Page 13 of He Sees You When You’re Sleeping

“Thanks,” I reply, heading to the kitchen. “How do you take your coffee?”

“Black is fine,” he calls back.

I pause, my hand hovering over the coffee maker. Black coffee? Maybe there’s more to Tyler than I thought.

When I return with two steaming mugs, I find him examining my bookshelf. He turns to me with a raised eyebrow. “The Marquis de Sade? I wouldn’t have pegged you for a fan of eighteenth-century erotic literature.”

I nearly drop the mugs. “Oh, that’s... that’s for research,” I stammer, feeling my face flush.

Tyler’s lips quirk into a small smile. “Research, huh? What kind of research requires the works of the man who gave us the word ‘sadism’?”

As I struggle to form a response, I realize that maybe, just maybe, I’ve underestimated Tyler. The fact that he even knows this is—

I set the mugs down on the coffee table, trying to regain my composure. “I like to read a bunch of things,” I say, aiming for nonchalance but hearing the defensiveness in my voice. “I’m interested in all kinds of literature.”

Tyler nods as he drinks his coffee, but there’s something in his eyes that unsettles me. A glint of... curiosity? Excitement? I can’t quite place it, but it makes me acutely aware that we’re alone in my house.

We drink our coffee in silence. Awkward, painful silence.

Tyler’s gaze jerks to the bookshelf, then back to me.

He’s harmless. Right?

“So,” Tyler says, breaking the silence. His voice is low, almost a purr. “What other interesting literature are you hiding on those shelves?”

I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry despite the coffee. “Nothing special,” I manage. “Just your typical bestsellers and classics.”

Tyler sets his mug down and stands up, returning to the bookshelf. I remain frozen in my seat, watching as his fingers trail along the spines of my books.

“Typical bestsellers and classics, huh?” he says, pulling out a worn paperback. “Like this copy of Story of O? Another research project?”

My heart hammers in my chest. I’d forgotten that was there, nestled innocently between my Dickens and Austen.

“I . . . I . . .” I stutter, unable to form a coherent thought.

Had I known I’d have a surprise guest from work stopping by, I might have done a sweep of my house. The thought of what is or isn’t in my bookcase has never been an issue. The hermit in me has never been faced with this uncomfortable situation before.

Tyler turns to face me, the book dangling from his fingers. His eyes lock onto mine, and I see that glint again—definitely excitement now, mixed with something darker.

“You know,” he says, his voice low and husky, “I’ve always found that the most interesting people are the ones with the most interesting bookshelves.”

Tyler is weird. Plain and simple.

I should be able to discuss this book. I’m an adult for fuck’s sake, but I can’t seem to find my voice. The room feels too small, too warm, and Tyler’s presence is suddenly overwhelming.

“I... I’m not that interesting,” I finally manage to say, my voice cracking as I do.

Tyler takes a step closer, still holding the book. “I beg to differ,” he says softly. “I think you’re very interesting. And I think there’s a lot more to you than meets the eye.”

My heart is thumping so hard I’m sure he can hear it. I should ask him to leave. I should stand up, take the book from his hand, and show him the door. But I can’t move. I’m transfixed by his gaze, by the way he’s looking at me like he can see right through me. Plus, I don’t want to upset him. I have to work with this guy.

Tyler stares at me—innocent but not— and I find myself sinking deeper into the couch, as if trying to disappear into the cushions. He’s still holding Story of O, his thumb absently caressing the worn cover.

“You know,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, “I’ve always believed that our deepest desires, our darkest fantasies, they’re nothing to be ashamed of. They’re what make us human.”

Ewww stop. He’s going to ruin this book for me.

A bead of sweat trickles down my back. The room seems to shrink around us, the air thick and heavy. I should say something, anything, to break this tension, but my mouth is dry, my tongue leaden.