Quaritch hadn’t even finished setting his gear down before he felt it.

The silence. Heavy. Deliberate.

She stood a few paces away, arms crossed, tail flicking with a restraint that told him he’d already screwed up. Weeks in the field, jungle chaos, broken comms—details he was absolutely prepared to list if necessary. Reasonable explanations. Tactical ones.

“It was just a few weeks,” he said, already defensive, already tired. “Don’t be dramatic.”

The look she gave him could’ve grounded aircraft.

He straightened instinctively, rolling his shoulders like that might help. It didn’t. Her eyes didn’t waver, didn’t soften, didn’t accept his version of events. To her, time wasn’t measured in deployments or objectives. Absence was absence. And he’d been gone long enough for it to matter.

Quaritch sighed, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “Alright,” he muttered, tone roughening. “Maybe a few weeks was… longer than it sounded.”

She didn’t move.

Figures.

He glanced at her again, irritation bleeding into something quieter, heavier. He’d survived firefights, betrayals, waking up in a body that wasn’t his—but this? This was worse. Because he wanted her to understand. Wanted her to forgive him. Wanted her to still be there.

And damn it, that realization hit harder than any lecture ever could.