is fearr lúbadh ná briseadh.

The mention of a movie was all the invitation Jo needed. "The one with Zoe Saldana firing a rocket launcher in the trailer?" she supplied, a wicked grin spreading across her lips. She stuck the still-blooming sprig of cilantro into her water glass and crossed to the couch. "The Losers." The television hummed to life with a soft click as Jo let herself drop onto the cushions, the shifting light washing across her face.

“THAT'S THE ONE,” she chuckled, grateful that Jo remembered. Somehow, the only part she could recall was that it was a comedy involving someone blowing something up. It wasn’t long before she joined Jo in the living room, steaming bowls in hand, drifting past the table where the little white blossoms still floated above the rim of the glass.

She had every intention of paying attention to the movie, so rarely watching action movies that she usually had to concentrate through the opening just to work out the plot. That lasted all of thirty seconds. She glanced sideways to find Jo, openly inhaling her food as if she'd been stranded at sea rather than only delayed by a magic demonstration.

It was little wonder how she hadn’t scalded herself yet. The apartment settled around them with familiar ease, explosions onscreen competing with the occasional clink of cutlery against ceramic. It wasn't quite the same as before, yet their silence no longer felt fragile.

“It’s good,” she teased, lightly bumping her shoulder. “Not as good as yours, though.” If her groan was any indication, nothing could compete.

Jo's gaze dropped to Leila's fingers and stayed there. Her pupils dilated almost imperceptibly, lips parting slightly before she caught herself staring, watching those fingertips glide over the delicate leaves while Leila calmly explained what they could do with effortless confidence. Fuck. Jo swallowed, heat crept up the back of her neck with embarrassing speed as she became acutely aware of her own pulse thudding high in her chest. She was so screwed.

Then the cilantro moved, tiny blossoms coaxed into existence unfolding beneath Leila's fingertips. Jo leaned forward almost unconsciously, brown eyes fixed on the little green sprig with genuine awe. Of course this was how Leila used her magic. The same kind of magic Jo knew could be destructive. Could be used to intimidate. To maim. To hurt. To kill. This terrifying thing she had been hiding, and it was just... gentle. Deliberate. Patient. Beautiful.

Like the women before her.

Carefully, almost reverently, Jo reached across the table to take the little sprig, her fingertips brushing lightly against Leila's. She turned it once between her fingers, unable to stop the small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "I don't think anyone's ever tried to seduce me with herbs before." The line should've landed with the same easy bravado she'd opened with, but it came out warmer instead, the usual swagger softened by something she wasn't trying nearly hard enough to hide. "But…" She paused, her eyes lifting back to Leila's, words on the tip of her tongue she wouldn't be able to take back—

THE FLUSH CLIMBING JO'S NECK HADN'T ESCAPED HER. Neither had the way she'd stared. For someone who'd spent years assuming her magic would drive people away, watching wonder eclipse fear as she reached for the flowers was... almost intoxicating.

Leila wasn’t so naïve as to believe that this would solve everything between them. Still, it was a start.

A smile found her lips at the growl. She had felt it, the evening teetering precariously on the edge of yet another course. Of something heavier, harder to navigate. She was, she realized then, equal parts disappointed and relieved. Somehow, she wasn’t certain they could endure any further upheaval. Even as the words sat just beneath the surface. 

“I’ll make a note to diversify my approach,” a flicker of amusement softened the words. 

And then she was up, gathering both their bowls and carrying them to the microwave before Jo had a chance to protest. The microwave clicked open with a soft mechanical hum, settling the atmosphere in the room back toward the easy rhythm of most of Jo’s visits. 

With her back turned, she allowed herself a quieter moment — Jo's expression replaying in her mind. The unexpected rarity of it. Her words, both spoken and unspoken.

The silence that followed felt different from the one before. Less brittle. Less like standing on opposite sides of a crack in the ice waiting to see who fell through first. They were still fumbling for solid ground, unsure where to step, but at least they seemed to be standing on the same side of the fracture now.

Jo shifted in her chair and reached for one of the little extras that had come with their order, absently turning it between her fingers. "For the record," she said, leaning back slightly until she was balancing on the rear legs of her chair, "I've always suspected your hands were magical." The corner of her mouth twitched, brows raising with the unmistakable innuendo. "You just stubbornly refused to demonstrate." With that she flicked the small ginger candy lightly across the table toward Leila. "Rude, really."

