Page 98 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
“It’s a vibe,” he says, tapping the paper like it’s gospel. “This contract is just a responsible, no-pressure agreement between two adults who want to make bad decisions . . . efficiently.”
I stare at him.
And just to prove him wrong—because I know I’ll find loopholes—I read it. Okay, maybe the reasons are different. Maybe it’s because I’m buzzed and curious and one loose hairpin away from seeing how far this can go.
Lucian’s handwriting is precisely what I expect: bold, messy, and loopy, even when it’s not cursive.
Roommates with Benefits: Terms and Conditions
Clause 1: This arrangement is physical only.
Clause 2: No dating.
Clause 3: No falling in love.
Clause 4: All activities must be consensual, enthusiastic, and scheduled around Sarah’s walk and sleep schedule.
Clause 5: Either party may terminate the agreement with one (1) week’s notice or in case of emotional compromise.
Clause 6: There will be snacks post-activities. No exceptions.
Clause 7: This agreement is sexual and consensual, and all parties will remain monogamous—meaning we don’t sleep with other people.
Clause 8: We shall exchange a recent Comprehensive STI blood work and discuss contraception (preferably no condoms).
I lift a brow. “Clause six?”
Lucian nods solemnly. “Sex burns calories. Refueling is self-care.”
“Lucian, this is?—”
“Efficient?” he offers. “Logical? Wildly sexy?”
“Madness.”
“Sure. But our kind of madness.” He slides the pen toward me, the movement slow and deliberate. “Just imagine it, Liv. No pressure. No games. Just . . . you and me. Tension relief. Mutual satisfaction. Unstrategic nudity.”
I narrow my eyes. “Unstrategic nudity isn’t a thing.”
He grins. “Yet.”
I reread the clauses, my eyes skimming the list with amusement and disbelief.
Until I hit Clause Eight —again.
We shall exchange recent comprehensive STI blood work and discuss contraception (preferably no condoms).
And that?
That sentence yanks me to a complete halt. Grabs me by the throat—and not in that sexy, panty-melting way Lucian probably intended.
I blink. Once. Twice.
The rational part of my brain—the part that alphabetizes my spice rack and flosses nightly—starts screaming. Loudly. Like, grab the contract, rip it in half, yeet it across the room, and toss the remains in his smug, shirtless face levels of screaming.
But I don’t move.
Because my thoughts are now spiraling. Not slowly. Oh, no—it’s a full Olympic-level descent into debauchery.
