Roman slipped into the apartment, the soft click of the door barely audible. It was late — too late, actually — and he was careful to be quiet. Work, and his family, had been chaotic, as usual.

But none of that mattered right now, not here. This space was different, a rare sanctuary, one he shared with you.

He tiptoed into the bedroom and saw you curled up under the blankets. He stood at the doorway for a moment, watching you, as something soft flickered in his chest.

Carefully, he slid into bed beside you. He haltingly reached out to gently run his fingers through your hair. His touch was featherlight, as if he was afraid you'd wake and catch him in this unguarded moment.

He stroked your hair again, and you could feel the care behind it. He checked the blankets, ensuring you were covered and warm, his movements protective. He let his snarky, tough mask slip.

But little did he know, you weren’t really asleep. You’d woken up moments after hearing the click of the front door shut. Now, you lay there, eyes closed, seeing a completely different side of Roman. One that made your heart melt.

Eventually, exhaustion pulled him under, and Roman fell asleep beside you, hand still loosely in your hair.

The next morning, you slipped out of bed to get ready for work. Roman was still asleep, sprawled across the bed in a position that seemed both awkward and comfortable at the same time.

By the time he woke up, you were nearly ready, pulling on your blazer in front of the mirror. He blinked against the light, squinting at you, before sitting up in bed.

"Well, look at you," he said, his voice groggy but laced with that familiar teasing tone, his way of deflecting any hint of vulnerability. "All dressed up for work. You're definitely just wearing that so you can peel it off later. Come on, admit it. You're doing it for me."