“What?” I snap. “It’s an emergency.”
“It’s sugar.”
“It’s survival.”
His mouth twitches. “Fifth rule. You eat real food.”
I laugh. “You can’t make a rule about my diet.”
“I can make a rule about anything in my cabin.”
I glare at him. “You’re enjoying this.”
His eyes sweep over me, lingering on my mouth again. “No. If I was enjoying it, you’d know.”
My breath catches.
He holds my gaze, unfiltered, like he’s daring me to understand what he just implied.
My cheeks burn hot. I straighten my shoulders. “Okay. Great. Super normal conversation. Anyway—clothes. I need clothes.”
Wyatt turns toward the hall closet and yanks it open. He reaches in, pulls out a folded flannel shirt, and tosses it at me.
I catch it against my chest.
It’s heavy. Warm. Smells like him.
My stomach does something stupid.
I lift it between two fingers like it’s suspicious. “This is… yours.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m not wearing your shirt.”
Wyatt’s brows lift slightly. “Then you can wear the socks and the toothbrush. Those seem to be the only other options.”
I scowl. “I could go back to town and buy clothes.”
His gaze goes hard. “No.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“No,” he repeats, like he’s talking to his dog. “You’re not going into town alone.”
“I’m not a child.”
His eyes flick down my body, then back to my face. “You keep saying that like it changes anything.”
My fingers tighten on the flannel. “Wyatt, I need to get into my shop. I need my things. I need?—”
“You can’t,” he says, calm. “Not today.”
The certainty in his voice makes my throat tighten again. I hate it. I also hate how safe it feels when he decides something.
I force my jaw to relax. “And what am I supposed to do up here? Play house? Pretend I’m your—” I cut myself off because the wordbridetastes like trouble.
Wyatt’s gaze darkens. “You answered the ad.”
