Finding Romeo

Chapter 22

(Talia's POV)

"Romeo?" I asked, staring into his terrified eyes and wondering if he was going to actually respond or take of running.

His head jerked in the slightest of nods, his shoulders hunching as he seemed to withdraw back into his hoody, which was hanging off his thin, tense shoulders. He was waited for my reaction, like he thought I had come here to kill him or something even after he had saved my life.

I couldn't help but look him over again, this time looking at him as Romeo and not just some random grocery bagger.

He wasn't wearing the hat anymore, so I was able to see his face fully along with his brown hair, which was growing out to the point of hanging down in his eyes. The bruises covering his face continued up to his hairline and the look in his eyes told me that he was used to taking a beating, he barely even winced when he blinked, even though I knew his entire face had to hurt like hell.

I would have to word everything and act just right to try and get him to relax, if that was even possible. After meeting his father, it wasn't surprising to see him acting this way. I knew there was a flirty, romantic Romeo inside of his skittish outer layer somewhere though, I just had to work to bring it out of him.

"Thank god!" I gushed, letting my shoulders relax in relief. "You sure are a hard guy to find, Luka wouldn't tell me a thing. Thank you for the rose and for saving my life and well, for everything really."

Romeo's expression changed, looking shocked and a bit confused. Still, he said nothing.

I stood awkwardly for a moment, before smiling warmly at him. "Can I come in?"

Seeing him in person helped melt away my fears of him being some crazy creep. It was like looking into a injured puppies eyes and trying to think of it as a monster.

Romeo stood for a moment, just watching me as he tried to make a decision. He stepped back away from the door, giving me plenty of room to come inside, his nerves causing his hands to visibly shake.

He closed the door behind me slowly, before hesitatingly moving past me into the living room. Grabbing a marker board and marker from a makeshift table, he hovered his hand over it, as if trying to think of something to write down.

Odd. Why would he need to write anything down right now?

Then it clicked.

He couldn't speak. That's why he hadn't made a sound sense I showed up at the door. No wonder he was so outgoing and talkative online, he could actually say anything he wanted on there without being limited by his inability to speak.

Which also explained why he had been hiding and reluctant to meet in person.

I shifted the bag on my shoulder as I waited, watching as his hand shook so badly that he kept having to wipe away at the words and write them again to make them readable.

Guys hated pity, so I walked around the room, pretending to look at the barren walls as if they were extravagant art pieces that needed appreciating, hiding that emotion. Running my fingers across the peeling paint on the walls, I moved across the room, taking in the few items that were scattered around the living room. There was a can of food setting between two lit candles, it's paper wrapping torn off and lying to the side.

As rough as the room was, it still felt warm and cozy, like someone's home should be. It was something I had never had while growing up, the house I had lived in never felt like home. It had felt cold and fake, just like how the people inside it felt. Cold on the inside and fake on the outside.