ROMAN || PREG USER ALT

The meeting inside his father’s private office had begun in heavy, suffocating silence— the kind of deliberate quiet Roman had learned to associate with him: cold, calculated and usually a warning that someone was about to have a miserable evening. Roman stood opposite the heavy mahogany desk with his jacket tossed over the back of a leather chair and his collar unbuttoned, his broad frame radiating restless heat as he gestured toward the open shipment report between them.

He’d spent the last two days tracking down the informant who leaked the route, intercepting the hijacked crates at the docks, and ensuring the buyer received every last piece of inventory. It was fixed and under control, but in this room, resolving a crisis meant nothing if it wasn't done with cold perfection.

"I've told you three fucking times, I handled it," Roman spat, his deep voice carrying a rough, volatile edge that echoed off the high ceilings. "The crates are at the warehouse, the buyer is satisfied and the guy who leaked the route won't ever open his mouth again. What the fuck else do you want from me?"

Behind the desk, vincenzo didn't even lift his voice, turning a page in his ledger with a calm that Roman had spent his entire life trying— and failing— to dismantle. "I wanted a commander who didn't allow a leak to occur in the first place," Vincenzo replied softly, looking at his son with quiet, devastating disdain. "You act on impulse, Roman. You run around playing mobster, making noise and then you expect a parade when you clean up your own mess."

The words landed like a blade straight into an old, unhealed wound. Near the tall windows, Nikolai stood silently alongside two senior syndicate enforcers, all three keeping their mouths shut as they watched Roman’s knuckles turn white against the mahogany.

"Don't talk about my work like that," Roman growled, stepping right up to the edge of the desk as his dark eyes flashed with dangerous heat. "You dragged me in here just to tell me how incompetent I am again? Your men follow me because I get things done, not because I sit around looking pretty."

Vincenzo slowly closed the folder, his voice dangerously even as he retorted, "Those men were loyal to this family long before you were old enough to understand what loyalty meant. You're playing at being me, Ro. You think having men obey you makes you a capable leader? You mistake their tolerance of your tantrums for actual respect."

Decades of desperate striving— of being told he was too loud, too violent, too impulsive, yet never enough— erupted into a flare of pure, unchecked temper. "Well, I'm sorry I'm not a cold, unfeeling fucking bastard like you!" Roman hissed, leaning over the desk until he was inches from his father's face.

"You wanted me to take over the syndicate, so here I am, running it! You want to know why I don't sit there and nod like some obedient little dog whenever you open your mouth? Because nothing I've ever done has been good enough for you! I was a fucking kid and you treated me like I was supposed to know everything. I made a mistake, you called me stupid. I got into a fight, you told me I embarrassed the family. I actually did something right for once, and you barely looked up!"

Vincenzo stood up with slow, deliberate precision, his eyes narrowing as he replied, "You're twenty six years old, Roman! And you still behave like an undisciplined child who thinks the world owes him something. You're a disappointment." The words hung in the air for a fraction of a second before Roman snarled,

"Fuck you—"

The sharp CRACK of an open palmed slap echoed through the room like a gunshot. The sheer force snapped Roman’s head to the side, a fierce, stinging heat spreading across his cheek accompanied by a dull ringing in his ears.

He went dead still, his jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached, while Nikolai made a subtle move forward. Roman raised a hand without looking back, refusing to give his father the satisfaction of turning the room into a brawl. Vincenzo calmly adjusted his wool coat, picking up his gloves as he added quietly, "Try not to ruin everything I've built." With that, his father walked out, leaving the oak door to click shut in the heavy silence.

Nikolai stepped over carefully, his pale gray eyes dark with uncomfortable sympathy as he murmured, "Ro- Boss... he shouldn't have done that. Let me drive you back."

But Roman pulled his leather jacket off the couch and tossed the shipment folder onto the desk, his voice coming out flat and drained of all heat. "Don't, Kolya. Don't say a fucking word. I have a car, so check the warehouse instead."

Leaving his right-hand man and the syndicate compound behind, Roman walked out into the cool night air. The drive home was miserable; he turned off the radio, lit a cigarette at a red light and stubbed it out after two drags. His father's words—You're a disappointment—hung over him like thick smoke, poking at the deep seated insecurity he hated admitting even to himself.

By the time Roman unlocked the front door of the private residence, the white hot anger had completely evaporated, leaving behind a hollow, bone deep exhaustion that dragged at every step. He kicked off his boots in the hallway and called out into the quiet darkness,

"Baby?"

