Considering Sigmund spent the night sleeping in a bathtub, Saturday morning wasn’t as horrible as it could have been.

Someone had brought him blankets.

Blankets and pillows, in fact. They looked stripped straight off the bed outside and were cocooned around him. It was comfortable, despite the porcelain beneath, and Sigmund didn’t want to get up.

He had a killer headache.

It felt like a hangover, but at least that would’ve been kinda manly. Not like crying himself to sleep in his

(husband’s)

boyfriend’s bathtub. That was just embarrassing. Sigmund wondered, if he concentrated hard enough, if he could manage to sink through the tiles and die.

Five minutes later he had to admit that plan just wasn’t working. So he poked his head out from under the covers, blinking at the blur beyond. The bathroom was still a bathroom. All expensive stone and meticulous gleaming fixtures. Frosted-glass windows ran around the tops of the walls, and by the light it looked to be fast approaching lunchtime on a blinding summer’s day.

Sigmund’s glasses were waiting within arm’s reach on the counter. He didn’t remember taking them off. He certainly didn’t remember leaving them on top of a pile of clean clothes from his drawer at home. It must’ve been a miracle.

There seemed to be a lot of those going around, lately.

In the mirror, the same mud brown eyes blinked at him from underneath the same tousled, nothing-colored hair. He had stubble, and acne, and the beginnings of what was going to grow into a prodigious double chin, given a decade or so. He didn’t look like a boy who’d spent last night watching gods fight in the parking lot of Torr Mall.

He certainly didn’t look like a goddess. Not even the one he’d dreamed about. The one with hair like matted straw and the dark, nearly mono brow. The one who’d glared at him like ice. The one he’d failed.

“Fuck you,” he said, but the only thing in the bathroom to hear him was his reflection.

His clothes were wrecked. Covered in ash and holes from where that . . . stuff had leaked out of the thing he’d once thought was Lain. His ankle ached from where he’d twisted it coming down onto the roof . . .

(we were flying!)

. . . and the grazes on his palms and knees stung. Plus, his shoulder hurt again. He wondered if this was what his life was going to be like from now on. He wondered if he was okay with that or not.

He was dating a god. A god who was apparently convinced that Sigmund was the reincarnation of his dead wife. Or . . . something. He’d been a bit vague on the details.

A god that Sigmund had yelled at. A god who’d brought him blankets and a fresh change of clothes in the night, because (a-har) gods forbid Sigmund to be uncomfortable sleeping in a bathtub.

Jesus.

Bereft of a coherent plan of action, Sigmund decided to have a shower.

It was a bloody awesome shower. Showerheads everywhere, and Sigmund turned the water up hot and hard and just stood there, trying not to think. There was an alcove of expensive-looking soaps and lotions at eye level, so Sigmund used them, and then he finally dragged himself from the shower’s comforting spray, smelling like one of the New Age crystal shops Em used to drag him to before ditching paganism for skeptical atheism.

He wondered what she’d make of last night.

Fancy wifi scales in the corner of the room informed him he was still fat. A search through the medicine cabinet revealed a toothbrush, toothpaste, and a razor, all neatly packaged up and waiting to be used. By the time Sigmund had cleaned his teeth, shaved, dressed, and spent a minute trying to tame down his hair, he had to admit he was running out of reasons to procrastinate.

He could hear someone moving around outside. Not close or impatient, just normal walking around this-is-my-house-thank-you-very-much sort of sounds. He wondered who he’d open the door to.

It turned out to be Lain. He was standing in the kitchen, dressed in a black tank top and loose lounge pants, all broad shoulders and slim waist. Movie-star beautiful, effortless in that five-hours-with-the-stylist sort of way. Sigmund tried not to notice, failed, then wondered whether Lain was doing it on purpose or he really just always looked like that. Maybe it was a god thing.

The whole penthouse smelled of hotcakes.

