Ben adjusted his stride, letting the frantic, forward-leaning momentum of his usual walk bleed out until he was perfectly synced with her. He didn't mind the cold. It felt clarifying, scraping away the lingering exhaustion of the tour, leaving only the sharp, electric reality of being right here.

He looked out over the frozen swells of lava, his eyes tracking the jagged lines and the impossible, luminous green of the moss. When she spoke, the wind almost stole the words, but he caught them, letting them settle in his chest.

Fire once. And now it's background.

He shifted his grip, sliding their joined hands into the deep, fleece-lined pocket of his coat to shield her fingers from the bite of the wind. His thumb stroked slow, steady circles over her knuckles in the dark warmth.

"I was actually thinking about that yesterday," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly hum that carried just enough to reach her. "Out on the coast with Jax. Looking at these massive cliffs and thinking about how much absolute violence it took to make something this quiet."

He kept his eyes on the horizon for a moment longer—the pale silver sky, the dark, reflective pools of rainwater—before turning his head to look down at her. His nose was red from the cold, a few dark, unruly curls whipping across his forehead, but his expression was entirely soft. Stripped down.

"It’s kind of hopeful, though, isn't it?" he said quietly. "That something can start out as a catastrophic eruption, just completely chaotic and uncontainable... and then eventually, it cools off. It settles. The moss grows over it."

He didn't need to spell the metaphor out. The ghost of 2021—the intensity, the mess, the way they had burned bright and fractured—was a shared memory they didn't have to tip-toe around anymore. It wasn't a sore subject; it was just history. It was the fire that had formed the rock.

"I like the fire," he added, his shoulder bumping gently against hers as they walked, a warm, solid point of contact against the freezing air. "But I think I like this part better. The part where it just becomes the ground you walk on. The part where things can actually grow."

He let out a slow breath, a plume of white steam vanishing into the wind, and squeezed her hand inside his pocket. He had told Jax yesterday, too. Standing on a black sand beach, freezing his ass off, he’d told his oldest friend that he and Cleo were trying. Jax had laughed, shoved his shoulder, and told him he was going to be a terrible influence on a toddler, but then he’d pulled him into a crushing hug. About time, man, Jax had said. You've been her orbit for years.

Ben looked at Cleo's profile—her nose pink from the cold, her eyes scanning the ancient, quiet earth, looking more at peace than he’d seen her in months.

"This is my speed, too," he whispered, pressing a quick, freezing kiss to her temple before pulling back just enough to catch her eye. "Wherever this goes. I'm taking the walk with you."

Cleo felt the exact moment his pace changed.

It was subtle — a quiet recalibration — but she noticed. She always noticed when he chose steadiness over momentum. When he let go of the forward lean that had defined so much of his life and simply… matched her.

When he slid their hands into his coat pocket, she made a small approving sound under her breath. The fleece lining wrapped around her fingers immediately, and she curled into it, letting his thumb trace slow circles over her knuckles. The warmth felt deliberate. Protective without being dramatic.

When he said he’d been thinking about it yesterday — about the violence it took to make something that quiet — her eyes lifted toward the horizon.

“You on a cliff thinking about geological trauma,” she murmured softly. “That tracks.”

But there was no mockery in it. Just affection.

She followed his gaze over the lava fields — the frozen waves, the ridges that looked like something mid-roar, arrested in motion. Rainwater pooled in shallow depressions, reflecting the pale sky like fractured mirrors.

“It is hopeful,” she agreed. “That it doesn’t stay catastrophic.”

Her voice wasn’t heavy. It wasn’t haunted. It was calm. Considered.

“That something can burn that hot,” she added, “and still end up… livable.”

When he said he liked the fire but preferred this part — the ground-you-walk-on part — her shoulder leaned into his bump instinctively.

“I don’t want to erase the fire,” she said quietly. “It was real. It was alive. It just didn’t know how to stop.”

A small smile tugged at her mouth.

“We were loud,” she corrected gently. “Not uncontainable. Just loud.”

The wind swept across the boardwalk, lifting her hair across her cheek. She tucked it back with her free hand, eyes still on him.

“And I don’t miss the part where it felt like one bad day could undo everything,” she added, softer now. “I don’t miss the volatility.”

When he said this was his speed too — that he was taking the walk with her — something in her expression shifted. Not surprised. Just… moved.

She slowed.

Then she turned toward him fully.

Her boots pivoted against the wood, and her arms slipped around his torso without hesitation, sliding beneath his coat so she could feel the real warmth of him. She pressed her cheek briefly to his chest, inhaling cold air and wool and something that was just him.

Then she tilted her head back, chin resting against him so she could look up.

“You saying that,” she said softly, “means more than the metaphor.”

Her fingers flexed lightly at his back.

“It’s easy to promise when everything feels poetic and windswept,” she continued. “It’s harder when it’s repetitive and boring and we’re arguing about who forgot to buy oat milk.”

A faint sparkle returned to her eyes.

“I want the oat milk part.”

She rose slightly on her toes and pressed a warm, lingering kiss to his mouth — longer than the one he’d given her, as if to thaw the cold he’d left on her temple. When she pulled back, she didn’t move far.

“I don’t feel like I’m bracing anymore,” she admitted quietly. “That’s new.”

Her hand slipped back into his coat pocket, reclaiming the warmth.

“And for the record,” she added lightly, “if this is your speed, you should know mine includes stopping for unnecessary snacks and dramatic commentary about moss.”

She glanced over at the luminous green patches stretching across the lava.

“I mean, look at it. It’s thriving. Very resilient. Honestly, aspirational.”

Her shoulder nudged his again.

“But I’m walking it,” she said, echoing him gently. “All of it. Slow. On purpose.”

A tiny pause.

“And if I slip,” she added with a small, mischievous smile, “you’re absolutely catching me. I refuse to become part of the landscape.”

Ben let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, his arms automatically banding around her to pull her flush against his chest. The shock of the Icelandic wind was entirely neutralized by the sudden, solid heat of her body pressed into his. He rested his chin on the top of her head, closing his eyes for a second as the wool of her coat scratched pleasantly against his jaw.

