AlterEgo

The rumbling hum of his Hellcat with the red guts fills the expanse of the vehicle as Roman swerves through the road, his fingers tightly gripping the steering wheel and foot pressed on the gas.

He’d landed on the island a mere hour ago after what has turned out to be one of his longest stints away from home. Away from you. Three and a half weeks this time, almost a month. 

After a certain point, it stops being just a hectic schedule and a series of conscious decisions. Deep down, he knows it. You do too despite his insistence otherwise during heated exchanges over text messages. He doesn't want to come home. He doesn’t want to face you. Face it. 

The path of less resistance is easier. This is easier.

It’s easier to accept duties that he isn’t contractually obliged to and keep himself occupied in random cities than it is to face reality. At The Dungeon with Nattie during the day, on the house shows he’d persuaded Hunter to put him on for the night, and working out until muscle fatigue at the gym during the hours that bridge the two.

It’s his job to protect you. It was his job to protect her, and he fell impossibly short. As a man, there’s no tougher pill to swallow, but especially for him. So he doesn’t. He just stays away from anything that reminds him of it. 

Until he can’t.

Until he feels the pull. Your pull. In the core of his torso, in his bloodstream, in his bones, in his heart. He always feels it, but with enough distractions, he can fight it and delude himself. He can pretend. But it grows undeniably stronger every day he’s away. And like a compass, no matter how lost in the woods you may be, the natural magnetic pull of our world always points back to north— back home.

However, when he makes it to the house, a shout of your name and the thud of his Nike duffle bag hitting the floor beside his suitcase does nothing but echo off the walls of his beachside estate. 

He receives no reply. 

He takes the stairs two at a time to check the bedroom, since there’s a chance you may have fallen asleep despite the fact that it’s a few hours earlier than when you typically hit the sheets, but you aren’t there. He checks different corners and crevices of the house: the kitchen, the other bedrooms, the bathrooms, the theatre room, the pool. 

You aren’t home.

Immediately, he’s irritated. 

He was already at his wits end with all this shit. Battered and bruised in more ways than just physically, he just wanted to decompress with you in his arms. Selfishly, he’d wanted to see you in that pretty yellow sundress you know is his favorite and jump into his arms before telling him how much you missed him, how much you need him. How much you still need him and that you’ll always need him. That he’s not a sorry excuse of a man and that you forgive him for the distracting argument you two were having on the phone seconds prior to your car accident that rainy night three months ago. 

He needs to hear it. He needs to feel it.

His irritation worsens when he pulls his phone out to view your location and it reveals that your pin is currently dropped at Vice City, one of the most popular nightclubs in downtown Key West. 

What the fuck are you doing at Vice City? Is the miscarriage not tearing you up from the inside out anymore like it is him? You don’t care? Is this just another small thing to a giant? Have you already put it behind you? Was it that insignificant to you?

He doesn’t call you. He doesn’t text you. 

He just leaves the house and gets in the car, the skin of his palm pink from his grip on his phone.

The ride is absent of the music that typically blares past the stereo, the rough bass and 808’s of his favorite Future songs that usually result in him mindlessly going ten over the speed limit replaced with still silence until he’s parking his Hellcat in front of the building.

He slams the door shut behind him and walks toward the line of people wrapped around the block. The bouncer, Namina’s brother, grins when they make eye contact and diverts his attention from the group of people he’s speaking to behind the rope. “Aye! What’s up bro?” The question is more of a statement that he lowly shoots back, followed by a smooth dap-up and the unclipping of the rope to cut Roman in— much to the displeasure of the people next in line, whose complains he pays dust as he slides into the establishment. 

He slips past and steps into the crowded club, scoping the scene engulfed in red lighting for a minute. But he’s bloodhound tailored to follow your ingrained scent to the end of the earth, so he could find you in the pitch dark if need be. And he does. After a few minutes of scoping the space, his eyes land on you by the bar, your back turned towards him as you seemingly speak to the bartender. 

