Page 45

I never sleep.

Not really. I lie still, I toss, I turn, I think about things I shouldn’t.

I stare at the ceiling and count the hours until I have to pretend I’m rested.

But I slept last night. I don’t remember falling asleep.

I’m in Ragnar’s bed, wrapped in one of his t-shirts and a soft blanket, warm in a way that feels impossible.

Like my body finally stopped bracing for impact and could actually relax.

I blink slowly, adjusting to the faint morning light leaking in through his curtains.

It’s quiet. The kind of quiet you don’t get in my parents’ house, where the fridge hums like it’s in a panic and the plumbing creaks like it’s carrying ghosts.

And my parents are up and starting the keurig at six am.

Here, the air is still. Safe.

I shift slightly, and my thighs ache—in the best possible way. A low, delicious reminder of the way he touched me. The way he held me, murmured in Icelandic against my skin like I was a secret worth keeping.

My phone buzzes from the nightstand.

I reach for it, blinking blearily as the screen lights up. It’s a text from my mom.

Mom:

Dad and I are going in to the office. We set the alarm code. Love you.

She didn’t comment on where I was. She didn’t push or demand I come home. For once, it felt like trust.

I drop the phone gently and exhale, rolling onto my side. The other side of the bed is empty, but still warm. I drag my hand across the sheets and breathe in the scent of him—clean soap and pine.

God, I could drown in that smell.

Footsteps. Soft, slow, careful ones. Then a knock—barely more than a tap—on the door.

“Hey,” Ragnar says gently, voice still sleepy. “You up?”

I smile. “Maybe.”

Howl trots in first, tail wagging, nose to the blanket like he’s checking for signs of life. He plops his enormous head on the edge of the mattress with a soft whine.

“Okay, okay,” I whisper. “I missed you too, you handsome menace.”

Ragnar steps in after him, barefoot in soft gray sweats and a plain black tee. He’s holding a rose-colored mug, which he sets gently on the nightstand beside me.

“Hot chocolate,” he says. “Amma style. Thought you might want something warm.”

My throat tightens at how thoughtful that is.

“Thank you.” I take a sip, letting the sweet liquid coat my throat, warming me from the inside out.

He nods, then sits on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle me or my mug.

“This is amazing.”

He gives me a lopsided smile. “She always said it was for healing heartbreak. Or bad dreams.”

“And what if I only had wonderful dreams?” I take another sip.

We sit in silence for a beat, Howl settling between us like a furry peace treaty.

I glance down at myself. “So… I’m guessing I didn’t put this shirt on myself?”

“You were asleep before I finished locking the door.”

I blink. “Seriously?”

He nods. “You didn’t move all night.”

“That’s wild. I… I never sleep through the night.”

His eyes meet mine, steady and warm. “I’m glad you could here.”

Ragnar nudges my ankle. “Come eat something. I’m not letting you get lightheaded and fall into a snowbank before noon.”

“Snow?” I scramble off the bed, Ragnar grabbing my mug at the last minute.

“We got a dusting over night.” He sips from my mug. “Not a lot, but enough to cover the grass.”

He stares down at me, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.

I drag myself out of bed, slipping into the pair of sweatpants he loaned me last night. They’re too long, soft as sin, and cinched tight at the waist. I catch sight of myself in the mirror as I pass—messy hair, flushed cheeks, skin that still glows from everything we did last night.

I look happy.

That’s not a word I use for myself very often.

The kitchen smells like toast and something buttery. Howl settles on the floor near Ragnar’s feet like a very white, very fluffy sentry. I hop up onto the counter and steal a triangle of toast from the stack he’s buttering.

He lets me. His grin makes him look younger than Spags.

“You’re cute,” he says.

“You say that like it’s news.”

He leans in and kisses my cheek, slow and sweet. Then he tips my chin up and sips from my mouth.

We eat standing up, like two people who live here. Like this is just what we do. After we finish, he rinses the plates, and I dry them. We move around each other with a kind of unspoken ease that should feel weird but doesn’t.

It feels… right.

When the sink’s turned off and the counter’s wiped clean, I sit on the barstool and wrap both hands around my mostly empty mug. He leans against the counter across from me. Watches. Waits.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I say finally. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t ask me to clarify.

“I feel like I should have a plan,” I go on. “A clear, perfect map of what comes next. But I don’t. I’ve spent so long doing what everyone else expected, I forgot to ask myself what I wanted.”

He nods, encouraging me to continue.

