"THIS IS RIDICULOUS," I mumble, turning over to my side to look at Roman. We'd been laying on the floor for at least ten minutes after Roman had loaned me some clothes to sleep in. "You're actually going to sleep on the floor of your own house? Get in bed, Rome."

        He turns to face me, white sheets piled up around his hips. "You coming with?" he asks, not even bothering to hide the hopeful lift in his tone.

        I make a face at him. "No," I seethe.

        He yawns audibly, stretching out his arms. "Then I'm fine here," Roman responds. He shuts his eyes and slows his breathing again. "'Course if you want to take the bed by yourself..."

       "Not with you sleeping on the floor," I argue. I knew I was being positively difficult about this, but why couldn't he just agree with me?

        "You don't want to sleep on the couch, you don't want to sleep on the floor, and you don't want to sleep on the bed," Roman lists tiredly. "Did you want to check to see if the laundry room was open, or?"

         "If you don't shut your mouth, I just might," I groan, shifting into a more comfortable position.

The room is silent for a few moments. I sigh softly, knowing that I won't get any sleep with his body less than three feet away from me like this. I peek open my eyes just a bit and look at him, the slope of his nose down to his lips, the way his chest rises and falls with every breath. I'm still staring at him when his lips begin moving. "My mom passed when I was fifteen," he murmurs, voice quiet.

I suck in a breath, worried that if I even breathe too hard he won't continue talking. But he does. "She was in a really bad accident; someone hit her and she didn't even see them coming. I only wasn't in the car with her that night because I was going to go to some stupid school party. I remember getting the call in the middle of some pop song. The call that she was gone. I don't think I've ever had a panic attack that bad."

"You'd had panic attacks before then?" I ask curiously.

"Yeah," he rasps. "Yeah. A few."

I nod in the darkness, even though he can't see me. "I get nightmares," I admit. "Like, body immobilizing, vomiting at three a.m. nightmares. They have different periods: sometimes they're really bad and other times I don't get them at all. Right now, it's bad again. But I've had 'em since I was a kid. The first time it happened, Oba was so worried that she'd taken me to the ER. They couldn't figure out what was wrong with me, because there wasn't. My body wasn't sick. It was my mind."

"Funny how that works, yeah?" Roman muses. "I could be completely safe and all right and my mind will just...force me to believe otherwise. You're just constantly on edge. It's like never really being able to take a deep breath. You're still breathing, but just barely."

I bite my lip. "Yeah. Yeah, I know the feeling all too well."

Roman looks over at me, his brown eyes calm in spite of the heaviness of the conversation. I stare back at him in the dark, listening to the calming sounds of the city outside of Roman's window. Just as he'd admitted at the park, he can't sleep without it being open. He looked almost bashful as he apologized for it, but I didn't mind. How could I? I understood him completely. "What was she like?" I murmur. "Your mom?"

"Quiet," he mumbles with a faraway look. I could tell that some part of him wasn't here with me anymore; he was away scrounging his brain for every last detail about his mother. "She always looked like she was thinking about something. She was smart too. But not in a know-it-all way. She was the best."

        I smile softly. "She sounds great."

Roman shrugs. "She wasn't perfect," he whispers. "But she was enough."

Roman doesn't mention his dad and I don't ask. I finally feel myself nodding off and I yawn loudly as I shift to get more comfortable under the warm blankets. "You're enough too, Roman. More than enough," I mumble before slipping further into unconsciousness.

¥

I wake up to the sound of a shower running. It takes me a couple of moments to register that I'm still lying on Roman's apartment floor and that I'd slept entirely too well given that fact. A small yawn leaves my mouth as I sit up, running a hand through my hair.

The sound of the shower shuts off and then the door is clicking open. Panic spreads through me like a wildfire and I quickly flip back down onto the pillow, faking sleep. I did not need to see Roman De Carlo in a towel, not when he looked so impossibly good in everything else. I squeeze my eyes shut as I hear his feet padding along the floor and don't even dare to open them.

At the sound of a second door click, I sit up again. Roman was nowhere to be found; I assumed he'd gone into his bedroom to change. I push myself off of the floor and into the kitchen, stomach growling. If he made cannolis on random Thursday nights, he had to have some decent snacks around here. I dig around and find some Oreos and a carton of orange juice.

I pour myself a glass and dip an Oreo in it, leaning against the counter as I eat. Roman makes his way back out of the room after a few minutes, thankfully fully clothed. He smiles at me before looking at the makeshift snack I'd made. "I leave you alone for an hour and you're eating cookies and orange juice?"

I laugh once. "I saw the fruits and vegetables, but this seemed better."

Roman laughs too before pulling open the fridge, looking over at me. "Sit down. I'm going to make you some real food."

