Page 48 of In Somnis

When I finally reach my hallway, I look automatically toward the door on the left—the wrong left—and my stomach dips. I should knock again and apologize. He didn’t deserve my midnight panic attack at his door, but he also scared the living soul out of me when he opened it.

I unlock my door, push inside, and let the silence swallow me whole. It still smells empty in here, fresh paint and possibilities, and absolutely zero furniture.

My arms feel like cooked noodles as I haul my groceries to the kitchen counter. One by one, I unload everything, and by the time the slice of sourdough is on the new cutting board, I’m practically vibrating with anticipation. I smear on Brie so thick it’s almost indecent, sprinkle a little salt, and take a bite. My eyes close in unadulterated pleasure.

Holy mother of Moses.

This is what my mom meant when she said food is love made edible.

She used to press it into my hands like proof. Cookies. A bowl of soup. Whatever she had.

I thought I understood it then.

I didn’t.

She would have loved this Brie. She would have eaten half of it before I could protest, saying, “I told you, Lenny, the expensive ones are worth it,” and I would have agreed, annoyed at agreeing.

Good food hits differently when your soul is cracked.

It’s as if I can taste the care that went into kneading that dough, the warmth, and the intention. That someone, somewhere, decided that people deserve soft bread in a cruel world. I eat the whole slice standing there like a woman having a religious experience.

“Better.” I sigh when I’m done, then start assembling the muffin ingredients.

I deserve a distraction after that fuckup of an unprompted kitchen job I just pulled, and Derek definitely still deserves a thank-you.

While I’m working, the crystal amulet resting against my chest sends a spike of discomfort and guilt straight through me.

Why the hell do I feel guilty about it?

Nevan was the asshole here.

I should make extra for the guy next door.

He probably likes muffins too, right? And they work just as well as an apology as they do a thank-you.

Sorry tastes better with sugar.

When I slide the muffins into the oven after careful measuring and mixing, the warm air sighs across my face.

The apartment slowly fills with the scent of lemon and sugar, and it should comfort me, but instead it presses that already tender spot behind my ribs.

I’m left feeling small, raw, and homesick.

These were the smells of my mother’s kitchen, Tessa’s late-night baking sprees, and every version of home I’ve ever claimed.

My mom made lemon muffins when things were hard.

Not bars or tarts. Nothing fancy. Just muffins.

Dad taught me to cook. Mom taught me how to make things people come back for.

But for hard days—and, honestly, on good ones too—it was always simple lemon muffins drizzled with glaze over the top. She made them when I came home crying from school, when my dad died, and the first night after her diagnosis, while I stood in the kitchen doorway trying not to watch her in a way that looked like watching.

I make lemon muffins when I’m scared.

Apparently, I’m terrified.

I ache for a place I can never go back to, knowing there’s no universe where I get either of them back how they were.