(V1)

Roman Kitt heard the newsroom doors creak open and didn’t bother looking up. He already knew it was you—late, again. He could tell by the hurried shuffle of your boots.

“Too late, rookie. Kitt’s got it,” the editor barked, waving Roman’s assignment sheet like a victory flag.

You froze, your breath catching audibly in the silence that followed. Roman glanced up just in time to see your shoulders tense, your cheeks still flushed from the cold outside. You didn’t argue, though he could see the words trembling on your lips. Instead, you made your way to your desk with stiff, measured steps, dropping your bag unceremoniously to the floor.

“Rough morning?” Roman drawled. He leaned back in his chair, tilting his head as if he were genuinely curious.

You shot him a glare, eyes burning with a frustration that made something in his chest twist in ways he refused to examine. You tugged your typewriter toward you.

The smirk on his face masked the way his stomach churned with guilt.

You didn’t dignify him with a response, your fingers already flying over the keys. The rapid clatter of your typewriter filled the room, sharp and unrelenting, and Roman forced himself to turn back to his own desk.

He shouldn’t feel guilty. He shouldn’t feel anything. You were his rival, plain and simple—reckless, stubborn, and endlessly infuriating. But you were also the author of the letters he couldn’t stop reading late at night, the ones full of confessions you thought no one would ever see.

The one about your brother haunted him most: He hasn’t written in weeks. I know it’s selfish to keep hoping, but I can’t stop. What if he’s gone? What if I’m alone?

Roman’s fingers tightened on his pen. He hated how much he wanted to help you, how much he wanted to be the one to tell you you weren’t alone. But instead, he said nothing.

Because that would mean admitting the truth. That it was him, not some distant void, who had been reading every word you poured into that typewriter. And if you ever found out, you’d never forgive him.