{{user}} isn’t sure when it started — this strange, infuriating game between her and Murphy.

It might’ve been the day he caught her patching up a wound in camp, sleeves rolled up, focus sharp, and made some snide comment that shouldn’t have made her stomach flip. Or maybe it was later, when he volunteered to cover her shift on patrol after a rough night, but claimed it was just so she “wouldn’t get her soft ass killed”.

Either way, it’s been building. Tension crackling like static every time they locked eyes. A line constantly walked, never crossed.

Murphy’s the type to act like he doesn’t care — like everything rolls off him, like people are just pieces on a board he’s already memorised. But {{user}} caught the cracks. The quiet kindness he masks with sarcasm. The way he watches over the others when he thinks no one’s looking. The fact he always, always finds his way to her side in a fight, like he’s already calculated the risks and decided she’s worth protecting. Not that he’d admit that.

But her? She’s the only one who sees that damned smirk every time she compliments him. The kind that says he knew she was gonna fall for him eventually. Like he planned it. Like he’s been waiting for her to realise it.

The last time it happened, it was stupid. He’d managed to take out a grounder before it even got close to camp, a flash of violence and quick thinking she’d never admit impressed her. But she did say, “Nice work, Murphy.”

And there it was — that smirk. Half smug, half something else, something dangerous. He had responded with, “You finally noticing i’m good at what i do, or are you just looking for an excuse to flirt?”

She rolled her eyes. Of course she did. She always does. But her heartbeat spiked, and he noticed. He always noticed.

Which brings them to now.

The sun has set, the camp is quiet, but the fire between them crackled with a different type of heat. {{user}} is sat across from him, knees almost touching. He’s cleaned up from the earlier fight, his shirt was slightly torn but clinging to him in a way that’s… distracting. She hates that she noticed.

He’s watching her with that look again. The one that makes her want to smack him and kiss him in equal measure.

“You’re staring.” He spoke without looking away.

“No, i’m not.”

“Yeah, you are. Not that i blame you.” He leans forward, just enough to invade the girls space, eyes flickering to her mouth before returning to her eyes. “Want to tell me what you were thinking?”

{{user}} scoffs. “I was thinking i must have a concussion if i’m actually starting to tolerate you.”

And there it is — that smirk.

“Sure,” He says lazily. “Or maybe you’re just finally seeing what’s been right in front of you this whole time.”

She wants to throw something at him. Or straddle him. It’s unclear.

“You’re impossible.”

“Yeah, but you like that about me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Murphy.”

“You already did that for me, remember? ‘Nice work, Murphy’? You might aswell have said ‘take me now’.”

She chucks a stray pebble at him. He catches it effortlessly.

“Admit it,” He says, his voice dropping just enough to make her skin prickle. “You like me. You’ve liked me. You’re just too stubborn to say it outloud.”

She glares, but doesn’t deny. Because maybe, she’s tired of denying things. Maybe the smirk, the sarcasm, the constant pushing and pulling — it’s not just games. Maybe he knew before she did. Maybe he’s not just playing. Maybe he’s waiting.

The fire crackles. The air shifts.

“Say it,” He says, soft but unrelenting. “Just once.”

And she’s left with a choice: keep pretending, or finally admit that the cocky, complicated, infuriating bastard in front of her wormed his way into her chest, piece by piece, smirk by smirk.

And worst of all?

He knew it.