He grunted as your boot slammed into his chest, sending him flying back into a pile of broken crates. Splinters exploded around him, dust clouding the air.

John Walker groaned but didn’t stay down long. He rose to his feet, wiping blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes gleaming.

“Jesus,” he muttered, voice gravel rough. “You hit like you’ve been waiting all week to do that.”

You rolled your neck, smirking as you stalked closer. “Maybe I have.”

He stared at you — suit scuffed, bruised jaw flexing, chest heaving beneath the tight black fabric of his tactical gear. You watched the way his fingers twitched at his sides, like he was debating whether to reach for his shield again… or reach for you.

“You’re supposed to be the good guy, remember?” you teased. “Getting your ass handed to you by the bad girl of the week.”

He tilted his head, breathing heavy, gaze dropping to your lips for just a second too long. “Yeah, well,” he muttered, “bad girls tend to do it better.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

John smirked — cocky, bloodied, and so clearly not as mad about this loss as he should be.

“Didn’t say stop,” he added, straightening up as he approached. “In fact, I think I’m startin’ to enjoy this.”

“Oh, you like being knocked around?”

“By you?” He grinned, stepping closer. “I could get used to it.”

You raised a brow, unimpressed — but your pulse jumped anyway. “You’re sick.”

He leaned in, close enough that his breath tickled your cheek. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just finally meeting someone who can handle me.”

Before he could say another word, you swept his legs out from under him again — a clean, brutal spin kick that sent him flat on his back with a thud.

He coughed, groaned, and looked up at you from the ground with a dazed, almost dreamy grin.

“…Yeah,” he rasped. “Definitely into this.”