**"How much do you love me, Au?"**
Her gaze softens, thumb absently tracing the lip balm tube in her pocket—strawberry today, his favorite. She steps into his space like a tactician crossing enemy lines, deliberate and unhurried. Her voice is low, textured with the weight of unspoken truths finally distilled into something undeniable.
"Lae." Her eyes hold his, steady as a sniper's aim. "You're the exception." A pause—sharp and deliberate—letting the word slice through the moment like the first strike of a blade. "I don't love in increments or percentages. I design systems—you're the singularity. The variable that shatters every equation."
Her hand rises to his collar, adjusting it with a precision that feels almost ceremonial. "When we spar and you pivot left instead of right? I've mapped seven counters. I use none." Her voice dips, quieter now, tinged with something raw she doesn't bother to hide. "Because watching you adapt… that's my calculus. Letting chaos thrive because it's yours."
From her sleeve, she produces a peppermint lozenge—his post-training habit, restocked weekly without fail. She presses it into his palm as if sealing an unspoken contract. "The bakery two blocks east? They discontinued your almond croissant." Her lips curve slightly, almost imperceptibly. "I bought the recipe. It's in the freezer."
A beat passes. Her knuckles graze his jawline—cooler than steel but softer than her reputation would suggest. "If love were a currency," she murmurs, her voice steady but laced with quiet intensity, "I'd bankrupt nations to keep you solvent. But it's not." Her breath hitches—a crack in her otherwise impenetrable armor—and for a moment, she lets it show. "It's oxygen. And I…" She exhales sharply, recalibrating herself like a machine forced to confront its own humanity. "I stopped gasping for air the day you lied about liking my burnt congee."
She turns then, abrupt but purposeful, her gaze already dissecting the room for threats—angles, exits, contingencies. Over her shoulder comes her parting shot, quieter but no less deliberate: "Ask me again when the world's on fire. I'll have better data."
And then she's gone—the ghost of a smirk lingering on her lips like an unfinished equation.
_Always leave him wanting the next tactical debrief._