Page 80 of Stick Fight

“I know. I’m not saying Maeve or Gina are trying to change you. They’re helping. They care. But I think… I think maybe you’re settling, because you’re still holding on to a piece of that old life. I know it’s scary out there. I know doors are closed, because ofhim, but there are windows.” He picks up the sketch again, brows knitting as he studies it. “This…this is you. But it isn’tall of you. You’re fire and bold lines and drama and depth. This feels like a whisper. And you were made to shout.”

As my heart races, I open my mouth to tell him he’s wrong, but the words catch before they even make it to my lips. Maybe he isn’t wrong. Maybe I amdoing it again. Reshaping myself to fit what other people need or expect from me. Is that why the sketches feel so off? Like they’re missing something I can’t name?

Or maybe… maybe this isn’t even about the sketches. Maybe it’s about him.

Maybe Roman’s done playing house. His brother is flying in, and maybe this is him drawing a line, reminding me that he was simply a rebound with benefits, while he helped me get on my feet. Maybe he’s ready for me to do that, pushing me back into my old world so he can run wild again, rip through the city like the version of himself he’s kept down. My old fears that I’m keeping him from his life come rearing back.

But… no. That doesn’t track. This isn’t about him. This is about me.

He’s unsure. He’s worried. He wants the best for me, and I love that about him. But the truth is, I do still have one foot in the world I left behind. I see that clearly now. I’ve been dodging Cass’s calls, avoiding the conversation I know I should’ve had weeks—months—ago. Was there some small, ridiculous part of me hoping he’d move on? That he’d find someone new and quietly let me go? That he wouldn’t destroy whatever fragile future I might still have designing wedding gowns?

I look around this kitchen, at the morning sun pouring over the worn table, the coffee in my hand gone lukewarm. I think about Roman’s teammates, their wives and kids. This strange little makeshift family I never saw coming. And suddenly, the thought of returning to that old world makes something hollow spread through me. I’m not sure it fits anymore. I’m not sureIfit there anymore.

So what do you want, Gabby?

The question echoes inside me.

Roman’s phone pings. He glances at the screen, and I watch his shoulders go tight. There’s something else behind his silence. Something heavy.

“I have to go to the airport to get Nolan,” he says.

“I can come with you.”

“No,” he says quickly. Too quickly.

“Oh,” I murmur, blinking back my surprise. “Okay.” I shouldn’t feel hurt, or like he’s pushing me to the side. Maybe he just wants a little time with his brother, to ease into things before introducing us. That makes sense. Doesn’t it?

“I’m really looking forward to meeting him,” I say, softly. “You don’t talk about your family much.”

He exhales slowly, like the air is thicker now. “There’s a reason for that, Gabby.”

I fold my hands in my lap and go still, watching him.

“My childhood…” he starts, then stops, jaw working. “It was miserable. My parents, Mom and Dad. They put on this… performance. All smiles and charity galas and public displays of perfection. And Nolan and I were props. Perfect clothes. Perfect behavior. Perfect kids.” He laughs bitterly. There’s no humor in it.

“I hated those damn suits. The stiff collars. The way they dug into our necks. God forbid we moved wrong or scratched or even breathed the wrong way. We were the perfect family. But behind closed doors…” He pauses, and something in his expression fractures. “It was a war zone. Screaming. Throwing things. Late nights of drinking and fighting. Our dog used to hide in the closet.”

“Roman,” I murmur quietly as a shiver runs through him.

“I tried to protect Nolan from it all. He was younger, and I thought if I could just keep him distracted—make him laugh, turn up the music to drown out the shouting, dance around the room—he wouldn’t be affected. But he was. I couldn’t shield him from it all.”

My heart twists painfully. Tears sting the back of my eyes as I picture two little boys hiding in their rooms, scared out of their minds. Roman, barely more than a child himself, stepping into the role of protector. A role no child should ever have to fill. I want to reach for him. I want to say something that makes it better. But I don’t think anything could.

He lets out a dry, humorless laugh. “Nolan and I made a pact once. We werenever, ever going to get married.” His eyes find mine and hold, like he’s searching for something in my expression. Maybe understanding. My breath catches in my throat as the pieces start falling into place.

This… this is why he never talks about his parents. Why he keeps his past locked behind steel walls. Why love and marriage and happily-ever-after have always felt like a foreign language to him. And now… I can’t help but wonder… Are we even in a relationship? Is he telling me this to ensure I understand we’re not? That we’re not to act like a couple around his brother, because this is just something…convenient?

I feel the sting of that thought before I can stop it.

But then, like he senses the spiral I’m heading into, he shakes his head and gestures between us. “He’s never going to believe you’ve been living here with me. That I’ve changed.”

Relief moves through me in a slow, shaky breath. He’s not pushing me away. He’s warning me. Preparing me for Nolan. For what he might say, or how he might react. Maybe even for the way he might try to pull Roman back into the mold of the man he used to be. The player who didn’t believe in love or trust or anything with roots.

But that’s not who Roman is anymore and I don’t believe for a second that Nolan—no matter how close they are—can change that.

Right?

Then Roman looks down, his voice soft and sad when he says, “I don’t think I did right by him, Gabby.”

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