Chapter 66: 66. One Week To Wait for Her Until She Starts To Feel Frustrated

Mike had not intended to fall asleep.

He was aware, in a somewhat detached manner, that someone who had spent years learning to monitor their own states in situations where sleeping carelessly posed a risk had drifted off at some point after two AM.

The city outside was engaged in its usual quiet maintenance. The apartment carried the distinct stillness characteristic of a late weeknight.

He had shut his eyes, estimating that only a few minutes had passed, but he had miscalculated the passage of time.

What roused him was a hand on his shoulder. It was not rough but purposeful—the kind of touch that conveyed "Wake up now; I have somewhere to be."

He opened his eyes.

Madison Reed stood beside the bed, fully dressed, with her coat already on and her hat in hand. Her expression occupied a specific territory between annoyance and resignation, a default emotional state she seemed to have claimed for her interactions with him.

"You had the guts to sleep after ruining me."

"Anyway... It’s five in the morning right now," she stated, her tone a mix of urgency and irritation. "Wake your ass up."

"Shut up, I know," Mike said.

"You don’t look like you knew," she said. "You were asleep."

"I was aware of being asleep," Mike said. "Different thing."

She made a sound that communicated exactly what she thought of that distinction and put the hat on.

"I had a shoot this morning," she said.

"Had," Mike said.

"Had," she confirmed. "Past tense."

"I canceled it at two in the morning with a message about a family emergency."

"Will that hold up?" Mike said.

"My manager will be furious," she said. "But I’ll manage it." Her tone conveyed the efficiency of someone who had navigated worse situations and developed a system for handling them.

She moved to the window and gazed out at the city, still shrouded in darkness. "This wasn’t part of tonight’s plan."

"What was the plan?" Mike said.

"Come. Listen. Leave." She turned from the window. "Not getting ruined and used until midnight just to wake up at five."

"And yet," Mike said.

"Don’t," she said. "Don’t do the thing where you say two words and look like you’ve won something."

"I’m just noting the time," Mike said.

"You’re noting more than the time." She picked up her clutch from the chair. "You do that constantly."

"Say the minimum amount possible and let the other person fill in everything else."

"Does it bother you?" Mike said.

"Yes," she said. "Because I can’t stop doing it."

She looked at him. "I fill it in and then I’ve said more than I meant to, and you’ve said nothing at all, and somehow you still know everything."

"Not everything," Mike said.

"Enough," she said. "You knew I’d stay, and you knew before I did."

"I thought it was possible," Mike said.

"That’s not a meaningful difference," she said.

"It is to me," Mike said. "Possible means you still decided."

"I didn’t decide for you."

She regarded him with her flat, assessing gaze, the one she employed to determine whether his words were truthful or merely well-crafted. She had been using it more often lately, indicating that she had not yet decided into which category it fit.

"I want to be clear about something," she said, sitting down in the chair.

This was not the posture of someone preparing to leave; rather, it indicated that she had something important to say before she went.

"Go ahead," Mike said. He sat up.

"Last night didn’t change the terms," she said. "Whatever this is... I haven’t agreed to anything beyond the one week."

"I know," Mike said.

"And I’m still angry about how this started," she said. "I want that on the record."

"Noted," Mike said.

"I mean it," she said. "I’m not less angry because of—" She stopped.

"Because of last night," Mike finished. "Yeah, yeah, say that again to yourself hours ago, where you clearly fucking enjoyed it."

"I was going to say because of recent events," she said, with the precision of someone who didn’t like having their sentences completed.

"Recent events," Mike said. "Okay."

"The situation is what it is," she said. "I’m not pretending it’s something else."

"I’m not asking you to," Mike said.

"You’re not asking me to do anything," she said, "which is somehow more frustrating than if you were."

Mike looked at her. "What would be less frustrating?"

"If you were obvious about it," she said. "If you were pushing... If you were doing the thing that people in your position usually do."

"What do people in my position usually do?"

"Demand things," she said. "Make it transactional. Make it clear what they want so I can factor it in."

She looked at him. "You just—" She paused. "You cook..."

"You talk about nothing relevant. You fall asleep at two in the morning like you’re not holding anything over anyone."

"Does that bother you?" Mike said.

"Yes," she said. "Because I can’t prepare for it."

"You’ve been preparing for something the whole week," Mike said.

"Of course I have," she said. "That’s what I do."

