Page 85 of The Cuddle Clause
The overhead bulb flickered like it couldn’t decide between working or giving up, casting a dull, yellow light over the cinder block walls and the row of aging machines. The hum of a dryer spun in the background, rhythmic and comforting.
But my brain? Absolute chaos.
The confidence I’d had right after class had dissipated, but I kept trying to play it cool. Like maybe all that I was feeling was just a heat-of-the-moment, roommate tension, enemies-to-fake-dating-to-friends-with-benefits detour.
Except I didn’t feel casual with Roman.
Not even a little.
I dropped the basket onto the folding table and reached for the clean stack of shirts waiting to be folded. My hands moved on autopilot—fold in, fold over, stack—but the rest of me was spinning.
We’re more than fake dating now. Hell, we’re more than roommates. More than friends.
The phrase that popped into my head made me physically wince.
Fuck buddies.
I grimaced. No. Absolutely not. That wasn’t what this was. That term didn’t account for the way he’d held me after. The way he whispered “I’ve got you” when thunder cracked outside like it was his actual job to protect me from the universe. That phrasedidn’t explain why the smell of his skin had made me feel safer than I’d ever felt in my own bed.
This felt deeper. Scarier. Infinitely more complicated.
I folded one of his black T-shirts that had somehow made its way into my basket, the one with the tiny tear at the hem that he wore when he “wasn’t trying,” which—of course—was when he looked stupidly hot. I pressed my lips together and kept going.
Part of me wondered if I had made a mistake in my kickboxing class by engaging with Seraphina. The last thing I wanted was to unintentionally cause problems for Roman. Was I even allowed to be staking some sort of claim over Roman? Besides, she was kind of right. Roman and I weren’t real.
And if I was being honest, I had purposely stayed unaware of the specific dynamics of what it meant to truly “mate.” I didn’t need to know. But now… I was curious. In ways I probably shouldn’t be, because Roman and I were neveractuallygoing to mate. I needed to remember that.
I huffed out a shaky breath, trying to focus. I bent down to grab the dryer sheets and opened the cabinet under the table, expecting to find the usual stash of off-brand softeners and abandoned single socks.
Instead, I found a floral notebook.
Bright pink. Spiral bound. Decorated with neon sparkly marker in writing that screamed middle school sleepover but threatening.
Tenant Suspicion Log — DO NOT TOUCH, LANDLORD’S EYES ONLY
I blinked. Stared. Naturally, I opened it.
The first few pages were dated meticulously. All in the same loopy cursive.
Unit 3B: suspicious growling … possibly harboring wolves.
2nd floor male has unnaturally perfect hair. Seems suspicious?
Girl in 2B talks to plants. Potential lunatic?
I flipped through the pages.
Tenant in 4C walks around at night. No shoes. Strange energy. Evil witch?
Someone is stealing my peanut butter. Possibly ghost-related.
I snorted. Then full-on laughed. It burst out of me, uncontrollable, and echoed through the basement until I clapped a hand over my mouth. Of course Doris had a suspicion log. Of course she was tracking the tenants like some over-caffeinated cryptid hunter.
But as I flipped through more pages, the laughter dried up.
It wasn’t a joke. She really was documenting all of us. Watching us. Writing everything down like puzzles to be solved or threats to be neutralized. And Roman—Romanwas mentioned two separate times. Once about “late-night pacing” and once about “unusual howling during full moons.”
My chest tightened. This wasn’t funny anymore.
