Page 111 of Left-Hand Larceny

“Before. When you were…” she flushes. “You said something in Icelandic, again.”

I blink down at her. “I did?”

She nods. “You didn’t realize?”

I shake my head slowly.

She shifts, props herself on one elbow to look at me. “What did you say?”

I study her. The way she’s watching me—not scared. Just open.

Last time this happened, I told her to be sure. To be ready for my answer before she asked again.

“Are you sure you want to know?”

She nods. “I think so.” Then she shakes her head.

I reach up, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

“I said… Ég elska having þú lítur út þegar þú bráðnar fyrir mig.”

She blinks. “That’s… very lyrical. Should I be worried?”

I smile. “It means: I love the way you look when you melt for me.”

Her breath hitches.

I trail my knuckles down her cheek. “And the first time? That night at your parents’ house?”

She nods.

I take a breath. “I said, ‘I’m in l-love with you, Sadie Jones. I’m s-s-sorry if that m-makes you uncomfortable, b-but I’m not sorry for f-f-falling. I never will be.’”

She stares at me, but says nothing at first. Then she lowers herself slowly back down onto my chest and whispers, “Okay.”

“O-o-okay?”

“I don’t know what I’m ready to say yet. But I’m not scared of what you feel.”

That’s enough.

That’s everything.

I kiss her hair and hold her tighter.

“Do y-you want to s-stay?” I murmur.

She hums. “Only if we get to have more sex.”

I laugh, full-bodied and real.

“And cuddles,” she adds.

“Deal.”

“And I get to snoop in your drawers.”

I reach over, open the bedside table, and gesture with all the solemnity of a knight offering a sword.

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