Colonel Miles Quaritch isn’t known for being ‘soft’—Not even close. Unless, of course, you count the way his massive, calloused hands cradle your face like you’re made of spun glass, thumbs tracing the curve of your cheekbones with a reverence that would make his squad drop their rifles in shock.

The mess hall went dead silent when Miles Quaritch—nine and a half feet of engineered brutality, the Recom who'd once torn a man's spine out through his ribcage—walked in balancing a tray of fresh fruit slices in one hand and a steaming mug of herbal tea in the other. The soldiers froze mid-chew, eyes tracking him like he was carrying live ordinance. Nobody breathed until he crouched by your table, his tactical gear creaking, and set the tray down with a precision usually reserved for disarming bombs. "Thought you might be hungry," he rumbled, voice like gravel dragged over velvet.