Then I flipped to a separate sheet attached to the contract.
“That’s the roommate agreement. Something I added to the building’s standard contract, to make sure we’re on the same page about… err… everything.” Roman scratched his neck uncomfortably.
I hesitated with the pen in hand. My gut whispered this was too good to be true. I didn’t trust myself anymore. Not after Eric. Not after bending and breaking and contorting myself into a woman I didn’t even recognize.
But I looked around at the light, the warmth, the faint scent of cedar.
Whatever. It’s not like my decision – making track record could get any worse. And what’s the worst that could actually happen? Another emotionally unavailable man? At least I wouldn’t be sharing a bed with him. I could go to my own room and shut the damn door.
I signed without reading any of the details. I needed a place to stay, and I could be the perfect roommate. I was certainly used to being invisible.
“Well,” Roman said, taking the papers and tapping them neatly against the counter to align the edges, “guess we’re roommates now, Mags.”
Maggie
Eric hadn’t gone home last night.
He’d texted one of his short, flat lines that used to feel enigmatic but now read like cowardice.
Eric: Crashing at Rob’s so you can get the rest of your stuff, let me know when you’re out
No period. No good luck. No closure.
I’d stared at the message long enough to start imagining things. Like maybe he wasn’t actually at Rob’s. Maybe he already had someone new. Some soft-voiced, herbal-tea-loving stranger with a neutral-toned wardrobe and a perfectly curated playlist for “intentional mornings.” Maybe that was why he ended things. Not because I was too much, or too loud, or not soft enough… but because someone else was already standing where I used to.
And still, I’d slept better than I had in weeks.
The bed at Eric’s apartment had felt like mine again for one last night. I starfished right in the middle and didn’t dream at all. When I woke up, it was with the rare kind of clarity that followed emotional exhaustion and ten solid hours of unconsciousness.
After dressing and grabbing the last of my stuff, I went to my kickboxing class down in the Mission and kicked the shit out of some poor imaginary opponent. Possibly Eric. Possibly myself. Hard to say.
Now, I was dragging boxes up three narrow flights of stairs to my new apartment in a century-old San Francisco building that definitely wasn’t made for moving day. My tank top clung to my back, and my hair stuck to my neck-the tang of sea air and city grit mixing in the hallway. My body begged for mercy. I probably shouldn’t have gone to kickboxing class this morning, but my brain had needed the outlet. Kickboxing was my first and longest committed relationship. It had never lied to me, never needed me to soften or shrink. It just needed me to show up and hit hard.
By the time I reached the third floor, my arms were trembling, and my shin had a mysterious bruise. I cursed under my breath as I nudged the box against my hip and knocked on the apartment door with my elbow. Somewhere outside, a bus hissed to a stop, and the bass of a passing car rattled the window glass.
No answer.
I fished out the keys Roman had given me yesterday and unlocked the door, fully prepared to be underwhelmed by the man who alphabetized his spices but didn’t believe in matching throw pillows.
Instead, I opened the door and found Roman Velasquez leaning against the fridge like a shirtless pagan god.
He held a mason jar filled with iced coffee the exact shade of temptation. He wasn’t really wearing pants either, just a towel slung dangerously low around his hips, as if it had been personally insulted by the concept of modesty. Tattoos curled down his arms and across his chest. His hair was damp, and his smirk made it clear he knew exactly what he looked like.
Of course. Of course he’s stupid hot. Because the universe just loves giving me men I can’t have.
“Hey, Mags,” he said. “I was starting to think you were going to ghost me.”
The Sound of Music soundtrack played through the speakers, and I wondered if I was trapped in a fever dream. “Do-Re-Mi” drifted through the room as he sipped his coffee and raised a dark brow at me.
I stared. I tried not to. I really, really tried. But it was like trying not to notice the fire alarm going off. My eyes did their own thing. His posture was relaxed, all confident angles and shameless comfort in his own skin. He looked like trouble-the hot kind. The kind you thought you could handle until you woke up wondering how the hell you got into the mess you were in.
“Give me five minutes to put pants on and remove all traces of my questionable decision-making from the living room,” he said.
I stepped over a stack of incense and a pair of black leather boots.
“I’ll give you three,” I said, dragging my box inside and praying to whatever ancient power governed sanity that I hadn’t just made the worst, and most absurdly attractive, mistake of my life.
Unpacking was my version of a personality cleanse. I folded sweaters with military precision-sleeves aligned, corners tucked. My bras were stacked like they were reporting for duty. Socks rolled. Pants in rank. The drawer slid closed with a satisfying click, and for a few seconds, I could almost pretend everything else was under control too.
I lined my books on the windowsill in a neat gradient of color-romance, thrillers, a shame pile of self-help books I never finished. Roman’s music drifted down the hallway, some kind of sultry indie-folk that couldn’t decide if it was brooding or flirty. It was annoyingly good. And loud. The bass thudded like a pulse under my feet.
I was tucking my toiletries into a drawer when a loud crunch cut through the music. Roman stood in the doorway, munching on an apple. His shirt was barely clinging to the idea of being clothing, thin and loose enough that it was more a suggestion than a garment.
“Need a hand?” he asked, voice full of mischief. “Or do you bite people who touch your stuff?”
I could tell he was feeling me out to see how well I could take his banter. It had been a while since I’d had someone to perform that push and pull with. I’d forgotten how much I loved it.
“Depends,” I said. “Do you alphabetize by title or trauma level?”
He grinned like I’d just given him a challenge.
We headed down to my car together. Roman jogged down the stairs ahead of me, taking them two at a time. I tried not to watch the way his back muscles moved under that threadbare shirt, but unfortunately, I still possessed eyes. The faint scent of rain on pavement and sourdough from the bakery down the block drifted through the open window in the stairwell, reminding me that the city was alive. My body was exhausted from kickboxing and unpacking, and apparently, it had decided to short-circuit straight into attraction territory without checking in with my brain.
“Three flights up. No elevator,” I grumbled, trying to keep it light. “You really like to weed out the weak, huh?”
“If they can’t carry emotional baggage and literal baggage,” he said, glancing over his shoulder with a grin, “they’re not roommate material.”
“Good thing I have suitcases full of both,” I muttered as I unlocked the car.
He laughed and loaded up like he was prepping for war. He shouldered two overstuffed duffel bags, tossed my winter coat around his neck and grabbed a box labeled FRAGILE in my handwriting-bubble letters that were underlined three times. He held it with surprising gentleness, like it contained precious heirlooms.
“You sure about that one?” I asked, following him with narrowed eyes. “Most people who’ve helped me move in the past see that label as an invitation to punt it.”
“I have decent baseline intelligence,” he said without missing a beat. “I know better than to drop a box that says ‘don’t drop me.’ Also, the texture of the cardboard makes me twitchy, so I have to hold it a certain way.”
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.
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