Page 35

Sadie’s heels are too loud in the dark. Every step echoes like it doesn’t belong in this kind of house—glass and stone and silence dressed up like status. She mumbles something about living in the basement and doesn’t look at me when she unlocks the door.

“Sorry,” she says. “It’s not like… this isn’t really my space.”

I step inside, frowning. “Don’t be sorry for taking help when it’s offered.”

The entryway alone is bigger than my bedroom at home in Iceland. Everything is white or gray or brushed metal. Cold. Clean. Expensive in the way a waiting room is expensive—beautiful but barren. Empty.

Not like Sadie at all.

She kicks off her shoes by the stairs and glances over her shoulder. “They’re minimalists.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You’re n-not.”

She hesitates. “I don’t think I’ve ever really been allowed to find out what I am.”

She leads me to a door off the chef’s kitchen and we take the stairs down. The temperature shifts. The walls are still pale, the light recessed and soft. But when she opens the door to her room, it feels like stepping into someone real.

It’s warm. Alive. Textured.

I stop in the doorway and just… look.

Sadie watches me, waiting.

“This i-is you,” I say. Her breath catches. “Let m-me know if I g-got it right.”

I move slowly, giving her time to stop me if she wants to, but she just stands near the door, watching like she’s not sure she’s allowed to enjoy this part.

The bed has stark white sheets and a down comforter, but there’s a bright pink crocheted throw draped over the foot.

String lights wind around a shelf. A closer inspection shows they’re all different colored dragonflies.

A poster for the band Cast & Prey, Gibson Hawk singing into a microphone under neon lights, is tacked to the wall, curling slightly at the corners.

There’s a little shelf by the window full of tiny figurines. A frog wearing a crown. A ceramic peach with a bite out of it. A miniature disco ball. A well-loved stuffed cow.

There are photos everywhere—pinned and framed and taped in clusters across the walls.

Sadie, her parents, friends I recognize, faces I don’t.

I smile and step closer to the wall of pictures.

Some have frames, but most are printed and taped up—candid shots of flowers and food and city streets, the edge of a girl’s glittering glasses just barely visible in the lens's corner.

I point to one near her dresser. A close-up of moss crawling over a fallen log, the light so soft and rich it looks like velvet. “Y-you took these.”

It’s not a question.

Sadie comes to stand beside me, close enough I feel her shoulder brush my arm. “Yeah. Just for fun.”

“They’re m-more than f-f-fun.”

She shrugs. “I mean… I’ve always liked taking pictures. My parents got me a camera after college since I kept using my phone and filling up my storage. But I’m not, like, trained or anything.”

I study the images again. These aren’t tourist shots.

“You s-see things o-o-other people don’t.”

“They’re just details.”

“Exactly.” I look at her. “That’s w-what makes them s-s-special.”

She glances down at her feet, but she’s smiling. A little.

“They remind m-me of y-you,” I say.

Her eyes flick up. “What?”

I motion to the wall.

“They’re c-colorful. Close-up. A-alive. Your parents would’ve picked b-black-and-white architecture or b-b-bleak landscapes. These…” I look around the room. “This entire s-space. It’s warm. I-inviting. It feels l-lived-in.”

She exhales, like whatever nerves were banded around her chest just loosened. “That’s kind of the nicest thing anyone’s said to me.”

“Y-you should t-take photos in Iceland. I w-would pay you to t-take them.”

Her head tilts. “Iceland?”

“It’s r-rugged and w-wild and beautiful.” Like you. “I’ll show y-y-you.”

Her eyes widen slightly, surprised. Maybe at the offer. Maybe that I mean it.

Then she steps into me and presses her mouth to mine.

Her lips are soft, but eager. Sure. It’s like she’s made up her mind about this, us, and now she’s waiting to see if I’ll follow.

I do.

I always will.

I kiss her back gently at first, letting her set the pace, her body pressing into mine, her fingers brushing my jaw like she’s memorizing the shape of me.

A thought nothing could top our kiss at the Stand.

I was wrong. There are no pads between us, and I can feel the way her heart pounds against me.

But when I deepen it, she stills. Not in fear. Not pulling away. Just—hesitant.

I draw back, letting a sliver of air between us. She sways after me. “Sadie?”

Her eyes pop open, her lips are open, pink, shiny from my tongue. She reaches for me. “More”

“A-are you s-sure?” My voice is low.

She nods quickly, then frowns. “Are you not?”

“I’ve b-been sure for a-a while.”

That earns the smallest smile. But it doesn’t reach her eyes.

“I w-want you, Sadie.” I say. “In a-any way you’ll let me h-have you. Even if this i-is the a-a-adrenaline, or y-you trying to f-forget, I w-want you. B-but not if y-you aren’t certain.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t want you to stop. I just…”

She bites her lip.

