Page 22 of The Cuddle Clause

Maggie

My phone buzzed insistently against the nightstand, like it knew I was trying to avoid reality. I groaned and rolled over, tangled in a mess of sheets and dreams I didn’t want to remember. My eyes were crusty, throat dry, and the early morning light filtering through the curtains felt too bright.

I blinked against the screen’s glow and squinted until the sender’s name came into focus:

Eric.

Just seeing it made my stomach clench. Like muscle memory, an emotional reflex. I opened the message.

Eric: Hey. I’ve been thinking a lot about the farmer’s market run-in. I’d really like to do something mature and healing. How about a double date? You and Roman. Me and Bianca. No pressure. Just friends.

I sat up slowly, wrapping the blanket around me like it could shield me from the emotional minefield waiting inside that text. The words blurred a little, and I rubbed my eyes, hoping it would make them look different. Less polished. Less… him.

I read it again. And again.

Of course, he’d have curated the text to be just self-aware enough to sound evolved, just casual enough to pretend it wasn’t an ambush. Perfectly staged to look like a peace offering while dropping a neat little bomb wrapped in neutral language and fake maturity.

And the worst part was that I felt the old ache. That small, pathetic corner of me still wanted him to look at me and regret everything. That part of me, the one I kept stuffing down, whispered maybe.

Maybe this meant he missed me. Maybe I could finally feel chosen.

But I knew better. This wasn’t about reconciliation. This was about control. About him proving he could keep things civil. About showing off his shiny new yoga girlfriend and smiling through it like I never mattered.

The thought of watching him be perfect with someone else, of sitting across from his peaceful, barefoot, green-juice soulmate while pretending I didn’t feel like throwing up? It made my stomach turn. Grief and embarrassment and guilt rolled into a ball of nausea.

Still, the guilt crept in like it always did. What if he really meant it? What if this was his version of closure, of trying to be kind? Was I being childish by not meeting him halfway?

A soft knock at the door pulled me out of the spiral. “You sleep better after the nightmare? I didn’t hear any more moaning,” Roman said through the door, his voice rough with sleep.

I let out a half-laugh. “Yep. Slept like a baby. Just… got a text.”

The door creaked open. Roman stepped inside like he always did—uninvited, unbothered, half-dressed. He was shirtless, because of course he was. Hair mussed, chest distractingly broad.

I held up the phone. “Eric wants to get together. With Bianca. And you. Like a mature double date. No pressure, just friends.”

Roman raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Mature and healing?”

“I’m going to say no. It’s weird. Right?”

His mouth curved into a devious smile. “I think we should go.”

“Uh, why?”

“Because I was born to play the role of your fake boyfriend,” he said smugly. “And because watching Eric squirm when he realizes how hot you look with me is a dream I didn’t know I had.”

My lips twitched despite the storm inside me. It was all a game to him. A joke. That should’ve made it easier. Should’ve. But it didn’t. It just made me feel like I was hanging on a thread that could snap at any second, and I wasn’t sure which part would hurt more, the fall or the pretending.

Still, I typed the message.

Maggie: Sure, that sounds fine. What time?

I hovered over the send button for a second, then tapped it before I could overthink. Again.

Eric: Six p.m. will be perfect. Can’t wait.

I looked up. “He says six.”

Roman let out a groan. “I’ve got a pack meeting right before, but I’ll make it work.”

My heart stuttered. He didn’t even hesitate to rearrange his whole evening because I asked him to play pretend with me.

“Thanks,” I murmured as I got out of bed.

He stepped back from the door, leaning casually against the wall like he lived there. Okay, technically he did, but the hallway was narrow, and our timing sucked. I tried to pass, but my shoulder brushed his chest—his firm, bare, warm chest.

His gaze dropped, caught on me for a second too long. My brain registered the look as heat climbed up my spine.

Then it hit me.

I wasn’t wearing a bra beneath my thin cotton sleep shirt.

His eyes darted back up, and I crossed my arms over my chest like it would help.

“I’ll… see you later,” I said quickly.

He cleared his throat, suddenly fascinated by the ceiling. “Yeah. Cool. Later.”

I slipped past him into the bathroom and shut the door with more force than necessary. My reflection stared back at me in the mirror, cheeks flushed, mouth parted like I’d been caught in the act of something I hadn’t even done.

This wasn’t fake. At least not all of it.

