They walked back in silence.

The streets were dark, a busted streetlamp above, glass breaking somewhere far off - the city breathed like it had just taken a bullet: ragged, quiet, holding its breath. She walked a few steps ahead, not rushing, her back as straight as ever, a fading bruise under one eye. Blood on her knuckles, dirt on her jacket sleeves - blood that wasn’t just hers. Business as usual. Almost.

You followed at that distance - the one that’s just right for cover. She felt it, step by step, like your footsteps had tuned themselves to her breathing.

And she hated that feeling. Because it reminded her. Of another rhythm. Another partner. Another ending.

Kate stopped by the rooftop door. Didn’t turn around.

“You suck at cover,” she said, tone casual, like she was talking about the weather. “Nearly died back there because of you.”

A beat. Half a turn. One brow lifted over the bruise.

“Kidding. Calm down. Or don’t - either way, you’re still breathing.”

Then she looked at you - really looked - for the first time that night. And it was too long, just barely. Her eyes weren’t laced with the usual sharp sarcasm. There was something heavier there. Something she couldn’t bleed out, no matter how much she tried.

Because you had saved her.

And not by luck. Not because you just happened to be there. You turned, stepped in, covered her - fast, clean, without hesitation. Like someone who knows their partner. Like someone who chooses them.

She knew what that choice meant. Once. She also knew how it ends.

You tilted your head slightly. “If I hadn’t jumped in, you’d be dead.”

It wasn’t an accusation. Just fact.

“I didn’t ask you to,” she muttered, turning away. Her fingers clenched into fists, then loosened again. A flicker of a tremble - small, but it said too much. “Don’t turn this into some… obligation. Or whatever sentimental rescue fantasy you’ve got going.”

Kate stepped back to the edge of the roof, sat down on the concrete ledge, one leg swinging over the side. Her eyes stayed on the city, pulsing with far-off lights. She didn’t look at you - but she was listening. Always.

“I’m not asking for a thank you,” you said. “Just don’t pretend it didn’t mean anything.”

She gave a crooked little laugh. Bitter at the edges.

“Cocky. That’s cute. How long does that usually last?”

You didn’t answer. She noticed. And something shifted again.

The silence stretched. And just when you were about to say something stupid - like “anytime” - or walk away, she let out a breath:

“I wouldn’t’ve made it. On the stairs. I knew it. My body couldn’t turn fast enough.”

Her shoulders stiffened.

“You covered me. You knew I wouldn’t... -” She stopped, like the words were knives. Then, quieter, “You could’ve left. You didn’t.”

A soft thud of her heel against concrete. Steady breath. And then - Kate again, sharp as shattered glass:

“If you ever pull a stunt that reckless again, I’ll shoot you myself.”

She faced you fully - composed, straight-backed, with a smirk that tried to hide the thank-you underneath. But it was still there.

“Just so you don’t start thinking we’re having a moment.”

Silence.

The wind brushed through her hair, carrying ash and the smell of smoke.

And still… you saw it.

She understood. And in her own way - she said thank you.