IN HER OWN WAY, Jo had breathed a sense of normalcy back into the room. So far from where the evening had begun, and yet Leila had a sense that they would be better for it. Eventually, perhaps. They had to start somewhere. 

Rather than swatting the comment away, Leila tilted her head. “Did you?” She picked up the candy, meeting Jo’s stare with a challenge. “That is pretty rude of me.” She toyed with the wrapper, twisting and untwisting it as a smirk tugged at her lips. “I can demonstrate now, if you’d like.” She winked, finally flicking the candy back. It sailed neatly across the table. 

In exchange, Leila plucked a sprig of cilantro from atop the rice and rolled the stem between her fingers. “It feels like an extension of my fingertips,” she started, tracing the curve of a leaf. “Almost like a pulse that I can control and send outward.”

The plant stirred. Tiny white blossoms unfurled one by one along the stem.

She leaned forward, holding the flowers out to Jo. “Easy.” 

LEILA SMILED IN RETURN, happy to find her enjoying the festivities. “I can imagine.” It seemed that she had been doing enough dancing for the both of them. “This way.”

By that point, Leila was intimately acquainted with the bar. She led them through the crowd, grateful for the way it thinned the further they strayed from the music. When they reached it, she gestured for the bartender. “I'll have a Negroni sbagliatto,” she started, then turned to Sizani, “And?”

Lian leaned forward as well, wanting to get a better look at the display above them. They had spent years watching their mother doing the same tricks. The death defying feats would make everyone gasp in shock and awe as her mother always found a way to stay in the sky. "It's a shame," the witch sighed.

The performer dropped down into view, giving them an up close view of the show. Lian waved to the acrobat, enjoying watching them waver for just a second before moving on to wow the crowd. "Life has a way of making you keep your head down but everyone should look up once in a while. That's where the stars are."

LEILA’S ATTENTION HELD ON THE ACROBAT a moment longer, tracking the small corrections in balance, the way they recovered so smoothly it almost looked effortless. At Lian’s words, she gave a quiet hum of agreement rather than interrupting straight away. It was poetic, almost melancholic. “That’s one way of putting it,” she said softly, eyes still tilted upward. “Most people don’t look up unless something forces them to.”

Her gaze flicked briefly to Lian, then, more present now. “Sounds like you’re quite a bit braver than I am,” she noted, breath having caught when the acrobat chose to change their grip mid swing.

“How does one find themselves in a position to learn?” She hardly recalled her town having an acrobatics school; at best, there was a traveling troupe. That was one thing she could appreciate about the city — it had a way of attracting people from all walks of life.

The image wouldn't leave her alone. A five-year-old girl standing in a garden, knobby-kneed and wide-eyed, proud of something she'd done. Excited enough to call for her parents. Certain they'd be proud too.

And instead—

Jo understood all too well how that could mess up a person. Understood how a parent could fail you completely and still matter. How they could abandon you or hurt you, and you could still spend years wanting their love. Wishing things had been different. Desperately trying to figure out what the hell was wrong with you.

"You don't scare me." The words came out before Jo could think too hard about them. "Or, well," she amended quietly, her gaze slipping away for half a second, "not because of that at least." She wanted to reach for Leila. To hold her. To fix whatever had splintered and broken between them. The urge was almost painfully strong, but Jo didn't know what to do with it. The distance between them felt strange now—smaller in some ways, impossibly large in others. "And I could never hate you."

"I'm sorry. About your parents." The words felt woefully inadequate. She paused, jaw working slightly as she searched for what to say. Leila had cracked herself open for her, and she could barely string a coherent sentence together. "That sucks." Her throat felt strangely tight, panic rearing its head as she could practically feel Leila slipping away. "For them, mostly. Because they never got to know you."

Silence settled between them, and Jo's gaze dropped to the table, her hands curling into fists as she swallowed against the lump in her throat. The next words caught somewhere on the way out, stubborn in a way that had nothing to do with uncertainty and everything to do with how rarely she allowed herself to say things like this. When she looked back at Leila, there was no trace of the earlier retreat left in her expression, only something quieter and far more exposed. "You don't have to hide with me."

