Page 207 of In Somnis

Lennon

A quiet huff pulls me out of sleep, followed by a muttered of fucking course, and I stir without fully meaning to, pulling whatever warmth is closest toward me on instinct.

The warmth goes completely still.

I breathe in crystallized ginger, dry cedar, and a hint of musk underneath it all.

God, that smells good.

I pull it closer as if it’s mine.

“Hey.” The voice is low, careful. “You awake?”

I turn my face further into the warmth and breathe again while taking stock of things. The heartbeat under my cheek. The hand that was at my back, frozen now, not moving. The hair tickling my face that isn’t mine.

The warmth of him, everywhere.

Ridge.

Ridge is holding me.

I hold out my hand, still half asleep, and squint at my fingers. Five. Normal. All of them are the correct shape. From above me comes a short and quiet huff.

“Fair,” he mutters, and then his lips press to my forehead, brief, warm, and so gentle.

Nothing like the version of him in my dreams.

“But no.” His mouth stays there, resting, speaking into my skin. “Unfortunately, this is waking life.”

I lower my hand, but then neither of us moves, and the room is doing that early-morning thing where the light hasn’t committed to anything yet, and the world hasn’t decided if it’s day already.

Finally, I look up at him, and there’s something in his expression that moves when our eyes meet—there and gone, quick enough that I could convince myself I imagined it—and then his face does the thing where it reassembles itself into dry and unaffected.

Almost.

“Morning, sweetheart. Finally decided to rejoin the living?”

“Debatable.” My voice comes out sleep-rough, and his mouth twitches.

I glance down, but then immediately glance back up.

We are very close.

Close enough that I can feel his breath shift when I breathe.

I’m draped across him, legs tangled over his wheelchair, one arm around his neck.

“Oh,” I repeat.

“Mm-hmm.”

“You’re… still here.”

“Against my better judgment,” he says dryly, which sounds like a lie.

But his arm hasn’t moved. Neither has mine.

“Before you panic, you climbed into my lap voluntarily.”