Beside you, a man. Too close for both you and Roman’s comfort, but the guy’s clueless. Trying to buy you a drink. Not getting the hint. All up in your space and shit. One of them. Except he isn’t just some man. It’s Aiden. 

The unmistakable sensation of being watched urges you to look behind you, and when you toss a glance past your shoulders, you spot him. Or someone that looks eerily similar. For a second, you don’t move. You just look because he’s been away for so long, he looks something like a hologram; a technological projection. A hallucination rather than reality. But when he blinks and moves from near the entrance and takes a step towards you, you straighten up as a series of emotions course through you. 

Confusion. Relief. Happiness. Anger. Grief. Surprise. Relief. 

All of it hitting you all at once makes you a little emotional, warming your eyelids.

Instinctively, you tug down the rising fabric of your dresses hemline down from your under your ass as you travel down the small platform and through the sea of bodies to meet him, but his eyes don’t follow you. They’re firmly planted on your ex at the bar. It’s not until you’re inches away from him that his gaze flits to you.

You look up at him with a fold etched into the space between your brows, an inflection of pleasant surprise underscored in your voice despite how upset you are with him, “what are you doing here? You said next week.”

His eyes drink you in. The short dress fitting you like a hug, your hair and makeup, your nails. “What are you doing here Capri?”

You frown and silently hope he doesn’t have the audacity to take this somewhere he has no authority to given how distant he’s been both physically and emotionally, “I’m with Namina and the girls. They wanted to get me out the house.”

He points to Aiden with a minuscule tick of his head and you follow his line of sight, “that’s Namina and the girls?”

You huff out a breath of disbelief and cross your arms, “he popped up when I went to order. No more, no less. Don’t make it a thing, Roman. You’re in no position to question me right now.”

To say you’ve been understanding is an understatement. You know him well enough to know he’ll never say it. He’ll never admit that he’s been using every excuse under the sun to escape sitting with his grief. You know it’s the reason for every postponed return back to Key West. 

His coping mechanism isn’t healthy, but when has anything with him ever been? 

At the same time, him processing it the way he’s been is unfair to you. This is by no means something you should, nor do you want to, have to deal with on your own. But you haven’t been given a choice in that.

And for that, you’re upset.

So for him to question your coping mechanisms and the decisions of the people who have stuck around you while he was in whatever state doing whatever what? It’s absolutely ludicrous and you’re not having any of it.

Roman stares at you for a second before looking away like he does when he knows you’re right. His voice gets lower when he remembers how much your body language reflected that you were uncomfortable with Aiden’s proximity to you, “he bothering you?”

To keep the peace, you lie. “No.”

He extends a hand for you to take, and when you do after staring at it for a few seconds, he leads you to a dark, secluded corner of the lounging area of the club parallel to the bar. He takes a seat on the spacious velvet chair and manspreads before pulling you sideways onto his lap, moving your legs over the armchair.

The deep musk of his YSL cologne seeping past your senses when you rest your elbow on his shoulder disarms you. Like he used to do —whenever you and he weren’t on the best terms, unbeknownst to you— you found yourself spritzing his signature scent on your pillows on those sleepless nights while he was away just to help quell you like it was some sort of liquid melatonin. And it worked every time. 

He runs his big, rough hand down the expanse of your smooth leg. The music doesn’t quite reach the far corner you two are in, so his low voice is discernible. “Missed me?”

“Did you miss me?”

He blinks. Okay. He deserved that, regardless of the sting. He murmurs, “you know I did. Type of question is that?”

As he caresses your legs, you watch as his hand runs over a freshly healed scar from the accident right above your knee. “Nona came over the other day.”

He gets a whiff of vanilla cashmere from your neck when you nestle deeper into his embrace, “yeah?”

You nod. “It was honey salmon and rice this time.”

He hums nonchalantly, “Mm. I told her you ain’t like the broccoli and cheddar soup.”

