#romanluca

This was the worst idea I’d had all week, which was saying something considering I’d spent most of the last month making consistently terrible decisions and then refusing to acknowledge them afterward like that somehow made them less real.

Still, there wasn’t really a version of this where I turned around.

I stood outside the window of Dominic’s room for a moment longer than necessary, watching through the glass as he slept beside his wife, his breathing slow and even in a way that looked almost insulting when compared to how loud my own head had been for days, like his body had the audacity to function properly while mine couldn’t seem to decide what it was doing from one minute to the next.

He wasn’t my biological brother, not technically, but that had never really mattered in the ways that counted, because we’d grown up under the same name, the same system, the same expectations, and somewhere along the way we’d started treating each other like the only reliable constants in a life that didn’t have many.

So I picked the lock on the window. Quietly. Carefully.

Like I hadn’t done this exact thing a dozen times before for reasons I never fully explained.

And then I climbed through the window without thinking about it too much, landing softly inside the room with all the precision of someone who’d done far too many things like this in far too many states of mind, before making my way over to the bed where Dominic was still asleep.

I stood there for a second. Just looking at him.

Because there was something about seeing other people sleep that always made everything feel a little too still, a little too normal, like the world outside my head was continuing without me in a way I couldn’t quite access properly anymore.

Then I reached out and shook his shoulder gently.

“Dom,” I muttered. “Wake up.”

It took him exactly half a second to process that something was wrong and then another half a second to scream like a man whose entire existence had just been personally insulted.

“Calm down,” I hissed immediately, stepping back slightly as he shot upright in bed. “It’s just me.”

“Roman what the fuck!” he snapped, fully awake now, already reaching for something that I sincerely hoped was not a weapon.

Behind him, Alessandra shifted in the sheets, groaning softly as she sat up, hair messy, blinking at the scene like she’d already accepted that her life was just like this now.

When she saw me, she didn’t even look surprised. Just tired. She gave me a small wave.

“Hi, Roman,” she said calmly, like I was a mildly inconvenient piece of furniture that had wandered into the wrong room. Then she turned slightly toward Dominic. “Can you boys take this to the kitchen? I need to sleep.”

“Of course, Amor,” Dominic replied instantly, voice softening in a way that made me want to be slightly sick.

And just like that, like nothing had happened at all and he hadn’t just been violently awakened by an intruder through his window, he climbed out of bed, grabbed me by the sleeve, and started dragging me out of the room while I didn’t resist nearly as much as I should have.

We moved through the hallway in silence for a few seconds before he finally spoke again, still half-whispering so as not to die at the hands of his wife.

“You broke into my house,” he said flatly.

“I prefer ‘entered urgently’,” I replied.

“You picked my window lock.”

“It was already half unlocked.”

He stopped walking for a second just to look at me. I could feel it.

That pause where he was deciding whether or not I was currently stable enough to be worth arguing with.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered eventually, dragging me into the kitchen and letting go of my sleeve like I was someone else’s problem now. “What happened?”

And for a second, I didn’t answer. Because my brain felt…wrong.

Too loud and too quiet at the same time, like everything was happening behind glass and I was just watching it instead of participating in it properly, like I was here but not fully here, like I’d been functioning on instinct alone for so long that actual conversation felt like something I’d forgotten how to do correctly.

I leaned back against the counter slightly.

“I need advice,” I said finally, voice flatter than I intended, “or help. Maybe both. But first decide if you want to kick me out because if you don’t, you’re going to have a lot of information unloaded on you in the next few minutes.”

Dominic stared at me again. Longer this time. Then he rubbed his face with one hand like he was physically trying to reset his entire existence.

“Fantastic,” he muttered. “So it’s one of those nights.”

I didn’t respond, just leaned back against the counter, arms folded loosely because I didn’t know what else to do with them, watching the kitchen tiles like they had answers I was missing.

Finally, he pulled out a chair and sat down opposite me, slower now, more serious in a way that made the air shift slightly.

“Alright,” he said carefully. “Start talking.”

And for a second, I didn’t because starting meant making it real. But then my mouth opened anyway, like it had decided before I did.

“I met someone,” I said.

Dominic didn’t interrupt, didn’t even react, just waited. And that, annoyingly, made it worse.

So I kept going.

“I met someone,” I admitted, fidgeting with my fingers so badly it was actually irritating me, because apparently my body had decided the best time to lose all motor function was during the most humiliating conversation of my life.

Dominic just looked at me from across the kitchen table, tired but attentive.

“Okay…”

“And, uh,” I continued awkwardly, already hating every second of this, “it wasn’t supposed to be anything, but it became something. I ended it because my world isn’t safe for them and they deserve better and I don’t want them getting hurt for knowing me again.”

That last part came out quieter, more honest than I intended. Dominic’s expression shifted slightly.

“Oh.”

“And I don’t know what to do,” I added quickly before I lost momentum entirely, “because I really, really, really like him, but he isn’t safe with me. Or around me. Or near my life in general.”

Dominic blinked once.

“…Him?”

Shit.

I went completely still.

For one awful second all I could hear was the refrigerator humming behind us while my brain attempted to evacuate my body entirely.

“…Uhm,” I started intelligently.

Dominic’s eyebrows lifted slowly.

I looked away immediately, rubbing aggressively at the back of my neck.

“So,” I muttered, voice dropping lower with every word, “I recently discovered I’m queer.”

Silence.

Why did saying it out loud feel like stepping off a building.

“Late,” I added weakly. “I know. In my defence, I had other things going on. And I’m probably aroace or demi since ive only like 2 people and one guy.”

Dominic continued staring at me with the deeply focused expression of someone trying to process how the conversation had escalated this quickly at three in the morning.

“But uh,” I continued awkwardly, because apparently I believed digging myself deeper into this conversation would improve it somehow, “I love-shit-” I pressed the heels of my hands briefly into my eyes. “I like this guy a lot.”

A pause.

Then Dominic leaned back slightly in his chair.

“Oh,” he said again, calmer this time. “Alright.”

I frowned immediately. “That’s all you have to say?”

“What do you want me to say?” he asked flatly. 

“I don’t know,” I muttered. “Maybe act slightly more shocked.”

“You broke into my house through a window tonight,” he replied. “My standards for surprising behaviour are already very high.”

I stared at him. He stared back.

Then, somehow managing to sound completely normal after I’d just accidentally come out in his kitchen, he asked, “Anyway, first of all, what’s his name?”

And for some reason that made me infinitely more nervous than the actual coming out part.

I looked away again immediately.

I looked away again immediately, rubbing at the back of my neck like I could physically smooth the embarrassment out of myself if I tried hard enough.

“He makes me want things,” I admitted quietly.

Dominic’s expression softened slightly. “What kind of things?”

I stared very hard at the kitchen counter.

“Normal things,” I muttered. “Domestic things. Stupid things.”

A tiny smile tugged at his mouth. “Such as?”

I groaned softly because unfortunately now I actually had to elaborate.

“I don’t know,” I muttered. “Like…coming home to somebody. Making food together. Listening to him ramble about whatever insane thing happened during his day while he follows me around the apartment.” Despite myself, I felt my mouth twitch slightly. “I wanted to buy him things whenever I saw something he’d like. I wanted him sleeping in my bed all the time. I wanted him around my people.”

Dominic stayed quiet, listening carefully.

“And I actually wanted to be around him,” I added awkwardly, like that part offended me personally. “Like all the time. Which was weird.”

“That’s usually how liking someone works.”

I ignored him.

“I liked taking care of him,” I admitted more quietly. “And I…” I hesitated briefly, already regretting where this sentence was heading. “I actually wanted to fuck and enjoyed it-”

Dominic’s eyes narrowed immediately.

“Roman.”

I grimaced. “I’m trying to explain this properly.”

“You absolutely do not need to explain that part properly.”

“I’m just saying,” I muttered defensively, “I’d never actually wanted that with somebody before. Not really. And then suddenly there’s Luca and apparently my brain decides that’s the person we’re attached to now.”

Dominic rubbed a hand over his face slowly.

“I did not need to hear that.”

“You asked.”

“I asked about feelings, Roman, not your psychological awakening.”

I frowned slightly. “Well they seem connected.”

He pointed at me without looking up. “Stop talking.”

For the first time that night, I laughed properly. Small and brief and tired, but real enough that Dominic immediately noticed.

And annoyingly, his expression softened again because of it.

“What's so funny?” a soft voice asked from the doorway, warm and honey-sweet with sleep.

I looked up to see Alessandra walking into the kitchen wearing one of Dominic’s old t-shirts and a pair of white sleep shorts, her hair slightly messy from bed and one eye still half closed like she’d only woken up enough to investigate whether her husband was dying or just being dramatic again.

Okay. This was a bit weird.

Dominic looked over at her immediately, his entire expression softening in that quiet instinctive way it always did around her.

“Roman figured out he’s queer,” he summarised calmly, like this was a completely normal family discussion to be having at an ungodly hour, “and he’s in love with Dante’s brother, but since he’s an asshole he broke it off because he thinks his world is too dangerous for Luca.”

“Dominic,” I muttered flatly.

“What?” he replied innocently. “That’s what happened.”

Alessandra’s brows lifted slightly as she walked over to him, slipping an arm around his waist automatically while he rested a hand against her hip without even looking, like their bodies had memorised each other a long time ago.

