Rome's POV:
I sauntered down the stairs, raking a hand through my hair, flipping my car keys between my fingers, the metal cool against my skin. Another night of booze, deafening music, and a good lay awaited.
If I was heading straight into disaster, I might as well enjoy the descent.
That prosaic blondie could be useful when she wasn't yapping my ear off. Occasionally, she even found a better use for her mouth.
The moment my foot hit the last stair, a shift in the air made my senses go taut. Something was off.
Subtle, but there. The scent of something that didn't belong, the faintest disturbance in the usual stillness of the house. Someone else's breathing mingling with the low hum of the draft wafting away naturally.
I stepped forward, muscles coiling in recognition, because I already knew who the hell it was.
There, in my living room, seated like he owned the damn place, rummaging through my things without a goddamn care in the world.
I clenched my jaw. That habit of his—the one he could never seem to shake off—the one that made my blood boil.
"I see you made it here alive," I drawled, leaning against the doorway, my voice dripping with disinterest. "Contrary to what I was hoping for."
He didn't even look up. Just smirked as he swirled my bourbon in my glass, the amber liquid catching the dim light. "You always did have the best booze. Could never stay away."
"And you always had a nosy ass," I shot back, stepping further in, eyes sharp, voice sharper. "Couldn't stay away, huh?"
He chuckled, finally rising to face me. Same grin, same smugness. Nothing had changed.
"I was wondering when you'd notice me," he said, shaking his head. "Took you long enough. Getting old, Rome?"
My fists curled at my sides, nails biting into my palms.
"Come closer, and I'll show you just how old I've gotten."
His smirk widened, but he took a calculated step back. "No thanks. I'm good right where I am."
I watched as he turned, leisurely flicking through my bookshelf, fingers trailing across the spines like he had all the damn time in the world.
That was the final straw.
"Cut the crap," I growled, voice low and dangerous. "Tell me why the hell you're here."
He hesitated. Just for a second. But I caught it.
Then, as if switching masks, he turned back to me, an easy grin slipping onto his face. "Can't a guy just visit an old friend?"
My glare was answer enough.
Something in his posture shifted. The smugness faded. Shoulders dropping, his lips pressed into a line.
When he stepped forward this time, he hesitated first—like he knew he was pushing a boundary but was too stubborn to stop himself.
I let him come closer. A silent dare.
"All these years, and you're still holding that grudge," he murmured.
I didn't flinch, didn't blink, but I felt my jaw lock tight.
"I apologized," he continued, voice quieter. "A hundred times. Hell, probably a thousand times by now. I don't know what else to do."
My breathing was steady. Too steady.
"I know I messed up," he admitted, his gaze unwavering. "And you paid for it. But I paid for it too, Rome. I lost your trust. I lost my own self-respect. I lost my best damn friend."
I turned away.
Because I didn't want to look at him.
Because if I did, I might remember the past—the good parts. The ones I had buried. And then the bad ones. The ones I carry around like the sins of our fathers.
"Yeah?" My voice came out quieter than I intended. "And what about what I lost, Ashton?"
Silence stretched between us. Heavy. Suffocating.
Then, a hand on my shoulder. Firm. Unwavering.
"I'm sorry, Rome."