Work Text:
“Karin, I couldn’t ask this of anyone. It’s too much.” You’re sitting at the dining table—and she’s at the stove, stirring a pinch of salt into a big silver pot; she’s trying to make you an easy lunch—rigatoni, bolognese… You don’t know what train of thought carries her to ask if you’d like to move-in. She’s been like this since you’d met in your early twenties, offering the most and expecting the least back. Of course, you had told her you were in a bit of a bind at your old job, only a month left to your contract at a local library in the city.
“Do you have any idea how much I owe you? Come on—it’ll be a month or so tops, before you get back on your feet.” Karin’s pacing back and forth in front of you now. You’re thankful that her much more pragmatic husband is caring for the baby upstairs. “We would love to host you, and we miss you—Gus and I.”
“I came here to ask you about the openings at the school district, and you’re offering for me to crash at your house. With the two of you and your one-year-old.”
“And Gus’ little brother.” How could you forget Lars? You’d met him the one time at Karin’s baby shower, a small party in the middle of Spring with clothespin games and the chocolate-loaded diapers. You’d gone through a big effort to invest in a nice automated bottle washer off Karin’s registry, which she ended up adoring. And while you were bringing in the heavy, paper-wrapped box, Lars was quick to help. Gus had a foldable table set up with a white lace topper, already decorated with a generous pile of diaper packs, bottles, toys. You weren’t so sure where your gift atop the preexisting haul. Lars had taken it off your hands like it weighed just a pound, placed it carefully front and center amidst the rest of the gifts. A big gift like that deserves to have a spotlight. You thought, rightfully so, that he was the sweetest-looking guy you’d ever laid eyes on.
Last you heard from Karin, his girlfriend had passed away—Bianca, the sex-doll turned town treasure. You didn’t know Lars well, but there’d been a dull ache in your chest when she called to tell you she and Gus had spent a few solid hours in the hospital sleep-deprived, and Lars was devastated. You grieved for him, the stranger that he was.
Karin’s still beaming. “It’s perfect. The crib is in our room, and Lars is in the pink room. The garage is still set up like a studio, minus Gus’ workout gear, but it really is a nice setup. And if you’re staying with us, I could talk with the front-desk ladies at the elementary school, see if they have room for you.” You can already see it in her eyes; she’s formulating plans for you in her head—when she’s going to get you newer sheets, the best restaurants to take you to in town.
Most important of all, though she won’t say it to you until you move in, you’re going to make a very good Plan-C babysitter. After all, you are one of two godparents. Karin made sure you knew that at the baby shower, too. You and Lars are the backups. The thought of that kills you, too. Your hands come up to rub your eyes, trying to take in the offer in totality. Is even this a good idea? Karin’s painting it out to be, but she’s also got a bit of a plague-like optimism about her. “I don’t know, Karin. You should probably have a deeper conversation with Gus about this kind of thing—”
“Oh, for God’s sake, would you just say yes?” Karin cries out. She’s grabbing for mitts to pick up the large pot of pasta. “It’s not like we haven’t all roomed together before, and this house is way bigger than our old apartment.” Karin sleeves the mitts over her hands, before picking the pot off the red-hot burners. Once she’s pouring it out into a strainer in the sink, you can see her peer at you over her shoulder. The steam rises up out of the metal basin in wisps past her short, brown hair. “Won’t you just accept the favor and move in for a little while?”
“Karin Lindstrom, you are an unconventionally kind person,” you start. She tosses the pasta from the strainer back into the emptied pot, before whipping around to get a good look at you. “I’ll live with you, okay? You win.”
Karin squeals with delight, throwing her mitts onto the counter and jumping to give you a clambering hug. She’s squeezing your shoulders so tightly you think you might bruise. You can hear a handful of loud footsteps, creaking along the ceiling over your heads. She doesn’t pay it any mind, so you decide not to either. That is, until Gus comes stepping down the staircase. His voice is stuck between this delicate balance between whispering and shouting. “Hon, is there a fire? What’s going on?”
