I sit. Take the stool beside her. The cereal waits in its bowl with the patient readiness of a breakfast that does not require reheating and therefore imposes no urgency on the consumer.
"I already messaged Miss Phillip," Sage offers, her voice carrying the pragmatic tone of a woman who has identified a problem and solved it before the other affected party reached consciousness. "She said she'll excuse the absences since we changed dorms and the adjustment period is recognized as a legitimate accommodation for both Omegas and Alphas."
I nod. The gratitude registering as genuine even though attendance carries a weight in my academic priorities that ranks below grades, below comprehension, below the strategicoptimization of learning outcomes that constitutes my actual relationship with education. Attendance is a box to check. Sage turned it into a box she checked on my behalf before I knew it needed checking.
"Thanks for that."
I take a bite of cereal.
The protein variant produces the specific, dense crunch that distinguishes it from standard breakfast cereal, each piece carrying the supplementary nutrients that my training schedule requires in the compressed, efficient format that my morning routine prefers. The protein milk adds richness without sweetness. The combination is familiar, functional, and exactly what I would have prepared for myself if I had been awake to do so.
She made it perfectly.
I smirk.
"Good job with the cereal."
She huffs. The sound carrying the compressed outrage of a woman who has been praised in a tone that she correctly identifies as condescending and intends to address with proportional force.
"Your praise makes me want to throw the milk at you."
I laugh. Genuine. The sound escaping before my editorial filter can modulate it, warm and brief and carrying the specific amusement that only Sage's indignation produces in my vocal architecture.
"Says the girl who was staring at the fridge for who knows how long last night."
She frowns. The expression pulling at her brow, her green eyes narrowing with the focused confusion of a woman whose memory is being prompted by information she does not possess. The processing takes approximately four seconds. Her eyes widen. Her mouth opens. The realization assemblingitself from the fragments with the specific horror of a person discovering that their unconscious behavior has been witnessed and catalogued.
"Fuck. Did I sleepwalk last night?"
I nod slowly, watching her face cycle through embarrassment, resignation, and the weary acceptance of a woman who has been informed of her nocturnal adventures enough times to recognize the pattern without requiring a detailed briefing.
"Is that a thing you do often?"
She shakes her head. "Only when I deep sleep. I struggle to really get into full REM most nights, but when I do, the sleepwalking kicks in. That's actually why I have a lock on my room door at home, to stop me from roaming the house." She pauses, her voice softening with a fondness that the subject of her butler consistently produces. "Jeffrey used to stay up and do night shifts to watch me when I was younger. He'd find me in the weirdest places. The kitchen. The garage. Once in the backyard, apparently petting a garden gnome like it was a cat."
I nod. Processing the information with the clinical attention my brain applies to all new data about this woman: cataloguing the REM sleep correlation, noting the security measures her household implemented, filing the Jeffrey detail under the growing subheading ofpeople who love Sage Holloway and demonstrate it through practical action rather than verbal declaration.
"Maybe you were tired," I offer.
She shrugs. "Maybe."
The quiet that follows is not empty. It carries the weight of things that both of us are choosing not to say. Her acknowledgment that she ended up in my bed. My acknowledgment that I woke up holding her. The mutual awareness that the sleeping arrangement produced the bestrest either of us has experienced in recent history and the conversational minefield of discussing why that might be.
She breaks it first.
"Thanks for letting me sleep in your bed." Her voice is measured. Careful. Pitched to sound casual while communicating gratitude that is not casual at all. "I'll try to stay on the couch tonight."
I look at her. Directly. The green of my eyes meeting the green of hers across the island with a focus that I allow to hold longer than conversational norms prescribe because the statement she just made requires a response that cannot be delivered in the space between blinks.
"I have no problem with you sleeping in my bed."
The sentence exits with the flat, declarative certainty that I use for statements I consider resolved. Not an invitation loaded with subtext. Not a suggestion wrapped in plausible deniability. A fact. Offered plainly. The way I offer tactical observations on the ice: directly, because indirectness wastes time and the person receiving the information deserves clarity.
"I just don't cuddle."
She smirks.
The expression materializes on her face with the slow, devastating precision of a woman who has been handed ammunition and intends to use every round.
