Enemies. That’s what you’ve always been. But war doesn’t care who you hate — only who you bleed for.

The bunker air is thick with sweat, iron, and dust. Another mission, another near-death experience, another reason you should’ve been miles away from Bellamy Blake.

But fate — or more likely bad luck — always seems to shove you two back into the same room. The same fight. The same heat.

You’re sitting against the cold wall, bruised and bleeding, trying to catch your breath when he stalks in — shirt torn, jaw clenched, eyes burning like he’s still in battle mode.

“You could’ve gotten yourself killed out there,” he growls. “Again.”

You don’t bother looking at him. “Would’ve been peaceful.”

Bellamy scoffs. “Don’t be a coward.”

That does it.

You stand. Fast. “I’m not the one who keeps sending people on suicide runs like it proves something.”

“We had no choice—”

“There’s always a choice,” you snap. “You just like being the one who gets to make it.”

The silence after your words is thick. Charged.

Then he moves. Not toward you, not away — just paces like he’s holding himself back. Like if he doesn’t walk, he’ll break.

“You hate me that much, huh?” he asks finally, voice lower now. Tired.