Page 135 of Top Shelf

His mouth shifts. “You keep asking me this.”

“Well, you keep having a face.”

“I have only this face.”

“That’s untrue. You have at least four. Maybe five if we count the one from the viewing suite.”

His eyes cut to mine, heat flashing through the tiredness. “Careful.”

I bite down a smile because the warning still works on me, but then his mother reaches the car, and Viktor barely has time to open his door and get out before she throws her arms around him. He catches her like he was built just for this act alone, bending to bury his face against her hair.

I watch him close his eyes against her head for a moment and breathe deeply, and makes me go very still. Because I’ve seen Viktor touched—by me and by teammates clapping his shoulder, or by kids hanging off his arm at the arena. But this is different. His mother holds him with both arms, speaking Swedish into his shirt, and he lets himself be held without deflecting it, without making it smaller, the stern line of him easing beneath her hands.

He is wrapped in love here, and it’s so special to witness. So gentle.

But definitely not quiet, because the children are yelling, and someone is laughing, and his mother has started crying while also scolding him, and Viktor says something back that makes the older woman on the porch snort.

I quietly get out of the car, and then his mother turns to me. There's a moment where I consider fleeing into the meadow, but Viktor reaches for my hand before I can make any poor choices.

“Heidi,” he says, and his voice has changed in a way that makes my heart thunder. “This is my mother, Astrid.”

She looks at me for a breath before her face splits wide.

“Oh, Heidi,” she says in English. “You are even prettier than the video calls.”

“Thank you,” I breathe. “You’re very kind.”

“No, no. I am honest. This is different.” She takes both my hands, looks at my face as if checking whether Viktor has transported me safely across the world, then squeezes. “Welcome to Solvik.”

“Trevligt att träffas,” I say carefully.

Astrid’s eyes brighten. “Ah! She practices.”

Viktor makes a sound beside me, and I glance up to see him looking at me so softly, I immediately feel the urge to ruin it with a joke. I manage about two seconds of eye contact before I elbow him lightly and turn back to his family.

His father steps forward then, saving me from whatever expression my face is making. “Anders,” he says, offering his hand. His voice is quieter than Astrid’s, but his grip is warm. “We are so happy you are here.”

“Thank you for having me.”

“You are family now,” Astrid says immediately, and my chest does a strange flip.

Family.

The word lands as though she’s never known family with sharpness. Like it’s never had to be earned or managed or survived by carving pieces of yourself away. Viktor’s fingers brush the inside of my wrist, subtle enough that no one else sees.

I breathe deep as he leads me up the steps of the main house, and the porch becomes chaos. Freja kisses Viktor on both cheeks, then pulls me into a hug before I can decide whether Swedish sisters-in-law hug. Apparently this one does. She smells like citrus and sunscreen and has the same direct, icy gaze as Viktor, but softened by a smile that moves faster.

“I am Freja. I’m sorry if he has bad habits. I was older and should have taught him.”

My eyes widen, but before I can decide if she’s serious, she barks out a laugh, and Viktor rolls his eyes, and then the young boy on her hip reaches toward Viktor with both arms.

“Morbror!”

Viktor takes him easily, his large hand supporting his back. The boy grabs his face with both hands and begins telling him something urgent in Swedish. Viktor listens carefully and answers with equal seriousness.

I stare, and Freja leans closer to me. “He is my son, Hugo. He has been asking if you are real.”

“Me?”