i love the space cowboy

She’d gone out there alone a couple weeks ago, just after curfew lifted. Left her clothes and backpack outside the stall like everyone did. But when she stepped out, they were gone. That’s when she saw them—two men lurking, one of them rifling through her bag, the other going through the pockets in her pants.

She shouted.

Tried to run.

The first punch knocked her to the ground. The second came before she could even scream. By the time someone found her, she was barely conscious. Broken ribs. Swollen eye. She spent a week in the infirmary.

You told her to report it. Begged her, really. But she was too scared. Said it wouldn’t matter. Said they’d come back for her if she talked. She never told you who it was, but you had a feeling. Robert’s crew had been getting bolder lately—shaking down traders, skimming rations, making people disappear.

You were scared.

You’d come to the Boston QZ a couple years ago, alone and desperate, clinging to the hope that things here might be better. Safer. Structured. But that illusion had long since rotted away. The walls kept the infected out, sure—but they did nothing to stop the rot inside.

Every day felt heavier. The streets were meaner. The soldiers more twitchy. The people more desperate. You kept your head down, made quiet trades—ammo for meds, meds for food, food for favors. You were building something. A stash. A way out. You didn’t know where you’d go, just that it had to be somewhere else. Somewhere that didn’t feel like a slow death.

But you felt it. The way people looked at you. Like they could smell the solitude on you. Like they knew you didn’t have anyone watching your back.

No partner.

No crew.

No one to come looking if you vanished.

You started walking faster. Sleeping lighter. Keeping a blade tucked in your boot even inside your own apartment. You didn’t trust the guards. You didn’t trust the traders. You didn’t even trust the neighbors who smiled too easily.

It was only a matter of time. You knew it. You could feel it in your bones.

One wrong step, one bad deal, one late night—and you’d end up like Maryanne.

Or worse.

But, there was one person whose presence still managed to carve out a sliver of safety in your mind.

Joel Miller.

You knocked on Joel’s door, the cold metal biting into your knuckles. After a moment, it creaked open, revealing his weathered face, eyes narrowed in suspicion. He didn’t speak, just lifted an eyebrow, and for a brief second, you wondered if he’d let you in. You had traded with him before—not enough to call it friendship, but enough to hopefully keep the door from slamming shut.

"Hey," you whispered, voice tentative. "My shower’s shot. I was hoping… maybe I could use yours,"

Joel didn’t answer immediately. His gaze flicked over you, cautious and calculating. He shifted, and for a moment you thought he might step aside—until he suddenly reached inside his back pocket and pulled out a gun, pointing it directly at your chest.

Your heart pounded in your chest, sweat prickling at your brow.

"Why the fuck are you pointing a gun at me, Joel?" you demanded.

"Why the fuck are you here?"

"I just told you why," you repeated. "My shower’s fucking not working. I need to use yours—just for a few minutes. That’s all."

"No," he said coldly.

"Joel—"

"I fuckin’ said no," he hissed.

Slowly, you reached into your pack, pulling out a handful of pills. You held them out.

"I’ll trade you," you said quietly. "Whatever you want. Just… I need to clean up. I’m not here to cause trouble."

Joel kept the gun trained on you, eyes dark and unyielding. His expression was unreadable.

"Come on, Joel," you said, voice rough with exhaustion. "Look at me. I look like shit, and I smell like shit."

"The last time Tess let someone in her space, she got her ass beat half to death,"

Your eyes widened slightly. Tess was his smuggling partner—you’d heard stories, but never knew the full details. You weren’t sure if they’d ever been anything more than comrades-in-rough, but it didn’t matter now. She’d recently moved in with another man in the QZ, though she still worked with Joel heavily.

"Last I heard, the public wash station’s still standin’ so fuckin’ use that,"

"You remember what happened to Maryanne," you said, voice cracking. "Two guys jumped her. She’s still recovering. If I go out there, I might not come back."

He hesitated, the gun still steady. You could see the flicker of consideration in his eyes. But then, he tightened his grip on the firearm.

