[Nisha never feels the urge to go toe-to-toe with him over the trivial. Petty bullshit better off plugged up like open wounds instead of picked at till it festers. Her fingers tug the whip from his hands as his grip goes lax, cheek replacing it, sliding down so that she's settled like a solid weight against him.] You worry too much.

[All cool confidence while her arms move to bracket his hips, while she parts her lips and marks the fine bones of his wrist with her teeth to end where her kisses have left off.] We've got the key, we've got the bandit trash on the run - Pandora's my turf: they get too close for comfort, I'll take care of it.

I always do.

[Because he might not be saying it out loud, but he's on edge. Has been for a long time. And with scars like that under the edge of his mask, Nisha doesn't stop for a second to blame him.]