THE SCRAPE OF A CHAIR NEVER CAME. Neither did the slam of a door. And when she did look up, she didn’t find what she had braced for.  For a moment, all she could do was search Jo’s face for the catch. The hesitation. The polite lie. Some sign that she was softening the blow before retreating.

She found none. Something in her chest twisted.

The words lodged somewhere deep, catching against years of certainty. Against every carefully constructed reason she had for keeping this part of herself hidden. She had expected disbelief. Anger, perhaps. At the very least, dismissal. Not this.

You don’t scare me. Jo didn’t know what she was capable of, how thin the line could be between helping and hurting. Still, Leila believed her.

A small laugh escaped her then. “Not because of that,” she echoed, the corner of her mouth twitching despite herself.

She hadn’t thought words could ever soften the sense of abandonment. So many had passed over her head through the years that it was easy to acknowledge them with a simple nod, allow them to graze the wound without ever truly touching it. But Jo’s words did.

The tragedy was always framed differently — the parents forced to leave their daughter, an unfortunate twist of fate, a choice to protect themselves that left a child to deal with the consequences. She had never seen it as a loss. As if she were something to miss out on.

It didn’t fix what had broken the day they left, or the lesson she’d learned from their absence, but it was a start. Jo still sat at the other end of the table, no longer reaching, yet also not retreating. The withdrawal echoed less; the fracture no longer widening beneath every glance and silence.

You don’t have to hide with me. Her breath faltered, the quiet gasp suspiciously close to a failed attempt not to cry. Green eyes flicked over her expression, this time not seeking a catch but instead committing it to memory. She wanted to remember this. So that her mind couldn’t corrupt the memory, poisoning this first genuine moment of honesty. The way Jo looked at her.

“You make that sound easy.” The words emerged quieter than intended. Her thumb traced the edge of her spoon. Once. Twice. “I don’t think I’ve ever known how.”  

A muscle twitched in her jaw. “But I’ll try.”

Lian enjoyed a chance to dress up and see their nephews but that wasn't the reason they had come to the party tonight. It was a good look to her boss, who they knew was lurking around here somewhere but mostly, Lian wanted to practice some magic in a place where it didn't matter who got hurt or if someone went missing.

They had been working incredibly hard on some of their necromantic magic and Lian was looking forward to testing it out on some unknowing patrons at the party. If they could control the undead, maybe she could find a way to raise it as well. The witch moved through the party, able to avoid the grabby hands of a insistent vampires and found a spot on the balcony to watch the crowd below.

Her eyes drifted up to the acrobats, watching their show. It seemed like a waste, barely anyone was watching as the tricks were performed seamlessly. Lian had grown up in the circus and knew the trick to each move but it still was impressive to her. When someone joined her, she gave them a small smile, still watching the act. "It's quite the impressive show. I don't think the crowd even realise what's happening right above them," the witch commented.

LEILA IDLY WANDERED THROUGH THE RUBICUND. It was the first year she wasn’t holed away in the emergency room for the festival, and she was intent on enjoying it. That is, until she watched a particularly enthusiastic man with a flashing LED collar be led down a hallway, his neck already stained crimson.

She had gone in search of another drink, which is how she found herself on the balcony, wine glass in hand. She returned the woman’s smile, resting her forearms against the balcony rail.

“That seems to be a fair assumption,” she hummed her agreement, casting a glance down to the crowd. They moved as an amorphous mob, laughing and dancing, blissfully unaware of the spectacle overhead. “I think that's often the way of it.” Leila looked up as one of the acrobats dangled from their cage. A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Most people never bother to look up.”

She sipped from her glass. “I can’t imagine attempting half of those contortions on the ground, let alone suspended over a dance floor.”

Then Leila told her she was a witch.

The smile slipped away first, faded slowly as the words settled somewhere deeper than Jo had expected them to.

Her gaze followed, lowering to somewhere between Leila's hands and the nearly untouched food sitting between them. She shifted back in her chair without seeming to realize she was doing it, drawing her leg away beneath the table. The movement was small, almost absentminded, but the contact disappeared as she pulled back beneath the shelter of her own chair. A second later her hands followed, retreating from the table to settle in her lap. For the first time since she'd arrived, Jo seemed unsure what to do with herself.

Because she hadn't seen it. Not once.

She opened her mouth, stopped, then tried again. Nothing came out. Questions crowded against one another behind her eyes, half-formed and impossible to separate.

