Wendy sets the book aside and shifts slightly, pulling the blanket higher around her shoulders.
I look away and take a sip of tea.
"Do you get storms like this often?" she asks.
"Every winter. Some are worse than others."
"And you're just… used to it?"
"You get used to a lot of things when you don't have a choice."
She's quiet for a moment, then says, "That sounds lonely."
I glance at her, and she's watching me with those green eyes, open and curious but not pitying.
"It's what it is," I say.
"Still lonely."
I don't argue. There's no point.
She shifts again, tucking her feet more firmly beneath her, and the movement draws my attention despite myself. Her socks are mismatched—one dark blue, the other gray with faint stripes. I don't know why I notice that, but I do.
"Thank you," she says suddenly. "For letting me stay."
"You've said that already."
"I know. But I really mean it."
I nod, not trusting myself to say more.
She looks down at her hands, her fingers twisting the edge of the blanket. "I'm not usually this helpless. I swear."
"You weren't helpless. You were unprepared. There's a difference."
"That's generous."
"It's true."
She smiles faintly.
I set the mug down and move to the chair near the fire, lowering myself into it. The wood creaks under my weight. Wendy's gaze follows me, and I feel it, like she's cataloging me the same way I've been cataloging her.
The dog lifts his head, yawns, and shifts closer to the fire. His tail thumps once against the floor before he settles again.
"He likes you," Wendy says.
"Dogs usually do."
"Why's that?"
"I don't know. Maybe they can tell I won't hurt them."
"Is that all it takes?"
I look at her, and she holds my gaze, her expression open but layered with something I can't quite name.
"Most of the time," I say.
