Page 152 of Somno Slave

It’s ridiculous. Petty. Completely unprofessional. The kind of thought I should be ashamed of the second it appears, and I am...but not enough to kill it.

Because the moment it crosses my mind, something sharp and electric unfurls in my chest. My pulse stutters. A cold rush of adrenaline moves through me so fast it feels like being caught doing something before I’ve even done it.

I hate how quickly my body responds to it, how easily the idea roots itself.

I lean a little closer to Mike and, at first, he doesn’t notice.

Good.

I shift again, slower this time, careful enough that it looks accidental. Our chairs are close now, nearly touching. His elbow rests loose on the desk beside mine, his body relaxed in that easy, unaware way that makes this feel even worse.

All I have to do is move a little further.

My eyes stay fixed on Deogal through the glass. I wait for something—a glance, a shift, the smallest crack in that stillness. Anything that proves he sees me. That I matter enough to disturb it.

I let my shoulder brush against Mike’s arm.

Mike goes completely still. I see it happen in real time—the stiffening of his spine, the sharp pause in his breathing. Colour climbs instantly into his ears, pink spreading fast. When he looks at me, his eyes are wide with that startled, hopeful confusion of someone trying not to read too much into a moment while already reading far too much into it.

He doesn’t say anything. Not yet.

I give him a small smile, let my gaze linger a little longer, a bit softer, then turn my focus back to the screen. It takes him a moment to gather his thoughts before he cautiously turns hisfocus back to his page. I can tell he’s no longer reading. His eyes remain trained on one section of the page.

Deogal hasn’t moved though.

Stillness.

Stone.

A flicker of frustration sparks beneath my ribs.

I lean back slightly, wait a moment, then shift again.

This time I let my hand brush Mike’s arm deliberately. His eyes dart down to my hand and then back at me. His face turns red.

I tilt my head slightly. “So, Mike, I was thinking,”

“About what?” His voice is hoarse, low. From the way his skin is flushed, I know he knows what I’m about to say.

I smile. “Maybe we could go for a drink this weekend?”

He startles.

“Wait,” he swallows hard. “Really?”

He falters into silence, and I can almost see it happening—the frantic turning of cogs behind his eyes, every possible meaning being pulled apart and examined for signs he’s not imagining this.

I bite down on the inside of my cheek, hard enough to keep the smile from slipping free. There’s something cruel in the satisfaction of it, in how easy it is, how quickly people will hand you their hope if you lean close enough.

“Yes.”

“You want to date me?”

“I’ll go for a drink with you, yes,” I clarify, slow enough to make him work for every word.

“Great!” He says, a beat too fast. He clears his throat sharply and rolls his shoulders once like he’s trying to push the calmness through his body. “Let’s do it. How about the Tempest Inn on the corner of Mill Road? Does Friday work?”

He races the words like he’s ripping a scab off a wound.