I wrapped my arms around his waist, letting my head rest against his chest. His heart was steady. Familiar.
Home.
“You know,” I murmured, “we should probably come clean to Doris. About everything. The fake dating. The bond. All of it.”
Roman groaned. “You’re going to make me confess that I used this apartment as a cover for a magical mate arrangement?”
“You’re lucky she didn’t make you sign an emotional support werewolf clause in your lease.”
He pressed a kiss to the top of my head. “I’d do it. In a heartbeat.”
I knew he meant it.
Later, we curled up in bed, the sheets tangled again, our legs even more so. Roman traced lazy circles on my back as I stared at the ceiling, wondering how the hell we got here. But I wasn’t questioning it. Not anymore.
We’d earned this.
It hadn’t been easy. We’d hurt each other. Scared each other. Run in opposite directions more times than I could count.
But we’d come back. Again and again and again.
And that mattered more than anything.
“I’m glad you stayed,” I whispered.
Roman tightened his hold on me. Then, after a long pause, he murmured, “Me too.”
And in that moment, I knew with every beat of my heart: we were going to be okay.
I foundthe envelope taped to the fridge.
It was labeled in giant block letters:“IMPORTANT LEGAL DOCUMENTS – DO NOT IGNORE.”Below it, in smaller handwriting:“This means you, Maggie James.”
My first thought? Roman was finally kicking me out. Probably replacing me with a roommate who didn’t hog the throw blankets or sing Alanis Morissette in the shower.Someone who didn’t cry over pizza commercials or collect hand-made pottery urns with no actual dead people in them.
Then I remembered: we were mates now. Bonded. Spiritually, emotionally, magically… and legally, if you counted Doris’s enthusiastic notarization of our lease renewal as binding under supernatural law.
Still, I opened it cautiously.
Inside was a stapled packet of paper. Eight pages. Front and back. With color-coded tabs and a Roman-style organizational legend that explained what the tiny wolf paw stickers meant. Apparently, the gold ones denoted “high emotional value clauses.”
I snorted before I even read the first line.
“OFFICIAL ROOMMATE AGREEMENT 2.0:
MATE EDITION”
I could already feel the smile forming as I sat down at the kitchen table, still wearing Roman’s hoodie and socks, and started reading.
Clause 1.1 – Rent Payment Schedule:
Maggie James, hereafter referred to as ‘Queen of Snacks and Chaos,’ shall pay rent in the form of:
Actual human money, or
