Page 83 of In Somnis

Chuckling, I shift and ease myself down onto the couch beside her, leaving enough space between us to be deliberate about it. “I’d doubt that, considering how you managed not to get killed today.”

Even if I thought I’d be the end of you.

She smiles faintly and looks down at her palm, then wiggles her fingers one by one softly, as if she’s counting them, and cold runs through my entire system.

Is she doing a reality check?

Am I dreaming?

I glance at my watch. It’s half past four. Then I turn my gaze toward the first-aid kit I itch to pack up neatly, before checking the time again, which is still the same.

This is waking life.

Thank God.

“You did great,” she praises, holding her hand up toward me.

Right. She’s inspecting my work on her palm, not questioning reality. Just because I’m this deep in dreams and what comes with it doesn’t mean she is.

“Glad to be of service, Lennon.” She smiles when I say her name, then looks at me like she’s trying to figure something out. “What?”

“I don’t know,” she says slowly. “You just… say my name in this kind of way. I don’t even know how to describe it.”

“It’s uncommon. It fits you better than something ordinary would.”

Her brows lift. “You think so?”

“I do.” I smile, thinking about how many times the thought has already crossed my mind. Of course, she’s like this. Of course, she’s called that. Of course, it’s her.

She was made for me.

“My dad named me after John Lennon.” Her smile turns a little sad.

The urge to ask her about herself and everything that makes her who she is hits me hard. I want to know about her father and that sadness. About the way she carries loss so quietly, it hums under her words.

It would be easy to slip into old habits and let curiosity turn clinical, to turn connection into questions, intimacy into analysis. I’ve done that before, built relationships with women who should have been my patients, confused closeness with caretaking.

I won’t do that to her.

She’ll tell me when she wants to, and when she’s ready. Right now, everything between us is already tilted toward too serious. I want her to want to come back and spend more time with me, not make her want to flee by overwhelming her with deeply personal questions.

“You said your apartment isn’t far from the crosswalk. Have you lived here long?”

I can’t believe I haven’t seen her before. God knows I would have noticed her if we crossed paths.

“No, maybe a few days?”

“Days?”

“Yep. And I managed to grab myself a job before you…” She freezes. “Wait. What time is it?”

“It’s half past four. Why⁠—”

“I need to go.” She pushes herself up from the couch with a wince. “I have a shift in an hour, and I still need a shower and maybe get there early to do some mise en place and…”

The hoodie rides up, revealing a bruise blooming beneath her skin. Without thinking, I grab her thigh and draw it closer to inspect.

She gasps, and I feel the tremor that runs through her under my hand. My fingers are splayed high on her inner thigh, close enough to the edge of the hoodie that I can feel the heat radiating from her core. Too close. Far too close for a stranger she just met to be.