Page 65 of Pretty When He Bleeds

Roman leans in, his forehead almost touching mine. “Someone who doesn’t need to feel like they’re competing with anyone else. Someone who already has all my attention.You’rethe one I’m kissing in front of everyone.You’rethe one I’m spending most of my nights with.”

And just like that, the noise stops.

I press my forehead against his, closing my eyes as I let the moment settle around us. Roman’s hand stays on the back of my neck, his thumb brushing lightly against my skin. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, the words slipping out before I can stop them.

“For what?” he asks, his voice curious.

“For being too much,” I admit, pulling back just enough to look at him. “For being so fucking jealous. For acting like an idiot. For—”

“Don’t,” he cuts in, shaking his head as his grip on my neck tightens just a fraction. “Don’t apologize.”

“But—”

“No,” he says firmly. “You’re allowed to feel the way you feel, Damon. You don’t have to apologize for that. Just remember, you’re the one I wanna be with, and that includes being there for you when you’re at your worst. It works both ways, too.”

His words hit me harder than I think even he suspects, and I blink, trying to process them. No one’s ever said that to me before. Not like this.

Roman tilts his head, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “Besides, it’s kinda hot when you’re jealous.”

I snort again, the tension in my chest easing slightly. “You’re an asshole.”

“Yeah, but you like it,” he shoots back, his grin widening.

I roll my eyes, but he doesn’t say anything else, just leans in and presses a kiss to my forehead. It’s soft and lingering, and it feels like he’s trying to tell me everything he can’t put into words.

When he pulls back, he glances over his shoulder toward the quad, where his friends are still messing around. “You wanna sit with us?”

I hesitate, glancing at the group. They’re loud and chaotic, the complete opposite of what I feel like I can handle right now.

“Nah,” I say finally, shaking my head. “I’m good here.”

Roman studies me for a moment, then nods. “Alright. But if you change your mind…”

“I’ll let you know,” I promise, and he smiles, leaning in to steal one last kiss before heading back to his friends.

I watch him go, my chest tightening again—but this time, it’s not from fear or doubt. It’s something else entirely. Something that feels a lot like hope.

As Roman reaches his friends, I sit back down on the bench and pull out my sketchpad again. My fingers move on autopilot, the charcoal smudging and blending as I work, and before long, his face starts to take shape on the page again.

This time, though, he’s smiling.

Roman

Damon’sstudioapartmentfeelssmaller than usual tonight. Maybe it’s the way he fills the space, pacing like a caged animal while I sit on the edge of the bed, trying not to laugh at how worked up he is.

His chipped black nail polish catches the light as he runs a hand through his curls, muttering something under his breath that I don’t bother catching.

“You done yet?” I ask, leaning back on my hands, watching him like he’s some kind of live performance. “Or are you gonna keep acting like I’m shipping off to war instead of an away game?”

Damon’s sharp green eyes snap to mine, and his scowl deepens. “Three fucking days, Roman. You’re gone for three days. That’s practically war.”

I roll my eyes, but I can’t help the smirk tugging at my lips. “I’ll send you a postcard.”

“Funny,” he mutters, finally stopping his pacing to stand in front of me, his broad shoulders blocking out the overhead light. “You think I’m joking?”

“I think you’re dramatic as hell, babe,” I reply, my smirk widening.

He leans down, his hands bracketing my thighs as his curls fall into his face. “You wanna keep running that mouth, or are you gonna let me fuck you bare before you leave?”

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