He may have struggled to show up for you the way he should’ve. Physically and, subsequently, emotionally. But Roman has a historical track record of showing you how much he cares in other ways; ways far more action-oriented. Practical. Ways more natural to him. Which is why regardless of the distance, he’s been making sure you were being hand-delivered warm home cooked meals on a biweekly basis because he knew you were too beside yourself with everything going on to get up and sustain yourself.

You gasp and sharply pull away, turning to look at him as your stomach drops. “Roman!”

The motion of his hand pauses at your calf when you sit up, his face flat. “What?”

His mother has been nothing short of a ray of light while he’s been away. She visited you regularly. Brought you flowers with ever case of tupperware. Encouraged you to run errands with her just to ensure you’re getting some sunlight. Even going so far as doing chores around the house you’re too embarrassed to admit you couldn’t pull yourself to do on certain days. You’d hate to offend someone who’s done so much for you, “what do you mean you told her that? I never said that! I… liked it.”

He rolls his eyes. You’re too fucking polite for your own good. “There was more than half of that shit left in the container when she was sending the pictures, Pri. You didn’t like it.”

Ever since you were a child, you’ve despised broccoli and cheddar soup. Oddly, when you were pregnant, it was your number one craving. You didn’t want anything but it. So, it was a sobering moment when you stood barefoot in the fridge light and mindlessly brought that first spoonful to your mouth without a second thought. An emotional reminder that you hate it again, because you’re not pregnant anymore.

You sigh and melt back into his chest, his hand skimming across soft skin again. “That’s rude, Roman.”

“You’d starve otherwise, so I don’t wanna hear it. She’ll live.”

You stare at your heels atop the armchair. That’s an exaggeration. You wouldn’t starve, but it isn’t lost on you that he confirmed he’s been keeping tabs on you and your eating habits. As kind as his mother may naturally be, you’d be lying if you claimed you didn’t have a sneaking suspicion that he may have put her up to some of what she was doing. “I would not. I’m… cooking again.”

It’s a sentiment of a milestone; one that marks that clouds are parting to make way for the sun again. Parting enough for you to pick yourself up to complete what is considered a basic necessity. Though, it’s bittersweet because that signals this is nearly behind you now. An indication that she’s nearly something to put behind you now, when there was a day not too long ago when she was your future. 

Even from your side profile, he can see you crawling into the depths your head— so he pulls you out with a small dose of what you need, “to my misfortune.”

You roll your eyes with a loose grin and only start really laughing when you realize he’s not even smiling, which is how ninety-nine percent of the laughs he gets out of you work. Your laugh ceases, “you like my food.”

“Shit. I’m legally obligated to.” You smack your teeth and go to swat at his shoulder but the hand running up and down your leg jumps and intercepts it before it can land with a lazy smirk.

He sinks deeper in the cushioned seat to get even more comfortable, the nape of his neck resting lazily against the tip top of the chair. When he does, you two meet at eye-level. “Nah. I like your food.”

You smile into his chest, tugging down on your rising hemline before taking your small purse off your shoulder to pull your phone out. In the time that it takes you to do so and text the group chat your whereabouts so they don’t get worried, his hands start wandering. You two are tucked away in the darkest, most secluded lounging section of Vice, but it’s still an open area and people could see past the dark red ambiance if they set their mind to it.

He couldn’t be paid to care less.

He’s feeling you up. It could’ve passed off as innocent at first, the smooth cruise from your calves to your upper thighs when you cocooned onto his chest and turned your attention to type away at your phone, but then each pass becomes more and more pronounced. He shamelessly gropes the fat of your ass, runs down your thighs, and then repeats the process until you’re a little breathless.

“Roman…” Your meek voice is as small as a mouse, as if to warn him that you’re not in private and you’re surrounded by people. Except he seems to grasp that notion perfectly, because when you lock your phone with a click and crane your head away from the screen to his face, his hooded eyes are elsewhere. 

