He shrugs. “I wanted to believe in justice. It was supposed to be anonymous, but … it could have found its way into the wrong hands. I could have been followed. The corrupt pieces of shit might have tracked down people I knew and searched properties, finding Bea’s. Rebecca could have mentioned the lake house to Daniel at some point. Or maybe it was none of those things,” he says. “If that man was planning to look until he found us, he was going to find us, Remington. I’m just fucking glad it was me in the living room when they broke the glass with guns.”

I tip my head to the side, resting my cheek on his hand. “I’ve always felt like such a terrible human for hiding. For just listening while they said such horrible things and hurt you so badly. Maybe if I would have offered to⁠—”

Roman cuts me off. “Fuck off with whatever you’re about to say. I never would have forgiven myself if they touched you. Hell, I probably would have died trying to end them all.”

I blink away tears, and he brushes his thumb over my temple.

“You’ve suffered enough over other people’s bullshit. We both have. And I’m so fucking proud of you for living your life again.” His lips lift at the corners. “I can’t kill the monster in your closet. But you can stop believing in him⁠—”

“And it’s damn near the same thing,” I finish with him.

He nods and smiles my tied-for-favorite smile. “Even strung out, I was fucking parenting. Not only that, but my shit holds up whether you’re eight or twenty-three.”

I laugh and wryly remind him, “You also told me if I ever stole you anything worth pawning, you’d give me a cut in gummy bears.”

Roman winces. “Let’s not relive my greatest hits.”

“Or the time you explained the importance of always knowing my dealer?”

He scrubs his hand over his face. “I had to open my goddamn mouth.” But then he settles his gaze on me again, all warm and kind and safe. “I know you won’t entirely believe that none of the blame lies with you or him right away, but swear you will piece by piece. Whittle away at it for me, yeah?”

I nod, listening and committing to it. “Yeah.”

“Great. I can’t ask for more. It can count as my Father’s Day gift.” Not giving me time to respond to that one, he adds, “And so you’re up to speed on the rest of his visit, Imane cuddled on, cried on, and then threw up on Adams North.”

My eyes close for a long moment, lips pressed together. “Please tell me you got pictures of at least one?”

“The first,” he confirms, shifting to show me.