Why Everyone Loves the Swedish Sauna Experience

The Parallel Four Book Two Chapter Ten

Writing The Parallel Four has been a journey in itself—a walk through memories, dreams, and all the little moments that shape who we become. Some parts of this story are true. Some are truer than I’d care to admit. And some—well, let’s just say they’re inspired by what might’ve happened if life had taken a different turn.

The characters you’ll meet in these pages—Stephen, Johan, Vinka, Marlin, Tim, and Petra—are fictional, but they live and breathe with the spirit of real people I’ve known, loved, and lost. Their world is stitched together from scraps of real places, actual events, and a few wild yarns that got better with each retelling down the pub.

Poplar, Hitchin, and the snowy reaches of Sweden aren’t just backdrops—they’re characters in their own right. They’ve shaped this story as much as the people in it. And if you happen to recognise a place, a turn of phrase, or a certain kind of mischief from your own youth… well, consider that my nod to you.

This first book takes us from scraped knees to stolen kisses, from playground politics to life’s first real goodbyes. It’s about growing up, making mistakes, and finding the people who’ll stand by you no matter what—even if they sometimes drive you round the bend.

To those who remember the ‘50s and ‘60s—this one’s a memory jogger. To the younger lot—it’s a peek into a time when life moved slower, but feelings still ran just as fast.

And finally, to Stephen, Johan, Vinka, Marlin, Tim, and Petra—six hearts bound by the wonder of first love. Not the fleeting kind that fades with time, but the rare and lasting kind that deepens, steadies, and endures—a love that grows with them, becoming part of who they are, and who they will always be. And though this is only the beginning, the road ahead will test them in ways they cannot yet imagine—through training, through battle, and through the choices that will shape the rest of their lives.

Transcript

Chapter Ten

Second day of Christmas, and as tradition demands, it was time to purge the pickled herring and schnapps with a proper sweat session in the old family sauna.

Now, Stephen—bless him—looked as relaxed as a seal on a sun-lounger. He’s practically half-Swedish by now, and he’s been taking saunas since he was seven. By the time he walked in, towel slung over one shoulder, all casual and glistening slightly, he could’ve passed for a local. Even my uncle Stefan gave him an approving nod. That’s high praise.

But Tim, on the other hand… oh dear.

Tim sat down on the middle bench like a man trying to hide the fact he was slowly roasting from the inside out. Within seconds, he was dripping like a snowman in a tumble dryer, eyes wide and blinking through the steam like he’d walked into a mystical fog and lost his will to live. Petra leaned in, ever so gently, and whispered, “You look like a frightened pudding.” Then she kissed his cheek and handed him a ladle of water for the stove.

Big mistake.

Tim tipped it straight onto the stones like a hero. The hiss was immediate and vengeful. The temperature leapt like a startled reindeer, and Tim yelped—a proper full-volume, oh-my-god-I’m-on-fire he yelp—then nearly slipped off the bench. The rest of us were howling with laughter. Even Johan cracked a grin between gulps of steam.

Then came the snow roll.

“Come on, Poacher,” Petra teased, dragging Tim outside. “It’s part of the ritual!”

Out they went, towels barely holding on, and before he could protest, she’d flung herself into the snow like a winter sprite. Tim followed, landed with a squeal that echoed round the valley, and came back inside white as a church candle and twice as stunned.

Back in the sauna, red-faced and steaming, he curled up beside Petra and muttered, “I think my soul just left my body.”

She giggled and kissed his shoulder. “Don’t worry. You did good… for a first-timer.”

And as the rest of us chuckled and poured water on the stones, I looked around that little wooden hut—sweaty, chaotic, and completely bonkers—and thought, This… this is home.

It was one of those proper Swedish winter nights—snow curling up the windows like frost-fingered lace, the fire giving off that toasty orange glow, and everyone else either tucked up in bed or slowly dozing off after too much pudding. But Petra and I? We were still wide awake, curled up on the sofa under an old wool blanket that smelt faintly of pine and cinnamon, mugs of warm cocoa in hand and cheeks still flushed from the sauna.

I nudged her gently with my foot.

“Right, spill it. You and Tim… this isn’t just a holiday fling, is it?”

She bit her lip and gave a little shrug, the kind that meant definitely not just a fling.

“No… Vinka, it’s more than that. I didn’t mean for it to happen—it just did. After the wedding, we kept in touch… a few letters here and there, then more. Proper ones. Funny, sweet, a bit clumsy—just like him.”

I grinned. “Classic Tim. His letters to Stephen were always half-scribbled, half-poetry, and full of footnotes.”

