The island wasn’t even supposed to be the destination.

Just a quiet stopover between ferries. A final night in the archipelago on the Norwegian coast before they returned to Trondheim and real life. But now the ferry sat idle, tied to the dock, engines dead. Wind off the Norwegian Sea had turned bitter and wet. Rain lashed sideways off the water, fine as needles. The sky was slate, the sea worse.

Anna stepped out of the rental car and pulled her hood tight. Markus followed, clutching the handle of her suitcase even though she hadn’t asked. The harbor smelled like brine and diesel. Beyond the quay: gray water, gray sky, nothing else.

At the ticket office, the clerk barely looked up. “Cancelled,” he said. “Storm moving in.”

Markus frowned. “We’ve got tickets.”

The man shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. Next boat’s maybe tomorrow. Maybe.”

Anna exhaled slowly, her jaw set. Not angry. Just tired. “Right. Thanks.”

They turned and walked back through the lot, the suitcase rattling behind them. A gust of wind caught Anna’s coat and blew it open. She didn’t bother to fix it.

“Should’ve left yesterday,” Markus muttered.

Anna didn’t answer. She was watching the coastline. Rocky, remote, the trees bent low by wind. No other movement but gulls.

Earlier that day, before the ferry delay, she’d joked, “We could just stay. Get pregnant. Raise goats. Never go back.”

Now she didn’t smile.

The island only had two inns. Both were full. The woman at the tourist booth was apologetic, cheerful in a way that made things worse.

“There’s the bunkhouse,” she said. “It’s basic. Mostly hikers this time of year. But it’s dry. And warm.”

Markus hesitated. Anna didn’t.

“Fine,” she said. “Give us the key.”

The bunkhouse sat down a gravel path, behind a row of leaning spruce and a rusted radio tower. Long and low, with fogged windows and a crooked gutter spitting rain. The inside smelled of pine soap and damp wool.

There were eight beds, four bunks divided between two rooms. Thin mattresses. A wood stove at the far end flickered low, throwing shadows against the walls.

Anna took the lower bunk at the far end. Markus climbed up top without a word.

They didn’t speak as they unpacked. Just the zip of jackets, the thunk of boots dropped by the door.

“You want to go for a walk?” he asked finally, half-heartedly.

“In this?”

He nodded, then realized she wasn’t looking at him.

Anna lay back on the mattress, hands folded over her stomach. She stared up at the slats of the bunk above. Her boots were still on.

The silence between them wasn’t hostile. Just full.

More guests arrived as the evening sank in. A lone French backpacker with headphones and a paperback, two Swedes who smelled like cheap beer. They claimed their bunks in the other room and kept to themselves.

Then, later, just before the lights dimmed automatically, the last one came in.

He stepped through the door with no rush. Older. Broad in the shoulders. Round through the middle. Thinning gray hair. Weathered hands. Face like a retired fisherman or someone who’d worked too long in wind.

He wore an old waxed coat and carried nothing but a plastic grocery bag. He looked around once, nodded to no one in particular, and took the lower bed next to Markus’ and Anna’s

Anna sat up slightly.

He peeled off his coat and dropped it on the foot of the bed. Underneath, a heavy flannel shirt, sleeves rolled. His chest rose with slow, practiced breath.

He looked at Anna, not impolite, not leering. Just looked. Then looked away.

Markus watched from above, pretending not to.

The wind outside scraped at the windows like claws. The storm was nowhere near its worst.

The room settled into a soft hush, the kind that made every cough, every shift of fabric feel amplified.

Anna lay awake on the lower bunk. Markus stayed above her, unmoving. Outside, the wind came in hard bursts now, pressing against the walls like a weight.

A log cracked in the stove. The heat didn’t reach the far end of the room.

The older man—Jon, as they’d learn—reached into his bag and pulled out a flask. He took a sip, exhaled slowly, then glanced toward Anna.

“You two from Oslo?” he asked, voice quiet but rough with smoke and years.

Anna blinked. “Trondheim,” she said.

He nodded. “Close enough.”