And that terrified me. Because for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel invisible.

And I wasn’t sure if that was healing… or dangerous.

I sat cross-legged at my desk, hoodie sleeves shoved up to my elbows, the hem bunched around my hips.

I hadn’t moved in hours. My coffee sat cold and forgotten next to me, the mug perched precariously on a stack of sketchbooks like it had also given up on being useful.

A little ring of condensation had formed beneath it.

Even with the blinds drawn, the screen was too bright.

It made my throbbing head ache a little more, but I didn’t bother adjusting the brightness.

I’d been locked in tunnel-vision mode for the better part of the day—hyper-productive, eyes glued to my work like if I just stared long enough, I wouldn’t think about Roman.

Or the dreams I’d had about him. Or his bare, muscular chest. Or feelings I wasn’t supposed to be having.

I had a client logo due for a boutique shampoo bar in Silver Lake.

It was organic, sustainable, vegan—all those trendy words that meant the client wanted something simple and clean but still elegant and feminine.

Minimalist florals. Maybe lavender stems curving around a rectangular bar.

Something that whispered eco-luxury without trying too hard.

I stared at my sketchbook propped against my knees, then pressed my pencil to the page and drew a sharp, angular line. Then another. I adjusted the curve.

It wasn’t a petal. It was a jaw.

Roman’s jaw.

I erased it so hard I ripped the page.

I tried a vine next. Soft. Flowing. Natural.

But my hand betrayed me again. The curve tipped too deep, turning into that insufferable little dimple Roman had the audacity to claim he didn’t know existed.

That dimple flashed every time he was about to say something borderline criminal and flirtatious.

I’d stared at it for far too long last night while pretending I didn’t care.

“Oh my god,” I muttered, dropping the pencil and slamming the sketchbook shut like it had attacked me. “I’m broken.”

I leaned back in my chair and rubbed both hands down my face.

My hair was in a messy knot on top of my head, and the hoodie smelled vaguely like Roman’s laundry detergent.

I hadn’t even realized it was one of his until I’d caught the hint of cedar and citrus and felt unreasonably attacked by scent memory.

I looked up at the corner of my laptop screen. There it was, just barely visible in the lineup of folders: E + M.

That stupid little label. I’d typed it nearly a year ago, back when I still believed in forever and monogrammed dish towels and couples who went to therapy to strengthen their bond. Back when I still believed I was one of the lucky ones.

I hadn’t opened it since the breakup. Not even once.

I should’ve closed the laptop. Taken the hint from the universe and moved on. Instead, I clicked. I would watch one video. My birthday dinner.

I hovered my mouse over the file before finally pressing play.

The screen lit up, and soft background music floated out of the speakers. Eric’s face filled the frame—clean-cut, confident, the human embodiment of a well-pressed linen shirt. He was already mid-story, animatedly talking about some client pitch, his voice full of self-satisfaction.

“…and I told them, if we’re not aiming for the top of the market, we’re wasting time…”

I watched myself in the background. Sitting there, smiling, nodding in all the right places. Laughing—no, not laughing. Smiling politely. Distantly. My mouth moved like it had been coached.

I didn’t look happy. I looked… pretty and controlled. Like I’d studied how to be the picture-perfect girlfriend and mastered the choreography.

There was no spark in my eyes. I wasn’t at ease. It looked like I was waiting for permission to exhale.

I closed the laptop and sat in the half-dark. Then I opened it again and rewatched the video.

Not once did I laugh, not like I had on the roof with Roman. Not like that ugly, unfiltered snort I let out when he’d compared our landlord to a Russian intelligence agent. Not like the way I’d laughed until my ribs hurt when he danced with the mop after spilling cranberry juice one afternoon.

My phone buzzed. I snatched it off the desk, desperate for a distraction.

A voice message from Roman.

His voice poured out of the speaker, low and familiar and completely unbothered.

“Hey, Mags. You left your mug in the bathroom again. Either it’s part of your new skincare ritual or this coffee cup is possessed.

Also, I saved you the last brownie, which means I’m clearly in love with you. Don’t make it weird.”

He laughed softly. That rough-around-the-edges, kind-of-a-growl laugh that made it feel like someone had poured warm syrup over my heart.

I snorted and immediately covered my mouth. I listened to the message again, a giddy smile on my lips.

Then I saved it.

Then I panicked.

Deleted it.

Panicked even more.