“Exactly! Then he invited me to visit him in Münster. I stayed with a married friend of his—she and her husband had a spare room in their quarter. It was all above board. But the moment I stepped off the train and saw him waiting on the platform with a bunch of flowers wrapped in newspaper... oh, Vinka, I think my knees actually went.”

I raised a brow. “Tim with flowers? That’s practically a proposal.”

“He took me everywhere. We walked through cobbled streets, visited the cathedral, had bratwurst in the freezing cold because he insisted it was ‘authentic’. And in the evenings, we’d talk for hours. No pressure. Just… being with each other.”

“Did he tell you he was diagnosed with dyslexia during training?” I asked softly.

“Yes. He said it felt like a weight had been lifted, like all the years of thinking he was stupid suddenly made sense. And he told me—quietly, as if he wasn’t sure he should—that I make him feel clever.”

I leaned over and wrapped my arms around her. “You do. And you make him brave, too.”

She sniffed, trying to blink away the tears. “He said he wanted me to visit again in the spring, that he couldn’t wait to show me the cherry blossoms in the barracks garden.”

“And you?” I teased gently.

“I told him I’d already booked my train.”

We both laughed, warm and quiet, the kind of laughter that fills a room more than echoes in it.

“You know,” I said, “Stephen always said you’d be the heartbreaker of the family.”

“Looks like I broke my own,” 

“Nah,” I smiled, brushing her hair back from her cheek. “You just handed it to the right person.”

And as the fire flickered lower and our cocoa cooled, I knew Petra wasn’t just in love—she was home, wherever Tim happened to be.

Petra curled her legs up underneath her and rested her mug on the arm of the sofa. Her cheeks were still pink, and not just from the heat of the fire or the sauna earlier. I could see it in her eyes—the kind of glow that only comes from thinking about someone who makes your heart skip.

“He’s not like other boys I’ve met, “With Tim… I don’t feel like I have to be clever, or pretty, or perfect. I just get to be me. And somehow, that’s enough.”

I couldn’t help but think back to last Easter, when the two of them had been near inseparable, stealing moments whenever they could. That was the spring before Tim joined the Army—when he lost touch with her for a while. It made their reunion at the wedding all the more powerful, like a fire that had never really gone out, only waited for its spark.

“Sounds familiar.”

“Like someone else I know?”

“Well, I never thought I’d fall for a cheeky lad from Poplar with too many freckles and a complete inability to ski,” I said, nudging her. “But here we are.”

“Tim remembers everything I say. Not like, in a creepy way—he just listens. The first time we wrote to each other properly, he said he remembered the exact perfume I was wearing at the wedding. Said it made him think of wildflowers and warm sunshine.”

“Oh my God,” I grinned. “That’s dangerously close to poetry.”

“It was. He told me he asked one of the lads to help write it down so it sounded right. He said his brain gets muddled, but his heart always knows what he wants to say.”

“That is so Tim.”

“He worries a lot,“That I’ll get bored. That I’ll realise he’s not clever enough. But he doesn’t see it—the way he makes people feel… like I was the most beautiful person in Germany, even when my hair went frizzy in the rain and I had toothpaste on my chin.”

I laughed, gently brushing a strand of her hair behind her ear. “That boy’s besotted.”

“And I think I might be too.”

There was a pause—one of those lovely, heavy silences where words aren’t needed. Just the soft pop of logs on the fire, the occasional snore from the dog by the hearth, and outside, the hush of snow falling like feathers from a shaken duvet.

Then Petra turned to me again, voice barely above a whisper.

“Do you think it’s too soon to… you know, love someone?”

I squeezed her hand.

“No Not when it’s real,” I said gently. Then I smiled, tilting my head. “Truth is, you’ve been besotted with Tim since that first Easter—when you saw him in Hitchin. I could see it clear as day. And by the second Easter, when you were slipping into his bed every night, there was no hiding it. Then life took over, he went off to the Army, and for a while you lost each other. But now—look where you are.”

Petra’s cheeks flamed at the memory, but her smile was soft and certain. I leaned closer, giving her hand another squeeze. “Don’t doubt it, Petra. What you and Tim have—it’s not a passing fancy. It’s love, and it’s yours to keep hold of.”

Her eyes welled, and for a moment she looked younger, almost like the girl she’d been back then. “Tack, Vinka,” she whispered, voice trembling but full of relief. “Sometimes I think I don’t deserve him… but hearing you say that makes me believe maybe I do. And I don’t ever want to let him go.”

She smiled then. A proper, full-face smile. The kind that says this might be it.

