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Now she’s looking up at me again.

Now I can feel the heat coming off her.

Now I can smell my soap on her skin because she’s wearing my clothes again.

Dangerous.

“You want to know the truth?” I ask quietly.

“I’m almost afraid to hear it.”

“I tracked your movements because every time I lose sight of you, I think about finding you dead somewhere on this mountain.”

Her breath catches.

Good.

Mine did too the first time I realized it.

“That’s not healthy,” she says softly.

“No shit.”

Silence stretches again.

Heavy this time.

Raw.

Outside, wind slams against the cabin hard enough to rattle the windows, but neither of us looks away.

“You barely know me,” she says eventually, quieter now.

“Doesn’t feel like it.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“Does to me.”

Her eyes search mine like she’s looking for the line between protective and dangerous and realizing she crossed it with me days ago.

“You can’t control everything,” she whispers.

“I know.”

“Then why are you trying so hard?”

Because people die when I don’t.

Because I still wake up hearing explosions and screaming some nights.

Because the second I saw that surveillance photo tucked under your windshield wiper, something ugly and possessive locked into place inside me.

Because I can’t fucking breathe when I think about somebody hurting you.

Instead of saying any of that, I rake a hand over my jaw and look away briefly.

Big mistake.