"Oat milk," he repeated, the words vibrating deep in his chest. He laughed, a quiet, rough sound that got immediately swallowed by the open air. "You say you want the oat milk fights, but wait until it’s 7 AM on a Tuesday, I’ve bought the barista blend instead of the unsweetened vanilla, and suddenly the poetry is dead and we are at war."

He tilted his head down to meet her kiss, his mouth opening soft and pliant against hers. It wasn't the frantic, desperate kind of kiss they used to share in the back of cramped tour vans or dimly lit studio booths back in 2021. This was different. It was unhurried. It was a promise. It tasted like cold air and mint and absolute certainty.

When she pulled back and tucked her hand back into his pocket, he squeezed her fingers, his thumb resuming its rhythmic, grounding stroke over her knuckles.

I don't feel like I'm bracing anymore.

The admission hit him squarely behind the ribs. For years, he’d known she was holding her breath around him—waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for the schedule, the press, or his own restless, chaotic energy to blow up whatever fragile peace they’d managed to build. Hearing that she’d finally let her guard down, that she was actually resting her weight against him? It felt like he’d just been handed the keys to the city.

"I'll take the dramatic moss commentary," Ben said, turning his gaze back to the neon-green patches clinging stubbornly to the black rock. "I respect the moss. It knows what it's about. It’s got a very strong indie-survivalist brand going on. Very DIY."

He bumped his hip against hers, gently urging them back into a slow walk along the wooden planks. The boards creaked softly under their boots, a steady, rhythmic metronome against the vast silence.

"And as for catching you," he added, throwing a sideways glance at her, the corners of his dark eyes crinkling. "I think that’s literally in my job description now. Right under 'Not buying the wrong oat milk' and 'Providing body heat in sub-zero climates.'"

He shifted his grip on her hand, lacing their fingers together even tighter inside the fleece-lined pocket.

"You’re not becoming part of the landscape on my watch, Cleo," he murmured, a teasing smirk playing on his lips, though his eyes remained entirely sincere. "I’m far too selfish for that. I need you in the kitchen, judging my grocery choices."

He paused, his boots halting on the wooden planks for a fraction of a second as his brain abruptly caught up with his mouth.

"Wait. No. Hold on," he backtracked immediately, his eyes widening as a spike of panic cut through the Icelandic chill. "Not in the kitchen like—like some 1950s, patriarchal, 'make me a pot roast' kind of way. I just meant—" He gestured frantically with his free hand, suddenly extremely earnest. "Because of the milk. The fridge is in the kitchen. That’s where the oat milk lives."

He squeezed her hand inside his pocket, looking genuinely horrified at his own phrasing while the wind carried the sound of her quiet laughter.

"You can judge my groceries from the living room," he insisted, talking fast now, desperate to clear his name. "Or the driveway. Honestly, I will bring the cartons to you wherever you are for a visual inspection. I am a deeply progressive modern man, Cleo. Please don't cancel me on a volcano."

He let out a long exhale when her laughter warmed the air between them, his own panicked grin returning as he relaxed back into his stride.

He looked out at the jagged, frozen expanse, feeling a profound, dizzying sense of scale. The world out here was ancient and massive and entirely indifferent to them, but right here, on a narrow wooden path suspended over hardened lava, everything felt perfectly sized. The volume of his life—the noise, the expectations, the constant forward motion—had finally been dialed down to a hum.

"Slow and on purpose," he echoed, his voice dropping an octave, stripping away the humor for just a second to let her know he meant every syllable. "I like the sound of that. Let's go look at some more rocks."

Cleo stayed folded into him when he pulled her close, the Icelandic wind cutting sharp across her back while his warmth settled solid and anchoring at her front. The wool of his coat was slightly damp from the mist in the air, and she could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath her cheek. His laugh rumbled through him before it reached her ears.

“Barista blend?” she murmured, lifting her face just enough to look up at him, mock-offended. “Benjamin. That’s not a tiny oversight. That’s a direct attack on domestic harmony.”

Her mouth softened anyway, and she leaned up to kiss him—slow, deliberate, letting it linger. The air tasted clean and metallic, the kind of cold that made everything sharper. His lips were warm, mint lingering faintly, and the kiss didn’t rush. It didn’t grab. It settled. It felt like something placed carefully where it belonged.

When she pulled back, she slipped her hand back into the deep pocket of his coat, reclaiming the fleece-lined warmth. She curled her fingers into his palm, feeling his thumb resume that steady rhythm across her knuckles, and something in her chest unclenched in response.

At the moss commentary, she turned her gaze outward, toward the impossible green clinging stubbornly to black volcanic rock. The moss looked soft from a distance, but she knew it was resilient—slow-growing, patient, thriving in what should have been inhospitable.

“It does have integrity,” she said thoughtfully. “No marketing team. No dramatic reinvention. Just quietly surviving catastrophic fire and minding its business.”

She tilted her head slightly. “Honestly? That’s a very strong long-term strategy.”

When he bumped his hip against hers and started reciting his updated job description, her mouth twitched.

“Providing body heat in sub-zero climates,” she repeated, nodding gravely. “Essential infrastructure. Government funded.”

She let herself be nudged forward, the wooden planks creaking beneath their boots in a slow, steady rhythm. The sound echoed faintly across the open field, swallowed almost immediately by the vast quiet.

Then—

“I need you in the kitchen—”

She slowed.

Very slowly.

Her head turned toward him in one smooth motion, one eyebrow lifting with surgical precision. The side-eye she gave him was controlled. Measured. Devastating.

“In the kitchen,” she repeated evenly.

She watched panic bloom across his face like frost creeping over glass. The frantic clarification. The refrigerator geography lecture. The deeply progressive modern man manifesto delivered at breakneck speed while standing on a volcano.

She held the stare for exactly one more beat.

Then she laughed.

Not small. Not polite.

Warm and bright and completely uncontained, the sound whipping away in the wind.

“Oh my god,” she breathed, shaking her head. “You absolute menace.”

