"Welcome to the Cult of High Performers"

COPENHAGEN, 2024 - present day

I sprint up the stairs to our office in my knee-high leather boots, already late and deeply regretting how long I spent deciding on an outfit. As I round the corner, panting and flustered, I nearly take out a massive standing sign parked directly in my path from reception to my office.

Welcome All Accelerators! it reads in bold letters, with Meet & Greet breakfast in the auditorium – Proceed straight ahead printed neatly below.

I stumble to a stop, one arm flailing for balance, just as Nick leaps out of our office doorway like he's been waiting for a cue.

"Come on, Fred Flintstone, it's 8:44. It starts at 9:00, which basically means you're already 30 minutes late. At this rate you're going to win 'world's worst host' even before it all begins!"

"I'm only late because you made me change my outfit and almost shocked me to death just now!" I snuff back at him.

"Not sorry. Get your sweet little ass moving!" He sings, serving me a fake smile, before strutting down the hallway.

"Mic test, mic, hrelllooooo, mic test... mc.. fuck what's wrong with this fu..." Terry's voice - the CEO of our Danish office and my boss's boss's boss. He's already fumbling with the mic like a toddler with a Rubik's cube. This, unfortunately, means that I'm not just late; I'm officially late. I quickly make my way into Nick's and my office, throw my bags on my desk and run toward my CEO's impending meltdown.

As I enter the auditorium, the sheer number of people surprises me - it's brimming with delegations from our sister companies all over Europe. They're going at it with the croissants, pastries, juices, and coffee, chit-chatting away. I keep skimming the room for an angry toddler, and to my relief, I see Nick by Terry's side, both smiling. Terry's now softly chuckling into the mic. Disaster averted. Phew.

My heart still aches, my lungs still in exile, all of me suffering from my unwelcome morning sprint. The coffee station is now my only goal in life. True to my caffeine addiction, I pour my cup generously to the brim, impatience pushing me as I turn to find a corner to disappear into.

"Auchh, fucking hell!" a tall pile of cement says, while I burst out, "God dammit!" Between the two of us, his view from above obviously makes him the one at fault.

Mourning my coffee, I'm left without words. I only look at my leather boots which are now about 15% coffee. I can't even look at the culprit. I just turn back to the coffee station, grab a couple of napkins, and hold them in his direction.

I'm already in front of another generous cup when I notice the napkins are gone. I resist chugging it right there on the spot as I see Nick out of the corner of my eye. I smile at him, excitedly showing him the cup, and almost spilling it again.

As I reach Nick, my eyes are laser-focused on any waves that seem off in my cup. I shush Nick as he tries to speak. I stand completely still - patiently waiting for the moment it settles into calm waters. That's when I take the plunge. I feel his impatience and shush him again as I am mentally still not in the same world as his,

For some inexplicable reason, Nick thinks this is the right time to poke the bear,

"Get over it. You just spilled coffee on the literal sex monument, mom-voiced him into submission, and left him standing there looking like an espresso-drenched Calvin Klein ad? Expect me to not want a re-tell of it from up close?"

"Fuck off, he owes me an apology if anything," I snark back. If my eyes weren't glued to my cup, he'd see me rolling my eyes at him.

Moans of pleasure interrupt Nick's reply. In its place, he gives me a judgmental look. He honestly doesn't get it. I mean, that Americano could double as a defibrillator. I often think about quitting my job - probably too often actually - but the thought of losing this kind of benefit really glues me to the place.

My moans slowly die out as the coffee resurrects me.

"Wait, what do you mean by 'sex monument'?" I ask, as one brow arches in curiosity.

***

"Thank you, Accelerators, for coming in from all over Europe! It's wonderful to have you here in Copenhagen for the first of three gatherings as part of the Accelerate programme. As you know, we have selected you—and only you—because we believe you are the talents we need for our future growth! The theme of our two days here will be 'pitching and presenting' as we..."

Terry's welcome speech cuts in before Nick and I can align on the coffee-mishap. He's great, but not funny, and definitely not organized—his speeches tend to slowly wear out whatever crowd he's addressing. I snap out of my mental snooze just as the twenty-something "talents" around me clap politely, kicking off the first session of the day: Networking.

Even though I'm one of the hosts. And an Accelerator. And, allegedly, a functioning adult.
I fucking hate networking.

