#chapter thirty-two

Lando swallowed hard and inhaled slowly. And in that quiet, the ache settled in his chest.

He could have woken up like this every day. He could have believed last night was about anything but desperation, adrenaline, and grief. He could have convinced himself that he hadn’t climbed into her bed bleeding and broken—asked her to soothe both his wounds and his darkness.

But Lando knew better. Always had.

Last night had never been meant to happen. Not like that. Not ever.

Y/N stirred, a soft murmur escaping her lips, and then her eyes fluttered open—still heavy with sleep—as she blinked up at him with that uncertain, waking look. Her hair framed her face in a tangle, her cheeks flushed with warmth, and when she offered him a sleepy smile, his heart nearly stopped.

She smiled as though it were the most natural thing in the world to wake beside him. As though she could never know fear as long as she was beside him. 

He could hardly breathe.

“Hi,” she whispered, voice rough with sleep, her eyelids half-lidded. He brushed a stray lock of hair from her forehead as gently as if he were handling a flame. 

“Hi.”

A breath caught in his chest as he took in the quiet weight of her gaze. The barest tenderness he could allow himself stirred in him, and before he even fully realized what he was doing, his thumb ghosted along her cheekbone, barely grazing her skin. It was as though the motion wasn’t something he controlled, but something that moved through him, a gesture as soft and fleeting as the glow of the early morning.

For a second, it felt as though the world held its breath. There, in the dim morning light, he cradled her face as though she was the most precious thing he’d ever held—her skin warm, her expression soft, eyes wide with something he couldn’t name. He watched her blink slowly, the warmth of his touch and the tenderness in his eyes passing between them silently, until she did the same, her gaze softening.

They were so close that the space between them felt like a breath waiting to be taken. She was the only thing in his world, the only thing that had ever felt real. He admired the curve of her lips, the gentle flush of color on her cheeks, and, for the first time in a long time, he allowed himself to simply appreciate the warmth of her—of them.

She did the same. Her gaze traveled slowly from his lips to his eyes, and he saw her hesitate, unsure if she should say the things her eyes were clearly begging to ask. Her hand, as if it had a mind of its own, reached up to touch his chest, her fingers brushing lightly against the fabric of his shirt, where his heart beat too quickly for her to ignore.

He could feel the moment shifting in the space between them, pulling them closer without a single word.

He let his thumb trace her cheek again, slow and gentle. Her breath hitched. And it was there, in that quiet, that he realized he’d never needed anything more than he needed to hold this. Hold her.

"Thank you," he whispered, his voice tender in a way he hadn’t allowed himself before, afraid to shatter something too fragile to be handled by someone as rough as him. There was something in the sound of her soft breaths and the feel of her warm skin that had him so careful, too aware that this was something too precious for hands as rugged as his to hold. "For answering the door... for letting me in. For putting me back together piece by piece until I became some semblance of a man again."

Her chest rose and fell with a breath, and though she said nothing, he knew she felt it too.

For a heartbeat, she looked as if she might reach out again — like last night’s intimacy still belonged to both of them. But he couldn’t let her slip back into that illusion.

He sat up instead, pressing his palms flat against the mattress to steady himself. He shifted away just enough to hide the need in his eyes. “I… I shouldn’t have stayed.”

Her brow furrowed. “What?”

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, voice low and resolute. “Last night… it shouldn’t have happened.”

She drew the sheet tighter around her bare shoulders, searching his face. He swallowed. “I was emotional. I’d just lost someone—someone I loved—and I didn’t know where else to go. You were kind to me, and I took advantage of that. Of you.”

Her mouth opened, but no words came. He kept his gaze anywhere but her – the divots on the sheets, the lights and shadows, the small details around her room that made it hers. “I’m not that man. I don’t cry on someone’s doorstep and end up in their bed because I can’t face my own grief. That isn’t fair—to you, or to me.”

She remained silent, and he dared not look at her.

Finally, he turned just enough to meet her eyes. “I’m grateful,” he whispered, lifting her hand and brushing his fingers across her wrist. “I mean that—thank you. You helped me when you didn’t have to.”

He paused, letting the moment hang between them. Then, he continued, his voice softer still, “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

Oh.

Oh.

She let the words settle like heavy stones. "...Yeah. Yeah, f’course,” she tried to bring herself to give him a convincing smile. When she looked up at him, his gaze had drifted away from her face, his mind elsewhere, somewhere far out of reach.

His fingers ghosted over her wrist once, lingering.

“It won’t happen again.”

The corners of his lips turned up in a smile that appeared sad and hopeful at one somehow. Like there was something he was losing even now, but holding on to wherever he had left, clinging to it with the hope even of something lesser in its place. And then, softer, as if he was trying to make it hurt less—

“It wasn’t real.”

Even if, for him, it might’ve been the realest thing he’d ever felt.

The silence after their conversation lingered longer than either of them knew what to do with.

The quiet stretched. Neither of them moved.

Eventually, she slipped out of bed, careful not to disturb the silence between them. The sheet wrapped loosely around her frame, her back turned to him as she crossed the room in search of something to wear, her steps light, almost apologetic. She didn’t look back—not because she didn’t want to, but because she wasn’t sure she could stand what she might see in his eyes.

Lando sat up against her headboard, shirtless, all tan muscles and toned shoulders with a spatter of beauty marks and purple brushstrokes constellated across the expanse of his torso. There were fingerprints on his ribs from a fight that had nothing to do with her—and yet she’d been the one to tend to the aftermath. She’d kissed those bruises. Held him while his hands shook and his mouth refused to explain.

They moved slowly—her toward the bathroom, him toward the edge of the bed — careful not to brush shoulders, not to speak unless they had to. It wasn’t hostile. Just… unsure. Like two people navigating the edges of a room neither of them had ever walked through before.

And still, she couldn’t stop noticing things.

The way his hair stuck up in places from sleep, a soft mess of curls he hadn’t bothered to smooth down. The faint imprint of her pillow against his cheek. The way he looked at the floor, not with shame, exactly, but like he was bracing for something—like he'd already begun constructing the wall he’d need to survive the day.

He was beautiful in the kind of way people didn’t expect until they really looked. Not just in the sharp angles of his face or the gold tint in his eyes, but in the unexpected softness. There was the way he hadn’t let her go entirely, even as he tried to put space between them. There was the way his voice dropped when he said her name. There was the way his thumb had lingered on her cheek like he wasn’t sure he’d ever get to touch her again.

And maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe that was what this was – one night, one rupture, one version of him she wasn’t meant to see.

She told herself it was enough.

That it was already more than most people got. That she should feel lucky to have been let in at all. That being chosen by him, even in desperation, even just for a moment, was a kind of rare honor.

Because it was clear now how little he let people in. How guarded he kept himself, how practiced he was in deflecting and disappearing and never letting anyone see the seams. But he’d come to her. He’d stood bleeding at her door, eyes hollow, heart somewhere in ruins, and he’d asked for her.

And she'd been enough. For that moment, she'd somehow been the one he needed.

That thought alone was enough to do something strange to her chest.

She wandered into the kitchen and stood barefoot on the cold tile, fiddling with the buttons on her flannel — one of his, actually, she realized belatedly. He’d tossed it over a chair weeks ago and never bothered to take it back. But it had been washed with her clothes enough times now that she figured it Liam probably wouldn’t even notice.

Now she moved about her space with practiced ease. The kettle clicked on. The cupboard opened. Mugs clinked as she set out two mismatched ones. The soft morning noise that usually filled her solitude now felt different, as though the air had thickened in his presence, slowed down around the edges.

It was awkward, undeniably. The two of them were like actors fumbling through a script they hadn’t rehearsed, unsure who was meant to speak first.

When he finally padded into the kitchen, hair tousled, shirt pulled back on, she felt it all over again—that impossible ache.

Because she couldn’t stop seeing him now. Not the version the world got—the man with the hard stare and sharper tongue—but him. The curve of his collarbone, the slope of his nose, the way his brows furrowed as he stood uncertain in the doorway. The way he still hesitated in her space, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to step into it.

And then there were the little things. The way he fidgeted with the different flavored teas in her kitchen cabinet. How his eyes scanned her face like he was making sure she was still okay. How he stood silently while she reached past him for the sugar, like he didn’t want to crowd her.