“I know I want to graduate. Finish this program. I’ve come too far not to. But after that…” I trail off. “I don’t want this. Not as a career.”

“You don’t have to,” he says simply. I look up. “You don’t have to have it figured out yet,” he adds. “You’re allowed to take a breath. A break. Space.”

“That sounds irresponsible.”

“That sounds human. Have you ever given yourself that? Ever?”

I huff a laugh. “Why are you so good at this?”

He shrugs. “Because I’m not trying to fix you. Just trying to see you. And because I’ve been there.”

And I feel it.

Like something cracks open in my chest and light leaks in.

I want to cry.

So instead, I say, “I want a dog.”

He grins. “Good start.”

“I want to paint my walls pink and cover them in glitter and stickers and art I actually like.”

“Perfect.”

“I want to travel. I want to take photos. I want to maybe start a blog, or write a book, or chase some completely ridiculous dream just because it makes me happy.”

“You should.”

“I want…” I pause. Swallow. “I want this. You. I want to try.”

His face doesn’t change much. But something in his eyes flickers—like a candle catching.

He crosses the kitchen and stands in front of me.

“Then try with me,” he says.

Just that.

Simple. Steady. Safe.

And I nod.

Because I’m ready.

He bundles me up in borrowed layers—his hoodie over my shirt, a pair of thick socks under his boots that barely fit—and we leash up Howl, who practically vibrates with anticipation. It’s still early, the neighborhood soft with sleep and chilly air.

It’s that hazy pre-dawn, everything coated in a film of gray-blue and even though Ragnar made sure I wouldn’t be cold, I press up against his side as we walk. He lifts his arm and tucks me against his chest, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Howl tugs us along, nose down, tail high. He stops to sniff everything. Twice. At one point, I trip over the untied lace of one of the too-big boots. Ragnar immediately drops to one knee in the slush of melting snow.

“Don’t laugh,” I say.

“I wouldn’t dare.” But his mouth is twitching.

He ties the boot carefully, double-knotting it, fingers stroking my ankle bone before he glances up at me from where he’s kneeling.

“You good?”

“I’ve never been better.”

He rises and kisses my knuckles.

We keep walking.

The snow is new. Soft and untouched, except for the winding trail of our footprints and the occasional mess of paw prints where Howl zigzags like an overexcited toddler.

It’s still early. The world feels hushed, like even the birds haven’t decided if they’re awake yet.

The air is chilly enough to bite my nose, but not in a cruel way. More like a kiss I forgot was coming.

I stuff my hands deeper into the sleeves of the sweatshirt he gave me, not because I’m cold, but because it feels like the only way I can get closer to this man. There’s a silence between us, but it’s a good one. Solid. Full of space that doesn’t feel empty.

I look down at our footprints in the snow and wonder when my life changed.

If it was the orchard. The night at Gershwin’s.

The moment I kissed him in the rink, at the rehab room, in my bedroom.

The shower. His voice in the dark. Or maybe it was slower than that, more gradual—something that grew between crossword puzzles and the way he says my name.

I’m not used to this feeling. Not really.

I’ve been content before. Grateful. I’ve smiled and laughed and said I’m fine so many times that I almost believed it. But this… this is different.

This is the kind of quiet joy that lives in your chest and blooms without asking permission. It’s the way the cold burns your cheeks, but you’re still warm, anyway. It’s someone noticing your shiver and giving you their sweatshirt before you even say a word.

It’s waking up and wanting to stay.

I don’t know what’s going to happen. I don’t know if I’ll ever figure out what I’m supposed to do with my life. I don’t know if I’ll tell my parents everything, or if I’ll fall apart the next time I see Christian, or if I’ll always be a little scared of being left behind.

But I know this.

I’m happy.

Right now, walking through fresh snow with a boy who liked my soul before he touched my body, I’m happy in a way I didn’t think I could be. And I don’t want to run from it. Not this time.

Not anymore.

We stop at the end of the block and just stand there, taking it all in.

The stillness. The simplicity. The strange and beautiful normalcy of it.

He didn’t bat an eye when I lay down in the snow and make snow angels, laughed as I tossed snowballs for Howl to chase after, confuse and alarmed when they vanished the minute he caught them.

I turn to Ragnar; the wind tugging at my hair.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had a better morning. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this happy.” I squeeze his hand. “Thank you. For everything.”

He leans in, brushing his lips over mine. “You’re everything.”

And for the first time in a long, long while—I believe him.