The whole thing feels like some god-awful kale-meatball recipe—neither the process nor the outcome is remotely appealing. The only thing any of us really have in common is being part of this programme that exists solely to flatter us as "talents." In return, we stay and do all the senior managers' dirty work. Leaving us with a sliver of hope that maybe, one day, we'll actually earn something resembling real money. Can't wait.

"Hey, nice to meet you!" shrieks a blond woman who appears from god knows where.

"Hii... nice to meet you," I manage, holding out my hand, mostly to create space between me and this surprise invasion of my personal bubble.

"You're Frederika, right? I heard you were one of the hosts, so I had to find you right away!"

"Uh, yes, and yes—I'm co-hosting..." I say, already panicking. "Actually, this is my co-host, Nick. I... uhm... actually need to check on a few emails. I'll be back later!"

With that, I abandon her to Nick, who looks at me with utter betrayal written across his face.

Priceless.

I stick out my tongue at him and make my escape.

As soon as I sink into my desk chair, I feel the relief rush through me. I unpack my laptop and phone, ready to catch up on actual work. My laptop is still booting when one of the junior associates bursts in, panting and visibly distressed.

I gesture for her to sit down, already reading the desperation in her eyes. The Bering Sea—as I lovingly refer to my inbox—can wait. Juniors always start out with stars in their eyes, only to find themselves in a never-ending hell week. I know. We're trauma buddies by default, and it's basically impossible for me not to say "how high?" when they ask me to jump.

Now that I'm a third-year associate, I can actually help juniors. It feels amazing to not be the dumbest person in the room 24/7.
These days it's more like... 17/7.

Once I've helped untangle the junior's soft implosion, I check my phone. My face breaks into a grin as I see 17 new notifications from the group chat Mentally Out of Office. Kat, Elly, and Sam—my three best friends—have apparently spent the morning debating the best dog memes.

Then I notice a new voice memo from Felix.

"Baby girl. I miss you. And by you, I mean seeing you bent over.
When are you and your kitchen counter available?"

His voice is soft, deep, and raspy. It plays way too loud, and I scramble to silence it, hand clamped over the speaker like that'll help. I'm relieved to find I'm alone. I grab my AirPods, already warm with embarrassment.

I play it again. And then again.

By the third time, I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks—and this time, it's not from embarrassment. Sitting here in my office, hearing that voice? It's turning up the temperature.

I lean close to the mic and reply in a whisper:

"Wow, this early and already too needy for a 'Hi'? Tomorrow, lateish.
The counter's all set for an encore."

As I hit send, my mind slips straight to the last time he was over—three weeks ago. He had barely shut my front door before we were half-naked, completely wrapped around each other. That memory alone makes my thighs tense. Reflexively, I tug the hem of my grey wool miniskirt down, as if that's going to do anything to hide what my red cheeks are already shouting.

***

Felix has been around for three years or so, just as long as I've been at Imarket and when he started uni. He was supposed to be a one-night stand, but it just turned into several, and somehow it's just how we work.

We're never exclusive—never dating—but we always find our way back to this... whatever this is. Even when we – he – takes breaks to date other people, we end up back here.

"Yah!"

The shout from the doorway yanks me out of my daydream.

I swivel around slowly to find Nick glaring at me, still clearly pissed I left him alone with Ms. Shriek.

In response, I spin a full turn in my chair and let out my best villain laugh.

"You little— What am I? Your trash can? Your mom?" he snaps, dripping with sarcasm, arms crossed like the world's most unimpressed HR rep.

"Wooow! Is it that time of the month for you?" I coo, mock-sincere, hands raised in surrender. I throw in a wink for good measure.

"Fred!" he growls, then pauses to breathe. "You..."

He closes his eyes, making a show of breathing in through the nose, out through the mouth. Once. Twice. Three times. Only then does he manage to look at me again without combusting.

Somewhat collected, he goes on in a robotic monotone:
"Frederika. It is 10:30. And as the good little work-bitch I am, I'm here to inform you that your presence is required for our next session."

I jump up from my chair, a little shocked at how much time has passed. As I walk toward him in the doorway, I try my best innocent smile to lighten his mood. Right as I pass, I pause just slightly, catching the sound of a defeated sigh escaping him.

I really shouldn't—but of course I do.

I lean in, whisper, "Don't belittle yourself like that, baby. You're a big bitch."

