He’d seen fear in a thousand forms. Defiance, too. Even hatred sharpened to a point.

But her eyes—those were different.

They tracked him with an ease that made his spine prickle, not because she was threatening, but because she knew. Every pause he took before a decision. Every nerve he pretended was dead. Every fault line he guarded like classified intel. She saw them all and never once tried to exploit them.

That was the dangerous part.

Her gaze lingered when his voice dropped, softened when his temper flared, steadied when the old ghosts surfaced behind his eyes. She didn’t challenge him head-on. She waited him out. Knew exactly when to push and when to simply stay.

Quaritch had spent his life believing weakness was something you either burned out or buried deep enough no one could reach it.

And then there she was—standing close, looking at him like none of it scared her.

Like she’d memorized his fractures and decided to love him anyway.

He exhaled slowly, something like a smile pulling at his mouth despite himself.

“Hell,” he thought, watching her watch him, “she’s got me dead to rights.”

And by God—

He loved her for it.