Markus answered next. “We came for a long weekend. Didn’t expect to get stranded.”

Jon smiled faintly. “No one expects to. That’s the point.”

He extended the flask toward them. Anna hesitated, then sat up and took it.

“What is it?”

“Whiskey,” he said. “Cheap. Might make you forget protection.”

She smirked. Markus didn’t react.

She took a slow sip. Coughed a little. Handed it up to Markus, who took a more tentative one before returning it.

“I’m Jon,” the man said. “Just Jon. You two?”

“Markus,” he said. “This is Anna.”

Jon nodded. “Nice to meet you both.”

He looked at Anna again, a little longer this time.

“You married?”

Anna gave a little smile. “Almost ten years.”

Jon leaned back against the wall, resting his head against the wood.

“Funny,” he said. “You don’t look it.”

Markus tensed slightly. “What do we look like, then?”

Jon shrugged. “Hard to say. She looks restless. You look like a man who knows it.”

Silence.

Anna glanced at Markus, then back at Jon. “You always this direct?”

Jon smiled without teeth. “Storms bring it out of me.”

He adjusted his blanket, pulled it tighter across his lap.

“Gets cold in here by morning,” he said. “Stove won’t hold through the night.”

Anna didn’t respond.

Jon’s eyes moved back to hers, steady.

“If you want to stay warm,” he said, “you’re welcome under mine.”

Her lips parted. She exhaled slowly. “Maybe I will.”

No one spoke after that.

The fire in the stove collapsed into a low red glow. The wind keened outside, rattling the latch on the back door. Someone coughed in the other room. Zippers shifted. Sleeping bags rustled. Quiet preparations for sleep.

Markus lay still in the top bunk, staring into the wooden ceiling above him. Anna’s breathing was steady below. Or maybe measured. He couldn’t tell anymore.

He didn’t know how long he lay like that before he heard movement.

Light.

Soft.

Deliberate.

The creak of a zipper. The brush of socks across the floorboards.

Anna.

He opened his eyes but didn’t move.

She was no longer in the bed below.

Then he heard the blanket lift on the lower bunk against the other wall.

Jon’s voice, low: “Couldn’t sleep?”

Anna didn’t answer. At least not in words.

Markus heard the mattress shift. A body settling in.

Then Jon again, barely above a whisper: “Smart girl.”

The blanket rustled.

Without making a sound, Markus turned in his sleeping bag, peering over the edge of the bunk. Could he get a view of what was going on down there in the other bed?

Jon’s body, broad and thick, blocked most of it. Anna’s head was barely visible, tucked into his shoulder. Her hand lay across his chest. He pulled her the rest of the way under the blanket, wrapping her like he owned her. Markus lay back, closing his eyes. He could still hear everything. Jon’s breath. Her breath. The sound of skin on skin. The creak of bedsprings. The wet press of lips. The low, contained moan she made. He listened to it all, every goddamn second.

Wet sounds. Breathing. A gasp—hers. Not loud, but real.

Then Anna’s voice, low and careful, “What if he’s awake?”

Jon paused, then, “Then let him listen.”

A long silence.

Markus couldn’t breathe right. He was hard—achingly, shamefully. He hadn’t touched himself. Hadn’t moved.

In the dim room, Markus played the voyeur. Holding his breath, he glimpsed his wife leaning over the older stranger, kissing him hungrily. Jon’s rough hand sliding up under her top, her tiny hands going down to Jon’s underwear, feeling around.

Jon's hand continued to explore Anna's body, sliding up her shirt and cupping her breast over her thin top. His other hand moved to her thigh, up to her panties, just enough to slip his fingers beneath the hemline. Anna arched her back, pressing herself into Jon's touch.

Markus swallowed hard, his heart pounding in his chest. He had never felt so helpless—or so turned on—in his life. His cock strained against the fabric of his boxers, and he fought the urge to reach down and stroke himself. Instead, he remained still, watching and listening.

Anna's hand disappeared beneath Jon's underwear, eliciting a low growl from the older man. He responded by tugging at her shirt, pulling it up over her head to reveal her bare breasts. Markus felt a pang of jealousy, but it was quickly overshadowed by pure excitement.

