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"Jesus Christ, baby," he says from behind me.
I want to tell him to go away because I don't want him watching me throw up, but another wave of nausea hits me, and I'm throwing up again before I can say anything. I hear the sink come on and then shut off.
I'm still heaving when he kneels behind me, lifting my hair. He presses a cold cloth to my neck and rubs my back.
"You okay?" he asks when I finally stop throwing up, sliding an arm around my waist.
I slump against his hard chest, completely drained. My eyes water, and my head hurts from throwing up so hard, but I think I'm done for the moment.
"Baby?"
"I'm okay," I mumble.
He kisses the side of my head and then pulls the washcloth from my neck. I sigh as he presses it to my forehead, allowing it to cool me down. I don't think I'm feverish, but I'm overheated from vomiting.
We sit there for another five or ten minutes until I'm sure I'm not going to throw up again, and then he picks me up from the floor.
"Sink," I tell him when he moves like he's going to carry me back to bed.
"I know." He sits me on the vanity before grabbing my toothbrush and toothpaste.
I use the mouthwash to rinse my mouth out before thoroughly brushing my teeth.
"You okay?" he asks me again once we're back in bed.
"Yeah," I whisper. "My stomach's been upset on and off all day. I thought it was just nerves. Maybe I'm coming down with something."
"You should have told me," he grumbles, his chest rumbling against my ear.
"It wasn't bad."
"I'm sorry you don't feel good, baby."
"I'll be o?"
His phone rings, cutting me off.
"Fuck," he mutters and then slides me off him before sitting up on the side of the bed. He hits the dimmer switch for the lamp, turning it up again just enough so he can see. He grabs his cell and glances down at it. As soon as he does, his head droops, hanging low between his shoulders.
"Yeah?" he says softly, bringing the phone to his ear. He listens for a moment, tensing, and then he curses again. "What's the address? Yeah, I'll be there."
Whoever he's talking to says something else.
Roman mutters another curse and then hangs up. He sighs heavily, scrubbing his hands down his face. "Another cartel member was just gunned down," he says. He doesn't turn to look at me. His words are soft, defeat running like a current through his voice.
"I'm sorry," I whisper, hating this for him.
"Me too." He sighs and climbs to his feet, raking a hand through his hair. He looks exhausted, but even with shadows under his eyes and frustration stamped across every line of his face, he takes my breath away.
"I love you."
He strides around the bed toward me and leans down to kiss my shoulder and then my forehead. "I love you too, baby. Go back to sleep. I'll be home as soon as I can." He shoots me a tired smile before heading toward the closet.
I just lay there, staring after him as he grabs clothes and saunters to the bathroom. I'm so relieved that this is almost over for him, and he'll be able to relax a little for once. But I am worried about him quitting the task force. I don't want him to feel like he has to give up anything to be with me, and I'm not convinced that quitting will change the fact that Tahani isn't speaking to either of us. But if he really wants this for himself, I'll support him. I just want him to be happy.
The bathroom door opens a few minutes later, and he steps out, dressed in jeans and a blue t-shirt. His hair is damp like he ran water over his head, the dark locks combed into some semblance of order. It won't last long. Before his hair even dries, he'll have tousled it up by running his hands through it.
"You should be sleeping," he murmurs when he notices that I'm still awake. "You have to work in a few hours. Are you feeling better?"
