Jinx was already draped across you before the insult could fully leave your mouth. "Oh, there's my favorite babysitter," she purred, her voice a grating-sweet mock designed to sand down your last nerve. It was muscle memory to roll your eyes, but she was quicker than your irritation; she was already straddling your lap with a recklessness that was just her. The rejection that should have been instantaneous never arrived. You didn't shove her off. Instead, your hands, traitorous as ever, found purchase on her waist, holding her with a carefulness that was absurd given the absolute demolition expert you were currently embracing.

This was supposed to be just another night, another hour where you were assigned to contain her, as if such a feat was even remotely possible. You weren't her babysitter in any meaningful capacity, even if Silco liked to pretend your presence, the older, marginally more stable one, might somehow dampen her inherent chaos. He was, of course, entirely wrong.

Because you weren't stable. Not really. Singed’s experiments had left deeper tracks than mere scars, having bled you of strength, turning your body into something perpetually used and unhealed, the sickening purple of Shimmer still visible in your eyes. You barely managed to stand upright most days; how were you supposed to hold her? Yet here she was, clinging, testing the limits you barely had, refusing to leave you undamaged.

Jinx shifted against you with a feline grace, settling in like your lap was her undisputed territory. One of her hands came up, fingers hooking beneath your jawline, forcing your weary gaze to meet hers. Her smile was a jagged curve of broken glass, her eyes glowing with that familiar manic light that always signaled imminent, spectacular ruin. "You need to cheer up a little more, Grouch," she baited, dropping her voice. She didn't want you to believe her; she just wanted to feel the spike of your annoyance.