“It’s supposed to prepare you,” I answer.
She snorts. “You’re allergic to comforting.”
I turn, lean my hip against the counter, and watch her. “I’m good at what matters.”
Her mouth tightens like she wants to argue, but the wind howls against the cabin and she flinches anyway.
“Still think I’m dramatic?” I ask.
“I think you like being right,” she says.
I push off the counter and cross the room, stopping a few feet from her. Not close enough to touch. Close enough to make her aware of exactly how much space I’m choosing not to take.
“You’re shaking,” I say.
“I’m not,” she lies, chin lifting.
“You are.”
She narrows her eyes. “Stop paying attention to my body.”
My gaze drops to the way her fingers are curled around the mug, knuckles pale, then slides back up to her face. “No.”
Ellie’s breath catches, quick and annoyed, like she hates that word in my mouth. “God, you’re bossy.”
“I’m in charge here.”
“Why?” she challenges. “Because you have a beard and a cabin?”
“Because you came to me,” I say, and my voice goes low without asking permission. “Because you’re under my roof. Because there’s a storm outside and a man out there who thinks he can track you.”
Her face tightens at the reminder. She looks away, jaw clenched. “I didn’t come to you. I came to… an address.”
“And the address was mine.”
“I didn’t know,” she mutters.
I crouch in front of her, not touching, just lowering myself into her space until she has to look at me. Her eyes flicker down to my mouth and back up like she caught herself.
Good.
“Now you know,” I say.
Her lips part, then press together. “You don’t have to keep saying it like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like it’s… fate.”
I almost laugh, but it comes out as a low exhale. “Fate doesn’t post ads.”
Ellie’s brows lift. “So this is your fault?”
“It’s my decision,” I correct. “Big difference.”
The lights flicker once overhead—quick, warning.
Ellie’s shoulders tense.
