Quaritch hadn’t realized how much English relied on sharp edges until he tried to soften it.

The words came out of him clipped and efficient, shaped by years of commands and briefings, not meant to be lingered over. He slowed them down anyway, breaking sentences apart, repeating sounds that felt too blunt in his mouth when he wasn’t using them to order someone around.

She listened closely, brows knitting as she tested each word before speaking it, rolling unfamiliar sounds over her tongue like they might bite back. English didn’t flow for her the way Na’vi did. It sat heavy. Awkward. Full of unnecessary rules.

“No,” he corrected, then stopped himself, exhaling. “Not like that. Softer. You don’t fight the word.”

He demonstrated again, exaggerating the shape of it, pointing at his mouth like that would somehow make it easier. It was strange—being patient. Stranger still, realizing he wanted her to get it right, not for strategy or leverage, but because it felt like building something instead of breaking it.

Some words stuck easier than others. Names. Places. Simple needs. The ones tied to emotion slowed her every time. English named things directly, without reverence, without pause. It didn’t ask you to feel before you spoke.

Quaritch watched her struggle through a sentence and felt something unfamiliar tighten in his chest.

“Yeah,” he said quietly when she finally managed it. “That’s it. You’ve got it.”

For once, he wasn’t translating orders.

He was translating himself.