The Cuddle Clause

by Roxie Ray

The bath said: I see you. I’m sorry. And I never meant to make you shower in my werewolf soup.

“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.”

I heard the shuffle of movement and the soft rustle of fabric. When I dared to peek again, he’d wrapped himself in one of the throw blankets from the couch. It was leopard print and made him look like a werewolf-themed Greek statue.

My inner monologue clapped its hands and screamed: Cool cool cool. Pretend you didn’t dry-hump him in a dream like a Victorian boy seeing an ankle for the first time. Everything’s fine.

“That’s unfair,” I said, glaring at his chest like it owed me an apology. Roman arched a brow. “What is?” “You. Shirtless and saying nice things. It’s manipulative.” He grinned. “You think I’m emotionally manipulating you with my delts?” “I think you’re a menace.” “I think you’re deflecting.”

I kept it light. “Worst kiss you’ve ever had?” She didn’t even blink. “Eric. Easily. He kissed like a dentist.” I paused, glass halfway to my mouth. “A dentist?”

“All open mouth and clinical detachment. Zero vibe. Just… assessment.” I choked on a laugh. “What, like he was checking your gums?” “Honestly? Would’ve felt less sterile if he had been checking my gums. I felt like he was mentally writing a report. Probably deducted points for enthusiasm and lack of tongue alignment.” I snorted. “Did he at least give you a sticker afterward?” She lifted her wine glass. “Not even a free toothbrush.”