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“I know. It’s why I trust her judgment.”

Roman kissed my forehead, then rested his own against it. “I won’t break your heart.”

I believed him. Not because he said it perfectly, or because it was the romantic thing to say. But because he’d shown me. Over and over again. In the smallest ways. And now, in the biggest.

He hadn’t chosen comfort or safety. He hadn’t chosen obligation or power. He’d chosen me.

Us.

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 found the 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.