2

If Eric needed softer energy, I’d give him empty space.

The apartment looked different now that I was packing it into boxes. Less curated. Less aspirational. Half of it didn’t even feel like mine. I stared into the fridge. All the kombucha was his. All the frozen fruit? His. Even the damn eggs were organic and came with a motivational quote on the carton.

I muttered under my breath as I hauled a box of books down the hallway. I’d given up space on the shelves, in the fridge, in the bed… and I still hadn’t made the cut. The tears stayed tucked somewhere behind my eyes, not ready to come out yet. Maybe they were scared of staining his goddamn white couch.

Eric watched me from the doorway. “You’re being kind of quiet.”

“Just giving you that softer energy you wanted.”

He winced. “You know, I’m not sure I ever really knew you.”

I stacked another box on top of the first one. “That makes two of us. But hey, I’m sure you know your yoga instructor pretty well.”

His lips parted in protest, but I didn’t stick around to hear his carefully worded denial. I carried the boxes out to my car, muttering goodbyes to every piece of furniture I hated on principle. When I passed the yoga mat leaning in the corner, I saluted it. “Thanks for your service, namaste, and please rot in hell.”

Twenty minutes later, I was at my sister’s townhouse, just far enough outside San Francisco that the fog thinned, and the houses actually had yards. Charlotte opened her door before I even knocked. She looked like safety. Like home.

“Mags.” She pulled me into a hug so tight it cracked something in my chest. I didn’t even get the words out before I started crying.

“This hurts more than it should,” I whispered into her shoulder. “And that’s the worst part. I still wanted him to choose me, but he didn’t want me.”

She held me tighter, threading her fingers through my hair like my mother used to do when things went to hell.

I choked out the rest. “It’s not just that he dumped me… it’s that I don’t even know who I am without trying to be who he wanted.”

She kissed the top of my head and led me to the couch.

Three hours later, I was swaddled in a blanket like a grief burrito, stabbing at my phone with one hand and alternating between a pint of overpriced dairy-free cookie dough ice cream and cheap red wine with the other. My sister had fallen asleep beside me, her head tilted back, mouth slightly open. I envied her peace.

The Zillow app was a horror show. Tiny studios in the Mission with cracked tile and artistic potential. Victorians in the Haight that I suspected smelled like old weed and regret. SoMa lofts with glossy photos hiding the fact that they sat directly above a nightclub. Every listing I opened fell into one of two categories: wildly out of my budget or so cursed-looking it probably had a haunted doll in the attic.

I scrolled past a photo of a basement unit that boasted “natural lighting” and a window the size of a cereal box. I opened another listing and blinked at the photos. “This one’s probably built over the entrance to Hell.”

The night stretched out in front of me, hollow and endless. I wasn’t Eric’s girlfriend anymore. I wasn’t even sure I liked the version of myself I’d tried so hard to be.

I spooned more ice cream into my mouth and stared at my phone. The screen blurred slightly from the tears I hadn’t fully cried yet. Somewhere between the grief and the ridiculous rent prices, one clear thought finally rose to the surface.

I have no idea where I’m going next. But at least I’m not going back.

I was still wrapped in a blanket cocoon on my sister’s couch and scrolling on autopilot through a rabbit hole of Craigslist real estate that were either suspiciously glossy or clearly haunted when the universe threw me a bone.

The building has a no pets/no shifters policy.

I didn’t have a problem with magical beings—I mean, who did anymore? But I’d lived in apartments that had been trashed by animals before I moved in, and there was only so much you could do about the scent and the stains. So, this honestly sounded kind of ideal.

The photos weren’t sketchy, either. The apartment had actual charm. Exposed beams. Big warehouse windows that practically begged for soft lighting and people to curl up with coffee. Plants in mismatched pots. There was one roommate, the ad said. Rent was weirdly reasonable for the city, especially considering the location. And it wasn’t too far from my favorite kickboxing studio.

