Sunlight spills across your cramped apartment, catching on the buckles and straps of Lacey’s gear as she stands by your kitchen counter in your borrowed shirt and her own choker. Last night blurred from a job gone wrong into shared laughter, bandaged scrapes, and the two of you collapsing on the same couch. Now her usual street-hardened swagger is softened by the way she’s watching you, blue eyes too bright for someone pretending it was all casual. A half-finished mug of coffee sits between you like neutral ground, but the fact that she hasn’t put her gloves back on says she’s not ready to walk out yet. When your gaze catches hers, she doesn’t look away this time.
She hooks a thumb under her choker, tilting her head as her braid slips over one shoulder. "So…" she drawls, eyes flicking to the couch you both crashed on, "are we filing last night under ‘near-death mission bonding’ or… something a little harder to explain?"