Bless his soul. He has a little blankie over his left shoulder, and the same thick, stern brow as usual. Little Elinor Bianca is tucked to his chest, bleary eyed. They named her after Gus and Lars’ mother and Lars’ girlfriend who you’d known for such a short time. She looks, really, so much like Karin. Especially her eyes. You can hardly believe it—your old friends as fully-functional parents. Gus is trying to cradle her soft despite the quick burst of movement. You really don’t remember him looking so fatherly.
Karin lowers her voice into the same, quieter shout. “It’s going to be just like college all over again!” She pulls away from you to take your hands into her own. Her thin, warm fingers wrap around your palms. It doesn’t seem so outrageous to Gus, seeing as he’s giving you a tight-lipped smile and letting his shoulders relax. Not a fire.
“I was telling Karin it might be best if you both agree on this. I’m not trying to move in on a whim,” you try to tell Gus, ladened with sheepishness.
He’s already jumping back up the stairs, to return to that critical process of putting baby Beth down for her nap in the crib upstairs. “You won’t hear me complaining,” he murmurs, halfway up the staircase, “It takes a village.”
—
Both you and Karin talk through the rest of the afternoon about your move-in. You still have to get your affairs in order—close up your current sublease, pack your things into a reasonable amount of moving boxes, ship over to the small town Karin now calls home. In the meantime, she thinks it’s best for you all to have one of those Lindstrom family dinners (these happen every other week, she assures you), so the four of you can chat it over. They still have to run it through Lars, which she assures you should be fine. And now, Karin has you worrying over the mushroom risotto, wondering if you should’ve told her “no” more stubbornly. You’re not necessarily high-wired, but you do think it’s a little intrusive to start living out in the garage. It means you’re going to be around a lot more often.
You can feel your shoulders tense at the sound of tires rolling over the dirt road outside a couple good hours later; the grating sound floats in through the kitchen window, and makes your grip on the wooden spoon stutter slightly. Karin jumps into action, while you’re feeling yourself sweat. “Oh! He’s here, he’s here! One sec—” She jogs over to the back door, opening it on its rickety hinges and watching as Lars gets out of his low-to-the-ground Toyota. He’s bundled in a beanie and a puffer, briefcase held tight in his hand. Karin shouts, “Lars! I just took the chicken out of the oven, and the table’s all set.”
He seems to squint at her from across the yard, just over the hood of his car, letting out a soft, ragged breath. The far-and-wide announcement is a little more ostentatious than he’d like it to be. He approaches in wide steps, snatching his beanie off his head and running his hand through his slicked hair, tidying it as best as he can. Karin, watching him with soft eyes, seems to be nearly buzzing with excitement seeing him approach the back porch. You crack a soft, shy grin. “Lars! We met—”
“—at the baby shower. I remember.” He brings his mitted hand up in front of you, and you have to take a quick moment of confusion and recovery to shake it. He’s still warmed up, having been tucked into the car for the entirety of the ride back, heater fighting to stay on amidst the evening chill. So, Lars remembers you. You don’t know why you thought he wouldn’t. He has a grin playing softly on his face, eyes blinking as he looks down to your shoes. “You’re a librarian in the city.”
“Well,” you purse your lips, “Until the end of next month.” You did really like this job, rolling your book rack down the aisles and seeing who was checking out what. Bummer to lose a gig like that.
“Which is why we’re having dinner tonight,” Karin says, tugging you aside by the sleeve of your sweater so Lars can shuffle inside past the both of you. You can feel your back brush against the wall of the entryway just slightly, straightening out your back.
You feel a bit flushed seeing how Lars shuffles through the threshold of the door, shoulder nearly brushing with your chest. You’d forgotten how tall and how burly he was at the baby shower—and right now, he seems to tower over you. You’re trying your best to keep a steady smile, but you’re becoming acutely aware that you’re still quite attracted to him. Gus’ brother. Karin’s brother-in-law. You have to remind yourself two or three times over just looking at him. It’s just too close. You wish he was a stranger.
