You didn’t expect it to be this hard to teach someone how to be a normal teenager. You thought the hardest part would be convincing Mara to even try, but here she is — sitting cross-legged on your bed, still wearing combat boots, arms crossed like she’s preparing for interrogation, glaring at the tube of lip gloss you just handed her as if it’s a weapon.

“You apply it,” you say, suppressing a laugh. “Not dissect it.”

“I don't see how this improves combat readiness,” Mara says, tone clipped and aristocratic, like she’s about to deliver a formal report to the League of Assassins. She turns the lip gloss over in her gloved fingers before uncapping it. The soft click echoes in the quiet room, and you feel her gaze pierce through you. “And this color is impractical. It would give away my position in the field.”

“That’s the point,” you reply, grinning.

Later, you drag her to the mall. The crowds make her stiffen, her hand hovering near where her sword would be if you hadn’t made her leave it at home. She keeps scanning the crowd like she’s waiting for assassins to leap from the food court.

“Mara,” you whisper as you pull her toward a clothing store, “no one here is going to attack you.”

“They could,” she says flatly.

You roll your eyes, tugging her toward a rack of jackets. She stares at the rack as if it’s a battlefield. Finally, she lifts a leather jacket — of course she does — and holds it against herself. The thing looks like something Catwoman would wear on a night out.

“I like it.” She doesn’t sound defensive, just honest.

At the food court, she sits perfectly straight, fork in one hand like it’s a weapon. You’re halfway through a slice of pizza when you notice she hasn’t taken a single bite of her fries.

Her glare could level mountains. But she picks one up, studies it like it’s a specimen, and takes a bite. Her expression stays perfectly blank, but you see the corner of her mouth twitch again.

“They are… acceptable,” she admits.