Mr. Michelin Star

Roman tried to settle on the couch, but his mind was in turmoil. Every time he closed his eyes, the image of Saint bleeding in the alley replayed. The apartment, a sprawling, open space, felt suffocating. From his spot on the couch, he could see the steady rise and fall of Saint's chest on the bed—a glaring reminder of how easy life can be snatched away.

Hours ticked by, but sleep kept eluding him. Staring at Saint, the moonlight streaming through the windows cast soft shadows across the room, accentuating the tension etched into his features even in sleep.

Saint stirred, eyes fluttering open. "You're being a real creep right now, you know that?"

Startled, Roman blinked. "I can't sleep," he admitted.

"Come over here," Saint patted the space beside him on the bed. It was considerably a large bed. No big deal.

Roman weighed the pros and cons of sharing a bed with the mobster but his list came up with more cons as to pros. Since he had zero sense of self preservation, he stood and crossed the room, sitting on the edge of the bed. He could feel Saint's eyes on him, waiting. With a small sigh, he lay down facing Saint. The bed felt too intimate, too close, but he didn't pull away. He needed this.

"I never thanked you for coming back for me last night," Saint's voice was quiet. "You didn't have to."

Roman met his gaze seeing the vulnerability there, the sheer gratitude. "It was the right thing to do."

"Was it?" Saint's eyes searched his face.

Roman didn't have an answer. All he knew was that leaving Saint behind hadn't felt like an option.

"Are you going to actually thank me for saving your life or just mention you didn't thank me for it?"

Saint hummed, contemplating. "Probably not," he grinned. "I saved your life first from that cartel swine so it cancels out."

"That's a good example of asshole behavior." There was no weight to the insult which made Saint snort.

"Tell me, why did you drop out of nursing school?" The question came out of nowhere after a couple minutes of silence. "You knew what to do back there."

Roman exhaled, looking away. "It's a long story."

"If there's anything we have is time."

A pause filled the room.

"Emily, my sister got really sick, leukemia," explained Roman. "There was a clinical trial, one that could have given her a chance. But it was ridiculously expensive, and it didn't help our situation that we had no health care insurance."

Listening intently, Saint's eyes never left Roman's face.

"I was desperate, she was just a kid, Saint. I started gambling, thinking I could win enough for her treatment fast enough. At first, it seemed like I was making huge progress, but then I got in over my head. Debts began to pile up. Dropping out of school seemed like the only option to try and work more and pay off the debts while still helping with her treatment."

Roman faltered. "But it was never enough. I kept sinking deeper and deeper until there was no way out and I ended up putting my family in so much shit. Some of the people I borrowed money from weren't exactly nice you know? My family was always getting threatened and for their safety, they decided to part ways with me. Not that I blame them or anything but it just sucks."

"I'm sorry," Saint meant every word. "That's... tough. You did what you thought was best. That's all anyone can do."

Roman looked at him, seeing the sincerity in those hazel eyes. "Thanks for not judging."

"We've all got our demons," Saint added. "What matters is how we deal with them at the end of the day."

"I guess."

"Your sister, how's she..." Saint drifted off.

"She's been in remission for more than two years now."

"Good. That's good."

As sleep finally began to claim him, Roman's last thought was of how right it felt to be here, beside Saint, despite everything that had happened. Despite everything that was still to come.

***

The next morning, a smell of something burning jolted Saint awake. Not exactly the morning he was hoping to have after getting shot the previous night. He winced at the pain in his ribs as he shuffled to the kitchen, drawn by the commotion. Leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, he watched Roman's frantic attempts to salvage what was left of a botched sunny-side up effort.

"Are you trying to kill us all?" Saint laughed, the sound breaking the morning stillness. "How is it even possible to mess up eggs when you know how to cook chicken enchiladas?"

Looking sheepish, Roman turned, "It's a talent, apparently."

Stepping in, Saint scooted him away from the stove.

"You shouldn't be moving up and about," Roman's gaze fell on Saint's bandaged chest, a deep frown creasing his forehead. "You could blow out your stitches."

"I'm okay." He wasn't. Not really.

"Get some rest, seriously. It's too soon for you to be moving around. I will figure out this breakfast situation," Roman said, gesturing toward the chaotic mess on the kitchen counter. It was an absolute disaster.

Raising an eyebrow, Saint didn't think there was any hope for him. "And leave you to burn down my kitchen? I'm quite fond of it, so move."

Roman rolled his eyes. "Alright, Mr. Michelin Star. Just don't blame me if you end up needing another trip to Doc."

"Careful, Roman. You're going to make me think that you actually care."

The words settled over Roman. Then realization hit him—a part of him did care. Lost in his thoughts, he didn't notice Saint moving around the kitchen, prepping a skillet.

Saint's question brought him back to reality, "How do you prefer your eggs done?"

Clearing his throat, Roman uttered. "I'll have whatever you're in the mood for."

"That's not the question I asked, Roman."

Sighing, "Scrambled eggs are alright."

Saint thought about it. "Sounds good to me."

With natural flair, he cracked a few eggs into a new pan, adding a pinch of salt and a splash of milk.

Roman watched, fascinated, by the way Saint expertly maneuvered the kitchen. Why was it... sexy? "You make it look so easy."

"Stick with me, and you'll be a master chef in no time."

