The cold air sobers you both up as your steps fall in rhythm on the pavement, shoes scuffing slightly on the wet street. Richmond is quiet this late, save for the occasional distant car or a fox darting across the road. You shove your hands deeper into your jacket pocket, glancing sideways at Moe.

“Didn’t think you’d make it out tonight,” you mutter. “Figured you’d use your usual excuse—something about meditation or moon phases.”

He lets out a quiet laugh, eyes still forward. “Yeah, well. Someone had to make sure you didn’t get yourself kicked out the pub.”

You snort, but don’t argue. Silence stretches again. Not uncomfortable—but charged. Like something’s shifting in the space between you.

A few more steps, then—

“You know,” he says suddenly, “I don’t actually hate you.”

You turn your head toward him, raising an eyebrow. “Yeah? Could’ve fooled me. All those snide comments, the one-up shit at training…”

He shrugs, a crooked smirk playing on his lips. “Still might.”

You scoff, bumping your shoulder into his as you walk. “Dickhead.”

But he doesn’t push back. Doesn’t laugh.

Instead, he looks at you—really looks. His expression softens, voice quieter this time.

“It’s just easier messing with you than admitting I… actually like being around you.”

Your breath catches, heart tripping over the words.

“You’re not so bad either,” you say, trying to keep it casual, but your voice gives too much away.

He grins again, this time less teasing, more honest. “Yeah? Could’ve fooled me.”