Quaritch learned quickly that translation wasn’t just about words.

English sounded harsh when it hit her ears—too sharp, too fast, full of meanings stacked on top of each other like weapons left loaded. He slowed it down for her, breaking sentences apart, choosing which truths to hand over whole and which ones to soften first.

He listened to the voices coming through the comm—RDA chatter, clipped and coded—and filtered it instinctively. Threats became warnings. Orders became intent. Lies became silence.

“They’re saying they’ll be gone by nightfall,” he told her, turning the device down, eyes never leaving her face. “Means they’re lying. They move before dark.”

She watched him closely as he spoke, trusting not the machine, not the language—but him. That trust sat heavier than any rifle he’d ever carried.

Quaritch had spent most of his life using English to dominate rooms, to strip conversations down to power and compliance. Now he found himself shaping it carefully, like something fragile. Making sure she understood not just what was said, but what was meant.

Sometimes he stopped mid-translation, jaw tightening, choosing not to pass a sentence along at all.

She didn’t question it.

That was the thing that got him.

He wasn’t just translating language anymore.

He was deciding what parts of his world were allowed to reach hers—and standing between her and the rest with a steadiness that surprised him just as much as it did anyone else.