Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
Gunnar
The kitchen's quieter now.
Most of the members have filtered out to the common room or headed home, leaving just the mess behind—empty pans, dirty plates, the lingering scent of garlic and tomato sauce.
Ingrid's at the sink, scrubbing a lasagna pan with more focus than necessary.
I grab a dish towel and start drying the clean dishes she's already stacked in the rack.
We work in silence for a few minutes.
Not uncomfortable.
Just... aware.
Of each other.
Of what just happened outside.
Of the fact that she finally stopped running.
"You don't have to help," she says quietly. "I can finish."
"I know."
"Then why—"
"Because I want to." I set down a clean plate and reach for another. "That okay?"
She glances at me, something soft in her eyes. "Yeah. It's okay."
We fall back into rhythm—her washing, me drying, the comfortable domesticity of it feeling significant in a way I can't quite name.
This is what I want.
Not just the heat and passion of last night.
But this.
The quiet moments.
The everyday intimacy of just existing together.
"Gunnar?" Her voice is hesitant.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For not giving up on me."
I set down the towel, turn to face her fully.
Her hands are still in the soapy water, but she's looking at me with those green eyes that have always seen too much and not enough.
"I told you," I say. "I'm not going anywhere."
"I know. I just—" She swallows hard. "I needed to say it. Thank you."
I cross to her, turn her away from the sink, and frame her face with my hands.
Kiss her softly.
Not demanding.
Not leading anywhere.
Just... connection.
When I pull back, she's smiling.
Small.
Fragile.
But real.
"Come on," I tell her. "Let's finish this so we can get out of here."
Twenty minutes later, the kitchen's clean, and we're walking down the hallway toward my room.
Ingrid's hand in mine.
That simple contact feels like a victory.
Inside, I close the door behind us, lock it.
Not because I'm expecting anything.
Just because I want privacy.
I want her to feel safe.
She stands in the middle of the room, looking uncertain.
"You can relax, you know," I tell her. "You've been here before."
"That was different."
"How?"
"I was running then. Now I'm..." She trails off.
"Staying," I finish.
"Yeah." She wraps her arms around herself. "Staying."
I grab the remote from my dresser, flop down on the bed.
Pat the space beside me.
"Come here."
She hesitates for just a second.
Then kicks off her shoes and climbs onto the bed beside me, curling into my side like she belongs there.
Because she does.
I flip through channels until I find something—some horror movie already in progress, low-budget and ridiculous.
The perfect kind of background noise.
Ingrid settles against my chest, her head on my shoulder, one hand resting over my heart.
We watch in silence for a while.
The movie's terrible—bad acting, predictable jump scares, special effects that look like they cost twelve dollars.
But I don't care.
Because Ingrid's here.
In my arms.
Not running.
About an hour in, she shifts.
Her hand slides from my chest down to my stomach.
Then lower.
I catch her wrist before she reaches my belt.
"Ingrid."
"What?" Her voice is soft, uncertain. "Don't you want—"
"I always want you," I tell her honestly. "But that's not what I need right now."
She pulls back slightly, looking at me with confusion and something that might be hurt.
"Then what do you need?"
"This." I pull her back against me. "Just this. You. Here. No expectations. No pressure. Just us watching shitty horror movies and existing together."
"But I thought—"
"I know what you thought. And we'll get there. But right now?" I press a kiss to her forehead. "Right now, I just want to hold you. That okay?"
She's quiet for a long moment.
When she speaks, her voice is small.
"I'm sorry. I just thought that's what you'd want. It’s usually what men want from me."
"Hey." I tilt her chin up, make her look at me.
"Don't do that. Don't apologize for offering something I'd very much like to take you up on again soon.
But Ingrid? I want you for more than just sex.
I want all of you. Including the part that just wants to watch terrible movies and fall asleep together. "
Tears shine in her eyes.
"I don't know how to do this."
"Do what?"
"Be loved. Be with someone who wants me for more than just my body."
My heart cracks.
"Then we'll figure it out together. You're learning how to be loved. I'm learning how to love you without scaring you away. We'll take as long as we need."
She buries her face against my chest.
I feel wetness seeping through my shirt—tears, silent and steady.
I just hold her.
Let her cry.
Let her process.
Let her start believing that maybe, just maybe, she's worth more than she's been told.
Eventually, the tears stop.
She doesn't move away, just stays pressed against me, breathing steady.
"Gunnar?"
"Yeah?"
"This is nice."
I smile against her hair. "Yeah. It is."
We settle back into the movie.
Her hand returns to my chest—not sexual, just contact.
