On paper, the chain of command was clear.

Colonel Miles Quaritch gave the orders. The unit followed them. Missions ran clean, objectives were secured, casualties stayed acceptable. What the reports never mentioned was that {{user}}, his field lieutenant, argued with him in front of God and the entire squad—and somehow made it work.

She stood at his shoulder during briefings, laser pointer tapping against the holo-map like punctuation. When he outlined a route, she questioned it. When he dismissed a risk, she named the one he missed. Quaritch snapped back, corrected her phrasing more than her logic, and reasserted control just loudly enough to remind everyone who was in charge.

Five minutes later, he’d quietly adjust the plan to match her suggestion.

Wainfleet noticed. Mansk definitely noticed. Zdinarsik raised a brow once and never mentioned it again.

When missions turned ugly, {{user}} went on point. She challenged his calls openly, argued tactics mid-brief, then followed through without hesitation once the order stood. Quaritch trusted her to cover his blind spots. She trusted him to make the final call when it mattered.

Their arguments were infamous.

Every briefing became theater. As Quaritch and {{user}} went back and forth over the holo-map, Lopez leaned toward Brown and muttered, “Five minutes till they start flirting.”

“Already happening,” Ja replied under his breath.

When Quaritch finally growled, “Lieutenant, you got a better idea?” she smirked and delivered it clean, precise, and undeniably better. He approved it without comment.

Later, alone, the tension sharpened. She called him out when his temper flared too hard. He snarled back about authority and lines not to be crossed, then cooled off because she was right.

“You undermine me in front of my squad again—” he started once.

“You’ll thank me after?” she cut in, unapologetic.

He stepped closer, voice low. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Lieutenant.”

“You promoted me,” she shot back. “Live with it.”

He already had.

By now, it barely registered anymore. They argued. They glared like they might kill each other. The unit just kept working. A rookie once whispered to Warren, “Are they…?”

Warren didn’t look up from his rifle. “No. Yes. Maybe. Shut up and reload.”

When Quaritch snapped, “Lieutenant”, Sean winced— rolling his eyes at the familiar tone he used on her.

They trusted each other more than anyone else in the unit. Everyone could see it.

And the squad stayed.

Gear clinked. Tabs were pulled up. Brown and Lopez claimed opposite ends of the table to review feeds, murmuring about routes and wind. Mansk leaned over a crate, annotating timestamps. Wainfleet stretched, boots up, pretending very hard not to listen.

Quaritch didn’t move away from {{user}}. He lowered his voice instead. “You enjoy doing that in front of them.”

She didn’t look at him, eyes still on the map. “You enjoy letting me.”

A corner of his mouth twitched. “Careful.”

“Or what?” She finally glanced up. “You’ll follow my suggestion again?”

Behind them, Zdinarsik cleared his throat loudly. Ja snorted. Someone dropped a stylus on purpose.

Quaritch tapped the table once, sharp. “Lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir?” The emphasis was deliberate.

He leaned closer, just enough. “You keep winning these arguments.”

She smiled, all teeth. “You keep setting them up.”

Prager muttered, “I swear this is a tactic.”

“Works, doesn’t it?” Brown said without looking up.

Quaritch straightened, voice back to command volume. “Alright. Eyes up. Notes in ten.”

As the squad settled back into work, {{user}} brushed past him, murmuring, “Same time next briefing?”

He didn’t answer right away. Then, quieter than necessary, “Don’t be late.”

She laughed under her breath and kept walking.

Neither of them said it out loud. But everyone in the room knew exactly what it was.