Those small mercies. Those small signs that he cared, even now, even after everything. 

Even after drawing that line in the sand.

Y/N tried to tell herself that it was enough. That she was lucky to have been let in at all. Because it was clear now—painfully so—how rarely he let himself be seen. How much of him was locked behind iron bars no one else even knew existed.

But she had been the one he came to. She had been the one he’d needed. If only for a moment.

And maybe that was her consolation prize. Maybe that’s all she’d get.

The kettle hummed softly as he hovered awkwardly near the counter, pretending to be preoccupied with her spoons like it required delicate strategy. They both moved around each other like amateur dancers, unsure where to place their hands or how to read the next step.

“You, um… sugar?” she asked, voice catching just a little on the first word.

He blinked, then gave a small smile, almost shy. “Two. If you’re offering.”

She nodded and grabbed the little jar, spoon clinking softly as she measured it out. And just like that, the tension shifted—not gone, but quieter. Like something in the air had taken a long breath in and was holding it steady.

He stood in her kitchen like he wasn’t quite sure if he belonged there, but also didn’t want to leave. His fingers tapped the edge of the counter, restless, and she saw the way he scanned the space—the peeling corner of the cabinet, the magnet crooked on the fridge, the plant on the windowsill that she forgot to water unless it dropped dramatically.

His name’s Bernard, she’d fondly told him. 

He also remembered telling her it was a stupid name. 

This wasn’t a space meant for people like him, he thought to himself. He didn’t belong in this life of potted plants and fridge magnets and slow mornings. But there was also something familiar about it, if he looked at it from an angle. The mug he used every time he came over sat there like some miniscule, divine sign – not that he already belonged, but like he could. Like he might, if things were different. 

If he let himself.

She passed him the tea without meeting his eyes, and he accepted it with a quiet, “Thanks,” his voice was rough from sleep. Their fingers brushed just slightly at the exchange. Neither of them pulled away immediately.

“You okay?” she asked, and instantly winced. Too much. Too soon.

But he just looked at her, not with irritation or that cold, unreadable mask he wore so often—but with something gentler. A small, reluctant crack in the armor.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “But I’m better than I was yesterday, I think.”

She nodded, wrapping her hands around her own mug. “That’s something.”

A pause. Not uncomfortable, exactly. Just uncertain.

He leaned against the counter, eyes scanning the chipped tile beneath his bare feet. “I don’t usually…” he started, then stopped, jaw working. “I mean. I’m not good at this. At being—  erm, whatever this is.”

“I know,” she said softly.

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy, just full of things not said. But it was companionable, too. She liked the way he looked standing in her kitchen, hair messy, tea in hand, eyes soft in a way the world rarely got to see.

She liked that he let her see it.

She didn’t know what came next. Probably nothing. Probably this was it—an anomaly. A glitch in their dynamic. A one-time kindness born of grief and timing and need. He would pull away, like he always did. He’d wrap himself back up in distant expressions and white lies and make himself untouchable again.

Because maybe she couldn’t have all of him, but at least she had this, right?

He didn’t quite fit in her space.His steps were still a bit too loud against her wooden floors, his frame a bit too lanky for her small space.

But there were moments, fleeting ones, when she imagined he could.

The way his hand lingered on the fridge door, the way his eyes flicked toward the window like he was memorizing the view. The way his voice softened when he asked if she still liked honey in her tea.

He remembered. Of course he did.

She watched him lean against the counter, mug in hand, eyes down, and for a moment she felt suspended in time—like they existed in a pocket the rest of the world couldn’t touch. No blood. No grief. No walls between them. Just this quiet, humming morning where he didn’t have to be anyone but himself.

It wouldn’t last. She knew that.

But she would let herself have it, just for now.

Once she set down her mug of half-finished tea, she went back to moving around the kitchen with a kind of purpose — barefoot, flannel slipping from one shoulder, sleeves pushed up as she cracked eggs. 

She hummed to herself as she cooked — a soft, low, barely-there melody that drifted across the small apartment like the warmth off the stove. He didn’t recognize the tune. In fact, he didn’t think she even realized she was doing it.

The smell of toasting bread and scrambled eggs filled the air. Lando busied himself by looking around the modest living room—not intentionally snooping, simply observing. He let his eyes trace all the ways her space had changed since that first night he stepped inside, her hands shaking so badly she couldn’t even unlock her door.

He wandered slowly through her space, letting his fingers trail along the edge of a shelf, a framed painting, the back of a worn sofa cushion.

It wasn’t grand or luxurious, but it had finally started to appear lived in now. She’d begun to make it a home somehow, and he’d watched it happen without quite realizing it.

There was the throw blanket draped over the back of the couch — navy, soft, clearly well-loved. A tiny stack of books on the coffee table, spine cracked open on the topmost one. A candle nearly burned down to the bottom. A pair of fuzzy socks crumpled near the armrest, like she’d kicked them off mid television episode. The scent of something warm—vanilla, maybe cinnamon—lingered faintly in the air, and it wrapped around him gently, like her voice often did.

The first time he’d stood in this apartment, she’d barely spoken. Her hands had trembled so violently that she couldn’t hold the mug he made her. The walls were blank then, any furniture sparse like she hadn’t let herself get comfortable, like she didn’t believe she was allowed to stay.

Now?

Now there were little things. A scarf thrown over the back of a chair. Mismatched mugs in the dish rack. A stack of law textbooks, dog-eared and underlined, beside a scrappy little bowl of dried lavender and a clay dish to hold her rings.

He didn’t even remember noticing the bookshelf before.

He stepped toward the bookshelf, trailing a finger lightly over the spines — well-loved copies of old classics, a few familiar law textbooks, a worn copy of The Phantom Tollbooth that made him smile for some reason. And tucked at the end of a line of books, he found a small, slightly faded photo in a worn wooden frame.

He reached for it carefully. 

The photo showed two girls—one a bit older, maybe in her early teens, and the other much younger, perhaps only a year or two. Both of them wore mismatched pajamas. The older one had her arms wrapped tightly around the smaller girl, their cheeks pressed close, smiling so wide it looked like their cheeks might’ve hurt. The little one’s smile was missing two front teeth.

It wasn’t posed or professional, just a candid moment of two young girls, frozen in time. One slightly older, all tangled hair and scraped knees, grinning with the kind of reckless joy only children knew. The younger clutched her hand and beamed up at her like she hung the moon.

The resemblance was unmistakable. 

“This is you,” Lando realized aloud. 

“What?” she asked, leaning back from the stove to try to look at what he was referring to.

“You were cute,” he said quietly, glancing toward the kitchen before looking back at the photo. “Who’s this other one?”

Y/N turned with a spatula in one hand, brow furrowed until she saw the photo in his hand. Then her face softened. “That would be my sister.”

He turned back to it. “She looks like you.”

She smiled faintly, but there was something else there. Something older, a bit tired, maybe.

“Uh, her name’s Mila. I’m pretty sure I’ve always called her Mils though,” she murmured, voice dipping into something softer, something sadder.

He hummed in acknowledgement. “She’s adorable.”

“She’s everything,” she said, and the words landed in the room like truth, like prayer. “The coolest kid in the world.”

“What happened to her?” he dared to ask. Y/N paused, searching for any sign that he was asking as a formality or mere courtesy before she laid one of the innermost parts of her bare before him, but found none. His expression was careful, curious, patient. 

She turned back to the stove, voice quieter now. “She, uh, still lives with my parents. That’s kinda why I don’t really have any more recent pictures of her.”

Lando approached closer, the frame still in his hand. “She lives with your parents?”

“I left when I was nineteen,” she said, flipping a piece of toast in the pan. “So she stayed with the people I couldn’t keep living with. And I know— I know that makes me sound like a coward. But I couldn’t stay, Liam. I kept trying but I just couldn’t.”

Her voice wavered, just once.

“And I tried —I really, really tried— to bring her with me. But I was still a kid to them, and they wouldn’t let me take her.” 

She inhaled steadily before continuing, plating the toast. “I didn’t have proof, or custody, or any power at all. I just had… me.”

A beat passed.

“I left her behind. When I moved out. I— I didn’t want to. But I had to get away, you know? It wasn’t safe, not for me. Not for either of us, really. But she was still too young. And I… I couldn’t take her with me. Not legally. Not safely. So I left.”