She had spent months collecting details about Leila without meaning to. The way her accent thickened when she was tired or upset. The books she read and reread. The foods she ordered. The shape of her handwriting. The place at the base of her neck where tension always gathered after long study sessions. The look she got whenever Jo showed up bruised and pretended she wasn't.

And somehow none of it had been enough.

The thought lodged itself uncomfortably beneath her ribs and refused to move.

Maybe she hadn't been paying attention.

Maybe she'd gotten careless.

Maybe she'd mistaken familiarity for closeness.

Maybe she'd built a version of their friendship in her head that had never really existed.

The conclusion sat heavy in her chest. Because Jo knew what it was like to keep parts of yourself hidden. She knew what it was like to carry something ugly or complicated and decide it was easier not to let people see it. Knew what it was like to look someone in the eye and choose silence.

But she would've thought—

She would've hoped—

That she was someone Leila could tell.

Maybe that was unfair. Leila hadn't done anything wrong. She didn't owe anyone her secrets. And she was telling her now.

But that didn't make it hurt less.

It would've been easier to leave it there. To swallow the hurt, let it settle somewhere private and move on. She was good at that. Most people would've never known it was there. But Jo couldn't seem to make herself look away from it. The case had vanished completely from her mind. The marks. The murders. The possible demon connection. All of it. Leila had just handed her exactly what she'd been looking for and Jo couldn't seem to reach for it. None of it seemed particularly important right now.

IN THE STILLNESS OF THE ROOM, Leila felt something crack. Not all at once. The hairline fracture had formed the moment Jo told her about the runes, and now only seemed to widen.

She saw the way Jo shifted back. The absence of her leg against hers. The retreat of her hands. Small things, perhaps. Innocent things.

Her stomach dropped anyway.

She had known the withdrawal was coming, had foolishly hoped that she would be wrong. That it might be different with Jo. It didn’t even reach her as disappointment, rather recognition of a truth she’d always understood. That didn’t make the absence hurt any less.

The distance between them felt suddenly vast.

Why didn't you tell me? The irony of it nearly made her laugh. Because that had always been the question, hadn't it? As though it had ever been that simple.

“I haven’t told anyone.” A pause. “Hadn’t,” she corrected. How strange.

“You’re the first.”

Leila cleared her throat. There was no doubt in her mind that Jo believed her. And now there was no going back.

“I told you I was raised by my grandmother— and I was. She’s a midwife and an elemental witch.” Even now, her voice warmed with fondness/at the thought of the woman. “She taught me everything I know. Medicinal herbs, protection charms, how to heal the body.”

“But I did have parents. They didn’t die —or I don’t think they did. I never knew them, not really.” For years, she had told herself that she'd found peace with her parents’ choices, had learned the lesson, and could move forward with her life. That a five-year-old girl standing in a garden with dirt beneath her fingernails and magic in her veins no longer had any hold over her.

“They left me with her when my magic first manifested. I was five and had made a blackberry bush sprout.”

It was a trick she had practiced for weeks, curiosity after she managed to make a blade of grass sway, keeping her rooted to the garden whenever possible. Until one day, she focused hard enough and wiggled her fingers just so. Beaming with pride, she’d called for her mother.

She would never forget the way the woman’s eyes widened, the catch of her breath, the frantic scratch of her voice as she called for her husband.

“Gran swore it wasn’t because of… that they just weren’t prepared to raise a witch.” She laughed, a humorless sound. “They hated me for my magic. I scared them.”

And could she blame them? Magic was a liability. It always had been, and untamed magic was the worst kind. Her gaze refocused, found Jo’s. She couldn’t quite bring herself to study her expression for long. Not when every crease in her expression screamed with mistrust.

Under the table, her knuckles were white beneath the force of her grip. She braced herself for the scrape of Jo’s chair against the floor, a swift departure to mark the end of yet another chapter.

The moment Leila said she might know someone who could help, everything else ceased to exist. The food in front of her was forgotten. The conversation around them disappeared beneath the rush of possibility. "You do?" The question came quieter than the shift in her posture suggested, interest pulling her forward in her seat. For the first time in weeks, maybe months, it felt like she might actually be looking at a way through the wall she'd been throwing herself against. "Li, if you have someone who can—"

Jo caught herself when the conditions followed, nodding once without hesitation. "Done." There was a not unsubstantial chance that agreeing so readily would come back to bite her later, but anonymous sources only became a problem when the evidence behind them couldn't survive scrutiny. "I'll keep it entirely off the record. You have my word."