Across the room at the bar, your high school sweetheart’s good judgement keeps him bound to the stool. Still, he can’t help his shifty eyes above the drink he’s been nursing since your sudden departure. He tried to play it as cool as possible when he saw you tonight for the first time in a long time, but you’ve always had this innate ability of making him sweat. So it’s no surprise you slipped through his fingers. Again.

When you realize who Roman’s peering at and what exactly he’s doing through the red haze of Vice, you want to stop him in his tracks. It’s cruel and mean-spirited to subject Aiden to the sight. Yet, you don’t. You don’t because as vile as it may be, he’s sparking you up like a live wire. You’ve felt so alone through this all, even going so far as to using his cologne to psychologically pacify yourself, that the intimacy feels like the antidote. You’ve been craving this. You need this.

He takes his bottom lip in between his teeth, grabbing one of your ankles and pulling it down a couple inches from the armchair and onto the cushion to create a small degree of separation between your legs.

Your phone buzzes in your hand as his sneaks up your warm inner thighs. His teasing caresses, your sensitivity, and the anticipation draws heat to your core. The Weeknd’s Party Monster pulses through the building as he noses at the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your ear. 

His fingertips barely grazes the outline of your lips through your thong but it sends goosebumps prickling up your arms, “missed me here?”

You nod as your eyes flutter shut, your mouth parting when he wraps your hair around his free fist and tugs on it at the same time he uses the pad of his thumb to press on your pulsing clit. “You’re gonna let him see you like this? Hmm? At my mercy like this? You know what he’s thinking right now?”

You let your phone drop onto the sofa seat and wrap your arms around the hunky arm leading under your dress as he gently rubs you in soft, small circles. “That you’re a slut. That you’re not that same girl he remembers.”

His fingertips lights delicious little sparks in your core, his antagonistic voice purring in your ear. “And he’d be right. He doesn’t have a clue as to all the tricks I’ve taught you. He’d be sick to his fucking stomach.”

The thought doesn't help the stiffening erection in the confinement of his pants, but your light squirming in his lap does relieve him of the tight pressure in his groin. His possessiveness over your naked form binds the fantasy strictly to just that— fantasy. The image runs rampant in his minds eye as the yummy pressure of his fingers against your swollen pearl draws your whines into his ear; sitting your weak ass ex into a chair in a corner and making him watch as Roman nails you to the mattress like you like. Making you tell Aiden how good he’s making you feel while you’re creaming on his big dick. Making you tell him how big his dick is. Busting all inside you while you’re face down, ass up while you struggle to maintain strict eye contact with Aiden because you’re coming too. 

Breaking his spirit.

Because maybe then, he’ll finally get it. Maybe then, he’ll understand who exactly you belong to. There will be no if’s, and’s, or but’s. The picture couldn’t be any clearer.

He huffs out a smug breath of humor past his nose when he already feels your pussy drooling past the fabric of your thong. He know just how to touch you, but also, he knows just what to say. How to talk to you when he’s touching you. You should be ashamed by the things he says, but it just activates you.

If a bystander doesn’t hyper-fixate on you two, it just looks like you’re really comfortable on his lap since the dim lighting makes it difficult to make anything out of his explorative hand.

He pulls on your hair to crane your head on his chest back and locks your lips in a slow, heated, sensual kiss as his wet fingers sneaks past the barrier of your thong. He blindly traces the thick lips of your warm cunt and uses three fingers to rub your clit with pressure so delicious that it makes you part from the kiss, “oh.”

Your mouths centimeters apart, he stares intently into your eyes as he slowly sinks his thick middle and ring fingers inside you. With every lazy pump, he murmurs devilish little sentiments against your lips.

… Missed this tight little pussy.

… Never stop thinking about you. Even if I wanted to, shit.

… Come on Daddy’s fingers. Nobody’s gonna see. Just us. 

