Gonna edit never

STOCKHOLM — A WEEKDAY MORNING FERRY

The cold hit her first.

A sharp, crystalline kind of cold that snuck under scarves and sleeves, that turned breath into fog and fingertips numb in seconds. London winters were damp and grey; LA winters were barely winters at all.
But Stockholm in December—that was something else entirely.
A beautiful kind of brutal.

Isla stepped onto the ferry deck with a quiet exhale, the air slicing across her cheeks like clean glass. Her coat—a long, structured black wool coat, heavy and elegant—swept around her knees as the wind caught it. She’d layered well enough: a soft cream turtleneck, thick charcoal trousers, leather gloves, and a deep green knit beanie pulled low over her ears. Still, the cold bit straight through her like she’d forgotten how to hold warmth.

She tugged the coat tighter anyway and stepped closer to the railing, her breath floating up in small white clouds.

She hadn’t planned to come here.

Yesterday she’d been in LA, unpacking a small suitcase for Wren’s return, mentally scheduling the next few days—school pick-up, ballet class, avocado toast breakfasts, the little domestic rituals she loved more than anything.
But then Wren had asked—bright-eyed, earnest—to stay with Kai and Lennon just a little longer.
A weekend. Maybe a week.

Isla had said yes, of course.
Because she trusted Kai.
Because she liked Lennon.
Because co-parenting meant letting her daughter belong to more than one world.

But when she’d hung up the phone, the quiet in her house had swallowed her whole.

No small footsteps.
No glitter trail.
No tiny voice asking for “just one more bedtime song.”

Just… silence.

And in that silence came the ache—familiar, not dramatic, but deep.
The ache of missing her compass.
Of missing purpose.
Of missing being needed.

So she booked a red-eye.
Packed a small suitcase.
Chose a location she’d been thinking about since a quiet night in London two weeks ago.

She hadn’t come here for him.
But she had come because of something he’d said—about the air, the sea, the quiet, the honesty of it.

She’d needed that honesty.
The clean slate of a new place.
A cold sharp enough to make her feel something other than the absence of small hands in hers.

The ferry rocked gently beneath her boots as it cut across the icy water. The sky was pale pink at the horizon, the kind of muted Scandinavian sunrise she’d only ever seen in films. Seagulls drifted overhead. The islands appeared like shadows through the mist.

She was so absorbed in it—the cold, the view, the rare quiet in her mind—that she didn’t notice the figure approaching until the deck shifted under another pair of footsteps.

She turned—

—and froze, breath catching in her throat for a reason that had nothing to do with the cold.

Julian.

Tall, wrapped in a charcoal coat, snow-damp hair pushed back, scarf loose around his neck. He looked like he’d stepped out of the landscape itself—belonging to it in a way she suddenly, sharply realized she never could.

For a long heartbeat, neither of them moved.

Of all the people on all the ferries on all the winter mornings in Stockholm…
The universe had tripped her again.

Her lips parted, a soft, incredulous sound escaping—half laugh, half exhale.

“Oh,” she murmured, fogging the cold air between them. “Of course. Of course it would be you.”

Her tone carried dry humor—an echo of London, of that tucked-away bar, of the warmth and wine and connection she hadn’t been able to shake since.

The wind cut through her coat again, making her shiver despite herself.

He noticed.
Of course he did.

She held his gaze, chin tipping up slightly, admitting—without words, without fuss—that she was freezing.

And when he stepped closer with the quiet certainty of a man who made decisions slowly but acted decisively…

…she didn’t move.

He reached up, fingers brushing the edge of his scarf where it wrapped loosely around his neck.
Not hurried.
Not hesitant.

He looked at her as he untwound it — really looked — and in that suspended breath between them, something unspoken passed.

A question.

An offering.

A quiet, wordless may I?

And she answered him without speaking.
A faint softening in her eyes.
The smallest shift of her shoulders.
A stillness that was not resistance.

Consent, given in the gentlest form.

He understood immediately.

Julian stepped close enough for his breath to warm the cold air between them and lifted the scarf, settling the soft grey wool around her neck with careful, almost reverent hands — not brushing against her skin, but close enough that she felt the warmth of him in the space they shared.

No words.
No explanations.

Just the simple, intimate act of a man from this place offering warmth to a woman who hadn’t expected to find him here.

And for the first time since yesterday’s quiet house in LA, Isla felt the cold ease.

Julian didn’t speak at first.
He didn’t need to.

