Page 91 of Forgive Me Father

Don’t rush. You had a long night.

—R

“Oh, Roman,” I murmur to myself, the smile growing wider despite the ache in my heart.

Don’t make me fall for your good side too.

But as I stand there, wrapped in his shirt, surrounded by the scent and feel of him, I can’t help but feel that something has shifted. What we shared last night—it wasn’t just physical. It was a turning point, a moment where everything changed. And as much as I want to deny it, to push it away, I know that the line between us has blurred in ways that can’t be undone.

With a deep breath, I turn to the sink, the cool water splashing onto my face, washing away the remnants of last night’s makeup and some of the lingering doubts. But as I look up at my reflectionagain, I realize that what’s left behind is something new—a woman who’s seen another side of herself, of Roman, and who’s not entirely sure what to do with that knowledge.

After washing my face and feeling somewhat more like myself, I step into the hallway, the rich smell of bacon drifting through the air. I take my time, pausing to study the few photos Roman has on the wall. My fingers brush lightly over a picture of him with his unit in the army—his face rugged, dusted with stubble and dirt. He’s grinning widely, arms slung around the necks of his fellow soldiers, all of them beaming with a camaraderie that’s palpable even through the photograph.

I move to the next photo, a stark contrast to the first. It’s less exuberant, more tender. A beautiful woman with short hair covered by a pink bandana holds the hands of a young boy with jet-black hair, helping him walk. They’re both laughing, a peacefulness in their expressions that suggests the moment is something that should be cherished.

I gently take the picture from the wall, unable to tear my eyes away as I make my way into the kitchen.

Roman stands at the stove, shirtless, his broad back facing me. A large mug of coffee sits on the counter, and the table is set for two, with a spread of breakfast items hot and ready. I can’t help but notice the faint marks my nails left on his skin, a reminder of the intensity of the night before.

"Morning, Angel," He says with a warm smile, turning to face me. His gaze immediately drops to the frame in my hand.

"I—I'm sorry, I just loved the picture—" I begin, feeling a bit sheepish.

"She was a bright soul," He interrupts, turning off the stove before leaning against the counter. "You would have never known she had cancer."

"This is—" I start again, but he finishes the thought for me.

"My mom," He says softly, walking over to me.

He takes the frame from my hands, his fingers lingering over the image, especially on her bright, radiant smile. "She beat cancer more than once. I was always convinced my father's abuse is what kept her from overcoming it a third time," he sighs, his eyebrows furrowing as he gets lost in the memory.

"That’s you?" I ask, tracing the image of the young boy in the photo with my finger.

"Surprised I was so cute?" He teases, placing the frame down on the counter.

Wrapping his arms around my waist, he pulls me close. I loop my arms around his neck, leaning into the warmth of his body. His lips brush lightly against mine in a tender kiss, soft and gentle, filled with a kind of sweetness that feels new between us.

"Do you miss her?" I ask, resting my forehead against his.

"All the time," He admits, his voice barely above a whisper. "It's why I chose to believe there was a Heaven to begin with and swore my life to find a way to meet her there one day." There’s a vulnerability in his words, a glimpse into the heart of Roman Briar that I hadn’t fully seen before.

"And how are you feeling, by the way?" He asks, a playful smirk tugging at the corners of his lips, shifting the mood.

The change is almost tangible, and I can’t help but smile back, knowing exactly what he’s referring to.

"Like we got in a fight rather than fucked," I admit, feeling the soreness in every muscle.

Roman grins and grabs my ass, lifting me onto the counter. His hands trail possessively under the shirt I borrowed, mapping out every inch of me.

"You’ll have to get used to that feeling if you want to keep ‘dating’ me," He murmurs, though his expression twists slightly at the word "date."

"So we’re dating now?" I tease. "You haven’t even asked."

"Date is such a harsh word," He mutters, the weight of his faith still tugging at him. "But if anyone else touched you as I did, they’d quickly find out just how real God is," He growls, pressing his lips to my neck. I frown as I feel the cold metal of his ring brush against my skin.

"You put your ring back on," I whisper, disappointment lacing my tone.

"You sound upset," He replies, pulling back just enough to look at me, his hands still framing my hips.