The promise of anonymity dissolved into a long-suffering groan at the mention of curry, whatever questions Jo had intended to ask held at bay only by the look Leila was giving her, whatever might've briefly snagged her attention in Leila’s phrasing sliding off before it could land anywhere solid. She nudged her foot against Leila's calf beneath the table in silent protest, the gesture carrying considerably more complaint than actual annoyance. "That's a cheap move." The contact should have ended there. Instead, her leg remained where it was, resting lightly against Leila's, the contact as incidental as the kiss she brushed against her friend's cheek in lieu of a thank you whenever Leila patched her up.

When that failed to produce the desired result, Jo's expression flattened. "You're really going to make me wait, aren't you?" There was no real irritation behind it, her sigh deliberately exaggerated as she reached across the table to steal a taste of the curry before pointing vaguely in Leila's direction. "Happy?"

LEILA WASN’T HAPPY. In fact, she was conflicted. She watched the way Jo shifted, leaned forward as if this was the one break she needed. Whispers of what magic had cost her echoed in the silence. She had grown in her parents' absence, come to appreciate the talents that set her apart. Magic was beautiful, in its own way, and she counted herself lucky to possess it. Not everyone agreed. If Jo didn’t… well.

The rising panic didn’t quite survive the nickname. Li.

Jo hadn't questioned her motives. Hadn't asked why the source wanted anonymity or what they stood to gain. She'd agreed without hesitation. Leila knew it then. Whatever she said next, Jo would believe her. She still had an out. An intermediary. A friend of a friend. Some conveniently distant source she could point to instead.

She could handle it being off the record. Using magic to heal unsuspecting patients likely fell into a legal grey area—particularly when it saved their lives. Yet that was the least of her concerns. The space between them felt steadier than she expected—which somehow made it worse. Because the question was no longer whether Jo would believe her. It was what happened after she did.

Leila didn’t move away. If anything, the steady press of Jo’s leg against hers was an anchor. “Is it cheap if it works?” she smiled despite herself. It was a reminder that this was still Jo. Who had so firmly placed her trust in her… she deserved the same.

She watched with faint amusement as Jo tried the curry. “Ecstatic.” Her fingers tightened once around the spoon before she set it down entirely. “And no… I didn’t mean to make you wait. I just—” She ducked her head, studying the curry as though it might offer a solution. “Can’t say I’ve ever had this conversation before.”

The words caught for only a moment.

“I’m the informant.” Her eyes found Jo’s. “I’m a witch, Jo.”

The admission settled between them. Not comfortably — something sharper, more fragile—  but left her feeling lighter all the same. Somehow, in a city where she’d embraced Leila, she’d never felt more like Líadan. “I can’t say I’ll be able to explain everything,” she said quietly. Then, after a breath, she corrected herself, softer but clearer. “But I’ll do what I can.”

“THAT EXPLAINS IT THEN. You come by it honestly.” She nodded as he spoke about his own limits. “I can see your point.” For her part, she’d always been more willing to take her chances with the human body over anything with an engine or a battery. She was hopeless enough when it came to troubleshooting her computer.  

Then, remembering, she reached into her white coat pocket and handed him her business card. A courtesy usually reserved for patients or referral consults. “We should talk more.” She folded her hands back into her pockets. “Somewhere that doesn’t smell quite so much like bleach.” 

“I’LL BE SEEING YOU THEN,” Leila replied, returning the salute with a small nod. “Try not to innovate too much in the meantime.” With that, she turned and started toward the nurses' bays.

On her next day off, she would have to dig into the limits of blessing magic and how it might be combined with the blood magic she already mastered. Chris’s visit to the hospital was a lucky coincidence; with any luck, this was the start of something that could meaningfully change how she practiced medicine.

The wolf lit up at Leila's insistence, his brows raising and his lips curling upwards into a smile. "Then I'll surely take you up on that," he said and reached into his pocket to pull out his cell phone. "Would it be too forward to ask for your number so that we can arrange something?" Already Caleb was thinking of bringing Naz to make a date of it.