Lars peeks up the staircase, then down at you. You have to swallow down that flustered feeling you get when he turns his gaze down to you, his well-kept mustache curving as he shoots you a few blinks and a polite smile. “It’s poor management,” he assures you, “Their loss.” You nod shyly, trying your best to peel your gaze away from him and towards the open front door. Karin’s still holding it open, letting in the draft—just staring at you both. She seems to shut it in a hurry, before shooing you both towards the dining room. She makes the both of you sit down while she calls for Gus to bring baby Elinor downstairs.
So, all five of you are sitting at the table. The high-chair is right between Karin and Gus at the head of the table, and you and Lars are placed conveniently across from one another. They seem to fall into the usual motions—Gus is making miniature portions for his daughter from each of the serving plates, using a small, plastic spoon to scoop it into Elinor’s bowl. Karin serves Gus’ plate, and then her own. There’s a small exchange between Karin and Lars in passing serving bowls. You only realize a moment or so later that Lars is looking down at your plate.
“Potatoes?” he murmurs. You let yourself glance over at Karin and Gus, who are still well-occupied by the baby and their own plates. You offer Lars a polite, “Yes, please.” He hurries to finish scooping his own portion onto the ceramic plate in front of him, before reaching to offer the bowl over to you.
“So, I would’ve called you earlier, Lars, but I know you had that busy day today at the office,” Karin eases in. “We’re wondering if you’d mind a new addition to the house.”
Lars’ eyebrows seem to raise incredulously. He lets out a hushed whisper to Karin, “You’re pregnant?” Gus nearly flubs the tiny baby-spoon in his hands, Elinor babbling mindlessly as her father lets out a loud and unabashed snort. Karin’s just about to protest, when you let out a soft, attention-calling cough.
“They want me to move in,” you wince, taking the bowl of mashed potatoes off of his hands. You’re hovering it awkwardly over your own plate now, a little too anxious to pull the spoon out and start serving yourself. Lars is quiet. You’re trying to gauge the kind of reaction he’s having to the proposition, and he’s not giving much.
“In the garage?” he asks, attention pulled to Karin and Gus. “We should buy a couple fresh blankets. Maybe a heater.” So, it’s a yes. Lars is completely fine with you moving in—even hospitable about the whole ordeal. There’s something sort of endearing about his lack of a solid “yes.” To Lars, it goes without question. Already, he seems to be going through the mental math of getting you settled in.
But you have to protest: “No! I mean—you don’t have to go buying anything nice. I have a lot of sweaters in my place that I’ll bring over. The heater’s overkill.”
“Well, he’s kinda right. I can probably drive out to the hardware store in town. They sell them for cheap,” Gus admits, taking another generous scoop of pea-mush and floating it towards Elinor’s mouth. Karin gives him a firm nod of agreement, arms crossed over the table. You could practically melt at how sweet all three of them are about the whole move-in. Finally, you can carry out those gentle motions of serving your own plate, eyes softened as you stare down at the pretty lace trim of your placemat, the stark-white of the glossy plate placed above it. It might not be so bad with the Lindstroms.
—
You wouldn’t have expected for Lars to call off sick on your move-in day. But somehow, while you’re pulling up to the driveway after that long drive from the city—he’s there. With a creme-gridded flannel and a pair of black work boots. You swear under your breath at the sight. You pull slowly into the driveway, braking right beside him. As soon as you’re out of the car, Lars is shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Karin, Gus, and Elinor are at the supermarket. Buying for a big dinner,” he tells you, “Probably not the welcoming band you were wanting.”
“No, this is perfect! I’d rather move the stuff when it’s quieter, anyways. Less of a bother.” You round your car, clicking the little latch-button on your trunk and pulling up the lid. Inside the back, there’s a generous lot of your belongings packed into moving boxes and luggage bags. He sweeps up one of your bigger boxes with one arm. “Oh, Lars, you don’t—”
“I wanna. You’re a guest,” Lars says, adjusting the cardboard underneath his arm. Then, he digs into the front pocket of his puffer and drops a keyring into your hand. “Gold is for the garage, silver’s for the house.” Before you know it, he’s grabbing your suitcase, too—and nodding for you to walk ahead of him down the driveway.