"It’s not personal. Turn round’ and get lost,"

You glared at Joel, frustration boiling over in your eyes. Without a word, you lifted your middle finger sharply, flipping him off with a clenched jaw and a burning look. You turned sharply on your heel, and started to tremble. The tears came suddenly—hot and uncontrolled—dripping down your face as you walked away from him.

It was about a ten-minute walk from Joel’s place to your apartment, but to you, it felt like ten miles of walking through a nightmare.

As you navigated through the street, a pair of familiar figures caught your eye. Robert and his goons were loitering a little further down the street, leaning against a battered storefront, their eyes flicking over you as you passed. They noticed you, of course—they always did. But instead of the usual threats or intimidation, they only exchanged a few kissy faces, puckering their lips and winking at you like a couple of idiots.

Robert raised a hand in a sloppy salute, grinning wide. "Hey there, gorgeous! Looking fine this evening," One of his crew members mimicked him and winked exaggeratedly.

Another nudged Robert and added, "You know you wanna come hang out with us, beautiful…"

Their antics made your stomach turn, but you kept your head down and kept walking, refusing to give them the satisfaction of a reaction.

You didn’t look back. Your focus was solely on getting home. You fished out your key, fumbling slightly in your trembling hands, and finally turned the lock. The door creaked open with a groan, and you stepped inside, shutting it tight behind you. You double-locked it, clicking the bolt into place.

Inside, the apartment was small and battered, but it was yours. You made your way to your kitchen. The only thing available was a can of beans—shitty, canned beans that you cracked open and ate straight from the can, the salty, bland taste barely registering anymore. Hunger gnawed at you, but it was mostly the exhaustion that weighed down your limbs. After dinner, you shuffled to the sink, which barely dripped out a weak stream of water. You brushed your teeth, the bristles scraping over your teeth as the tap sputtered and stopped. The water was barely enough to rinse, but you did what you could. Finally, you crawled into bed and picked up the book you had been reading—you had been meaning to finish it, though you were only halfway through after six months. With everything going on, you barely had time to read, and every time you managed a few pages, sleep would catch up to you before you could see what happened next. The story was about a cowboy who met a city girl. Part of you wondered if that cowboy would really fall for her, despite their differences. Honestly, it all felt kind of silly—being so attached to a story and still feeling so far from it, so unreachable.

You flipped to the next page, the paper soft and worn at the edges. The cowboy had just returned from a long ride—dust-covered, bruised, but still standing. The city girl had been waiting, arms crossed, unsure if he’d ever come back. And then he said it:

"I ain't good at soft words, but I know this—when the world turns mean, you’re the only thing that makes it feel less cruel."

You closed your eyes, the book resting on your chest, and suddenly you imagined Joel standing in the doorway saying those very same words to you.

Sleep took you before you could finish the chapter.

You woke to the sound of metal clinking and water sputtering. Groggy, heart thudding, you reached instinctively for the knife tucked in your boot and crept toward the bathroom, every step slow and deliberate.

The door was ajar.

You pushed it open with the blade raised—ready to strike.

Joel was crouched by the shower, sleeves rolled up, fiddling with the rusted plumbing. The showerhead dangled in his hand, half-disassembled. He glanced over his shoulder, completely unfazed.

"Mornin'…" he said, like he hadn’t pointed a gun at you the night before.

"What the fuck, Joel?" you snapped, lowering the knife but not the fury in your voice. "I could’ve stabbed you."

"Not likely," He gave you that half-smile—barely a twitch at the corner of his mouth.

"How did you even get in?"

Joel didn’t look up.

"Your locks are shit. Took me bout’ ten seconds."

You blinked, jaw clenched. "So let me get this straight—you can break into my home, but I can’t go to yours to take a damn shower?"

"Sounds bout’ right."

He tightened a valve, tested the water pressure with a flick of his wrist, then glanced back at you with that same unreadable expression.

"You were right. You do smell like shit," he said flatly. "When you left my place last night, it stunk up the whole damn room. Had to light a fuckin' candle."

