Archive of Our Own

“Excuse me! Hey there!” you say when you notice the smell of tobacco.

The stranger materialized in the diner while it was all empty, at an unsociable time. That kind of hour where decent folks are home and indecent folks are somewhere else entirely. No one wants cheap coffee and cherry pie unless they’re on the road. And the truckers aren’t around after the storms you’ve had. It’s just not the time of the year.

The man must have been there for a couple of minutes while you were checking the oven in the kitchen, too busy to hear the door bell. It happens. The world's loud, even when it’s quiet. The cigarette has been burning for a bit, with the man slowly exhaling and filling the air with smoke.

You start staring at this fella, who is looking at nowhere in particular, gaze lost, almost in a trance: in another world, another time. The lit cigarette ashes are falling onto the floor you just mopped half an hour ago. For some reason, you don’t feel annoyed by his presence.

Anyone else, you’d be mad. But you’re not. Not exactly.

He’s dressed… peculiar. The man looks menacing and out of place at the same time.

Got on a ragged mock neck, soft-looking, like it’s seen many winters. It still looks warm and nice to wear. A cardigan over the turtleneck: mismatched and oversized for the man’s frame, probably meant for a woman. It’s missing a button. You clock that, sure, but you don’t judge. Times are hard. Thrifting can be fun. Buttons fall off. Whatever it is. Life goes on.

The rest of his ensemble says something different. It’s more polished, more aggressive. Brand new combat boots, which are sharp and mean looking, almost. Heavy wool coat, good quality, the kind that keeps out the winter chill. He must spend a lot of time outside, with all these layers.

And then you look to his middle… There’s a kilt and long johns. It should look ridiculous. Somehow it doesn't. It’s… endearing. The man’s face and body are all angles. You notice sharp cheekbones, strange lines and scars. He’s not handsome, not in the conventional way. You feel your cheeks warm up anyway while you check him out, which is inconvenient. But you can't stop staring. He doesn’t notice anyway, being somewhere else entirely. Eyes still fixed on nothing. Or maybe on something only he can see.

Maybe it’s for the best. You don’t like some of the looks your patrons throw at you sometimes, anyway. You prefer to be intrigued rather than ogled.

Ash drops to the floor again. Now it’s starting to be a bit annoying.

You finally tell yourself to stop staring.

“I’m sorry,” you raise your voice again. “You can’t smoke in here. I know it’s cold outside. Believe me, I know. But if my boss walks in, or the health inspectors show up, well.” You notice how silly you’re sounding, and how you start to rant. “They do that. Show up whenever they feel like it. Even now. They can fine us for stupid little stuff like that. Even shut us down, can you believe it?” You hate that you sound a little scared. He doesn’t have the demeanour of someone who would attack or hurt you, but looks stern anyway, and you don’t want to upset him. Still don’t know what he wants. Does he want to rob the diner, or just get some food?

You know he’s registered what you said, but his response is to just hum, indifferent. He looks like the type of guy who’s seen action, who’s done bad stuff. But you can’t sense any evil. That’s reassuring. So, you find the courage to speak again.

“Why don’t you pick a seat? I’ll be over in a sec.” You give him your brightest smile, laying it on a little thick. A touch of charm never hurt anybody.

You’re lucky, as it seems to land. His expression doesn’t change, but you notice his shoulders relax. It’s good to see tensions ease.

The stranger starts moving to one of the booths. You bring hot pot of coffee and a mug for him.

“Coffee?” you ask.

He ignores you, at first.

“Pancakes.” Finally says. His accent is thick. Definitely not from around here.

“Sure, coming up. Are you sure you don’t want a hot drink? It looks quite miserable outside. We’ve got some tea, if you would like that instead. It’s nice to warm up. Although you look cozy enough. That’s a nice coat.”

He doesn’t seem phased. His eyes are still glazy. But, gentle words and gentle gestures seem to work. Everytime you’re just gentle… you feel something clicking into place.

“No worries, then!” you chirp, because someone’s gotta keep things moving. You head back to the kitchen, tying your apron a little tighter. You tell yourself at least you get something to do. Nights can be very boring, at this time of the year.

The man waits.

When you come back, plate in hand, you start talking before placing the pancakes in front of him, knowing he won’t say a thing.

“Sorry for the wait! It’s usually so quiet at this hour, so our line cook takes his break. You looked hungry, so I just went ahead and made 'em myself.” You’re rambling. You know you are. He hasn’t spoken again, but he’s not turning you away, either, so maybe he wants a bit of company. It gets lonely when the regulars don’t show. You find yourself wanting to know what brought him to the diner.

There’s something about his aura. Ethereal, almost. Like he could be dangerous, or harmless, just like a stray dog. Hard to tell. You like challenges, anyway. You’ll find out.

He stares at the plate. The pancakes are heart shaped. Topped with strawberries and cream.

“It was Valentine’s a couple weeks back. Those were our most popular! Hope you like 'em. They won’t be quite the same as when Joe makes them, but I did my best. I’ll bring you some juice.” You explain. As if an adult needed an explanation about hearts, pancakes or Valentine’s.

And then, you’re back a minute later with a glass of fresh juice you squeezed earlier, pulp and all.

He just nods, but looks thankful.

The stranger studies the plate and the juice. Then starts digging in. He eats slow, gently, as if he hasn’t eaten something in a very long time. Cuts are neat and small, as if your pancakes are some sort of a delicacy. You hear him hum under his breath, low and pleased. His hands slightly tremble. The juice gets drunk and it seems as if he's never tried an orange before in his life, in any shape or form. You just top him with another glass, and that grants a nod, and a gentle look.

That makes you happy.

You busy yourself wiping down tables that don’t need wiping, straightening sugar packets already straight. Stealing looks when you think he won’t notice. You see him looking back at you a couple of times, here and there.

When the plate is cleaned spotless, he leans back in the booth and lets out a small, satisfied sigh. The man doesn’t get up. Doesn’t ask for anything more when you ask him if he wants anything else, either.

“A man is grateful,” he just says when you take his plate.

