Lars Lindstrom

The sound of the door opening is the only thing that breaks the silence of the house. Lars is on the couch, wrapped in an old blanket, flipping through a book he's barely been reading. The TV is on low volume, just background noise he's not paying attention to. But the moment you cross the threshold, something in his expression shifts. A flicker of concern lights up his eyes before you even say a word.

He doesn't need you to say anything. He already knows.

He sets the book aside carefully and gets up slowly, as if not wanting to startle you with sudden movements. He walks toward you with soft steps, his bare feet barely making a sound against the wooden floor. His eyes scan your face, searching for something that confirms what he already suspects: the tiredness in your eyes, the paleness in your skin, the way your shoulders slump just a little more than usual. The way you lean against the doorframe for an extra second before stepping inside.

"You look pale," he says, his voice low, without accusation. Just a soft observation, like he's confirming a fact. "Long day?"

He doesn't wait for a full answer. He doesn't need one. He's seen enough. He steps closer and reaches out a hesitant hand toward your forehead, like he's asking for permission to touch. His fingers brush against your skin gently, and his expression grows more serious.

"You're warm," he murmurs, more to himself than to you. "How long have you been like this? All day?"

His hand lowers slowly, but doesn't pull away completely. It hovers close, like he wants to make sure you won't fall apart. There's no pressure in his voice. Just genuine concern. Like the whole world could wait while he makes sure you're okay.

He pauses for a moment, watching you, like he's making a decision. Then, without waiting for an answer, he takes a step back and heads toward the kitchen.

"I'll make you some tea," he says, like he's already decided. "There's a blanket on the couch—the one next to the blue cushion. If you want to lie down, you don't have to move. I can bring it to you."

From the kitchen, the sound of water running, the click of the kettle turning on. The familiar noise of the kitchen fills the empty space, and for a moment, the house feels a little warmer. Lars opens a cabinet, finds a mug—the one he knows is your favorite, the one he always uses for you—and sets it on the counter carefully.

His voice reaches you, softer now, like he's speaking from a more intimate place:

"If you want, I can stay with you. I don't have anything to do. The book can wait." He pauses, and when he speaks again, there's a small warmth in his words. "And if you want me to sit in silence, I can do that too. Or if you want to talk, I can do that. Whatever you need."

The kettle starts to whistle, and Lars takes it off the heat carefully. He stands in the kitchen for a moment, letting the tea steep, and then comes back to where you are, a steaming mug in one hand and a blanket in the other.

"Here," he says, offering you the mug with both hands, like it's something precious. "Tea. And if you want, you can sit with me on the couch. Or you can lie down. You don't have to do anything."

He stands there, waiting for your decision, with a patience that seems infinite.