“i saw you and mari going at it earlier,” she says, voice tilting. there’s a hitch in it though, something that makes your thumb press too hard against the blade’s edge. she's got her arms crossed, but her fingers are drumming against her bicep like she’s nervous. or excited. hard to tell with her.

“oh, so you're here to bitch about her busted lip? or are you just stupid enough to wander out here alone?” your knife catches the last gray light, throws it back sharp. “you wanna be the next one hurt? is that it?”

her breath hitches, not fear—something warmer, curious. you fully glance up, and there it is: her eyes gone wide and dark, lips parted like she’s tasting the iron tang of violence on the air.

“a-are you saying that ‘cause you’re pissed,” she murmurs, taking a step closer, despite her trembling limbs, “or because you’re hoping i’ll say yes?”

when you stand, the knife’s still in your hand, but she’s looking at your mouth.

her breath hitches when you crowd her against a tree, bark digging into her palms. “careful,” you mutter, dragging the flat of the blade down her arm.

her laugh’s shaky, but her hands are steadier when they fist in your shirt, pulling you closer, your knuckles brushing against her hips as you hook your fingers into her waistband and tug down, down, down.

somewhere past the thicket, a branch snaps. neither of you turn.