You frown a little. Funny speech. His voice is rough around the edges, but there’s something soothing in it too.

Finally, he leaves cash on the table, more than double what the pancakes cost, then stands, walking with purpose. You stare at him, and give a quick glance to the table. Your eyes go wide.

There’s a little stack of bills. Well now. That doesn’t look right. You hurry after him.

“Hey, hey! Excuse me!” you shout.

The man turns around, slowly.

“This is too much. I can’t take a tip that big. Please, don’t take it the wrong way. I just can’t accept it. Feels wrong.” You can sense your face flushing as you hold out the extra money. This hasn’t happened before. You wonder if he’s just grateful, or if it’s that obvious you’re not exactly rolling with cash and he’s just indulging you. You don’t want to know why he would freely give that amount of money to you. It doesn’t seem like he would mock you.

The stranger doesn’t exactly react. He stares at the money in your hand.

“A woman went beyond her duty. A man wants to pay. If you refuse, a man is in debt.”

You blink. Trying to make sense of it.

Is he talking about you? About himself? Why is he speaking like that?

“I love making pancakes,” you reply, sincerely. “There’s no debt at all. It gets… kind of boring around here. I’m just glad you liked them. That’s worth more than money to me. You know, seeing you appreciating them. I don’t think anybody has liked my food so much before. You just made me contemplate if I should be the cook here!” You laugh.

There’s some sad truth behind your jokes. Folks don’t always notice the efforts you make. You’ve been exhausted lately. But the praise of this enigmatic man has made you happy. It should be a sad thought, but it isn't.

“Please. Take your money.” you insist, pushing the cash towards him again.

But instead of grabbing it, he turns again and opens the door, stepping outside while the bell chimes. The stranger pulls out another cigarette and lights it.

Which leaves you no other choice but to follow him. You’re convinced that you’re more obstinate than he is.

“If you’re so stubborn and won’t take it back, I’ll give you some cigarettes, then. I should quit, anyway. You seem to enjoy them better.” You say, steam coming up from your mouth. It’s freezing.

You pull the case from your apron pocket and offer it to him. Bold move. Somehow, you don’t want him to leave just yet. Joe’s long gone, probably headed home like he always does at this hour. Knowing no other customers are coming in on a night like this. Not in this freezing cold.

The man looks at your hand while he inhales the smoke slowly and deliberately. Your knuckles are turning white in the chill air. He touches the case carefully, not wanting to cause you an inconvenience. He moves strangely.

“Please,” you insist, teeth chattering now. “Take it. It’s a present. No debt.”

“Present,” the man repeats, like he’s testing the word. He seems confused and intrigued by you. Finally, he really looks at your face, studying it.

“Yeah. A gift. For you. No price.” You say, looking at his blue eyes, which look patient, capable of kindness, but also… afraid. You realise this man might not be familiar with the area, or comfortable with the language. “I haven’t seen you before. Are you from around here?”

“From across the sea.”

You nod like that explains everything. “That’s cool.”

Then, you tell him your name. Wait for him to offer his. Nothing.

So you ask, then. “What’s your name?”

“Oola,” he finally replies, a bit hesitant.

“Oolah” you repeat, trying it out. You don’t know if you say it right, but he doesn’t correct you. “Never heard that one before. Cool name, though. Suits you. Oola.” You try again. “Anyway, I better get back inside before I get in trouble. It’s been nice talking to you. You should come by again sometime. Try the proper pancakes, the ones Joe makes. Nice to meet you.”

He looks like he might say something else, but just nods.

Most people call the man just Ole. Reading out how he writes it, and they mispronounce it. Sometimes, just Munch. The sin eater only ever shared the proper way to say his name with the Lyons, but they tend to use his surname, usually are too preoccupied with their own business. Scotty always addresses him as “Mr. Munch”.

But the way you say it… The man’s name sounds good from your lips. They’re pretty lips, too, a man thinks. Ole’s face grows red when you offer the cigarettes and then hopes you don’t notice. He just appeared here to eat, trying to satisfy the recent type of hunger for nice things the Tiger has taught him. He only expected food, not genuine kindness.

Ole doesn’t share he’s been very touched by you going all your way making him heart shaped pancakes, by your gentleness. They tasted as nice as Dot’s, so they’re obviously made with joy and love. He could taste the care put into the food.

He goes by the diner several times after that, observing you from afar. Watches the line cook work. A man doesn’t want his pancakes, but yours. So he doesn’t go in again.

Ole Munch notices things. He’s used to watching others.

He sees sadness when people aren’t around you. The loneliness. When the customers come, you work hard. You are kind, regardless of everything else, of the greed of some Kings who visit you, every now and then. You treat everybody the same, trying to just do your best.

A man has a code.

Wishes he could help you ease the sadness. He’s known too much pain and suffering, all these centuries.

The Tiger had his reasons for kindness. Debts to settle. Balances to keep straight. A family which needed protection. That’s the way of things. But after some time, the Tiger began treating Ole like family too.

And you… well, you showed the man kindness for no reason at all. No bargain in it. No debt owed. A man notices a thing like that.

A man, he learns. Learns that some humans, now and then, carry a bit of goodness in them.

Some goodness is given freely. Like the Tigers, like yours.

A man wishes to return some of the goodness you’ve shown him.

A man has a code.

***

The next time you see Ole Munch, it isn’t at the diner. It’s outside your house, a week after your encounter.

He doesn’t knock.

You notice a shape outside. It’s the middle of the night, you just finished eating your dinner in silence, ready for bed. With all the late night shifts, your sleep pattern is all over the place. You don’t love spending long nights on your own. Looking out the window again, you notice the shape again, and get a bit scared. It looks like a tall man. When the figure doesn’t move for a long time, you decide to come close to the door, ready to strike at any intruders.

“Who goes there? I’ve got no money, so you better fucking go!” You shout.

There’s an awkward silence. You grow restless, but don’t want to open the door. You’ve heard of neighbours getting attacked and mugged and that is a scary thought. You don’t have much money to lose, but you’ve seen how violent and nasty people can get.