Cue: "Yah!"
And then he's chasing me down the hallway.

I bolt before he even finishes the word, knowing full well he's about to come for me. And yeah—turns out I do still get out-of-office replies from my stamina. He catches up fast.

As I round the last corner toward the auditorium, he slams into me with a dramatic, "Yah! You little brat!" just as I come to a sudden stop.

He doesn't realize why I've stopped until it's too late.

We both look up at the exact same time and freeze.

The auditorium door is wide open. Inside, twenty-ish "talents" stare at us with various shades of confusion, amusement, and judgment. The silence is deafening.

Then a sharp voice slices through the air:
"What are you two standing there for? If you're a talent, get in. If not, get out."

The lecturer. Of course.

We snap back into motion, ducking our heads in apology as we scramble to find seats—any seats. Preferably somewhere in the back. Or under a rock. Or off the planet, if possible.

***

I know I'm at fault. I've screwed up—even without the knives shooting out of Nick's eyes, I feel it like a punch to the gut.

"Sorry, I'm sooo sorry," I whisper, leaning toward him, my eyes wide and pleading. He doesn't even look at me. Just stares straight ahead at the podium and the external lecturer like I don't exist.

I gently pinch his sleeve, leaning closer, hoping to whisper one more apology.
He shushes me. Quietly. But sharp.

Great. I already feel like crap. And I know that sorry won't cut it. He's going to make me pay for this somehow, and I'm already dreading what that'll look like.

People who meet Nick think he's kind. Professional. Patient. Maybe even a bit overbearing in that classic overachiever way. And he is—he's all of that.
But I know the other side. I know how exhausting it is for him to keep it up. I know how rare it is for someone to get his real respect—his bluntness, his honesty, his dark-edged humor.

I need Nick at work. My friends are my soulmates, sure—but I spend most of my waking hours here. He keeps me grounded. He makes me feel like I belong. He confirms that I'm not crazy for thinking this office can double as a living hell.

I check the time. Looks like I've got at least an hour and a half before I get a real shot at redemption.

Our external lecturer is here to make us "more engaging presenters." She's already lost me. I give her ten minutes of attention—fifteen if I count mentally dragging her for the world's most uninspired outfit.

Meanwhile, Nick is the model student, of course. Always has been. He wants her to think he's God's gift to talent development, and now I've ruined his first impression.

It's not that I think I'm better than her. Okay—maybe a little. But nothing about her screams "next pay grade." Presenting is one of the few parts of the job I actually like. The nerves, the adrenaline, the sweaty palms—it makes me feel alive.

My manager once said it shows. That the way I present was one of the main reasons I was chosen for this programme. That stuck with me.

With time to kill, I start people-watching. Occupational hazard, I guess.
My job is to help companies understand their consumers—through numbers, behaviors, patterns. Translate it all into something they can sell back to people, prettier and shinier. In short, I get paid to judge people.

And right now, I judge that no one's mingling. Belgium's sitting with Belgium. Spain with Spain. Each group locked into their delegation-bubbles.
The Belgians—Ms. Shriek's crew—ooze "ergonomic workplace culture." Stretchy jeans, sneakers, blazers clinging to overly gym-toned arms. The kind of people who drink two glasses of wine and think they're rebels.
My stomach turns.

I try not to laugh, thinking of how my uni friends would react if they were here.

Sam, with her perfect curls and obsession with glitter and Louis Vuitton, wouldn't even say hi. She'd give them the elevator-eyes and spin on her heel.
Elly, all effortless French and cool beyond reason, would fake interest in Lulu Lemon just long enough to see how long it takes them to clock the sarcasm.
Kat—sweet, radiant Kat—would genuinely ask about their marathon training and recycling programs in Belgium. Honestly, she's probably the best person I've ever met, definitely the best of any one of us.

I spot a group I assume is from Spain — maybe Madrid, maybe Barcelona, impossible to tell from here.

Still, they remind me of this Barcelona trip years ago. My friend and I met three local guys on day one and basically moved in with them for the week — karaoke, joints, surfboards. All gorgeously shirtless. Less so once the clothes came on.

The delegation has that same sun-dried-hiking-energy. Earth tones. Patagonia vests. Like they all met at a composting seminar.

