☆KC☆

“Fuck!” 

Jimmy’s knee-jerk reaction to the heated iron of the alternator accidentally pressing against the skin of his wrist propels him to drop the car part, a hiss slipping past his teeth.

The jarring sound of the heavy metal component falling back under the hood of the Hellcat forces Roman to seize up before shooting Jimmy a look of annoyance.

An array of tools and oil-stained rags lie scattered near the tires as Jimmy smacks his teeth and readjusts the knit gloves Roman tossed him earlier, “it’s hot, bruh. My bad.” 

It’s a sweltering day in Florida, albeit an off day nonetheless. 

He’d decided it was as good a time as any to pop open the the hood of his SRT and finally replace that shitty alternator that’s been giving him problems when the twins peeled into his driveway with a six-pack of beer to watch the game between the 49ers and the Eagles. A proposition he gruffly accepted under the stipulation that they lend him a hand in his stubborn driveway project.

Roman gets back to unscrewing the bolts with a wrench when Jimmy picks the hunk of metal up. His head tucked underneath the propped-up hood, he mutters. “Lower.”

“It’s low, uce.”

“Lower.” His eyes quickly flit to his cousin, his hefty bicep powering the see-saw of his arm to loosen the screw. “If you two can’t make yourselves useful, the gate’s right there.”

Jimmy holds the alternator at a steeper angle and looks past Roman’s shoulders to his open garage. 

Jey, inside the makeshift gym, grunts as he lifts the weighted bar off his chest one more time before hooking it back onto the bench press— a look exchanged between the two brothers when their eyes lock as a breathless Jey lifts himself into a sitting position. He stands and walks over to them, the squeeze of his water bottle driving a stream of ice cold water down his throat.

“Aye, what’s up with you uce?”

In all walks of life, detachment has never been a practice he’s had much issue with. In fact, many would say it’s his strong suit. So much so that his ability to do so as seamlessly as he does itself often creates conflict. Most notably in his past relationships, if they could even be called that. 

The complaints were infinite, but he’s still managed to hear them all. 

You don’t even care, do you? 

You know you can pretend to give a fuck, Roman.

His stoic disposition never did him any favors, neither. Six foot three and two hundred and sixty-five pounds of pure impenetrable stone. Yet, for reasons that he can’t fucking stand, time and time again, you have proved to be the only exception.

You’re all that’s been on his mind.

It was a little easier to detach from you after the split because he was so upset with you for leaving him over a situation you’d essentially caused, but he’s been finding it much more difficult this time around since he was convinced you were keeping him at a distance for Younes’ sake; most of all, because it’s been a month and he’s yet to see anything from you to prove it had anything to do with Younes at all. 

You went on two dates with ole boy, you brought him to the house, you cut Roman off over what happened to Vernon’s boat which is coincidentally what got him fired, you weren’t having any of Roman’s attempts to make it right with you, you’re forcing him to respect the custody agreement which sounds like you’re making sure he doesn’t pop up at the house outside of when you’re expecting him— and now you’re cutting off his access to the security camera?

This has ‘you cut him loose because you and Younes are a thing now and you want to be able to slip him in and out of the house without his knowledge’ written all over it. 

Despite his speculation overwhelmingly pointing to the complete opposite, it’s not entirely outside the realm of possibility that you were being honest with him when you said it was about Vernon. You do care about that type of shit. Fucking… kindness and shit like that. 

He’ll never forget the first time you watched him surf at the beach when you two first started dating. It was five in the morning when you saw baby turtles hatching on the sand. You picked them up to move them closer to the sea and make their journey shorter, telling him that they have a low chance of even making it to the water because of predatory birds and other animals on the shore. He watched, perplexed, telling you that you were messing with the natural order of things, that the ones who survive are the ones meant to. Natural selection and shit.

You didn’t care.

It’s just that, if you were telling him the truth, then he’d fucked up.

Big time.

Shit, the only reason he threw caution to the wind with Mia was because he was so sure you were lying to him. 

He even gave you the opportunity to end it during the blow-up at your place when he walked in on the two of you after your date, and you couldn’t. You were only willing to after you found out about the boat and what it ended up doing to ole boy. That was all he needed to know.

Two dates.

Two. 

When he hadn’t taken anyone on even one since he’d laid eyes on you for the first time.

And then the way you were talking about how ‘it was time you started taking your love life seriously’ during that argument? It was incriminating. 

He was just reading between the lines, or so he thought.

He knows you and how much of a lovergirl you are. It’s only so long until you’re prancing around this island with that piece of shit. The same way you used to do with him. When you’re in, you don’t care about anything. You can be idealistic like that. It wouldn’t matter to you that word would make it back to him, you’d want what you have to prosper outside of confinement. Everyone be dammed.

Yet, you haven’t. And it’s making him rethink everything.

Regardless, it’s none of these idiots business.

His eyes are locked onto the alternator as Jey approaches from behind, grime staining Roman’s loose muscle tee, his upper arms, and his shorts. “Your dumb ass brother can’t hold this shit correctly to save his damn life, that’s what.”

Jey leans over the exposed intestines of the Hellcat, “I would’ve just taken this shit to the shop.”

Roman scoffs under his breath, “I don’t expect anything more from two grown ass men that get chauffeured around like they don’t have hands and feet of their own.” 

Jey smacks his lips as Jimmy turns to look at Lorelei on the other side of the lawn, “your daddy’s a real hard ass, Lorelei. Say it with me sweetheart,” he enunciates slowly so it’s easier for her to pick up, “hard ass. Uh-huh. Sending you back to your mama with some new tricks.” 

Jey’s laughing as he takes another gulp from his water bottle when Roman flits his eyes away from underneath his hood for a second to check in on her, wiping away at the sweat on the bridge of his nose with his wrist. 

She’s sitting on the pristine grass near the garden, the slobbery cherry lollipop Jey gave her three hours ago still in one fist and a stuffed animal in her other hand. As he’s placing the wrench back around one of the bolts, he pauses to do a double take. 

The longer he squints at the stuffed animal in her hand, the more he recognizes it.

“No, I want that one.” You point past the big teddy bear prize and at a much, much smaller stuffed animal. A baby deer.

He scrunches his face up, “why? That one’s fucking tiny.”

“It’s so cute. Look at it’s doe eyes. And the baby pink bow on it’s nose.”

The sound of children laughing and music from the carousel fills the state fair as he shakes his head, giving the bored employee his ticket card to scan. 

You watched with intrigue off onto the side, a blue wisp of cotton candy in your hand, as he flings darts to three rows of moving balloons, popping all but the one at the tip top of the pyramid structure.

The employee grins smugly, “aw. Maybe next time.”

You intertwine your hands with his and pull him away, his eyes still locked on the employee. “It’s okay, c’mon.”

“Fucking scam. They’re designed to fail. They just want your money.” He mutters. 

But when he sees three boys who look to be in their mid-teens rough-housing one another near the funnel cake food truck, he gets an idea. 

“Stay right here.”

You watch him approach the boys with your brows furrowed. He says something you can’t make out of due to the distance and the volume of all the rowdy games, but you see them look at one another with a smirk before nodding at him and placing their funnel cakes on the table they’re near. He pulls his wallet out, give all three of them a bill each, and walks back over to you.

“What did you w—” Your question dies on your tongue when you see two of the boys stalk towards the Balloon Dart stand and the other one stealthily approaches from the side. 

The two interrupt a conversation between the man tending the booth and the people next in line, pointing at a random route and look back at him as if they’re seemingly in need of direction. All as the other one tip-toes behind the guy, sneakily climbing on the back platform and reaching for the stuffed baby deer.

You turn towards him with your mouth parted, but he’s concentrated. He watches it play out with his arms crossed and his index finger and thumb pinching his bottom lip, the edges slightly upturned. “Roman!”

He grabs your hand and casually leads you away from the booth, past the neon arch entrance of the fair despite your inability to look away from the scene. Strategically, long before you hear the guy yell a resounding ‘Hey!’ in the distance. 

The three teens sprint past the exit, past the boardwalk, and past you, only slowing to a stop near the trash can landmark in the parking lot just as Roman instructed them where their laughs bleed through their attempt to catch their breath.

When they spot you two rounding the parking lot, one of them yells a ‘look alive.’ He tosses the stuffed animal in the air like it’s a football and it lands directly in Roman’s palm before they start walking in the opposite direction.

You look at him in disbelief when he hands it to you, “you’re actually ridiculous.”

“You said you wanted it, didn’t you?”

The gruff rumbling of a nearing engine jerks his attention from Lorelei to the other side of the lawn. Squinting, he removes himself from the hood, puts the wrench down and peels his gloves off his hand when the block gates of his estate slowly part.

Jey turns his body around to face the entrance, looking to Roman. “You expecting someone?”

He grabs a cloth and wipes off some of the grime that snuck onto his fingers, “hell nah.” Definitely not someone who knows the pin for entry. Shit, even the twins don’t have that.

A fold forms between his brows as he watches his father’s Ford truck peel into the circular driveway.

As Silas puts the truck into park and exits the car, Lorelei lifts herself up and walks the fastest her little feet can take her towards all the ruckus. Silas slams the door shut and rounds the car, stopping dead in his tracks at the sight of Lorelei waddling up to him. “Uh-oh, uh-oh!” he crouches to his haunches, his wide eyes darting to Roman, “since when?”

He sticks his hands into the pockets of his shorts and makes his way over to him as Lorelei waddles straight into her grandfather’s arms with a gummy grin, a high-pitched shriek spilling out of her when Silas takes her into his arms and shoots upright to his feet. 

Roman blows out a breath and shakes his head, “a couple months ago, out of nowhere.”

The speed in which she’s growing is… too fast. He doesn’t like it one bit. Hell, he didn’t even like it when she started pushing his hand off the bottle to hold it up on her own. That shit ruined his day. He used to always get on you for being so obsessed with getting her every walking moment on digital camera, but the more milestones she reaches, the quieter and quieter he’s gotten about it.

“Watch out world, huh?” Silas looks at Lorelei in admiration and strolls up towards the twins with Roman by his side. He greets them both with short and firm one-shoulder hugs, “what y’all working on?”  

Roman crosses his arms and ticks his head down towards the engine, “alternator’s jammed.”

“You have grandpa’s toolbox here, right?”

“Yeah.”

Sternly, “then what’s the problem?”

Jimmy pipes up, “the… collaboration.”

Silas turns to look between Jimmy and Roman for a second before shaking his head. “Collaboration. Lorelei and I would get this done in a jiffy and still have time left over for ice cream. Wouldn’t we princess?” he puts his hand up for a high five and she starts beating on it, “I know that’s right.”

Roman interjects, “I thought you weren’t getting back from Boston until the seventeenth.”

As the founder of a private investment firm, Silas often finds himself flying in and out of town for business trips. The most recent one had him tied down in Boston to tour a facility the company had a keen interest in. His glued attention on Lorelei conceals the way Silas’ smile falters for a second, “yeah. Change of plans.” 

Before Roman can pry any further, Silas peels his eyes away from his granddaughter and adds to no one in particular, “you know, working under the hood in eighty degree weather with no beer is a federal crime. Good grief.”

Jey lifts his cap to run his hand up and down his mullet and places it back. “There’s some Bud Light in the fridge. Brought it for the game.”

“Is there? Well then. You boys keep working at it. I’ll go grab some for us.” He turns towards Roman, “I’ll need a hand. Come with me, son.”

The air conditioning in the house is a reprieve when they make their way inside. 

In the kitchen, Roman pulls out a couple beers and an apple juice box out the fridge. He turns and unwraps the straw from the plastic, piercing the box before taking the lollipop to free one of Lorelei’s hands and replacing it with the juice box. Silas’ voice sounds off behind him, “she starting to looks like her mama.”

Doesn’t he know it. 

She’s something of a spitting image of you. A resemblance that grows with every passing day, but for reasons unbeknownst, he sees it most when she sleeps. When it’s his day with her and he’s backing up after lying her down in her crib at night. After she’s spent the day wearing him out and getting her way. Her eyes flutter shut, and it’s the puzzle piece that reveals how apparent it is that his genes didn’t even put up a fight. 

“How is she? Capri. How are things on that fr—”

“Why’d you cut the trip so early?”

His father stares at him for a minute. He murmurs lowly, “anyone else in the house?”

A sense of guard starts to rise within Roman. His brows furrowed, he shakes his head and follows behind Silas when he turns to walk to the home office. Once inside, he places Lorelei on the floor and takes some steps back until he’s leaning against the mahogany desk.

A moment of silence is shared between the two men. Silas, suddenly, is much more somber than he was outside. 

He looks like the man Roman is familiar with.

Silas looks at the ground, his words measured. “I ran into an old friend last week in the city. This guy I golf with every now and then, an executive at Marriot. We had dinner with a couple of other people from the firm, and at dinner, he told me he heard that there’s a proposition out for a Four Seasons resort here in town. Apparently they have their eyes set on Oak Ridge as the site.”

Oak Ridge.

17 YEARS AGO.  ROMAN’S JUNIOR YEAR OF HIGH SCHOOL.

The house is eerily quiet, only the clink of his spoon making contact with the ceramic bowl of cereal and cicadas just outside the patio door piercing the veil of silence.

It’s only three A.M, but three P.M is no better around here. It’s always eerily quiet now. It has been for a while. 

Perhaps it’s why his sleep schedule is as fucked up as it is. His body can’t tell the difference. It wakes him up whenever and he just bends to it’s will.

The familiar engine of his grandfather’s truck backing into the driveway precedes the two blinding headlights that flash through the glass of the patio door. Under the impression that his dad was upstairs asleep, the tip of his brows dip into a downturn. He drops his spoon into the bowl and gets up as he hears a door shut, opening the patio door and stepping out. 

Roman squints, the night making it difficult for him to make out of what he’s seeing. Silas has the tailgate of the pickup truck flat as he tosses a variety of tools onto the trunk. “What are you doing?”

Silas whips his head around, his stomach dropping at the sight of his son. Fuck. He pauses to take a deep breath before continuing to grab the tools by the shed and tossing them into the trunk, avoiding eye contact with Roman. “Go to your room.”

One step forward and the outdoor light in tandem with the natural moonlight clarifies the piece of tarp shoved into the corner of the pickup truck’s trunk is tightly wrapped around the shape of what looks a lot like a body. Silas continues to wordlessly move, slugging a duffle bag and a shovel onto the trunk. 

Roman’s eyes dart around the silhouette in the trunk, his heart starting to gallop as he looks back at his father. “Go to my— dad. What is that? What are you doing?”

“I’m doing what I have to do. For us.” He sharply turns toward Roman, hissing at close range “He found your mothers necklace. I… I don’t know how the cops missed it. But he was about to figure it out, and I couldn’t let him. He’d be a liability, son. People like him, they become liabilities.”

The crash was an accident. 

A month ago, Emiliana had gotten the call from the hospice nurse that things weren’t looking too good and that her mother was experiencing what they like to call The Surge. Terminal lucidity. A sudden upswing of clarity from patients that look like progress on the surface but often signals that the end is closer than presumed.

It could’ve very well been her last chance to get everything off her chest. Everything she swore she was going to take to her own grave, but the fear of it weighing down the casket had become too great. Those childhood wounds took intensive therapy and plenty of those professionals advised she explore the option of coming clean to her mother about the abuse she endured under her roof, but under the hand of that man.

That wretched, reprehensible man. May he burn in hell.

She deserved to live a life of peace. A life with a regulated nervous system. She wanted to be free of her past. It was the last step. 

She’d always seen the best in her mother. The woman was just too busy to see the signs. Too busy to see the way she’d stiffen up when he’d come around. Too busy to see how uncomfortable she’d gotten wearing certain clothes in her own house. Too busy to see that she’d taken interest in quite literally any extracurricular that limited the amount of time she’d have to spend in his proximity.. 

Yet, at her bedside, her mother didn’t look like her world had been turned upside down at what she was being told. There were no indication of shock or surprise. 

Only shame. Because this wasn’t news. She wasn’t an idiot, she just had a reputation to protect. 

Her own.

What would everyone say? People in this town gossip like it pays, imagine what they’d think of their picture perfect little family if her suspicions about her new husband were true. She’d already been divorced once from Emiliana’s father, she just couldn’t go through another one. The women at the country club are piranhas. Imagine what they’d say.

The revelation ripped Emiliana’s heart out her chest.

Midnight on a backroad, the ride home was a speedy blur. While driving, she ripped the necklace her mom had given her all those years ago off her neck and mindlessly threw it out the open window mere seconds before tearing onto a T-intersection, bypassing the stop sign entirely.

The other vehicle came out of nowhere. 

In an attempt to quickly stabilize the car, the other driver overcorrected on the narrow road and slammed into a wooden post head on.

When she got out in a panic to check on the driver, the phone in her pocket was ringing. Silas was worried. She’d been gone for longer than he’d expected. But when she’d told him what had just happened in between cries, he’d sprung into action.

Once she’d told him that the woman in the other car was bleeding profusely, he’d instructed her to put her hand through the broken window to check her pulse. There was no pulse.

She fought him tooth and nail when he told her not to call the police and to get back in the car. What if she read her pulse incorrectly? She could’ve made a mistake. What if she could still be saved What if someone did this to her baby? What if someone did this to Roman? But he calmed her down. He told her she wasn’t thinking straight. She’d just gotten into an accident and she wasn’t thinking right.

That he’ll fix it. 

And so, as stricken with guilt as she was, she listened to her husband. He wasn’t going to do it, but she was right. So as she was on her way home, he’d drove to the nearest payphone and called the cops anonymously so it wouldn’t get traced. 

In the days following, she became a shell of herself. The conversation with her mother, the accident, the news of her mother’s passing. It was too much. She couldn’t eat. She couldn’t sleep. 

Silas couldn’t bear to see her like that, and it infuriated him to learn of her mother’s revelation even further. She made a mistake and an innocent person lost their life, but he wasn’t going to let her spend the rest of her life paying for it. Not after everything she’d gone through. She’d suffered enough.

She’s his wife, and he’d do whatever he has to do to protect her. To protect Roman. To protect his family. 

And that’s exactly what he did. By any means necessary.

