I sat down on the edge of the bed. “Looks better.”
He nodded once. “Yeah. It does.”
Neither of us moved.
It wasn’t a breakthrough, but it was effort. Shared air.
And the bed now had decent lighting.
Roman picked up a framed photo that had slid out of the last box. My sister and I, arms around each other at some festival, both mid-laugh and sweaty. My eyeliner had definitely given up that day, but I loved that we looked unfiltered. Real.
Roman handed the frame to me. “You have the same smile.”
Something inside me tripped.
“Thanks,” I said, a little thrown. “We’re really close. She lives about twenty minutes from here. Protective as hell. She’s always there for me.”
He nodded. “That’s nice.”
That was it. No prying. Just that simple, sincere comment. And then he stretched. His shirt rode up. I looked and immediately regretted it, but I didn’t stop looking.
“The desk’s off by half an inch from center,” he said, already reaching for it. “Mind if I?-?”
I rolled my eyes. “Knock yourself out.”
He adjusted it with exacting care, probably measuring it with some kind of mental ruler. I turned back to fluff my pillow and caught him watching me in the reflection of the window.
He caught me watching him and smirked. “Anything else you want me to lift?”
“My will to live,” I said dryly.
He grimaced. “Ouch.”
Whistling a soft indie tune, he walked out of the room like we hadn’t just awkwardly flirted our way around a dozen layers of unspoken things.
I woke up with my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth and a vague sense that I was being punished for something I hadn’t done yet.
My room was quiet and dark except for the pale streetlight filtering through the window. I blinked at the ceiling to clear the grogginess from my head before I rolled out of bed and padded barefoot into the hallway. All I wanted was water, then I’d go right back to sleep.
The loft was quiet. Roman’s door was closed, and his playlist had finally played out, thank God. I rounded the corner into the kitchen.
Something moved. I caught it in the corner of my eye-low, fast, wrong. Then I heard it. Heavy breathing. Slow. Close.
Too close.
The kitchen light switch was just within reach, and I slammed it.
A wolf. A giant, actual, standing-in-my-apartment-like-it-paid-rent wolf, blocking the hallway. It had yellow eyes and thick black fur with enough muscle to make me reevaluate every decision that had led to this moment.
I screamed. Not the cute kind of scream-the full-body, someone’s-about-to-die kind. I leapt onto the kitchen counter, grabbed the nearest object-a whisk-and launched it with all the grace of a panicked toddler.
The wolf flinched, flattened its ears, then bolted into the living room with a yelp.
I didn’t stop to see where it went. I jumped off the counter, sprinted to my room, and snatched my phone off the charger. I didn’t have many people I could call, though. That was the problem with making one man your entire world-you didn’t have much left when he was gone.
My hands shook as I pulled up my sister’s number. I hadn’t even pressed call when I heard a thump in the living room.
Fingers tight around my phone, I crept down the hall, heart pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears. I peered around the corner.
Roman was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the rug.
Naked. Completely freaking naked.
Holy. Fuck.
His dark hair was messy and damp with sweat, and his chest was rising and falling in short, shaky bursts. His eyes were wide and a little unfocused, lips parted, skin flushed like he’d just come out of a horrific nightmare. Then he stood up.
And I found myself making direct eye contact with his… Well.
His dick. His massive dick.
My brain short-circuited. I snapped my gaze up to his face. To my horror, his bottom lip quivered.
“What the fuck is happening?” I blurted. “Are you going to cry?”
That snapped him out of whatever trance he was in. He glanced down, startled, then grabbed a throw pillow from the couch and slapped it in front of his junk. “You didn’t read the whole contract, did you?”
I frowned. “I thought I did.”
“You obviously didn’t,” he said dryly. “Or you’d know I’m a wolf shifter. And that you’re contractually required to support me emotionally post-shift, not scream and throw things at me like I’m an intruder.”
I backed into a potted plant, knocking a leaf loose. “What the actual fuck.”
Roman, still clutching the pillow with a stunning amount of composure, strode over to the bookshelf, retrieved a thick stapled packet, and held it out like a sacred text.
“The roommate agreement,” he said. “Section three. Enjoy.”
I tried to argue but instead started coughing uncontrollably.
Roman frowned. “You okay?”
“I-” I coughed again, breath catching. “My throat gets really dry when I’m anxious.”
“Right,” he muttered, already walking to the kitchen. He came back with a glass of water and handed it over with a vague expression of guilt.
“Thanks,” I said hoarsely.
“You’re welcome,” he said, then added, “Take your time. There’s a lot.”
There was. I retreated to my bedroom and curled up on my bed, contract in one hand, water in the other, and flipped to section three.
The tenant, Roman Velasquez, is a licensed wolf shifter diagnosed with mild autism spectrum disorder. He experiences post-transformation emotional dysregulation and sensory hypersensitivity. Therefore, the human roommate agrees to provide compassionate cohabitation during post-shift recovery, including but not limited to verbal reassurance, gentle physical contact, and access to weighted blankets.
I looked up. Roman had put on some clothes and turned off the kitchen light. He was shielding his eyes with one hand like the overhead bulb in my bedroom had personally offended him. He was blinking fast, as if he was disoriented.
“Yes,” he said softly. “I’m on the spectrum.”
My anger paused, tripping over confusion. Not pity. Not judgment.
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