I was invited to come to Finland by my former student Mikko, who promised me an unforgettable day of snowmobiling and stargazing. He was one of those students everyone remembered—copper-haired, bespectacled, with a polite, quiet demeanor and large hands and feet that seemed to belong to someone even larger. We called him The Cube, partly as a joke, partly because he was built like one—broad, solid, immovable. The Cube, however, was not a gram overweight. His frame was pure proportion, gentle muscle layered over a calm spirit. There was something in his stillness that made others slow down and match his rhythm.
In late February that year, I arrived in Ivalo just after dawn. The air outside the terminal was sharp enough to sting my lungs, and the runway lights still glowed faintly against the gray morning. Mikko was waiting for me near his truck, wrapped in a thick wool coat, smiling as if the cold were nothing. We packed my bag into the back, and the tires crunched over the icy road as we headed north. Pines lined both sides, bowed under frost, their branches heavy and silent. The light was thin—the kind that never quite decided to be day.
The road wound through low hills and stretches of white plain. Mikko talked as he drove, his tone measured but his humor warm. He told me about his family’s cabin farther north, about ice fishing weekends with his father, about how spring in Lapland lasted only long enough for one proper picnic. He mentioned, with a wry smile, that the locals could predict the weather better than any satellite, just by the smell of the wind. Every so often he slowed the car and pointed—“That’s where the aurora dances most clearly in April,” or “That’s the old post road; people used to ski there to deliver mail.”
We reached a small timber lodge in Saariselkä for breakfast. Inside, it smelled of coffee and pine resin, and the warmth hit me like a soft punch after the long drive. Mikko ordered rye bread with reindeer salami, a wedge of cheese, and steaming bilberry juice. Skis leaned against the wall beside a stove and soft light filtered through frosted windows. He spoke in that calm, unhurried way of his, as though every plan was already half done simply because he’d decided it would be. Outside, the morning light strengthened a little, thin and metallic, promising a clear day ahead.
For a couple of hours we relaxed in comfortable armchairs in the lobby next to another fireplace, the wood crackling softly and sending long shadows across the walls. Mikko showed me how to stretch to renew my energy after a big meal, guiding me patiently through slow movements, his hands steady and precise. I could feel the tension leaving my shoulders, my back loosening under the warmth of the fire. He leaned back in his chair afterward, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “You’ll need all this,” he said quietly, “if you hope to keep up with the snowmobiles later.” Outside the windows, snowflakes drifted lazily from the gray sky, and the lodge felt like a haven of heat and quiet before the vast white wilderness beyond.
When the time came, we stepped outside and found two snowmobiles gleaming under a thin crust of ice. Mikko brushed one clean with his glove. “We’ll share,” he said, already strapping on his goggles. He climbed on behind me, wrapped his arms firmly around my torso, and nodded toward the open trail. His chest pressed lightly against my back, and I could feel the steady rhythm of his breathing even through our thick layers. I gripped the handlebars as he started the engine; it roared to life beneath us, the vibration rising through the seat and into my spine.
We shot forward, the track biting into the snow. The speed was thrilling—wind cutting against my cheeks, snow spraying like glitter from the runners. The forest blurred into streaks of dark and white. Mikko leaned with the machine, moving in perfect balance, his grip tightening briefly when we curved sharply or lifted over small rises. The cold air burned my throat, but there was warmth where he touched me, an odd pulse of heat against the deep chill.
He spoke sometimes over the engine’s hum, his voice low and close to my ear. “See that ridge? Reindeer paths. They cross it every night.” A pause. “Foxes too. You learn who walks here by watching, not asking.” His calm made everything around us seem slower, clearer. We passed frozen rivers, half-buried boulders, lonely clusters of pine that looked sculpted by centuries of wind.
When we reached the waterfall, it was hidden behind a stand of birches, only a faint shimmer visible through the branches. We parked the snowmobile and walked the last few meters, boots crunching over the hard snow. The waterfall was all frozen—an immense sheet of translucent ice clinging to the rock face. At first it looked like any other winter cascade, until the sun shifted and a shaft of light caught the ice at the perfect angle. Inside, tiny bubbles and cracks caught the light like veins of gold and green glass. I stepped closer and realized that every bubble seemed to hold a world of its own—a captured drop, a fragment of air, a frozen insect—like time itself had been layered inside the wall.