Except one guy. He's stiff as a board in a tight navy suit, stiff moves like someone programmed him five minutes ago. It's giving reluctant groomsman at a cousin's wedding.

My heart twitches a little. At least he's trying.

Then my brain throws me under the bus — Nick and me doing the robot on top of a bar to Toxic, like we were auditioning for an early-2000s breakdown. I laugh without meaning to. His glare hits like a brick made of betrayal.

I raise my hands in fake surrender, mouthing "I'm sowwy!"

It hits me—just this morning, we were laughing together on Facetime. He helped pick out my outfit: knee-high black leather boots, grey wool miniskirt, tight black t-shirt, oversized blazer. Hair down, brushed, just the way he says he likes.
He's always honest—painfully so. Blames it on being French. I think he's just mean, French or not.

My stomach knots. I hate that he's mad at me. I just hope he forgives me. That I'm still in his bubble.

***

Trying to distract myself from the mess I've made, my eyes drift to the next delegation — the Netherlands. The Dutch look like a walking HR slideshow titled Burnout: Spot the Signs. A mixed bunch of capitalist casualties, each wearing a slightly different shade of soul-crushing blue.

One guy looks like he sold his soul to consulting for a loyalty card and a quarterly migraine. Crinkled blue shirt, sagging pullover, slim black jeans, and Doc Martens held together by hope. He's not swimming — he's treading capitalism with one shoe full of water.

Then there's his equally tragic colleague — slightly more ironed, slightly more haunted. Light blue shirt, black jeans, sneakers that have seen things. He looks like he just finished sprinting after a client and cried in the stairwell after.

His under-eye bags and his shoes are the exact same shade of I need a vacation but can't afford it.

My gaze shifts again — maybe Sweden this time. A hedgehog, judging solely by his haircut. No one chooses that on purpose. Not even in a moment of crisis. Must've been his mom. He doesn't look like he's ever had a partner, or a mirror that speaks the truth. And judging by his outfit, she's probably still dressing him — badly. He screams "cheapest beer at the bar", but there's a weird, dented charm. Might be fun to drink with. Like... after seven shots and a pact not to speak ever again.

All flea markets require digging through crap to strike gold. And just like that, the Swede sitting next to the hedgehog gives me that tingle. The kind that makes a hellish day borderline cinematic.

Clark Kent glasses. Tussled dark brown hair — reckless in a way that suggests either deep apathy or supernatural genetics. Deep-set eyes, like someone carved out just enough mystery to ruin your week. Broad swimmer shoulders that take up too much space in a way that absolutely works for him.

He's got the kind of jaw that looks like it was clenched through every group project he's ever been forced into. And he might have minimalistic tattoos — scattered ones, probably. Nothing curated. Just a small one on his thigh, maybe, and something vague just around where his heart sits . The kind you collect accidentally but very much a quiet rebellion of some sort. It would fit him. It would explain a lot, honestly.

His navy suit is slightly oversized, subtly shiny, and the fabric looks like it has a weight class. I want to touch it. I want to press a hand against it like a museum plaque. The white tee underneath shouldn't work, but it does. Of course it does. Everything on him looks expensive or strategic, and yet he wears it like he has no idea the damage he's doing. Which is the worst part. That unbothered, Swedish "what, this old thing?" energy that makes you spiral and maybe now I know exactly what Helena meant by natural all those years ago.

Just as my jaw's about to hit the floor, the talents snap out of their mannequin poses. I turn to Nick, confused.

"Ya Fred Krueger. You didn't hear? We're presenting in 30 minutes—skills showcase," he mutters, half annoyed, half alarmed.

He only calls me the Elm Street psycho when he's genuinely pissed. I let it slide.

"Well no, sorry, I—" I start.

He cuts me off with a headshake and stands.

"Let's do it together. Please, Nick. I'm sorry," I sigh, tripping over the words.

"Courtyard. Now."

We head down the stairs in silence. It feels like I'm being marched to the principal's office. The courtyard's usually my sanctuary—coffee, smoke, escape. Not today.

"Fiiine. But you do Amsterdam," Nick snaps, giving in a little.

"Yes. Deal. Cool. YAK-SOK?" I say quickly, pulling his hand into our signature Korean drama pinky promise—twist, lock, thumb press. Contract signed.

"We just use the grad presentation, right? No need to reinvent the wheel?" He smirks.

