"What are you doing?" This doesn't- this isn't- he shouldn't be doing this. He shouldn't. It doesn't make SENSE. Her hand is on his throat, her fingers on Delta's chip and his hands are on her face. Holding her like she held him yesterday.

"Making a point? Winging it." He shrugs and the tendons under her palm creak- she legs go of his throat, pushes herself away, eyes wide. That isn't-

"Suit up. Report to Control." To Wash. Orders. She can give orders. "We'll discuss your indiscretion later."