And I knew—just like I’d known with Stephen—that this was no passing crush. Petra Rask had fallen in love with Tim Heale, and there was no going back.

The floorboards creaked softly beneath my bare feet as I tiptoed through the hall, guided only by the moonlight filtering through the upstairs window. Every door in the lodge was shut, save for one—the guest room where Tim lay curled under a thick duvet, breathing slow and steady.

I hesitated a moment. Not out of doubt, but… nerves. The good kind. The kind that come when your heart is full and you don’t quite know how to carry it.

I slipped in.

He stirred as I eased the door closed behind me.

“Petra?” “Is everything okay?”

I padded over to the bed, slipping under the covers beside him. “I couldn’t sleep.”

He turned toward me, eyes blinking open in the half-light. “Bad dreams?”

“No,” I whispered, brushing my cold fingers against his warm chest. “Just… needed to be near you.”

That woke him up.

“Oh,” “Blimey.”

I laughed under my breath and kissed the corner of his mouth. “Don’t flatter yourself, Poacher. I’m freezing and you’re a convenient radiator.”

“Oi!” “You only want me for my core temperature.”

“And your shoulders. And that daft little dimple when you smile.”

He wrapped his arms around me then, pulling me close. “I missed you,” he murmured into my hair.

“I know,” I breathed. “I missed you, too.”

We lay there a moment, tangled and still, listening to each other’s breathing and the occasional groan of the old wooden beams.

“Tim?” I asked.

“Mm?”

“Did you mean it? What you wrote in that letter… about falling in love?”

He didn’t speak for a second. Then, with a quiet kind of courage, he nodded. “Yeah. I meant it. Every clumsy, misspelled bit of it.”

My heart squeezed. “Good. Because I think I’m falling, too.”

He reached up, fingers brushing my cheek, then gently pulled me in for a kiss that was sweet and uncertain and perfect.

When we pulled apart, he whispered, “Promise me something?”

“Anything.”

“Don’t leave it too long before the next visit.”

“I won’t,” I said, already tucking my leg between his, already more at home than I’d been in months. “You’re stuck with me now, Private Heale.”

“Royal Anglian,” he corrected sleepily, head sinking back into the pillow. “Second Battalion. Poacher, hopeless romantic.”

And with that, he fell asleep with his arms around me. No more words were needed. Just breath, warmth, and the kind of silence that says everything.

The pale morning light filtered through the lace curtains, dusting the room with that soft, grey-blue glow only Swedish winters could conjure. For a second, I didn’t move—just breathed in the scent of the pine walls, old soap, and him. Tim’s arm was draped over my waist, warm and heavy, his breath slow against the back of my neck.

I smiled to myself. This wasn’t a dream.

Tim shifted beside me, murmuring something incoherent—half a mumble, half a sigh. Then his arm tightened slightly, pulling me closer.

“Morning,” I whispered, not turning around yet.

“Mm.” His voice was thick with sleep. “Best one ever.”

I turned slowly, facing him, my hand brushing the little curls at the nape of his neck. “You always this romantic when you’ve just woken up?”

“Only when I’ve got a Swedish goddess in my bed,” he croaked, eyes still barely open.

I rolled my eyes. “Flattery before teeth brushing—brave.”

He finally cracked one eye open and grinned. “Still worth it.”

We lay there for a moment in silence, foreheads touching.

Then I spoke, soft and serious. “I meant what I said last night. About wanting this… wanting you.”

Tim met my eyes fully now. “Good. ’Cause I’m not going anywhere.” He brushed my cheek with his thumb. “You do realise this means we’ll have to tell the others soon?”

“Oh, I think they already know,” “You did trip over your own boots last night trying to be quiet.”

“Damn boots betrayed me,” “Remind me to burn them.”

“No, Poacher, I’m keeping them. As evidence.”

“Poacher?”

“That’s what you are,” “You stole me.”

“Best thing I ever nicked.”

We sank back under the covers for a while longer, the world outside frozen and still, while inside the old lodge, something warm and certain had just begun to take root.

There’s a certain kind of silence in the morning up at the lodge—a peaceful, coffee-scented lull where the fire’s crackling back to life and everyone shuffles about in thick socks and pyjamas that have seen better decades. That morning, though, the silence was deliciously… loaded.

I was already in the kitchen with Marlin, pretending to slice bread when really we were both peering out the window every five seconds, waiting for the lovers to emerge. Johan was next to the stove, clumsily wrestling with the kettle like it had insulted his ancestors.

Then came the sound.

Footsteps on the stairs. Two sets. Close together.

