Page 6 of The Cuddle Clause
That last part caught me off guard. It was honest. Unexpected. A little odd.
He waggled his eyebrows. “Tell me you’re not impressed. Wouldn’t you agree I’m a catch?”
I shut the trunk with way more force than necessary. “If your definition of ‘catch’ relies on one’s ability to pile luggage on oneself like a pack mule,” I said, aiming for casual but landing somewhere near bitter.
Roman didn’t answer. He stared at the trunk for a second like it might reopen and argue back, then turned and headed toward the stairs. We didn’t speak on the way up. Back in the apartment, though, something shifted. Not in a dramatic way, but it became less tense. It was the kind of shift you didn’t notice until the silence stopped feeling like punishment.
Roman hovered near the doorway to my room until I nodded, then stepped in and gave the place a once-over, arms crossed.
“We could move the bed?” he said eventually. “Maybe closer to the window. More light. Better vibes.”
I didn’t know what that meant, but I didn’t have the energy to disagree. “Sure. Knock yourself out.”
We ended up on either side of the frame. The wood scraped a little too loudly across the floor. Roman winced. I pretended not to notice.
Next was the desk. He pointed at it, eyebrows raised like he needed my permission to touch the furniture. “If we angle it toward the wall, it won’t block the closet.”
“Yeah, okay,” I said. “Smart.”
We worked in silence for a while, adjusting, stepping back, shifting things an inch just to say we tried. When we finally stopped, the room looked... not bad. The light from the window fell across the bed like it belonged there. The desk didn’t wobble anymore. My shoulders weren’t locked up near my ears.
Roman stayed by the door, hands on his hips, like he wasn’t sure if he should leave or offer to hang a picture.
I sat down on the edge of the bed. “Looks better.”
He nodded once. “Yeah. It does.”
Neither of us moved.
It wasn’t a breakthrough, but it was effort. Shared air.
And the bed now had decent lighting.
Roman picked up a framed photo that had slid out of the last box. My sister and I, arms around each other at some festival, both mid-laugh and sweaty. My eyeliner had definitely given up that day, but I loved that we looked unfiltered. Real.
Roman handed the frame to me. “You have the same smile.”
Something inside me tripped.
“Thanks,” I said, a little thrown. “We’re really close. She lives about twenty minutes from here. Protective as hell. She’s always there for me.”
He nodded. “That’s nice.”
That was it. No prying. Just that simple, sincere comment. And then he stretched. His shirt rode up. I looked and immediately regretted it, but I didn’t stop looking.
“The desk’s off by half an inch from center,” he said, already reaching for it. “Mind if I?—?”
I rolled my eyes. “Knock yourself out.”
He adjusted it with exacting care, probably measuring it with some kind of mental ruler. I turned back to fluff my pillow and caught him watching me in the reflection of the window.
He caught me watching him and smirked. “Anything else you want me to lift?”
“My will to live,” I said dryly.
He grimaced. “Ouch.”
Whistling a soft indie tune, he walked out of the room like we hadn’t just awkwardly flirted our way around a dozen layers of unspoken things.
