Chapter Two: The lines between us
1055 Words
Eden
I can’t stop thinking about the way he said it.
"That doesn’t mean I don’t have rules of my own."
It’s been two hours since Roman brushed past me in the living room, but the words are still lodged in my chest like a thorn I keep pushing against. Sharp. Deep. Just enough to sting.
I sit curled up on the window seat in my bedroom, pretending to read, but really I’m just staring out at the backyard. Roman's there. Shirt off. Sweating. Swinging an axe into logs like the woods have personally offended him.
He’s not just strong. He’s violent in the way he moves—controlled chaos. Like he’s constantly holding himself back from going further. Doing more.
And it makes my stomach twist in ways I can’t admit out loud.
He’s not like other men. Not like the boys in my classes who wear sneakers too clean and hands too soft. Roman looks like he could break someone with a thought—and maybe he has.
I wonder what he does when my father isn’t around. I wonder what happens at that secret club I wasn’t supposed to find. The one tucked behind unmarked doors in the bad part of town. The one I followed him to, once, even though I knew I shouldn’t.
He didn’t see me that night. At least, I don’t think he did.
But something changed after.
He watches me differently now. Speaks to me like he's choosing his words with a blade against his throat. Every time we're in the same room, something buzzes under my skin—like electricity. Like temptation.
I press my forehead to the glass and whisper, “What are you hiding from me?”
As if he hears me, Roman pauses. Looks up.
Our eyes meet.
I should look away. I don’t.
His stare is steady, heavy, and terrifying in how still it is. Like he’s waiting for me to blink first. Like he’s daring me not to.
And maybe I am.
Because I don’t want him to protect me.
I want him to lose control.
Later that night, the house is quieter than usual. Dad’s gone on another last-minute trip, and Roman hasn’t come out of his room since dinner.
I should be asleep. I should stop thinking about the way his eyes lingered on me today—the way his voice softened just a fraction when he said my name.
But I’m not.
Instead, I find myself standing outside his door, heart pounding like a warning drum.
I knock.
No answer.
I try the handle. It’s unlocked.
I step inside.
Roman is sitting on the edge of his bed, hands clasped tightly between his knees, jaw clenched so hard it looks like he’s trying to hold back a storm.
“Roman?” My voice is barely a whisper.
He looks up, startled—like he wasn’t expecting company, like the mask he wears so well is starting to c***k.
“What are you doing here?” His voice is rough.
“I could ask you the same thing.” I step closer. “Why do you shut yourself away like this?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he runs a hand through his hair, sighing deeply.
“I’m keeping my promise,” he says finally. “Your father asked me to watch over you. That’s all this is.”
I bite my lip. “It doesn’t feel like ‘just watching’ anymore.”
Roman’s eyes darken. “It shouldn’t.”
“Why?” I challenge, stepping closer until the space between us feels like an electric current ready to snap. “Because I’m young? Because you think I don’t understand what you’re doing?”
He stands abruptly, towering over me. The heat radiates off him like a wildfire.
“I don’t want to want you,” he admits, voice low, raw. “I shouldn’t feel this way.”
My breath catches.
“I never wanted this,” he continues, voice breaking. “But every time I look at you, I remember the promise I made to your father—and I want more than just to protect you.”
The room spins, the line between fear and desire blurring until I don’t know where I end and he begins.
“What do you want, Roman?” I whisper.
He steps so close our breaths mingle, “I want to keep you safe. And I want to keep you close. But I’m terrified I’ll destroy you if I do.”
The weight of his words crushes the space between us.
And in that moment, I realize—we’re both already broken.
Roman's POV
I can feel her breath—shallow, quick—as if she’s on the edge of running or falling.
“I’m not going to destroy you,” I say, voice rougher than I’d like. “But I’m not sure I can control what I feel anymore.”
She looks up at me, eyes wide, vulnerable.
“You don’t have to control it,” she whispers.
That scares me more than anything.
Because letting go means crossing lines I swore I’d never cross. Lines that shouldn’t exist between us.
But the truth is—it’s already too late.
I reach out, barely touching her arm. Electricity shoots through me.
“Eden,” I say, trying to steady my voice, “you don’t know what you’re asking.”
“I want to know,” she says, voice firm despite the tremble in her hands.
Her courage surprises me. Or maybe it’s desperation.
“I’m here because your father asked me to be,” I remind her. “But I’m also here because I can’t leave. Not completely.”
She swallows hard. “Then don’t.”
For a moment, the world falls away. It’s just us, two broken souls standing too close to a fire that could burn us both.
I close the distance.
“Tell me what you want,” I breathe.
She hesitates, then steps into the space between us, bold and trembling all at once.
“I want you to stop pretending this is just protection,” she says. “I want you to be real with me.”
Her words pierce the quiet night like a challenge.
And I realize we’ve already crossed that line.
- Writer
