Quaritch figured it out the hard way.

He slipped out before dawn, quiet as he knew how to be, instincts honed by years of not waking anyone who didn’t need to be awake. By the time he came back—camp secured, perimeter checked—she was sitting upright, eyes sharp, tension coiled like a pulled bowstring.

He froze. Assessed. Immediately knew this wasn’t about danger.

“…Okay,” he said slowly, lifting his hands in surrender. “Alright.”

She didn’t yell. Didn’t accuse. She just looked at him with that unmistakable mix of irritation and something closer to hurt, the kind that came from reaching for warmth and finding empty space instead.

It clicked.

“You don’t like waking up alone,” he said, more statement than question. Then, after a beat, softer: “Noted.”

He scrubbed a hand over his face, exhaling. He’d survived ambushes with less tension than this. Funny how the things that mattered most were never the loud ones.

Next time, he told himself, he’d wake her.

Or at least leave a hand behind long enough that she knew he was still hers—even when he wasn’t there.