He lets you unlock the door for the both of you. It takes a lot of effort for you not to fumble with the keys. You can hear Lars shuffling in slowly behind you, then peeling off to place your box and luggage down in the corner. As soon as he straightens back up, he’s already turning towards the door. Lars mumbles, “I’ll be back.” He doesn’t wait for an answer from you, just pivots on the soles of his boots and walks out of the garage. You peek with a tilted head outside the door. He’s already jogging back out to the trunk again.
You explore the place on your own while he takes in your things from the car. He’s having minimal trouble lifting everything and stacking it up in the corner. It makes you bashful; you’d struggled even bringing them out the door of your old place. The garage is stocked with everything you could need—laid out similarly to a studio you’d see being leased in the city. There’s a small dining table with a sixties, diner-style metal rim—two chairs to match. A kitchenette and a small bathroom. A twin-bed in the corner. You can picture Lars here—and even feel that there’s a lingering aroma of oak and cinnamon clinging to corners of the studio. It used to be his.
He comes in with your last two boxes stacked one atop the other, placing them carefully atop the kitchen counters. “The sheets are new,” Lars points. “Karin told me you’d like the color.” You do, though you’d also take literally anything they offered to you. “Everything should be set up fine. Only thing’s the bathroom. If the water doesn’t get hot, just give me a call. With the pipes, it’s—” Iffy, he wants to say.
You shoot out a soft “okay,” hands wringing together. You don’t mean to cut him off, but Lars is really chipping away at your ability to keep cool. The thought of Lars kneeling down with a wrench and working away at the bathroom pipes sends a tight feeling to your abdomen.
Lars grabs for the knob of the front door, eyes crinkling. “I’m gonna go. You probably want to settle in.”
“Oh. Thanks,” you murmur. You have to make up for your silence. “Thank you, Lars. Really,” you say again, more earnestly. Though you keep your hands glued to your sides, you can feel yourself pushing down that unforgivable desire to squeeze his hand. He gives you a curt nod, before making his way out. He makes sure to shut the door as gently as he can behind him; you can hardly hear it click closed. Past the translucent film of the white curtains, you can see Lars hurrying across the yard and into the house, boots plodding against the short grass. You have to pinch yourself for letting your lips quirk up into a smile.
—
You’re grateful for the way Karin has fought to get you an entry-level desk job. A little higher than minimum wage, generally simple. You answer the sick calls, sort the staff mail. What you aren’t so keen on is Karin’s idea of getting you acquainted with the rest of the school staff. The very-small PTA has a bake sale going on in the evening. So, the Lindstroms have to attend—for your sake.
The gymnasium has been fitted with a few rows of tables, identical black tablecloths laid out over the top. It’s a good mix of staff who you’ve only shaken the hands of once or twice, more who you’ve never even seen before, and the families of current students. All across the gym, there’s a good mix of baked goods. Gus is acting like he’s struck gold, and in the meantime, Karin has swept you away and started parading you around the room.
It seems a little targeted the way she walks you over to this particular corner of the bake sale, where there’s a taller guy around your age, dressed in a windbreaker and joggers. You already don’t like the look of it as-is. “Coach T,” Karin says, hand hovering over his right shoulder. “Travis. Sorry—we are off the clock. This is my best friend from college.” She murmurs your name to him, and you have to fight the urge to roll your eyes. It’s a setup, clearly. This Coach Travis takes your hand quickly into his own with one tight-squeeze. You can barely call it a handshake.
“You’re at the desk, right? Think I saw Lynn teaching you how to pick up the phones,” he nods. Polite, you remind yourself, be polite. Karin’s watching you with a tight, toothy grin on her face. So, maybe you would’ve liked this Travis guy in college, when you were nineteen. She’s not wrong in that sense, but you’re not exactly nineteen anymore. Now, he lacks appeal and you’re utterly bored being dragged through the small talk. You stick to it only for Karin’ sake—though you need to make sure she doesn’t hear the end of it later.