She stepped closer again, sliding her free hand inside his coat to rest flat against his ribs. She could feel the warmth of him through the knit of his sweater.

“I know what you meant,” she assured him, still smiling. “And before you self-destruct further? It doesn’t sound so bad.”

Her voice softened just slightly.

“I grew up watching my parents in a kitchen,” she continued. “My mom cooking because she genuinely loved it. My dad hovering because he genuinely loved her. Sometimes it looked old-school from the outside—she’d be stirring something on the stove while he dried dishes behind her—but it never felt unequal.”

She shrugged lightly.

“It was just… teamwork. Care. Back and forth. No one keeping score.”

Her thumb began tracing small, absent circles against his side without her thinking about it.

“I don’t mind the thought of taking care of you sometimes,” she admitted quietly. “Making dinner. Arguing about milk. Pretending to be scandalized when you absolutely sabotage our fridge.”

She leaned up and brushed a quick kiss against his mouth, softer this time. Familiar.

“Not because I have to,” she clarified gently. “Because I want to.”

Then her expression sharpened playfully.

“And if you ever tried to assign me pot roast duty like it was policy, I would absolutely report you to the nearest lava fissure.”

She slipped her arm fully around his waist again as they resumed walking, their boots thudding softly against the planks.

“But honestly?” she added after a few steps, glancing sideways at him. “We’re not exactly the gold standard for traditional domestic sequencing anyway.”

She tilted her head, wind tugging loose strands of her hair across her cheek.

“In the classic timeline, we’re supposed to get married first. Then babies. Then milk wars.”

Her lips curved.

“We skipped straight to ‘let’s try for a child while debating oat milk on top of ancient lava.’”

She huffed a soft laugh.

“Very old-school. Very conventional.”

She bumped her shoulder lightly against his.

“We’re doing this whole thing backwards.”

The boards creaked beneath them as she slowed just enough to step in front of him for a second, walking backward so she could see his face clearly against the pale sky.

“But backwards compared to who?” she asked.

Her expression shifted—still warm, but steadier now.

“We’re not rushing because we’re scared. We’re not checking boxes. We’re not trying to fix something broken.”

Her fingers tightened around his inside the pocket.

“We’re choosing it. In the order that feels right to us.”

The wind lifted the ends of her coat, snapping it lightly against her legs.

“Maybe our order is baby first. Wedding later. Or wedding during. Or both chaotic at once.”

She smiled, softer.

“Maybe we argue about milk for three years and then throw a party.”

She leaned in and brushed her nose lightly against his, their foreheads nearly touching.

“We’re doing it our way,” she said quietly. “That’s the only version that makes sense to me.”

She turned forward again, guiding him down the narrow wooden path suspended over black rock and luminous moss.

“Slow and on purpose,” she repeated, the words settling between them like something solid. “Even if it looks sideways from the outside.”

She squeezed his hand once more inside the warmth of his pocket and nodded toward the endless stretch of green clinging stubbornly to stone.

“Come on,” she added lightly. “Let’s go admire more emotionally stable greenery.”

And she walked with him into the wind, steady and unbraced, exactly where she meant to be.

Cleo let the silence settle again after her last joke, the wind filling in the spaces where words weren’t needed.

She tightened her hold on him as they continued farther down the wooden bridge, the planks stretching like a thin ribbon across the hardened lava. The moss seemed brighter here—almost electric against the black rock, glowing in stubborn patches like it had claimed victory over something ancient and furious.

A small group of visitors approached from the opposite direction—two older hikers bundled in windbreakers and knit caps, moving carefully, pausing every few steps to take photos. Cleo instinctively shifted slightly closer to Ben, not out of fear of being seen, but out of habit. Proximity was her comfort language.

She offered the hikers a polite, easy smile as they passed.

“Hi,” she said warmly, voice gentle against the wind.

One of them nodded back, murmuring something about how beautiful it was today. Cleo glanced out across the lava field and agreed.

“It feels like it’s holding its breath,” she added softly.

Once they passed, she slipped her hand deeper into Ben’s pocket again, fingers lacing with his. The world here felt wide but quiet, even with other people moving through it. No one was rushing. No one was shouting. Just boots on wood. Wind. Distant camera shutters.

Another couple came up behind them—mid-twenties, laughing too loudly, one of them slipping slightly on the frost-dusted planks. Cleo’s lips curved.

“That was us once,” she murmured under her breath.

Not unkindly. Just observant.

She slowed slightly to let them pass, stepping aside near a small widening in the bridge where the railing dipped lower. The girl glanced at Ben for half a second too long—recognition flickering—and Cleo noticed it without reacting. She’d grown past that tightness. Instead, she leaned into him deliberately, casual but unmistakable.

He was with her.

She tipped her head up toward him once the couple moved on.

“See?” she said lightly. “We’re practically locals now. Blending in. Very mysterious moss enthusiasts.”

Her thumb traced slow circles over his knuckles inside his coat pocket as they resumed walking.

The bridge narrowed again, the drop to the lava field below more visible now. The rock wasn’t smooth—it was rippled and folded, frozen mid-motion, like waves stopped in time. In some places, it had split open into deep fissures that looked bottomless.

Cleo slowed to peer over one of them, careful but curious.

“Imagine this glowing,” she said quietly. “Imagine it moving.”

She straightened and looked at him again, wind tugging strands of hair across her cheek.

“I’m glad we’re not the glowing, exploding version anymore,” she added, softer. “I like this part. The cooled-down part.”

She squeezed his hand again and kept walking, boots thudding gently in rhythm.

A few more visitors appeared in the distance—some walking alone, others clustered in pairs. The bridge hummed faintly with shared footsteps, but it never felt crowded. Just human. Just passing through something older than all of them.

Cleo exhaled slowly, watching her breath dissolve into the air.

“Do you think,” she asked lightly, glancing up at him again, “that in fifty years someone will walk over us metaphorically and call it scenic?”

Her lips curved.

“‘Ah yes, here lies the legendary Oat Milk War of 2030.’”

She bumped her shoulder against his gently, smiling.