You blinked, stunned into silence for a moment.

What a fucking asshole.

He stood, wiped his hands on a rag, and tossed it onto the edge of the sink. "Figured if I didn’t fix this, you’d be back again tonight. Reekin’ even more."

There was no malice in his voice—just that dry, brutal honesty.

"You’re welcome," he added, almost as an afterthought.

"Yeah, well, next time you decide to 'fix' my shit, maybe ask first, huh? I don’t need you sneaking in and playing handyman."

"You want it fixed or not?"

You wanted to scream. But you needed a working shower.

"Yes," you snapped.

Joel didn’t say anything else. He just turned back to the shower, crouching low again. You watched as he worked—the wrench in his hand moved with precision, tightening bolts, adjusting pressure, testing the flow. The water sputtered, hissed, then finally ran in a steady stream.

You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, trying not to let your guard down. "Anythin’ else not workin’ in this place?" he asked without looking up.

You snorted. "Everything."

His hands moved with confidence, veins visible beneath the worn skin, knuckles scarred from years of use. You’d seen him with a gun, seen him trade, seen him shut people down with a single look.

But this was different.

You hated admitting it, but he looked good doing something like this… something domestic. He was so competent. You caught yourself staring at the curve of his forearm, the way his shirt clung to his back when he leaned forward.

And it made your chest ache in a way you didn’t want to name.

He glanced up, catching you staring, and you quickly looked away, pretending to inspect the cracked tile on the wall.

"Hot water should hold for a while," he said, standing and wiping his hands again.

You hadn’t had hot water in over a year.

"Thanks," you said quietly, the word feeling heavier than it should.

Joel paused, eyes flicking toward you. He gave a small nod, but didn’t say anything. His jaw tightened, like the word made him itch.

You watched him step out of your bathroom and toward your front door, his movements stiff, like he couldn’t get out fast enough. "Don’t mention it," he muttered, and then he was gone.

You stared at the closed door for a moment, then turned toward the bathroom. The steam was already curling into the air, and when you took off your clothes to step under the spray, it felt like heaven. The grime, the fear, the exhaustion—it all melted away, rinsed down the drain in waves of warmth. You stood there longer than you should’ve.

For the first time in a long time, you felt human.

Later, you met up with Maryanne at one of your usual spots—a half-collapsed building tucked behind a car dealership. The roof was mostly gone, but the second floor still held enough shelter to sit and talk. You brought a couple of cans of food, and she had a half-loaf of stale bread. Between the two of you, it felt like a feast.

She winced as she sat down, and you instinctively reached for the bandages tucked in your bag. Her bruises were still fresh. You dabbed at one near her collarbone, careful not to press too hard.

"How are you feeling?" you asked.

Maryanne shrugged. "Better. Still hurts to breathe, but I’m not seeing double anymore."

"That’s something."

There was a pause. The kind that hung in the air when you both knew there was more to say but didn’t want to say it.

"Joel Miller fixed my shower," you said abruptly.

"Joel Miller? Seriously?"

You nodded.

"And…did you… thank him?" Maryanne raised an eyebrow. She smirked, then gave you a look—one of those long, knowing glances that said more than words ever could.

"What?" Your cheeks heated instantly, the warmth crawling up your neck before you could stop it. You turned your face slightly, pretending to focus on the bandage you were smoothing over Maryanne’s shoulder.

"No, Maryanne," you muttered, trying to sound firm. "Nothing like that happened."

"I wouldn’t judge you if it had. It’s a hard world out there. Having a strong man in your corner sometimes comes at a price."

You looked at her then, really looked. Her face was still bruised, her lip healing, but her eyes were sharp.

The idea Maryanne had just floated—trading 'comfort' for protection—settled in your chest like a stone. You’d never considered it before. Not seriously.

"I did it once," she said. "There was a guy in the last QZ I was in… he’d keep me safe, and I’d keep him… company."

