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It's your turn to do the groceries, and you did so happily. Lars had stayed home to chop wood, and cheerfully distribute extra to your nearest neighbors.
You like going to the grocery store, chatting with neighbors as you did, or the grocer, or the bag boy, who excitedly told you about his school projects whenever you went. He was 16. Adults didn’t always take him seriously, but you did, and he liked having an ear, and sometimes advice. You warn him against doing the volcano for his science project, everybody did the volcano. He nods studiously. You make a few suggestions. He settles on the water cycle, because he has ideas. You tell him you’d look over it when he's done. He gives you a thumbs up, and you wheel the cart out to the car.
You're humming to yourself as you load the trunk, and thinking about going back, putting groceries away, watching Lars chop wood. That's always a fun time. If he noticed you watching, he would show off.
He’d playfully flex his muscles (even if he was wearing a flannel and sweater like he would be this time of year), and heave the axe up over his head, acting very serious, but then letting out a ridiculous loud noise as he unloaded on the log, because it made you giggle. Sometimes he’d stick his ass out, because he knew you liked it. If you were very brave, you might pat his ass, and he would squeak and run around the stump base to get away from you, but he’d be smiling the whole time.
But when you get home, there's no sign of him. It's colder than it had been when you left, maybe that was why. It's neat and tidy, except for a spray of wood shrapnel, the axe hanging up like it's supposed to.
You load your arms with groceries and go inside, to find Lars sitting on the couch, watching TV, the blanket that lived on the couch thrown up over him. His sweater is off, but his flannel is still on, the sleeves rolled up. His right arm has a pristine white bandage on it.
You dump the groceries off on the dining table and rushed back over. “Lars! Are you okay?”
He blinks at you, and then shuts off the TV. “Huh? Oh… yeah. I just hurt it a little.”
You frown and study his face, his hair a mess because he took off his hat and never brushes down his hair. He seems oblivious to the fact that his injury upset you. Until he realizes you were still frowning.
“It’s okay,” he says, “it didn’t even need stitches.”
Groceries forgotten, you sit down hard on the couch. “Lars Lindstrom,” you say, and his head sinks into his shoulders a little. “How badly did you get hurt?”
“Not bad,” he said, his mouth quivering a little, and you softened. “I promise.”
“Let me see, please? You can take the bandage off if you want. Please, I just need to know how bad it is for my peace of mind.”
He nods a little, sniffling, and you feel bad for getting upset, but you know he understands. He unwinds the bandage and plucks away the gauze, revealing the injury, a long shallow slice and some smaller scabbing patches. “This looks like wood shrapnel,” you say softly.
He rubs his nose, nodding. “Yeah,” he says. “It never happened before. I got scared, and walked to the doctor.”
“Oh honey,” you say, wishing you could stroke his hair to comfort him, but you know the words are more important to him right now anyway. “I’m sorry I got upset, I was just worried when I came home and didn’t see you. And then you were bandaged up and got hurt.”
His eyes waters, not quite tears, and his mouth turns down, his mustache a sad little c. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, and you hesitantly reach out toward him. Offering comfort.
Instead of taking your hand like you expect, he lurches his entire body toward it, pressing his cheek into your fingers, a tear leaking out as he did. You keep your hand there, cradling his cheek, until he moved away.
“It’s okay sweetheart,” you say softly. “Do you want help getting bandaged back up?”
He snuffles a little, and wipes his eyes clumsily with his free hand. “Yeah.”
You grab the blanket and fold it up a couple of times and drape it over your knee. “Hand here,” you say, gently commanding, and he does as he’s told, setting his hand on your blanket-covered knee.
You set the gauze on the slice on his arm, and then wind the bandage around. It’s not expertly done by any means, but it does the job, covering the injury and keeping it protected from Lars’ idly picking fingers. Because it’s padded, you can bend down and kiss over the gauze.
And when you look up, he’s smiling at you again, tears forgotten.
“Hey uh,” he says, as you get up to put the groceries away. “I was gonna ask before.” He folds the blanket in half, draping it over himself again. “When… when you’re done… you wanna cuddle?” He raises a blanket covered arm briefly.
“Absolutely,” you say immediately, and smile back.
It doesn’t take you long, maybe you’re motivated by the idea of cuddling with him, but you get the groceries put away in record time. You can hear whatever show he’s watching again, the TV back on.
You head back out, taking a moment to study his profile, smiling as he intently watches his show. Just watching him, taking him in, his profile highlighted by the early afternoon light.
When he notices you, he holds out that blanket covered arm again, and you go to him and sit down, your side against his, your thigh touching his, leaning into him. The blanket spreads up onto his shoulder, and you can lean your head on him too. Ideal, really. His arm folds around you, draped in blanket, and you feel warm and safe where you are, wrapped in a blanket and cuddled close against Lars. You shift the blanket a little, so that you can rest your arm over his soft tummy, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing. You’re still not sure what the show is he’s watching, but you can’t be bothered to care.