Page 48 of The Cuddle Clause

Maggie

I woke up to the smell of buttery toast and cinnamon. For a second, I forgot where I was. The soft gray walls weren’t mine, and the sunlight didn’t hit the window in that familiar slant. Then the ache in my chest reminded me.

Charlotte’s house.

Right. I had run to my sister.

My eyes were dry, probably because I’d cried every drop of moisture from my body the night before.

The guest bed creaked as I rolled over, clutching the blanket like it might hold me together.

I stared at the ceiling. I didn’t feel sad.

I felt emptied out. Like someone had scooped the insides of me with a ladle and forgot to put anything back.

There was a soft knock on the door, and before I could answer, it cracked open and Charlotte peeked in, carrying a tray with a mug and a plate of food.

“You’re awake,” she said gently. “I figured toast might work better than a lecture.”

I sat up with effort. “Both might kill me.”

She gave me a half-smile and walked over, setting the tray across my lap. Toast, fruit, and a latte. Perfect, like always. My sister was the kind of person who showed love through acts of service. She rarely told me she loved me, but she’d bring me the sun on a tray if I needed it.

I didn’t deserve her.

“You didn’t have to do this,” I mumbled.

“I know.” She sat beside me, curling one leg beneath her. “But I wanted to.”

I picked at the corner of the toast. “I hate this. I hate being the sister who’s always falling apart. Who always needs rescuing. You probably dread seeing my name pop up on your phone.”

Charlotte brushed my hair out of my face.

“You’re not a burden, Maggie. You’re my baby sister. That comes with lifetime privileges, such as falling apart in my guest room whenever you need to.”

Tears welled up again, traitorous and fast. “I’m such a basket case.”

“You’re not.” Her tone turned firm, almost annoyed on my behalf. “You’re a person going through a hard thing. There’s a difference.”

I sniffled and looked down at my lap. “I really thought Roman was different.”

Her fingers curled around mine, steady and warm. “Tell me.”

I exhaled slowly. “He just… got me. I didn’t have to pretend around him.

I didn’t have to overthink every sentence or manage his reactions like I was some emotional project he had to survive.

And I felt like I got him too. That I was what he needed.

I thought we were”—my voice cracked—“on the same page.”

Charlotte didn’t jump in. She let the silence stretch, her thumb tracing circles on the back of my hand.

“It was a fake relationship,” I said. “And I still somehow managed to catch real feelings.”

“Because it wasn’t fake to you.”

I nodded, biting my lip hard.

She sighed. “Look, I know this probably sounds like garbage advice right now, but the right person? The right one won’t need to be convinced. You won’t have to bend yourself into painful shapes to make it work. The right one will meet you where you are.”

“What if I already met him and he just… didn’t feel the same way?”

Charlotte raised an eyebrow. “Then he’s not the right one.”

I scoffed. “That’s convenient logic.”

“It’s true. The right one sticks. You can’t push him away. You can cry, scream, self-sabotage—and yeah, it’ll be messy—but he won’t be scared off. He’ll show up anyway. And not because he has to, but because he wants to.”

I bit down hard on my lip. I hated how right she sounded. Hated how much I wanted her to be wrong. Because if she was wrong, then maybe Roman had just made a mistake. Something we could fix.

But if she was right, then maybe I’d never really had him at all.

“I need to get out of this bed,” I said.

Charlotte looked pleased. “Yes. Move your body. It doesn’t have to be a run. Just go outside, breathe fresh air, stand in the sun. Do something to remind your brain that you’re still alive.”

I gave a watery laugh. “You sound like a therapist.”

“I watched a lot of mental health reels on Instagram last night.”

I shook my head, smiling despite myself.

Charlotte stood and picked up the empty coffee cup. “Rotting is allowed. I support rot. But only temporarily. Your spirit’s still in there, Mags. You just have to make space for it to come back.”

I nodded. “I’ll get up.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

As she stepped out of the room, I swung my legs over the side of the bed, every muscle protesting like I’d just run a marathon in my sleep. I looked around at the half-unpacked overnight bag, the mountain of tissues on the nightstand, the smear of mascara on the pillowcase.

God, I didn’t even recognize myself anymore.

Maybe Charlotte was right. Maybe being sad wasn’t the whole story. Maybe I could move and cry at the same time. Maybe I could grieve and grow.

Maybe I could survive this.

I stood up. Wobbly, but upright.

It was a start.

A kickboxing class sounded like the right decision. Like Charlotte had said, I needed to move. To breathe deeply. So, I did just that.

I was halfway through round two with the punching bag when my knuckles started to throb, but I didn’t stop or slow down. Sweat dripped down my spine, soaked through the band of my sports bra, and still I kept swinging. Left jab. Right cross. Step back. Repeat.

