Page 36 of The Cuddle Clause

I stuffed the notebook under my arm, abandoned the rest of the laundry, and ran upstairs.

I didn’t stop until I burst through the apartment door.

Roman looked up from the kitchen, barefoot and very shirtless—because of course he was—sipping something from a ridiculous black mug that said Let Me Sleep or Die.

I slammed the notebook onto the counter.

“I take it laundry didn’t go great.”

“She’s watching us,” I said, breathing hard. “Doris. I found a notebook. Like… an actual physical logbook of her suspicions about everyone in the building. She called you a potential wolf.”

He walked over and flipped the notebook open. Read a few lines. Raised an eyebrow. Then shrugged. “Yeah, that tracks.”

I gawked. “Roman.”

“She’s harmless,” he said, setting the notebook aside like I’d brought home expired coupons.

“She probably thinks everyone’s breaking some ancient code or is secretly a raccoon in disguise.

She once yelled at me for putting the trash out ‘with too much masculine energy.’ I don’t even know what that means. ”

I stared at him. “You’ve been so uptight about shifter rules and secrecy and everything, and now you’re just… whatever about this?”

Roman grinned. “Mags, she still uses a landline. She couldn’t out a supernatural being if we howled into her answering machine. I like to play it safe, because if I straight up shifted in front of her, there would be problems, but we both know she watches everyone in this building like a hawk.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Who the hell are you?”

He leaned against the counter like this was the highlight of his day. “Your very sexy, very chill roommate. Now would you like to file a formal cuddle complaint, or are we cool?”

I rolled my eyes. Hard. But the smile snuck in anyway. Just a little.

I turned to walk away, muttering under my breath, “You’re going to be the death of me.”

Roman’s voice followed me down the hall as I headed to the basement to finish my laundry. “Worth it.”

I laughed. But the worry? That stayed. Because even under all the humor, all the banter, all the warmth—I still didn’t know what I was to him. And that silence between the jokes was starting to feel a lot like a question I was afraid to ask.

After I put my clothes away, I dragged myself through the apartment like a woman who’d survived war.

My body was weighed down by that specific kind of full-body ache that came from a long day of kickboxing, emotional whiplash, and spending the last forty-eight hours pretending I wasn’t actively falling in love with my supernatural neurospicy roommate.

Every inch of me hurt.

All I wanted was a hot shower. Maybe a slice of toast. Possibly death.

I limped toward the bathroom like I was auditioning for a zombie movie.

“If there’s wolf hair in the tub again,” I muttered, peeling off my tank top, “I’m filing for emotional damages.”

The universe, shockingly, was merciful tonight. The tub was clean. Sparkling, even. Not a single stray hair in sight. Bless him.

I turned the water on and stepped under the spray, hissing a little as it scalded my skin before easing into that perfect-too-hot temperature I liked best. The water hit my sore shoulders like a benediction.

I tipped my head back and let it soak into my hair, steam curling around me like a second skin.

For once, I didn’t want to think. Not about Seraphina. Not about Doris and her supernatural stalker notebook. Not about how Roman looked at me like I was something rare, and how dangerous it felt to want to believe him.

I just wanted heat. Silence. Soap. Maybe a minute of pretending my life was simple.

I was halfway into lathering my shampoo—eyes closed, sighing like I’d found the gates of heaven—when I felt a shift in the air behind me.

Not cold. Not threatening. Roman.

Hands slid around my waist, slow and sure.

Warm breath brushed my shoulder. Roman’s chest pressed against my back, and I stilled only long enough to forget how to breathe.

The steam swirled between us. My heart stuttered once, traitorous and loud, before settling into a rhythm I only seemed to find with him.

“Sharing’s caring. Gotta save water. For the environment, you know?” he murmured, mouth grazing my ear.

And then he pressed me against the tile.

I didn’t protest. I leaned into the heat of him and let his hands roam.

Let his mouth find mine in that familiar, hungry way that made it impossible to keep pretending this was casual.

The shower was a blur of sensation. Steam.

Water. Skin. The slide of his hands over my hips.

The way he kissed like he was anchoring himself to the moment.

Like I was the moment.

He spun me around and lifted me easily, like I weighed nothing, pinning me gently to the cool tile. His mouth moved from my lips to my jaw, down my throat, and I clung to his shoulders, lost in the sound of our breathing and the rush of water between us.

Time disappeared. There was only him.

Eventually, he shut the water off, kissed my shoulder once, and carried me out of the bathroom. I looped my arms around his neck like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He dripped water across the hardwood as he walked us toward his bedroom, not bothering to grab a towel. I was still floating somewhere between dazed and giddy when he set me down on the floor and I hopped onto the bed.

I bounced once on impact, laughing… until Roman froze. He blinked, staring at the bed and then at me.

“Oh shit,” he whispered, horror blooming across his face. He swallowed as if trying to hold back the words he wanted to say.

I looked at him, confused, still breathless. “Roman?”

He hovered, wide-eyed, arms flailing like he was trying not to startle an endangered bird. “You’re wet. On the bed.”

My brow furrowed. “That was kind of the point?”

He looked at me like I’d committed a war crime. “Umm… I can fix this. Hop down. I will lay towels. This bedding is cashmere. Or… is it suede? Microfiber? Or maybe it’s rayon. I can’t even remember now. I’m panicking.”

A giggle burst out of me.

“This is why we have clauses, Mags. Clauses. Like civilized people. You agreed to towel etiquette in Section Four, Subparagraph B.”

I folded my arms over my knees and smirked. “Are you serious right now?”

“This bed has seen things,” he said, darting toward the linen closet, “but moisture will be its downfall.”

“You have two-point-five seconds to get the damn towels,” I warned, still grinning.

Roman vanished at werewolf speed. He returned and laid the towels out with surgical precision, one for under the hips and one folded into a square I didn’t ask questions about.

I watched him the whole time, amused and—God help me—completely turned on.

When he finished, he stood at the edge of the bed and narrowed his eyes like a man making a final inspection before battle. He stalked toward me, grabbed my waist, and dragged me down into the blanket fortress with a grin that was all teeth and trouble.

“Now it’s legal,” he growled against my skin.

I didn’t stop laughing until his mouth found mine again.

And after that, neither of us said much at all.