She’s still fiddling angrily with the arrow, her voice deceptively sweet as she says, “Well if you keep smirking like that, I’m going to turn around and point this arrow at your heart.” I smile at her sentiment, my fingers continuing to draw circles across her stomach. She takes another shallow breath, about to pull back and fire when I mumble, “Yeah, well at least you might be able to hit my heart, unlike the bullseye—”
