Page 209 of In Somnis

I know what his mouth feels like on my skin.

And now he’s here, in my actual bedroom, in the actual morning light, and I am very acutely aware that the version of him I’ve been pretending was separate from this one… isn’t.

His expression doesn’t change, but his jaw does something subtle, a slight tightening, before he clears his throat once. “What happens in the dreamscape,” he says, very evenly. “Stays in the dreamscape. For now… okay?”

For now.

I file that away somewhere I’ll deal with later. Or never. Never works too.

“Right,” I agree.

Neither of us looks at the other for a second.

This is fine. This is completely fine. I have absolutely not been fucked with a lollipop by him in my own subconscious, and he has absolutely not looked at me like…

“My reading history is private,” I blurt.

“Why?” The dry layer is back, seamless, like he just stepped back into a coat he’d briefly taken off. “Because you’re into dirty stuff?”

I glare at him. “What if I am? I’m an adult. Adults read about people having sex.”

His eyes heat as he hands the e-reader back. “Noted. You’re a romance reader.” He nods toward the screen. “But the one you’re currently reading is terrible.”

“Hey!” I tuck the e-reader against me, “What’s your problem with romance?”

“Nothing’s wrong with romance.”

“No, you think it’s beneath you.” I point at him. “Because you write horror, and those monsters, which…” I shudder, “… I don’t understand at all, but fine, that’s your thing, except now you’re mocking my books with your superior face…”

The hand at my back strokes upward, to my shoulder, and then his fingers find a loose strand of hair and tuck it behind my ear. My train of thought derails completely.

“Let me ask you something,” he says mildly.

“Okay.”

“What’s better,” he continues. “Dinner or dessert?”

“What?”

“Dinner or dessert?”

Dinner, I think automatically, because I’m a savory person and dessert is a reward system, not a meal. Also, because something about the way he’s waiting tells me that’s the wrong answer, or maybe the right one, or maybe there isn’t a wrong answer, and that’s exactly the point he’s about to make, and I’m already…

“You can prefer dessert,” he cuts off my internal rambling. “That’s fine. Dessert is excellent, but it doesn’t make dinner worse. Everything has its place and someone who prefers it.”

I narrow my eyes at him.

“Then why were you making fun of my preference?”

“It’s just…” he gestures loosely around us. My yellow lemon pajamas. My messy room. Mr. Muffin sitting on the yellow pillow. “… look at you.”

I glance down at myself.

“What’s wrong with me?”

“It’s a little too neat,” he says thoughtfully. “Too perfectly assembled. The sweet girl with the yellow nails, lemon pajamas, and the stuffed animals who reads romance.” He tilts his head. “If you were secretly into horror, at least that would be a surprise. That would give your character some depth.”

I frown at him. “I’m not a character.”