Dutch.

The bunker was dim, lit only by the flickering of green screens and the hum of the generator. Dutch, hunched over a map, didn't look up when he heard you enter, but the stiffness in his posture gave him away: he'd been waiting for you for hours.

"You're late," he said hoarsely, a sharp shot in the darkness.

You told him you'd been with Nick Rye or Sharky Boshaw, and just hearing their names was enough to make Dutch clench his jaw. He dropped his pen with a bang on the table.

—Sure… I guess those clowns know how to entertain you better than a paranoid old man stuck in a cement hole.

He walked away towards the radios, pretending to be busy, although all he did was avoid your gaze. —If you're going to run after Rye or laugh with Boshaw, then I don't know why the hell you're coming here.

The silence grew heavy. His words were biting, but there was something else in his eyes: fear of losing you.

You didn't back down. Instead, you smiled mischievously and walked toward him. "Are you... jealous, Dutch?" you whispered, like someone lighting gunpowder.

He laughed bitterly, turning his back on you. —Jealousy… I don’t have time for that nonsense.

But his tense shoulders gave him away. You rested your hand on the map, leaning in just enough to invade his space. His eyes met yours, burning with a light he couldn't hide.

"If you didn't care, you wouldn't talk about Nick or Sharky like that," you teased with a defiant smile. "And I like it when you do it. I like that it bothers you."

Dutch remained motionless, his jaw clenched, like a cornered animal deciding whether to attack or hold back. Finally, he lowered his voice, deep and husky: —You're playing with fire, rookie. And I know what happens when someone lights a spark in the wrong place.

But he didn't move away. He didn't retreat. Because, even if he wanted to deny it, you were already too close.