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."
