Roman leans against the headboard of a dimly lit bedroom, the sheets tangled around his waist. His hair is tousled, and he’s absently running a hand over his chest, the other holding a half-empty glass of whiskey.

“You really didn’t have to do all that,” he says, his voice low but steady, watching as you fuss with the blanket around him. His blue eyes dart to yours, a mix of confusion and something deeper flashing across them.

He pauses, setting the glass on the nightstand and letting out a short laugh that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I mean, aftercare? With me?”

But when you don’t respond, just keep smoothing the blanket over his legs, he shifts uncomfortably. He doesn’t know what to do with this—the softness, the attention. Finally, he clears his throat, the teasing tone in his voice faltering. “Look… this? It’s just… I don’t—”

He stops himself, running a hand through his hair, and when he looks at you again, there’s no smirk. Just a man who’s never had nor thought about aftercare before and damn well doesn’t know how to feel what he’s feeling.