She set a mug down a little harder than necessary.

He said nothing, sensing she wasn’t finished.

Y/n looked over her shoulder again, carefully meeting his gaze. “I couldn’t protect her. Not really. So I made a promise to myself that I’d get out, get through school, get into law, and make something of it. So that one day I could go back with something to offer – a plan, a way out. Really out. Not just from the house, but from the whole cycle. The guilt, the smallness, the silence. All of it.” 

“One day,” she breathed, but Lando had a feeling that she was saying that to herself more than him.

Lando stared at her — this girl who never asked for anything for herself, never expected comfort, who stitched herself together quietly. He pictured a younger version of her, small yet fierce, clutching her sister’s hand with all the bravery a child could fake.

And then he looked at her now — her shoulders squared, her expression one of practiced nonchalance. She had already turned back toward the kitchen, probably to stir something, probably to keep her hands busy.

Lando looked at the photo again. This time, he didn’t see just two kids. He saw her. Saw the beginning of the girl he now stood across the room from. A smaller version of Y/N, brave beyond her years, stronger than anyone should ever have had to be.

The soft shield between pain and someone smaller, more fragile.

The protector.

His chest ached with something fierce and sudden.

Someone should’ve stood beside that little girl from the photo and said, you don’t have to do this alone anymore.

He wanted to be that someone now.

He wanted to keep her safe, to make sure she never had to want for anything again. He wanted to build her a world where she could laugh without worry, sleep without locking the door twice, study for her exams without wondering if someone needed saving from the life she escaped. He wanted to make sure no one could ever hurt her again.

And selfishly — he wanted to keep this version of her, soft smile and all, just like this.

Almost all his.

He stepped closer to her before she could turn away and tugged her gently toward him. She blinked up at him in surprise, hands still slightly damp after the mug she'd just rinsed.

Then, Lando Norris did what was probably one of the most foolish and selfish things he’d ever done. He wrapped his arms around her and gently pulled her into him—close, warm, steady. Tentatively, as if unsure he was doing it correctly, he forced himself to lean into the embrace and tuck his chin over Y/N’s head as she fit perfectly against him like he was anchoring her there. 

Before she could register what had happened, her body was already relaxing into his, some subconscious recognition of a presence as perfect for her as the person it belonged to.

It was the breath of air reaching her lungs in what felt like months.

“You will,” he murmured against her hair, before leaning back to look down at her. “We will, yeah?”

She looked up at him, confused.

“M’gonna make sure you keep that promise. I don’t care what it takes, alright? You are gonna study your ass off, and we are going to make damn sure you’re the best fuckin’ lawyer this city’s ever seen,” he said, his tone firmer now. “You’re gonna have that life, and when you go back for her, s’not gonna be with empty hands.”

She didn’t respond at first, just let her forehead drop gently against his chest. One of her hands found the hem of his shirt, fingertips curling lightly into the fabric like she needed something to hold onto.

This feels too good to be true.

“You really think so?” she asked, muffled.

He exhaled, hesitantly letting one hand trail soothing circles along her back. 

“I know so,” he said firmly

She said nothing at first. Just let herself be held, breathing in sync with him, cheek pressed against his chest like maybe this was the safest place in the world. And for a moment, it was.

He didn’t want to let go.

He didn’t want her to ever feel unsafe again.

And god help him—he didn’t want anyone else to be the one who got to keep her safe. Didn’t want anyone else to see her soft smile in the kitchen light. Didn’t want anyone else to earn that little piece of her trust.

But he didn’t say that.

He just held her tighter.

And in that quiet, the morning stilled around them – not quite a beginning, not yet an ending.

Just something real, for as long as it was allowed to last.

All the makings for breakfast that she’d had on hand were set out at the small kitchen table, their legs tangled beneath mismatched chairs. By the time they sat down to eat, the light through the window had gone soft and gold. The kind that kissed the tops of furniture and warmed the mug in her hands, pretending for a little while that the world outside didn’t exist.

Liam looked entirely out of place and somehow completely at home, bare-faced and hair tousled, wearing a t-shirt that wasn’t his and sipping from the same mug he did everytime. She always told him he could use any of the other ones in her collection, but he didn’t seem to care. Instead, he just took a quiet sip and leaned back like he was trying to pretend this was normal.

It wasn’t, not really. But also maybe it was, in a parallel life where he wasn’t this person wrapped in danger and decisions and she wasn’t made of this soft starlight and stubborn dreams. Maybe in that life, breakfast like this was a Thursday thing. 

Maybe even an everyday thing.

After plating two matching plates off eggs, hash brown, and toast, Y/N handed one to him and tried to avoid eye contact. She tried not to wonder if this was the last time he’d be here like this — if the bubble would pop the second he walked out that door.

When she set her own plate down and tucked in her chair, getting ready to eat, Liam glanced at her place before giving her a confused look.

Without a word, he slid his plate toward her and swapped them out. Gave her his hash browns and took the eggs for himself. 

She blinked. “How’d you—?”

“You weren’t gonna eat them,” he said casually, already chewing.

“You don’t know that.”

“I dunno why you even made ‘em f’yourself. You don’t even like eggs,” he said flatly.

Her mouth opened in protest.

He raised an eyebrow.

“I could like eggs,” she argued weakly, sounding unconvincing even to herself. By now, she was mostly just arguing for the principle of it.

He tilted his head, unamused. “You keep tryin’ to like eggs, but you don’t. Don’t lie to me after I’ve seen you pretend to like café egg bites and then hide them in the napkins.”

She tried not to grin, but failed.

“Fine,” she muttered. “You can have them, happy?”

She nudged the plate closer to him and gestured to it with a grandiose wave, as if she were doing him some great big favor by giving him the food she’d never wanted to eat in the first place.

He plucked the remaining scrambled eggs off her plate without a word and dropped a slice of buttered toast in their place — his perfectly golden, a bit over-toasted just the way she liked it. He didn’t even blink. Just handed her the plate back and resumed sipping his very bad coffee.

She stared at the toast. Then at him.

“You didn’t even ask.”

He shrugged. “Didn’t have to. You picked around them at brunch that one time too. When you dragged us to that ridiculous bougie place with the edible flowers.”

Her expression softened—half amusement, half something she couldn’t quite name. “That was months ago.”

“I remember,” was all he said, shrugging.

She paused. “And I like your hash browns?”

“You stole half of mine that day,” he said between bites, his aching body too happy at the prospect of getting to enjoy a warm, home-cooked meal. “You said yours were ‘emotionally unsatisfying.’”

The breath caught somewhere in her throat.

“Oh my god. I can’t believe you remember that,” she flushed. After a moment, she asked quietly, “Do you always do that?”

He looked up. “...Do what?”

“Notice things. Like that.”

He looked like he was going to deny it at first. But then his expression shifted—barely, subtly. He tapped a finger against the side of his mug, not meeting her eyes. He seemed to consider it for a moment.

“Only the important shit, I guess? I dunno. But of course I notice you,” he shrugged casually, before reaching for another bite.

She felt the blush rise hot in her chest and looked down at her plate, suddenly very interested in her toast.

He peeked up at her as he leaned down to take another bite, pleased with himself, and shoved another forkful of eggs into his mouth like it was a personal victory.

She narrowed her eyes, fighting a smile. “You’re so smug.”

He merely nodded, like a dramatic acceptance of his fate. “Speaking of important things, can I tell you somethin’?” he asked, his voice a little rough.

She looked up.

“This coffee’s actually crap.”

She looked up, scandalized. “Excuse me?”

“It is,” he insisted, holding up the mug. “It’s burnt and bitter and tastes like regret.”

She gaped. “I made it!”

He grinned, all teeth. “Still crap.”

“You literally watched me make it.”

He gestured toward her, triumphant. “Exactly. Which means I know your actual coffee is good. This”—he motioned to the sad, steaming mug—“is a betrayal. This is sabotage. I trusted you.”

She rolled her eyes. “It’s not my café, Liam, it’s my kitchen. You want fancy, rich-people, €7 espresso? Go buy me a machine then.”

“Oh, I will,” he said, too easily. “Top of the line. As long as you’re the one using it.”

“You better. How dare you come into my apartment and insult my coffee machine?” She threw a napkin at his head and he let it hit him, not even flinching.

He just rolled his eyes and let her.

