Page 89 of Top Shelf

“And Dad did the thing where he purposefully ignores my ADHD, and Mom asked if you knew what I’m like, and I had a contractor asking me to choose finishes while a drill was screaming through the wall. Then you texted about Sweden, and I know you were trying to do the right thing by telling me before it became a thing, but all my brain heard was family, urgent, Anton, and expectations, so now I have eight lists, two of them say the same thing, and I might have chosen brushed steel, but I think I hate brushed steel. And before you say it, I know brushed steel is not the same level of emergency as my parents or Sweden or the flooring, but my brain has put them all in the same fucking bucket, so now I’m equally furious about every single one.”

The studio echoes with my crash out, but all Viktor does is set his pastry down and step closer.

“Your parents do not need to warn me about what you’re like. I know what you are like, Heidi.” His eyes stay on mine. “I like what you are like.”

“Fuck.” I blink hard and turn away before the tears burning behind my eyes can do anything humiliating. “Don’t be nice to me right now, Karlsson. I’m barely holding this shit together.”

“Okay.” His voice gentles. “May I touch you?”

I bark out a rough laugh. “That question could become dangerous real quick.”

“This touch is for relaxation only.”

“Oh.” My eyes sting as I turn back to him, but I don’t make eye contact because crying over his gentle words and a pistachio-bakery intervention feels excessive.

He moves behind me and slides his hands into my hair. The first slow drag of his fingers over my scalp sends a shiver all the way down my spine. My shoulders drop, then my jaw follows, the muscles unclenching one by one as his fingertips work firmly through my hair.

God.

He gathers the loose strands away from my face and combs through them with his fingers, scratching lightly at my scalp before smoothing my hair back again and starting to braid it. My breath lengthens and the static under my skin, so loud a minute ago, begins to soften. The sections separate, cross, then pull smooth. His fingertips brush the nape of my neck, and I realize the sensation of him is the best thing I’ve felt all day.

There’s no talk of me needing to calm down, or that my parents mean well. Which is good, because that doesn’t work for me—telling me I’m on fire has never made me less on fire. Instead, he just keeps braiding, but apparently that is enough to make my entire nervous system want to curl up at his feet and take a nap.

When he finishes, he carefully slides the hair tie from my wrist and secures the end.

“Come outside with me,” he says, moving toward the door.

I open my eyes. “What for?”

His eyes move toward Priscilla, and I frown at him.

“My stance on motorcycles remains unchanged. They’re still death machines for men with toxic relationships to physics.”

His mouth quirks. “I brought safety equipment.”

“For who?”

He opens the door and gestures me out. Priscilla waits at the curb, the engine still giving off ticking heat from his arrival. Viktor tugs the spare helmet from the storage compartment, followed by a smaller black leather jacket.

“You got a jacket for me?”

“Yes.” He swallows, then slowly holds the jacket open. “I cannot fix your parents, or the flooring, or even Sweden tonight for you. But I can give you air for an hour.”

My throat tightens again as he nods toward the jacket he’s holding open.

“Heidi,” he says, eyes tracing my face. “I will keep you safe. I promise.”

The studio blurs for a second, and I suddenly feel tired—so tired I don’t want to go back in. I want to be pressed against Viktor with his solid body between me and everything else for a while.

With a light sigh, I turn and slide my arms into the waiting jacket. Next, he helps me with the helmet, checking the fit beneath my chin with careful fingers, then looks at me through the visor.

“You trust me?” he asks.

I can feel the helmet padding around my throat as I swallow. “Yes, Viktor. I trust you.”

When I climb on, I keep my hands locked around his waist and my body braces for every turn. Denver skirts past us in a mix of glass and brake lights, and the engine fills the places where my thoughts have been breeding all day. Slowly, block by block, my grip changes. My jaw unclenches. I feel the tremor of the road through the bike, the wind against my jacket, and Viktor, solid in front of me.

We ride west, where the mountains sit dark against a sky turning gold. The whole world stretches wider, with Denver falling away behind us until there’s more sky than buildings.