When the Sheriff, who was on first name basis with Silas and his family, came knocking door to door to see if anyone had any information on the fatal accident across the small town, Silas played the role. Knowing his wife was still too shaken and that she’d buckle under the weight of her guilt if she was questioned by the authorities, he slinked outside onto the porch and used the recent passing of Emiliana’s mother as the reason as to why she couldn’t speak to law enforcement. 

He’d rubbed shoulders and shook hands with too many people for the cops to do anything but sympathize. He played golf with the Sheriff, an official whose successful campaign Silas largely funded. Their son was the captain of the football team. He and Emiliana were respected members of the community. Too affluent. Too socially well-liked. Too prestigious. 

According to the Sheriff on the porch, skid marks on the road were indicative of the presence of another vehicle in the collision. Yet the absence of cameras on the desolate road and other tangible evidence like debris of the other vehicle made it difficult to identify the perpetrator.

It was the hallmarks of a case about to go cold.

The guilt was stretching Emiliana thin. So much so that, despite how stern her husband was when he’d told her to not come out onto the porch when they came knocking, she had her hand wrapped around the doorknob. And right as she was about to go outside and sing like a canary, the door opened itself as Silas came back inside. 

A near collision that caused a roaring argument. One that Roman would overhear as he came into the house from the backdoor. The same night he’d found out what his mother had done, and what his father was trying to.

Silas had decided that it was in the best interest of the family that Emiliana leave Key West for the time being. It was doing her no good. He’d needed to clean everything up and it was becoming clear that she’d be a problem. She was becoming unpredictable, but she’d also deserved the rest. He was doing it for her. She’d made a mistake on the worst day of her life, she didn’t deserve to rot for the rest of her life for it. He’d wanted to send her to somewhere tropical. Somewhere beautiful. So he sent her to their house in Caicos. 

But on the tarmac of the private jet before she left, she confessed to him that she’d thrown her necklace out the window before the crash near the scene of the accident. One with her name on it.

He’d went searching for it immediately. He went back to those backroads and scoured the woods they line for hours and came up empty handed. The possibility of the cops finding it and storing it as evidence was more haunting than ever, but then he happened to come across a worn pawn shop just off the road. The odds that someone had found it and pawned it were low, but he felt the urge and followed through. 

And there it lied, right under the dirty plexiglass counter. 

Once he asked the owner behind the counter how much it was going for, Wayne, he slowly sized him up. He eyed the shiny Rolex on his wrist, his clean haircut, the Benz parked out front past the window. When Silas accepted his eight hundred dollar price tag and pulled out his wallet, Wayne paused and changed it to a thousand. After a tense stare-down, he pulled out two more hundred dollar bills. But instead of accepting the cash Silas was holding out, Wayne just became suspicious.

Clearly, Silas wasn’t from this part of town. No one driving a Mercedes Benz lived around here, nor do they shop for jewelry at pawn shops. When he looked down at the necklace again, he recalled it being the one he found the week prior. Five karat pure gold with an engraving behind the pendant. 

That’s when it clicked.

Wayne slipped the necklace out the plexiglass counter and flipped the dainty pendant around to read the small cursive print, “the name Bella Camden ring a bell youngblood?”

Emiliana Isabella Anoa’i.

Previously known as Emiliana Isabella Camden.

Silas stiffened up, blinks. “Do you want the money or not?”

“Oh, I want the money. But this clearly has some sentiment behind it. I’m starting to think a thousand dollars is too much of a steal, wouldn’t you say? Besides, look at that toy you got out there. You ain’t hurting for some cash.”

Silas’ nose flared, “how much do you want?”

“Six thousand and we’ve got a deal.”

“...I’ll be back tonight.” Silas muttered before as he started making his way to the door.

Wayne’s silver tooth made an appearance when he grinned, “well well well. Would you look at that. First the cops and now a big fish. Makes you wonder what’s with all the sudden foot traffic ‘round here.” He laughed, “nine P.M. Don’t be late.”

The mention of cops sent a chill down Silas’ back. 

It felt foreboding, like Wayne knew more than he was letting on. Pawn shops run late, what if he witnessed the accident? What if he heard the collision and came outside, and that’s how he found the necklace? He’s clearly money hungry. Who’s to say this ends after he gets his six thousand? Especially with information that he could hang over Silas’ head. 

This… this won’t work.

So he went back to the pawn shop a couple hours ago with a gun tucked in his waist and blew a hole in his chest.

Roman follows his dad to the drivers side door after Silas slams the trunk shut and hops inside the car, “where are you taking him?”

“Oak Ridge.” 

Roman had always respected his father, but the night he’d watched him leave to bury Wayne was something of an indoctrination. Sometimes you have to do fucked up shit for the greater good, especially for the ones you love.

Silas drawls, “the resort is being built by Prescott Properties, apparently. They haven’t bought the land yet, so it’s still in the early stages. Nelson said something about struggles with funding. I imagine that has something to do with it.”

Shit. 

If they start construction on the site, it’s only so long until they find Wayne’s body and that pandora’s box get reopened. Hell, the cops already found it odd that two crimes occurred in the same vicinity so close to one another back then. It’s just a matter of time. 

Roman exhales tightly and scratches at his beard. He diverts his eyes off the floor and back at his father, “what are you thinking?”

“I’m gonna throw my hat in the ring.”

Roman squints. “The firm would never sign off on real estate.”

He nods, “I know. That’s why the firm won’t be the one investing. I would. Personally. Outside the firm to… diversify my portfolio.” He grabs the edge of the desk, “the Prescotts are hosting Solstice this year. It’s the perfect opportunity to make a bid. If I put enough money up, I steer the boat. Far, far away from Oak Ridge.”

Roman nods. That makes sense. If they’re having issues with funding the resort and Silas becomes a major investor, he’ll get a say on the site of the project. Solstice is also tomorrow night, which must be why he decided to come back today. He’ll need help, though. Roman couldn’t help before, but he can help now. “What do you need me to do?”

“To stay out of the way. I don’t want you anywhere near it, hear me? I only told you this because I knew you’d piece it together once you heard about it and found out mom is leaving town again. If this goes left, your involvement will only bring even more eyes than it already will and we don’t need that.”

“What are you talking about? You’re my father. If this goes left, it doesn’t matter if I’m involved or not, there will already be even more eyes on it.”

“Look at her. Is this something you’re willing to lose?” Silas points to Lorelei. Roman looks down at her, and she’s sitting on the rug, playing with her baby deer. “She needs her father. Nobody or nothing needs you like she does. Don’t forget it.”

.

It’s a navy blue morning on the pier.

With your hands clasped over the wooden railing, you’re watching the pale sun tip toe past the horizon when you hear the familiar cadence of flip flops smacking against the long boardwalk nearing with every step.

“Remember a couple months after I first moved here? When I told Yvette that I was craving fries and mumbo sauce because it reminded me of home.” 

Namina chuckles as she stands beside you, “and we tried to make it at home. What’d the recipe say? Ketchup and orange juice?”

A faint smile blooms on your face as the memory plays in the eye of your mind; a vignette of you holding the pan like you weren’t only a little bit taller than the stove was. You and Namina shrieking as the simmering sauce you were trying to imitate splattered onto the wall right next to the stove, giggling to each other as aunt Yvette would groan Jesus be a fence all the way from the living room sofa and yell at you two to use the damn pan lid.

“Pineapple juice.”

She makes a face. “That shit was nasty Pri.”

“Because we didn’t make it right! There were more ingredients.”

She turns with her back to the railing and hops to sit on it, “well. Let’s leave it to the DC Chinese takeout joints. I’m not trying that again.” At her elevated angle, she sees the envelope in your hand. “What’s that?”

Your smile fades, “a postcard. From Barbados.”

It was addressed to the shop and shoved underneath the front door when you came across it during your shift, opening it like it was any other piece of mail and only freezing when you slipped it out of the envelope to reveal a stiff card with an illustrated backdrop of the tropics underneath large print that reads greetings from Barbados.

You put the card back into the white sleeve was like you were diffusing a bomb. Under no circumstance did you want to accidentally flip it around and read anything she had to say to you. 

You’re dealing with enough bullshit as it is. You really don’t need any more on your plate.

Namina’s eyes flit between the envelope and your side profile at least three times, hesitating on whether or not she should freely speak her mind as is second nature or if the recency of the little tiff you two had gotten into deemed it too fresh to be breached.

When you told her about Mia’s visit at the shack during an ocean-side brunch, pure disbelief initially barred her from taking you at your word. Yet, with every following moment after the drop of that bomb into her lap, it became crystal clear that you were being honest. 

She loves you down to your bones. Your happiness matters to her just as much as her own. You are the last family she has left and her mother’s dying wish for you two to take care of one another is one she intends to uphold.

But, whether it’s your intention or not, you’ve been much too lenient with that woman and she needed you to hear it. In fact, you should’ve stopped being so lenient a very long time ago. Preferably right after what happened in Italy instead of your decision to hold your tongue. All this grace you lead with in an effort to preserve your own peace is a double edged sword— it grants you that peace but it’s always temporary and it’s entirely because grace in the hands of someone like Mia is a gift that keeps on giving. It gets taken advantage of, and eventually you land yourself in a situation much like the one you’re in right now.

How much water can you fit under the bridge before it overflows?

Regardless of how she feels about Roman, ending the relationship is a call that belongs to you and him, and you and him only. Point blank. Never should it belong to the vermin that’s been slithering her way through the grass since the very beginning.

It’s for that reason only that she thinks you did the wrong thing.

Time and time again, Mia has shown that she will do whatever it takes to be with that man. Sure, she says she’ll leak the tape if you don’t exit the picture once and for all, but in doing so, she stands to lose something too. Roman.

On what planet would the world’s most possessive man react well to such an intimate video of you being seen by millions of eyes at her doing? 

And that was the stem of the disagreement, because the way you see it, she has shown you that she’ll do whatever it takes to be with him and every situation has been an escalation from the former. In fact, he’s well aware it as well. Yet, what did he do after you broke up with him despite knowing what her and Anastasia’s motives were behind sending you abroad? He started seeing her.

You are undoubtably the center of his world until you leave him, and then the gloves come off. He treats it like you can’t hold what he does when you aren’t together against him, but you hold it against him.

What both of you could agree on is the fact that this time is different than the others.

There is a tape on the line. One that could not only ruin your reputation on this tiny island you’ve spent your years building a life on, but more importantly, ruin the life of your daughter if you aren’t cautious— so you’re not being anything but.

Still, despite your doubt, the entire existence of the video in the first place is why Namina knows for a fact that any chance Mia would have with Roman would be dust if that video recording she has ever saw the light of day. A failed attempt at sleeping with him in Italy isn’t equivalent to her leaking you and his’ sex tape. It’s apples and oranges.

But she knows you, and she knows the reason you’re being so cautious pertaining this entire ordeal is because of the woman behind the postcard in your hand. 

The wound your mother left was insurmountable. When you were younger and, for reasons unbeknownst, more willing to acknowledge her existence than you are these days, you once told Namina that you felt like she and your father loved each other more than they did you. That if they knew that he was going to die as suddenly as he did, they probably would’ve committed some sort of suicide pact beforehand and left you to find their bodies the morning after. 

They always made you feel like an afterthought as a child, and it was just reinforced after your dad died and your mom left you with Yvette without sparing you another glance. She knows those are wounds you don’t want to give Lorelei.

Perhaps if shit was different, shit would be different. 

And maybe that’s what you truly see in Roman. Perhaps in your eyes, that’s one of his redeemable qualities; the fact that despite his transgressions, he can’t seem to leave you alone, and it’s more than your mother could ever say.

Namina rolls her lips into her mouth, squinting as a gust of wind blows a tendril of hair onto her eyelash. “Aren’t you even a little curious?”

You scoff and take the postcard out of the envelope, your eyes tracing the illustration on the back one last time before tossing it onto the surface of water without a second glance.

.

Roman’s eyes shut at the exact moment the line cuts, his nose flaring as he curses and shoves his phone into his pocket. Below the moonlight of South Bay Country Club’s front patio, his feet carries him in a restless pace back and forth— the humidity underneath his formal button up pushing a layer of sweat against the surface of his skin. 

He’d ran much more than just a little late tonight.

So much so that, by the time he got here twenty-five minutes ago, his father was long gone. 

Despite Silas’ stern warning to keep his distance, he wanted to be present tonight. Solstice is a benign social gathering of Key West’s elites. He’s been dragged by his collar by he and his mother to these every year since he learned to walk. Who the fuck would ever bat an eye?

When he’d realized that Silas truly wasn’t here and not just making his rounds, shaking hands and making small talk with the attendees, he snuck away from the crowd and made his way to the front patio to call him. He found out, due to the existence of an exclusivity agreement between the lead investor already tied to the resort and Prescott Projects, Derek Prescott had denied Silas’ offer to invest into the resort. Apparently, the strategic agreement gave the lead investor first dibs on providing the funds for the project under the circumstance that it call for it, all in the name of preventing the dilution of their ownership stake by hindering the introduction of competitors— much like a noncompete clause. 

According to Derek, although they were low, to protect their ownership, the lead investor had decided to put more money up to make up for the difference. Silas’ investment wouldn’t only be a breach of Derek and his investor’s contract, it was also no longer necessary.

They would be moving forward as planned.

His palm rests at the nape of his tense neck as he stares at the ground. As clear as the writing on the wall may be, Roman has never been a defeatist. They’re not fucked. They’re not. They’re going to fix it. It’ll be fine. As he’s imagining up ways to get his dad out of the jam he’s in, the squeaky hinges of the country club entrance draw his attention.

Past the threshold at the pinnacle of the short staircase in the dead of night, is you. 

In grey cotton capri’s with the matching compact long sleeve top, a rolled up baby pink mat lies tucked underneath your arm. Your curls tossed in a hasty updo, away from the sweat glazing your face.

“Pri?”

You pause your trek down the stairs for a second when your eyes land on him. You state more matter-of-fact than curiosity as you meet ground level, “Roman.”

He sizes you up from head to toe and looks back up behind you. “What are you doing here?”

“Hot yoga. They just started offering night classes here. I’ve always wanted to join but I work during the day, so.” You decide to add, “Lorelei’s with Namina… unless you’re talking about me still using your membership card, then—”

He shakes his head, his heart rate lulling. “Nah, it’s… nah. You know it’s not that. I just wasn’t expecting to see you.”

You jut out your bottom lip in acknowledgement and nod before veering your glare anywhere but his, because he’s giving you that look. It’s earnest and it’s true and it’s intense enough to melt steel beams. You’ve know it very well.

But you don’t bend to it’s will. Because as much as you love him with every fiber of your being, with every passing day you find yourself directing more and more of your outrage at the impossible situation you’re in at him. None of this would have transpired if it wasn’t for him and his decision to bring Mia into the picture in the first place. None of it.

“Baby.”

Both you and him turn to the door. Mia stands in a baby blue satin dress, intricate white lace embroidered on the v-neck and leg slit of the fabric. She pauses when she spots you, her smile faltering. Suddenly more interested in what’s going on out here than in the back of the country club, she steps farther out onto the front patio. “Capri… I didn’t know you were coming.”

“Just here for a class.” You force out.

Her eyes land on the mat under your arm. “Oh. You know, we should take a class together here one of these days. I’ve been looking for a partner for the longest. You got my package didn’t you? Those sets are perfect for yoga.”

Incapable of faking it, you huff out a barely discernible breath of disbelief at her gall through your nose and turn back around as the phone in your hand pings. As you’re reading the message from Namina, your vision randomly gets spotty and you suddenly become light-headed, your hand shooting out to hook around the stair railing.

Roman’s in front of you in two swift steps, his thick brows drooping over his eyes as he grabs your other arm to hold you and lowers you to a squat on the brick step of the porch. “Woah woah woah. Sit down. What’s wrong?”

“I’m fine. I just got a little light headed. I haven’t ate much today, that’s a—”

“Why the fuck are you doing hot yoga on an empty stomach? The hell’s the matter with you?” he’s on autopilot, his voice adopting the same tone he uses to scold Lorelei when he finds her playing in shit she has no business in. His eyes dart up to Mia on top of the stairs, “go into the ballroom and get a water and something off the table.”

Mia frowns, her eyes darting between the two of you. 

You shake your head, the palm of your extended arm flat out in front of you and towards him in protest of all that. It won’t be necessary. More than anything, your light meals have something to do with the fact that you haven’t been able to keep anything down recently. It’s been unforgiving. Neither one of your pregnancies were quite like this one. As crucial as it’s has been in helping you unwind, yoga on such a light stomach, in hindsight, probably wasn’t the best idea. You’re sure that’s all it is. “It’s not that—”

Roman blinks at a still Mia, “now.”

That seems to shake her out of it. In a matter of minutes, she returns with a cold bottled water and a BLT and hands it to Roman, who hands it to you. You take it from his hands and rise to your feet, “I’ll eat it in the car. I need to go.”

He makes a face, “like hell you are. Sit down.”

Your stomach drops. If you take a bite of this sandwich right now, you’ll probably immediately puke in the bushes to your left and he’ll look at you for five seconds before figuring out exactly what’s up with you. “I won’t leave the lot until I finish it, but I need to get home. Namina just texted me. I left the teddy Lorelei sleeps with is in the car. She’s probably giving her hell.” You lie through your teeth. Namina asked you where you left the wine opener, but you know how to use being a mother to get you out of situations you don’t want to be in from time to time.

You take his silent stare for compliance and grab your mat off the floor. As you rise to your feet and turn before making your way down the pavement leading to the parking lot, you catch Mia’s eye. She’s chewing on the inside of her cheek, her arms crossed.

When you’re a distance away, he stuffs his hands into his pockets and turns to Mia.

“Really?” she murmurs.

“What?”

“Go into the ballroom and get a water and something off the table.” She repeats.

Roman squints, “she was feeling faint, Mia.”

Coming out here to find you two alone was already irritating enough, but for him to ask her to grab something for you? She didn’t like how that made her feel at all. “I understand that. I wouldn’t have an issue helping if we didn’t have the history we do. But having me run behind the woman you’ve made me feel second to for so long? how do you think that makes me feel, Roman? Your girlfriend.”

He’s unamused. “Don’t start that shit. I was thinking on my feet and you were standing right there.”

