Page 31 of In Somnis

Lemon.

Honey.

But sweeter.

The scent curls through me again when I’m finally able to take another breath.

With ARFID, the relationship between safe food and its context is everything. The tea is safe because of its precise combination of the brand, the temperature at which it’s brewed, and even the mug. If any variable shifts, the association can collapse, and what was safe becomes suspect, and what is suspect becomes impossible. There is no rational argument that overrides the body’s refusal. I know this about myself.

The knowing doesn’t help.

What is that scent? It’s close, but it isn’t quite right. The lemon is there, but something underneath is different. Softer, sweeter, something that makes my anxiety spike, not in the way of wrongness but in the way of… I don’t have a clinical word for this.

What is even happening?

I glance down at my watch.

9:27 a.m.

I look up at the mansion’s front steps, then back at my watch.

9:27 a.m.

Waking life.

Before I can make sense of the change, familiar voices cut through the quiet morning and the thick front door.

“I don’t see how that’s fair⁠—”

“I’m not discussing fairness,” Mrs. Vaughn snaps, interrupting Simon. “I’m discussing my daughter.”

My stomach drops at her tone, and I move without thinking, hanging my helmet on my bike before heading toward the front steps just as the door swings open hard enough to hit its stop with a dull thud.

Simon steps out, shoulders hunched and jaw set as if he’s biting back words. “Dr. Bennett,” he mutters as he passes, not quite looking at me.

“Good morning, Simon.”

He scoffs hard, and I frown as I look at Mrs. Vaughn in the entryway. Her posture is pristine as always, but her eyes are different today.

“Is everything okay?” I ask, glancing at Simon’s retreating back.

“Good morning, Dr. Bennett.” She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “We had to part ways with Simon, so you’ll have to settle for me opening the door for a while. I’m going to take my time to find a replacement whose values align with our own.”

“Having you open the door for me is anything but settling, Mrs. Vaughn,” I reply easily with a smile as I step inside. “Thank you.”

If that isn’t an unexpected but genuinely pleasant surprise.

Simon has been working for the Vaughns for at least as long as I have—just over six years—but I never liked that man. Not personally, and not professionally. Not even in the neutral way you tolerate someone because circumstances require it.

Years of working with people, of listening less to what they say and more to how they behave, have sharpened my sense for the truth beneath presentation, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned about myself, it’s that I don’t trust masks. Of course, I understand why people wear them. Most have good reasons, protection, survival, or just habit. I don’t judge anyone for choosing that route, but I know, with certainty, that I prefer the ugly truth, even when it’s uncomfortable, poorly timed, or inconvenient. Especially then.

Simon’s empathy always arrived a second too late, as an afterthought only because he knew it was expected. Whatever version of himself he thought he was presenting never fooled me.

“Would it be all right to hold today’s session in Tessa’s room?” Mrs. Vaughn asks. “She had a guest earlier, and we haven’t been able to settle downstairs yet.”

A guest?

“Of course. Please, lead the way.”