What you do find your mind drifting to is Lars. Sweet, attentive Lars who you’ve sometimes seen peeking towards the garage from the kitchen windows before ducking behind the frame. Lars, who always seems to want to serve you at those Lindstrom family dinners. And Lars, who’s across the gymnasium now, rolling little Elinor back and forth while Gus buys a couple of saran wrapped brownies. He seems to be zeroed in on your conversation—only looking away when you try to give him a little wave from the side.
Lars murmurs a couple words to Gus, before wheeling up to the three of you, stroller handles still clutched. You can see his eyebrows knit together, all pensive and brooding. Karin chuckles. “You remember my brother-in-law Lars?”
“Of course,” Travis leans down. “And this is Elinor, obviously. Just adorable.” Karin is about to give him another little laugh when she sees Gus flagging her down on the other side of the gym. He’s holding a couple of cookies now, balanced in one hand, and brownies in the other. Clearly indecisive.
“Jeez. I’ll be back,” she huffs to you—barely Lars and Travis—before making it over to her husband in a hurry. With just the three of you, there’s a little bit of a stall in the conversation. You can tell this elementary school PE teacher wants to talk to you, but there’s still Lars and Elinor babbling in her seat. You don’t think you’ve ever seen Lars so effervescently annoyed. He’s deadpanned just looking at Travis, on the near-verge of sizing him up. He picks up Elinor with both of his hands, bringing her into a soft cradle just over his shoulder. She cooes softly. All the while, you’re trying to keep a normal stream of thought about how stern he looks. Lars shrugs with his free shoulder. “We’re the godparents.”
You can’t swallow up that heat coming off your face. Travis nods, “Oh. That’s… cool, man.” It couldn’t get any worse than this. We. As in you and Lars. It almost sounds like you should be partnered up—a whole married couple waiting in line to care for this baby girl. That concept alone threatens to send you into a downward spiral. You try to let out an obligatory laugh, but it comes out more like a gentle wheeze.
—
After a good couple months living out in the garage, this is the very first time you’ve had to look over baby Elinor. Karin and Gus have this elaborate date night planned out for the both of them—something about a candlelit dinner and a splurge on some wine tasting. It leaves you and Lars in charge, which should be okay considering the circumstances. You’re essentially roommates. You’d like to call him a friend. After the way he spoke to that PE teacher at the bake sale, all pouty and inflexible, you’re not sure how to pin down the relationship. Odd, for starters.
This sounds more appropriate: you’re a couple of godparents babysitting. While your friends take a little evening out for some quality time, you don’t mind hanging out in the living room. While you’re seated on the floor with her on one end of the couch, Lars sits on the other. Elinor is grabbing at your finger and squeezing nightly around the nail of your index finger. She’s absolutely adorable.
She also has the grip of an infant. The second you seem a little bit dismayed by the way Elinor is holding onto you, Lars is taking up one of her plush rabbits and sweeping one of its paws softly over her nose. Elinor giggles. It’s a good enough distraction for her to let go of your pointer and surrender her attention over to Lars. You let out a quiet sigh and Lars is still very focused on putting on a good puppet show with the stuffed animal. Elinor’s big, brown eyes wonder at the sight of the rabbit doing what appears to be an Irish jig on the cushions of the couch.
While she squirms in your lap watching the performance, you’ve got a trained eye on Lars’ canines. He’s got a shy smile—one that’d maybe be wider if it were just him and the baby. You lift Elinor up and join Lars on the couch, seating her on your lap. She’s still trying to reach for that plush rabbit. “You’re really good with her, you know. You’re careful.”
Lars’ hold on the stuffed animal’s arms loosens and tightens up again. “Thank you.” You want to tell him that you think he’d be a good dad, but for fear of saying too much, you settle for a well-mannered, “You’re welcome.”
