Page 17 of The Cuddle Clause

Maggie

I was dreaming about marshmallow fluff and the end of student loans when I was rudely jolted awake.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

I flailed, smacking my alarm clock before I realized that wasn’t what had pulled me out of sleep. I groaned into my pillow. Who the hell knocked like a debt collector at midnight?

The clock confirmed it was four minutes past midnight.

I dragged myself out of bed, still half in dreamland, hair a mess and brain two beats behind. I didn’t bother with a robe. Yanking my T-shirt down, I shuffled barefoot toward the door, muttering something about decency and noise ordinances and the audacity of the human race.

When I cracked open the door, I found Doris standing there in all her landlord glory. Pink velour tracksuit, clipboard tucked under one arm, and the perpetual expression of someone who hadn’t trusted a soul since Nixon.

“I’m hearing animalistic wailing,” she said by way of greeting.

My brain stalled. “You’re… what?”

Doris leaned in, her mouth tight. “Wailing. Growling. Possibly a banshee deathmatch? Coming from your unit.”

I blinked at her. Once. Twice.

I caught movement behind me and turned slightly. Roman was in full wolf form, hiding behind the kitchen island with his ears pinned back and eyes wide.

Oh. Shit.

I turned back to Doris, forcing a laugh that probably sounded like a broken blender. “Ah. That. That’s just a, um… a recording. Nature documentary. We play it to relax.”

Doris stared. “You relax to snarling?”

“It’s… immersive. Helps simulate the wild. Makes it feel like we’re off the grid.”

From behind me, a new sound emerged.

Meowing. Human meowing.

My head swiveled. Roman, thankfully no longer a wolf, was crouched—naked—behind the kitchen counter, meowing like a dying alley cat. Apparently, that was how he chose to assist in proving my claim.

Jesus Christ.

I cleared my throat. “We’ve also been experimenting with… cat ASMR.”

“You’ve been what?”

I was sweating now. “You know. The soothing stuff? Crinkling, tapping, soft feline meows. For stress reduction. It’s a whole thing. Millennials love it.”

“I don’t speak Millennial,” Doris snapped. “What is ASMR?”

“It’s…” I waved a hand, flustered. “Relaxing noises. For… our nerves.”

Doris narrowed her eyes. “Well, if the noise level doesn’t go down immediately, I’ll have no choice but to add you to my Tenant Suspicion Log.”

She said it like it was capitalized. Like it came with its own seal and wax stamp. I briefly considered asking what that meant, but then I pictured her bulldozing past me and finding a gloriously naked Roman crouched behind the kitchen counter.

I quickly shook my head. “No need. We’ll turn it down. Way down. Whisper-level. Practically nonexistent.”

Doris stared at me for a beat. With the reluctant grace of a grumpy monarch, she turned and walked away without another word. I locked the door and let my forehead fall against it with a thunk.

“You handled that really well,” Roman said sheepishly.

I turned, still half-horrified, and immediately turned back because he was still completely and utterly naked.

“For the love of—can you please put on pants before you speak to me?” I said, covering my eyes with one hand and gesturing blindly toward the hallway with the other.

I heard the shuffle of movement and the soft rustle of fabric. When I dared to peek again, he’d wrapped himself in one of the throw blankets from the couch. It was leopard print and made him look like a werewolf-themed Greek statue.

“Better?” he asked.

“Not really, but go on.”

He scratched the back of his neck. “You asked me once why I live here. With Doris. The inspections. The surprise knocks. The rules.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Feels like you’re trying to get caught.”

He leaned against the wall, blanket slung low on his hips. “Living at the pack grounds was… hard. The mansion, the expectations, Lucien watching everything. It’s a lot.”

I nodded. That much I could imagine.

“I toured a dozen apartments before I found this one. Before I knew shifters weren’t allowed here, I walked in, and it just felt right. The layout made sense in my head. The ceilings weren’t too low. The colors didn’t make me nauseous. It was quiet. Safe. I could breathe.”

