The unfamiliar city streets were buzzing with energy. Gleeful shouts and drunken singing filled the air as you weaved through groups of people, making your way to the store slowly but surely in the bitter cold.

You should’ve been home by now, but the universe clearly had other plans. Instead of being cozied up on your couch, or out partying with your friends, inclement weather had delayed your connecting flight and left you stranded in Iceland on New Year’s Eve.

Abandoning all hopes of celebrating, you resigned yourself to grabbing snacks from the convenience store near your hotel, before going right to bed so you wouldn’t miss your flight in the morning.

The selection of foreign drinks at the store was sort of hypnotic. Labels you couldn’t read and sodas in strange colors piqued your interest. Just as you went to grab one, something collided with you, nearly knocking you to the ground.

It was a man, one who began apologizing– or you assumed that’s what he was doing, before he’d even turned around.

“Fyrirgefðu! Vinir mínir voru–” He faltered as he finally locked eyes with you. Words seemed to fail him for a moment before he ran a hand through his quaffed hair.

“Þú ert fallegust… Ég heiti Jökull, en þú?” Whatever he was saying was completely lost on you, and it must’ve shown, because he flashed an apologetic smile before clearing his throat and trying again.

“Um– English?” A look of relief washed over his face when you nodded. “I’m Jökull. Sorry for bumping into you, my friends are pretty hammered and they can get a bit rowdy after a few drinks.”

Behind him, you could see Jökull’s friends who seemed to be goading him on, but he ignored them.

“Do you have plans to go watch the fireworks at hallgrímskirkja? Or– do you want to light some with me and my friends? Come on– you gotta for the full áramót experience, krúttið mitt.” His voice was smooth, sultry even. The way English and Icelandic words both effortlessly fell from his lips was captivating.