“I’m not starting anything. I’m telling you how you’re making me f—”

His words are slow. Measured. “I told you to grab her something because she got light-headed before she got on the road. She’s the mother of my child. You want me to hang her out to dry? That’s the type of man you need me to be for you? You want me to duck and dodge my responsibilities?”

Fire heats her chest at the reminder of what tending to his responsibilities looks like to him. How the last time he was tending to his responsibilities, it resulted in her losing her appetite for two weeks. “Lorelei is your responsibility, not Capri.”

He’s firm. His eyes hard. There’s no room for question, “there is no Lorelei without Capri and that was never debatable. You know what you signed up for.”

That, she does. Still, it doesn’t make these moments any less painful. Particularly because she expects things to change when certain things change. “I know that. Why do you think I do things like send her shit from the brand and invite her to yoga classes with me? And you just saw how she reacted. So to tell me to run behind her right after she basically laughed at the suggestion? That’s crossing a line.”

He sighs. Between his father’s issue and now this, he’s exhausted. He sees where she’s coming from but at the same time, he could never hold your aversion to accepting her olive branch against you. He just mainly attributes it to Italy, which she doesn’t know you and he know about.

“Then maybe this won’t work. However you feel about her doesn’t take away from the fact that she’s not going anywhere. If you’re going to react out of insecurity over the smallest shit every time, then it’s not gonna work. And frankly, why would I want to be with someone who finds helping the mother of my child with something so minimal as this big of a burden? She’s never done anything to you. In fact, what would’ve happened if I wasn’t here?”

She blinks rapidly and reaches out to grab his hand, “don’t say that. I’m not trying to… I do know what I signed up for. That just… I don’t know. I’m s—”

He pulls his hand away, “answer the question.”

“What question?”

“What would’ve happened if I wasn’t here?”

Her eyes dart around his face, “obviously I would’ve helped. It just would be on my own volition instead of yours.”

He squints, “that’s not what you said. You said you ‘wouldn’t have an issue helping if we didn’t have the history that we do.’”

“Roman. I would help. I would. It’s just your role in it that makes it different.”

He looks her in her eyes for a long moment inquisitively, his brows furrowed. “You know how important they are to me, right? Both of them.”

“Of course.”

“Fuck!” 

Jimmy’s knee-jerk reaction to the heated iron of the alternator accidentally pressing against the skin of his wrist propels him to drop the car part, a hiss slipping past his teeth.

The jarring sound of the heavy metal component falling back under the hood of the Hellcat forces Roman to seize up before shooting Jimmy a look of annoyance.

An array of tools and oil-stained rags lie scattered near the tires as Jimmy smacks his teeth and readjusts the knit gloves Roman tossed him earlier, “it’s hot, bruh. My bad.” 

It’s a sweltering day in Florida, albeit an off day nonetheless. 

He’d decided it was as good a time as any to pop open the the hood of his SRT and finally replace that shitty alternator that’s been giving him problems when the twins peeled into his driveway with a six-pack of beer to watch the game between the 49ers and the Eagles. A proposition he gruffly accepted under the stipulation that they lend him a hand in his stubborn driveway project.

Roman gets back to unscrewing the bolts with a wrench when Jimmy picks the hunk of metal up. His head tucked underneath the propped-up hood, he mutters. “Lower.”

“It’s low, uce.”

“Lower.” His eyes quickly flit to his cousin, his hefty bicep powering the see-saw of his arm to loosen the screw. “If you two can’t make yourselves useful, the gate’s right there.”

Jimmy holds the alternator at a steeper angle and looks past Roman’s shoulders to his open garage. 

Jey, inside the makeshift gym, grunts as he lifts the weighted bar off his chest one more time before hooking it back onto the bench press— a look exchanged between the two brothers when their eyes lock as a breathless Jey lifts himself into a sitting position. He stands and walks over to them, the squeeze of his water bottle driving a stream of ice cold water down his throat.

“Aye, what’s up with you uce?”

In all walks of life, detachment has never been a practice he’s had much issue with. In fact, many would say it’s his strong suit. So much so that his ability to do so as seamlessly as he does itself often creates conflict. Most notably in his past relationships, if they could even be called that. 

The complaints were infinite, but he’s still managed to hear them all. 

You don’t even care, do you? 

You know you can pretend to give a fuck, Roman.

His stoic disposition never did him any favors, neither. Six foot three and two hundred and sixty-five pounds of pure impenetrable stone. Yet, for reasons that he can’t fucking stand, time and time again, you have proved to be the only exception.

You’re all that’s been on his mind.

It was a little easier to detach from you after the split because he was so upset with you for leaving him over a situation you’d essentially caused, but he’s been finding it much more difficult this time around since he was convinced you were keeping him at a distance for Younes’ sake; most of all, because it’s been a month and he’s yet to see anything from you to prove it had anything to do with Younes at all. 

You went on two dates with ole boy, you brought him to the house, you cut Roman off over what happened to Vernon’s boat which is coincidentally what got him fired, you weren’t having any of Roman’s attempts to make it right with you, you’re forcing him to respect the custody agreement which sounds like you’re making sure he doesn’t pop up at the house outside of when you’re expecting him— and now you’re cutting off his access to the security camera?

This has ‘you cut him loose because you and Younes are a thing now and you want to be able to slip him in and out of the house without his knowledge’ written all over it. 

Despite his speculation overwhelmingly pointing to the complete opposite, it’s not entirely outside the realm of possibility that you were being honest with him when you said it was about Vernon. You do care about that type of shit. Fucking… kindness and shit like that. 

He’ll never forget the first time you watched him surf at the beach when you two first started dating. It was five in the morning when you saw baby turtles hatching on the sand. You picked them up to move them closer to the sea and make their journey shorter, telling him that they have a low chance of even making it to the water because of predatory birds and other animals on the shore. He watched, perplexed, telling you that you were messing with the natural order of things, that the ones who survive are the ones meant to. Natural selection and shit.

You didn’t care.

It’s just that, if you were telling him the truth, then he’d fucked up.

Big time.

Shit, the only reason he threw caution to the wind with Mia was because he was so sure you were lying to him. 

He even gave you the opportunity to end it during the blow-up at your place when he walked in on the two of you after your date, and you couldn’t. You were only willing to after you found out about the boat and what it ended up doing to ole boy. That was all he needed to know.

Two dates.

Two. 

When he hadn’t taken anyone on even one since he’d laid eyes on you for the first time.

And then the way you were talking about how ‘it was time you started taking your love life seriously’ during that argument? It was incriminating. 

He was just reading between the lines, or so he thought.

He knows you and how much of a lovergirl you are. It’s only so long until you’re prancing around this island with that piece of shit. The same way you used to do with him. When you’re in, you don’t care about anything. You can be idealistic like that. It wouldn’t matter to you that word would make it back to him, you’d want what you have to prosper outside of confinement. Everyone be dammed.

Yet, you haven’t. And it’s making him rethink everything.

Regardless, it’s none of these idiots business.

His eyes are locked onto the alternator as Jey approaches from behind, grime staining Roman’s loose muscle tee, his upper arms, and his shorts. “Your dumb ass brother can’t hold this shit correctly to save his damn life, that’s what.”

Jey leans over the exposed intestines of the Hellcat, “I would’ve just taken this shit to the shop.”

Roman scoffs under his breath, “I don’t expect anything more from two grown ass men that get chauffeured around like they don’t have hands and feet of their own.” 

Jey smacks his lips as Jimmy turns to look at Lorelei on the other side of the lawn, “your daddy’s a real hard ass, Lorelei. Say it with me sweetheart,” he enunciates slowly so it’s easier for her to pick up, “hard ass. Uh-huh. Sending you back to your mama with some new tricks.” 

Jey’s laughing as he takes another gulp from his water bottle when Roman flits his eyes away from underneath his hood for a second to check in on her, wiping away at the sweat on the bridge of his nose with his wrist. 

She’s sitting on the pristine grass near the garden, the slobbery cherry lollipop Jey gave her three hours ago still in one fist and a stuffed animal in her other hand. As he’s placing the wrench back around one of the bolts, he pauses to do a double take. 

The longer he squints at the stuffed animal in her hand, the more he recognizes it.

“No, I want that one.” You point past the big teddy bear prize and at a much, much smaller stuffed animal. A baby deer.

He scrunches his face up, “why? That one’s fucking tiny.”

“It’s so cute. Look at it’s doe eyes. And the baby pink bow on it’s nose.”

The sound of children laughing and music from the carousel fills the state fair as he shakes his head, giving the bored employee his ticket card to scan. 

You watched with intrigue off onto the side, a blue wisp of cotton candy in your hand, as he flings darts to three rows of moving balloons, popping all but the one at the tip top of the pyramid structure.

The employee grins smugly, “aw. Maybe next time.”

You intertwine your hands with his and pull him away, his eyes still locked on the employee. “It’s okay, c’mon.”

“Fucking scam. They’re designed to fail. They just want your money.” He mutters. 

But when he sees three boys who look to be in their mid-teens rough-housing one another near the funnel cake food truck, he gets an idea. 

“Stay right here.”

You watch him approach the boys with your brows furrowed. He says something you can’t make out of due to the distance and the volume of all the rowdy games, but you see them look at one another with a smirk before nodding at him and placing their funnel cakes on the table they’re near. He pulls his wallet out, give all three of them a bill each, and walks back over to you.

“What did you w—” Your question dies on your tongue when you see two of the boys stalk towards the Balloon Dart stand and the other one stealthily approaches from the side. 

The two interrupt a conversation between the man tending the booth and the people next in line, pointing at a random route and look back at him as if they’re seemingly in need of direction. All as the other one tip-toes behind the guy, sneakily climbing on the back platform and reaching for the stuffed baby deer.

You turn towards him with your mouth parted, but he’s concentrated. He watches it play out with his arms crossed and his index finger and thumb pinching his bottom lip, the edges slightly upturned. “Roman!”

He grabs your hand and casually leads you away from the booth, past the neon arch entrance of the fair despite your inability to look away from the scene. Strategically, long before you hear the guy yell a resounding ‘Hey!’ in the distance. 

The three teens sprint past the exit, past the boardwalk, and past you, only slowing to a stop near the trash can landmark in the parking lot just as Roman instructed them where their laughs bleed through their attempt to catch their breath.

When they spot you two rounding the parking lot, one of them yells a ‘look alive.’ He tosses the stuffed animal in the air like it’s a football and it lands directly in Roman’s palm before they start walking in the opposite direction.

You look at him in disbelief when he hands it to you, “you’re actually ridiculous.”

“You said you wanted it, didn’t you?”

The gruff rumbling of a nearing engine jerks his attention from Lorelei to the other side of the lawn. Squinting, he removes himself from the hood, puts the wrench down and peels his gloves off his hand when the block gates of his estate slowly part.

Jey turns his body around to face the entrance, looking to Roman. “You expecting someone?”

He grabs a cloth and wipes off some of the grime that snuck onto his fingers, “hell nah.” Definitely not someone who knows the pin for entry. Shit, even the twins don’t have that.

A fold forms between his brows as he watches his father’s Ford truck peel into the circular driveway.

As Silas puts the truck into park and exits the car, Lorelei lifts herself up and walks the fastest her little feet can take her towards all the ruckus. Silas slams the door shut and rounds the car, stopping dead in his tracks at the sight of Lorelei waddling up to him. “Uh-oh, uh-oh!” he crouches to his haunches, his wide eyes darting to Roman, “since when?”

He sticks his hands into the pockets of his shorts and makes his way over to him as Lorelei waddles straight into her grandfather’s arms with a gummy grin, a high-pitched shriek spilling out of her when Silas takes her into his arms and shoots upright to his feet. 

Roman blows out a breath and shakes his head, “a couple months ago, out of nowhere.”

The speed in which she’s growing is… too fast. He doesn’t like it one bit. Hell, he didn’t even like it when she started pushing his hand off the bottle to hold it up on her own. That shit ruined his day. He used to always get on you for being so obsessed with getting her every walking moment on digital camera, but the more milestones she reaches, the quieter and quieter he’s gotten about it.

“Watch out world, huh?” Silas looks at Lorelei in admiration and strolls up towards the twins with Roman by his side. He greets them both with short and firm one-shoulder hugs, “what y’all working on?”  

Roman crosses his arms and ticks his head down towards the engine, “alternator’s jammed.”

“You have grandpa’s toolbox here, right?”

“Yeah.”

Sternly, “then what’s the problem?”

Jimmy pipes up, “the… collaboration.”

Silas turns to look between Jimmy and Roman for a second before shaking his head. “Collaboration. Lorelei and I would get this done in a jiffy and still have time left over for ice cream. Wouldn’t we princess?” he puts his hand up for a high five and she starts beating on it, “I know that’s right.”

Roman interjects, “I thought you weren’t getting back from Boston until the seventeenth.”

As the founder of a private investment firm, Silas often finds himself flying in and out of town for business trips. The most recent one had him tied down in Boston to tour a facility the company had a keen interest in. His glued attention on Lorelei conceals the way Silas’ smile falters for a second, “yeah. Change of plans.” 

Before Roman can pry any further, Silas peels his eyes away from his granddaughter and adds to no one in particular, “you know, working under the hood in eighty degree weather with no beer is a federal crime. Good grief.”

Jey lifts his cap to run his hand up and down his mullet and places it back. “There’s some Bud Light in the fridge. Brought it for the game.”

“Is there? Well then. You boys keep working at it. I’ll go grab some for us.” He turns towards Roman, “I’ll need a hand. Come with me, son.”

The air conditioning in the house is a reprieve when they make their way inside. 

In the kitchen, Roman pulls out a couple beers and an apple juice box out the fridge. He turns and unwraps the straw from the plastic, piercing the box before taking the lollipop to free one of Lorelei’s hands and replacing it with the juice box. Silas’ voice sounds off behind him, “she starting to looks like her mama.”

Doesn’t he know it. 

She’s something of a spitting image of you. A resemblance that grows with every passing day, but for reasons unbeknownst, he sees it most when she sleeps. When it’s his day with her and he’s backing up after lying her down in her crib at night. After she’s spent the day wearing him out and getting her way. Her eyes flutter shut, and it’s the puzzle piece that reveals how apparent it is that his genes didn’t even put up a fight. 

“How is she? Capri. How are things on that fr—”

“Why’d you cut the trip so early?”

His father stares at him for a minute. He murmurs lowly, “anyone else in the house?”

A sense of guard starts to rise within Roman. His brows furrowed, he shakes his head and follows behind Silas when he turns to walk to the home office. Once inside, he places Lorelei on the floor and takes some steps back until he’s leaning against the mahogany desk.

A moment of silence is shared between the two men. Silas, suddenly, is much more somber than he was outside. 

He looks like the man Roman is familiar with.

Silas looks at the ground, his words measured. “I ran into an old friend last week in the city. This guy I golf with every now and then, an executive at Marriot. We had dinner with a couple of other people from the firm, and at dinner, he told me he heard that there’s a proposition out for a Four Seasons resort here in town. Apparently they have their eyes set on Oak Ridge as the site.”

Oak Ridge.

17 YEARS AGO.  ROMAN’S JUNIOR YEAR OF HIGH SCHOOL.

The house is eerily quiet, only the clink of his spoon making contact with the ceramic bowl of cereal and cicadas just outside the patio door piercing the veil of silence.

It’s only three A.M, but three P.M is no better around here. It’s always eerily quiet now. It has been for a while. 

Perhaps it’s why his sleep schedule is as fucked up as it is. His body can’t tell the difference. It wakes him up whenever and he just bends to it’s will.

The familiar engine of his grandfather’s truck backing into the driveway precedes the two blinding headlights that flash through the glass of the patio door. Under the impression that his dad was upstairs asleep, the tip of his brows dip into a downturn. He drops his spoon into the bowl and gets up as he hears a door shut, opening the patio door and stepping out. 

Roman squints, the night making it difficult for him to make out of what he’s seeing. Silas has the tailgate of the pickup truck flat as he tosses a variety of tools onto the trunk. “What are you doing?”

Silas whips his head around, his stomach dropping at the sight of his son. Fuck. He pauses to take a deep breath before continuing to grab the tools by the shed and tossing them into the trunk, avoiding eye contact with Roman. “Go to your room.”

One step forward and the outdoor light in tandem with the natural moonlight clarifies the piece of tarp shoved into the corner of the pickup truck’s trunk is tightly wrapped around the shape of what looks a lot like a body. Silas continues to wordlessly move, slugging a duffle bag and a shovel onto the trunk. 

Roman’s eyes dart around the silhouette in the trunk, his heart starting to gallop as he looks back at his father. “Go to my— dad. What is that? What are you doing?”

“I’m doing what I have to do. For us.” He sharply turns toward Roman, hissing at close range “He found your mothers necklace. I… I don’t know how the cops missed it. But he was about to figure it out, and I couldn’t let him. He’d be a liability, son. People like him, they become liabilities.”

The crash was an accident. 

A month ago, Emiliana had gotten the call from the hospice nurse that things weren’t looking too good and that her mother was experiencing what they like to call The Surge. Terminal lucidity. A sudden upswing of clarity from patients that look like progress on the surface but often signals that the end is closer than presumed.

It could’ve very well been her last chance to get everything off her chest. Everything she swore she was going to take to her own grave, but the fear of it weighing down the casket had become too great. Those childhood wounds took intensive therapy and plenty of those professionals advised she explore the option of coming clean to her mother about the abuse she endured under her roof, but under the hand of that man.

That wretched, reprehensible man. May he burn in hell.

She deserved to live a life of peace. A life with a regulated nervous system. She wanted to be free of her past. It was the last step. 

She’d always seen the best in her mother. The woman was just too busy to see the signs. Too busy to see the way she’d stiffen up when he’d come around. Too busy to see how uncomfortable she’d gotten wearing certain clothes in her own house. Too busy to see that she’d taken interest in quite literally any extracurricular that limited the amount of time she’d have to spend in his proximity.. 

Yet, at her bedside, her mother didn’t look like her world had been turned upside down at what she was being told. There were no indication of shock or surprise. 

Only shame. Because this wasn’t news. She wasn’t an idiot, she just had a reputation to protect. 

Her own.