“A present.” You finally hear from the other side. Then he says your name. It sounds nice, in his accent. You're surprised he remembers you. You've been thinking about him since your meeting.

“Ole?” You call.

There’s no response.

You trust your gut and open the door, Ole’s there, carrying a box.

You frown. Maybe he’s not as indifferent to things as you thought, because he looks at you, intently.

“How did you get here? What’s that?” You ask. There’s no bite in your voice. You’re glad to see him.

“Present,” he repeats, as if that answers everything. He ignores the first question entirely. Just stands there, coat dusted with snow, looking like he’s appeared out of nowhere, like magic.

“You didn’t have to do that, Ole. Get inside, it’s freezing. Your ears are all red.” You notice one of them has a weird shape. He must have injured it and not healed properly. Maybe Ole didn’t have cash to get it sorted properly. Or perhaps he’s into dodgy dealings. You don't have to presume. Life can be hard. Again, you can’t feel any danger, even if he looks quite menacing standing there.

You find yourself stepping back inside to let him in without thinking twice. Somehow, it doesn’t feel weird to let him in. “How did you find me?” you try asking again.

He comes in, carefully.

“A man knows where to find a woman who has been kind. The Tiger said it is acceptable to answer a gift with another gift. Not trade. Sharing… joy.” The last word sounds strange from his lips. Sounds like he hasn’t said it much before.

You open and close your mouth, not entirely understanding, or knowing how to speak to him. Ole looks so sincere it overwhelms you. You can feel he’s a kind soul. Strange, but kind.

“That’s very sweet,” you manage to say. “Sit down. I’ll pour you some juice. You look thirsty. Sorry about the mess. I don’t get many visits.”

Ole doesn’t seem to mind.

You notice that his lips look cracked and chapped from the cold, and you chastise yourself for even entertaining the thought of wanting to soothe them. Very selfish of you to project your wants on a kind man showing up to see you. You also notice there’s a scar over his lip. His face is so interesting, that you keep staring. You end up feeling stupid, and decide just to leave and pour the drink as you promised.

Before you can get into the kitchen, he gently grabs your wrist. You whine in response. Weren’t expecting his touch.

“The box,” he says, a bit startled by your reaction.

“Yeah. I’ll open it. I promise.” You tremble, looking at his big hand on you. “Sorry I overreacted.”

He relaxes, then notices his own hand wrapped round your wrist and just stares at it, transfixed. Slowly, he lets go. Suddenly, he looks like someone who’s just touched a hot stove and only now realised he’s been burned. You see the regret settle into his features.

From the way he talks, from the way he carries himself, you figure Ole isn’t used to interacting with others. You’d like to soothe him... But the words don’t quite come, and you’re not so sure it’s your place to do so.

You open the box. Inside there is a beautiful clay homemade dish. Heart shaped and slightly uneven. You blush, touched.

“For me?” He nods. “Oh, this is adorable, Ole. Thank you. You really didn’t have to.” You run your thumb round the heart shaped rim. “Good thing I got rid of my cigarettes, huh? I won’t tell you what to do, but smoking’s not good for you. I got the good end of the deal here, ha! I love it.” You ramble.

“A man’s new code is helpful. The Tiger taught a man this. That satisfies the man.”

Again, that doesn’t make much sense. But Ole seems to be enjoying the exchange, this is the most you’ve seen him speak and you have the feeling this is the most he’s said in a bit to anyone. He looks genuinely… happy.

“It’s lovely. I like hearts. I got an idea, now! Would you help me make some pancakes? We could use this. I don’t have the heart shaped baking mold from the dinner, but the plate would be enough this time. If you have time, of course. I don’t want to impose.”

Ole shows the biggest smile on his face in reaction to your words you’ve ever seen. For others, the way his face crinkles would be unsettling, he’s showing a lot of teeth. You feel touched at his innocence and awkwardness. And laugh, finding the man beautiful.

Then you get into it.

Ole moves around like someone who’s made pancakes before, but he doesn’t dare to impose in your own kitchen. He watches you first. Waits. When you prompt him to do stuff, he follows your instructions diligently, even if they’re slightly different to Dot’s. He likes that the Tiger behaves differently to you. Different kinds of kindness.

His movements are deliberate and careful, like each instruction matters. Ole holds the bowl steady while you whisk. His body posture relaxes, and you start chatting.

Ole answers sparingly. Still in riddles, still in that third-person cadence, using words strangely. But he answers. His voice is nice and deep.

Your fingers brush against his a few times while you cook. He’s warm. Each time it happens, you can see a faint flush creep into his cheeks. And when you smile at him, because it all feels so strangely domestic, Ole looks a bit surprised, but seems to enjoy himself.

Once a big stack of pancakes is done, both of you eat at your small table, mostly in silence.

Then, you ask him things about himself. The man is still a mystery, and you would like to know him.

After listening to many patrons in your life, all unique in their own way, you have to admit that you don’t understand most of the answers Ole Munch gives. They’re almost little stories, confusing and fragmented. Still, you listen. You piece together what you can, glad to learn about what he’s sharing. It doesn’t necessarily need to make sense. It’s just nice to talk. However, when he talks about all the sin he’s witnessed and eaten, it makes you a bit sad.

Then you tell him about your life. About the diner. About Joe disappearing on breaks too often, your double shifts and your regulars. About how lonely the nights can get.

It doesn’t feel strange to share something so personal and something you haven’t said to anybody else.

Ole just listens. He gives you his full attention, like your words are something to be held carefully.

“A man has been lonely, too. Less now. The Tiger has embraced the man into its family.” He admits.

You smile softly. “I’m happy for you. This Tiger of yours sounds kind. Family’s important. You’re not alone.”

He nods in agreement.

“A man is called Uncle Munch by Scotty now. The Tiger is pleased by this. Wayne, too. This… brings pleasure to the man.”

The Tiger doesn’t sound like a Tiger at all. More like a woman, in an ordinary family.

