Rachael
Roman follows me into the driveway.
Neither of us says anything when I kill the engine.
The station is only a few minutes away, but it feels like we crossed something bigger than distance getting here.
I grab my bag and the folder beneath it without thinking. Paper scrapes my knuckles on the way out.
Case notes.
Like I’m going to do something with them tonight.
Roman shuts his door and comes around the hood, eyes already on me.
Waiting.
Watching.
I don’t say anything when I walk past him.
If I start talking, I might not be able to stop.
I head straight for the kitchen and throw my service belt, shield, and keys on the counter.
The cupboard door opens harder than I mean it to.
I grab a glass, debating which liquor will drown out today’s trauma.
Roman doesn’t speak at first. I can feel him watching me, though—tracking every movement like he always does when he thinks I’m about to do something he won’t like.
I pour anyway.
Amber hits the glass.
“Bad idea,” he says quietly.
I don’t look at him. I take the bottle, put it back exactly where it goes on the fridge, and lift the glass.
“I’ve had the day from hell,” I say, voice flat. “I’ll do what I want.”
The words come out colder than I feel. Harder.
But I don’t take them back.
Roman exhales through his nose.
Not frustrated.
Thinking.
I lift the glass anyway, taking a slow sip just to prove I can.
He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t try to take it from me.
He just holds my gaze for a second like he’s deciding which battle is worth having tonight.
Then he exhales once and pushes off the counter.
“I’m gonna take a lap,” he says.
I frown. “A lap?”
“Yeah.”
Like that explains anything.
I watch him walk past me, not fast, not tense. Just deliberate.
He checks the front door first, fingers brushing the lock, giving the handle a small test like muscle memory.
Then the windows.
Living room.
Kitchen.
Each one gets the same quick glance, the same confirmation.
It should feel weird.
Having someone move through my house like that.
Checking corners.
Testing locks.
But it doesn’t.
It feels… familiar.
That realization hits sideways.
I lean back against the counter, glass still in my hand, and watch him disappear down the hallway toward the bedrooms.
Drawers don’t open.
Lights don’t flip on.
He doesn’t make a show of it.
Just presence moving through space.
A few seconds later, I hear the soft creak of the back door, then the click of it shutting again.
He comes back into the kitchen a minute later, wiping his hands down the front of his jeans like he just finished something routine.
“All clear,” he says simply.
I stare at him for a second.
“You do realize this is my house.”
One corner of his mouth lifts. “Yeah.”
“Then why are you sweeping it like a crime scene?”
His expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes does.
Not darker.
Just more honest.
“Because he knows where you live,” he says.
No dramatics.
No emphasis.
Just fact.
The words settle between us, heavy but quiet.
I look down at the amber in my glass, watching it ripple slightly where my fingers tighten.
I expect him to push. To take the glass out of my hand.
He doesn’t.
Instead, he shifts.
“Go shower,” he says, like we’re talking about the weather. “It will help you feel better.”
It’s not a command.
But it lands like one anyway.
I stare at the counter for a second.
My fingers tighten around the glass.
He thinks this is fixable.
Water. Food. Sleep.
Everyday things.
Everyday solutions.
I don’t mean to say it.
It just slips out.
“An entire life of trauma doesn’t wash off, Roman.”
The second it leaves my mouth, I feel it.
Too much.
Too honest.
Too late to pull back.
Heat crawls up the back of my neck. I don’t turn around. Don’t look at him. If I see his face, I’ll have to deal with whatever expression is there, and I don’t have the energy for that right now.
So I move.
Fast.
I turn and walk out of the kitchen with the drink still in my hand, like I can outrun the sentence if I move quickly enough.
The hallway feels too long.
I almost clip the doorframe with my shoulder and don’t slow down.
Just keep going.
Bathroom door. Closed. Locked.
The stillness on the other side is loud.
I lean against the sink for a second, staring at my reflection.
I look… fine.
That’s the scariest part.
Same face. Same hair. Same eyes.
Like nothing happened today.
Like I didn’t stand in a dim apartment while a man who used to beat me smiled and told me my baby’s death was my fault.
My throat tightens.
I finish the drink before I can think better of it. The burn spreads warm and familiar, settling somewhere low in my chest like a hand pressing down on panic.
Armor.
I set the glass on the counter and turn the shower on too hot.
Steam blooms fast, filling the small room. Curling into the mirror. Softening the edges of everything.
I strip without really thinking about it, stepping under the spray before the water has time to cool.
It’s almost scalding.
I barely register it.
The heat pounds against the back of my neck, my shoulders, the place between my shoulder blades that’s been tight since the call came in this afternoon.
I close my eyes.
Let the water hit.
Let it drown out everything else.
For a few minutes, I pretend that’s enough.
I stay under the hot spray until the water runs cold.
When I come back out, the house smells like pizza.
