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Mediation via passive-aggressive sticky notes

Or, if necessary, forced eye contact and a very long, awkward hug

Plate Designation Clause:

The blue ceramic plate with the uneven rim is Roman’s. It is “The Good Plate”.

Do not put it in the dishwasher.

Do not microwave it.

Do not serve fish on it. Ever.

Lighting Policy:

No overhead lights after seven p.m. Lamps only. Warm bulbs. Zero fluorescents.

Window Treatment Policy:

The curtains and blinds must be closed at all times unless proof is presented that Doris Cranberry is off the premises.

Noise-Canceling Hours:

Between two and five p.m., Roman enters “Quiet Wolf Mode.” During this time:

No blender.

No hairdryer.

No vacuuming.

Unless it’s Doris-related.

Emotional Decompression Clause:

If Roman spends a full day in a crowd, post-event recovery includes two hours of blanket-cocoon time.

I dropped the lease into my lap and stared at the ceiling.

What. The. Hell.

I heard Roman sigh and shuffle into his room, then the click of the door as he shut it behind him.

I didn’t follow him. I sat there, stunned and slightly traumatized. My new roommate was a wolf shifter with sensory issues, a holy plate, an anti-shifter obsessed landlord, and I had an actual contractual cuddling clause.

And somehow, the weirdest part?

I wasn’t sure if I wanted to laugh, cry, or hug him.

But the one thing I didn’t want to do? Run.

3

ROMAN

I cracked five eggs into a bowl and watched the yolks pool together.

It had been a month since Maggie moved in. Thirty days of her voice drifting down the hall when she spoke on the phone, the clink of her coffee spoon in the mornings, and the windows being open just enough to let in the city but not the chill.