Page 185 of These Tears

Elias nods when Sunna beckons towards the hallway.

‘The heater kicks in if the temperature drops to a certain level,’ Elias murmurs as he turns towards her. Standing this close, the movement sends a curl of his cologne my way, and I have to clear my throat to stop his scent from lodging there and doing things to me that absolutely do not need doing.

‘Power and water will hold until morning,’ he adds as he starts after Sunna.

Inga’s already reaching for me when Elias’ warmth abandons my side. ‘It was wonderful to meet you!’ she exclaims, drawing me into an embrace.

I exhale when her arms wrap around me. It’s not because I feel comfortable around her – a stubborn, ugly piece of me still wants to hold something against her. But because I’m tired.

I’m so… tired.

Of the horrid past, of the weighted present and of the inevitable future.

‘Good night, Anders!’ I call over my shoulder.

‘Sov godt,’ he mumbles and catches himself mid-stride. ‘I mean, sleep well!’

I mutter a quick thanks, wave at Markus, and veer towards the end table to get my camera before heading after Elias and Sunna.

The telephone winks at me as I reach the next area. It hangs on the wall halfway to the bedroom. Passing beside it feels like moving around an explosive device.

I refocus instead on Elias’ back as he walks ahead, ducking beneath the last doorframe.

As I step over the threshold, my gaze goes where fear sends it first.

The bed. Narrow.

The window. Small, curtained, already blind with snow.

The door behind us – Elias in it, standing with his arms crossed and a scowl that might be the reason even shadows had withdrawn into a corner.

My attention then goes to Sunna and I register the black cast-iron stove, old but well-kept. Its door clicks shut with a warm clang as she rises and wipes her hands against her skirt. Flames shift over walls panelled in pine and aged to a shade of honey.

‘Anders had started it earlier,’ she says.

Elias sheds his boots, and I follow as if on cue.

My eyes trail along the floorboard lines and up the walls, noting the subtle touches like reindeer antlers mounted by the door. The camera flickers to life beneath my fingers, and I continue following the rest of the wall through the viewfinder until I stop at a woven red-and-blue ribbon tied around a framed photo of Sunna when she was younger.

A small wooden bedside table sits beneath a curtained window, and beside it, a wardrobe flush against the wall. She opens it and pulls out two thick woollen blankets folded in neat, heavy squares. Elias helps her lay them at the foot of the bed.

My eyes shift to the other end of the room, where the bathroom is visible through a sliding door left ajar – one of those combined shower rooms with a simple setup – similar to the one at Elias’ cabin.

My attention returns to the bed, and I try not to let it show how nervous it makes me, while Elias speaks to Sunna about us leaving in the morning.

The damn mattress is too small for someone like him and me, but it might be just enough if I wedge myself against the wall and forget how easily proximity could turn against me in the dark.

‘Sleep well, dears,’ Sunna says gently, her smile unwavering as she closes the door behind her.

And the silence floods the room until it feels like I’m drowning.

My eyes find him staring at the bed as if he’s trying to burn a hole straight through the sheets.

All the unanswered questions locked behind those eyes snap back into place. He asks for touch, then punishes closeness. He craves softness, then crushes it before it can form. Or maybe it’s not closeness or softness he wants. Maybe it’s control. Intimacy on his terms only – consuming enough to feel everything, but never soft enough to require anything afterwards.

Do I want to give him that?

Do I want to give him anything at all?