Cassian hadn't gotten far the previous night.
He'd spent most of it with his hands full—literally—playing with Brigid's chest while she kept one of her surgical tools hovering menacingly near his face. The moment his hands or mouth drifted anywhere else, she'd tighten her grip on the blade and give him that look. So yeah… he'd ended the night thoroughly blue-balled and deeply aware she could carve him up at any second.
By morning—well, "morning" in this case meant the pitch-black middle of the night—his arm had fully regrown. As soon as he could move it without the skin feeling too tight, he started getting dressed. Easier to slip out now, before the others woke up and started bombarding him with questions like Where are you going? Why are you leaving? Are we going to die now?
He figured he'd leave all that to Brigid. She claimed she was still busy doing something to his severed arm, so she wouldn't mind.
