Page 38

“Well, aren’t you a traitor?” I murmur, crouching to scratch behind his ears. “Letting me fall for your human like this.”

He pants happily, tongue lolling, big white paws stepping on my foot in what I assume is affection.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I whisper.

“It was supposed to be one night. One. But he listens, and he says stuff in Icelandic that makes me want to kiss him stupid even when I don’t know what it means and he makes me,” I pause, narrowing my eyes at the pup.

“How old are you, anyway? That last one is probably not fit for your ears. And now he’s fetching me a sweatshirt like some Nordic Disney prince. ”

Howl sneezes. Possibly in judgment.

“Okay, yeah,” I admit. “You’re right, but in my defense, who wouldn’t have a crush on your dad?”

Ragnar comes back into view, tosses me a hoodie. I instantly recognize the soft navy cotton with white block letters spelling THE ARCTIC across the front.

“It’s clean,” he says. “Might be a little big.”

I tug it on before I can think better of it. It swallows me whole. It smells like laundry detergent and pine and something I’m not ready to name. It smells like Ragnar.

I don’t look at his bedroom door.

I don’t look at his hands.

I pull the hood up over my head and pretend I’m not memorizing the sound of his voice when he says, “Ready?”

God help me, I nod. And I follow him out the door.

We head out onto the sidewalk, the leash taut in Ragnar’s hand as the big white fluff ball trots ahead like he’s the one in charge.

I expected Ragnar to live somewhere colder, quieter, but this street feels alive. Fences draped in orange garlands. Paper bats on windows. Chalk art on driveways. I spot a skeleton holding a dog leash, and the dog skeleton has a tiny red bandana. It’s like stepping into a movie.

“This neighborhood is amazing,” I say.

Ragnar chuckles. “You’re really committed to this Halloween thing.”

“Are you kidding? This is trick-or-treating heaven. Do you get how cool this would be as a kid? Crunchy leaves, sugar highs, glow sticks—it’s a whole vibe.”

He tilts his head. “Did you go trick-or-treating a lot growing up?”

“No,” I say. “My parents weren’t really into holidays. Or pets. Or mess.”

I pause. “Or fun, honestly.”

He gives me a sidelong glance.

“I mean, they’re good people. They just… weren’t into any of the stuff I was. They’re minimalists, like I said. They don’t like clutter or chaos or sticky hands.”

“How’d they like having a kid?”

I stop, mouth agape, as I stare at him.

“Ragnar,” he turns to look at me, eyes wide and innocent. “That was so rude!”

“Was it?” His grin practically splits his face. My cheeks ache from my matching smile.

“I tried to adapt. But I always wanted a dog. Or a hedgehog. Anything really.” I bend down to pick up a perfect red maple leaf, twisting the stem in my fingers to watch it spin.

Ragnar waits for me as Howl sniffs an exposed tree root.

“Once, when I was ten, we found a stray puppy,” I say. “I begged. Full sobs. Offered my allowance. Made a PowerPoint. They said no.”

“Ouch.”

“Right?” I grin. “So maybe when I finally get my own place, I’ll get something ridiculous. Like a parrot. Or a hedgehog in a tiny sweater.”

“Do they make sweaters for hedgehogs?”

I shrug. “No idea, but if they don’t, I’m good with a crochet hook. Hey, new business venture.”

“You’d sell out in minutes,” Ragnar says, like it’s not the most ridiculous idea I’ve ever said out loud.

I really, really like him.

Not just like. Want. Crave. But also… trust. I don’t think I can push those feelings, the heat and attraction, back down where they won’t make a mess.

Not after he wrung me out and propped me up the night before.

Not when I feel the insidious tendrils of jealousy every time I think about that night in the pub.

“You don’t have to talk to get laid.”

Well, sucks for the other girls. Ragnar talked to me. Even if I had no idea what he said.

Maybe this doesn’t have to be a onetime thing. Maybe it could be a benefits thing. No feelings. Just fun. Right? I try not to trip over my own overthinking.

Our hands brush. Once. Twice. Then a third time.

