Page 10 of The Cuddle Clause

My brain short-circuited. What did he just—? That couldn’t be an appropriate thing for a roommate to say. I mean, sure, we’d made out in the middle of a farmer’s market, but that was strategic. A weaponized kiss. Theater.

Right? Right.

A soft thud caught my attention. I turned and saw a small paper bag on the counter beside me. Roman, already halfway into grocery unpacking mode, didn’t even glance up. He was unloading kale like the kiss, the comment, the entire day hadn’t just realigned the solar system.

I peeked inside the bag. A tiny jar of wildflower honey stared back at me.

My throat tightened. “What’s this?”

He shrugged, still not looking at me. “You told me your throat gets dry when you’re anxious. Thought it might help. You know, next time someone ambushes you with ex vibes and unresolved trauma.”

I clutched the jar, feeling something behind my ribs bend. I didn’t know what to say. “Thank you” felt too small; saying nothing felt like cowardice. So I just stood there, holding kindness disguised in a glass jar.

We unpacked the rest of the groceries in silence. It wasn’t awkward, exactly, just charged. The space between us hummed like an old radio barely tuned into the right station.

Roman was also humming as he grabbed basil and a cutting board. He moved with an easy rhythm, like he knew his place in this kitchen in a way I didn’t. Not yet.

I watched him from the corner of my eye while I rinsed the kale. His hair was a little messy, forearms flexing beneath his rolled-up sleeves as he chopped like he was born to prep produce and unravel my willpower one act at a time.

This fake-dating thing might become a very real problem.

We fell into a rhythm, standing side by side. He chopped apples while I tore the kale into bite-sized pieces. We didn’t talk, just moved, a quiet kind of comfort I hadn’t known I’d missed. No need to explain myself. No eggshells to walk on.

We tossed the greens with walnuts and apple slices, drizzled a vinaigrette over the top, and Roman handed me a salad bowl like we did this every Saturday.

I grabbed two forks from the drawer, still not trusting my mouth to say anything useful.

We each took a bite. Roman’s gaze flicked to my lips as I licked a drop of dressing from the corner of my mouth.

“We make a good team.”

I swallowed and nodded. “Yeah. We seem to.”

The apartment was too quiet.

Roman had left for a pack meeting an hour ago, tossing a casual “won’t be late” over his shoulder as he adjusted the sleeves of his hoodie and grabbing his keys.

I’d offered to go with him, in case he wanted backup or someone to glare meaningfully at Lucien.

Roman had given me that tilted smile he got when he was about to say something that sounded nice but was actually firm.

“Not yet. You’ll come when Lucien asks for you. That’s how it works.”

And that was that.

Now I was alone, wrapped in a silence that felt too clean, too still. No music, no humming, no sarcastic commentary drifting down the hall. Just me and my unraveling brain.

I scrolled through the bakery project files I was working on, pretending to care about serif spacing, but my mind drifted back to the farmer’s market. Back to Eric.

Seeing him with his yoga instructor had been as stupidly painful as stepping on a Lego. I’d brushed it off, pushed it down with Roman’s ridiculous antics and too-perfect kiss. But now?

Now it hit like a freight train.

I couldn’t believe it. He hadn’t just cheated, hadn’t just lied, but he’d chosen her.

I’d always suspected he had a crush on Bianca, and seeing them together only confirmed my suspicions.

I didn’t know whether he’d cheated physically or had just decided to pursue her while we were still together, but one thing was perfectly fucking clear.

He was giving her the relationship I wanted. Freely. Publicly.

Bianca looked like she’d been plucked from a catalog titled Mindful & Toned: The Intimidatingly Serene Edition.

Exhibit A: Her sleek, smooth body. The kind of yoga-toned you got when your job was your hobby, and your hobby was your personality. I didn’t hate my body. I had strength, curves, the kind of softness that was real. But next to her, I felt… too much. Not enough.

Exhibit B: That attitude. She’d watched me with zero reaction, like none of it mattered. Like she wasn’t at all concerned about the woman Eric had spent three years with. I couldn’t fake that level of detachment no matter how hard I tried. I felt things. Loudly.

Exhibit C: Eric. She had him. She had my history. My bed. My future.

Probably my throw pillows, too.

I stood and yanked the freezer open, grabbing the emergency pint of Ben and Jerry’s I’d hidden behind a bag of peas I would never eat. Spoon. Blanket. Couch. The holy trifecta of heartbreak management.

The first spoonful tasted like surrender. I didn’t even pretend to hold it together. The tears came in hot, miserable waves. It wasn’t elegant or cinematic. No, it was full-snot, puffy-faced crying.

I needed noise. I needed anything else. I turned on the TV.

And of course, The Notebook was playing.

“Fuck my life,” I muttered, but I didn’t change the channel. Because of course I didn’t. I cried into my cookie dough ice cream as if Rachel McAdams herself had come to kick me while I was down.

I was halfway through a sob when I heard keys fumbling at the door. Shit. Roman.

There was no time to wipe my face or pretend I had it together. I was a sad little burrito of despair.

The door opened. Roman stepped in and froze when he saw me.

Swollen eyes. Red nose. Mascara somewhere near my jawline. Even so, I made direct eye contact. My pride had left thirty minutes ago and wasn’t returning anytime soon.

Without saying a word, he walked to the kitchen, grabbed a spoon, and crossed the room. He took a blanket out of the basket next to the couch, then sat down beside me and tucked it around us like this was a regular Tuesday and not a full-blown emotional catastrophe.

Then he scooped a bite of my ice cream, popped it into his mouth, and mumbled, “This is such a great movie.”

I gaped at him. Roman was an enigma. The man could flirt like a menace one minute and become the human embodiment of a safe harbor the next. He didn’t talk. Didn’t press. He simply existed beside me.

I kept crying, tears steadily tracking down my face, but I didn’t feel ashamed about it. Roman didn’t make me feel like I had to be smaller or quieter or more together than I was.

Halfway through the movie, he wrapped an arm around my shoulders and gave me a small, firm squeeze. That single moment—no words, no performance—was like a lifeline.

Like I could break and still be wanted in the wreckage.

I didn’t thank him. I didn’t have to.

And for the first time in a very long time, I didn’t feel alone.