Page 140 of Rome: The Ballerina

I turned to find him standing beside the vehicle with crinkled brows and anguished eyes. I slid to the edge of the seat and then onto the ground. Our bodies met. His against mine. Mine against his.

He wrapped those long arms around me, pulling me into his chest. I released a weighty breath and allowed everything I was feeling to come to the forefront.

“What’s the matter, Rome?”

“Everything,” I exaggerated. “And, nothing.”

Taking my response for exactly what it was, Saint grabbed the bag that Koen was handing him and took me by the hand.

“Appreciate that. Everything good?”

“She needs to eat. She hasn’t had anything since breakfast and her body took a beating at rehearsals.”

“Good looking out.”

“Of course. Get some rest, Balle. We’ll be out here if you need us.”

Wherever I was, they were. Wherever I stayed, they stayed. They never left my side. They were never too far away. Always waiting and watching for any signs of danger.

“Goodnight, Koen– August.”

August nodded, bidding me farewell.

I followed Saint inside of his home. His sheets were beckoning for me. However, the smell of spices lured me toward the kitchen. On the stove was a bottle of wine, a used skillet, two pots, and steak sauce.

“You made dinner?”

He nodded. “I did.”

“Enough for two?”

“Just enough for two. Have a seat.”

I didn’t protest. I found the nearest seat at the lengthy table where Saint was dining alone. His home was immaculate and professionally decorated. His interior designer had a great eye. Everything was simple yet so complex.

Saint’s home was newly built, but it wasn’t as fresh as mine. I could still smell the paint in my home. His had sat for some time, slightly masking its newness. However, it still had that vibe. That emptiness. The hollowness that made it evident it had been empty for a good while.

“Your body is good to you, Rome. Don’t treat it this way and expect it to respond positively.”

“Yes, sir.”

Our voices echoed as we spoke. A sheer reminder that we were alone. Often and preferably. But, still, alone. I found comfort in that. In him. In us.

He rounded the island in his favorite uniform. Loose shorts. Nike socks. White tee. It was so simple, but he looked so good it was almost pathetic.

I watched as he took a glass plate with raised edges from the cabinet. He went from one pot to the other, piling dinner on it. He topped it off with a drizzle of steak sauce. When he returned to the table, he grabbed a cold glass bottle of water.

He set my plate near the chair he’d been sitting in. His hands wrapped around the dining chair and pulled it closer to him. He took the fork from his plate and stabbed the steak he’d cut before my arrival. Saint neared my mouth with the protein.

“Open up.”

He pushed it into my mouth gently. I cleared the steak from the fork. My tastebuds lit up like a tree on Christmas.

“Mmm–”

“Here,” he urged, forking potatoes and green beans.

I opened up again.

---