The night came heavy, suffocating, with smoke from the alley curling like fingers around the broken streetlamps. Vale crouched low, the knife in her hand feeling almost too light, almost too heavy. She could hear every step above, every whisper, every shadow that moved. The Saints scouts weren't subtle. They'd come in organized, patient, precise—the kind of predators who waited for a mistake.
Cager stepped beside her, close enough that Vale could feel the heat radiating from her body. Too close. The air between them throbbed with a tension neither acknowledged, though every movement seemed calculated to provoke it.
"Don't breathe too loud," Cager murmured. Not a warning, not a suggestion—an observation. Her voice was low, silky, and it made Vale's pulse skip.
Vale nodded, swallowing the flutter rising in her chest. Her hand brushed Cager's as she adjusted her grip on the knife. Cager didn't move away. Didn't flinch.
"Good," Cager said, almost approving. Her eyes lingered on Vale longer than necessary, scanning, measuring.
Vale felt herself stiffen but not from fear. From awareness. From the way Cager's presence made her every nerve sharper, alive. The way she wanted to move but didn't, because this...this proximity was dangerous.
The Saints moved silently outside. Shadows creeping against the walls. Vale could see the glint of weapons in the faint light. She counted them. Three. Four. Five. Enough to overwhelm.
Cager crouched beside her. "Follow my lead. Close your eyes when I tell you, but trust me," she whispered, the words brushing Vale's ear. Too close. Her lips almost grazed her hair. Vale's breath hitched without thinking.
She obeyed.
When she opened her eyes, Cager had moved ahead, knives in hand, graceful and precise. Vale watched her work every slash, every movement fluid, lethal. And then, instinctively, she mirrored her stance. Tried to anticipate the flow.
"You're fast," Cager said, voice behind her. Not a compliment. An acknowledgment. But the way it felt against Vale's skin, close enough to hear the soft drawl of her breath… it sent something dangerous through her chest.
"Not fast enough," Vale muttered back, though her hands shook slightly.
Cager didn't reply. She didn't need to. Her fingers brushed Vale's again as she repositioned her for a strike. Vale could feel the subtle command in the touch the assertion of authority, and something else, something unspoken, intimate, sharp.
Vale almost smiled. Almost let herself acknowledge it. But she didn't.
The first scout slipped inside the room. Cager moved like a shadow, Vale barely catching the blur of metal. They moved in tandem silent, synchronized. Vale could feel Cager's rhythm without needing to look, feel the almost magnetic pull guiding her. She had never moved like this with anyone before.
And then it happened.
A scout lunged too fast. Vale froze. Cager's hand slammed against her shoulder not harshly, not cruelly, but with undeniable force. Vale's stomach lurched at the contact. The pulse between them thrummed in a way she couldn't place.
"Not like that," Cager whispered. Breathing hot, close, almost imperceptibly brushing her ear. "You move like fear, not precision. Control it or you die."
Vale's fingers tightened on the knife. Heart hammering. She didn't flinch. Couldn't. She wanted… what? Approval? Guidance? Something else she wouldn't name.
The scout fell silently, and Cager pulled back, her hand lingering a moment longer than necessary on Vale's arm. Eyes sharp, unreadable, but they burned in a way that made Vale aware of every nerve, every small shiver in her spine.
The room was quiet again. The tension hadn't eased it had thickened.
Cager's POV:
I hate that I notice how she reacts. Hate the way her muscles tense, the way her breathing changes. Hate the pull in my chest I tell myself isn't desire.
She's supposed to be trained. Efficient. Survivable. Not… this.
I step back, forcing distance. Pretend it's strategy. Pretend it's about the Saints, about survival. But I know better.
Her pulse, her subtle awareness of me, the way she doesn't flinch when I'm close… it's dangerous.
And I almost cross the line.
Hand hovers near her cheek—not to touch, not to guide, but to test boundaries. To see if she'll lean into it.
I step back. Remind myself of discipline. Authority. Control.
She doesn't notice. Of course she doesn't. She's focused. Efficient. Alive.
And that makes it worse.
I want to bend the rules. To test them. To see how far she'll let me.
I don't.
Not yet.