I let that settle. Roman didn’t speak about what made him feel safe often. And suddenly, Doris and her damn suspicion log didn’t seem so funny anymore. It felt like a threat to something fragile and rare. Something Roman had found and clung to.

I nodded again, slower this time. “That makes sense.”

We stood in the silence, the absurdity of the evening lingering between us.

“But if Doris keeps barging in like she’s got a badge and a warrant, we may need to think about Plan B, Roman.”

He chuckled softly. “Define Plan B.”

“Somewhere with fewer crystal-loving exes. And a landlord that isn’t allergic to animal fur.”

He didn’t answer. But for the first time since I’d opened the door, I heard him breathe easy. And weirdly, so did I.

“Well,” I muttered, dragging a hand through my hair, “I guess you’ll be needing cuddling now?”

He let out a shaky laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He slumped onto the couch.

“I’m too freaked out to be emotional,” he said. “That was way too close.”

I crossed my arms and leaned against the wall. “You’re telling me. Doris had that clipboard cocked like a weapon.”

He groaned and buried his face in his hands. “I can’t lose this place, Mags. This is the only space I’ve ever lived in that didn’t make me feel like I was about to crawl out of my skin. It works for me. I love it here.”

I looked around at the worn rug in the living room and the chipped navy cabinets I used to hate but had now grown oddly fond of. The way the light hit the walls in the morning made everything look a little less like a rental and a little more like a life.

I sighed. “You’re right. It’s a very special apartment.”

Roman nodded, eyes still haunted. He looked like someone who’d narrowly avoided being exiled from a sanctuary. In a way, he had.

Which made what I had to say next really unfortunate. “If you love it so much, maybe get some control over your wolf and don’t howl in the middle of the freaking night.”

His head dropped back against the cushion with a thud. “Okay. Fair.”

I yawned and stretched, calculating how little sleep I could function on tomorrow. “If I’m excused from my roommate obligations for the evening, I’d like to get some shut-eye before I turn into the kind of person who cries at commercials.”

I headed toward the hallway, feet padding softly across the wood.

Halfway there, I stopped and gave the thermostat a dirty look.

The living room might’ve been Roman’s safe space, but it was also the temperature of a glacier.

I jabbed the button a few times until it nudged up to a human-rights-approved seventy-two.

“Roman, it’s so freaking cold in here,” I grumbled.

When I turned, he was right there.

I yelped and stumbled back a step. “Roman, what the fuck? Are you trying to give me a heart attack? You’re a werewolf ninja now?”

He narrowed his eyes at the thermostat and made a grunting noise I didn’t like. “You’re violating the roommate agreement, Mags. Sixty-eight degrees. This is why we have clauses like civilized beings.”

“Oh my god. Did you memorize the roommate agreement?”

He didn’t answer. Which was an answer.

I sighed. “If you’re so committed to having the apartment be an icy tundra, you’d better buy me a space heater. Like, a nice one. Digital. Rotating. Maybe one of those fake fireplace ones with the little glowing logs.”

Roman huffed as he adjusted the blanket around his hips. “Fine. Whatever.”

He turned on his heel and stomped down the hallway toward his room.

I stared after him for a second, shook my head, and cursed under my breath.

Then I flicked the thermostat back to seventy, whispered an apology to the energy bill, and trudged to my room, already dreading tomorrow’s breakfast conversation.

I flopped into bed, yanking my not-warm-enough blanket up to my chin and groaned. It was so freezing that I was starting to question my life choices. I grabbed the sweatpants draped over the foot of the bed and pulled them on over my shorts.

“I didn’t sign up for cold drafts and drama,” I muttered to the ceiling.

The ceiling offered no apologies. I rolled onto my side and closed my eyes, trying to breathe deep, to slow down. No dice.

