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The only sound came from behind the bathroom door — the shower.
My heart rate dropped a bit. Exhaling a breath, I knocked, waiting for an answer.
Nothing.
I knocked louder. “Roan?”
Still, nothing.
Turning the handle, I gritted my teeth and prayed he didn’t lock it. I wasn’t above kicking in my own goddamn door, but I really didn’t want to.
Thankfully, it turned easily and the door swung open.
There was a split second of relief, followed by confusion.
Roan wasinthe shower, only he wasn’t showering. From his spot on the floor, with his forehead pressed against the glass, he looked like he’d crumpled where he stood. Why, I had no idea. I didn’t see any blood from the doorway.
Ripping open the glass door, I darted inside and knelt beside him, more concerned with him than the fact water was spraying all over my back. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
Wincing, he turned his face even further from me, but it was too late. He couldn’t hide the red puffiness around his eyes, the blotches on his cheeks. It was the kind that only came from sobbing, crying so hard you burst your own blood vessels.
Another piece of my heart cracked off under the weight of his pain. The inability to fix him shattered it to dust.
Shifting forward, I wrapped my arms around his torso and pulled him against me. I buried my face in the curve of his shoulder and closed my eyes, holding him as tightly as I could.
He stiffened in my arms. At first I thought he was rejecting the comfort, the closeness, until I felt him tremble. Once it started, it didn’t stop. Each breath felt hitched, like he was suffocating himself in his silence, forcing himself not to make a sound.
Aside from one time in the hospital, Roan hadn’t cried in front of me. It was like he’d made it his mission to be “fine,” even if he was anything but. I could have asked him about it but he never gave me the impression he wanted to talk about what happened. He didn’t really talk aboutanythingthese days, let alone that. Once upon a time I begged God to make him shut the fuck up and now I was begging Him to make Roan a chatterbox again.
Laying a hand against the side of his face, I turned him toward me. He resisted, of course. At least that part of his personality hadn’t changed. Apparently he was a pain in the ass whether he was happy or not.
“Roan, look at me.”
He couldn’t fight forever. After a pointed minute of defiance, he yielded. Red speckles dotted the skin around his eyes, eyes he refused to let me look at directly. I got the feeling he picked a tattoo on my throat and locked onto it because he wouldn’t look anywhere else.
“Do I need to kill someone?” I asked quietly, running my thumb back and forth over his cheekbone.
He shook his head.
“Do I need to hurt someone?”
Another shake of the head.
“Not even just a little?” I lifted my brows innocently.
A short laugh, however stifled, escaped. Shaking his head again, he finally lifted his gaze. Despite the redness, his eyes were a brilliant blue behind the glassiness. They expressed feeling again, even if that feeling was anguish.
“That’s not the answer to everything,” he replied with a sniff.
“Why not?”
Rolling his eyes, he pulled out of my arms and stood slowly, turning the shower off. As he stepped out, he looked back, his brows furrowed like he was seeing me for the first time. “You’re soaked.”
Soaked was an understatement. Thank God I hadn’t stupidly come in here with my guns still on. Or my phone.
Roan offered me a hand, helping haul me up to my feet. My jeans didn’t have much bend to them to begin with, let alone when they were sopping wet.
I didn’t let go once I was upright. Instead, I pulled him to me again, running my fingers through his wet hair. He wrapped his arms around my waist and laced his fingers together in the small of my back, burying his face in my shoulder.