Warm bread and grease and something solid enough to cut through the fog in my head.
My hair is still damp, lying in a long braid down my back. Roman’s eyes widen a fraction when I step into the living area, wearing one of his tees and my sweats.
It hangs off one shoulder, the collar stretched from too many washes. I didn’t think about grabbing it when I pulled it out of the drawer.
I definitely didn’t think about what it would do to him.
Something shifts in his expression. Quick. Gone just as fast.
But I catch it.
Hopefully, the possessiveness I think I see there makes him forget my shitty attitude right now.
For a second, neither of us says anything.
The TV is on low, some late-night rerun playing to an empty audience. The volume barely hums under the hush. Roman’s sitting in the corner of the couch, one arm stretched along the back, the other resting loosely on his knee. The pizza box is open on the coffee table in front of him, steam still curling faintly from the inside.
Next to it sits a bottle of water.
Unopened.
Waiting.
He doesn’t say anything about the shirt.
He just looks at me like he’s trying to catalog something he doesn’t have a name for yet.
I move toward the couch before the moment can stretch too thin and sit on the opposite end, tucking one leg under me.
The warmth of him hits a second later.
Subtle.
Constant.
Roman nudges the pizza box an inch closer with two fingers.
No comment.
No question.
Just the offering.
Pepperoni.
Of course it is.
A napkin appears beside the box before I even reach for one. He doesn’t look at me when he slides it over, like the movement is automatic.
I grab a slice instead, the crust still hot against my fingers. My stomach growls obnoxiously loud in anticipation.
Roman doesn’t comment on that either.
He just leans forward long enough to twist the cap off the water bottle and sets it in front of me before leaning back again.
Like hydration is not optional.
Like arguing about it isn’t worth the energy.
I take it.
Because fighting him over a bottle of water feels ridiculous tonight.
Because part of me is too tired to push.
For a few minutes, we just sit like that.
Eating.
Breathing.
Existing in the same space without asking anything from each other.
Roman swallows, wipes his thumb across the edge of a napkin, then says, almost absently, “The elderly woman who makes the pizzas tried to hold my hand while I was paying.”
I blink, turning my head toward him. “No, she didn’t.”
He takes another bite, unfazed. “Told me a man shouldn’t be eating alone.”
A small, tired sound escapes me before I can stop it. Not quite a laugh. Close enough to count.
“She still can’t hear?” I ask.
“Not even a little,” he says. “I told her I was eating with my girlfriend, same as always. She thought I said I was single.”
Girlfriend.
He says it so easily.
As if it’s obvious.
Like it’s been true long enough to stop needing an explanation.
I remember the way it slipped out of my mouth last night—too fast, unplanned, before I could second-guess it.
I’d half expected him to ignore it.
Or pretend he didn’t hear.
Roman doesn’t do that.
He just… keeps things.
Keeps words.
Keeps moments.
I stare down at the pizza, pretending I’m more focused on not dripping grease on his shirt than I am on the way that one word settles under my ribs.
It should feel bigger than it does.
But it doesn’t.
It feels simple.
Easy.
Which somehow makes it more dangerous.
A faint smile threatens at the corner of my mouth, and I hide it behind another bite, chewing slower than before.
Beside me, Roman doesn’t make a thing out of it.
No teasing.
No look that says he’s waiting for a reaction.
He just takes another bite like he didn’t just drop something soft between us and leave it there.
Like he trusts me not to run from it.
“That woman needs supervision,” he mutters, taking another bite.
That one gets me.
A real laugh slips out before I can stop it—short and surprised, rough around the edges like it hasn’t been used in a while.
I clamp my mouth shut immediately after, but it’s too late.
Roman grins. “There it is,” he says, leaning back into the couch like he just found something he’d been looking for all day.
I frown at him. “What?”
“That,” he says, pointing lazily at me with the crust in his hand. “That sound. Haven’t heard it in a minute.”
“Relax. I laughed. I didn’t discover a new species.”
“Still counts,” he says easily. “I’ll take what I can get.”
I roll my eyes, but something in my chest loosens anyway.
Roman’s eyes drop to my feet for half a second.
Then he reaches out and hooks a hand around my ankle, tugging gently.
“Hey—” I start.
He doesn’t let go.
Just pulls my legs across his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
I blink at him. “You just kidnapping body parts now?”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “Relax.”
That’s all he says.
No explanation.
No reason.
Just calm certainty as his hands close around my heel, warm and steady.
And then his thumbs press into the arch of my foot.
The reaction is immediate.
A soft sound slips out of me before I can stop it, eyes falling shut as my head tips back against the couch.
“Oh my God.”
Roman huffs a quiet laugh under his breath. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Thought so.”
His grip shifts, slower now, thumbs working deeper like he’s testing pressure and filing away every reaction.
Another sound escapes me.
Quieter this time.
Looser.
Embarrassing.
