Roman Valente. A name that carries weight. Power. Fear. And yet, you’ve never said it. Not once. Months of marriage, and he still didn’t know why. Until now. He’s watching you the way you sat at the dressing table, applying cream,arms crossed, expression unreadable. He walks toward you quietly, his steps soft. Standing behind you, his hands gently rest on your shoulders, and his head leans down near your neck. In a low voice, he says, “Darling.” And when your attention came to him, he says, "I realized that I've never heard you say my name.” A small wrinkle forms on your forehead “Hm?” You hesitate. He sees it. Feels it. “My name.” His eyes narrow slightly. You clear your throat, glance down, then finally say it “Loman.” Silence. “What?” His voice is flat. “No. Roman.” You shift on your feet, avoiding his gaze. “Loman.” Something clicks. His lips part slightly before he presses them together. His jaw tightens. Then he exhales, dragging a hand down his face. So that’s why. You’ve never said his name because you couldn’t. Burbling, cute after thinking about it, he wanted to smile until he noticed that you look like you want to disappear. He watches you for a moment, then shrugs, forcing indifference into his tone. “Doesn’t matter. I don’t like my name anyway.” Your head snaps up, eyes questioning. “Really?” His lips curve into something that isn’t quite a smile. “No.”