I stop a few feet away, keeping the proper distance. My eyes flick briefly to the nearest surveillance node, then back to him.
“Depends,” I say. “You planning on making it worse?”
His mouth twitches, something almost like amusement.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
There’s a pause, but not the awkward kind. It’s measured. Familiar.
Careful.
He fidgets slightly, turning his body just enough that his hand disappears behind the post for half a second.
When it comes back, there’s something small tucked between his fingers.
I don’t look at it immediately. I let my gaze drift past him, scanning the horizon like I’m checking for movement.
“Your people are jumpy today,” he says casually. “Saw two patrol rotations double back.”
“Maybe we’ve got something worth watching,” I reply.
“Do you?”
My eyes flick to his, sharp and assessing.
“Maybe we do.”
Another second passes, then I step closer to the fence, just enough to make it look like I’m inspecting the wiring.
His hand moves, quick and subtle.
Something brushes against my glove.
I close my fingers around it without looking.
The tube is small, smooth, still faintly warm from being held.
“Careful,” I murmur, keeping my voice flat. “If anyone sees that?—”
“They won’t,” he says.
“You don’t know that.”
“I know you.”
That lands harder than it should.
I straighten slightly, turning the tube in my palm before slipping it into a hidden pocket along my belt.
“You shouldn’t,” I say.
“Probably not,” he agrees.
For a moment, neither of us speaks. The wind hisses along the fence, carrying dust that stings faintly against my exposed skin. My lips feel dry again, the familiar tightness pulling at the corners.
I hate that he noticed.
I hate that I needed it.
