That smile deepens, and for a heartbeat, it transforms his whole face. His jawline is strong, thick brows casting shadows over his steel-gray eyes. But it’s his mouth that nearly unravels me, those perfect lips that look like they were made to whisper promises against bare skin. Lips that could ruin a woman… or worship her.
Everything about him is too much and too perfect.
“There’s an old Norse tale about mist,” he explains. “About how it’s not just water and air, but the breath of the Norns. You know the Norns?”
My heart skips. “The weavers of fate.”
His eyes light up, just a fraction, but I catch it. “Yeah. Exactly. Most people don’t know that.” He shifts slightly, his focus entirely on me now. “In the story, the Norns would breathe mist over certain places when they were working on the threads of someone’s fate. The mist was meant to hide the work, keep it secret until the moment was right. Anyone who entered the mist was walking into a place where fate was being decided.”
I lean forward, captivated. “I’ve never heard that version.”
“Most people haven’t.” He’s watching me now with an intensity, and butterflies are bursting through my stomach. “My grandfather used to tell it. He was from Norway originally. Loved all the old stories. Used to say that mist wasn’t something to fear, it was something to respect because you never knew if the Norns were working on your thread.”
“That’s beautiful,” I say softly. Then, because I can’t help myself, I ask, “Do you know a lot of Norse mythology?”
“More than I probably should.” His smile turns self-deprecating. “It’s a bit of an obsession.”
“I’m fascinated by it too. The idea that fate isn’t fixed, that the Norns are constantly weaving and reweaving. That every choice matters, even the small ones.”
“Most people think it’s all about Vikings and violence,” he states, and there’s something almost relieved in his tone. Like he’s used to being disappointed by people’s shallow understanding.
“That’s because they don’t actually read the sagas. They just watch the TV shows.” I grin. “They’re missing the best parts. All that poetry and family drama. The fact that the gods are constantly tricking each other and getting into ridiculous situations.”
“Exactly.” He laughs, a low, rumbling sound that I feel in my chest. “Loki dressing up as a bride. Thor losing his hammer and having to cross-dress to get it back. It’s absurd and brilliant.”
“Nothing is ever simple or clear-cut.”
“That’s what I love about it,” he admits, and his voice drops slightly, becomes more intimate. “The way they treat fate and choice as existing together. Like you can’t have one without the other. Your fate is written, but you still have to walk the path. And how you walk it matters.”
We’re both quiet for a moment, just staring at each other, and the air between us feels charged. Thick with something I can’t quite name but definitely feel.
The ferry is slowing now, preparing to dock. People are gathering their belongings, moving toward the exits.
He pushes off from the railing, breaking the moment. “I should grab my gear.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
But neither of us moves immediately.
I’m on my feet now, trying not to lose my balance as the ferry rocks gently, and my heart is climbing into my throat because ifI don’t ask now, I’ll regret it forever. The air is heavily salty with some of the engine smoke still lingering.
He’s already turning away, heading back toward the rear of the ferry, when I call out, “Can I ask you something?”
He glances back over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised. “Sure. Shoot.”
My mouth is dry. My pulse is racing. But I force the words out. “Is your name Joe?”
For a split second, his expression goes completely blank. Unreadable. Then a slow, dangerous grin spreads across his face, wicked and knowing and entirely too attractive, and I almost come undone right there on the deck.
Oh my God. Itishim.
“Not a name I use often,” he says, his voice dropping to that low, intimate register that I know so well from my audiobooks.
Then he winks and disappears around the corner.
I’m left standing there, gripping my suitcase handle, trying to remember how to breathe.
Holy shit.
