It is not meant as a question. You say it the way people say small truths they have already accepted. Casually. As if it belongs to the shape of things. A detail about later. About when the weather turns again. About something that assumes he will still be there when it does.

Ragnar stills.

Not abruptly. Not enough for anyone else to notice. But you have learned his pauses. You feel it in the air before you see it in him. His hand stops where it is. His attention narrows, as if the word you chose carries more weight than you intended.

He looks at you then. Not sharply. Not coldly. Measuring. The way he looks at land when someone claims it will hold forever.

“That’s a long way ahead,” he says.

His voice stays even. Grounded. He does not challenge the idea outright. He does not agree with it either. He shifts his weight, eyes drifting away for a moment, toward the door, toward distance, toward whatever still pulls at him no matter where he stands.

“People speak about the future like it waits for them,” he adds. “Like it stands still.”

He looks back at you. There is no anger there. No rejection. Only caution, hard-earned and unmoved by hope. “Things last because they’re chosen again,” he says. “Not because they’re planned.”

A pause settles between you. Not uncomfortable. Just honest.

“I don’t promise far things,” he continues. “I promise what I’m doing now.” His gaze holds yours, steady, unflinching. “Right now, I’m here.”

He lets that sit. He does not soften it with reassurance. He does not dress it up as devotion.

“If that’s enough,” he says quietly, “then we understand each other.”

He turns back to what he was doing as if the matter is settled.