Mikko came up beside me, his breath warm against the cold air. “It’s the same every year,” he said softly, “but somehow it’s always new.” His gloved hand brushed the surface, sending a faint vibration through the ice, and the light seemed to ripple inside it. For a long moment, neither of us spoke. The only sound was the soft howl of the wind and the occasional call of a distant bird.
From there, we drove on to a Sami reindeer camp on Kaunispää Hill. The herders greeted us with quiet nods, their faces unreadable but kind. Mikko helped me into a sleigh—a simple wooden frame lined with reindeer hide—and began harnessing the animals. Their breath steamed in the cold sunlight, soft and rhythmic, and the bells on their collars chimed faintly. When everything was ready, he climbed in behind me, gave a light whistle, and the reindeer began to move.
The sleigh glided forward, its runners whispering against the snow. The forest opened into rolling hills blanketed in unbroken white, dotted with low birches and pines powdered in frost. Shadows stretched long and silver under the low sun. The silence was immense—so still it felt as if the world were holding its breath. Only the jingle of the harness and the quiet thud of hooves broke it.
Mikko leaned close, steering gently. He pointed out tracks in the snow—reindeer, hare, and fox—and told me which direction each would have taken, reading the patterns as easily as words on a page. The sleigh curved through narrow trails, past a frozen stream glinting like glass, and into a clearing where smoke rose from a Sami tent. The smell of pine tar and woodfire drifted through the air. The ride was slow, deliberate, the kind that made time stretch and settle.
When we stopped at one of the tents, a herder invited us inside for warm broth. We sat on thick pelts, steam fogging my glasses, and I listened to Mikko speak in Finnish—his voice even lower now, almost tender. There was no hurry in that place, no sense of progress or schedule. Just the rhythm of reindeer bells and the soft weight of the snow outside.
By midafternoon, we were back on the road, heading toward the large sauna complex at the edge of the village. The building looked like a great wooden ark half-buried in snow, windows glowing amber from within. Inside, the heat hit us like a wave. We joined a group of men—locals, broad-shouldered and loud in their laughter—young and old in one big crowd, and soon the air was filled with the hiss of steam and the scent of birch branches. The benches were crowded but comfortable, and Mikko poured ladle after ladle of water onto the hot stones. The hiss filled the room, wrapping everything in mist and sound.
After the sauna, we plunged into a cold pool carved straight into the snow outside, the shock so sharp it made me gasp. Mikko surfaced beside me, his grin wide, water glistening on his hair. “Now you’re alive again,” he said. And somehow, he was right.
The capsule hotel, where we stayed the night, was carved into the hillside, each individual bubble being a curved shell of pale timber and glass, built to face the open sky. The snow outside glowed faintly blue, and through the tall windows the first ribbons of the aurora had already begun to stir. Inside, it was quiet and gently warm, the air carrying the faint scent of woodsmoke and resin from the central fireplace that flickered down the hall.
We shook off the cold, unwrapped ourselves from the day’s heavy gear, and left our things in a loose heap by the door. The heat felt like an embrace after hours in the wind.
We changed into a set of new clothes, and went out to dinner to the resort’s own restaurant. It was a timber lodge not far from the capsule hotel, its windows glowing amber against the snow. Inside, logs burned behind a glass screen, and the smell of roasting meat and juniper drifted through the air.
We sat by the fire, absorbing its warmth hungrily, and Mikko ordered without looking at the menu—something in Finnish that sounded like an incantation. The waitress smiled, poured us dark beer from a local brewery, thick as bread, with a head like cream.
The feast came in waves: reindeer tenderloin seared over coals, lingonberry sauce sharp enough to wake the tongue, mashed potatoes folded with browned butter, and a side of roasted root vegetables glistening in honey. Between courses, Mikko explained the habits of reindeer herders, how they salt the meat to last through the polar night, how nothing is wasted—not even the antlers.
