Page 89 of Before I Say I Don't
I leaned on the doorframe, smirking.
“You can always tell when a man got somegoodiesthe night before,” I teased, nodding at the spread. “Whole breakfast symphony.”
Roman chuckled low, closing the space between us. “Or maybe I just missed feeding you.” His lips brushed against minein a slow, lingering kiss that felt like a sweet promise, as if it were breakfast before breakfast. Then, with a playful tap on my hip, he urged, “Come on. Let’s eat.”
I slid onto the stool at the quaint kitchen island, the scent of cinnamon and vanilla lingering in the air. After he took his seat, I automatically bowed my head, feeling the familiar warmth of gratitude wash over me as I prayed out loud—for both of us, giving thanks for the moment and meal before us. Roman’s silent presence beside me was comforting; it felt less like mere politeness and more like a shared connection.
“You’re always cooking for me. I’ma cook for you next time,” I said, cutting into the fluffy French toast.
Roman chuckled lightly. “I think you said thatlasttime. But I don’t mind the always,” he added easily. “I also won’t mind you returning the favor either. That’s how a relationshipeats—reciprocity.”
“Relationship, huh?” I smirked into my fork.
Roman held my eyes like the word was already carved in stone. “Call it whatever helps you breathe, baby.”
Noted,I thought, biting back a grin as I chewed.
He studied me for a beat longer, then asked, “How you feeling, though?”
“Sore. Floating. Hungry in three different ways… two of which you caused.” I chuckled.
Roman laughed, shaking his head. “That sounds like a five-star review.”
I smirked. “Cocky, much?”
“I have every right to be when it comes to this dick,” he shot back with a conceited grin.
That you do,I admitted silently, but the words stayed locked behind my lips.
His expression softened a notch as he leaned back.
“But seriously—how’s your head? I mean,mentally.”
How’s your head?It was a question that delved deeper than the usual small talk. Not how’s the food, not how’d you sleep… not even some casual throwaway—are you good?
Roman was asking about the part of me that nobody else took a genuine interest in—besides Danica. That part of me I usually had to duct tape together in silence, shoving my feelings into a box to keep them from spilling over.
Viangelo rarely asked. If anything, he treated my emotions like an inconvenience, something that needed to be reset or silenced if it threatened his stability. But Roman? He looked at me like my mind mattered more than the body he’d just worshipped… like my thoughts and feelings were treasures he wanted to explore rather than obstacles to avoid. And that… that felt dangerously exhilarating in a whole different way.
I set my fork down, chewing slowly on the thought before I answered, “I’m okay.”
And for once, I meant it.
“Honestly, I am. And I don’t say that lightly. I’m not saying everything’s fixed; it’s not. But I don’t feel like I’m drowning anymore. Between you reminding me I don’t have to hold all this weight alone and Danica dragging me out of my feelings with her gospel-and-gems speeches, I’ve had more encouragement this past month than I’ve had in years.”
Roman’s eyes stayed on me, steady, like he was checking for cracks in the words. Then his hand slid across the table, palm up. I set mine in it without hesitation.
“You’re more than okay, Kam,” he reassured, thumb brushing the back of my hand. “You just needed people in your corner who see it and remind you. Now you got that.”
I smiled.
This man.
“So…” He sipped his coffee, eyes locked on me. “What now?”
“Now… we wait. But there are a few things I need to do before I say, ‘I don’t.” I tilted my head. “I’m curious, though. How would we even work with you being there and me here?”
“I’m thinking about staying.”
