Wandering Spirits

Chapter 12

Storm carefully maneuvered with the duvet, placing it over Freja's shoulders and down her body. He had carried her to his bed, a bed that had rarely seen another soul than his own. Her eyes, wide open and unpredictable like deep forests at night, followed his movements, but she remained calm.

"It's three o'clock," he muttered more to himself than to her, "it's time to sleep." His voice carried a softness that he didn't know he possessed, a soothing tone that could tame even the wildest seas.

He promised her a calm day the next day, a promise as easy to give as it was difficult to keep in this unpredictable world they lived in. But for Freja, he thought, he could try.

His fingers gently stroked her hair, the palm of his hand felt every self-cut blonde lock. There was something therapeutic, almost hypnotizing, about the way the hair slid through his fingers, and he noticed that her eyelids began to flutter.

Freja's breathing became more even, and eventually her eyelids fell heavy like blankets over her brown eyes, sealed by the empty promises of the night. Storm withdrew his hand, observing her in silence. He stood there for a moment, caught in the peaceful rhythm of her sleep, before he turned and quietly slipped out of the room without a word.

His footsteps were barely audible against the cold wooden floor. He wiped a tired hand over his face, feeling the rough stubble that had started to form after several days without shaving. With a heavy sigh, he allowed himself to sink into the sofa, an old spring uncomfortably pinched under the fabric let out a protest. But he didn't complain, the blanket was within reach, and he pulled it over himself with a sense of relief.

His eyes were barely closed before they snapped open again at the sound of footsteps - light, but hesitant footsteps that showed signs of hesitation.

Freja emerged from the shadows, as if she was a part of the night itself. Her not-so-subtle sneaking ended at the sofa where Storm was lying. There was something comical about how she tried to go unnoticed, despite her silhouette being unmistakable in the light seeping in from the kitchen.

Her eyes, large and pleading like two brown moons, were fixed on him. They told a story without words, about a need for closeness that transcended all logic and social norms.

She said nothing, but she didn't need to. Her actions spoke volumes. She crept closer, one arm tentatively trying to find its way under the blanket, as if seeking the warmth of a safe harbor.

"Look here Freja," he said, gesturing towards the tight space on the couch, "this just won't work." Even as he spoke, he felt that the words lacked the persuasiveness that the situation demanded. Freja's presence was like a reminder that this night was anything but ordinary, and that rules may have already been broken.

But here they were, in an absurd dance of intimacy and distance, in a room that became a theater for two souls entwined in each other's life stories. He let out a half-hearted sigh, knowing that his words were as soft as the blanket he held around himself. He could feel her touch now, a gentle hand against his own, a quiet request to be accepted into his makeshift nest.

Storm felt Freja's fingers digging into the fabric of his t-shirt, her grip as unyielding as the root of an old oak tree. Despite his earlier protests, a resigned expression formed along the lines of his mouth as he lifted his gaze towards the ceiling and muttered to himself, "If it must be this way..."

With gentle movements, as if he was performing some kind of nocturnal ballet, he stood up. He bent down and swept her up along with the blanket, her body light as a feather in his arms. She was so small as she lay in the blanket, almost disappearing in its colorful softness.

"I want to be with you," she whispered, her eyes serious in the face that was now so close to his own. The light from the kitchen cast a pale light over the room, enough for Storm to see the contours of her features - vulnerability mixed with a childish determination.

An inner battle raged within him, his heart a chaos of contradictions. It wasn't supposed to be like this. He was the adult here, he was supposed to set boundaries. But oh, how he wished to give in to the longing that vibrated between them, an invisible thread stretched to the breaking point. And then there was the sleep, or lack of it, that would be the result of her persistent nagging for closeness.

He carried her through the dimly lit room, his feet almost silent against the floor. When he laid her down in his own bed.

Storm stood there for a moment, gazing at her, caught in the silence of the night. He thought about how absurd this was, and yet, how natural it felt. He let his fingertips glide over his tousled red hair before pulling back, a man torn between the desire to do the right thing and the urge to be the hero she seemed to need. "Stay here," she mumbled.

With a deep breath, he decided to lie down on the other side of the double bed, turn his back to her, and give them both some breathing space.

Storm closed his eyes, hoping for the quick arrival of sleep, but Freja's breathing seemed louder, closer - a clear sign that she had no intention of letting him be.

It was a small break in the silence, he felt the bed shift under his own weight. Freja maneuvered herself close to him, her soft hand reached for his arm and pulled it with a childlike eagerness, and nestled into his arm. His eyes flickered open, and he turned his head just enough to meet her gaze.

"You are very strange, you know that?" he said, a mix of wonder and humor vibrating in his voice. The darkness concealed most of her features, but a faint smile played around her lips, a soft sigh escaped her – the sound carried an innocence that made it difficult for him to resist her.

Storm let his free arm fall over her, a protective gesture that felt more natural than he would admit. His heart pounded in his chest, a rhythm that synchronized with her calmer breath. Within a few minutes, her breathing became steady and deep, signals that she had succumbed to the embrace of the night.

He lay awake, listening to the quiet music of her sleeping breath, wondering how such an unexpected night could feel so right.

In the twilight of the sparsely lit room, Storm could feel the warmth of her body against his own. He let his eyes wander over her face, the contours softened by the darkness and sleep. A quiet moment caught between time and eternity, where he pondered the choices he had made. An inner voice whispered questions swirling around in his head - was this wrong? But as long as she found comfort, how could he deny her that?

There was something indescribably sweet about the way she curled up against him, a purity in her need for closeness that tugged at his heartstrings. He knew his thoughts should worry him, but instead he was filled with an inexplicable feeling of being privileged. How could he, the always slightly absent-minded and forgetful Storm, be the one holding an angel in his arms?

The morning light seeped in through a small gap in the curtains, painting golden stripes over the two figures peacefully lying in the double bed. Storm slowly came to life, conscious not to wake Freja. He turned his head towards the clock on the wall, time had slipped away from them, and he noted with mild surprise that it was already 11 in the morning. Her breathing was still deep and heavy, an anchor of sleep after many days or weeks in the forest.

He lay there, an observer of the quiet harmony, wondering if he would ever get used to this new calmness that had settled over him. Outside the window, birdsong heralded a new day, but in here, in this room, time seemed suspended, and all that existed were the two souls sharing a pillow. He smiled to himself, a small smile carrying the secret of the night that had been, and the unusual happiness that came with it.