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Quistis had wanted to know Squall better, as an instructor and as a friend, but she hadn't wanted this. He looked like he'd bruise if she touched him, like he'd forgotten anything that wasn't Rinoa's weight on his back and the process of putting one foot in front of the other. He made a soft, wounded noise when they took Rinoa away from him, then looked away as though he hadn't known he could make that noise. He let her put a hand on his shoulder to steer him; if she hadn't noticed he was breaking before, she knew then.
She almost wanted to shield him from the others, take away the knowledge that Squall was vulnerable — but she'd thrown herself at the wall of Squall's indifference over and over again as his instructor, wearing down her own edges and leaving him unscathed. The certain knowledge that Squall could care, did care, that there was something beneath the ice that could be hurt — a small, cruel part of her couldn't let that go.
She was finally getting to know her student, and it only took travelling one half of the world and declaring war on the other to get there.