Page 128 of In Somnis

“It was nothing,” he says grimly. “Come on, this way.”

He pulls me down a side corridor I hadn’t noticed, narrower than the others, past a row of shuttered shops, and then through a fire exit door that opens onto nothing at all.

Just stars.

I grab the door frame on reflex, but Ridge steps straight through without hesitating, pulling me with him, and then we’re falling, or flying, or both, the mall dissolving behind us as if it were never there.

The planet from last night comes up fast above, yellow flowers blazing in the starlight, and I realize with a lurch that we’re upside down, walking on the underside of the sky.

“Ridge!”

“Relax.”

“We’re upside down!”

“Gravity’s subjective.” He sounds almost bored.

I look up, which is down, at the endless field of yellow blooms above my head, swaying softly in a wind that has no business existing this far from anything, then Ridge pulls at my hand, and we fall upward.

I don’t scream this time. It’s over too fast, a rush of warm air and the sweet smell of the flowers. Then we land, gravity righting itself at the last possible second, and I’m sitting in the middle of the field with petals brushing my knees and stars spreading out above us where they belong.

Ridge drops beside me a second later, unbothered, as if falling out of the sky is normal.

I pull my hand from his. The deal comment still stings, a small bright point of embarrassment I’d like to quietly bury somewhere in the flowers and never think about again, but he reaches over and takes it back, not even asking first.

He takes my hand, settling it in his with the easy certainty of someone who has already decided that I would want to hold his hand, and laces his fingers through mine.

I let him, which feels like a choice I’ll probably overthink later.

But the alternative is making it a thing, and I’m not making it a thing.

He looks down at our joined hands, turning mine over slowly, and his thumb moves over my knuckles in that absent way he has.

Then he frowns. “I don’t like this color.”

I look down at my peach nails.

Of course, he doesn’t. Exhaustion moves through me, not quite hurt, just that deflation of having picked something for yourself and having a man immediately have opinions about it.

“Wow.”

“What?”

“Groundbreaking. A man doesn’t like my nail polish. Truly, I have never encountered this before in my life.”

“I’m just saying.” He ignores my tone entirely, still studying my nails with focused displeasure. “It’s bland. It doesn’t suit you.”

“And what, pray tell, does suit me?”

“The yellow,” he says. “The citrus stuff.” He turns my hand over once more, thinking. “I was actually trying to figure out what I’d do if I ever got mine done. Geometric pattern, maybe. Black and white.”

“You want to get your nails done?” I ask, sounding incredulous.

“What?” he asks, glancing back up at me. “You telling me men can’t?”

“No, I mean… I could do that,” I hear myself say. “I could come over to your place tomorrow and bring my kit, if you want to try it.”

Did I just invite myself to his apartment?