Page 23 of The Cuddle Clause

Cursing under my breath, I quickly thumbed into the deleted folder and recovered it like it was a national treasure.

I hit play one more time and then leaned back in my chair, phone pressed to my chest like I was starring in some teen drama about heartbreak and slow-burn love and confusing roommates.

I stared at the ceiling.

This was fake. This thing with Roman was all fake. It was me helping him out of a bind. A structured coping mechanism. A distraction in hot, shirtless packaging with a tragic backstory and boundary issues.

I was not falling for him.

I repeated it like a prayer. Like if I said it enough, I could make it true.

Groaning, I stood up from my chair and collapsed on my bed. I threw an arm over my eyes and tried not to cry. Or scream. Or smile.

The truth settled over me like a weighted blanket, heavy and unavoidable: If it was fake, then why did it feel more real than anything I ever had with Eric?

Roman’s voice echoed in my mind again. “Don’t make it weird.”

Too late.

It was already five-thirty. My back ached, my stomach felt like it was trying to digest itself, and I was so caffeinated I could feel sound. But hey, I’d gotten through the rest of the day without thinking about Roman’s smug smirk or the hallway eye contact incident.

Much. I hadn’t thought about that stuff… much.

I saved my file, minimalist floral logos be damned, and forced myself to shut my laptop. My head was buzzing, but it wasn’t from work. It was from nerves over the double date. Seeing Eric. Seeing Eric with her.

When Roman pulled up outside in his car, I climbed in, already jittery.

The city hummed around us—the low roar of a bus pulling away from the curb, the clatter of a streetcar a few blocks over, the faint blare of a siren in the distance.

I didn’t talk. Hell, I didn’t trust myself to speak.

My leg bounced uncontrollably. The windows were cracked, but the air was still too warm, too heavy with the smell of sea salt and rain-washed pavement from the earlier drizzle.

Roman put his hand on my knee and gave me one of those annoyingly perfect smiles.

“It’s going to be fine,” he said. “Deep breaths, killer.”

Swallowing hard, I nodded. “I’m trying.”

The restaurant was aggressively wellness-themed.

Tucked between a boutique dog bakery and an artisan soap shop on a narrow street, it practically screamed San Francisco.

Crystals glittered on every table. Steam puffed from salt lamps in the corners like we were entering a scented fog of enlightenment.

The seating? Yoga mats. Of fucking course.

“If anyone expects me to downward dog between appetizers, I’m leaving,” I grumbled.

Eric and Bianca were already there. She was barefoot and beaming.

Before we could even sit down, Bianca insisted we do a group breathwork ritual. “It clears the energetic slate,” she explained, hands fluttering like she was part fairy.

Roman’s nostrils flared mid-nasal-inhale. A strangled sound escaped him halfway through the cleansing cycle, and I nearly collapsed trying to hide my laugh behind a napkin.

The food was pretentious beyond belief. Something involving beet foam and dehydrated kale bark. When my stomach growled audibly, Roman whispered, “My energy’s about to fast its way out of this building.”

Bianca launched into a monologue about “energetic fasting.” Roman looked like he was barely holding it together. A musician started to play an acoustic guitar on a small stage in the corner. It was enough sound to fill the awkward silence.

Then Eric turned his attention to me.

“You’re looking very… healthy, Maggie.”

Healthy? Not beautiful. Not glowing or great or even well. Healthy—like I was a tub of Greek yogurt or had just recovered from a prolonged illness.

I smiled politely. “Thanks. I’ve been doing this new thing where I, you know, sleep and eat and function like a person. It’s revolutionary.”

Under the table, Roman’s hand flexed against mine. I didn’t dare look at him.

Eric chuckled. “Always with the sass.”

There it was—his classic fallback. If he couldn’t outshine me, he’d just… narrate me. Package the parts of me that didn’t fit into his aesthetic and label them as charming quirks. It used to work, back when I was too tired and in love to notice I was being dimmed.

I swirled the water in my glass. “It’s served me well.”

He leaned in slightly, like we were sharing some private joke. “You’ve got a glow. I don’t know. You just seem different. In a good way.”

My stomach gave a dumb little flip, equal parts memory and reflex.

Part of me used to ache to hear him say that even once.

It would have been confirmation that I was enough.

That I was good. That he saw me. And now?

Now I couldn’t tell if I wanted to cry or throw the Himalayan salt crystal centerpiece at his head.

Bianca didn’t seem to notice. She was in a trance, watching the acoustic guitarist and swaying slightly, her hands folded in her lap like a serene cult leader awaiting ascension.

Eric tilted his head. “I saw your post the other day. That design with the moon phases? Stunning.”

Oh. That post. The one Roman had insisted I share even though I thought it was too weird, too specific, too me.

I glanced up at Eric. He was still watching me, like he wanted something. I couldn’t tell what. A reaction, maybe. Validation that he still had an effect on me.

“You never liked the weird ones,” I said. My tone was even, but my heart was buzzing under my ribs.

