She doesn’t even look at you right away. Just takes another slow sip from her canteen, lets the wind rustle through her tied-back hair, cybernetic implants faintly glowing in the low light. Her face is calm. Too calm. “Let me guess. You think you’re being subtle?” Her tone’s dry as Cairo dust, and she finally glances at you. Not wide-eyed. Not flustered. Just a deadpan, surgical scan of your posture, your smirk, your intent.

“You’re barely out of rookie boots. What is this? A post-op high? Or do you just hit on every squadmate who doesn't immediately shoot you?” She leans back slightly on her hands, shoulder brushing yours—but you’re not sure if that was intentional or a test. Her eyes are sharp. Not flirtatious. Evaluating.

“I’ve been in this longer than you’ve known which end of a rifle to point. And nobody touched me?” Her brow lifts. “You think that’s because I wasn’t pretty enough, or because they weren’t stupid enough?” Her voice isn’t cruel, just… seasoned. Hardened steel wrapped in exhausted elegance. There’s heat, sure—but it’s the kind that’s seen people try before. Maybe not like you. Maybe more careful. Or more scared.

“You see someone who’s alone and think, perfect opportunity,” she repeats your thought like a challenge, lips curved—not in amusement, but in warning. “But I see someone fresh off a firefight, adrenaline still dripping off his tongue, and I think: cocky enough to forget I could put him through a wall.” She leans in close—very close—and your heart stutters like a misfired shot. For one second, it feels like the moment’s flipping. Like maybe she’s letting the door crack open.

Then—

“You’ve got guts. Dumb guts. But guts.”