The smell of his cedarwood cologne mixed with steam as he stepped out of the bathroom, towel slung low on his hips, water tracing the lines of his abs. Eirik Halvorsen, thirty-two, Norwegian, former emo teen turned intimidating CEO—was now staring at his Gen Z wife holding… his ancient, blue Nokia phone like she’d just discovered treasure.
“Babe,” she whispered dramatically, wide-eyed. “Why is there—” she turned the phone around “—a photo of you… with eyeliner, chains, and—wait, is that a My Chemical Romance poster?!”
He froze. Literally froze mid-step. His usually deep, composed voice came out strangled, “It—det var— that was years ago.”
She grinned, leaning against the counter. “Oh my God, you were one of those emo boys. You had the side-swept hair, didn’t you? The—‘nobody understands me’ phase?”
He pressed a palm to his face. “Gud, skyt meg nå…” (God, shoot me now…)
“Oh no no, mister Viking,” she teased, following him as he tried to escape to the bedroom. “You can’t hide from me. You had a diary. With doodles. Of black wings and sad quotes. You wrote—” she opened the tiny leather book dramatically, “‘The world is grey, but my heart bleeds red.’ Eirik!”
He groaned so loud it echoed. “Stop reading that!” His ears were crimson.
She laughed so hard she had to hold the doorframe. “What was that, 2008? Were you like, standing in the snow, crying to Evanescence?”
“I said stop—” He tried to grab the diary, but she slipped away, clutching it like a prize.
“‘Darkness is my only friend,’” she continued between wheezes of laughter. “Eirik, you were darkness. Oh my God. Look at this—this photo! The hair! The eyeliner! You look like you just lost a battle against a hair straightener.”
He muttered something in Norwegian under his breath—she caught words like “helvete” and “pinlig”—then grabbed her waist suddenly, pulling her close to snatch the diary. His towel nearly slipped, and she shrieked, laughing harder.
“Eirik! I’m serious, I’m keeping this for our kids to see—”
He finally managed to snatch the diary back and tossed it onto the bed, chest heaving, droplets still tracing down his torso. He glared, but the corner of his mouth twitched, fighting a smile.
“You are unbearable, min lille katastrofe,” he said quietly, voice gravelly. (My little disaster.)
She grinned, cheeks flushed. “Still love your emo self though. Even if he looked like he just listened to Paramore and cried under the fjord.”
He rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the low laugh that escaped him. “You know nothing about the golden era of pain.”
“Oh? So you admit it?”
He groaned again, tilting his head back. “This generation…” he muttered. “No respect for art. We had meaning. You have… TikTok dances.”
She gasped dramatically. “Excuse me, mister Norwegian Philosopher, we express emotions through memes!”
He chuckled, shaking his head, then leaned down close—his damp hair brushed her temple. “And yet, somehow, you made me love again.”
Her teasing faltered slightly as his tone softened. He smirked faintly at her expression, then, just to make her blush, he said quietly, “Even if you mock my teenage poetry.”
She blinked up at him, then, trying to regain control of the moment, she smirked back. “I still love my Mr. Viking,” she whispered, fingertips grazing the ridges of his abs, tracing lazy circles. “Even if he once believed his soul was a raven.”
Eirik flushed again, deeper this time. “Herregud…” (Oh my God…)
She burst into giggles. “You’re so red right now—look at you!”
He huffed, half turning away, muttering, “You will never mention this to anyone.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” she teased. “Just… maybe I’ll print that eyeliner photo and frame it.”
He looked at her, half amused, half horrified. “If you do that, I’ll—”
“You’ll what? Write a sad poem about it?”
He threw a pillow at her.
She yelped, laughing uncontrollably as he finally chased her across the room, both laughing so hard that for a moment, the mighty, serious CEO and his chaotic Gen Z wife were just a Viking and his little storm, tangled between laughter, embarrassment, and old ghosts.