step in like I’m not here.”

“He wasn’t trying to replace you.”

“He didn’t have to,” Roman said, stepping closer. “He took my son’s game. Told him what to do. Disrespected my title without saying a word.”

Amaya’s voice softened, just a bit. “And your response was to beat his ass?”

Roman’s eyes locked with hers.

“Yeah.”

No hesitation.

And somehow… that made her angrier.

But also… something else stirred in her chest.

And she hated that, too.

“You can’t keep doing this,” she whispered. “You can’t keep playing like it’s always going to be you, Roman.”

“I’m not playing anything,” he said, voice low. “We both know what it is Maya, you the only one playing pretend.”

Her breath hitched.

He didn’t flinch.

Roman stepped closer again, crowding her space, eyes fixed on her lips now.

“You think I ain’t see the way you looked at me that night? You liked it. The fire. The chaos. That’s why you keep inviting peace in and pushing it away. Because peace don’t know how to grab you like I do.”

Amaya took a shaky breath.

“You’re toxic.”

“I’m real,” he corrected. “And I’m tired of acting like I’m not the only one who ever had your heart.”

Silence.

Thick and heavy.

Unforgiving.

And then—

“Daddy?”

They both turned.

Melo stood at the top of the stairs, sleep still in his eyes, curls wild.

Roman stepped back from Amaya instantly, like the moment had never happened.

“Hey, bud,” he said, smile softening. “You ready?”

Melo nodded, rubbing his eyes.

“Can we get pancakes?”

“Anything you want.”

Roman looked at Amaya one last time.

Something unspoken passed between them.

And just like that, he took his son’s hand and left.

The kitchen was warm with the smell of coffee, the low hum of the dishwasher running in the background. Morning light poured through the windows, bathing everything in soft gold.

Amaya stood at the counter, stirring her coffee slowly. Her mind was elsewhere—still stuck on Roman’s visit. On the way he moved through her house like he still belonged. On the look in his eyes when he said:

“I’m tired of acting like I’m not the only one who ever had your heart.”

She hated how true it felt.

Footsteps approached behind her. Mariah. Fresh from her morning jog, still dressed in workout clothes, sweat slicking the edge of her hairline.

“You good?” she asked, reaching into the fridge for a water bottle.

Amaya nodded vaguely.

“Because this morning was… a lot.”

Amaya’s jaw clenched. She didn’t want to go there. Not yet.

But of course, Mariah went there.

“You know, at some point you’re gonna have to actually put your foot down with him.”

Amaya didn’t turn around. “What do you mean?”

Mariah cracked the water open and took a sip. “Roman. You keep letting him come and go as he pleases. He storms in, picks fights, gives orders—and you let it slide. Then you wonder why your peace never lasts.”

Amaya turned then, slowly.

“I’m not letting him do anything. He’s Melo’s father.”

Mariah shrugged. “So? Doesn’t mean he gets a pass to disrespect your house, your boundaries, your man.”

“I don’t have a man.”

“Because your baby daddy ran him off,” Mariah snapped.

Amaya’s grip on her mug tightened. “It wasn’t that simple.”

Mariah crossed her arms. “You know I love Roman—in theory. But you’ve been bending over backwards trying to keep things ‘cordial’ when he’s out here moving like a damn husband who pays the mortgage.”

Amaya let out a bitter laugh. “That’s rich, coming from someone who doesn’t have to share a kid with anyone.”

Mariah narrowed her eyes. “So now I can’t give advice ‘cause I don’t have a child?”

“No, you just can’t give this advice,” Amaya shot back. “Because you don’t get it. You don’t know what it’s like having a kid who worships the ground his father walks on.”

Mariah stepped closer, voice quieter but sharp. “And you don’t know what it’s like watching your sister shrink herself every time that man walks into a room.”

“I’m not shrinking.”

“You’re folding. And I hate it.”

Amaya’s eyes burned. “You think I like this? You think I enjoy the way he makes everything so complicated? The way he makes it hard to breathe without feeling like I owe him something?”

“Then stop letting him win,” Mariah said. “Stop letting him treat this like his second home. Start setting some actual f*cking boundaries, Amaya.”

“I have—”

“No, you haven’t. Not when he’s showing up unannounced. Not when he’s putting hands on the man you were seeing. Not when your son thinks it’s normal for his father to be half God, half ghost.”

Amaya slammed the mug on the counter, coffee sloshing over the side.

“Melo can’t wait three days before he’s asking about his dad!”

Her voice cracked like thunder in the quiet kitchen.

Mariah froze.

"Every other day it’s ‘Where’s daddy, mommy? Can daddy come? I wanna play with daddy. Mommy, can we get this for daddy.’ I can’t fuckin’ escape that shit!"

Amaya kept going, eyes glassy now, voice rising with each word.

“Now you want me to what? Close the door on Roman? Tell Melo he couldn’t see his dad because you want me to have some sort of pride?!”

Mariah stepped back, caught off guard.

Amaya pointed at her chest. “Get over yourself, Mariah.”

Silence.

Heavy and sharp.

Mariah blinked, mouth slightly open. “That’s not what I—”

“Yes, it is what you’re saying,” Amaya snapped. “You’re asking me to pick pride over parenthood. You think I don’t want to scream every time he pulls this possessive bullshit? You think I don’t want to block his number, slam the door in his face, start fresh?”

“Then do it.”

“I can’t!” Amaya yelled, eyes now fully brimming with tears. “Because he’s the only damn constant Melo has. Because no matter what Roman and I go through, my son still crawls into bed at night asking when he’s coming back.”

Mariah’s shoulders dropped.

Amaya’s voice softened, cracked. “And what do I do with that, huh? Pretend it doesn’t break me every time?”

Mariah was quiet now.

Real quiet.

Amaya stepped back, arms crossed over her chest, trying to get herself under control.

“I’m not saying I want to keep letting Roman in,” she whispered. “I’m saying I have to. Because Melo needs his father. Because I can’t bear the thought of my baby growing up thinking his mom kept his dad away over an argument.”

Mariah nodded slowly, finally understanding the core of it.

It wasn’t about pride.

It wasn’t about boundaries.

It was about Melo.

“Okay,” she said softly. “Okay.”

Amaya wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “I’m sorry for snapping.”

Mariah crossed the room and pulled her into a hug.

“I’m sorry for pushing,” she whispered. “I just hate seeing you hurt.”

Amaya nodded against her shoulder. “I know.”

They stood there like that for a moment, sisters again—equal parts tired and tethered to the same love.

When they pulled apart, Mariah offered a small smile.

“I still think Roman needs a throat punch.”

Amaya actually laughed. “You and half the city.”

“Still…” Mariah tapped her shoulder. “Don’t forget—your peace matters too. Melo needs his dad… but you need your sanity.”

Amaya sighed. “Yeah. I just don’t know how to have both.”

“Well,” Mariah said, grabbing her keys, “maybe it starts with you deciding what kind of love you’re willing to tolerate—and what kind of love your son deserves to see.”

Amaya didn’t have an answer.

But she knew she’d be thinking about that all day.

🫣 guess we know why Tyler never called back huh?

😭😭 not only is Roman toxic, he a damn menace to society 🤣 he the real person you have to proceed with caution with! 🤣

Somebody tell Amaya to STAND UPPP

VIP TAGLIST : @wrestlingprincess80 @whatdoeseverybodywant @pr0tost4r @paigereeder @alyyaanna @raya-hunter01 @mzv11 @trippinsorrows @partypoison00 @isabella-2025 @jstarr86 @chrisevanswife0405 @fearlesschimera @cyberdejos2 @whowrotethenote @potatosackk @ajaxcleaningsupplies @sayyestoheav3nn @chasssssworld @christinabae @glittergirl7 @itskii01 @fame-ass-ers @li-da-savage @ashykneee @kianaleani @holisticcoach @pittieprincess22 @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account @amandairene88 @luvrsluxe @venusesworld @norababora @callmekayd @chrissyxcxox @keyera-jackson @wabi-sabi1090 @psiloveyOu @baybehkay @nybearsworld @transparentphantomface @sassginaswanmills @fafomama @wooahmiri @theusotwinzcom @westcoast-babygirl @prettygixlnica @blackchickinthedesert @abandonedkooee @mackfinstathrowitback @potatosackk

[southerngirl41]

In the End Part 4

Roman Reigns x OC

Warnings: 18+

*I'm going to go ahead and apologize because this is 12k words... I just couldn't help myself! Also, the worst part of not being able to stop myself is having to edit said 12k words!*

Catch up here: Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Part 4

The first several days after that night passed like the slow bleed of an old, persistent wound—painful, unremarkable, and always on the edge of reopening. Neither Roman nor Sienna reached out; the silence between them was raw and private, a mutual dare to see who would blink first. They went about their routines with the careful choreography of people who both craved and resented what the other represented. Sienna filled her evenings with the trivial rituals of self-preservation, watching stupid reality shows, fixing unambitious meals, and letting the TV drone quietly in the background as she scrolled through old messages she never intended to answer. She thought about Roman more than she’d admit, his voice echoing in her head at unexpected moments—at the sight of her coffee cup, or in the hush of pre-dawn before her alarm.

Roman, on his end, spent the days in a perpetual state of forward motion. If he stopped, even for a moment, he worried the inertia would crush him. He trained obsessively at the gym, taking solace in the predictability of physical exhaustion. Sweat had always been his drug of choice, and he let it pour out of him by the gallon, as if he could drain every doubt and guilty impulse through his pores. He kept his head down, made the necessary apologies to everyone, and prepped for Summer Slam with a near-maniacal focus. At night, he’d lie on his back in the dark and listen to the nothingness, wondering if every man who’d ever loved and lost felt this exact flavor of emptiness. He did not call Sienna, even when he wanted to, and he did not see the other woman, even when she called him. His only reply to her had been, “I'm sorry but this isn't going to work out.”

By the sixth day, the machinery of the wrestling world had ground into a fever pitch: contracts to sign, entrances to rehearse, egos to soothe. Roman became, once again, the character everyone expected, his public face a mask of sovereign confidence. Cameras circled like flies, capturing every sinew of his return. On the seventh night, as the lights of the arena pulsed and fans filled the stands with primal anticipation, Roman emerged from the blackness into the full-bore spectacle of Summer Slam—his presence undeniable, his private life neatly cordoned off somewhere behind the veil of sweat and spotlights.

At Carla’s insistence, Sienna found herself swept up to the arena’s skybox. They rode the elevator in silence as the world below them became a blur of faces, lights, and the low hum of anticipation. Inside, the skybox was all glass, chrome, and silent attendants, a bubble high above the riot of the crowd. Sienna had barely set foot inside when Carla pressed a flute of champagne into her hand and maneuvered them to the front row of the gallery, where she could see everything but had nowhere to hide.

From this vantage, Sienna surveyed the stadium: the masses surging with energy, the ring itself an island of violence and spectacle in a sea of fans. She tried to make herself small, folding into one of the velvet chairs and tucking her hair behind her ear in the hope people would overlook her. But Carla was relentless, nudging her with jokes, pointing out celebrities, and offering up tiny, bitter olives from the passing trays. Every time Sienna shifted her gaze to the ring, the air seemed to compress in her chest.

She had not intended to come; she had not wanted to see Roman like this—transmuted into myth by distance and spectacle, his every gesture magnified for a million hungry eyes. But here she was, perched above it all, watching as a version of him she barely recognized stalked the ropes and basked in the ovation. She thought of the man who’d sat barefoot in her kitchen, confiding the soft underbelly of regret, and wondered how these two selves could possibly share one body.

Sienna realized she was gripping her champagne flute too tightly, the glass sweating cold against her palm. She tried to loosen her hold, to let herself be swept away by the manufactured joy of the moment, but all she could feel was the complicated tangle of pride, longing, and some new, raw ache she didn’t have a name for. The crowd’s roar washed over her, and for a suspended moment, she let herself be part of their collective adoration. Here, among strangers, she was free to ache for him without the risk of being seen by him.

