Page 133 of Top Shelf

It’s unfair that I don’t know what it means and still feel it between my legs.

“Jag vill ha dig… What does that mean?”

His eyes twinkle as they hold mine. “It means I would like some coffee.”

I narrow mine. “You’re lying.”

“No…”

“Karlsson.” I sit up as much as the seatbelt allows. “What did you teach me?”

His mouth does the almost-smile which is responsible for ruining me on several occasions. “Say it again.”

“Absolutely not!”

“You asked for something you should say—I gave you one.”

“I asked for cultural preparation! I feel like you’ve given me verbal contraband.”

He chuckles. “Yes.”

“What does it mean?”

“No.”

“Viktor.”

I stare at him for three seconds, then lean closer and repeat the phrase back to him as clearly as I can. His eyes darken so fast I know exactly what category of sentence it is.

“Ah,” I say. “It’s filthy.”

He hums. “Kind of.”

“How filthy?”

“Too filthy for row twelve.”

My pulse warms under my skin. “Hm. Useful. I’ll use it when we land on the rental car people.”

“No.”

“Yesss.”

“Heidi.”

“What? Your wife is committed to bilingualism.”

A rough, quiet laugh springs out of him, and the sound sinks straight through me. I want to keep it. I want to carry it in my chest like a secret.

The plane descends into Stockholm not long after, under a pale morning sky. We move through passport control and baggage claim in the odd blur of long-haul travel, where every light feels too bright, and every task seems both urgent and underwater.

Viktor speaks Swedish to the rental car agent, and I stand beside him with my suitcase handle in one hand, pretending my brain has not just emptied itself onto the polished airport floor.

I’ve heard him speak Swedish before. Short phrases and calls with his family. Half-muttered words during sex that made my entire body lose the plot. But here, surrounded by signs I can’t read and voices shaped around sounds I don’t know, the language belongs to him differently. He stands taller in it.

Or maybe I simply see the rest of him. His truest form. The part that was never made for me, never translated for me, never softened for Denver or hardened for the NHL. It should make him feel further away from me, but instead, it makes me want to know him even more.

Outside, the air is cooler than I expect, carrying a faint dampness beneath the airport smell of fuel and road dust. Viktor loads our bags into the rental car, then comes around to the passenger side and opens my door.