… Shhh. Gonna blow our spot up.

He unwraps his fist from your hair and covers it over your mouth when your body stiffens and tightens your thighs over his other hand, but he maneuvers it. As luck would have it, the orgasm is both powerful and subtle. You come so hard your ears start ringing, your breathless moans muffled into his palm. 

He only finds the willpower to peel his eyes away from you when your heaving chest desperately searches for a lungful of air. His eyes dart over to the bar again, but Aiden seemingly nodded off some time ago because the stool he was sat on is empty. Surely when his eyes registered what they was seeing. 

Hm.

A small sense of victory overcomes the sliver of insecurity that’s been looming in the distance as he looks down at your pretty, blissed-out face. Insecurity stemming from the fear that he’s not only a sorry excuse of a man for not being able to prevent the loss of the baby, but also the fact that he had an active hand in causing it. Insecurity when he spotted you at the bar in fear that in his absence, you’ve started searching elsewhere for the comfort he hadn’t been able to provide you. That he’s ruined you for anyone new so you’ve started looking for comfort in the people of your past.

Perhaps it’s why he’d wanted to see what you’d say to him having you like this, why he wanted to see if you’d care too much about Aiden’s feelings to let him touch you like this. 

But you didn’t. You let him have you.

You still need him.

“Let’s go.”

You’re breathless. “Huh?”

“Up. Let’s go.”

He rushes you to your feet and snags your phone off the cushion as you messily roll your small purse up and hook it onto your shoulder. His hand tightly engulfs yours as he leads you out the discreet section and through the crowd. 

TEMPERATURE RISING, BODIES UNITING

NOW THAT I’VE TRAPPED YOU IN MY ARMS

NO NEED TO FIGHT IT, NO NEED TO HIDE IT

NOW THAT I’VE SEEN WHAT’S IN YOUR HEART

Namina, who’s been serenely kicking it with the group of people she came with ever since the text you sent letting her know Roman’s here and that you’re with him, pops the straw of her drink out her lips in surprise and reaches her hand out for you the moment your and her eyes lock as you pass by her on the floor— but he’s a man on a mission so he doesn’t stop, and you’re gone in a flash.

The fresh breeze of air that hits you the second you step outside is crisp. 

“Wait. Wait. Slow down.” Thank god you opted for kitten heels in lieu of something more dramatic. You have to do a little jog just to keep up with his massive strides, but you find his anticipation a little amusing. 

Roman does not. In fact, he’s one second away from saying fuck it, ducking off into one of the alley ways on the street, and pinning you to the brick walls but he knows you’d never have that. 

When you two finally reach his car, he spins you so your back is pressed flush against the back door and he’s on you in the blink of an eye. His hand on the sides of your throat, your lips latch like a lock and key. The kiss is erotic in nature despite how frenzied it is, and the light oxygen deprivation at your head when his fingers lightly squeezes mixed with the arousal from the kiss spreads heat through your body. 

He steps back and pulls you with him before unlocking and opening the back door of his Hellcat. 

You take your purse off and toss it onto the floor of the car, climb into the backseat on all fours, and take your heels off. He steps off the street curb to follow behind you but you lie on your back and press your the toes of your foot right at his lower sternum before he can enter. 

There’s a mischievous glint in your eye, “uh-uh.”

He pauses and looks at the white toes of your pretty arched feet, two miles of legs leading to a secret goldmine. The eighth wonder of the world. Confusion’s etched on that handsome face of his, “what?”

“Stay right there.”

When you peel your dress up at the waist just enough for you to hook your thumbs under your thong and roll it down your thick thighs, he immediately steps closer to block the view of you and looks around the sidewalk. Nobody’s around. Thankfully, he parked a block away from Vice because parking spots near the building were taken when he pulled up.

You drop that onto the car floor too, and then turn on all fours before getting as far as possible to the edge of your seat and perking your ass out. “I want it like this.”

You want him to stay outside and fuck you with the door open.

