It’s easier when you keep people at a distance.
 Safer, too.

You learn that early in this line of work. The second you start caring, you give the world something it can use to gut you. People become targets. Leverage. Weak spots in your armor you didn’t even know you had until it’s too late.

So I don’t let anyone close.
 Never have.

The mask helps. The voice. The reputation. All of it builds the perfect cage—keeps the world exactly where I need it: away.

But then she showed up.
 And things started shifting. Subtle. Slow. Dangerous.

At first, it was nothing. Just a new operator on the squad. Talented, sure. Focused. Lethal, even when she didn’t look like it. But something about her—it chipped at the edges. Not because she was kind. Not because she was loud. She wasn’t.

She was present.

Not intrusive. Just there. Always. Showing up without asking for anything. No small talk, no fake politeness. Just sharp eyes, steady hands, and a silence that never felt empty. She’d sit with me sometimes during downtime, not saying a word. Just existing.

And that scared the shit out of me more than any bullet ever could.

Because I felt myself leaning in. Not physically. Not yet. But internally. Like something in me was tracking her constantly. Keeping tabs on where she was. Not for strategy. Not for protection. Just to know.

I catch myself doing it more often now. Watching her from across the room. Catching the way her shoulders tense when she’s irritated. How her hand hovers over her sidearm when she’s deep in thought. I know the exact sound of her laugh—and the rare tone she uses when she actually lets someone in.

But she doesn’t know that.

She doesn’t know that I stay quiet because I want to speak. That I walk away because I’m afraid of what’ll happen if I don’t. That I pick the bunk closest to hers because if anything goes down in the middle of the night, I’ll be there before anyone else. It’s easier when you keep people at a distance.
 Cleaner. Simpler.

But there’s nothing simple about her. And every time she looks at me like I’m more than just the mask—more than just the weapon they point at problems—I feel that line slipping.

One step closer.

One breath too near.

And I hate that part of me wants her to cross it.

Because once she’s in…
 I don’t know if I’ll ever get her out.