You don’t remember when Harcourt stopped watching you like you were a liability.

At first, it was constant—arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes sharp every time you spoke in the briefing room. You were new to the team, not A.R.G.U.S. bred, not one of hers. Just someone Waller assigned and expected her to tolerate.

You did your job anyway. Quietly. Cleanly. No need for praise.

Tonight’s mission goes sideways—wrong intel, hostile extraction, too many moving parts. By the time you’re back at the safehouse, adrenaline is still buzzing under your skin. You strip off your gear in silence, the hum of fluorescent lights filling the room.

Harcourt lingers by the doorway.

That’s new.

“You didn’t freeze out there,” she says, flat, almost dismissive. Almost.

You glance up. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

She snorts softly, the closest thing she has to a laugh. Then she hesitates—actually hesitates—before stepping inside and closing the door behind her.

“You adapted,” she continues. “You didn’t wait for orders when things went wrong.”

You shrug. “Seemed obvious.”

Her eyes flick to you, sharp. Studying. Measuring.

“Most people panic,” she says. “Or they try to play hero.”

The silence stretches. Heavy. Charged.

Then, quieter—so quiet it feels like it wasn’t meant for anyone else to hear:

“I respect that.”

The words land harder than any compliment ever could.

She looks away immediately, like she’s said too much, jaw tightening again as she straightens. The armor snaps back into place.

“Don’t let it go to your head,” she adds, already halfway to the door. “You still screw up, I won’t cover for you.”