Page 116 of The Cuddle Clause

“Roman,” she breathed, the name stretching in the space between us like she’d been saving it. “You look exactly the same.”

I didn’t answer. I let the silence press in, heavy and close, while I studied her. She was still beautiful. Golden skin, gentle curves, hair the color of late summer wheat. She’d always been easy to look at. Easy to fall for. Soft where I was jagged.

But all I felt was a dull kind of nothing.

No ache. No burn. No instinct telling me to pull Willow into my arms and forget the years between us. Just a quiet understanding that whatever we’d once had now lived in a different version of me. A boy who hadn’t yet learned how to lose things and keep breathing.

Willow’s heels clicked softly as she stepped closer. Her hands were at her sides, but I could see the way they twitched—wanting to reach. Wanting to be held.

“I’ve missed you,” she said, voice shaky. “When Lucien showed up... I thought maybe I was dreaming. I didn’t let myself hope, not really, but part of me wondered.”

She smiled timidly, uncertainly, and lifted her arms toward me slowly, giving me time to stop her.

I did.

One step back. One hand lifted in the space between us.

Willow froze. Her hands hovered in the air for a beat, then curled back toward her chest. Her smile wilted like a flower left in frost.

“It’s good to see you,” I said in a calm and detached manner I hadn’t known I was capable of. “I mean that. I’m glad you’re well. But whatever Lucien thinks is going to happen here… it’s not.”

She frowned, a tiny crease forming between her brows. “I don’t understand.”

I did. She’d been pulled into the fantasy Lucien still clung to, this idea that history meant destiny. That I could be steered like a pawn if the pieces were arranged right. He thought if he dangled her in front of me—this beautiful relic from a simpler time—I’d fold. That I’d forget the life I’d built on my own. The life that started with a snarky listing for a roommate and a chipped coffee mug with Maggie’s lipstick stain on the rim.

“I mean,” I said slowly, because it still stung even though it was the truth, “I’m in love with someone else. And I don’t want this. Not with you. Not anymore.”

Willow didn’t say anything right away. She stood there, her lips parted slightly like she might try to make sense of it if she stayed still long enough. Then her arms dropped. Her shoulders sagged.

“I didn’t know,” she said quietly. “Lucien didn’t say anything about someone else. He told me you needed me. That this was the moment we’d waited for.”

“He’s good at shaping stories to suit what he wants.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. She looked away, blinking hard. “Is she a shifter?”

“No. She’s human.” I let that land. Watched her flinch before softening again.

“She must be... something.”

“She is,” I said. “She’s loud when she’s nervous. She eats dry cereal straight from the box and leaves mugs everywhere. She hums off-key in the shower. She drives me absolutely insane.” My voice cracked a little then. “And I don’t think I’ve ever felt more myself than I do when I’m with her.”

Willow’s throat worked as she swallowed. “I always thought we’d have more time,” she murmured, like it wasn’t meant for me at all. “That we’d find our way back to one another.”

I took a breath and let it settle in my chest.

“I used to think so too,” I said gently. “But that was before Maggie.”

Her eyes shone, and I could see the pain she was trying to carry quietly, the pride keeping her spine straight. “You used to say we were inevitable.”

“I was wrong. But I meant it then.”

She nodded once, sharp and quick, like anything slower would crack her composure wide open. She turned toward the door but paused with her hand on the handle.

“You were the first person who ever really saw me, Roman,” she said without looking back. “I hope she sees you.”

“She does,” I said. “Better than I see myself, sometimes.”

Willow flashed me a tight, brittle smile. “Then I’m happy for you. Even if it hurts like hell.”