Chapter Six

Six

T he night is a mess.

I can't fall asleep, and I sense the same is true for Erik. His couch has a beautiful design, but it's probably not the most comfortable place to lie down, especially for someone as big as him.

The curtains are flimsy, allowing the streetlamp to cast a dim light inside the room, outlining Erik's silhouette. He shuffles several times, and there is occasionally a leg or arm poking out of his duvet, or dangling over the edge of the couch, until he shifts position again. And again.

I feel bad about it, but I'm not supposed to be the gentleman here. Or am I?

I could of course suggest he lie on the other side of the bed—there is plenty of space for both of us—but I know better than to make such an indecent proposal to Erik Storm.

The smell of his citrusy cologne is everywhere, impregnated in the fitted sheet, and when I close my eyes, it's easy to imagine he is lying by my side. Yet, there is no weight on the mattress to balance mine, no source of heat, and there is regular breathing echoing on the silent walls a few feet away.

The breathing of someone who is wide awake.

When I'm coming back from the toilet for the second time, my eyes are drawn to the glow of a phone screen illuminating Erik's face. He's given up.

"You should take your bed back," I say. "I can't sleep anyway."

"Don't worry about me."

I ignore that. "I can be in my room and get some work done."

I sit on the edge of the bed, and he can't look at me unless he turns his head, which he does. "It's three in the morning, Sol."

"It doesn't matter. I've rested enough. And you can't sleep."

He sits up, looking at me through the semidarkness. "It's not because of the bed. It's just..." He hesitates. "It's how all my nights have been lately."

He rubs his face and leans his head back to stare at the ceiling. I stay still for a moment, not knowing what to do.

"Do you have to go to work in the morning?"

He shakes his head. "I'm unemployed."

"Oh. Sorry to hear that."

I'm very curious now, so curious my body drives me to the couch. I move the end of his duvet aside and sit down, leaving one seat between us. I'm glad it's dark—or, well, almost dark. It somehow makes it easier to interact with him. Especially when he is wearing nothing but a tank top and underwear—yes, he sleeps in boxer briefs, regardless of my presence.

I swallow hard, keeping my eyes on his beautiful profile. We can be ourselves in the dead of night, can't we? He's vulnerable. Semi-naked. Maybe I can take another layer off. Metaphorically , of course.

"Why did you quit working at Scorpio Games?" I try, and then immediately regret starting with that question, given how noticeable it's been that he'd rather avoid the subject.

Erik closes his eyes, and for a moment I think he will ignore me and fall asleep right there.

"I wanted to start my own company," he says. "Work on a project I started together with a classmate at university. Make it into a finished product. Sell it. Make a living out of it." His voice sounds mechanical, stripped of emotion, but the fact that his eyes remain closed betrays his need to detach himself from the pain of his failure—because it's clear he didn't succeed.

I want to be positive and supportive, so I say, "That sounds nice. I've always wanted to do the same but never had the idea or the money or the courage." Employment is the safest option, and that's probably what Erik realized. What hurts him. "What happened?" I ask as gently as I can.

"We started, but..."

He stops there. I look at his tightened jaw, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down, and wait, but nothing more comes.

"And now you're looking for jobs?" I keep trying to treat the subject with care and sensibility, even though my curiosity is getting the best of me.

Erik nods, and his silence urges me to start babbling. "I've been there myself not that long ago," I say, trying to meet his gaze, which he keeps anywhere but on me. "It really sucks." I exhale, feeling his pain, and he nods again.

"Yeah."

My mouth doesn't stop, unintimidated by his reserved attitude. "I worked at that Brazilian indie game studio I told you about for five years, but for a large chunk of that period, I wasn't there full-time, or I wasn't being paid and was just helping out to have something on my CV and avoid having to help my mom in her salon." I confess the embarrassing truth about my career before Scorpio Games. "I was looking for jobs all the while, but Brasília doesn't have many good opportunities for designers and close to zero in the game business. So I kept staying at Vortex, even though they didn't have the money to pay me, just hoping for better days, but the projects we worked so hard on were not the success we expected."

"The industry is full of this shit," he mumbles, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose, weary but likely not tired enough to sleep.

"Yes," I agree with vigor.

"I'm on unemployment benefits, you know." He looks at me at last, and my heart gives a small leap before beating at a significantly faster rate. I keep my gaze steady on his, trying to find the bright blue of his eyes in the shadows covering his face. "It's not exactly lovely."

