I rolled back onto all fours and padded toward the edge of the woods, where I shifted back, bones snapping and reshaping until I was just a guy again. A naked, tired guy carrying the weight of a kiss that shouldn’t have meant anything.
I dressed slowly, dragging the hoodie over my head and dusting leaves from my hair. My body felt better, lighter. But my chest was still tight, like I’d left something important back in the woods and didn’t know how to get it back.
By the time I reached the apartment building again, the sky was just starting to shift to deep blue, the earliest hint of morning pressing against the edges of night.
I stood outside the door for a minute. I wasn’t used to feeling this raw. I wasn’t used to wanting. And I definitely wasn’t used to wanting her.
I stepped inside, but the apartment was too quiet.
I’d tried everything. Running. Cold water. That dumb breathing exercise. Even
The Sound of Music, which embarrassingly usually did the trick. Something about Julie Andrews twirling on a mountain could pull me back from the brink every time. But not tonight.
I sat there, on the couch Maggie had practically turned into a second bedroom, watching the nuns sing about solving problems like Maria, and all I could think was: how the hell do I solve Maggie?
Not fix her; she didn’t need fixing. I was the mess. The run should’ve burned off every trace of tension, every thought of that kiss, every flash of her eyes. But the second my feet hit the floor again, skin stitched back into place, lungs raw from the shift… she was still there. Under my skin. Behind my ribs.
And then I walked inside. Her scent hit me like a train.
Vanilla shampoo. Lavender detergent. That cursed lip gloss she wore that smelled like sugared citrus and tasted like poor decision-making. It was everywhere. On the throw pillows. In the carpet. On me, probably.
I stood barefoot in the dark, chest tight, hand pressed to the center of my sternum like I could push the feeling down physically.
It didn’t work.
This wasn’t just want. It wasn’t just attraction. It was something else. Some raw, cellular need to be near her that I couldn’t out-shift or sweat away. It was unsettling. Infuriating.
Which brought me to the hallway.
I stared at her door like it might open on its own. Like she might already know I was here, cracked open and borderline feral. I almost turned back.
But then my brain served me a cruel little memory:
Section 4, Paragraph 3. The Emotional Support Clause.
I’d written the roommate agreement before Maggie moved in. Back when I was half-serious and half-exhausted after my third failed attempt at cohabiting like a functioning adult after Seraphina. That section about emergency cuddling was unfortunately serious, though I thought I could pass it off as a joke. I’d added it after a particularly bad shift had left me curled on the bathroom floor for hours, unable to re-regulate. I figured if I named the need, it would feel less pathetic. Less like I was broken. I never actually thought I’d use it. Definitely not with her.
Now it felt like a lifeline.
I knocked on the doorframe.
Maggie stirred, rustling beneath her blanket. Her hair was a total disaster, a curly mess against the pillow, and her hand was tucked under her cheek.
She blinked up at me groggily. “What?”
I cleared my throat. “I just shifted,” I said, which was code for:
I feel like I’m going to crawl out of my skin and scream into the void. “I, uh… wanted to know if I could…spoon you?”
Her eyes narrowed. “What?”
I coughed. “Section four. Paragraph three. You signed it.”
She rubbed her face. “Yeah, yeah. But if you’re the one needing emotional support, shouldn’t I be the one spooning you?”
I frowned. “That would be weird.”
“Right.
That’s what’s weird about this situation.”
I got into the bed slowly, like if I made one wrong move the whole night might implode. The mattress dipped under my weight, the scent of her intensifying until my head spun. I lay behind her, stiffly, unsure where to put my hands or my shame.
And then she reached back casually and pulled me closer.
Her body curved into mine like we’d done this a hundred times before. Without thinking, I slid my arm around her waist and tucked my face into the space between her shoulder and neck.
The relief was instant. My heart, which had been beating like a war drum, slowed. My breath evened. The static in my head vanished. I went still, every cell in my body confused. Because this wasn’t just about regulation. I’d done that before, with packmates, with old friends, even with paid professionals during the worst of it. This? This was different. This was peace. I was regulated like I had never been before. Not even with Willow.
Warm. Real. Safe.
It terrified me.
I stayed silent, eyes closed, trying to memorize every detail. The shape of her. The rhythm of her breathing. The feel of her fingers loosely tangled with mine. I didn’t want anything else. Not sex. Not romance. Just this. Just her, holding me together like it was the most normal thing in the world.
But my mind wouldn’t shut up.
Why her?
Why now?
And what happens when she realizes how intense this is for me?
I didn’t have answers. Didn’t want to think about answers. All I wanted to think about was her, pressed to my chest, anchoring me. I fell asleep like that.
It felt like home.
Maggie
The bed was cold on Roman’s side. I reached out before I was fully awake, remembering the weight of his arm around my waist, the steady warmth of his chest pressed against my back. But all I found was empty space, cool sheets, and silence.
I let my hand fall back onto the mattress and stared at the ceiling. Relief came first, a little voice saying good, he’s gone, now you don’t have to unpack any of that. But then came the aftershock.
Disappointment.
Of course he left.
I rolled onto my stomach and buried my face in the pillow.
You’re not supposed to want him here, remember? You’re fake dating your sexy, shirtless, disaster of a roommate to help him dodge Lucien’s insane matchmaking circus. This is a job, not a love story.
Still… the bed felt too big without him.
And then came the knock.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
I flinched so hard I nearly fell off the bed. This wasn’t a neighborly knock. This was the kind of knock that brought lawsuits or cult recruiters. Bold. Brash. Aggressive.
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