You wish you could ask her some things about Ole.

Then, he speaks again.

“A man finds happiness in this home.”

You feel overwhelmed. Happier than you have felt in a long while. Seen and appreciated by this unique person.

You clear your throat, nervously. “Thank you,” you manage to say. “That’s… very nice. You’re welcome here. Anytime.”

Ole considers this, appreciative.

A man nods.

***

After that night, Ole starts appearing unannounced every now and then. You find yourself anticipating your nights off, as excited as a child on Christmas Eve.

The visits tend to happen at times when you are feeling concerned, or lonely. Like when you’re worried about the creeping bills, or the work at the diner, or when loneliness hits you.

Somehow, Ole knows you’ll be home, and he appears. You do not ask, because there is no danger in him.

Ole’s a good man. An attractive, gentle man, who makes you feel safe. Kindness is something he learned late and which now guards closely to his core values.

A routine forms. At first, he just visits once a week. Soon he is there most days that you are off. At different hours. Morning. Afternoon. Evening. A man that finds reasons to return. A man knows when to visit. When you need him.

You fall in love with him.

Because life is easy with him around. You tend to read while Ole sits nearby, very still and straight, his presence always comforting you, your voice calming him in return. When the tales finish, he offers you his riddles. He’s very introspective. It’s nice. Sometimes, Ole asks gently for more stories, or requests to hear his favourites again.

Sometimes when you knit he watches your hands move. You prompt him to try, and soon after he starts doing a scarf, while you guide him through the motions. His beautiful, big hands work the wool gently.

Hands that have handled knives and guns aplenty before. Hands of a worker. Rough, steady. Hands that once belonged to something similar to a demon.

You put the television on low volume when it gets late, and watch old romantic movies with him on your tiny couch. You feel cruel by subjecting him to this, as he doesn’t seem to understand much of what goes on. But neither of you say anything. You just enjoy each other’s company.

At the same, you can’t help projecting, with him just next to you. This is something quite intimate. What couples do. Ole doesn’t complain. He hums, sitting on the couch with his palms on top of his knees, his fingers fiddling gently with the hem of his kilt. When there are kisses or love confessions on the screen, he steals glances.

You pretend to not see it.

“Did you like that?” You ask when a movie finishes, trying to decipher what he’s been thinking.

“Stories please the man.” Is what he usually says.

Sometimes you share a drink in your kitchen. Not just juice, but stronger things.

Ole tells you he doesn’t care much for going out. Not unless it involves the Tiger’s family. You figure that makes sense. Ole carries himself like a man who’s endured more suffering than most. The kind that sticks with you a long while. And apparently, he’s been around for a long time. You don’t press him with questions about hurtful memories. He must have reasons for not wanting to be out much.

One night, you accidentally fall asleep on the couch, with a movie still playing in the background and when you wake up, you’re in your own bed, tucked in, still wearing the clothes you had on when Ole was sitting next to you.

You quickly figure what’s happened, and wonder if your head fell to his shoulder while you dozed, or if you’ve done something untoward, like clinging to him. You’re a hugger. Maybe you even snored. God knows. You start overthinking.

But maybe, Ole just saw you were exhausted. It’s been busy at work. He must have carried you here. You blush thinking about it, disappointed that you missed his strong arms around you, carrying you.

When you get up and go down the kitchen, he’s nowhere to be seen.

You can’t help picturing him for a moment, standing quiet in the doorway of your bedroom, looking over you to make sure you were sleeping alright. The thought alone makes your cheeks warm.

Next time he comes by, you don’t bring it up. No sense making things awkward. Instead, you try to return the favor as Ole looks a little worn around the edges that evening.

He’s told you before that he didn’t see the use of sleeping or eating, so he doesn’t do it. You still can’t quite wrap your head around that. But Ole loves food now, so maybe you can nurture a love for napping.

So when the movie you’re watching turns out to be very bland and boring, you nudge him gently towards your bedroom, as you don’t have a guest room. He doesn’t complain, always following your lead.

“Ole, you’ve got to sleep sometime,” you urge him. “It’s late. Go on, get your beauty sleep. I’ll stay out here while you rest. It’s alright.”

“A man does not tire,” he replies, trying to politely refuse. “A man does not dream.”

“Well, you look tired to me. C’mon. You’ll feel better.”

He looks concerned.

However, maybe there’s something in him that wants to humor you. Or maybe he just sees how much his wellbeing matters to you. Either way, after a while he does lie down on your bed while you busy yourself tidying around the house.

You figure it’s good for him to feel comfortable everywhere in your home. Like the place belongs to him too, if he ever needs it. You want Ole to enjoy himself here, even while you’re not around. You wonder if he would move in, if you asked him.

Alone in your room, Ole presses his face lightly into your pillow. The scent of your soap lingers there, now familiar and comforting to him.

He lets out a quiet sigh. A man is longing for you. A man thinks of all the words he’s not capable of saying, all the touches he’s too afraid to act on.

Ole gets something in his chest close to guilt. Wanting you feels dangerous, like reaching for something sacred with unworthy hands, hands that have had too much sin in them.

You are unaware of all this.

Ole Munch sleeps, and a man sleeps well.

Ole may not dream. But you do. And lately, you dream of him often.

In your dreams, Ole speaks plainly, admitting his feelings. He tells you he wants to stay, and doesn't vanish in the middle of the night anymore. Because he chooses not to leave. Chooses to ask for things he wants. Reaches for your touch without hesitation. There’s no guilt in his eyes, no distance kept for reasons that you don’t understand.

In your dreams, you hold him too.

When you wake on the couch, your back aching and complaining from the way you slept, you lie very still for a moment. The feeling from the dream, his touch, still lingers on your skin, leaving a faint, tingling warmth.

You want that closeness. You want him.

You wish the dreams could come true, but don’t want to rush things.

Don’t want to spoil a routine that’s grown so gentle, so easy. And more than anything, you don’t want to push Ole into something he’s still learning how to name.

Truth is, you’re a little afraid.

You don’t check your room. Somehow you can feel he’s still there.

