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The bar was dim and smoky, packed with leather jackets and the buzz of conversation over the music. Fenriz sat hunched over a pint, drumming his fingers against the glass in a rhythm only he seemed to hear. His bandmates had disappeared into their own corners, leaving him to his own devices.
That’s when he saw her.
She was leaning against a table, nursing a drink, clearly amused at something the bartender had said. Fenriz told himself he wouldn’t stare, but somehow his eyes kept dragging back to her. He adjusted his denim vest, ran a hand through his hair, and muttered under his breath:
“Alright, Nagell, time to deploy… charm.”
With all the grace of a deer on ice, he slid off his stool and made his way over, almost tripping on the leg of a chair. He caught himself, threw a quick thumbs-up to nobody in particular, and landed at the table beside her.
“Uh—hi,” he said, voice an octave higher than intended. He cleared his throat. “I mean… hey. I’m Fen—uh—Gylve. But, uh, most people call me Fenriz. You know, like the wolf. From Norse mythology. Not an actual wolf. Though I do howl sometimes. But not—uh—not in bars.”
She raised an eyebrow, biting back a smile. “Okay…”
He grinned nervously, scratching the back of his neck. “Sorry, I’m—uh—better at writing riffs than introductions.”
To fill the silence, he pointed at her drink. “That’s… beer. Obviously. Good choice. Very… very beer-like.”
She laughed, finally, and it made his ears burn. “You’re not very smooth, are you?”
Fenriz put a hand over his heart, feigning injury. “What? Me? I’m smooth as… sandpaper. Premium grade.” He chuckled at his own joke, cheeks flushed but refusing to back down.
Her laughter softened, and she tilted her head at him. “Well, at least you’re funny.”
He perked up instantly. “Funny’s good! Funny lasts longer than smooth. Plus, smooth guys don’t usually trip over chairs.”
“Which you definitely did,” she teased.
“Which I definitely did,” he admitted, raising his pint like a toast. “But hey—if you don’t mind clumsy metalheads, maybe I could, uh, buy you the next round? To prove I can actually walk to the bar without injuring myself this time.”
She smiled—really smiled—and nodded. “Alright, Fenriz. You’ve got yourself a deal.”
As he shuffled off to order, trying his best to look casual but nearly knocking over a stool again, she shook her head, still laughing. Goofy, awkward, and strangely endearing—exactly his kind of charm.
Fenriz returned triumphantly with two fresh pints, holding them aloft like he’d just retrieved treasure from a dungeon.
“Behold!” he announced in a mock-grand voice, nearly sloshing the foam over the rim. “Two beers, procured without incident. No chairs were harmed in the making of this round.”
She clapped softly, playing along. “Impressive. You’re a regular knight in denim armor.”
He grinned, setting the drinks down carefully. “That’s me. Sir Fenriz of… uh… Beerstein.” He winced. “Okay, that sounded cooler in my head.”
She chuckled again, and he beamed like he’d just landed the best punchline of his life. Taking a big gulp of his drink, he leaned an elbow on the table, trying for casual, but ended up almost sliding off the stool before regaining balance.
“So,” he said, quickly covering up his stumble, “what kind of music are you into? Please don’t say disco, or my fragile black metal heart won’t survive it.”
She smirked. “Relax. I like metal. Not just metal, though. I grew up on Sabbath, then got into some heavier stuff. Lately I’ve been exploring more underground bands.”
Fenriz lit up like someone had plugged him into a wall outlet . “Underground? Oh man, you’re speaking my language. I mean, don’t get me wrong, Sabbath is like the dawn of metal, but there’s this whole world of stuff bubbling under, y’know? Tapes being traded, demos from guys recording in basements—it’s like this secret brotherhood.”
He was talking faster now, hands gesturing wildly. “Like—have you heard Hellhammer? Or the early Bathory demos? I mean, they sound like they were recorded through a toaster, but that’s the beauty, right? The ugliness is the point!”
She laughed, sipping her beer. “You’re really passionate about this.”
He froze, realizing he might have gone full music-nerd mode. “Uh—sorry. I tend to… overshare when it comes to riffs and distortion. I swear I can talk about normal things too. Like, um…” He scrambled. “Cats. Or… hiking. Or… cats hiking?”
That made her laugh so hard she nearly spilled her drink. Fenriz’s face went pink, but he leaned back with a goofy grin, clearly proud of himself.
“You’re ridiculous,” she said, shaking her head.
“And yet, here you are, still talking to me,” he replied, raising his eyebrows with mock arrogance. “So maybe ridiculous isn’t so bad.”
There was a beat of silence then—not awkward, but warm. She looked at him with a softer smile this time, like she was seeing through the clumsy jokes to the earnestness underneath.
Fenriz felt his stomach do a weird flip. He quickly raised his pint again, hiding it behind another sip.
