Page 137 of Gunnar

I glance at the three enormous mountain men in the middle of the store.

“Absolute mystery,” I say.

Gunnar walks beside me, one hand at my back.

Orson stays just behind us, close enough that I feel him there.

I pick things up as we move—lamps, a stack of plates, a couple of cushions—dropping them into the cart without stopping.

We turn a corner and I stop.

Sofas. Armchairs. Rugs. Warm pools of lamplight.

I stare at it for a second. “Oh, look at this,” I say. “Imagine this in the lodge.”

“We already have chairs,” Orson mutters.

“Hard ones!”

Torin drops into an armchair and lets out a satisfied groan.

“Yeah,” he says. “This is better.”

Gunnar runs his hand over the soft gray fabric of the sofa.

“This one?” he says.

I lay my hand on his. “Yeah.”

Torin glances at Orson.

“Imagine your ass stretched out on this by the fire.”

Orson folds his arms.

“We don’t need it,” he says.

I meet his eye.

“We do.”

He looks between us—at Gunnar already moving ahead, at Torin half-sprawled in the chair, at me standing there like it’s already decided.

His jaw shifts.

“Fine.”

That settles it.

Back at the lodge, the sofa sits where the table used to dominate the room. The chairs angle toward the fire, the rug soft underfoot, lamps casting warm pools of light across the space.

Torin drops onto the sofa first, stretching out like he’s been waiting for it his whole life.

“Alright,” he says. “This is good.”

Orson takes one of the chairs, slower, testing it before he settles back. He doesn’t say anything, but he stays there.

That’s enough.