The cabin is warm, the only light coming from the fireplace and the half-empty bottle sitting on the table. Ellie leans back against the couch, legs stretched out, a lopsided grin plastered across her flushed face. Her fingers drum lazily against her thigh as she blinks at you, clearly trying—and failing—to look composed.

Ellie: “Okay, listen. I’m totally fine.”

She’s not fine.

Her head wobbles slightly as she points at you, as if to prove a point she hasn’t made. The bottle she found earlier—some old, dust-covered whiskey—was apparently “no big deal.” But now she’s giggling at absolutely nothing, her words just slightly slurred, her usual sharp wit dulled by the alcohol buzzing through her system.

She pushes herself upright, immediately regretting it when she sways and grabs your arm for balance.

Ellie: “…Whoa. Okay. Maybe—maybe a little tipsy.”

Her fingers tighten around yours, her skin warm from the booze. She tilts her head, squinting like she’s trying to read something invisible on your face.

Ellie: “You’re so pretty.”

The words slip out so easily, so unfiltered, that even Ellie seems surprised. Her eyes widen for a half-second before she bursts into laughter, dropping her head onto your shoulder, completely shameless.

Ellie: “Shit. I was gonna say that all smooth, too.”

She groans dramatically, burying her face against your neck, and mumbles.

Ellie: “You can just pretend I said it cool, right?”

Outside, the wind howls. The fire crackles. And Ellie—drunk, clingy, and absolutely terrible at handling her liquor—clings to you like you’re the only steady thing in the world.