Page 110 of In Somnis

I step inside, and he follows, after bending to pick up the first box with an ease that suggests it’s not nearly as heavy as it looks.

Paul surveys the space with that same clinical focus he had when patching up my road rash, his jaw tightening slightly.

“So?” I set my purse and the nail polish bag on the kitchen counter. “What’s in the boxes?”

He sets the first one down and turns to me. “Furniture.”

“You brought me furniture?”

“Just basics.” He says it casually, already heading back out to grab another box.

My throat tightens as I watch him haul in box after box, stacking them neatly in my living room. “Paul, you didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.” He sets down the last box and straightens, pushing up his glasses.

Heat crawls up my neck, but so does the nagging feeling that I need to say, “That’s… kind of you, and I appreciate everything you’ve done, but it’s fine. It was an accident. You don’t need to feel guilty about it, and you don’t owe me anything.”

He goes completely still, his hand frozen on top of the box. Then he turns to face me slowly, and there’s something in his expression I can’t quite read. “I need to be more direct with you,” he says quietly, almost as if he’s making a mental note to himself.

“What?”

He looks at me for a long moment, his jaw working. Then he steps closer, not touching, but close enough I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. “I feel terrible about hitting you with my car, but that’s not why I’m standing in your apartment right now with furniture I spent three hours picking out yesterday.”

My heart does that stupid flutter thing again. “It’s not?”

“It’s not.” He checks his watch. “I know you have to work in a bit, but I think I should at least be able to set up the bedframe today so you have somewhere proper to sleep tonight.”

“Okay,” I manage, my voice coming out smaller than I intend.

I head into the bedroom, still trying to process what just happened, and become acutely aware of the disaster I left behind this morning. Clothes are scattered across the floor in organized piles that probably only make sense to me, my suitcases are still open and spilling their contents everywhere, and my makeup bag has exploded across the corner near the mattress.

“Sorry about the mess,” I say quickly, dropping to my knees to start shoving things back into the nearest suitcase. “I know you’re not really… messy.”

He appears in the doorway with the first box, pausing to take in the chaos. A quiet laugh escapes him. “Clocked me already, huh?”

“The white gave you away.” I fold a sweater single-handedly, glad that my nails are finally dry. “Your whole house is very clean. Very… white.”

“Fair.” He sets the box down and crouches to start unpacking the bed frame pieces. “For what it’s worth, I got you a white frame too. If that’s okay.”

“Yes, that’s perfect. Thank you…” I pause, watching him work for a moment. “Is white your favorite color?”

“No.” He looks up. “It’s light blue.”

“That’s pretty.”

“Indeed.” His eyes linger on mine before he returns to the box, pulling out hardware and spreading it across the floor in neat, organized rows.

I go back to my suitcase, trying to create some semblance of order, when he speaks again. “You told me yours is yellow, right?”

I did?

“Yes, but I love all colors, really. Rainbows, sprinkles, and all that cute stuff.” I huff out a small laugh. “I know it’s silly. Childish.”

There it is again, that stupid reflex to apologize for liking what I like.

He stops what he’s doing and turns to look at me fully, his brow furrowing. “Why would you say that?”

I shrug, focusing on refolding the same sweater for the third time. “Because that’s what everyone always tells me.”