Roman rarely drank.
Directorate officers were expected to maintain control at all times — posture, speech, composure. Alcohol blurred those lines. Blurring lines got people reassigned or executed.
But tonight, for reasons even he didn't examine too closely, Roman had a bottle of state-issue whiskey open on the counter and was two glasses in when Julie walked downstairs to return her integration tablet.
She stopped in the doorway, clutching it to her chest.
Roman looked up — eyes dark, unfocused in a way she hadn't seen.
"Training?" he asked.
Julie nodded. "Module three."
Roman snorted. "Fertility awareness." He poured another finger of whiskey. "As if charts ever saved a nation."
Julie blinked. "Are you… okay?"
Roman motioned vaguely with the bottle. "Deputy Chiefs give speeches to keep morale up. I gave one today. Women nodded. Men clapped. Procurement sent flowers." He drank again. "Nothing changed."
Julie stepped closer, cautious. "Why are you telling me this?"
Roman set the glass down harder than necessary. "Because you're not the reason the world is dying. But the Directorate will pretend you are."
Julie's breath caught — she'd never heard him talk about the Act like that.
Roman looked at her then.
Really looked.
His voice dropped. "The training modules tell you the law. They don't tell you the truth."
Julie swallowed. "What's the truth?"
Roman leaned forward, bracing his hands on the counter, whiskey glass between them. "The truth is the Act was written by men who watched charts fall and decided ownership was easier than partnership."
Julie stared at him — stunned he said it out loud.
Roman exhaled through his nose, sharp. "I shouldn't be saying this."
Julie stepped toward him without thinking. "I won't tell anyone."
Their eyes met, and for a moment the room held its breath.
Roman looked away first, running a hand through his hair. "I need air."
He pushed off the counter and headed toward the balcony. Julie followed instinctively — not because she wasn't scared, but because something in his voice made her want to understand him.
The night air was cool. The city hummed below.
Roman stood by the railing, shoulders tense, tattoos shifting beneath the fabric of his shirt.
Julie hovered near the door. "Should I go?"
Roman didn't answer at first. Then quietly:
"No. Stay."
Julie stepped outside, closing the door behind her. Roman didn't turn, but his voice was rough when he finally spoke again.
"You looked terrified in that car."
His tone wasn't scolding. It was haunted.
Julie's fingers twisted in her sleeves. "I was."
Roman nodded once. "I hate that I was the reason."
Julie didn't know what to say to that. He had hurt her, but he had also… chosen her. Protected her. Confused her.
Roman turned then — slowly — and Julie's pulse skipped.
His eyes were darker than the night around them, whiskey-loosened and stripped of command.
"Do you fear me now?" he asked, voice low.
Julie's throat tightened. "Sometimes," she whispered. "But not right now."
Something shifted in Roman's expression — surprise, relief, hunger, she couldn't tell.
He took one step forward, then another, until Julie's back brushed the balcony door.
He wasn't touching her. Not yet. But his presence pressed against the air like gravity.
"Julie," he murmured, "look at me."
She did.
Roman lifted a hand, slow enough that she could have moved away. She didn't. His fingers brushed her jaw — light, careful, trembling from adrenaline or whiskey or both.
"You don't run from me anymore," he said, almost to himself.
Julie whispered, "Should I?"
Roman's voice was a rasp. "I don't know."
Then — before she could breathe — he leaned in and kissed her.
Not rough.
Not forced.
Just… hungry and torn apart by restraint.
Julie gasped against his mouth, shocked — but the shock melted fast into something warm and forbidden and terrifyingly alive.
She kissed him back.
For a moment they were just two people in a world that demanded they be roles.
Roman pulled back like the contact burned him, chest rising, eyes wide.
Julie touched her lips, breath shaking. "Roman…"
His voice was raw. "You should go inside."
Julie blinked. "Did I do something wrong?"
Roman laughed once — hollow. "No. That's the problem."
Julie hesitated, then slipped past him through the balcony door, heart racing.
Roman stayed outside, gripping the railing until his knuckles whitened.
He tasted whiskey and strawberries and regret.
Dean stood in the hallway just out of sight, heart hammering. He'd come looking for fresh air — instead he'd heard voices and stopped.
He hadn't meant to overhear.
But he had.
He didn't see the kiss, but he saw Julie slip inside, cheeks flushed, fingers pressed to her mouth.
He saw Roman outside, breathing like he'd run a mile.
Dean turned away silently, swallowing fire.
He would never tell anyone what he saw.
Because that was the only way to protect her — and himself.