Page 79 of Ex Somnis

“Those are not mutually exclusive.”

Paul exhales through his nose like a man reconsidering every life choice that led him here.

“Listen, if the baby boy⁠—”

“For the last fucking time, leave him alone.” Paul steps slightly in front of me as if to shield me from the man in the wheelchair.

It’s objectively ridiculous.

I’m six feet seven and haul logs around for a living. But still, every survival instinct in my body goes, Yeah, no, Ridge could definitely kick my ass.

Ridge opens his mouth.

“No,” Paul cuts him off before he can speak. “Nevan works two jobs. He takes care of everyone around him before himself. He shows up for people even when he’s exhausted, even when nobody’s doing the same for him. He’s kind without making a performance out of it. Lennon trusts him, which makes me trust him, and so should you. So stop treating him like something to pick apart every time you’re bored.”

Silence.

Even the birds seem a little taken aback and go suspiciously quiet.

I stare at the side of Paul’s head with what is probably not a normal expression because I have no idea what to do with any of what came out of his mouth.

Ridge shifts slightly in his chair, jaw ticking once. I am genuinely surprised he has the decency to look a little sheepish.

He sighs dramatically. “Sorry.”

The apology lands with all the grace of someone reluctantly returning stolen property, but still.

I shrug. “It’s fine.”

When Paul finally looks at me, his expression softens almost imperceptibly. Then he gives one small nod, as if that settles it, as if he didn’t just verbally tuck me into bed in front of witnesses.

Lennon is the only person who’s ever defended me like that out loud.

I think my mouth is hanging open a little.

“Careful with that one.” Ridge drags my attention back to him. He gestures toward Paul with the lollipop. “He’s insidious.”

“Why?”

“He’ll brainwash you into developing self-esteem.” Ridge pops the lollipop back into his mouth thoughtfully. “Very dangerous stuff.”

The door clicks, and I turn in time to see Jasper come through the garden gate sideways under the weight of approximately one hundred and fifty pounds of witchcraft. A canvas tote on each shoulder, something bundled under one arm, what looks like a rolled blanket under the other, and a backpack that is visibly straining.

What in tarnation?

He drops everything onto the grass with a heavy thud and immediately crouches down, unpacking like we’re about to perform an exorcism behind the inn.

Crystals.

So many fucking crystals.

Then a silk-wrapped stack of tarot cards.

Then another crystal.

Then a folded piece of paper covered in Jasper’s handwriting, which somehow always looks both elegant and mildly cursed at the same time.

Then a jar of dried herbs.