Page 45 of The Sun He Buried

He looks at the yarn in my hand.

“The pattern was unclear.”

“Of course.”

I put the ball back into the basket. Baldr stays beside the table. The door remains open behind him.

The hall is quiet. Somebody walks through the crossing passage at the far end, boots fading toward the kitchens. A low fire burns in my hearth. The bed is turned down, and the stuffed unicorn my grandmother made me is sitting against the pillows with its crooked horn pointed toward us.

This room has never seemed small before.

Baldr takes the shirt from his shoulder. He doesn’t put it on.

“Sól.”

“Yes?”

“Do you want me to leave?”

No grin. No joke waiting behind the question. He stands there bare-chested, holding his shirt, and gives me the open door.

“No.”

His eyes stay on mine.

I step closer. “I want you to stay.”

Baldr drops the shirt on the chair.

He reaches me in one step and cups both hands around my face. His mouth comes down on mine, warm and hungry and nothing close to the careful kisses he has given me outside this door.

Oh.

I grab his shoulders. He backs me against the edge of the table, then stops when the basket rattles behind me.

His mouth moves against mine. “Dangerous.”

“The table?”

“You near anything with corners.”

“I’m doing very well.”

My elbow bumps the basket.

Two buttons hit the floor.

Baldr laughs. I kiss him until he stops.

His hands move down my sides and find the ties at the back of my coat. I turn around to help. That puts my back against his chest and his mouth beside my ear.

This isn’t helping.

He unties the first knot.

“Asta did these.”

“I can tell.”