Then came Arctic char, pink and steaming, with dill and lemon so clean it tasted like river water. I remember thinking that no one ever talks about how much light food can hold—how it can taste like geography.
For dessert, the waitress brought cloudberry tartlets dusted with powdered sugar. Mikko ordered coffee, black and strong enough to hold a spoon upright. I took a small shot of Lapponia liqueur, just to see what the locals bragged about. It burned like pine resin, then softened into warmth.
We didn’t talk much—just the slow, companionable kind of talk that slips between pauses. At one point he said, almost absently, “Some winters here last eight months. But when the lights come back, you remember why you stayed.”
When we stepped outside, the air had gone perfectly still. Snowflakes drifted down, slow as ash. Neither of us spoke on the short walk back to the capsule hotel. The night didn’t need words; it had already given us everything.
Preparing for bed, we stripped down to our underwear and stood for a moment near the window, letting the warm air settle around us. Mikko turned the AC to a couple of degrees higher, and the gentle dry heat embraced us like the ante-chambre after a sauna session.
The bed filled most of the room — wide, firm, covered in thick gray blankets that still held a trace of soap and pine. We lay down on our backs, not saying much, just breathing. The ceiling’s glass stretched above us like a window to another world. Outside, the aurora began to move more freely, spilling across the night in slow, silent waves. Green and violet light shimmered down through the glass, glancing off our faces and the smooth wood around us.
Mikko’s breathing steadied beside me, a quiet rhythm against the hush of the room. The sound of the wind rose now and then, brushing against the hillside like a distant tide. We watched as the lights curled and faded, then flared again—ribbons folding over one another, drifting like silk in deep water. It was the kind of sight that stripped thought from language, that made everything human seem small and reverent.
For a long while we said nothing. There was nothing to add to what the sky was already telling us. The warmth from the air conditioner mixed with the cold that radiated through the glass, a perfect balance that kept us awake in a calm, lucid way. I remember thinking how strange it was, to travel so far just to find a silence that felt so exact.
When I finally turned my head toward Mikko, his eyes were half-closed, reflecting the green light that rippled above. He gave a slow, contented exhale and said, almost to himself, “This is what I meant to show you.”
I nodded, though he probably couldn’t see it in the dark. Outside, the aurora burned a little brighter, then slowly thinned, like a curtain being drawn at the end of a long performance. And as it faded, the warm air blew softly around us, the snow outside shifted in the wind, and the whole night seemed to fold in on itself—quiet, complete, and profoundly still…
Lying next to Mikko was electric, and I knew that something was about to start happening because he wasn’t sleeping. As I lay there, the images of beautiful dicks of our sauna friends came before me one by one…
On the lowest bench there sat Pekka, a twenty-something blond kid, a reindeer herder in the third generation, he told me—maybe twenty or twenty-two—with knees wide, his ample cock lying soft and pale over tight balls, the shaft straight and slim as a birch twig, foreskin puckered just enough to hide the tip; I imagined how it would jump if a single finger brushed that delicate collar and wondered about how he touched it every night over some porn… or perhaps he was a man already and there was a girl waiting for him who he would fuck three times in one night—silent, insistent, grunting…but endlessly sweet afterwards, hugging her, kissing her naked, rubbing his semi-erect cock on her butt…
Above him there was Jari, a thirtyish stocky man with a lumberjack beard and a stubby cut dick, thick as a beer can even flaccid, the head glossy and broad, his sack loose and meaty, resting on the cedar like two worn river stones; my palm itched to feel that weight, to test if the girth grew heavier under touch… I was sure he returned home to fuck his plump wife, with a lot of sweet-sounding slapping of fat bodies and her small whimpers…
Near the stove there was (I think) Eero, a lean runner in his late twenties; his long uncut cock curved gracefully downward, foreskin tapered to a narrow snout, balls small and high, almost elegant; in my mind I pictured his hand with long graceful fingers, sliding back his foreskin to reveal a slick pink crown... He was perhaps alone, and jerked off each morning in the shower after soaping himself up or joined a webcam chat on zoom to jerk off hungrily with 20 other guys, one of them giving rough commands in a coarse voice…