She watched Roman step into the ring as if he were stepping onto a stage where he could finally shed the weight of his past. The arena erupted, a cacophony of screams and shouts that seemed to ripple through the very rafters. Roman, clad in his signature black and red, looked like a king returning to a throne he’d never truly left behind. Yet beneath the bravado and the carefully choreographed smile, a flicker of uncertainty danced in his chest.

He felt their eyes on him—the millions of them—each one expecting a perfect performance, the flawless execution of a story that had been building for years. But for every cheer that washed over him like a soothing balm, there came a counterpoint: memories of disappointment, of regret, and of the woman who had once stood by his side and now sat so far removed from him. Sienna's image swirled in his mind like an uninvited ghost, reminding him of everything he had tried to outrun since that fateful night they faced each other in her kitchen.

The spotlight caught him at an angle that accentuated his shadow but did nothing to diminish his stature; it painted him as more than merely human—it transformed him into an icon. As he stepped toward the center of the ring, he couldn’t escape the gnawing thought that perhaps this was all a performance.  He’d spent years training, yet now it felt like a heavy shackle rather than the crown he had envisioned. The cheers of the crowd—so loud, so hungry—were a double-edged sword: they fueled him, but also reminded him of the warmth of recognition he had once wanted to share with Sienna, and that he now felt sharply alone in receiving.

The bell rang, and the match began.

As he wrestled, he couldn’t shake the nagging thought that tonight’s performance was more than just about winning. It was a reckoning with his past, a showdown not only against his opponent in the ring but against the ghosts lurking just beyond the spotlight—the ghosts of failures, lovers lost, promises unfulfilled. He hoped that with each slam and spear, he might somehow banish those memories or at least redefine them into something less painful.

Sienna’s heart raced with each slam of flesh against canvas. She had not anticipated how visceral this would feel, witnessing his physicality transform into poetry and combat under the glaring lights. Each cheer surged through her like sharp electricity—a reminder that Roman existed in a world far removed from her own, one where he was adored and revered as a champion. Yet amid the exhilaration, there lay a familiar hollow: the silence that had once stretched between them, the conversations left undone.

She looked down at her hands, fingers gripping the armrests of her chair until her knuckles blanched white. This was not merely an act of love or pride—it was collateral damage in their long-running war of unfulfilled expectations. Every strike he landed echoed with memories of weekends lost to training camps and late-night flights while she sat waiting in an apartment full of echoes, yearning for connection and affection.

“God, they love him, don’t they!” Carla shouted above the roar, her voice ringing sharp and clear even in the clamor of the arena. She didn’t bother to hide her awe, or her envy, or the way Roman seemed to have sucked all the available light into his orbit. “He’s so good. You can see it even up here—nobody moves like him.” She punctuated her admiration with a short laugh, shaking her head as if she still couldn't quite believe the spectacle playing out below them.

“He’s a showman. Born for it.” She added as she sipped her champagne and leaned in close, giving Sienna a nudge. “You ever think about how weird it is, knowing someone before they’re famous and then watching them become, like, a myth?” Her tone was conspiratorial, but beneath it was the faintest note of challenge, as if she was testing Sienna’s composure or her claim to ownership over the man in the ring.

Sienna just nodded, lips pressed into a thin line. “He always was the very best,” she said, low and steady, not trusting herself to elaborate.

She watched Roman with a scientist’s detachment, cataloguing every gesture and reaction. He controlled the crowd with ease, drawing their energy in and reflecting it back with interest. It was a kind of seduction, she realized—he played the role of hero and villain simultaneously, always finding a way to be the center of gravity no matter where the story pulled him. Sienna had seen this quality in him long before the rest of the world did; she’d felt the pull of it herself, the intoxicating certainty that he could command any room, any person, just by wanting it hard enough.

But in the chaos of the present moment, watching him from a safe and sterile remove, Sienna felt only a complicated kind of pride, laced with a bitterness she couldn’t quite name. It was as if she’d been allowed to witness the birth of a new constellation, but only after having been cautioned never to reach for it again.

She smiled faintly at Carla’s enthusiasm, but her mind was elsewhere. Roman’s mythological confidence had always been double-edged: it was what drew people to him, but also what repelled them when they got too close. She wondered if anyone else in the arena knew how fragile that mask truly was—or if she was the only one still haunted by the flicker of uncertainty that sometimes disrupted his gaze.

The roar of the crowd cascaded through the arena, an electrifying wave that surged up and over the barricades. Roman had won; his opponent lay defeated at his feet. The soundscape of ecstatic triumph mixed with a faint echo of emptiness curling around his gut. He raised his finger to the sky, a gesture perfected through years of practice, absorbing the unitary adoration as though it might fill the void lying in wait beneath his bravado.

But even as he basked in the revelry, he felt Sienna’s absence like a phantom limb—an ache that shadowed him. The cheers fueled him, but they were not quite enough; he longed for her approval, her acknowledgment, and the warmth of her smile. He wanted to share this moment with her, to revel in their shared history, to let her know that she had always been an integral part of every victory. Yet here he stood amidst the jubilation, living a life strewn with accolades while feeling more isolated than ever.

While Roman performed for the masses, Sienna stood in stark contrast within the shadows of the skybox. She watched him through glass that separated their worlds—a silent witness to a man who was both familiar and foreign. Her heart thrummed with a blend of admiration and pangs of nostalgia as she processed the sheer magnitude of this moment.  

“You should go see him, he’ll be in his bus by the time we get down there.” Carla reached for Sienna’s hand with an urgency that bordered on maternal, her grip insistent and oddly reassuring. Sienna resisted, instinctively, the way one might resist stepping into cold water, but Carla’s energy was inexorable; she radiated a confidence that made refusal seem not only impossible but impolite. “Come on—I’ll take you,” Carla said, voice low and coaxing, as if she were offering a secret passage out of a burning building rather than the simple promise of a meeting.

Sienna managed only the smallest nod, her head heavy with the aftershock of everything she’d just witnessed. Part of her wanted to run, to find an excuse and let Roman exist in that untouchable, mythic space just a little longer, but some deeper current willed her up and out of her chair. She followed Carla, knees unsteady, leaving behind the spent flutes and half-eaten canapés and the fading afterglow of the match. The world outside the skybox was somehow altered, the hallway lights less forgiving, the air thick and sour with the sweat of strangers and the acrid stink of spilled beer.

Carla kept up a running commentary—pointing out architectural quirks, speculating about the private dramas unfolding behind each unmarked door, tossing out idle gossip about the other wrestlers and their entourages.

By the time they reached the concourse level, the corridors were emptying of fans, the residual energy humming in the cinderblock walls. Carla led her to a side exit, where a line of buses idled under jaundiced lights, engines thrumming like distant thunder. The reality of what she was about to do hit Sienna with a sudden, icy clarity. There would be no crowd, no applause—just the two of them, face to face.

She hesitated at the threshold, gripping the doorframe with suddenly numb fingers. Carla noticed and softened, her voice threaded with gentler tones. “He’ll want to see you. Trust me. You don’t have to say anything. Just… show up.”

Carla gave her a final, encouraging squeeze on the shoulder and slipped away into the shadows, leaving Sienna alone with the rumble of the engine and her own gathering sense of dread.

She pressed her palm against the side of the bus, feeling the faint tremor of the diesel beneath her skin. For a long moment she simply stood there, forehead bowed, trying to summon the part of herself that could knock—could cause that first, irrevocable sound that would break the seal on years of unspoken things.

Inside the bus, Roman lurked in a state of post-match disarray: hands sticky with athletic tape residue, shins streaked with sweat and bruises, face already cooling into a mask of exhaustion. He’d torn off his gear and was mid-way through a bottle of sports drink, staring at the blue-lit television hung above the driver’s seat, when he heard the first tentative knock.

He flinched. Still on edge from the match, he interpreted the rap on the door as an invitation for some fresh hell—a pushy manager, a rabid fan, another media request. He barked, voice sharp and purposely gruff, “Go away!”

The knock came again, this time stronger, less a request than a summons.

Roman’s brow furrowed. The only people who’d ever ignore a direct order from him were either unwise, or intimately familiar with the cost of not being heard.

He lunged for the door and yanked it open with a force that nearly sent it off its hinges. “I said, go—” The sentence stalled in his throat, all bluster evaporating. There, standing just outside the steps in the yellow glow, was Sienna. The shock of her presence was so complete it rendered him briefly mute.

“Sienna, I…I didn’t know you were here.”

She drew in a breath, and in that moment, Sienna felt every bit of vulnerability, every piece of truth she had carried since their last conversation. “I came to see you,” she said simply. It felt straightforward and somehow monumental at once—just those words hung between them like a bridge stretched over an abyss.

Roman stepped back, welcoming her in with a wordless gesture. She hesitated for a moment longer, gathering her courage, before climbing the steps and closing the door softly behind her. The interior of the bus was dimly lit and cavernous, a world unto itself.

They sat in silence for a stretch, side by side on the bus's plush leather couch, as if they were no more than two old friends catching up instead of estranged lovers picking through the ruins of their relationship.

Roman was the first to breach the silence, his voice emerging raw and uneven, fraught with effort and the aftershocks of what had just transpired in the ring—a voice not yet reacclimated to intimacy. "I didn't think you'd come," he confessed, a lopsided attempt at a smile carving a line through the sweat-stiffened stubble on his jaw. His wrists, freshly peeled of their tape, fidgeted restlessly at the hem of his gym shorts as he waited for her to fill the widening gulf between them.

Sienna stared at the mottled pattern of carpet under her shoes, unsure if she ought to look up, unsure if she wanted to see his face in this unscripted proximity. She could feel the old ache rising, that familiar cocktail of longing and dread, but it arrived diluted now—aged into something more manageable, maybe even useful. She picked at the edge of a thumbnail, searching for a reply that wouldn't sound like an accusation or a plea. "Neither did I," she said quietly, her syllables buoyed and then drowned by the steady hum of the bus’s air conditioning. "But I’m glad I did."

The words seemed to surprise her as much as him; she gave a nervous half-chuckle, as if to apologize for her own sincerity. Roman absorbed it with a quiet nod, his gaze fixed somewhere in the near distance, as though the only way to bear her presence was to triangulate it without making direct contact. Sienna studied him for a moment, the reckless boy she had loved was still in there somewhere, but now he was layered over with something harder, brittle as lacquer.

They were silent again for a moment, and in that pocket of time the entire history of their relationship seemed to flicker in the air between them—every fight, every reconciliation, every night spent listening to the other breathe in the dark with the anxious hope that tomorrow would be different. Sienna wondered if he was thinking the same thing, or if he’d long ago compartmentalized their shared past into something easier to manage.

“I wanted to see you win,” she continued, her voice steadier now, the confession plainspoken and direct. “And I guess I wanted to see if it would still feel the same. Watching you do what you do best.” She risked a glance sideways, catching him in profile, his features softened by exhaustion and something else—fear, or maybe hope.

Roman let the silence stretch, weighing her words like precious metal. At last, he said, “Does it?” His tone was tentative, stripped of the bravado that had been his armor for so long.

Sienna considered this for a beat, the question unspooling inside her like a length of cable. “Some of it does,” she admitted. “Not all. But enough.” She drew a breath, letting it fill her lungs and slow her pulse. “It’s different though. I think I can finally appreciate it without wanting to set it on fire.”

She meant it as a joke, but Roman flinched anyway, and Sienna cursed herself for not having better control over old habits. She let the moment lapse, then reached for the nearest olive branch: “You were incredible out there, you know. I’ve never seen you like that.”

He exhaled, and for the first time since she’d arrived, the tension in his shoulders eased, just slightly. “It only works if you’re watching,” he said, the line so earnest it almost embarrassed her. “Otherwise, it’s just noise.”

Sienna smiled. There was nothing left to say and everything left to say, but for a moment, it was enough just to sit together in the quiet, recalibrating the distance between what they had been and what they might still become.

