𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟖 | 𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐀

roman roy didn’t like being sick. he didn’t like the nausea, the throbbing headaches, the runny noses, burning throats, or the constant fluctuating aches and pains. he didn’t like being vulnerable.

the youngest roy’s lavish apartment was off-putting and silent when he heard you creaking carefully through the door, save for the occasional self-pitying sniffles from the bedroom.

you were greeted by the sight of your boyfriend, curled up in his king sized bed, wrapped in silk sheets, pulled up to his chin. his brow furrowed at the sight of you, red nosed like rudolph. he’s uncharacteristically dishevelled, strands of dark brown hair falling into his red rimmed eyes. silently, you approach him.

he felt you press a hesitant kiss to the top of his head, resting your arms around his hunched shoulders. his normally pristine, crisp white shirt was crumpled, his tie thrown on the bedside table. the collar was scrunched, the top four buttons undone, revealing the pale skin underneath.