Page 101 of In Somnis

He arches one dark brow, the motion so small it’s almost mocking as he drags the lollipop from his mouth again. “Do what, exactly? You’re gonna have to be a little more precise with your questions. Dreams don’t like vague.”

I gesture around us at the cracked ceiling still shedding faint dust, the warped kitchen counters, the place where Nevan used to stand before Ridge casually yeeted him through a window that no longer exists. “This. Lucid dreaming. Showing up in my dream. How do you do this?”

“Practice.” That mouth of his twitches again. “I have a deeply unhealthy, borderline codependent relationship with my subconscious.”

“And why are you in my dream?” I narrow my eyes. “I don’t even know you, even if you’re acting like it.” He says nothing, so I push on, “Fine. Are you going to tell me what you did to Tessa at least?”

The honey around his wrist pulses once as if it felt the spike in my heartbeat.

Ridge repeats the question back to me slowly. “What I did to Tessa?”

“Yes.” My voice cracks on the syllable, anger, grief, and desperation all rushing up at once, making the dream shudder softly. “You loved her. You loved her, Ridge, and Nora tore you apart, and you didn’t fight for her. You let her bury it all in dreams until she couldn’t climb back out, and now you’re here, in my head⁠—”

“Lennon.”

“You don’t have to explain anything, okay? Do what you want, but please help me get her back.” The words spill faster. “Help me wake her up. I swear I’ll do whatever it takes, I’ll⁠—”

He moves faster than thought. One second he’s standing there, pinned and not amused, and the next he’s free of the honey, and his lollipop is pressed firmly against my lips, the sour-sweet scent of artificial lemon flooding my nose.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Shut up for a minute, yeah?”

I glare up at him when he pushes the lollipop past my lips, and they part anyway, the candy sliding inside. Sour lemon flavor fills my mouth, and my tongue curls around it on pure reflex, sucking once before higher reasoning catches up and freezes me in place.

Ridge’s eyes darken to the same color the molten honey had, pupils blown wide, his gaze fixed on my mouth like he’s forgotten lungs are a requirement for survival.

Maybe they aren’t in dreams.

A low sound rumbles in his throat, barely audible, but I feel it in my bones. Then he draws the lollipop back out, dragging it along my lower lip before bringing it to his own. He then pops it between his lips and sucks on it.

Instead of giving me the ick, it does something else entirely. Something hot, treacherous, and very much not supposed to happen in a dream or with the guy my best friend is in love with.

I mean… shit.

This is a dream.

I’m lucid, standing here in my dream with a man I don’t know, who is tied to the reason my best friend is trapped in hers and…

My breath stutters. The ground tilts beneath my feet, wavering as if it’s about to give up on pretending it’s solid. I squeeze my eyes shut as fear slowly starts to claw up my throat.

“Shh.” Ridge presses one finger to my lips, right over the spot the lollipop was, and my eyes snap open. “You want answers? Earn them. Stay lucid, keep breathing, and stay with me.” His thumb traces the curve of my bottom lip, grounding and intimate in a way that makes my pulse stutter even more. “Don’t let the dream collapse.”

The command sinks in, but something in me recoils. I don’t want to be steadied by the very man who is at least partially responsible for my best friend’s suffering.

“Okay.” I take a deep breath and then a step back, folding my arms over my chest. “Then answer my questions. How did you just get free?”

He mirrors me and steps forward, close enough that I catch the tang of crystallized ginger and dry cedar, close enough that my body reacts even while my spine stays stiff. His mouth curves, but this time, it’s not amused. It’s assessing.

“Your stubbornness only managed to steady the dream.”

“Ridge,” I say flatly, “I swear to God, I will wake myself up if you don’t start talking.”

Something flickers in his eyes, then he exhales and leans back a fraction, easing the pressure. “I don’t know what Tessa told you, but she and I were never⁠—”

“She didn’t tell me,” I cut in. “It was in her journal. She wrote about being in love with a guy called Wells, which was apparently not a good enough surname for her parents.”

“Ah. You know, your landlord’s name is Wells too.”

“Derek?”