[ The path diverges up ahead, and she takes the rightward fork that leads to her cabin, trusting him to keep pace alongside her. His apology floats through her head — I'm sorry — and she nods abortively, a jerk of her chin as she wrestles with her own flurry of lightly panicked thoughts. The queasiness in her stomach doesn't have anything to do with an alien entity; it's purely a product of the way her wants and fears collide, unable to merge with each other, caught in a roiling loop.

There's a moment's pause and a flicker of her eyebrows when Konstantin says he — that's a little bit of a surprise, considering the way the guy flirts — but she moves past it without more than a tiny bump, nodding a little more energetically as he goes on. ]

Little's from my past, too. Like, over a hundred years before I was even born. And we're not— I mean—

[ We're not a couple, either sticks in her throat, and she frowns. It doesn't feel quite right to say they are, and it doesn't feel right to say they aren't, either. Just like this poor bastard, she's got no idea what any of it means, what she should call it. What label could she possibly slap on this that makes sense?

Even as she thinks it, she can hear John Irving's surprise and frustration all over again. If the two of you haven't been courting one another all this time—

And it's not like he was wrong, exactly. There's been something there for a long time, the thing that kept making them go after each other, that keeps them in some strange sort of orbit around each other. She knows that losing him would break her in some permanent way. She can't stand the thought of him getting hurt. And yet here she is, striding into the little clearing where her cabin sits, fortunately unharmed from the storm, because she felt like she couldn't breathe without getting away for a little while. ]

He's my—

[ Nope. ]

I'm his...

[ That falters, too, and she makes a face at herself, shakes her head. ]

...Wynonna.