“I go where I’m assigned,” she says.
“Sure you do,” I murmur.
Her hand twitches again on her weapon, not drawing, but close enough.
“You’re testing boundaries,” she says. “That’s going to end badly for you.”
“Maybe,” I admit, stepping just a fraction closer. “But not today.”
“And you’re so sure of that because…?” she presses, her eyes narrowing.
I smile slightly. “Because you haven’t shot me yet.”
Her gaze sharpens, something calculating settling behind it.
“Don’t mistake restraint for inability,” she says.
“Oh, I’m not,” I reply, my voice lowering. “I can tell you’re capable.”
That lands differently.
She doesn’t answer right away, and in that space, the tension thickens, stretching tight between us.
“Then act like it,” she says finally.
“Where’s the fun in that?” I ask.
“You’re not funny.”
“I’m not trying to be.”
“Then what are you trying to do?”
I meet her gaze fully.
“Figure you out.”
Her expression hardens.
“Don’t.”
“Too late.”
She exhales slowly, shoulders rising and falling with her respiration.
“You don’t know anything about me,” she says.
“I know enough,” I reply.
“No, you don’t.”
“I know you’re angry,” I say, watching her reaction closely. “I know you’re disciplined enough to hide it. And I know you’re waiting for an excuse.”
Her eyes flash.
“You’re projecting.”
“Maybe,” I concede.