“So,” he said, lowering the glass, “wanna hear the story about the time I tried to impress a girl by recording her a song and it ended up sounding like a chainsaw stuck in a washing machine?”
She grinned. “Absolutely.”
And just like that, the night stretched on, the bar fading into background noise as Fenriz spun his ridiculous stories, tripping over his words, laughing at himself—and realizing that maybe, just maybe, this girl liked the way he is.
The bar was thinning out, the music winding down to quieter songs as last call came and went. Fenriz and the girl stepped out into the cool night air, the streetlights buzzing faintly above them.
Fenriz shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket, kicking a loose pebble along the pavement as they walked. His breath came out in little puffs, and for once, he was quiet.
She noticed. “You’re not talking about riffs or tapes. Should I be worried?”
He smirked, looking down at her. “Hey, I can stop talking sometimes. I’m… multifaceted.” He gestured dramatically, nearly tripping on a crack in the sidewalk. “See? Full of surprises.”
She laughed, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.”
“I’ve heard that before,” he admitted, grinning. Then his smile faded into something a little more tentative. “So… do you usually let strange clumsy metalheads walk you home, or am I special?”
She tilted her head, amused. “You’re definitely… something.”
“Oof,” he said, clutching his chest like he’d been shot. “Brutal. Straight to the heart.”
She nudged him lightly with her shoulder, and his grin came back, a little softer this time. The streets were quiet, just the sound of their boots against the pavement and the occasional bark of a distant dog.
When they reached her street, she slowed down, glancing at him. “This is me.”
Fenriz stopped too, rocking back on his heels like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself. He scratched at the back of his neck, staring at the ground, then suddenly blurted:
“Would you, uh—want to hang out again sometime? Like… not in a smoky bar where I almost kill myself on chairs. Maybe, I don’t know, we could… swap records? Or… go for a walk. Or a hike. Or… feed cats that hike. Whatever you like.”
She smiled, her cheeks a little pink in the glow of the streetlight. “I’d like that.”
His eyes widened, then he grinned so big it was almost dorky. “Really? I mean—cool. Yeah. Totally cool.”
She laughed softly. “You’re terrible at playing it cool, you know.”
“Yeah, I know,” he said, chuckling, his voice low. “But hey—it worked, didn’t it?”
There was a pause, that charged kind of silence where something more could happen. Fenriz’s stomach twisted nervously, but he leaned in just a little—enough to test the waters.
She stepped forward, pressing a quick, light kiss to his cheek. “Goodnight, Fenriz.”
For a moment he just stood there, frozen, then raised both fists in the air like he’d just won a championship. “Yesss!” he whispered, trying (and failing) to be subtle.
She laughed all the way up her steps, turning back once to wave. And as Fenriz walked off down the street, grinning like an idiot and nearly tripping on the curb, he thought maybe being clumsy wasn’t so bad after all.
The afternoon sun filtered through the trees, painting golden streaks across the mossy ground. The woods were quiet except for birdsong and the crunch of leaves underfoot. Fenriz was carrying a slightly lopsided backpack, stuffed with things he probably shouldn’t have crammed together: a checkered blanket, a couple of beers, and sandwiches he’d made himself (though he’d nervously admitted he wasn’t exactly “culinary gifted”).
“You sure you know where we’re going?” she teased, following him along the narrow path.
“Of course,” he said confidently, though his tone wavered when he had to push a branch out of his face. “I practically live out here. Nature and I are best buds. I hug trees, they hug me back. It’s a whole thing.”
She laughed. “I’d pay money to see a tree hugging you.”
“You doubt my woodland connections?” He spun dramatically, arms spread wide. “Watch—at any moment, a squirrel will appear and guide us to the perfect picnic spot.”
No squirrel appeared. Instead, he stepped backward right into a small ditch and nearly toppled over. He caught himself, turned bright red, and muttered, “...The squirrel’s running late.”
By the time they reached a clearing, she was giggling, and he was pretending to grumble, though his grin betrayed him. He spread the blanket, accidentally setting it down over a rock, then scrambled to fix it. When they finally settled down, he opened his bag like it was a treasure chest.
“Okay, so—picnic à la Fenriz,” he announced proudly. “We’ve got sandwiches. They might be a little… smushed. Bread, cheese, ham, and maybe some accidental mayonnaise explosions. And, for the beverage connoisseur…” He pulled out the two beers with a flourish. “Imported from the fridge of my apartment.”
She shook her head, smiling. “You really went all out.”
He flopped down next to her, handing her a sandwich. “Hey, don’t underestimate the power of a mediocre sandwich eaten outdoors. Food always tastes better with trees around. Scientific fact.”
