Page 110 of Ex Somnis

Ridge has been watching the same thing, apparently, because he leans over, picks up Nevan’s sketchbook and pen from the nightstand, and throws them at him. Nevan catches them on instinct.

“Go ahead,” Ridge says. “Doodle something. It’ll help your nerves.”

Nevan frowns at him. “Why would you…”

“We pay attention,” I say with my gaze on Ridge, who smirks at me.

Nevan’s gaze flicks between us, then he opens the sketchbook. His shoulders immediately drop about half an inch.

“Speaking of paying attention,” I say. “Want to share with Ridge what you told me? About your mother telling you you’d die young in your sleep?”

“What the fuck?” Ridge turns so fast his chair squeaks, glaring at me. “Mr. Psychologist. Look at him. He’s still vibrating.”

Nevan glances down at himself.

He is, in fact, still vibrating.

I immediately regret everything. “Acute stress response,” I offer.

“Wonderful.” Ridge deadpans. “And your professional response to acute stress is apparently, tell me about your deepest childhood fear.”

I pull off my glasses and rub my face. Yeah, not my proudest moment, but to be fair, everything hurts, and I am almost assuredly also having an acute stress response.

Nevan shudders again.

I pull him a little more firmly against my side, and not just for his sake. I need this too. “I’m sorry.”

Nevan keeps his eyes on his sketchbook and his pen moving across it.

“Also, why would he open up to us if he knows shit about us?” Ridge questions dryly.

“True.” I put my glasses back on.

“Looks like it’s trauma-dumping time.” Ridge rolls closer to us, then pats one of the wheels. “As you know, my biggest trauma is tied to this beautiful metal chair.”

Nevan’s pen slows on the page. “I came looking for you after. First at the hospital, then at the Wells Building. I wanted to ask how you were.”

Ridge’s eyes are on Nevan, and for once, there is nothing dry or controlled about his expression. “Well. Yeah, your subconscious already told me that.” He clears his throat. “Thanks, by the way.”

I huff a quiet laugh.

Looks like the boy is getting to both of us tonight.

Ridge’s mouth twists, but he keeps his eyes on Nevan as he speaks again. “The time after what happened was, let’s say, shitty.” There’s a short pause before he adds, “I was ready to end it.” He says it like he’s describing the weather, and my throat tightens.

“Had the whole thing planned. Pills, whiskey, a note that said thanks for nothing, and then my mother showed up.”

I remember her calling me. The phone ringing at six in the morning.

“I don’t care if he hates it, Dr. Bennett. I don’t care if he hates me. He’s going.”

“She stood in my doorway like a bouncer,” Ridge says. “And told me I was going to therapy.”

He looks at me then, and a sense of knowing passes between us—what it cost him to roll into my office the first time and when he came back the second.

I nod.

I’m glad you’re still here.