“Oh?” she said softly, glancing toward me with immediate curiosity rather than judgment. Then her expression gentled further. “Roman…”

I immediately looked away because for some reason being perceived kindly by women always made me feel vaguely ill.

Alessandra and I didn’t know each other too well, not really, but she was…good. Genuinely good in that terrifyingly sincere way some people were. Warm without being fake. Soft without being weak.

The first time I met her, she’d smiled at me like she already knew me and said so this is my little brother without hesitation.

I’d genuinely never recovered from that.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I admitted quietly after a moment, staring down at the counter again because somehow it felt easier than looking at either of them directly. “I just know I miss him all the time now and my brain won’t shut up about it.”

Alessandra’s expression softened immediately.

“And he loves you too?” she asked gently.

I laughed weakly through my nose.

“Yeah,” I muttered. “That’s kinda the problem.”

Dominic snorted quietly under his breath while Alessandra looked like she physically wanted to shake both of us.

“Oh, you poor emotionally constipated men,” she sighed softly.

“That feels targeted,” I replied.

“It was,” she said sweetly.

Dominic nodded in agreement. “Very accurate assessment, actually.”

I glared at both of them slightly, which unfortunately only seemed to amuse them more. Then Alessandra looked back at me, softer now.

“Roman,” she said carefully, “do you really think Luca would rather lose you completely than have the choice to stay?”

That made me go quiet, because unfortunately that question hit somewhere uncomfortable immediately.

I frowned slightly at the counter.

“I don’t know,” I admitted after a long pause. “I just know I couldn’t stand something happening to him because of me again.”

Alessandra’s face softened in that painful understanding sort of way that made me feel strangely exposed.

“So instead,” she said gently, “you hurt both of you preemptively.”

Ow.

I visibly grimaced.

Dominic looked at me sympathetically for about half a second before immediately betraying me.

“She’s right.”

“You are both deeply irritating people,” I informed them flatly.

And for the first time in weeks, the warmth that followed the words didn’t feel entirely fake.

I leaned back against the counter, then forward again, then just gave up trying to act like standing still was something my body knew how to do anymore, because every nerve in me felt restless lately, like my brain had been stuck between static and exhaustion for weeks and my body didn’t know which one to follow anymore.

Dominic noticed immediately.

“How are you actually doing?” he asked quietly, all the teasing from earlier gone now as he watched me carefully from the kitchen table, that steady older-brother concern settling over his face in a way that instantly made me want to avoid the conversation entirely.

I let out a slow breath through my nose.

“I don’t know,” I muttered honestly. “One of those…periods again.”

That got an immediate reaction from him, not confusion or surprise, just recognition.

“Oh,” he said softly. 

I glanced at him briefly.

He leaned back slightly in the chair, looking tired now more than anything else, like hearing that answer exhausted him because he’d heard versions of it from me my entire life.

“Is it too loud?” he asked gently after a second. “Or too empty?”

I went still for a moment before giving a reluctant nod.

“…Both,” I admitted quietly.

Dominic sighed softly through his nose and rubbed a hand over his jaw while Alessandra, who’d stayed tucked against his side the entire conversation, looked at me with immediate concern.

“Roman,” she said gently, “how long has it been bad this time?”

I shrugged one shoulder weakly.

“A week.”

“Which means too long,” Dominic translated flatly.

I frowned at him. “You’re very irritating tonight.”

“You broke into my house through a window.”

“Details.”

Dominic ignored that entirely.

“I told you years ago to get it checked properly,” he said instead, calmer this time, not lecturing me, just sounding tired of watching me force myself through the same cycles over and over again. “You’ve been like this since you were a kid.”

My jaw tightened immediately.

“No,” I said too quickly. “I don’t need all that.”

Alessandra tilted her head slightly. “Why does the idea upset you so much?”

I looked away immediately.

“It just does,” I muttered. “I don’t want somebody analysing my brain and deciding there’s something wrong with me.”

“Oh, honey,” Alessandra said softly, and God, that tone alone nearly made me want to crawl into traffic. “Finding out something’s wrong doesn’t create the problem. It just gives the problem a name.”

I rubbed a hand down my face tiredly.

“I deal with it.”

Dominic raised a brow slightly. “By not sleeping for three days and then barely functioning afterward?”

“…Possibly.”

“That’s not dealing with it, Roman.”

I exhaled sharply through my nose, annoyance flaring mostly because they weren’t being cruel about any of this, which made it much harder to dismiss.

“I don’t want pills,” I muttered stubbornly.

Neither of them laughed at me.

Dominic just leaned forward slightly, forearms resting against the table now.

“It’s not about forcing medication on you,” he said carefully. “It’s about maybe making things easier for you instead of harder all the time.”

“And if medication did help,” Alessandra added softly, “that wouldn’t mean you failed somehow.”

I frowned slightly at the counter.

“It feels weak.”

Immediately both of them looked at me like I’d said something genuinely ridiculous.

“Roman,” Dominic said quietly, “if somebody had a heart condition and took medication for it, would you think they were weak?”

“No.”

“Then why are you applying different rules to yourself?”

I opened my mouth.

Then closed it again.

Because annoyingly, I didn’t actually have an answer.

The kitchen fell quiet for a moment after that, warm and still around us while my brain kept moving too fast beneath my skin.

“I just don’t want to become…” I hesitated slightly. “Different.”

Dominic’s entire expression softened then.

“You’ve been carrying this alone since you were a kid,” he said gently. “Nobody’s trying to change who you are, Roman. We just want things to stop hurting so much for you.”

Alessandra reached over then, resting her hand lightly against my wrist for a second.

“You deserve help too, you know,” she said softly.

I stared down at her hand quietly.

Then after a long pause, I exhaled slowly through my nose.

“…What if they tell me it’s something bad? Like, what if I’m a psycho?” I asked, voice quieter now.

Dominic didn’t hesitate for even a second.

“Then we deal with it,” he said simply.

We.

Not you.

We.

And somehow that tiny difference made something tight in my chest loosen just a little.

I looked away quickly after that, jaw tight again.

“…Fine,” I muttered eventually.

Dominic raised a brow slightly. “Fine as in you’ll actually go?”

“I said fine, didn’t I?”

A small smile tugged at Alessandra’s mouth while Dominic looked so relieved it was honestly irritating.

“Okay,” he said softly. “Okay. That’s all I wanted.”

LUCA:

“You really are quite pretty when you cry,” she whispers, kissing the inside of my thigh before biting the tip of my dick once again as she sucks me off. I’d tried getting her to stop multiple times, First, I’d bit her while she gave me a handjob as an attempt to get her arm to recoil, then I’d shifted in the chair as she forcefully rode me, trying to get her to fall off. 

But now, I’m not bothered enough to try and make her stop.

Thats the part that hurts me most. not even the fear itself but the exhaustion of it. My skin feels filthy stretched over me, too tight, too wrong, like I could scrub myself raw and still never feel clean again, while the sharp metallic smell lingering in the air wraps itself around my lungs every time I breathe.

Bodies litter the room around me, blurred and indistinct through the haze in my head, and somewhere in the distance somebody is still screaming, though the sound feels strangely far away now, like I’m underwater listening to the world happen above me.

I sit there and realise, slowly, painfully, that I’m still alive.

And somehow that hurt too.

Her hand tightens against my jaw, nails digging painfully into my skin as she forces my head downward again, smiling up at me like this was some kind of game, some kind of performance she was enjoying.

“Look at me,” she murmured.

I didn’t want to.

God, I didn’t want to.

But my body has long since stopped belonging to me, reduced to something bruised and exhausted and barely functioning, and the harder I try to disappear inside my own head, the more trapped I feel inside myself instead.

The room smells sickeningly metallic.

Blood. Sweat. Something burnt.

I can still hear voices somewhere behind her, laughter echoing faintly through the haze in my head while my pulse hammers violently against my ribs hard enough to hurt.

And then she leans closer-

I woke with a violent gasp, shooting upright so fast the room spun around me instantly.

For a second I didn’t know where I was.

My chest heaved painfully, panic clawing its way up my throat while I scrambled backward on instinct, hands shaking so badly I nearly fell straight off the bed before reality slowly forced its way back into focus.

Dark room. Rain against windows. Soft lamp light glowing faintly from the hallway.

Roman.

Roman was asleep beside me, one arm still stretched across the mattress where I’d been lying moments ago, his face slackened slightly by sleep in a way I’d never seen before. Even unconscious, he somehow looked tense, brows faintly furrowed like his body had forgotten how to fully rest years ago.

The sight grounded me enough to breathe again. Barely.

I pressed the heel of my hand hard against my mouth, trying to quiet the uneven sounds escaping me while my whole body shook violently beneath the spare clothes roman had lended me.

I couldn’t stay here right now. I couldn’t breathe here.

Carefully, slowly, I slipped out of bed.

Roman stirred faintly at the movement, something low and tired leaving his throat as he shifted toward the warmth I’d left behind, but he didn’t wake.

Good. Because I didn’t know how to explain this.

Didn’t know how to explain that my skin still felt contaminated from the inside out, or that every time I closed my eyes I could still smell blood in the air and feel hands grabbing at me all over again.

So instead, I left quietly.

The apartment was dark and silent as I moved through it, the city lights outside casting pale reflections across the floor while I searched for somewhere - anywhere - that felt less suffocating than that bedroom suddenly did.