Lain looked up when Sigmund walked over and gave a brilliant, if slightly hesitant, smile. He really did have very sharp teeth. Inhumanly sharp.

“I made hotcakes,” he announced when Sigmund sat down on the other side of the breakfast island. Sigmund thought the claim was probably an understatement. The counter was covered with containers of honey, whipped butter, caramel glaze, and a variety of fruits. Lain was assembling everything into café-style stacks, finished off with a dusting of powdered sugar because of course he’d be a Michelin-star chef as well as a CEO, outdoorsman, filthy rich, ridiculously attractive, a god, and whatever the hell else he was.

Still. He’d made hotcakes.

“I love hotcakes,” Sigmund said, trying not to wince at the flatness in his voice.

“I know.”

Sigmund didn’t bother asking how, instead just watching Lain arrange their breakfast. Or, well, brunch, if the clock on the wall was anything to go by.

It occurred to Sigmund that he’d never actually seen Lain’s arms before; they’d always been hidden under long sleeves and jackets. The mass of scars crisscrossing freckled skin probably explained why, not to mention the tattoos or . . . whatever they were that wrapped around Lain’s biceps. The ink was black today, not the near-iridescent white of last night, the pattern made of scrolling knot work and runes. Looking at it too long made Sigmund’s eyes hurt, so he looked at Lain’s hands instead. There were bandages across the knuckles.

“How are you feeling?”

Lain looked up at him, confused, and Sigmund gestured to the bandages. The ones complementing Lain’s split lip, abrasions, and masses of purple-green bruises. Lain looked, Sigmund thought, like Bruce Willis at the end of a Die Hard film. All he needed to complete the cosplay was less hair and a Band-Aid somewhere on his face.

Lain glanced down and did something Sigmund almost thought could be a blush. “Oh. Um, the blood is, um, poisonous. As well as, uh, caustic. So I didn’t want to, like, bleed in the food?” It was part question, part apology. “I was really careful!”

“I trust you,” Sigmund said. For a second, Lain blinked, as if the notion was novel and foreign, and maybe it was. “I’m not angry at you anymore,” Sigmund continued, because it seemed like an appropriate time. Lain almost looked relieved, so Sigmund added, “Because there’s no point, is there? I mean, getting angry at you—of all people—for thinking up some shitty romcom con is like getting angry at fire for being hot.”

Lain winced. “Ouch. Touché.”

So maybe Sigmund was still a bit angry. He’d get over it, probably right after he figured out why, exactly, he’d been so mad in the first place.

Lain finished dusting on the sugar and presented the plate to Sigmund with a flourish and a “Ta-dah!” Sigmund gave him a smile for his efforts, and Lain returned it. He was still watching Sigmund, keeping his movements small and nonthreatening, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to be there. For a god in his own temple, it was sort of sad.

Sigmund ate a bite of hotcake. Then, “These are . . . really good.”

Lain gave one of his toothy grins at the praise, then started eating from his own plate.

As it turned out, Sigmund was ravenous. He tore through the stack, making himself slow down only on the last hotcake out of embarrassment. Then again, with the way Lain ate, he wasn’t in a position to judge.

“So, how much trouble are you in, exactly?” Sigmund asked, if only to slow down his eating. Besides, he should probably know the answer. He had the feeling that Lain’s kind of trouble was contagious.

Lain gave a look, as if in agreement with this unspoken assessment. “Exactly? On a scale of one to ten? Eleven or twelvish, I think.”

“Awesome.” The irony there was practically rusting. “And me?”

Lain opened his mouth, then closed it again and seemed to reconsider.

“Incidentally, I can tell when you lie.”

“Ah.” Lain seemed relieved at that. Like an alcoholic nursing a soda, watching with bitter satisfaction as the last of his friends’ glasses emptied. “Yeah. I suppose you can.” A long pause, then, “You have to understand, Baldr is the Good Guy. He wants me dead, because I’m the villain, and killing the villain is what the Good Guys do. Ásgarðr”—Lain said it with all the umlauts, his real accent coming through—“will never be restored so long as I’m alive.”