A forty-year-old silver daddy, Juha, sat cross-legged, cock half-hard from the heat, darker skin, veins visible along a lean six inches that bobbed slightly with each heartbeat, his low-hangers swaying gently; I wondered how those veins would throb against my tongue if he weren’t a hopelessly straight once-a-weeker…
Beside him a thirty-some-year-old swimmer, whose name I remembered as Oskari, with a swimmer’s tan line revealing a short, plump cock nestled in dark blond hair, balls drawn tight like walnuts, the whole package compact and perky; I fantasized about cupping that neat handful, feeling the heat gather in my palm… He’d probably say “no, no, no, come on, man…” but in the end thank me for something he hadn’t known he actually loved…
On the top tier a man of maybe twenty-eight, Petri, leaned back arms crossed, his dick was average but beautifully proportioned, foreskin half-retracted to expose a slick coral head, balls smooth and relaxed, a single bead of sweat rolling down the frenulum; I ached to lick that drop away, to taste salt and cedar and shared steam… I knew he would be a challenge to get hard but when he forgot about me being a man and relaxed, he’d probably shoot a large load straight down my throat…
Finally, there were two teens: on the middle bench a wiry kid who couldn’t have been more than eighteen perched nervously, towel half-open; his cock was slim and straight, maybe four soft inches, the head small and pink under a long foreskin that almost closed like a flower bud, balls tight and hairless against his groin—so delicate I imagined the jump if a fingertip simply hovered over it; he was perhaps still a virgin who had a collection of porn clips on a CD lost in a heap of other CDs, and needed to do something about his erection at least two times a day…
Near the door another guy, a 18 or 19-year old blond sat on his heel, shy gaze down; he had a short, chubby shaft that curved slightly left, the glans peeking from a puckered tip, his tiny sack bunched high and smooth as two pale marbles—just begging to be cupped gently and held in a palm…
And then there was the king of them all, my former student Mikko, whose snake of a dick dangled a good 10 cm down between a sack of loose balls, and with this enormous package he was making a serious speech: introducing me to others, talking about our friendship, telling funny stories about our lectures in a very calm and formal manner, bringing blush to my face in the middle of me thinking with a pain in my balls about how much I would like to suck him off…
And now he lay next to me, not sleeping—at all—at all!
“Hey, Mikko.”
“Hey, Augie.”’
“Not sleeping?”
“No.”
***
… Mikko’s hand slid to my chest, palm pressing flat against my quickening heartbeat, and he leaned in for a slow, exploratory kiss that deepened with the faint taste of wild berries from our evening meal. I surrendered fully to the insistent press of his lips, my own hands roaming the firm contours of his back, the heavy blanket amplifying every shared breath into humid intimacy.
I answered his kisses without thinking, hands sliding across the hard ridges of muscle beneath. Each exhale fogged the hollow of his collar, only to be swallowed by the next hungry tilt of his mouth. Our noses brushed, adjusted, brushed again; the small friction felt like static, charging every inch of contact until the kisses grew wetter, deeper, tongues curling in slow circles that matched the lazy rock of his hips. Breath turned humid inside the small space between us, the faint scent of pine resin and distant smoke weaving through the shared air until I couldn’t tell where his inhale ended and mine began.
Honestly, I have no memory of peeling off my briefs because next thing I remember was looking for them in the morning and finding them under the bed…
But at that moment a thick shift of weight told me he’d lifted his hips; an instant later something heavy and furnace-hot dropped onto my sack—Mikko’s cock, now fully woken, the broad shaft slid lazily between my balls before he rocked forward and let it fall. The swollen head slapped my stomach with a wet smack, landing square across my own rigid length and pinning it to my skin. Heat bled through the soft underside of his shaft; I felt every vein, every pulse, the fat overhang of foreskin brushing my navel as he gave a slow, experimental roll of hips. The drag was obscene—his weight pressing me down, my crown trapped beneath that thick bar, a single bead of pre-cum smearing between us until the whole length lay plastered along mine, dwarfing it from root to tip.