Erik sighs, leaning back heavily, and I dare to touch his arm. I feel a little tingle, a light jerk when our skin touches, as if we've been coated in static electricity. Erik peers at me, his eyelids, heavy before, now rising fully. We stare at each other.

"Go to the bed now and rest," I say to him, letting my hand stroke his arm once. Maybe the static is still there, because my palm keeps tingling, so I pull my hand away. "I know the thoughts disturb you, but you must give yourself a break."

"I don't want a job." Erik leans his head back on the couch, the corners of his lips stretched up in a nonsmile as he stares at the ceiling. "I want to finish my project."

"Then do it," I say firmly, like a command.

He straightens his posture and looks at me again. The soft glow of the streetlamp outside makes his features discernible—even in the middle of the night. It's as if the dark can reveal what he hides in daylight. I can see what is behind his ocean-blue eyes. There is defeat, hurt confidence, low self-esteem, and a bunch of other harmful feelings.

We stare at each other for long seconds. Nothing shifts in his eyes. His dilated pupils are wells that go deep into a dark, empty space.

"I can't," he answers me at last and then lies down on his pillow, determined to sleep.

That is when I realize he is not a giver because he has nothing to give. Erik Storm can't help others because he needs help.

I stand and take his fallen duvet and lay it over his body. Erik doesn't move, but I can see his lips curving in gratitude before I return to his bed.

I make breakfast for both of us. Eggs, toast, and a protein smoothie. When Erik gets up at eight, I'm about to leave for work. I thought he would sleep longer, so I left a sticky note near his portions on the table, saying: Til dig. Tak for ig?r . I translated it on Google. It means, "For you. Thank you for yesterday."

"Thank you, Sol," he says, sitting down to eat. No smile, but last night I learned not to expect one.

"No worries." My gaze lingers on his body—still in tank top and underwear—but only for a second.

I ignore the memory of his remarkable figure by being busy at work. In the morning, I do my usual tasks, participate in a meeting, and help Chiara and the other QA testers report a bug in a level that was released last week. After lunch, I assist the marketing and customer support teams with player communication after a malfunction in the system. Later, I squeeze in time to help the kitchen assistant clean after we eat cake to celebrate the birthday of the new HR employee. I go as far as carrying some boxes and garbage bags to the dumpsters outside the building.

I can't say no to people. Even when they don't ask directly.

This resulted in a very unproductive day for me in my role, but it made a lot of people happy, so I'm satisfied. Judging by the proud smile Lars flashes at me when he passes by my desk, I can see that my boss is also happy with my proactivity—and I wasn't even trying to impress him.

Near the end of the day, Astrid, the HR lead, a tall woman in her forties with silver-blond hair, gathers everyone for an announcement.

"The Fun Season starts this week! For those of you who don't know what the Fun Season is all about, the slogan summarizes it: ‘When the days get colder...'" She prompts her colleagues to continue.

"...our hearts get warmer!" a chorus of about a dozen people utters in unison. The crowd claps and cheers.

Smiling, Astrid goes on. "We have decided to split you into ten groups of eight. We've planned some activities that all groups will do, but separately. All groups will also have a budget for activities they decide for themselves, like eating out and so on."

The room hums with an excited murmur.

"Groups will be formed randomly, but the leads have been picked. Leads, raise your hands!"

Eleven of the most senior employees put their hands in the air. Lars is among them.

"As some of you may already know, it's not a competition..."

"But it is!" someone shouts, and people laugh.

"Well, yes, if you say so." Astrid smirks. "In your groups, you may choose whatever form you wish of giving scores to individual members or sub-teams. The final event of the Fun Season, gathering all employees, is our Christmas party, where we have a talent show and reward the winners of each group."

I look at the enthusiastic faces around me. This Fun Season thing looks like a big deal. Some more veteran employees whisper to each other, anticipating what is to come.

Astrid says we will all receive an email shortly to inform us which group we are in, and then the leader of the group will take over the communication with the members. When I'm packing my things to go home, my email comes.

Lars is my team lead.

My chest flutters, and I smile. This doesn't seem random at all...

Particularly because in my group are also Chiara, Ellen (a very skilled 2D Artist), Simon (the producer for the game I work on), George (the UX/UI Designer everyone loves), Astrid, and...

Martin the Beetle. Of course.

We all work closely together, and we are talented, ambitious people under Lars's leadership. Except for Astrid, the HR Lead, who might help him judge who deserves a promotion...

