Page 51 of The Cuddle Clause
“I know. It’s why I trust her judgment.”
Roman kissed my forehead, then rested his own against it. “I won’t break your heart.”
I believed him. Not because he said it perfectly, or because it was the romantic thing to say. But because he’d shown me. Over and over again. In the smallest ways. And now, in the biggest.
He hadn’t chosen comfort or safety. He hadn’t chosen obligation or power. He’d chosen me.
Us.
I wrapped my arms around his waist, letting my head rest against his chest. His heart was steady. Familiar.
Home.
“You know,” I murmured, “we should probably come clean to Doris. About everything. The fake dating. The bond. All of it.”
Roman groaned. “You’re going to make me confess that I used this apartment as a cover for a magical mate arrangement?”
“You’re lucky she didn’t make you sign an emotional support werewolf clause in your lease.”
He pressed a kiss to the top of my head. “I’d do it. In a heartbeat.”
I knew he meant it.
Later, we curled up in bed, the sheets tangled again, our legs even more so. Roman traced lazy circles on my back as I stared at the ceiling, wondering how the hell we got here. But I wasn’t questioning it. Not anymore.
We’d earned this.
It hadn’t been easy. We’d hurt each other. Scared each other. Run in opposite directions more times than I could count.
But we’d come back. Again and again and again.
And that mattered more than anything.
“I’m glad you stayed,” I whispered.
Roman tightened his hold on me. Then, after a long pause, he murmured, “Me too.”
And in that moment, I knew with every beat of my heart: we were going to be okay.
I found the envelope taped to the fridge.
It was labeled in giant block letters: “IMPORTANT LEGAL DOCUMENTS – DO NOT IGNORE.” Below it, in smaller handwriting: “This means you, Maggie James.”
My first thought? Roman was finally kicking me out. Probably replacing me with a roommate who didn’t hog the throw blankets or sing Alanis Morissette in the shower. Someone who didn’t cry over pizza commercials or collect hand-made pottery urns with no actual dead people in them.
Then I remembered: we were mates now. Bonded. Spiritually, emotionally, magically… and legally, if you counted Doris’s enthusiastic notarization of our lease renewal as binding under supernatural law.
Still, I opened it cautiously.
Inside was a stapled packet of paper. Eight pages. Front and back. With color-coded tabs and a Roman-style organizational legend that explained what the tiny wolf paw stickers meant. Apparently, the gold ones denoted “high emotional value clauses.”
I snorted before I even read the first line.
“OFFICIAL ROOMMATE AGREEMENT 2.0:
MATE EDITION”
I could already feel the smile forming as I sat down at the kitchen table, still wearing Roman’s hoodie and socks, and started reading.
Clause 1.1 – Rent Payment Schedule:
Maggie James, hereafter referred to as ‘Queen of Snacks and Chaos,’ shall pay rent in the form of:
Actual human money, or
The continued supply of Trader Joe’s dark chocolate peanut butter cups, fresh blueberries, and shoulder massages while I am gaming.
Clause 2.3 – Bathroom Conduct:
Roman Velasquez, hereafter referred to as ‘Loyal Alpha of Mild Domesticity,’ agrees to stop leaving beard trimmings in the sink like some kind of feral swamp creature.
That one had three gold paw stickers next to it.
Clause 3.7 – Blanket Fort Usage:
The construction of blanket forts for purposes of emotional support, seduction, or general whimsy is not only permitted but encouraged. Forts must include:
At least one form of twinkle light
Snacks within arm’s reach
Permission for spontaneous cuddling, even if the fort-builder claims to be ‘working’
Clause 4.9 – Conflict Resolution:
All fights must be resolved via one or more of the following:
Barefoot walks to the bodega for midnight snacks
Truth or Dare rematches
Slow dancing in the kitchen, no matter how mad we are
Roman had scribbled next to this one:
Unless you’re mad because I forgot to pick up your dry cleaning again. Then I deserve the silent treatment until I grovel.