Then, more seriously, as they reached a bend in the bridge that curved slightly upward—

“I don’t feel small here,” she admitted quietly. “I feel… proportioned.”

She looked out at the vast black landscape, then back at him.

“And I feel steady.”

She nudged him forward again, reclaiming their slow pace.

“Come on,” she said softly. “There’s more bridge.”

The wind picked up, a sudden, sharp gust that whistled through the porous volcanic rock and rattled the wooden handrails of the path. Ben didn't just flinch at the "patriarchal pot roast" threat; he seemed to physically recoil, his shoulders bunching up toward his ears as he processed the potential for a lava-fissure reporting.

"Lava fissure reporting. Right. Noted. Adding that to the 'Things That Will End Me' list, right under 'Accidentally suggesting a juice cleanse,'" he muttered, though the sheer relief in his voice was palpable as her laughter broke the tension. He watched her laugh—really watched her—the way her eyes crinkled at the corners and the way the sound seemed to momentarily push back the oppressive, grey weight of the sky.

He didn't pull his hand out of the pocket. If anything, he pressed deeper into the fleece, seeking the friction of her skin.

"Teamwork," he repeated, the word tasting better than 'domesticity.' "I can do teamwork. I’m a very collaborative artist, Cleo. I’m excellent at backing vocals. If you’re the lead singer in the kitchen, I’m the guy on the tambourine making sure the rhythm doesn’t drop. I’ll dry the hell out of those dishes."

He slowed his pace as she turned to walk backward, his eyes locked on hers. The way she looked at him—unfiltered, framed by the wild, wind-whipped strands of her hair—made the vastness of the Icelandic interior feel strangely intimate, like they were the only two people on a planet that had only just finished cooling.

"Backwards," he mused, a crooked, self-deprecating smile tugging at his mouth. "Yeah, we’ve never really been great at the linear stuff, have we? We didn't do the 'coffee at 3 PM and a polite movie' phase. We went straight to 'The World is Ending and I Need to Be Near You' in 2020. We’ve been living in the finale since the pilot episode."

He stopped walking entirely, forcing her to halt as well. He reached out with his free hand, catching a stray lock of her hair and tucking it behind her ear, his cold fingers lingering for a second against her flushed skin.

"I don't care about the sequence," he said, his voice dropping, losing the frantic, comedic edge and replacing it with something heavy and resonant. "The traditional timeline is for people who aren't us. It's for people who didn't have to break apart and find each other again in the dark. If the baby comes first, then that kid is just going to have a front-row seat to how much I adore their mother. They’ll get to see the wedding from the hip. That’s a pretty good view."

He leaned in, his forehead coming to rest against hers. The tip of his red nose brushed hers, a tiny point of freezing contact that made him chuckle softly.

"Sage or Briar... they're going to be born into a 'Wellness Menace' household where the milk is wrong, the music is too loud, and their parents are obsessed with each other," he whispered. "It sounds like a masterpiece to me."

He pulled back just enough to look at her again, his expression shifting as a group of hikers passed by. He watched her smile at them—that easy, graceful warmth she wore so well—and felt a proprietary hum in his blood. When she mentioned feeling 'proportioned,' he nodded, his gaze drifting out over the black waves of the lava field.

"Proportioned. Yeah," he agreed softly. "It’s hard to have a big ego when you’re standing on a thousand years of cooled-down rage. It puts the milk wars into perspective."

He nudged her back into motion, their boots resuming that steady thud-thud on the planks.

"And for the record," he added, a spark of his usual mischief returning to his eyes as they rounded a bend toward a particularly impressive cliff of obsidian-flecked rock. "If we're going to be 'mysterious moss enthusiasts,' I think we need a better backstory for the hikers. Maybe we’re exiled royalty? Or we’re here searching for a rare, medicinal lichen that cures cynicism?"

He squeezed her hand inside the pocket, pulling her shoulder tight against his side.
"Fifty years from now, I hope someone walks this path and hears a faint, ghostly echo of us arguing about whether or not 'barista blend' is a valid lifestyle choice," he teased. "I want our bickering to be part of the local folklore. The Haunting of the Unsweetened Vanilla."

He looked ahead at the bridge as it climbed a small rise, the steam from the distant lagoon still visible as a faint, ghostly veil on the horizon.

"More bridge," he echoed, his thumb tracing a slow, contented line over her wrist. "I'm in no rush to get to the end of it. As long as there's a snack at some point, I can walk this for the next decade."

He paused, a thought striking him.

"Wait, did Jax tell you about the waterfall yesterday? The one behind the hidden cave?" He glanced at her, his eyes bright with the memory. "He almost fell in trying to get a photo of a rock that looked like a 'sad potato.' If we’re doing 'slow and on purpose,' I might have to take you there tomorrow. It’s significantly less civilized than this, but the moss is even more aspirational. It’s practically a forest."

He pulled her closer as the wind howled again, a low, mournful sound that seemed to validate the ancientness of the land.

"I've got the warmth covered," he reminded her, his voice dropping back into that adoring rumble. "I'm essential infrastructure, remember? You're stuck with the heating bill."

Cleo laughed when he recoiled at the lava-fissure threat, the sound carried sideways by the wind and torn thin before it could fully echo.

“Good,” she said lightly, eyes narrowing in playful warning. “Fear keeps you sharp. We can’t have you out here casually suggesting patriarchal pot roasts on sacred volcanic ground.”

The gust that followed whistled through the honeycombed rock below them, a hollow, almost musical sound that made the wooden rails tremble. Cleo instinctively leaned into him, her shoulder pressing into his ribs, not out of fragility—but because it felt natural. Anchored.

At his tambourine speech, she tilted her head thoughtfully.

“Tambourine is a respectable instrument,” she conceded. “Underrated. Crucial to vibe maintenance.”

Her gaze drifted outward as they resumed walking. The lava around them wasn’t smooth—it was frozen mid-collapse, ridged and folded like black ocean swells that had stiffened in place. In some places it formed sharp, twisted ropes of stone; in others, it had fractured into jagged shards that looked almost glasslike. The moss softened everything. A luminous green that shouldn’t have existed here, thriving in cracks, hugging contours, patient.