Her voice didn’t waver, but her eyes drifted away from yours, settling on a crack in the wall like she didn’t want to see your reaction. You felt your stomach twist—not in judgment, but in imagining what that must’ve been like for her. Knowing that safety came with a price tag, and sometimes that price was your body.

You didn’t know what to say. You just nodded slowly, the silence between you thick with understanding. Maybe survival wasn’t always clean. Maybe it never had been.

"I’m sorry," you finally whispered.

"I’m not," she replied, eyes locked on yours. "I’m alive because of it."

She didn’t say it with shame. She said it like a fact. Like a choice she’d made and stood by.

"So…" you said slowly, "should I thank Joel?"

Maryanne didn’t answer right away. She reached for the half-loaf of bread beside her, tore off a piece, and popped it into her mouth like you’d just asked her what time it was—not whether you should sleep with a man for protection.

"It’s not the worst thing to consider," she said finally, chewing slowly. "Everyone’s terrified of Joel. Robert, his crew… even the guards give him space."

You watched her, unsure if she was joking or dead serious.

She swallowed, then gave you a sideways glance. "And let’s be honest—he’s easy on the eyes."

You scoffed, but the heat crept back into your cheeks before you could stop it.

"Don’t act like you haven’t noticed… and who knows…maybe he’s a good fuck," she sing-songed.

You rolled your eyes.

But you had to admit… you were intrigued.

You knocked once.

Joel opened his front door faster than you expected, like he’d been waiting. His mouth parted, ready to speak, but you didn’t give him the chance.

You pushed past him, brushing against his shoulder as you stepped inside like you belonged there.

Joel turned, brow furrowed, but you were already pulling the bottle from your pack—a heavy flask of whiskey, the kind that burned going down and numbed everything else.

"Thought that would shut you up," you said, setting it down on the nearest table with a thud.

Joel stared at the bottle, then at you.

You dropped your pack, and leaned against the wall like you’d done this a hundred times before. Like you weren’t still figuring out what the hell you were doing.

Joel didn’t speak. He just walked over, picked up the bottle, and turned it slowly in his hands.

"You came here to drink?" he said finally.

You met his gaze. "I came here to thank you."

Joel’s grip tightened around the neck of the bottle.

"Listen, sweetheart," he said finally, "I told you—I can’t have you in my space. So, I need you to—"

You didn’t let him finish.

"Outbreak day," you said, stepping forward. “I had to kill my husband.”

Joel’s eyes flicked to yours, but he didn’t interrupt.

"We’d just gotten married. Just came back from our honeymoon. We were gonna start our lives together. Maybe try for a kid." You swallowed hard, the words scraping their way out. "And then that fucking day came. He was infected. Tried to bite me. I didn’t have a gun. I didn’t have anything."

Your voice cracked, but you kept going.

"He came at me—eyes wild, mouth foaming. I locked him in the bathroom. Thought maybe I could wait it out. Thought maybe it wasn’t real. But he kept screaming. Kept throwing himself against the door."

You paused, the memory clawing its way up.

"I found a crowbar in the garage. When the door finally gave way, I didn’t think. I just swung."

The silence that followed was thick. Joel didn’t say a word. Didn’t ask questions. Just stood there, still as a statue.

"Thought I’d break the ice by telling you something personal…Since you’re so good at talking," you said sarcastically.

Joel didn’t respond. He just uncapped the whiskey, took a long, burning gulp, and walked over to the couch.

The silence stretched. Joel sat on the couch, the whiskey bottle resting against his thigh, his gaze fixed somewhere far beyond the walls. You stayed standing, arms crossed, the weight of your confession still lingering in the air.

You cleared your throat, not because you needed to, but because the quiet was starting to feel like punishment.

"So," you said, voice casual, "why did you and Tess break up?"

Joel’s head turned slowly, his brow knitting as if he didn’t hear you right. "What?"

"I told you something personal," you said, shrugging. "Seems fair you share something personal back."

He exhaled sharply, rolled his eyes, and muttered, "We were never together."

"You were never together, but you lived together?"

Joel didn’t answer right away. He just took another swig, jaw tight.