She didn’t need to know that hated the taste of coffee, always had. She didn’t need to know that somewhere along the way, he’d learned to identify a cup of coffee made by her hands by taste alone, because it was the only one he could seem to tolerate.

“Might have to, out of survival,” he said, mock solemn. “Because every time I try to have coffee in this place, I get this… shitty hot bean water.”

She laughed, and something in his chest loosened.

“You literally called my pour-over technique witchcraft that one time I made you one,” she insisted through her smile. “Then asked for a second cup.”

“Yeah, well,” he leaned back in the chair a little, arms crossed. “The witch got me addicted. To good coffee.”

She tilted her head, grinning. “Is that your way of saying you do like my coffee?”

“What? Of course not,” he scoffed, like she’d suggested something absolutely preposterous. He went to take another sip, smiling behind the rim of his mug. “S' jus’ my way of saying if I ever open a café, you’re the only one allowed to touch the beans.”

She laughed again, and the sound settled something inside him, like he hadn’t realized he was holding his breath until then.

For a few minutes after that, they just ate. Forks scraping quietly. Steam curling off mugs. The distant hum of the city beyond the window—cars, morning birds, the faint clatter of a garbage truck in the alley.

She looked at him then, properly. She took in the lazy sprawl of him across her tiny kitchen chair, the quiet smirk tugging at his lips. He looked at her too.

It was oddly domestic. It felt strangely normal.

He didn’t know how long he had in this little pocket of peace. Didn’t know what the day would bring once he left this apartment and re-entered his world.

The aftermath would be waiting - Leclerc. Questions. Maybe blood. Maybe worse.

But here, now—he still had this. Her, in this flannel with the little tea stain near the hem. Her, in this light. Her, laughing like last night hadn’t happened. Like maybe she’d carry the weight for him just a little longer if it meant he could breathe for a moment more.

He took a long sip of his coffee and leaned back in the chair, wondering if this is what home was supposed to look like all along.

a/n: i'm sorry if this one feels too exposition-y... hopefully it's still readable tho?

Now, she wore a dress more like those the women of Kattegat had worn- the Queens of Kattegat had worn. Her hair was done in many braids, giving her a look which still very much called back to a Shieldmaiden, and her eyes were lined black, only adding to the look. Truthfully, she looked exactly like he knew a Shieldmaiden Queen would look, sitting in the Great Hall to hold court. This brought about Ivar’s second startling revelation of the day.

He gave a small hum, which brought Asta’s attention to him with raised brows, expectant. She even prompted him with the question of, “Yes?” which she spoke with quite the same tone as if she were asking if she could help him. This only caused Ivar to chuckle softly.

“I was only thinking how you would look sitting on the throne of Kattegat,” he confessed, and her eyes widened a bit.

“The throne?” she questioned. “I’d have to be Queen to sit there, wouldn’t I?”

“Mm, you would,” he confirmed, nodding slowly. “But I think you would make an excellent Queen. Don’t you?”

Asta chuckled softly, shaking her head a bit and leaning against the wall. “If you think a Saxon woman would make an excellent Viking Queen, then perhaps,” she said. Her answer had been far less committal than he’d have liked, but he didn’t figure he could do very much about that. Not without pushing a bit for a more exact answer, of course, which he was not at all above doing.

“I would think so,” he said. “You are not just any Saxon woman, though, are you?” She gave him a pointed, yet amused look. “You were born to be Princess of Wessex. A role you have… given up, yes, but one you were still prepared for most of your life. You would have been taught the sorts of things which make a successful Queen, wouldn’t you?”

With a deep breath, she did nod. “I would have been, yes,” she conceded. “But you are the son of Ragnar Lothbrok. You’re the heir to his throne, not me. If we return to Kattegat, triumphant, then you will be King, and I would be your Prophet again.”

“Maybe so,” he said, “but either way, I would like to have a Queen, and you are the most fit I can think of.”

Asta chuckled softly. “That would require I be your wife, you realize?” she pointed out, and the way he smirked made her cheeks flush pink. She blinked a few times. Oh. Well, then that was his whole point, wasn’t it? He was telling her a very specific intention he had when they eventually returned to Kattegat, and the thought made her blush.

He wanted to marry her there.

That, or they were preparing to attend a wedding, and he was messing with her. Messing with her, or… trying to see how she felt on the idea? The lack of certainty as to his meaning by presenting this idea to her made her shift a bit in place, and eventually just answer, “We can’t be late. Oleg will serve our heads at the feast after,” before ducking out the door.

She could hear him laughing to himself at her response, and her cheeks burned a little hotter in her embarrassment. Probably, it was only the impending wedding putting thoughts in his head of what he might like when all of this was done. Maybe it was true, he wanted to marry again, and she was the only woman he felt close enough to that he felt comfortable considering it with her. But surely that would change, if they only met some Viking woman who was better suited for him to be Queen in Kattegat.

What Asta didn’t realize, was that Ivar didn’t think there was a woman better suited to the position, to the throne, than she was. She knew and loved the people there, had been close to the Queen who had served during her time there, and now was close to him. Not only that, but she could fight better than any shieldmaiden he had met on the battlefield, and had been trained in the art of ruling a Kingdom before she left Wessex. Add her loyalty to him, and the connection he was fairly certain they shared? No, he couldn’t think of a better woman to be his Queen than Asta the Prophet.

They ended up walking to the wedding together, of course, but neither of them could quite find it in themselves to speak. It was incredibly clear how strange this would feel, to watch a woman who so closely resembled Freydis to them, marry a man who wasn’t Ivar- and a man neither of them trusted so far as they could throw him, at that. No, it wasn’t a pleasant day at all.

But still, they were escorted to a place of honor when they arrived, close enough they would be able to see the wedding take place with no difficulty, and they shared an uncomfortable glance as the wedding got underway. It was torture to them both.

Nothing felt any better as they watched the rings be placed on Katia’s and Oleg’s fingers, as their hands were bound together by a pure white cloth, and as crowns were placed on both their heads. Each of them holding a candle in their free hands, they began to follow the priests around the altar in a circle, and as they came around, both Prince and Princess looked to those they believed to be rightful King and Queen, though Oleg looked away before Katia did. Asta wrapped her arm around Ivar’s, hoping to bring him some slight comfort as he watched the woman who looked so much like his late wife, who he still couldn’t be sure wasn’t her, marry another man.

After all, how much would Asta’s own heart ache if she had to watch Ivar do the same?

They ended up being brought to feast privately with the newly wedded couple once the wedding was over, and as they sat, Ivar decided to speak up, to make sure he and his wife were in a good place with them both still, as strange as things had seemed during the ceremony.

“May we be the first to congratulate the bride and the groom on this momentous day?” he said, and lifted his drink in a toast. “Skål.”

Asta, Oleg, and Katia all returned the toast, taking a sip of their drinks in turn, though Oleg spoke up to say, “And may Odin, Frey, and Freyja also bless our marriage.”

“Yes,” Katia agreed. “To Odin, the Allfather. And to Frey, and Freyja.”

Oleg dismissed the servants who were waiting on the group, and they all bowed, before slipping quietly from the room. Asta watched them go, always perceptive to everything happening in the room. The poisoning of Prince Askold had warned her to be ever on guard with Oleg.

“To Odin,” he toasted, once the servants had all gone. “And the gods. Skål.” Asta wasn’t sure why he seemed to be toasting what he just had, but she figured the difference must lie in a toast to the gods, as opposed to a toast in hopes that their marriage would be blessed by the gods. Still, it made very little sense to her, in all honesty. “Katia told me that she reminds you two of someone,” Oleg began, as Ivar and Asta set their cups down. They each lifted a brow, and then looked between themselves in slight concern. Though, it should be noted only they could read that expression, from so long of being in such close quarters. Neither of them could be a closed book to the other, not anymore.

They also glanced to Katia herself, before Ivar finally nodded, and confirmed, “Yes. My first wife.” They had to be careful when Freydis came up, not to accidentally give away that Asta was not his wife now.

“You had a child with your wife, no?” Oleg questioned then. Ivar shifted uncomfortably, and Asta’s eyes narrowed. She knew she needed more tolerance for Oleg and his games, but she found her patience with him often running quite thin.

