Page 35 of The Cuddle Clause

Maggie

When I stepped into the kickboxing studio the next morning, I let my shoulders drop and breathed in the scent of rubber and sweat. I was still riding the high from the scavenger hunt the previous night and was ready to kick some serious ass.

The music was already thumping. Low bass. High energy. The smell of rubber mats, faint eucalyptus spray, and good old-fashioned sweat filled the air. This was my kind of aromatherapy.

This was my place. My serotonin sanctuary. A little warehouse gym with peeling paint and old equipment that never let me down. I came here to clear my head, burn through my anxiety, and if I was lucky, get out of my own mind long enough to breathe again.

I picked my favorite bag near the back and started rolling my wraps, grateful for the familiar ritual. Left hand first. Loop, wrap the wrist, back over the knuckles. Everything else could wait.

I’d barely made it to my second hand when I heard it.

That voice.

“Oh, hey Maggie. Didn’t expect to see you here.”

I stopped wrapping. Slowly, like my body needed a second to register that yes, God was indeed cruel, and no, I wasn’t getting a reprieve today.

I turned my head.

Seraphina. Wearing designer activewear so pristine it might’ve still had tags on it. Her makeup was flawless. Not a smudge of sweat in sight. She was already talking to the instructor, ponytail swishing as she adjusted it like she was shooting a campaign.

Did she even like kickboxing?

No. No, of course not. She was here for one reason only: To ruin my recreational life.

She glided over like a panther in three-hundred dollar sneakers, all confidence and polished teeth. “I thought I’d try something new,” she said, eyes sparkling with faux innocence. “Mind if I’m your partner today?”

I smiled. It was tight. Tense. The kind of smile you give someone right before a murder trial. “Sure. Why not.”

Apparently, I hated peace.

We started warm-ups, and I knew it was going to be hell within the first thirty seconds.

“Careful,” she chirped, correcting the angle of my wrist for the third time. “You’re flaring your elbow again. That can lead to injury.”

“I’m good,” I muttered, forcing my attention back to the drill.

She wasn’t done.

“You’re doing great,” she added, voice light and clear. “For a human.”

I inhaled. Held it. Let it go.

One punch. Two. Focus.

If I could just get through this class without murdering her, I’d count it as a win. But Seraphina never knew when to stop. Or maybe she did. Maybe that was the point.

“Careful,” she said again, loud enough for the front row to hear. “You’re leading with your hip. Roman always says proper form is everything, especially with his flexibility. You’ve noticed, right?”

My fist faltered mid-air. I gritted my teeth, forced a breath through my nose, and kept going.

Flexibility. Seriously? Was she out here bragging about Roman’s hip rotation? In public?

The next jab hit the pad harder than necessary. She didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe she did and was enjoying every second.

We transitioned into stretches. I took the mat. Closed my eyes. Tried to focus.

And then she leaned in. Too close.

“So…” she said, voice all syrup and curiosity, “how serious are you two? I mean, are you really together to mate or just playing house?”

I opened my eyes and glared at her. “That’s none of your business.”

She smiled, all satisfaction and subtle cruelty. “Roman’s business has always been my business.”

I almost lost it right there. But I didn’t, because the trainer clapped and called out the next drill—a series of escalating power kicks into a heavy bag held by your partner.

Seraphina grinned like this was a spa treatment. I strapped on my gloves, each tug of Velcro louder than it needed to be. She stood in front of the bag, hands in place, stance cocky and casual like I couldn’t possibly touch her.

Like she was invincible. Like she knew I’d fail.

But I didn’t feel like holding back anymore. Not after every passive-aggressive dig wrapped in a sugar-coated accent. Not after the endless reminders that I didn’t belong in his world.

I took a breath. Coiled.

And launched.

My shin cracked against the bag so hard the sound echoed across the gym. It wasn’t rage—it was precision. Purpose. Months of tension and insecurity distilled into perfect impact.

Seraphina stumbled. Her smug smile vanished as she staggered back and landed—hard—on her ass.

The gym went still for a half-beat. No music. No chatter. Just the quiet rustle of someone’s water bottle hitting the floor.

The trainer rushed over. “Whoa—okay, that’s probably enough for today.”

The trainer was still fussing over her as she got to her feet, brushing herself off with slow, deliberate motions like she wanted everyone to know she wasn’t rattled. Her cheeks were flushed, her ponytail sliding out of the scrunchie, but her eyes were locked on me.