When he said they’d been living in the finale since the pilot, her mouth curved—not amused, exactly. More knowing.

“That’s accurate,” she murmured. “We skipped the cute exposition and went straight to emotional climax.”

She slowed when he stopped, letting him tuck the windblown strand behind her ear. His fingers were cold, but the touch was deliberate, careful. She watched his face as he spoke about the timeline—the order of things—and the sincerity in his voice settled deep.

She didn’t interrupt.

When he mentioned a baby watching them get married from the hip, something fragile flickered behind her eyes. Not fear. Not even nerves.

Recognition.

“They’d get a very chaotic origin story,” she said softly. “But a clear one.”

Her hands slid up beneath his coat, flattening against his sides through the knit of his sweater, absorbing warmth. The wind pressed her coat against her legs, the hem snapping lightly around her calves.

“Wellness Menace household,” she repeated, smiling faintly. “I think that sounds… full.”

Not perfect. Not polished.

Full.

A group of hikers passed again—boots crunching softly against frost dusting the planks. One woman paused to photograph a particularly dramatic outcropping where the lava had bubbled and collapsed into a cavernous hollow. Cleo glanced at it too—the inside dark, shadowed, lined with mineral veins that caught the pale light like fractured obsidian.

When he echoed her word—proportioned—she nodded slowly.

“It’s hard to feel catastrophic out here,” she said. “The land already did that. It doesn’t need help.”

The path curved slightly upward, and from this higher angle they could see further—the lava field stretching endlessly, broken only by moss and distant ridges of hardened flow. The lagoon’s steam hovered faintly in the distance like a breath the earth hadn’t fully exhaled.

At the exiled royalty suggestion, she huffed a soft laugh.

“Exiled royalty feels dramatic,” she said. “I prefer ‘quietly researching rare lichen with mysterious funding.’”

She squeezed his hand inside the pocket.

“We have a grant. It’s very exclusive. Very moss-based.”

When he started talking about their ghostly milk arguments becoming folklore, she grinned wider.

“The Haunting of Unsweetened Vanilla is absolutely going to be a cautionary tale,” she agreed. “Children will be warned about improper plant-based substitutions.”

The bridge climbed a little steeper now, the wooden boards creaking louder under their weight. Wind rushed across the open field, stronger at this elevation. Cleo lifted her chin into it, eyes narrowing slightly against the sting.

At the mention of the waterfall, she glanced sideways at him.

“A sad potato?” she repeated. “You’re telling me a grown man risked hypothermia for emotionally resonant produce?”

She shook her head, smiling.

“Yes,” she decided. “We’re going. But we’re not slipping into glacial death over melancholic vegetables.”

The moss here thickened along the base of a black rock wall that rose sharply beside the path. It climbed the stone like velvet, softening edges that had once been molten violence. In some cracks, tiny pools of water had gathered—dark mirrors reflecting the pale sky.

When he reminded her about being essential infrastructure, she slid her arm fully around his waist this time, tucking herself against him as another gust tore across the ridge.

“Good,” she murmured. “Because I’m absolutely outsourcing heating responsibilities.”

Her cheek pressed briefly against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm beneath layers of wool and cotton. She breathed in the clean, mineral scent of cold air mixed faintly with him.

They walked a few more steps in quiet, the boards thudding steadily beneath them.

“You know,” she added after a moment, glancing up at him, “if we do this for the next decade like you suggested, we’re going to need stronger boots.”

Her eyes flicked out over the vast expanse again.

“But I wouldn’t mind it.”

The wind howled low and distant, like something ancient shifting in its sleep. The bridge stretched onward, narrow and deliberate, cutting through cooled fury and stubborn life.

She squeezed his hand once more inside the warmth of his pocket.

“More bridge,” she said softly. “I’m not in a rush either.”

Cleo kept walking, but her pace slowed—not from fatigue, but from wanting to take it in properly.

The bridge leveled out again, stretching straight across a section of lava that looked almost braided. The rock had twisted over itself in thick, frozen ropes, ridges catching the pale light so that the surface shifted between matte charcoal and faint silver sheen. In the deeper grooves, frost had settled overnight, turning the black into something dusted and fragile-looking.

She tilted her head slightly, studying it.

“It looks soft from far away,” she murmured. “Like you could lie down in it.”

Her mouth curved faintly.

“And then you remember it would absolutely tear you apart.”

A few more visitors moved toward them—quiet this time. A middle-aged man with a camera slung around his neck paused to let them pass first, offering a polite nod. Cleo returned it with a small smile, the kind that didn’t invite conversation but didn’t close the door either.

She felt the brief flicker of recognition in his eyes—curiosity, maybe—but it didn’t linger. Out here, everyone was small. Fame didn’t compete well with geology.

She liked that.

When the path widened again, she stepped closer to the railing and leaned slightly over it, careful, studying a long fissure that split the lava field open like a scar. It wasn’t deep enough to be terrifying, but it felt significant. A seam. A memory of movement.

Her hand slipped from his pocket and found his wrist instead, thumb resting against his pulse.

“It’s strange,” she said quietly, eyes still on the dark split in the rock. “How something can look violent forever but not actually be violent anymore.”

She glanced up at him then, wind catching the edges of her coat again.

“We did that.”

Not proud. Not triumphant.

Just factual.

She stepped back toward him and slid her hand back into the pocket of his coat, reclaiming the warmth, reclaiming the small contained space where their fingers could lace together without the wind intruding.

The bridge dipped slightly, leading them toward a lower section where the moss was thicker—almost carpet-like in certain stretches. It blanketed the stone in rolling, uneven mounds, luminous against the muted sky. In some places it climbed vertically, clinging to rock faces like stubborn hope.

She couldn’t help smiling at that.

“Very aspirational,” she said softly, nodding toward the greener section. “I want that level of commitment to recovery.”

The steam from the lagoon drifted faintly across the horizon behind them now, ghostlike and distant. Ahead, the land opened up into something flatter, the bridge threading carefully between natural ridges and shallow depressions filled with rainwater.

