STEP CLOSER

Chapter5

I sat on the living room couch, arms folded tightly across my chest, phone still in my lap where the last text from Mom blinked up at me. A little heart emoji sat at the end of her message like it was supposed to soften the blow.

We’ve just landed. Send pictures of your first day! Love you, sweetheart

Three months. They’d be gone for three whole months. Three months without Mom, without the only familiar face in this shiny, polished stranger-house.

And she wouldn’t even be here for my move-in day. For my first steps into college.

She’d chosen a f*****g honeymoon.

I hated how spoiled I sounded even inside my own head, but I couldn’t stop the ache. It pulsed behind my ribs, deep and childish and sharp.

She left me.

I blinked hard and looked away from the text, tossing the phone onto the couch beside me like it had burned my skin.

"Still pouting?"

The voice startled me. Deep, smooth, laced with sarcasm.

Roman.

I didn’t even hear him come in.

He stood in the doorway to the living room, a glass of water in one hand, barefoot, his hair slightly damp like he’d just gotten out of the shower. He wore a white shirt that clung to him in all the wrong or right places, and a pair of dark grey sweats that made my brain go places I didn’t want it to.

I looked away quickly. “You don’t have to pretend you care.”

He shrugged and walked past me, settling into the recliner across from the couch, his long legs stretching out as he sipped his water. “Didn’t say I did.”

God, he was infuriating.

“I just think it’s shitty,” I muttered, hugging my knees to my chest. “She’s supposed to be here. For school. For me.”

“Yeah, well. Grown-ups disappoint you.” He looked at me over the rim of his glass. “Get used to it.”

I wanted to throw something at him. Preferably the pillow beside me. Or maybe the entire couch.

“Do you ever stop being a jackass?” I snapped.

Roman leaned his head back and smirked, like my anger was some kind of amusement for him. “Nope.”

I glared at him, but it was useless. That wall he kept up wasn’t budging. Not for me. Not for anyone.

Not even when my heart was lowkey breaking.

“She didn’t even tell me they’d be gone for that long,” I said, more to myself than to him. “I thought a couple weeks. A month, tops. But three months?”

“Plenty of time to learn to be independent.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one being left behind.”

His eyes locked on mine. There was something sharp in them, something that made my stomach twist.

“You think I wasn’t?” he asked, voice low.

I blinked. “What?”

Roman stood suddenly, setting his glass down with a soft clink on the table. “Forget it.”

“No, wait..”

He was already walking off.

I hated how fast my heart raced whenever he got close. How his words always stayed with me longer than they should. How I kept waiting for a version of him that didn’t exist. One that would see me. Care.

But Roman didn’t let people in. Not me. Not anyone.

And now I was stuck here.

With him.

And three empty months.

I stayed in the living room long after he disappeared, trying to quiet the storm in my chest. Maybe Mom was right. Maybe this would be good for me time to grow, figure things out on my own.

But it didn’t feel like growth. It felt like abandonment.

I finally dragged myself off the couch and back to my room, the house echoing with every step. I hated how big it felt when it was just the two of us here. Hated the tension that clung to the air like humidity thick, heavy, impossible to ignore.

Inside my room, I lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

I wanted to scream. Or cry. Or do something reckless.

Instead, I texted Mom back.

Glad you landed safe. Miss you already.

And then, like a f*****g i***t, I added:

Wish you were here.

I hit send.

Then I lay there in the quiet, waiting for nothing.

Roman’s POV

She was just standing there. Barefoot, cheeks flushed from yelling at her mom, hair a mess like she’d just rolled out of bed—and still, she looked like trouble in the prettiest f*****g package. Trouble I had no business thinking about.

But I couldn’t look away.

I knew I should’ve walked off when she stood on the porch with that shattered expression on her face. Should’ve gone upstairs, slammed my door, and kept pretending that she wasn’t getting under my skin.

But I didn’t.

I watched her instead, arms crossed, leaning on the kitchen counter like I hadn’t already spent half the night thinking about the way she smelled, or how close she’d gotten to me the other day. Too close.

And then she turned to me.

Her eyes—big, soft, shining with something I didn’t want to name. And when she spoke, her voice was smaller than usual, unsure in a way that made my chest tighten.

“She didn’t even care, Roman...”

Shit.

I didn’t know what to say to that. I didn’t do comfort. I didn’t do soft. But damn if I didn’t want to wrap my arms around her and tell her she was right. That her mom was selfish. That she deserved better.

But I didn’t say a word. Just stared at her like a f*****g coward, waiting for the moment to pass.

And then it hit me this girl, Ariana, she was dangerous. Not because of her body or her mouth or the way she said my name like it tasted sweet. No.

Because she made me feel things I thought I’d buried a long time ago.

So I did the only thing I knew how to do when something starts to matter too much I pushed it away.

I stepped back, peeled myself off the counter, and walked away like her words hadn’t sliced into my gut.

Didn’t even glance back when I heard her call after me.

That’s how I survived people. Don’t let them close. Don’t let them see you bleed.

I slammed my door and paced like a f*****g maniac, dragging a hand through my hair, fists clenching.

Ariana was in my house. Two months away from being at my school. Sleeping just six goddamn feet down the hall. And every time I closed my eyes, I saw her wrapped in those little shorts she wore to bed, or biting her lip when she was nervous, or looking at me like I was someone she could actually trust.

I didn’t want her to trust me.

Because I’d ruin her.

I knew it.

I’d break her heart and stain her softness with everything that was ugly in me. I wasn’t made for kindness. I wasn’t made for girls like her.

But fuck... I wanted to be.

For her.

I wanted to be better. I wanted to be someone who could sit with her on the porch and tell her she wasn’t alone. Someone who could tell her she was brave and smart and enough, even when her mom made her feel like nothing.

But I wasn’t that guy.

I was the guy who slammed doors. The guy who turned his back. The guy who watched her break and did nothing but burn in silence.

So I sat there in the dark. In my room. In the cold silence I’d built for myself years ago.

Listening to her move around the house like a ghost.

Wondering how long I could keep pretending that I didn’t care.

Because I did.

More than I should.

More than I wanted to admit.

And God help me... more with every passing second she stayed under this roof.