Eventually I found the stairwell leading upward.

To the roof.

The cold night air hit me instantly the second I pushed open the heavy metal door, sharp enough to sting my lungs as I stepped out onto the rooftop overlooking Manhattan.

Rain drizzled softly from the sky.

The city stretched endlessly below me, glowing gold and white beneath the darkness like something unreal.

And for the first time since waking up, I could finally breathe without feeling trapped inside my own skin.

Rain clung lightly to my hair and clothes, the cold wind biting against my skin hard enough to make my eyes water, but somehow it felt good too, because at least this kind of pain made sense. It was clean pain. Honest pain. Not the kind that stayed trapped beneath your ribs long after the bruises faded, rotting quietly inside you where nobody else could see it.

I lowered myself onto the ledge surrounding the rooftop and stared out across New York, letting the drizzle settle against my face while the city glowed beneath me in blurred golds and whites. From up here, everything looked distant enough to survive. The screaming in my head dulled beneath the sound of rain hitting concrete, and for the first time since waking up in that basement, I managed a full breath without feeling like I was choking on it.

My skin still didn’t feel like mine.

That was the worst part.

Not even the memories themselves, but the feeling they’d left behind, like fingerprints pressed permanently beneath my flesh no matter how hard I tried to scrub them away. Every time I closed my eyes, I still felt trapped in that room again, still smelled blood thick in the air, still heard laughter somewhere behind me while I sat there trying desperately to disappear inside my own body.

But the rain…

God, the rain helped.

It slid down my face and neck in cold little streams, soaking through my clothes until I was shivering slightly, and somehow it almost felt cleansing, like the sky itself was trying to wash the memory of her hands off me piece by piece. Rationally, I knew trauma didn’t work like that. I knew I’d carry this with me long after tonight.

But still.

For these few quiet minutes beneath the storm, I let myself pretend the rain was taking it from me.

The panic.

The dirtiness.

The horrible, hollow feeling sitting inside my chest.

I tilted my head back slightly, eyes closing.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

The wind moved through my hair softly, and slowly, painfully slowly, I started feeling human again.

Then the rooftop door creaked open behind me.

I didn’t flinch. Didn’t panic. Because somehow I already knew it was him.

Roman stepped out onto the roof wearing grey sweatpants and a black hoodie thrown hastily over his shoulders, dark hair messy from sleep while concern lingered openly across his face before he smothered it back into something calmer.

He looked at me for a second.

Really looked.

Probably noticing the wet cheeks, the trembling hands, the fact that I looked seconds away from falling apart all over again.

But he didn’t push. Didn’t ask questions.

He just walked over quietly before sitting beside me on the ledge, close enough that our shoulders brushed together lightly.

Warm.

Steady.

Safe.

“You disappeared,” he muttered eventually, voice rough with sleep.

“Sorry.”

“You weren’t in bed.”

“I had a bad dream.”

Roman exhaled quietly through his nose, gaze fixed out over the skyline instead of directly at me.

For a while, neither of us spoke. And strangely, the silence didn’t feel awkward. It felt protective.

The rain continued falling around us softly, city lights flickering below while Roman sat beside me like some silent guard dog pretending not to care that I’d run away in the middle of the night. I shifted slightly closer toward him without thinking.

Immediately, his shoulder pressed more firmly against mine in response.

No hesitation. No comment. Just there.

Like he understood I needed grounding without me having to say it out loud.

And God, that almost hurt worse than the nightmare itself.

Because after everything that had happened, after all the ugliness clawing around inside my head, Roman still looked at me like I was something worth protecting instead of something ruined.

“You know,” I murmured quietly after a while, voice softer now, “this is kinda romantic.”

Roman looked deeply unimpressed.

“We’re sitting in the rain at four in the morning because you had a trauma-induced need yo run into the rain.”

“Exactly,” I said. “Cinema.”

ROMAN:

Getting Luca back inside had been significantly harder than getting him onto the roof in the first place.

Mostly because now he was cold, exhausted, traumatised and weirdly clingy all at once.

Not that I minded the clinginess.

That was a separate issue entirely.

By the time we made it back into my place, Luca was shivering slightly beneath the blanket I’d thrown over his shoulders, hair damp from the rain while his eyes looked heavy in that distant sort of way they got whenever he started slipping too deep into his own head.

So I made him hot chocolate.

Which felt absurdly domestic considering I’d killed three people less than twenty-four hours ago.

Luca sat cross-legged in the middle of my bed while I handed him the mug, sleeves hanging over his hands as he accepted it carefully.

“…You made me cocoa,” he murmured softly.

“It’s cold outside.”

“You put marshmallows in it.”

I frowned slightly. “I thought you’d like it.”

Something small and tired softened across his face then.

Not a full smile. But close enough.

The sight settled unpleasantly warmly somewhere beneath my ribs.

I sat beside him against the headboard afterward, keeping enough distance not to crowd him while he held the mug between both hands for warmth. The room stayed quiet for a while. Rain tapped softly against the windows. Luca stared down into the drink like he was trying to find answers in melted chocolate.

Then, without even thinking, I offered the stupidest distraction at the expense of my own dignity.

“I think I might be demisexual. Or maybe aromantic.”

Silence.

Luca blinked slowly.

“…That is not what I expected you to say.”

I stared forward at the wall, immediately regretting opening my mouth at all, but I knew he needed something to focus on, so I just kept talking.

“I, um, did some…research, I guess is the word, and those two match what I’m like the best. I think.” I rubbed awkwardly at the back of my neck. “Being demisexual means you don’t feel sexually attracted to people unless you really like them and have a deep emotional connection with them. Which I guess is possible for me to be, because I never really feel attraction when I, uh, hook up with people.”

I paused.

“Well. Women.”

Luca stayed quiet beside me, listening carefully enough to somehow make this even more humiliating.

“But,” I continued awkwardly, “I also might not be demisexual because I was attracted to you from the start. So.” I gestured vaguely at absolutely nothing. “That complicates things.”

A smile tugged faintly at Luca’s mouth.

Unfortunately, that made me more nervous.

“So I could be aromantic because of the whole no-attraction thing,” I muttered, staring aggressively at the wall now like it had personally caused this conversation, “or maybe I’m just gay. Or bisexual. I don’t really know yet, but I am trying to figure it out.”

Fantastic.

I sounded like I’d swallowed a psychology podcast.

“I’m serious,” I muttered flatly before he could laugh at me. “I’ve never…felt like this before. Well, I have…once. With a girl called Melody. But that ended soon enough”

Luca stayed quiet, listening. Which somehow made this worse.

“I’ve slept with girls,” I continued reluctantly, each word feeling physically painful to admit out loud. “But it was never because I actually wanted them specifically. It was just-”

I frowned slightly, trying to explain something I’d barely understood myself until recently.

“Convenient,” I settled on eventually. “Detached. I didn’t care afterwards. Didn’t think about them when they left. I didn’t ever feel satisfied or yearning for more, really. I didn’t feel anything.”

But Luca…

Christ.

Luca had climbed into my life less than a week ago and somehow turned my entire nervous system against me.

Now every room felt wrong when he wasn’t in it.

Luca took a small sip of his cocoa before glancing sideways at me carefully.

“But with me it’s different?”

The question came softly.

I hated how easy the answer was.

“Yes.”

His expression shifted slightly at that, something warm flickering there before he looked back down at the mug again.

“You know,” he murmured after a moment, “you don’t necessarily have to label it.”

I looked over at him.

Luca shrugged one shoulder lightly beneath the blanket.

“Like, maybe you’re demi,” he said. “Or maybe you’re bi. Or gay. Or maybe you just really unfortunately fell in love with one incredibly attractive man.”

“I did not say love.”

“You basically did.”

“I absolutely did not.”

“You made me hot chocolate at four in the morning after rescuing me from the Russian mafia.”

“That proves nothing.”

“It proves everything.”

I groaned quietly, dragging a hand over my face.

Luca laughed softly into his mug, the sound tired but genuine enough to loosen something tight in my chest.

Then his expression softened again.

“Seriously though,” he said quietly. “You don’t have to figure yourself out immediately.”

I looked at him silently.

“I can tell you’ve spent your whole life surviving,” he continued. “It makes sense that feelings and relationships and sexuality are messy for you. That doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with you.”

The words landed harder than they should have.

Because nobody had ever said something like that to me before without expecting something in return.

Luca just said it gently, honestly, like it was obvious I deserved kindness too. It made my chest ache.

He took another sip of cocoa before mumbling sleepily-

“Also I think un-labeled is hot.”

I blinked. “What?”

“I dunno,” he said, already sinking farther beneath the blankets now. “Mysterious. Brooding. It’s giving if heartsotopper and rina kent gay books had a baby.”

“You consume too much media.”

“And yet you still like me.”

Unfortunately, that was becoming the problem.

Luca finished the last of the hot chocolate slowly, both hands wrapped around the mug long after it had mostly cooled, before eventually placing it carefully on the bedside table beside him.

Then he immediately collapsed backward into my bed like his bones had given up supporting him entirely.

I watched him sink deeper into the blankets, waves spread messily across my pillows while exhaustion softened every sharp edge in his expression until he looked painfully young all over again.

Carefully, I lay down opposite him.

The room stayed dim except for the low amber lamp near the window, rain still tapping softly against the glass while New York glowed faintly beyond it.