“You’ve lost your damn mind Capri.”

You plant your face on the seat and reach underneath your body to part your thick, wet lips with your fingers and give him a show. Still sodden from your earlier orgasm, “please Daddy? We’ll be fast. Plus we’re so far. Nobody’s gonna see.”

He doesn’t know what the fuck he’d do if somebody happened to see you like this, but perhaps this is the monster he made. You never used to be so adventurous. You were as vanilla as they come, on par the course with your ex boyfriend, but you’d been corrupted. Irreversibly. Shit, he can’t believe there was a time when getting you to even talk back to him during sex was an achievement. 

Your eyes hone in on his unmistakeable bulge. “You're so hard. I know it hurts. You know I know to fix it. Let me fix it. Seven minutes max. A quickie.”

His jaw tight, he sighs before shaking his head and unbuckling his pants. He unzips his zipper, pulls his thick cock out from his boxers, and strokes his rock hard erection with a hiss. “Scoot back.”

A rush of adrenaline bolting through you, you follow his instruction and scoot back even closer to the edge of the seat. Your knees sunk onto the red leather of the interior, only your legs and feet protrude out of the car. He steps in between them and runs his dick up and down your drenched slit to lubricate himself. One hand balling his shirt into his palm and his other hand at your ass, he lines himself at your hole and uses his grip at your ass to slowly push you back into swallowing him. 

“Ohhh.” You roll your bottom lip into your mouth and revel in the sweet sensation of him inside your snug walls. You coat him in your arousal immediately, his entire length wet with every drag. 

He watches intently as his big dick splits you in half, but you just take it like the slut you are. The one he corrupted you into being. Uniquely for him. “That’s my girl. Feel so perfect for Daddy. Shit.”

You mewl and whine into the seats, helplessly creaming all over him as he bullies into your wet pussy. “Oh my godddd. I missed you.”

“You missed me?”

“I missed you.”

“I missed you too baby. F-fuck. Never leaving again.”

You cry out when he thrusts as far as he can go before pulling out to the tip and repeating the process, your wet pussy squelching with every shove. Your eyes roll to the back of your head when his wet thumb raises to caress at your puckered hole as he stuffs you full, “feels so fucking… good. Oh.”

He loves when you get like this. When you get so dickdrunk you can’t make anything out of anything. Making sense is just a suggestion. He’s the only person who can do it to you. Who will do it to you. It’s his responsibility to make your body feel this good. 

Red lips parted on red leather, you start throwing your hips back to meet his thrusts when you feel his fat cock throbbing inside your tight walls. Your hand travels under your body to rub firm circles onto your clit when you hear him grunt. 

He grabs a fistful of your hair and pulls as he drills into your squelching cunt, “wanted to get fucked where anybody could see. Hmm? Want people to see how good I make that pussy feel don’t you baby? Wanna get caught getting slutted out.”

He’s pounding. “Fffffggg.”

His voice is devilishly low, “shit. You feel so fucking good. Let me nut in it baby. It’s all yours. I’m all yours. Everything’s yours.”

He does you in for nearly ten minutes, but your orgasm still catches you out of nowhere, and it takes you out of your body. It starts at the innermost part of your core and works itself outward until it touches your toes like a shock wave. You can’t talk. You can’t even cry. You’re just victim to the sensation possessing you.

His grip on your hair forces your rolling eyes to face the stars on the ceiling of his Hellcat as he grunts like he’s in pain. The siphoning muscles of your slippery pussy sucks on his big dick until he falls off the ledge. He thrusts as deep as he can go before stilling and shooting rope after rope after rope inside you, groaning huskily as his empties his balls.

Your sharp inhale signals the waning of the waves, his hands running up and down your quivering thighs to quell you as he catches his breath.

After buckling his pants back up, he slowly slides out of you and picks your thong up off the floor mat. He slides it back onto your legs and slips into the car right beside you, “come here.”

