He met her eyes. The grey-green did not look away. "No. But I'm not going to dress it up as destiny either. Claire taught me that mountains don't do destiny. They do gravity and weather and the choices people make when both of those things turn mean. Destiny is what people say when they want the mountain to take the blame for their wanting."
Ellen stood, testing the ankle. It held, barely, with a bright complaint. She hopped once, caught the edge of the table, and then—because the cabin was small and the feeling was large and there was nowhere to put either except into motion—she crossed the space between them and rested her forehead against his shoulder, grey wool sweater soft and smelling of woodsmoke and cold air and the particular cleanliness of snow. He went still, the stillness of a man receiving something fragile, then lifted one hand and set it gently between her shoulder blades, over the white fur trim of the jacket she still wore indoors like armor against conclusions.
"I don't know what I'm doing," she whispered into the wool.