Page 115 of Left-Hand Larceny
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,sæt 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.