What would everyone say? People in this town gossip like it pays, imagine what they’d think of their picture perfect little family if her suspicions about her new husband were true. She’d already been divorced once from Emiliana’s father, she just couldn’t go through another one. The women at the country club are piranhas. Imagine what they’d say.

The revelation ripped Emiliana’s heart out her chest.

Midnight on a backroad, the ride home was a speedy blur. While driving, she ripped the necklace her mom had given her all those years ago off her neck and mindlessly threw it out the open window mere seconds before tearing onto a T-intersection, bypassing the stop sign entirely.

The other vehicle came out of nowhere. 

In an attempt to quickly stabilize the car, the other driver overcorrected on the narrow road and slammed into a wooden post head on.

When she got out in a panic to check on the driver, the phone in her pocket was ringing. Silas was worried. She’d been gone for longer than he’d expected. But when she’d told him what had just happened in between cries, he’d sprung into action.

Once she’d told him that the woman in the other car was bleeding profusely, he’d instructed her to put her hand through the broken window to check her pulse. There was no pulse.

She fought him tooth and nail when he told her not to call the police and to get back in the car. What if she read her pulse incorrectly? She could’ve made a mistake. What if she could still be saved What if someone did this to her baby? What if someone did this to Roman? But he calmed her down. He told her she wasn’t thinking straight. She’d just gotten into an accident and she wasn’t thinking right.

That he’ll fix it. 

And so, as stricken with guilt as she was, she listened to her husband. He wasn’t going to do it, but she was right. So as she was on her way home, he’d drove to the nearest payphone and called the cops anonymously so it wouldn’t get traced. 

In the days following, she became a shell of herself. The conversation with her mother, the accident, the news of her mother’s passing. It was too much. She couldn’t eat. She couldn’t sleep. 

Silas couldn’t bear to see her like that, and it infuriated him to learn of her mother’s revelation even further. She made a mistake and an innocent person lost their life, but he wasn’t going to let her spend the rest of her life paying for it. Not after everything she’d gone through. She’d suffered enough.

She’s his wife, and he’d do whatever he has to do to protect her. To protect Roman. To protect his family. 

And that’s exactly what he did. By any means necessary.

When the Sheriff, who was on first name basis with Silas and his family, came knocking door to door to see if anyone had any information on the fatal accident across the small town, Silas played the role. Knowing his wife was still too shaken and that she’d buckle under the weight of her guilt if she was questioned by the authorities, he slinked outside onto the porch and used the recent passing of Emiliana’s mother as the reason as to why she couldn’t speak to law enforcement. 

He’d rubbed shoulders and shook hands with too many people for the cops to do anything but sympathize. He played golf with the Sheriff, an official whose successful campaign Silas largely funded. Their son was the captain of the football team. He and Emiliana were respected members of the community. Too affluent. Too socially well-liked. Too prestigious. 

According to the Sheriff on the porch, skid marks on the road were indicative of the presence of another vehicle in the collision. Yet the absence of cameras on the desolate road and other tangible evidence like debris of the other vehicle made it difficult to identify the perpetrator.

It was the hallmarks of a case about to go cold.

The guilt was stretching Emiliana thin. So much so that, despite how stern her husband was when he’d told her to not come out onto the porch when they came knocking, she had her hand wrapped around the doorknob. And right as she was about to go outside and sing like a canary, the door opened itself as Silas came back inside. 

A near collision that caused a roaring argument. One that Roman would overhear as he came into the house from the backdoor. The same night he’d found out what his mother had done, and what his father was trying to.

Silas had decided that it was in the best interest of the family that Emiliana leave Key West for the time being. It was doing her no good. He’d needed to clean everything up and it was becoming clear that she’d be a problem. She was becoming unpredictable, but she’d also deserved the rest. He was doing it for her. She’d made a mistake on the worst day of her life, she didn’t deserve to rot for the rest of her life for it. He’d wanted to send her to somewhere tropical. Somewhere beautiful. So he sent her to their house in Caicos. 

But on the tarmac of the private jet before she left, she confessed to him that she’d thrown her necklace out the window before the crash near the scene of the accident. One with her name on it.

He’d went searching for it immediately. He went back to those backroads and scoured the woods they line for hours and came up empty handed. The possibility of the cops finding it and storing it as evidence was more haunting than ever, but then he happened to come across a worn pawn shop just off the road. The odds that someone had found it and pawned it were low, but he felt the urge and followed through. 

And there it lied, right under the dirty plexiglass counter. 

Once he asked the owner behind the counter how much it was going for, Wayne, he slowly sized him up. He eyed the shiny Rolex on his wrist, his clean haircut, the Benz parked out front past the window. When Silas accepted his eight hundred dollar price tag and pulled out his wallet, Wayne paused and changed it to a thousand. After a tense stare-down, he pulled out two more hundred dollar bills. But instead of accepting the cash Silas was holding out, Wayne just became suspicious.

Clearly, Silas wasn’t from this part of town. No one driving a Mercedes Benz lived around here, nor do they shop for jewelry at pawn shops. When he looked down at the necklace again, he recalled it being the one he found the week prior. Five karat pure gold with an engraving behind the pendant. 

That’s when it clicked.

Wayne slipped the necklace out the plexiglass counter and flipped the dainty pendant around to read the small cursive print, “the name Bella Camden ring a bell youngblood?”

Emiliana Isabella Anoa’i.

Previously known as Emiliana Isabella Camden.

Silas stiffened up, blinks. “Do you want the money or not?”

“Oh, I want the money. But this clearly has some sentiment behind it. I’m starting to think a thousand dollars is too much of a steal, wouldn’t you say? Besides, look at that toy you got out there. You ain’t hurting for some cash.”

Silas’ nose flared, “how much do you want?”

“Six thousand and we’ve got a deal.”

“...I’ll be back tonight.” Silas muttered before as he started making his way to the door.

Wayne’s silver tooth made an appearance when he grinned, “well well well. Would you look at that. First the cops and now a big fish. Makes you wonder what’s with all the sudden foot traffic ‘round here.” He laughed, “nine P.M. Don’t be late.”

The mention of cops sent a chill down Silas’ back. 

It felt foreboding, like Wayne knew more than he was letting on. Pawn shops run late, what if he witnessed the accident? What if he heard the collision and came outside, and that’s how he found the necklace? He’s clearly money hungry. Who’s to say this ends after he gets his six thousand? Especially with information that he could hang over Silas’ head. 

This… this won’t work.

So he went back to the pawn shop a couple hours ago with a gun tucked in his waist and blew a hole in his chest.

Roman follows his dad to the drivers side door after Silas slams the trunk shut and hops inside the car, “where are you taking him?”

“Oak Ridge.” 

Roman had always respected his father, but the night he’d watched him leave to bury Wayne was something of an indoctrination. Sometimes you have to do fucked up shit for the greater good, especially for the ones you love.

Silas drawls, “the resort is being built by Prescott Properties, apparently. They haven’t bought the land yet, so it’s still in the early stages. Nelson said something about struggles with funding. I imagine that has something to do with it.”

Shit. 

If they start construction on the site, it’s only so long until they find Wayne’s body and that pandora’s box get reopened. Hell, the cops already found it odd that two crimes occurred in the same vicinity so close to one another back then. It’s just a matter of time. 

Roman exhales tightly and scratches at his beard. He diverts his eyes off the floor and back at his father, “what are you thinking?”

“I’m gonna throw my hat in the ring.”

Roman squints. “The firm would never sign off on real estate.”

He nods, “I know. That’s why the firm won’t be the one investing. I would. Personally. Outside the firm to… diversify my portfolio.” He grabs the edge of the desk, “the Prescotts are hosting Solstice this year. It’s the perfect opportunity to make a bid. If I put enough money up, I steer the boat. Far, far away from Oak Ridge.”

Roman nods. That makes sense. If they’re having issues with funding the resort and Silas becomes a major investor, he’ll get a say on the site of the project. Solstice is also tomorrow night, which must be why he decided to come back today. He’ll need help, though. Roman couldn’t help before, but he can help now. “What do you need me to do?”

“To stay out of the way. I don’t want you anywhere near it, hear me? I only told you this because I knew you’d piece it together once you heard about it and found out mom is leaving town again. If this goes left, your involvement will only bring even more eyes than it already will and we don’t need that.”

“What are you talking about? You’re my father. If this goes left, it doesn’t matter if I’m involved or not, there will already be even more eyes on it.”

“Look at her. Is this something you’re willing to lose?” Silas points to Lorelei. Roman looks down at her, and she’s sitting on the rug, playing with her baby deer. “She needs her father. Nobody or nothing needs you like she does. Don’t forget it.”

.

It’s a navy blue morning on the pier.

With your hands clasped over the wooden railing, you’re watching the pale sun tip toe past the horizon when you hear the familiar cadence of flip flops smacking against the long boardwalk nearing with every step.

“Remember a couple months after I first moved here? When I told Yvette that I was craving fries and mumbo sauce because it reminded me of home.” 

Namina chuckles as she stands beside you, “and we tried to make it at home. What’d the recipe say? Ketchup and orange juice?”

A faint smile blooms on your face as the memory plays in the eye of your mind; a vignette of you holding the pan like you weren’t only a little bit taller than the stove was. You and Namina shrieking as the simmering sauce you were trying to imitate splattered onto the wall right next to the stove, giggling to each other as aunt Yvette would groan Jesus be a fence all the way from the living room sofa and yell at you two to use the damn pan lid.

“Pineapple juice.”

She makes a face. “That shit was nasty Pri.”

“Because we didn’t make it right! There were more ingredients.”

She turns with her back to the railing and hops to sit on it, “well. Let’s leave it to the DC Chinese takeout joints. I’m not trying that again.” At her elevated angle, she sees the envelope in your hand. “What’s that?”

Your smile fades, “a postcard. From Barbados.”

It was addressed to the shop and shoved underneath the front door when you came across it during your shift, opening it like it was any other piece of mail and only freezing when you slipped it out of the envelope to reveal a stiff card with an illustrated backdrop of the tropics underneath large print that reads greetings from Barbados.

You put the card back into the white sleeve was like you were diffusing a bomb. Under no circumstance did you want to accidentally flip it around and read anything she had to say to you. 

You’re dealing with enough bullshit as it is. You really don’t need any more on your plate.

Namina’s eyes flit between the envelope and your side profile at least three times, hesitating on whether or not she should freely speak her mind as is second nature or if the recency of the little tiff you two had gotten into deemed it too fresh to be breached.

When you told her about Mia’s visit at the shack during an ocean-side brunch, pure disbelief initially barred her from taking you at your word. Yet, with every following moment after the drop of that bomb into her lap, it became crystal clear that you were being honest. 

She loves you down to your bones. Your happiness matters to her just as much as her own. You are the last family she has left and her mother’s dying wish for you two to take care of one another is one she intends to uphold.

But, whether it’s your intention or not, you’ve been much too lenient with that woman and she needed you to hear it. In fact, you should’ve stopped being so lenient a very long time ago. Preferably right after what happened in Italy instead of your decision to hold your tongue. All this grace you lead with in an effort to preserve your own peace is a double edged sword— it grants you that peace but it’s always temporary and it’s entirely because grace in the hands of someone like Mia is a gift that keeps on giving. It gets taken advantage of, and eventually you land yourself in a situation much like the one you’re in right now.

How much water can you fit under the bridge before it overflows?

Regardless of how she feels about Roman, ending the relationship is a call that belongs to you and him, and you and him only. Point blank. Never should it belong to the vermin that’s been slithering her way through the grass since the very beginning.

It’s for that reason only that she thinks you did the wrong thing.

Time and time again, Mia has shown that she will do whatever it takes to be with that man. Sure, she says she’ll leak the tape if you don’t exit the picture once and for all, but in doing so, she stands to lose something too. Roman.

On what planet would the world’s most possessive man react well to such an intimate video of you being seen by millions of eyes at her doing? 

And that was the stem of the disagreement, because the way you see it, she has shown you that she’ll do whatever it takes to be with him and every situation has been an escalation from the former. In fact, he’s well aware it as well. Yet, what did he do after you broke up with him despite knowing what her and Anastasia’s motives were behind sending you abroad? He started seeing her.

You are undoubtably the center of his world until you leave him, and then the gloves come off. He treats it like you can’t hold what he does when you aren’t together against him, but you hold it against him.

What both of you could agree on is the fact that this time is different than the others.

There is a tape on the line. One that could not only ruin your reputation on this tiny island you’ve spent your years building a life on, but more importantly, ruin the life of your daughter if you aren’t cautious— so you’re not being anything but.

Still, despite your doubt, the entire existence of the video in the first place is why Namina knows for a fact that any chance Mia would have with Roman would be dust if that video recording she has ever saw the light of day. A failed attempt at sleeping with him in Italy isn’t equivalent to her leaking you and his’ sex tape. It’s apples and oranges.

But she knows you, and she knows the reason you’re being so cautious pertaining this entire ordeal is because of the woman behind the postcard in your hand. 

The wound your mother left was insurmountable. When you were younger and, for reasons unbeknownst, more willing to acknowledge her existence than you are these days, you once told Namina that you felt like she and your father loved each other more than they did you. That if they knew that he was going to die as suddenly as he did, they probably would’ve committed some sort of suicide pact beforehand and left you to find their bodies the morning after. 

They always made you feel like an afterthought as a child, and it was just reinforced after your dad died and your mom left you with Yvette without sparing you another glance. She knows those are wounds you don’t want to give Lorelei.

Perhaps if shit was different, shit would be different. 

And maybe that’s what you truly see in Roman. Perhaps in your eyes, that’s one of his redeemable qualities; the fact that despite his transgressions, he can’t seem to leave you alone, and it’s more than your mother could ever say.

Namina rolls her lips into her mouth, squinting as a gust of wind blows a tendril of hair onto her eyelash. “Aren’t you even a little curious?”

You scoff and take the postcard out of the envelope, your eyes tracing the illustration on the back one last time before tossing it onto the surface of water without a second glance.

.

Roman’s eyes shut at the exact moment the line cuts, his nose flaring as he curses and shoves his phone into his pocket. Below the moonlight of South Bay Country Club’s front patio, his feet carries him in a restless pace back and forth— the humidity underneath his formal button up pushing a layer of sweat against the surface of his skin. 

He’d ran much more than just a little late tonight.

So much so that, by the time he got here twenty-five minutes ago, his father was long gone. 

Despite Silas’ stern warning to keep his distance, he wanted to be present tonight. Solstice is a benign social gathering of Key West’s elites. He’s been dragged by his collar by he and his mother to these every year since he learned to walk. Who the fuck would ever bat an eye?

When he’d realized that Silas truly wasn’t here and not just making his rounds, shaking hands and making small talk with the attendees, he snuck away from the crowd and made his way to the front patio to call him. He found out, due to the existence of an exclusivity agreement between the lead investor already tied to the resort and Prescott Projects, Derek Prescott had denied Silas’ offer to invest into the resort. Apparently, the strategic agreement gave the lead investor first dibs on providing the funds for the project under the circumstance that it call for it, all in the name of preventing the dilution of their ownership stake by hindering the introduction of competitors— much like a noncompete clause. 

According to Derek, although they were low, to protect their ownership, the lead investor had decided to put more money up to make up for the difference. Silas’ investment wouldn’t only be a breach of Derek and his investor’s contract, it was also no longer necessary.

They would be moving forward as planned.

His palm rests at the nape of his tense neck as he stares at the ground. As clear as the writing on the wall may be, Roman has never been a defeatist. They’re not fucked. They’re not. They’re going to fix it. It’ll be fine. As he’s imagining up ways to get his dad out of the jam he’s in, the squeaky hinges of the country club entrance draw his attention.

Past the threshold at the pinnacle of the short staircase in the dead of night, is you. 

In grey cotton capri’s with the matching compact long sleeve top, a rolled up baby pink mat lies tucked underneath your arm. Your curls tossed in a hasty updo, away from the sweat glazing your face.

“Pri?”

You pause your trek down the stairs for a second when your eyes land on him. You state more matter-of-fact than curiosity as you meet ground level, “Roman.”

He sizes you up from head to toe and looks back up behind you. “What are you doing here?”

“Hot yoga. They just started offering night classes here. I’ve always wanted to join but I work during the day, so.” You decide to add, “Lorelei’s with Namina… unless you’re talking about me still using your membership card, then—”

He shakes his head, his heart rate lulling. “Nah, it’s… nah. You know it’s not that. I just wasn’t expecting to see you.”

You jut out your bottom lip in acknowledgement and nod before veering your glare anywhere but his, because he’s giving you that look. It’s earnest and it’s true and it’s intense enough to melt steel beams. You’ve know it very well.

But you don’t bend to it’s will. Because as much as you love him with every fiber of your being, with every passing day you find yourself directing more and more of your outrage at the impossible situation you’re in at him. None of this would have transpired if it wasn’t for him and his decision to bring Mia into the picture in the first place. None of it.

“Baby.”

Both you and him turn to the door. Mia stands in a baby blue satin dress, intricate white lace embroidered on the v-neck and leg slit of the fabric. She pauses when she spots you, her smile faltering. Suddenly more interested in what’s going on out here than in the back of the country club, she steps farther out onto the front patio. “Capri… I didn’t know you were coming.”

“Just here for a class.” You force out.

Her eyes land on the mat under your arm. “Oh. You know, we should take a class together here one of these days. I’ve been looking for a partner for the longest. You got my package didn’t you? Those sets are perfect for yoga.”

Incapable of faking it, you huff out a barely discernible breath of disbelief at her gall through your nose and turn back around as the phone in your hand pings. As you’re reading the message from Namina, your vision randomly gets spotty and you suddenly become light-headed, your hand shooting out to hook around the stair railing.

Roman’s in front of you in two swift steps, his thick brows drooping over his eyes as he grabs your other arm to hold you and lowers you to a squat on the brick step of the porch. “Woah woah woah. Sit down. What’s wrong?”

“I’m fine. I just got a little light headed. I haven’t ate much today, that’s a—”

“Why the fuck are you doing hot yoga on an empty stomach? The hell’s the matter with you?” he’s on autopilot, his voice adopting the same tone he uses to scold Lorelei when he finds her playing in shit she has no business in. His eyes dart up to Mia on top of the stairs, “go into the ballroom and get a water and something off the table.”

