Page 81 of Stick Fight

My heart squeezes tight. “Oh, Roman…”

I reach for him, my hands cradling his face. I want to fix this for him, but I think the only way I can is by loving him, by letting him know I’m here to help carry the pain he’s shouldered alone for too long.

“You were a kid,” I say gently. “Under those circumstances, any boy would’ve made that pact. It was a way to protect yourselves. But you’re grown now. Things have changed. You get to write your own future, Roman. We both do.”

He looks at me, and I can see how badly he wants to believe that.

“We can show him,” I whisper. “We’ll show him that behind closed doors it can be good. Really good. That the past doesn’t get to dictate the rest of our lives. You can break the cycle. You alreadyhave.”

His eyes drop again, his jaw tightening. “My parents said they fought because of stress.” His voice is flat. “But I think it was more than that.” He looks up, and something hard flickers in his gaze. “I think it was resentment.”

The word lingers between us like a warning, and I know this is about me now.

“My mom never wanted the spotlight,” he says, his voice low and almost detached. “Dad was in politics. She tolerated it, has always played her part. But it took everything from her—kept her from whatever life she really wanted. Honestly, I don’t think she even wanted kids.” A beat and then, “Dad thought a ‘family’ made for better optics.” He lifts his hands and air-quotes the word optics like it tastes bitter in his mouth.

Family.

A performance, not a bond.

A campaign strategy, not a choice.

Roman hates anything fake.

That’s when it hits me.

That’s what I’ve been doing.

These designs. This pivot. This version of my “new start.” It’s not really me. I’ve been creating clothes I think people want to see. Doing what I think I should be doing instead of listening to my own voice. Following someone else's map instead of drawing my own.

I’ve been faking it. Pretending I’ve moved on. Pretending I’ve let go of the world I left behind.

But I haven’t.

Not yet.

“I’m so sorry, Roman.” The words fall out of me, words I mean with everything I have. And when I look at him, really look at him, I see it. That need in his eyes. The deep, aching kind. The kind that belonged to a little boy who just wanted a home that felt safe. A family that didn’t fall apart. A love that didn’t hurt. My heart thuds, heavy in my chest. So loud in my ears, I barely hear the ping of his phone.

He glances down. “I should probably get going.”

“Okay,” I breathe, barely holding back the emotion threatening to well over. My heart hurts for him—for everything he endured, for everything he’s still carrying.

We both stand. He reaches for me, pulling me gently into his arms, and when he lowers his head, his lips brush mine in a kiss that’s soft and tentative, like he’s searching for something. Reassurance. A sign that we’re okay. I kiss him back, slow and sure, letting him know that we are.

But then something shifts. A soft moan escapes me, and it changes everything. His arms tighten around me, and his kiss deepens, urgent now. A hunger pulses through him, through us, as his mouth moves with more intent, his tongue sweeping into mine. He’s tasting me, claiming me, letting me know we have a future.

My arms slide around his back, palms pressing into the solid strength of him. Roman is a good man, rock solid in so many ways. He inches back, rests his forehead against mine and we both take a deep breath. We inhale, shaky and slow, trying to catch our breath.

His head lifts, his eyes on mine, and then…it hits me. Like a strike of lightning straight through my soul.

An idea.

Big. Bold. Entirely new. So completely, breathtakingly mine.

It surges through me with the force of a thousand YES’s, making my whole body hum with possibility. It’s not about abandoning who I was, or pretending to be someone I’m not. It’s not about fitting into this new world, it’s about reshapingit. Claiming space in it. Owning it.

“Roman,” I gasp, barely able to get his name out, the words tangled in the rush of excitement buzzing through me.

“Yeah, Gabs?” he says, his voice low, rough from emotion and desire.

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