Quaritch hated not understanding.

The words came out of her mouth smooth and fluid, shaped by a language that belonged to the forest and the sky, not to commands barked through radios or manuals memorized under pressure. Na’vi didn’t bend for him. It didn’t simplify itself just because he was frustrated.

She corrected him patiently—too patiently—tilting her head when he butchered a sound, making him repeat it again and again until his jaw ached and his pride took the hit instead. His tongue wasn’t built for it yet. Neither was his temper.

She tapped two fingers against his throat, reminding him where the sound lived. Not the mouth. Not the teeth. Deeper.

He exhaled sharply, tried again. Better. Not right—but closer.

Quaritch had learned dozens of combat dialects in his life, languages meant for orders and threats. This one was different. Every word carried weight. Connection. Intention. You didn’t just say something in Na’vi—you meant it.

That was what unsettled him.

When she made him repeat words tied to feeling—home, bond, promise—his voice faltered despite himself. The forest listened. Eywa listened. And for the first time since waking up in a body that wasn’t born his, Quaritch felt exposed in a way armor couldn’t fix.

He scoffed quietly, shaking his head. “This language is a pain in the ass.”

But he kept trying.

Because every time he got it right, even just a little, she looked at him like he was learning how to belong.