Mia frowns, her eyes darting between the two of you. 

You shake your head, the palm of your extended arm flat out in front of you and towards him in protest of all that. It won’t be necessary. More than anything, your light meals have something to do with the fact that you haven’t been able to keep anything down recently. It’s been unforgiving. Neither one of your pregnancies were quite like this one. As crucial as it’s has been in helping you unwind, yoga on such a light stomach, in hindsight, probably wasn’t the best idea. You’re sure that’s all it is. “It’s not that—”

Roman blinks at a still Mia, “now.”

That seems to shake her out of it. In a matter of minutes, she returns with a cold bottled water and a BLT and hands it to Roman, who hands it to you. You take it from his hands and rise to your feet, “I’ll eat it in the car. I need to go.”

He makes a face, “like hell you are. Sit down.”

Your stomach drops. If you take a bite of this sandwich right now, you’ll probably immediately puke in the bushes to your left and he’ll look at you for five seconds before figuring out exactly what’s up with you. “I won’t leave the lot until I finish it, but I need to get home. Namina just texted me. I left the teddy Lorelei sleeps with is in the car. She’s probably giving her hell.” You lie through your teeth. Namina asked you where you left the wine opener, but you know how to use being a mother to get you out of situations you don’t want to be in from time to time.

You take his silent stare for compliance and grab your mat off the floor. As you rise to your feet and turn before making your way down the pavement leading to the parking lot, you catch Mia’s eye. She’s chewing on the inside of her cheek, her arms crossed.

When you’re a distance away, he stuffs his hands into his pockets and turns to Mia.

“Really?” she murmurs.

“What?”

“Go into the ballroom and get a water and something off the table.” She repeats.

Roman squints, “she was feeling faint, Mia.”

Coming out here to find you two alone was already irritating enough, but for him to ask her to grab something for you? She didn’t like how that made her feel at all. “I understand that. I wouldn’t have an issue helping if we didn’t have the history we do. But having me run behind the woman you’ve made me feel second to for so long? how do you think that makes me feel, Roman? Your girlfriend.”

He’s unamused. “Don’t start that shit. I was thinking on my feet and you were standing right there.”

“I’m not starting anything. I’m telling you how you’re making me f—”

His words are slow. Measured. “I told you to grab her something because she got light-headed before she got on the road. She’s the mother of my child. You want me to hang her out to dry? That’s the type of man you need me to be for you? You want me to duck and dodge my responsibilities?”

Fire heats her chest at the reminder of what tending to his responsibilities looks like to him. How the last time he was tending to his responsibilities, it resulted in her losing her appetite for two weeks. “Lorelei is your responsibility, not Capri.”

He’s firm. His eyes hard. There’s no room for question, “there is no Lorelei without Capri and that was never debatable. You know what you signed up for.”

That, she does. Still, it doesn’t make these moments any less painful. Particularly because she expects things to change when certain things change. “I know that. Why do you think I do things like send her shit from the brand and invite her to yoga classes with me? And you just saw how she reacted. So to tell me to run behind her right after she basically laughed at the suggestion? That’s crossing a line.”

He sighs. Between his father’s issue and now this, he’s exhausted. He sees where she’s coming from but at the same time, he could never hold your aversion to accepting her olive branch against you. He just mainly attributes it to Italy, which she doesn’t know you and he know about.

“Then maybe this won’t work. However you feel about her doesn’t take away from the fact that she’s not going anywhere. If you’re going to react out of insecurity over the smallest shit every time, then it’s not gonna work. And frankly, why would I want to be with someone who finds helping the mother of my child with something so minimal as this big of a burden? She’s never done anything to you. In fact, what would’ve happened if I wasn’t here?”

She blinks rapidly and reaches out to grab his hand, “don’t say that. I’m not trying to… I do know what I signed up for. That just… I don’t know. I’m s—”

He pulls his hand away, “answer the question.”

“What question?”

“What would’ve happened if I wasn’t here?”

Her eyes dart around his face, “obviously I would’ve helped. It just would be on my own volition instead of yours.”

He squints, “that’s not what you said. You said you ‘wouldn’t have an issue helping if we didn’t have the history that we do.’”

“Roman. I would help. I would. It’s just your role in it that makes it different.”

He looks her in her eyes for a long moment inquisitively, his brows furrowed. “You know how important they are to me, right? Both of them.”

“Of course.”

Current

His big hands roam down the length of your slick back, rough palms and coarse pads of his fingers digging into your skin. Palming the fleshy, meaty part of your ass followed by a slap that makes you hiss against his mouth. 

The motion of his lips on yours altered. He's smiling. Your eyes don't need to be open to see what you already know. That smug, arrogant one he gives most, if not all. Including yourself the first time you two met. Thinking back, it should have been a sign.

Many things should have been a sign. 

The rumble of his voice calls to you as he presses a kiss to the corner of your swollen lips, continued, heavy panting and moans slipping out every time he thrusts up inside of you. "You miss me, baby?"

Yes. 

Ignoring him only serves as a detriment. You gasp when he grips the back of your neck, fingers digging into your skin. Your eyes flutter looking down at him, the motion of you grinding on top of his dick making you moan through pressed lips. 

"Daddy asked you a question."

The slap to your ass is all that's needed to get you to give him the satisfaction he's looking for. The reassurance his ego seems to need when it comes to you.

"Yes," you moan. Your hands are planted on his chest, keeping you as steady as you can as you ride him despite the burning in your thighs and budding cramps you've narrowly avoided since a few strokes of his dick after the last round was all he needed to be sprung back to life. He was hot, ready, and pulling you right back on top. It's his favorite position, it seems. 

With you, at least. 

"Missed you so much," you admit, unprovoked and without much thought but all feeling as he starts to sit up, pulling you flush against him. He kisses you, and once more, you're moaning into his mouth, hands tangled in hair that's been down, wild, and free ever since you accidentally yanked the hair tie out when you were riding his face and on the cusp of your second or third orgasm for the night. 

He makes a sound, hands back on your ass with a gentle squeeze. "I asked you to come with me," he reminds, lowly, against your lips. "Next time, I'm not askin'."

To be fair, the first "request" really didn't feel like one anyway, what with him essentially texting you what time to be at the airport. You're not sure you want to know what an actual demand looks like.

Knowing him though, it'll be something that you literally can't turn down. Even if you wanted to.

"Stop being quiet," he groans, returning his hands to your hips, speeding up your movements. "Actin' like you trying not to scream from how good I'm fucking you."

He's not wrong, and you hate that he's not wrong. Hate that you don't have a smartass retort, even if it would be out of character for you, especially when it comes to sex. 

Once he gets you in whatever position he wants you in, you more or less become dumb and mute unless it's in reference to how he's rearranging your insides or eating you out until you have to physically push him away.

Insatiable.

The girls on TikTok weren't lying when they said older men are eaters. 

Roman is living proof of that. 

"We're—we're in a h—hotel, R—oh, fuck," your attempts to counter lust with logic are lost when he slaps your ass once more while lifting you higher, making the descent down on his big ass dick that much deeper and profound, tip of his thick dickhead brushing against that spot inside of you. 

"And?" He dismisses. "Hotel, my place, jet, it don't matter, this pussy still grip me the same way every damn time." The last three words are enunciated with a precision that matches the way he fucks up into you, harder and with increased vigor." 

"Shit, wait," you pant, hands dropping to his shoulders, squeezing. "Rom—wa—wait—I ca—"

"I don't wanna hear that shit." The dismissiveness continues as does the way he's fucking you, pain perfectly mixed with pleasure. "You said you missed me, right? So shut up and take this dick like you missed it." 

You almost cream right then and there, but the ante is upped when he switches positions once more and no longer are you sitting on his lap, dick dug all up in you. You're on your back for the umpteenth time tonight, knees adjacent to your ears, his big hands on the back of your thighs, keeping you still, stuck, and at the mercy of the relentless, unforgiving strokes that have tears streaming down your face and your hands grasping and gripping for anything that can anchor you.

Not that it makes a difference.

"Look at this mess you've made," he taunts, your eyes fluttering so much that it's possible to make out the sight of him above you. But you don't need to see him to already know his gaze is focused and transfixed on the sight of him drilling your shit. He's obsessed with watching how he moves in and out of you, so much so that if the position allowed, he'd make you watch, too. Similar to how he makes you watch when he goes down on you. "Been making this pretty pussy cream on me all night, and you still can't get enough, can you?" 

The squelching sound of your pussy being squeezed and stretched by his thick dick is all the answer needed. 

"Can't get enough of daddy fucking you like this, huh?" He continues as you're once reminded that his shit talking isn't just reserved for the diamond. That shit carries over to most areas of his life, especially in the bedroom. It's as filthy as it is talented. "Always needing me to get you right and remind you where it's at."

Your whimpers, his groans, and the sploshing sounds are a sensual symphony that serve as  background music for the latest round of this man making you come completely undone and lose all sense of self, sound, and mind. 

"That's why it's mine. Ain't it, baby?" A loud gasp escapes your swollen, still wet and sticky with your juices, lips when he leans his body over yours. His hair waterfalls around your face as his hand glides between your slick bodies, the coarse pad of his thumb hovering over your clit.

"Shit," you curse, reaching for his wrist, but he ignores the way you wrap your hand around it and continues to push both physically and otherwise. 

"This my pussy, Honey?" Your eyes clench shut at the same time your pussy pulses around him. It makes him groan and curse lowly, haughtiness slipping into a place of semi desperation. Like he needs to hear you say it. Hear you confirm it. "Say it's mine, Y/N." Your eyes open and lock onto his, each reflecting the same yet different things. "Tell me you're mine." 

Minutes later, you're gushing and squirting all over his cock, your body an autonomous entity that offers an answer your brain cannot allow your mouth admit.

March 8th, 2024

The banquet hall was bathed in an array of familiar, appropriate colors. Tables draped in white tablecloths with a long, rectangular overlay that lined the middle of said tables. Silver centerpieces with flowers, blue Hydrangeas, and the famous two-letter monogram etched on any piece of item that could be monogrammed.

The live band was in the midst of changing sets when you found a chance to break away. Noticed that he'd finally broken away. Making your way through the sea of people, some known, most unknown, was actually the easy part. A small smile, quiet 'hi' that was lost among the chatter of the large group, and you were one step closer to your destination.

Though anxiety started to build when you briefly lost sight of him, hence the way you ignored the discomfort of your christian louboutin heels. You haven't the slightest clue how your mom and sister wear these things all the time. The blisters that must await you upon removal are bound to be something ugly.

However, exiting the ballroom and turning to the left allotted you a brief view of the back of him as he turned the corner. Naturally, you moved in haste to keep up with him, his long legs allowed strides that ate up 2x the distance you could in half the time. Except, anxiety jumped to a completely different level when you opened your mouth to call his name and he turned once more. Not down the hall or even to look back at you but instead inside of a room that immediately made you still and pause when you got close enough to see what it was.

"Crap," you cursed.

The men's restroom.

Of course.

You stood there, confused and wondering just what in the hell you were going to do. Truth be told, the plan that you'd jotted down in the notes app on your phone wasn't doing you much good. Especially and primarily since the initial steps you'd identified last night when you grew tired of twisting and turning with sleep continuously evading you to the point that you redirected your focus to plotting and strategizing.

But for one or more reasons, most of your better options hadn't panned out the way you hoped. Either your dad was dragging you around to network and become better aquatinted with the organization you now worked for, primarily the players you'd be working with one on one more than anything. As was the case for most team content creators. It was appreciated, sure, but none of the players whose hands you shook were the ones you needed.

But the one you needed had spent majority of the night either briefly engaging with folks, by himself, with his manager, Paul, or Swerve, another player and Roman's longtime friend, going all the way back to college where the shortstop and pitcher first met.

Even more, Roman carried with him an air that felt like an invisible barrier. One that you just knew not to cross for fear of getting on his bad side. Roman Reigns has never been known for being the most social, at least, not for things like this. You were surprised that he even attended. These sort of events, even if a celebration for the upcoming season and intended to get everyone hype for said season, weren't his thing.

Towards the beginning of his career, sure. He did all the things. Attended all the events. Shook all the hands. Did everything that he needed to in order to cement where he stands now, as one of the best to ever walk onto the baseball diamond, his HOF induction all but guaranteed. His accolades are endless, and his ranking has been said to be up there with some of the greats like Derek, Jackie, and Babe. You don't disagree with that.

So while he's stopped playing the game outside of the ballpark, hasn't for the past few years, really, you get it.

He's earned the right to do so.

10x All Star. 5x World Series Champ. 2x World Series MVP. Sponsorships on top of sponsorships. Deals on deals. The face of the Yankees, more or less, since he signed on with the team when he was 21, Roman has done almost everything one can do in this field.

Him showing up and doing what he wants when he wants just makes sense to you.

But putting all of that together just made you realize how crazy the whole thing was. Not only was the plan unhinged, but the man you'd picked to help you fulfill such plan had to be the most out-of-reach, are you serious selection one could choose.

And yet, there you were.

Doubt crept in as you shook your head and finally found a semblance of sense. Standing outside the men's restroom waiting for a man you'd never even said two words to, let alone a man like Roman, was actually just one step away from 5150 criteria.

Insanity that you couldn't act on.

However, you decided a few seconds too late to back out of a situation you should have never created in the first damn place. Or rather, you made the mistake of walking forward, opting to get some air, instead of turning back around to return to the ballroom. Because the moment you took a step forward was the same moment he took a step out. Outside the bathroom.

In front of the door.

In front of you.

Your eyes widened, and your mouth dropped ever so slightly, words escaping you. To anyone with two good eyes, Roman Reigns was about as attractive as a man could get. Tall, built, deep, sexy ass voice that could make any woman risk it all, and a confidence—ehh, arrogance—that he could 100% back up. Like most familiar with him, you'd always had a bit of a crush. Admired the older man from afar but never allowed or utilized your father's position as the Yankees Head Coach to secure a meeting. Admiration from afar worked just fine.

But standing in front of him was a completely different experience. He was even bigger in person, finer, features sharper, shoulders wider, beard as sharp and clean as the crisp outfit that was nothing more than a dark brown shirt, black dress pants, and some leather shoes that looked like they cost more than your first year of college.

What a fucking man.

It was noticing the way his warm eyes settled on you with a hint of intrigue and a trace of irritation that shook you from the trance stemmed from standing in front of this fine ass man. One of the finest men you'd ever seen.

"Hi," you squeaked, eyes closing as you shook your head and managed a small smile. "I'm Y/N. I, uhh, I'm the team's new content—"

"Coach K's daughter, right?"

You should have known you were fucked when his referring to you as the relative of someone instead of acknowledging your position barely registered, a typical pet peeve, was something you didn't even address because you were too distracted by his sexy ass voice. Once more, like everything else with him, even better in person.

"The youngest," he clarified, and it snapped you from the trance that you'd somehow fallen in yet again. It was effective, however.

"Yeah," you confirmed what should have been obvious. Your two older sisters are also professional athletes, and you know for a fact he's crossed paths with both of them a few times over the years, and while you all inherited your mother's beauty, body wise, you couldn't have been more different. You being….the other daughter should have been something that didn't need to be stated. "It's—it's nice to meet you."

You offered your hand but immediately felt like the dumbest person in the world when he simply looked down at the gesture that seemed more like an insult than anything. He didn't move an inch, hence the way you all but awkwardly brought your hand back to your side, fingers messing with the soft material of your cocktail dress.

"I—"

"Look, I'm not up for filming any content tonight—"

"That's not what I'm here for," you interrupted, and it took even you by surprise. You didn't really consider yourself a passive person, but in a situation like that, standing in front of a man like that for the reasons you were, it felt uncharacteristic. Especially after his cold, rude refusal to accept what was objectively considered a normal gesture between people.

Once more, another sign you should have heeded to.

"Okay," he started, and you internally cringed. He no longer looked intrigued or even irritated. He was nothing more than a blank, uninterested canvas that made you feel even more unnerved than you already were. "So what do you—"

"I—I just broke up with my boyfriend. Well, just as in yesterday."

If his unchanged, indifferent expression wasn't an indicator of how uncaring he was, his monotone intonation certainly is. "Sorry to hear that."

He didn't sound sorry at all.

And you couldn't entirely blame him.

A part of you wished that you could borrow some of that indifference, cause Lord knew you were tired of crying and being hurt over the disclosure your longtime boyfriend shared with you the day prior.

Erik, the boy you'd been in love with since you were 15, who you'd been faithful to since officially becoming boyfriend and girlfriend during your freshman and his sophomore year of high school, who was your first in almost every most important way, had cheated on you. Disclosed that he'd hooked up with some girl he met at a club.

Well, you considered it a hook up. He, however, didn't.

"She just…she just gave me some head, Y/N. That's it."

You so badly wanted that to be the case. It would have dulled the sting of unexpected betrayal. You knew that long distance would be a challenge. Knew it the moment he signed his deal with the Dodgers, but you'd accounted for complications regarding aligning schedules, maintaining communication, and keeping the love thriving and strong.

Not infidelity.

And it fucking hurt.

Because Erik was the first and only boy you'd dated, it also meant that that was your first heartbreak.

A part of you struggled with feeling like you were overreacting, but another louder part of you knew that you weren't. The idea of cheating on Erik never ever crossed your mind. You loved and cared too much about and for him to hurt him like that.

Too bad he didn't feel the same.

So the apathy displayed by the man in front of you evoked a sort of jealousy within. If only it evoked the ability to shut up and silence the unsolicited backstory.

If only it stopped you from digging the hole deeper.

"Yeah, he—he cheated on me, and—and we'd been together since high school. Middle school, really—"

"Don't take this the wrong way, mama." And just like that, recounting the last decade or so of your life was insignificant in the face of Roman Reigns calling you mama. A shock that deepened as he continued to throw unexpected curveballs. His gaze slowly roamed over your figure, and you prayed he couldn't tell how your thighs instantly clamped together the moment he paused at your chest. "But even with how pretty you are, I'm about five seconds from walking away because I have no ide—"

"I want you to sleep with me." It came out in a desperate rush, like you knew if you didn't say it right then and there, you never would. Looking back, that probably would have been for the best. "I mean—" You closed your eyes. "I want—I want to sleep with you. Like—like sex."