She tightened her arm around his waist again, instinctive as the wind picked up once more.

“I like that this doesn’t rush you,” she admitted. “The path forces you to go one direction. One step at a time. You can’t cut across. You can’t shortcut it.”

She looked down at their boots, synchronized, thudding in quiet rhythm.

“That feels… right.”

Her gaze lifted again to the horizon, where the sky shifted from pale grey to a faint, almost lavender tint near the edges of the clouds.

“And if we end up with Sage or Briar or whoever they decide to be,” she added lightly, a small smile tugging at her mouth, “I want them to know this version of us. Not the eruption. The cooled ground.”

She squeezed his hand gently.

“The part where we walk slow because we want to. Not because we’re afraid of slipping.”

Another pair of hikers appeared in the distance, tiny against the vastness. Cleo exhaled, breath visible in the cold air, and leaned her head briefly against his shoulder.

“We’re not small here,” she said softly. “We’re just… correctly sized.”

She lifted her head again and nodded forward.

“Okay,” she added, tone warming. “Tell me about this sad potato waterfall. I need to assess the level of emotional damage before I agree to future expeditions.”

Ben stopped walking.

He didn't pull her to a halt abruptly, just let his momentum ebb until they were standing still on the narrow wooden planks, the wind whipping around them in an invisible, freezing tide. He looked down at her hand, where her thumb had settled against his pulse over the dark, jagged fissure in the rock.

We did that.

He stared at the split in the earth—a violent, permanent scar that was now just a quiet part of the scenery. He swallowed hard, the cold air catching in his throat. He remembered the feeling of that tectonic rupture back in 2021, the absolute certainty that he had broken something he could never fix. But looking at her now, feeling the steady, calm weight of her thumb against his skin, he realized the rock hadn't just cooled. It had settled into something stronger.

"Yeah," he murmured, his voice thick, rougher than the wind. "We did."

He lifted his free hand, his knuckles brushing lightly against her cold cheek.

"And for the record," he said, his gaze dropping to her mouth before lifting to meet her eyes, "if Sage or Briar ever ask about the fire, I’m going to tell them the truth. I’ll tell them I was an idiot who didn't know how to handle the heat. But I’ll also tell them that their mother is the reason the ground is solid now."

He let his hand drop, sliding his arm back around her waist to pull her tight against his side as they started walking again. He liked her phrasing—correctly sized. It took the pressure off. Out here, he wasn't a frontman, and she wasn't managing a dozen different crises. They were just two people taking up exactly as much space as they were meant to.

When she demanded the story of the sad potato, a laugh burst out of him, sharp and bright, startling a raven that had been resting on a nearby crag.

"Okay, so picture this," Ben began, gesturing broadly with his free hand, painting the scene against the pale Icelandic sky. "We drive for an hour off the main road, right? Middle of nowhere. It’s raining sideways. We hike through this canyon that looks like the set of a fantasy movie where everyone dies in the second act. And then the canyon just... opens up."

He dropped his hand, his eyes widening slightly as he remembered the sheer scale of it.
"It’s this massive, hidden waterfall pouring over a sheer cliff of black basalt," he told her, his voice echoing the awe he'd felt yesterday. "The water is aggressive, Cleo. It’s deafening. It’s kicking up so much mist you can barely breathe, and the river at the bottom is just churning, icy violence. It’s majestic. It’s terrifying."

He shook his head, a wry, affectionate grin spreading across his face.
"And then there’s Jax."

Ben sighed, leaning his head against hers as they walked. "I’m blaming your sister for the first part. Phoebe’s got him taking 'moody landscape' photos now. He was out there talking about the exposure and the leading lines, looking for the perfect shot. It’s disgusting. He’s completely domesticated. He asked me to step to the left because my neon beanie was 'ruining the melancholy palette.'"

Cleo’s laughter vibrated against his ribs, and Ben squeezed her waist, entirely pleased with himself.

"But the potato," Ben clarified, pointing a finger in the air for emphasis, "the potato was entirely him. His weird brain alone."

"He wanders way too close to the edge of the bank," Ben continued, adopting a tone of exhausted disbelief. "The rocks are slick. The drop-off is fatal. I’m yelling at him to back up, calculating how I'm going to explain to Phoebe that her boyfriend was swept out to sea. And he just points down at the base of the falls. He points at this wet, lumpy, incredibly unremarkable boulder getting absolutely pounded by glacial runoff."

Ben paused for dramatic effect, letting the wind whistle through the silence.

"And he yells over the roar of this magnificent, ancient waterfall, 'Ben! Look at it! It looks like a sad potato!'" Ben shook his head, his face a mask of faux-tragedy. "He told me it was an allegory for modern existence. He told me it looked like a tuber that had given up. And then he spent ten minutes risking his life to get a photo of it from the 'optimal angle of despair.'"

Ben let out a long breath, looking down at Cleo with a mixture of fondness and exasperation.

"So, yes," he concluded, his thumb resuming its slow stroke across her knuckles inside his pocket. "I survived the eruption of our twenties, only to almost watch my best friend die for a melancholic vegetable. I think assessing the emotional damage before future expeditions is a very smart call on your part."

He bumped his shoulder against hers, his dark eyes sparkling. "Though, if you want, I can show you the picture at dinner. He made it his lock screen."

Cleo watched him as he stopped, the shift in his body subtle but unmistakable.

The wind moved around them in long, cold ribbons, threading through the broken lava and rattling softly against the rails of the bridge. For a moment she didn’t say anything. Her thumb stayed where it was against his pulse, steady and warm beneath the cold air.

When he said we did, her eyes drifted down again to the fissure below them.

It really did look permanent. A jagged seam where the earth had once pulled itself apart with unimaginable force. But the moss creeping along its edges softened the violence of it. Green threading into black.

She felt his knuckles brush her cheek and leaned into the touch without thinking.

When he said he’d tell Sage or Briar the truth—about being an idiot who didn’t know how to handle the heat—her mouth curved gently.

