Page 53 of Somno Slave

I’m not choosing every word. I’m not tracking every reaction. I’m just... here, in it, letting it move without trying to control it.

Joe says something else—half a joke, half a story—and I catch myself smiling properly this time, not the polite version I usually default to.

Somewhere between that and the next drink, things start to blur at the edges. The noise of the bar settles into something steady, voices folding into each other, music low enough that it doesn’t demand anything from me. I don’t keep track of how much I’ve had. I just know my glass keeps emptying and filling, and each time it goes down a little easier.

I notice his arm before I register when it got there. It’s light, resting along the back of the bench, close enough that it brushes my shoulder when he shifts. Not heavy, not presumptuous. Just... there and I don’t move away from it.

Olivia leans in again, her breath warm against my ear.

“Kiss him,” she whispers, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, nudging me with her elbow.

I let out a quiet huff, shaking my head slightly.

“No,” I murmur, though there’s no real force behind it.

“Why not?” she presses.

Because I don’t do this. Because I don’t let things be this easy.

I don’t say any of that.

Joe glances at me, catching the tail end of it, his smile turning a little more uncertain. There’s something tentative in the way he looks at me now, like he’s waiting to see which way this goes.

It would be harmless.

That’s the thought that lands, simple and clean. Just a kiss. Just something small, something normal. Something that doesn’t carry weight or consequence or meaning beyond what it is.

Olivia doesn’t give it time to sit.

“Oh my god, just kiss her,” she calls across me, loud enough that a couple of people nearby turn to look.

Joe’s face flushes immediately, the colour rising fast across his cheeks.

“I—” he laughs under his breath, glancing at me again, searching for permission.

I hesitate. It’s only a second, maybe less, but it stretches just enough for me to feel it.

Oh, what the hell.

I give a small nod. He leans in carefully. Our lips meet lightly. The kiss is soft, warm. Brief. There’s nothing sharp in it, nothing that pulls or demands. It’s easy in the same way the conversation has been, in the same way the whole night has been. I feel it, I respond to it, I let it happen.

And for a second, I think I might actually enjoy it.

Then—something cuts through.

A memory.

No, that’s not right.

It feels immediate. Present. Too close.

Deogal.

The image of him lands without warning, sharp enough that it doesn’t belong to the blur of alcohol. His black eyes, fixed, the way they hold without shifting. It flashes through me so quickly it almost feels like it’s come from somewhere outside of my own head.

Stop.

It comes from something deeper than sound, torn from a raspy throat.