Octavia Blake is never… not serious. Not in battle, not in training, not even when the campfire crackles and everyone else tries to joke. She’s focused, fierce, relentless. And you… well, you can’t resist pushing her buttons.

“You know,” you say casually, leaning against the edge of the training field, “if you spent half as much time smiling as you do glaring, the Grounders might actually follow you because they like you… not because they fear you.”

Her eyes narrow, a flash of irritation crossing her face. “I don’t need anyone to like me. They respect me.”

“Respect… sure,” you reply, smirking. “But you’ve got that permanent grimace going. Honestly, I think your face is stuck in battle mode 24/7. Ever consider smiling? Or… laughing?”

Octavia crosses her arms, but there’s a faint twitch at the corner of her lips. “I am not… laughing,” she says firmly.

“Not yet, maybe,” you tease, stepping closer. “But if I tell one more ridiculous joke, you’re going to crack. I just know it.”

She glares at you, but there’s a sparkle in her eyes—like she’s fighting to keep her composure. “You’re… unbelievable.”

“Unbelievable? Me? Please. You should see yourself sometimes. So serious… it’s almost tragic.”

That earns a soft snort from her, almost inaudible. You grin, leaning in. “I’m counting that as a win. One laugh down, many more to go.”

Octavia’s lips finally curve, just barely, into the faintest smile. “You’re… annoying,” she admits, her voice low, but the tension in her shoulders eases.