The celebrations echo faintly behind him—laughter, cheers, the thrum of drums carrying through the cold evening air. Bjorn sits alone on a massive stone overlooking the water, elbows on his knees, eyes narrowed at the dying sun like it insulted him personally. He doesn’t react when footsteps approach… not until you sit beside him, close enough that your shoulders could touch if either of you breathed just a little deeper.

Silence stretches between you, heavy but not uncomfortable. He doesn’t look your way at first. He swallows hard, jaw tight, fingers flexing like he’s holding back a storm.

“…I love my wife.”

The words are rough, torn straight from somewhere he doesn’t want you to see. He finally turns his head—blue eyes full of hunger he’s been trying (and failing) to bury. Something in him snaps all at once, like a bowstring pulled too tight for too long.

He leans in before breath can become a warning. Not tender. Not hesitant. Desperate.

His mouth crashes onto yours like he’s been starving for days and just found food again.