“You know,” she said, voice carrying just enough to snag the attention of a few eavesdroppers, “Roman’s fun now. I’m sure he makes you feel special. But give it time. He’ll get bored. He always does.”

She smiled then—not wide, not smug, but small and cutting. It slid under my skin and stayed there.

I held her gaze for a beat, let her see every ounce of the I-don’t-believe-you in my eyes, then turned and walked out.

The cold air outside hit me like a slap, but I barely felt it. My chest was still heaving, adrenaline lighting me up like a fuse. But beneath the chaos, there wasn’t guilt. There wasn’t shame.

There was relief.

Because I hadn’t played her game. I hadn’t stooped to her level. I hadn’t called her names or clawed back with words.

I’d let my body speak for me.

And it had felt good. No…it had felt right. And somewhere deep inside, the part of me that always worried I wasn’t fierce enough, wasn’t strong enough, wasn’t enough at all?

She was finally quiet.

The laundry basket dug into my hip as I descended the basement stairs after my kickboxing class, but my thoughts weren’t anywhere near the socks and shirts inside. Not even close.

The overhead bulb flickered like it couldn’t decide between working or giving up, casting a dull, yellow light over the cinder block walls and the row of aging machines. The hum of a dryer spun in the background, rhythmic and comforting.

But my brain? Absolute chaos.

The confidence I’d had right after class had dissipated, but I kept trying to play it cool. Like maybe all that I was feeling was just a heat-of-the-moment, roommate tension, enemies-to-fake-dating-to-friends-with-benefits detour.

Except I didn’t feel casual with Roman.

Not even a little.

I dropped the basket onto the folding table and reached for the clean stack of shirts waiting to be folded. My hands moved on autopilot—fold in, fold over, stack—but the rest of me was spinning.

We’re more than fake dating now. Hell, we’re more than roommates. More than friends.

The phrase that popped into my head made me physically wince.

Fuck buddies.

I grimaced. No. Absolutely not. That wasn’t what this was.

That term didn’t account for the way he’d held me after.

The way he whispered “I’ve got you” when thunder cracked outside like it was his actual job to protect me from the universe.

That phrase didn’t explain why the smell of his skin had made me feel safer than I’d ever felt in my own bed.

This felt deeper. Scarier. Infinitely more complicated.

I folded one of his black T-shirts that had somehow made its way into my basket, the one with the tiny tear at the hem that he wore when he “wasn’t trying,” which—of course—was when he looked stupidly hot. I pressed my lips together and kept going.

Part of me wondered if I had made a mistake in my kickboxing class by engaging with Seraphina. The last thing I wanted was to unintentionally cause problems for Roman. Was I even allowed to be staking some sort of claim over Roman? Besides, she was kind of right. Roman and I weren’t real.

And if I was being honest, I had purposely stayed unaware of the specific dynamics of what it meant to truly “mate.” I didn’t need to know. But now… I was curious. In ways I probably shouldn’t be, because Roman and I were never actually going to mate. I needed to remember that.

I huffed out a shaky breath, trying to focus. I bent down to grab the dryer sheets and opened the cabinet under the table, expecting to find the usual stash of off-brand softeners and abandoned single socks.

Instead, I found a floral notebook.

Bright pink. Spiral bound. Decorated with neon sparkly marker in writing that screamed middle school sleepover but threatening.

Tenant Suspicion Log — DO NOT TOUCH, LANDLORD’S EYES ONLY

I blinked. Stared. Naturally, I opened it.

The first few pages were dated meticulously. All in the same loopy cursive.

Unit 3B: suspicious growling … possibly harboring wolves.

2nd floor male has unnaturally perfect hair. Seems suspicious?

Girl in 2B talks to plants. Potential lunatic?

I flipped through the pages.

Tenant in 4C walks around at night. No shoes. Strange energy. Evil witch?

Someone is stealing my peanut butter. Possibly ghost-related.

I snorted. Then full-on laughed. It burst out of me, uncontrollable, and echoed through the basement until I clapped a hand over my mouth. Of course Doris had a suspicion log. Of course she was tracking the tenants like some over-caffeinated cryptid hunter.

But as I flipped through more pages, the laughter dried up.

It wasn’t a joke. She really was documenting all of us. Watching us. Writing everything down like puzzles to be solved or threats to be neutralized. And Roman—Romanwas mentioned two separate times. Once about “late-night pacing” and once about “unusual howling during full moons.”

My chest tightened. This wasn’t funny anymore.