Page 203 of In Somnis

Boo.

I stand and reach out a hand to pull her to her feet. She takes it, and I don’t let go once she’s standing. Instead, I look around the forest, testing the edges of the dream while keeping my fingers laced with hers.

Maybe I can build in my space, too, while holding her hand.

I try to summon a lollipop or a fucking exit sign, but nothing happens.

“Try something,” I encourage, squeezing her hand. “Build something. Anything.”

She scrunches up her nose in concentration, and a second later, a muffin floats past us, smiling that ridiculously iced smile and waving with one edge of its paper cup.

I groan, watching the muffin do a lazy loop before disappearing into the canopy above us.

At least this one isn’t harassing me.

“What?” She’s actually chuckling at what I know is the most disgusted expression currently on my face.

“Your subconscious is ridiculous.” I drag a hand through my hair, trying not to snap at her when none of this is her fault, but I hate this dreamscape, hate being here, and hate what just happened.

I need out.

“Let’s get to your dreamscape,” I say, already pulling her closer.

“Okay.” She smiles at me, open and trusting.

Naïve little thing.

“Well, you have to have one first,” I clarify. “So we can step into it. Right now you don’t… because you’re in mine.”

“And how do I do that?”

I’m still holding her hand, her fingers warm in mine, grounding me even as the forest presses in at the edges of my vision.

“You know how to daydream, right? Do that. Think about where you want to be, what you want to have.” I squeeze her hand. “But think about me there too. Stay with me.”

She closes her eyes, and I watch her face. Her long hair falls in waves around her shoulders, illuminated by light that shouldn’t exist in this perpetual twilight forest. When I glance down at our joined hands, I notice that her nails are still a peach color.

I liked the yellow ones more, but this is still pretty.

Jesus Christ, Ridge. Get it together.

I’m about to scoff at my ridiculous thoughts when she scrunches up her nose again, and then there’s a pull, as if being yanked through a closing door.

We’re not standing in the forest anymore.

We’re in the kitchen. The bright, white, absurdly cheerful kitchen that is apparently her space. Sunlight pours through massive windows, and there’s flour dust hanging in the air like snow.

At least there aren’t any singing muffins this time.

Or a naked Shaw boy.

“What are you?” I scoff. “A baker?”

She opens her eyes and looks around, then back at me. “A chef.”

“I would have never guessed,” I deadpan.

“Hey, it’s easier to dream up stuff you know.”