He leaned in. She didn’t pull away.
Her posture stayed loose. Open. Interested.
Flint spoke first. I couldn’t hear the words. I had the tells. His jaw flexed twice. A tell. He was warning her. Hard.
Mallory’s head tilted. She frowned—not in fear, but in consideration. Then she smiled.
Not reassurance.
Rebellion.
She said something short. Sharp. Flint’s shoulders stiffened. He shook his head once, emphatic. His hand lifted halfway, then dropped. He wanted to touch her. He didn’t.
She leaned in closer instead. Said something else.
Flint’s mouth tightened. He glanced at me despite himself, then back to her. The look saidthis isn’t safe. The answer in her posture saidnothing interesting ever is.
I catalogued it all.
The distance she closed without hesitation. The way Flint’s voice dropped further when she didn’t comply. The absence of fear. The presence of intrigue.
Two reactions. Opposed. Predictable.
I didn’t interrupt. I didn’t turn away. I let them forget I was there.
That was the point.
Whatever Flint was trying to pull her back from, she was already stepping toward it. Not recklessly. Deliberately. She wanted to see if it moved when she pushed.
Eventually, Flint exhaled hard and stepped back.
Mallory turned first.
Her eyes met mine across the room. Not defiant. Not apologetic.
Assessing.
“Well?” she said.
Flint turned more slowly. “We’re not doing this,” he said. To her. Not to me. “You’re not his?—”
“Stop,” she cut in. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”
“I’m trying to keep you alive.”
“And I’m trying to finish a story.”
She walked back toward the table, reclaiming her space. Flint followed, frustration rolling off him in waves.
I stayed where I was.
She stopped a few feet from me. Close enough now that I could see the faint pulse at the base of her throat.
“You going to pretend you didn’t watch that whole exchange?” she asked.
“No,” I said. “I watched.”
“And?”
