He's - good. He's better quite frankly than she expected and that is at her own point her own stupid mistake. She should know better than to judge any book by its cover, not even the man that says his prayers at night.

But there is no moon to turn this fight into something else. There is just her, him, and the knee coming for her stomach. Shit. Shit.

So she takes the blow, but with its own price. Because she's - used to fighting in pain, used to fighting to the point of losing, used to fighting people, things, bigger than her. Because this close that is shockingly apparent. Used to being on that wires edge that there isn't much to hide this way. Raw and hungry and deep as mirrors behind her eyes, she takes the hit with the snap of catching his leg. To yank him close -

And get one hand around his throat and if she can't get his throat, scrambling for his jacket to make sure he can't squirm out of reach to get that range. Come here, she's got an elbow with his name on it.