"I know what’s coming, and I manage it." She crossed her arms, then uncrossed them, a small concession. "With you I don’t know what’s coming."

"Is that the worst thing?" Mike said.

She looked at him. "If I were in the hotel back then, I would have said yes," she said.

"And now?"

She didn’t answer that directly. "Kyle," she said instead.

"He’s fine," Mike said. "We had lunch today with a friend of his."

"He’s settling in well."

She stared at him. "You had lunch with my boyfriend."

"He’s becoming a friend," Mike said. "I told you I had no issue with him."

"That’s what no issue looks like in practice."

"You sat across a table from him," she said. "Knowing what you know."

"Yes," Mike said.

"And?"

"And he’s a good person," Mike said. "Smarter than he looks, which is saying something because he doesn’t look stupid."

"He’s going to do something real eventually."

She paused for a moment, processing the information. It had landed in a specific way—not as a threat, which she had been prepared for, but as a sincere observation about someone she clearly cared about.

This caught her off guard, leaving her to consider how to respond.

"Don’t do that," she said quietly.

"Do what?" Mike said.

"Say something real about him," she said. "Something that’s actually true and not—" She stopped. "It makes it harder."

"I know," Mike said.

"Then why say it?"

"Because it’s true," Mike said. "I don’t say things that aren’t."

"That’s not entirely accurate," she said. "You say things designed to have a specific effect."

"True things can have specific effects," Mike said. "That doesn’t make them less true."

She looked at him. The annoyance remained evident, and he could see it in her expression, which reflected the distinct quality of someone who had centered themselves around a feeling and was struggling to maintain that organization.

"This is the strangest situation I’ve ever been in," she said. "And I have a very unusual life."

"I believe you," Mike said.

"Do you find that funny?" she said, reading something in his expression.

"I find it interesting," Mike said.

"There’s a difference?"

"To me there is," Mike said.

She paused for a moment, her hat still perched on her head, clutch resting in her lap. The chair she occupied was positioned on the opposite side of the room from the bed, a distance she had carefully maintained throughout most of the night.

She was meticulous about the arrangement of the space, always aware of where the exits were, ensuring the physical layout remained slightly in her favor.

He had noticed it and said nothing.

"You’re looking at me like you’re reading something," she said.

"I’m listening," Mike said. "Same thing."

"I haven’t said anything in the last thirty seconds."

"I know," Mike said.

She exhaled. "What are you listening to?"

"How you sit in a chair," Mike said. "How you hold your bag when you’re thinking about leaving versus when you’re not."

"How the annoyance is different this morning from what it was back then."

"How is it different?"

"Back then... it was clean," Mike said. "Just the situation, but today... there’s something else in it."

She regarded him for a long moment, her gaze assessing, as if running a mental checklist.

"You’re going to tell me what ’something else’ is," she said. "Aren’t you?"

"Only if you want to hear it," Mike said.

"I don’t know if I do," she said.

"That’s an answer," Mike said.

She stood up, and the geometry shifted—now, she was positioned between the chair and the door, the setup for leaving. Yet, instead of facing the door, she was looking at him.

"One week," she said. "You said one week, and then we talk about what comes next."

"Yes," Mike said.

"And you’ll tell me what you truly want," she said. "No hints. No implications. Just tell me directly."

"Yes," Mike said.

"Because right now," she said, "I’m operating without enough information, and I don’t like it."

"I know," Mike said. "That’s not an accident."

She stared at him. "You kept me in the dark on purpose."

"I kept you in the uncertainty on purpose," Mike said. "That’s different. I haven’t lied to you about anything."

"Technically true," she said. "Genuinely irritating."

"I know," Mike said.

"Stop saying I know," she said. "It’s smug."

"I’ll work on it," Mike said.

She almost smiled—just the slightest hint of it, the corner of her mouth wavering between decision and reconsideration. It was the first time since entering this apartment that anything resembling a smile had crossed her face, lingering for barely a second before disappearing.

But it had been there.

"One week," she said, moving toward the door. "Make sure not to harass me by chatting with me again..."

"Yeah, yeah, one week," Mike agreed.

She stopped at the door and looked back at him.

"Kyle likes you," she said. "He mentioned it, and he is not someone who easily expresses such sentiments about others."

"I know," Mike said.

She pointed at him. "Smug... as always. I hate it."

"Working on it," Mike said.