Her eyes flash, but instead of snapping back, she steps closer, matching the distance, matching the pressure.
“Don’t twist this,” she says, her voice steady. “You saw it too.”
I hold her gaze, then nod once.
“Yeah.”
The word settles between us, heavier than anything else we have said.
She exhales slowly, something shifting behind her eyes.
“Then stop playing games,” she says.
“Who says I’m playing?”
“You are.”
“Maybe I just like pushing you.”
“Why?”
A faint smile pulls at my mouth.
“Because you push back.”
Her lips press together, not in anger, but restraint.
“You’re wasting time,” she says.
“Or I’m figuring out how far you’ll go,” I reply.
“That’s not your job.”
“It is now.”
“Stay out of it.”
“Not happening.”
The tension between us tightens again, but it feels different now, less like opposition and more like something neither of us wants to acknowledge.
“You’re going to get in trouble,” I say.
“So are you,” she shoots back.
“Probably.”
“Then stop.”
“No.”
“Why?”
I shrug slightly, letting the motion stay loose.
“Because something’s off,” I say. “And I don’t like not knowing why.”
She studies me, really studies me, like she is trying to decide if I am worth the risk.
