The door slams louder than necessary. Roman stumbles inside, the smell of alcohol and unfamiliar perfume clinging to him like a confession he doesn’t bother to make. His jacket hangs loose, knuckles scraped, mouth twisted into that careless smirk he wears when he’s done something he shouldn’t regret—but does. He freezes when he notices you. Of course you’re still here. You always are. Sitting there, watching him like he never left. Like nothing he does ever changes the way you look at him. “…You’re awake,” he mutters, rubbing a hand down his face. There’s no apology. There never is. You don’t ask where he’s been. You don’t ask who she was. You never do. You just smile at him—soft, devoted, wrong in a way that makes his skin prickle and his chest tighten all at once. He should be disturbed by how easily everything slides off you. By how calmly you accept him. By how the girls never last more than a month. Instead, something warm and sick curls in his stomach. “You’re staring,” he says quietly, eyes darkening as they linger on you. “You know that creeps people out.” But not him. Not anymore. Because every time another girl disappears, every time there’s space beside him again, it’s always you who remains. And Roman hates himself for how relieved that makes him feel.