Page 106 of Pretty When He Bleeds

Iwakeuptoa dead weight on my chest.

At first, I don’t even process it—I’m too fucking warm, too comfortable, too content—but then I blink my eyes open and realize that Roman is sprawled half on top of me, his limbs tangled with mine, his face buried against my neck.

I huff out a quiet chuckle, shaking my head. Ridiculous. It’s not even annoying. It’s fucking endearing. The guy is a blanket, bed, and sheet hog all in one. My arm is trapped under him, completely numb, but I don’t even care. Not when I can feel his slow, steady breaths against my skin and the warmth of his body pressed against mine.

I run my free hand through his messy hair, my fingers tracing absently down the dip of his spine. He doesn’t even stir, out cold in the deepest fucking sleep I’ve ever seen. I smirk, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

Still nothing. Yeah, he’s gone.

I let my head fall back against the pillow, exhaling softly. My mind drifts to Caleb’s letter—the words still heavy in my chest, but not suffocating anymore. He asked me to look after Roman. Look after him when he’s gone.

I wonder, for a brief second, if Caleb could see this happening. If this was some fucked up way of giving me his blessing. Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, I’ll do what he asked. I’ll look after Roman. I’ll protect him, even if it means protecting him from myself.

I slide out from under him as carefully as I can, which is hard as fuck because the guy is basically a human-sized koala, but somehow, I manage. I shake my arm out to get the blood flowing again before grabbing my phone off the nightstand.

My thumb hovers over my mom’s number for a second before I finally type out a message.

Come over for dinner tonight? We need to talk. And… I just want to see you.

I hesitate, then add—

I don’t blame you for anything, Mom. And thank you. For loving me and for protecting me.

I stare at the screen for a second before hitting send. The weirdest thing happens as soon as the message goes through—I feel lighter. Like, for the first time in years, something has settled inside of me instead of getting worse.

I pocket my phone and head to the kitchen. I need coffee. And food. And something normal to start the day with before my head decides to go somewhere darker.

I stretch as I walk, rolling out my shoulders, and I take the phone from my pocket and toss it onto the counter so I can focus on making breakfast. I pull eggs and bacon out of the fridge, then throw some bread into the toaster. I move easily in my kitchen, used to the motions, the normalcy of it.

By the time the coffee is brewed and I’ve got eggs and bacon sizzling in the pan, I hear a groggy groan from the bed and I smirk, not turning around.

Seconds later, I feel warmth press against my back and a heavy forehead resting between my shoulder blades. Roman lets out the most pitiful whine, wrapping his arms around my waist from behind like a fucking clingy sleep-drunk idiot.

“Come back to bed,” he mutters against my spine, voice hoarse and thick with sleep.

I huff out a laugh, flipping the bacon. “We both need to eat, baby.”

“You can eat in bed,” he argues, tightening his hold.

I turn my head just enough to smirk at him. “You were out like a fucking light. I could’ve burned the building down and you wouldn’t have noticed.”

“Yeah, well,” he yawns against my back, arms still lazily wrapped around my waist, “you fucked me well last night. I deserve some extra sleep.”

I chuckle and shake my head. “That your way of saying ‘thank you’?”

He grumbles something incoherent but doesn’t move, still practically melting against me.

Instead of answering, I reach back and run my fingers through his hair and glance over my shoulder again, watching as he blinks up at me, bleary-eyed and disheveled. His hair is a fucking mess, sticking up in every direction, and there’s a faint imprint of a pillow crease on his cheek.

And he’s naked. Fucking hell.

“Can you put on some clothes before you start rubbing up on me?” I say, shaking my head, and he still doesn’t let go of me.

Roman just hums, pressing a kiss between my shoulder blades. “No.”

“Of course not.”

“Are you really making breakfast instead of coming back to bed with me?” he pouts, his fingers tracing lazy patterns along my ribs.

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