My brain lit up as I mentally scrolled through all the things that had recently pissed me off: Seraphina strutting through the apartment like she still lived here; Doris sniffing the door like she was auditioning for CSI: Shifter Edition; Roman hiding behind the kitchen island in full wolf form, eyes wide.

That was not what the listing had advertised.

I flipped onto my back. Then my other side. Blanket off. Blanket on. One leg out. Both legs in. Sweatpants too hot. Blanket not warm enough. If hell was a state of mind, mine came with central air.

I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to focus on anything but Roman. But of course, that worked about as well as a paper umbrella in a hurricane.

His scent. His mouth. The way he’d looked at me after our practice make-out session, like I was a problem he wanted to study. Like he’d solved me and wanted to memorize the answer key.

God.

What even was he to me? Roommate? Emotional support blanket? Bad idea with excellent cheekbones? The reason my therapist was going to raise her rates?

Of course, just when I thought my brain was finally winding down, it tossed in a bonus round: Eric.

The ghost of relationships past. A familiar ache coiled low in my stomach. Was it regret? Grief? Humiliation? It didn’t matter. It lingered. I rolled over again, curling into a tighter ball.

The mattress dipped behind me, and a warmth settled next to me. My whole body froze. A breath later, I turned my head. Roman was there. Silent. Shirtless. His face inches from mine.

He didn’t say a word as he slid his arm around my waist and pulled me in like it was the most normal thing in the world and we did it every night.

My leg hooked over his hip without permission.

My body knew him already. Knew his shape, his heat.

My heart slowed. My muscles unclenched. The restless energy fell silent.

His nose brushed the curve of my neck. He exhaled slowly, and I shuddered. Goosebumps skated down my spine.

Then his mouth brushed the edge of my jaw—soft, reverent, like he thought I’d vanish if he kissed too hard.

I didn’t think. I didn’t plan.

I let him.

When our mouths met, the world tilted. His kiss was searching at first, careful. Then it deepened as he became more sure of himself. He slid one hand under my shirt, fingers skimming my ribs, my waist, branding every inch of skin with heat and desire.

I arched into him and dragged my fingers through his hair, my breath uneven and needy. Every cell in my body lit up. I could feel everything, feel him. And for one wild, terrifying second, I thought it was real.

I blinked. A streak of gold across the wall. Sunlight.

I blinked again. I was in my room, alone in a cold, empty bed. I sat up so fast my head spun.

“Shit.” Just a dream. Just a vivid, heart-thudding, illegal-in-five-states kind of dream.

I threw back the blanket and stood on wobbly legs. “Oh no.”

My panties were soaked.

I clutched my chest and whisper-yelled at the ceiling. “Holy shit.”

I fanned my face like that would do anything for the situation I’d woken up in. Okay. Coffee. Immediate, scalding, reality-realigning coffee. Hair a disaster, still warm between my legs and completely mortified, I shuffled down the hall and turned the corner.

And there was Roman. Of course, he was shirtless and leaning against the counter with a mug in his hand like he was posing for a sleepwear ad in a magazine I definitely wasn’t allowed to subscribe to in high school.

His hair was tousled like he’d just gotten out of bed, eyes soft and bleary and golden. It was so damn unfair.

“Morning, Mags,” he said with a grin.

My brain collapsed. Not again. I wasn’t going to survive another day in this apartment with this man. Not after that dream. I swallowed hard and tried to look anywhere but his mouth. Or his chest. Or his stupidly attractive hands holding that mug.

“You made coffee?” I croaked.

He nodded as he straightened and held out the mug as a peace offering. “Felt like being nice. You looked tired last night.”

I took it without a word. Sipped. Scalded my tongue.

Worth it.

He leaned back against the counter, totally relaxed, totally unaware that I’d spent my night turning him into the plot of an erotic indie film.

My inner monologue clapped its hands and screamed: Cool cool cool. Pretend you didn’t dry-hump him in a dream like a Victorian boy seeing an ankle for the first time. Everything’s fine.

I took another scalding sip and prayed for strength.