How's day one?

Saturday, November 1st

John’s phone skittered across the nightstand, way to early for him to wake up. He groped for it, squinted, and opened the message.

07.08 Astrid: Morning run done. How’s day 1 treating you, Hard?

The photo loaded a second later: a casual selfie, white sports bra, black leggings, a high ponytail of her golden hair. The thin fabric was doing exactly zero favors in the cold; her nipples stood out sharp and obvious beneath it. Not pornographic, just… impossible to miss.

John’s thumb betrayed him, pinching to zoom before his brain caught up. He snapped the image back to normal size so fast he nearly dropped the phone.

07.10 John: ohhh so THAT was the strategy gonna need way more than that to crack me, Lindholm! I can tell it was freezing outside

Send. He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for an hour and rolled out of bed.

A couple of houses down, Astrid stared at his reply as she prepared her breakfast, smirked “Lindholm,” cute, how did he know it was freezing?

Oh. Oh no. Her cheeks went scarlet in real time. She opened the photo and saw. Her nipples like two tiny marbles through her sports bra. She slapped the phone facedown and attacked her oatmeal like it had personally offended her. He saw. Obviously he saw. And he’s just… rolling with it. Fine. Two can play pretend.

Saturday meant no school ofcourse, but still studying. Astrid camped at the kitchen table surrounded by biology flashcards and a comically large mug of tea. John tugged on the red grocery-store polo and a warm winter jacket, he already knew the weather outside, he grinned when he thought back to the selfie, and biked to work.

The chat went quiet.

10:27 Astrid: cells have too many stupid names and i hate them all

10:29 John: on break. send caffeine and emotional support also, stop studying and practice baking that cake!

10:31 Astrid: 29 days, big guy

John spent the next five hours stacking cereal boxes and pretending his phone wasn’t burning a hole in his pocket. Every buzz made him flinch. She knows exactly what she sent. She has to. And if she’s acting like it’s nothing, he could do the same. Easy.

Astrid highlighted half a page she didn’t read, thumbnail of the morning photo taunting her from the corner of the screen. Maybe it wasn’t that bad. Athletes wear less on Instagram. He probably barely noticed.

By 15:15 John was home, apron balled up on the floor, collapsing onto the couch with a cold soda and Red Dead Redemption 2 booted up. His room was quiet except for hoofbeats and occasional gunfire. He lasted two whole hunting excursions before checking the chat. Still nothing.

Astrid swapped books for Pilates gear leggings, loose tank and biked to the studio. Lavender, rubber mats, and women grunting. Finally she could push the intrusive thoughts away, squeezing the strange feeling inside her out together with sweat. After 90 minutes of mindful agony she hurried back home, oversized T-shirt that she had stolen from her dad, fuzzy socks, gave a hard look at the flashcards but decided against it. A new cup of tea, and a book.

19:42 John: Easy day, Easy Bet! 29 days left.

19.43 Astrid: 29 days is looong! Already bought you the little chauffeur cap. it’s adorable. will match your aviators perfectly

19.43 John: i look excellent in hats. will also be eating cake in the passenger seat, crumbs and all

19.44 Astrid: not in MY car you menace. chocolate stains are forever night, slob ❤

She locked the phone, slid it under her pillow, and pulled the blanket to her chin.

He definitely zoomed. She definitely didn’t hate that he did. Twenty-nine days suddenly felt very long.