And as you forced your eyes open, you witnessed, for the first time since you cornered this man outside the goddamn bathroom, an expression that wasn't one of irritation and indifference.

He smiled.

He fucking smiled.

Amusement imbued in his smooth, baritone voice. "You want to what?"

You took a deep breath, doing your best to remember the brief lines of fragmented dialogue you'd penned down in your notes.

A deep swallow preceded warmth blooming throughout your chest and up the tips of your ears. "I know—I know your reputation when it…when it comes to women."

His lips curved into a smug smirk, interest piqued once more. "And just what is that?"

You took a pause. So far, Roman was confirming everything that you'd heard about him regarding his alleged big appetite for women.

And sex.

"That you don't do relationships," you answered. "You just…you just do women." It was a horrible way to frame promiscuity, but an accurate assessment, it seemed, when he didn't correct you. "And that—that's what I want. I—I—" You started to struggle, the intense way he was focused on you, how he kept bouncing his eyes from your mouth to your chest, to your stomach, distracting as fuck. He was throwing you all off a game you barely knew the rules of. "I just—I've never—I've never had a one night stand, but—but everyone says that the best way to get over someone is—"

"To get under someone else?" He finished for you, and it was impossible to ignore the way his eyes dipped to your chest once more. Maybe your sister was right. The red dress was definitely the right call. "I don't know too much about under." The shift in his tone, lighter and less stoic than before, snagged your attention. But it was the way his lips slid into a small, smug grin—and what he said next—that had your throat suddenly dry, parched, and dehydrated. The exact opposite of what you were starting to feel between your legs. "Titties jumping while you bounce on it has always been a personal fave of mine."

Oh my God.

But the torture was only just beginning.

"Coach's pretty little daughter wants me to blow her back out to help her get over her cheating ex—" He said more to himself, hands stuffed in his pockets as he nodded slowly before meeting your eyes again. "You know that's a disaster waiting to happen, right?"

For a reminder of why said proposal was a terrible idea, he didn't sound opposed at all. Far from it.

"It'll only be one time," you bargained. As if that whole crazy idea of yours was nothing more than a sales pitch, and maybe….maybe it was. "And—and I'll leave as soon as we're done—"

He shook his head and roamed his gaze over your body for the umpteenth time and licked his lips. You could have came right there on the spot. "You come to my room, you're not leaving till morning, sweetheart."

Oh.

You started to point out why, while that might have been a dream come true for most women, for you, that probably wasn't going to be the case. But then you realized that telling him might make him reconsider, if he was even seriously considering at all. Though the fact that he hadn't walked away as well as the way he looked like he was already counting all the different ways he wanted to bend you over had you thinking he was most definitely considering.

If he hadn't already decided on an answer.

Hence you deciding to just keep your mouth shut.

You'd just….you'd tell him when you got there. Ask…ask him to….to go slow.

Be….gentle.

If he even knows what that means.

"I won't tell anyone," you continued to offer up as many incentives as you could conjure. The desire coming from a place unknown but something that had your stomach in all sorts of knots. "I mean….obviously. I—I wouldn't want to lose my job."

"I wouldn't let that happen."

His response came swift and sharp. A detour from the brief stretch of lighthearted flirting that you two had fallen into. The gleam in his eyes matched the serious tone of his voice as he crossed his arms.

You forced yourself to not pay attention to how the stretched material around his big ass arms seemed like it was seconds away from ripping. God, he's huge. "I mean, I—I appreciate that, but I don't think—" You took a deep breath. "You're the team's star player, and yeah, my dad is the coach, but I haven't even been here—"

"Y/N," he interrupted. "I'm Roman Reigns, sweetheart." A beat. "If I say you stay, then you stay."

Oh.

There was a commanding undertone to his voice that had you struggling with thoughts that were far too inappropriate for the setting you were in but every bit what you were starting to think was going to be a reality sooner rather than later.

"Y/N."

You flinched, realizing only then that he'd stepped closer. So close that you could now make out the light freckles speckled across his T-Zone and the few strings of gray in his dark hair that you thought were mostly limited to his beard.

He tilted his head to the side and smirked once more as you tried to ignore not only how close he was but how good he smelled. God, what was wrong with you? You hadn't even been this flustered with Erik before you disclosed your crush and you two became a couple.

"You always this jumpy and chatty?" He asked, that humor returned and reflected in his eyes. Another realization made as the fluorescent lighting of the hall highlighted subtle specks of gold in honey brown. "That's alright. I like to hear you tell me how good it feels when I'm in it."

At that, your eyes widened once more. You'd heard he was….straightforward, but this felt like something entirely different. It made you feel different in a way that was uncomfortable, especially with the way the throbbing between your thighs seemed to only intensify with each passing second.

"Go find your dad." His unexpected change in tone and subjects, thankfully, drew your focus and created a successful interruption to your body's autonomous, growing need for him. For…more. "Tell him you're not feeling and that you're leaving."

You frowned, the confusion deepened. "W—what?"

A small gasp escaped your lips when he leaned over and his arm slid around your body. Your hand naturally planted on his firm chest as his traveled down your back and slid over the curve of your ass.

"You want me to fuck you, don't you?" He whispered in your ear, and it took everything in you to not moan when he ghosted his lips over the side of your face. Especially when you turned your head and unintentionally made it so your faces—lips—were mere centimeters away from one another. Those same soft looking lips lifted up once more in a small smile. "So let's fuck."

Current 

The silence that follows the final round is one that both suffocates and relieves. It breeds a sort of metaphorical asphyxiation that allots you the drive needed to pull yourself out of the destroyed bed. Sheets ruined, pillows flattened, and a headboard that no doubt left a dent in the wall behind it. 

The room tells the story you never could.

All the while you work to gather your items, ignoring the throbbing between your thighs and making a mental note to pop an ibuprofen as soon as you get back to your room. Even after all this time, taking him in all the ways you have, it seems like your body can never seem to adjust for more than a few hours. Your pussy always sore the next day, as if toying and torturing you with a reminder you have to use pills to swallow away and silence. 

Truth that can't be denied no matter how much you want to. 

"Lemme guess." You stand up, ruined dress in hand, the already thin straps that were fighting for dear life holding up your big breasts nothing but hanging, tattered remains. You'll have to steal one of his shirts or something because what once was one of your favorite dresses is no more than a makeshift skirt at this point. It only makes sense. Most things that Roman Reigns touches outside of that diamond end up nothing more than a contribution to the destruction that follows him wherever he goes.

Including you.

He waits until you turn to face him. He's sitting on the edge of the bed, boxers tugged on—when did he do that?—looking more deity than man. Your eyes travel the length of his broad shoulders, and if you looked close enough, you'd see the small indents of your nails that dug into his taut skin as he pounded you out. 

"You're not staying."

You swallow, reaching to tuck a tendril behind your hair. One of many reasons you'd shifted more towards embracing your natural kink and curls? The exhaustion and frustration at having a $200, three hour visit at the salon ruined by one night of no self-control or restrain. It wasn't worth it. From a monetary nor temporal standpoint. 

"You know I can't." 

While you work the dress-turned-skirt over your thick, chubby legs, utilizing said dressing as an excuse to break eye contact, his eyes remain fixed on you. "Can't or won't?"

Fuck.

"How long you gon' pretend to love that boy?"

Having turned around to head over to the bathroom and attempt to do whatever you can with your appearance, nothing stops you in your tracks faster than a question that hits you harder than any hardball he could ever throw. 

You turn around, ignoring the way your chest thumps when he stands up. 

"I do." 

It kills you how you're fully aware of the fact that your answer is nothing more than a poor attempt at convincing yourself more than it is an honest, truthful answer. Disgusts you in many ways, and you pray it's subterfuge known only to you.

But if Roman Reigns is nothing else, he's astute as fuck. 

"Bullshit," he curses. "But let's say you do. Let's say you do love him. You love him but love my dick—"

"Don't talk about him like that," you attempt to defend, but like most things when it comes to the man who's slowly making his way towards you, it crashes spectacularly. You're not sure if it's the age difference, the power dynamic, your naturally docile personality, his inherently dominant one, or a mixture of all of it thrown together in a pile of mess, but regardless of the cause, Roman has always had a way of making you question things.

Even yourself. 

Your eyes shut as his arm swings around your body, pulling you flush against him. Soft melting with hard. "I don't like liars, sweetheart." He murmurs, trailing his finger down your cheek. "Even if they are as pretty as you."

It takes everything in you to keep your eyes closed when he dips his head to your neck and inhales deeply. Your breath caught and voice whispered. "What—I don't know what you want from me."

Some days, you do. Others, you don't. Right about now, you're not even sure what you want for yourself. 

And he knows it.

"I think you know the answer to that, love."

The room grows silent once more. 

He's not wrong.

But he's not right, either.

When Katy Perry released Hot n' Cold back in the day, and you used to sneak and use your sisters' iPod touches to listen to said song that was deemed inappropriate because of the sole curse word, you had no idea it would end up being the perfect song to describe Roman Reigns.

He burns hot just as easily he runs cold. That charming, alluring smile can, in a matter of seconds, morph into a deep scowl or sneer right before he shuts down entirely, and his face reads just what he gives.

Nothing.

And the many faces and sides of Roman are what you lean on and choose to focus on rather than the alternative that leads to the road of recognition and acknowledgment. 

You shake your head, heat starting to bloom up the back of your neck. The room suddenly much warmer than you remember, even in the midst of your sexual tryst that started the moment he pulled you into his room and had you up against the wall, mouth slammed onto yours, fingers already working to rid you of your clothes. 

"I—I have—" Stammering accompanies you turning around to locate the rest of your items. "I have to g—"

Your eyes immediately shut in preparation for what you know  you cannot avoid nor evade.

He breathes your name as you breathe in deeply, the scent of him. His cologne still lingering on his skin despite the exertion over the past few hours. A scent that instantly reminds you of the shirts and hoodie stored in the back of your closet. His. The ones that carry that same scent, hence why one of said shirts have been your sleep attire a few times over the past few months.

If not more than a few.

Your lips gradually part as he drops his hands to your hips and pulls you into him. "Stay with me, Honey."

If it wasn't the tone of his deep voice—beseeching and sincere—it's the usage of what was once a NSFW nickname, now so much more. Sometimes you wish the first utterance and first explanation that made you blush when you heard it was what came to mind. It'd be immensely preferred over the butterflies that flutter in your stomach now whenever he calls you that.

The butterflies that have your resolve already starting to crumble.

"Roman…"

"Don't leave," he continues. A slow, shaky breath seeping past your lips when he drops his head to your neck. His beard tickling your clavicle and top of his head brushing against your chin as your breathing grows heavy when he starts planting soft kisses across your shoulder and chest. Lifting your shaking hands, the thought and intention is to lightly push him away, but it's when his own hand lifts to palm and gently squeeze your breast that you falter. 

Hesitation immediately noticed and taken advantage of, especially and primarily when your hand somehow lifts to the back of his head, his dark tresses spilling over and through your fingers. But it's when he drags his mouth back up to yours to kiss you, and the taste of you, still damp on his lips and beard, further depletes your resolve and causes you to slip into the danger zone. 

You moan. 

Moan into his mouth, and it's in that very moment, you already know how this is going to play out. Roman hikes you up onto his waist and carries you back over to the bed where he lays you down, never once interrupting the way your lips can't seem to get enough of one another. Disruption stemming from your end when you gasp into his mouth after he starts playing with your titties. 

"Stay with me. Please." The same sentiment and request continuously expressed as he once against starts to pepper your body with kisses, working his way downward until he's tugging that dress right back off. Opening your eyes, you turn your head just in time to see how it's hastily tossed to the side. But it's Roman's hands shifting to the back of your legs and pushing them up once more that redirects your focus. Except the last thing you see is the glazed, hungry gleam in his eyes before all that's left is the top of his head as he finds his pleasure once more in between your thighs.

You curse lowly, head thrown back while he sucks your tender, throbbing clit. His thick fingers keeping your pussy lips spread as he explores the length of you. Precise, controlled, pleasurable laps, licks, and sucking of your most sensitive areas making you writhe on the bed for the umpteenth time tonight.

You sit up just enough to reach for his head as he ensures your placement remains exactly where it is. Exactly where he wants you. But desire and blind pleasure are often times unintentionally contagious, because one minute your intention is to steer him as he eats you eagerly, and the next, you're pulling. Manage to tug enough on his hair to pry his mouth from your pussy. Your wet, sticky juices smeared all over the bottom half of his face. It transfers onto your own when you smash your lips back onto his, naturally laying back on the bed. Hands pushing down on his boxers, an act he gladly assists you with. The last of his clothing joins the last of yours as you feel him against your stomach. Heavy, warm, hard, and throbbing. The pulsing sensation evoking another round of moans, heightening your need and lowering your logic.

It's all Id at this point, and nothing more.

You realize as such when he reaches his arm across, near the nightstand where the almost empty box of condoms sits in wait. The fact that it's the same box from the first night you two slept together, and that it still has condoms despite the X number of times he's been inside of you is something you intentionally choose to ignore.

Not like it makes a difference now anyway.

You cup his face and shake your head, meeting his prurient gaze that you'd bet your life matches that of your own.

Your voice whispered and pained, "I just wanna feel you."  

But it's the way he looks at you, not with lust, not with the carnal hunger that's appeared in his warm eyes most times when you forgo protection, allow him to fuck you raw, it's something else. Something unnerving and far too intimate for whatever…..this is supposed to be. Especially when instead of making your body nothing short of a ragdoll as he fucks you hard and without mercy, making you cry from how good it feels. His movements are slow and deep, his hips moving in tandem with yours. His hands pinning yours above your head as you makeout with one another, tongues entangled in that familiar dance. His mouth trailing down the length of your neck, eventually freeing your wrists as your hands rake up and down his back, pulling him close and near. 

His head buried in the crook of your neck, holding you just as closely as you're holding him. One hand hooked on the back of your thigh, the other gently holding onto your hip. The filthy, haughty sex talk replaced with his deep panting and other words and phrases of affirmation that he feeds into your ear.

Ones that make your eyes shut and that feeling that only seems to grow stronger the longer this goes on extrapolate and reach another level. And even when it's all over, when he makes you come for the 5th or 6th time tonight, your pussy tender, swollen, with his cum still leaking out from when he finished inside of you, that feeling remains. Feels rooted and locked in like the way he's got his big arm swung over you, keeping you against him, his soft snores in your ear as you stare at the wall in the dark, quiet room. 

A part of you wants to try to leave. Knows that you should. But even if Roman wasn't such a light sleeper and would no doubt object at you leaving out in the middle of the night by yourself, you're not entirely sure if that would be the reason you'd stay.

Not because of his interference but your lack of wanting.

Of wanting to leave.

Sure, maybe some part of you does, but the larger, louder part wants you to stay exactly where you are.

With him.

And that terrifies you.

This has all gotten so out of hand. Every time you try to say that this time is the last time, you end up being made out to be a bigger liar than you were before the meritless oath was made. It's so out of character. All of it. This isn't who you are. You're not a cheater. Yes, Erik's cheating is, in a way, what started all of this, but the moment you decided to give him another chance was also the moment you should have kept your one night stand with Roman just that.

One night only.

Because now it's turned into countless nights. Even more, sexual trysts in the sheets have become, in the strangest of ways, the least of the things that connect you to the man beside you. Perhaps it'd be easier to walk away if it was just the sex. If Roman was still that older, whorish man who had a single purpose. This man so far removed from what you go for—from Erik—that it seemed almost inconceivable you'd even had the gall to initially approach him.

But you did, and that one decision has almost entirely changed the trajectory of your life. 

Because Roman Reigns is no longer this….entity. He's a person. He's just Roman, and Roman, despite his public image, is a quiet, almost introverted man who has a low tolerance for most and a no bullshit policy for all. He's as charismatic as he can be an asshole. But peel back the layers of an arrogant playboy, and you'll see that there's more to him than meets the eye.

So much more.

Most of which—if not all—you've seen and learned firsthand over the past few months.

Loyal. Caring. Considerate. Generous. Selfless. Roman, the man, is someone who does any and everything he can for his family. Everything he does is for them, and he'd said as such one night during the many pillow talks you two engaged in. Growing up in such a large family and losing his father when he was only thirteen in a robbery gone wrong created a sort of pressure for and on him. Some from within. Some external.

With his father's murder and him being the only male in the house, he was forced into a role no young boy should have to take on.

He was the man of the house and carried that burden with him all the way into adulthood. He's a provider. Did odd jobs around the neighborhood to earn some extra cash that he gave to his mom until he was old enough to get a "real" job that he held for all four years of high school, even while still being on the baseball team. Decided to leave college just one year short of graduating as almost any and everyone around him at that time kept reiterating how he was a "sure pick" for the draft. That there was no question he'd get drafted. He was too damn good not to. Racked up a number of accolades that'd drawn the attention of the MLB before he even finished his freshman year. 

They were right.

He ended up being the number one pick in the draft, and while most of the world believes he chose to not finish school because he just wanted to kickstart his career, education be damned, you know that couldn't be father from the truth.

Not finishing college, is, as he'd shared with you that night as you sat next to him on the porch of his mom's home, is one of his biggest regrets. It was part of the reason he was so career driven and focused, only cared about being the best and succeeding, even if it cost him personally. Because he carried the weight of needing to support and take care of his family.

Just as his father would have. 

You wonder if he knows how proud his dad would be of him. Wonder if he'd believe it. Believe you. 

As confident he is in most areas of his life, peeling back the layers has also revealed certain vulnerabilities you'd have never guessed the man next to you struggles with. Again, humanization of the man behind the brand. 

The same man you've seen in such a different light over the months, and perhaps it's that man that's kept you where you are. Like a boomerang that only knows how to return because anything else just isn't an option. Goes against the nature and order of things. 

And as you turn over in bed and study his sleep face, reach to trace the outline of his features, glimpses flash through your head like a slideshow in a presentation intended to educate. 

To defend and prove a point.