Mikko’s lips brushed the shell of my ear, voice a humid growl.
“Turn over, Augie. Let me feel you from behind.”
A violent throb shot through the thick bar pinning my cock to my stomach; I felt every millimetre of it jump, the fat crown nudging my navel as pre-cum beaded and spread in a warm, silken streak. My own dick answered with a helpless jerk, smearing the underside of his shaft until the two heads kissed sticky-wet, foreskins grazing like soft cuffs. Terror clawed my ribs; lust coiled tighter beneath it. My thighs began to quiver, knees knocking together.
“I— I can’t,” I whispered, voice cracking like thin ice. “You’ll split me open.”
A tremor rattled through me so hard the bedframe creaked. Still, my hips rolled upward, chasing the furnace-heat of him, grinding our lengths together in slick, frantic slides. Mikko answered with a slow, soothing rock, weight settling just enough to pin me safe, not trapped. His crown swept along my shaft, foreskin dragging mine with it, gathering pearls of shared pre-cum that cooled and reheated with every stroke.
“I’ll go easy,” he murmured, lips brushing my temple. “Only when you want it.”
But the word later hung between us, and I kept whimpering, “Too big… maybe later… just this, just this,” each confession breathless, each thrust of my hips betraying how ravenous I still was for the friction we already had—two cocks slick-wrestling, my terror and hunger fused into one endless, shuddering grind.
Mikko answered with a guttural snarl and drove his hips forward—not a slide, not a stroke, a raw shove that crushed both cocks between our bellies. The blunt head of his monster rammed my shaft flat against my pubic bone; pain flared white-hot, then melted into dizzy pleasure. He did it again, and again, piston-pounding his pelvis into mine, dicks squishing slick-sticky, trapped skin burning with friction.
“Fuck—” I yelped as a ridge of his vein scraped mine, but the word tore in half when he slammed harder, growl vibrating through my sternum. My body answered on instinct: I bucked up to meet him, hipbones clacking, foreheads knocking with a dull thud.
“Ouch! Shit—” we both barked, then laughed breathless, never stopping. Chests collided, sweat popped, cocks throbbed wedged between us. Each impact wrung a grunt from him, a whimper from me, the bunk creaking like it might splinter. We found a savage rhythm—push, push, push—animal pants syncing until our breaths were one ragged bellow, bodies beating a bruising tempo that blurred pain into blinding need.
Soon Mikko hooked two fingers under the blanket’s hem, lifted it just enough to free his cock, and let the heavy shaft swing. The first arc landed a dull thud against my rigid length; I felt the heat through both foreskins, a muffled clap beneath wool. He rocked his hips—left, right—each sweep slapping crown to crown, then dragging down to smack my balls or rap my perineum. The blanket deadened the sound but sharpened the sting; I bit my lip, grunting, “More—fuck, yes—ouch, again,” while the quilt trembled over us like a tent in wind, hiding the sweet bruising blows only we knew were happening.
Then the blanket flew back; cold green light painted our skin as Mikko rose, hand planted on my sternum, rolling me flat. He knelt high, torso cutting the aurora into shards, that monster cock now a dark horizon line swaying above me. Then he dropped. He came down with his full weight, his shaft crushed mine flat to my pubis, our crowns kissing head-on with a wet clap, foreskins folding together like locked shutters.
Then he tilted hips, brought his down-curve hammering along my underside, his slick head ramming my balls upward into my groin, me feeling a bright burst of pain-pleasure. “Ah, Mikko, fucking hell, more, more…”
In response he shifted lower; now his heavy sack swung first, smacking my shaft base, then the rigid bar followed, raking over my tender sac and pinning it between his rod and my pelvis.
“My God, Mikko, one more time and I…” Hearing these moans, he rose highest, angled slightly left, and crashed down so his corona clipped the side of my crown, sending my dick whipping against my thigh while his balls landed square on mine, two hot weights bouncing off each other in a bruising, breath-stealing drum.