"You sneaky bastard," I shoot back, laughing.

He grins. I pissed him off. He pissed me off. He got his revenge. We're good.

A few minutes pass. I lean into the post-crisis calm, light a cigarette. My head tilts to the sky. And I'm back to the Swede. The tall one. The sparkle in the trash heap.

Didn't even realize I'm grinning.

"The tall Swedish guy?" Nick says, smirking like he's Poirot.

"How'd you know?" I laugh.

"That smile. And you stared for a full hour - clearly not inspecting the coffee stains you left on him. Get it together," he replies, smug.

"Let me know if I'm being too obvious, okay?" I ask. It'd be good to have an ally if my eyeballs keep betraying me.

"Sure thing. I'll let your shin know," he says, stifling a laugh.

He literally means kicking my shin. It's a sweet thing—weird, sure—but efficient. The Shin is sacred. We're both hopeless hyperfixators, totally capable of ignoring fire, earthquakes, or our own bladders. Working on a project? A talent of ours.In life? A useless talent. Once I had to shin-kick Nick just to evacuate him during a fire alarm. He hadn't even noticed the siren. Just typing away, like a nerdy little death wish.

We're first to present. Hosts and all. We absolutely kill it. Not that we mention the fact we've rehearsed it over 200 times, already delivered it to the senior board, and got bonuses because of it. No. We just stand there like it's spontaneous genius.

But the witch in an unforgiving pants suit still gives us notes.
Nick's accent.
My shaking hands.

We say, "Thank you."

We mean, "Thanks for nothing, Brenda."

As we walk back to our seats, we roll our eyes in perfect sync—truly a disgusting display of co-worker telepathy.

There is no fucking way Nick should lose the accent or change in any way actually. Make him sound British? American? Why, so people think he does improv on the side and eats beans for breakfast? No. His rolled R's are charming. Romantic, even.

But I catch it in his face. That tiny twitch. A little vulnerability leaking through. He's brilliant, but he spirals easily—especially when it comes to how he sounds.

His first week, some client manager named Andy—a corporate sadist in a finance bro vest—yelled at him in front of clients about his "thick" accent. Public humiliation –classic management technique. I found Nick crying in the copy room. Two weeks later, Andy opened his drawer to a rotting French pâté. No note. No explanation. Just vibes. Psychological warfare. We don't need HR. We have consequences.

Back at our seats, I give Nick a soft little arm squeeze. The universal "you're fine, I saw it too, fuck her." Unlike me, and on top of his Andy-trauma, Nick is just naturally nervous about presenting. One poorly placed comment can wreck his whole day.

My hands? Trembling not from nerves, but side effects. I have bipolar type 2. My meds keep me somewhere between floaty euphoria and rock-bottom hell. The hand tremors? Just a souvenir from my meds. They don't feel like anything—but people love to assign meaning. Nerves. Insecurity. The usual hits. Nick doesn't know about my diagnosis, but he reads the shakes like I'm about to flip a table. Honestly, he's not far off.

We sit. We're free. The Spanish delegation steps up. After the accent comment to Nick, I'm dreading what she'll say. They're rolling their R's so hard I'm getting motion sickness, and I catch maybe half of it. Still—great smiles. Very white.

They finish, sweating like they just gave birth. The lecturer pauses. Long. Too long. The kind of pause that says you might not be safe here.

I duck behind Nick's shoulder like she's about to shoot them.

She doesn't.

"Thank you. You may sit down now," she says, cold and clipped.

The room exhales like it's just been un-waterboarded.

And of course, my eyes immediately boomerang back to The Swede. I can't help it. I want to observe, analyze, and commit every tiny detail to memory like I'm training for a Swede-themed quiz show. I know it's probably smarter not to talk to him. He might say something normal and human and completely pop the fantasy bubble.

Then it's lunch. I do some light tactical maneuvering—avoid the Spanish (charades over carbs? no thanks), dodge the Swedes (I need a drink before I interact with walking Nordic perfection), and land with the Dutch. Surprisingly fun. Small win.

And the Swede? Still hasn't made eye contact. Mission: Avoidance = wildly successful. I've practically merged with the furniture.

I do, however, learn that the glasses are a scam. A decoy. He only wears them in class — apparently to attract the academically inclined. Without them, he's even more beautiful. Which feels rude. It's like he bought a soft-accessory version of himself to make the original model seem more approachable. I wouldn't blame him. I'd do it too, if I came out of the box looking like that.