The wind whipped across the open deck, stirring the ends of his coat and sending a ghost of snow-damp air between them — but he remained steady, unmoved by the cold that made her tremble. He watched her, his pale eyes softening in that way they had only once before — the night she’d chosen a few more moments with him in a candlelit London bar.

But this moment?

This was different.

Because she was here.
On his sea.
In his winter.
In his country — the frozen, honest place he’d told her about like it was a confession.

And that realization settled into him with a quiet, startled gravity.

He finished adjusting the scarf around her neck, letting the ends fall neatly against her chest. His hands hovered a beat longer than necessary — not touching her, but warming the space between them like a promise he didn’t name.

When he finally lowered them, he exhaled a slow ribbon of breath, barely visible in the white air.

“You’re freezing,” he said gently — his voice deeper in the cold, softened by a faint rasp, the Swedish vowels wrapped in warmth. “You should be inside.”

But she didn’t step back.
And he didn’t move away.

His gaze drifted over her winter-wrapped frame — the beanie, the gloves, the elegant coat already losing a battle against the Baltic wind.

Then his eyes returned to hers, steady and searching.

“Isla,” he murmured — the first time he’d ever said her name with this kind of gravity, like speaking it anchored him to something he hadn’t expected. “What are you doing here?”

The question wasn’t sharp.
Wasn’t accusatory.
It was quiet.
Careful.
Almost unreal — because he genuinely could not believe she was standing in front of him, on this ferry, in this cold, so many worlds away from where he’d left her.

The wind rushed around them, tugging at her coat, brushing snow-damp hair across his forehead.

He shook his head — a breath of incredulous laughter escaping him, subtle and entirely unguarded.

“Of all the boats,” he said softly, a smile forming — slow, warm, disbelieving. “Of all the days.”

He stepped closer again, not touching her, but sheltering her from the wind with the instinctive ease of a man who understood this cold and understood she didn’t.

“You should be warm,” Julian murmured, voice lower now, intimacy threading naturally into every syllable. “You shouldn’t be out here alone in this.”

He glanced at the horizon — the mist, the islands appearing like ink strokes across the pale sky — before his eyes found hers again, steadier this time.

“Tell me you didn’t fly across the world just for the scenery.”

His tone wasn’t teasing.
It wasn’t presumptuous.
It was gentle — protective in the quietest way — but undeniably threaded with something deeper.

A hope he didn’t want to name.
An ache he didn’t want to assume.

His voice dropped one last notch, barely above the wind:

“Tell me why you’re here, Isla.”

For several long seconds, Isla didn’t say anything at all.

The warmth from the scarf sank into her skin slowly, like her body wasn’t sure it was allowed to accept it at first. It still held him — faintly, subtly, in the way wool keeps memories of heat — and she let it settle around her like something she hadn’t realized she’d been craving.

Bond Street cashmere had never felt like this.
Nothing warm had ever felt quite like this.

She breathed in the cold, letting it fill her lungs, letting it bite at the places the scarf couldn’t reach. The Baltic air was harsher, cleaner, truer than anything back home. It made her feel awake in a way she hadn’t since… London.

A ferry cut through the water below, slow and steady, the engine’s low hum vibrating up through the deck. Ice lined the rail in thin, delicate webs. Light glimmered off the distant archipelago like scattered mirrors.

She took all of it in — the sea, the sky, the impossible coincidence of him — and allowed herself a moment of quiet awe.

Because it was ridiculous.
And improbable.
And exactly the kind of thing the universe liked to do when she wasn’t looking.

And because he’d placed the scarf on her like it meant something.
Not romantically.
Not even intimately.
But gently.
Like he cared whether she was warm or not.

Her throat tightened for a beat she didn’t let show.

Finally, she looked up at him — cheeks flushed from the wind, breath forming soft clouds between them, the ends of his scarf brushing her coat with every gust.

“I didn’t come for the scenery,” she said at last, her voice low and even, but softened by the cold and by him. “Though I’ll admit it’s a very convenient excuse.”

His eyes searched hers, steady, waiting — not prying, just listening the way he had that night in London.

She exhaled, letting the wind take half of it.

“I like the cold,” Isla continued, letting a small, dry smile tug at her lips. “Or… apparently I used to. One too many LA winters and now I’m being humbled by Sweden.”

A tiny beat.
A flicker of humor.

“But I needed air that wasn’t mine,” she said honestly. “Someplace quiet. Someplace sharp enough to wake me up a bit.”

She brushed a thumb over the edge of the scarf without thinking, grounding herself in the warmth it offered.

