Chapter 16

Ariana’s POV

It was Saturday. No school. No excuse to escape into the chaos of campus halls or Lana’s infectious chatter. Just me, Roman, and the ever-growing weight of our silence.

Except he wasn’t home. At least, not right now.

I walked barefoot through the apartment, letting the cool marble kiss my skin. The place was quiet. Still. The only sound was the hum of the AC and the faint ticking of the clock in the hallway.

Roman’s door was closed.

It always was.

He never let me in. Not once. And I never asked why. Maybe because I was scared of what I’d find. Or scared of what it meant—that part of him would always be off-limits.

But today, curiosity burned hotter than fear.

I stood before the door, heart racing. The handle was cool under my fingers. I turned it.

Unlocked.

His scent hit me first. Clean, sharp, masculine. Like cedar and smoke. Like him.

The room was dark, the blinds drawn, but not messy. No, it was calculated. Controlled. Just like Roman. Dark sheets, black furniture, a desk cluttered with law textbooks and a silver MacBook. A glass of water, half-finished, sat beside it. His bed was unmade, sheets tangled like he’d left in a rush.

I stepped inside.

There were photos on his shelves—not of people, but of places. A beach at sunset. A city skyline at night. A forest path dusted with snow. All perfectly aligned, like they meant something only to him.

And then I saw it.

A small box on the nightstand.

I shouldn’t have. But I did.

Inside were letters. Faded. Handwritten. One was addressed to someone named Clara.

Before I could read more, a voice cut through the silence.

"Looking for something?"

I froze.

Roman stood at the doorway, eyes dark, mouth set in a hard line. He wasn’t mad. He wasn’t yelling. But his silence was worse.

"I... I was just—"

"Snooping?"

I swallowed hard. "You never let me in here."

He stepped closer, slow and deliberate, his gaze never leaving mine. "And now you’re in. Do you feel better?"

I didn’t answer.

Roman reached out, brushing a lock of hair from my face. His hand lingered on my cheek.

"There are parts of me you won’t like, Ariana."

I met his gaze. "I already know that. But I still want to see them."

His jaw flexed. And then he kissed me.

Not rough. Not desperate. But deep. Slow. Like he needed to feel something only I could give him.

We ended up on his bed, tangled in sheets, fingers exploring skin, breath hitching in quiet gasps. He didn’t take it further. Not this time. Just held me. Pressed kisses to my shoulder. Let me curl into him like I belonged.

And maybe... I did.

Because now, I had a piece of him no one else did.

Even if I had to steal it.

Roman's POV

I left my room for ten minutes.

Ten. Fucking. Minutes.

And when I came back, she was standing in the middle of it—barefoot, loose hoodie slipping off one shoulder, head tilted as she stared at the photograph on my desk like it was whispering secrets to her.

Clara’s photograph.

My chest tightened. The kind of tension that coils low and deep, a mix of anger and panic and something I couldn't name if I tried.

Ariana didn’t hear me come in. Or maybe she did and didn’t care. Her fingers hovered just above the frame. She didn’t touch it, but she looked like she wanted to. Like she needed to.

"You shouldn't be in here," I said, voice rough.

She jumped slightly, then turned slowly, eyes wide but not afraid. Curious. Always fucking curious.

"I know," she whispered. "I just... I was bored. And it was open."

It wasn’t open. I never left that door open.

I didn’t respond. Just stared at her while she took another step back, looking caught, like a kid sneaking cookies before dinner. But this wasn’t the kitchen. And she wasn’t just any girl.

She was my girl. The one who lived down the hall. The one I’d ruined with every touch, every word I wasn’t supposed to say.

And now she was in the one place I’d sworn to keep locked away.

"Who is she?" she asked, nodding toward the photo.

"No one."

Lie.

Ariana’s brows pulled together. She didn’t press. Just stepped around the edge of my bed, trailing her fingers along my bookshelves like she was trying to provoke me.

"You’re messy," she said.

"You’re nosy."

Her lips tugged up slightly, but her eyes stayed on me. "I wanted to know more about you. You never talk. You just... brood."

I blinked. "Brood?"

She smiled. Smiled. Like this was a game. Like she hadn’t just stepped into the part of me that was still bleeding.

I crossed the room fast.

She gasped when my hand wrapped around her wrist and yanked her flush against me. Our chests collided. She was warm and soft and I was stone.

"Don’t go through my things, Ariana. I’m not someone you want to dig into."

She looked up at me, and there was no fear in her eyes. Just stubbornness. And something softer.

"Then show me," she said. "Let me in. Just a little."

God, she didn’t know what she was asking.

I should’ve pushed her away. Left the room. Locked the door.

Instead, I kissed her.

Hard.

Desperate.

Hands in her hair, breath crashing against hers. Her fingers tangled in my hoodie, yanking me closer like she needed this as badly as I did.

I backed her against the wall, palms sliding down her sides, gripping her thighs, lifting her up so her legs wrapped around my waist.

"You shouldn’t want me," I breathed against her neck.

She shivered. "But I do."

I pushed up her hoodie, kissed the bare skin of her stomach, her ribs. She was trembling beneath me, breath ragged, pupils blown.

And I couldn’t stop.

Not when she looked at me like I wasn’t a monster. Like I wasn’t fucked-up. Like she wanted every broken part of me.

So I gave it to her.

We didn’t fuck.

Not this time.

But I kissed her until my lips were sore. Fingered her until she was shaking and moaning my name against my neck, gasping, clinging.

And when she finally unraveled in my arms, I held her like she was the only thing keeping me from coming undone myself.

Because maybe she was.

And maybe I’d burn the whole damn world down before I let her go.