"Scenic," she says, trading him the binoculars for one of the glasses as smooth as you like - she hadn't withdrawn anywhere in the interim but the living space is littered with the various assortment of things to be discarded (hat, gloves, coat, boots, socks, stylish-yet-functional sweater probably not thick enough for someone with less tolerance for the cold), and it'd probably be some kind of symbolism if not for the fact that she is quite tidy, actually, on the whole. She makes a mess; she cleans it up.

Usually, anyway.

The view, as designated by her hand on his elbow once he has the binoculars, is straight in the window of one of the other cabins, ordinarily obscured by trees that had been downed in a storm - not so recent, but trees don't grow back overnight.

No one is doing anything salacious. It'd be disappointing if she'd thought they were going to be, she thinks, but scenic feels like the right word. Some people are just scenery.