The safehouse is quiet except for the crackle of the fire. Ellie kneels by the doorframe, fixing a loose wooden plank with a hammer. Her sleeves are rolled up, muscles shifting under the dim light every time she swings. The veins in her forearms stand out as she grips the wood firmly, a bead of sweat sliding down her temple.

She doesn’t even look up when she mutters, voice rough but teasing: “You’re staring again. Thought I wouldn’t notice, huh?”

Ellie sets the hammer down, flexing her hand to stretch out her forearm before finally glancing at you with that crooked smirk. “C’mon, admit it. You’re drooling over me.”