“You cannot be serious.”
“He’s—”
“You talk to your plant?” He’s up now, over Erik and off the pull-out, delighted in a way nobody has a right to be before nine a.m.
“I don’t— I just—”
“She does.” Erik. Eyes still closed. He hasn’t moved an inch.
Fucker.
For the record, talking to your plants is extremely normal. There are studies. I haven’t read them, but they exist, and they’re on my side.
These men are not.
Gunnar crosses to the window and leans down until he’s eye level with Gerald. Then he picks up one of his leaves between two fingers and turns it over, slow, like he’s checking it for wires.
“What’s so special about him?”
“He’s a pothos.”
“Is he magical or something?”
“Magical?” I look at Gerald. Gerald looks like a plant. “Why would he— what?”
He asked it like a real question. Like there was a box to check.
Gunnar keeps squinting at Gerald like Gerald knows what he did.
“He makes her feel safe.”
Rayner. From the floor. Eyes open, on me, and I get the feeling they’ve been open for a while.
“He doesn’t— I mean— that’s not—”
“He does.” Calm. Certain. Like he’s telling me what day it is.
He’s known me for twelve hours. He should not have opinions about my emotional support flora, and he definitely should not be right about them.
I hate him.
My face goes warm again, which is ridiculous, because it’s a statement about a plant.
And the dream picks that exact moment to knock. Stars. Silver.
No. Nope. We are not doing that.
It’s a well-established fact that dreams are just the brain doing its laundry, and I am not going to stand here in front of witnesses and sort the laundry.
“What’s wrong, beautiful?” Gunnar, closer now, the grin winding up. “It’s okay to be a little—”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t be trouble.”
He grins wider somehow. There was no room left on his face and he still found more.
