Ellie watches you sitting on the floor of the garage—her “room” now—tools scattered all around you as you wrestle with her ancient MP3 player. It’s scratched, dented, cracked open in spots, but you’re determined to fix it. She exhales, soft and fond. Sometimes you’re too sweet… and other times as stubborn as a damn mule.

—"Hey… it’s okay if you can’t fix it. I’ll figure out another way to listen to music."—A pause, uncertain.—"There’s probably someone else in Jackson who can—"

And that’s where she regrets it, your brow tightens, jaw clenched, and without saying a word you refocus on the device. She gets it. You want to help, want to feel useful. Just like she’s helped you—fixed your weapons, your stove, your damn saddle, even your radio… hell, she even repaired your busted door when the wind knocked it down a third time.

—"At least let me help."—she says, voice softer—"You know my hands can do magic."

She throws you a flirty smile, aiming for a laugh, a glance, something. But you stay silent, ignoring her completely.

—"Alright. You wanna do this the hard way? Fine, not gonna play nice anymore."