Page 51 of Pretty When He Bleeds

He glances at me, his brow furrowing with confusion. “Out with what?”

“Whatever’s got you looking like someone stole your skates,” I say, raising an eyebrow.

He snorts, but it’s weak. “It’s nothing.”

“Bullshit,” I say, my tone light but firm. “You’ve been looking like a kicked puppy since I kissed you. Spill.”

Roman sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t know, man. It’s just… a lot, you know?”

I tilt my head, waiting for him to continue.

“This,” he says, gesturing vaguely between us. “Us. People staring. The whispers. It’s not exactly subtle, Damon.”

I shrug, taking a sip of my coffee. “So what? Let them stare. Let them talk. Who gives a fuck?”

“I do,” he mutters.

I pause and swallow deeply as I look at how uncomfortable he is. “You embarrassed to be seen with me?”

“What? No!” he says quickly, his eyes snapping to mine. “That’s not what I mean. I just… I’m not used to this. To being… public with anyone. My sexuality isn’t exactly a secret here, you know.”

It clicks then—the weight he’s carrying, the ghosts he’s still running from. Caleb’s shadow looms over him, even now, even here.

I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “Look, I get it. It’s new, it’s messy, and yeah, it’s a lot. But I’m not going anywhere, alright? The whispers don’t bother me, and if you want us to not be public, I’ll respect that.”

Roman looks at me for a long moment, then he shakes his head. “No, I don’t wanna be yours in secret. Just warn me when you’re going to pounce next time, alright?”

“Now where’s the fun in that?” I say as I nudge him with my shoulder.

He huffs out a laugh. “You’re a pain in the ass, Trouble.” It’s not the first time he’s called me Trouble, and I fucking love it.

“And you’re mine, Hotshot,” I say, smirking. His cheeks flush again, and I laugh, leaning back against the bench. “God, you’re fun to mess with.”

“You’re a fucking menace,” he mutters, but there’s a faint smile tugging at his lips.

“That I am, but you’re stuck with me now,” I reply, grinning.

For the first time all morning, Roman doesn’t argue.

Damon

Ileanagainsttherailing at the end of the rink, my hands shoved into the pockets of my hoodie as I watch Roman on the ice. The arena is colder than I expected, but the buzz in the air more than makes up for it.

Even though it’s just practice, there’s a low hum of energy—sticks scraping against the ice, the dull thud of pucks hitting the boards, and the sharp, barked orders from the coach.

And then there’s Roman.

I’ve never watched one of his games before, never cared enough to, but right now, I can’t take my fucking eyes off him. He’s fast. Like, crazy fast. He moves across the ice like it’s second nature, his skates cutting smooth, perfect lines as he weaves through his teammates with a confidence that borders on cocky.

It’s not just his speed, though. It’s everything—the way his body moves, the sheer force behind every swing of his stick, the way his shoulders tense and relax as he shifts his weight. He’s like a fucking machine out there, and I hate how hot it is.

I watch as he slams into another player, sending the poor bastard into the boards with enough force to make the glass rattle. He skates off like it’s nothing and like he didn’t just wreck someone’s whole day, his focus locked onto the puck.

And, of course, he looks good doing it.

Roman’s in his full gear—jersey clinging to his broad shoulders, pads emphasizing his size. Even from here, I can see the intensity in his eyes. Every move he makes is fluid, powerful, and so fucking hot I can’t look away.

Jesus Christ, Ward. Get it the fuck together.

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