When he finally wakes and leaves after breakfast, you run back to your room, like an idiot and tuck yourself under your covers, touching the bed he’s been in all night.

The smell of smoke, of Ole, makes you shiver.

***

One afternoon, your phone rings.

The phone almost goes silent unanswered. Hardly anyone calls you, and you’re about to set off for work, anyway. But you end up picking up, curious, and get surprised.

Turns out it's Ole’s Tiger.

The Tiger has a name: Dot, Dorothy. You don’t ask why she knows you are, or where she found your number, because you know the answer.

Ole must have memorised it, even if you’ve never seen him use a telephone. Your stomach flutters, butterflies flying around. He’s spoken about you to his family. The most important thing in his life.

Dot just wants to thank you. You're confused and ask why.

Turns out the scarf Ole has been knitting all these quiet evenings, while you read aloud, was a present for her daughter, Scotty. Dot’s voice is warm, steady. You understand why Ole likes her.

Then she invites you to dinner.

You hesitate, then politely refuse, saying you’re unfortunately working nights all week. Which is not a lie. But in reality, you don’t want to overstep in Ole’s safe place. The place that made him softer. Made him the guy you’re falling in love with more everyday.

Dorothy likes a good chat, so you let her speak for a bit.

She’s charming. Funny, too, in that easy way that makes you feel comfortable right away. As she keeps talking, you start to see her differently. Ole always talks about her strength, about how fiercely the Tiger protects her family after her suffering. Dot’s nice meals and generosity. Now you can see that for yourself.

“He cares about you a great lot, you know,” Dot hints, and there’s no teasing in it. Just certainty. “It seems you see through him in a way no one has. He might need you to teach him a few things, but he learns fast. He’s… innocent. In some ways. Has forgotten a lot of what he learned across the sea. It’s been a bit for him, you see. But he’s seen a lot.”

You swallow. “Yes, he has. I care about him too, a great deal.”

You can feel Dorothy smiling at the receiver.

“Come by when you’re ready. Wayne makes his chili pretty often. Ole really likes it, once he got used to the spices. Apparently they weren’t big on seasoning across the pond back then. But he likes trial and error.”

You laugh. The image of Ole enduring a spicy dish, his face crinkling in surprise, makes your chest feel lighter. Maybe you both need to try something like that together.

You thank Dot for calling.

“No worries, sweetheart. Hopefully see ya soon!”

***

When Ole Munch finishes another scarf, he presents it to you without ceremony or hesitation.

The stitching is tighter this time. It looks good. He’s used the colours you often wear. That’s a nice touch.

“This one is better,” he says. “A man has been taught generously. Thank you.”

“That’s lovely, Ole.” Without thinking, you lean in and kiss his cheek to show your appreciation. You kiss him adoringly, your heart full of love for him.

He stiffens, then lowers his head quickly, trying to hide his reaction.

“Sorry,” you say at once. “I hope that was okay.” Your voice comes out a little timid. You acted on impulse. The scarf is still in your hands, so you put it around your neck and smile at him. “It’s very warm. Thank you,” you say, trying to salvage the moment.

“Trade,” he blurts, as if the word grounded him. His old code. Old habits die hard.

“A kiss isn’t a trade for a scarf, Ole,” you complain. Then you feel bold. “I’ve wanted to do that for a long time now. But I want you to want it too, if I’m going to do it often. If we traded every time I wanted to feel you close, you’d have to knit me a hundred scarves, you know. Not a very fair deal!” You smile at him. “As you said it yourself. Not trade, but joy.”

Maybe you said too much, but after all, honesty is the best policy. You just hope he won’t take everything literally. That he really hears what you mean. It seems he understands, because he fidgets with the buttons of his cardigan, like he does when he’s nervous, wanting to do something but not daring.

Ole rubs the back of his neck next, trying to untangle words in his mind. For a moment, you worry he doesn’t believe you about your feelings.

“The Tiger says things,” he murmurs carefully. “About want. About fear. Says a man can carry both like stones in his pockets. The Tiger tells me to speak, not as a man. As… Ole. His wants. She says, you will understand. That it’s… okay for a man to feel and say these things."

He rubs his thumb over his long neck, over and over.

You can’t stop staring.

His wants. Ole has wants, regarding your relationship.

“I don’t want to impose, Ole.” You say hesitantly. Then, you feel brave, remembering Dot’s words on the phone. “Listen, I like having you here. You make the house feel less lonely. That’s already more than enough for me and that’s what I want.” You pause and glance toward the kitchen, trying to breathe. Your heart is pounding so hard you’re afraid Ole will hear it. “I’m happy making pancakes, sharing my meals with you. Watching shitty movies on TV. For as long as you wish. Just like you did with your mama. I know you miss her.”

You sigh. You need to stop rambling. But now that you’ve started… well. Doesn’t seem like you can.

“If touch makes you uncomfortable, that’s alright. Truly.” Then, quieter: “What are your wants?” A weight lifts off your chest. You finally asked.

His lip trembles, slightly. It is the most fragile you have ever seen him.

“The man…” he hesitates. “I… I do not feel for you what the man felt for Mama.” His eyebrows draw together in confusion, trying to untangle everything you said. “The feeling is… different.” And you notice it then… It's the first time he’s spoken in first person.

He struggles putting the sentence together.

You answer gently. “I know I can’t replace her. And I wouldn’t try. I’m sorry it still hurts.”

He shakes his head.

“Not the same hurt. The man never wanted touch from Mama. Sharing the same home was sufficient. Seeing her safe...was enough.”

He swallows. His throat bobs with effort, like it’s hurting from talking so much. You feel guilty for putting him on the spot.

“Not enough with you. The man… Ole, craves your touch.” The admission seems to hurt him. “With the greed of kings.” His eyes drop. “It is… sinful.”

You exhale, then reach for his hands, big and handsome hands. He squeezes a little bit in response, like trying to gauge if your touch is real.