“As for why here…”
Her gaze drifted briefly toward the icy horizon before returning to him.
“…someone spoke very fondly of it recently.”

It wasn’t an admission.
Not a confession.
Just the truth, delivered with the gentle precision he’d earned.

A gust of wind rushed past them again, colder than before, and she stepped a half-inch closer without noticing, seeking shelter from the wind — or maybe just from the absurdity of this moment.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she added lightly, dry humor threading through her voice as she looked up at him again. “I didn’t follow you across continents.”
A beat.
“But the timing is… suspicious.”

She let the implication hang there — playful, warm, but still composed — before adding, softer:

“And for the record, I’m not going inside yet.”

Her eyes held his, steady.

“I came for the cold.”

A quiet, almost imperceptible smile.

“But the company’s helping.”

Julian didn’t smile at first.

He felt something like a smile rise in him — slow, warm, inevitable — but he held it, let it build behind his expression instead of showing all of it at once. The wind cut between them again, cold enough to sting even his skin, but she stepped that fraction closer…

…and he felt it.

Not the cold.
Her.

Her nearness.
Her trust.
Her choosing to stand out here with him instead of going inside.

He lowered his gaze briefly to the scarf around her neck — his scarf — and the way her fingers brushed its edge like she didn’t realize she was doing it. Something tightened in his chest at the sight. Soft, unexpected. Grounding.

When he finally lifted his eyes to hers again, there was no question left in them. No disbelief. Just quiet clarity.

“I didn’t think you followed me,” he said softly, his breath fogging the air between them. “But it crossed my mind that maybe the same thing that pulled me home…”
His gaze flicked to the horizon, to the ice trailing across the water.
“…pulled you here too.”

He let that truth sit for a moment — unpushy, unclaimed, but palpable.

When she said the timing was suspicious, the smile finally broke through — small, real, tugging at the corner of his mouth in that understated Scandinavian way that made it feel more intimate than anything broad or obvious.

“Very suspicious,” he murmured, eyes warming. “Enough that I’m starting to think the universe might have a strange sense of humor when it comes to us.”

The ferry tilted slightly as it cut through another swell. Instinctively — effortlessly — he shifted a step closer, placing himself just enough in front of her to block the worst of the wind. Not touching her. But shielding her.

She didn’t step back.
Not even half an inch.

When she said she came for the cold, his brows lifted just slightly, amused.

“You chose the wrong country for gentle cold,” he replied. “Sweden doesn’t do subtle.”
Then his voice dropped, rich and low.
“But you… you’re handling it.”

He studied her face — the faint flush in her cheeks, the wind-stung pink of her nose, the softness in her eyes that the cold only sharpened.

“And the company?” he echoed, quieter now. “I’m glad it’s helping.”

A beat.
His breath rose in white tendrils.
The world around them was all frost and sea and winter silence.

Then, with the same deliberate gentleness he’d used in London, he added:

“For what it’s worth… having you here?”
His voice softened, dipped deeper.
“It’s helping me too.”

The ferry’s horn sounded far off, echoing across the water. He didn’t move.

He let the cold wrap around them, let the scarf warm her throat, let the strange, impossible coincidence settle into something that felt less like chance and more like quiet inevitability.

Then, after a long, steady moment:

“If you want the real cold,” he said, nodding toward the frozen expanse ahead, “you’ll need gloves twice as thick.”
His eyes flicked down to her hands, then back up.
“But stay. As long as you want. I’m not going inside either.”

Isla let the silence stretch.

Not the awkward kind — the kind that felt earned, like the cold had carved out a small pocket of stillness just for them on the open deck.

Julian stood just a little closer now, instinctively positioning himself between her and the knife-sharp wind. His coat blocked the worst of it, his body casting a small, unexpected warmth across the space where she stood. The scarf radiated heat slowly, like something waking. She sank into it without breaking her composure.

It should have felt odd — letting someone soften the cold for her.
But with him, it didn’t.
With him, it felt… natural.

The ferry pitched gently, snow-flecked spray rising off the water. His stance widened automatically, steadying them both without touching her. He didn’t hover, didn’t crowd — he offered warmth without asking for anything in return.

The kind of kindness she wasn’t often given without a cost.

She felt her throat tighten.
Not painfully.
Just… unexpectedly.

The wind tugged at her beanie and brushed icy strands of hair across her cheek. Julian’s eyes followed the movement before lifting to hers again — calm, steady, quietly attentive in a way most people never were.