Well, not when he played his games with her. She could tolerate someone messing with her. But when she cared for someone, she couldn’t bring herself to tolerate someone messing with them. And this conversation turning to Baldur, Ivar’s lost son… She was already gearing up to argue Oleg down from this topic if she must.

Ivar remained silent for quite a long while, thinking something over for a good bit of time. Asta, having not been involved in quite a few of Oleg’s conversations with her ‘husband’, wasn’t shocked to hear him ask about this. But Ivar was, and so when he spoke, it was to ask, “How did you know that?”

“I know a great many things about you…” Oleg replied vaguely. Asta’s guard went further up. “Ivar the Boneless.” He paused a moment, before asking, “Am I not a Prophet?”

“I have my doubts,” Asta answered honestly, and all eyes turned to her in complete shock. “Unless the gods reveal all things differently to each of those they choose to speak to, it appears you simply have excellent information, information I know you have ways of finding out besides hearing it from the gods.”

She referred to what he’d said about Princess Anna, how he’d known she would be marrying Prince Dir before they’d even been wed, and Oleg’s eyes narrowed as he realized this.

“You are questioning if I speak the truth when I say I am a Prophet, then?” he asked, tilting his head just slightly. It was meant to be a threat, but Ivar watched with curiosity- and truthfully, a touch of pride- as Asta didn’t back down, and only narrowed her own eyes. She was retaliating, beat for beat.

“I am,” she confessed. “All information I have ever been given by the gods has been far less… precise than this, as I know it was for the Seer in Kattegat, while he still lived. So unless they speak to you more directly, in less of a riddle than anything they have spoken to us, I would doubt your information truly does come from them. Not in the way you claim it does, anyhow.”

“You should be careful in your accusations, Queen Asta,” Oleg said, his voice low and threatening. “Questioning me is questioning what the gods have shown me, and who knows what the gods may show me about you?”

Ivar watched incredulously as she leaned forward, her arms crossed on the table now to hold herself up, and her lips stretched into an easy, almost dangerous smirk. “And who knows what they will continue to show me about you?” she replied.

It was brilliant, and Ivar almost grinned with pride. Oleg sat back, and the battle of wills was won by the woman he was convinced now was sent to him to be his Queen. Who else could have worded that so brilliantly as to make it seem her questioning came because the gods had revealed something already, not because of what she didn’t believe they had? Sometimes, he truly wondered if she were not aided by the silvertongued trickster himself. Then again, if Asta didn’t believe in Loki, he couldn’t be sure if he would help her or not. Maybe Loki was helping him, then, through Asta? He couldn’t say, though her mastery of words made him wonder.

The air in the room had become tense and uncomfortable, even if it was slightly diffused by the end of the contest, and Katia gave a strained smile, before standing and approaching her new husband. “Do you mind if I take off this dress?” she asked him. “It’s too hot in here.”

“Of course, my darling,” he replied, and the perfect revenge on Asta came to him. “I’m sure our friends won’t mind.”

“They can help,” Katia said, and turned to walk to their end of the table. Asta stood and stepped forward, as if to help. Ivar looked very much like a startled deer. Because she’d stepped up, Katia asked, “Can you… undo it, Asta?”

Ivar was clearly miserable as Asta nodded, and set to work undoing the back of Katia’s dress, pulling it down off her shoulders once it was done. But it wasn’t what Asta was doing that made him uncomfortable, no. It was the look on Oleg’s face as she did so. In fact, Ivar found himself standing as Katia thanked Asta, smiling at her and letting her hair fall around her shoulders once she took the comb out from it.

“We should go,” Ivar said to Asta, putting a hand on her shoulder to draw her attention to him. His eyes- readable still only to her- were silently begging her not to make a fuss, and to just agree with him. “My legs are…” He cracked an embarrassed smile, tilting his head side to side as if to say they weren’t feeling well.

“Aching?” she supplied, and nodded. “Of course, my love.” She lifted her hand to cup his cheek affectionately, then turned to Katia and Oleg, who seemed surprised at this.

“Oh, but you have to stay,” Oleg countered. “It would be good for you.”

“No,” Asta protested. “We really must be getting him to bed. He stood for quite some time at the ceremony earlier, he needs to rest his legs, now.”

Katia sighed, as if disappointed, and pressed a kiss to Asta’s cheek, then her other cheek. The Shieldmaiden knew that was a common form of greeting, in some places, and so didn’t question it, but did return the gesture. “We are happy to have had your company for the time we’ve had it, then,” she said graciously. “And we hope to have it again soon.”

“Of course, Princess,” Asta replied, and smiled to her, before simply nodding to Oleg, and taking Ivar’s arm so they could go.

Oleg glared at her retreating form, the moment she’d turned her back to him.

The rest of the day passed without very much of note, as Asta really had taken Ivar back to their chambers and convinced him to go to bed. He’d been frustrated, but as his legs had actually been aching, he’d finally conceded and laid down- especially once he realized she intended to lay down with him, curled into his side as always.

Their conversation turned naturally to the meal they’d shared with Oleg and Katia, and he commended her for the way she handled Oleg. It was another point to her being an excellent Queen one day, he’d said, and she’d simply given him a light smack on the chest before telling him to go on to sleep. Amused, he’d laid back and promised to do as she wished, even calling her ‘Your Majesty’, which had earned him a roll of her eyes.

But she was amused as well, he could tell, and so he’d fallen asleep with a smirk on his face, and the woman he intended to make his Queen in his arms. And, for most of the night, they slept in peace.

That peace ended in the early hours of the morning, when Asta sat up gasping for breath, her eyes filled with unshed tears as she panted, her chest heaving as if she had great difficulty breathing, and Ivar quickly sat up with her, his arm wrapping around her shoulders immediately.

“My love, what is it?” he asked her, a near panic laced in his voice which she might reflect on later, as well as the way he had addressed her. But for the time being, she felt as though she were choking on grief, on pain and on a devastation she seemed to feel calling out from the earth. It was all she could do to choke out her response.

“Lagertha.”

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Mattie blushed, glad she was on the other end of a phone connection. “Oh hoh,” he said, “you caught me.” He heard her laugh again, and it made him grin more. “No, of course we’d get you home,” he said. “Peter has assured me that he will help me escort you home.” He hated that he had to do it this way, but until he knew this was going to work, he would need to meet up with her any way he could, and if that meant asking his friends to do some extra taxiing for him, so be it this time.

“Okay. Sounds good. Um, so is she going to come to my apartment? How will I know her?”

“She has red hair,” Mattie said. He stopped after that, realising he couldn’t describe his friend’s fiancé. “She’ll buzz you. What’s the number?”

“Nine,” said Nikki. “I’ll be waiting. What should I bring?”

They talked for a while longer, Mattie suggesting things Nikki might want to pack, and then just some small talk. When he ended the call, he couldn’t keep the smile off his lips. Something was going right, anyway, he thought to himself.

Mattie hurried to the front door as soon as he heard the knock.

“Hi,” he said, smiling as he opened it.

“Hi, Xav,” said Chloë.

“Hi, Xav,” repeated Nikki.

“Come on in. Hi, Clo,” he said, as Chloë passed him, touching his arm.

“Wow,” said Nikki. “What a great house.”

“Thanks,” Mattie said. “I’ll give you a tour later on.”

“Do you want to come with me now?” Chloë asked. “Or I can come back in a bit. I have to change and pack some stuff up but I won’t be long, if you want to come.”

“Yeah,” Mattie nodded. “We’ll come now, then you don’t have to drive back. I’m ready.”

He had packed the duffel bag, and had his messenger bag which he put over his head and shifted comfortably. He put the duffel bag on his shoulder and then located his cane and keys on the bureau, and let the women out ahead of him.

Nikki offered him her arm to the car, and she took him to the passenger side and opened the door.

“You can sit in the front,” Mattie said. “I’ll take the back.”

“Oh, no, that’s fine, Xav,” she replied, already opening the door behind him.

He paused for a second, and then nodded, taking the duffel bag from his shoulder and letting her put it in the back seat before leaning down to climb into the car. He took the messenger bag and put it in his lap and then folded his cane before pulling his door shut.

“Everybody in?” Chloë asked, starting the car.

They chatted amicably for the short drive to Peter’s place, and stopped at the house. Chloë texted Peter to tell him they were there, and he walked up from the shore to meet them.

