Sevika sat slouched on the edge of the bed, boots still caked with Zaun’s grime, a half-smoked cigarette lazily held between her fingers. Her shirt was wrinkled, collar askew, and the woman curled up beside her was still passed out—blouse hanging open like the aftermath of a storm.

You stood with arms crossed, jaw tight. “Was that necessary?” you asked, voice sharp but low, not wanting to wake the stranger.

Sevika didn’t look up right away. She flicked ash into the tray and took a slow drag, exhaling smoke in a deliberate, measured breath. Then she met your eyes with a glint of amusement. “Jealous?”

The word hit like a spark in dry grass.

You scoffed but didn’t move. Your fingers dug into your arms.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you bit back, though your gaze lingered a moment too long on the way Sevika’s shirt clung to her skin, her smug calmness like fuel to your fire.

Sevika leaned back, spreading her legs slightly in that familiar power-play posture, smoke curling around her lips. “Didn’t think you’d care.”

“I don’t,” you lied.

She grinned, a slow, cocky thing that made your stomach twist. “Could’ve fooled me.”

The silence stretched—tense, charged. You didn’t look away. Neither did she. The air between you felt heavy, like something about to snap.