A ridiculous coincidence.
A freezing morning.
A man who moved like the cold wasn’t anything to fear.

And she stood there, in his scarf, in his winter, wondering why the universe insisted on placing him in her path twice in two weeks.

Her heart gave a small, bewildered thud she chose to ignore.

She swallowed the moment and tilted her chin up, letting dry humor soften the edges of whatever emotion flickered beneath.

“You’re awfully composed for someone standing on a ferry at dawn in sub-zero temperatures,” she said lightly. “What exactly are you doing out here?”

The question came out steady, almost casual — but inside, she felt something pull taut.
Almost curiosity.
Almost hope.
Almost something she refused to label.

Because Sweden was his place.
Because he’d spoken of it with reverence.
Because something in his voice in London had stayed with her longer than she’d expected.

And because, seeing him here now — surrounded by snow, sea, and early winter light — made a startling kind of sense.

The scarf warmed her neck.
The cold stung her cheeks.
The breath between them curled white in the freezing air.

She didn’t admit it out loud, but she liked the way this felt — the way he shielded her from the wind, the way she belonged to this moment more than she’d belonged anywhere yesterday.

And when he looked at her, waiting to answer, she realized something quietly, inconveniently true:

Whatever was brewing inside her — beneath the cold, beneath the scarf, beneath the steadiness she tried to maintain —
it didn’t feel like something she could ignore for much longer.

Julian didn’t rush to answer her.
He let her question hang there — soft, teasing, edged with curiosity she didn’t bother hiding — and he absorbed it the way he absorbed everything she said: fully, quietly, with the kind of attention that warmed more than the scarf ever could.

The wind tore across the deck again, sharp and merciless, but he didn’t flinch.
He never did.
The cold belonged to him in a way warmth belonged to her.

Which made her question — what exactly are you doing out here? — press into a place he usually kept closed.

He shifted his weight, just slightly, boots grounded against the metal deck as the ferry tilted. Snowflakes clung to his dark hair, melting slowly in the places where the heat of his skin could reach. When he finally spoke, his voice was low enough that she had to lean in just a fraction to hear him over the wind.

“Remember what I told you in London?” he said quietly. “About home being a person—or a place—where I don’t have to pretend?”

His breath curled white between them, fading into the icy air.

“This is that place,” he continued, eyes drifting out toward the archipelago where the islands rose like ghostly silhouettes. “Out here… before the city wakes… it’s the one time the world doesn’t ask anything of me.”

He let that settle — honest, unguarded.

Then he glanced at her again, and the sharp Swedish winter softened around the edges.

“And I come out here,” he added, “because it reminds me I’m real. Not the characters. Not the interviews. Just… me.”

His eyes flicked down to the scarf around her neck — his scarf — then back up to her flushed, wind-bitten face.

“But today,” he said, a quiet warmth threading through his tone, “it seems the universe decided I wasn’t meant to be alone with the water.”

The smallest hint of humor softened his mouth.

“Didn’t expect my solitude to be interrupted by a woman dressed like she wandered out of a London fashion editorial and forgot Sweden tries to kill outsiders in the winter.”

His gaze warmed — gentle teasing, nothing sharp.

“But you’re handling it,” he murmured. “Better than most.”

She didn’t look away.
Not from the cold.
Not from him.
Not from the moment that had wrapped itself around them with surprising ease.

He stepped a fraction closer — enough that her shoulder slipped into the shelter of his coat’s warmth again, enough that the scarf held a little more of his heat.

“And you?” he asked, voice deepening into something softer, more intimate in the frost-filled air. “What are you really doing out here?”

He tilted his head, watching her with quiet, disarming certainty.

“Because I know you didn’t fly across the world just to wake up.”
A beat.
“And you didn’t come for the cold.”

The wind carried the rest of his thought away, but the meaning lingered in the space between them:

You came because you needed something.
And I’m not sure it wasn’t me.

For a moment, Isla only breathed — slow, even, letting the Baltic air sting her lungs and steady her thoughts.

She turned her face toward the horizon, toward the pale sun rising over jagged islands, and she let herself take in what she’d come here for: the quiet, the cold, the sense of being small against something vast and unbothered.

Then she looked back at him.

“You know,” she said, voice low but laced with humor, “I’m starting to think you might actually be insane. Ferry rides at dawn… in this temperature?” Her mouth curved. “Most people would call that a cry for help.”

His expression flickered — not offended, not surprised — just softly amused in that understated way that made her want to look twice.