There was fine print, but my head was foggy, and my emotional capacity had tapped out hours ago. I squinted, then shrugged. Whatever. It was ten times better than anything else out there.

I texted the number.

Maggie: Hi. My name’s Maggie. I’m interested in the apartment listing. Still available?

Unknown: Yup. Come by for an interview tomorrow at 3. Address below. Just knock.

That was it. No name, no emojis, just a possibility that I wouldn’t be homeless.

I stared at the message, then poured a heavy-handed glass of cabernet and drank like I was trying to sedate a bear. If I couldn’t trust my brain to make smart choices—like not drunk-texting Eric—maybe being unconscious would do the trick.

I woke up at noon with a crusty mouth and a vague memory of making bad decisions.

I skipped showering. What was the point? My hair looked purposefully messy, or at least purposeful enough that I could get away with it. I downed the last scoop of oat milk cookie crumble straight from the container while Break Up With Your Girlfriend blasted on repeat loud enough to rattle the windows. The late-morning fog hung outside, judging me silently. My sister slid a mug of coffee across the counter with a look that was equal parts pity and respect.

By two-thirty, I was in leggings and a slouchy sweatshirt that smelled faintly of vanilla and defeat. I drove through San Francisco’s maze of narrow streets and impossible hills to the address. When I parked, I stared up at the building. It was… not what I’d expected. Ivy climbed up the brick walls, and a weird stone gargoyle perched over the arched doorway like a chaperone that had seen too much. The front door creaked dramatically as I stepped into the tiled lobby. Somewhere in the distance, a cable car bell clanged.

Third floor. The hallway was full of character with creaky wood floors, mismatched light fixtures, and the faint scent of clove. I knocked twice on the door.

Mid-knock, the door was yanked open like the man had been standing behind it with his hand already on the knob.

He was tall and broad-shouldered, his soft gray T-shirt clinging in such a way that I couldn’t help but notice. His dark hair was just messy enough to look intentional, and his jawline looked carved, like whoever made him had been in a mood. His eyes—deep, dark, impossible to ignore—stared right at me for one beat too long.

“Hey. You must be Mags,” he said.

I frowned. Only my sister called me that. And maybe Eric, once or twice, back when things were good.

But coming from him? I didn’t hate it.

He reached out like he was going to shake my hand, then paused, blinked once, and tucked it into his hoodie pocket instead. Still watching me.

I shifted my weight, unsure if I should speak or wait for him to reboot.

“I’m Roman,” he said. “Roman Velasquez.”

“I’m Maggie James. Nice to meet you.”

The space behind him was both cozy and chaotic. Sunlight flooded in through the huge windows. Plants on every surface. Mismatched throw pillows. A record player spinning something jazzy. A pair of dumbbells under the coffee table. It shouldn’t have worked, but for some reason it did.

He stepped back. “You wanna come in or...?”

I nodded, still processing everything at once, and stepped inside.

He led me on a short but efficient tour. “This is the kitchen. I meal prep. Like, aggressively. That’s my room. That’s your potential room. Bathroom’s shared, but I don’t linger.”

“Good to know. So, why do you need a roommate?”

He shrugged, pulling open a cabinet to reveal an aggressively organized spice rack. “I have the extra room. Rent helps. I make decent money, but I like cutting costs. Efficiency’s kind of my thing.”

That tracked. The books on his shelf were color-coded and arranged by size.

“These shelves are cedar,” he added casually, patting one of them. “I tested seven woods. Cedar traps less scent. Most woods trap scent, so it lingers. It’s distracting.”

I gaped at him. “You tested wood?”

He nodded. “Well, yes. I had samples delivered. Smelled them under different conditions. Heat. Humidity. Rain. Cedar held up best.”

That wasn’t weird, exactly. Just very intense. But in a weirdly endearing way.

Roman asked me a few questions—how I handled noise, what my cleaning style was, whether I liked garlic (what was that about?)—and actually seemed to like my answers.

When he asked what I did for work, I said, “Graphic design. I work from home, mostly.”