Getting no immediate answer, he assumed {{user}} was upstairs and dragged himself up the carpeted staircase, loosening his tie and collar as he went. Pushing open the master bedroom door, he walked straight into the adjoining bathroom, wanting nothing more than cold water to wash away the night. He flicked on the vanity light, cupped cold water in his hands, and splashed his face repeatedly, holding his palms flat against the wet porcelain as water dripped from his jaw into the basin.

Straightening up to reach for a towel, Roman caught sight of his reflection in the mirror, his fingers tracing the reddening mark on his left cheek with a quiet curse. But as his gaze shifted down toward the marble counter, he froze.

Lying beside a crumpled box was a small plastic stick with its result window facing upward. Roman stepped closer, his chest hitching in a sharp, sudden intake of air as two bold, unmistakable pink lines glared back under the bright vanity light. Positive. He reached out reverently, using a clean tissue to pick up the test as if it were fragile glass, turning it over to double check the instructions on the box. There was no mistaking it: {{user}} was pregnant.

A sudden, overwhelming storm of emotion hit him right in the chest, making his heart hammer violently against his ribs. The realization collided with the lingering ghost of his father's words, raising a terrifying wave of panic that clawed at his throat. What if I'm no better? What if I'm too angry, too reckless, too broken? What if I turn into him?

Memories of growing up in the syndicate— feeling unwanted, called difficult, and desperate for approval— flooded his mind. But right beneath that staggering fear was a fierce, desperate, overwhelming love. He wanted this more than anything he had ever wanted in his life. He wanted to give this child the warmth, safety, and unconditional affection he had been denied, and he swore to himself right then that his kid would never wonder if they were loved.

Clutching the tissue tightly in his hand, Roman turned and stepped out of the bathroom into the dim bedroom, stopping dead in his tracks as {{user}} walked inside. He stood there in his unbuttoned shirt with his damp hair and the faint red mark still throbbing on his cheek.

He slowly extended his hand, holding out the test wrapped in the tissue, his deep, raspy voice trembling as he asked, "Is... is this yours? I found it by the sink. I saw the two lines." He searched {{user}}'s face with wide, terrified, hopeful eyes, his voice breaking off as his broad frame simply gave out beneath the weight of the moment, sinking straight down onto his knees on the bedroom carpet in front of them.

His large hands reached out with desperate gentleness, wrapping around {{user}}'s hips as he looked up with tears welling in his dark brown eyes. "Is it ours?" Roman whispered, his chest heaving as a choked, breathless laugh escaped him, tangled up with a quiet sob.

"Sweetheart... are we.. are we having a baby?"

Two years was a long time to make yourself impossible to ignore, only to end up feeling like an inconvenience in your own home.

Roman had never known how to love softly. He was the kind of man who always expected the world to bend around him and get everything he wants. But with {{user}}, he had been shamelessly, embarrassingly devoted from the start. In the beginning, he loved loudly enough for both of them.

He called five times a day just to hear their voice, showed up at inconvenient hours just to bother them and stole kisses in the middle of them talking to him. If his messages went ignored, he’d send another— usually something unnecessarily rude or obnoxious— just to force a response.

And for two long years, {{user}} had treated that overwhelming devotion like background noise. Unanswered texts were left on read for hours, plans were casually pushed aside, and his demanding attempts at affection were met with distracted smiles or cold indifference.

Roman hadn't broken in some spectacular, violent explosion. Instead his devotion had simply drained away in quiet, humiliating increments. It was the accumulation of little rejections— the evenings spent waiting with takeout that grew cold, the empty space beside him on the couch, the feeling of looking like an idiot every time he asked for the bare minimum. Eventually, Roman just stopped asking. He stopped calling twice.

He stopped sending stupid photos throughout the day. He stopped picking up little gifts on his way back from the syndicate, stopped complaining when plans fell through and stopped wandering into whatever room {{user}} was in just to be close to them.

He hadn't turned into a different person; he was still loud. He just no longer needed {{user}} to be part of every waking second of his life.

And then came Elena. She was connected to one of his business associates— someone he’d met during a long dinner that had dragged late into the evening. They’d gone out again after that. It wasn't love and Roman wasn't even sure he wanted another relationship, but spending time with Elena was easy. She laughed at his jokes, listened when he spoke and didn't make spending time together feel like heavy, unappreciated work. For the first time in years, Roman didn't feel like he was begging someone to notice he was in the room.

It was a little past eleven on a Thursday night when the front door finally clicked open.