Sigmund tried to convey his incredulity in his expression. “Do you believe that?”

“It doesn’t matter what I believe. What matters is the Wyrd. Fate. It’s off-kilter, it’s been off-kilter since everything went wrong at Ragnarøkkr—”

“Since your wife screwed it up by saving you, you mean?”

“Yeah. And you’ll have to forgive me if I fail to get too cut up about that fact.”

“I take it Captain Aryan Nation doesn’t share your sentiments?”

“Something like that.” Lain gave the edge of a fang-tipped smirk.

“So I’m back to my original question,” Sigmund said. “Am I in danger?” A horrifying thought struck him. “Ohmigod, Dad.”

“Your dad is fine.” Lain’s brows furrowed, his hands raised as if in warding. “You’re maybe fair game, because of Sigyn’s involvement in the war. But going after your dad would be níð. Shameful. Something the Bad Guys would do.”

“ ‘Bad Guys’ like you?”

“Now you’re catching on.” Lain’s grin split open. It was sharp and unpleasant, and his eyes burned poison green, even against the bright light of the penthouse.

It was hard to meet that gaze, so Sigmund didn’t, pushing the last of the crumbs around his plate instead. “What are you going to do?” he asked.

He half expected some convoluted plan, some twisting mess of cons and traps and blinds. Break-ins and montages and at least one set of big red numbers, ticking down the time. But, in the end, all Lain said was, “I’m going to kill Baldr.” He sounded resolved, though it lasted only a moment. “Admittedly, that might be easier said than done.” When Sigmund looked up, Lain was frowning.

“I sense this is a long story.”

“You sense correctly. The short of it is that things don’t injure the coddled bastard. Wood, metals, stone, diseases: They gave a promise, years ago.”

Sigmund was dubious. “How does wood give a promise?” He got the feeling the answer was going to be something inane, like, MAGIC!!!, so he added, “Besides, you seemed to be doing a pretty good job of it last night.” Or, well, earlier this morning.

“Well, obviously I never promised anyone anything. Jesus, I couldn’t stand the snot-nosed little kid. Fucking golden-haired wunderkind.”

Sigmund didn’t doubt it. He knew the type. Most of them worked in Sales. “So can’t you just, like, I dunno, rip out his heart with your claws or something?” Which, okay, was totally not a cool thing to say, but the whole day was just so surreal. Heart ripping was totally fine. It would be, like, self-defense and everything.

Sigmund wondered when he’d started running on video game logic. He figured this was the sort of thing lobbyists warned about.

Lain didn’t look particularly impressed either. “It’s a bit uncivilized,” he said, as if this was some major deciding factor. Hell, maybe it was.

“So, what happens now?”

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The question earned him a huff of breath and a scowl, not quite directed his way. “Now I figure out what the alternative to hiding is when running’s out of the question. Pandemonium is my city. I’m strong here, and Baldr knows it. That limits his options. But luring me out somehow, getting me onto his turf instead . . .” Lain ran his hand across his lips, across the scars. “That’s what I’d do, in his place.”

“Great. That’s doing a lot to bolster my confidence in my safety, just FYI.” Sigmund’s enthusiasm for ending up In Another Castle was at an all-time low. If that was the price of dating a god, he wasn’t sure he’d be prepared to pay it.

But Lain just waved his hand. “That’s níð again.” Then, after a moment, “Er. I think.”

“You think?” Sigmund was still a bit unclear on what that word was, exactly. It sounded a bit like neath, but he could practically hear the italics.

“Look, it’s been a while since I’ve done this sort of thing, and I never was very good at it to start with.” Lain was agitated, gesticulating with his fork in one hand and drumming his fingernails on the countertop with the other. Although, fingernails might not have been a strong enough word. They were a dark, reddish brown today and almost looked like claws. It occurred to Sigmund that maybe Lain was less human that he had been previously. Maybe more of the shape from last night was bleeding through. Maybe Sigmund was only noticing it now.