To be honest, any of us could be a fit for the game director position. Especially Ellen and George. And, well, Martin , as I heard from Lars himself.

The threads of excitement in my stomach tie up in a knot.

Five minutes after receiving the first email, I get one from Lars welcoming us into his group and inviting us to our first event—dinner at a Spanish restaurant tomorrow after work.

I take the Metro home, my head brimming with thoughts and concerns. This will be a bigger challenge than I thought—convincing Lars that I deserve the promotion over all these other nice and talented employees who have been in the company, and in Denmark, for much longer than me.

But I can beat the competition. I need to believe in myself. Lars thinks I'm a good candidate. I'll just have to show off in our events. I can do that. Right?

I enter my empty room and sigh. Burying myself in bed will have to wait.

Cheer up, Sol! I see all of this as a great sign , Larissa writes to me after I dump my concerns on her. I'm on my yoga mat again, and my back is killing me.

Larissa: You are among this select group, and you'll have lots of great opportunities to shine. Be the sun you are and blind your boss with your awesomeness!

I send her a heart. I love my best friend for always lifting me up when I'm down. After twenty-one years of friendship, living right next to each other, she always knows the right thing to say, even now that we're so far apart.

Larissa: How's Thor?

Me: You mean, Erik? People are actually called Thor here. It's a common name.

Larissa: He's the human incarnation of the god of thunder, Sol. Be careful not to fall under his spell.

If it were up to me, Larissa wouldn't know what Erik looks like. When I showed Erik to the girls at the salon during our video call, my cousin Mariana took a screenshot with my mom's phone and sent it to Larissa because she knew I'd be vague when talking to my friend, and Larissa "deserved the truth."

At least Larissa seems to believe it's safest to not engage in a relationship with him—unlike my cousins, who have been effusively encouraging me to pull Erik by the collar and kiss him with ardent passion whenever I cross with him in the hallway.

The doorbell rings. When I arrive at the front door, Erik is already letting the delivery guys in. I jump in excitement as I watch the parts of my new bed being unloaded in my room.

The guys leave, and Erik stands at the threshold, looking thoughtfully at the boxes as if they are a big puzzle we must solve.

And they are.

"I thought they would help me assemble it," I say, biting my lip.

"Nope. That's the whole concept in Scandinavia. Do it yourself. Or pay a fortune."

I laugh, but there isn't much humor in finding yourself swimming in huge heavy boxes with pieces you have no clue what to do with.

"We'll do it together, okay?" he reassures me, landing a palm on my shoulder. His warm hand heats the skin under my cotton T-shirt, spreading a boiling wave down the rest of my body. "Teamwork is key."

"Thanks," I say in one breath, my heart thumping with more excitement than should be reserved for a bed.

For one hour, we focus. And we fail.

"Aaargh, this is impossible!" Erik lets out his frustration, dropping a piece of the frame that we simply can't put together. We are both sweaty and exhausted, and only half the frame is completed.

"Break time," I say and go to the kitchen to grab a can of soda for each of us. I bought them. Erik only has healthy stuff in his half of the fridge. When I offer him the Coke though, he takes it.

We drink in silence, sitting on the floor with our backs against the wall, surrounded by tools, screws, and cardboard boxes. Through the window, the setting sun sheds its last rays on the water. It's a beautiful evening. One of those days when, from the heat of your home, you can look out and pretend it's still summer.

"Erik, did you participate in the Fun Season when you worked at Scorpio?"

He lifts his gaze from the instruction manual, brow furrowed. "Yes."

"Was your boss your team lead?"

Erik relaxes his face and throws the manual aside. "Lars Holm was my team lead. He's your boss, right?"

I nod, admiring how the sunbeam through the window crosses his face. The stripe of sunlight illuminates one of his eyes, making it as transparent as the Caribbean Sea and leaving the other in the shadow, dense as a frozen lake on a cloudy evening.

"Yes," I say and lower my gaze to avoid getting too distracted by the pretty view. "Lars is my boss and my Fun Season team lead, and...it might be a stupid thing to think, but..." I debate for a moment whether I should share my concerns with Erik. I then conclude that I need to if I want an honest opinion from someone who knows the other involved party.

I take a deep breath, because even though I do really need that opinion, talking with Erik is nerve-racking. "I'm..." I begin, keeping my eyes lowered. "I suspect that Lars might use the upcoming events to get to know me better and judge if I deserve the game director position or not."