You gather yourself enough to climb on top of him and straddle him, your face resting in the crook of his neck. He’d think you fell asleep if not for the faint flutter of your lashes against his skin every now and then. You stay like that for a while, his hand running up and down the expanse of your back.

“Roman.”

“Hm.”

A pause. “I can’t do that again. I wouldn’t survive it. I don’t want you to… I need you to stay.”

He doesn’t reply, he just caresses your back in silence. 

Given the circumstances I should probably be more vigilant when answering the door, but at this hour it could only be one thing— so I thought. My eyes are cast low expecting to find my takeout planted neatly on my plush doormat, only to be met with the leather of familiar sneakers. Instantly the hunger fades away, replaced with the unwelcomed confusion of relief. I don't even look him in the eye before turning away, headed back to my nest of pillows and blankets. I'm distinctly aware of him moving around behind me. I hear when he slips his shoes off at the door— at least he still remembers to do that. I strain my ears to listen to the thud of his sock covered feet as he heads into the kitchen, and I force my eyes to stay centered on the television, not wanting to acknowledge his presence when the couch dips and he sits next to me. I should scoot away, but I stay rooted in place. 

"Foods on the counter…smells good" he lets me know, leaning in to plant a kiss on my warming cheek. I give no response besides turning my head away. 

"Baby come on" he pleads into the space of my neck, gliding a hand around my shoulder to pull me into his side.

"not hungry anymore," I grumble. A bold faced lie and he knows it. I'm always hungry. The protruding stomach his hand caresses down being the reason. He lets it rest on my oiled belly, chuckling at the flurry of movement coming from inside upon the introduction of his husky voice. Traitor.

"I think someone else is though" he murmurs, still tucked into my neck. I can feel the tick of his jaw as he begins to lose patience at yet another lack of response. Feather light kisses tickle up my throat and across my cheek before making a home on the temple that I'm sure has a protruding vein across it. "I know you're mad at me baby, but I won't let you starve my child. Get in that kitchen."

"Why didn't you use your key?" I pondered aloud. The hand around my shoulder slivers down to meet the other around my midsection. "I wasn't sure if it would work" he mumbles, refusing to look me in the eye.

“Why wouldn’t—” He lands a chaste kiss on my stomach before quickly rising and making his way back to the kitchen. Casually questioning what I ordered along the way. Frustration and confusion create a sickening mixture and it dominates my ability to disregard his presence. Throwing the blanket to the side I stomp after him. For a moment I’m struck with a vision of a child behaving this same way, silently sending up a prayer for my own sanity before continuing on my pursuit. 

“Why are you here?” I bluntly question, approaching the opposite side of the granite island. 

“I live here” he responds without even lifting his head from digging around inside the brown paper bag. I still haven't broken the habit of ordering enough for the both of us and I'm sure he’s pleased to find his favorite inside. 

“You used to live here, before—”

“before I left and said I wasn't coming back”

“exactly. Yet here I am seeing you again for some odd reason.”

“Where are the new ultrasound photos?” he muses munching on the crisps for the wonton soup, completely ignoring my last statement.

" I haven't heard from you in weeks"

"And whose fault is that — Are you keeping them in the room? I know you like to look at them before bed —I've called out for you every day and you've yet to respond, i'm not very happy about missing out on the opportunity to see my child—"

“Roman you haven't called me,” I interrupt his rambling and the look of confusion on his face has us both pausing. The silence becomes suffocating and I scramble to find something to fill it.

"Well, we’re fine. You can go now," is what I land on. His body reboots then, as if he were a robot in need of a battery change, he must be in need of a system reboot also because once again he ignores me. The chinese takeout I'd been craving the entire day calls out to me as he dishes it out onto two sparkling white plates. When he slides one in my direction it's like a peace offering that I'm hesitant to accept. Shuffling over to me he wraps his arms around my waist letting both hands caress my skin rocking us side to side in faux serenity. I’d already concluded that my baby was a traitor. Tiny feet and fists casting an array of small thuds anytime his voice was near and whenever his hands lay on my belly they seemed to crescendo.This moment was no different from all the others. It made my heart flutter even through the irritation for the man that helped create those small feet. I want to bask in this moment and yet all I could think about while he lay his hands upon my silky skin was if after this he’d up and leave again.