“It’s not greedy to want, Ole. It’s human.” Your voice is steady, even if your heart isn’t. “You turned my lonely house into a home. That’s not sin. That’s kindness. Whatever happened with your Mama, that wasn’t something you could have stopped. You’re a good man.”

Ole smiles then. Gentle. He has learned to imitate the gesture from watching others without looking awkward now. You like his crooked teeth. They’re unique and uneven. You don’t mind how he smiles, you’re just glad to see him do it.

Slowly, he lifts his hands to your face, and they hold your cheeks so softly. He doesn’t seem to know what comes next. So just stays there, palms warm against your skin, his thumb caressing your jaw tenderly.

You let him. You can’t hear your thoughts anymore. Your heart is pacing so fast.

“That’s nice,” you whisper, wanting to shower Ole in praise. “Would you like me to hold you back?”

You don’t want to startle him, not when you finally are about to have what you want.

“I… want,” he nods.

“I want to hold you too. I have for a long time.” You confess, beaming.

You lift your hands and hold Ole’s face, mirroring his movements. His skin is textured beneath your fingers: scars, pockmarks, a face that feels lived-in and weathered. Forever stuck in time, untouched for a very long time. Beautiful.

He inhales sharply when your thumbs brush his cheekbones. When Ole finally exhales, his breath warms your lips. He smells of pancakes and cigarettes. It’s perfect. You want to kiss him, but don’t dare overstepping. Small steps. His eyes look glassy, almost disbelieving gentle touches exist.

You move your hands upwards, and pet the soft strands of his hair slowly, stroking him. You wanted to feel this for a while. It is all very tender, giving him time and space to pull away if he needs to.

He doesn’t. He just stays very still and soaks it all up.

You wish you could do things right for him.

***

The heaviness and darkness within Ole seems to thin each day. But his feelings weigh very heavily around the house. He’s been trapped in sin from the very beginning. Things take time.

But cycles can break. You show him. That he deserves things and he’s allowed to want and take.

Dot helped Ole first, in her own practical way. Feeding him things that weren’t tied to punishment or debt. A different kind of sustenance. Showing Ole that he can be different to what he forcibly was shaped into.

You help him now too, with gentle touches. With warmth that asks for nothing in return. Except, Ole always reciprocates. You’re caressed all the time, now. He wants to give, constantly. Earnestly.

Replacing the memory of dirty money pressed into his palms… the memory of skin going cold beneath his hands with the warmth of someone who loves him.

Ole Munch has killed. He has confessed this when he shares his stories, trying to warn you. You don’t care. Everybody has their share of stuff. He’s a good guy. You know that’s in the past, now. He followed a code. He never killed for greed, or for cruelty. And there’s a lot of pieces of shit in the world who need killing.

Ole cries silently and you hold him, telling him everything will be fine.

***

Ole moves in. No need for an invitation, or a request. It just happens naturally. It’s all very domestic, a life you’ve always dreamed of having. A simple life.

He sleeps on the couch for the first couple of days. You catch yourself those nights imagining lying down with Munch in bed, your fingers combing through his soft hair while exchanging languid kisses, or his head resting against your chest while he sleeps, finally capable of dreaming.

In your own dreams, Ole has started making love to you.

When you wake up, you’re wet, and you can’t stop succumbing, touching yourself with fingers you wish were his.

***

“A man is… I am happy,” he says suddenly, when the last plate is in the cupboard. You’ve been doing the dishes together, in amiable silence after dinner.

You turn to look at him.

“I’m glad, Ole.”

“A man is in a debt he cannot repay. He has a family. He has gifts. He has you. Thank you.”

“No debt. You deserve those things. Does it upset you? That you don’t owe me anything?” You stop for a second. You lace your fingers with his. ”Seeing you relaxed, here with me, that makes me happy. I’m glad you chose to be here.”

I’m glad you chose me. You don’t say that.

“Trade could be made,” he insists softly. “To show gratitude.”

You step closer, one of your hands starts touching his arm. He leans into your touch.

“Not trade,” you correct. “Love.”

Not sin or debt or repayment. Just something given and received. Love.

He recoils after hearing the word, just a little bit. It’s subtle, but you feel it, as you know him now.

You do not know of the Ole’s many scars. The ones that show. And the ones that do not. You still haven’t bare your bodies to one another. Ole thinks you might dislike him, when you finally see.

“Can a man do something for you?” He asks you, instead. A moment of bravery.

“Of course.”

Ole leans forward then. Carefully. He presses a gentle kiss to your cheek. It’s the first kiss after the stolen peck you gave him to thank him for the scarf.

It is perfect.

***

You are convinced Dot had a hand in this. Ole left the other day, taking that cake you’d baked together for Wayne’s birthday.

Apparently, the Lyons celebrate twice. Once with the “debt lioness” as Ole calls her. The nickname confuses you, but you finally piece it together on the phone with Dot.

Wayne’s mother, right. The famous Queen of Debt, you find out. Maybe it’s a pun for Ole and Dot. You laugh.

A couple of days after the big celebration, the Lyons have another birthday party, this time privately, at Dorothy’s home. Dot had invited you and Ole, but you don’t go. Still don’t want to push it. In reality, you aren’t ready to meet Ole’s found family. The thought of them watching you looking at Ole with puppy eyes mortifies you.

Maybe Dot told him to take a step further, then. You can only guess. Modern relationships are a strange thing for Ole Munch. Hell, even middle ages relationships are a strange thing for Ole Munch.

Today, he asks you to go further. You don’t exactly know what that means.

“Yes,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady, as if you weren’t about to have a breakdown. “You can hold me. Or kiss me. Only if you want. Not trade, not because I’m telling you to do it.” You let the words out. Can’t keep pretending forever that you’re fine with just holding hands and stroking his hair anymore.

You need him to make a move, or just finally reject you. But you’re okay waiting.

Ole smiles. Bright. Almost like he’s surprised at himself.

“Both,” he prompts.

He steps closer. Puts his hands big around your waist. Stays still. Waits.

“That’s a start,” you grin, looking up at him. “Okay if I hug you back?”