He must have been quiet for a while, because when Lain spoke again his voice was softer.

“I know this is a lot to dump on you all at once. Believe me when I say I didn’t plan things being quite this . . . full on.”

Suddenly, the countertop was the most fascinating thing in the room; expensive reconstituted stone, thickly cut and tastefully off-white. No chips, no marks. Perfect. The Kitchen Counter of the Gods. “When were you planning on telling me, then? Before you’d fucked me, or after?” Full on was an understatement.

But Lain laughed. “Is that what you’re worried about? Sig, if I’d just wanted to fuck you, I would’ve done it as Travis.”

Sigmund looked up, Lain’s expression hovering somewhere between fond and perplexed. It was terrifying, that expression. It promised things.

“Then what do you want?”

Lain shrugged. “At first? Satisfy my curiosity.” He was doing honesty again. Sigmund wasn’t sure he liked it. “Then, attempt to repay a blood debt. Now, I want to play Dungeons and Dragons and cook hotcakes.”

That was almost saccharine, but it was true and probably one of the nicest things anyone had ever said to Sigmund. One of the nicest things anyone had bothered to try saying to him.

“I think I’m just, like, in shock or something,” he said, eyes dropping to the countertop again. “I’m sure in a few days I’ll think this is just about the coolest thing ever.” He tried a smile, then stood and collected up their empty plates. “What should I do with . . . ?”

Lain’s eyebrows hiked, then furrowed, as if cleaning up his own dishes was something unusual. Maybe it was. Maybe he was rich enough to have people who came in and did that stuff for him. Maybe being a god meant never having to do housework.

“Uh, dishwasher under the sink?”

There was, indeed, a dishwasher under the sink, laminated in the same glossy white as the rest of the cupboards. It looked lonely with two plates and four pieces of cutlery, so Sigmund started stacking the mixing bowls and other hotcake preparation tools as well. Lain watched him in amusement for a while, then started to help. It was all very domestic.

The kitchen wasn’t what anyone would be calling large—just a few feet of wall and an island—and they kept brushing against each other as they stacked and scrubbed and put things back into cupboards. It was . . . sort of sexy, actually. Lain wasn’t intruding into his space, but he wasn’t avoiding it either. A calculated dance of light touches and near misses, and Sigmund’s heart began to keep time as he was caught up in the rhythm. He didn’t mind. It was nice. No one had ever bothered trying to seduce him before.

Maybe if more chores were like this, people wouldn’t complain about having to do them so much.

When he touched Lain’s arm, the skin beneath his fingers felt like linen, fresh from the drier: warm and soft, dusted in hair and freckles and textured by a latticework of scars.

“I had a really nice time, last night,” Sigmund said. “Right up until the part where we almost died.” Even that had been sort of fun, in a holy-shit-what-the-fuck sort of way. “And I don’t care if you’re really, like, some giant flaming monster thing. It’s kinda cool, actually.” Except for the wings, but Sigmund had always been a little scared of birds. The way they stared and all. He decided not to mention it.

Lain’s expression got weird, anyway, almost like he was about to cry. But what he actually did was bend down and part his lips. Sigmund wasn’t a bastion of knowledge on the subject, but he watched movies and knew the start of a kiss when he saw one. So he tilted his head, too, and closed his eyes, and hoped like hell he was doing it right.

A moment later, Lain’s lips, hot and smooth and scarred, closed the gap, one of his hands coming to rest against the curve of Sigmund’s spine. Sigmund was getting used to the lip part of kissing—and the feel of Lain’s tongue, brushing against them—but his hands were kind of flailing and there was just so much to keep track of and, Jesus, Lain was like a zillion years old and a god, and he probably thought Sigmund was such a loser and—

And one of Lain’s hands found one of Sigmund’s and placed it on his waist. “You can touch,” he said, breath ghosting across Sigmund’s cheek. “I like it when you touch.”

