Page 140 of In Somnis

Terrifying concept, honestly.

“Best option there is,” he murmurs, just as there’s a knock on the door.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Paul

The roses are a sunshine yellow.

Rosa × hybrida, a cultivar I don’t know the name of but should, with petals that open wide and flat the way old garden roses do, none of that tight, closed-fist quality of modern florist varieties. They smell how roses are supposed to smell and rarely do anymore, with a slightly spiced undertone beneath the sweetness. I stood in the shop two towns over longer than I’ll admit, running my thumb along a stem.

Red was too much. White was too formal. Pink felt presumptuous.

Yellow felt like her.

I also bought a vase because Rosa × hybrida in a glass of water with no support is a slow death I wasn’t willing to be responsible for.

I’m aware that’s a strange thing to care about, given everything else I’m carrying into this afternoon.

I’m able to sleep again.

The last few days, I set my alarm for six, closed my eyes, and the next thing I knew, it was going off, and the room was bright, and my heart was beating at a perfectly ordinary rate.

No dream. No wet road, no headlights, no horrible sounds I can’t unhear. No paralysis pinning me to the mattress while the shadows arranged themselves into whatever he felt like being that night. Just sleep. And I stood in a flower shop running my thumb along a rose stem, thinking, she did that.

I knock at exactly three o’clock. The door swings open, and it isn’t her, but the Shaw boy opening it for me. Tall, freckled, standing there with the loose ease of someone who has been here long enough to feel entitled to open her door.

Interesting.

“Hey, Paul.”

“Nevan. Good to see you.”

His eyes drop to the vase in my hands, then lift back to mine.

“Lemon,” he calls over his shoulder, not breaking eye contact with me.

I turn the nickname over once. It suits her, which is the irritating part.

“Paul is here. And he brought you flowers for your date.” Nevan lands the last word deliberately, like a test.

I’m not sure what he thinks he’s protecting.

I’m less sure why he’s in her apartment.

She shoves past him with a whispered shut up that he absorbs with complete serenity, but when she sees the flowers, her whole face softens.

“Oh wow.” She reaches for a rose petal, touching it with the careful reverence of someone who handles beautiful things gently on instinct.

I will handle you so gently, Lennon.

“They’re beautiful.” Her eyes close as she breathes them in, small, private pleasure moving across her face—the slight parting of her lips, her lashes fanning against her cheeks, dark and long enough that they cast the faintest shadow. When she opens her eyes, they’re half lidded, dreamy, and fixed on me. “Thank you. And the vase is so pretty. This is perfect. I don’t have one here.”

“I thought you might not.”

The abrasion on her temple catches the hallway light when she turns, still faintly pink at the edges.

“How are you feeling?” I ask, gesturing to her head. “The temple.”