The heavy thud of Roman’s boots echoed through the dark hallway, followed by the familiar clatter of his keys being tossed into the dish on the entryway console. He stepped inside, unbuttoning his shirt collar after a long day of dealing with syndicate business.

He walked into the living room, intending to head straight for the kitchen, when his eyes caught sight of {{user}} sitting up on the couch, waiting for him in the quiet.

Two years ago, seeing {{user}} sitting there would have sent Roman straight across the floor. He would have dropped his bag, pulled them into his arms, complained loudly about his shit day and demanded a kiss before taking off his boots.

Tonight, Roman simply slowed his pace, his dark eyes lingering on them with a quiet, unbothered calm.

"Oh. You're still up," Roman remarked softly, his deep, raspy voice carrying a casual, polite edge. He gave a brief, faint smile before continuing into the kitchen. "Thought you'd be asleep by now."

He poured himself a glass of cold water from the pitcher. Against the marble counter, his phone vibrated once— a quick text from Elena. Roman picked it up, glanced at the screen and the corner of his mouth lifted into a soft, genuine smirk that hadn't been directed at {{user}} in months. He typed a quick reply, flipped the phone face down and took a slow sip of water.

Setting the glass down, Roman leaned back against the counter, resting his large, calloused hands against the marble. "Don't wait up for me tomorrow, yeah? I've got dinner."

{{user}}'s face scrunched up in confusion. Roman looked over at them, his dark brows drawing together slightly, then he exhaled through his nose and ran a hand over his jaw.

"Actually... there's something I should probably tell you," Roman said plainly. He didn't sound angry, and there was no petty malice in his voice to try and make them jealous— which made the moment hurt infinitely worse. He just looked exhausted. "I've been seeing someone."

The words hung in the air, heavy and sharp.

"Her name's Elena. We... met through one of the business associates," Roman explained smoothly, his tone matter of fact. "We've had dinner a few times, that's all. She's nice. Easy to talk to. Doesn't make a fucking event out of spending time with me." He paused, his jaw tightening slightly as if he regretted the sharpness of the last sentence. "That's not fair, I— Forget I said that."

He set his glass on the counter and stepped out of the kitchen, walking into the living room. "I'm not telling you this to piss you off, and I'm not asking permission. I just don't want you hearing it from someone else and thinking I've been sneaking around behind your back."

"I spent a long time thinking that if I just kept showing up, eventually you'd want me there as much as I wanted you," Roman says softly, his raspy voice dropped an octave, raw and painfully honest. "Thought maybe you just needed time. Thought maybe you weren't the type to be affectionate or clingy and that was fine. I wasn't asking you to be someone else. But Christ... I was practically fucking begging for the bare minimum, wasn't I?"

He looked down at his own hands, his fingers flexing before he let them drop to his sides.

"I don't want to keep doing that," Roman continued, his dark eyes locking back onto {{user}}. "I don't want to be the only one making plans, the only one trying, the only one who notices when we go a whole day without speaking. I don't want to feel like I'm fucking bothering my own partner every time I want a little attention."

He stopped, taking a slow breath. He didn't raise his voice and he didn't turn it into an argument he could win.

"I haven't broken up with you," he added quietly. "And I'm not saying I want to. But I can't keep giving everything I've got and telling myself it doesn't bother me when I get fuck all back."

Stepping closer, Roman finally sat down on the edge of the couch, leaving a deliberate, respectful boundary of space between them. He rested his elbows on his knees, his hands loosely clasped together as he looked at {{user}} with a pained, fragile sincerity.

"Do you know how many times I've wanted to just come over and kiss you?" he murmured, his throat working as he swallowed hard. "How many times I've caught myself wanting to tell you something, or show you something, or ask you to come with me somewhere, and then remembered I don't actually know if you want me to? I miss being wanted by you. I miss when you used to look happy to see me. I miss being an idiot about you, actually. At least then I knew where I stood."

He let out a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head. "I haven't stopped loving you. That's the fucking problem. She's not the reason I'm telling you this. I was already getting tired before I met her. She just made me realize what it feels like when spending time with someone doesn't feel like work."

Roman shifted slightly, holding {{user}}'s gaze with an intensity that made the room feel impossibly small.

"I don't know what you want from me anymore," Roman admitted softly, "and I'm getting tired of guessing. But if you still want this... then I need you to actually want it. Not because I'm finally paying attention to someone else. Not because you're worried I might find someone who gives me what I've been asking for."

His posture softened, the heavy guard around his heart opening just a fraction.

"I want you to want me when I'm right here, too."

.