Page 112 of Left-Hand Larceny
She bursts out laughing and flips through the drawer like it holds state secrets. “Why do you have three flashlights?”
“Y-you n-n-never know.”
Later, I make her hot cocoa the way Amma used to—semisweet chocolate melted on the stove, a little sea salt, milk, butter.
She texts her mom to say she’s safe.
The reply is simple:
Mom
I’m glad. I love you. Get some rest.
She smiles as she reads it.
And I know whatever comes tomorrow, right now she’s happy.
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 commenton 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.
