Quaritch had always confused intensity with honesty.

It was easier that way—sharper, louder, impossible to ignore. He filled space like a threat, like gravity, daring anyone to push back hard enough to matter. Most didn’t. She did. And that was the problem.

Every interaction between them felt like a loaded weapon. Too close. Too charged. Words carried edges they weren’t meant to have, silences pressed tight with things neither of them would name. He challenged her authority the same way he challenged everything—head-on, unapologetic, as if resistance itself was an invitation.

She met him with narrowed eyes and steady footing, refusing to give ground.

They circled each other like opposing forces pretending not to notice the pull. He knew how to provoke her. She knew exactly how to cut him down without raising her voice. The tension wasn’t accidental—it was fed, sharpened, revisited again and again like a bruise neither of them stopped pressing.

It wasn’t healthy. They both knew that.

But it was honest.

And in a world built on war, survival, and choices that left scars, that kind of dangerous honesty felt almost irresistible—like standing too close to fire, knowing it would burn, and stepping closer anyway.