I step away from her and pour soup into two bowls like I’m not acutely aware of her body pressed to my counter in my shirt with only lantern light between us.
“Eat,” I say.
Ellie takes the bowl, still glaring. “Stop ordering me around.”
“Stop giving me reasons.”
She huffs, then takes a bite—and I watch her face despite myself. The way her shoulders loosen a fraction. The way warmth hits her system and she tries not to show relief.
She catches me watching. “What.”
“Nothing.”
“You always say ‘nothing’ when you’re thinking something,” she accuses.
I sip my own soup. “You’re observant.”
“I’m not stupid,” she says.
“I know.”
The wind slams against the cabin again, louder. Something thuds on the roof—branches, snow load, whatever the mountain is throwing at us.
Ellie flinches and tries to hide it.
I take her empty bowl from her hands when she finishes, fingers brushing hers for half a second. Static jumps. She stills.
“You’re cold,” I say.
“I’m fine.”
“Ellie.”
Her eyes flash. “Stop saying my name like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you own it.”
I lean in close, voice low. “I own the paper.”
Her breath catches again, and she hates herself for it. I can see the war in her eyes: fear, anger, attraction, the desperate need to stay in control.
I don’t give her control.
Not here.
I gesture down the hall. “Bedroom.”
Her brows lift. “I’m not?—”
“You’re sleeping in the bed,” I cut in. “That part isn’t negotiable.”
“And you?” she challenges, crossing her arms again like it’s armor.
“Couch.”
She snorts. “Sure.”
