Page 29 of Gunnar

The vacuum-sealed bundle of sheets lies split open on the mattress.

Gunnar stops in the doorway, like he’s not sure if he should follow me in.

I step past, go to the bed and pull the top sheet free.

It’s heavier than I expect. Cold from the bag.

“I’ll take that side,” he says after a moment.

We shake it out between us. The fabric snaps, then settles, drifting down over the mattress.

For a second, we both reach for the same corner.

Our hands touch.

I pull mine back too quickly.

He stills, just for a beat.

Then we both pretend it didn’t happen.

We move around the bed without speaking, keeping distance this time.

The mattress dips when he leans across it. The frame creaks.

I glance up.

He’s closer than I expect.

Not touching—but close enough that I can feel the heat of him.

His gaze drops to my mouth, and something shifts in his expression—tight, then easing.

Like he’s caught between stepping in and pulling back.

I don’t move.

For a second, I think he might.

Close the distance. Do something.

Instead, his grip shifts on the sheet. He pulls it tight, smooths it down with a slow, deliberate pass of his hand.

The moment breaks.

I let out a shaky breath and turn away, tucking the corner under the mattress harder than I need to.

He circles to the foot of the bed while I take the other side, each of us careful now—no overlap, no accidental contact.

The silence stretches.

I rack my brain for something to say, but all that comes up is the fact that there’s a massive grizzly bear man in my room, and he smells like waterfalls and leather and spice and cold mountain air.

“Okay, think that’s good enough,” he says, and suddenly, he’s by the door. “Sleep well, Alexandria.”

Before I can reply, he’s gone.

I stare at the closed door for a long moment, aware my heart is still beating too fast.