Jon's fingers moved deeper, finding the wetness between Anna's legs. She gasped again, louder this time. Markus heard the sound of fabric rustling as Jon pulled Anna's panties down to her knees.

Anna moaned softly, and Markus watched, transfixed, as Jon shifted her on top of him. She straddled him, her body a silhouette in the dark. Jon gripped her hips, guiding her, and she leaned forward, kissing his neck, his chest. Markus could see her back, the curve of it, the way her hair fell across her face. He watched as she reached down, positioning Jon’s cock between her legs, her breath catching as she sank onto him.

She looked so tiny on top of the big older man. Jon's hands moved to her ass, pulling her down hard. She let out a muffled cry, burying her face in his shoulder. Markus felt a surge of something between humiliation and lust, his heart a sick, relentless thud in his chest. He bit his lip, trapping any sound that might escape.

Anna rocked against Jon, her movements slow and deliberate at first, then faster, more urgent. Jon met her with steady thrusts.

Anna exhaled hard. Tried to stay quiet. Failed.

Markus heard her whisper, “You feel so … raw.”

Anna’s stifled whimpers. Jon’s grunts, deep and primal. The rhythmic creak of the bed.

Markus couldn’t stop his hand. It moved down before he could think. Into his boxers, gripping his own cock with desperate fingers. He felt obscene. He felt alive.

Anna gasped again, louder, and Markus’s breath caught in his throat. He pictured her, eyes wide, back arched, riding the stranger like she’d never ride him.

Jon grabbed her hips and rolled her onto her back. He moved above her, sealing her under his weight. Her legs went up around him, pulling him in, and Markus heard the breath rush out of her lungs. He was rough, relentless, each thrust shaking the bed, shaking everything. She clawed at his back, her voice breaking with every push.

Markus couldn’t look away. He couldn’t stop his hand, the frantic motion of it. He was losing it. He was so close. Anna’s moans, Jon’s grunts, the wet slap of skin.

Jon paused, pulled out, and Markus heard the unmistakable slap of Jon’s cock against Anna’s wet pussy. He realized there was no condom.

Jon’s voice again, gravel low: “You want to feel it, don’t you?”

Anna: “Yes.”

Jon: “Then say it. Say what you want.”

A pause.

Then her voice, trembling but clear, “Don’t pull out. I want to take it with me.”

Jon’s thick cock pushed back inside Anna, and Markus heard her cry out. Jon grunted. The rhythm broke. He thrust deep. The bunk hit the wall, again and again.

Markus could hear it—everything. Her thighs hitting his. The squelch of his cock moving inside her. Jon’s breathing turned ragged.

Anna moaned. Long. Broken. Her voice was soft as prayer. “Fill me up with your cum.”

Markus closed his eyes.

He didn’t stop it.

He listened.

A low, guttural sound from Jon, and Markus knew he was giving her exactly what she’d asked for. The thick, wet sounds of it. Her short, gasping breaths. Jon’s final hard thrusts.

“Yes,” Anna whispered. “Cum in my married pussy.”

Her words undid him. Markus came fast, biting into the edge of his sleeping bag.

The room went quiet. Just the wind, rattling the windows like nothing had happened. Markus lay still, heart a rapid kick in his chest. The wet mess of his lap, sticky and shameful. He stayed like that, straining to hear everything, anything. Finally, he heard them breathe. Slow, deep, satisfied. The soft rustle of clothes. The whisper of a sleeping bag. Anna’s voice, barely audible, almost tender, “Thank you.”

Morning light pushed through the slats in the blinds. Pale and grey.

Markus woke in the top bunk. Below, Jon’s bed was empty. Neatly made. No sign of him. Just the smell of sweat and something animal lingering in the air.

Anna stood by the stove, wrapped in her coat, watching the flames.

Markus swung his legs over the edge. Sat there, wordless.

She turned slowly. “You’ll know if it’s his.”

A beat.

“Or yours.”

She smiled.

“If you’re lucky.”