The barracks are louder at night.

Not physically.

Just inside my head.

Metal bunks. Low lights. Gear stacked in clean rows. The smell of oil and carbon scoring from weapons maintenance.

Routine.

Predictable.

Controlled.

I sit on the edge of my rack with my rifle broken down across my knees, running a cloth through the barrel for the third time. It doesn’t need it.

My hands move anyway.

Across the room, one of the recoms laughs at something I don’t catch. Someone else tosses a datapad onto a table. Boots scrape concrete.

Normal.

I keep my eyes on the weapon.

Keep my breathing even.

Don’t think.

Too late.

Her hands on mine.

The sound of her breath when the room was quiet enough to hear it.

The way she said my name low like she was mapping it the way she maps space.

I blink hard and drag the cloth through the barrel again.

Damn.

I did that.

I set the rifle down carefully, picking up the upper receiver and checking the alignment like I haven’t already.

I’m a soldier.

I don’t get familiar.

Especially not with native assets.

Especially not inside containment.

The words echo back at me in my own voice from months ago.

Asset.

Leverage.

Detainee.

I scrub harder than necessary.

Across the room, Quaritch walks in.

Conversation dips slightly but doesn’t stop. He moves through the space with that quiet command presence that doesn’t need to raise its voice.

He stops near my rack.

“You’re thorough tonight,” he says casually.

“Sir.”

He watches me a second longer than necessary.

“You look distracted.”

“I’m not.”

He studies me. Then nods once and moves on, speaking to one of the others about perimeter rotations.

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

Shit.

Focus.

I pick up the rifle again.

I can’t uncross that line.

That’s the part that won’t settle.

It wasn’t impulse.

It wasn’t weakness.

It was choice.

And that’s worse.

Because I don’t regret it.

That’s what’s sitting heavy in my chest.

I don’t regret it.

Her tail brushing against my leg.

Her fingers catching the fabric at my wrist like she needed the anchor.

Our queues connecting.. damn it.

The way she listened when I leaned close and lowered my voice.

No cameras in that blind spot. I made sure of that.

I swallow hard.

What am I doing?

I’ve been trained not to blur lines.

Not to get attached.

Not to complicate operational stability with emotion.

But she’s not an asset anymore.

She hasn’t been for a while.

And last night just made it official in a way I can’t pretend away.

I reassemble the rifle with mechanical precision.

Click.

Slide.

Lock.

Across the room, someone asks about tomorrow’s rotation.

“Lab detail’s still the same,” Quaritch answers. “Wainfleet, you’re on containment.”

My pulse kicks once.

“Yes, sir.”

Containment.

Her.

I lower my gaze to the weapon in my hands.

Blindass.

The word used to be distance.

A way to keep it light.

Keep it safe.

Now it feels different in my head.

Now it sounds like mine.

I run a thumb along the barrel and let the truth land where it wants to.

She’s not an asset.

She’s my girl.

The thought hits harder than anything else tonight.

My girl.

Not property.

Not control.

Just commitment.

I stand, sliding the rifle back into its locker with a metallic thud.

The room noise continues around me like nothing shifted.

But everything did.

Because I can’t walk into that lab tonight pretending it’s routine.

I know what we did.

I know what it means.

She's my bonded Mate

And if Quaritch ever finds out—

No.

Don’t go there.

I roll my shoulders back and grab my boots.

When I lace them, I’m careful.

Measured.

Because she’ll hear them.

She always does.

And when she hears them tonight, it won’t just be her guard walking into the room.

It’ll be the man who crossed the line and didn’t look back.

I tighten the last knot and stand.

I don’t smile.

I don’t soften.

But the word settles in my chest steady and unshakable.

Blindass.

My Girl.

My Säli'weh.

And I’m not walking away from that.