Now I don’t know what to do with mine, but a fourth bump of our fingers would be weird. Right? Do I put them in my pockets? Swing them? Fold them behind my back like a Victorian orphan?

Before I can spiral, he catches my hand and laces our fingers together.

I melt.

“Okay?” he asks softly.

“Yeah,” I say, voice suddenly too high. “Just… recalibrating.”

He smiles and squeezes my hand.

We walk a little more in silence. Howl is ahead of us, sniffing every mailbox but refusing to approach any people we pass. Twice, neighbors try to greet him and he backs up, ears down, to hide behind Ragnar.

“Wow,” I say. “You weren’t kidding. He really isn’t social.”

“Except you,” Ragnar says.

I glance up at him. Trying to remember how to breathe.

“What?” he asks, deadpan. “He’s a good judge of character.”

We finish the loop around his block. It’s barely nine a.m. and I already feel like I’ve lived an entire second life since last night. I wonder if I will forever think of this moment as a shift. Sadie br and Sadie AR—Before Ragnar and After.

Howl trots ahead, a soft blur of white in the morning sun, occasionally circling back to nose Ragnar’s hand like he’s checking to make sure he’s still there.

“Hold up,” Ragnar says.

He hands me the leash and bends to pick something up from the grass—a smooth, round stone. It’s about half the width of his palm.

“Howl tried to eat this,” he says, tucking it into his jacket pocket like it’s a keepsake. “Figured I should intervene.”

I laugh. “Truly a menace.” To Howl I add, “You are a prince among dogs and men alike.”

“You can visit anytime,” Ragnar says.

“I can watch him when you’re out of town.”

Ragnar’s mouth tips into a little smile. “Usually I send him to Vic’s mom. She watches Hela too, but you’re welcome to him. Only if you want to. He’d love to play with you.”

“Perfect.” I smile, “As long as it’s okay that I might want to play with his daddy, too.”

The words come out before I can filter them, and I panic, scrambling to cover.

“I mean—if, like, you’re also around. Or whatever. Like a crossword. Checkers—”

He looks at me, unreadable. But his fingers squeeze mine again, and I don’t pull away.

We slow as we near his house. My heart feels too full and too light all at once. I don’t know if I’ve ever felt this… content. Maybe once. When I was little. Sitting in a pile of leaves I wasn’t supposed to touch, sneaking a candy bar I wasn’t supposed to eat.

I realize Ragnar is watching me.

“What’re you thinking about?”

I blink up at him. “That I might be happy.”

He’s quiet for a second. “Yeah?” he says. “Me too.”

I think—maybe—he squeezes my hand again. But I’m not totally sure.

“I usually only feel like this in three places,” he adds after a moment. “On the ice. At home in Iceland. Or when I’m with you.”

I swallow. “That’s a really good list.”

“Yeah,” he says softly. “It is.”

We reach his porch again. He drops Howl’s leash, lets the pup trot inside, and then leans against the rail, still holding my hand.

“Can I ask you something personal?”

His head tilts. “You can ask me anything.”

“Last night, during…sex…”

He straightens.

“You started speaking in Icelandic.”

He freezes.

“At least, I assumed it was. Unless you know more Polish than you let on. You didn’t realize?”

He shakes his head slowly. “No.”

“What did you say?”

He studies me for a long time. Like he’s deciding something. He brushes a strand of hair behind my ear, fingers lingering over my cheek, stroking my skin.

“You don’t remember, do you?” I tease. “Make a man cum and watch him lose his brain cells?” I’m trying for flippant, but the words fall flat. Almost bitter.

“Sadie,” he shakes his head, and pulls his hand back, stuffing it into the pocket of his sweatpants. “It’s not that.”

Oh. OH.

He ducks his head, meeting my eyes head-on. “Ask me again, Sadie. But not until you’re ready for the answer.”

I open my mouth, but no sound comes.

Because I think—I might want the answer more than I’m ready for it. And I’m pretty sure Ragnar already knows it. I think he might know me better than anyone. Maybe even better than I know myself.

He nods. Like he understands.

Like he’s hoping I’ll want it soon.

And I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready.