Off Script Ch. 05

The cold December air bit at my face as I stepped out of the subway station, tucking my hands deeper into the pockets of my wool coat. Snowflakes drifted lazily through the glow of the streetlights, dusting the sidewalks of Greenwich Village. The city pulsed with the energy of the holiday season--shop windows twinkling with festive lights, pedestrians bundled in scarves and heavy coats, the scent of roasted chestnuts wafting from a street cart. But tonight, my mind was elsewhere.

I was thinking about the solstice.

Growing up in Athens, where winter nights stretched long and quiet over the Ohio hills, I'd always found something magnetic about the longest night of the year. A pivot point in time. Nature's own revelation that even in the deepest darkness, light was already planning its return. After everything that had happened in London--the career breakthrough, the late-night calls with Emma that made the distance feel both infinite and insignificant, the way my feelings for her had crystallized into something I couldn't ignore--tonight felt weighted with possibility.

When I reached Joseph Leonard, a small bistro tucked into a quiet corner of the West Village, I spotted Emma through the fogged windows. She was already inside, claiming our usual corner table, her long black hair still wind-tousled, a cream sweater hugging her curves. She looked up as I stepped inside, and her smile--god, that smile--hit me like a shot of whiskey, warming me from the inside out.

"You're late," she teased as I shrugged off my coat and slid into the seat across from her. The candlelight caught in her eyes, turning them from ocean-blue to midnight.

"Barely," I countered, brushing snowflakes from my sleeves. "I was savoring the moment." I gestured out the window, where the snowfall transformed the city into something softer, almost dreamlike. "It's the solstice, you know."

Emma tilted her head, a strand of hair falling across her cheek. "Are we celebrating the changing of the seasons now? Very pagan of you, Harris."

"I like the symbolism," I admitted, leaning forward. The table was small enough that our knees brushed underneath. "The longest night means everything gets a little brighter after this. Seems like a good time to think about the future." Emma's lips curved around the rim of her wine glass. "Is this your way of telling me you're having an existential crisis over dinner?" I chuckled, reaching for the bottle of red between us. "No crisis. Just... possibilities."

The server set our plates down--my braised short ribs nestled against a bed of root vegetables, Emma's roasted chicken glistening with herbs and surrounded by wild mushrooms. Before I could even pick up my fork, Emma was already eyeing my plate with that familiar gleam in her eyes.

"You know," I said, unable to hide my smile as she speared one of my carrots without asking, "most people would consider that theft."

"Mm," she hummed around the stolen bite, "consider it a tax for putting up with your philosophical musings about the seasons." She was already plotting her next target--the mushrooms from her plate that she knew would end up on mine anyway. This had become our ritual: the casual migration of food between our plates, the way she'd trade her mushrooms for my roasted vegetables, how she'd always insist on "just a taste" of my dish before inevitably claiming a quarter of it.

The candlelight caught the silver bracelet on her wrist as she reached across with her fork again. "These short ribs are incredible," she said, making no attempt to disguise her theft. "Want some of my chicken?"

I smirked, already reaching for the mushrooms she'd pushed to the edge of her plate. "I thought you'd never ask."

We fell into our comfortable rhythm, trading bites and stories about our day. Emma told me about a new cocktail she was developing for the winter menu at The Dead Rabbit--something with spiced pear and bourbon that made her eyes light up as she described it. I found myself watching her hands as she talked, the way they moved through the air, painting pictures of precise measurements and delicate garnishes. She caught me staring and raised an eyebrow.

"What?" she asked, pausing with her wine glass halfway to her lips.

"Nothing," I said, but we both knew it wasn't nothing. It was everything--the way she could turn a simple dinner into an adventure, how she knew exactly which foods I'd want to trade, the familiar dance of our conversation. Even the comfortable silences between us felt right.

"You're thinking about work, aren't you?" she asked, her voice soft but knowing.

I nodded, exhaling slowly. "London was a big moment for me... I've been talking with Jeff, and if all goes well, I'm hoping my temporary assignment turns into something permanent. But not in the way we originally thought."

Emma's brow arched slightly. "Go on." Her fork paused halfway to another bite of my short ribs, and I couldn't help but smile at how even in serious moments, she couldn't resist stealing from my plate.

"If I get the promotion I'm aiming for, I'd be able to work remotely," I explained, watching as she set her fork down, giving me her full attention. "It would mean more freedom. No office grind. And..." I took another breath, "it would mean we could live anywhere." I let that last part hang in the air, watching her reaction carefully.

She blinked, then set her wine glass down, folding her hands in front of her. "Anywhere," she repeated, tasting the word.

A flicker of something--hesitation, contemplation--crossed her face. "That's... quite a coincidence, actually."

"How so?"

She traced the rim of her wine glass slowly. "I've been thinking more about the Danish residency. January 31st is coming up fast."

The deadline. Six weeks to decide whether she'd spend a year in Denmark. I'd been trying not to count the days, but the knowledge sat heavy between us now.

"I know," I said, trying to keep my voice neutral. "Have you been leaning one way or the other?"

Emma looked down at her plate, nudging a mushroom with her fork. "It's complicated. When I applied for it, it was literally everything I wanted. A chance to reconnect with my roots, focus entirely on writing, build connections in the Danish literary world..." She glanced up at me. "But now..."

"Now there's us," I finished quietly.

She nodded. "And it's not just us. It's... everything's different now. The New Yorker piece, the agents who've reached out. My life here has... expanded in ways I couldn't have imagined when I sent that application."

I nodded, reaching across to steal one of her abandoned mushrooms--a small gesture to keep things light, to remind her we were still us, just talking about possibilities. "Yeah. I love the city, but I don't know if I see myself here long-term. At least not forever. What about you? Could you ever picture yourself leaving New York?"

Emma leaned back in her chair, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the condensation on her glass. "I don't know," she admitted. "This city has been everything to me. It's where I rebuilt my life, where I started over after my mom..." She trailed off, not needing to finish the sentence. I'd heard enough about her mother's passing to understand what New York meant to her--not just a city, but a fresh start.

"I know," I said softly, reaching across the table to cover her hand with mine. Her skin was warm from holding the wine glass.

She glanced down at our hands, then back up at me, something softer in her expression. "But that doesn't mean I'd never leave. I mean, I used to think I'd never leave Denmark, and look at me now." She turned her hand over beneath mine, lacing our fingers together.

"I've been thinking about it a lot lately," I admitted. "Not just for the promotion, but long-term. Where we might want to be in a few years, what kind of life we could build together." I paused, suddenly aware of how forward I was being. "If that's something you'd want too, of course."

"You know," she said, voice teasing as she squeezed my fingers, "you're dangerously close to sounding like a man with a five-year plan."

I smirked. "Maybe I am." I ran my thumb over her knuckles, watching the candlelight dance across her face. "Does that scare you?"

"Surprisingly, no." Emma reached for her wine with her free hand, not letting go of mine. "Alright, Mr. Long-Term Thinking. Let's say we do leave someday. Where would you go?"

I exhaled, considering the question. "Somewhere quieter. Maybe a small town with character, or even rural if it's the right place. Somewhere with space, with nature all around us. A place where we can still get a good cup of coffee, but without needing to dodge a thousand people on the way there. I'd like to see seasons change more dramatically than they do here."

Emma smirked. "So, you're saying somewhere with at least one hipster café amid all that nature." She stole another bite of my short ribs, and I pretended not to notice.

"Exactly," I said, chuckling. "Vermont has always appealed to me, actually. Those small towns nestled in the mountains, the fall colors, maple everything."

"I've never been," Emma said, her expression thoughtful. "But I've heard it's beautiful. Very different from Denmark--our landscape is so flat by comparison."

"I just want us to have options," I said, watching her reaction carefully."

Emma studied me for a long moment, her blue eyes thoughtful in the low light. Then she nodded slowly. "Okay. Let's keep talking about it."

Relief bloomed in my chest. I hadn't expected a definitive answer, but hearing her openness to the idea meant everything. I lifted my wine glass. "To new possibilities, then."

Emma clinked her glass against mine. "To the solstice," she added, smirking. "And to you getting that promotion."

We drank, the warmth between us as steady as the candlelight. Then I hesitated for just a moment before speaking again. "There's something else."

Emma raised an eyebrow. "Oh? More big plans?"

I smirked, shaking my head. "Nothing major. I just... I was thinking, now that things are settling down with work, I want to take you to Ohio. To meet my parents."

Emma's eyes widened slightly, and then her entire face lit up in a way that made my heart skip. "Really?" she asked, her voice carrying a note of excitement that caught me off guard. "You want me to meet them?"

"Of course I do," I said, feeling warmth spread in my chest at her reaction. "I know they're going to love you. And I want you to see where I grew up."

Emma grinned, leaning forward slightly. "You're not worried about me charming your parents so much that they end up liking me more than you?"

I chuckled. "Honestly? That's a legitimate concern."

She reached for my hand again, squeezing it. "I'd love to meet them, Matt."

I felt something settle inside me--a feeling of rightness, of certainty. Whatever happened next, wherever we ended up, I knew I wanted Emma there for all of it. The longest night of the year suddenly felt full of promise, like we were standing on the edge of something new and wonderful.

The days leading up to Christmas were a blur of twinkling lights, crowded sidewalks, and the scent of roasted nuts and pine drifting through the cold city air. Snow had dusted the streets earlier in the week, but it had mostly melted into a slushy mess, leaving behind only remnants of white clinging to the edges of sidewalks and the tops of brownstone stoops. Still, the city had its magic--storefronts decorated in extravagant holiday displays, carolers dotting the parks, and the festive chaos of last-minute shoppers rushing down Fifth Avenue.

For me, this was my first Christmas in New York, and while I had initially thought the holiday would feel a little lonely without my family around, spending it with Emma made it feel more special than I ever could have imagined.

Emma had transformed the apartment into a true Danish Christmas haven. Woven paper Christmas hearts hung from the bookshelves and along the window, their intricate designs catching the glow of soft candlelight. The entire space was an embodiment of Hygge--cozy, warm, and filled with the rich scents of cinnamon, cloves, and pine. She had insisted on lighting candles every evening, their golden flicker enhancing the sense of intimacy that wrapped around us like a blanket.

One night, as she arranged plates of Æbleskiver, the small Danish pancake-like pastries dusted with powdered sugar, I couldn't help but chuckle. "I don't think I've ever seen you act so Danish before."

Emma shot me a playful glare as she set a pot of Gløgg on the stove, the spiced wine filling the air with a heady warmth. "I'm always Danish. But Christmas is different."

She was practically buzzing with excitement for Christmas Eve, which, she had explained with great enthusiasm, was the most important part of the holiday in Denmark. "We open presents then," she had insisted, "not in the morning like you Americans. It's tradition."

Seeing her so eager to recreate her childhood traditions made something settle deep in my chest. I realized just how much she must miss her family, the Christmases she grew up with. This was her way of holding onto that, of bringing a piece of Denmark into our home. And if that meant opening presents a night early and indulging in all the Danish customs she wanted, then I was all in.

On Christmas Eve, we sat at the small table, sharing a bowl of Risalamande--the traditional Danish rice pudding with almonds--Emma grinning mischievously as we searched for the hidden whole almond. "Whoever finds it gets a prize," she reminded me, her spoon clinking against the dish as she scooped up another bite.

I narrowed my eyes at her. "You didn't rig this so you win, did you?"

She gasped in mock offense. "I would never! But if I happen to win, I already have my prize in mind."

The way she looked at me made it very clear what that prize would be, and I had no complaints.

On my next scoop, I spotted the almond and held it up triumphantly. "Looks like I win," I said, grinning at Emma. "So, what was that prize again, Ms. Sørensen?"

Emma leaned in; eyes sparkling. "Well, normally the winner gets a small marzipan pig, but since I didn't have time to find one... I had something else in mind."

I raised an eyebrow, playing along. "Oh?"

She smirked. "But since you're an American and all, maybe you should wait until Christmas morning to claim it. You know, keep some of your traditions alive."

I chuckled, shaking my head. "Fair enough. But I expect a very good prize in the morning."

After finishing our bowls, we poured ourselves more Gløgg and moved to the couch, the candlelight flickering against the walls, wrapping us in a golden glow. Emma stretched her legs over my lap and grinned. "You ready for presents?"

I set our mugs of mulled wine down before settling beside her. "Absolutely."

We had agreed to keep things simple, but I had still put a lot of thought into my gifts. Emma went first--a delicate silver necklace with a small pendant shaped like an open book.

Emma's fingers brushed over it, her expression soft. "It's perfect," she murmured, looking up at me. "I love it."

"Glad to hear it," I said, brushing a kiss to her temple. "Now, my turn."

Emma handed me a neatly wrapped package, and as I tore through the paper, I found myself staring down at a beautifully bound leather journal. I flipped it open and was immediately met with pages filled with handwritten notes, little pictures, and ticket stubs. Each entry chronicled a moment from the past few months--snapshots of our time together, from our first date to our trip to London, complete with Emma's witty commentary scribbled in the margins.

I ran my fingers over the pages, my throat tightening. "Emma... this is--this is incredible."

She shrugged; her cheeks tinged pink. "I wanted you to have something to look back on. So, you'll always remember how ridiculously charming and amazing your girlfriend is."

I let out a quiet laugh, but I couldn't stop staring at the pages. It was the most thoughtful thing anyone had ever given me. I looked up at her, the emotion thick in my voice. "I don't deserve you."

Emma smiled, shifting closer. "Too late. You're stuck with me."

I leaned in, kissing her deeply, hoping it could convey even a fraction of what I felt.

"Alright, now it's my turn," Emma said, sitting up. "What did you get me?"

I reached for a larger box, setting it in front of her. She tore through the wrapping paper, then paused when she saw what was inside--a brand-new laptop.

Her lips parted in surprise. "Matt..."

"You keep saying your old one is slow, and I know you've been working on your novel again," I explained. "I figured you could use an upgrade."

Emma blinked rapidly, like she wasn't sure if she wanted to laugh or cry. "This is too much."

"It's not," I assured her. "You've given me more than I can put into words. It's only fair that I support you the way you support me."

Emma exhaled a soft laugh, shaking her head. "You are so sappy, Harris."

"And yet, you're keeping the laptop."

Emma grinned, launching herself into my arms. "Of course, I am."

She curled against my side once more, fingers toying with the edge of the blanket we had draped over our legs. "This is perfect," she whispered.

And I couldn't help but agree. Because in that moment, wrapped in the warmth of Emma's traditions, her joy, and the quiet magic of Christmas Eve, I knew that there was nowhere else I'd rather be.

The next morning, I made Emma watch A Charlie Brown Christmas. She laid with her head in my lap as we watched, my fingers absently running through her hair.

"It's so melancholic," she murmured. "But there's something comforting about it too. Like Christmas is both joyful and a little sad, all at once." She was quiet for a moment. "And look at how simple the animation is, but you can feel everything Charlie Brown is feeling. That's so Danish, actually--this idea that sometimes the simplest thing is the most profound." She glanced up at me. "Though I have to say, no therapist I know would only charge five cents."

I chuckled, running my thumb along her cheek. "Lucy's rates haven't kept up with inflation."

"You know what's really getting me?" Emma continued, her voice softening. "How it's about finding meaning in something that's become too commercial. That feels... especially relevant right now." She reached up, lacing her fingers through mine. "Though I have to say, that sad little tree would look perfect in our apartment."

I kissed the top of her head. "Yeah, that's part of the charm."

We spent the rest of the day in full lazy mode--cozy, cuddled up, watching the snow fall outside. There were no obligations, no rush, just the warmth of each other and the lingering scent of the candles still burning from the night before. Every now and then, Emma would make another observation about American Christmas traditions, or I'd share another childhood memory, and it felt like we were building something new together--a bridge between her world and mine.

In the afternoon, I stretched my arms over my head and turned to Emma with a slow smirk. "Alright, I think I'm ready."

Emma blinked up at me, eyebrows raised. "For what?"

I grinned. "To claim my prize for finding the almond. As the rightful winner of a Danish game, I fully expect a worthy reward."

Emma's lips curled in a knowing smile as she sat up, shifting onto her knees beside me. "Oh, do you now? Well, I'm afraid this isn't exactly traditional, but I hope you'll like it just the same." She tapped her finger against her lips thoughtfully. "You know, traditionally the winner just gets a marzipan pig or maybe an extra dessert... but I think we can bend Danish tradition a little." Her eyes sparkled with mischief. "After all, cultural exchange is important, and I find myself increasingly fond of certain American customs."

I nodded. "Absolutely."

She leaned in, her breath warm against my ear. "Well then, Mr. Harris, I suppose it's time I properly reward you..."

The light filtered through the windows, casting a warm glow over our living room. Emma quickly straddled my lap, running her fingers through my hair with that smirk. Her touch was electric, sending shivers down my spine and stirring a heat in my groin.

"So, any guesses about your prize?" she asked playfully, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

I was already caught up in the moment, my mind racing with possibilities, my cock stirring with anticipation. "Something scandalous, I hope," I murmured, my voice low and husky.

She stood up, taking my hand and leading me to the bedroom. The walk was deliberate, slow, each step building the anticipation. My heart pounded in my chest, my breath growing shallower as we entered the dimly lit bedroom. She made me sit on the edge of the bed, her eyes never leaving mine as she walked over to the dresser.

We were both still in our Christmas loungewear -- Emma in soft flannel pajama pants and a thin sweater that hung off one shoulder, me in sweatpants and a worn t-shirt. She returned to stand between my legs, her hands finding the hem of my shirt. "First things first," she murmured, slowly lifting it over my head. Her cool fingertips traced the contours of my chest, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

I reached for her sweater, but she gently caught my wrists. "Not yet," she whispered, pushing me back slightly. She crossed her arms and lifted her sweater in one fluid motion, revealing she wore nothing underneath. The sight of her bare breasts, nipples hardening in the cool air, made my mouth go dry.

With deliberate slowness, she hooked her thumbs into her pajama pants and slid them down her long legs, stepping out of them gracefully. She stood before me completely naked, the light gilding her skin. "Your turn," she said, tugging at the waistband of my sweatpants. I lifted my hips as she pulled them down along with my boxers, my erection springing free.

From a drawer, she pulled out a couple of silk ties--a hint that she had something extra planned. "Since you're the winner, I figured I should make this memorable," she murmured, brushing her lips against mine before stepping back. The touch was fleeting, but it left a burning sensation on my lips, my cock now fully hard and straining against my pants.

Emma told me to lie back, her voice firm yet gentle. "It's a reward, not a negotiation," she teased, a playful smile on her lips. She used the silk ties to lightly bind my wrists to the bedposts, the cool fabric contrasting with the heat of my skin. The sensation of being restrained, of giving up control, was both exhilarating and unnerving, my cock throbbing with each beat of my heart.

She took her time, her movements slow and deliberate. She kissed my neck, her lips soft and warm, before trailing down to my chest. Each touch was a tease, a promise of more to come. Her fingers traced patterns on my skin, her breath hot against my ear as she whispered, "You were probably so impatient as a kid, always wanting to open presents early. But today, Matt, you have to wait. I'm going to take my time with you, make you feel so good you'll beg for more."

She straddled me, her breasts brushing against my chest, her hard nipples grazing my skin, sending jolts of pleasure straight to my cock. She ground against me, the heat of her pussy searing through the fabric of our clothes. I groaned, my hips arching to meet her, desperate for more friction.

"Emma," I gasped, "you're driving me crazy."

She smiled, a wicked glint in her eyes. "That's the point, Matt. And I've only just started." She moved down my body, her fingers deftly unbuttoning my pants and pulling them down, my cock springing free, hard and aching. She looked at it, licking her lips, and I thought I would explode right then.

"Look at you, so hard and ready," she murmured, her hand wrapping around my shaft. Her touch was firm, her fingers cool against my heated skin. She stroked me slowly, her thumb circling the sensitive tip, spreading the bead of precum that had gathered there. I groaned, my hips bucking into her hand, eager for more.

She leaned down, her breath hot on my cock, her tongue flicking out to lick the tip. I gasped, the sensation intense, my body tensing with pleasure. She took her time, her tongue exploring every inch of my cock, her mouth hot and wet as she took me in, inch by inch. I could feel the back of her throat, her muscles constricting around me, and I thought I would die from the pleasure.

"Fuck, Emma," I groaned, my hands gripping the silk ties, desperate to touch her, to tangle my fingers in her hair. "That feels so good."

She hummed, the vibration sending waves of pleasure through me. She pulled back, her lips popping off my cock, a string of saliva connecting us. She smiled, her lips glistening, her eyes filled with desire. "I'm glad you think so," she said, her voice husky. "Because I'm just getting started."

She straddled me again, this time positioning herself over my cock. She rubbed her pussy against me, her lips wet and hot, coating me in her arousal. I could feel her clit, hard and swollen, grinding against my shaft. I bucked my hips, desperate to be inside her.

"Emma," I pleaded, "please."

She smiled, her eyes never leaving mine as she slowly sank down onto my cock. She was tight, her walls gripping me, her heat enveloping me. I groaned, the sensation intense, my body tensing with pleasure. She took her time, her hips moving in slow circles, her body adjusting to mine.

She leaned down, her breasts pressing against my chest, her nipples hard points of pleasure. She kissed me, her tongue exploring my mouth, her hips moving in time with her kiss. She pulled back; her breath hot on my lips. "You feel so good, Matt," she murmured. "Your cock is so hard, so deep inside me."

She sat up, her hands on my chest, her hips moving in slow, deliberate circles. She ground against me, her clit rubbing against my pubic bone, her breath hitching with each movement. I could feel her tightening around me, her body tensing with pleasure.

"You deserve this, Matt," she gasped, her hips moving faster, her body chasing its release. "You deserve to feel so good."

I bucked my hips, meeting her thrust for thrust, my body desperate for release. I could feel my orgasm building, my body tensing with pleasure. Emma's body was slick with sweat, her breasts bouncing with each movement, her nipples hard and begging to be touched.

"Emma," I groaned, "I'm close."

She smiled; her eyes filled with desire. "I know," she gasped. "I can feel it. I can feel you, so hard, so deep inside me." She threw her head back, her body tensing, her walls clamping down on my cock. "Fuck, Matt, I'm cumming," she screamed. "Your cock feels so good."

Her orgasm triggered mine, my body exploding with pleasure. I came hard, my cock pulsing, my body shaking with the force of my release. Emma collapsed on top of me, her body slick with sweat, her breath coming in quick gasps.

I lay there, my heart pounding, my body spent, my mind blown. Emma nuzzled against my neck; her breath hot on my skin. Through the window, I could see snow still falling in the dim glow of the streetlights. She shifted in my arms, pressing a soft kiss to my collarbone. "Glædelig jul," she whispered against my skin.

I smiled, running my fingers through her hair. "Merry Christmas, Emma."

She hummed contentedly, settling deeper into my embrace. "Next year, we're doing this in Denmark." Her voice was soft but certain. "Right, Mr. Harris?"

"You mean the sex or Christmas?"

Emma pretended to think about it for a moment. "Definitely both."

I held her close, a satisfied smile on my lips. "Sounds perfect to me." There was no place I'd rather be than wherever she was.

January wasn't the best time to visit Ohio, but I couldn't wait any longer to introduce Emma to my family. The flight from New York to Columbus was smooth, and after picking up our rental car, we started the hour-and-a-half drive southeast to Athens. Emma had dozed off briefly during takeoff, her head on my shoulder, but now she was wide awake, taking in everything with that keen observer's eye I loved so much.

Snow dusted the rolling hills of southern Ohio, and bare trees stretched stark against the steel-gray sky. We passed through small towns with Main Streets that looked frozen in time--family-owned diners with neon signs, century-old brick buildings housing antique shops, American flags hanging limp in the winter air. Such a far cry from the sleek towers and constant motion of Manhattan.

Emma stared out the window, her breath fogging the glass slightly. She'd bundle up in one of my old Ohio University hoodies--royal green and oversized on her frame--insisting it was "more authentic" for meeting my family. Now she tucked her legs up in the passenger seat, looking completely at home.

"This is so different," she mused, her accent a little stronger when she was thoughtful like this. "I've never really seen this part of America before. It's like all those films about small-town life, but..." She gestured vaguely at the landscape. "More real somehow."

I glanced at her with a smile, loving how she was processing it all. "And?"

She tilted her head, watching a group of deer picking their way through a snow-covered field. "It's... quiet. Peaceful in a way I didn't expect." She turned to me with that slight smirk. "Though I have to say, your American roads are absurdly straight. In Denmark, we believe in curves."

"Just wait until we hit the hills around Athens," I promised. "Nothing straight about those roads."

"I like it here," she said softly, her hand finding mine on the center console. "I can picture you growing up in this landscape. It explains some things about you."

"Oh yeah? Like what?"

"Like how you can be so still sometimes. How you notice small details. In New York, everyone's always rushing, looking ahead to the next thing. But here..." She gestured at the vast, open spaces around us. "Here, you learn to pay attention to what's right in front of you."

I squeezed her hand, warmth spreading through my chest. "Good observation. Because my family's going to love you, and I don't want you getting any last-minute ideas about escaping back to the airport."

Emma laughed, the sound bright in the quiet car, and laced her fingers through mine. "No chance, elskling (darling). I want to see where you come from." She paused, then added with a mischievous glint in her eye, "Besides, I have to see if your childhood bedroom has any embarrassing posters."

We pulled up to the cozy, two-story house near the university district where my parents had lived for decades. The porch light was already on, casting a warm glow against the snowy evening. As we stepped inside, we were immediately enveloped in warmth--both from the heat and from my mother, who pulled me into a hug before turning to Emma.

"You must be Emma," she said, smiling warmly. "I'm Linda, and it is so wonderful to finally meet you."

Emma returned the hug without hesitation. "It's wonderful to meet you too, Linda. Thank you for having me."

My father, Tom, approached next, extending his hand, but Emma stepped forward and wrapped him in a warm embrace. His eyes widened in surprise at being hugged by my tall Danish girlfriend, but a smile soon spread across his face. "Matt's told us a lot about you," he said, his deep voice steady.

"I hope mostly good things," Emma quipped, glancing playfully at me.

Dad cracked a rare smile. "Oh, he's completely smitten--and looking at you, I can certainly see why." He gave me a knowing wink, his usual reserve melting a bit in the warmth of the moment.

I groaned. "Alright, alright, let's not embarrass me too much just yet."

Before we could sit down, a figure leaned against the kitchen doorway--my sister, Lily, now eighteen and in her freshman year at OU. She had the same piercing gray eyes as me but with a sharp, youthful edge. Her dark brown hair was cut into a trendy shoulder-length bob, and she wore an Ohio University hoodie, arms crossed, watching Emma with quiet curiosity.

"Hey, Lily," I said warmly.

"Good to see you, Matt," she replied, a small smile playing at her lips. Despite the fourteen years between us, we'd grown closer as she'd gotten older, finding common ground in our love of books and dry humor.

Lily's attention turned to Emma, studying her with that analytical gaze she'd developed in her AP Literature classes. "So. You're the famous Emma."

Emma smiled, unbothered by the scrutiny. "That depends--how famous does Matt make me sound?"

Lily shrugged, giving me a side glance. "Let's just say he hasn't shut up about you."

Emma laughed, reaching out a hand. "It's really nice to meet you, Lily. Your brother's been excited for this trip for weeks."

Lily shook her hand, her initial reserve softening into something more genuine. "Yeah, well, he's kind of a nerd about things that matter to him." She paused, then added with a hint of mischief, "Want to hear about the time he tried to recreate a scene from Lord of the Rings in the backyard?"

I saw the gleam in Emma's eyes and knew I was in trouble. "Oh, absolutely," she said, linking arms with Lily as if they'd known each other for years. "Tell me everything."

As they headed toward the living room, already deep in conversation, I caught my mother's knowing smile. "She's wonderful," Mom whispered, squeezing my arm.

I couldn't help but grin. "Yeah, she really is."

When Linda started carrying dishes to the kitchen to prepare dinner, Emma immediately rose to help. "Please, let me assist," she insisted, already gathering plates. "In Denmark, we always say 'Mange hænder løfter i flok'--kind of like many hands make light work."

Linda beamed at her. "Well, who am I to argue with Danish wisdom?"

The dining room table was laden with what I immediately recognized as my childhood favorites - mom's famous pot roast with root vegetables, the kind that filled the house with warmth all day as it slow-cooked. The way Emma's eyes lit up at the spread made my heart swell.

"I hope you like pot roast," Mom said, "It's Matt's favorite. He used to request it for every birthday."

"It smells incredible," Emma said, inhaling deeply. "Just like my mother's karbonader, though obviously quite different."

Lily, already on her first glass of wine, reached for the bottle again only to have Dad smoothly intercept it. "Nice try, young lady. You're still a few years short."

"Dad, I'm in college now," Lily protested, earning chuckles from around the table.

"When you're Emma's age, you can have as much wine as you like," Dad replied with a wink.

"So, I only have to wait..." Lily paused dramatically, looking at Emma.

"Another eight years," Emma supplied with a laugh. "Though I should warn you, Danish wine standards are quite high. We start developing our palate young - it's practically a cultural requirement."

Dad, loosened up by his own glass of wine, started reminiscing about my high school days. "You know, Emma, Matt was quite the football player back then. All-Conference his senior year. The girls were always after him, but he was so focused on football and his studies." He chuckled, shaking his head. "His mother used to worry he'd never date."

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat - I never liked talking about those days. Emma squeezed my knee under the table, sensing my discomfort, but her eyes sparkled with interest. "I was also on the Academic Challenge team," I said, trying to redirect the conversation. "I took second place in the state in Chemistry in the Science Olympiad, and all of my high school dance dates I went with were just 'friends'." I paused, remembering the anxiety of those formal dances - me, six-foot-two and still growing into my limbs, terrified of slow dancing. "It's a complicated story depending on what you want to focus on."

Emma's hand stayed steady on my knee, and I felt grateful for how easily she read these moments. After years of awkward interactions with women, her natural warmth had been like a key unlocking something I hadn't known was closed.

Watching Lily's animated contributions to the conversation, Emma's expression softened. "You remind me so much of my sister Sigrid," she said. "She's only a few years older than you. I miss her energy - she's always been the life of our family."

"Do you get to see her often?" Mom asked.

"Not as much as I'd like," Emma replied with a hint of wistfulness. "Mostly around Christmas and sometimes in summer. She's studying architecture in Copenhagen, so we try to video chat every couple of weeks. She's been threatening to visit New York since I moved here, but her schedule is always packed." She smiled fondly. "I'm hoping to convince her to come this spring."

Mom nodded warmly, which naturally led to asking about the rest of Emma's family.

Emma's smile turned gentle. "My father, Anders, still lives in our family home in Svendborg," she glanced at me fondly. "A beautiful old house near the harbor that's been in the family for generations. He's... quiet, like Matt actually. He's had to be both mother and father since we lost mom."

The table grew quiet as Emma continued, her voice soft but steady. "My mother, Lena, she... she passed away from cancer years ago. She was amazing - always had a book in her hand and a story on her lips. She's the reason I love literature so much."

"Oh, Emma, I'm so sorry," Mom said, reaching across to squeeze her hand. "I shouldn't have-"

"No, please," Emma interrupted gently. "I love talking about her. She would have loved this - family dinner, sharing stories. She always said food tastes better with laughter."

Then, with perfect timing, she lightened the mood. "Though I must say, she might have questioned my taste in choosing someone from Ohio," she teased, nudging me. "Just wait until I drag you to Svendborg. Our little coastal town might not be as grand as Copenhagen, but we'll show you what real winter looks like when the Baltic wind comes sweeping in."

"Hey now," I protested, grateful for her ability to shift the emotional weight of the moment. "I'll have you know Ohio winters are perfectly respectable."

"Of course they are," she patted my hand patronizingly, making everyone laugh. "Just like American football is almost as exciting as real football."

After dinner, I made the tactical error of suggesting Ticket to Ride. Emma's eyes gleamed with barely contained competitive spirit as she helped set up the board.

"I should warn you," she said sweetly, "board games are very serious business in Denmark winters."

Mom brought out coffee and her homemade cookies as we settled around the table. Lily immediately claimed the seat next to Emma, peppering her with questions about Danish board game nights and winter traditions.

What followed was a masterclass in strategic restraint. I could see Emma physically holding back her urge to block every route, occasionally "missing" obvious connections that would have devastated our plans. Dad noticed too, raising an eyebrow when she deliberately chose a longer route around Pittsburgh rather than cutting off my clear path.

"I appreciate your mercy with my son," Dad said dryly after watching Emma skillfully place her trains. "Though I'm starting to worry about how ruthless you might be in a real competition."

"Oh, Mr. Harris," Emma grinned, "I'm being equally kind to everyone here."

"Tom, for heaven's sake," Mom interjected, watching Dad struggle with his routes. "You're an engineer! Shouldn't you be better at this kind of strategic planning?"

Dad looked up from his cards with mock indignation. "Linda, this has nothing to do with mechanical engineering. Though I suppose I should have anticipated the shortest path between points..." He trailed off, studying the board with renewed interest.

"Too late for that now, Dad," Lily chirped, having barely looked at her own cards as she continued her steady stream of questions to Emma. "So, you really have game nights every week in winter? Can I come visit? I bet I could learn to be as good as you!"

Emma laughed, clearly charmed by Lily's enthusiasm. "Of course! Though I should warn you, my sister Sigrid is even more competitive than I am. We once had a Monopoly game last six hours because neither of us would concede."

By the end of the game, Emma had managed to connect her routes across the entire board while the rest of us struggled with disconnected lines. I had a suspiciously easy time completing my Boston to Miami route, which I'm certain she could have blocked at least twice.

"Just beginner's luck," she insisted, but the slight smirk playing at the corner of her mouth told a different story. Dad, surprisingly, seemed impressed by her tactical gameplay, while Lily, now firmly established as Emma's newest devoted fan, demanded a rematch.

"Next time," Emma promised, reaching for another cookie, "I'll teach you all the European version. The routes are much more challenging." The gleam in her eye suggested she might not play quite so nice in round two. "Though maybe we should team up, Lily. Show these Harriss how it's really done."

"Oh no," Mom laughed, gathering empty coffee cups. "I think we've created a monster."

"Two monsters," Dad corrected, watching Lily and Emma already plotting their future gaming alliance. "Matt, son, I think you're in trouble."

After we settled in for the night lying in my childhood bed, Emma seemed more interested in studying the room than sleeping. She'd changed into her cozy flannel pajamas, but kept getting up to examine different corners of my past. Her fingers traced the spines of books on his shelf, pausing at his collection of Terry Pratchett novels.

"So, this is where young Matt Harris escaped to other worlds," she mused, pulling out a well-worn copy of "Guards! Guards!"

"You can definitely tell which ones were my favorites," I said, watching her from the bed. The moonlight through the window cast a soft glow across the room, making the moment feel somehow suspended in time.

She moved to the small collection of trophies, picking up the All-Conference football one Dad had mentioned at dinner. "Still not going to tell me more about your glory days?"

"Not much to tell," I deflected, but she just gave me that look--the one that said she wasn't buying it. I sighed, sitting on the edge of my old bed. "I was good enough at football, sure. Smart enough for good grades. But mostly I was just... confused. Lost, maybe?"

"About what?" she asked softly, setting down the trophy and coming to sit beside me.

"Everything? Girls, especially. Everyone expected me to date--the football player who got good grades, such a nice guy--but I had no idea what I was supposed to do or feel. Like, if someone had actually said yes to a real date, I wouldn't have known what came next." I gestured at the awkward photo of myself she'd been looking at earlier. "Look at that kid. Six-foot-two, and all I wanted was to hide in the library with my fantasy books."

Emma was quiet for a moment, her eyes still on the photo. "I think I understand him better than you might expect," she said finally. "That feeling of being caught between what everyone thinks you should be and who you actually are." She paused, then looked at me with surprising vulnerability. "That's how I feel about the Denmark offer."

The sudden shift caught me off guard, but I stayed quiet, giving her space to continue.

"Everyone keeps telling me what an incredible opportunity it is. 'Emma, this is what you've always wanted.' 'Emma, think about your writing career.'" She drew her knees up to her chest, suddenly looking younger in the dim light. "But I keep wondering if that's who I am anymore. The Emma who applied for that residency--she was still trying to find herself. Still defining success by other people's standards."

"And now?" I asked gently.

She sighed, leaning against my shoulder. "Now I'm starting to build something real. The New Yorker piece opened doors I never expected--I have two more essays being considered by The Atlantic and Granta, and those agent meetings next month. You." She looked around the room, gesturing to the childhood artifacts surrounding us. "Being here, seeing where you came from, meeting your family--it makes everything feel more... substantial. Like I'd be walking away from something meaningful, not just postponing it."

"You know I'll support whatever you decide," I said, though my heart hammered in my chest. "If Denmark is what you need--"

"That's just it," she interrupted softly. "I'm not sure it is anymore. What if the Emma who needed that residency isn't who I am now?"

I wrapped an arm around her shoulders, feeling the weight of her words. "People change. That doesn't make your past dreams any less valid."

"No," she agreed, "but it might make them less right for my future." She sighed, leaning against me. We sat in comfortable silence for a moment, both of us contemplating the weight of choices and changes.

Emma's attention caught on the framed photo on the desk again--me at seventeen, all awkward limbs and uncertain smile despite the football uniform. "Oh, look at you," she breathed, her mood shifting back to playful. "You hadn't grown into your height yet."

"Or much of anything else," I admitted, watching her trace the edge of the frame. "Sometimes I think Dad still sees that version of me--the All-Conference kid with so much potential. He doesn't quite get that I was drowning in all those expectations."

Emma's smile turned thoughtful. "Maybe that's what scares me about Denmark. Everyone's expectations of what it should mean for me."

She set the photo down gently, her fingers lingering on the frame for a moment before she turned away, perhaps sensing we both needed a lighter note. Her eyes lit up as she spotted something on my bookshelf.

"Now this," she said, her Danish accent becoming more pronounced as it always did when she was amused, "this perfect spacecraft tells me everything I need to know about teenage Matt. So precise, so careful." She traced a finger along the wing of the meticulously constructed LEGO Space Shuttle. "We would have had to revoke my citizenship if I didn't recognize quality LEGO work."

I felt the tension in my shoulders ease at her playful shift. "Is that your professional Danish assessment?"

"Mm-hmm. Though I do have one question," she turned to face me, eyes twinkling. "Was building spaceships more interesting than talking to girls?"

"Definitely less terrifying," I laughed, but found myself looking away.

She crossed back to me, taking my hand. "Hey," she said softly. "I love that this was you. All of it. The careful LEGO builder, the confused football player, the science genius--it made you... well, you."

I squeezed her hand; grateful she wasn't pushing for more details but also relieved she understood. Some memories were better left in this room, among the trophies and toys and old photographs.

Then her eyes lit up in that way that always meant trouble. "Though I have to say," she added, picking up my senior prom photo again, "Katie Mueller's dress really was something. Very... bold choice for 2011."

Emma's eyes were scanning the bookshelf when she suddenly dropped to her knees, reaching behind the lowest shelf with a triumphant "Aha!" When she sat back on her heels, she was clutching a magazine, a mischievous grin spreading across her face.

"Oh la la... 2010 Swimsuit Edition. Someone's been keeping secrets." She flipped through it, her eyes widening with feigned shock. "And look who's featured so prominently. Brooklyn Decker in all her..." she gestured at the cover, smirking, "barely-there, bombshell glory."

"That's not--" I started, feeling heat creep up my neck.

"The pages are practically falling out from overuse," she continued, her Danish accent thick with amusement. "I mean, I can see why. These swimsuits are... ahem... very revealing. Especially this one." She held up a particular spread, her eyebrows waggling. "Very... inspiring for a young man, I'm sure."

"Can we please--"

"Did you study this for the articles?" Her eyes were sparkling with laughter now. "Or were you more interested in the... assets? Maybe it was a hands-on anatomy lesson?" She paused, tilting her head. "Tell me, Matt, what did you like so much about these photos? Was it the riveting interviews? The fascinating foreign locations?" She leaned in, her voice a mock whisper, "Or was it the breasts? I bet it was the breasts."

"Okay, that's enough," I said, lunging for the magazine, but she danced away, laughing wickedly. "Emma!"

"Your mom did such a thorough job keeping your room exactly as it was," she teased, her voice dripping with mock sweetness. "Even your little stash of... educational materials. I wonder what else we might find if we keep looking?"

"Go to sleep, Emma."

She laughed softly, finally settling down. "Fine, but this conversation isn't over. I saw at least three yearbooks over there, and tomorrow is another day."

"God help me," I muttered, but I was smiling as I turned off the bedside lamp.

The morning light filtered through the kitchen window, casting long shadows across the worn linoleum floor. I found my father at the kitchen table, a steaming mug of coffee in one hand and a dog-eared engineering journal in the other. A pair of reading glasses perched on the end of his nose as he made occasional notes in the margins. He glanced up as I entered, offering a small nod before marking his place with a finger.

"Coffee's fresh," he said, gesturing toward the pot.

I poured myself a cup and settled into the chair across from him. The house was quiet--Mom had taken Emma and Lily to the farmers market, insisting that Emma needed to experience "real Ohio produce" despite it being the dead of winter. The sudden absence of their voices left the house feeling strangely empty, the silence between my father and me stretching out like a physical thing.

Dad set his papers aside, removing his reading glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose. He'd always been a man of few words, his emotions carefully contained behind a wall of measured responses and thoughtful pauses. Growing up, I'd often mistaken this reserve for disappointment, constantly striving to earn the approval I wasn't sure he was capable of giving.

"Your Emma," he said finally, surprising me by breaking the silence first. "She's quite something."

I smiled, wrapping my hands around the warm mug. "Yeah, she really is."

Dad nodded, his eyes meeting mine with unexpected directness. "Smart. Confident. Challenges you." He tapped his fingers against the table--a habit I'd inherited from him. "She reminds me a bit of your mother, actually. That same spark."

I nearly choked on my coffee. Dad rarely offered comparisons to Mom--his gold standard for all things.

"I wasn't sure, you know," he continued, his voice softer now. "When you went into finance. Wasn't what I expected for you."

The familiar tension crept into my shoulders. We'd never really talked about my career choice--not directly. I'd always sensed his quiet disappointment that I hadn't followed him into engineering or academia, but he'd never voiced it.

"I know," I said carefully. "It's not building bridges or designing renewable energy systems."

Dad's eyebrows rose slightly. "Is that what you think I wanted?"

I shrugged. "You've spent your whole career creating things that help people. Teaching students to do the same. And I'm just... moving money around."

To my surprise, Dad chuckled--a low, rumbling sound rarely heard in our household. "Matt, I worried about you because you were always so damned hard on yourself. Always trying to figure out who you were supposed to be rather than who you were." He leaned back in his chair, studying me. "The football player or the science kid. The popular guy or the introvert. You thought you had to pick one."

I blinked, caught off guard by his insight. "I guess I did."

"Your mother and I--we just wanted you to find your way. Whatever that looked like." He took a sip of his coffee, gathering his thoughts. "Would I have been pleased if you'd gone into engineering? Sure. But not because I wanted you to be like me."

"Then why?"

Dad's eyes crinkled at the corners. "Because you have a mind that sees patterns others miss. A way of looking at problems from angles most people never consider. That's valuable in any field."

The praise, so unexpected and straightforward, left me momentarily speechless.

"As for finance," he continued, "it's not what I understand. But I know you, son. I know your convictions. I know you're not the type to chase a dollar at the expense of your principles." He cleared his throat. "Your mother keeps me updated on your work. The ethical investing projects. The sustainability initiatives you've helped develop."

I stared at him, processing this revelation. "Mom talks to you about my work?"

"Of course she does. She's proud of you. So am I." He reached for his reading glasses, turning them over in his hands--a nervous gesture I'd never noticed before. "You found your own way of trying to make things better. Different approach than mine, but the same goal."

Something tight in my chest began to loosen. All these years, I'd carried the weight of what I thought was his disappointment, never realizing he'd been seeing me more clearly than I'd given him credit for.

"And now," Dad said, glancing toward the window as if he could see Emma in the distance, "you've found someone who challenges you. Makes you think. Keeps you honest." His mouth curved in a small smile. "That's no small thing, Matt."

"No," I agreed, "it's not."

Dad put his glasses back on, a signal that the emotional part of our conversation was likely coming to an end. But then he surprised me again.

"Your Emma reminds me of your mother in another way," he said, his voice taking on a distant quality. "She looks at you the way Linda used to look at me when we were starting out. Like you're a puzzle she enjoys solving." He tapped his finger on the journal absently. "That's how you know it's real, son. When they see all of you--the mess and the contradictions--and stay anyway."

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

"Don't waste time wondering if you deserve her," Dad added, glancing back at his reading. "Just be worthy of her. There's a difference."

"I'm trying," I said, and meant it.

Dad looked up one last time, his eyes surprisingly warm. "I can tell. That's all any of us can do." He cleared his throat. "Now, tell me more about that project you mentioned. I've been reading about some interesting applications of optimization algorithms that might apply to your field."

I smiled, recognizing his way of reconnecting through shared intellectual ground. As I settled in beside him, explaining my recent work in broad strokes, I realized that this quiet moment--this bridge between who we had been and who we were becoming--might be the most honest conversation we'd ever had.

And somewhere in the back of my mind, I wondered if Emma had somehow engineered this too, nudging my father and me toward an understanding we should have reached years ago. It would be just like her, finding the loose threads in a story and gently pulling until the pattern revealed itself.

When Mom, Emma, and Lily returned from the farmers market, their cheeks flushed from the cold, they carried paper bags filled with winter vegetables and local honey. Emma's eyes found mine immediately, a silent question in them. Something in my expression must have answered her, because she smiled--a small, private smile that made me want to pull her close and tell her everything.

But the moment was swallowed by activity--Mom directing the unpacking of groceries, Lily excitedly showing Emma the artisanal cheeses they'd discovered, Dad retreating to his study with the remainder of his journal reading. The afternoon slipped away in comfortable family chaos, and it wasn't until later that Emma and I found ourselves alone.

"Your mom mentioned they're going to your aunt's for lunch and to spend time helping her around the house this afternoon," Emma said, leaning against the doorframe of my bedroom. "She invited us, but I told her you promised to show me your old high school haunts."

I raised an eyebrow. "Did I?"

Emma's lips curved into a mischievous smile. "You did now." She stepped into the room, closing the door behind her with a soft click. "I thought we might appreciate some time alone in this house."

The house was silent, the kind of quiet that only exists in a home that's been lived in for decades. Outside, the Ohio winter pressed against the windows, the wind howling softly, painting frost patterns on the glass. But inside my childhood bedroom, the air felt thick and heavy, charged with an electric current oscillating between nostalgia and carnal desire.

Emma sat cross-legged on my old bed, her fingers tracing the slightly worn pattern of the comforter. The room was a time capsule of my teenage years--framed sports posters adorned the walls, a bookshelf groaned under the weight of old fantasy novels, and a desk bore the scars of hours of studying and perhaps more secretive activities. Emma's mind, however, wasn't focused on my academic pursuits or athletic glories.

"So," she mused, stretching out languidly and propping herself up on one elbow, her blue eyes dancing with mischief. "How many hours do you think you spent in this room, with whatever teenage fantasy played out in your head?"

I scoffed at her bluntness, leaning against the doorway, allowing the memories to wash over me. "Jesus, Emma," I muttered, a faint flush creeping up my neck.

"What?" She smirked, her finger tracing an idle circle on the blanket. "I mean, it's a valid question. I can just picture teenage Matt sitting right there"--she pointed at the desk-- "desperately trying to clear his browser history, before your mom walked in."

I exhaled a slow breath, crossing my arms defensively. "I knew what I was doing," I insisted, though my voice lacked conviction.

"Oh, I'm sure you did." Emma sat up, tilting her head to study me. "But I bet you had all sorts of fantasies, huh? Lying here, thinking about girls you wanted but couldn't have..." She let the words hang, watching me closely, her eyes gleaming with curiosity and something darker. "Wondering what it would feel like to have someone like me in here with you. Someone to touch, to fuck, to finally satisfy that ache."

My jaw tightened slightly, my gaze sharpening. "You enjoying yourself?" I asked, my voice low and tense.

"A little," she admitted, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. "Is this where you first imagined a girl giving you a blow job? Where you discovered how much the thought of anal sex turned you on? Or maybe where you discovered you wanted to dominate a submissive slut, until she begged for your cum in all her holes?"

"Well, I don't remember exactly, but yes, this was the site of many a sexual discovery and plenty of released frustration." I replied, trying to be honest but also getting very aroused at the nostalgic memories being brought up by my tall raven-haired Danish girlfriend.

"It's just kind of fascinating, you know? You were probably so frustrated back then, so wound up. All that testosterone and nowhere to put it." She slid off the bed and took a slow step toward me, her hips swaying gently. "But now..."

Her fingers brushed the hem of her sweater before she tugged it up and over her head, letting it drop to the floor. She stood there in just her bra, her nipples hardening against the lace, watching the way my gaze darkened, the way my throat bobbed as I swallowed hard.

"Now you've got me," she whispered, taking another step closer. "All alone in your childhood home. No parents to interrupt. No browser history to clear." She trailed a finger down her stomach, toying with the waistband of her jeans. "I wonder what younger Matt would want to do right now. I wonder what he would do with all that pent-up frustration, with a willing girl in his room."

She slowly unbuttoned her jeans, sliding them down her long legs, revealing matching lace panties. She kicked the jeans aside and stood there, her body on full display. "Did you ever imagine a hot girl like me being here with you, alone, willing, Matt?" she purred, turning around and bending over the bed, her ass pressing against the lace. "Did you ever think about being rough and taking her from behind, fucking a wet, tight pussy just like this?"

I couldn't find the words to respond, my breath catching in my throat as she looked back at me over her shoulder.

She smiled wickedly and then dropped to her hands and knees. She began to crawl across the room towards me, her vivid blue eyes never leaving mine. "I bet you didn't just want a sweet girlfriend, did you, Matt?" she whispered, her voice low and sultry. "I bet you wanted a confident slut. Someone who knew what she wanted and wasn't afraid to take it."

She stopped at my feet and sat back on her knees, her hands running up my thighs. "So, Matt," she asked, her voice a soft purr. "What do you want to do with me?"

I pushed off the doorway, stepping toward her, my movements measured but charged with a dangerous energy. "Emma..." I growled, a warning and a promise all at once.

"What?" She took another step back, forcing me to follow. "Would he want to pin me to the bed, rip off my clothes, and finally let all that frustration out? Fuck me hard and raw like he always wanted to?"

One moment, she was teasing me, pushing my buttons, and the next, I was hauling her against me, my mouth crushing over hers in a kiss that was all-consuming. It wasn't gentle. It wasn't careful. It was raw, primal, the years of pent-up hunger I had once felt in this room crashing into the present, merging the past and the now into a combustible mix.

Emma gasped against my mouth as I spun her around, pressing her back against the wall with a thud. My hands were rough, gripping her hips hard, trailing fire up her sides. When my fingers dipped into the waistband of her jeans, she let out a shuddering breath, her heart pounding in her chest.

"Tell me," I growled against her lips, my voice a low rumble. "Tell me what younger me would have wanted. Tell me what he would have done."

Emma's breath hitched, but she didn't break eye contact. "He'd want to ravage me," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "He'd want to fuck me so hard I'd never forget it. Never forget him."

I yanked her jeans down in one sharp motion, making her gasp. "Then I guess I should give him what he always wanted," I rasped, my voice thick with desire.

I forcefully pushed her against the wall, the aged wood creaking under the impact, but neither of us cared. Her breath was hot and rapid, her pupils dilated with desire as she wrapped her legs around my waist, pulling me closer.

"Matt," she whispered, her voice already quivering, her body pressing against mine in a way that tested my self-control. "You've waited so long, but you don't want to take it slow now?"

My grip on her hips tightened. "You think I can go slow right now?"

A slow, seductive smile spread across her lips. "No. And I don't want you to."

I trailed slow, deliberate kisses down her throat, letting my teeth graze just enough to send a shiver down her spine. My fingers tangled in her hair, tilting her head back to expose more of her soft, warm skin. She gasped when I bit down, just hard enough to leave a lingering mark, and when I soothed it with my tongue, she let out a quiet, breathless moan.

"I want you to remember this tomorrow," I murmured against her pulse, my voice rough with desire. "Every time you move, I want you to feel it and think of me."

She exhaled shakily, and I felt her fingers dig into my back, her nails scratching my skin as if she wanted to leave her own marks. "Then do it," she whispered. "Mark me. Ravage me. Make me yours."

Her underwear hit the floor, and my fingers immediately slid between her legs, finding her wet and ready. I groaned, my forehead pressing against hers as I teased her with slow, deliberate strokes, spreading her wetness along her inner thighs.

"So ready for me," I muttered, my voice thick.

"Always," she panted, rolling her hips against my hand, seeking more.

I rewarded her by pushing two fingers deep inside, curling them just right, feeling her tighten around me. She cried out, her body jerking in my grasp, but I didn't give her what she wanted yet. I kept my rhythm slow, teasing, watching her expression shift between frustration and desperate pleasure.

"More," she whimpered.

"You love begging, don't you?" I smirked, pumping my fingers harder, rubbing my thumb over her clit in slow, teasing circles.

"Only for you," she gasped, her voice breaking.

That was my breaking point.

I pulled my fingers away, gripping her thighs and lifting her higher against the wall. Her back arched, her breasts pressing into my chest, her legs tightening around me, and I positioned myself, the tip of my cock teasing her entrance. She was dripping wet, her heat enveloping me before I was even inside.

Then, without warning, I thrust deep, filling her completely in one hard stroke.

Emma cried out, her body jerking in shock at the sudden fullness, at the way I stretched her so completely. My grip on her hips was firm, but she clung to me, desperate for more.

"Fuck," she half moaned half screamed, her head falling back against the wall. "You feel so fucking good."

I growled, pulling back only to slam into her again, harder this time. "You like that?"

"Yes," she gasped, matching every thrust with her hips. "Fuck me. Harder."

Every movement was intense and relentless. Each deep stroke was a claim, a reminder that she was mine, that she had always been meant for this. The sounds of our bodies meeting, the ragged breaths, the faint creak of the old wall behind her, it all blended into one overwhelming, primal need.

Emma's voice broke into helpless moans, her legs trembling as she fought to take every inch of me, surrendering completely to my pace, to my possession.

"You're mine," I growled against her ear, my teeth grazing her earlobe. "Mine to fuck. Mine to fill. Mine."

"Yes," she whimpered, her entire body tightening around me. "Yours. Always yours."

I could feel her close, her muscles clenching hard, her moans turning desperate. My fingers found her clit again, rubbing in fast, tight circles, pushing her to the edge.

"Come for me," I ordered, my voice rough. "Let me feel it."

Her entire body arched; her breath caught in a strangled moan as pleasure surged through her. She convulsed around me, squeezing me so tight that I lost control too, thrusting deep, cumming deep inside her, claiming her.

For a long moment, we clung to each other, bodies slick with sweat, hearts racing in sync.

Emma let out a breathless laugh, her head falling back against the wall. "Yeah," she murmured, still catching her breath. "You definitely know what you're doing."

I huffed a short, satisfied laugh, pressing one last kiss to her jaw. "Damn right I do," I agreed, my voice thick with contentment and the lingering haze of spent desire.

We stayed like that for a moment, tangled together in my childhood bedroom surrounded by the artifacts of my past--the trophies, the books, the carefully constructed LEGO models--all silent witnesses to this new memory we'd created. It felt strangely perfect, like closing a circle that had been left open years ago.

Later, as we dressed in comfortable silence, Emma's fingers trailed along my back. "Your parents will be home soon," she said, but there was no urgency in her voice, just a soft acknowledgment that our stolen moment was coming to its natural conclusion.

I nodded, watching her button her jeans, struck by how easily she moved through this space, making it hers too. "I think I needed that," I admitted quietly.

Emma looked up; her expression curious. "What? Sex in your childhood bed?"

"No," I laughed, then considered. "Well, maybe that too. But more... this. You, here, seeing all of this." I gestured around the room. "It's like you've filled in missing pieces of me."

Her smile softened, and she stepped forward to straighten my collar. "That's what we do for each other, isn't it?"

The rest of our visit passed in a blur of family meals, local haunts, and Lily's increasingly elaborate plans for her spring break visit. By the time we boarded our flight back to New York, Emma had a new follower on Instagram (Lily), three recipes from my mother, and Dad's email address with a promise to send him articles about financial algorithms that might interest him.

"Your family is wonderful," Emma said as our plane began its descent into JFK, the Manhattan skyline emerging through the clouds. She squeezed my hand, her eyes still on the window. "Thank you for sharing them with me."

I pressed a kiss to her temple. "They're already planning the next visit. I think my mom started a group text with you and Lily."

Emma laughed. "She did. They're discussing what Broadway shows to see in March." She turned to face me, her expression growing more serious. "Being there, seeing where you came from... it changes things, doesn't it? Makes everything feel more..."

"Real?" I offered.

She nodded, leaning her head against my shoulder as the city grew larger beneath us. "Exactly."

As the plane touched down with a gentle bump, I found myself thinking about the contrast between the quiet hills of Athens and the jagged skyline of New York. Two vastly different worlds, both somehow feeling like home now that Emma bridged them.

The New York skyline glittered through the living room window, a stark contrast to the quiet snowbanks and bare trees of Athens we'd left behind just days ago. Emma and I had settled back into our routine with surprising ease--as if the visit to my childhood home had simply folded itself into our shared history, becoming another chapter in the story we were writing together.

Tonight, we'd ordered from our favorite Thai place on Second Avenue and collapsed onto the couch, both of us still a little worn from the travel. Emma's legs were draped over mine, her head resting against my shoulder as we half-watched some documentary about deep-sea creatures. The familiarity of it all--her weight against me, the distant hum of the city outside--felt like coming home in a way that transcended physical space.

Emma had been quieter than usual since we'd returned, her mind clearly somewhere else. I'd given her the space to process, knowing she'd talk when she was ready. Now, as she shifted slightly against me, I could sense the moment had arrived.

"I've been thinking about Denmark," she said finally, her voice breaking through the gentle silence between us. She sat up a little, tucking her legs beneath her to face me properly. Outside, snow had begun to fall, delicate flakes catching the light from neighboring buildings.

"And?" I asked, keeping my voice neutral despite the way my heart had begun to beat a little faster. I turned down the volume on the TV, giving her my full attention.

Emma's fingers played with the fringe of the throw blanket draped over our laps. "Seeing you with your family, being in your childhood home... it made everything feel more real somehow." She paused, gathering her thoughts. "When I applied for that residency, I was in such a different place. I was still trying to find my voice, still trying to prove something to myself--maybe even to my mother's memory."

I nodded, understanding. "It would have been perfect for you then."

"That's just it," she said, her blue eyes finding mine. "It would have been perfect for who I was, not who I am now." She gestured vaguely around the apartment--at the manuscript pages scattered on her desk, the framed copy of her New Yorker piece hanging on the wall, the two coffee mugs sitting side by side on the kitchen counter. "My life has taken such an unexpected turn. I have agents calling, editors reaching out. I have..." She trailed off, her hand finding mine. "I have you."

"Emma," I said, squeezing her fingers gently. "You know I'd support whatever decision you make. If Denmark is what you need for your writing, for your career--hell, I'd find a way to make it work. Remote work exists for a reason."

She smiled, but shook her head. "I know you would. That's not what I'm worried about." She shifted closer, her knee pressing against my thigh. "But I've realized that chasing that residency now would be like... like trying to go backward. Like I'd be following a path I laid out for a different version of myself."

"Are you sure?" I asked, studying her face carefully. "This is a big opportunity. I don't want you to regret passing it up because of--"

"Because of you?" She finished my sentence with a soft laugh. "Matt, that's not it. I mean, yes, you're part of the equation--a big part--but this isn't about sacrificing my dreams for a relationship." She cupped my face, her palm warm against my cheek. "It's about recognizing that my dreams have evolved. The Emma who applied for that residency was looking for direction, for validation. She needed Denmark."

"And now?" I asked, my throat suddenly tight.

Emma's eyes shone in the dim light of our apartment, sure and clear. "Now I have direction. I have validation--not just from the New Yorker or the agents, but from myself. I know what kind of writer I want to be, what kind of stories I want to tell." She pressed her forehead against mine, her voice dropping to a whisper. "And I know who I want to tell them with."

I swallowed hard, overwhelmed by the certainty in her voice. "So, you're staying?"

She nodded, a small smile playing at her lips. "I'm staying. I'm declining the residency." She drew back slightly, watching my reaction. "I contacted them yesterday, actually. Thanked them for the opportunity but told them my circumstances had changed."

"Emma," I breathed, stunned by the finality of it. "I had no idea you'd already decided."

"It wasn't really a decision in the end," she said simply. "It was a recognition. Of who I am now, of what matters." She gestured between us. "This matters. My career here matters. The life we're building--it matters in a way that feels right."

I pulled her into my arms, burying my face in her hair, breathing in the familiar scent of her shampoo. "I love you," I whispered against her temple. "I would have followed you anywhere, you know."

She laughed softly, her arms tightening around me. "Anywhere," she repeated, echoing our solstice conversation. "Remember when you told me you could live 'anywhere' with the right promotion?" She pulled back to meet my eyes. "I've been thinking about that word since that night. 'Anywhere' isn't just about place--it's about possibility. And right now, all the possibilities I want are right here."

"With me?" I asked, not needing the answer but wanting to hear it anyway.

"With you," she confirmed. "Though we might still need that hipster café with the good coffee someday."

I couldn't help but smile at the callback to our dinner conversation, when Vermont and small towns had seemed like distant maybes. "Someday," I agreed. "But not yet."

She drew back, her eyes meeting mine with a playful gleam. "Besides, I promised your sister I'd show her around New York in the spring. I can't very well do that from Denmark, can I?"

I groaned, dropping my head back against the couch. "God, I almost forgot about that. She's going to take over our apartment and demand we take her to every tourist trap in the city, isn't she?"

"Absolutely," Emma confirmed, settling back against me with a contented sigh. "And I, for one, can't wait. I can practice for when Sigrid visits--being the cool older sister who shows off her New York life."

I couldn't help but smile at the easy way she'd included herself in my family's dynamic, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. And maybe it was. Maybe this--us, together in the city we both loved, building a future that neither of us had anticipated--was exactly where we were meant to be.

"You know," I said after a moment, my fingers tracing lazy patterns on her arm, "we should probably visit Denmark, though. I'd like to see where you grew up, meet your family."

Emma's face lit up. "I'd love that. My father would adore you--though he'd never admit it, of course. He's even more reserved than you are." She tilted her head, considering. "We could go in the summer, when Svendborg is at its most beautiful."

"It's a plan," I agreed, sealing the promise with a kiss.

Outside, the snow continued to fall, blanketing the city in a gentle hush. But inside our small apartment, wrapped in each other's arms, the future had never felt more clear, more certain. Emma had chosen, and in doing so, had chosen us. And I'd never felt more grateful, more humble, more overwhelmingly lucky in my life.

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Thanks for joining Matt and Emma for another chapter of their journey. As promised, Chapter 5 brought us through their first Christmas together and Emma's decision about the Denmark residency. We also got to meet Matt's family and see how their relationship deepens through these important milestones.

I hope you enjoyed this glimpse into Matt's background and the ways it shapes who he is with Emma. Their story continues to evolve as they make choices that define their future together. If you have thoughts or reactions to their holiday adventures or Emma's decision, I'd love to hear from you.

I wish I could write these chapters shorter and almost every draft chapter has been condensed considerably before I published them. So thank you very much for sticking around. I appreciate everyone of you.

Chapter 6 will explore Matt's birthday and Emma's special plans for the celebration. Looking forward to sharing it with you soon.