Clause 5.0 – Emotional Safety:
This apartment will remain a safe space for:
Panic attacks
Hormonal meltdowns
Crying during dog movies
Needing to be held for no reason
Needing to not be touched at all
He’d underlined that last part twice.
I didn’t even realize I was crying until a tear hit the paper.
Clause 6.2 – Maggie’s Closet:
Maggie is permitted to take up seventy percent of the shared closet space. However, Roman shall retain veto power over any garment he deems ‘unfit for human wear,’ including but not limited to:
The sweatshirt with holes in three unrelated places
The ancient pair of bunny slippers with one eye missing
Any sock that stands upright on its own
In the margin, he’d written:
Just kidding. Wear whatever you want. You look good in everything. Even the haunted slippers.
Clause 7.1 – Household Responsibilities:
Maggie handles the playlist.
Roman handles the trash.
Joint effort on IKEA furniture, but Maggie is not allowed to throw Allen wrenches when frustrated.
Roman agrees to stop putting empty ice cream cartons back in the freezer. Maggie agrees to stop accusing Roman of crimes she later realizes she committed during sleep-eating.
Clause 8.0 – Final Addendum:
If Maggie James ever feels unsafe, unseen, unchosen, or unloved in this apartment, Roman Velasquez agrees to:
Listen
Try again
Fight for her
Stay
Stay
Stay
And then, handwritten at the bottom:
This apartment isn’t just yours. It’s you. It’s me. It’s every version of us. The one where we were faking. The one where we weren’t sure. And now, the one where I wake up every morning and know I’m exactly where I belong. I love you. —R
I pressed the packet to my chest, blinking hard.
It was ridiculous. It was over-the-top. It had glitter ink and binder tabs and paw print stickers. But it was also the most real thing anyone had ever given me.
It was safety. Humor. Commitment. Structure. Chaos. All the things I used to think couldn’t coexist in the same space.
Roman had found a way to hold them together.
He’d found a way to hold me together.
The front door creaked.
Roman stepped in, carrying a half-empty grocery bag. His eyes locked on mine. “You found it,” he said.
“You put three gold stickers next to the beard trimmings clause,” I replied, voice thick.
He looked sheepish. “I panicked. I know it’s serious.”
I crossed the room and wrapped my arms around his waist, pulling him in. “It’s perfect.”
He rested his chin on my head. “Even the part about the haunted bunny slippers?”
“Especially that part.”
We stood like that. Two chaotic, formerly fake-dating, formerly emotionally avoidant people who had somehow figured it out.
“You ready to sign it?” he asked.
I grinned up at him. “Only if I can add one last clause.”
He arched a brow. “What’s that?”
“Clause 9.1 – Roman Velasquez is required to keep loving Maggie James, even when she sings off-key, makes impulsive decisions, or cries during Super Bowl commercials.”
He pulled a pen from behind his ear like he’d been prepared all day.
“Done.”
And with that, we signed the most important roommate agreement of our lives.
Thank you so much for spending time with The Cuddle Clause!
Maggie and Roman’s story found its way to us the way most of our favorite things do—unexpectedly, a little messy, and wrapped in a blanket of sensory-safe chaos.
From the start, we knew we didn’t want to write a story about fixing broken people.
We wanted to write about what happens when you find someone who fits your edges just right.
Roman is structure and stillness. Maggie is fire and feeling.
And somehow, together, they showed us that love can be both soft and steady—that sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is make room for someone else in your schedule.
If you found comfort in their rhythms, laughed through their awkward spirals, or maybe got a little misty over a cuddle clause that meant more than it should’ve… thank you.
It means the world to us that you spent time with these two.
We hope their story left you smiling, swooning, and just the right amount of emotionally feral.
And hey—don’t forget your Good Plate.
Craving a cozy-sharp shifter romance with cinnamon spice and emotional bite?
You’ll love The Alpha and the Baker—a slow-burn, small-town love story about a grieving baker and the gentle alpha who can’t stop showing up… even when he shouldn’t.
Perfect for fans of soft but strong heroes, found family, food-as-love language, and healing that rises one layer at a time—just like the perfect cake