My wave of pleasure started as a low, warm throb right behind my balls, a quiet drumbeat echoing every heavy slap of Mikko’s body. Each downward crash sent a ripple up the underside of my shaft, the skin drawing tighter, the crown swelling until the slit felt stretched open and pulsing. Heat pooled in shallow waves, gathering higher, hotter, then receding just enough to tease—like surf building before the real break. My thighs quivered involuntarily; inner muscles clenched around nothing, hungry for more pressure, more friction, yet desperate to hold the climb. Breath came in short, sharp huffs that fogged in the green glow, every exhale fanning the spark, every slam stoking it brighter, but I clamped down, jaw locked, silently begging: not yet, not yet—let this crest stay poised a moment longer.
Slam!…slam!…slam!...—the metronome knocked the air from my lungs in steady doses. In my life I’d knelt and swallowed, felt crowns nudge my throat open. I’d bent and taken every inch guys could give, hungry for the stretch, the burn, the pulse inside me. I’d squeezed strangers between my thighs, milked them slow, but never this—never a storm of raw body dropping on mine with no target, no care. Mikko crashed down again: his fat shaft whipped across my balls, next slam bent sideways and speared my hip, next crushed my own dick flat to my belly. Pain sparked, flipped to bright pleasure, reignited somewhere new. Grunt, gasp, slap, slick sweat—each blur of skin merged into the next while the aurora froze above us. Seconds stretched elastic; I hung weightless, bottom-boy heart drumming in perfect sync with the savage beat of his body using mine.
His rhythm cracked—voice leaping an octave: “Tulen, tulen, tulen!”—a broken chant as the final three slams slowed to heavy, deliberate drops. On the first he hovered, thighs quivering; on the second his cock head kissed my root and stayed, pulsing; on the third he sank, whole frame juddering like a tree in wind. A haze of warm precum misted my balls, then the first long shudder hit—five slow convulsions that shot long spurts of cum across my sac, each of them landing hot and wet, the last smearing up my shaft. The instant heat vaulted me over: three brutal spurts of my own swept up my chest, stripes stinging my skin, still a bit raw from relentless slapping of body to body.
Mikko collapsed forward, chest smacking mine, and began a lazy grind, sliding sweat and cum into a slick glaze between our bellies. Breath ragged, he murmured soft Finnish—vowels melting into consonants I couldn’t catch—while the itchy, oversensitive slide of his skin on mine kept us twitching long after the last drop cooled.
“More—please, slide,” I panted, voice raw. Mikko eased his weight forward and that half-soft monster slithered along mine, foreskins catching, peeling, re-sheathing in one slick, itchy glide. The rasp sent a white-hot shudder up my spine; my legs kicked out, knees jerking wide then snapping shut around his hips. Each slow drag twisted me like a puppet—hips bucking, heels digging into the mattress, moans tearing loose without filter. Crown against crown, his loose skin grazed my tender slit until the friction boiled over: a final, wordless orgasm ripped through me, dry pulses clenching emptiness, vision sparking while his heavy cock kept slithering, relentless, milking every last spasm until I lay limp, drenched and gasping beneath him…
I stared at the ceiling, chest still heaving beneath his slack weight, and tried to overlay the two images: the red-haired serious guy who’d gunned his snowmobile in risky circles, who’d waved me into the tiny artisan shop with a tour-guide demeanor and translated the potter’s Finnish puns without missing a beat; the serious presentation of the naked me that had echoed off sauna walls while he tossed ladles of water on hot stones. That Mikko had felt harmless, bright as fresh snow.
Now his sweat cooled on my raw skin, his giant frame sprawled boneless, muttering hoarse curses—“perkele, vittu”—into my collar between ragged breaths. The same freckles dusted those broad shoulders, but the shoulders themselves had hammered me a hundred times, each slam a blunt statement of strength I’d never guessed. Gentle, quiet? Maybe. But tonight he’d unfolded into something colossal—tour-guide cool swapped for predator focus, laughter replaced by guttural growls and the relentless slap of flesh on flesh—leaving me dazed, tasting iron and woodsmoke, wondering which version would open his eyes first.