He’s nervous. Ole just nods, frowning a little.

You copy his gestures, except you hold him tight. He smells like baking, like cigarettes, like someone you want to stick to.

Small steps.

You hum softly. “This is very nice.”

Munch’s breathing is slow. Careful. He notices everything, from the notes of your scent to tiniest details of the room. He doesn’t move his hands at all, which just hover on top of your waist, still very stiff.

You place your head against his chest, and feel his heartbeat. It’s going fast, but steady.

“Up for a kiss? No pressure,” you tease, after a bit.

Could it be that simple? Ole thinks. A man does not know, until a man dares.

***

“You love her, don’t you, Ole?” Munch hears the Tiger say while she picks up his empty plate, birthday cake all gone. “Betcha she loves you too, the way she speaks about ya like you hung the moon. Just follow your instincts. Women aren’t that complicated.”

Wayne laughs. “Good luck! It does take courage! Dot had to kiss me on our second date because I was just being silly, I got too nervous around her!”

“You are still silly.” Dot says kissing Wayne on the lips.

Ole stares. A man considers, then. He would like to kiss you like that. He blushes, thinking about what Dot said about you.

“We’d like to meet your girlfriend next time, Mr. Munch!” Scotty adds, distracting him.

“I’m sure she will come soon, darling.” The Tiger says to Scotty. “Mr. Munch just needs a little courage. Tryin’ new things can be a bit scary.”

A man agrees silently. His heart pounds, hearing the way Dot talks about you. The Tiger cares about the man. His face flushes, thinking about what Scotty said then. He knows what girlfriends are now, that the man has seen plenty of movies.

“More cake?” Wayne asks.

Ole nods.

***

Ole tilts his head, and grabs your cheek once again, gently, feeling the softness of your skin. You get on your tiptoes, and close the distance with a closed mouthed kiss, helping him.

His lips are chapped, as always. But the kiss feels so soft, so warm. He tastes sweet.

Ole makes a small pained noise. You pause, hoping he’s all right. He breaks the kiss first, eyes searching yours silently.

“Okay?” You ask, worried. “We can stop.”

“A man… Ole wants.”

“I know. Just close your eyes, okay? Just feel me. I want it too,” you confess.

You’re pretty sure it’s not his first kiss. He’s been around this world for a long while, so not by a long shot. But the way he acts, the way he leans into you, it almost feels like it might have been. That makes you feel… special. Like you want to cherish and protect him. Show him everything that’s good in the world.

You press your lips to his again, slow and gentle, but you hold them pressed to his longer this time. Ole wraps his arms around you and holds on tight, like a lifeline, his eyes squeezed shut, letting you guide him.

***

Ole is a quick learner. But he doesn’t get greedy, and manages to keep himself measured. Always gentle and careful with you, like you’re some kind of sin that will crumble when he eats it.

The way he drinks the saliva from your lips after your mouths part and the way he pulls you closer once he lets his hands wander gently, caressing your body…well. It makes you think that pretty soon, kissing and holding each other might not be enough for either of you.

You find yourself coming apart whenever he cups your face while kissing you now, those big hands of his enveloping your cheeks.

For the first time, Ole isn’t only receiving compassion from the Tiger. He’s receiving your unconditional love.

“Would you like to go to bed?” you ask, after a long make out session on the couch. You’re both tired. “To sleep, of course.”

Ole smiles. Bright and open. The same wide smile, like the one he had the first time he tasted the Bisquick the Tiger made for him.

“Yes. Ole wants to dream.”

Maybe he can do this now, too. The Tiger helped change the man’s code. Maybe that means he can switch other things. Like accepting love when it’s given to him, without guilt. It was very easy for the man to give in to your touches and kisses, to learn how to give them back to you. Sometimes, your touch feels like burning to Ole. But he endures, as it’s not pain he feels. It’s… hope.

For so long he kept quiet, kept himself closed off. A kind of denial, really, of the thing he’d been searching for all along. The love he never found before he found his family. Before he found you.

“Dreams don't come everyday, but we'll try, love,” you say.

That’s the first time someone uses that word to refer to him.

And for the first time in centuries, Ole feels something close to being human again. Finally forgiven for all that pain and suffering: everything that’s been stored up and fed to him for so long.

Once again, he receives something he never expected to receive. Safety.

A man realises he belongs somewhere. With you. For the first time in a long while, he doesn’t dread going to rest.

You lie down together, sharing the bed, holding each other close.

Ole dreams, dreams about how he was drawn by the songs of the river, years ago, last time he felt like he belonged. Last time he felt peace.

When he wakes up, a man tells you in between kisses.

You can’t help but beam.

***

You’re only a person with needs. It’s nice taking it easy. But your body starts to demand to succumb to temptations. How would it feel, to do more things with the person you love? You’ve kissed and hugged aplenty now, haven’t taken it any further, even if you noticed Ole trying to suppress moans when you bit his neck. You can’t help staring at the outline of his cock, tenting in his kilt while your embraces get a bit heated, slowly grinding with each other.

Knowing that he wants you is enough. For now.

Ole sleeps fully clothed, with his kilt and long johns. You don’t complain, or press it. You would like to see him bare, but he tends to be hard on himself. He talks about his scars. You don’t really care what’s underneath all the soft wool. He’s so beautiful to you.

Alone with your thoughts, your mind wanders. You imagine him without all those layers, imagine the weight of his on top of you, the warmth of his naked body.

You touch yourself when he can't see you.

***

One day you undress in front of him, you are just changing your clothes, nothing more. But you catch his eyes wandering over the soft skin of your hips. The way he looks… like he’s thinking about touching you. Maybe even devouring you.

Seeing that does something to you. Makes you a little bolder.

“Ole,” you say, your voice gone a bit husky as you turn around, standing there in just your panties.

He looks at you, curious. His gaze drifts to your breasts and stays there a moment. There’s so much desire on it.

“Would you like to go to bed? Not to sleep… just cuddle.”

You can’t wait any longer. You’ll guide him, if that’s what it takes.