The curve of his smile, and not the one he flashes for photos and even when he has to turn on the charm, but the one you noticed he uses when talking with Swerve, with you, and especially and predominately, when he's with his family. The laugh that's somehow both quiet and a cackle that's almost always accompanied by him placing his hand over his chest or stomach. The hilarious reaction driven facial expressions that emote more than anything the public has seen, especially, again, when he's with his family.

And then you hear it.

As if standing in the yard again.

The sound of his nieces and nephews laughing, yelling, and shouting out all sorts of commands as Roman runs around with them. His niece on his back, his nephew with a mitt in one hand and ball in another. You see the way takes his time, explaining and instructing, offering both guidance and support. The way he holds his niece who lays her head on his shoulder and whispers in his ear things that make him smile and wink as he tickles her stomach.

The way he held his latest niece. Not even six months, little legs kicking and loud babbles coming from her mouth as if she was communicating with him. 

The way he look—

You stop and close your eyes. Shift so that you're laying on your back. 

Too much.

Too close.

A shaky, uneven exhale escapes your mouth when you manage to open your eyes, met with a blurred view of the ceiling. Tears managing to roll down your cheeks as you swallow the lump in your throat.

This has to stop.

You can't keep doing this.

To Erik. 

To Roman.

To yourself.

To—

Again, a forced stop. Your mind protecting you from what you still haven't allowed yourself to fully process.

It's all too much. 

Erik. Erik. Erik is the one. 

The one who gave you your first kiss.

He gave you your first orgasm.

The only who's always made you laugh.

He makes you smile.

The one who you always wanted to be around.

He's the one who you can't not be around. 

The one who checks all the boxes.

He's created and checked boxes you didn't know were boxes. 

The one who's always just wanted to make you happy.

He does make you happy. 

The one you love.

He's the one you're in—

And once again, you manage to silence that voice in the back of your head. Strip from her that voice that's far too loud and far too jarring.

Roman…Roman was a chapter, but he was never meant to be the final chapter. 

Erik holds that spot. The safe one. 

Roman is far from safe. The epitome of risk and unstable. There's no foundation with him. Nothing that's solid and foolproof, anyway. 

Erik is. 

The book started with him, and it has to end with him.

If only you could stop the way your heart hurts and mind wanders, the desire to turn the page and see if there's a secret epilogue. Or a sequel that follows. 

A different sort of ending. 

If only.

Current

His big hands roam down the length of your slick back, rough palms and coarse pads of his fingers digging into your skin. Palming the fleshy, meaty part of your ass followed by a slap that makes you hiss against his mouth. 

The motion of his lips on yours altered. He's smiling. Your eyes don't need to be open to see what you already know. That smug, arrogant one he gives most, if not all. Including yourself the first time you two met. Thinking back, it should have been a sign.

Many things should have been a sign. 

The rumble of his voice calls to you as he presses a kiss to the corner of your swollen lips, continued, heavy panting and moans slipping out every time he thrusts up inside of you. "You miss me, baby?"

Yes. 

Ignoring him only serves as a detriment. You gasp when he grips the back of your neck, fingers digging into your skin. Your eyes flutter looking down at him, the motion of you grinding on top of his dick making you moan through pressed lips. 

"Daddy asked you a question."

The slap to your ass is all that's needed to get you to give him the satisfaction he's looking for. The reassurance his ego seems to need when it comes to you.

"Yes," you moan. Your hands are planted on his chest, keeping you as steady as you can as you ride him despite the burning in your thighs and budding cramps you've narrowly avoided since a few strokes of his dick after the last round was all he needed to be sprung back to life. He was hot, ready, and pulling you right back on top. It's his favorite position, it seems. 

With you, at least. 

"Missed you so much," you admit, unprovoked and without much thought but all feeling as he starts to sit up, pulling you flush against him. He kisses you, and once more, you're moaning into his mouth, hands tangled in hair that's been down, wild, and free ever since you accidentally yanked the hair tie out when you were riding his face and on the cusp of your second or third orgasm for the night. 

He makes a sound, hands back on your ass with a gentle squeeze. "I asked you to come with me," he reminds, lowly, against your lips. "Next time, I'm not askin'."

To be fair, the first "request" really didn't feel like one anyway, what with him essentially texting you what time to be at the airport. You're not sure you want to know what an actual demand looks like.

Knowing him though, it'll be something that you literally can't turn down. Even if you wanted to.

"Stop being quiet," he groans, returning his hands to your hips, speeding up your movements. "Actin' like you trying not to scream from how good I'm fucking you."

He's not wrong, and you hate that he's not wrong. Hate that you don't have a smartass retort, even if it would be out of character for you, especially when it comes to sex. 

Once he gets you in whatever position he wants you in, you more or less become dumb and mute unless it's in reference to how he's rearranging your insides or eating you out until you have to physically push him away.

Insatiable.

The girls on TikTok weren't lying when they said older men are eaters. 

Roman is living proof of that. 

"We're—we're in a h—hotel, R—oh, fuck," your attempts to counter lust with logic are lost when he slaps your ass once more while lifting you higher, making the descent down on his big ass dick that much deeper and profound, tip of his thick dickhead brushing against that spot inside of you. 

"And?" He dismisses. "Hotel, my place, jet, it don't matter, this pussy still grip me the same way every damn time." The last three words are enunciated with a precision that matches the way he fucks up into you, harder and with increased vigor." 

"Shit, wait," you pant, hands dropping to his shoulders, squeezing. "Rom—wa—wait—I ca—"

"I don't wanna hear that shit." The dismissiveness continues as does the way he's fucking you, pain perfectly mixed with pleasure. "You said you missed me, right? So shut up and take this dick like you missed it." 

You almost cream right then and there, but the ante is upped when he switches positions once more and no longer are you sitting on his lap, dick dug all up in you. You're on your back for the umpteenth time tonight, knees adjacent to your ears, his big hands on the back of your thighs, keeping you still, stuck, and at the mercy of the relentless, unforgiving strokes that have tears streaming down your face and your hands grasping and gripping for anything that can anchor you.

Not that it makes a difference.

"Look at this mess you've made," he taunts, your eyes fluttering so much that it's possible to make out the sight of him above you. But you don't need to see him to already know his gaze is focused and transfixed on the sight of him drilling your shit. He's obsessed with watching how he moves in and out of you, so much so that if the position allowed, he'd make you watch, too. Similar to how he makes you watch when he goes down on you. "Been making this pretty pussy cream on me all night, and you still can't get enough, can you?" 

The squelching sound of your pussy being squeezed and stretched by his thick dick is all the answer needed. 

"Can't get enough of daddy fucking you like this, huh?" He continues as you're once reminded that his shit talking isn't just reserved for the diamond. That shit carries over to most areas of his life, especially in the bedroom. It's as filthy as it is talented. "Always needing me to get you right and remind you where it's at."

Your whimpers, his groans, and the sploshing sounds are a sensual symphony that serve as  background music for the latest round of this man making you come completely undone and lose all sense of self, sound, and mind. 

"That's why it's mine. Ain't it, baby?" A loud gasp escapes your swollen, still wet and sticky with your juices, lips when he leans his body over yours. His hair waterfalls around your face as his hand glides between your slick bodies, the coarse pad of his thumb hovering over your clit.

"Shit," you curse, reaching for his wrist, but he ignores the way you wrap your hand around it and continues to push both physically and otherwise. 

"This my pussy, Honey?" Your eyes clench shut at the same time your pussy pulses around him. It makes him groan and curse lowly, haughtiness slipping into a place of semi desperation. Like he needs to hear you say it. Hear you confirm it. "Say it's mine, Y/N." Your eyes open and lock onto his, each reflecting the same yet different things. "Tell me you're mine." 

Minutes later, you're gushing and squirting all over his cock, your body an autonomous entity that offers an answer your brain cannot allow your mouth admit.

March 8th, 2024

The banquet hall was bathed in an array of familiar, appropriate colors. Tables draped in white tablecloths with a long, rectangular overlay that lined the middle of said tables. Silver centerpieces with flowers, blue Hydrangeas, and the famous two-letter monogram etched on any piece of item that could be monogrammed.

The live band was in the midst of changing sets when you found a chance to break away. Noticed that he'd finally broken away. Making your way through the sea of people, some known, most unknown, was actually the easy part. A small smile, quiet 'hi' that was lost among the chatter of the large group, and you were one step closer to your destination.

Though anxiety started to build when you briefly lost sight of him, hence the way you ignored the discomfort of your christian louboutin heels. You haven't the slightest clue how your mom and sister wear these things all the time. The blisters that must await you upon removal are bound to be something ugly.

However, exiting the ballroom and turning to the left allotted you a brief view of the back of him as he turned the corner. Naturally, you moved in haste to keep up with him, his long legs allowed strides that ate up 2x the distance you could in half the time. Except, anxiety jumped to a completely different level when you opened your mouth to call his name and he turned once more. Not down the hall or even to look back at you but instead inside of a room that immediately made you still and pause when you got close enough to see what it was.

"Crap," you cursed.

The men's restroom.

Of course.

You stood there, confused and wondering just what in the hell you were going to do. Truth be told, the plan that you'd jotted down in the notes app on your phone wasn't doing you much good. Especially and primarily since the initial steps you'd identified last night when you grew tired of twisting and turning with sleep continuously evading you to the point that you redirected your focus to plotting and strategizing.

But for one or more reasons, most of your better options hadn't panned out the way you hoped. Either your dad was dragging you around to network and become better aquatinted with the organization you now worked for, primarily the players you'd be working with one on one more than anything. As was the case for most team content creators. It was appreciated, sure, but none of the players whose hands you shook were the ones you needed.

But the one you needed had spent majority of the night either briefly engaging with folks, by himself, with his manager, Paul, or Swerve, another player and Roman's longtime friend, going all the way back to college where the shortstop and pitcher first met.

Even more, Roman carried with him an air that felt like an invisible barrier. One that you just knew not to cross for fear of getting on his bad side. Roman Reigns has never been known for being the most social, at least, not for things like this. You were surprised that he even attended. These sort of events, even if a celebration for the upcoming season and intended to get everyone hype for said season, weren't his thing.

Towards the beginning of his career, sure. He did all the things. Attended all the events. Shook all the hands. Did everything that he needed to in order to cement where he stands now, as one of the best to ever walk onto the baseball diamond, his HOF induction all but guaranteed. His accolades are endless, and his ranking has been said to be up there with some of the greats like Derek, Jackie, and Babe. You don't disagree with that.

So while he's stopped playing the game outside of the ballpark, hasn't for the past few years, really, you get it.

He's earned the right to do so.

10x All Star. 5x World Series Champ. 2x World Series MVP. Sponsorships on top of sponsorships. Deals on deals. The face of the Yankees, more or less, since he signed on with the team when he was 21, Roman has done almost everything one can do in this field.

Him showing up and doing what he wants when he wants just makes sense to you.

But putting all of that together just made you realize how crazy the whole thing was. Not only was the plan unhinged, but the man you'd picked to help you fulfill such plan had to be the most out-of-reach, are you serious selection one could choose.

And yet, there you were.

Doubt crept in as you shook your head and finally found a semblance of sense. Standing outside the men's restroom waiting for a man you'd never even said two words to, let alone a man like Roman, was actually just one step away from 5150 criteria.

Insanity that you couldn't act on.

However, you decided a few seconds too late to back out of a situation you should have never created in the first damn place. Or rather, you made the mistake of walking forward, opting to get some air, instead of turning back around to return to the ballroom. Because the moment you took a step forward was the same moment he took a step out. Outside the bathroom.

In front of the door.

In front of you.

Your eyes widened, and your mouth dropped ever so slightly, words escaping you. To anyone with two good eyes, Roman Reigns was about as attractive as a man could get. Tall, built, deep, sexy ass voice that could make any woman risk it all, and a confidence—ehh, arrogance—that he could 100% back up. Like most familiar with him, you'd always had a bit of a crush. Admired the older man from afar but never allowed or utilized your father's position as the Yankees Head Coach to secure a meeting. Admiration from afar worked just fine.

But standing in front of him was a completely different experience. He was even bigger in person, finer, features sharper, shoulders wider, beard as sharp and clean as the crisp outfit that was nothing more than a dark brown shirt, black dress pants, and some leather shoes that looked like they cost more than your first year of college.

What a fucking man.

It was noticing the way his warm eyes settled on you with a hint of intrigue and a trace of irritation that shook you from the trance stemmed from standing in front of this fine ass man. One of the finest men you'd ever seen.

"Hi," you squeaked, eyes closing as you shook your head and managed a small smile. "I'm Y/N. I, uhh, I'm the team's new content—"

"Coach K's daughter, right?"

You should have known you were fucked when his referring to you as the relative of someone instead of acknowledging your position barely registered, a typical pet peeve, was something you didn't even address because you were too distracted by his sexy ass voice. Once more, like everything else with him, even better in person.

"The youngest," he clarified, and it snapped you from the trance that you'd somehow fallen in yet again. It was effective, however.

"Yeah," you confirmed what should have been obvious. Your two older sisters are also professional athletes, and you know for a fact he's crossed paths with both of them a few times over the years, and while you all inherited your mother's beauty, body wise, you couldn't have been more different. You being….the other daughter should have been something that didn't need to be stated. "It's—it's nice to meet you."

You offered your hand but immediately felt like the dumbest person in the world when he simply looked down at the gesture that seemed more like an insult than anything. He didn't move an inch, hence the way you all but awkwardly brought your hand back to your side, fingers messing with the soft material of your cocktail dress.

"I—"

"Look, I'm not up for filming any content tonight—"

"That's not what I'm here for," you interrupted, and it took even you by surprise. You didn't really consider yourself a passive person, but in a situation like that, standing in front of a man like that for the reasons you were, it felt uncharacteristic. Especially after his cold, rude refusal to accept what was objectively considered a normal gesture between people.

Once more, another sign you should have heeded to.

"Okay," he started, and you internally cringed. He no longer looked intrigued or even irritated. He was nothing more than a blank, uninterested canvas that made you feel even more unnerved than you already were. "So what do you—"

"I—I just broke up with my boyfriend. Well, just as in yesterday."

If his unchanged, indifferent expression wasn't an indicator of how uncaring he was, his monotone intonation certainly is. "Sorry to hear that."

He didn't sound sorry at all.

And you couldn't entirely blame him.

A part of you wished that you could borrow some of that indifference, cause Lord knew you were tired of crying and being hurt over the disclosure your longtime boyfriend shared with you the day prior.

Erik, the boy you'd been in love with since you were 15, who you'd been faithful to since officially becoming boyfriend and girlfriend during your freshman and his sophomore year of high school, who was your first in almost every most important way, had cheated on you. Disclosed that he'd hooked up with some girl he met at a club.

Well, you considered it a hook up. He, however, didn't.

"She just…she just gave me some head, Y/N. That's it."

You so badly wanted that to be the case. It would have dulled the sting of unexpected betrayal. You knew that long distance would be a challenge. Knew it the moment he signed his deal with the Dodgers, but you'd accounted for complications regarding aligning schedules, maintaining communication, and keeping the love thriving and strong.

Not infidelity.

And it fucking hurt.

Because Erik was the first and only boy you'd dated, it also meant that that was your first heartbreak.

A part of you struggled with feeling like you were overreacting, but another louder part of you knew that you weren't. The idea of cheating on Erik never ever crossed your mind. You loved and cared too much about and for him to hurt him like that.

Too bad he didn't feel the same.

So the apathy displayed by the man in front of you evoked a sort of jealousy within. If only it evoked the ability to shut up and silence the unsolicited backstory.

If only it stopped you from digging the hole deeper.

"Yeah, he—he cheated on me, and—and we'd been together since high school. Middle school, really—"

"Don't take this the wrong way, mama." And just like that, recounting the last decade or so of your life was insignificant in the face of Roman Reigns calling you mama. A shock that deepened as he continued to throw unexpected curveballs. His gaze slowly roamed over your figure, and you prayed he couldn't tell how your thighs instantly clamped together the moment he paused at your chest. "But even with how pretty you are, I'm about five seconds from walking away because I have no ide—"

"I want you to sleep with me." It came out in a desperate rush, like you knew if you didn't say it right then and there, you never would. Looking back, that probably would have been for the best. "I mean—" You closed your eyes. "I want—I want to sleep with you. Like—like sex."

And as you forced your eyes open, you witnessed, for the first time since you cornered this man outside the goddamn bathroom, an expression that wasn't one of irritation and indifference.

He smiled.

He fucking smiled.

Amusement imbued in his smooth, baritone voice. "You want to what?"

You took a deep breath, doing your best to remember the brief lines of fragmented dialogue you'd penned down in your notes.

A deep swallow preceded warmth blooming throughout your chest and up the tips of your ears. "I know—I know your reputation when it…when it comes to women."

His lips curved into a smug smirk, interest piqued once more. "And just what is that?"

You took a pause. So far, Roman was confirming everything that you'd heard about him regarding his alleged big appetite for women.

And sex.

"That you don't do relationships," you answered. "You just…you just do women." It was a horrible way to frame promiscuity, but an accurate assessment, it seemed, when he didn't correct you. "And that—that's what I want. I—I—" You started to struggle, the intense way he was focused on you, how he kept bouncing his eyes from your mouth to your chest, to your stomach, distracting as fuck. He was throwing you all off a game you barely knew the rules of. "I just—I've never—I've never had a one night stand, but—but everyone says that the best way to get over someone is—"

"To get under someone else?" He finished for you, and it was impossible to ignore the way his eyes dipped to your chest once more. Maybe your sister was right. The red dress was definitely the right call. "I don't know too much about under." The shift in his tone, lighter and less stoic than before, snagged your attention. But it was the way his lips slid into a small, smug grin—and what he said next—that had your throat suddenly dry, parched, and dehydrated. The exact opposite of what you were starting to feel between your legs. "Titties jumping while you bounce on it has always been a personal fave of mine."

Oh my God.

But the torture was only just beginning.

"Coach's pretty little daughter wants me to blow her back out to help her get over her cheating ex—" He said more to himself, hands stuffed in his pockets as he nodded slowly before meeting your eyes again. "You know that's a disaster waiting to happen, right?"

For a reminder of why said proposal was a terrible idea, he didn't sound opposed at all. Far from it.