(oh)

Oh.

Lain’s waist was slender and firm under Sigmund’s fingers, and when his hands “accidentally” slid under the hem of Lain’s tank top, he got a breathy moan for his efforts. That seemed like a good sound, so Sigmund explored farther, Lain’s skin just as warm and just as scarred here as on his arms. Sigmund traced some of the jagged lines with his fingers, and about halfway up Lain’s waist encountered something odd. A sort of buzzing, electrical sensation. Like brushing the metal case of a running laptop. It was there in some places and not in others, and—somewhere in between the heat in Sigmund’s belly and the hand curling through his hair—he realized his fingers had found Lain’s tattoo.

He pulled back from the kiss just enough to ask, “Does it hurt?” His voice sounded deep and husky, sexy almost.

Lain’s eyes were very bright, his kiss-swollen lips emphasizing those scars, too. “Not exactly,” he said. “But I can feel it, like background noise. Never noticed it before.” He moved his hand to brush the side of Sigmund’s face. “I should probably take you home.” He didn’t sound happy about it.

Sigmund moved closer, head resting against Lain’s broad shoulder and enjoying the way Lain curled around him. Being together like that made Sigmund feel short—Lain had a good six inches on him, easy—but it was nice, too. Standing here in Travis Hale’s hotel room kitchen, holding and being held, feeling the small shifts of Lain’s muscles beneath his skin.

“Yeah,” Sigmund said eventually. “Dad might start wondering where I am.” Probably not, really, but it was possible. Maybe.

They pulled apart a few moments later, spurred by some kind of simultaneous reluctance. Sigmund almost wanted to ask to stay, but it had been a pretty weird night. He needed to go home and process for a bit. Work out what he was going to tell Em and Wayne. Or Dad.

That was a pretty good question, actually. “What should I tell people?” he asked as they waited for the elevator down to the parking garage “About you, I mean.”

Lain shrugged. “Whatever you want.” He sounded a bit guarded, despite the words, and Sigmund frowned.

“What, that you’re a seven-foot godmonster?”

That got him a startled bark of laughter. “Oh!” Lain said. The elevator pinged and they stepped in. “You mean about that. It doesn’t matter. It’s not a secret, people just don’t notice.”

“I noticed. So did Wayne.” Sort of.

This information didn’t seem to faze Lain. “Well, yeah,” he said. “But you’re . . . you know. And your friends used to be valkyrjur. Valkyries.”

That was just getting silly. Sigmund’s face must have shown it, because Lain continued, “It’s true! Hrist and Hlökk, the Shaker and the Screamer. You all have a little bit of Wyrd in you, hence with the noticing and stuff.”

“That all seems a bit coincidental . . .”

“That’s what the Wyrd is, Sig. Coincidence, fate. I’m not here accidentally. Mannheim is thin here, and the Wyrd is heavy. Fate, uh . . . It rolls down hills.” He was gesticulating again, obviously struggling for an explanation. “You know that thing with the rubber sheet and the lead ball that’s supposed to explain gravity?”

“Yeah . . .”

“Well, the Wyrd is like that. Pandemonium is the rubber sheet—thin and stretchy—and I’m the lead ball. One of them. Other places in Mannheim aren’t so elastic, so the Wyrd isn’t as”—another big hand motion—“sucky. Not so good for gods.”

The doors pinged again, and they stepped out into a part of the garage that Sigmund had never been to before. There weren’t many cars here, but the ones that were looked like their total worth was greater than the sum of all the cars in the other garages combined. Sigmund wondered why they were all here on a Saturday. Maybe they all belonged to Travis.

“So, what,” he said. “You’re saying Pandemonium is like some huge black hole for drunk Viking stories?”

“Short version? Yes.”