Marlin nudged me with her elbow, not even trying to hide the grin on her face. I sipped my coffee with all the composure of a MI6 agent at a garden party.

And there they were—Petra and Tim—coming into the room like they hadn’t just spent the night doing exactly what we all knew they had. Petra’s cheeks were a lovely shade of “I slept in a boy’s arms,” and Tim had that unmistakable swagger of a lad who’d just won the lottery… and then found out he could keep it.

“Morning,” Petra said casually, brushing her hair behind her ear.

Tim gave us a crooked grin. “Smells good in here.”

Johan, bless him, didn’t miss a beat. “So does victory.”

Tim paused, half-smile still on, but his ears were definitely going red.

“Oh, Poacher, you’re blushing,” I said, stepping over with a plate of toast.

Petra nearly dropped her coffee. “You told them?”

“He didn’t have to,” said Marlin sweetly. “We heard the boots.”

“And the chair creak,” Johan added.

“And the little giggle,” I finished.

Petra narrowed her eyes at me. “You are all terrible.”

“Terribly observant,” I said, pecking her on the cheek. “And very happy for you.”

We all settled in around the breakfast table—eggs, bread, cheese, and far too much teasing. Tim tried to change the subject three times and failed miserably each time. Johan raised a toast with his juice. “To Tim and Petra—our very own Romeo and Juliet. May their breakfasts always be this awkward.”

Petra rolled her eyes and clinked her glass anyway.

And as we all tucked in, laughing and squabbling like the oddball family we were, I thought: this—this is what we were fighting for. Love, loyalty, and breakfast with a side of scandal.

Christmas morning at the lodge always begins in layers—layers of wool, layers of snow, and layers of sleepy people pretending they didn’t stay up too late on schnapps and stories. We were grown-ups now, or so the theory went, but getting out of the house still resembled a minor military operation.

Marlin and I were already dressed and ready, sipping coffee in the porch while the boys performed their usual last-minute dance of “Where’s my glove?” and “Has anyone seen my belt?” Stephen swore someone had moved his shoes. Johan insisted his shirt had shrunk. Tim just grinned and adjusted Petra’s scarf with the calm confidence of a man still floating from the night before.

Grandpa Olaf herded us like a very patient sheepdog, bellowing reminders about the service times and muttering something about “bloody snowflakes, inside and out.” Papa double-checked his hymn book, Grandma Greta had her arm linked through Mama’s, and aunt Ingrid—immaculate as ever—I reminded Stephen to comb his hair, just once.

We arrived at the little wooden church in the village square right on time, the spire dusted in snow and candlelight already glowing through the stained-glass windows. As tradition dictated, we took our places not at the front—heaven forbid—but quietly toward the back left, where most of the extended family had already assembled in a row that seemed to stretch across half the pew.

The air inside was warm and pine-scented, the soft murmur of greetings mingling with the distant creak of floorboards and the soft rustle of winter coats. I sat between Marlin and Stephen, his hand discreetly finding mine beneath the edge of my coat. Across the aisle, Petra and Tim whispered something that made her blush and him smirk like a man who’d just remembered exactly why he loved Christmas.

The service was beautiful—readings by candlelight, the soft thrum of the pipe organ, and a choir made up entirely of villagers, most of whom we’d known since they were in short trousers. Somewhere near the second hymn, I caught Johan stifling a yawn, and Marlin nudged him with the sort of gentle force that suggested long-term habit.

There was only one hiccup. Just as the pastor reached the most solemn part of the blessing, a loud clink echoed from behind us. Sven had dropped his dad’s flask on the wooden floor while trying to pass it discreetly to aunt Torva, who was clearly bored stiff. The flask rolled down the aisle like a rogue reindeer, landing neatly beneath the altar rail. The pause in the pastor’s voice was microscopic. The rustle of laughter from our row was not. Uncle Harry covered his mouth. Lars cleared his throat too forcefully. Mama pretended not to notice, though her shoulders shook suspiciously.

We recovered, just, and sang the last hymn with exaggerated devotion to make up for our sins.

As we spilled out into the snowy morning, cheeks pink and spirits light, the bells pealed across the village and I slipped my arm into Stephen’s. Around us, our family gathered in twos and threes, laughing, adjusting scarves, kissing cheeks. The snow crunched beneath our boots, and the warm breath of home and roast dinners lured us back toward the lodge.

It wasn’t perfect—but it was ours. And I wouldn’t trade this beautiful, ridiculous, chaotic clan for anything in the world.

