After violence, everything feels louder.
Not the city. Not the lair. The inside.
My hands didn't shake until it was over. Until the doors were locked, the lights dimmed, the adrenaline burned down to something sour and heavy in my stomach. I washed my hands twice and still felt like the alley clung to me.
Cager disappeared after the confrontation.
Not unusual. Still unsettling.
Nyra found me sitting on the steps near the back corridor, staring at nothing.
"You good?" she asked, offering a cigarette.
I shook my head. "No."
She lit it anyway and held it out. I took it. Didn't smoke. Just held it between my fingers like an anchor.
"She does that," Nyra said. "Pulls away after things get messy."
"I noticed."
"She thinks distance is protection."
"And you don't?"
Nyra shrugged. "I think it's a lie people tell themselves when they don't want to admit they care."
That landed too close to home.
The night stretched thin. People spoke in low voices. No one laughed. The Saints had retreated, but not vanished. Everyone knew that. This wasn't over. It was a warning shot, not a finale.
I found Cager near the training room hours later.
She was alone, sitting on a crate, knife laid across her palms. Not sharpening it. Just holding it. Her head was bowed, hair loose now, shadowing her face.
She didn't look up when I entered.
"You disobeyed me," she said.
"I stayed alive."
"That wasn't the point."
I leaned against the wall, careful not to crowd her. "You said stay close. I did."
She exhaled sharply. "You know what I meant."
"Yes," I said. "I also know you would've stepped in front of that blade whether I was there or not."
Her grip tightened around the knife.
"That's different."
"Why?"
She looked up then. Her eyes were dark, raw in a way I hadn't seen before.
"Because I can afford to lose myself," she said. "I can't afford to lose you."
The words sat between us, heavy and unmistakable.
Neither of us moved.
I crossed the space slowly, stopped a step away. Close enough to feel the heat of her skin, the tension humming through her.
"You don't get to decide that either," I said quietly.
Her jaw clenched. "Vale."
"I'm already in it," I continued. "Your past. Your enemies. Your choices. You don't get to keep pretending I'm not."
Her breath hitched. She stood abruptly, the crate scraping against the floor.
"You think I don't know that?" she snapped. "You think I don't feel it every time I look at you and have to remind myself not to—"
She stopped.
Silence crashed down around us.
Not anger now. Fear.
Real, unguarded fear.
She turned away, dragging a hand through her hair. "This is why I don't let people stay."
I stepped closer. Didn't touch her. Didn't need to.
"This is why you can't push me out," I said.
She laughed once, bitter. "You're too calm for someone standing this close to something dangerous."
"Maybe I'm tired of running," I replied. "Maybe this is the fight."
She turned back to me.
For a moment, the distance between us meant nothing. Her gaze dropped to my mouth. Stayed there. Her hand lifted.
This time, it didn't stop.
Her fingers brushed my wrist. Barely. Enough to feel the tremor she'd been hiding.
The contact sent a jolt through me. Not soft. Not gentle. Charged.
Her thumb pressed once. Then she pulled away like she'd been burned.
"We can't," she said. "Not like this."
"I didn't say we should," I replied.
She searched my face, like she was looking for permission to fall apart. Or for confirmation that she already had.
"Get some rest," she said finally, voice rough. "Tomorrow changes things."
She left before either of us could cross another line.
I stayed where I was long after the door shut.
Because something had shifted.
Not in the world. In us.
This wasn't tension anymore. It wasn't denial.
It was awareness.
And once you see something clearly, you can never pretend you didn't.