Page 80 of Pretty When He Bleeds

I roll my eyes, grabbing my shirt and tossing it over my head. “Yeah, well, you’re not exactly easy to ignore, either.”

“Good,” he says, his smirk turning into a full grin. “I’d be pissed if you could.”

“Possessive much?” I tease, and he shrugs, unbothered.

“Only when it comes to you,” he says simply, and the sincerity in his tone sends a shiver down my spine.

I don’t respond, but the look I give him says enough.

By the time we’re dressed and ready to leave, we’re both in a good mood, the tension from last night and this morning replaced with something lighter, something almost… normal.

As we head out the door, Damon grabs his keys and his bag, throwing me a smirk over his shoulder. “Ready to make everyone jealous?”

I laugh, shaking my head. “Always.”

And just like that, we’re back to us, back to whatever this crazy, messy thing is.

Damon

ThesecondRomanslidesoff my bike, I already know I won’t be able to focus on shit today.

He lingers for a second, looking at me like he wants to say something, but I don’t give him the chance. “Later, baby,” I mutter, barely audible over the growl of my bike.

He hesitates, his lips pressing into a thin line like he’s debating whether or not to push. But then he steps back, running a hand through his hair before nodding once. “Yeah. Later.”

He glances back once before heading inside the media building like he can feel me watching him, but I don’t wait to see if he’s going to do anything else.

I park my bike and look away, leaving him behind like I can outrun the way he looked at me this morning. Like I can outrun the feeling crawling up my fucking spine, the one that’s been sitting in my chest since last night.

Roman saw.

I wasn’t careful enough.

Roman fucking Bishop—cocky, reckless, sharp-tongued Roman—saw me at my weakest. Trapped in my own head, sweating, shaking, whimpering like some scared little bitch.

The thought makes my stomach churn.

I should be used to it by now—the way my past claws its way back in when I least expect it, the way it digs into me like it refuses to be forgotten. But last night was worse than usual. I can still feel his weight pressing me down, his voice cutting through the haze, grounding me.

I’m here. You’re safe.

And I believed it. That’s the worst part. I actually let myself fucking believe it.

Roman saw.

He saw me fucking break, saw the way I couldn’t pull myself out of it, saw how fucking pathetic I am. The nightmares come and go, but last night was different. Worse.

And Roman fucking saw.

I spend the next few hours on campus, drifting from class to class like a ghost, not really in my body. My sketchbook stays closed. My notes are garbage. The only thing keeping me grounded is the burn of my cigarette between my fingers every time I slip outside for a smoke.

People talk to me, but I don’t really hear them. My professors drone on, but I don’t absorb a single fucking thing. It’s like I’m watching myself go through the motions, but none of it feels real.

By noon, I’m done. I can’t fucking be here anymore. I don’t text Roman, don’t tell him I’m leaving—I just grab my shit and get the fuck out. By the time I step inside my apartment, my chest is tight, my head is fucking spinning, and there’s a pressure building behind my eyes that I can’t fucking shake.

Roman thinks I’m weak now. He won’t say it—he’s too good for that, too fucking soft underneath all that arrogance—but I know he’s thinking it. I close my eyes, my jaw clenching as I let out a slow breath. It’s fine. I just need to paint. Distract myself. Shake this fucking feeling.

I kick off my boots, strip off my jacket, and move straight to my art setup in the corner of my apartment. I grab a fresh canvas, pop the cap off the nearest tube of black paint, and—

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