Proof that I'm real.
That this is real.
The movie ends, and another starts automatically.
Some slasher film with a masked killer and stupid teenagers making bad decisions.
Ingrid's nearly asleep against me, breathing deep and even, when there's a loud knock at the door.
She screams.
Bolts upright, hand clutching my shirt, eyes wide with terror.
Before I can calm her, the door flies open and light floods the room.
Fenrir stands in the doorway.
His eyes land on us—Ingrid pressed against me on the bed, my arm around her, both of us clearly comfortable with each other in a way that speaks to more than friendship.
"Well," he says, voice carefully neutral. "This is unexpected."
Fuck.
Ingrid scrambles off the bed, face flaming. "Dad, I—"
"We have a lead," Fenrir interrupts, eyes on me now. "The trafficking ring. We're following up tonight. You're coming with me, Hakon, and Ulf."
I sit up, mind shifting gears. "When?"
"Now. Five minutes."
He looks at Ingrid again.
Something passes between them—a whole conversation in silence.
Then he's gone, door closing behind him.
Ingrid stares at me, mortified.
"Oh my god. My father just—"
"We'll deal with it later." I'm already moving, grabbing my boots. "Right now I have to go."
"What's happening? What lead?"
"Information about the child trafficking ring. Potential location, people involved I guess. We're checking it out."
Fear flashes across her face. "Is it dangerous?"
"It's recon. Just looking. Listening. We'll be fine."
"Gunnar—"
I cross to her, kiss her hard and fast. "I'll be back before you know it. Stay here if you want. Or go home. Either way, we'll talk after."
"Be careful."
"Always am."
Another kiss, then I'm out the door, jogging down the stairs, then the hallway toward the parking lot where Fenrir, Hakon, and Ulf are already waiting by Fenrir's truck.
No bikes tonight.
Too obvious.
We're going in civilian clothes, no cuts, nothing to identify us as Raiders.
I climb into the passenger seat, and the prospects are riding in the back.
Fenrir drives, and nobody speaks for the first ten miles.
Then Fenrir's eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. "We'll talk about my daughter later."
"Yes, sir."
"But for the record—you hurt her, and I don't care whose son you are. Understood?"
"Understood. But I won't. I'd die first."
He holds my gaze for a long moment, then nods.
Fenrir turns his attention back to the road.
Hakon glances back at me, eyebrows raised.
I ignore him.
Ulf's grinning like this is the most entertaining thing he's seen all week.
"So you and Ingrid—" he starts.
"Not now," I cut him off.
"But—"
"Not. Now."
He shuts up.
The rest of the drive passes in tense silence.
Soon enough, we’re at our destination.
The bar sits just off I-10, maybe twenty miles from the Georgia border.
Dive bar doesn't begin to cover what this place is.
Neon sign flickering, parking lot full of eighteen-wheelers and beat-up sedans, the kind of place where people come to disappear into bottom-shelf whiskey and bad decisions.
Perfect for trafficking operations.
Transient population, nobody asks questions, cash only.
We park at the edge of the lot, scope it out for a minute.
"Remember," Fenrir says. "We're just here to listen. Observe. Gather information. We don't engage unless absolutely necessary."
"And if we see something we can't ignore?" I ask.
"We use our judgment. But the priority is intel. We need to know how big this operation is, who's involved, when the next shipment moves. One rescue won't stop the network."
I nod, even though something in my gut twists.
Logic says he's right, but logic doesn't account for looking a kid in the eye and walking away.
Inside, the bar smells like cigarettes and stale beer.
Country music plays too loud from a jukebox in the corner.
Maybe thirty people scattered around—truckers at the bar, a few locals playing pool, couples in dark booths.
We split up.
Fenrir and Ulf take seats at the bar.
Hakon and I grab a table near the back, good sightline to the whole room.
Order beers we won't drink, pretend to be just two guys killing time.
For the first hour, nothing happens.
Just the usual dive bar crowd—people drinking, talking, minding their own business, then two men enter.
Both in their forties, dressed like truckers but moving like predators.
Eyes scanning the room, checking exits, assessing threats.
They head straight for a booth in the far corner.
A third man's already there—younger, maybe thirty, nervous energy rolling off him.
The three of them huddle close, voices low.
I can't hear them from here.
But their body language screams illegal business.
"That them?" Hakon murmurs.
"Maybe. Let's listen."
We nurse our beers, strain to catch fragments of conversation.
"...Thursday...I-10 corridor..."
"...four packages...young ones..."
"...warehouse off exit 192..."