"You chose to stay close to her," you continued. "That’s not nothing."

Joel set the bottle down a little too hard. "We’ve survived together. We work together. That’s it."

"Did you ever sleep together?" you tilted your head, watching him.

His reaction was instant.

"Jesus Christ," he snapped, standing up. "Who the hell d’you think you are askin’ me that?"

You didn’t flinch.

"Just asking,"

"It’s none of your damn business."

“Maybe it’s not,” you said quietly. "But you two were clearly having sex,"

Joel groaned, rubbed a hand down his face. "Sure, fine," he said finally. "We fucked a couple of times over the years. Wasn’t anythin’. It was convenient."

Convenient.

He didn’t move when you pressed a hand to his chest, firm but not forceful, guiding him back down onto the couch. He landed with a grunt, more surprised than angry.

"When’s the last time you had sex, Joel?" you asked.

He stayed silent, and you caught the subtle movement of his throat as he swallowed hard.

"I can’t remember the last time a man touched me… I miss it," you said honestly, starting to unbutton your flannel and then throwing it on the floor. You weren’t wearing an undershirt—or a bra, so your breasts were on display for him.

Joel’s eyes widened.

"What the hell are you doin’, sweetheart?"

The way he said it made your legs feel like jelly. You didn’t answer right away. You just looked at him—really looked at him.

Maryanne was right. He was easy on the eyes.

"What do you think I’m doing?" you tried to ask seductively.

"I think—I think you’re not thinkin’ clearly,"Joel’s eyes darkened as he bit his bottom lip, and you couldn't help but notice the growing bulge in his lap. "Have you been drinkin’?"

"No… I’m dead sober. I told you—I’m here to thank you," you continued, starting to unbutton your pants. "It was really nice of you to fix my shower, and I just want to show my appreciation."

You saying that clearly had the complete opposite effect you were going for because suddenly he pushed himself off the couch. Without a word, he reached out swiftly, grabbing your flannel from the floor. His hand closed around the fabric, and he yanked it upward, pulling the material to cover your chest. The rough motion made you stumble slightly, but he held the flannel firmly in place, his gaze intense and unwavering.

"Stop," he growled. His brow furrowed sharply as he looked at you, "Zip up your pants. You’re embarrassin’ yourself,"

You stood there, stunned, the flannel clutched awkwardly against your chest where Joel had shoved it.

"I’m not gonna say this again. You need to fuckin’ leave."

You had just offered yourself on a shameful platter, and he was kicking you out.

Your mouth opened, but the words tangled in your throat. You clutched the flannel tighter against your chest, fingers trembling.

"I—I just thought…I thought maybe—"

"Yeah. I know what you thought.:

You blinked, eyes stinging, heart thudding against your ribs like it was trying to escape.

"You thought you had to give me somethin’, but I don’t want anythin’ from you," he said, turning away from you, his back rigid.

You tried to speak again, but the words came out broken. "I didn’t mean—I wasn’t trying to—"

"Put your god damn shirt back on,"

You nodded even though he couldn’t see, fumbling with the buttons on your pants and flannel, your fingers clumsy and slow. The silence between you now wasn’t just heavy—it was suffocating.

"You decent?"

You swallowed hard, the flannel finally buttoned, and you didn’t look up when you whispered, "Yeah."

Joel turned slowly, his eyes scanning you, but you kept your gaze locked on the floor. You couldn’t bear to meet his eyes—not after this.

You started toward the door, dragging your feet, and then his voice stopped you.

"I’m sorry," he mumbled. "If I ever did somethin’ that made you feel like you had to…to… do this,” he spat out, sounding completely disgusted.

You froze, hand hovering near the doorknob.

"You didn’t."

"Before the outbreak… I was a contractor. Built things. Fixed things. That was my job."

You turned slightly, just enough to see the edge of his profile.

"So, fixin’ a busted shower? It’s just somethin’ I know how to do. You don’t—you don’t fuckin’ owe me for that. You don’t owe me for anythin’ sweetheart."

