Page 102 of Pretty When He Bleeds

“I got you,” he murmurs. “I’m not going anywhere.”

I don’t fucking deserve him, but I let myself believe it, anyway.

Just for now.

Roman

Damon’schestrisesandfalls steadily beneath my head, his heartbeat a slow, rhythmic thump against my ear. My fingers trail absently over the ink on his ribs, mapping the familiar lines of his tattoos while my tongue piercings click softly against the back of my teeth. The room is quiet, save for the faint hum of the heater and the occasional creak of the old apartment walls.

I should be asleep, but I can’t stop thinking.

Seeing Caleb’s handwriting again after so long fucked me up in a way I wasn’t prepared for. The ink was faded in places, and the paper creased like it had been held too many times, but it was undeniably his. His words. His voice, reaching out from the past to explain what he couldn’t say when he was still here.

I feel sad, yeah, but more than that, I feel fucking scared. Not for myself, but for Damon.

I lift my head slightly, just enough to glance up at him. He hasn’t moved much in the past hour; he’s just staring at the ceiling, one arm draped over his stomach, the other resting against my back. His fingers twitch like he wants a cigarette, but he doesn’t reach for one.

Then, out of nowhere, he exhales and says, “I’m gonna open it.”

My whole fucking body locks up and I push up onto my elbow, staring at him. “What?”

Damon doesn’t look at me. His fingers drum against my spine, but I can tell by the tone of his voice that he’s serious. “I’m gonna open the letter.”

“Damon.” I shift fully now, sitting up. “Maybe you should wait. You’re already dealing with a lot—”

“I don’t wanna wait,” he cuts in. “I need to know what he fucking said, Roman. I need to.”

I shake my head, my stomach twisting. “Babe, I just—”

“Ineedto,” he stresses as he finally meets my gaze, looking so fucking tortured and it breaks my heart, and I know there’s nothing I can do to stop him.

So I sit back against the headboard, watching as he reaches for the letter in his nightstand drawer. The envelope crinkles in his grip, his name written in smudged ink on the front, and for a moment, he just… stares at it.

Then he exhales, slow and steady, and opens it.

I wait and watch every fucking second as he reads over the two pages—the flicker of emotions across his face, the way his throat bobs as he swallows hard, the tightening of his jaw, the huff of laughter and the sharp inhale of breath when I know he gets to something that hits too deep.

And then I watch as the man I love breaks again.

It’s not loud. It’s not violent. It’s not like the way he usually lashes out when shit gets too much. No, it’s quiet. The kind of grief that slips in like a whisper, like a slow-moving tide, and drowns you.

His shoulders shake, his fingers tremble, and his eyes squeeze shut. He presses the heel of his palm to his forehead, breathing ragged and unsteady, and I don’t know what to do. A muscle in his jaw ticks, and he swallows hard, but it does nothing to stop the tears from slipping down his cheeks.

Damon has cried in front of me before. But never like this. Never this quiet, never this shattered. He lowers the letter slowly, his gaze unfocused, staring at nothing.

Then he looks up at me, and his eyes—fuck, his eyes—are so clear. Without a word, he holds the letter out. I hesitate, my stomach twisting into knots. “Are you sure?”

He nods once, his throat working as he swallows again.

I take it from him with unsteady hands, unfolding the paper fully before my eyes lock onto the first line.

—

Damon,

I don’t know how to start this, so I guess I’ll just start with the truth.

I should’ve talked to you more. I should’ve told you things I never had the guts to say. I should’ve told you that I looked up to you, that no matter how much we fought, you were still the person I admired most in this world. I should’ve told you that I was struggling, that I felt like I was drowning every single day, but I didn’t, because I didn’t want to be a burden. I thought maybe I could fix it on my own.

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