Page 19 of The Cuddle Clause
Roman
The thingno one tells you about fake dating your human roommate is how critical throw pillow symmetry becomes. I was adjusting the chevron-patterned one on the couch for the third time, angling it a smidge to the left so the stripe didn’t fight with the navy one behind it, when I cleared my throat.
“This,” I said, gesturing at the living room with a flourish, “is the official State of the Union: Roommate Edition.”
The couch dented with an audiblethumpas a pillow—thrown by none other than my fake-girlfriend—hit my arrangement, wrecking it.
“Don’t make it weird, Roman,” Maggie said as she walked down the hall to her bedroom.
She returned less than a minute later with a spiral notebook clutched in one hand. She scribbled across the front in aggressively slanted Sharpie.
“Operation: Fake It,” she announced.
I stared at the sad, undecorated cover. “That’s it? No glitter gel pen? No heart-shaped doodles? How do you expect us to sell this with that attitude?”
She gave me a withering look. “Not everyone lives in a Lisa Frank trapper keeper, Roman.”
“That’s a shame,” I muttered.
She sat cross-legged on the floor, notebook in her lap, and clicked her pen with the finality of a woman about to lay down the law.
“Ground rules,” she said. “No touching unless it’s public. No kissing unless it’s strategic. No spooning unless one of us is dying.”
“That’s aggressive.”
She didn’t blink. “I mean it, Roman.”
I held up my hands. “Respectfully noted.” Then, I asked innocently, “Is me being shirtless in the apartment a problem?”
She looked up, blinking rapidly. Just a beat too quickly, she said, “Nope. Doesn’t bother me.”
“Cool,” I said.
“Totally fine,” she added, suddenly very invested in the spiral binding.
I cleared my throat and tried not to smirk. “So… pet names?”
“No.”
“Hear me out,” I said, inching onto the couch. “Snuggle beast.”
Her eyes narrowed. “If you call me that in public, I’ll smother you in your sleep.”
I pressed my hand to my chest. “Magsie-Pie?”
She hit me with a pillow.
Eventually, we got down to the details. I insisted we have a backstory—something swoony yet believable. I launched into an elaborate tale about a smoothie explosion, accidental hand-holding, and shared emotional trauma over Trader Joe’s being out of cookie butter.
I was presenting myself as cool, calm, and collected, but internally, I was freaking the fuck out. Faking a relationship with Maggie was just a way to put off the inevitable a little bit. A Band-Aid of sorts. I planned to find a permanent way out of thedamn thing well before the required mating… I just had no idea what the hell that would be yet.
Maggie chewed on her bottom lip. “How about this? We met, I tolerated you, now I regret everything.”
“Very Hallmark. But I think the audience will want more romantic tension.”
Mid-eye roll, she stilled and tapped her pen slowly against the notebook. “Why me, Roman?” she asked softly. “Why tell your whole pack we’re together?”
My mouth opened, but nothing came out. So I did what I do best: I deflected.
