She studies me like she’s measuring how far she can push before I snap. There’s no fear in her expression, only curiosity.
“I know you are. That’s what makes it funny.”
I let out a slow breath through my nose, forcing control through my system. She has no idea what she’s doing to me. Or maybe she does and she’s testing it. Testing me.
“You’re going to torture me with this information, aren’t you?”
She tilts her head slightly, unapologetic. “Maybe a little.”
I nod once, accepting it. “Cruel woman.”
Her eyes flicker with satisfaction. “You like it.”
I don’t answer immediately, because the truth sits too close to the surface. I like this version of her, the one who isn’t afraid to challenge me and doesn’t shrink.
“I do,” I admit finally, my voice quieter now, more honest than I intended. I hold her gaze for a moment longer, then shift slightly on the bench, adjusting the towel without thinking. It does nothing to ease the tension running through my body. “Okay,” I say after a moment, reclaiming control of the conversation. “I have a secret too. Fair trade.”
Her interest sharpens immediately, her entire focus locking on to me.
“Oh, big bad Slater is hiding something?” she says, leaning forward, her eyes bright. “Get out of here. I don’t believe it for a second.”
I meet her gaze, letting her see that this isn’t a joke.
Then I glance away briefly, not from weakness, but because choosing to give someone a piece of yourself requires intention. Requires certainty. This isn’t something I’ve offered anyone in a long time. I decide she’s worth it.
Then I begin to sing.
It’s an old Norse sailing song my grandfather taught me when I was young, before he passed. The words are in OldNorse, guttural and powerful and ancient, meant to be sung by Viking warriors heading out to dangerous seas. My voice drops lower naturally, taking on that deep resonant quality I use for narration work, letting each word carry weight and meaning even though I know she doesn’t understand the language.
“Víkingr ferr á skip, haf kallar, vindr blæss sterkr…”
The song isn’t long, maybe thirty or forty seconds total, but I put everything into it. Let my voice fill the small wooden space completely, let it vibrate through the heated air.
The silence after the last note stretches between us, thick and alive. Perspiration runs down my back, but I like the heat.
Anita is staring at me like I’ve just reached inside her and rearranged something vital. Her lips are parted. Her thighs are pressed together so tightly I can see the tension running through her muscles. Her breathing is uneven, chest rising faster than it should in this heat. Her pupils are dark and hungry.
All from my voice.
A slow, dangerous satisfaction settles low in my chest.
She fans herself dramatically, her hand fluttering near her face in a gesture that would be mocking if it weren’t for the way her fingers tremble slightly. “If your voice didn’t already completely cripple me,” she says, breathless but trying for humor, “now you sing? In a language that sounds like it belongs in some dark bedroom instead of a history book?” She swallows, her throat moving in a way that holds my attention. “Sweet Jesus. Have mercy on my poor life choices.”
I don’t smile.
I lean forward, resting my forearms on my thighs, closing the distance between us without touching her.
“You’re squeezing your legs together like you’re trying to survive something,” I say quietly.
Her eyes snap to mine, and color floods her face instantly.
She opens her mouth, closes it again, and then lifts her chin in a weak attempt at defiance. “It’s hot in here.”
“It is.” My gaze drags slowly down her body, then back up again. “But that’s not why.”
She huffs softly, the sound halfway between embarrassment and frustration. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“I am.”
