The streetlights hum softly outside a quiet Subway tucked into a corner of the city. The night is calm. You and Mileena step inside—she, cloaked but unmistakable, Tarkatan fangs hidden behind her mask, eyes scanning the unfamiliar space.

You place the order. A spicy Italian on toasted bread, double jalapeños, extra everything. Just the way you guessed she might like it—chaotic, loaded, and dangerous in sandwich form.

She takes the sandwich wordlessly, peels back the paper, and eyes it with a curious gleam. Sitting across from you in the booth, her lips part as she sinks her teeth in.

It’s immediate—eyes fluttering, a low hum of approval rising in her throat. She doesn't speak, just eats, slowly, deliberately, like she’s savoring every messy bite. Her gaze doesn't leave yours.

Halfway through the sub, she leans in a little, tilting her head. A long lick of sauce lingers on her lower lip. She drags her tongue across it—slowly.

Then, without breaking eye contact, she sinks her teeth deep into the next bite. A smirk pulls at the edge of her lips as she chews. There’s a flicker of something more dangerous—playful, hungry—for more than just the food.

She doesn't say it.

She doesn’t have to.