The kettle has gone silent, steam trailing like a sigh. I pad barefoot back to the kitchen; the boards are cool beneath my feet. The air still holds him. I wrap my hands around the mug and breathe until the fluttering inside me remembers how to slow down.
Erik Halvorsen doesn’t flirt. He’sdirect. Even his silences have weight, measured and precise, like every pause is a gear in some larger machine I can’t see. When he looks at me, it isn’t curiosity. It’s recognition.
And that, whateverthatis, feels far more dangerous than desire.
My phone buzzes on the counter, the screen lighting up the shadows.
Grace: Still working at the shop? My dad is closing the deli early; he says there is a lot of road construction scheduled this evening and doesn’t want us stuck in that traffic. Would you like for me to swing by?
Me: I’m all good. Erik drove me home.
Grace: Be careful… These Halvorsen men are carved out of fire.
I laugh softly.She’s not wrong. They walk like mythology. They make promises they intend to fulfill, even at great personal cost.
I sip the tea; it’s lukewarm now and a little bitter. I carry the mug into my small living room. My apartment smells like oldbooks and lemon oil, the kind of scent that belongs to a life built quietly. The hum of the refrigerator fills the silence where his voice used to be. I wrap a blanket around myself and allow my thoughts to wander.
I want to open the door again to say thank you. Perhaps I simply want to confirm his authenticity when he emerges from the void he's left behind. But I'm not sure. I stop my hand just before it touches the doorknob.
My daily planner is on the side table next to the couch, exactly where I’d placed it earlier. I flip forward to tomorrow’s date and scrawl a short list. I find comfort in the way I organize my life, with my time management system and the familiarity of my routines.
Finalize Special Orders. Touch base on deliveries for next week. Sort donation boxes for the library. Check the front display, and switch titles.
My pen stalls. Beneath the practical notes, I add something I don’t quite understand yet:Don’t forget the way he said your name… some sort of a flower.
I can still hear him saying it. The Scandinavian word rolls through my mind, quiet and unfamiliar on my tongue. I couldn’t begin to spell it if I tried. I also lack a clear understanding of its meaning.
But I know how it felt hearing him say it.
Warm. Safe. Possessing without owning. He was deliberate in a way that led me to believe he had specifically chosen it and understood its potential impact on me.
Nobody has ever looked at me as if I were something to protect rather than repair.
I slump down onto the couch, mug secured on my lap. The city feels thick outside my window: heat and humidity. Distant wailers flood the street, providing no relief. Only the quiet white noise of cars and people going about their business, unaware ofhow saturated with life I suddenly feel, fills the air. Streetlight spools across the blinds; stripes of silver and shadow paint the room. Quiet is meant to calm me down.
Instead, it thrums.
I replay the moment his hand touched my back earlier, his eyes never leaving mine as the lights flickered. He confidently pressed his palm against me, his sturdy comfort enveloping me without question. When he promised to keep me safe, his voice dropped.
Erik always says what he means. And when he speaks, his words fall right where he wants them to.
A siren sounds far away, lost in the noise of the city. Life continues as usual, and everything around me returns to its normal state. But something inside me has changed.
I should be worried about what this pull between us means. About what he means. But all I can feel is that silent rush of could-be-dangerous-but-I-trust-you feelings. He can block me from the world, and no one would dare to confront him.
I place my mug in the sink and shut off the kitchen and living room lights, with only a small lamp on another side table on the opposite side of the couch illuminating the living room. Pad my feet against the doorframe one more time. My fingers curl around the bolt he told me to engage. The metal feels cool beneath my palm now.
“Good night, Erik.” I murmur at the darkness.
Outside my window, the city sighs. His SUV's gentle purr has long faded, yet his nearness remains.
And somewhere between sleep and waking, I hold onto the feeling that whatever comes next, I won’t be facing it alone.
Erik
Back at my loft, headlights smear across the windows. I take off my boots by the door. The building is quiet, the kind of silence that doesn’t exist in public spaces. Only money and paranoia buy this kind of quiet.
I drop the encrypted tablet on the counter and pull up the surveillance logs on my laptop.
