Chapter Eight

We stay out in the beautiful cold until ice floods my veins and I can't feel my fingers. When I start shivering, Oskar insists we return to the cabin, and I reluctantly agree on the grounds that, having avoided frostbite once, I don't particularly want to tempt fate.

The moment we're inside, Oskar piles more precious wood on the fire, and I stand frozen in the middle of the room. The air is hilariously warm compared to outside, but the cold has sunk into my bones again. My fingers are about as pliant as brittle twigs.

My chest is full. I don't know if I'm happy or sad or some strange, mixed-up version of the two. All I know is that after that, seeing the Northern Lights in all their glory and thinking about Mum, my heart feels a little raw.

I clear my throat, distinctly uncomfortable with asking this despite the intimacy of just seconds ago. "Oskar?"

"Mm?"

"Can we . . ." Time to put on my big-girl boots. "I'm cold."

"That's why I'm building the fire up," he says, glancing back at me. I resist the urge to scowl because I have no idea if he's being gentlemanly, oblivious, or deliberately obtuse.

"Yes, I know, but . . ." I roll my eyes. "Can't you read between the lines?"

"What lines?"

"I'm trying to tell you I don't want to be alone."

Silence falls, broken only by the licking spit of the fire. He closes the stove door and rises, holding my gaze as he does it. I can't read his expression, and it occurs to me that he probably doesn't want to share the bed with me. There's barely enough room for one person, and if he's in any way uncomfortable with the potential of intimacy, then—

I open my mouth to explain away my request and soothe any worries he has about my intentions, but he nods, quiet and sure. "Okay."

Oh."That's okay?"

"Yes." He washes his hands in the sink and dries them. I do my best not to watch him obsessively. "Are you ready for bed?"

My stomach gives a little flip, and I tell it to pipe down. That isn't what this is about. Even so, my mouth is dry as I say, "Yes."

Being vulnerable with someone is scary. Being vulnerable when everything feels so sexually charged is a whole different experience, and my emotions don't know which way is up.

At least we literally could not be wearing more clothes. I don't have my hat or gloves, but I am wearing my thermals and a fleece. He's dressed in the same.

He climbs in first, fitting himself on the tiniest sliver of mattress he can, and folds back the duvet in invitation. I clamber in, and his arm curls around me the way it did yesterday, anchoring me to him. My sigh of relief—at this, the warmth, the comfort, the feeling of his huge body so close to mine—is entirely involuntary.

I can practically hear his smile. "Comfortable?"

"So comfortable." I rest my cheek against his shoulder and he hums under his breath in what I can only assume is contentment. We lie in silence for a moment or two, gradually thawing. I've no concept of how late it is, but I'm fairly sure it's the middle of the night. At home, because I'm secretly a middle-aged woman, I'm usually asleep by this time. But right now, I'm way too wired for that.

"So," he says. "Your mum."

And here it is. His curiosity about my breakdown. "We don't have to talk about that."

"No, it's okay." His voice is lower when he says, "I want to know."

My laugh is painfully embarrassed. "There's really nothing to say. It was something she always wanted to do with me, except she died before we had a chance to do it. Tonight was—I wasn't expecting it. Not like that. I guess it caught me off guard a little."

"I'm sorry."

"No, don't be." I put my hand flat on his chest, right over the zip on his fleece, and I can hear the way his heart pounds, the matching pair to mine. "I've never seen anything like it. She would have loved it, and I did, too."

"Me too," he says, so quietly I almost miss it. The words rumble through me, like all the places we're connected have somehow merged us into one.

It's not like I've never fallen for someone before. I've had feelings—stronger than anything I feel with Oskar. But maybe because of circumstance, maybe because I'm clearly on the verge of a mental breakdown, being with him feels like something different. Beyond that. A frantic buzz in my veins, a burst of fire every place we're touching, even though we might as well be Michelin Men. A cocktail of something potent and dangerous and terrifying.

Something overwhelming, viscerally good.

"Tell me something about you," I blurt. "Anything."

There's a rustle as his fingers move against the many layers of material at my waist. "You should probably be more specific."

I ask the first thing that comes to mind. "How come you're so fluent in English? I know you learn it in school and stuff, but I supposedly learnt French in school and I wouldn't be able to hold a conversation, never mind . . . this."

He shrugs, and the slight movement allows me to hook my leg up and between his. The way he accommodates me, shifting to give me space to lock our bodies even closer together, sends a flutter of anticipation right into the pit of my stomach. "Maybe the English education system isn't that good."

"It's an open secret," I reassure him, trailing my nail along the plastic teeth of his zip. "I'm glad, though. That you can speak English. Imagine if you hadn't."

