Page 210 of In Somnis

“True, but if I’d written you, people would accuse me of lazy writing.”

I stand up from his lap and flip him off with both hands.

He laughs, startled and real, and it’s such a good sound that I almost don’t follow through on being furious.

Almost.

“Fuck you.”

“Well,” he says, recovering. “Maybe not quite as lazy as I⁠—”

“You’re such an asshole.”

“Again with the pet names.”

“Is this a joke to you?” The words come out before I can stop them. “I know we had that conversation, and you never actually answered, so I’m asking again. Is this… am I just something you’re doing because it’s funny to you?”

Because I don’t think I can do that again.

“Lennon.” His hand closes around my wrist as he exhales through his nose. The smirk is gone, and I wasn’t prepared for what’s underneath. “I’m sorry. I’m so far outside my comfort zone right now… the only way I know how to handle that is sarcasm. I’m waiting for you to address the elephant in the room, and while I’m waiting, I’m…” He stops. “I’m nervous. That’s what that was.”

I look down at the wheelchair, then back up at him.

God. Ridge Wells is a whiplash made flesh.

Dark, twisted, and genuinely unhinged when he wants to be. The man built horrors out of thin air and terrified me so completely that I couldn’t stop screaming when I woke up.

And then he came to comfort me.

“Lennon…” he pleads, squeezing my wrist.

I didn’t even register the chair at first. Not when he was shaking my shoulders and yelling at me to count my fingers.

Not when I climbed into his lap and wrapped my arms around his neck.

Not when I wanted to stay there.

It wasn’t until he’d been stroking my back for a while—those long, slow passes up and down my spine—that I finally noticed. The wheels. The armrest under my thigh.

But even then. Even then, it wasn’t the thing I was thinking about before I fell asleep on him. What I was thinking about was him. The smell of him, which is the same as the dream version, but more sour and sweet like they got into a fistfight and declared a draw. Which is, now that I’m thinking about it, probably his whole personality.

He held me as if I were the thing keeping him from drifting away, and letting go wasn’t an option he was willing to consider.

Nobody’s held me that way before.

“My friends call me Lenny,” I murmur.

He scoffs softly, then his eyes find mine again. “My friends call me asshole.”

I grin. “Sounds about right.”

His grip on my wrist moves, loosening, sliding to my waist instead. He tugs once, gently, until I’ve stepped forward, and we’re knees to knees, and he’s looking at me with those dark eyes that give away more than he thinks they do.

“Lenny,” he says, testing it, and my heart does a flip at his tone. His other hand lifts, and he drags it over the top of his own head first, palm flattening his messy hair, then reaches forward and places it lightly on top of mine, comparing our height. “Huh.” He squints thoughtfully.

“What, huh?”

“You’re almost the same height as me when I’m sitting.” He lowers his hand, but the other one is still resting loosely at my waist. “You’re so damn short.”