There was something tragic but welcoming about her gaze. It felt safe and chaotic all at the same time. Rubbing the back of my neck, I approached Roman carefully. He was stooped, his hand on the kitchen counter, the muscles in his arms bunched where he gripped the marble. “You okay?” I asked. The sudden question in the silence made Roman jump, and he glared at me from under his arm, the sweat on his brow obvious. He’d changed into a red sleeveless tee, the tattoos on his upper arm barely noticeable in the low light given off by a utility bulb just above the stove. Those tattoos had been a source of many arguments between Dad and Roman a few years back. Most of them were self-inflicted. “I’m fine,” Roman answered. Moving around him, I pointed at the couch. “It might help to lie down,” I suggested, remembering Haven’s words from earlier. Roman shrugged. “I’m afraid to.” His gaze met mine. “I’m afraid if I lay down, I won’t be able to get back up.” Taking his arm, I fought him when he tried to pull away, bracing my shoulder beneath his armpit before leading him to the couch.