"Getting you to trust me would definitely have been harder."

"Harder to lure me into a false sense of security, you mean?"

"What else?"

I snigger softly under my breath, and more silence falls between us. This time, though, there's a different feel to it. Hushed. Expectant.

It has not, at any point, escaped my notice that we're sharing a bed. And yes, fine, I had to strongarm him into sharing with me. But now he's here, he doesn't feel as though he doesn't want to be here. Maybe it's like the almost-kiss earlier, where I felt as though if I leant forward, he wouldn't have stopped me.

We're balanced on a razor edge. Getting emotionally involved with a Norwegian man—any man really—would not be sensible when I am embroiled in multiple crises. And I don't think I can do casual. Not with him.

Bad idea, my one logical brain cell tells me.

Hot man hot, the others chant.

Most times, I like to think feminism has come a long way, but it transpires that hormones are more powerful than years of conditioning and empowered thinking, because right now, I want him more than I want to protect my heart. Sensible Lucy is officially on holiday and Impulsive Lucy, the version of myself I've kept locked up for the past two years, has the reins.

I slide my fingers up and down the zip on his chest, tracing the line with my fingers, the texture oddly reassuring. I'm practically buzzing with energy—I don't think I could stay still if I tried.

He shifts suddenly, his hand coming to rest on mine, stilling it. My stomach clenches, and I think my breathing stutters. We're both silent in the darkness.

If only I knew what he was thinking, but he's impenetrable to me. Even his body isn't giving me enough clues: I can feel the way his heart is pounding, but his hand is firm on mine. A silent plea for me to stop.

Is that what you really want?

I don't have the confidence to say it.

His finger moves against the back of my hand. The tiniest stroke, so small I could have almost kidded myself that I imagined it. But it happens again, the fire from his touch burning me up.

Slowly, I twist my hand so we're palm to palm. The darkness has become stillness; this is the only place we're moving. The only place we dare to move. His fingers slide along my wrist, reaching my pulse point and stopping. There's no chance he can't feel how fast my heartbeat is. No way he won't understand why.

His hand skims up my arm until his thumb is at my wrist. There, it swipes, the movement so gradual and soft that it might have been a rhythm designed to send me to sleep. But if that was his plan, he's going about it the wrong way, because my entire body is lighting up. I feel like a teenager with her first crush, overwhelmed by the tiniest point of contact. Desperate for more. Terrified for more. His breath is heavy in the darkness.

"Oskar," I whisper, unable to bear the silence any longer.

"Yes?" The word vibrates through me. His fingers still.

"Are you awake?"

He gives a little huff, an almost frustrated-sounding laugh. "What do you think?"

"I think I don't want you to be asleep." Astonished at my daring, I slide my hand out from under his and up his chest. The arm around my waist is a vice, but otherwise he holds still as my fingers slowly travel from his chest and up his neck to his chin. Stubble, scratchy yet soft against my skin. I scrape my nails across it, absorbing the sensation, and he makes a tiny sound in the back of his throat. His breath is hot against my skin as I encounter his lips. They're soft, parting slightly under my fingertips. I feel the rush of his breath all through me.

But even though I want to linger there for a long time, I keep moving, exploring the rest of his face. Sharp cheekbones, long eyelashes, proud nose. I want to have his features memorised.

"Lucy," he says, and the way he pronounces my name—a curse and a prayer all at once—sends a bolt of heat through me. "You're not making it easy."

"Not making what easy?"

He shifts, tilting his head to look down at me, although unless he has night vision, there isn't much to see. The fire's glow is only really serving to send the shadows deeper, pools of ink that are absorbing us.

It's easier this way. Not to be able to see each other. Like the darkness is a shield, protecting us from the consequences of whatever this thing between us is.

At the same time, I want desperately to see his face and the play of emotion across it.

Instead, all I have is his heartbeat and the ragged sound of his breath. The conclusions I draw from them are heady.

"I'm supposed to be taking care of you," he says.

"According to whom?"

"According to the guy who picked you up out of the snow." There's definitely frustration in his voice now. "I said I'd get you down the mountain."

"So?"

He groans and tilts his head back so he's staring at the ceiling. "So I'm trying to do the right thing."

"Very noble of you." You'd have to be deaf to miss the sarcasm in my voice. "In the meantime, I say we take advantage of the fact we're here alone and I'm pretty sure you want to kiss me." The moment the words are out of my mouth, I doubt myself. Maybe his elevated heartrate is stress from being stuck here with me when I'm so clearly coming onto him. Maybe his heavy breathing is because of lung disease he never told me about.

The arm around my waist loosens a fraction. "Whether I want to kiss you isn't the issue, and you know it."