“ONLY BECAUSE YOU'RE ASKING SO NICELY,” Leila replied, amusement threading through her voice.

She accepted his phone long enough to enter her number before passing it back. “Besides,” she added, “someone has to make sure you don’t get lost in the greenhouses again.”

"It's not the files that are the problem." A small shrug followed. "I made copies of what I could before they closed it. Reports. Photos. Statements." She took a bite before continuing. "Enough to keep working." The admission came easily and Jo didn't look particularly guilty about it. "It's everything around them." She leaned back slightly in her chair, absently pushing a piece of food around her plate, her appetite already losing ground to the conversation. "I just keep running into things I can't verify. There are these weird marks at some of the scenes. Patterns that repeat. Witness statements that stop making sense when you line them up next to each other." Her jaw shifted slightly. "Enough that I don't think I'm imagining it. Not enough that I can officially accuse a well-connected businessman of making sacrifices to a demon." The words were delivered dryly enough that they almost sounded like a joke. Almost.

"Usually when something brushes up against the supernatural, the department has people we can ask." She paused. "I obviously can't do that. I could try to ask around, but you might've noticed that most supernaturals aren't exactly eager to work with law enforcement."

“SMART,” LEILA COMMENTED, quietly impressed by Jo’s foresight. The more she spoke about it, the more apparent it became that this wasn’t a passing suspicion. How long had she been building this case? Her eyes narrowed at the marks. Demons. The only species she was dubious about, although she did her best to remain impartial. The same could be said of her coven’s affinity for black magic, the necromancers who had already taught her a plethora about toeing the line between life and death. So, she held a quiet respect for demons. Perhaps there was a good reason behind the markings… but there was only one way to know for sure.

“No, they’re not,” she agreed. And not without reason. Suspicion often surrounded the supernatural community, whether there was a reason for it or not. Her own family had once been easily swayed against her kind. This case was different, however. Sigils, patterns, it was all too obvious. “And I’d imagine if said well-connected businessman were tied to a demon, they would go to great lengths to hide it.” Or retaliate against any overly curious officers who tried to uncover it.

As soon as she thought it, the answer became obvious. Somehow it felt as though she was hurtling toward an impasse; Jo already knew her by her real name —the one so many struggled over— and trusted her enough to let her tend to scrapes and bruises, even if the latter had initially taken some convincing. She might as well know how those bruises seemed to heal so quickly.

And if it meant saving a man from spending the rest of his life in prison and returning a father to his family, she could do it. For Jo. “I might know someone who can help."

Underneath the table, her thumb pressed into her thigh, the food on her plate losing its appeal. “So long as you promise to keep your informant anonymous.” The corner of her lips quirked up, faintly strained beneath the attempt at levity, “And try the curry before you start your questioning.”

"I guess with the medical ideas, I'm afraid of breaking something I'll never be able to fix. With something mechanical or chemical you can fix it or replace a part, but the human body isn't like that. It has limits, and when you break them you can't just go back." As he'd learned from personal experience., but they didn't need to get into that.

“THAT EXPLAINS IT THEN. You come by it honestly.” She nodded as he spoke about his own limits. “I can see your point.” For her part, she’d always been more willing to take her chances with the human body over anything with an engine or a battery. She was hopeless enough when it came to troubleshooting her computer.  

Then, remembering, she reached into her white coat pocket and handed him her business card. A courtesy usually reserved for patients or referral consults. “We should talk more.” She folded her hands back into her pockets. “Somewhere that doesn’t smell quite so much like bleach.” 

"Then it must still be as big and sprawling as I remember," the wolf smiled. "I was. I enjoyed being alone and the greenhouses allowed me that until I was found again. Do you think I could pay it a visit some time?" It had been awhile since he was last in the Dumisani greenhouses.

“YET I CAN’T SAY I’VE MET MANY FIREFIGHTING WOLVES. What a coincidence,” Leila teased lightly. “It is, perhaps even more so with the freshly planted rows of Valerians.” Some days she would sit amongst the flowers for hours, and it was almost like being back in Ireland. The lush greenery had a way of transporting her far beyond the city's limits.

Down the hall, an intercom announced an incoming trauma. Leila's attention shifted briefly. Two minutes. Her gaze flicked back to him then, amused. “At this rate, I'm afraid I’m going to have to insist you do.”