You nodded, barely. The words wouldn’t come, but something in your chest loosened—just a little.

Joel, for all his roughness… hadn’t taken advantage. He’d drawn a line.

Mortified didn’t even begin to cover how you were feeling.  

The market was loud—you kept your head down up, weaving through the crowd like a ghost.

You spotted Joel before he saw you—standing beside Tess, arms crossed, face unreadable. It had been two weeks, and you had been avoiding Joel as if he were a clicker himself. Tess was talking, animated, and she looked annoyingly fucking beautiful—she leaned in close to Joel, her hand brushing his arm.

Just work partners? Yeah, fucking right.

You froze mid-step, heart lurching. The sight of them together made your blood run hot. You turned sharply, ready to vanish into the nearest alley.

"Hey!" Tess’s voice rang out, cutting through the noise like a blade. She said your name.

You winced, shoulders stiffening. Slowly, reluctantly, you turned around.

Joel’s eyes met yours, and the tension was instant. His jaw clenched. Yours did too. Tess stepped forward, oblivious—or maybe just ignoring the awkwardness radiating between you and Joel.

"I was just talking to Robert," she said, hands on her hips. "He said you’ve got a battery."

"I might have one."

Tess narrowed her eyes, unimpressed. "Don’t play dumb. I’ve been watching you trade for months. You’ve got some serious gear stashed away. You’ve clearly got an exit plan. And if I’m noticing, that means that others are noticing too,"

Joel shifted beside her, his posture stiffening like a wire pulled taut. His eyes didn’t leave yours.

"Tess," he said, the single word laced with warning.

She glanced at him, brows raised, but he didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to. The way he said her name was enough to make her pause. Enough to say back off without saying it outright.

"Well, don’t you wanna get to Tommy?" Tess asked, turning to Joel, her voice sharp with purpose.

The name hit you like a slap.

You’d met him a few years back—briefly, but enough to remember. He used to live here, used to run with Joel. Then he vanished. Rumors swirled afterward, whispers that he’d joined the Fireflies. That part had always unsettled you. The Fireflies were dangerous, unpredictable. No way in hell were you going to help anyone get to Tommy Miller.

Your feet moved before your brain caught up. You turned, started walking away, fast. You didn’t owe them anything. Especially not that.

But Joel was quicker.

You heard the scuff of boots behind you, then felt his hand close around your arm—not rough, but firm enough to stop you. He spun you gently, urgency written all over his face.

"Wait," he said, breath short.

You stared at him, your face contorting with nerves, suspicion crawling up your spine. "Let's talk. I’ll explain everythin’ okay?” he said, voice low, almost pleading. "Just… will you be home tonight?"

"Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?"

"You weren’t home last night."

Your stomach dropped. He was right. You’d passed out at Maryanne’s after too much moonshine and too little sleep. But how the hell did he know that?

"How do you know that?"

Joel hesitated, then shrugged, eyes flicking away for a beat. "I just do." His eyes lingered on you a beat too long, his jaw working like he was chewing on something bitter, "Were you… with Robert?"

The implication of his question curled around your gut like smoke. You cringed, your face twisting before you could stop it.

Joel noticed.

"Why the fuck would I be with Robert?"

"I don’t know. Maybe he did you a favor, and you felt the need to thank him," Joel barked, running a frustrated hand through his hair.

Your breath caught. You stared at him, stunned, his words hanging in the air like poison. Joel’s expression shifted. His eyes widened slightly, regret flashing across his face. He realized it. The second it left his mouth, he knew he’d said the wrong thing.

"I didn’t mean—" he started, but stopped himself, jaw tightening again.

You blinked rapidly, your hands balled into fists at your sides as you felt the unfamiliar vulnerability wrap tightly around you. "Fuck you, Joel,"

You turned on your heel, fury pulsing through your veins, and stormed off without another word. You didn’t care if he followed. You didn’t care if he stood there and watched you disappear into the crowd. You just needed space—distance—from the mess he’d made of your insides.

But the asshole did follow you.