Actually, I'm currently emulating Jon Snow and I know nothing, but that's never stopped me before. Taking advantage of his loosened grip, I lever up his body. It's the single least graceful movement of my life, but when my nose brushes his, I feel vindicated. I'm lying half on his body, half in the crook of his arm, and when he shifts, I think he's going to shove me off. Instead, his other hand moves to where my knee is positioned on his upper thigh.

"How's your ankle?" he murmurs.

"Fine. Great. Everything's great." I lay my hand on his stubbled cheek. "I think I'm going to kiss you now."

His fingers tighten on my knee, and for a painful moment I'm certain he's going to refuse. A cool no thanks and an explanation of how I've been reading him wrong all this time. But he holds himself motionless as my nose knocks against his again. His other hand slides to the small of my back, helping secure me as I finally press my mouth to his.

For two painful seconds, he doesn't kiss me back. Not properly—like he's dumbstruck by the fact I had the audacity to do this to him.

Then his lips part. The hand on my leg draws my knee higher, positioning me so I'm lying far more on him than the bed, and holds me there. His other hand, the one on my back, slides up until it's in my hair.

He kisses me back.

And all thoughts of average go out of my head. This man kisses like he was born to it, the way you assume fish know how to swim like it's pure instinct. The hand in my hair adjusts my head so we're at a better angle and holds me there with a gentle pressure that has me burning.

Tongues. Teeth. Lips. He takes my bottom lip into his mouth and bites just hard enough that I gasp, something warm and liquid erupting at the base of my belly. I do the same to him in return and he makes a low noise, rumbly, growly, a sound that's more vibration than noise, and before I know what's happened exactly, I'm straddling him fully, knees either side of his stomach. His other hand comes to cradle my face, guiding me back to him, and I'm a little too enthusiastic. Our teeth clash in the darkness and we both laugh, a breathless sound.

I can almost feel the way he wants to be controlled with me, but it keeps slipping. The hand in my hair fists before relaxing. His other hand travels down my waist to my hips, abruptly stopping before he reaches any further. It's like watching the leash snap tight as he collects himself.

Control and I have never been all that well acquainted, and we're definitely not claiming friendship now. While he's holding himself back, I'm digging my hand into his hair, marvelling at the softness of it, gripping his sides like I can push closer, closer, sink into him completely. I'm tiny against his enormous frame and it's unlocked something in me.

"Wait," he says, breaking away and resting his forehead on mine. "We should think about this."

I'm way beyond thinking. There's not a single thought in my head. "About what?"

"I want—" He cuts himself off with what sounds like a growl. "It's not sensible."

"What?" I really do only have two brain cells and both are reminding me that seconds ago, my mouth was on his and I liked it a lot. "What's not sensible?"

Through the darkness, it looks as though he struggles with himself for a moment. "I don't have any protection."

Oh. Oh.

I am . . . not on the pill. For a bunch of reasons that are largely connected to my lack of romantic prospects over the past two years.

"Shit." I breathe a shaky laugh. "I didn't bring any with me."

"Shit," he agrees, and his thumb swipes against my cheek. Absurdly, my chest tightens. "I'm sorry."

I groan, because frustrated isn't even the word for it. We're still wearing all our clothes, but our make-out session already felt like the best sex I've ever had. And now we don't even get to have sex.

His eyelashes dance against his cheek as he closes his eyes. His other hand is light on my waist now, but even that simple pressure reminds me of precisely how much I enjoyed the way he touched me.

Pregnancy is not worth it. Neither are STDs. But right now, I can absolutely understand how accidents can happen, because the temptation to throw caution to the wind is almost overwhelming.

It's as if he can sense what I'm thinking, because he curses under his breath and then his mouth is on mine again, devouring, hungry, and by the way he's gripping me against him, I can sense how much he wants this.

His hand slides under my many layers, and—

"Fuck," he says, voice hoarse, as though just the sensation of skin against skin is too much. "We need to stop, kj?re." Abruptly, he sits straight up, depositing me to one side, and hunches over the edge of the bed, head in both hands. "I think I need a moment," he says when I crawl awkwardly to his side. "I'll . . . sleep on the floor."

That was not the result I wanted from this. "You don't have to," I say, rubbing his shoulder. "I'll be good."

He sends me a look of bleak amusement. "Will you? I don't know if I'll be." He shakes his head, but after a second he leans forward and tips up my chin, planting a sweet kiss on my lips. "I'm going to go outside for a moment. Don't wait up."

I watch him head for the door, and when I put my head back on the pillow, it smells of him. When I finally go back to sleep, what feels like hours later, he's still not back inside.