Page 15 of The Cuddle Clause

Maggie

The bed was cold on Roman’s side. I reached out before I was fully awake, remembering the weight of his arm around my waist, the steady warmth of his chest pressed against my back. But all I found was empty space, cool sheets, and silence.

I let my hand fall back onto the mattress and stared at the ceiling. Relief came first, a little voice saying good, he’s gone, now you don’t have to unpack any of that. But then came the aftershock.

Disappointment.

Of course he left.

I rolled onto my stomach and buried my face in the pillow. You’re not supposed to want him here, remember? You’re fake dating your sexy, shirtless, disaster of a roommate to help him dodge Lucien’s insane matchmaking circus. This is a job, not a love story.

Still... the bed felt too big without him.

And then came the knock.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

I flinched so hard I nearly fell off the bed. This wasn’t a neighborly knock. This was the kind of knock that brought lawsuits or cult recruiters. Bold. Brash. Aggressive.

Groaning, I shoved off the covers and grabbed my robe. My hair was a mess, my mouth tasted like sleep and self-pity, and if it was a solicitor, they were about to get hit with both barrels of morning-Maggie.

I cracked the door open.

Seraphina. In stilettos and a backless silk slip that looked like it cost more than my first car. Her makeup looked untouched by time or gravity, and her smile made me want to shove her into a recycling bin.

“I left a very special crystal behind when I moved out,” she said with the confidence of a woman not used to being told no. “It’s mine. And I want it back.”

I will personally launch this woman into the sun.

Before I could even process the threat level of this moment, she breezed past me and into the apartment like it was hers. Not like it used to be hers, but like she was coming home.

“Make yourself at home,” I muttered, shutting the door behind her. “Please. Rifle through my personal belongings. Truly, the place is your playground.”

She was already in the kitchen, opening drawers like the crystal might be hiding in the silverware tray. Next, she looked between the couch cushions. Then she went into my room.

“Oops,” she chirped when she opened the wrong door and saw my unmade bed. “Wrong room. I slept in Roman’s room.”

I crossed my arms, following her, not that I knew what to do.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to look for it?” I offered, voice tight. “I know where all the drawers are. I could text you if—”

“Oh, no,” she said with a smile that would’ve made a snake jealous. “I have a connection to it. I’ll feel it when I’m close.”

A connection. What was she, a psychic?

She decided my room was somewhere she should look, then proceeded to open my underwear drawer. She stopped and tilted her head like she’d found a fossil.

“That’s private,” I said flatly.

She picked up a lace bralette. “This is cute. Did Roman buy it for you?”

“Nope,” I said. “But I’m thinking of wearing it to the next council meeting. You know, under a power blazer.”

The bathroom door opened.

Roman stepped out, towel around his waist, wet hair sticking up in every direction. His chest was still damp. His expression went from sleepy to oh shit in half a second.

Seraphina lit up like a Christmas tree. “Roman, darling,” she cooed. “You look... hydrated.”

He froze. His eyes darted to me like he was silently begging for rescue. She moved toward him, slow and serpentine, and rubbed herself against his arm. Like she was checking him for softness. I stared. He looked like a man about to have a stroke.

That was it. I stepped between them, smiling sweetly. “As you can see, we’re getting ready to go out, so it’s time for you to leave.”

Seraphina blinked. “Leave?”

“Yes, leave. You pushed your way in, then proceeded to rub yourself all over Roman. He doesn’t like it, and neither do I. You know where the door is. You can show yourself out.”

Her eyes narrowed. “He used to like it… a lot. I doubt that has changed since I moved out.”

I shrugged. “Everything has changed since you moved out. He’s moved on, and it’s time you do the same.”

She stared at me with the kind of rage you only see in soap operas and reality TV reunion specials. Then she glanced back at Roman, gave him one last lingering, burn-me-into-your-memory look, and strutted to the door.

Just before she walked out, she muttered under her breath, “What does he see in this bitch?”

“Did you just call me a bitch?”

The door slammed behind her with the force of a middle finger.

Silence.

Roman exhaled like he’d just survived a hostage negotiation. I looked at him. Still wet and only wearing a towel. Still looking mildly traumatized.

“You’re welcome,” I said.

“I was fine.”

“You were one fake compliment away from needing a decontamination shower.”

He sighed, leaning against the wall like his legs had finally caught up with the moment. “She always did have a flair for the dramatic.”

