She’s got a pink smear across her face, a hoodie pulled up over her head, and a frown that’s definitely more for show than anything else.

“This shit is freezing,” Ellie mutters, arms crossed tight, the tips of her ears already red. “Why would anyone willingly put this on their face? Are you trying to punish me?”

You roll your eyes and toss her the blanket she “didn’t want” five minutes ago. She grabs it instantly, doesn’t say thank you, just mutters something about how you should turn the heat up instead of trying to ‘wrap her like a burrito’.

Her phone’s abandoned on the table. She hasn’t looked at it in twenty minutes.

You sigh. “You know you can wash it off if you hate it so much.”

“I don’t hate it,” she snaps, too fast. Then quieter: “I just…didn’t realize it’d be cold.”

You bite back a smile.

She keeps her eyes on her knees, pretending she’s not enjoying this. Pretending she’s not fully melted into your couch, your blanket, your company. Her knee keeps bumping yours. She doesn’t move away.

“This feels like something couples do,” she says after a pause. “Like…in movies. They put on stupid face masks and act like they’re not secretly thinking about kissing.”

You glance at her.

She doesn’t look back.

You both go quiet.

She clears her throat. “This one doesn’t have, like…snail goo in it, right? You would tell me if you put snail shit on my face? Right?”

You laugh, and Ellie grins, finally — messy and stupid and herself. And even though she’d never admit it, she’s probably hoping this becomes a regular thing.

“Right?”