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"You're not fooling me."

"What?" I gasp and sit up straight. "What are you even talking about?"

"I can see the real you, and you're not fooling me."

"Nash, I have—"

"What I read in that file on the plane described someone very different than the woman sitting beside me." With a stifled groan, he pushes up and leans against the divider. If it weren't for the wood we would be nose-to-nose. "I was wrong when I said I knew everything about you. You’re quickly becoming one of the most badass women I know."

"I am not a badass. Not sure what you think you've seen or witnessed, but it's more fear mixed with a lot of stupidity. I can't do anything to put me in that category. I've read hundreds of books about women who are badass, and I want to be them, but I'm far from that mark."

"Or maybe you don’t see the real you, or your potential. Let's play a game."

The conversation is so random my cheeks hurt from my wide smile. "What kind of game?"

"True or false. First question. You're a badass coder and hacker who finds evidence the FBI needs to put away bastards who prey on underage kids, all without graduating high school."

"True." Where is he going with this?

"Question two. True or false. You've devoted your life to finding justice for your murdered sister."

"True."

"Question three. True or false. You gave up your shot of freedom—knowing the consequences, mind you—for a group of women you knew seven days."

"True, but—"

"Question four. True or false. You're starving and thirsty, yet gave up what little you had for some guy you barely know."

My lips dip into a small frown. "I know you. And you know more about me than everyone except Mac."

"I'm taking that as a yes."

"You're nuts, you know that? How does any of that add up to me being a badass? It's just a bunch of random—"

"Final question. True or false. You haven't given up."

My throat burns as I try to swallow but find my mouth dry. "I don't have a choice."

His incredulous laugh rakes my nerves. "Yes you do. We all have the choice to toss in the cards at some point. To give up. But you haven't. You've kept going, and not for yourself but for other people. Don’t you see how strong you are?"

The question lingers in the darkness. When I don't answer, he continues.

"You raised your sister. You helped your mom. All without complaining or being asked. You're here. Most people would’ve cried at the funeral and moved on. But not you."

"It's called anger and hate issues."

"Fuck that. It's called determination. It's called strength. You didn’t give up. You fought to get here. All for justice. It wasn't easy. You could’ve given up. But. You. Didn't. Just like you're doing now. Not giving in. Pushing through and showing the world just how fucking strong you really are. Show them, Fate."

The sound of my name, my real name, on his lips has my eyes closing, savoring the moment.

"Just because you don't carry a gun, or know how to punch through walls, or hell, punch anything, doesn't mean you're not a badass. I've learned it's not those things that make a woman strong. It’s her loyalty, her personal strength to keep going when the odds are stacked against her. A woman who doesn't back down when fighting for truth or for others. That's you. All you, wrapped up in this spunky-as-hell exterior."

I should respond. Say something. But what? What do you say back to that kind of compliment? When everything I've ever believed in myself is the complete opposite of what he sees in me, who's right?

"Anyone can be a physical badass, but your strength is special. Rare. Captivating."

To break the seriousness of the conversation, get me back on steady ground, I say, "Wow, with all that you sound like a feminist."