Roman laughed. "I hate to break it to you but I don't think I'm cut out for the kitchen."

"It's all about practice." Saint said. "And maybe a little bit of patience," he brought two of his fingers together.

After shoveling down the creamiest scrambled eggs and the tastiest chorizos he'd ever had in his whole life, Roman followed Saint to a corner of the apartment that was set up as a pottery studio. Roman's eyes immediately lit up as he took in the shelves filled with various pieces in different stages of completion.

"This is impressive," he touched a finished vase delicately. "You do pottery?"

"Yes, I enjoy it."

"I wouldn't have guessed that about you in a million years."

"No?"

"I mean, you're you." Roman gestured in Saint's general vicinity.

Crossing his arms, Saint leaned against the workbench. "And what exactly does you're you mean?"

Roman shrugged, still examining the intricately designed vase. "You know, tough guy, mobster, all dark and dangerous... Pottery just doesn't seem like your thing."

Saint raised an eyebrow, the smirk on his face deepening. "Maybe that's why I like it. It's different from everything else I do. No stress, no pressure, just me and the clay."

"It's like... your escape?"

"Something like that," Saint replied, pushing off the workbench. "Want to give it a try?"

Roman hesitated, then nodded. "Why not?"

Walking over to the pottery wheel, Saint prepared a fresh lump of clay for them to use. "Alright, let's see what you've got, tough guy."

"If I end up making a mess, you're cleaning it up."

Saint placed the clay on the wheel. "Deal. But don't be surprised if you actually enjoy it."

"Making a mess or the pottery?"

Saint's lips slightly curved upwards but he didn't dignify the question with an answer. Trouble.

Roman sat down at the wheel, following Saint's instructions as he placed his hands on the clay. As the wheel began to spin, he felt Saint's hands guiding his, steady and sure.

"It's all about finding the center," Saint's voice was low, almost a whisper, as he helped Roman mold the clay. "Once you've got that, everything else falls into place."

Nodding, Roman focused on the sensation of clay beneath his fingers. It was oddly soothing, the repetitive motion, the soft pressure of Saint's hands over his.

"See? Not so bad, right?"

Roman swallowed, his voice coming out a little rough. "Yeah, not bad at all."

Saint's hands lingered a moment longer before he stepped back, letting Roman take over. "You're doing great. Just keep it steady."

As Roman continued to work the clay, a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "You know, I might actually be good at this."

Laughter erupted when a glob of clay splattered on Roman's face while his rotating clay went flying off of the wheel. Without thinking much about it, Saint gently wiped off the clay that had landed on Roman's forehead with a thumb.

"Looks like you made a mess," as if it justified his actions.

Warmth spread through Roman that had nothing to do with the clay. "Welp, spoke too soon and jinxed myself."

"It wasn't that bad for a first attempt."

"You don't have to lie."

Saint laughed before taking over the workbench. "Yeah it was absolutely terrible."

"Ouch," Roman gasped. "You hurt my feelings, Saint!"

"So dramatic." Who was he kidding, the Cosa Nostra boss enjoyed the priest's theatrics.

Roman's eyes kept dropping to Saint's hands as they molded the clay, enthralled by the precision and grace in each movement. Every now and then, though, his gaze shifted to Saint's face. His eyes stayed on the subtle curve of Saint's lips, the way his dark brows furrowed in concentration, and his tongue poking out a little. Roman didn't think Saint knew he was actually doing it which made the sight even more adorable.

Adorable? Get a grip already.

Sensing the attention, Saint glanced up. "Roman," he warned. "if you keep looking at me like that..."

That particular look on Roman's face drove Saint absolutely crazy because it made him feel exposed, vulnerable in a way he wasn't used to. He hated it, and yet, there was a part of him that craved it—craved the intensity, the challenge, the risk of it all.

The priest was the kind of trouble Saint knew he should avoid, but he couldn't resist the desire that burned within him every time they were near each other.

Arching an eyebrow, Roman feigned innocence. "Like what, Saint?"

"Like you want me."

Roman didn't look away. "And what if I do?"

For a moment neither of them spoke, the rhythmic motions of pottery becoming almost meditative. Roman was like a storm that had blown into his life, unsettling everything in his path, and Saint couldn't decide if he wanted to weather it or be swept away.

Then, in a voice rough with tension, Saint said, "Don't."

"And if I can't help it?"

Saint clenched his jaw, struggling to keep his composure. "Then you're playing with fire and you're going to get yourself burnt."

Roman leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper, barely more than a breath between them. "Maybe I'm not afraid of a little fire."

Dio. Why Roman O'Connor? Of all people. Why him?

Roman's hand moved, just slightly, brushing against Saint's as it rested on the table. The contact was brief, verging on accidental, but it sent a jolt through Saint's entire body, as if the small touch had short-circuited his senses. Every part of him told him to pull back, to stop whatever was about to happen.

"Saint..."

The mob boss could feel the last remnants of his self control slipping away, but even as he teetered on the edge, a part of him was still fighting to hold on. "Roman..."

"Tell me to stop, and I will," Roman dared him to make the call.

But Saint was weak when it came to him . Always was.

Instead, he found himself inching closer to the priest, his will power crumbling with every heartbeat. "We shouldn't," the words held no conviction.

"I'm still not hearing a no, Saint." It wasn't a yes either, but Roman really hoped the other man wouldn't say no.