Then I hear the hedgehog say it: "August."

A thrill shoots through me. His name. It's like finding out your favorite K-pop idol likes the same kind of soup as you — completely useless, wildly euphoric intel. I feel spiritually closer to him. It's like I'm already caught in a web where logic doesn't apply and eye contact might ruin my life.

Still terrified of being caught. By August. By Nick. So I sit a few rows behind, slightly to the right. My Sniper View.

He's still gorgeous from here. And — I hate to say it — I just know he will be from every angle. One of those people who has no bad side. Chestnut brown hair, thick and full, brushing just past his ears like it's in a long-term relationship with perfect lighting. He keeps running his hand through it in this totally unaware, life-ruining way — like he doesn't know half the room is three seconds from blackout thirst.

It looks soft. Too soft. Like if I touched it, I'd forget my name, switch careers, and suddenly speak fluent Italian.

I get about three steps into that fantasy — new accent, new me — before I catch myself and deliver a sharp internal slap. Even my delusions should respect the no-work rule. He needs to stay firmly out of my personal space, both physically and mentally. In any reality. Real or imagined. Especially imagined.

***

I cave in within seconds, and spend the rest of the afternoon sunbathing in the Swedish sun: part peaceful, part mild heatstroke. When the educational part of the day ends, the group of talents looks pretty beat. I just need aftersun before we reconvene for dinner.

The fine establishment chosen for the evening wasn't my pick. I'm already familiar with this particular flavor of hell they've awarded the "talents" this time. But it does have two things going for it: dim lighting and cocktails. The cocktails stand out—mostly because of their incredibly generous pour of anything alcoholic, as if the only way to survive the evening is through blissful, inebriated surrender. The dim lighting is necessary to hide the drunk goblins they produce.

I mean, they even have linen napkins. Who the fuck thinks it's a good idea to wipe rogue hummus off your face with half a napkin?

Nick and I have already formed an alliance, sitting across from each other and herding the Dutch next to us into our cattle pen—just slightly aggressive, but effective.

We really need to maximize this evening's entertainment value. Unfortunately, we also catch some stray livestock: a hedgehog and its golden friend. As the Dutch sit opposite each other, like Nick and me, the Swedes do the same. And just like that, the hedgehog plops down in the seat on my left.

The second I turn to greet my new drinking buddy, my face goes limp from impending disaster. The chair on Nick's right pulls back slightly as the human version of a Disney Prince asks, "Is this seat taken?"

To my grave dismay, Nick morphs into the most service-minded concierge the world has ever seen—only after reading the horror on my face. He knows me best, but that comes with its own problems.

Desperately, I try to catch Nick's eyes, silently begging him to 180 whatever he's doing, but the bastard won't obey. As August sits, Nick almost bows to him, and I'm left with one bullet in my chamber. Instead of kicking Nick's shin to snap him out of it, I hear a loud "Au!!!" from August.

Air. If I could turn into air, evaporate, never be seen or heard from again, I would be happy. I keep apologizing, but the longer it goes on, the weirder it gets...

"Sorry, I'm very sorry. I know, you see, I was kicking Nick, I really didn't mean to... and this is really hard to ex... I mean, I shouldn't have kicked you... or Nick at... All..." Before I finish, I realize I should've kept my mouth shut altogether.

Nick and the hedgehog are two seconds from full on laughing. August, on the other hand, looks only slightly agitated.

This is the first time I lock eyes with him, and I'm evaluating if the situation can be salvaged at all. August is still partly ducked under the table, rubbing where my leather boot landed.

Maybe if I call in sick tomorrow, that would solve some awkwardness. But we still have sessions in Amsterdam and Barcelona. That's almost impossible to get out of.

While I plot ways to evaporate off the face of the earth, our waiters arrive. And boy, am I happy to see them, trays loaded with drinks and food. Shared food, at that. Normally I hate that concept—it's weird. But right now? Right here? It's an activity away from the "shintuation".

As drinks flow and conversation shifts to better topics, I start to feel at ease. Polite smiles pass between the gold and me as hummus and whatever else moves up and down the table. I turn to face the Dutch, Nick focuses on the Swedes, and we've essentially signed a peace treaty—each happy in our own small threesomes.