You’re cleaning up files when he walks in without knocking—usual limp, unusual grin. A rolled-up journal lands beside your hand.
“Page twenty-seven,” he says smoothly. “Read it. Slowly.”
You arch a brow. “Medical erotica?”
He doesn’t blink. “Neurological stimulation in high-response environments. But sure, use whatever lens you need.”
You open the journal. Flip to 27.
Highlighted in yellow:
“Repeated exposure to high-stakes stimuli can condition the nervous system to crave heightened contact—particularly in subjects with delayed gratification pathways.”
You read it again. And again. “…You’re unbelievable.”
He leans on his cane, watching you over the rim of his glass.
“Science,” he says innocently.
You don’t look up. “That’s not what you meant.”
“I mean everything I say. Especially when I pretend not to.”
You close the journal slowly, feeling the air shift between you.
“So you think I’m a delayed gratification subject?”
He shrugs. “You keep hanging around.”
You toss the journal back at him—lightly.
“Page 34 talks about pathological deflection. Thought of you.”
He grins. “Knew you’d finish my sentence.”
You’re both smiling now. But underneath it, something curls warmer. Closer. Dangerous.
He’s already looking at you like you’re the test he can’t solve.
And you? You’re not even pretending not to enjoy it.