For a while, neither of us spoke.

Then Luca shifted slightly closer. And before I could question it, his hand lifted toward my face.

I froze.

His fingertips brushed lightly against my jaw first, hesitant enough that I could’ve moved away easily if I wanted to, before tracing upward along the curve of my cheekbone with unbearable gentleness.

Nobody had ever touched me like that before. Not wanting something, not trying to control me, just touching me softly because they wanted to.

The feeling lodged somewhere deep beneath my ribs and stayed there.

Luca looked at me quietly for a moment before speaking.

“Tell me something depressing you’ve never told anyone.”

I stared at him flatly. “Thats an insane sentence.”

He shrugged sleepily.

“I need a distraction.”

Immediately, the humour faded from my chest.

Right. The nightmares. The panic.

I looked away toward the ceiling for a long moment, trying to think of something harmless enough to offer him instead.

But Luca’s fingers were still moving absentmindedly across my face, tracing little patterns against my skin while he waited patiently, and somehow that quiet patience made lying feel impossible.

So eventually, I spoke.

“When I was a kid,” I said slowly, voice rough around the edges now, “the orphanage I was in thought there was something wrong with me.”

Luca’s hand stilled slightly against my cheek.

“I got into fights constantly,” I continued, staring at the ceiling instead of him. “Not normal kid fights either. I was angry all the time. Violent. One of the workers started saying I needed psychiatric intervention before I seriously hurt someone. They hadn’t gotten me tested, but they were sure I was a psycho.”

“Have you gotten tested now?” I shook my head.

“If there’s something wrong with me, I’d rather not know. And even if I do enjoy being violent, I have multiple ways to do that in my world.”

The words came strangely easily after that.

Maybe because it was four in the morning.

Maybe because Luca was looking at me like I was still human no matter what I said next.

“Anyway. They were gonna send me away,” I muttered quietly. “To some facility.”

Luca frowned softly. “You were a child.”

“Didn’t matter.”

And God, it really hadn’t.

I remembered every second of it.

The whispers.

The fear in the adults’ faces whenever I lost control.

The way people looked at me like I was something dangerous long before I was old enough to understand why.

“So I figured out,” I continued after a moment, “that if I hurt myself to relieve the need instead, they wouldn’t know, they would think I didn’t hurt people anymore.”

Luca’s expression fell completely.

I kept talking anyway.

“It redirected things,” I said flatly. “If I came back bruised or bleeding from hurting myself, they’d focus on that instead of the fact that I wanted to hurt other people too. I thought if they couldn’t see me hurt anyone, they’d think I’d just gotten out of a phase.”

The silence afterward felt enormous.

Rain tapped softly against the windows.

Luca just stared at me, his fingers still resting lightly against my face now like he’d forgotten to move them.

Finally, quietly-

“How old were you?”

I swallowed once.

“Ten.”

The word barely left my mouth before Luca’s face crumpled slightly.

Not pity. Something worse. Heartbreak.

“Oh, Roman,” he whispered.

I immediately regretted telling him.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Look at me like that.”

His brows pulled together softly. “Like what?”

“Like I was something worth saving.”

The words slipped out before I could stop them. Silence filled the room instantly afterward.

I stared at the ceiling, jaw tightening hard enough to hurt while shame crawled unpleasantly beneath my skin for admitting something that pathetic out loud.

But then Luca shifted closer instead of away.

Closer.

Until his forehead rested lightly against mine beneath the dim bedroom light.

“You were ten,” he whispered softly. “You were just a kid.”

Something inside me cracked quietly at the sound of it.

So naturally, I shut the conversation down immediately.

“Okay,” I muttered, staring at the ceiling instead of at him. “Enough depressing shit.”

Luca smiled faintly. “You started it.”

“You asked.” I exhaled through my nose. “Your turn. Tell me something crazy you’ve never told anyone before.”

Luca went quiet.

His fingers still traced lazy little patterns against my face, but slower now, distracted by whatever memory he’d drifted into. Then he laughed softly. Not happy. Just awkward.

“Oh God,” he murmured. “This one’s actually humiliating.”

“That’s usually the best kind.”

“No, it’s weird in a deeply loser-ish way.”

I waited.

Luca stared up at the ceiling for a long moment before finally speaking.

“When I was six,” he said quietly, “I stopped talking as much around people.”

I frowned slightly. “That sounds impossible.”

A tiny smile tugged at his mouth before fading again.

“My grandfather hated how loud I was,” he admitted softly. “Not physically loud, just…me loud. Too many questions. Too much talking. Too emotional about everything.”

Something unpleasant shifted in my chest instantly.

“He especially hated all the stuff I liked,” Luca continued. “Music, painting, romcoms, books. Anything soft, basically.” He laughed weakly under his breath. “One time he walked in on me sketching while listening to ‘don’t dream it’s over’ and he asked me if I ever planned on becoming a serious person.”

My jaw tightened slightly.

“He used to mock everything I got excited about,” Luca murmured. “If I talked too much about a song I liked, I was irritating. If I cried during movies, I was dramatic. If I spent too much time painting, I was wasting my brain on stupid shit.”

The room felt strangely still around us.

“So eventually,” he continued quieter now, “I started trying to disappear around him.”

I swallowed once.

“When he was home, I’d sit quietly and try not to laugh too loud or ramble too much because if he noticed me, he’d always find something wrong with the way I existed.”

His fingers slowed against my cheek.

“And because I still wanted someone to talk to…” He huffed softly at himself. “I made imaginary friends.”

I blinked.

“You had imaginary friends.”

“Three of them.”

“That feels excessive.”

“I had a rich inner world.”

Despite myself, the corner of my mouth twitched faintly.

Luca noticed immediately.

“Don’t laugh,” he warned weakly. “This gets genuinely depressing.”

“I’m already concerned.”

He pulled the blanket slightly higher over himself before continuing.

“I used to sit in my closet with my sketchbooks and headphones and talk to them for hours because it was the only place nobody interrupted me.” His smile turned smaller around the edges. “I figured if I talked to imaginary people instead of real ones, my grandfather wouldn’t get annoyed.”

God.

“They each had personalities and stuff,” Luca continued softly. “One liked astronomy, one was British for some reason, and one was literally just a girl version of Spiderman.”

I stared at him.

“Thats bad.”

“I was 12!”

“You invented British people for emotional support?”

“They were NICE TO ME.”

The words came out jokingly, but there was something underneath them that made my chest ache violently.

Luca looked away slightly.

“The weirdest part is that I knew they weren’t real,” he admitted quietly. “I just…” His fingers paused briefly against my skin. “Wanted to talk without feeling annoying.”

Silence settled heavily between us. Rain tapped softly against the windows. And all I could think about was a six year old kid hiding in closets with headphones on, teaching himself to become quieter and smaller because the adults around him made softness feel shameful.

Something angry curled low in my stomach.

“That man was a fucking asshole,” I said flatly.

Luca smiled weakly. “Yeah. A little.”

“No,” I corrected quietly. “A lot.”

His eyes flickered back toward mine.

“I still feel stupid talking about the stuff I like sometimes,” he admitted after a moment. “Like every time I ramble too much about anything, there’s this tiny voice in my head waiting for people to get annoyed.”

I looked at him silently for a second. 

“I like hearing you talk.”

Luca blinked.

I immediately regretted having vocal cords.

So naturally, I doubled down instead of stopping.

“You explain things like they matter,” I muttered awkwardly. “Most people don’t do that anymore.”

The silence afterward felt fragile somehow.

Luca stared at me with an expression so soft it almost made me uncomfortable.

Then very quietly-

“You don’t think I’m too much?”

The question sounded so painfully genuine it made something twist hard beneath my ribs.

So I reached up and caught his hand gently where it rested against my face.

“No,” I said simply. “I think people just kept making you feel guilty for being easy to love.”

I woke up to the sound of arguing.

Not loud arguing, not screaming or crashing furniture or anything dramatic like that, just the low, sharp kind that meant two people were trying very hard not to lose their tempers in front of someone unconscious.

Unfortunately for them, I was no longer unconscious.

My body felt horrible. Not “ugh, I slept weird” horrible either. More like somebody had taken me apart piece by piece during the night and then put me back together incorrectly out of spite. Every inch of me ached, my head throbbed, and there was this awful heaviness sitting behind my ribs that made breathing feel strangely exhausting. My skin felt dirty, so wrong and unworthy of covering up the disgusting insides of my flesh. I wanted to rip it off.

Also, hospital smell. Which was honestly offensive enough on its own. I kept my eyes shut for a second longer, listening instead.

“…a day, Roman,” Dante was saying, voice tight in that controlled way that meant he was significantly angrier than he sounded. “He was missing for a fucking day.”

“I know how long he was missing.”

“Well apparently not well enough.”

Oh god.

“I got him back alive,” Roman replied flatly, and even through the exhaustion fogging up my brain, I could hear it immediately, that cold, detached edge he got whenever he was uncomfortable in a situation. “That’s what matters.”

There was a pause.

Then Dante spoke again, quieter this time.

“…You care about him.”

Oh.

Interesting.

I cracked one eye open slightly.

Roman was sitting near the window, elbows braced against his knees, still wearing black from head to toe because apparently he was physically incapable of dressing like someone who participated in society normally. He looked exhausted. Properly exhausted. Dark circles under his eyes, dried blood still faintly staining the cuff of his sleeve, his jaw tight enough that I could practically hear his teeth grinding from across the room.

