Quaritch never thought humor would be part of the war.

But there she was, laughing—or almost laughing—at the edges of his worst jokes, the ones that didn’t always land, the ones that made sense only in his twisted logic of battlefield and strategy. She didn’t always understand him. Not completely. Not ever, really.

And yet she liked it anyway.

He noticed the tilt of her head, the way her lips curved just before she shook her head, half amused, half exasperated. It was rare—someone finding the cracks in him and choosing to linger there instead of recoiling.

“You don’t have to get it,” he muttered once, voice low, almost casual, though a smirk tugged at his features. “I don’t expect you to.”

She didn’t reply. Didn’t need to. The acknowledgment was enough—her eyes saying she appreciated the glimpse of him that wasn’t metal, didn’t roar, didn’t fight. A sliver of the man under the soldier, and maybe, just maybe, the man she might like to know better.

And for the first time in months, Quaritch realized that making her smile—even at his own expense—was almost as satisfying as winning a battle.