Page 39

By the time I made it to the restaurant where I was meeting my sister, I was fifteen minutes late, slightly damp from a poorly timed rain spritz, and exactly one existential crisis into my third outfit change. The drizzle had left Market Street slick and shining, and the smell of wet concrete and roasted coffee clung to everything. My sunglasses were still on because I hadn’t bothered with mascara, and my hair looked like it had survived a low-grade natural disaster. Which, given Seraphina’s morning invasion and Roman’s entire existence, wasn’t far off.

Charlotte was already seated at a corner table, iced green tea in one hand, her other tapping against her phone screen. Outside, a cable car rattled past, packed with tourists snapping photos. The moment she looked up, I got The Look. The one that said, You’re late. You’re a mess. And you’re not getting away with it this time.

“Hi,” I said, sliding into the seat across from her.

Charlotte didn’t miss a beat. “You’re not returning my calls. Or texts. Or DMs. Or my meme barrage in the group chat. Are you dead?”

I peeled off my sunglasses. “Emotionally? A little.”

She arched a brow and set her tea down with a loud clink. “Do I need to start sending smoke signals? Hire a skywriter? What happened?”

I waved toward the waiter and mumbled, “Can we order before the interrogation?”

Charlotte ignored that completely. “Have you slept? Eaten? Please tell me you’ve had something other than tequila, stale popcorn, and spite this week.”

I opened my menu, pretending to study it. “I’ve had... yogurt.”

“Yogurt isn’t dinner.”

“It had granola in it. That’s a food group.”

Charlotte leaned in. “Maggie.”

I set the menu down, sighed, and rested my arms on the table. “I didn’t want to drag you into another post-Eric spiral, okay? You hate him. I thought maybe if I just quietly imploded this time, I’d save us both the grief.”

Her expression softened instantly. “I don’t hate him. I hate watching you make yourself smaller for someone who doesn’t deserve the space you gave him.”

I stared at the condensation on my water glass. “It’s like… you called the iceberg. And now I’m the Titanic, post-credits. Just a bunch of scattered wreckage and a haunting soundtrack.”

Charlotte gave a half-laugh, half-sigh. “You’re allowed to have wreckage. I just wanted to help you patch it up before it turned into your permanent aesthetic.”

I took a sip of my drink. “Okay. So. There’s this guy.”

Her brows shot up. “That was fast. Blink if you’re being kidnapped by a rebound.”

“It’s not like that.” I paused. “Okay, it’s a little like that. But also not. He’s... dramatic. Often shirtless. Strange. But kind of amazing?”

Charlotte tilted her head, amused. “Amazing like... emotionally available? Or amazing like he owns a pet cobra and only drinks rainwater?”

I blew out a breath. “He’s like if a soap opera character and a therapy dog had a baby. Hot as fuck. With these stupid eyes. And this hair that falls in his face like he’s in a CW drama.”

“Please tell me this isn’t Eric 2.0.”

“No. No, this is... not at all like that.” I hesitated. “There was a bath. And a cuddle clause.”

Charlotte blinked. “A what clause?”

“A literal signed roommate agreement…. Emotional support cuddling. Shifting trauma. You kind of had to be there.”

“Did you just say shifting⁠—”

“Yeah, my new roommate. Roman. He’s a werewolf.”

She nearly choked on her salad.

“A hot werewolf prepared a bath for you like you’re a duchess.” She wheezed. “And you’re not dating?”

“It wasn’t like that.”