Page 131 of The Cuddle Clause

Stay

Stay

And then, handwritten at the bottom:

This apartment isn’t just yours. It’s you. It’s me. It’s every version of us. The one where we were faking. The onewhere we weren’t sure. And now, the one where I wake up every morning and know I’m exactly where I belong. I love you. —R

I pressed the packet to my chest, blinking hard.

It was ridiculous. It was over-the-top. It had glitter ink and binder tabs and paw print stickers. But it was also the most real thing anyone had ever given me.

It was safety. Humor. Commitment. Structure. Chaos. All the things I used to think couldn’t coexist in the same space.

Roman had found a way to hold them together.

He’d found a way to holdmetogether.

The front door creaked.

Roman stepped in, carrying a half-empty grocery bag. His eyes locked on mine. “You found it,” he said.

“You put three gold stickers next to the beard trimmings clause,” I replied, voice thick.

He looked sheepish. “I panicked. I know it’s serious.”

I crossed the room and wrapped my arms around his waist, pulling him in. “It’s perfect.”

He rested his chin on my head. “Even the part about the haunted bunny slippers?”

“Especially that part.”

We stood like that. Two chaotic, formerly fake-dating, formerly emotionally avoidant people who had somehow figured it out.

“You ready to sign it?” he asked.

I grinned up at him. “Only if I can add one last clause.”

He arched a brow. “What’s that?”

“Clause 9.1 – Roman Velasquez is required to keep loving Maggie James, even when she sings off-key, makes impulsive decisions, or cries during Super Bowl commercials.”

He pulled a pen from behind his ear like he’d been prepared all day.

“Done.”

And with that, we signed the most important roommate agreement of our lives.