Back at the lodge, the scent of Christmas had taken over the entire house. Cinnamon, roasted meats, candles, and something mysteriously citrusy that only Grandma Greta seemed able to pull off without it smelling like floor polish. We all shed coats and boots like tired warriors returning from battle and piled into the warmth, cheeks flushed, noses red, and spirits ridiculously high.

The kitchen was a joyful war zone. Grandma Greta and Silvi commanded the ovens like generals on a winning campaign, while Lars busied himself opening wine bottles with the solemnity of a sommelier who’d skipped breakfast. Uncle Harry and Grandpa Olaf argued about how to carve the ham—again—while Papa quietly just did it himself, muttering in Swedish that at least the pig was already dead.

Meanwhile, we girls had retreated to the sitting room for a pre-dinner tipple, pretending we weren’t peeking at the long table, now glowing with candles and gleaming with polished cutlery. Marlin, perched on the arm of Johan’s chair, raised an eyebrow and said, “Five kinds of potatoes. It’s like a Nordic summit in starch.”

Stephen and Tim had tried to offer help and were promptly banished for trying to rearrange the seating plan “logically.” “It’s not a military operation,” I heard Grandma Greta snap. “It’s Christmas. People sit where they end up.”

Eventually, we were summoned to the table. Twenty of us—family, lovers, and honorary misfits—squeezed around one gloriously mismatched expanse of wood, elbows nudging, wine glasses clinking, and at least one chair squeaking suspiciously every time Petra shifted. She claimed innocence. Tim, beside her, looked suspiciously smug.

The meal was... magnificent. Roast pork, glazed ham, Janssons frestelse, meatballs, gravlax, red cabbage, warm bread, pickled everything—and yes, five kinds of potatoes. By the time dessert arrived (rice pudding with one hidden almond, which Sven found and promptly declared himself engaged to Torva in jest), we were all leaning back like overfed vikings basking in post-plunder satisfaction.

Then came the toasts. Grandpa Olaf started, rambling about tradition and honour, before crying into his aquavit. Uncle Harry followed, more succinct, and managed to quote Shakespeare, Kipling, and Abba all in one breath. Papa raised his glass to “the next generation,” and Johan quipped, “Let’s eat a few more potatoes before we worry about that.”

Later, as plates were cleared and music started playing softly from the old record player in the corner, Stephen pulled me into a slow dance between the table and the fireplace. He whispered, “Merry Christmas, Mrs Heale,” into my ear, and I knew in that moment, surrounded by family, firelight, and the faint sound of someone snoring in the hallway, that we were exactly where we belonged.

Later that evening, when the last of the candles had burned low and the great Christmas beast (otherwise known as the family dinner) had finally been tamed, we found ourselves curled up in the sitting room—just the four of us. The fire crackled softly, casting long golden shadows across the rug, and the scent of pine and cinnamon still lingered like an old lullaby.

Stephen and I took the old two-seater sofa, legs tangled like ivy. Across from us, Petra sat tucked under Tim’s arm on the sheepskin rug, her bare toes peeking out from beneath a borrowed blanket. Her hair was mussed, her cheeks still flushed from laughter, and I swear she looked more serene than I’d ever seen her.

No one said much at first. We just let the quiet wrap around us. Outside, the wind whispered through the trees and snowflakes tapped gently on the windowpanes like shy guests too late for dinner.

“I don’t think I’ve ever eaten that much food in my life,” Tim muttered eventually, staring into the fire as if it owed him an apology.

“You went back for thirds,” Petra teased, resting her head against his chest. “And you still found room for four slices of cake.”

Stephen chuckled. “He’s training for winter deployment. Got to build up a protective pudding layer.”

Tim raised an eyebrow. “I prefer to think of it as strategic insulation.”

We all laughed—soft and sleepy, like children who’d stayed up past bedtime. My hand found Stephen’s, and he gave it a gentle squeeze.

“I always thought Christmas was about presents,” Petra said after a while, her voice quieter now. “But this... this is the bit I want to remember.”

Tim looked down at her, his expression softer than I’d ever seen on him. “Same.”

Stephen leaned his head against mine and whispered, “This is what home feels like, isn’t it?”

I didn’t answer straight away. I just watched the flames dance in the hearth and felt the weight of the day settle gently over us. Family, food, love, the hush of a snowy forest just outside. Yes. This was home.

“Skål... then,” I said, raising an invisible glass. “To love, to laughter, and to not having to do the washing up tonight.”

“Skål...” they echoed, barely above a whisper.

And there we stayed—three couples, one fire, and a thousand memories warming the space between us—until the embers began to fade and sleep finally came to claim us.