“I would expect nothing less,” she said quietly.

Then he added the part about her being the reason the ground was solid now, and she shook her head once, soft but certain.

“You’re not getting away with that version of the story alone,” she said. “The ground cooled because we both learned how to stop erupting.”

Her fingers slipped briefly up his wrist before settling back inside the pocket when they started walking again, reclaiming the warmth there.

As he launched into the waterfall story, she listened with growing amusement, her gaze drifting over the landscape as if she could see the scene he was describing.

The lava around them had shifted again—now rising in thick ridges like waves frozen mid-crash. In the dips between them, water had collected into shallow pools that mirrored the pale sky. Moss grew thicker here, almost carpet-like in some places, glowing impossibly green against the black stone.

When he described the canyon and the rain and the violent waterfall, her brows lifted slightly.

“That sounds extremely serene,” she said dryly. “A peaceful spa day.”

At the mention of Jax becoming a moody landscape photographer, she snorted softly.

“Phoebe’s influence,” she said knowingly. “Give it six more months and he’ll own a wool sweater and talk about light quality unironically.”

She was already smiling when he reached the sad potato reveal, but when he repeated Jax yelling about a tuber that had given up, she lost it completely.

Her laugh came out bright and startled, echoing across the open lava field.

“A melancholic potato,” she repeated, shaking her head. “That is… devastatingly specific.”

She imagined Jax crouched dangerously close to a roaring waterfall, risking his life for existential produce, and pressed her lips together to keep from laughing again.

“Phoebe is absolutely going to frame that photo somewhere in their house,” she said. “Probably above the couch.”

They walked a few more steps, the bridge curving slightly between two higher ridges of rock. A raven lifted from one of the outcrops as they passed, its wings cutting dark against the grey sky.

When he mentioned showing her the photo at dinner, she nodded immediately.

“Oh, I’m absolutely seeing it,” she said. “I need to evaluate the emotional depth of this potato.”

Her eyes flicked up to his.

“But tomorrow,” she added.

She glanced out over the lava again, the wind pushing strands of hair across her cheek.

“I want to see it in person. The waterfall.”

Her tone softened just a little.

“It does sound peaceful, actually,” she admitted. “Terrifying waterfalls, existential vegetables… the whole thing.”

Her hand tightened around his inside the pocket.

“And I want to experience as much of this as I can with you,” she said.

Her gaze drifted ahead down the bridge again where it stretched over another rolling section of moss-covered lava.

For a long time, most of their memories had been cramped and hurried—tour buses, green rooms, back seats of cars between cities. Always moving. Always loud.

“This,” she said quietly, gesturing lightly at the vast open land around them, “I like this version better.”

Her shoulder nudged his.

“We’re making memories that don’t involve a sticky tour bus floor or someone banging on the door because you’re late for soundcheck.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

“Sad potato waterfall included.”

She squeezed his hand once more.

“So yes,” she concluded lightly, glancing up at him again. “Show me the photo tonight.”

Her grin widened just slightly.

“And tomorrow we go meet the potato.”

The bridge dipped slightly where the planks met a section that stayed shaded most of the day. A thin, almost invisible skin of frost had settled there, catching the pale light just enough to look harmless.

Cleo didn’t see it until her boot touched down.

The sole slid.

Not dramatically—just enough for the ground to disappear from under her for a split second.

Her body reacted before her brain did. Her grip tightened on his hand inside his pocket while her other arm shot out instinctively toward the railing. Her foot skidded sideways across the board with a sharp scrape.

“Oh—”

The sound came out half laugh, half surprise.

But she didn’t fully fall. Her balance tipped, weight pitching forward—

—and Ben’s arm was already there.

His hand caught firmly at her waist just as her other foot planted again. The movement pulled her back against him, the momentum carrying her into his chest.

For a second they just stood there, the wind still whipping past them, her breath caught somewhere between startled and amused.

Cleo blinked, looking down at the plank that had betrayed her like it personally offended her.

“Well,” she said calmly, as if nothing had happened, “that was humiliating.”

Her hand slid up his arm automatically where he held her, fingers curling into the sleeve of his coat while she steadied herself.

She looked up at him, eyes bright with the leftover adrenaline.

“I want to formally apologize for almost becoming part of the landscape five minutes after you specifically said that wasn’t allowed.”

Her mouth curved, a little breathless.

She glanced back at the frosted plank again and nudged it lightly with the toe of her boot.

“Sabotage,” she declared. “Clearly.”

The wind tugged at her coat again, but this time she leaned more fully into him, one hand still resting at his chest while she recovered the warmth she’d lost in the brief stumble.

“On the bright side,” she added lightly, “you got to fulfill your job description.”

Her fingers slid down to find his hand again, reclaiming their place inside the pocket.

“Catching me.”

She squeezed once, then looked ahead down the bridge where the path curved between two larger lava ridges that rose like frozen waves on either side.

“Very strong performance,” she said approvingly.

Then she stepped carefully forward again, more deliberate this time.

“But let’s not make a habit of testing your infrastructure, okay? I’d like to keep the lava fissure reports theoretical.”

Ben’s laugh came out low and helpless into her hair the second her boots found traction again—half relief, half are you kidding me—and he didn’t even try to hide it.

He kept his hand at her waist for a beat longer than strictly necessary, fingers spread like he was personally offended the bridge had tried something. Like he was going to file a complaint with Iceland’s entire geological department.

“Sabotage,” he echoed solemnly, eyes flicking down at the frosted plank like it had committed a crime. “Absolutely. That board looked you in the face and chose violence.”

He shifted behind her, still close, still warm, and then—because he was who he was—he leaned in with exaggerated seriousness.

“I’d like to formally announce,” he said, “that your apology has been accepted by the Department of Essential Infrastructure.”

His thumb traced a slow circle against her side, right where he’d caught her, like he couldn’t help himself. Like the contact was part reassurance, part mine to hold—not ownership, just instinct.

“And for the record,” he added, voice dropping into something smug, “that was a ten out of ten catch. Very cinematic. Very heroic. If there were witnesses, I would be insufferable about it.”

