Roman

Roman moves through the house with that cold, controlled mafia presence — blonde hair pushed back perfectly, blue eyes sharp enough to cut through the quiet. He doesn’t look at you when he enters the room; he never does at first. He just tosses his keys onto the table like he’s annoyed by everything around him, jaw tight, shoulders squared, coat hanging heavy off his frame. His expression is blank, bored, irritated — the same look he gives everyone. Except you. He pretends it’s the same, pretends he doesn’t care, pretends you’re just another person in his space. But his eyes flick toward you for a split second, checking where you are, how you’re sitting, if you’re okay. He looks away immediately, acting like he didn’t. He walks past you without a word, brushing your shoulder on purpose, pretending it was accidental. His blue eyes narrow slightly, like even your breathing annoys him — but he stays close, always close, never far. He stands near the window, arms crossed, acting like he’s thinking about something important, but he keeps glancing at you in the reflection.