You have to apologize mentally to Karin and Gus for thinking what you are now. That you could picture yourself beyond the play-pretend of this living room—how it’d be to live in a house with Lars. To wear wedding bands. To have a newborn, a bunch of toys, a house. It’s not difficult for you to picture. He looks perfect on the couch in his button-up and patterned sweater, pulling Elinor off your lap politely and cradling her with a gentle support to the back of her head. What really makes you flushed is how he’s making Elinor look ten times tinier by comparison; it’s just so cute.
“I think she’s hungry,” Lars murmurs under his breath. He doesn’t happen to notice the dazed look his words shake you out of—attention trained down only on the baby.
“I can go cut her up some of those strawberries from the farmer’s market. Maybe a little bit of cereal,” you ponder. You’d seen Karin settle on that combination of snacks before. While Elinor isn’t a picky eater, you think she’ll probably enjoy it the most. She’s gibbering away as you get up off the couch and, padding across the wood floors, you hear Lars go, “You’re good, too.”
You give him a quick smile, before turning on your heels and making your way to the kitchen. Through the doorway, you can see him thud his balled hand onto his forehead. Elinor plants one of her small hands on the wool fabric over his chest, and he cooes quietly, “Well, I didn’t know what to say.” You dip your head down grabbing the box of fresh strawberries from the fridge, trying to wipe the grin off your face.
—
You’re just about to sneak into the main house with a basket of laundry when the two of you come face-to-face on the opposite sides of the back door. Lars is looking at you through the window, looking down at you with wide eyes. You take one step down. He holds the door open, stepping aside so you can shuffle inside. Once again, that sensation of his chest brushing up against your arm makes your stomach flip. “I was about to go for a walk,” Lars says to you.
You stammer, “I’ll, uh, leave you to it.” You know you’ve got to heave this laundry down into the basement where the washer and dryer reside. It’s going to be a pain, and Lars is still watching you with his hands stuffed in the front pockets of his puffer.
He’s taking his time, you think, in asking if you’d like to accompany him. Finally, he takes his gloved hands out of his pockets and tilts his head. With hands gripped at his sides, he asks, “You could—?”
“Yeah,” you nod briskly, placing your laundry basket down at your side. “Okay. I could use a little outdoors.”
A softened grin peeks onto his face. “I thought you would be at the school all day,” Lars tells you. “There’s Little League in the evening.”
“I’d rather walk with you,” you admit. You don’t much care for baseball right now. At least, not the baseball going on down at the elementary school. Lars smiles, waiting for you to deposit your laundry into the washer and set it up before joining him out on the back porch.
The walk is short and sweet—a little bumpy. Lars is humming some oldies jazz song as the two of you descend down the path. You swear you can see his hands flinch upwards the second you stumble over a braided lock of branches. You only give him a breathy laugh, which you’re pleased to see gets returned with one of Lars’ own. It isn’t often that you get to see him laugh like that. You want more of it, you think.
When you arrive at the lakeside, Lars is unzipping his puffer jacket and laying it down neatly on the ground in front of you. He blinks tight, waiting patiently for you to sit down. Though you’re tempted to insist that you don't mind sitting on the ground, Lars seems really keen on covering it up for you. You crouch down soft and lean back onto the puffer with a murmured “thanks.” Lars plants himself down beside you.
The sun won’t be down for at least an hour, and there’s a quiet perfection to the way the sun blurs over the lakewater. It’s always slightly overcast in town, but out here, it’s nicer than usual. Cleared-up. Lars winces, slightly, hands curling together on his lap. You can see the wisp of warm air billowing out of his mouth against the cold. “I haven’t been here since…”
“Bianca?” His eyes look a little glossy, but Lars still smiles. Yes, Bianca. God rest her soul. “It’s a really nice spot.”
“I used to watch Gus make mudpies here. In the summer, he’d mix it all up with a branch, and feed them to his GI Joes,” Lars says, gloved hand pointing over to some larger shrubs by the water. You grimace at the thought of those old, plastic soldiers face-down in the wet soil.