Mattie introduced Peter to Nikki when Pete came in, and he strode over and shook her hand, greeting her warmly.

“She’s fine large day,” Peter said to them all. He grabbed himself a beer and bumped one against Mattie’s arm. Mattie reached up, taking the bottle with a nod and a smile toward his friend.

“Clear sailing?” Mattie asked.

“Sure’s sure,” said Peter. “It’s going to be good. We’ll take ’er up to Castle Head, and maybe go walk around the main street at Caton?”

They all agreed that sounded like a good day and gathered their things. Peter had already loaded the boat earlier with the cooler and the basket of food. He’d made sure the boat was safe and set for a day on the water. Mattie shouldered his bags and took up Nikki’s offered arm and they headed down the gravel driveway to the shore.

When they got to the dock, Peter took Mattie’s stuff and he and Chloë helped Mattie manoeuvre from the slightly bouncing dock to the deck of the slightly rocking boat. Mattie felt ungainly and very obviously incapacitated in front of Nikki at that moment, but there was no way around it, if he wanted onboard that sailboat. Once in, he slid into his usual spot near the rudder, and helped Nikki put the stuff under the seats as the other couple set to work preparing to leave the dock and set the sails.

Mattie heard the sails unfurl and the sound of the ropes in the pulleys. He felt the boat pull a little and collect itself in the wind as Peter tightened the sails and settled back at the rudder.

“Perfect,” Peter said.

Mattie smiled. He turned his head and shoulders to Nikki on his left. “How are you doing?” he asked.

“Super,” she said. “This is a beautiful idea. Thanks for inviting me.”

The day turned out exceptionally fine. Sun-block was applied liberally, hats and sunglasses were donned, and everyone sat back with a beer.

Nikki listened as Peter and Chloë would update Mattie on the view and their location along the river. She saw the smile he gave himself when he took turn at the rudder. She shared a grin with Chloë, and reached over and put her hand over Mattie’s.

His face lit up and he turned his hand over to hold hers. “Pretty cool, huh?”

“This is great, Xav.”

“I kinda didn’t want to tell you I might be steering this ship for a bit,” he said with a laugh. “I thought you might turn me down.”

“I’m glad I didn’t miss it,” she said. “You’re pretty amazing.”

“Me? I’m not so much. Peter, he’s the amazing one, letting me hold course on his boat.”

“I don’t know if amazing is the term for this pair,” Chloë stated wryly, as Peter came back from tightening the jib sail.

Mattie grinned and shrugged. His focus returned to the hand holding his own. He’d missed the feeling of that. The hand held him connected to his friends. The sound of the water against the gunnels of the boat connected him to their surroundings. The breeze lifted the hair off his forehead and the sun heated his shoulders. There were so many things to tune into, Mattie felt completely present.

They ate potato chips and fruit, drank a beer, and laughed a lot as the boat glided through the gentle waves. They waved at other craft passing on the water as Peter manoeuvred the sailboat into its best wind.

“Wonder if we could drop a line off the back and catch a striper,” Peter said to Mattie as he loosened the jib rope to adjust the sail.

“Bring the poles next time,” said Mattie. “We’ll make it a fishing expedition pleasure sail. No motor to scare the fish off.”

They reached Castle Head and tacked around the sand bar, following the channel toward the waterside village of Caton. There was a big public dock there, and Peter headed toward it. Chloë and Peter worked quickly as they approached to bring down the mainsail and haul in the jib. Chloë took the rudder so Peter could jump off onto the dock with the ropes in hand to tie it down as they brushed past.

Mattie wished he could do more to help them but there wasn’t anything, he’d just be in the way, so he stayed seated. Nikki offered her help, but they told her all was fine, they had this down between the two of them.

Once the boat was safely docked and tied in both stern and bow, they organised themselves to take to land to stretch their legs. Chloë and Peter each took an arm and helped Mattie get over the side to the dock. Chloë didn’t let go of him until he was sure of his footing and his centre of gravity again.

“You good?” she whispered, patting his arm.

He smiled gratefully at her, nodding, all the feeling of adequacy from the river disappearing in a moment of humbling disability. He reached into his messenger bag and took out his cane as Nikki approached him.

“Made it?” he said, feeling badly instantly that he hadn’t been the one to help her off the boat.

“Yup,” she said cheerfully. “Want my arm?”

“Sure do,” he said, grinning. “Thank you.” She wasn’t going to dwell on it, he thought gratefully, than neither would he.

They walked up from the dock, passing the pub and restaurant that sat looking out on the river, and onto the sidewalk of the main street. It was lined with houses and businesses from the nineteenth century onward, each one different than the last, and many painted in various colours. Chloë did most of the visual commentary for Mattie; she saw Nikki wasn’t comfortable doing it for him yet, not in front of anyone else, anyway.

They strolled up down the street until the houses got further apart and less attractive, signalling the end of the tourist part of the village. On the way back, they stopped in a business painted blue and welcoming with a striped awning, so the girls could get ice-cream and Peter could fulfil his need for ginger ale.

“Are you sure all you want is water?” Nikki asked him, grabbing him a bottle before they headed to the counter.

“Yeah, we have all that stuff on the boat. I’m not really hungry.”

“Get him some Gummi Bears,” Chloë suggested, coming up behind them.

“Want Gummi Bears?” Nikki asked him and he grinned, shaking his head. She smiled and grabbed a bag of the candy from the display in front of them, putting it with their things.

He heard the rattle of the package as she picked it up. “You got some, didn’t you?” he asked.

“How’d you know?” she asked.

He only reached up and tapped his ear. “Let me pay,” he said, reaching into his messenger bag, not taking a moment to pause lest she already be handing her money over. He held a twenty out to the woman behind the counter, and folded the ten lengthwise as she handed it back, adding the change into his wallet as well. Nikki handed him the water and he put it in his bag. He couldn’t hold it while he had one hand on his cane and the other on Nikki’s elbow. He felt her put the bag of candy into his hand and he smiled sheepishly, thanking her, and put it into his messenger as well.

“Ready?” said Peter, joining them, and they returned back out into the noon-time sun.

They headed back up the road toward the public wharf again, stopping at one of the picnic tables in the shade of trees in view of their boat.

Mattie oriented himself to the bench and table and climbed over. He pulled out the bottle of water and twisted off the cap, taking a huge drink to quench the thirst he’d been building. He set the bottle down.

“Thirsty much?” Peter asked.

Mattie raised his head. “Anyone else want some?” he offered, realising he was being watched.

“No, you go ahead there,” Peter said, chuckling.

“I’m parched,” Mattie said. “Surf, sun, walking, drinking. Sucks a guy right out.” He wondered if they were all watching him. He hated that looks could pass between the others that he would always be oblivious to. He inched a smile on his face. “Gummi Bear?” he asked hopefully.

“Yes, please,” said Nikki, laughing, as he retrieved the package from the messenger bag.

They sat under the trees for a while, chatting and describing the boats on the water for Mattie. They topped up their sunscreen and Nikki made sure Mattie was covered. He decided he quite liked the attention of a nice woman rubbing lotion onto his neck and arms, and let her do her thing. She brushed her fingers in the hair along his neck and he closed his eyes, drinking in her touch, as parched as he was for it.

When they were ready to get back on the water, they walked back down to the wharf. Mattie didn’t like the bouncing and shifting the wooden planks of the floating dock offered back to him as he walked over it, holding more tightly than he meant to Nikki’s arm. When they reached where Peter’s sailboat was berthed, Peter helped Nikki on board first while Chloë loosened the cables. Peter gripped Mattie’s arms to give him help across the gunwale to the shifting boat. Nikki helped from her position on the boat, and Mattie awkwardly held onto her until he found his balance. Chloë went to work helping Peter unmoor the boat. Soon they were circling slowly and heading to catch a crosswind to tack back across the channel and out around Castle Head.

Once they were on a safe course, Peter gave Mattie the rudder again. He knew Mattie liked the feeling of the water pulling on it, his arm holding the boat to course. Mattie didn’t always keep it straight, and needed a direction sometimes, but he could often feel when the pull of the rudder changed on his hand. He tried to tune in closely on how much pull against his hand changed as he moved the rudder. In open space, with no boat traffic around to worry about, Peter let Mattie explore the currents of the river through his other senses. It made Peter happy to be able to share with Mattie small experiences like this.

