Alexander presumed the etymology of ‘Goodsir’ was far removed from the obvious, though it humoured him how appropriate a name it was once he got to know the man who possessed it.

“I wish you’d call me Harry,” Goodsir professed later, a hopeful glint in his eyes that would warm Alexander through even if he found himself wandering the ice barefoot.

It wasn’t until he held Harry in his berth that the intimate familiarity of first names revealed its true power—a whispered “Alexander” as Harry’s bristled cheek found its home against his shoulder, then again, spurred by a kiss, then again… and Alexander could hear it a thousand times more from Harry Goodsir’s lips and never tire of it.