I feel silly saying it out loud, but Erik's expression tells me I'm not saying anything strange. His words confirm it. "It sounds like this is what he's doing, yes."

"You think?" I sit up straighter, my body leaning closer to Erik's. He must be at least three feet away, but I'm so interested in hearing him that I reduce the distance between us. "I mean, Lars said he likes to learn more about his coworkers on a personal level...and I got the impression that if he likes me enough, then..." I trail off, and Erik picks up.

"Yes. That's how Lars is. If he likes people, he rewards them. He cares about job performance, of course, but he's very much about personal relations. He has his favorites, and it's not bad to be on good terms with him."

I drag myself even closer and sit cross-legged in front of Erik. "What can I do to make Lars like me?"

Erik laughs. "Are you asking me how to cheat your way into a promotion?"

I frown. "No. Of course not. I don't want to cheat my way in." I drink my soda to its last drops.

Erik keeps smiling. "I'm messing with you, Sol. You want to make a good impression, obviously, and I can tell you how." He lifts a finger as he enumerates. "First, be yourself. Second, be social. Third, be nice."

I wave my hand in the air dismissively. "No pep talk. I want data." He lifts an eyebrow, studying me, and I roll my eyes. "Come on, you know the guy. Tell me what makes him tick."

Erik's gaze travels to the window like he is going to ignore me. "Are you sure that's what you want, Sol?"

"Why are you saying that?" I look at him, suspicious. He said it was his wish to work on his personal project that drove him to quit. But could Lars have been the culprit somehow? Could Erik have been so dissatisfied with the way things worked at the company, he couldn't stand his job anymore?

Like me not that long ago?

"I'm just wondering if you're sure your dream job is at Scorpio." There is bitterness in his voice and resentment in his eyes, and I want to feel empathy for whatever his situation was, but I find myself unable to. He is judging me for wanting to work in the company that no longer suited him. We are so different from each other—we were born different, in opposite hemispheres—and he will never know my struggles.

My defensive instincts kick in. "Just because you didn't want to work there, doesn't mean it's not the place for me."

I regret my answer as soon as it's out, and Erik's icy eyes make me feel worse. Maybe he wasn't judging me, just trying to warn me, prompting me to think things through. I didn't ask for that kind of advice, but I also didn't have the right to be rude and poke an open wound.

I sigh. "Sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"It's fine."

It isn't. He rises to his feet. Now he will leave me to finish the bed alone.

I stand up too. "Look, I've had my doubts about Scorpio. But game director is my career goal, like I told you. I'll come up with an idea for an original game, and I'll work on it from start to end. No more making similar levels again and again."

He stops at the door and turns around. "It sounds like you hate your job."

Ugh, why does he have to make everything out to be so terrible and hopeless?

"I don't hate it. I'm just ready for something more challenging."

He looks at me like he doesn't believe me. But who cares?

"Lars needs to see that I can handle it."

"All Lars will see in the Fun Season is how fun and social you can be."

"But from what you say, that goes a long way."

Erik gazes at me, serious. "Lars favors people who are a lot like him," he says, his eyes narrowed in dislike for the words he's uttering.

The information should surprise me, but it doesn't. "Details, please."

"People who are committed. People in relationships. People who have children. People who live a stable life and have a plan." Erik rolls his eyes as if he thinks this is all ridiculous, but the words keep flowing out of his mouth. "Lars loves Copenhagen and identifies with those who want to stay here for the rest of their lives. He likes competitive people. Extroverts. Winners."

Erik got it all right. That's Lars. It shouldn't be hard to please him when I know all this.

But I don't fit the profile.

You can make it look like you do, can't you? Larissa's voice says in my head, even though I'm not quite sure she would say that to me in real life.

Without another word about Lars or Scorpio Games, we struggle with the bed again and finish it at last. Erik goes to the kitchen to cook his dinner, and I clean my room, put sheets on my brand-new bed, and lie down, exhausted.

I'm determined to make this place home—where I'll acquire my independence, have a prosperous career, and find the version of Sol I could never be in Brasília because there were always too many people and concerns pushing me in other directions.

I already feel like I'm slowly getting there.

Nothing comes without struggle. Nothing comes without proving my value.

My parents taught me that when I was little, and I knew this philosophy would be taken to extremes here in Denmark, where I don't belong.

But belonging is the reward, and there is nothing I want more than to belong here.