"It'll only be one time," you bargained. As if that whole crazy idea of yours was nothing more than a sales pitch, and maybe….maybe it was. "And—and I'll leave as soon as we're done—"

He shook his head and roamed his gaze over your body for the umpteenth time and licked his lips. You could have came right there on the spot. "You come to my room, you're not leaving till morning, sweetheart."

Oh.

You started to point out why, while that might have been a dream come true for most women, for you, that probably wasn't going to be the case. But then you realized that telling him might make him reconsider, if he was even seriously considering at all. Though the fact that he hadn't walked away as well as the way he looked like he was already counting all the different ways he wanted to bend you over had you thinking he was most definitely considering.

If he hadn't already decided on an answer.

Hence you deciding to just keep your mouth shut.

You'd just….you'd tell him when you got there. Ask…ask him to….to go slow.

Be….gentle.

If he even knows what that means.

"I won't tell anyone," you continued to offer up as many incentives as you could conjure. The desire coming from a place unknown but something that had your stomach in all sorts of knots. "I mean….obviously. I—I wouldn't want to lose my job."

"I wouldn't let that happen."

His response came swift and sharp. A detour from the brief stretch of lighthearted flirting that you two had fallen into. The gleam in his eyes matched the serious tone of his voice as he crossed his arms.

You forced yourself to not pay attention to how the stretched material around his big ass arms seemed like it was seconds away from ripping. God, he's huge. "I mean, I—I appreciate that, but I don't think—" You took a deep breath. "You're the team's star player, and yeah, my dad is the coach, but I haven't even been here—"

"Y/N," he interrupted. "I'm Roman Reigns, sweetheart." A beat. "If I say you stay, then you stay."

Oh.

There was a commanding undertone to his voice that had you struggling with thoughts that were far too inappropriate for the setting you were in but every bit what you were starting to think was going to be a reality sooner rather than later.

"Y/N."

You flinched, realizing only then that he'd stepped closer. So close that you could now make out the light freckles speckled across his T-Zone and the few strings of gray in his dark hair that you thought were mostly limited to his beard.

He tilted his head to the side and smirked once more as you tried to ignore not only how close he was but how good he smelled. God, what was wrong with you? You hadn't even been this flustered with Erik before you disclosed your crush and you two became a couple.

"You always this jumpy and chatty?" He asked, that humor returned and reflected in his eyes. Another realization made as the fluorescent lighting of the hall highlighted subtle specks of gold in honey brown. "That's alright. I like to hear you tell me how good it feels when I'm in it."

At that, your eyes widened once more. You'd heard he was….straightforward, but this felt like something entirely different. It made you feel different in a way that was uncomfortable, especially with the way the throbbing between your thighs seemed to only intensify with each passing second.

"Go find your dad." His unexpected change in tone and subjects, thankfully, drew your focus and created a successful interruption to your body's autonomous, growing need for him. For…more. "Tell him you're not feeling and that you're leaving."

You frowned, the confusion deepened. "W—what?"

A small gasp escaped your lips when he leaned over and his arm slid around your body. Your hand naturally planted on his firm chest as his traveled down your back and slid over the curve of your ass.

"You want me to fuck you, don't you?" He whispered in your ear, and it took everything in you to not moan when he ghosted his lips over the side of your face. Especially when you turned your head and unintentionally made it so your faces—lips—were mere centimeters away from one another. Those same soft looking lips lifted up once more in a small smile. "So let's fuck."

Current 

The silence that follows the final round is one that both suffocates and relieves. It breeds a sort of metaphorical asphyxiation that allots you the drive needed to pull yourself out of the destroyed bed. Sheets ruined, pillows flattened, and a headboard that no doubt left a dent in the wall behind it. 

The room tells the story you never could.

All the while you work to gather your items, ignoring the throbbing between your thighs and making a mental note to pop an ibuprofen as soon as you get back to your room. Even after all this time, taking him in all the ways you have, it seems like your body can never seem to adjust for more than a few hours. Your pussy always sore the next day, as if toying and torturing you with a reminder you have to use pills to swallow away and silence. 

Truth that can't be denied no matter how much you want to. 

"Lemme guess." You stand up, ruined dress in hand, the already thin straps that were fighting for dear life holding up your big breasts nothing but hanging, tattered remains. You'll have to steal one of his shirts or something because what once was one of your favorite dresses is no more than a makeshift skirt at this point. It only makes sense. Most things that Roman Reigns touches outside of that diamond end up nothing more than a contribution to the destruction that follows him wherever he goes.

Including you.

He waits until you turn to face him. He's sitting on the edge of the bed, boxers tugged on—when did he do that?—looking more deity than man. Your eyes travel the length of his broad shoulders, and if you looked close enough, you'd see the small indents of your nails that dug into his taut skin as he pounded you out. 

"You're not staying."

You swallow, reaching to tuck a tendril behind your hair. One of many reasons you'd shifted more towards embracing your natural kink and curls? The exhaustion and frustration at having a $200, three hour visit at the salon ruined by one night of no self-control or restrain. It wasn't worth it. From a monetary nor temporal standpoint. 

"You know I can't." 

While you work the dress-turned-skirt over your thick, chubby legs, utilizing said dressing as an excuse to break eye contact, his eyes remain fixed on you. "Can't or won't?"

Fuck.

"How long you gon' pretend to love that boy?"

Having turned around to head over to the bathroom and attempt to do whatever you can with your appearance, nothing stops you in your tracks faster than a question that hits you harder than any hardball he could ever throw. 

You turn around, ignoring the way your chest thumps when he stands up. 

"I do." 

It kills you how you're fully aware of the fact that your answer is nothing more than a poor attempt at convincing yourself more than it is an honest, truthful answer. Disgusts you in many ways, and you pray it's subterfuge known only to you.

But if Roman Reigns is nothing else, he's astute as fuck. 

"Bullshit," he curses. "But let's say you do. Let's say you do love him. You love him but love my dick—"

"Don't talk about him like that," you attempt to defend, but like most things when it comes to the man who's slowly making his way towards you, it crashes spectacularly. You're not sure if it's the age difference, the power dynamic, your naturally docile personality, his inherently dominant one, or a mixture of all of it thrown together in a pile of mess, but regardless of the cause, Roman has always had a way of making you question things.

Even yourself. 

Your eyes shut as his arm swings around your body, pulling you flush against him. Soft melting with hard. "I don't like liars, sweetheart." He murmurs, trailing his finger down your cheek. "Even if they are as pretty as you."

It takes everything in you to keep your eyes closed when he dips his head to your neck and inhales deeply. Your breath caught and voice whispered. "What—I don't know what you want from me."

Some days, you do. Others, you don't. Right about now, you're not even sure what you want for yourself. 

And he knows it.

"I think you know the answer to that, love."

The room grows silent once more. 

He's not wrong.

But he's not right, either.

When Katy Perry released Hot n' Cold back in the day, and you used to sneak and use your sisters' iPod touches to listen to said song that was deemed inappropriate because of the sole curse word, you had no idea it would end up being the perfect song to describe Roman Reigns.

He burns hot just as easily he runs cold. That charming, alluring smile can, in a matter of seconds, morph into a deep scowl or sneer right before he shuts down entirely, and his face reads just what he gives.

Nothing.

And the many faces and sides of Roman are what you lean on and choose to focus on rather than the alternative that leads to the road of recognition and acknowledgment. 

You shake your head, heat starting to bloom up the back of your neck. The room suddenly much warmer than you remember, even in the midst of your sexual tryst that started the moment he pulled you into his room and had you up against the wall, mouth slammed onto yours, fingers already working to rid you of your clothes. 

"I—I have—" Stammering accompanies you turning around to locate the rest of your items. "I have to g—"

Your eyes immediately shut in preparation for what you know  you cannot avoid nor evade.

He breathes your name as you breathe in deeply, the scent of him. His cologne still lingering on his skin despite the exertion over the past few hours. A scent that instantly reminds you of the shirts and hoodie stored in the back of your closet. His. The ones that carry that same scent, hence why one of said shirts have been your sleep attire a few times over the past few months.

If not more than a few.

Your lips gradually part as he drops his hands to your hips and pulls you into him. "Stay with me, Honey."

If it wasn't the tone of his deep voice—beseeching and sincere—it's the usage of what was once a NSFW nickname, now so much more. Sometimes you wish the first utterance and first explanation that made you blush when you heard it was what came to mind. It'd be immensely preferred over the butterflies that flutter in your stomach now whenever he calls you that.

The butterflies that have your resolve already starting to crumble.

"Roman…"

"Don't leave," he continues. A slow, shaky breath seeping past your lips when he drops his head to your neck. His beard tickling your clavicle and top of his head brushing against your chin as your breathing grows heavy when he starts planting soft kisses across your shoulder and chest. Lifting your shaking hands, the thought and intention is to lightly push him away, but it's when his own hand lifts to palm and gently squeeze your breast that you falter. 

Hesitation immediately noticed and taken advantage of, especially and primarily when your hand somehow lifts to the back of his head, his dark tresses spilling over and through your fingers. But it's when he drags his mouth back up to yours to kiss you, and the taste of you, still damp on his lips and beard, further depletes your resolve and causes you to slip into the danger zone. 

You moan. 

Moan into his mouth, and it's in that very moment, you already know how this is going to play out. Roman hikes you up onto his waist and carries you back over to the bed where he lays you down, never once interrupting the way your lips can't seem to get enough of one another. Disruption stemming from your end when you gasp into his mouth after he starts playing with your titties. 

"Stay with me. Please." The same sentiment and request continuously expressed as he once against starts to pepper your body with kisses, working his way downward until he's tugging that dress right back off. Opening your eyes, you turn your head just in time to see how it's hastily tossed to the side. But it's Roman's hands shifting to the back of your legs and pushing them up once more that redirects your focus. Except the last thing you see is the glazed, hungry gleam in his eyes before all that's left is the top of his head as he finds his pleasure once more in between your thighs.

You curse lowly, head thrown back while he sucks your tender, throbbing clit. His thick fingers keeping your pussy lips spread as he explores the length of you. Precise, controlled, pleasurable laps, licks, and sucking of your most sensitive areas making you writhe on the bed for the umpteenth time tonight.

You sit up just enough to reach for his head as he ensures your placement remains exactly where it is. Exactly where he wants you. But desire and blind pleasure are often times unintentionally contagious, because one minute your intention is to steer him as he eats you eagerly, and the next, you're pulling. Manage to tug enough on his hair to pry his mouth from your pussy. Your wet, sticky juices smeared all over the bottom half of his face. It transfers onto your own when you smash your lips back onto his, naturally laying back on the bed. Hands pushing down on his boxers, an act he gladly assists you with. The last of his clothing joins the last of yours as you feel him against your stomach. Heavy, warm, hard, and throbbing. The pulsing sensation evoking another round of moans, heightening your need and lowering your logic.

It's all Id at this point, and nothing more.

You realize as such when he reaches his arm across, near the nightstand where the almost empty box of condoms sits in wait. The fact that it's the same box from the first night you two slept together, and that it still has condoms despite the X number of times he's been inside of you is something you intentionally choose to ignore.

Not like it makes a difference now anyway.

You cup his face and shake your head, meeting his prurient gaze that you'd bet your life matches that of your own.

Your voice whispered and pained, "I just wanna feel you."  

But it's the way he looks at you, not with lust, not with the carnal hunger that's appeared in his warm eyes most times when you forgo protection, allow him to fuck you raw, it's something else. Something unnerving and far too intimate for whatever…..this is supposed to be. Especially when instead of making your body nothing short of a ragdoll as he fucks you hard and without mercy, making you cry from how good it feels. His movements are slow and deep, his hips moving in tandem with yours. His hands pinning yours above your head as you makeout with one another, tongues entangled in that familiar dance. His mouth trailing down the length of your neck, eventually freeing your wrists as your hands rake up and down his back, pulling him close and near. 

His head buried in the crook of your neck, holding you just as closely as you're holding him. One hand hooked on the back of your thigh, the other gently holding onto your hip. The filthy, haughty sex talk replaced with his deep panting and other words and phrases of affirmation that he feeds into your ear.

Ones that make your eyes shut and that feeling that only seems to grow stronger the longer this goes on extrapolate and reach another level. And even when it's all over, when he makes you come for the 5th or 6th time tonight, your pussy tender, swollen, with his cum still leaking out from when he finished inside of you, that feeling remains. Feels rooted and locked in like the way he's got his big arm swung over you, keeping you against him, his soft snores in your ear as you stare at the wall in the dark, quiet room. 

A part of you wants to try to leave. Knows that you should. But even if Roman wasn't such a light sleeper and would no doubt object at you leaving out in the middle of the night by yourself, you're not entirely sure if that would be the reason you'd stay.

Not because of his interference but your lack of wanting.

Of wanting to leave.

Sure, maybe some part of you does, but the larger, louder part wants you to stay exactly where you are.

With him.

And that terrifies you.

This has all gotten so out of hand. Every time you try to say that this time is the last time, you end up being made out to be a bigger liar than you were before the meritless oath was made. It's so out of character. All of it. This isn't who you are. You're not a cheater. Yes, Erik's cheating is, in a way, what started all of this, but the moment you decided to give him another chance was also the moment you should have kept your one night stand with Roman just that.

One night only.

Because now it's turned into countless nights. Even more, sexual trysts in the sheets have become, in the strangest of ways, the least of the things that connect you to the man beside you. Perhaps it'd be easier to walk away if it was just the sex. If Roman was still that older, whorish man who had a single purpose. This man so far removed from what you go for—from Erik—that it seemed almost inconceivable you'd even had the gall to initially approach him.

But you did, and that one decision has almost entirely changed the trajectory of your life. 

Because Roman Reigns is no longer this….entity. He's a person. He's just Roman, and Roman, despite his public image, is a quiet, almost introverted man who has a low tolerance for most and a no bullshit policy for all. He's as charismatic as he can be an asshole. But peel back the layers of an arrogant playboy, and you'll see that there's more to him than meets the eye.

So much more.

Most of which—if not all—you've seen and learned firsthand over the past few months.

Loyal. Caring. Considerate. Generous. Selfless. Roman, the man, is someone who does any and everything he can for his family. Everything he does is for them, and he'd said as such one night during the many pillow talks you two engaged in. Growing up in such a large family and losing his father when he was only thirteen in a robbery gone wrong created a sort of pressure for and on him. Some from within. Some external.

With his father's murder and him being the only male in the house, he was forced into a role no young boy should have to take on.

He was the man of the house and carried that burden with him all the way into adulthood. He's a provider. Did odd jobs around the neighborhood to earn some extra cash that he gave to his mom until he was old enough to get a "real" job that he held for all four years of high school, even while still being on the baseball team. Decided to leave college just one year short of graduating as almost any and everyone around him at that time kept reiterating how he was a "sure pick" for the draft. That there was no question he'd get drafted. He was too damn good not to. Racked up a number of accolades that'd drawn the attention of the MLB before he even finished his freshman year. 

They were right.

He ended up being the number one pick in the draft, and while most of the world believes he chose to not finish school because he just wanted to kickstart his career, education be damned, you know that couldn't be father from the truth.

Not finishing college, is, as he'd shared with you that night as you sat next to him on the porch of his mom's home, is one of his biggest regrets. It was part of the reason he was so career driven and focused, only cared about being the best and succeeding, even if it cost him personally. Because he carried the weight of needing to support and take care of his family.

Just as his father would have. 

You wonder if he knows how proud his dad would be of him. Wonder if he'd believe it. Believe you. 

As confident he is in most areas of his life, peeling back the layers has also revealed certain vulnerabilities you'd have never guessed the man next to you struggles with. Again, humanization of the man behind the brand. 

The same man you've seen in such a different light over the months, and perhaps it's that man that's kept you where you are. Like a boomerang that only knows how to return because anything else just isn't an option. Goes against the nature and order of things. 

And as you turn over in bed and study his sleep face, reach to trace the outline of his features, glimpses flash through your head like a slideshow in a presentation intended to educate. 

To defend and prove a point.

The curve of his smile, and not the one he flashes for photos and even when he has to turn on the charm, but the one you noticed he uses when talking with Swerve, with you, and especially and predominately, when he's with his family. The laugh that's somehow both quiet and a cackle that's almost always accompanied by him placing his hand over his chest or stomach. The hilarious reaction driven facial expressions that emote more than anything the public has seen, especially, again, when he's with his family.

And then you hear it.

As if standing in the yard again.

The sound of his nieces and nephews laughing, yelling, and shouting out all sorts of commands as Roman runs around with them. His niece on his back, his nephew with a mitt in one hand and ball in another. You see the way takes his time, explaining and instructing, offering both guidance and support. The way he holds his niece who lays her head on his shoulder and whispers in his ear things that make him smile and wink as he tickles her stomach.

The way he held his latest niece. Not even six months, little legs kicking and loud babbles coming from her mouth as if she was communicating with him. 

The way he look—

You stop and close your eyes. Shift so that you're laying on your back. 

Too much.

Too close.

A shaky, uneven exhale escapes your mouth when you manage to open your eyes, met with a blurred view of the ceiling. Tears managing to roll down your cheeks as you swallow the lump in your throat.

This has to stop.

You can't keep doing this.

To Erik. 

To Roman.

To yourself.

To—

Again, a forced stop. Your mind protecting you from what you still haven't allowed yourself to fully process.

It's all too much. 

Erik. Erik. Erik is the one. 

The one who gave you your first kiss.

He gave you your first orgasm.

The only who's always made you laugh.

He makes you smile.

The one who you always wanted to be around.

He's the one who you can't not be around. 

The one who checks all the boxes.

He's created and checked boxes you didn't know were boxes. 

The one who's always just wanted to make you happy.

He does make you happy. 

The one you love.

He's the one you're in—

And once again, you manage to silence that voice in the back of your head. Strip from her that voice that's far too loud and far too jarring.

Roman…Roman was a chapter, but he was never meant to be the final chapter. 

Erik holds that spot. The safe one. 

Roman is far from safe. The epitome of risk and unstable. There's no foundation with him. Nothing that's solid and foolproof, anyway. 

Erik is. 

The book started with him, and it has to end with him.

If only you could stop the way your heart hurts and mind wanders, the desire to turn the page and see if there's a secret epilogue. Or a sequel that follows. 

A different sort of ending. 

If only.