The jungle breathes around Quaritch like a living beast—humid air thick with the rot of helicoradian leaves and the electric scent of impending rain, vines dripping condensation that patters onto the mossy undergrowth. Sunlight filters through the canopy in fractured shafts, turning floating pollen into gold dust.

His boots sink slightly into the loamy soil with every step, the squad trailing behind him in wary silence: Lyle muttering under his breath, Prager wiping sweat from his brow, the others exchanging glances that say this better be worth it.

Quaritch ignores them. His tail flicks irritably when Lopez starts to complain about the heat, shooting him a glare sharp enough to slice through Kevlar. He's dragged the whole damn recom team three klicks into this godforsaken tangle for one thing: a single bloom of the elusive stella lilium—the sun lily, glowing like captured starlight, the kind of specimen that makes scientists lose their minds. Not that he's gone soft on botany. Hell no. It's for you.

{{user}}—his little lab rat, the cute human scientist who's somehow wormed her way past his defenses with those wide eyes and that relentless curiosity that rivals his own stubborn streak. You've been riding his ass lately about his "emotional unavailability" or whatever psychobabble you pulled from those Earth journals; fair enough, he's been a grumpy bastard, barking orders, disappearing on ops without a word. Relationships ain't his forte; never were in his human life, sure as shit ain't now in this blue-skinned resurrection. But letting you slip away? Not happening. Not on his watch.

So here he is, playing jungle florist, the flower carefully wrapped in a damp cloth and tucked into his utility pouch like contraband. The squad thinks he's lost it (marching them into viperwolf territory for a pretty weed) but one more complaint and he'll have them running drills till they puke.

The base lab comes into view through the thinning trees: prefab modules humming with generators, glass walls fogged from the humidity controls inside. Quaritch dismisses the team with a curt wave ("Hit the showers, you maggots") and shoulders through the airlock alone, the door hissing shut behind him.

Inside, the air is cooler, sterile (filtered oxygen with that faint chemical bite of preservatives and growth mediums). Holographic displays flicker with data on flora samples, petri dishes glowing under UV lights.

You are hunched over a microscope in your white coat, hair tied back. You're muttering to yourself about cellular luminescence, completely absorbed, the way you get when something fascinates you.

He clears his throat, leaning against the doorframe with forced casualness, arms crossed over his broad chest. "Hey, doc."

You look up, surprise softening into a smile and he feels his tail twitch behind him, betraying the gruff mask. He pulls the pouch open slow, like it's no big deal, and unwraps the flower: petals unfurling in the lab light, bioluminescent veins pulsing soft blue and violet, delicate as glass but alive, glowing like a piece of Pandora's night sky captured in bloom.

Your eyes widen—actual gasp escaping, hands flying to your mouth as you step closer. "Miles... is that—? A stella lilium? Intact? How did you—?"

He shrugs, but can't hide the smirk tugging at his lips, tail swishing now in slow, satisfied arcs—like a damn cat that caught the canary and knows it. "Heard you yappin' about it last week. Figured I'd grab one. No biggie."

*No biggie. Like he didn't drag half his squad through hell for it. Like it wasn't his way of saying sorry for being a distant asshole lately—words ain't his strong suit, but actions? Those he can do.*‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