– Or as the kids say... Rizz... Ugh.

  – Disarming through dialogue is one of the best and most rewarding ways to end a fight.

  – Also, charm doesn’t reload. Unlike guns.

  ---

  We were watching Gail clean his guns again.

  It was like therapy to him. Meditation. Weaponized zen. Meanwhile, I kept glancing at the knife he threw earlier, still stuck in the alley wall like a polite reminder that he could’ve ended me from a rooftop.

  Alex sat next to me, fiddling with a busted flashlight like it was a Rubik’s cube that owed her money.

  “You like him,” I said.

  “Wow. Subtle.”

  “I mean, I get it. He’s got the gruff war-daddy energy. Throws knives. Speaks in monosyllables. Like Batman, but if Batman actually killed people.”

  Alex didn’t respond right away.

  “You’re mad,” I said.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “I’m listening.”

  I sighed. “Look, I’m not saying you’re wrong for liking him. You’re allowed to crush on whoever. Even… Gail the Human Claymore over there. But I don’t trust him.”

  “Obviously.”

  “I mean it, Alex. Something about him—it’s too clean. Too sharp. The guy’s probably got more secrets than a government database."

  “You think he’s planning something?”

  I looked at her, my expression flat. “I think if we stand too close when he sneezes, we might lose a limb.”

  She chuckled, then caught herself and went quiet again.

  “I’m just saying,” I continued. “I trust you. I don’t trust him. And I’m telling you this because I need you to know, if I ever do something… sideways. Like, betray-Gail-level sideways… I need you to know it’s not about you.”

  She was silent for a long time. The only sound was the gentle click of the flashlight’s casing as she kept turning it over.

  “You trust me?” she finally said.

  “Yeah.”

  “And you think I won’t snitch on you?”

  “Exactly.”

  “And if I did…?”

  “I’d cry. Real hard. Probably ruin our whole supply bag with the tears.”

  That earned a small smirk.

  But it didn’t stop the tension. It was still there, under the jokes, under the calm. A thin layer of gunpowder under every word.

  Finally, she said, “You remember the bookstore?”

  I blinked. “Of course I do. You were half-starved, sitting between fiction and the textbooks section. I thought you were a zombie at first.”

  “You were the first person who helped. You brought food. You trained me. And when I didn’t want to leave—when I thought the bookstore was safer than the world—you didn’t force me. You stayed.”

  I nodded, unsure where this was going, but feeling the sting of guilt already warming up in my chest.

  “And now look at me,” she said. “I bash skulls, I hotwire doors, I shoot guns. Hell, I even flirt sometimes. Badly, but I try.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short. Your awkward flirting is top-tier.”

  She smiled faintly. “I’m saying… maybe Gail just needs someone to do for him what you did for me.”

  I looked at Gail. Still cleaning his gun. Still acting like we weren’t even on the same frequency.

  “Maybe,” I muttered. “Or maybe he’s just a human landmine with nice shoulders.”

  “You don’t have to trust him completely,” she said. “But maybe give him what you gave me. A chance.”

  I didn’t answer. Not right away. Because she wasn’t wrong. But also, she wasn’t completely right.

  I still had the itch. The wrongness in my gut. But maybe—just maybe—I could shelf it for now.

  Just enough to breathe.