And Dante…God, my brother looked terrifying.

Not outwardly. He just stood there in complete stillness looking like he was calculating seventeen different ways to kill somebody at once.

Roman noticed I was awake first.

His gaze snapped toward me instantly, the tension in his shoulders shifting so fast it almost gave me emotional whiplash.

“…Hey,” he said quietly.

And there it was. That voice. That stupid voice that always got softer around me like his body forgot to keep pretending whenever I looked at him directly.

I smiled weakly. “Hi.”

Dante moved over immediately, relief flashing across his face so quickly it made guilt twist unpleasantly in my stomach.

“How do you feel?”

“Like I got hit by a truck,” I admitted honestly. “And then maybe the truck reversed over me for fun.”

To my surprise, Roman let out a quiet snort, tiny, barely there, but it still made something warm flicker weakly inside my chest.

Dante sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “Jesus Christ, Luca.”

“I know,” I mumbled. “Very embarrassing experience for me personally.”

“You got kidnapped.”

“Yeah, but in my defence, they put a bag over my head.”

Roman shook his head slightly, looking somewhere between exhausted and deeply unimpressed.

“You’re making jokes.”

“Well,” I said carefully, “the alternative is crying.”

That silenced the room.

Oops.

Dante looked at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable, before exhaling slowly through his nose.

“I’m gonna go find the doctor,” he said eventually, voice calm. “You two seem like you need a minute.”

Roman stayed silent near the window, arms folded tightly across his chest, looking exhausted enough to collapse where he stood.

Dante paused by the door before leaving, glancing toward him briefly.

“The only reason I haven’t murdered you,” he said flatly, “is because you’re my best friend’s little brother.”

Then he walked out. The door shut softly behind him.

I blinked once.

“…Whose brother are you?”

Roman dragged a hand over his face before answering.

“Dominic Davenport.”

For a second, my brain completely stalled. Dominic Davenport.

As in Dante’s best friend Dominic Davenport. The billionaire with the terrifyingly blank interviews and the face financial magazines seemed weirdly obsessed with.

I stared at Roman properly now.

“You’re related to Dominic Davenport?”

“Foster brother,” he corrected quietly.

That explained why they looked absolutely nothing alike.

Dominic was all blonde hair and blue eyes while this phantom standing before looked straight out of the Adams family, albeit his stunning green eyes. Dominic looked polished and composed in that terrifying rich person way, while Roman looked like somebody who hadn’t trusted happiness since childhood.

“…Huh,” I muttered intelligently. Silence settled again after that, quieter this time. Then Roman spoke.

“The cuts and bruises should heal in a few days to a week, doctor said to take some painkillers whenever you feel like it.”

“That’s good,” I whispered softly. 

Please, I thought silently. Please tell me they don’t know.

“Luca…”

Immediately, something cold curled in my stomach before he started speaking again.

“We had the hospital run sexual assault tests.”

I already knew.

Before he even finished speaking, I knew. Roman’s jaw tightened slightly.

“…They came back positive.”

The room seemed to tilt sideways.

I stared at the sheets over my lap instead of him because suddenly looking at another human being felt impossible.

For a few seconds, neither of us spoke.

Then-

“Don’t tell them.”

My voice came out rougher than I meant it to.

Roman frowned slightly. “Luca-”

“Please.”

I swallowed hard, fingers tightening weakly around the blanket.

“Dante and Vivian already have enough going on right now,” I said quietly. “Josie’s still a newborn, they barely sleep, they’re stressed all the time already and-”

My throat tightened slightly.

“I don’t want to become another thing they have to worry about.”

The words sounded pathetic out loud, small, but they were true. I laughed weakly under my breath, staring down at my hands.

“They finally seem happy,” I murmured. “I don’t want them looking at me like I’m some broken thing they need to fix on top of everything else.”

Roman was quiet for a long moment after that. Not dismissive quiet but thinking quiet. Then he nodded once.

“Okay.”

I looked up at him properly then, surprised by how immediate the answer was.

“…Okay?”

“If you don’t want them told,” he said simply, “I won’t tell them.”

No arguing. No pushing. Just acceptance.

Relief hit me so suddenly my chest ached with it.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

Roman looked away almost immediately after, jaw tightening faintly like he didn’t know what to do with gratitude directed at him. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward exactly.

Then, after a moment, Roman spoke again, quieter this time.

“You’re not a burden, by the way.”

I blinked at him. He still wasn’t looking at me.

“They’d want to know because they love you,” he continued flatly, like he was forcing the words out against his will. “Not because you’re some obligation.”

Something uncomfortable tightened in my chest at that, because he sounded like someone speaking from experience…or lack of it.

I watched him for a second before smiling faintly despite everything.

“That was surprisingly emotionally intelligent of you.”

Roman looked genuinely annoyed by that.

“Don’t make this weird.”

“A little late for that,” I muttered.

“Anyway,” he continued after a moment, his voice settling back into that calm, detached tone he used whenever he was trying very hard to avoid sounding emotionally invested in something, “I had some of my people keep surveillance around your apartment.”

I blinked at him.

“Your people?”

Roman ignored that completely.

“It’s not safe right now,” he said instead, leaning back slightly in the chair beside my bed. “The Bratva knows where you live, and after what happened tonight, there’s a high chance they’ll try something again if they think they can get to you.”

A cold feeling settled unpleasantly in my stomach.

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” he muttered dryly. “Oh.”

I looked down at the blanket twisted around my lap, trying not to think too hard about the idea of going home and constantly wondering if somebody was outside my building waiting for me.

Roman was quiet for a second before speaking again.

“So you can’t stay there for the next few days.”

I frowned faintly. “Okay…”

Another pause.

And then, Roman started looking…awkward. Not dramatic awkwardness either, but subtle awkwardness. The kind that showed up in the way his shoulders stiffened slightly, or how his gaze shifted briefly toward the floor before returning to me again.

It looked incredibly cute on him.

“You could…” He cleared his throat once. “You could stay at my place.”

I stared at him.

Roman immediately looked irritated with himself for having spoken.

“It’s secure,” he added quickly, words flattening out into practicality now, like he was trying to disguise the offer as something purely logistical. “Nobody gets in without permission, there’s security everywhere, and my people already know the situation.”

Then, almost immediately after-

“But you can also stay with Dante,” he said abruptly.

The words came too fast, like he was backtracking.

“I’d understand if you didn’t want to stay with me,” he continued, gaze fixed somewhere over my shoulder now instead of directly at me, which honestly made this infinitely more suspicious. “It’s just…”

He sighed quietly.

“Dante and Vivian have the baby there,” he said. “If the Russians decide to retaliate again, staying with them could put a target on their backs too.”

The room fell quiet after that. Roman still wasn’t looking directly at me.

Which, unfortunately, made this whole thing kind of adorable.

In a deeply emotionally repressed way.

“You’re nervous,” I realised softly.

His head snapped toward me immediately. “I’m not nervous.”

“You are.”

“I’m not.”

“You just offered me your apartment like you were asking me to perform open heart surgery on you.”

“That’s not what happened.”

I smiled weakly despite the ache sitting heavy in my chest.

“It kinda is.”

Roman groaned quietly under his breath, dragging a hand over his face again.

“I’m trying to keep you alive, Luca.”

“I know,” I said softly.

And suddenly the joking atmosphere faded a little.

Because underneath the awkwardness and the irritation and the weirdly formal wording, there was something else there too.

Fear. Not fear for himself. For me.

Roman exhaled slowly before speaking again, quieter this time.

“You don’t have to decide now,” he muttered. “I just thought I should offer.”

Offer.

Like he wasn’t basically asking me to move into his heavily guarded emotionally unavailable batcave.

I looked at him for a second longer before asking gently-

“Do you want me to stay with you?”

Roman immediately looked like he regretted every decision that had led him to this conversation.

“That’s not the point.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

His jaw tightened slightly.

Then, after a long pause, “…yes,” he admitted quietly.

The honesty of it hit me so hard I almost forgot how exhausted I felt.

Roman looked away immediately afterward, clearly hating that he’d said it out loud.

And somehow, despite everything, the hospital room, the bruises, the exhaustion still clawing at me from the inside out, something warm flickered weakly in my chest anyway.

For a few seconds, neither of us said anything.

Roman sat there looking aggressively neutral, which, unfortunately for him, I was beginning to realise usually meant he was feeling something very strongly and trying to smother it before it became visible to the general public.

It was honestly kind of fascinating.

Because this was the same man who could walk into a room full of armed criminals without blinking, but asking someone to stay at his apartment apparently had him avoiding eye contact like a nervous teenager.

Cute. Deeply, deeply cute.

I shifted slightly against the pillows, trying not to wince at how much my body still hurt, before looking back at him properly.

“I’ll stay with you.”

Roman froze, like his brain had stopped processing information for a second.

“…What?”

“I said,” I repeated, smiling faintly now despite myself, “I’ll stay with you.”

The silence afterward was genuinely incredible.

Roman blinked at me once, then twice, his mouth opening slightly like he was about to respond before apparently forgetting how words worked entirely.

It was weirdly adorable.

“I mean,” I continued lightly, because somebody had to keep this conversation alive while he malfunctioned internally, “your place sounds safer, and I don’t really want Dante or Vivi stress spiralling while trying to take care of a newborn, so-”

“Right,” Roman cut in quickly.