She exhaled, a slow ribbon of white breath drifting into the sharp air.

“But I remember,” she added quietly. “What you told me in London. About needing places that don’t ask things from you. Places where you get to be…”
She hesitated — not dramatically, just enough to feel the truth tighten in her chest.
“…the unedited version of yourself.”

Her eyes drifted out toward the water again.

“That stuck with me,” she admitted. “More than I expected.”

The cold pressed in around them, but for once it felt like something she welcomed rather than endured.

“I needed somewhere like that,” she continued, honesty threading through her voice without becoming vulnerability. “Somewhere quiet. Somewhere that wasn’t mine. Somewhere I could breathe without being…”
She searched for the right word — concise, truthful, not too revealing.
“…looked at.”

A small, almost self-deprecating laugh slipped out.

“Sweden felt like the opposite of everything I was trying to outrun.” Her gaze softened. “And you described it so beautifully I thought, well… maybe it would do the job.”

She shrugged lightly, a gesture more poetic than dismissive.

“So here I am. On a freezing ferry. Trying to see what you see.”

Another gust of wind tore across the deck, pushing snowflakes sideways. Isla tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear and let the cold graze her cheek like a reminder she was still alive.

“As for today…” she said, straightening a bit, composure returning like a familiar coat she slipped back into, “the plan was Christmas shopping, sightseeing, pretending I’m far more outdoorsy than I actually am.”

Her smile curved, sly and self-aware.

“And apparently discovering I need an entire second wardrobe just to survive here.”
She tilted her head at him, dry humor glinting in her eyes.
“Which I will now be adding to the itinerary.”

The ferry shifted slightly under their feet. She steadied herself, boots braced, eyes returning to him with something gentler than before.

Then — casual but not careless, warm but not eager — she added:

“You’re welcome to join me, if you’re not rushing off to some brooding artist pilgrimage.”

A beat.

“I hear Stockholm is more forgiving when someone who actually knows what they’re doing shows you around.”

Her tone softened on the last line, sincerity threading underneath the humor.

“And… I wouldn’t mind the company.”

The wind cut hard across the deck, but he barely registered it anymore. Not when she was standing there, wrapped in his scarf, looking at him with that mix of humor and honesty that made every line she spoke feel quietly intentional.

He let her words settle — all of them — the humor, the admission, the soft ache she tried to disguise under composure. There was something about the way she spoke that always landed deeper than she intended. Something he hadn’t expected from her the night they met, and certainly not on a ferry in the Swedish winter.

Julian’s gaze moved from her face to the frozen horizon behind her, then back again.

“You picked a brutal way to reset,” he said, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly. “Most people start with a quiet café. You went straight for sub-zero temperatures and open water.”

There was admiration in his tone, subtle but unmistakable.

Another gust sent her hair brushing her cheek. He caught the motion in his peripheral, the instinct to steady her rising before he masked it with a breath.

Her explanation — the honesty of it — pulled something in him taut. The way she said unedited version made his jaw tighten with recognition.

He stepped closer, just enough that his voice carried easily, steady over the wind.

“For what it’s worth,” he said softly, “you don’t look like someone who’s being chased by anything.”

His eyes held hers, calm and sure.

“You look like someone who chose this.”

A beat.

“And that makes it different.”

He wasn’t one to offer reassurances lightly — or at all — but watching her stand there, cheeks flushed from the cold, fingers hidden in her gloves, breath curling in soft white clouds… it felt wrong to say anything less than the truth.

When she mentioned Christmas shopping, sightseeing, pretending to be outdoorsy, he let out a quiet sound that might’ve been a laugh.

“You’ll survive the pretending,” he murmured. “But the wardrobe? Yes. You’re going to need reinforcements.”

His glance flicked toward her boots, her coat, her gloves. A soft, knowing look.

“At this rate, I’m not letting you walk through the city alone. You’ll freeze before you find the shopping district.”

He meant it teasingly — but also not at all.

Her invitation landed gently, unexpectedly. Something in his chest loosened, a subtle warmth that had nothing to do with the weather.

He didn’t hesitate.

“I’m not in a hurry,” he said, voice low, steady. “And I’m not heading anywhere you’d want to tag along to. So yes.”

His eyes softened on hers with a quiet sincerity he didn’t bother to hide.

“I’ll join you.”

He stepped closer again, slow and deliberate, shielding her from a fresh burst of wind that slapped across the deck.

“And I’ll show you the places the tourists miss,” he added. “The ones you came here hoping to find — even if you didn’t say it out loud.”