He steps closer and kisses you right there beside the dresser, mirroring you. It’s like he just can’t wait anymore.

You two have been kissing long enough now that Ole’s started taking some initiative. Still, you’ve never felt his tongue move quite this boldly before. When he catches your lip between his teeth, a soft moan slips out of you and your knees go a little weak. You can feel him smile against your mouth at the sound of it.

His body’s warm, close, the heat of him going through your naked body.

His hands start wandering up your sides until they reach your chest. He cups your breasts lightly, almost careful, giving them a gentle squeeze while his thumbs brush over your stiff nipples. You lean against his touch, mewling, wanting more.

“Let me feel you like this, too.” You beg.

He hesitates, a little, but then nods.

Ole lets you undress his top half. The cardigan comes off first, then the turtleneck. His chest is hairless, marked and peppered here and there with a few pale scars. His arms are lean, stringy, but strong. Healing cuts also on them. He’s beautiful.

You kiss along his shoulder blades, then his chest and his sternum with fervour, until all his doubts about you not liking him fizzle.

You finally tell him that he’s beautiful.

“Bed?” you tease softly afterwards. “Or is our first time going to be standing up?” You joke.

Ole blushes at the implication, and guides you gently to the bed, laying on top of you.

You can feel his hardness against your thigh, but you don’t grind against him, even if you ache to feel him. You’re fine to let the moment stay slow. To stay at Ole’s pace.

So you just keep kissing, like you’re used to.

Finally, you start slipping your hand down to cover his, lifting your legs to hook them over his thighs, parting your legs. He can get closer, if he wishes to. You’re ready to guide him. He looks at you, a silent plea in his face. Ole bucks forward, and you feel his cock against your core. You moan, and he takes your noises as permission to get bolder.

You know you’ll both come like this if you keep at it.

So taking his hand, you place your fingers around his, guiding them and slowly rubbing them against his clothed hardness which make him moan and shudder.

Then, he moves his hand away, and you frown.

“A man wants to make you feel good.” He whispers, again, begging. For Ole, it’s always about worshipping you.

“Okay.” You manage to say.

His fingers imitate yours. Slowly rubbing against your core. You move the underwear, and let you find your wetness. His fingers rub your clit softly with your guidance. You groan at the different sensation from your own touch to his. You use his hands to rub your slickness around your swollen clit.

Everything becomes more urgent, more desperate.

While Ole fingers you, he begins thrusting his hips against your thighs, in time with the movements of your hands in your cunt. You watch Ole’s face contorting in the most beautiful way while he gets closer and closer to orgasm.

Then it’s you who stops.

“I want to feel you come inside me, the first time,” you plead.

Your hands move to his belt and you slowly undress him completely. His cock bobs heavily and it weeps. Ole flushes when he notices you staring. His shyness only makes you want him more.

“I want to take you in my mouth, and you to take me in yours soon,” you whisper. “But I won’t last... I need you now… okay?”

Ole nods. Whatever you want. It will always be whatever you want. A man feels overwhelmed. He can make you feel like this.

You slick his cock with your spit and guide him above you, so he can take you. There’s something deeply comforting about the weight of your lover on top of you like that. You want Ole to take you the way he wants, and this way, he’s in control.

Ole gets between your legs. With your guidance, he slides his cock against you, both of you grinding slowly until you’re ready. Every time the tip of his cock rubs your clit you both moan, which makes Ole breath heavily, overwhelmed by his primal instincts.

Finally, you guide his cock inside you.

He enters slowly. His breathing uneven, his pupils blown, staring at your face, seeing your reactions. It takes a bit, inch by inch, until he’s fully inside you, buried deep to the hilt. He stops, and kisses you. Then you roll your hips beneath him, encouraging him to move at his own rhythm. It’s slow, and very gentle. Ole learns the motions while you’re full of him, and while he gets used to the feeling of you clenching around him.

“Fuck,” you breathe, the word slipping out before you can stop it. Ole hasn’t seen you like this before. Still, he keeps moving the same way…slow and careful.

“Please.” you beg, needing to feel him even deeper.

In the past, when people begged Ole Munch, they were begging for their lives. Pleading for mercy.

The last one was Rabbit. Ole remembers the boy’s words before his eyes came out. The moans, the pleas.

Ole stops.

Your eyes open, confused. You’re not expecting what he says next.

“Hurt?” he asks, concern on his face.

“No,” you breathe quickly. “It’s good. It’s so good. I want you… deeper. Harder.”

Relief softens his features as he understands.

“A man wants to… please you.”

Your ankles lock behind his back, and you clench and thrust your hips, prompting him to fuck you harder.

“Like this,” you whisper. “Anything you give me is good, Ole.”

Ole shuts his eyes and begins to move harder, his hips snapping against yours. The loud sound of skin on skin fills the room.

“Oh God,” you breathe, biting your lower lip.

His tongue slides into your mouth and you accept him without hesitation. One of his hands runs through your hair, gentle even as he thrusts harder against the mattress, pinning you down, filling you up.

Neither of you is going to last.

“You’re so good to me,” you praise him softly. “I’m going to… please, Ole. I need to feel you.”

He imitates what you showed him earlier. His hand moves between your bodies, rubbing your clit, now with more urgency than the hesitant touches he gave you before.

It doesn’t take long.

The pressure within you builds fast until you’re trembling, coming undone around him, while his hand between your legs, his hardness is buried deep inside you.

Everything Ole wanted was to give you your pleasure. When you finish, he stills a little, his thrusts growing erratic, and soon after he’s coming in spurts inside you, holding you gently, while your body clenches around him, wanting to keep him there. Ole never wants to part from you, having discovered this warmth, this wetness, this sense of belonging to another person.

You stay like that, with him inside you for a while you pet his soft hair, whispering sweet nothings, hugging him, praising him.

Ole looks peaceful.

There’s still so much life ahead to be built between the two of you.

“I love you,” you murmur into his hair, pressing a kiss there.

A man hums, and kisses your lips, reverently.

A man feels complete.