They ate, chatted, and laughed, the air easy between them. At one point, Fenriz leaned back on his elbows, staring up at the sky through the branches. “You know,” he said, quieter now, “I spend so much time with music, like it’s the only thing that matters. But sometimes… just being out here, with someone who doesn’t mind me being a total idiot… that’s even better.”
She glanced at him, catching the rare seriousness in his tone. “I don’t mind,” she said softly. “I like it.”
He turned his head toward her, eyes wide and earnest, and then, true to form, he ruined the moment with a snort. “Well, good, because I’ve already tripped three times today and I was worried that was a dealbreaker.”
She burst out laughing, and he laughed too, but this time he shifted a little closer, their knees brushing. The sun dipped lower, the shadows stretching, and for once Fenriz wasn’t overthinking. He just reached out and took her hand, fingers awkwardly threading through hers.
And when she didn’t pull away, just squeezed gently back, he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
“Best picnic ever,” he said.
She smiled, resting her head lightly on his shoulder.
Fenriz’s flat smelled faintly of coffee and something earthy. The walls were half-covered in posters—Venom, Hellhammer, Dark Funeral—and stacked with shelves of records and tapes. A couple of stray drumsticks were lying on the couch, as if abandoned mid-thought.
“Welcome to my kingdom,” Fenriz said, throwing his arms wide as she stepped inside. “It’s a little messy, but it’s organized chaos. Like… uh… like thrash riffs. Controlled noise.”
She glanced around, smiling. “It’s very you.”
“Is that good?” he asked, tugging at his denim vest nervously.
“It’s good,” she said warmly.
That made him beam. He shuffled toward the record shelf like a man on a mission. “Okay, so—date activity number one: vinyl roulette. We close our eyes. I pick something from my collection, you pick something from the things you brought, we listen. But be warned, if you pick something that offends my delicate black metal sensibilities, I might have to kick you out.”
“Oh really?” she teased, crossing her arms. “And what happens if you pick something embarrassing?”
“Impossible,” he said with mock seriousness. “Everything here is a masterpiece. Except maybe that one disco single I bought ironically.”
She laughed. “Let me see that.”
“No, no, no,” he said quickly, flailing toward the shelf, but she was faster, pulling out the offending record: Saturday Night Fever. She held it up triumphantly.
“Busted.”
Fenriz turned scarlet. “Okay, okay—it was a joke! I swear! I was gonna scratch a pentagram into it or something. Purely ironic.”
“Sure it was,” she said, grinning as she slid it back. “You probably dance to it when nobody’s looking.”
He put his hands up dramatically. “If you tell anyone, my reputation is ruined forever.”
She settled onto the couch as he finally put a record on—Hellhammer, raw and ugly, the speakers buzzing with distorted fury. He sat down beside her, tapping his knee along with the beat, eyes lighting up.
“This,” he said, pointing at the spinning vinyl, “is the stuff. Everyone else thought it was garbage, but to me it’s like… magic. Like discovering a whole new world. These are the sounds that make me feel alive.”
She watched him, the way he went from goofy to passionate in a heartbeat, how his whole face changed when he talked about music. “You really love this,” she said softly.
“Yeah,” he admitted, his voice gentler now. “It’s not just music. It’s… it’s my escape, y’know? When everything feels heavy or stupid, I put this on and it’s like—I’m free. I guess it sounds cheesy, but…” He trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck.
She reached over, resting her hand on his. “It doesn’t sound cheesy. It sounds like you.”
For once, Fenriz didn’t have a joke ready. He just looked at her, blinking, then smiled—a little shy, a little vulnerable.
After a beat, he said, “Well, uh… I also made snacks. Which is basically bread, cheese, and chips of a questionable age. Gourmet dining, Fenriz style.”
She laughed, shaking her head. “You’re hopeless.”
“Hopelessly charming?” he asked hopefully.
“Hopelessly something,” she said, leaning into his shoulder as the record spun on.
And in his messy flat, surrounded by vinyl and goofy energy, Fenriz realized this might be the best second date he’d ever managed to pull off.
The venue was small, smelly, and loud—the kind of place where the walls practically pulsed with distortion. Fenriz had dragged her to see some local bands, buzzing with excitement the whole bus ride over.
“Okay,” he shouted over the music as they pushed toward the stage, “this band isn’t famous or anything, but trust me—they sound like a horde of goblins falling down a mountain. It’s beautiful!”
She laughed, covering her ears as the guitar feedback shrieked. “Beautiful isn’t the word I’d use!”
Fenriz was already headbanging, hair flying, throwing the horns like he was in the band himself. He leaned close, grinning. “C’mon! You gotta feel it in your chest—that’s when you know it’s good!”
And she did. Between the crashing drums and the sweaty press of the crowd, there was something raw and alive in the chaos. She found herself laughing, shouting, moving with it—and watching Fenriz grin like a kid at Christmas.
