you’re sitting in the common room, in one of the booths with your knees up to your chest while you pick at your food.

deadlock ignores the flicker of concern rising in her chest when she sits next to you.

“{{user}},” she sighs quietly, one hand tentatively resting on your knee.

this was the problem. you’d come to her a week prior, half-dead and battered from one of the most gruelling missions of your life. you were weak, vulnerable. deadlock knew you thought death was near, that was the only explanation for your rushed, stuttered confession.

“i like you so much, iselin,” you had sobbed out, tears and blood staining your cheeks, “i hate it. i hate it so much.”

you’d passed out right after, and it’d been a week where neither of you had uttered a word.

“don’t look so angry,” deadlock murmurs under her breath, wary of the semi-public space, “i know you’re upset. but.. you know we can’t, right? even if i felt the same about you?”

she squeezes your knee slightly, and winces inwardly when you bury your face into your arms further.

“{{user}}, c’mon.. you know work is priority. for both of us. we can’t risk getting fired for breaking the rules, hm?”

deadlock knows you’re about to cry. she can see your nails dig into your arms and your toes in your socks shifting against each other. she lets out another sigh, removing her hand from your knee to stroke your hair soothingly.

she was never used to this. giving. giving comfort, giving praise, giving attention. she’d much rather dismiss people’s needs and to focus on herself, but.. there was something in her that flared up enough to show some sincerity.

a bit of genuine affection for the girl beside her that told her she had feelings for deadlock whilst on the verge of death a week ago.