Page 27 of Running Feral

The aches and pains of bruising are mostly fading. But my ribs are still fucked, and it’s hard to take a full breath, especiallywhen I try to walk. My ankle seems to be getting worse, not better, and the downstairs situation is just the last humiliating straw in a stack of humiliation.

The silence between us feels heavy, but at least he’s not pushing me for an answer.

“I’m okay,” I say once he’s helped pull me to my feet, and we’re both rubbing sleep from our eyes. “I just dinged my head on the coffee table, I think. It’s fine.”

Gunnar frowns, reaching for my face so he can tilt my head and take a look at where I hit it. “I swear, I’m going to ban that word from your vocabulary.”

I can’t really hear the words, though, because I’m too distracted by the feeling of his very fucking large, very warm hand tenderly moving my head from side to side. It makes parts of me flutter that I thought were long-calcified from disuse. He holds me gently, like a child picking up a bunny for the first time when they’re terrified to hurt it.

There’s a moment where he grazes his fingertips over the bruised patch of my scalp. Just barely—just enough to ruffle my hair—and it makes my gut clench while my breath catches in my throat.

It’s so close to the vulnerable prey feeling that I’m used to, but not quite. Because it’s not bad. It’s exhilarating. I didn’t think I could be exhilarated without also being scared half to death, but here we are.

It makes me realize I’m breathing too heavily. My lips are parted, and he’s standing close enough to me that I can feel everywhere his body brushes against mine. He’s still wearing his work clothes he must have slept in—his fancy slacks and a formerly crisp white button down—while I’m drowning in the same oversized PJs I’ve been wearing for days.

I must be gross. I can’t believe he’s willing to stand this close to me, let alone let me snore on top of him for ten hours.

Gunnar seems to realize how close we are at the same time. His eyes meet mine, and I don’t think we’ve ever been close like this without one of us trying not to look at the other or me being in the middle of a meltdown. Or drunk. Or all of the above.

I always thought he had brown eyes. But now I notice he has that thing where a portion of one is blue. I don’t remember what it’s called. But it’s like a quarter of that little ring has been flooded with dye, or something. I guess that’s the kind of thing that’s supposed to be a flaw, but really just makes someone even hotter.

It makes him seem more real and also more unattainable at the same time. He’s this solid, sturdy thing right in front of me. Like four inches taller, of course, so I have to look up, but he’s still right there. I can see all the little imperfections in his skin, as well as the rise and fall of his chest that makes him real.

That doesn’t mean he belongs anywhere near me, though. None of that has changed, just because I’ve been afflicted with the pining sickness, in addition to all my other injuries. He’s still in the world of people who have it together, and I’m still in the world of people who crash on those people’s couches.

“Come downstairs with me,” he says, apropos of nothing.

“What?” I stare at him, leaning back. “You know I can’t.”

He snags my elbow. Still gentle, but like he’s afraid I’ll jerk away again and go ass over until I hurt myself.

“It’s Wednesday. On Wednesdays we—”

“Wear pink?” I interrupt. I don’t know why. My brain can’t stop being obnoxious, even when the rest of me is exhausted, apparently.

Gunnar doesn’t laugh, though. He looks confused, like he doesn’t get the joke.

“What? No. On Wednesdays we open late to deep clean the kitchen. There’s no one down there but us, and the doors are locked. What… pink?”

He is so un-fun sometimes. “Man, how old are you?”

“Thirty-six. Why?”

“You’re literally the perfect age for that reference! Did you grow up in a cave?” I know this isn’t the point, but my thoughts have been derailed. “Also, I thought you were much older. If you’re not even forty yet, then why do you wear all these fancy-ass grown-up clothes? And why do you have so much gray in your beard?”

The side quest that my brain has taken me down must have taken over my senses, because without thinking, I reach up and paw at the beard in question. I’ve been low-key obsessed with it for a while. Thick and always perfectly trimmed, giving him this weird air of authority that kind of compliments his soft-spoken, ‘aw, shucks’ personality.

It’s soft to the touch, and the playful gesture immediately turns into my hand resting on his face the way he was holding mine a minute ago. Except I don’t have a purpose here. I’m only touching him because I’ve been itching to forever, and now that I’m allowed—kind of, when he’s not being a dick about it—it feels like the floodgates have been opened.

Gunnar doesn’t answer. He doesn’t move my hand away, either, which is progress. But I feel his cheek lift under my fingers as he smiles at me.

“Maybe I’m just old at heart, and my beard knows that. And my pop culture references, apparently.”

“Pffft.” I’m trying to keep it light and not let it show that I’m caught up in staring at him like someone in a Shakespearean tragedy, but I’m not sure if I pull it off.

“Come on,” he says, his voice practically a whisper into the tiny space between our faces. “Micah says you need to move around a little. And I hate leaving you up here alone. You can sit out of sight and keep us company while we clean. Please?”

He looks so imploring; I can’t remember all the reasons I should probably say no.

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