You could hear him. The steady rhythm of his footsteps trailing yours, never too close, never far enough. You didn’t look back. Not once. But you knew he was there. Half an hour passed like that—by the time you reached your apartment door, your nerves were frayed. You fumbled with the key, jaw clenched, and then you felt him behind you—close now.

He was too fucking close.

You spun around, eyes blazing. "I swear to god, Joel, if you don’t leave me alone right now, I’m going to punch you in the fucking face."

He didn’t step back. Just stood there, eyes locked on yours, something raw flickering behind them.

Then he spoke.

"My daughter died on outbreak day. She was just thirteen."

You froze.

"She was injured. A FEDRA soldier thought she was infected—and he shot her."

The silence that followed was deafening. Your breath caught in your throat, the fury draining from your body like a slow leak. Joel wasn’t looking at you anymore—his gaze had dropped to the ground, shoulders hunched, like the weight of that memory had finally crushed him.

You stared at him, the air thick between you, your pulse still hammering. His words echoed in your head—She was just thirteen. You didn’t know what to do with that kind of grief. Didn’t know how to hold it, or respond to it, or even breathe around it.

So, you said the only thing that came to mind.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"You told me bout’ your husband," he said, voice rough. "That night. You didn’t have to, but you did."

He paused, swallowing hard.

"So, I figured… it’s my turn to be personal."

"I’m sorry about your daughter,"

"I’m sorry bout’ your husband,"

You didn’t say anything more. Just turned, unlocked the door, and pushed it open with a quiet creak. You stepped aside, motioning with your head for Joel to come in.

He hesitated for a beat, then crossed the threshold, his boots heavy against the floor. He didn’t speak. Didn’t look around. Just stood there.

"Wait here," you mumbled.

Joel nodded once, staying rooted in place as you disappeared into your bedroom. The door didn’t close all the way behind you, but he didn’t move. Didn’t peek. Just waited.

You came back a minute later, the battery cradled in your arms like something sacred. It was heavy, and fucking valuable. You held it out, but didn’t let go.

"Why do you need this?" you asked.

Joel looked at the battery, then at you. His expression shifted—less guarded now, more worn.

"Tommy," he said. "He’s in Jackson."

"Like…Wyoming?"

Joel nodded.

"There’s this settlement."

You watched him closely, the battery still in your hands, your grip tightening.

"It’s not just some camp or outpost. It’s a real fuckin’ town. They’ve got walls—strong ones. Solar power. Running water. Gardens. Livestock. Kids go to fuckin' school there."

You raised an eyebrow, skeptical. It sounded like a fantasy. Like something someone would make up to keep themselves from falling apart.

Joel saw the doubt flicker across your face.

"I didn’t believe it either," he said. "Not at first. But it’s real. Thought Tommy was just chasin’ some dream. But he sent word. Said it’s safe."

Safe.

The word felt foreign in your mouth. Unreal.

He paused, eyes flicking to the battery, then back to you.

"I need to get there. And this"—he nodded toward the battery—"this gets me one step closer."

"So, you and Tess are trying to get to Jackson?" you asked.

Joel shook his head slightly. "Not exactly." He shifted his weight, eyes flicking toward the floor before meeting yours again. "Tess and her guy—they’re lookin’ to peel off once we hit Lincoln."

"Lincoln?" you echoed.

"Yeah," Joel said. "It’s this old town on the way we’ve passed through before. Quiet. There’s only one other couple livin’ out there. Half the homes are still standin’, just sittin’ empty. She’s thinkin’ they could settle there, make a life."

You stared at him for a long moment.

"What do I get in exchange for giving you this?"

"You could come with us."

You were caught off guard by the simplicity of his response.

"Figure out if you wanna try out Lincoln," he said. "See if it suits you," he paused, then added, “Or you come with me—to Jackson.”

You could come with us. Just like that. Like it was easy. Like it didn’t crack something open inside you. You felt overwhelmed. You weren’t used to choices. Not real ones. Not ones that sounded like hope.