But, inevitably, disaster struck.
In the middle of a particularly enthusiastic headbang, Fenriz swung too wide and cracked his forehead straight into the guy next to him.
“Shit—sorry!” Fenriz shouted, clutching his nose as blood started streaming down.
The other guy, dazed, just grumbled and stumbled away. Fenriz blinked down at his bloodied hands, then looked at her with wide eyes. “Uh… metal injury?”
She grabbed his arm immediately. “Come on, wolf-boy, let’s get you patched up.”
They squeezed their way out of the pit, into the toilets at the back. Fenriz leaned against the sink, grinning sheepishly despite the blood running down his face.
“Romantic, huh?” he joked nasally. “Third date, and you’re already wiping blood off me.”
She wet some paper towels and carefully dabbed at his nose, trying not to laugh. “You’re such a disaster.”
“Hey, in my defense—headbanging is a dangerous art form. Only the bravest survive.”
“Mm-hm,” she said, pressing the towel gently against his nose.
For a moment, he went quiet, eyes flicking up to hers. The grin softened into something smaller, almost nervous. “You know… you’re kind of amazing. Most people would’ve left me to bleed out with the goblins.”
She shook her head, smiling. “You must’ve realised that I’m not most people.”
Something shifted in the air then—louder than the guitars still thundering from the stage. His eyes darted down to her lips, then back up, and before he could chicken out, she leaned in and kissed him.
It was quick at first, but warm—her hand still holding the towel to his nose, his hand awkwardly brushing her hip. He pulled back a little, stunned, then laughed breathlessly.
“Wow,” he said, still stuffed-up from the nosebleed. “First kiss and I’m bleeding. Very on-brand.”
She rolled her eyes, laughing, and kissed him again—longer this time, his goofy grin melting into something sweeter.
When they finally broke apart, he whispered, “Best. Gig. Ever.”
And with blood still drying on his shirt and the muffled roar of guitars outside, she couldn’t help but agree.
Fenriz fumbled with the keys outside his flat, still grinning like an idiot. He tried to jam the wrong one in the lock twice before finally getting the door open.
“See? Totally smooth,” he announced proudly, holding the door for her. “No head injuries this time.”
She laughed, shaking her head as she stepped inside. “You’re unbelievable.”
The flat was just as she’d seen it before—records stacked in chaotic towers, posters curling at the edges on the walls, a coffee mug or two abandoned on the table. Fenriz tossed his denim vest over a chair, missing entirely so it flopped onto the floor. He ignored it, bouncing onto the couch like he was too charged with energy to sit still.
“So, uh—” he started, gesturing vaguely with his hands, “that was… y’know… some kiss.”
She sat down beside him, amused. “Some kiss?”
“Yeah,” he said quickly, nodding. “Like… top tier. Easily in the top three of my life. Maybe top one. Actually definitely top one. But—uh—I’m not saying it was a big deal or anything. Just, y’know, casual. Totally chill.”
He leaned back, trying to look laid-back, but his foot was jittering like a jackhammer and his nose was still a little swollen from the incident.
She tilted her head, smiling. “You’re really bad at pretending to be casual.”
“What? Nooo,” he protested, throwing an arm over the back of the couch. “I’m the king of casual. This is me—casual incarnate.” He wiggled his eyebrows, then immediately winced. “Ow. Okay, that hurt.”
That made her laugh harder, and he blushed, running a hand through his messy hair. “Alright, fine. I’m buzzing. Like, my brain feels like it’s on top a double-kick drum right now. I can’t stop thinking about it. You kissed me, and now I’m trying not to scare you off by being, uh… me.”
She looked at him for a long moment, then leaned closer. “But that’s exactly what I like about you.”
He blinked, caught off guard. “Wait—what?”
“I like that you’re goofy, and clumsy, and terrible at pretending to be smooth,” she said gently. “You’re real. And you make me laugh. That’s… kind of perfect, actually.”
Fenriz’s mouth opened and closed a few times, like a fish gasping for air. Then he laughed, a little disbelieving, rubbing the back of his neck. “So… you’re saying I don’t need to, like, develop a mysterious dark aura or start quoting Nietzsche at parties?”
“Please don’t,” she said, smiling.
He grinned, a huge, boyish grin that crinkled his eyes. “Well, damn. You sure know how to make a clumsy metalhead feel like he’s winning at life.”
She leaned in again, brushing her lips against his, softer this time. When they pulled apart, Fenriz whispered, almost giddy, “Okay, this is officially the best night of my life. Even better than the time I found a first-press Bathory record for cheap.”
She laughed, curling into his side. “That’s high praise.”
“High praise,” he agreed, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.
And as they sat there, tangled up on his messy couch, Fenriz finally let himself relax. Goofy, clumsy, overexcited—he didn’t need to be anything else.