Too quickly.

“Yeah. Right. Okay.”

His voice had gone slightly rough around the edges now, and he immediately cleared his throat afterward like he was annoyed at his own vocal cords for betraying him.

I stared at him.

Roman stared very intensely at the floor.

He was shy.

I should’ve known, since his total flustered state while kissing me a couple days ago. But roman wasn’t normal-person shy. He was Roman shy, which apparently meant suddenly becoming incapable of looking directly at me for more than three consecutive seconds.

I suddenly remembered this man hadn’t properly interacted or been around society in a while.

Something bright and soft fluttered weakly in my chest despite everything.

“You okay there?” I asked carefully.

“I’m fine.”

“You look like you’re being held hostage emotionally.”

“I’m literally sitting down.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

Roman groaned quietly under his breath, dragging a hand through his hair again before finally forcing himself to look at me properly.

And there it was. That tiny crack in the composure.

The almost imperceptible warmth high on his cheekbones. The tension in his shoulders. The way his expression kept threatening to soften before he dragged it back under control again.

He looked…happy.

Which felt unfairly rewarding considering how hard earned that expression probably was.

“I just,” he started, then stopped immediately.

I waited.

Roman looked deeply irritated about the fact that he apparently had to continue speaking.

“…I wasn’t expecting you to say yes that easily.”

My smile softened a little.

“Well,” I said quietly, “you did save my life.”

“That doesn’t obligate you to stay with me.”

“No,” I agreed softly. “I know.”

That shut him up immediately.

Because that was the thing. I did know. Which meant this wasn’t obligation. It was choice.

Roman seemed to realise that too because his expression shifted subtly again, something quieter settling into it now, something careful and almost disbelieving.

Then, after a second, “you’ll probably hate living with me,” he muttered.

I blinked.

“Roman.”

“What?”

“You literally scaled my balcony like a haunted victorian love interest because you wanted to look at me again.”

He looked horrified.

“I did not-”

“You absolutely did.”

“I was surveilling you.”

“Mhm.”

“For safety reasons.”

“Sure, baby.”

Roman made a strangled noise at that word, immediately looking away again while I tried very hard not to laugh hard enough to reopen something internally.

And though most of me still felt wrong somehow, like my body no longer fit properly around my bones, like if I stayed still for too long I’d suddenly remember everything too clearly and start clawing my own skin off just to escape the feeling of it, being near him quieted the noise in a way nothing else had managed to since I woke up.

After lots of investigating, threatening, yelling, and caffeine overdosing, we’d finally figured out where Luca was.

It had taken us a day. A whole fucking day.

And every hour that passed had settled under my skin like acid, because the longer someone was kept by people like this, the worse the outcome usually became. I knew that better than most. I’d seen what happened in rooms like these, what kind of damage people could do when they had enough time and not enough humanity.

The branch responsible belonged to the Russian Bratva, which complicated things in ways that were deeply inconvenient for everyone involved.

The Brotherhood and the Bratva had been on relatively good terms for years. Deals, trades, alliances stitched together through mutual benefit and the understanding that war cost more than cooperation. I even got along with some of their higher ranking members, which made this whole situation feel less like a mistake and more like a deliberate act of stupidity.

Because kidnapping Luca Russo?

That wasn’t just reckless, that was suicidal.

The Russos had enough power to turn this city inside out if they wanted to, and if they discovered the Bratva had touched one of their own, things would escalate fast. Publicly.

And the worst part was that I was already considering escalating it myself.

Because every time I thought about Luca tied up somewhere cold and terrified, every time my brain supplied unwanted images of those people putting their hands on him, something ugly twisted violently in my chest, sharp enough that it made my jaw lock.

No one touched what was mine unless they wanted their own blood staining the walls afterward.

The thought hit hard enough that I almost stopped walking.

Mine?

I frowned slightly, dragging a hand over my mouth as I moved through the warehouse toward the others.

No.

Absolutely not.

Luca Russo was not mine.

He was a man I’d met in a nightclub, stalked like a complete fucking psychopath, slept with once, and then immediately tried to emotionally evacuate from the situation because apparently discovering I wasn’t entirely straight at 28 had caused some kind of delayed identity crisis.

That was all.

And yet somehow, despite all logic, despite the fact that I barely knew him, despite how deeply inconvenient this entire situation had become, I still couldn’t shake the feeling that if I got there too late, something inside me would rot permanently.

It was the middle of the night, maybe two or three in the morning, and all of us were positioned around the Bratva’s main operating house, which looked less like a home and more like the sort of place people built when they wanted wealth to compensate for the fact they were fundamentally rotten.

Prisoners were kept in the basement, which was where I’d stationed myself.

I hadn’t brought many men because getting inside was easy as fuck once you understood that most powerful people relied too heavily on fear to imagine anyone would actually come after them. The operation itself had been timed carefully, every movement planned down to the second, and all I had to do was say one word into my earpiece.

3, 2 ,1

“Go.”

The plan erupted into motion instantly.

I slipped through the rear window with barely a sound, landing lightly against marble flooring before immediately scanning the room for the basement entrance. It took me less than ten seconds to find the hatch concealed beneath an expensive rug near the fireplace.

Too easy, motherfuckers.

There was a ladder leading down into darkness, but patience had never really been my thing, so I just jumped.

The landing echoed softly beneath me as my boots hit concrete, and the first thing I noticed was the smell.

Blood.

Bodies were scattered across the basement floor, furniture overturned, blood smeared dark against the walls like someone had tried very hard to turn the room inside out. I barely looked at any of it.

Because Luca was there.

Tied to a chair in the middle of the room.

His head was slumped slightly forward, waves falling into his face messily, his clothes stained with blood and dirt and God knows what else, and something inside me lurched so violently at the sight of him that for one horrible second I genuinely forgot how to breathe.

He looked…small. Not physically.

Just…hurt in a way that made him seem less like the loud, sunshine disaster I’d met a few days ago and more like someone who’d been left alone too long.

Oh, God.

I crossed the room quickly now, stepping over broken glass and bodies without even registering them properly anymore, my focus narrowing until there was nothing except him.

Bruises shadowed his face, shallow cuts traced across his skin, and even unconscious he looked tense somehow, like his body still hadn’t realised the danger might finally be over.

I crouched in front of him carefully.

For a second, I just looked at him.

Then I reached out slowly and touched his shoulder.

“Luca,” I said quietly. “Hey.”

He woke up instantly, not calmly either. His whole body jerked violently, panic hitting him so fast it physically startled me.

“WHAT THE-”

“Shhh,” I cut in immediately, grabbing his shoulders before he could tip himself backward with the chair. “It’s okay. It’s me.”

His breathing turned ragged immediately, sharp panicked gasps that sounded painfully uneven in the silence of the basement, and his eyes darted wildly around the room before finally landing on my face.

And stopping.

For a second, he just stared at me like he couldn’t quite process I was real.

“...Roman?” he whispered eventually.

The way he said my name nearly fucking killed me.

Not dramatic, not relieved in some movie worthy way, just exhausted. Like he’d spent the last day trying very hard not to fall apart and had finally run out of strength the second he saw someone familiar.

“Yeah,” I said quietly, already pulling my knife free to cut through the ropes around his wrists. “I’m here.”

The restraints loosened and the second they did, Luca grabbed me. Hard.

Both hands twisting desperately into the front of my jacket as he leaned forward abruptly, almost collapsing against me altogether.

I froze for half a second. Not because I wanted to move away. Because I realised he was shaking. Actually shaking.

And Luca Russo didn’t feel like someone who shook easily.

“Hey,” I murmured, one hand moving instinctively to the back of his neck. “Easy.”

He laughed weakly against my shoulder, except it sounded dangerously close to a sob.

“You took forever,” he mumbled.

Something sharp and ugly twisted in my chest.

A whole fucking day.

He’d been here for a whole fucking day.

“Yeah,” I muttered quietly, my grip tightening slightly around him. “Sorry about that.”

He pulled back just enough to look at me properly then, his eyes tired and glassy and still stupidly warm despite everything, and somehow he still managed a faint smile.

“You came for me,” he said softly, like he still couldn’t quite believe it.

I frowned slightly.

“Obviously.”

And that smile…God.

It broke something in me a little.

Because it looked so small compared to the ones he usually wore.

I found myself pulling him closer automatically.

“You good enough to stand?” I asked quietly.

He let out a weak laugh against my shoulder. “No,” he admitted honestly. “But emotionally I’m having a really weird time right now, so I think that’s fair.”

A breath escaped me that was almost a laugh, even now.

“C’mon,” I muttered, sliding an arm around him carefully to help him up. “Let’s get you out of here before I decide to kill everyone upstairs too.”

BANG!

The bullet struck the wall beside us hard enough to send dust scattering across the floor.

I turned immediately.

Sasha Kuznetsov stood near the basement entrance, gun still raised, her expression twisted into something sharp and furious. I fucking hated her, since all she lived off of was sex and harming little kids. Behind her were Ivan and Dimitry Vassiliev, her cousins, both looming silently like hired muscle that had never learned how to think independently.

The second Luca saw Sasha, he immediately went tense against me.

And that alone was enough to make something cold settle under my skin.

“Put my pet down NOW, Davenport,” Sasha snapped, voice echoing through the basement. “Or this gets ugly.”