I needed this.

Every hit felt like an exhale. Every hard slam of my fist into the bag made the ache in my chest feel a little less suffocating. I’d been bottling it up—grief, anger, heartbreak, confusion—and this was the first time I’d given myself permission to let it out and stop pretending I was okay.

Because I wasn’t.

I missed Roman. That didn’t surprise me. What was surprising, though, was the fact that even through all this missing and hurting and unraveling, I still wanted what was best for him. And if that meant Willow—if she made him feel safe and seen and whole—then I could learn to be happy for him.

Even if it shattered me in the process.

I paused, panting, and rested my hands on my knees, letting my arms dangle loose. The bag swayed slightly in front of me like it was waiting for round three. Maybe later.

I looked up and—

Oh my god.

Roman.

He looked completely out of place in his hoodie and jeans, damp hair curling slightly around his ears, holding, of all things, a bundle of pottery cradled in his arms like a newborn.

“Sorry,” he said, breathless, eyes locked on mine. “I’m not here to sign up for kickboxing, though honestly, I might need to after this.”

“Roman,” I croaked, frozen in the middle of the mat.

He stepped forward. “I don’t want a fake mate,” he said loudly, voice echoing off the studio walls. “I want you. Only you.”

Gasps from the women to my left. A little giggle from the instructor. Roman crossed the rest of the distance between us, holding out the bundle he carried.

“I brought these,” he said. “You saw them at the farmer’s market weeks ago.

You picked them up and put them back. You said you didn’t need them.

” He unwrapped the cloth carefully, revealing the two handmade ceramic urns I’d loved and walked away from.

The ones with the blue-gold glaze and the delicate floral designs.

“I figured you could use them,” he said. “You know. For one of two purposes.”

I raised a brow, heart pounding. “Which are?”

“Well, either you can use them for my ashes,” he deadpanned, “because I’ll die inside without you.”

A few people gasped again. One lady went “Aww.”

“Or,” he continued, lifting the smaller urn and tugging a bunch of wildflowers from inside, “you can keep these in it. Because I want you in my life, Maggie. Like I need oxygen. I’m not breathing right without you.”

My lips parted, but nothing came out.

Roman took another step, gently setting the flowers and urns on the mat beside me. “And just to get ahead of your follow-up question,” he said. “Lucien knows. About everything. And I told him exactly what I wanted.”

“You did?” I whispered, hardly daring to believe it.

“I told him I want you. I love the pack, but I don’t want to live for it. I want to be in the city. I want to help when I can, but the whole beta thing? That’s not me. It crushes something in me. So I turned it down.”

My jaw dropped. “You… turned it down?”

He smiled shyly. “I did.”

He stepped closer and crouched in front of me, like he was proposing—but with less pressure and more desperate affection.

“Lucien offered me something else. A new role. Pack Integration Officer. I’ll help younger wolves and estranged members transition into human life.

Help them find jobs, apartments, therapists, whatever they need.

Host meetings between packs, keep things calm. Keep magic quiet.”

I swallowed. “That sounds perfect for you.”

He nodded. “Lucien thought so too. Said I’m better at connecting people than commanding them. And I think I know how to save the pack’s magic, but I’ll tell you all about that later.”

I gave a choked laugh.

“And,” Roman added, “he gave us his blessing. He said he’s seen how we look at each other—and that we crushed that game show.”

That made me laugh, real and full. “We did crush it.”

“I’m serious, Maggie.” His voice turned softer, like it was just the two of us again. “I meant what I said. I want you. Not as a roommate. Not as a fake anything. Just as you and me.”

My throat tightened. I stared down at him, heart racing like it might burst free.

“I love you,” I whispered. “I think I’ve loved you this whole time, but I didn’t realize it until I thought I had lost you.”

Roman stood and reached out, brushing my sweaty hair off my forehead. “You’re not losing me. I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life. I want you, Maggie James… if you’ll have me.”

I didn’t say anything. I reached up and kissed him.

It wasn’t the nervous, testing kiss of two people trying something out. It was solid. Fierce. A thousand unspoken words wrapped in the press of our mouths. I love you. I choose you. I’m done running.

He wrapped his arms around me, grounding me even as the studio spun. He kissed me like I was everything.

Somewhere in the background, the entire class clapped. A couple of women actually cheered. Someone sniffled and muttered, “That’s better than The Bachelor.”

I laughed against his lips and pressed my forehead to his. “This can’t be real life.”

“It is,” Roman said. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

In his arms, in front of a crowd of sweaty strangers and a punching bag that had taken the brunt of my heartbreak, I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time.

Safe.

Not because he saved me. But because he saw me. Because he stayed.

And I would never let go.