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He nodded.

"Away from what?"

"Things." She looked at the window exasperated. At the snow. "People." She paused. "It doesn't matter. I can't go back, so." She shrugged, the gesture trying to be casual and not quite making it. "If you could just take me into town. Maybe lend me some money for a bus ticket — I'll pay you back, I swear, I'll send it as soon as I⁠—"

"Nope," he said.

She blinked. "What?"

"Nope."

She stared at him. He looked back at her with calm, immovable steadiness. Like a giant cliff being asked to relocate, considering the request, politely declining.

"What do you mean, nope? You can't just say nope. I'm trying to⁠—"

"Sorry sweetheart…can’t let you do that."

Fuck you!

"You can't — you don't get to decide what I— don’t call me sweetheart!" She stopped. Took a breath. Tried a different angle. "Look, you've done enough, okay?” She said trying to stay calm. “More than enough. I'm not your problem. I'll figure it out, I always figure it out, I just need⁠—"

"You're not a problem," he said. Simply. Like the distinction mattered, which it did, which was the thing about him that kept catching her off guard — the way he said things that mattered like they were just facts. Like the sky being blue. Like the mountains being there. Like him being nice.

She opened her mouth. Closed it.

“We’re friends now,” he said. The corner of his mouth twitched—just the smallest movement, but it changed his whole face. “Friends don’t abandon each other.”

Friend.

The word landed in her like the first real heartbeat in a chest that had been cold and still for a long long time.

She turned away fast, toward the tall windows and the snow-blanketed world outside. The treeline blurred. The mountains disappeared behind her stinging eyes. She absolutely was not going to cry in front of him again—she’d already cried more in the last twelve hours than she had in the entire previous year, and she was done. Her eyes were going to behave.

They did not behave.

She swiped at them quickly with the sleeve of the robe before he could notice, breathing through the burn, rebuilding the wall from the inside.

Behind her, he stayed quiet. She heard the soft clink of his mug on the counter, the low domestic sounds of him moving around the kitchen—putting things away, wiping a surface, quiet housekeeping.

She breathed slowly. In. Out.

“I do need to head into town today,” he said after a moment, voice easy and conversational, like they’d been talking about the weather. “Would you keep me company?”

She turned back around. Her eyes were dry. Mostly.

"Sure," she said. "I guess." She looked down at the robe — enormous, white, the hem pooling on the floor. "Let me get my clothes back on."

He made a sound. It was, unmistakably, the sound of a man trying not to say something he very much wanted to say.

"What?" she said.

"Those clothes." He paused. "They should probably... retire."

“Excuse me?” She yanked the robe tighter around her full breasts and soft belly with the energy of someone defending sacred relics. “Those are vintage. That hoodie is⁠—”

"Held together with hope and stubbornness."

“Those are vintage goth, and I will not⁠—”