“All right, Liv. Thanks for chatting,” I cut her off. “I’d better go so I leave enough time to account for traffic.”
“Yes! Go!” she agrees. “Text me.”
After providing a verbal pinky swear that I’ll send her regular updates, I log off of work and head into the bathroom for a final appearance check. I’d spent extra time this morning, trimming and oiling my beard. I’d also attempted to style my hair, but abandoned that pretty quickly when I remembered I had no idea what I was doing. Jeans and a plain T-shirt, topped with a dark flannel, soft with age, finish up the look. Olivia had stressed about the importance of “the look”—reminding me that Niilo and I haven’t seen one another in months, so I need to be presenting my best self.
Staring into the mirror, I’m unsure whether I pulled off that assignment, but have run out of time to stress about it. It’s time to go get him. My best self will just have to be this one.
I had grand plans to meet my traveler in baggage claim—greet him with the kind of aplomb usually reserved for loved ones returning from war. Unfortunately, traffic and the weather have other plans for me, and when I pull up to passenger pickup, Niilo is already waiting outside, still under the awning and safe from the rain.
His blond hair is pulled up in a high bun, fallen pieces tickling the back of his neck and tucked behind his ears. He’s wearing the sort of thing one would wear if they were about to spend hours seated on an airplane—a baggy, cozy-looking hoodie and a pair of sweatpants. I barely pay attention to the car in front of me as I pull to a stop at the curb, throat tight and heart pounding. He’s right there, looking just as soft and warm and lovely as I’ve spent every day remembering him to be.
Putting the SUV in park, I hop out and leave the driver’s door hanging open as I round the hood. He meets me there, blue eyes bright in the gray, misty light of the day, hands already reaching for me. Arms wrapped around his waist, and his own around my neck, we fit back together perfectly.
“Hi,” he mumbles into my neck.
“Hi,” I reply, slipping a hand beneath that bulky hoodie to find the warmth underneath.
When we pull away, Niilo drops back down onto his heels and gazes at me, face tipped upward into the rain. Drops already cling to the delicate lashes, dotting his cheeks and dampening his hair. Cars honk as everyone begins to lose patience with my parked vehicle, and I can see a traffic guard approaching in my periphery. Niilo smiles at me, the same mischievous tilt and shine to his eyes that I remember so well. I exhale in relief. He looks so happy to see me.
Another driver leans on the horn, breaking our foggy, rainy little bubble. Niilo smirks, pushing back up onto his toes to kiss my cheek, lips warm against my cool skin.
“Shall we go?” he prompts. I nod, feeling like a ticket probably isn’t the best way to start what I hope will be another vacation as lovely and blessed as the one we shared in Italy. Seattle might not have the sun-drenched cobbles and red stone, nor the ocean peeking over the horizon and the scent of lemons on the air. But it has me, and now it has Niilo, and I’m really hoping that’ll be enough for now.
Curious, Niilo watches out the window as I drive us home, our combined body heat fogging up the windows as the windshield wipers slide back and forth, scattering the raindrops. I limit myself to quick, furtive gazes to his side of the car, longing to look at him but also really wanting to get us home in one piece.
“It’s a little cooler than I was thinking it would be,” he tells me, pairing the words with a smile to let me know this isn’t a bad thing.
“October can be pretty hit or miss,” I agree. “It’s usually pretty mild, but you can definitely feel winter creeping in.”
“I enjoy winter. And I enjoy the rain.”
I look over again, unable to resist the incredible pull of his gravity. I’ve never seen him wear sweats like that—bundled up and cozy, hair a little disarrayed, and face clean of any cosmetics. I’m not sure if it was his intention by putting on the clothes, but I’m eager to get home, start a fire in the hearth, and cuddle on the couch. Everything about him right now is calling for me to wrap him up and hold him until he’s warm.
“Me too. Actually, if it rained here every day, I wouldn’t mind,” I admit, leaning carefully on the brakes as traffic slows.
“And if you find yourself in need of sun, you can hop on an airplane to find it.”
I meet his eyes and see my own sunny memories reflected back to me. I see the turquoise water shimmering off the stone of the Trevi Fountain, and our day spent exploring the rocky city of Matera hand in hand. Sometimes, returning from vacation is like stepping from watercolor to monochrome—a reminder that beautiful things are meant to be enjoyed but not kept. This time around I want to be greedy. I want to keep not only the memories and the photographs, but the slim fingers twined with mine. I want to keep the fox-faced, silver-haired dream that poured me a drink and took me on an adventure.
That dream leans forward now, stretching the seat belt across his narrow chest as he reaches for a better view of my house. I’m rather proud of owning the thing, despite its somewhat too-large size for a single man. It’s a beautiful cabin, tucked against a hill and nestled into the woods so perfectly it’s hard to imagine it being built rather than simply dropped fromthe sky. The drive is unpaved, the gravel crunching under the tires as I pull up to the slowly rising garage. Niilo sits back as I bring us to a stop, the interior darkening as the door rolls closed behind us. Suddenly nervous, I fiddle with the key as I pull it from the ignition. I have every amenity we enjoyed in Italy, but my home is a hell of a lot more rustic than some. It can be drafty in the winter, and creaky every time the wind blows; I see raccoons, deer, and chipmunks more often than I see humans. Sometimes, my cell service cuts out for no discernable reason and I have to walk around the porch with the device held above my head.
“Do you own this land?” Niilo asks, carefully opening his door and peeking around to make sure he won’t hit anything. I follow him out, not opening the trunk until I can be sure he won’t beat me to carrying his bags. When he sees what I’m doing, he smiles in a slightly exasperated but fond way.
“A handful of acres, yeah.”
“Wow. When you described it I hadn’t pictured it quite like this.” Smiling softly, he trails me as we walk inside. Instead of stopping next to me where I’m resting his bags next to the kitchen island, he strolls slowly around the great room, head rotating and hands reaching, fingers stroking along the back of the couch as he passes on his way to the bookshelves. He adds, “This is lovely.”
My shoulders relax. Filling him a glass of water from my filtered tap, I bring it to where he’s looking out the back window. When I stop next to him, he slides his arm around my waist and leans against me. As though only waiting for the moment we got home, a clap of thunder rolls out above the house. Rain patters harder against the window, glass foggy from the difference in temperature. I’d turned the heat on before I left, not able to use our time in Italy as an indicator of Niilo’s temperature preferences and worried he’d get cold.
“I’ve got a fire pit,” I tell him, just as another boom of thunder echoes, laughing at my attempt to make outdoor plans.
“Maybe tomorrow,” Niilo jokes gently, giving me a squeeze.
“Tour?” I offer.
We make our slow way around the house, socked feet muffled on the wooden floors and the rain drumming gently on the roof. By the time we’re finished and Niilo’s bags are wheeled into the corner of my bedroom to be dealt with tomorrow, he’s ready for a shower and I’m ready to turn my couch-cuddling daydream into reality. Leaving him to wash off the airplane, I head to the kitchen to heat up something for dinner. It’s already dark outside, with the sun going down and the storm helping smother the light. It makes me sleepy, and a little bit nervous. Soon, it’ll be time for bed; time to sleep next to Niilo again—our first occasion to do it in the real world and not the gilded holiday one.
I get a frozen lasagna in the oven and a somewhat sad-looking salad prepared by the time Niilo’s soft footsteps alert me to his approach. He’s put on a clean pair of sweats from his case; his hair is wet, cheeks rosy from the heat of the shower, but otherwise looking remarkably similar to how he’d stepped off the airplane. Which means he looks pretty and soft and smells like a fresh spring day.
