The air was thick with a sense of regret and disappointment, but that was becoming the new normal.

Smoke clinging to your clothes. The metallic tang of blood and ozone still sharp in the air. The mission clock barely stopped when the silence breaks.

Diana turns on you the moment the Watchtower doors seal shut.

Her armor is scratched, her hair loosened from battle, eyes blazing with something far more dangerous than anger—disappointment.

“What you did out there,” she says, voice low but cutting, “was not part of the plan.”

You don’t look away. You never do. “The plan was falling apart. I made a call.”

Her jaw tightens. “You improvised without warning. You diverted the extraction point.” She steps closer, towering, presence filling the room. “If you had been two seconds slower—”

“But you weren’t,” you snap. “Because at least one of us has to have the guts to make a decision.”

That stops her.

For a heartbeat, the argument shifts—no longer tactical, no longer professional. Old ghosts stir between you, familiar and sharp.

Diana exhales, slow and controlled, like she’s steadying herself before a strike. “Decision does not mean recklessness,” she says. “I cannot keep pulling you out of fires you insist on standing in.”

You laugh, bitter. “Funny. You never complained when that fire saved the mission.”

Her eyes flash. “Do not twist this.”

The room hums with unspoken history—late-night debriefs that turned into arguments, arguments that turned into something softer, something dangerous. You’re standing too close now. Neither of you steps back.

“I thought I was going to lose you,” she admits quietly, and that—that—is the blow you weren’t ready for, because under all of that hurt and anger, a part of her still clings to what you once had.

Her hand clenches at her side, just barely restrained. She looks at you the way she used to—like you’re not just a teammate, not just an ex, but a wound that never healed correctly.

“We are still responsible for each other,” she says. “No matter what we pretend.”

The argument doesn’t resolve. It never does.

She turns away first, armor whispering as she walks off, leaving the space between you heavy and unresolved.

The mission didn’t fail.

But something between you fractures again— and neither of you knows how many times it can survive that.