“See?” I say. “Flicker.”
She rolls her eyes, but her mouth tightens. “Congratulations. You predicted weather.”
I stand, reach for the lantern on the shelf, and set it on the coffee table. Then I grab the battery pack and the emergency flashlight like I’m laying out tools for a job.
Ellie watches, trying to look unimpressed. “Do you always turn storms into a performance?”
“I always turn storms into preparation.”
“Same thing,” she says.
I glance down at her. “You hungry?”
“No.”
“That means yes,” I say.
She gives me a look. “I’m not a child.”
“You keep saying that like I care,” I tell her, and her cheeks flush even though she’s trying not to react.
I move into the kitchen, pull out a pot, and start heating soup. Something simple. Warm. Real food. The kind of thing a body needs when it’s cold and stressed and pretending it’s fine.
Ellie follows, leaning in the doorway with her arms crossed. The flannel is too big on her, sleeves hanging past her wrists, hem hitting mid-thigh. It’s my shirt, my scent, my cabin. The possessive part of me hums low and satisfied.
I hate that part of me.
I also don’t.
“You’re staring,” she says.
I don’t look away. “I’m allowed.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I am in my kitchen.”
Her eyes narrow. “That is not how ‘allowed’ works.”
I lift a brow. “It does with me.”
Ellie makes a frustrated sound and pushes off the doorway, stepping closer. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet you’re still here,” I say, and the words come out with more meaning than they should.
She stops too close to me. The air between us tightens. I can feel her heat through the flannel. I can smell that faint chocolate note still clinging to her skin.
Ellie’s gaze flicks to the pot. “You’re cooking.”
“Yes.”
“Who are you?”
I smile without warmth. “A man who doesn’t let his wife starve.”
The word wife lands heavy.
Ellie’s breath stutters. “Don’t.”