It was harder work, coming back down the river, tacking back and forth to catch the wind. They all moved around a lot to make room as the boom of the main sail swung around, and the ropes to the jib were shifted from side to side. Mattie kind of liked the excitement of the tack, but also was afraid of the boom knocking him unconscious every time it caught the other wind and shifted over the boat. The boat bounced more, and Mattie heard the waves smacking off the sides of the boat more directly when they were going against the wind. He took care of the portside cables to the jib, loosening them when directed, and pulling them tight as they tacked. Moving closer to the front also meant he was less likely to meet the boom as it swung.

“You’re pretty good at this,” Nikki said to him as he leaned back, feeling the sun on his face.

“Pete’s a good teacher. He’s taught me twice, now. Once sighted, and once blind.”

Nikki smiled at him, and then caught herself. “It’s great,” she said. “You’re pretty great.”

They had their first beer for the return journey, and Mattie found the potato chips. He listened as a motor boat powered by, and he knew he could feel when his friends all raised their arms in a big wave, as was custom to do when another pleasure craft passed by. Peter kept them all laughing, as he usually did, and Chloë made sure everyone had what they needed.

Peter alerted them to an impending tack, and everyone readied themselves. Mattie prepared to let out the jib line, and moved out of the way of the main sail, waiting for Peter’s instruction. When Pete shouted to him to let it out, Mattie had most of the rope unwound from the cleat. He noticed there wasn’t much pull against his hand.

“Ah, shit,” Peter called. “It’s caught. Just a sec,” he said, turning to Chloë to get her to help.

“No, I’ve got it,” Mattie said, leaning up over the bow’s flat surface to find where the rope had caught, without success. He quickly hoisted himself onto the top of the bow, holding to the edge he’d climbed over and reaching ahead carefully, getting his feet under him to half-crawl to the front where the he could hear the sail flapping.

“Xav!” Peter called, concern in his voice.

Mattie concentrated on his hands and his feet and where they made contact. He wanted to get the rope loose and prove to them, to himself, that he could help, that he was useful, and not just accommodated.

He located the rope caught on a pulley and he untwisted it, letting it free, keeping the other side in his hand.

“We have it!” Nikki called up to him. “It’s not going anywhere, be careful!”

Peter had stepped to the edge of the bow to help Mattie back down. Mattie stood, holding the cable of the jib, and stepped forward, touching the sail, feeling it balloon out with air away from his hand. All that air, caught in the canvas, air no-one could see, but had more power and strength than anyone could deny.

“Come on, Man,” Peter said, as Mattie moved back toward him. The rope pulled tight on the starboard side turned the sailboat suddenly in an arc, and Mattie lost his footing, instantly knowing he would slide off the other side unless he found something to grab in the dark.

“Xav!” shouted Peter, and without pausing to even think about it, jumped forward and grabbed his friend’s arm as he went down.

Mattie’s motion came to a stop as he lay there, held fast by Peter’s hands on his arm, and the boat was righted by a clearheaded Chloë. He didn’t go into the brink. His mind didn’t even have time to process the moment, but he was safe.

Though his elbow and wrist hurt like a bitch.

“Jeezus,” Peter said, giving him a hand to get safely back into the boat. “I didn’t teach you that, did I?”

“Shit,” Mattie said. “I’m sorry.”

“What are you sorry about,” Peter said. “You got it free.”

Mattie’s face broke into a smile.

“Now, that’s probably not how I woulda gone about it, but...” Peter continued. But he wasn’t joking when he asked Mattie if he was okay.

“I think so,” Mattie said, feeling his wrist. “I kinda banged it.”

“Too right you did,” Peter said, lifting Mattie’s arm gently. “Clo? Get the first-aid kit, we gotta patch up the skipper.”

“What?” Mattie asked as Peter guided him to sit.

“Ah, nothing. Just a little bleedin’.”

“Aw, really?” Mattie said, actually pulling his chin over his shoulder as if to look. “Where? My elbow?”

“Yeah, just a bit, I don’t think you’ll need stitches.”

He felt Nikki’s hand on his left hand and he turned to her. “Sorry,” he said.

“Why are you sorry?”

He shrugged. He was sorry because he couldn’t do what sighted dates could do. He couldn’t just do things without thinking about them. He never would. He felt like he’d tried and failed to be a potentially good boyfriend. He felt diminished. And his wrist hurt.

Chloë cleaned up his elbow and put three Band-Aids across the damage, and she noticed he winced when she moved his hand. She felt his wrist. “Does that hurt, too?” she asked, seeing there was swelling.

He winced. “A little. I don’t think it’s broken, though.”

Peter leaned over. “You have a history of bones being broken,” Peter said. “You should probably get it looked at when we get back.”

Chloë dug in the coolers and found some still chilled ice packs and wrapped one over Mattie’s wrist. He smiled at her, though feeling more and more unhappy. He’d been feeling a joy in the day, and it was tamped down hard.

Nikki continued to hold onto his hand, though. He turned to her. “That didn’t go the way I planned,” he said sheepishly.

“I hope it’s not broken,” Nikki said.

“Me, too,” he said.

They tried to get the feeling they’d had back but all of them felt a bit sobered by Mattie’s fall. He felt it and it made it all worse. If he couldn’t help them before, he certainly was of no use now as they returned the boat toward Peter’s dock.

They were even gentler with Mattie as they helped him back on the dock, though he assured them he was okay. He knew Peter felt badly, and he wanted to yell at him to stop, it wasn’t Peter’s fault, it was his own stupid fault, but he kept quiet.

After stopping at Mattie’s house to drop off things, all four of them headed into the city.

“We’re dropping you off first,” Mattie said. “You definitely don’t need to be sitting in a hospital waiting room all evening,” Mattie said. “Though I hate to end the day like this. Definitely not my intentions, for sure.”

He could hear Nikki’s smile as she asked him, “Well, why don’t you tell me what your intentions were?”

He chuckled. “I wanted to impress you. I wanted to cook something for you, and show you my place, and... I just wanted to be with you a bit... on our own.”

“You’ve impressed me,” Nikki replied. “I’ve never dated a sailor before.”

He smiled.

“I don’t mind coming,” Nikki said. “I want to make sure you’re okay.”

He had to make due with that. He didn’t want to argue, and when he considered it, he’d have felt the same in her place.

“Thank you,” he said, though without a smile.

His wrist wasn’t broken, nor was his elbow, and Mattie let out a sigh he’d been holding in as the doctor explained his x-rays. The last thing he needed was a cast on his arm for six weeks. However, he had to endure a brace for three weeks on his wrist, especially needed at night.

“There are previous fractures there and we just want to make sure the tendons are strong before you use it again,” the doctor said.

Mattie nodded. He hoped he didn’t need to go into all those previous fractures. He only knew how many he’d had when Amber had told him the plain facts long after he’d recovered from the accident. He was glad he didn’t remember the casts and the immobilisation from that time.

“So...” said the doctor, resting Mattie’s arm in a sling. “You were trying to sail?”

“Oh, we were sailing. There was no trying. The trying part was when I stupidly climbed up to free the jib line. And I mean trying in all aspects of the word,” Mattie said.

“Do you have any sight at all?” asked the doctor.

Mattie shook his head. “No. That was where I went wrong out there. I guess I forgot that part.”

The doctor laughed. “Well, I’d say be more careful, but what do I know. Sounds like you were having a good time, who am I to tell you to take it easy. However, maybe just for the next little while, Matthew, you should take it easy.”

Mattie grinned, dipping his head to one side in acknowledgement. “I can’t make any promises, but I’ll do my damnedest to not do anything stupid for the next three weeks.”

“That’s all I ask,” the doctor said, patting him on the uninjured arm as Mattie stood up from the examination bed. He handed Mattie his messenger bag and Mattie carefully put it over his head with his left hand, minding his right. He took the doctor’s arm as he led him back out to meet the others, and they were all glad to see he didn’t have a plaster cast.

“Nope. Just a bad sprain. Or strain. I can never remember which is which,” Mattie said. “He gave me free ibuprofen and this nifty wrist brace.”

“Needs stickers,” Peter said. “But nice. Can we sign it?”

“Can you sign it in Braille?” Mattie asked.

“I probably could,” deadpanned Peter. “Let me think on that fer a bit, an’ I’ll get back to you.”