She looked at him then, really looked, as though she could see past the tangled hair and sweat-stiffened brows to the nineteen year old who’d once promised her the world from the cracked vinyl booth of a Waffle House at two in the morning.  The memory flickered, so vivid she almost laughed, but all she managed was a soft, almost imperceptible tremor in her jaw—an aftershock of the words gathering inside her. "I'm really proud of you, Ro. I need you to know that." She spoke slowly, syllables landing with the careful deliberation of someone stepping onto thin ice, afraid that the truth might shatter the fragile truce they’d built in this bus.

The effect on Roman was instantaneous, as if she’d taken a scalpel to the thicket of calluses he’d built around himself. His posture faltered, his hands—always so quick to gesture, to punctuate his speech—now fell useless at his lap. For a heartbeat he was the Roman she’d first met: open, unguarded, almost painfully earnest. He tried to speak but the words got tangled somewhere in his throat, so he just nodded, jaws clenched, the sinews in his neck straining to contain whatever threatened to spill out.

The silence that followed was charged in a new way, less an impasse than an invitation to reconsider the roles they had rehearsed for so long. Sienna felt, unaccountably, as if she’d passed some test she didn’t know she was taking, or maybe as if she’d finally set down a load she’d carried for years.

She reached across the distance and—hesitantly, in the manner of those unused to gentle gestures—put her hand over his. His knuckles were raw and swollen, the nails bitten to the quick, but she held them anyway, anchoring him to the present with a steadiness that surprised even her.

Roman’s eyes shone wet in the dim light, his voice small and unfamiliar when it finally returned: “You have no idea what that means to me.”

The words hung there, stripped of all pretense, and Sienna realized that for the first time in forever, there was nothing left to prove. They sat suspended in that fragile, honest quiet, each aware of the seismic shift that had just taken place, each measuring the new distance to the other.

She squeezed his hand, their fingers lacing together just as they had done a thousand times before. The warmth of her touch anchored him, grounding him in a way nothing else could. Roman let himself lean into the contact, feeling the tension he hadn't even realized he carried slipping away with each exhale.

"I can't remember the last time we were able to just... be together," Sienna said, her voice a bare whisper.

Roman nodded, his eyes on their entwined hands. "Yeah, me neither." He cleared his throat, embarrassed by the catch in his voice. He swiped at his eyes with his free hand, and a shaky laugh escaped him, followed by a yawn. "Guess I'm more tired than I thought."

Sienna squeezed his hand again. "You're allowed to be tired, you know that right? This whole... thing," she gestured vaguely around them, "it's not easy, I realize that now."

Roman looked up at her then, "Thank you for saying that," he said. "It's... it's not something I hear very often." He hesitated, then took a deep breath. "I'm sorry for pushing you away all those times. I was just so caught up in everything, and I didn't know how to... I don't know... to be anything else but that guy."

Sienna squeezed his hand again, more tightly this time. "I know you did the best you could. It wasn't easy for me either, you know? Watching you go through all that. And I didn't make it any easier.  I could have been more patient, more understanding.”

They fell silent again, but it was a different kind of silence now; less oppressive and more like two old friends catching up after a long absence. Roman leaned his head back against the couch, eyes half-lidded as weariness finally caught up with him. Sienna glanced at her phone's screen—almost midnight.

"You should probably get some sleep," she said gently, reluctantly pulling her hand away from his. "You're exhausted.”

Roman didn't answer immediately, his gaze far away as he grappled with ghosts long since passed. At last, he gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. "Yeah," he said at last. "Yeah, you're right." He cleared his throat again, chasing away the remaining shadows with a half-smile. "So... you wanna stay for a while?”

Sienna hesitated, the question hanging between them like a weight suspended on a fraying cord. "Um… I—I don't know if I should." The words came out in a rush, brittle and apologetic, as if she was already preparing herself for the guilt of whatever she decided next. She wrapped her arms tightly across her midsection and looked away, her gaze darting over the floor of the bus and the motion of her bouncing knee. The urge to retreat warred with the ache to stay, and Sienna felt the contradictory impulses twist inside her like a rope being pulled from both ends.

Roman didn't let the silence win. "You should," he said, the words simple but delivered with a force that brooked no argument. His eyes were steady on her, stripped of all the old bravado and instead radiating a vulnerable insistence, as if he was auditioning for the part of her confidant and lover all over again and knew the odds were against him. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, and for a second Sienna thought he might reach for her hand again, but he didn't—he just let the moment stand, open and unadorned.

For several heartbeats, neither of them moved, as if the entire bus had stopped in time. Sienna searched his face for a hint of artifice, some smirk or flippant remark to break the tension, but what she found instead was the raw, unvarnished hope of someone who had run out of masks. Roman’s invitation was not just about tonight, she realized; it was about every night they hadn’t shared, every memory they had each rewritten in solitude. She was suddenly aware of how much she missed even the smallest rituals of their togetherness: the comfort of his presence, the quiet assurance of his steady breathing, the way his arm would curl around her waist as if promising protection from everything, even from themselves.

She let out a shaky exhale, the last of her resistance dissolving in the charged quiet. The currents between them hummed with the possibility of forgiveness, of a night spent not in confrontation but in tentative reunion. Sienna looked up, meeting his eyes with a small, uncertain smile that said more than words ever could. “Okay.”

Roman's face broke into a slow, lopsided grin, as if he couldn't quite believe his luck. He stood up, wincing slightly as his stiff muscles protested the movement. He offered her his hand, and after the briefest of hesitations, she took it. Her grip was warm and sure, and he felt a shudder of something like recognition pass through him as their fingers entwined. Wordlessly, he led her to the cozy bedroom tucked away at the back of the bus.

The space was dimly lit by a small lamp on the nightstand, casting a warm, inviting glow over a messy yet inviting nest of tangled sheets and pillows. The close quarters seemed to intensify the charged atmosphere between them as they stood there, awkward in the face of newfound intimacy. Roman wrestled with the unfamiliar sense of vulnerability that came with having her this close, while Sienna fought to quiet her racing heart and chastise her traitorous body for reacting so viscerally to him after all this time.

“I fuckin’ stink, I gotta get a shower,” Roman mumbled, half-laughing, half-mortified, as if the admission itself might break the tension or at least knock it loose from where it clung to the backs of their throats. He ran a hand through his sweat-laced hair, the gesture both sheepish and performative—a way of reminding himself that he was still allowed to be vulnerable in front of her, even if it meant exposing something as primal and unadorned as the salt-and-iron musk of his own exhaustion.

He took a step back, suddenly self-conscious, as if the air between them had shifted from brackish intimacy to something brittle and exposed. “Seriously, I smell like a dead raccoon and a gym sock had a baby,” he said, doubling down on the humor, but the smile that followed didn’t quite reach his eyes. He looked at Sienna with a kind of nervous challenge, waiting to see if she’d recoil or laugh or—worse—pity him.

Sienna blinked, surprised by the vehemence of his self-deprecation. The urge to tease him in return caught in her chest, but she couldn’t bring herself to reach for it; instead, she found herself weirdly touched by his awkwardness, by the fact that even after everything—years apart, entire lifetimes of disappointment and regret—he still cared what she thought of him in these most mundane, animal ways. There was a strange comfort in the honesty of it, like watching someone peel off a mask you didn’t realize they were wearing.

For a moment she just watched him, the lines of his body and the raw honesty of his admission hanging in the air between them. She wanted to say something that would make it okay, that would let him know she didn’t mind, that in fact she missed the very things he was so desperate to conceal. But her tongue felt too thick, her thoughts too tangled, so she just stood there, fists balled at her sides, feeling the world contract to the small pocket of space they occupied together.

Roman waited for her to say something, and when she didn’t, he shrugged, pretending not to care. “Be right back,” he muttered, and ducked into the cramped bus bathroom, leaving the door slightly ajar behind him. The sound of water erupting from the showerhead filled the silence, a steady percussion that seemed to both underscore and soften the ache that hung in the room. Sienna stood rooted in place, heart thudding, as if any sudden movement might shatter the delicate detente they’d built from the remnants of their old selves.

She heard him cursing softly as he fumbled with the shower controls, the vulnerability in his voice making her stomach twist in a way that was equal parts nostalgia and longing. For the first time in a long time, she let herself imagine what it would be like to simply step forward, to offer comfort not with words but with presence—with the unspoken promise that she wasn’t going anywhere, not tonight. Every instinct screamed at her to run, but instead, she sat down  quietly on the edge of Roman’s unmade bed, the warmth of his earlier touch still smoldering in her palm.

She kicked her shoes off and watched the steam curling out of the bathroom door and let herself hope, just for a moment, that maybe things could be different this time.

The room seemed to close in on her as the minutes crawled by, the hum of the bus's air conditioning and the muffled drumming of water against the shower accenting the hollowness of their unspoken words. Sienna used her sweaty palms to press down atop her thumping heart, steadying herself in the face of these uncharted waters. Roman was right: it was different now. They were different. She wondered what kind of dance they'd need to perform to mend their relationship, whether they'd even be able to find their way back to each other through all this wreckage or if they'd just be rearranging ghosts—and if that would be enough.

Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply, allowing herself to savor the heady mix of his old cologne and the lingering scent of sweat that clung to him after a fight. It was intoxicating, this mingling of past and present, a reminder that while many things had changed, some essentials remained unchanged.

The shower abruptly cut off, leaving an even more deafening silence in its wake. She could picture him on the other side of that door, naked and dripping, likely more terrified than he'd ever been inside a ring. He'd always had a knack for brutal honesty, her Roman; she half-wondered if he realized how he laid himself bare even now. She braced herself for what came next.

The door creaked open, and a cloud of steam billowed out, the damp warmth curling around Sienna's ankles like a memory made manifest. Roman emerged, hair dripping down his bare chest, wearing joggers low on his hips. His eyes met hers in the mirror's reflection, and for an instant, it seemed to Sienna that time had folded in on itself: they were nineteen again, before the world got hold of them with its greedy hands and began twisting.

He caught her stare in the mirror and flushed, the color flooding his cheeks as he self-consciously tucked errant strands of hair behind his ears. "Sorry," he mumbled, voice gruff with disuse. "I didn't mean to—"

"It's fine," Sienna cut him off gently, waving away his apologies with a careless hand. "You look..." A thousand words swirled through her mind.

But she hesitated, searching for the perfect way to describe the emotions swirling through her. Roman's self-consciousness was endearing, but she knew he wouldn't believe her if she told him he looked good. Instead, she settled on "You look like you just won the world championship," she said with a soft smile.

He cracked a lopsided grin at that, one that reached his eyes and made the years fall away. "I won something better," he said, voice low as he raked a hand through his damp hair. "I got you back."

Sienna's heart skipped a beat at his admission, and she had to remind herself to breathe. "Ro..."

He held up a hand, forestalling any objections she might have been about to make. "I know, I know," he said, sighing heavily as he padded barefoot across the bus floor towards her. "It's too soon, too much, I'm moving too fast." He gave her that crooked half-smile again, the one that had always made her melt inside. "But can we just... see where this goes?" he finished quietly. Sienna's heart pounded in her chest, the weight of his words settling heavy between them.

His bare feet stopped in front of her, the distance between them now no more than a breath. She could feel the heat emanating from his damp skin, and she fought the urge to close her eyes against the wave of memories that threatened to engulf her. This was different, she reminded herself, they were different. But was that such a bad thing?

The tension in the room was palpable, a living thing that hummed just below the surface. Sienna could feel her heart pounding in her chest, a wild fluttering beat that overpowered all other sound. She wanted to believe him, wanted to dive headfirst into whatever twisted version of "happily ever after" they could carve out for themselves. But years of hurt and betrayal had left their mark, and she couldn't help but wonder if this was just another chapter in their never-ending story of push and pull.

Slowly, she rose to her feet, their faces inches apart, their breath mingling in the cool bus air. She reached up to brush the wet hair from his forehead, lingering at his temples as though memorizing the contours of his face. Roman closed his eyes as if savoring her touch, and in that moment, she knew she'd never get enough of him again.

