Roman

The drive home was ghostly quiet.

Savannah sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window as if the world rushing by outside was more interesting than anything inside the car. Her profile was unreadable, her lips pressed together so tightly they looked carved in stone. Her arms remained folded defensively across her chest.

I wanted to reach for her hand. I wanted to tell her she didn't have to drown in silence, that she didn't have to carry the weight of her sister’s announcement alone. But I knew her well enough to know that if I pushed too soon, she'd retreat further behind a wall of jokes and armor.

So I drove, my jaw tight, my grip squeezing the wheel until we pulled into the driveway.

I unlocked the door and led her inside. The house was quiet, almost oppressively so. Not a single soul was visible; no clinking dishes in the kitchen, no footsteps echoing through the halls. Just a heavy, thick silence wrapping around us.

Her shoulders were still drawn tight beneath my jacket, her eyes focused on some distant point. I kept my hand on her waist as we climbed the staircase, guiding her gently. She let me touch her, let me lead her, but she was still keeping a universe of pain between us.

When we reached our room, she slipped my jacket off and draped it neatly over a chair before sinking onto the edge of the bed. Her hands smoothed the hem of her dress over and over, a restless, rhythmic motion.

I crouched in front of her, taking her chin gently between my fingers, forcing her eyes to meet mine. "Talk to me, Savannah. Tell me what's wrong."

She shook her head. "Nothing's wrong."

"Don't do that," I pressed, my voice sharper than I intended. "Don't shut me out. You looked like you'd seen a ghost back there."

Her lips trembled, but she forced them into a thin line. "I'm fine, Roman. Really."

I searched her face. Every line of it screamed the opposite. She looked like she had barely survived a wreckage.

"Are you hurting because of the announcement?" I asked carefully, watching for a reaction. "Because of Chloe and Dean?"

Her body stilled. A tiny flicker crossed her eyes, but she blinked it away as quickly as it came. "No," she said firmly. "That's not it."

"Sav—"

She stood abruptly, cutting me off. "I just... need to clear my head, Roman." She smoothed her dress again. "I'm going for a swim."

Before I could respond, she retreated into the bathroom. The door clicked shut, locking me out. I raked a hand through my hair, pacing the room. She was shutting me out, and I hated the distance. Every instinct in me screamed to break down that door and demand the truth, but I forced myself to wait.

Minutes dragged by, heavy and suffocating. Finally, the door opened.

Savannah stepped out in a white bathrobe, her damp hair spilling over her shoulders, her skin glowing now that she’d washed away the evening’s makeup. Bare-faced and vulnerable, she looked more striking than I’d ever seen her.

She didn't look at me. She just padded past, silent as a ghost, her soft footsteps the only sound in the room. I followed. Down the staircase. Across the polished marble hall. Through the glass doors that opened onto the moonlit backyard.

The night air hit cool and sharp against my skin. I watched as Savannah walked to the edge of the pool, undoing the knot of her robe. She let it slip from her shoulders, falling in a soft heap on the stone tiles, and then she slipped into the dark, shimmering water.

My chest constricted at the sight. She submerged herself, then surfaced, her skin glinting in the moonlight. The water seemed to caress her, highlighting every curve as she moved with a desperate grace. She was a vision, dangerous and devastating.

My pulse thundered in my ears. I yanked off my shirt, kicked off my shoes, and dove in after her.

The water slapped cold against my skin, a brief shock to my system. But as soon as I surfaced, I saw her, and the cold was forgotten. She turned at the sound, her hair slicked back, her eyes wide. She didn't speak; she just floated there, watching me approach.

I swam closer, closing the distance slowly. When I reached her, I didn't cage her in. I simply let my hand brush her waist beneath the surface—a light, tentative question.

She didn't pull away, but she looked toward the dark horizon of the garden. I leaned in, my lips brushing her shoulder first. Testing her. Her skin was wet and cool, tasting of the night. She shivered in response. I moved higher, trailing kisses along her collarbone, the hollow of her throat, and finally the edge of her jaw.

Her breath caught, heavy with expectation.

Finally, I claimed her mouth. Her lips parted for me instantly, as though her body had been waiting for this release all along. The kiss was slow at first, a coaxing, teasing heat that quickly deepened into something hungrier, something desperate. I felt her melt against me, her hands finding my shoulders as the steel chains of my restraint began to unravel.

I broke away just enough to whisper against her lips. "Savannah... talk to me. Tell me what you're hiding."

Her nails grazed my chest underwater—a delicate, sharp movement that made my breath hitch. She rested her forehead against mine, her breathing ragged and uneven. For a long moment, I thought she’d deflect again, that she’d vanish back into her silence.

But then she spoke. Just one quiet, shattered sentence that changed everything.

"The baby isn't Dean's."

The world seemed to stop. The water stilled; the night air froze. Even my heart skipped a beat. Her eyes lifted to mine, brimming with the storm she'd been fighting to contain all night.

In that single moment, I realized that the drama at the party was just the surface. A much darker lie was unraveling, and Savannah was the only one standing in the center of it.