"Okay, maybe I'm a little annoyed," I admit. "But it's not about the dishes. It's—" I pause, searching for the right words. "She used to want to help with everything. Cooking, cleaning, lessons. Now she acts like I'm asking her to climb a mountain barefoot."
"She's growing up."
"I know."
"And she still helps. Just not when you ask the first time."
I sigh, folding the dough one more time before covering it with a towel. "I know that too. It's just… different."
Ezra stands and crosses the room, stopping behind me. His hands settle on my hips, warm and solid, and he leans down to press a kiss to the top of my head.
"She's not pulling away from you," he says quietly. "She's just figuring out who she is. That's normal."
"When did you become the expert on teenagers?"
"I'm not. But I remember being one."
I turn in his arms and look up at him. "You were probably the broodiest teenager in existence."
"Probably."
I smile despite myself and lean into him, resting my forehead against his chest. He smells like woodsmoke and I breathe it in, letting the tension drain from my shoulders.
"She's lucky to have you," he murmurs.
"We're lucky to have each other."
His arms tighten around me, and we stand like that for a long moment.
Eventually, I pull back and look up at him. "I should check on the food."
"I'll get it."
"You're sharpening your knife."
"I'm done." He releases me and moves to the stove, lifting the lid off the pot and stirring the contents with a wooden spoon. Steam rises, and my stomach growls.
I wash my hands at the basin and dry them on a towel, then move to the window. The light outside is fading, the sky shifting from pale blue to soft pink and orange. Snow covers everything, and the world looks quiet and still.
"Storm's coming in tomorrow," Ezra says behind me.
"How do you know?"
"I can feel it."
I glance over my shoulder at him. "You and your mountain instincts."
He smirks. "They've kept us alive this long."
"Fair point."
He sets the spoon aside and turns to face me, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. He's wearing the same flannel shirt he's had for years, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and his hair is slightly mussed from running his hands through it. His beard is thicker now, more gray than brown.
"What?" he asks, catching me staring.
"Nothing. Just looking."
"At what?"
