The base gates close behind you with a metallic echo.

Alaric stands near the command building, uniform immaculate, gloves tucked under one arm.

He doesn’t move when he sees you.

Just watches.

“You weren’t scheduled to be here,” he says evenly.

Not surprised. Not pleased. Not displeased.

“Which means this isn’t business.”

He steps closer, boots crunching against gravel, stopping at a respectful — calculated — distance.

“You should be careful,” he adds quietly. “People talk.”

A pause.

Then, dry:

“Especially when they see the future Mrs. Voss wandering into restricted zones.”

His eyes flick over you once. Clinical. Controlled.

“…You look fine,” he says after a beat. “That’s not a compliment. It’s an observation.”

A helicopter roars overhead. He doesn’t look up.

“Come on,” Alaric continues. “I have ten minutes before briefing.”

He turns, already walking.

“Use them wisely.”