Quaritch was used to armor.

Plates. Straps. Weight designed to intimidate and protect. Clothing that turned a body into a weapon. Standing in Na’vi garb—woven fibers, beads, nothing meant to hide what he was—felt like standing exposed under open sky.

His mate noticed immediately.

Her gaze lingered longer than usual, tracing lines that had never been visible before: the breadth of his shoulders without plating, the way the fabric moved when he shifted, unfamiliar and undeniably him. She didn’t look embarrassed. She looked… startled. Like she was seeing him for the first time all over again.

He crossed his arms on instinct, tail flicking once. “What,” he muttered. “It’s practical.”

She didn’t answer—just circled him slowly, curiosity written plain across her face.

Quaritch exhaled through his nose. “You’re staring.”

Still, she didn’t look away.

And standing there in borrowed skin and unfamiliar cloth, Quaritch realized this might be the most vulnerable he’d been since waking up blue—not because he was unarmed, but because he was finally being seen without the war wrapped around him.