She'd picked this cabin out in the very first week of her arrival, done what she could to give it a few homey touches, but it's still just barely more than a one-room hunting cabin. The largest room here is kitchen, living room, and bedroom all, the bed tucked against the wall, neatly made up with flannels and blankets. Two chairs face the stove, and a pile of blankets and pillows make up a nest near the fireplace. On the mantel a framed photo has pride of place; she'd put a few fresh sprigs of pine around it.

While he'd walked around, studying the outside of the building, she'd busied herself with putting more wood in the stove, and slow warmth begins to fill the cabin. "You know me. The lone-est of wolves."

Except she hasn't been: not here, and not at home. She's found some people here, ones she wants to protect, to spend her days with, and it's not such an alien feeling as it used to be. Not after months with Waverly and Dolls and Doc at her side, working more or less together. She'd fooled herself for a long time that she didn't need anyone else, but the curse, this place, they've both made her out to be as much a liar as he ever has been.

Illustrating this point, that she does in fact occasionally need others, is the slight struggle she has with removing her jacket. She hadn't put her right arm into it, but it still takes some maneuvering to get the damn thing off her shoulders and left arm so she can hang it on the back of a chair at the kitchen table. Similarly difficult is loosening the buckle of her gunbelt, but — unlike the jacket — that isn't something she's keen to ask for his help with. She already has plenty of all-too-clear memories of the last time he got his fingers on her belt, on the button of the jeans beneath it. "Besides, if I had a roommate, I couldn't exactly have just brought you back with me without warning, could I?"

Consider: it's a small cabin. The bed there tucked against the wall is the only one she's got.