"let me fix this" he coos, reading my mind. I want to ignore him and keep myself present in this moment, but his utterance has me gripping the lapel of his shirt.

"let you fix it?" The look on his face is sickeningly sincere. I can't tell if it's his proximity or the baby but tears well in my eyes, quickly flooding over. 

"You’re not even trying " I blubber, dropping my head to his chest. Tears continue to cascade down my cheeks and he just holds me in the ruin. 

"I know baby. I'm sorry.”

“Why aren’t you trying?” I cry, My words echoing around us as if I'd spoken into a microphone forcing him to hear my pleasing. The response he gives is seemingly muddled by my tears. Lifting my head to stare at his face, his mouth is moving, yet his words come out mangled, a distorted language that I cannot decipher. Miscommunication often sounds as such. He tries again, this answer is identical to his last attempt. My puzzled reaction silences him.

“I don’t understand,” I choke out silently begging for him to elaborate. A sad smile graces his lips after hearing my words. Angling his body, he plants a lingering kiss along my forehead, giving my midsection one more gentle caress before backing away, doing what I asked of him just moments before, leaving. My feet are glued to the floor as I watch him stalk down the ever stretching hallway to the door. 

“Roman please help me understand,” I call after him to no avail, attempting to pry my feet from the tile. The harder I try, the further the distance between us grows. I watch as he bends to reapply his shoes, untying and retying laces with nimble fingers. Rising from his folded position, he stands stock still for a moment, his head twisting and turning to take in his surroundings as if for the last time. He casts a longing look in my direction, the smile he sends me is genuine as if to convey his final affections. When his hand lands upon the door knob, my feet spring free and I brace myself to chase after him. Taking my first step just as that door swings open—

The blare of the alarm is loud and unwelcome. A radar resounding through my mind and bedroom. Peeling an eye open, I’m met with darkness. the only light being from the city beyond the window—absent of any curtains. Where are my curtains? The sun not even close to peaking over the horizon is cause for even further confusion.It was still the middle of the night. Why were alarms going off at this time? Slow movement on the other side of the bed sends me springing up, ready to get to the bottom of the vivid dream I’d just been torn from. Reaching my hand over to caress his back, I open my mouth to croak out his name. 

“R—

A mumbled “I’m up” slices my thoughts in two. My body is doused in a cold sweat at the realization. This is not my apartment nor my bed. His alarm comes to a deafening end as he stands from the bed stretching his arms high over his head. Walking slowly to the ensuite bathroom, naked as the day he was born. Jason starts getting ready for work. I should follow suit, maybe i could convince him and Jey that I’m sick and can’t come in. I know he’ll be there tonight and I’m not sure my mind can sustain the torture of seeing him walk away again. None the wiser to the turmoil steamrolling my body, Jason emerges from the restroom; boxers on, tooth brush in hand. I watch him pad to the closet, searching for something to wear. A seed sprouts in my mind as i watch him till about, one that I’ve dug up and thrown out time and time again—guilt. This has to end.

This started off as something completely different like not even in true Dear Desperado universe, but it was 1am and my mind took a turn and i wrote this in like 40 minutes. I’m someone that likes to think that dreams show us what we can’t see while awake. fears, desires, even distorted realities. This is set about a week before clash in Paris, in the midst of damn near cyberstalking this man my girls mind has been active.

I’ll post a deep dive on how I’m interpreting it later because now that I’m fully awake my mind is seeing what i wrote and I’m so intrigued lol.

As always excuse any mistakes and i can’t wait to hear what you guys think, happy reading!