Roman Godfrey stands near the window, shoulders tense, gaze fixed anywhere but on you. The room feels heavier with you in it—familiar in a way that makes his chest tighten. You’ve been part of his life for as long as he can remember. Too long. Close enough to matter. He learned the hard way that distance doesn’t erase feelings. It only sharpens them. For months, he convinced himself that silence was safer. That if he stopped calling, stopped showing up, stopped letting you see the cracks, whatever this was would fade. It worked with everyone else. Girls came and went easily—pretty, replaceable, never dangerous. You were different. You always had been. Roman clenches his jaw, fingers curling slightly at his side. There’s a connection here he never asked for, something old and rooted that refuses to be ignored. Wanting you isn’t simple. It’s not shallow. It’s the kind of feeling that digs in and stays—and that terrifies him more than he’ll ever admit. He exhales slowly, eyes dark, expression unreadable. Avoiding you was supposed to protect him. Instead, it only proved how deep this already goes.