"I'll help," I respond, taking one final bite of my snack. Roman gives me a wary look and I poke his cheek with my finger, causing him to smile so widely it was painful to look at for too long. I return it with as much fervor as I can manage. Roman doesn't comment on it.

        We end up making pancakes, ones with extra chocolate chips in them from last night's cannolis. As I've come to discover about everything Roman makes, they're extremely good, so much so that I want to lick my plate when I'm done. "You should open a restaurant or something," I mumble absentmindedly. "Or at least become my private chef. Never mind, forget the restaurant and just make me these every day."

        Roman chuckles, sipping from a glass of orange juice. "Do you think you could handle seeing me every day? You know, you did just ignore me for a week."

        "Not a week," I remind him. "Six days. Big difference."

        Roman glances over at me, amusement in his eyes. "It seemed like forever," he mutters, pulling his lighter out of his pocket and flicking it on and off. I watch the little fire dance around his thumb, suddenly entranced by it.

        I'm still staring as he pulls out a cigarette and lights it, taking a long drag. I watch as his cheeks hollow out, as the smoke drifts from his nose and his mouth, how his shoulders seem to relax at the action, the way his face relaxed in a way that had butterflies flying around in the pit of my stomach. He glances over at me with raised eyebrows. "What?" he asks, sounding defensive. "If this is about how you feel about smoking, I already know. But I always smoke one in the morning and if I don't I get antsy and I don't—"

         "No," I interrupt, wanting desperately to stop him from what sounded like a rant I'd go on. "No, I was just wondering what it was like, I guess."

        Roman's brows furrow even deeper. "What, to smoke a cigarette?"

        I nod softly. "Yeah."

        Roman stares at me. "I'm sorry, is this the same guy that warned me about cigarettes killing me when we were standing outside of the hospital a few weeks ago?"

        I think back to that night I'd broken his nose, the night we met again for the first time in a year. It seemed like years ago, not just mere weeks. "I want to try one," I say suddenly, surprising him and myself.

        He glares at me as he takes another drag. "No."

        I scoff. "What do you mean, 'no?'"

        "I mean, 'Hell no,'" he retorts. "These things are addictive and dangerous and you're right not to like them. I don't like them."

        "It's only addictive and dangerous if you continuously do it," I argue. "I just want to try one."

        Roman brings the cigarette between his fingers, biting his bottom lip. "Just one?" he asks. I smile at his wavering resolve and nod quickly. "Jesus Christ, Braylen," Roman mumbles, sounding put out. Then, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out another cigarette.

        I get ready to ask him exactly how to do it when his hands cup my chin delicately, his thumb rubbing circles along my jaw. "Open," he whispers, a slight rasp in his voice that hadn't been there before. A shiver runs down my spine as I open my mouth.

        He slips the end of the cigarette between my teeth before grabbing his lighter again. I watch the little fire that comes out of it as Roman cups his hand around the cigarette and lights it. I inhale immediately, assuming it'd be the same as smoking weed and come up coughing. Suppose it's not the same. "Slow down," Roman instructs, his hand still running along my skin leisurely.

        He takes the cigarette from between my lips before sticking it back in, allowing me a second try. I inhale slower this time, a sudden rush flying to my brain that has me reaching out and latching onto Roman's knee. He pulls the cigarette from my mouth again as I blow smoke through my lips. Roman's eyes don't leave my face as I do, a serious expression on his face. "So?" he murmurs after a while, raising an eyebrow.

        He snuffs the cigarette out onto his napkin, staring up at me. "I liked it," I admit, licking my lips. Though I wasn't sure if I liked the cigarette or being so close to Roman more.

        "Don't ask again, okay?" Roman says, looking pointedly at me. "I don't need you getting addicted to something like this."

        I nod once, knowing that it was just a spur-of-the-moment thing. "Okay. I won't."

        Roman taps the side of my cheek with his hand before letting go of my face completely. "Good," he responds. I realize my hand was still clutching his knee and drop it immediately, blushing.

        "I should probably head home," I mumble before realizing that I really didn't want to. What I wanted was for his hand to come up to my face again, the feeling on his skin on mine nothing compared to the temporary rush of the cigarette.

It seems like Roman can tell exactly what I'm thinking, but if so, he doesn't comment on it. "Yeah. Sure, just don't forget the food for your fam—"

"When can I see you again?" I blurt out, the question having bounced around my mind all morning.

Roman smirks at me and for a minute I consider breaking his nose again out of spite. "Whenever you'd like, Braylen. I'm in no habit of denying you the things you want. Obviously," he jokes, referring back to the cigarette he'd let me smoke given me just a moment ago.

I smile softly at his words just as a conversation I'd had with Devin pops into my mind. I grin even wider.

"Hey, what are you doing for the Fourth of July?"

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i quite literally have the fattest crush on romano de carlo