He pauses just long enough to notice, then keeps going like he didn’t.
“If I’d known that was gonna happen,” he says casually, “I would’ve done this sooner.”
My eyes snap open. “You’re so annoying.”
“And you’re not moving,” he replies without looking up.
No, I’m definitely not.
Roman’s thumbs keep moving in slow circles along the arch of my foot, steady and unhurried.
My eyes drift closed.
I sink deeper into the cushions, one arm draped lazily across my stomach, the other hanging off the side of the couch. The warmth of his hands travels up my leg in slow, quiet waves, loosening things I didn’t realize I’d been holding onto.
A soft breath leaves me before I can stop it.
Roman doesn’t tease me.
He doesn’t say a word.
He just keeps his hands where they are, grounding and solid and real.
I let myself stay there.
Just for a minute.
Just this.
No Travis.
No station.
No tight ache in my chest.
Just this.
The phone vibrates against the coffee table.
I flinch before I can stop it, eyes snapping open.
I lean forward, pulling my legs back automatically, reaching for the phone before I can think too hard about why my chest suddenly feels tight again.
Roman stays still.
My stomach drops.
I swipe to answer.
“Hello?”
At first, there’s nothing.
Just breathing.
Wet. Uneven. Too close to the receiver.
My eyes flick to the screen.
This isn’t the contact saved in my phone.
Not the one that’s been lighting up my screen for weeks.
This one is different.
Realization slides slow and sick through my chest.
Something about that thought makes my skin go cold.
My brows pull together. “Hello?”
The breathing stutters.
A hitch.
A swallow.
Heavy breathing.
Then something else comes through the line.
A faint metallic sound.
I go still without meaning to, pressing the phone harder against my ear.
It happens again.
A dull clink.
Not loud.
Not sharp.
Just… metal touching metal somewhere in the background.
My stomach tightens.
“Who is this?” I ask, quieter now.
For a second, I think the call dropped.
The breathing fades, replaced by a thin, broken sound that doesn’t belong in a normal conversation.
A whimper.
Small.
Strangled.
Like it got caught halfway out.
Every hair on my arms lifts.
The room feels wrong all of a sudden.
Then another sound—soft and uneven, like someone trying to speak through a mouth that won’t work right.
A broken inhale.
A muffled, choking little noise.
Confusion washes over me, fast and disorienting.
“Travis?” The name slips out before I can stop it.
It’s the only explanation my brain can find.
That metal sound again.
Closer this time.
Clink.
A cold, creeping unease slides down my spine.
I don’t know what I’m listening to.
But I know I shouldn’t be hearing it.
“Hang up,” Roman says quietly.
Not loud.
Not angry.
Just absolute.
My fingers tighten around the phone.
“Rachael.”
Roman doesn’t raise his voice.
He doesn’t have to.
I end the call.
The air after it feels thick enough to choke on.
I stare at the dark screen, my pulse thudding in my ears.
That wasn’t right.
None of that was right.
Roman reaches over and takes the phone from my hand, setting it face down on the table like it’s something dangerous.
“You don’t answer him,” he says, “ever.”
No room for argument.
I nod because it’s easier than arguing, and because something in my chest still feels too tight to speak.
But my brain won’t stop turning.
Different number.
A slow, creeping unease settles under my skin.
One second he’s beside me, the next his hand is on the back of my neck, warm and firm, pulling me in before I can think about stopping him.
I don’t resist.
I don’t even hesitate.
My forehead presses into his shoulder, breath catching somewhere halfway in my chest.
And then his arms are around me.
All at once, the adrenaline that’s been holding me upright all day just… drains out.
My fingers curl into the front of his shirt without meaning to.
I don’t sob.
I don’t fall apart.
It’s quieter than that.
Just a slow unraveling.
A crack I can’t hold closed anymore.
My throat tightens, and I swallow hard, but it doesn’t stop the heat gathering behind my eyes.
Roman doesn’t say anything.
He just shifts, one arm tightening around my shoulders while the other settles at my back, warm and steady.
His hand moves slowly, absent circles between my shoulder blades, like he’s not even thinking about it.
Like this is just instinct.
He doesn’t try to fill the space.
Doesn’t ask me to explain it.
He just stays.
The words from earlier slip in before I can stop them.
Travis’s voice.
His musty apartment.
You couldn’t even stay pregnant.
I squeeze my eyes shut, breath hitching.
Tears slip free before I can stop them, disappearing into the cotton at his shoulder.
I go still the second I feel it.
Embarrassment flashes hot and sharp.
But Roman doesn’t pull back.
Doesn’t shift.
Doesn’t pretend not to notice.
If anything, his hand moves slower against my back, a steady, absent rhythm like he’s not even thinking about it.
I press my face closer into his shoulder, hiding in the space he’s giving me without asking for permission.
And for the first time all day, I let myself stop holding my own weight.