His eyes were heavy-lidded, and a drop of water clung to his jawline, begging for her touch. Taking a deep breath, she reached up with trembling fingers and lightly brushed the droplet away. Suddenly, as if unable to take it anymore, Roman surged forward, closing the distance between them and crushed their lips together in a messy, desperate kiss. Sienna's breath caught in her throat, but before she could process what was happening, his arms were around her waist, holding her tightly against him as if they'd been starved of each other's touch for years.

And maybe they had been.

Their kiss deepened, tongues tangling together urgently as if they were making up for lost time. Sienna moaned into his mouth, her reserve melting away under the onslaught of sensation. Her hands fisted in his damp hair, pulling him even closer as they stumbled backward onto his bed in a tangle of limbs.

They broke apart panting, their foreheads pressed together as they struggled to catch their breath. Sienna's heart thundered in her ears, her body thrumming with a desire she'd thought long dead. Roman's chest rose and fell in time with hers, his hands resting lightly on her hips as if he were afraid she might disappear at any moment.

"I've missed this," he rasped, his voice a rough whisper in the semi-darkness of the bus. "Missed you."

Sienna didn't trust herself to speak, so she settled for nodding and burrowing her face into the crook of his neck. He seemed to sense her unease and pulled back slightly, his expression guarded as he searched her face for answers she didn't have. "I'm sorry," he began, tracing a finger lightly down her cheekbone. "I'm moving too fast."

When Sienna opened her eyes, the suffocating weight that had been pressing down on her chest for as long as she could remember was gone. In its place, a warmth spread through her body, starting in her toes and working its way upwards. The room's light usually did nothing to flatter anyone, but in this moment, it bounced off Roman's damp hair and glistening skin, making him look like a god fresh from a fight.

Suddenly, she realized that she'd had enough of running in circles. She needed to feel something—anything—other than the hollow ache in her chest. Drawing on a courage she didn't know she possessed, she leaned forward and captured his lips in a searing kiss.

Roman stiffened in surprise, but only for a brief moment. Then his arms tightened around her waist, nearly crushing her to him as he took control of the kiss. His tongue slid into her mouth, coaxing hers into a sensual dance as their bodies pressed together, skin-to-skin. Sparks ignited everywhere their flesh met, setting them both on fire.

With a groan, he broke the kiss, trailing hot kisses down her jawline to her neck. He nibbled and suckled, she arched her back, silently begging for more contact. Ever the considerate lover he'd always been, Roman spent time lavishing attention on every exposed inch of her neck and collarbone before returning to claim her lips once more.

“We gotta…we gotta…” Sienna moaned, "Roman, we can’t—” her breath caught in her throat, but even as she protested, she felt the intensity of his lips against hers igniting something long dormant inside her. Roman's hands were warm on her back, pulling at her shirt, deeper into the embrace that was both familiar and electrifying.

Roman caught the tension in her voice like a lifeline, pausing mid-kiss as his breath mingled with hers, warm and unsteady. He pulled back just enough to study her face, searching for any sign of regret or uncertainty. “Are you sure?” His voice was deep and gravelly, lined with a mixture of urgency and the tenderness he had always reserved for moments when everything felt unbearably fragile.

Sienna's heart raced at the question; it was an invitation and an ultimatum rolled into one. She knew what this moment represented: not just a collision of past and present but the possibility of forging something new amidst the wreckage they had sifted through over years. That whispered fear inside her warned against vulnerability—the specter of old injuries loomed large—but as she looked into Roman’s eyes, she felt the weight of their shared history pressing against that fear.

“I want this,” Sienna's voice trembled under the weight of her admission, a mix of fear and yearning curling in her stomach. Roman’s heart thundered against his ribcage, a primal response to the raw honesty that filled the space between them. He had spent so long running from himself, fighting battles in the ring and trying to convince the world—and himself—that he was more than just a collection of failures. Now, with Sienna close enough to read the lines etched into his skin, all those carefully constructed defenses crumbled.

“I want this,” she repeated, her eyes shining with an intensity that made his breath hitch. For a fleeting moment, he saw not just the woman who had stood by him through it all but the glimmer of a future that could still hold the light of their shared dreams—fragile yet compelling.

He nodded, understanding blooming within him like spring after winter’s long reign. She wasn’t just speaking about their moment; she was giving voice to every unwritten promise they had ever made to each other. The warmth radiating between them felt tangible in ways it never had before—a shared tether capable of binding two separate lives into one.

Roman’s hands found her sides, thumbs stroking circles just beneath the hem of her shirt. She felt it as invitation, not possession; the touch so gentle and tentative that all suspicion dropped away. It was almost new—to be wanted like this, after the long taxonomy of silences, after years of slow insulation from one another. The sensation gathered in her chest and belly, an ache of want that had found its shape and direction at last.

She ran her hands down his chest, fingers grazing old scars and the thick new ridges of muscle. The body had changed—a difference of years, of training and fights survived—but it still felt inevitable beneath her touch, still the only home she’d ever really known, the only flesh that seemed to make the rest of the world recede.

Roman was shaking, visibly. Not from shyness or uncertainty—though those, too, were jittering in his bloodstream—but because touching her again was more electric than he’d allowed himself to hope. His hands, once prized for their absolute control, fumbled at her waistband with the awkward reverence of a seventeen-year-old. There was apology in the stutter of his touch, a silent contract not to take unless it was given.

Sienna let the moment hold; let it get as charged and stupidly fragile as a ref’s final three-count. Then she peeled her own shirt off—no games, no tease. Just the clean, practiced movement of a woman who’d decided to stop negotiating with her own longing.

He made a noise, a tiny, involuntary exhale, as if her skin itself had sucker-punched the air from his lungs. She’d never been the frilly kind—her bra was black, utilitarian, but the line of her clavicle, the pale ribbon of old suntan peeking from her collarbone, made her look radiant. He’d seen her naked a thousand times, but this was the only time in memory that undressing felt like an act of faith.

Roman’s lips found hers again, slower now, less a collision than a careful experiment in proximity. He kissed her the way a drowning man might resurface: cautious, tasting the air, afraid it might vanish any second. Sienna felt the shape of every breath, every hesitation, as if he were composing an apology with his mouth alone. There was a sweetness in the hesitation, a remarkable patience that seemed almost absurd for a man who lived his life in a flurry of impact and bruised knuckles.

She parted her lips instinctively, and this time Roman’s tongue entered with a tenderness that startled her. He was careful, unhurried, as if the space behind her lips was hallowed ground. The gentleness was at odds with the raw urgency of their earlier embrace, but it was this contrast that made Sienna tremble. She yielded, letting his tongue glide against hers, the sensation sending a shiver up her spine. Her hands moved almost independently, fingers mapping the broad landscape of his shoulders. The muscles there flexed and rolled in response, familiar but changed, as if his body had learned a new language of touch since the last time she’d known it.

Roman’s hand cupped the nape of her neck first, thumb brushing the sensitive hollow just behind her ear. The touch lingered, grounding her, then crept downwards, tracing the ridgeline of her spine. Sienna could feel the calluses on his palm, proof of a thousand hours spent in gyms and rings, yet his fingertips were soft as he reached the band of her bra. She froze, caught off guard by the simplicity of the motion—so unlike the clumsy groping of adolescent memory. This was a man who wanted to be present for every flutter of her pulse, every skip and catch of her breath.

With slow deliberation, Roman’s hand slid beneath the clasp, his fingers splaying wide, as though collecting every vertebrae in her back. Sienna gasped, not because she was startled, but because the sensation was so intense, so impossibly intimate, that it momentarily obliterated everything else. The world shrank down to the heat of his hand and the reckless stuttering of her own heart. Her body arched of its own accord, spine curving towards him, a silent demand for more contact, more certainty.

Sienna let her head fall back, exposing the length of her throat. Roman’s mouth trailed after it, laying kisses in a line from her jaw to her collarbone, each press of his lips a slow reclamation of territory he’d once known by heart. Her hands explored him in kind, mapping the terrain of his chest, the subtle rise and fall as he breathed her in. He tasted of mint and something faintly metallic, the latter a reminder, perhaps, of the bleeding he’d done for other people’s entertainment. She found it beautiful, in a way that made her want to weep.

Roman paused, lifting his head to look at her. There was a question in his eyes, and she recognized it: Was this real? Could they really let their old wounds rest, just for tonight? Sienna answered by pulling his mouth back to hers, kissing him fiercely before letting her movements soften, inviting him to match her pace.

Their bodies found a new rhythm, a slow and deliberate exchange of want and permission, each movement layered with unspoken conversation. His hand remained on her back, the other drifting to her hip, anchoring her in the storm. She could feel the press of his desire against her thigh, but he made no attempt to rush her, kept his touch worshipful, almost reverent. Sienna, in turn, let herself be vulnerable—let him see the way she shivered at his touch, the way her fingers dug into his skin when she wanted him closer.

She was surprised by how safe she felt in that uncertainty, how the ambiguity of what would happen next felt less like a threat and more like a promise waiting to be kept. For the first time in years, the hollow ache inside her was replaced by a sense of wholeness, a sense that maybe, just maybe, they could make this work.

For a long moment, it was as if they existed only for one another, the world outside the bus erased by the immediacy of contact. Roman’s tongue traced the line of Sienna’s collarbone, the tip searching out the salt of her skin; he wanted to taste every inch, to reacquaint himself with the map of her body. The ambient light, faint and indirect, painted her curves in alternating gold and shadow, the swell of her breasts and the taut ridge of her ribcage rendered almost mythic. His hands were reverent, almost hesitant, as if he was afraid rough handling might break the spell.

Sienna, for her part, felt herself surrendering in increments—each slow pass of his lips against her neck and shoulder undoing some ancient knot of anxiety, some long-maintained bracing against disappointment. She should have felt exposed, in the audacity of her nearly naked skin and the unpolished vulnerability she brought to the surface, but instead she felt, for the first time in a long time, seen. Not as the version Roman had tried to manufacture in old arguments—too much, too loud, too quick to mock—but as something finally, temporarily, enough.

He unhooked her bra with a deftness that startled them both, like a practiced magician whose sleight of hand worked even when he no longer believed in the trick. For a split second, neither of them spoke, the sudden looseening of the band a minor miracle, a private punchline to a joke they’d been telling each other since their first clumsy encounters as teenagers. The fabric slackened against her skin, the straps sliding down her arms with a soundless, inevitable grace. Sienna’s breath caught, then resumed with a shudder, the wisp of black fabric suspended between them like a fragile, laughable barrier.

The sight of her bare shoulders, the curve of her breasts in the diffuse lamplight—it was almost too much for Roman, who had once considered himself impervious to sentiment, to awe. Yet here he was, heart thumping in his throat, hands trembling with the responsibility of witnessing her like this. He hesitated, as if giving Sienna the chance to reconsider, to reclaim the inch of distance that still separated their bodies.

But she didn’t. Instead, she met his gaze with something like defiance, a dare to look and not flinch, to see her fully and flinch anyway. She was not perfect, not even close, but somehow the knowledge that he knew every flaw—every stretchmark, every scar and freckle—made her want to stand even taller.

Roman’s hands hovered, uncertain, before he let the bra fall away completely. The gesture was unconscious, but it radiated a kind of reverence, as if he were unwrapping something precious and breakable. The air between them thickened, charged by the enormity of the moment, and Sienna found herself trembling, her skin a patchwork of goosebumps and heat. She had not expected this unveiling to feel so much like both an unveiling and a homecoming; the vulnerability electric, the anticipation almost unbearable.

She let the straps slip down her arms, the bra falling next to them with a barely audible sigh. Sienna felt the air prickle against her bare skin, felt herself exposed and invincible in the same breath, as if the simple act of lying there, bared to him, was a kind of victory. Roman’s gaze never left her face, and in that steady, unblinking focus she felt herself become braver. For the first time, she didn’t shrink from the exposure; she leaned into it, dared him to take in everything she was—history and habit and hope all tangled up in skin and memory.

