Page 33 of Ex Somnis

Paul.

The pull catches the gravity of a person I know well enough that my subconscious can find him in the dark. Something slips open at the edges of my awareness, and I open my eyes to brightness.

The apartment that is his dream comfort zone is enormous, even bigger than I remember.

White walls, white furniture, and white shelves. It’s so aggressively white it would feel clinical if the place weren’t being actively overrun by plants.

Not a few plants.

Plants.

Fucking everywhere.

On every surface, climbing up the walls on small hooks, hanging from the ceiling in terracotta pots, and crowding the windowsills three deep. The whole place smells green. Damp soil, sunlight, and that expensive laundry detergent Paul always uses. And there he is in the middle of it all with a watering can in one hand, moving methodically from plant to plant.

“I was wondering when you’d come by.” His voice is completely level. No surprise in it, not even a fake surprise.

“Still dreaming about watering plants, I see.”

“I find it calming.” He tips water carefully into the next pot. “I’ve heard other people prefer building monsters.”

I lean against the doorway. “Do they?”

“Mm.” Another plant. Still not looking at me. “The kind horror novels are about. Read some good ones lately? I have, by R.B. Wells.”

My stomach drops so hard it’s honestly embarrassing.

He didn’t talk to me for five years. He didn’t answer even one of my calls.

But he read my books?

I’m standing in his dream comfort zone, and he’s telling me he read my books like five years of not knowing whether your best friend was alive and functional, and getting out of bed in the morning is a normal gap in communication, and he read my books.

That absolute bastard.

I shrug against the doorway. “I read an awful romance recently.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Found it on Lennon’s e-reader.” I click my tongue. “That woman has genuinely terrible taste in her reads. Though I will say she has very nice dreams.”

The watering can stills.

Gotcha.

“Very vivid. Very detailed,” I continue. “You know how some dreams just really commit to the sensory experience.”

“Ridge.” His voice has dropped a register.

“I’m just saying. For someone with such questionable literary standards, she’s got a surprisingly…”

“You will stay away from her.” He’s still calm when he says it, still measured.

And still not looking at me.

And that, more than the warning itself, is what irritates me the most.

“Or what?” I ask.