Page 113 of Left-Hand Larceny
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.”
