Page 35 of Pretty When He Bleeds

“What? I’m just asking,” she says innocently. “You never know.”

“There’s no one,” I say, the lie rolling off my tongue before I can stop it.

“Damon.”

“I swear,” I say quickly, cutting her off. “No one you need to worry about, anyway.”

She hums, clearly unconvinced but willing to let it go. “Well, whoever he is, I hope he’s good to you.”

The words hit like a knife to my chest, and I can’t help but picture Roman—his hazel eyes, his sharp tongue, the way he looks at me like he’s trying to figure me out and tear me apart at the same time.

I shake the thought away, clearing my throat. “I’ll let you know when there’s someone worth talking about.”

“Fair enough,” she says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. “But don’t wait too long to call me, okay? I miss you.”

“I miss you too, Mom,” I say, my voice softer now. “Hey, can I call you later tonight? I’m still in class, and the professor might notice I’m gone soon.”

“Of course,” she says, her tone warm. “Call me anytime, sweetheart. I’ll be here.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“I love you, Damon.”

“Love you, too,” I say before ending the call and sliding the phone back into my pocket.

I lean against the wall for a moment, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath. Talking to her always makes things feel a little easier, like maybe the weight on my shoulders isn’t so heavy after all.

But as I push off the wall and head back to class, the familiar chaos in my chest creeps back in. Because no matter how much progress I make, some things—some people—are harder to let go of than others.

Class ends soon after, the Henley I’m wearing splattered with blues and blacks, a visual reminder of how I didn’t give a shit about keeping things neat today. I roll my sleeves up higher, the paint clinging to my hands as I pull out my pack of smokes.

My lighter clicks and the first drag burns in the best way, grounding me just enough to dull the edges of my thoughts. The paint-splattered shirt, the cigarette, Caleb’s old leather jacket slung over my shoulder—it’s a look that screams, “don’t fucking talk to me,” and right now, that’s exactly the energy I want to give off.

My last class of the day is done and I’ve got a session later on. The thought makes my chest feel tight, but it’s better than the alternative… I’d rather not hear those voices again. I start walking toward the parking lot, and as I round the corner, exhaling a stream of smoke, I see him.

Roman’s sitting on the edge of the fountain, hunched over with his elbows on his knees and his head hanging low. Even from this distance, I can tell he looks like shit, and like he hasn’t eaten in days or even slept.

My first instinct is to look away, to pretend I didn’t see him. I can’t afford to be worried about Roman Bishop when I’ve got my own shit to deal with.

But I am.

Something in the way he’s sitting, looking so fucking defeated, makes my stomach twist. It’s even worse knowing I’m part of the reason he looks like this. I take another drag of my cigarette, slowing my steps as I watch him. He looks up then, and at that split second our eyes meet, it’s a jolt straight through my heart.

His eyes lock onto mine, and there’s something raw there, something I can’t quite place. Guilt? Anger? Pain?

And fuck me, he’s still hot. Even like this—especially like this. With his messy hair underneath the backward baseball cap, his sharp jawline tense, and his broad shoulders hunched under the weight of whatever the hell is eating at him. He looks like a goddamn walking tragedy.

I don’t know why I do it. Maybe it’s my own guilt or my own fucking stupidity, but I dip my head toward him in greeting.

His reaction is immediate: eyes narrowing, mouth tightening as he glares at me like I just insulted his entire bloodline. I hold his gaze, my cigarette hanging loosely between my fingers as we have a silent face-off. If he wants to glare, fine. I’m not in the mood to fight him, not right now.

Without a word, he gets up and walks off in the opposite direction. I let him go, and even though his ass looks delicious as hell in those jeans, I hate seeing him walk away from me.

“Don’t,” I mutter under my breath.

Don’t follow him. Don’t worry about him. Don’t think about him. Don’t get dragged into whatever the fuck is going on with him.

Just…don’t.

---