Page 39 of The Cuddle Clause
Roman knelt beside the tub, rolled up his sleeves like he was about to perform a delicate medical procedure, and started pulling clumps of fur from the drain. It made a soft, wet squelch every time he yanked one free.
I gagged. Again.
“You okay?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder with a mischievous grin.
I clutched my towel tighter and made a noise somewhere between a retch and a war cry. “If you flickonehair in my direction?—”
He pretended to flick it.
I screamed and jumped back, slipping a little on the tile. He burst out laughing.
“Okay, okay,” he said, holding up a hand. “Truce. I owe you. Big time.”
“Damn right you do,” I muttered, already halfway out of the bathroom. “I swear to God, if I find a single strand in my loofah?—”
“I’ll buy you a new loofah,” he called after me. “And the gloves.”
I stomped into my room, still damp, still furious, and snatched a second towel to wrap around my hair. The ends of it were streaked purple with my conditioner. I muttered under my breath about shifters and drain snakes while I made my bed,threw on pajamas, and tried to pretend this day hadn’t shattered every single one of my boundaries.
Five minutes passed.
Then ten.
Then twenty. What the hell was Roman doing in there?
The apartment was quiet, except… was thatguitar? I padded barefoot to the bathroom door, prepared to demand proof that the war had been won.
I stopped in my tracks. The light was off but the whole room glowed, soft and golden, like someone had bottled sunset and let it loose in there.
Candles. Dozens of them. Mismatched, half-burned, probably scavenged from junk drawers. The tub had been scrubbed within an inch of its life and now steamed gently, filled with bubbles that smelled like vanilla, citrus, and possibly a deeply repentant apology.
A quiet acoustic guitar melody floated through the room, something sweet and low and completely unexpected.
Roman wasn’t even in sight. No jokes. No commentary.
The bath said:I see you. I’m sorry. And I never meant to make you shower in my werewolf soup.
My chest tightened. Stupid. Unfair.
Slipping my clothes off, I stepped into the tub and sank down, letting the warmth pull me under. The bubbles tickled my chin as I leaned back and closed my eyes.
Maybe I forgave him.
Maybe I more than forgave him.
But I wasdefinitelynot telling him that.
At least not until he handed me those damn gloves.
By the timeI made it to the restaurant where I was meeting my sister, I was fifteen minutes late, slightly damp from a poorly timed rain spritz, and exactly one existential crisis into my third outfit change. The drizzle had left Market Street slick and shining, and the smell of wet concrete and roasted coffee clung to everything. My sunglasses were still on because I hadn’t bothered with mascara, and my hair looked like it had survived a low-grade natural disaster. Which, given Seraphina’s morning invasion and Roman’s entire existence, wasn’t far off.
Charlotte was already seated at a corner table, iced green tea in one hand, her other tapping against her phone screen. Outside, a cable car rattled past, packed with tourists snapping photos. The moment she looked up, I got The Look. The one that said,You’re late. You’re a mess. And you’re not getting away with it this time.
“Hi,” I said, sliding into the seat across from her.
Charlotte didn’t miss a beat. “You’re not returning my calls. Or texts. Or DMs. Or my meme barrage in the group chat. Are you dead?”
I peeled off my sunglasses. “Emotionally? A little.”