The loss of the last physical barrier between them made everything more acute. Roman’s fingers, callused and careful, traced the line of her shoulder and the gentle slope of her breast, not as a conquest but as a rediscovery. Sienna shivered at his touch, the nerves alive and singing, every inch of her registering the unprecedented tenderness of his hands. There was nothing hurried about him, none of the greedy impatience she remembered from before. He moved as if he had all the time in the world, as if nothing mattered except the geography of her body and the way it responded to his intent.

Where her skin met his, Sienna could feel her pulse throbbing, a thump of animal need that was both frightening and exhilarating. The moment stretched, delicate as spun sugar, and she wondered if this was what forgiveness felt like—not an erasure of the past, but an acceptance of the present, flawed and luminous all at once.

He kissed her again, slower than before, as if savoring the newness of the old territory. Sienna’s hands threaded through his hair, tugging him closer, needing the reassurance of contact. The world outside the bus had shrunk to a single point of gravity: the press of Roman’s mouth, the sweep of his tongue, the careful reverence of his hands. She was aware, dimly, of the cold air pricking her skin, but it only made the heat between them more potent, more necessary.

She let her guard drop further, let him see her—the real her, not the curated version she’d learned to show the world. In that rawness, Roman found a matching vulnerability, a permission to be just as exposed, just as uncertain. They met there, somewhere between longing and fear, and for a brief, blinding second the future seemed not only possible but beautiful.

Her eyes closed, letting the memory of other hands, other nights, fade to nothing. This was what she wanted: to be here, now, with the only man she’d ever let break her heart. And as she opened herself to him, she understood that desire could be redemptive, a way to write new stories over old wounds.

There was no rush, no urgency. Only the slow, deliberate process of reacquainting two bodies that had never really forgotten each other.

She pressed herself against him, feeling the heat and the promise in the way their bodies fit together. In that embrace, Sienna found a steadiness she hadn’t felt in years. She wanted to remember every second, every stutter and catch of his breath, the way her name sounded when he whispered it against her skin.

She wanted, for once, to let herself belong.

"You’re so beautiful."

Sienna’s first impulse was to laugh—his corny-hero sincerity still functioned, after all these years, like a key in the lock. But his hands were trembling, and his voice was the wavering kind of soft she’d only heard once before, standing on the edge of a hotel balcony in the old, reckless days, confessing fear of heights and hoping she’d laugh him down to earth. She pressed her forehead to his, lips barely brushing, and let herself believe him, just for tonight.

There was an entire language in touch, and she spoke it fluently, tracing the lines of his shoulders, following the curve and dip of old injuries mapped beneath his skin. He flinched once as she stroked along a raised scar—he’d lied about how he’d gotten it, years ago, claimed it was from an accident in the ring, but she’d always suspected it was something older, something from before he was Roman Reigns, the thing. The way he shuddered at her touch now told her everything she needed to know.

Roman made the next move, if it could be called that: a slow, wholehearted descent of his head to her breast, lips trailing over the curve and down, tongue circling her areola with a hesitance that bordered on awe. Sienna arched, emboldened by his gaze, her hand finding the angle of his jaw and cradling it, like she might steady herself by steadying him. He was tentative at first—she could feel him searching for the pace she wanted—then, emboldened by the gasp she failed to hide, he grew more deliberate, switching sides, lavishing attention as if he could memorize her anatomy pixel by pixel. He kissed her sternum, her ribs, recentering at her nipple and grazing it with the edge of a tooth, and Sienna’s world narrowed to the hot, electric burrow of his mouth.

He lingered there, worshipful and intent, letting the world outside the bus—and outside this moment—bleed away into nothing. Sienna’s breath came faster, her skin alive with sensation, every nerve ending orienting itself toward the soft suction and gentle flick of his tongue. Roman used his mouth like a craftsman, patient and precise, exploring the terrain with a hunger that was at odds with the reverence in his movements. His hands chased the fanned trail of goosebumps down her spine and around her ribs, holding her as if to anchor them both in the gravity of the present.

He moved lower, pausing at her belly with the kind of deliberate patience that made Sienna want to both scream and sob. His breath was hot against her skin as he mouthed the line from her sternum to her navel, tracing lazy, possessive circles that left her twitching with anticipation. He nuzzled at the faint scar on her right side, an old appendix incision she hated, kissing it like a benediction. If there was shame left in her, it evaporated under the certainty of his touch, the way he made a shrine of her every so-called imperfection.

When he finally glanced up at her, his mouth was wet, his eyes raw. He let a silence hang, then shifted his weight to his knees. His hands fumbled with the button of her jeans, then stilled, waiting once again for her explicit permission.

She let the tension build. This was always her power—deciding when impulse became action, when fantasy became fact. With one tiny nod, barely more than a tilt of her chin, she gave him the go ahead.

The rough sound of the zipper, the slow peel of denim down her thighs, was more erotic than any line from their shared history. Roman tugged the jeans to her ankles, then off, leaving her in nothing but slender black underwear. It was the old joke—she’d once told him that wearing nice panties was one thing she did just for herself, even if nobody else would ever know. Now, years later, he remembered, and the smile he shot her was half recognition, half worship.

His hands splayed over her calves, trailing upward with the certainty of a man who’d spent a lifetime training for exactly this moment. He hooked his fingers under the waistband, eyes locked on hers, as if waiting for a last chance at refusal. Sienna didn’t flinch—she wanted this display, wanted him to see the flush in her cheeks, the way her chest rose and fell in greedy anticipation.

He slid the fabric down, every brush of his finger sent darts of sensation spiraling through her, and Sienna felt her body shift into that old, ravenous mode—wide open and quickening, nerves set alight. Roman inhaled, grazing the inside of her thigh with the back of one knuckle. The comparison to their younger, drunken fumblings was almost comical, but this was no overtime scramble in the backseat of a borrowed car; this was deliberate.

Grown.

Roman had always been a man of powerful instincts, a warrior crafted through years of trial and unyielding dedication. Yet here, he felt an entirely different kind of battle rage within him. Each kiss, each delicate touch felt like a thread connecting them; he was both the hunter and the hunted in this moment, and there was no turning back. He wanted to envelope Sienna in the kind of affection that had been just out of reach for so long—a connection steeped in acceptance, vulnerability, and passion.

He kissed her thigh first, slow and exploratory, letting his breath and the subtle vibration of his mouth soak through until she was arching toward him, the small sounds of her moans creating a rhythm that fueled him. He parted her thighs with both hands, possessive but gentle, and kissed the crease where leg met hip—an adoration in every press, as if promising he’d never ignore the small, hidden parts of her again.

With a reverence that bordered on the sacred, Roman lowered his head between her thighs, and the first brush of his tongue was so light it made Sienna jolt—her body having half assumed it would be over before it even began, the way it was in bad memories, old relationships, times when pleasure was transactional at best. Instead he explored, maps and territories, pausing when she trembled, doubling back to the places that made her gasp and grit her teeth and twist the sheets in her fists. He let her remind him, listened to the way her body arched under his ministrations, the way her breath caught and broke with each pass of his mouth over her. In that moment everything vanished. Here was heat and darkness and the wet, relentless pursuit of something neither of them could have named, if asked.

He teased the smallest part of her, circled her clit with his tongue before flicking lightly, then retreating to long, slow strokes that left her whimpering. His hands pinned her thighs open, but pressed only gently, as if to remind her that she could close them if she wished. But Sienna had spent too many years learning to starve her own desire—she would not shut out anything, not this time. She let the pleasure claim her, let the slow fire in her belly become wildfire, let every gasp and moan be a spell that banished the failures and the futures she could not control.

Roman’s mouth was attuned to every quiver, every hitch in her voice. He alternated, never letting the rhythm settle, tongue working in lazy circles and sharp, quick flicks, sometimes sucking, sometimes just breathing against her until she was trembling, both hands white-knuckled on the sheets. There was nowhere for the old pain to hide, not in the face of this, not with the sensation flooding her and washing the rest away. She felt her body tense and coil, that first spike of pleasure building, electric and dangerous. He pressed on, relentless but attentive, adjusting with every signal she gave, every instinct he’d honed in the long, lonely years between.

When she came, it was with a violence that surprised her; she clamped her thighs around his head and cried out—an ugly, honest noise—and felt his hands steady her, holding her firm as the storm passed through her and left her breathless, shaking, grounded only by the sound of Roman murmuring her name against her skin. She bucked, spasmed, nearly wept, and lay slack with her hand knotted in his hair, gently coaxing him up, up, up so she could see his face, dazed and blissed out and gazing back at her like he’d conquered the only title he’d ever really wanted.

Sienna pushed at the waistband of his joggers, and Roman shed them with clumsy, grateful hands, leaving him naked and beautiful, lit by the bedside lamp’s golden filigree. He was built not for symmetry but for impact, heavy through the torso, thighs like pillars, marked everywhere by a life spent in collision with other bodies and the world. He didn’t apologize for any of it—if anything, he seemed larger in his honesty, terrifyingly vulnerable and, because of that, irresistibly magnetic.

Then, and only then, did he let himself exhale, panting and sticky-lipped and hungry for the taste of her mouth again.

He knelt over her, and for a moment, Sienna’s gaze locked on the line where his hip curved to his groin, the fine dusting of hair that led downward and the mottled evidence of previous matches: bruises, half-healed, and a long, white scar that scored his right thigh. She reached for him, her fingers catching on his hip, and traced the scar. Roman sucked in his breath, that sound less a gasp than a dare.

She pulled him toward her, the weight and heat of him settling over her, not suffocating, but anchoring. They kissed and it was urgent—now the patience was gone, scalded away by the press of flesh on flesh, by the memory of loss made wildly immediate. She bit his bottom lip, just hard enough to make him grunt, and he answered, not suffocating, but anchoring. Sienna’s fingers found their way to Roman’s chest, tracing the well-defined contours, feeling the steady thrum of his heart. Every breath they shared was electric, a jolt of affirmation laced with all the hope and ache they had both been holding for so long.

He nudged her knees wide with a certainty and care that sent a hot pulse up her spine. The press of his hands against her inner thighs was both command and comfort, as if he’d done it a thousand times in dreams he’d never dared to confess. Sienna felt her entire body reflexively tense in anticipation, every old muscle memory of shame and need colliding under the heat of his gaze. She forced herself to hold his eyes, to let him see fully into her; he didn’t look away, didn’t flinch, just angled himself forward with a slow, animal grace.

Roman’s palms smoothed upward along her thighs, fingers fanned as if mapping topography—he read her willingness in the way she shifted her hips, in the tremor of her knees as they parted further for him. He paused at the cusp of her, his dick hard and glossy and pressed against her entrance, and for one suspended second, it was just breath and heartbeats and the ghost of old longing. Sienna’s hands found his biceps, squeezing tight enough that he’d have bruises in the morning, and pulled him closer, lining him up and holding him, guiding him in.

He pushed inside her with a slow, steady drive, the kind of patience only barely held together by the wild urgency in his eyes. The first inch stretched her, the next consumed her, and by the time he was fully seated she could feel every inch of him, every old ache and want, all the years of separation and misunderstanding telescoping down to this singular, perfect fit. Sienna gasped and the noise was so open, so unscripted, it made Roman’s jaw clench and his whole body shudder. He dropped his forehead to her shoulder, braced on his elbows, and began to move in a rhythm that was both new and ancient, a cadence they’d never practiced but somehow already knew.

The first stroke drew a sound from Sienna that she'd forgotten she could make—something raw and wordless that seemed to rise from her chest and escape before she could catch it. Roman heard it and felt his own control fracture slightly, his hips stuttering against hers as he fought to maintain the deliberate pace he'd set. He wanted to memorize this: the way her face went slack with pleasure, the flutter of her eyelashes, the arch of her spine that pressed her breasts against his chest. Every sensation was magnified in the small, intimate space of the bus, the outside world reduced to nothing more than distant engine noise and the whisper of air conditioning.

Sienna's hands roamed his back, fingers tracing the landscape of muscle that told the story of every match, every victory and defeat that had shaped him into the man above her. She could feel the tension coiled in his shoulders, the way he held himself back even as his body demanded more. There was something heartbreaking in his restraint, this man who had built his career on raw power and dominance now moving with the careful reverence of someone afraid to break something precious.

