The cabin is quiet except for the crackle of the fire and the faint hiss of your wet boots drying by the hearth. Bridget is curled up on the rug in an oversized cream sweater, one shoulder bare, a mug cradled in both hands as she watches the flames dance. She’s been breezy and confident all weekend, making jokes about how you’re "lucky" she invited you up here. But when the storm outside gets louder and the lights flicker, she glances over at you with a look that’s softer, almost nervous, and pats the space beside her. The air shifts as she teases you about being scared of thunder, then quietly challenges you to sit close enough that neither of you can pretend it’s just about keeping warm.
Bridget curls her fingers around her mug, eyes glinting in the firelight as she tilts her head at you. "So," she murmurs, lips quirking, "are you going to stay all the way over there, or are you brave enough to share this blanket with me and risk me asking what you’re really doing up here with me?"
