Page 112 of In Somnis

I head toward the bathroom, trying to ignore how my heart does that stupid flutter thing again at his words.

“I’ll be here when you get out.”

It’s such a small thing to offer someone, it costs almost nothing, but I cannot remember the last time a man said anything that sounded like it.

The hot water feels like a luxury, and when I finally step out, I actually put in the effort to blow-dry my hair until it falls into soft waves, curl the ends just slightly, and apply a little more makeup than usual—eyeliner, mascara, and my peach lipstick that matches my nails. I stare at myself in the mirror, and the flush in my cheeks has nothing to do with the makeup.

Stop getting your hopes up, Lenny.

When I emerge from the bathroom, Paul is standing by the bedroom window with his hands in his pockets, looking out at the street below when he asks, “I guess you don’t have a vacuum clean—” He cuts himself off when he turns, and his eyes do a slow sweep from my socked feet up to my face, lingering on my lips before finally meeting my gaze, making my stomach flip.

“You’re done already?” I ask, stepping past him to examine his work, needing to look at anything other than the way he’s looking at me.

The bed is perfect. The frame is assembled, and the mattress is sitting properly on it, but not only that, he’s made it. Fresh white sheets I’ve never seen before are tucked neatly at the corners, pillows I don’t own are propped against the headboard, and on top of everything sits my yellow blanket and pillows, the one he washed for me.

And in the center of the pillows, placed with obvious care, is Mr. Muffin.

My throat tightens.

“Paul.”

“You smell amazing,” he says quietly from behind me.

I turn to find him closer than I expected, and my breath catches. “I-it’s just body wash and lotion.”

“It’s you.” He takes another step, closing the distance between us. “Lemon and something sweeter. It’s been driving me insane for a while now.”

My pulse kicks up as his fingers slide into my hair at the base of my skull with a gentleness that makes my knees weak. He tilts my head back, and his nose brushes the side of my neck as he inhales deeply.

“This smell…” he murmurs against my skin, “… is going to be the death of me.”

I’m completely frozen, heart slamming so hard I’m sure he can feel it. Heat floods through me, pooling low in my belly, making my hands shake, and I don’t know what to do with any of it. I don’t know if this is real or if I’m dreaming.

I hold my hand out in front of me.

Five completely normal, non-breadstick fingers.

Holy shit. This is real.

Paul pulls back slowly, his hand sliding from my hair, and the loss of his warmth makes me want to chase after it.

His eyes find mine, and there’s a knowing smirk playing at his lips. “Am I still being too subtle?”

“I-I…” The words won’t come. I’m standing here like an idiot, still holding my hand out for absolutely no reason.

His gaze follows my outstretched hand, and then he reaches out and catches it, turning it over to inspect my palm. His thumb traces the edge of the healing wound with careful attention.

“It looks way better,” he says, all clinical focus now, like he wasn’t just burying his face in my neck. “Does it still hurt?”

I shake my head, unable to form words.

He turns my hand over again, and his expression shifts slightly. “Your nails are new.”

I glance down at the peach polish. “My favorite polish was almost empty, so…”

“It’s pretty.” His thumb brushes over the back of my hand. “Matches your lipstick.”

Even more heat floods my cheeks. “Thanks?”