What even was he to me? Roommate? Emotional support blanket? Bad idea with excellent cheekbones? The reason my therapist was going to raise her rates?
Of course, just when I thought my brain was finally winding down, it tossed in a bonus round: Eric.
The ghost of relationships past. A familiar ache coiled low in my stomach. Was it regret? Grief? Humiliation? It didn’t matter. It lingered. I rolled over again, curling into a tighter ball.
The mattress dipped behind me, and a warmth settled next to me. My whole body froze. A breath later, I turned my head. Roman was there. Silent. Shirtless. His face inches from mine.
He didn’t say a word as he slid his arm around my waist and pulled me in like it was the most normal thing in the world and we did it every night. My leg hooked over his hip without permission. My body knew him already. Knew his shape, his heat. My heart slowed. My muscles unclenched. The restless energy fell silent.
His nose brushed the curve of my neck. He exhaled slowly, and I shuddered. Goosebumps skated down my spine.
Then his mouth brushed the edge of my jaw-soft, reverent, like he thought I’d vanish if he kissed too hard.
I didn’t think. I didn’t plan.
I let him.
When our mouths met, the world tilted. His kiss was searching at first, careful. Then it deepened as he became more sure of himself. He slid one hand under my shirt, fingers skimming my ribs, my waist, branding every inch of skin with heat and desire.
I arched into him and dragged my fingers through his hair, my breath uneven and needy. Every cell in my body lit up. I could feel everything, feel him. And for one wild, terrifying second, I thought it was real.
I blinked. A streak of gold across the wall. Sunlight.
I blinked again. I was in my room, alone in a cold, empty bed. I sat up so fast my head spun.
“Shit.” Just a dream. Just a vivid, heart-thudding, illegal-in-five-states kind of dream.
I threw back the blanket and stood on wobbly legs. “Oh no.”
My panties were soaked.
I clutched my chest and whisper-yelled at the ceiling. “Holy shit.
“
I fanned my face like that would do anything for the situation I’d woken up in. Okay. Coffee. Immediate, scalding, reality-realigning coffee. Hair a disaster, still warm between my legs and completely mortified, I shuffled down the hall and turned the corner.
And there was Roman. Of course, he was shirtless and leaning against the counter with a mug in his hand like he was posing for a sleepwear ad in a magazine I definitely wasn’t allowed to subscribe to in high school.
His hair was tousled like he’d just gotten out of bed, eyes soft and bleary and golden. It was so damn unfair.
“Morning, Mags,” he said with a grin.
My brain collapsed. Not again. I wasn’t going to survive another day in this apartment with this man. Not after that dream. I swallowed hard and tried to look anywhere but his mouth. Or his chest. Or his stupidly attractive hands holding that mug.
“You made coffee?” I croaked.
He nodded as he straightened and held out the mug as a peace offering. “Felt like being nice. You looked tired last night.”
I took it without a word. Sipped. Scalded my tongue.
Worth it.
He leaned back against the counter, totally relaxed, totally unaware that I’d spent my night turning him into the plot of an erotic indie film.
My inner monologue clapped its hands and screamed:
Cool cool cool. Pretend you didn’t dry – hump him in a dream like a Victorian boy seeing an ankle for the first time. Everything’s fine.
I took another scalding sip and prayed for strength.
Roman
When Maggie walked into the kitchen, I short-circuited. Every thought I had derailed when I looked at her. She looked ridiculous. And completely, unfairly adorable.
It should be illegal to look like that before nine in the morning.
That now-familiar ache pressed against my chest. That thing she did to me without meaning to. Like she opened the windows and let the storm in.
She didn’t notice me staring as she sipped on her coffee. Or if she did, she didn’t comment. She leaned against the counter and muttered, “What’s for breakfast?”
Her cheeks were flushed, her voice raspy with sleep. Her whole body sagged like she’d had the worst sleep of her life. I didn’t know why, but my brain caught on it. Was she okay? Did she have a nightmare? Was this about me?
I kept my voice easy. “Nothing. Remember? Today’s the pack bonding brunch.”
She let out a full-body groan. “Shit. I forgot all about that.” She brushed a hand over her hair like that would tame it. It didn’t. “Do I need to bring something? Is it like… potluck meets primal intimidation?”
I laughed before I could stop myself. “It’s mostly awkward small talk and subtle judging. And waffles.”
Maggie’s eyes widened in panic. “I have no clue what to wear. Are people dressing up? Do I need heels? Do I need to be forest chic?”
I took another sip of coffee and answered the way I always did: by defaulting to patterns. “Sun dresses. Flats. Sweaters. Some women wear jeans, but it’s usually the rebellious cousins. Don’t wear red. It makes Lucien weird.”
She stared. “Uh… What?”
“He says it disrupts the color symmetry of the brunch layout. It bothers me too, honestly.”
Her mouth opened like she wanted to say something, but she simply shook her head and marched to her room. I followed, lingering near the door while she tore through her closet like a woman preparing for war.
She held up three dresses, each more chaotic than the last. I didn’t comment as I scanned her clothing rack and pointed to a floral one shoved near the back. “That one.”
She narrowed her eyes at it. “Isn’t it too cutesy?”
“It’s perfect,” I said without thinking. “You’ll fit in with all the other women your age. But you’ll look the best.”
She stilled, like I’d said something I shouldn’t have. Too late, I realized I had. I looked down at my feet and fidgeted with my waistband. I hadn’t meant to say that part out loud, but I had meant what I’d said.
She didn’t say anything.
We parted to get ready. My routine was fixed. Structured. Cologne-three sprays, always. Button-down shirt, sleeves rolled precisely to the elbows. Collar double-checked in the mirror.
The cuffs of my sleeves never sat quite right. I adjusted them three times before they felt balanced. Not tight. Not too loose.
Just right. It was a little hit of relief in the middle of a morning I couldn’t predict.
I grabbed the keys just as Maggie stepped out of her room. And-Jesus.
She looked the way every candle I’d ever lit felt: soft, warm, a little wild. The floral dress skimmed her body, and my throat went dry.
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