They were standing in front of Lain’s car, not looking any worse for wear despite last night’s violence. Sigmund wondered how it got back here, considering they’d left it at the mall. Then again, Lain had obviously been running errands in the night. Maybe he’d picked it up.

The top was down, and Lain leaped into the driver’s side, literally vaulting over the door. Sigmund had never seen anyone do that outside of movies.

“What’s wrong?” Lain asked when Sigmund didn’t join him.

“I’ve just remembered you drive like a maniac.”

“Oh.” Lain looked surprised at that, then thoughtful. He glanced at the steering wheel, then back at Sigmund. “You could drive,” he said. “Or I could try driving slower?”

Sigmund approached the passenger side and climbed in. Through the door, like a normal person. He was pretty sure trying to vault over the edge would just end in pain and humiliation. “I’ll take my chances with you trying out human driving,” he said. “I’m not convinced your ‘car’ runs on enough Really Real World logic for me to handle it.” As if to prove his point, the car rumbled to life as soon as he sat down. Today, the stereo was playing Electric Six. Out of curiosity, Sigmund pressed some of the buttons as Lain pulled (carefully!) out of the parking garage.

He spent most of the drive staring out the window, watching the city fly (carefully!) by. He’d never actually been in a convertible before. Well, last night, obviously, but then the top had been up and it hadn’t counted. Sigmund had never really been a car person, but he had to admit there was an appeal, sitting in the pocket of stillness formed by the windscreen. Warm summer air roaring over the top, tousling his hair, but quiet and calm just below. He wanted to throw his arms up, into the wind, laughing and feeling the pressure of movement on his skin.

He didn’t. Safety first, and all that.

They’d been driving (carefully!) for about five minutes when it occurred to Sigmund they hadn’t had to stop in traffic. Not once. Not at stoplights, which were always green, and not at intersections, which were always clear. It was as if the city knew where Lain wanted to go and was pushing aside the traffic to help him get there. And when Sigmund thought about it like that, the maniac driving started to make sense. It was the sort of way anyone would drive if there was no one else in the entire world. No other cars, no pedestrians, no cops. Just the wheels and the road.

There was something important in that. Probably more than one thing, in fact, but it’d been a long few days and thinking wasn’t high up on Sigmund’s priority list.

The one thing it did mean, of course, was that they were pulling up outside his house in pretty short order. He tried not to feel disappointed.

Lain let out a heavy breath as soon as they’d stopped. It sounded like he’d just finished diffusing a bomb, not like he’d been driving a few suburbs across town. “There,” he said. “How was that?” He looked like a puppy who’d peed on the paper, not on the carpet.

Sigmund gave him a smile. “I didn’t feel like screaming once.” He ducked his head almost as soon as he’d said it, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Thanks, though. For, y’know. Taking me seriously.”

Something in Lain’s expression turned at the words, ancient and inscrutable and alien. “I’m a bit out of practice with mortals,” he said. “So you can tell me if I’m being . . .” He trailed off, waving his hand. It left sparks of flame in its wake.

“I don’t have a lot of practice with gods,” Sigmund said. “So you can tell me the same.”

That seemed to be the right thing to say, and when Sigmund blinked, Lain was just Lain again. All red haired and freckled, and, because he could, Sigmund leaned across the seat and gave Lain a brief, chaste kiss.

“I’ll see you Monday?” he said.

Lain’s grin was back. It really was quite sexy, with the protruding canines and faint scars. “I wouldn’t miss it for the end of the world,” he said, and Sigmund climbed out of the car hoping that wouldn’t prove to be prophetic. He waved as Lain pulled away (carefully!), still practicing his human driving, and Sigmund had to laugh.

It faded before he reached the door.

It took Sigmund three tries to get his key in the lock, then another two to turn it. The house was still and quiet, and his dad seemed to be out, so Sigmund retreated upstairs to his room. With Lain gone, the past twelve-odd hours were feeling further and further away, vanishing at some rate accelerated beyond one second per second. A strange memory from a stranger, something that had happened to someone else, and when Sigmund tried to push his mind back to those frantic minutes in the parking garage, they felt faded and third-hand.

