It was the smallest thing, really.

Quaritch didn’t even notice at first—just the way her gaze kept drifting to his hand when he rested it against his thigh, fingers long and scarred, knuckles still marked by a life that hadn’t been gentle. Out of everything about him that was foreign, threatening, or strange, it was his pinky that caught her attention.

She reached for it once, tentative, as if testing whether she was allowed.

He stiffened on instinct, expecting curiosity to turn into judgment. Instead, her touch was light, almost reverent, tracing the curve of that smallest finger like it held some secret meaning. She tilted her head, studying it with quiet fascination, thumb brushing over a scar he’d forgotten was there.

Quaritch frowned, confused. “That one?” he asked, lifting his hand slightly. “You’re serious?”

She nodded, completely unapologetic, curling her fingers around his pinky alone—claiming it in a way that felt oddly intimate. Not possessive. Just… fond.

He let out a short breath, half a scoff, half a laugh. Of all the things she could’ve chosen—the strength, the size, the danger—it was the part of him that seemed most insignificant.

And somehow, that made it hit harder.

Because no one had ever looked at him like anything small was worth keeping.