I walked past him and muttered, “And you have a flair for attracting it. Speaking of showers…” I gently nudged him aside. “My turn.”

The tile was cool against my forehead, and I stayed motionless beneath the steady spray, letting the steam curl around me.

Lavender body wash clung to my skin in faint floral wisps.

It was supposed to be calming. Centering.

All that Pinterest self-care nonsense. Instead, I was standing in a foggy cloud of rage and vanilla essence.

Seraphina had gone through my underwear drawer. She’d practically petted my panties. And Roman? Roman had just stood there, dripping and deer-eyed while she tried to melt into his towel like some supernatural thirst trap from hell.

I’d needed this shower like a woman on the edge needed a stiff drink. But peace, apparently, was too much to ask. I reached up to rinse the conditioner from my hair, and that’s when I felt it.

The water wasn’t draining.

I looked down and nearly slipped from shock.

Murky water pooled around my ankles. Floating in it, like cursed seaweed on the shores of my last nerve, was fur.

Dark. Wet. Roman’s hair. And lots of it.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” I gagged as I stared down at the supernatural soup swirling around my feet.

I glared at the drain, where more clumps had gathered like they were staging a mutiny. Conditioner dripped in thick ribbons from my hair to my shoulders. I was marinating in werewolf back-hair stew. There were no words.

I tried to hold it together. Really, I did. I gave it another thirty seconds—rinsing, re-centering, attempting to preserve the last shreds of my dignity.

And then a clump splashed up and landed on me.

That was it.

I shut off the water so hard the knob squealed, shoved the curtain open with a splash, and grabbed a towel.

The conditioner was still soaking through my ends, my robe was nowhere in sight, but I didn’t care.

I stomped through the apartment dripping wet, wrapped in vengeance and terry cloth, prepared to raise hell.

Roman was on the couch, reading and snacking on a container of mango like he hadn’t turned the bathtub into his personal shearing pen.

He looked up and froze. Because there I stood, soaked and seething, towel wrapped just barely around everything vital, hair slicked and glistening.

“You,” I hissed, pointing an accusing, wet finger, “owe me hazmat gloves.”

His gaze dropped, then snapped back up with a throat bob that was not subtle. “I… assume this isn’t a skincare complaint?”

“There is fur in the drain,” I snapped. “I was wading in you.”

Roman set his mango down with exaggerated care. “Okay. That’s fair. I’ll take care of it.”

“Damn right you will,” I said, clutching the towel tightly. “I will not hesitate to call Doris and tell her you’re a shape-shifting schnauzer with rabies.”

He winced. “I’m going,” he said, already on his feet. “To the drain. Right now.”

I followed, dripping a slow trail of betrayal across the floor, conditioner sliding in a cold, mocking line down my collarbone.

Roman knelt beside the tub, rolled up his sleeves like he was about to perform a delicate medical procedure, and started pulling clumps of fur from the drain. It made a soft, wet squelch every time he yanked one free.

I gagged. Again.

“You okay?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder with a mischievous grin.

I clutched my towel tighter and made a noise somewhere between a retch and a war cry. “If you flick one hair in my direction—”

He pretended to flick it.

I screamed and jumped back, slipping a little on the tile. He burst out laughing.

“Okay, okay,” he said, holding up a hand. “Truce. I owe you. Big time.”

“Damn right you do,” I muttered, already halfway out of the bathroom. “I swear to God, if I find a single strand in my loofah—”

“I’ll buy you a new loofah,” he called after me. “And the gloves.”

I stomped into my room, still damp, still furious, and snatched a second towel to wrap around my hair.

The ends of it were streaked purple with my conditioner.

I muttered under my breath about shifters and drain snakes while I made my bed, threw on pajamas, and tried to pretend this day hadn’t shattered every single one of my boundaries.

Five minutes passed.

Then ten.

Then twenty. What the hell was Roman doing in there?

The apartment was quiet, except… was that guitar? I padded barefoot to the bathroom door, prepared to demand proof that the war had been won.

I stopped in my tracks. The light was off but the whole room glowed, soft and golden, like someone had bottled sunset and let it loose in there.

Candles. Dozens of them. Mismatched, half-burned, probably scavenged from junk drawers. The tub had been scrubbed within an inch of its life and now steamed gently, filled with bubbles that smelled like vanilla, citrus, and possibly a deeply repentant apology.

A quiet acoustic guitar melody floated through the room, something sweet and low and completely unexpected.

Roman wasn’t even in sight. No jokes. No commentary.