By the time we get back to Ragnar’s house, my cheeks are pink from the cold, my calves ache a little, and there’s snow clinging to the end of my hair and eyelashes. Howl trots ahead, tail high, tongue lolling like he just solved world peace. I kind of feel the same.

“I should probably head out,” I say as we step inside, stepping off my his wet boots. “It’s a game day. I don’t want to mess with your routine.”

Ragnar arches a brow as he hangs up Howl’s leash. “Mess with it?”

“Yeah, you know. Superstitions. Rituals. Athletes are weird.” I give him a crooked smile. “And I’m… a lot.”

“You’re not a lot,” he says, deadpan. “You’re barely enough.”

I blink, and he grins at me. That slow, rare one that makes me feel like the sun just rose behind his eyes.

“Do you know what my game day ritual consists of?” he says, stepping close and brushing a piece of windblown hair out of my face.

“I’m consumed with thoughts of you. Will I see you at the rink?

Catch your eye from the net? What reason can I come up with to visit you in the rehab room?

What joint I can make you tape for no reason other than to see you?

Do you truly not know you make every moment of my life better, saet stelpa ? ”

I think my heart trips over itself.

“Oh,” I say, intelligently.

He leans in and kisses my forehead. “Stay.”

My protest dies somewhere around my collarbone.

“I mean,” I try, “I probably need to go home to change. I look like I wrestled a snowbank.”

“Or you can wear nothing. Naked Sadie would definitely improve my game,” he says lightly, already moving into the kitchen like he didn’t just lob a flirt grenade into my bloodstream.

“Ragnar,” I squeak.

“Or,” he adds, amused, “I could loan you sweatpants. But your reaction to the first suggestion was better.”

Howl sneezes dramatically, like even he thinks I’m blushing too hard.

Ragnar opens the fridge and grabs a bottle of water, tossing one to me.

“I’ve got some laundry to fold and a bit of vacuuming, but please. Stay. You don’t have to help.”

“Wait.” I follow him into the living room. “I’m sorry. Did you say laundry? Vacuuming? Do you scrub your own bathtub?”

He throws a pillow at me. “I’m not incapable.”

“Sorry,” I say, hands up in surrender, even as I plop onto the couch. “I just assumed someone who gets paid to stop flying pucks didn’t also mop his own floors. I know Vic and Spags don’t.”

He smirks, sitting cross-legged on the carpet with a laundry basket between us. “I’m not fancy, Vic and Tristan both work long hours, and if you’d ever seen the state of Spags’ apartment… well, you wouldn’t question the house cleaner. ”

“Well, I am completely useless,” I admit, pairing socks and getting it wrong twice. “I used to get in trouble at home for not being organized enough. My mom color-codes her spice rack. I once tried to alphabetize my earrings and cried.”

“How do you alphabetize earrings?”

I crinkle my nose at him.

He hums, folding a towel with slow, neat precision.

“Then I’ll run the vacuum. Or we’ll hire someone. Problem solved.”

“You’re weirdly chill about this.”

“I have a dog who eats socks and a girlfriend who talks to snow. A house cleaner is a small price to pay for that gift.”

Girlfriend.

He says it so casually, like it’s obvious. Like it’s already true. I think it might be.

I smile down at a sad-looking sock bundle and will the burn out of my eyes. He’s perfect. Too perfect. Am I going to fuck this all up?

“Would it help to know that I have a chef?”

I look up, startled at he bumps my shoulder with his. “It’s not possible to be good at everything, Sadie, so why kill yourself trying?”

When we finish the folding, he disappears for a minute and returns with something in his fist. He says nothing as he drops a small, familiar rock into my hand. It’s the one from our first walk. Flat and smooth and completely unremarkable—except now it has googly eyes glued to the front.

I let out a surprised laugh. “You gave it a face?”

He nods. “It needed a name. I’ve been calling it Pebbles.”

“Pebbles?” I can’t wrap my head around what’s happening.

“It’s yours. A pet. For now.”

I snort. “You giving me a trial run before I get a dog?”

He shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “You can have him too, but I think your parents would notice the hair.”

Howl thumps his tail and stares at me with the trusting intensity of someone who’d absolutely follow me into a blizzard for a slice of cheese and then trade me away for a chicken nugget.

I lean down, scratching behind his ears. “What do you think, buddy? Mind sharing your daddy?”

Howl lets out a happy little huff and rolls onto his back, paws flailing in what can only be described as unfiltered joy.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

Ragnar watches us with soft eyes and something that looks suspiciously like forever on his face.

And this time, it doesn’t scare me.

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