Page 157 of Top Shelf

My hands slide into his open shirt, over warm skin and old ink, carefully avoiding the fresh flower. I kiss him hard enough that he steps back into the grass, catching me against him as his mouth opens against mine.

The meadow tilts and flowers crush beneath our feet. His hands find my waist, then my back, drawing me so close, I’m pressed hard against him. My crown slips lower, the petals catching in my hair, and I feel the hard line of him against my stomach.

He breaks the kiss first, breathing hard, forehead pressed to mine.

“If I kiss you longer,” he says, “I will fuck you in this meadow.”

My pulse jumps. “Is that a warning you put on the travel brochure?”

His mouth curves, but his eyes are dark. “There are children nearby.”

“Deeply inconvenient.”

“And my grandmother has eyes like a hawk.”

“And that is terrifyingly inconvenient.”

He grins, his hand sliding up my back, and I lean into him before I can pretend I don’t need the contact. The heat is still there, burning low between us, but beneath it is a bigger feeling harder to hold.

“Come with me,” he says.

“Where?”

“To the cottage. The one my mother pretended was only free by accident.”

I blink, confused, and he looks toward the house. “She said the blue room is too small for two grown adults who are married.”

“Oh my god,” I groan. “Your mother gave us a sex cottage?”

His eyes move back to mine. “She would call it privacy.”

“I bet Freja would call it a sex cottage.”

“Freja has no respect.”

“For sex cottages?”

“For anything.”

I laugh again, and this time it feels easier to breathe. Viktor takes my hand, his shirt still open and flapping gently in the breeze, revealing the cornflower tattoo bright at the edge of his treeline.

The cottage sits beyond the smaller red barn, tucked near the trees with flower boxes beneath the windows, and a little porch that looks out toward the lake. Inside, it’s simple and warm. There’s a big bed under a sloped ceiling, a small sitting area, a bathroom tiled in pale blue, and a window cracked open for evening air. Someone has left folded towels, a jug of water, and a plate of cinnamon buns on the dresser.

Astrid again, probably. I go quiet, thinking how her kindness and genuine love are one of the most beautiful things about Solvik. Viktor notices as he closes the door behind us, then comes to stand beside me.

“Too much?”

I stare at the plate of buns, the towels, the bed, everything made ready for us by people who have known me barely two days and somehow keep finding new ways to say ‘stay’ without saying it.

“Yes,” I whisper.

He reaches for my hand and leads me into the bathroom instead of asking for me to elaborate. The shower is small enough that Viktor looks absurd in it, shoulders nearly brushing the top of the tile as he manages to turn the water warm and get me undressed and under it without making me feel handled. Steam rises around us, and the day loosens slowly from my skin.

Viktor stands behind me, careful with his fresh tattoo, and reaches for the shampoo.

“You don’t have to,” I say.

“I know.”