Page 36 of Ex Somnis

Oh, he really doesn’t like that.

“You were always better at this than me,” I say lightly. “I know that.”

The shadows tighten around his wrists, and his jaw flexes hard.

“But while you were in your big-ass house being noble about everything…” Another slow pull of darkness, “… did you genuinely think I spent five years doing nothing?”

A sound catches through his teeth low enough to vibrate somewhere near my spine, and his glasses have gone slightly crooked.

He’s furious.

Actually furious.

This is not the Dr. Bennett with the careful voice and professional distance. This one is the man beneath it all. The one who gets angry back, who fights me instead of managing me, who looks at me like an equal.

“I got very good, Paul.”

He breathes out once through his nose, steadying himself. “I can see that.”

The room settles around us in stages, dripping soil and violently green.

Neither of us moves.

Paul because he can’t.

“But you’re still in my dreamscape.” His gaze flicks toward the shadows binding his arms. “And I can remove you whenever I choose to.”

“Do you choose to?”

We hold each other’s gaze for one long second before I ease the darkness back slightly, loosening my grip without letting go entirely. Paul notices immediately, and the corner of his mouth shifts into not quite a smile.

“No,” he says at last. “But only because we need to talk. Preferably without attempting to strangle each other simultaneously.”

I let out a long breath, then release him.

The second I do, the apartment restores itself around us. Broken terracotta lifts from the floor and seals itself whole midair, soil pours itself neatly back into pots, and vines recoil gracefully up walls and hooks. The scorch marks vanish from the white paint, the leaves uncurl, and only the black stain across Paul’s shirt stays stubbornly.

I stare at him while the last hanging plant settles into place.

“Still physically incapable of sitting in a mess, I see.”

Paul smooths one hand absently down the front of his ruined shirt. “I don’t know what you mean.”

I snort.

“Sit down, Ridge.” Paul sighs as two white armchairs appear beside us.

“Fine.” I pull a lollipop from wherever dream-lollipops come from, then plop down and cut him a flat look.

Paul settles into the opposite chair with the careful composure of a man pretending we didn’t just try to murder each other, and the plants hang peacefully from the ceiling like they hadn’t participated enthusiastically in attempted assault thirty seconds ago.

Only the tension remains. It sits thick between us, tangled into the silence.

I rotate the lollipop slowly between my teeth and watch Paul reach out to adjust one of the nearby leaves back into place.

Still controlling the environment down to the centimeter.

Still Paul.