You murmur, “That’s kinda gross.”
“Yeah. It was,” he shrugs, looking down at the grass between you both. It’s dry and crisp, green blades leaned to one wind-brushed side. He reaches one hand to pull at the puffer below you, adjusting it neater at the corners.
“And you…?” You can’t picture Lars acting along with his brother. He’d play gentler, kinder.
“Watched the water. I liked to imagine I was fishing, but we weren’t allowed to touch the gear. Anyways, there were only ever minnows. Maybe a turtle, once…” Lars pulls at the ties of his boots, next. You tilt your head at Lars, trying to picture him with that younger version of Gus. Two boys on the lakeside, Lars’ brownish-blonde hair against his older brother’s pitch black. You've seen pictures before; he resembles his mother more. “Now,” he says, “I come here if the house gets a little bit loud.”
“A lot, then?” you wonder.
“It’s a good loud,” Lars smiles. He’d never think to speak against little Elinor or Karin or his brother, but you know there’s an inkling of truth to your suggestion. You’d deduced it easily within that evening of your first visit, and all those glimpses in the house afterwards. It’s no dig to anyone, just the way of the world.
You don’t know how long the two of you sit there, staring at the water ripple out in motion with the breeze. This—being outside, near the water—is an ideal source of calm. There’s so little expectation to it all. You, him, and the view. It’s dream-like. You’re not exactly sure how you end up kissing Lars in that gap of time. If he leans in, or you do. You’re simply aware of the fact that you’re leaned far too close together, and that your lips slide gently against one another in a soft peck. It’s over before you can even process it—hands cupped over your mouth with a gasp. “Oh, I’m sorry, Lars!”
Once you’ve started apologizing, you can’t stop. It comes out in a ranted and unending string. You know touch isn’t his favorite thing in the world, that it hurts. And now, you’re wracked with the terrible guilt that you’ve overstepped. His soft cheeks are burning a bright pink, seeming nearly startled by your outburst.
“No, no. It was good,” he starts. Then, a whispered correction: “—great.” You watch as Lars scruffs his gloved hand over the back of his neck. “Could you do it again?”
Suddenly, your apologies catch in your throat. You have to slow down for a minute, try to make sense of Lars’ request. “I don’t… you want me to?” you clarify. It’s really quite the opposite of what you’d expect from him. Still, he looks at you with his brows knitted together and his eyes fixed down at your lips.
“Would you let me…?” Lards tugs his wool gloves off his hands and stuffs them gently into his back pocket. Then, Lars reaches both of his hands out tentatively, fingers coming up to cup your jaw. He moves at his own speed, and you find your eyes fluttering closed with his touch. The second his lips come up against yours, you’re inhaling that woody scent raising off his knit sweater. His mustache tickles at your upper lip. You can hear the gentle laps of the lake, the beating of swallows’ wings far off on the other end. And it’s quiet. It’s the kind of calm that you could’ve only dreamed of experiencing when you were living in your apartment in the city. And you’re there together.
You’re taken out of the second he pulls back, a quiet, satisfied hum rising from his throat. Lars places a few polite pats on your knee, before drawing back and resting his elbows on his tucked-up knees. You do the same, face still flushed and lips slightly swollen from the way Lars just tried to snog you. You don’t know how he can be so at ease after a kiss like that; he practically sucked your breath out of your chest, and now he’s taking in the scenery.
“I want Elinor to take the pink room. She’s gonna get bigger soon,” Lars says. “Told Gus and Karin I’d move back into the garage.”
“So, we’re gonna cram in there together?” you chuckle softly. It’s roomy, sure, but you don’t think it’s roomy enough. And you won’t be working at that small town elementary school forever.
Lars blinks. “Sure. Or… wherever.” It’s an easy insinuation to make. He’ll move out, maybe even follow you wherever you end up heading next. The thought of him being around indefinitely makes your chest tighten. A good, slow life with Lars is more than you could ask for. You stick your hand out for him to take; ungloved, his big hand wraps around your own—soft palms warming up your fingertips.