“Because you keep looking at it.”
“Because something’s off.”
Her jaw tightens. “You’ve been saying that since I got here.”
“And I’ve been right.”
That lands. I see it in the flicker of her eyes before she looks away.
I move toward the door, grabbing my jacket as the cold outside presses against the cabin like something alive, something heavy and closing in.
“I’m checking the perimeter,” I say.
“I’m coming with you.”
“No.”
Her head snaps toward me. “You don’t get to just decide that.”
“I do,” I say, stepping closer, my voice lower now. “Not out there. Not right now.”
“I’m not staying inside like I can’t handle this.”
“Like someone who wants to stay alive?” I counter.
Her eyes flash. “You’re not the only one who can handle it.”
“I didn’t say I was.”
“Then stop acting like it.”
I stop in front of her, close enough that she has to tilt her head back again, the tension between us snapping tight and immediate.
“You want to come?” I ask quietly.
“Yes.”
“Then you stay behind me. You don’t move unless I tell you to. You don’t argue. You don’t hesitate.”
Her lips part, ready to push back.
“Or you stay here,” I add.
Silence stretches between us, heavy and charged. She glares at me, heat flashing across her face, but underneath it something else flickers now, something quieter and harder to ignore.
Fear.
“Fine,” she snaps. “But you don’t get to?—”
“Stay behind me,” I repeat.
She exhales sharply. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re still coming.”
That shuts her up.
I open the door and step out into the cold, the night pressing in immediately, thick and dark, the trees forming a wall just beyond the clearing. Maddie follows close behind, and I feel her before I hear her, the shift in the air, the warmth at my back.