He finally let her reclaim their hand in the pocket, but he didn’t move away. He stayed tucked behind her shoulder like a draft-proof barrier, his coat pocket turned into their tiny private room in the middle of a lava field.

When she called it a strong performance, he made a face like he’d just been awarded something.

“Thank you,” he said, utterly pleased with himself. “I’ve trained my whole life for that exact moment. Years of being emotionally available and also… having reflexes.”

He glanced down at the plank again as they started forward, slower now, careful together.

“I’m just saying,” he went on, charmingly aggrieved, “you try to become part of the landscape, and suddenly I’m the one who has to carry you out like a Victorian heroine. Which I would do, obviously. But it’d really mess with my brand.”

He bumped her shoulder lightly, the kind of touch that said I’m here more than it said joke.

Then, as the wind cut through again and she leaned into him, his voice softened without losing the warmth.

“I like you alive,” he murmured. “Preferably not fossilized into a lava ridge. You’re very hard to cuddle that way.”

He paused, then added, “Also, you’d be terrible at being a tourist attraction. You’d refuse to pose.”

A beat. His grin returned, quick and bright.

“Okay. New plan,” he announced, nudging their joined hands deeper into the pocket like he was locking them in place. “We walk like seniors in a mall. Slow. Safe. Aggressively unsexy. No sudden movements.”

He tilted his head toward the rest of the boardwalk, where the planks curved between black rock rises and glowing moss.

“And if you so much as think about ice-skating again,” he said, eyes narrowing with mock authority, “I’m carrying you. No debate.”

He took another step, then another, settling them back into rhythm—his body angled slightly between her and the railing like he couldn’t help guarding her from the elements, from gravity, from rogue planks with bad intentions.

“Besides,” he added, voice brightening again as if this was the logical conclusion, “I can’t take you to meet the potato tomorrow if you’re currently one with the Earth.”

He glanced down at her with a crooked smile.

“And I’m not explaining to your sister that I lost you to… artisanal frost.”

Cleo let out a quiet breath once her boots felt steady again, the tension leaving her shoulders in a slow, embarrassed exhale. She glanced down at the plank that had nearly taken her out, then back up at him with a small, sheepish smile tugging at her mouth.

“Well,” she said lightly, brushing a strand of windblown hair out of her face, “I’m glad the Department of Essential Infrastructure is feeling generous today.”

Her eyes flicked down to where his hand had been at her waist a moment ago, the warmth of it still lingering through the layers of wool and cold air. She didn’t comment on it directly—just leaned a fraction closer to him as they started walking again, their joined hands tucked deeper in the pocket.

“And thank you,” she added after a beat, quieter but sincere. “For the… heroic intervention.”

The word came with a hint of amusement, but there was real gratitude under it. She knew exactly how close she’d been to landing squarely on the boards.

Cleo glanced ahead at the path as it curved through the dark lava ridges, the moss glowing almost impossibly bright against the black rock. It looked soft from a distance, though she knew it probably wasn’t.

“You’re right, though,” she said thoughtfully. “Becoming part of the Icelandic landscape would’ve been a pretty dramatic choice for day four of the trip.”

She tipped her head slightly toward him, her smile growing a little more playful.

“And it would’ve ruined your brand. You’d spend the rest of the tour explaining how you lost your girlfriend to… hostile flooring.”

The wind swept across the bridge again, colder this time, and Cleo instinctively leaned into his side as they walked. Not clinging—just fitting there naturally while they moved at the slower pace he’d set.

“Senior-in-the-mall walking I can handle,” she agreed. “Very dignified. Very safe.”

She deliberately placed her next step with exaggerated care, as if proving a point, then glanced up at him again with a small grin.

“See? Responsible adult.”

When he mentioned the potato again, she laughed softly under her breath.

“I’m still curious about that, by the way,” she said. “If someone nearly died photographing it, I feel like it deserves at least a brief viewing.”

Her thumb brushed lightly over his knuckles inside the pocket as they continued down the boardwalk.

“But tomorrow,” she added. “Today I think we should stick to bridges that don’t try to fight me.”

She looked out over the lava field again for a moment, the wind moving the moss in faint ripples between the rock.

Then she bumped his shoulder gently with hers.

“And for the record,” she said, glancing up at him, “I also prefer being alive. Mostly because I like walking places with you.”

Cleo walked another few careful steps beside him, her boots landing deliberately on each plank now like she was honoring the new “senior mall walking” treaty he’d established.

The wind shifted again, pushing across the open lava field and carrying with it the faint mineral smell from the distant lagoon. It tugged at the ends of her hair and made the moss ripple in quiet waves between the black stone ridges.

She was just about to say something else when—

Her stomach growled.

Not subtle. Not delicate. Just a very clear, very audible complaint from somewhere under her sweater.

Cleo froze for half a second mid-step.

Then slowly turned her head toward him.

“…that,” she said calmly, “was geological activity.”

Her mouth twitched.

“Probably unrelated to the lava field.”

She exhaled a small laugh through her nose and gave his hand a gentle squeeze inside the pocket.

“Okay but seriously,” she admitted, glancing ahead at the winding boardwalk, “I think my body just remembered that we had green juice for breakfast and then decided to go walk ten miles across ancient volcanic terrain.”

She tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowing at the path like it had personally caused the problem.

“Which, in hindsight, feels like poor planning.”

Another quiet rumble from her stomach followed, softer this time but still noticeable enough that she winced and huffed a small embarrassed laugh.

“Wow,” she muttered. “Rude.”

Her shoulders lifted in a little shrug.

“So… when you mentioned snacks earlier,” she said, looking up at him with a hopeful, slightly sheepish smile, “that was less of a philosophical concept and more of an immediate survival requirement.”

They continued walking, the boards creaking softly beneath their boots as the bridge curved deeper through the moss-covered rock.

Cleo leaned lightly into his side again as another gust of wind came through.

“I’m just saying,” she added thoughtfully, “if I pass out from hunger, you’re definitely carrying me out like the Victorian heroine after all.”