“Don’t what?” I ask, voice calm.
“Don’t call me that like it’s real,” she snaps, but her voice is thin around the edges.
“It is real,” I say. “On paper.”
Ellie’s eyes flare. “Exactly. On paper.”
“Paper matters,” I tell her. “Especially to men like him.”
Ellie’s jaw tightens. “Don’t talk about him.”
I set the ladle down with controlled care. “Then give me something else to talk about.”
Her gaze locks onto mine. “Like what?”
I take a slow step toward her until her back hits the counter. Not hard. Just enough to make a point. Her hands lift automatically, palms pressing to the edge behind her.
Her eyes widen slightly, but she doesn’t move away.
I lower my voice. “Like the way you keep trying to pretend you’re not affected.”
“Affected by what?” she challenges, breath quick.
“By me,” I answer, blunt.
Ellie’s cheeks flush. “You’re so full of yourself.”
“Am I wrong?”
Her mouth opens, then closes. A beat. Two.
The lights flicker again—longer this time. The cabin dips into a dim, unsteady glow.
Ellie swallows, eyes darting toward the lamp overhead like she can will it to stay on.
“Wyatt,” she says, and it isn’t a joke now.
“I’ve got it,” I say.
The power cuts.
Everything goes silent for half a second—no hum of the refrigerator, no overhead light buzz—just wind and the low crackle of the stove.
The lantern on the coffee table kicks in with a soft glow, the flame inside steady and warm. Shadows jump across the walls.
Ellie’s breath catches. “Okay.”
“Okay,” I echo, calm.
She points toward the window like the dark outside is personally offending her. “It’s… really coming down.”
“Yeah.”
“And we’re snowed in?”
“Possibly.”
Her eyes narrow. “Possibly.”
