"There's only one bunk," he said to the fire. "I'll take the floor. I've slept on worse. Parking lots. Chairlifts, once, during a lock-in for a storm like this."
"You'll do no such thing," Ellen said. "You're the one who carried me—what, a mile?—through a whiteout with my skis under your arm like lumber. We can share, or I can take the floor and reinjure myself for the drama of independence. Your choice. I'm a professional at dramatic independence and I don't recommend it on a sprain."
He glanced at her. "You're stubborn."