As much as he denied it (he had an image to maintain, didn't he?), Thorne did notice things.
Specifically, things that had to do with Cress.
He didn't miss the way he'd wake up to her side of the bed empty and cold and the spare blanket gone, and finding her curled up underneath the bundles of wires connecting the portsceens and netscreens, surrounded by the blissful whirs of technology to lull her to sleep when the nightmares became too much.
He didn't miss how in times of anxiety, she would reach for the phantom hair that used to hang down her body, looking for locks to wrap around her wrists and hands, cutting off blood flow and turning the tips of her fingers close to purple from the way she strangled her skin.
He didn't miss the way she would shrink when hospitals reached for her arm to retrieve a blood sample or inject medicine, flinching like an automatic reflex to the needle stationing itself into her vein.
He didn't miss the way she would grasp for the water bottle when it became hot out in fear of dehydration sinking into her bones again, leaving her to faint and burn from the inside.
He didn't miss anything that Cress so desperately wanted him to not notice, to just not see. She didn't want him to see the way the nightmares plagued her and the tap tap tapping of the keys of her keyboard were the only things that could calm her down, or how hacking records would relax her, a mindless task to distract her from the panic attacks or the flashbacks.
He knew she wanted him to see her as strong, as brave, as unflinching in the eyes of whatever could and would face them. She didn't like addressing how weak she felt, when everyone else seemed practically invincible in her eyes, even though Thorne knew that Cress was one of the strongest people he'd ever met, she couldn't see it.
So Thorne didn't mention them, only took her hands when she grabbed for her missing hair. He took his pillow and the blanket and joined her underneath the desks and computer screens when she left the bed in the middle of the night, saying that the dark room without her was too much like being blind and alone - he preferred it with her, no matter where. He reached out his arm to steady her shaking limbs when the needles start prodding into her, taking blood like Mistress Sybil used to. When she grabbed for a water bottle when the A/C broke or the temperatures reached high enough to break a sweat, he just pulled out another water bottle and poured it on himself with dramatic flair, flashing that wicked crooked grin that could make her laugh and forget her troubles, and forget that they weren't straggling against the harsh hot sand of the desert anymore, reaching to lick muddy dew off of branches if they ever had the chance.
He didn't miss those things, no matter how small they seemed. But he pretended to, for her.