I wait.

“I know it’s probably a bad idea,” she murmurs. “I know it’s going to make everything harder, but I still want to. Just this once. Just tonight.”

“Just t-tonight,” I echo.

“It won’t change anything between us.” Her hand flattens against my chest, fingers curling against my shirt.

I don’t believe her. Not really. This is going to change things. But I nod, because she needs me to. And because it would take a herd of disgruntled reindeer and probably the rebirth of Viking culture, to make me walk away.

I lean in again, kiss her slow. She lets me, but there’s something holding her back. Her mouth moves with mine, but it’s cautious. Her hands don’t wander. Her breath catches, shallow and too light.

When I pull back, her lashes flutter.

“Tell me the t-truth,” I say. “What’s g-going on?”

She hesitates.

“It’s nothing,” she shakes her head, tries to meet my mouth again. I frame her face in my palms and stop her, but don’t step back.

“T-tell me, Sadie. I c-can’t,” won’t “d-do this otherwise. W-we’re in this t-together or not at a-all.”

She goes preternaturally still in my hands. Her breathing goes shallow, eyes wide.

I press my lips to her forehead, “Whatever it i-is. I’m w-with you, Sadie Jones.”

“Christian used to… say things. About my body. About what he thought I should look like. He’d… make jokes. At first I thought he was trying to be funny, but eventually I realized he meant it. All of it.”

I inhale slowly through my nose. I want to grip her shoulders, demand she tell me everything so I can refute it. Any claim he made, I can lay waste to the lies. But I won’t ask her to repeat the words that are still causing her distress. Not now. Not ever.

Sadie swallows. “I don’t know how to feel sexy. I think maybe I’m just… not.”

The ache in my chest is immediate and deep. I yank her into my chest, harder than I should, and wrap my arms around her body, holding her in a bear hug, my chin on the crown of her head.

“He’s a g-goddamn idiot.”

She says nothing.

I tilt her chin up, my eyes searching hers.

“A w-world class d-dick.”

She nods, but it’s still there—the tension in her spine, the second-guessing. I can see it, feel it under her skin. I press my forehead to hers, not minding the crick in my neck.

I lower my voice, rough and soft.

“Let me show y-you how fokking s-sexy you a-are.”

She hesitates, eyes darting across my face like she’s looking for a catch.

“There’s s-something I’ve been thinking,” I murmur. “Ever s-since the first time y-you sat next to me in the b-b-leachers, leg bouncing, fingers t-twirling your pen.”

She leans in slightly, still wary, but willing to listen. “Yeah?”

“Your b-brain never s-stops.”

She laughs, shaky. “That’s… accurate. I get that complaint regularly enough.”

I shake my head. “N-not a complaint.”

She turns her head away, sucking her teeth. She doesn’t believe me.

“L-let me help. I-if y-y-you still w-want this, t-tonight, with m-me, I’ll take over. I’ll b-be in charge. G-give you s-something better to focus on.”

She stares at me long enough I can almost see the thoughts racing behind her irises. Then she nods. Once. Sharp. And I swear I can feel it like a green light in my chest.

She’s standing in front of me, barefoot on the carpet of her tiny basement bedroom, cheeks flushed, breath uneven. One strap of her dress is sliding off her shoulder. Her eyes dart from my mouth to my hands, and then back again. She wants this. Wants me. But she’s still scared it might shatter.

So I give her something to hold on to.

“I’m in charge t-tonight,” I murmur, cupping her jaw with both hands. Her skin is warm and trembling under my thumbs. “You l-let me take c-c-care of you. No r-rushing. No fixing. Just f-feel.”

She nods, but then she lifts her hands—toward my chest, my belt. I catch her wrists gently and shake my head.

“N-no, Sadie.”

Her eyes widen.

“Tonight,” I say, kissing the space between her brows, “you d-don’t have to do a-a-anything.”

She swallows, but doesn’t move. Her fingers twitch like she still wants to help, to earn it. Like letting someone undress her and see her without giving something back might break her in half.

I step closer.

“Lie b-back, Saet stelpa . A-anytime you w-want to s-s-stop, y-you say ‘stop,’ já ?”

She hesitates—only for a second—then climbs onto the bed. Her dress rides up over her thighs as she settles into the pillows, eyes never leaving mine. I follow slowly, standing over her. The soft pink lamplight turns her skin golden, turns the nervous set of her jaw into something holy.

“H-hands above your h-head,” I say.

She raises them, folding them at the wrists like she’s holding herself together. She’s breathing fast now.

I place a hand on her thigh, just above the knee, grounding her. “Okay?”

She blinks. “Yes”

“Good girl.”