“Yuck,” Mikko said after sliding his hand between us. “Shower, come on!” and his other hand yanked me up, and virtually dragged me into the small shower behind a wooden screen.
Inside he started a hot stream, with steam billowing out like breath from a dragon. He didn’t ask—just grabbed my shoulder, spun me under the spray, and pressed the rough sponge to my chest. “Arms up,” he commanded, voice still gravel-thick from sex. I obeyed, heart skittering as he scrubbed hard, the rough sponge scraping nipples, ribs, the tender hollows under my arms. He kicked my feet apart, nudged me forward until I was bent almost double, hands braced on the wall while he dragged the sponge down my spine, over my burning ass cheeks, between them—where I didn’t let him go—quick, clinical, but the ownership in it made me shiver.
Each time he pivoted me, that long, cooled cock swung loose and slapped my thigh, my ass, the small of my back—soft flesh, yet weighted enough to feel heavy. I swallowed little sounds of pleasure, my knees went weak from the slaps and the low grunts he gave when I moved too slow. Rinse, turn, bend—his palm planted between my shoulder blades kept me folded while water sluiced off us both.
Then, without ceremony, he stepped back. “Please give me space, wait there.” I walked out from behind the partition damp and dizzy. I toweled half-heartedly, head light, pulse still thrumming in tender places, and staggered to the bed where I collapsed, vaguely horny, wholly stunned, listening to the solitary splash of his own shower behind the wall.
He padded out barefoot, towel knotted low on his hips, the bulge beneath it nothing like the weapon from an hour ago—just a quiet, average swell. Freckles stood out again on a face that had reset to easy-going, eyes crinkling with that earlier warmth. “Sorry I got carried away in there,” he said, voice soft, almost boyish. “Did you… like it?”
I managed a tired grin. “Loved every slam.”
His crooked smile flashed. “You haven’t really felt me yet.”
I laughed. “Those slams were a pretty good dose of medicine—for loneliness, at least.”
He chuckled, ruffled my damp hair, like he were my professor, and not the other way around, and the red-haired tour-guide I’d met at sunrise slipped back into his skin as if the giant had never been…
***
We slept together but behaved like two English gentlemen: “Good night now, Mikko, I set the alarm for 8 a.m.” “Good night, Augie, yaaaaaaaaawn….” My ribs hurt a little and throughout the night it seemed to me that Mikko was lying on top of me, and the bed was sagging under our combined weight, but no, he wasn’t…
… The local airport was barely more than a warm shed with a runway. You could see the whole layout from the entrance: one café, one security lane, one departure gate leading straight onto the tarmac. Mikko insisted on walking me all the way to the plane—said it was “the Finnish way,” though I suspected he just wasn’t ready to be done.
We stood for a minute at the check-in counter, the woman behind it greeting him by name. He handed over my bag, double-checked the tag, all quiet efficiency. Outside, the wind pushed low drifts of snow across the runway, the world reduced to white and the drone of a single idling propeller.
As we waited for boarding, we found a bench near the glass wall. He sat with his elbows on his knees, looking out, his breath fogging the window. I said, “Hard to believe that was only one day.”
He smiled without turning. “Finland likes to give everything at once.”
When the loudspeaker crackled, it broke whatever spell there was. We stood. He pulled on his hat, and I reached out my hand—but he ignored it and wrapped me in one of those careful, brief hugs that big men give when they don’t want to crush you. His jacket was still cold from outside.
“Thank you, Mikko. For all of it,” I said.
He only nodded. “Text when you get home.”
The door to the runway opened with a hiss of cold air. I walked toward the little plane, boots crunching on packed snow, and turned once more. He was still by the window, one hand lifted in that small, Finnish wave—fingers barely moving, face steady.
When the propellers began to turn, I caught the reflection of the terminal lights trembling in the snow. And in that moment I realized: the day had already become memory, sealed and untouchable, like the northern lights fading behind the morning sky.
… We haven’t seen each other since that one time. But the dreams of his hot slamming body still come to me when I have a lonely night—with always the same effect, slam me some more, sweet Mikko, ah, ah, ah…
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