Pet?

My jaw tightened.

Luca looked physically ill at the word.

“Yeah,” I said flatly, stepping slightly in front of him without really thinking about it. “That’s not happening.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“You don’t understand what you’re interfering with.”

“No,” I replied calmly. “I understand perfectly. I just don’t care.”

Sasha made an irritated sound and moved suddenly, reaching for another weapon at her side, but I reacted first.

The knife left my hand in one clean movement, striking her shoulder and forcing a sharp cry out of her as she stumbled backward into the wall.

At the same time, Ivan lunged forward.

I met him halfway.

The fight itself was quick and messy, more instinct than thought, years of training taking over automatically as I blocked the first hit and drove him backward hard enough to send him crashing into a table.

Dimitry moved next, trying to circle behind me, but I caught the movement early and knocked the weapon from his hand before he could use it properly.

Within seconds, both men were on the ground, unconscious and no longer a problem.

The basement fell quiet again except for Sasha’s uneven breathing and Luca’s sharp exhales behind me.

He still looked pale and shaky, but conscious.

“You alright?” I asked quietly. 

Luca blinked at me for a second before letting out the weakest little laugh imaginable. “I mean,” he said hoarsely, “this has objectively been one of the worst days of my life.”

Despite everything, a tired breath of amusement escaped me.

Then, after a brief pause, he added softly, “but you came for me.”

The words hit harder than they should have.

I looked at him properly then, at the bruises scattered across his face, at the exhaustion weighing down his shoulders, at the way he still instinctively moved closer to me anyway despite everything that had happened.

And suddenly the idea of leaving him again felt wrong. Deeply, fundamentally wrong.

So instead of answering properly, I crouched down in front of him again and brushed some blood carefully away from beneath his eye with my thumb.

“Yeah,” I said quietly. “Course I did.”

And then he passed out in my arms again.

“You little demon!” I yelped as Josie grabbed a fistful of my hair for what had to be the fiftieth time that evening.

She stared at me for a second with giant blue eyes, smiled her weird little gummy smile, and then tugged harder.

“VIVIAN!” I cried dramatically. “Your child yearns for violence!”

From the kitchen, Vivian laughed. “She likes you.”

“Well, I don’t like her right now.”

That was a lie. I adored her. Unfortunately.

Josie let out a delighted squeal from where she sat in my lap, tiny hands still tangled in my hair while I slumped further into the couch like a man moments away from succumbing to his injuries.

I’d come to Dante and Vivian’s place for dinner tonight.

Dante invited me.

Which maybe sounds normal if you weren’t me, but considering the past few years of weird distance and polite conversations and both of us pretending not to notice how different things had become between us, it felt borderline revolutionary.

And after everything I’d told him last week-

God.

I still couldn’t really think about that conversation too hard without wanting to crawl out of my own skin. Because I’d told him everything. Not the edited version. Not the funny version. Not the version where I turned everything into a joke before it could become real.

Everything.

And he hadn’t looked at me differently afterward. That was the part my brain still didn’t fully know how to process.

The apartment smelled like garlic and fresh bread and whatever expensive candle Vivian always had burning, soft music playing quietly somewhere in the background while rain tapped against the windows, and it all felt so painfully warm and normal that it almost made my chest ache.

Normal.

I missed normal.

“Need help?” Dante asked as he walked back into the living room carrying two drinks.

I looked up automatically and there it was again. That look. This quiet attentiveness now, like he was subconsciously checking on me every thirty seconds without wanting me to notice.

It should’ve made me uncomfortable.

Instead it made something awful and emotional tighten in my throat.

“No,” I answered quickly, trying to sound light again. “I’m currently locked in combat with your daughter.”

Dante’s mouth twitched slightly as he sat beside me. Mostly because Josie was currently trying to consume my left hand.

“Sweetheart,” I informed her seriously as she shoved three of my fingers into her mouth, “this is cannibalism.”

“She’s teething,” Dante said, completely unhelpful.

“Exactly. Get her therapy before it escalates.”

“She’s winning,” he observed calmly.

“She fights dirty.”

“She’s six months old.”

“And already corrupted.”

Dante huffed out a quiet laugh under his breath, and the sound hit me strangely hard because I hadn’t realised how much I missed hearing it directed at me. Not polite amusement or distracted acknowledgment.

Just…my brother laughing with me again.

It made me feel warm in a way that was honestly a little embarrassing.

I looked down at Josie as she climbed halfway onto Dante’s chest, babbling nonsense while he steadied her automatically with one arm.

And suddenly, out of nowhere, my brain betrayed me completely.

Roman would’ve loved this.

Not openly.

God no.

He would’ve acted deeply inconvenienced the entire time while secretly becoming emotionally attached to the baby within twenty minutes.

I could practically picture it.

Roman sitting exactly where I was now with Josie on his lap, pretending to be annoyed while letting her grab onto his rings and suit jacket anyway. Roman standing silently in the kitchen beside Dante while Vivian cooked, stealing pieces of bread when he thought nobody was looking. Roman existing inside all this warmth and domesticity like he’d been starving for it his entire life without even realising.

The thought hurt so suddenly I almost physically recoiled from it.

Because I missed him.

Constantly.

In every stupid little moment.

“Luca.”

I blinked quickly, realising Dante was looking at me now.

Concerned. Again.

“…Hm?”

His expression softened slightly.

“You disappeared for a second.”

Oh.

Right.

Dissociating.

Fun new personality trait unlocked by trauma!

I forced a smile onto my face automatically.

“Sorry,” I muttered lightly. “My brain went on a little side quest.”

Dante didn’t laugh this time.

Instead, quieter now, he asked, “Bad one?”

That almost broke me all over again.

“Not rea-” Before I could finish speaking, my phone suddenly started ringing in my pocket, the sound cutting through the warm apartment atmosphere so abruptly that I nearly jumped a little. Frowning, I carefully shifted Josie into Dante’s arms before pulling my phone out, already half distracted, but the second my eyes landed on the screen, my entire body went still.

Roman.

Oh.

My heart did something so painfully pathetic it actually annoyed me.

For a moment, I just stared at his name glowing against the screen while every emotion I’d spent the last month trying to suppress immediately came rushing back all at once, messy and overwhelming and horribly alive again. Because despite everything he’d said, despite the way he’d ended things, despite how angry and hurt I’d been afterward, some stupid unbearable part of me had still been waiting for him to come back.

Dante noticed the shift in my expression immediately, because apparently older brothers developed supernatural emotional perception the second they had children.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, concern softening his voice.

I swallowed hard and stood a little too quickly from the couch.

“…I gotta take this.”

His eyes flickered briefly toward the screen, and I watched the exact moment he saw Roman’s name, but to his credit he didn’t react beyond a small furrow between his brows before simply nodding once, calm and understanding in that new gentler way he’d been treating me ever since I told him everything.

I escaped onto the balcony before I could lose my nerve.

Cold night air immediately wrapped around me, sharp against my skin after the warmth inside, while the New York skyline stretched endlessly ahead in glowing white and gold lights scattered across the dark like stars trapped beneath glass. Somewhere far below, traffic hummed softly through the streets, distant sirens echoing every now and then, but all of it faded into background noise as I answered the phone.

“What the fuck do you want, Roman?” I asked, trying very hard to sound annoyed instead of devastatingly relieved.

Because I was angry at him. I wanted him to know that. No matter how much I lov - liked him.

There was a pause on the other end before he finally spoke, his voice so quiet and rough around the edges that it hit me straight in the chest.

“…Hi.”

The wind rushed loudly past him through the phone speaker, and for some reason that detail alone made my stomach twist because I could picture him so clearly: standing somewhere high up and isolated, cigarette between his fingers even though he technically quit weeks ago, coat open despite the cold because Roman treated basic self preservation like a personal insult.

“You don’t get to just say hi,” I muttered, gripping the balcony railing tighter than necessary as I stared out over the city lights. “You vanished for a month.”

“I know.”

“And you broke up with me.”

“I know.”

I closed my eyes briefly.

Because that was the problem with Roman. The second he stopped acting cold and untouchable and let even the slightest bit of genuine feeling slip through, it became almost impossible to stay angry at him properly.

I hated that.

I hated him.

I hated how much I missed him.

I hated how happy he made me.

I hated how much I wanted him.

“So?” I asked eventually, quieter now despite myself. “Why are you calling?”

For a few seconds all I could hear was the wind around him and faint traffic somewhere in the distance, and I wondered briefly if he’d changed his mind, if maybe he’d called impulsively and was now regretting it.

Then he finally exhaled shakily into the phone and admitted, so quietly it almost got swallowed by the night, “…I miss you.”

And just like that, every defensive thought I’d carefully built over the past month collapsed immediately and completely, because apparently all it took to ruin me was Roman Davenport sounding sad on a rooftop somewhere.

“And uh…” he continued after a moment, suddenly sounding strangely hesitant, which was deeply unsettling considering this was Roman and I’d literally watched him threaten people with a completely straight face before. “I wanted to see how you were doing. Like…if you’re mentally okay and uh, stuff.”

The awkwardness of the sentence should’ve been funny, but instead it made something in my chest ache painfully, because underneath all the fumbling words and rough edges, I could hear how genuine the concern was.

I tightened my grip slightly around my phone and stared out across the city again, watching headlights blur below like streams of gold.