"Don't hold back," she whispered against his ear, her voice a breathless command against the shell of his ear. Her words unleashed something primal in him, a dam breaking as his hips snapped forward with renewed purpose. The controlled pace transformed into something urgent and desperate, each thrust deeper than the last.

Roman growled low in his throat, a sound that rumbled through his chest and into hers. He braced himself on one forearm, using his free hand to grip the back of her thigh, angling her body to meet his thrusts. The new position sent sparks of pleasure racing up Sienna's spine, making her gasp and claw at his shoulders.

"Fuck, I've missed you," he panted, his words hot against her neck. "Missed this. Missed us."

Sienna couldn't form coherent thoughts, let alone words. Her world had narrowed to the exquisite friction between their bodies, the delicious weight of him above her, the way he filled her so completely that nothing else mattered. The years of separation, the hurt, the anger—all of it melted away in the heat of their reunion.

Their bodies remembered what their minds had tried to forget: the perfect rhythm, the spots that made her whimper, the pressure that made him arch beneath her touch. The memory lived in their flesh, older than their grievances and more honest than their words. Roman's rhythm became erratic as sensation overwhelmed his carefully maintained control, each stroke drawing them deeper into the gravity well of their shared need.

Sienna felt herself climbing toward something vast and inevitable, her body coiling tight around him. She could see the strain in Roman's face, the way his jaw worked as he fought to hold himself together, and she understood with crystalline clarity that he was waiting for her—that even in this, even lost in the urgency of reunion, he was putting her first in a way he never had before.

The realization broke something open inside her. Her climax hit like a shockwave, radiating outward from her core in concentric circles of white-hot pleasure. She cried out, her voice cracking on his name, and felt her body clamp down around him with a force that made them both gasp. Roman followed her over the edge, his control finally shattering as he buried himself deep and came with a groan that seemed torn from his chest.

They collapsed together in a tangle of sweat-slicked limbs, breathing hard against each other's skin. Roman's weight pressed her into the mattress, a comforting anchor rather than a burden. His heartbeat thundered against her chest, gradually slowing as reality seeped back into their consciousness.

Sienna's mind, usually so quick to analyze and dissect, floated in a haze of endorphins. She traced lazy patterns on his damp back. There was a strange comfort in this moment—a familiar intimacy that transcended the years they'd spent apart. Her body remembered his, welcomed him back as if no time had passed at all.

Roman buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling the scent of her skin mixed with sweat and sex. He wanted to memorize this moment, to preserve it against the uncertain future that waited beyond the confines of this room. His thoughts drifted to all the mistakes he'd made, all the ways he'd prioritized his career over her happiness. He wondered if this could be a beginning rather than just a nostalgic echo of their past.

Sienna curled deeper into his warmth, a protective cocoon that felt like home and yet so foreign at the same time. Each breath he took against her skin was a reminder of both their history and their potential future. The weight of the world vanished, replaced by an almost palpable sense of closeness—as if they had forged a new reality in that moment of rediscovery.

Yet, beneath this cocoon of warmth and comfort, Sienna felt the familiar tendrils of uncertainty creeping back, whispering doubts about whether this was a fleeting moment or the beginning of something more lasting. Could they really bridge the chasm of their shared past? Would the wounds they had inflicted upon each other linger like scars, or would they heal with time and tenderness?

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Roman’s thoughts mirrored her own in a messy collage of longing and fear. He had spent years learning not to rely on anyone but himself, building a fortress of solitude in the guise of independence. The vulnerability of the moment—a man stripped of his defenses, laid bare in every sense—felt both terrifying and exhilarating. Yet there was something about Sienna, her warm presence, that made him want to take the leap into the unknown, to trust that they could navigate whatever lay ahead together.

[mikaylathenerd5]

Somewhere Between Silence | Roman Reigns

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Summary: Over two years after a breakup neither of them recovered from, Roman runs into Nalani at a quiet grocery store—with a toddler who has his eyes. Grief, guilt, and the weight of silence crack open everything he thought he buried. Now he’s faced with a truth he never expected and a second chance he might not deserve.

Word Count: ~5.8k

Content Warnings: This story contains emotional tension, mentions of absent fatherhood, off-screen breakup and heartbreak, and grief related to missed time with a child. Nothing explicitly graphic, but the tone is heavy and introspective. Please take care of yourselves while reading.

Author’s Note: This one’s close to my heart. I wanted to explore what it feels like to come face-to-face with everything you missed—and still choose to try anyway. This is Part 1 of what’s looking like a slow-burn second chance fic, full of silence, softness, and hope that isn’t easy.

Thank you for reading—likes, reblogs, comments, or even just making it to the end means everything to me.

💌 Feel free to join the taglist or scream in the inbox. Let me know if you want a Pt. 2 🩵✨

“A man can miss a thousand moments and still choose to show up for the next one.”

The doors chimed low—barely a whisper—but Roman heard it.

He always heard the small things now—how silence could stretch and pull at you in ways noise never could. Grief warped his hearing—like a second pulse beneath his skin, tightening everything inside until he could barely think. You could be surrounded by people and still feel the absence of just one, sharp and unforgiving, echoing just beneath the surface. It was like a sixth sense he never wanted—tightening around his ribs, creeping in when he least expected it.

He didn’t know why he came in. He hated grocery shopping. Usually had someone do it for him. But this spot was tucked off a side street in the quiet part of Atlanta. No fans. No cameras. Just jazz playing low and light through the speakers and oranges stacked like sunshine in every corner. The kind of place with handwritten signs and employees who smiled with their eyes. It was the first time in weeks he felt like a man again, not a brand. Something simple. Something still.

And then he heard it.

A laugh—familiar, soft, round.

His spine went stiff.

His head turned on instinct, breath caught halfway in his chest. For a second, he thought he was wrong. That his mind was playing tricks again. That the universe wasn’t cruel enough to play this kind of game.

But then—

Her.

Nalani.

She stood in profile near a basket of strawberries, bent slightly as she steadied a toddler’s reach. Her hair was longer now, thicker curls tumbling over her shoulders, catching the light like strands of ink tipped in gold. No makeup. Gold hoops. Skin that still looked like honey beneath soft morning light. The sight of her hit like muscle memory—familiar, intimate, disarming. His body swayed forward a step before he could think better of it, as if the past had physically pulled him into its orbit. Roman’s grip tightened around the cart handle instinctively, a jolt running through his body like his nerves misfired all at once. His mouth dried, his hands freezing on the cart handle, as if time itself had stalled around his grip.

And beside her—gripping the hem of her dress with one chubby hand—was a little boy.

A chill spidered up Roman’s spine, the kind that made his fingertips go numb and his ears ring like he’d stepped into a different dimension.

The child was small. Maybe no more than two years old. Thick dark curls. Soft golden-brown skin. And something else. Something deeper.

He couldn’t stop staring.

The boy held a green toy truck in one hand and pointed with the other.

"Mama!" he chirped, voice still sweet and round. "Red ones! I want red ones!"

Mama.

Roman’s stomach twisted. Her kid?

He narrowed his eyes slightly.

He just looked like her. That was all. That had to be it. The shape of his eyes, the curve of his cheek—those could be hers, right? Roman’s brain scrambled for denial, for logic, for anything to explain away what his gut already knew. But it unraveled fast. Too fast. His thoughts spun, grabbing at any excuse—maybe she was babysitting. Maybe he was someone else’s child. Maybe this wasn’t what it looked like.

Except… he didn’t. Not entirely.

There was a shape to the boy’s mouth, a weight in his eyes.

The kind Roman saw in the mirror every morning.

He laughed softly, rocking on his feet. He furrowed his brow in a familiar, deeply embedded way.

A sharp inhale scraped his throat, like the air had turned to glass in his lungs.

"No," he muttered under his breath. "No way."

The kid bent down with his little knees and stuck his tongue out while trying to reach a loose berry.

Roman felt the air shift. His jaw clenched before he could stop it, throat bobbing around a breath that never made it out.

That was his look. His mother had teased him for doing that as a toddler. A habit he never outgrew.

And suddenly—he couldn’t breathe.

The apple slipped from his hand and hit the floor with a dull thud. In that moment, Roman felt just as bruised—something soft and broken rolling out of reach. It rolled to a stop near the boy’s sneaker, soft and bruised.

Nalani turned first to the apple, then slowly lifted her gaze to him.

Time stalled.

She didn’t gasp. Didn’t stumble. But her fingers tensed, a flicker of something passing across her face—maybe shock, maybe something more. But her fingers tightened slightly around the strap of her tote, the only crack in her otherwise flawless composure.

Just… stillness.

Her eyes locked on his like a switchblade snapping open.

She stood slowly, one hand adjusting the tote strap on her shoulder.

Roman’s knees nearly buckled. His chest moved like he’d forgotten how to breathe. He’d taken hits in the ring that hurt less than this.

He stepped forward.

"That’s…" His voice cracked. "That’s your son?"

She blinked. Once. Calm.

"No," she said quietly. "He’s your son."

Silence dropped like a blade.

Then, softer—after a long, almost cruel pause—she added:

"Roman."

The name landed like a punch to the gut—silent, wind-stealing, final.

His throat dried instantly. His jaw worked, trying to form words he no longer owned.

"You were…" he managed. "You were pregnant?"

"Yes."

"And you didn’t tell me?"

"No."

"Why would you—"

"You were already gone," she said. "You just hadn’t walked out yet."

The words hit him harder than a punch. Roman flinched, the breath catching in his throat, the ache rising so fast he had to lock his jaw to keep it from trembling. It wasn’t just a line—it was a truth he hadn’t been brave enough to admit until now.

The boy—Maleko—stooped to pick up the bruised apple. It was soft in his hand, damp from the floor. Roman’s chest squeezed watching him cradle it so gently—like even something hurt was still worth holding onto.

"I got it, Mama," he said, wobbling a little as he held it up.

Nalani crouched to take it. "Thank you, baby," she murmured, brushing his curls out of his face.

Her hand lingered there, on his tiny shoulder, and Roman’s throat went tight. A sharp ache bloomed beneath his ribs, like watching something sacred he no longer had a right to touch. Roman’s chest clenched, the weight of helplessness pressing into him like the grocery bag strap digging into his palm, unnoticed until now. Steadying. Grounding. Her thumb rubbed slow circles against his shirt, like if she let go—even for a second—she might crack open. Like she had to hold her own body together with that single touch.

Roman stood frozen.

He looked at her. Then at the boy. Then back.

"He has my name," he whispered. "My blood. And I didn’t even know he existed."

"You didn’t care to know," she said.

"I didn’t get the chance."

She raised her brow. For half a second—just a flicker—her lip trembled. But it was gone before it could mean anything.

"I gave you every chance, Roman. You didn’t take any of them."

"What’s his name?"

"Maleko."

His breath stuttered.

She’d given him a Samoan name.

Even when she hadn’t given him a single word.

Maleko looked up at Roman then, blinking. Curious. Small. The world seemed to pause in that breath—Roman’s heart thudding louder in his ears, the weight of recognition thick in the air—before the boy moved again. He squinted at him like he was trying to place a memory, and Roman’s breath hitched, a sudden sharp pull like someone had yanked the air out of his chest before he could even take the breath, then gave a shy, crooked smile—the kind that lit up his whole face without warning. He tilted his head slightly and rested one hand on his hip—exactly like Roman had just done. The echo of Roman’s stance in that tiny body gutted him.

Roman’s heart shattered in silence. In Maleko’s tilted head and crooked smile, he saw a thousand moments he’d never get back—sippy cups, scraped knees, sleepy yawns—and something deeper: a resemblance that left no room for doubt, only grief and fragile hope.

"Who dat?" the boy asked, pointing the toy truck.

Nalani crouched again, voice low.

"Just someone Mama used to know, baby."

The words split him open.

Roman’s guilt twisted into something sharp. Anger flared—not at her, but at the ache of everything he missed.