He figured it was some kind of coping thing, then wondered if he was in shock. Again. That probably wasn’t good. Maybe he should ask Google.

He got as far as shaking his computer awake with the mouse. The desktop wallpaper was a picture of a mage. She was a woman, and dressed slightly inappropriately, but she had a fireball in one hand and . . .

(heat and smoke and the stink of burning plastic and holy shit what the fuck is happening that thing is that thing Lain what the hell is going on oh fuck oh fuck they’re fighting Lain Lain or whatever you are be careful please oh fuck fire again and blood and . . .)

Dad found him like that, just staring at the screen, mouse clenched in one hand, breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

“—gmund? Sigmund, son?”

His dad’s hand on his shoulder felt heavy and real, and Sigmund jerked when it descended.

“Hey, Dad,” he said, blinking too fast in the glow of his monitor. “You’re back.” His voice sounded strange, weak and thready and hollow. Maybe Dad wouldn’t notice.

“Sigmund. Are you all right?”

Guess not. His father was looking at him with wide eyes and a furrowed brow. He was holding a bag of groceries that he seemed to have forgotten about. Sigmund could see upstairs things, like toothpaste and tissues, poking out the top.

“Did something happen?”

Answers ranging from No, nothing to I nearly died, again flashed through Sigmund’s head. The first one was a lie and the second one might put his dad in the hospital, so he tried to come up with something in the middle.

And then someone, somewhere, said, “I’m dating Lain.” Which was funny, because that someone sounded an awful lot like it was using Sigmund’s voice.

Oh, shit.

David didn’t even blink. “He seems like a nice boy.” It was, Sigmund thought, almost a question. Almost a question with a teeny, tiny hint of violence behind it.

Sigmund had thought of his father as a lot of things—particularly during his brooding teenage years—but violent had never been one of them.

“Yeah,” Sigmund said, making his breath slow and his voice steady. Slower. Steadier. Maybe. “Yeah, Lain’s pretty cool.” That wasn’t even the half of it, but something in his expression must’ve been right, because, after a moment, his dad seemed to unwind.

“You took him on a date to DnD night, huh? How’d that work out for you?” David’s smile said things that Sigmund thought he had no business knowing about his dad. Nice things, though. Things that pulled against the edges of Sigmund’s lips as well.

“Good. I just . . . Yeah. Really, really good.” Sigmund pushed his glasses up his nose and tried hard not to blush.

His dad laughed and clapped him on the shoulder, then turned serious. “You know I love you, right, Sig? After your mum died . . .” He trailed off, tried again, “I know I haven’t always been the best father—”

“Dad, no—”

But David held up his hand, and Sigmund cut off what he’d been about to say. Whatever it had been.

“I just want you to know how proud I am of you, of what a smart, capable young man you’ve grown up to be. All I want for you—all any father should want for his son—is for you to be happy.”

“Dad . . . Thanks. I am. Happy. Things are kinda intense right now—”

“New relationships almost always are, in my experience.”

“Dad!” More things he didn’t want to know, and Sigmund found himself laughing. “So. Kinda intense. But . . . I think it’s gonna be cool.”

David nodded, lips thin and expression serious. “That’s good to hear. You should invite Lain around for dinner sometime. That’s usually how it’s done, right?”

“So says the TV.”

“Well, can’t argue with that.” David shifted the shopping bag against his hip, then glanced down as if he’d forgotten he’d been holding it. “Now how about you help your old man out with this stuff, huh? Some of us aren’t as young as we used to be.”

“Dad!” But he was grinning, and by the time the car was unloaded and the groceries put away, Friday night had started to feel like another country. One with closed borders and expired visas. And by Sunday, Sigmund had even almost stopped seeing milky green eyes and stitched-shut lips every time he closed his eyes.

Almost.