“I’m fine,” I answered automatically, the lie slipping out on instinct before I could stop it.

Then, after a second, quieter, “I started seeing a therapist.”

There was a brief silence on the other end before Roman spoke again, and somehow he sounded genuinely surprised.

“Really?”

“Yeah.” I rubbed tiredly at my eye with the heel of my hand. “Her name is Shannon. She’s like ninety years old and gives me cookies every session.”

To my immense relief, Roman let out the faintest huff of laughter under his breath.

The sound hit me so hard emotionally it was honestly embarrassing.

“Does it help?” he asked softly.

And the thing was…he sounded careful asking it. Not dismissive, not mocking. Like he genuinely wanted the answer.

“Yeah,” I admitted quietly. “Actually, yeah. More than I thought it would.”

Another small silence settled between us then, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. If anything, it felt fragile, like both of us were standing at the edge of something neither of us fully knew how to approach anymore.

“Okay,” Roman said eventually, and there was something oddly relieved in his voice that made my chest tighten all over again.

The wind rushed loudly past him again through the speaker before he spoke once more, quieter this time.

“…I’m glad.”

That almost hurt more than if he’d said something cruel.

“I’m, uh…” Roman started again after a long silence, and immediately I could tell from his tone that whatever he was about to say was costing him an unreasonable amount of emotional effort. “I’m going to a doctor tomorrow.”

My eyebrows furrowed slightly.

“What for?”

There was the sound of wind again, harsher this time, and I imagined him running a hand through his hair the way he always did when he was uncomfortable and trying to hide it.

“Uhm, I spoke to my brother,” he admitted quietly. “Dominic convinced me to go and…have my brain checked out, I guess.” He let out a weak breath of laughter that didn’t sound amused at all. “Said I needed to stop putting it off because it would be better if I knew what was wrong instead of just trudging through it.”

I leaned back slightly against the balcony railing, my expression softening immediately.

“He’s not wrong.”

“Yeah, well,” Roman muttered awkwardly, “that’s deeply unfortunate for me.”

Despite everything, a small smile pulled at my mouth.

There was a pause before he spoke again, quieter this time, like he almost regretted saying any of this out loud already.

“Uh, Dom thinks I could have BPD,” he said slowly. “Or be bipolar. He said ASPD’s also apparently still on the table, so…” He exhaled shakily through his nose. “Yeah.”

For a second I just stood there silently, the city wind brushing cold against my face while my heart quietly cracked open all over again.

Because underneath the casual tone and awkward phrasing, I could hear it.

The fear.

Roman was scared.

Not of being mentally ill, necessarily, but of being defined by something. Of somebody looking inside his head and confirming all the worst things he already secretly thought about himself.

And God, suddenly I wanted to hold him so badly it physically hurt.

“Roman,” I said softly.

He went quiet immediately.

“You know none of those things would make you a bad person, right?”

Silence.

“You say that now.”

“I mean it now.”

Another silence settled between us, heavier this time.

Then, so quietly I almost missed it, “…What if they explain too much?”

The question hit me straight in the chest.

Because that was Roman, wasn’t it?

Not scared of monsters. Scared of understanding himself enough to realise he’d been one all along.

I closed my eyes briefly.

“Hey,” I said gently, gripping the phone tighter against my ear. “Even if there is a reason your brain works the way it does, that doesn’t suddenly erase all the good parts of you.”

“But what if…” Roman started, only for the sentence to fracture halfway through like the words themselves were too heavy to hold properly. When he finally spoke again, his voice sounded rough and unsteady beneath the howl of wind rushing past him. “What if I am a psycho or something and all of a sudden everyone I know hates me?”

Something in my chest twisted so sharply it genuinely hurt.

“What if they put me on drugs,” he continued quietly, the words spilling faster now in uneven pieces, “or tell me to stay away from people, or—or they just prove those stupid orphanage ladies right and say I’ve been a freak all my life?”

That one sentence alone nearly shattered me.

Because suddenly all I could picture was Roman as some exhausted angry little boy, carrying all this chaos around inside his head while adults looked at him like he was difficult instead of hurting.

I felt my throat tighten sharply.

“Roman…” I said softly.

The city lights blurred slightly in front of me before I realised, with genuine annoyance, that my eyes had filled with tears.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

I blinked hard and quickly rubbed beneath one eye with the sleeve of my sweater before the tear could properly fall, suddenly grateful Roman couldn’t actually see me right now.

I closed my eyes tightly for a second because hearing fear in his voice felt fundamentally wrong somehow, like hearing a cathedral crack apart or watching the moon fall from the sky. Roman was never supposed to sound breakable. He was all sharp corners and locked doors and bite with no bark.

But right now he sounded like he was standing alone somewhere high above the city trying very hard not to fall apart completely.

And God.

I missed him.

I missed him in ways language genuinely did not know how to contain. I missed him like oceans missed storms, like stars missed the dark, like every lonely thing in the world instinctively reached toward the thing that once made it feel less alone.

Another stupid tear slipped down my cheek before I could stop it.

I wiped it away quickly, staring hard at the glittering New York skyline spread out before me while my heart quietly tore itself to pieces.

“You are not evil because your brain hurts,” I whispered.

The wind roared loudly through the speaker for a second, and beneath it I could hear his breathing hitch faintly, uneven and shaky in a way I’d almost never heard before.

“And honestly?” I continued, my voice gentler now despite the ache lodged in my throat, “if those people looked at a traumatised little boy and decided he was broken instead of helping him, then they failed you. Not the other way around.”

Silence answered me. Long and heavy.

Then he spoke. “…You make me sound softer than I am.”

That one hurt too.

Because the thing was, Roman was soft. Not obviously, not in the easy warm way people expected softness to look, but in all the hidden places that mattered most. In the way he remembered every tiny thing about the people he loved. In the way he stayed awake after my nightmares because he didn’t want me waking up alone. In the way he carried tenderness around like a guilty secret.

I pressed my lips together hard.

“You are soft,” I said quietly, another tear burning hot against my skin. “You just hide it behind guns and glaring.”

That earned the faintest breath of laughter from him, weak and watery around the edges like he was crying too and trying desperately not to let me hear it.

And suddenly all I could think about was him.

Roman half asleep with his face buried in my chest. Roman standing silently beside me in the park shamelessly checking me out when he thought I wasn’t looking. Roman’s rare genuine smiles, small and fleeting like seeing sunlight in winter.

I missed him more than the stars must miss the moon whenever dawn stole it away.

“Roman,” I said softly, and this time his name came out sounding dangerously close to come home to me, “bad people don’t spend this much time terrified of hurting others.”

The line went completely silent after that.

After a long shaky inhale that sounded heartbreakingly close to a sob, he said, “…I miss you so fucking much.”

That nearly killed me.

“And I’m so sorry for how I handled everything,” Roman whispered suddenly, his voice rough and uneven enough that I could practically hear him forcing the words out one by one. “I should’ve been better.”

I pressed my lips together hard.

Because hearing Roman apologise felt like watching something ancient and wounded crack open at the seams. He wasn’t good at this. At vulnerability. At letting people see the softer bleeding parts of him without immediately trying to stitch himself back together afterward.

And somehow that only made it hurt more.

“You make me want to be better,” he admitted quietly.

That did it.

My vision blurred completely as another tear slipped free, hot against my cheek, and I let out one shaky breath that sounded mortifyingly close to a sob before quickly covering my mouth with my hand.

Oh my God.

I was actually about to start crying on my brother’s balcony over him.

But God, hearing Roman say something like that so openly felt like being handed his heart bare and bruised and still beating.

The city lights shimmered through my tears while I tried desperately to regain emotional composure and failed terribly.

Then I heard him swallow hard on the other end of the phone, followed by the soft crackle of a cigarette being inhaled.

Ah.

So we were really emotionally unstable tonight.

“So…” he started again, and for maybe the first time since I’d met him, Roman Davenport sounded genuinely nervous. “Maybe we could meet up?”

I closed my eyes immediately.

“To talk it out better?” he continued quickly, almost tripping over the sentence now. “Or-or not even talk, I just…” He exhaled shakily, smoke curling through the speaker with his breath. “I don’t know. I just want to see you.”

And there it was again.

That unbearable softness he kept insisting didn’t exist inside him.

My chest ached so violently it felt holy somehow, like grief and love had tangled together so tightly inside me they no longer knew where one ended and the other began. I leaned further against the balcony railing, pressing my forehead briefly against the cold metal while a wet laugh escaped me despite the tears still slipping down my face.

“You are so unbelievably bad at this,” I whispered shakily.

Roman let out a weak huff of laughter.

“I know.”

“No, you’re catastrophic,” I continued, smiling helplessly now through tears. “You broke up with me for my own safety and then called me a month later sounding like a widow dying of tuberculosis.”

That earned an actual laugh from him this time, rough and breathless and still painfully fragile around the edges.

“Please,” he muttered. “I’m trying to have an emotional moment.”

“You’re smoking on a rooftop while apologising to me,” I informed him tearfully. “You’re basically one rainstorm away from becoming gothic literature.”

I’d missed this. Missed him. Missed the strange fragile thing that existed between us, where even sadness somehow became threaded with warmth the second we were together again.

The silence that followed felt softer now.

Hopeful, maybe.

Then quieter, more honest than anything else I’d said all night, I admitted, “…Yeah. I want to see you too.”