"You didn’t even try," he said, voice breaking. "You just decided for both of us."

Nalani stood, slow and deliberate. "I decided for him," she said. "And I’d do it again."

He wanted to fight it. To argue. To demand something back. But the memory of her walking away that night—her hoodie too big on her, her voice too small to stay—rose like smoke in his chest. He’d already lost that fight before he even noticed it was happening. But he couldn’t. Because deep down, he knew—he would’ve made it worse back then. He wasn’t who Maleko needed. Not then.

"I want to know him," Roman rasped. "Please."

She looked at him long and hard.

"I don’t know if I want that yet," she said. "He doesn’t know you. And I’ve spent two years keeping his world safe."

He swallowed hard.

She reached down and took Maleko’s hand.

"Come on, baby," she said. "We’ll get you a smoothie before we go home."

Roman didn’t follow.

He didn’t speak.

He just watched her walk away—her son in tow, his curls bouncing as he skipped beside her, the toy truck now dragging along the edge of the cart.

And when he finally looked down, the apple was still on the floor.

Soft. Bruised. Just like the piece of him lying on that floor—unseen, left behind. The silence that greeted him now echoed like the one he carried in his chest, sharp with grief, the same silence that had followed him in and never let go. Birthdays, first words, first steps. A lifetime’s worth of memories he’d never even been invited to. And the silence she’d left in her wake? He was still sitting in it, long after the door closed.

Roman didn’t remember leaving the store.

One second, he was standing over the bruised apple. The next, he was outside, leaning against the hood of his truck, sun beating down on him like it had a personal grudge.

His shirt stuck to his back. Not from heat. From nerves. From shame. His pulse thudded behind his eyes. Too hard. Too loud.

He couldn’t feel his hands. His fingers were curled so tight into his palms they’d gone numb, but he hadn’t noticed until he looked down and realized he was trembling.

The air didn’t help. It was warm—early spring heat with a breeze—but it might as well have been ice.

He had a son.

A son.

Two years of moments. Two years of tiny shoes and teething cries. Of midnight feedings and first steps. All of it—gone. Erased from his hands like he was never meant to hold any of it.

"He doesn’t know you."

That line repeated over and over. It throbbed. Like it lived under his skin now.

Roman scrubbed a hand over his face, then over his beard, like the pressure might make something real. But it didn’t. It just left him feeling rawer than before.

He could still hear Maleko’s voice.

"Who dat?"

He hadn’t even said Dada. Had never said it to him.

Roman’s stomach turned.

He sat down on the edge of the truck bed, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

He hadn’t cried in years.

But now?

His throat felt tight. His vision blurred. The kind of grief that didn’t roar—it sank. Quiet. Heavy. Unrelenting.

He remembered her barefoot in his kitchen, months before the end. Wearing his hoodie. Laughing. He’d kissed her temple. Said something about "someday." The same someday she’d once believed in—the same word she threw back at him in the last message she ever sent.

Somewhere behind him, a car alarm chirped. A kid laughed across the street. Life went on, oblivious.

But for Roman, time had stopped the second Nalani looked him in the face and said, "He’s your son."

A smashed grape on the pavement near the front tire caught his eye. He stared at it too long, chest tight. Everything was soft and ruined now.

He didn’t know how long he had sat there.

Didn’t know if it was minutes or an hour before the ache moved to rage—at himself. At what he lost. At how little he could do now.

"You should’ve known," he muttered, voice hoarse. "You should’ve fucking known."

He’d missed everything.

But maybe—just maybe—he hadn’t missed it all. And if she gave him even half a chance… what kind of man would he have to become to deserve it?

Over Two Years Ago

It started with a fork.

She’d left it in the sink, and Roman, half-distracted on a conference call, had tossed it in the dishwasher with the rest of the dishes. Just another thing to cross off the list.

But when she came home, she saw it. The silver tine bent slightly. The kind of detail only someone who cared too much would notice.

And she didn’t say a word.

The silence had weight. Not tension. Not anger. Just absence.

Roman stood at the end of the hallway, watching the shape of her through the cracked bedroom door. Nalani sat on the edge of their bed, elbows on her knees, staring at nothing. She wasn’t crying. That almost made it worse.

“I ordered Thai,” he said. His voice felt too loud.

She didn’t answer right away. Just rubbed her thumb over the edge of her ring finger—bare, for weeks now.

“I’m not hungry,” she finally replied.

Roman leaned against the frame. “You haven’t eaten all day.”

Nalani shrugged.

The TV was on in the bedroom. One of those home renovation shows she used to love. The volume was low, just enough to distract, not entertain. Paint colors, crown molding—none of it made a dent in the air between them.

“Do you wanna talk?” he asked, more out of guilt than intention.

She turned her head slightly. Not to face him—just enough to acknowledge she heard. “No point.”

That landed harder than anything else that night.

He walked in. Sat at the far edge of the bed, like the space between them had always been there. The distance wasn’t just physical—it had settled into the sheets, the floorboards, the walls.

“What do you want me to say?” he muttered. “You think I haven’t been trying?”

Nalani didn’t laugh, but he heard the breath she held back. “You’ve been reacting. Not trying.”

He said nothing.

“You show up when it’s convenient. You talk when it’s easy. You love me like I’m a job you forgot you signed up for.”

That one hurt.

And maybe she meant it to. But the worst part was—it wasn’t a scream. It wasn’t even a fight. It was exhaustion. Finality.

“I never meant to make you feel like that,” Roman said quietly.

“You didn’t have to mean it.” Her voice was small now. “You just did.”

They sat in silence.

The show on the TV changed. A new couple came on, smiling wide, holding hands. Roman watched it for a second. Then looked at her again.

“I don’t want to lose you.”

Nalani nodded once. “Then you should’ve held on before I started slipping.”

He didn’t know what to say to that.

“I—” he started, but the words jammed in his throat. He didn’t even know what he was trying to say. Sorry? Stay? Please?

And she didn’t wait for him to figure it out.

She stood up, crossed the room, and picked up a throw blanket from the chair. She wrapped it around her shoulders—not to leave, but to close herself off.

“I’ll stay on the couch,” she said.

Roman blinked. “Why?”

“Because I’m tired, Roman. I’m tired of sleeping beside someone who feels so far away.”

Then she turned the volume up just a little, pulled the blanket tighter, and walked out of the room.

Not out of his life.

Not yet.

But close.

He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, the remote abandoned beside him. He stared at the muted glow of the screen, at the couple smiling through drywall dust and fresh paint, and wondered how the hell everything had turned so cold.

Cold sheets. Cold air. The faint scent of her shampoo still on the pillow next to him.

He didn’t chase her that night. He thought about it—rising, saying something, anything—but the weight of it all kept him frozen in place.

Didn’t say what he should’ve said.

The hoodie she wore that night would still be in her closet over two years later, untouched. It still smelled faintly like him—warm cotton, a hint of cedar and smoke—and every time she opened the door, she pretended not to see it folded neatly on the shelf like a memory she couldn’t quite throw away.

And in the quiet, Nalani’s absence filled the room louder than any goodbye.

He sat there for a long time, staring at the wall like it might give him back what he’d just lost. She used to pull him closer in the middle of the night—just to feel his heartbeat. And it was always the hoodie she wore when she did. That same one folded neat on a shelf now, holding memories he never deserved to forget. Now, she could barely stand to share the same room.

He thought silence meant peace. He knew better now.

He hadn’t touched his dinner.

The takeout box sat unopened on the kitchen island, condensation pooling around the edge like sweat. The house was dark except for the glow of the TV playing on mute.

Roman sat on the couch, phone in hand, thumb hovering over a contact he hadn’t called in over two years.

He hadn’t saved her under a name. Just the emoji she used to sign off with: 🌙

It was still there.

He didn’t know what he thought would happen. That maybe the number would’ve changed. That time would’ve deleted it for him.

But it hadn’t.

He opened their old message thread, his thumb hesitating midair as if touching the screen might set off a landmine. His hands felt unsteady—too big, too clumsy for something this delicate. His shoulders hunched in toward the phone like the walls were closing in, breath tight in his chest as he scrolled.

The last message was hers.

“You said someday. That’s not a real date.” Delivered.

He read it over and over.

Then scrolled up. Through a hundred messages. Through photos. A blurry picture of her holding a grocery bag up like a trophy. A mirror selfie of her in his hoodie. A timestamped text from 2AM that just read: “Come home.”

He locked the phone and dropped it beside him.

He couldn’t reach out yet.

Not without something more than guilt.

He walked into the guest room. The one she’d used sometimes when they fought. Opened the closet. She hadn’t taken everything when she left. A few books. A sweater. A small drawstring bag with a cracked bottle of hair oil.

At the back of the shelf—folded too neatly to be ignored—was the hoodie.

His.

Hers.

He sat on the bed with it in his lap. Ran his hands over the fabric like it might speak.

Maleko’s smile lived in his mind now. The way he tilted his head. That voice.

“Who dat?”

Roman exhaled shakily.

He didn’t know if Nalani would let him back in.

But he knew this:

He wasn’t going to vanish again.

He got up and grabbed his keys.

Thirty minutes later, he was parked outside a familiar door—Jey’s place. He sat for a full minute, fingers drumming against the steering wheel, breath shallow. What was he even going to say? How do you open your mouth and admit you missed your own child? Eventually, he got out, walked up, and knocked.

Jey opened it in sweats, hair twisted up, one brow raised. “Yo. You good?”

Roman didn’t answer right away. Just stepped in, shut the door, and pressed a hand to his chest like he was trying to hold something in.

“Talk to me,” Jey said, already switching the TV off.

Roman sat down heavily. “I saw her today.”

Jey didn’t need to ask who.

“With a little boy,” Roman said. Voice flat. “A toddler.”

Jey’s jaw tightened.

“He’s mine.”

Jey sat down across from him. “Shit.”

Roman laughed—harsh, humorless. “She named him Maleko.”

Jey looked at him, eyes narrowing. “You sure?”

“I don’t need a test. I saw his eyes. His stance. He held himself like me, Jey. He even mimicked me.”

Jey exhaled slowly. “Damn, Uce.”

“I missed everything.”

They sat in silence.

Then Jey said, “So what now? Because I can see it’s tearing you up, and I’m not just asking for you—I’m asking for that little boy too. He didn’t ask for any of this, but now you know he’s yours. So what are you gonna do about it, Uce?”

Roman looked at him. Really looked at him. His shoulders sank slightly, a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding slipping out slow and shaky. “I think I need to earn a chance to know him. To know her. I don’t think I get to ask for it. Not yet.”

Jey nodded slowly. “That’s true. But you do get to show her you’re not the same man you were. Start there.”

Roman rubbed a hand over his jaw. “I don’t even know what that looks like. I don’t even know who I am to that kid.”

“You’re his father,” Jey said. “Not because you made him. But because you show up. Now you show up, Uce.”

Roman’s chest tightened. “What if it’s not enough?”

Jey leaned forward. “Then you keep showing up until it is.”

Roman didn’t answer. Because that he could do. Even if it broke him open in the process. Even if it meant starting small—showing up at the library’s toddler hour, researching parenting classes, or quietly googling therapists who specialized in fatherhood and reconciliation. He didn’t know what she’d allow. But he’d be ready when she did. Ready with the hoodie in his lap and Maleko’s voice in his ears—haunting him, guiding him, reminding him of everything he still had a chance to be.

Nalani hadn’t slept.

The kind of not-sleep that clings to your bones. That plays memories behind your eyes like a projector reel with no off switch. Roman’s face. His voice. That fractured expression when he saw Maleko. It haunted her in a way she hated—because it wasn’t anger that lingered.

It was ache.

She sat at the edge of the bed, Maleko’s monitor soft and green beside her, heart ticking too loud in her ears. She’d meant what she said—she had protected their son. Had done everything alone. Had been enough. She’d rocked him through fevers, cried quietly in the bathroom while he slept, held her breath through first milestones with no one to share them with. And yet…

Seeing Roman had cracked something open. Not because she needed him. But because, for a second, she saw the man he might’ve been—still could be—if he chose right. She hated that a part of her wanted him to show up. That part was still soft. Still stupid. Still his.

