“No. No, this is… not at all like that.” I hesitated. “There was a bath. And a cuddle clause.”
Charlotte blinked. “A what clause?”
“A literal signed roommate agreement…. Emotional support cuddling. Shifting trauma. You kind of had to be there.”
“Did you just say shifting
?-“
“Yeah, my new roommate. Roman. He’s a werewolf.”
She nearly choked on her salad.
“A hot werewolf prepared a bath for you like you’re a duchess.” She wheezed. “And you’re not dating?”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“Uh-huh. And I don’t keep backup snacks in my glove compartment.”
I rubbed my temples. “It doesn’t matter how great he is. Or that his hair defies gravity. I’m not doing this again. I can’t. I don’t trust myself to pick right. And I definitely don’t trust myself not to ruin it if I do. And… it doesn’t matter anyway because he doesn’t like me like that.”
Charlotte took another sip of her tea. “Maggie, maybe it’s not about picking the perfect guy. Maybe it’s about picking someone who makes you feel safe. Seen. Cherished.”
I didn’t say anything.
“You’ve done complicated. You’ve done cold. Roman sounds like the warm kind. Maybe try that for once.”
The way she said his name slid into my chest and settled like a stone in my stomach. Because it wasn’t just a name. It was the him of it all. The bath, the spooning, the way his arm fit around me like it was meant to be there.
I blinked fast and sipped my water to buy myself a second. “Okay,” I said finally, voice a little wobbly. “But if he turns out to be a serial killer, I reserve the right to say I told myself so.”
“Deal,” Charlotte said, smiling. “But from what you’ve told me, it sounds like the guy’s more likely to bake you cookies than bury a body.”
“Yeah, well, he does eat mango with a fork, so it could go either way.”
We spent the rest of the meal picking apart food trends, laughing about our parents’ latest spiritual enlightenment post from Bali (“Dad just quoted a monk named Brent”), and trading sarcastic jabs that made my ribs ache from laughing.
The wind had picked up outside. The sharp, damp gust always seemed to roll in off the Bay as soon as the sun dipped low. I hugged my jacket tighter and turned to my sister. The scent of seawater and sourdough drifted on the breeze, mixing with the faint diesel tang of a passing Muni bus.
Charlotte pulled me into a hug I hadn’t realized I needed until her arms were around me.
“Promise me you’ll text,” she murmured. “You don’t get to vanish just because you’re emotionally constipated.”
I grinned into her shoulder. “I’ll do my best, mom.”
She pulled back, smirking. “Don’t forget who used to hide your report cards. I am the mom.”
She walked off, tossing a wave over her shoulder as she slipped into the crowd of people hurrying toward the cable car stop at the corner. As I watched her disappear into the dusk, the city lights flickered on one by one, and the fog started to creep in.
My heart felt lighter. But also heavier.
Because Roman wasn’t just some guy anymore.
And maybe… he never had been.
Maggie
I was dreaming about marshmallow fluff and the end of student loans when I was rudely jolted awake.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
I flailed, smacking my alarm clock before I realized that wasn’t what had pulled me out of sleep. I groaned into my pillow. Who the hell knocked like a debt collector at midnight?
The clock confirmed it was four minutes past midnight.
I dragged myself out of bed, still half in dreamland, hair a mess and brain two beats behind. I didn’t bother with a robe. Yanking my T-shirt down, I shuffled barefoot toward the door, muttering something about decency and noise ordinances and the audacity of the human race.
When I cracked open the door, I found Doris standing there in all her landlord glory. Pink velour tracksuit, clipboard tucked under one arm, and the perpetual expression of someone who hadn’t trusted a soul since Nixon.
“I’m hearing animalistic wailing,” she said by way of greeting.
My brain stalled. “You’re… what?”
Doris leaned in, her mouth tight. “Wailing. Growling. Possibly a banshee deathmatch? Coming from your unit.”
I blinked at her. Once. Twice.
I caught movement behind me and turned slightly. Roman was in full wolf form, hiding behind the kitchen island with his ears pinned back and eyes wide.
Oh. Shit.
I turned back to Doris, forcing a laugh that probably sounded like a broken blender. “Ah. That. That’s just a, um… a recording. Nature documentary. We play it to relax.”
Doris stared. “You relax to snarling?”
“It’s… immersive. Helps simulate the wild. Makes it feel like we’re off the grid.”
From behind me, a new sound emerged.
Meowing. Human meowing.
My head swiveled. Roman, thankfully no longer a wolf, was crouched- naked
-behind the kitchen counter, meowing like a dying alley cat. Apparently, that was how he chose to assist in proving my claim.
Jesus Christ.
I cleared my throat. “We’ve also been experimenting with… cat ASMR.”
“You’ve been what?”
I was sweating now. “You know. The soothing stuff? Crinkling, tapping, soft feline meows. For stress reduction. It’s a whole thing. Millennials love it.”
“I don’t speak Millennial,” Doris snapped. “What is ASMR?”
“It’s…” I waved a hand, flustered. “Relaxing noises. For… our nerves.”
Doris narrowed her eyes. “Well, if the noise level doesn’t go down immediately, I’ll have no choice but to add you to my
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