Page 179 of These Tears

I drift to the serving table where Inga and Sunna are speaking with two other women over plates of flatbread and bowls of something steaming, and I busy myself with useless things. A napkin needs straightening. Cups moved around. Finally, I accept a ladle for the fresh compote. Every few breaths, my eyes go to him.

More people arrive as the evening unrolls, carrying knitted hats and wrapped parcels, small bags of biscuits and folded hand-made blankets. They stop by Elias on instinct.

Some seem to forget what the family members closest to him know: a hand lands on his shoulder. A word is murmured against his cheek.

Each time he stiffens a little, nodding without lifting his eyes for long, his mouth giving nothing away.

At some point, his jaw locks hard enough that it makes mine hurt.

He pushes to his feet, gives the newest visitor a half-smile that never reaches any living part of him, and drags both hands through his hair until the dark waves stand wild around his temples.

Beside me, Inga stops mid-sentence. ‘Uh-oh.’

I follow her gaze.

Elias has gone a sickly shade of pale.

It takes half a cowardly second for the decision to form. Another half for my heart to leap into my throat as I make that first step.

Approaching the men, I plaster on the warmest smile my genes allow and stop beside Elias and another tall man.

‘Excuse me. Hi!’ I smile. They mirror my expression. ‘Leandra, Jakob’s fiancée.’ Hands are shaken, exclamations exchanged. ‘I have to steal him away for a moment, I hope you don’t mind.’

They rumble in amusement as I meet his eyes.

He tries his best to keep up the pretence. But he’s too tired. I know he is, because I am, too.

I turn my palm up between us and let it hang. I don’t reach for him.

It takes a moment. Not long enough for someone to find it odd, but enough for me to feel what the effort costs him.

His gaze drops to my palm as if I’ve pointed a blade at him instead.

I nearly lower it.

But then his shoulder stiffens, his arm lifts and his fingers close around mine.

At first, they’re cold and rigid, but as the warmth starts seeping through the contact, they tighten with a pressure that feels like balance.

I don’t look back to see who notices, simply tug him away from the fire, from the hands and voices and all the kindness pressing too hard against him.

The trees accept us and drown out most of the noise from behind. At the edge of the clearing, a felled log sits half-buried in snow. I loosen my grip the moment we clear the first line of trees towards it, but he doesn’t pull away.

So we walk like that, my hand relaxed around his, his fingers deciding for themselves how much pressure to give back.

Lowering myself first onto the bark, I leave enough space for him to choose again. My hand remains where he can keep it or let go, and he remains standing, glaring at the spot where they meet.

‘I don’t need your pity,’ he says flatly, but without a bite.

‘I’m not offering any. Just a breath.’

Further ahead, voices rise and undulate through the clearing until they evaporate between the trees.

His gaze moves to mine.

‘Choose,’ I murmur, and his chin tips slightly. ‘Five minutes of quiet with me, or the fire.’

He realigns his jaw as he glances at the flames briefly. A second passes before he releases a hard breath and sits down beside me.