“You should probably have Peter guide you,” Nikki said. “I’m not very good at it yet and I don’t want you to trip and break anything else.”

“Ah, you’d do fine,” Peter said, but he knew it probably was better if he did guide his friend. He turned to Mattie, waiting for his say.

“I trust you,” Mattie said.

“I’ll just walk beside you on this side,” Nikki said. “I’ll protect your arm. Peter can guide and I’ll be right here.”

Mattie nodded, reaching out as Peter saw and offered his arm. “Okay. Just this time.”

Peter was careful to notify Mattie of the steps and let him find them with his toes. It was a toss up for him, whether to use the cane and walk unaided, or have a guide but no cane in an unfamiliar place. He was glad when they reached the parking lot and gladder when they reached Chloë’s car.

Nikki climbed in beside him and tapped his hand. He turned to her, eyebrows raised.

“This arm okay?” she asked, and he realised what she meant. He smiled and raised it up over her head and eased it around her shoulders as she closed the space between them.

“I really loved today. Up until you nearly went into the river. But even after that, it was a beautiful day.”

“Really? You should see me when I really go all out.”

“I can only imagine,” she said. “But hopefully I won’t have to.”

“Does that mean you want to go out with me again?” Mattie asked her, a happy grin appearing on his face.

“I think I have a thing for sailors,” she said and they both laughed. “But maybe next time, we’ll just stay on land.”

“Okay,” Mattie agreed. “Deal.”

Despite Nikki’s protests, Mattie walked her to her door. He needed to be alone with her for a moment.

She thanked him again for the day. All in all, it had been a beautiful date, she said.

“I’ll give you a call tomorrow,” he said. “If that’s okay.”

“That’s what I was hoping,” Nikki said, to Mattie’s relief. “Take care of that arm.”

“I will. Ice and rest,” he assented.

“Need me to walk you back?” Nikki asked.

He shook his head. “Nope. I got this.” He reached in the bag around his shoulder and took out his cane. He stepped toward her, tucking the folded cane under his arm, reaching out for her shoulder. She let him find it easily and he slid his hand up over her shoulder and to her neck and cheek, guiding himself in to kiss her goodnight. She leaned in, holding him close to her as she kissed him back.

She still wanted to see him. Even after a mishap and a trip to the outpatient at the hospital. He was grateful for that, most certainly, as he smiled toward her, giving her a nod.

He unfolded his cane and turned back in the direction of the car, which Peter had started as he saw Mattie ready himself to come back from the door, giving Mattie a sound direction. Mattie touched the side of the car and followed it along, careful of his cane. He located the door handle to the back seat and opened it, careful of his arm as he folded the cane back up and climbed in.

“How you doin’, Man?” asked Peter as Mattie as he pulled the seatbelt around him.

“I’m okay. She wants to see me again,” Mattie said.

“Of course she does!” Chloë exclaimed. “You’re a star, Xav. What’s not to like?”

“I can think of a few things,” Mattie said.

“You’ve impressed her, no matter what you’re thinking,” Chloë said.

Mattie smiled to himself, sitting back in the seat, trying to distract his thoughts away from his throbbing wrist.

“You realise now I have to explain this to Amber,” Mattie groaned.

“Good luck with dat,” Peter said.

“Yeah. I know,” Mattie replied.

Mattie didn’t tell his sister right away. She stopped over in the afternoon the following day and found him trying to open a bottle of jam and not having too much success. He’d already ditched the sling.

“What is that?” she said.

“What’s what?” he asked, feigning ignorance, but knowing she’d seen the brace on his hand.

“What happened?”

“Oh, this?” he asked, and as he lifted his arm, she saw the bruise on his elbow as well.

“Xav! What did you do?”

“I fell down.”

“How? Where?”

“On Pete’s boat. It’s okay, it’s not broken.” He felt Amber hold his arm, looking it over.

“You went to the hospital?” she asked.

“Yeah, Pete took me in. He wanted to make sure.”

“Well, I’m glad for that, at least.” She took the bottle and opened it, bumping it back against his hand. “Wait, weren’t you on a date?”

“Yeah. She was there,” Mattie said with a sigh.

Amber wasn’t sure what to say to that. She hoped the outcome still meant he had a chance with this girl he had finally let Amber in on. She’d tried pumping him for more information when he’d given her the heads up that he was dating someone, but he’d just given her Nikki’s name and said he was only seeing where things went.

“She still wants to see me,” he said, with a shrug and then a smile.

“Hotshot,” Amber said through a grin.

Amber looked at his arm again.

“What does it look like?” he asked.

“Well, you have a mighty nice bruise on your elbow and along the bottom of your forearm, here,” she said, touching his skin gingerly. “And this bandage here? What’s it covering?”

“No stitches,” Mattie said, proudly. “Just an abrasion and a cut.”

“Just,” Amber said. “And it’s not broken?”

“Not this time,” he said. When she didn’t reply to his remark he added, “What’s another scar?”

“Don’t even,” she said.

“Well, I know I have a few. I can feel them.” He touched his head, under his hair.

She reached up and touched his forehead, knowing that there was a scar there above his hairline. “Well, let’s hope you keep from getting more,” she said. “I’m glad you’re okay. And I’m glad you still have a date. And now you’re going to give me the details of this sailing excursion and if you kissed her.”

Mattie groaned, rolling his eyes, his lips turning up in a grin.

The brace annoyed Mattie. He didn’t like to be any more hindered than he already was. He ignored the ache in his wrist and the sting and itch on his elbow, but cursed the hard plastic and Velcro straps of the splint. It was hard to just plain see the way he did now, just to do everything, when his arm and hand were immobile. He spilled milk and grew frustrated trying to cut a new rectangle of butter for the dish from the pound in the fridge. He couldn’t even trail the wall or the counters with that hand, as was his natural habit now, so he crossed his other arm over in front of him and used it instead.

It really dawned on him then how much he relied on this way of getting around the places he knew well, like a car on a well-oiled cable connected to the track. He remembered when he was trained to do this with the back of his knuckles and then he felt bullied from others with less severe vision loss about the way he groped around a room and had to touch everything. He’d learned to stop listening, to know that dim light, the outline of a chair, the glow of a window pane gave plenty of orientation he did not have, and that what he had was sound and touch. He’d learned that how he manoeuvred through his surroundings needed only to make sense to him, and the lessons they gave him fortified what tools he had.

Feeling like a bird with a clipped wing, Mattie tried to clean up the counter, knowing there were tea stains and probably still milk splotches from earlier.

He knew injuries were par for the course he was on. He’d suffered bruises and cuts from running into things for the past few years now, and he was used to the knowledge he wasn’t getting off scot-free when it came to being independent and slightly adventurous. But it didn’t make him feel any better when he humiliated himself in front of someone and suffered more injuries. He felt too vulnerable.

He really did want another date with Nikki. She was kind, and funny, and a bit nerdy, and he liked that. He knew she was pretty, she had taffy-coloured hair with highlights, and blue-grey eyes. She was soft in places and he liked that, too. She talked a lot about her family, and her sister. Though she didn’t live with her, they were together a lot.

“You met her,” Nikki said. “She’s so funny.”

“She’s your older sister?” Mattie asked her in a phone conversation.

“Yes. Isn’t it cool that we both hang out with our older sisters? I guess it means family is important.”

Mattie smiled. “Yeah, it is,” he agreed.

He talked to her a few times before it was her turn to come up with a date. She called him Wednesday evening with an invitation.

“Michelle got tickets for Friday night to go see Arcade Fire. She asked us to come with her and her boyfriend, Ross.”

“Oh? That would be cool, yeah. You know me, I love a good concert.”

“I figured you’d be interested.”

“Totally.”

“Maybe I can get Ross to come out and get you. I mean, I’d come, too, but…”

Mattie instantly hated that plan. “I’ll find my way in. If not to your place, at least to the coffee shop.”

“Are you sure, Xav?”

“I’m sure. What time does it start?”

“It says eight on the tickets.”

Mattie calculated times and told her he would get back to her with the details but he was definitely on for Friday night. He didn’t need his arm or his eyes for a concert. He could probably even get their tickets bumped to a closer spot if he worked it. He had to look on the up side.

So to speak.

He had to concentrate on those small mercies that gave him a reason to smile, even if only for a moment.