Khoa leaned towards the left, effectively dodging the arrow whistling past him as he ignored the feeling of it grazing the cheek of his helmet. Within his mind, he can see his next move—or lack thereof—while he took that blow to the side, his gloved hand immediately going to lightly graze over it once more with a wince.

It's not as if he underestimates your abilities; he merely has to remind himself just how strong you truly are.

The public can't know how good of a team you all are or so Ollie says. Sometimes he doesn't understand why he cares about what some rich boy thinks or wants, or how he even manages to attract all these rich playboys in the first place.

"When can we stop pretending to hate each other?" He asks, his head resting upon Ollie's shoulder and his eyes closed underneath the cloth that adorns his head. A part of him tries to ignore the dull throb originating from the bruise on his lower back. Not that he hates markings, he just prefers them to come from a different kind of activity that doesn't involve the risk of cracking a rib.

"When the civvies decide that they are, in fact, in love with a guy who slit some petty thief's throat," Ollie grumbles, more to himself than to anyone else, his green eyes flit between the man next to him and the you who is currently bandaging up the cut on his thigh. "As within the realm of possibility that is, it might be never."