Her phone buzzed.

It was a number she still hadn’t deleted. One she couldn’t.

Roman: Would it be okay if I came to the library this week? Just to watch storytime. No pressure. No expectations.

Roman: Only if you’re okay with it.

He remembered once—back when they still shared Sunday mornings—how she’d talked about the little library on Peachtree. How it had beanbag chairs and soft carpets. How she used to dream of taking their future baby to storytime there. He hadn’t said much back then. Just nodded. Maybe kissed her shoulder.

But apparently, he’d remembered enough.

She typed “No.” Then erased it. Tried “Not ready.” Deleted that too. Her chest felt too tight for something as simple as a reply.

It wasn’t about forgiveness. It was about safety. About making sure her son only saw love—never its collapse.

She stared at the screen. Thumb hovered. Then, finally—

Nalani: Thursday. 10:30.

She didn’t send anything else. But when she tucked Maleko’s jacket into his little bag the night before, she added an extra granola bar.

Just in case someone else was hungry.

She zipped the bag shut like a decision. Quiet. Small. But not nothing. A hush against the noise of doubt still swirling in her chest. Like a whisper in a storm—a yes she hadn’t spoken aloud yet.

Just in case he really came.

The first thing he noticed was how loud the quiet was.

Not the kind that haunted him. Not anymore. This quiet was stitched with whispers, giggles, and the low rustle of pages. The soft squeak of sneakers on carpet. Crayons clicking in little fists. A dragon puppet swaying in the hands of a librarian with kind eyes and a lilting voice.

And there—dead center on the rug—was Maleko.

Cross-legged. Focused. Unaware.

Roman stood near the back of the children’s section. Hat low. Hands deep in his Nike hoodie. Trying to slow his breathing.

He didn’t look at Nalani right away.

Didn’t need to.

He could feel her watching him from across the room. Guarded. Tense. The kind of look that warned him she remembered everything.

He kept his eyes on the felt board. On the soft shapes and smiling faces. On anything but her.

Maleko laughed. High and full and wide-mouthed. The puppet had just mispronounced 'banana'—'blanana'—and the kids lost it.

Roman bit back his own smile.

He didn’t move. Didn’t step forward. Just stayed where he was, soaking it in. Every second. Every sound. And for a moment, he doubted whether he had any right to be here—to witness this softness, this safety—when he hadn’t earned it.

This was what he’d missed.

Not just milestones.

The rhythm. The everyday joy. The quiet miracles.

A little girl near him dropped a crayon. Roman crouched and picked it up before her mom could react. Handed it over with a quiet nod.

He didn’t realize Nalani had noticed.

She had.

Her arms were folded, but her expression had shifted—barely. But enough. She watched him crouch to hand the crayon to the little girl—a small, quiet act—but there was a softness in his smile that caught her off guard, a warmth she hadn’t seen in years. Her grip loosened. Her jaw clenched. And then Roman handed a book to a child too shy to ask for one, and she saw it again—that flicker of softness. Like she didn’t know whether to fold or brace.

Her arms were folded, but her expression had shifted—barely. But enough.

Roman looked at his son again.

He watched another dad lean in and whisper something to his daughter. She giggled, her fingers tangled in his beard. Roman looked down. He’d never even held Maleko’s hand.

He blinked hard, throat dry. His feet itched with the urge to leave—to not ruin it. But Maleko laughed again, and Roman stayed.

Then Maleko glanced over his shoulder mid-story. Brief. Innocent. A flicker of curiosity in his small face. He watched Roman adjust how he stood—and without thinking, Maleko mirrored it.

Nalani saw it. Her breath caught.

And Roman just gave the tiniest nod.

Nothing more.

Nothing yet.

But he’d come.

He was here.

And for the first time in years, maybe that was enough to begin.

They locked eyes—Nalani and Roman—just once. Sharp, unintentional, and unspoken.

That tilt of Maleko’s head—Roman had seen it in mirrors. But the calm in his eyes? That was all Nalani.

A page turned. A child yawned. And somewhere between the silence, a second chance took root.

Nalani didn’t know what scared her more—that he came, or that part of her had hoped he would.

Roman caught up with them in the parking lot. Not too close. Just enough to be helpful.

Maleko had run ahead with a burst of post-storytime energy, nearly tripping over his own feet as he made for the car. Nalani caught up just in time to steady him, murmuring soft reprimands as she adjusted the strap of his little backpack.

Roman didn’t speak at first. Just bent down and opened the car door for her.

He opened his mouth like he wanted to say something, but the words never made it out. She saw the effort. She looked away before it could mean anything.

“Thanks,” she said cautiously, not looking at him.

He nodded.

“Let me help,” he offered, and she hesitated—but didn’t say no.

Together, they buckled Maleko into his seat. Nalani remembered him once carrying both grocery bags and her purse after a long day, cracking a dumb joke just to see her smile. His hands had always been careful, even when his words weren’t. Now, Roman’s hands moved carefully, like he was afraid to touch anything too long. When Maleko yawned, Roman smiled and tapped the crown still perched on his curls.

“Looks good on you, little man.”

Maleko grinned sleepily. Then leaned back with his hands behind his head, mimicking a pose Roman used to take on lazy Sundays. Nalani noticed. Her jaw tightened.

Nalani watched them both. Watched the way Roman pulled back slowly, giving her space even while his eyes lingered.

She didn’t invite him in.

But she didn’t rush him away either.

She climbed into the driver’s seat, started the car, and pulled her door shut with a soft thunk.

Roman stepped back.

He didn’t say goodbye.

Didn’t have to.

He just stood there, hands in his pockets, as she backed out of the space and turned toward home.

The car was quiet.

Not heavy like it had been two nights ago—but soft. Muffled. The kind of quiet where peace didn’t mean comfort, just distance waiting to be crossed.

Maleko was in his car seat, swinging his legs and humming. His curls bounced with each kick against the fabric, and he was still clutching the red paper crown the librarian gave out after storytime.

Nalani kept her hands at ten and two, knuckles pale. The light changed, and she turned left out of the parking lot like muscle memory. They always took the long way home on Thursdays.

She glanced at him in the rearview.

He was still humming.

Still content.

He hadn’t even noticed how hard she was breathing.

“What did you think of storytime today, mi amor?” she asked softly, voice breaking the air like a ripple in still water.

Maleko nodded. “I liked it,” he said, bouncing the crown in his hands. “The lady was funny.”

“She was,” Nalani agreed. She swallowed hard. “Did you see anyone else you liked?”

Maleko’s brow furrowed. He tilted his head, mirroring the way he had in the library.

“The man,” he said.

Nalani’s fingers tightened around the steering wheel.

“What man?” she asked, even though she already knew.

Maleko looked out the window. “The one who helped the girl. He was big.”

A beat.

Then: “He looked nice.”

She wished it didn’t matter. Wished her son didn’t already know how to spot goodness in a man he hadn’t even met.

Nalani didn’t answer.

She kept driving. Past the diner. Past the park. Past the place Roman used to get his hair cut every third Friday like clockwork.

Maleko yawned, dragging the crown over his face like a superhero mask.

“He smiled at me,” he mumbled.

Nalani blinked.

The light ahead turned yellow. She didn’t speed up.

She pulled into their driveway minutes later. Didn’t kill the engine.

Maleko was already nodding off, the crown slipping off his head.

Nalani sat with her hands still on the wheel.

She didn’t cry.

Didn’t speak.

She just stared out the windshield and let the silence press in again—soft, uncertain, and not entirely unwelcome. She stared out the windshield, breath held tight in her chest, like she was waiting for the quiet to decide what came next.

Roman sat on the edge of his bed, the hoodie still folded across the back of a chair. The house was quiet, the kind that used to settle him—now it just echoed. Too wide. Too still.

His phone sat screen-up on the nightstand. He stared at it. Picked it up. Put it down. Picked it up again.

He opened a blank message thread. Typed. Deleted. Typed again.

Roman: I know I don’t get to ask for anything. But I’m going to try anyway.

He paused. Backspaced. Started again.

Roman: If there’s ever a day Maleko has a checkup, or a preschool visit, or even a park trip… I’d like to come. Just to be near. I won’t say anything. I won’t cross your line. You set the pace. I’ll follow it.

He exhaled through his nose. Deleted the whole thing.

Typed again.

Roman: I started seeing someone. A therapist. Just so you know. I want to learn how to do this right.

Another pause.

Roman: If you ever need help—with him, with anything—I’m here. No pressure. No expectations.

He stared at it for a long time.

Then hit send.

The message flew off like a confession, like a promise written in digital air.

He tossed the phone on the bed and pressed both hands to his face, breathing deep. Not in regret—but in weight.

This was step one.

But actions had to follow. He thought of the birthdays that had come and gone, the milestones unmarked, the hundreds of days where Maleko had gone to bed without ever knowing his name. That weight couldn’t be undone by a single message. But it could be the first crack in the wall he’d built himself into.

That weekend, Roman showed up to his first fatherhood support group. Sat in the back, hoodie pulled low, heart pounding in his chest like a damn drum. He didn’t talk much—just listened. To men who’d lost time, fumbled love, missed too many milestones. Men trying to do better. Be better.

“I missed everything,” Roman finally said when it was his turn. “But I don’t want to miss him, too.”

Later that night, he mailed a package.

Inside: a worn copy of Where the Wild Things Are. His own name scrawled on the inside cover from when he was a kid. Tucked beneath the front flap, a note written in his stiff, careful handwriting:

Thought maybe he’d like this one. Used to be my favorite. No pressure. —R

He changed his phone wallpaper that night. Deleted numbers that didn’t matter. Installed a co-parenting app, even if she never added him. Set reminders for pediatrician timelines. Milestone tracking.

And then he sat back on the edge of his bed.

The hoodie was still on the chair.

But for once, he didn’t reach for it.

Because this was still step one.

And if it took a hundred more just to earn a conversation, he’d take every one of them.

📝 Author’s Note

This one… cracked me open. I wanted to explore what happens after silence—after the missed calls, the unread texts, the words we should’ve said but didn’t. Roman didn’t just lose time. He lost moments. And sometimes, the most devastating part of healing is realizing the clock never stopped. It just kept ticking without you.

If you made it to the end, thank you—truly. For holding space for this story, for Roman’s unraveling, for Nalani’s guarded softness, and for Maleko’s quiet, everyday magic.

I don’t know what comes next for them just yet.

🩵 If this moved you, I’d love to hear your thoughts. Comments, reblogs, tags, or even just quiet feelings you’re still holding—I see you, and I appreciate you more than I can say.

✨ I love interacting with y’all. Truly. Some of the coolest, most thoughtful people I know are right here, and I’m constantly in awe of the energy you bring. Never be shy in my comments or inbox.

📌 If you’re on the Somewhere Between Silence series taglist and would like to join my main taglist for all updates, let me know in the comments or fill out my Google Form. There are so many more stories on my masterlist if you're in the mood for more heartbreak, healing, smut, or softness.

Thank you for being here. — Kayla 🩵✨

🏷️ @star017 @sheaabuttaababyy @tribalqueen20 @trippinsorrows @mamis-girly

@pittieprincess22 @zoeroxiie @beccalynns-world @keyera-jackson @li-da-savage

@sharmelasworld @jaded-human @lov3rla03 @justazzi @fearlesschimera

@skyesthebomb @chrissyxcxox @reginawhorge01 @purplementalitybluebird @jeyusosqueen

@brianochka @diamondlifeee @perksofbeingbeautifulyetsobroken @cyberdejos2 @transparentphantomface

@sayyestoheav3nn @kianaleani @sxvual @vebner37 @sexyblacksimper

@dopematicdiamondz @behavior619 @annfg8 @ayeeeitsmiracle @romanreignsbae

@therealh18 @ariiaellbtheedonn @sweetpeainadysfunctionalpod @tribalchief2112 @marababyyyy

@romanreignsluver1