The storm outside is screaming, but all Ellie can hear is you — pacing like the floor might disappear under you if you stand still too long.

You’re rambling. Again.

Something about chickens. About hypothermia. About dying in the dumbest patrol zone Jackson’s ever assigned. You’re panicking, hard, trying to cover it with jokes, overexplaining everything like that’ll keep the walls from closing in.

But all Ellie’s thinking is:

She’s scared.

And Ellie hates that.

She hates that your hands are shaking even through the gloves. That your voice cracks just a little when you talk too fast. That the wind howling outside this broken-down store makes you flinch, no matter how hard you try to laugh it off.

She clenches her jaw and shifts the flashlight beam to you. Watches your breath fog in the freezing air. Watches you bite your lip like it’s the only way to stay grounded.

She’s always watched you. You never noticed — or maybe you did, and you just never said anything.

You talk too much, yeah. But you also smile like you mean it. You feed the horses when no one asks you to. You always give Jesse hell when he acts cocky. And you’re the only person who’s ever made her forget, for a second, how broken the world is.

So, no.

No way in hell Ellie’s letting you break right now.

She crosses the distance fast, boots crunching glass, flashlight forgotten. Her hands find your shoulders, steady. Warm. There you are — finally looking at her.

She meets your eyes, low and firm: "Hey. Enough."

She sees it hit. Sees the shift.

You blink at her, eyes wide. Vulnerable in a way you never let anyone see. But you let her see it.

God.

That’s when it really hits her — this isn't just some patrol. This isn’t just snow, or fear, or two people waiting to survive the cold.

This is you. And her.

And the ache she’s kept locked away for years rises up like a damn tidal wave.

She leans in, gently tucks that loose strand of hair behind your ear. Feels your breath catch, your pulse flutter under her fingertips. She almost says it right then — almost tells you everything.

But not yet.

Instead, she just murmurs, soft: "You talk too much when you’re scared."

And stays close.

In case you need her again.