Page 75 of In Somnis

Saying it out loud feels uglier than thinking it. I’ve turned my loneliness into a fact instead of fear.

His hand twitches against my face, and his frown impossibly deepens.

“My apartment is only a ten-minute walk from here,” I rush to add, because suddenly the idea of needing him feels worse than the pain.

“I’m not letting you walk like this.”

The way he says it makes arguing feel childish.

His hand slides from my face to my shoulder, and he steers me toward his car, which is still idling in the middle of the street a few feet down. “You need to sit.”

He opens the passenger door and guides me inside. I know I should protest. Something about possible stranger danger, but between the pain and cold, the thought is pushed away. My thigh throbs in protest when I slide into the comfortable seat, but then warm air hits me, and I sag back against the leather with a shaky breath.

The handsome stranger closes the door, and I watch him jog back into the rain in the rearview mirror to gather my things from the road. Water beads down on him as he scoops everything up, and when he’s collected the wet mess, he loads it into the back, then slides into the driver’s seat, rain dripping from his hair onto the leather.

His glasses are fogged when he turns toward me, and for some reason, that makes me smile. He pulls them off and uses his cardigan to dry them off carefully.

The car smells good, like roasted espresso and leather. Rain clings to it all, mingling with damp fabric and cold air, but somehow it works.

Letting my gaze wander over the interior of the very nice car that just tried to kill me, my eyes catch the Mercedes emblem on the steering wheel, then drift back to him—his chinos, the green cardigan with worn patches on the elbows.

Is he a teacher? A professor?

Do they get paid that well?

He startles me when he leans across me to reach my seat belt, and his knuckles brush my stomach by accident when he clicks it in for me. It’s a fleeting graze through damp fabric, but I gasp anyway, making him still instantly, eyes flicking to my face.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, already pulling back.

“It’s okay,” I whisper, feeling how my cheeks turn warm.

“You sure you’re all right?” He’s giving me that searching look again as if he’s trying to catch me mid-lie.

“I’m fine,” I reaffirm, as another wave of burning pain rolls through my palm, making me flex my fingers. “Maybe you could tell me where the nearest pharmacy is. I need some antiseptic to clean this.”

“I have a fully stocked first-aid kit at home.” He nods to himself, then starts the car.

At home?

“That’s kind, but⁠—”

“I have some medical training,” he cuts in, gentle but final, already pulling away from the curb. “And I know what shock looks like. Humor me.”

I open my mouth to argue. Sitting in his car to get out of the rain is one thing. Letting a stranger take care of me is another.

I do not go home with men I don’t know.

I barely went home with the ones I did, if I’m being honest.

The car moves, and rain smears the windshield into silver ribbons. I keep my eyes on the road ahead, then let them flick to his hands on the steering wheel—steady, sure, not a tremor in sight.

There’s nothing left of the man who tripped over his words a few minutes ago.

This version is controlled, and focused, almost clinical.

It’s like he slammed a door on himself and stepped through it.

Am I getting kidnapped?