Another pause — not dramatic, just honest.

“I wouldn’t mind the company either.”

The ferry vibrated beneath them as it approached land. Snow drifted sideways, catching in her hair, clinging to her coat, making her look both out of place and exactly right in this northern winter.

He held her gaze, letting the quiet sit, letting the moment stretch just long enough to mean something.

“Come on,” he said finally, voice softer than the cold deserved. “Let’s get you off this boat before the wind decides to throw you into the Baltic.”

And for the first time in a long time, dawn in Stockholm didn’t feel lonely.

She should’ve been cold.

Every logical part of her said she should’ve been freezing — eyes watering, nose raw, bones trembling from the wind clawing across the deck.

But she wasn’t.

Not really.

Not with him standing just close enough that she could feel the warmth of his presence, steady and impossible to ignore. Not with the sound of his voice settling under her skin in this strangely grounding way.

She didn’t know what unnerved her more — the wind, or the fact that she liked hearing him talk to her like that far too much.

A breath escaped her, soft and white in the air, when he told her she looked like someone who chose this.
She felt it hit her chest, low and warm.

“That’s… kinder than I deserve,” she murmured, trying to keep her voice light but not brittle. Her eyes flicked to the horizon, then back to him. “I feel like I look like someone who lost a fight with the North Sea.”

It was teasing — but not quite enough to hide how much his words landed.

He looked at her the way she had secretly feared no one would ever look at her again. Like she wasn’t running. Like she wasn’t broken. Like she wasn’t a collection of mistakes wearing a borrowed winter coat.

When his gaze dipped to her boots and he told her she’d need wardrobe reinforcements, she made a soft, half-embarrassed sound she absolutely refused to categorize as a laugh.

“Your country is stunning,” she admitted quietly, honestly.
“Even when it’s actively trying to kill me.”

Her cheeks flushed warmer at the truth hiding underneath it.

And so are you.
She wasn’t going to say that. God, no.
But the thought pulsed through her anyway, bold and impossible to ignore.

She tucked her chin a little deeper into the scarf — his scarf — and tried to pretend she wasn’t a grown woman flustered on a ferry deck.

When he accepted her invitation without a beat of hesitation, that warmth unfurled in her like something waking up.

She didn’t smile wide — she never did — but something soft tugged at her mouth, subtle and real.

“Good,” she said, voice quieter than she meant. “I… I’m glad.”

Another gust of wind shoved across the deck. He stepped instinctively between her and it, and she had to look down for a second, because if she met his eyes in that exact moment, she wasn’t entirely sure what her face would give away.

He said he’d show her the places tourists missed — the places she’d secretly hoped to find — and she swallowed gently, struck by how deeply he seemed to understand things she hadn’t even said out loud.

“I’d like that,” she whispered.
More than she should. More than she expected.

The ferry rumbled beneath them, shifting closer to land. Crew members began calling instructions in Swedish, ropes prepared, doors clanging open somewhere below.

She dragged her gaze away from him — not because she wanted to, but because if she held it any longer, she might never look away.

He nodded toward the stairs leading back inside.
“Let’s get you off this boat—”

“—before I’m thrown into the Baltic,” she finished, rolling her eyes at him even as her mouth curved again. “Yes, I heard you.”

He held the door open for her, and she stepped inside. The sudden warmth of the interior hit her face, but weirdly, it wasn’t nearly as grounding as the cold had been when he was standing beside her.

They descended the metal stairs together, boots clanging softly, shoulders brushing now and then in a way that sent a little static shiver up her spine.

She pretended she wasn’t hyper-aware of each accidental touch.

Once they reached the lower deck, passengers gathered their bags, shifting into lines near the ramp. Isla tugged at her gloves, exhaling softly.

She caught Julian looking at her again — that same steady, unreadable, quietly intent expression that made her heartbeat do something unruly.

She looked back up at him through her lashes, a little breathless despite herself.

“So,” she said, voice soft but sure.
“When we’re on land… you’ll show me your Sweden?”

A pause — shy, unguarded.

“Not the cold parts,” she added, cheeks warming. “Just the beautiful ones.”

She didn’t say it.
She didn’t need to.

The parts that feel like you.

Her pulse fluttered as the doors opened and the first blast of icy air swept in.

And for reasons she wasn’t ready to untangle, stepping off that ferry didn’t feel like arriving in a foreign country.

It felt like the start of something she hadn’t let herself want in a very, very long time.