"I should've known better than to try calling a bluff. You gonna kick my ass now?"

Luther's wedged himself a little higher into a half-seated position, back propped against the pillows and the headboard; staying lying down would feel too vulnerable right now, and he already feels vulnerable as hell having someone in his space, where no one ever is. Not at this hour, not with the lights dimmed, not alone. (Part of him still instinctively wants to glance to the door, look for movement down the hallway. The crisp and precise tread of wingtip shoes on hardwood. Reginald's cane rapping the floor. Even now, years after the man's death, always waiting to be caught and reprimanded for finding joy in a little thing.)

But even this, it all feels so soothingly familiar even as he wants to climb out of his own skin at her proximity. Because in answering the dare, Allison's proven again that it's still her. The one who would fist-fight Swedish assassins and power mimics, who would jump to a punch even after years in hibernation, her abilities and capabilities smothered. She doesn't turn down a challenge.