He shrugged. “Maybe I just didn’t understand them. I do now.”

Liar. He didn’t understand anything that wasn’t marketable in under thirty seconds or didn’t get a thousand likes by lunchtime. But the compliment was gentle, polished, and just wistful enough to be dangerous.

I swallowed, my throat tight. “Well. I’m glad you’re seeing things differently.”

“I really am,” he said, a little too quickly. “Do you ever think about—”

Roman cleared his throat pointedly. I could feel his gaze even without turning. Eric straightened in his seat.

I let out a quiet breath and smiled sweetly. “About what? Quitting shampoo and moving to an alpaca farm? All the time.”

Eric laughed, but it was a little forced. There was a flicker of irritation beneath it, that slight narrowing of his eyes. He didn’t like being interrupted. Especially not when he was trying to come across as emotionally vulnerable.

He still hadn’t let go of the version of me who had bent herself to keep the peace. But that girl had been tired. Tired of managing his moods. Tired of shrinking so he could shine.

I wasn’t tired anymore.

“Anyway,” I said, picking up my glass, “you and Bianca seem very… in sync.”

He smiled, eyes flicking to his girlfriend, who was now doing deep breathing in time with the music. “Yeah. She’s great. Peaceful. You know how hectic things used to be.”

Oof. There it was. The sideways jab. “Totally. I mean, you’re the one who told me chaos was sexy, but what do I know?”

Roman snorted. Bianca opened her eyes and took Eric’s hand with both of hers, humming under her breath like the vibrations would align the molecules in the air around her.

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.

Eric, to his credit, tried to recover. “I didn’t mean it like that. Just… you seem good. Genuinely. I’m happy for you.”

“I am good,” I said.

Roman’s jaw tensed. Without warning, he shifted closer and slid his hand over mine beneath the table. “Mags. Dance with me.”

I froze. “We’re in a restaurant.”

“Technically, we’re in a temple of beet foam and air chakras. Come on, it’ll be fun.”

He stood and pulled me up before I could argue. We swayed between tables, awkward and out of place. Roman dipped me low, leaned in, and whispered, “You’re mine tonight. Play along, honeybun.”

And then he kissed me. It was a show-stopping, stomach-flipping, brain-melting kiss. I knew it was for show. For Eric. But my body didn’t seem to care. I let out a breathless laugh when he pulled away.

Eric stood up. “Maggie, can I talk to you privately? Just for a second?”

I blinked, still dazed. I did not want to do that. “I actually have… an appointment… I forgot about.”

Roman threw an arm around my waist without missing a beat. “Yeah. An appointment.” He tossed some cash onto the table and led us out of the restaurant.

We barely made it out the door before laughter spilled out of me like carbonation. The sidewalk had never looked so good, and the air had never smelled so good.

We walked through the city, side by side.

Eventually, Roman draped his arm over my shoulders, and I leaned into him as warmth spread through my chest. The glow of neon signs and string lights reflected off puddles on the cracked sidewalk.

Behind it all, the skyline glittered like it was showing off.

“That was almost worth it,” he said. “Just to see you laugh like that.”

I glanced up at him, and my heart fluttered like a traitor.

My stomach growled, saving me from saying anything in reply. “I’m starving. The beets and kale didn’t quite cut it.”

Roman nodded. “Yeah, let’s find some real food.”

We found a food truck parked on a side street, wedged between a laundromat with a mural of sea lions and a corner bodega blasting old-school hip hop.

The truck looked like it hadn’t passed inspection in years, paint peeling and one headlight cracked.

We ordered everything: burritos, fries, funnel cake, and tacos in two varieties.

“We wait until we’re home. Like adults,” Roman said solemnly. “This is delayed gratification. Character building.”

At the apartment, we spread the feast out across the coffee table and opened a bottle of wine.

I took the throw pillows off the sofa to make room, but Roman snatched them from me. “Roommate agreement violation. Immediate consequence: five minutes of sustained eye contact and one sincere compliment. I put my face on those, Mags. Have some respect.”

I rolled my eyes and helped him rearrange them. Everything felt light and easy even though I was still buzzing with leftover adrenaline. We sat close on the floor, our knees brushing. The conversation turned more date-like than either of us probably meant.

“What’s your favorite movie?” I asked.

Roman considered. “It used to be something dramatic and artsy. But lately? Probably Howl’s Moving Castle. Don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation.”

I smiled. “You just like the fire demon.”

“Maybe. What would you be doing if you weren’t designing full-time?”

“Something ridiculous. Like mural painting or interior restoration. I don’t know.”

We laughed and talked about our awkward middle school years. Roman confessed he’d been in drama club. “Drama club: Wolf Edition,” he said. “Every monologue had a snarl.”

After two glasses of wine, he grinned. “Let’s play Truth or Dare.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Is this high school again?”

“You’re just scared of what I’ll ask.”

Maybe I was. But not for the reason he thought. I set down my wine. “Game on.”