Page 16 of The Cuddle Clause

The bath said: I see you. I’m sorry. And I never meant to make you shower in my werewolf soup.

My chest tightened. Stupid. Unfair.

Slipping my clothes off, I stepped into the tub and sank down, letting the warmth pull me under. The bubbles tickled my chin as I leaned back and closed my eyes.

Maybe I forgave him.

Maybe I more than forgave him.

But I was definitely not telling him that.

At least not until he handed me those damn gloves.

By the time I made it to the restaurant where I was meeting my sister, I was fifteen minutes late, slightly damp from a poorly timed rain spritz, and exactly one existential crisis into my third outfit change.

The drizzle had left Market Street slick and shining, and the smell of wet concrete and roasted coffee clung to everything.

My sunglasses were still on because I hadn’t bothered with mascara, and my hair looked like it had survived a low-grade natural disaster.

Which, given Seraphina’s morning invasion and Roman’s entire existence, wasn’t far off.

Charlotte was already seated at a corner table, iced green tea in one hand, her other tapping against her phone screen.

Outside, a cable car rattled past, packed with tourists snapping photos.

The moment she looked up, I got The Look.

The one that said, You’re late. You’re a mess.

And you’re not getting away with it this time.

“Hi,” I said, sliding into the seat across from her.

Charlotte didn’t miss a beat. “You’re not returning my calls. Or texts. Or DMs. Or my meme barrage in the group chat. Are you dead?”

I peeled off my sunglasses. “Emotionally? A little.”

She arched a brow and set her tea down with a loud clink. “Do I need to start sending smoke signals? Hire a skywriter? What happened?”

I waved toward the waiter and mumbled, “Can we order before the interrogation?”

Charlotte ignored that completely. “Have you slept? Eaten? Please tell me you’ve had something other than tequila, stale popcorn, and spite this week.”

I opened my menu, pretending to study it. “I’ve had... yogurt.”

“Yogurt isn’t dinner.”

“It had granola in it. That’s a food group.”

Charlotte leaned in. “Maggie.”

I set the menu down, sighed, and rested my arms on the table. “I didn’t want to drag you into another post-Eric spiral, okay? You hate him. I thought maybe if I just quietly imploded this time, I’d save us both the grief.”

Her expression softened instantly. “I don’t hate him. I hate watching you make yourself smaller for someone who doesn’t deserve the space you gave him.”

I stared at the condensation on my water glass. “It’s like… you called the iceberg. And now I’m the Titanic, post-credits. Just a bunch of scattered wreckage and a haunting soundtrack.”

Charlotte gave a half-laugh, half-sigh. “You’re allowed to have wreckage. I just wanted to help you patch it up before it turned into your permanent aesthetic.”

I took a sip of my drink. “Okay. So. There’s this guy.”

Her brows shot up. “That was fast. Blink if you’re being kidnapped by a rebound.”

“It’s not like that.” I paused. “Okay, it’s a little like that. But also not. He’s... dramatic. Often shirtless. Strange. But kind of amazing?”

Charlotte tilted her head, amused. “Amazing like... emotionally available? Or amazing like he owns a pet cobra and only drinks rainwater?”

I blew out a breath. “He’s like if a soap opera character and a therapy dog had a baby. Hot as fuck. With these stupid eyes. And this hair that falls in his face like he’s in a CW drama.”

“Please tell me this isn’t Eric 2.0.”

“No. No, this is... not at all like that.” I hesitated. “There was a bath. And a cuddle clause.”

Charlotte blinked. “A what clause?”

“A literal signed roommate agreement…. Emotional support cuddling. Shifting trauma. You kind of had to be there.”

“Did you just say shifting—”

“Yeah, my new roommate. Roman. He’s a werewolf.”

She nearly choked on her salad.

“A hot werewolf prepared a bath for you like you’re a duchess.” She wheezed. “And you’re not dating?”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“Uh-huh. And I don’t keep backup snacks in my glove compartment.”

I rubbed my temples. “It doesn’t matter how great he is. Or that his hair defies gravity. I’m not doing this again. I can’t. I don’t trust myself to pick right. And I definitely don’t trust myself not to ruin it if I do. And… it doesn’t matter anyway because he doesn’t like me like that.”

Charlotte took another sip of her tea. “Maggie, maybe it’s not about picking the perfect guy. Maybe it’s about picking someone who makes you feel safe. Seen. Cherished.”

I didn’t say anything.

“You’ve done complicated. You’ve done cold. Roman sounds like the warm kind. Maybe try that for once.”

The way she said his name slid into my chest and settled like a stone in my stomach. Because it wasn’t just a name. It was the him of it all. The bath, the spooning, the way his arm fit around me like it was meant to be there.

I blinked fast and sipped my water to buy myself a second. “Okay,” I said finally, voice a little wobbly. “But if he turns out to be a serial killer, I reserve the right to say I told myself so.”

“Deal,” Charlotte said, smiling. “But from what you’ve told me, it sounds like the guy’s more likely to bake you cookies than bury a body.”

“Yeah, well, he does eat mango with a fork, so it could go either way.”

We spent the rest of the meal picking apart food trends, laughing about our parents’ latest spiritual enlightenment post from Bali (“Dad just quoted a monk named Brent”), and trading sarcastic jabs that made my ribs ache from laughing.

The wind had picked up outside. The sharp, damp gust always seemed to roll in off the Bay as soon as the sun dipped low. I hugged my jacket tighter and turned to my sister. The scent of seawater and sourdough drifted on the breeze, mixing with the faint diesel tang of a passing Muni bus.

Charlotte pulled me into a hug I hadn’t realized I needed until her arms were around me.

“Promise me you’ll text,” she murmured. “You don’t get to vanish just because you’re emotionally constipated.”

I grinned into her shoulder. “I’ll do my best, mom.”

She pulled back, smirking. “Don’t forget who used to hide your report cards. I am the mom.”

She walked off, tossing a wave over her shoulder as she slipped into the crowd of people hurrying toward the cable car stop at the corner. As I watched her disappear into the dusk, the city lights flickered on one by one, and the fog started to creep in.

My heart felt lighter. But also heavier.

Because Roman wasn’t just some guy anymore.

And maybe... he never had been.