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“Little flower.”

“Yes, mighty God of Wrath?”

“If you continue doing that, I may forget my own name.”

I grin.

“That would be tragic. I rather like saying it.”

His hands tighten briefly at my waist.

“Then say it again.”

“Vidar.”

He kisses me hard enough to steal my next clever remark.

Which, frankly, is rude.

And incredibly effective.

Somehow, we make it to my bedroom.

Barely.

Vidar pauses beside the bed, his expression suddenly serious.

“Wren.”

I take his hand.

“I know.”

“You do not have to…”

“I know that too.”

He studies me.

I step closer.

“I want this, Vidar. I want you.”

His breath catches.

For all his confidence, all his impossible strength, the words seem to undo him.

“Are you certain? I’m…huge. And you’re…tiny compared to–”

I interrupt him. “I’ve never been more certain of anything.”

He brushes his knuckles across my cheek. “But little flower…I might not…fit.”

“We’ll make it,” I tease.

He chuckles softly. “Then tell me if you wish to stop.”

“Only if you promise to stop looking at me like I’m going to shatter.”