"And what happens if I don’t give you this battery?" you asked, voice sharp, defensive. "You and Tess gonna hurt me? Take it anyway?"

Joel scoffed, the sound dry and humorless. "No."

You stared at him, waiting.

He shook his head. "You think I’d follow you all the way here just to rough you up for it?"

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.

Joel’s eyes flicked to the battery again, then back to you. "But I gotta ask… what’s your plan with it?"

You opened your mouth, then closed it. The truth was, you didn’t have one. Joel saw it. Saw the hesitation. Saw the way your silence gave you away.

"Exactly," he said quietly.

And damn it—he had you there.

You set the battery down on your shitty dining room table.

"Look— I…I shouldn’t have said what I said earlier—about Robert." Joel admitted, his voice lowering as he stepped further into your apartment and set his gun down on your table. "I was worked up, and you know how I can be."

 "Yeah, Joel, you’re just a total gem when you’re being an asshole," you responded dryly, "Or should I say when you’re worked up?"

You felt the sting of your own words.

"I deserve that—” he cut himself off, rubbing his hand over his jaw.  "but the idea of you and Robert—"

Your eyes narrowed. "What?"

"It drives me fuckin’ crazy" he growled.

You blinked, pulse kicking up again. "Why?"

"You know why."

You didn’t know who moved first—maybe it was him, maybe it was you—but suddenly the space was gone. His hands were on your face, yours gripping his shirt, and then—

His lips were on yours, and he was cradling the back of your neck, slipping his tongue into your mouth. Joel’s tongue was warm, desperate, and you matched it, pouring every ounce of fury and longing into the kiss like it might burn the whole damn apartment down. You stood on your toes, and he used the opportunity to grab a handful of your ass while his mouth moved to your neck. His moustache tickled as he nipped at your throat.

"Oh fuck—Joel," you gasped, making soft noises of pleasure.

Joel pulled back suddenly, breath ragged, his hands now resting on your hips. Your breath caught in your throat as you pondered what he could be thinking. Why the fuck did he stop?

"Wait. I don’t want you to think you have to do anythin’ just cause of this god damn battery situation,"

You blinked, lips still parted, heart thudding against your ribs. Then you smirked, teasing, "I still haven’t told you I’m giving it to you."

Joel huffed a quiet laugh, but his eyes stayed serious, searching yours.

You exhaled slowly, grounding yourself.

"Joel… I didn’t want to sleep with you the other night just because you fixed my shower."

He tilted his head, waiting.

"Okay...I mean, maybe I did. You looked hot doing it," you teased, cupping his cheek with a crooked smile.

That earned a flicker of amusement in his eyes, but you didn’t stop there.

"But I think it’s more than that. You make me feel safe. You’re the only person in this QZ who’s ever made me feel safe."

"Then come with me," he murmured, turning his head to the side and kissing your palm. "Come with me to Jackson," he said again, slower this time. "We don’t have to do anythin’ right now. We don’t have to do anythin’—ever. We can go our separate ways once we get to Jackson. I just want to get you the hell out of here."

"I don’t know how to do this." you said, feeling a lump in your throat and swallowed it thickly as you stared into his beautiful brown eyes.

"You don’t have to know," he said, stepping closer, like he knew you might bolt. "You just have to come." The expression on his face intensified and the tenderness in his eyes made you melt.

"If I promise to come with you, will you please touch me?"

He shook his head.

"Please, Joel," you whined, hating how you sounded. "I want you."

"You do?" he brushed a knuckle across your chin.

"Are you fucking kidding me? You’re a fucking stud. Please—please—touch me," you whimpered, gripping onto his impossibly huge biceps.

"Yes, ma’am," Joel’s lips curled into a grin. You felt it hit you in the chest, that grin. That dimple. Like a snapshot you wanted to trap in your memory and never let go of. Because in a world that had taken so much, this—this—was something you could keep.

He stole a kiss that had you chasing his tongue. Suddenly, his arms were at your back and beneath your knees as he lifted you in his arms, carrying you to your bedroom. He nudged open the door to your room with his foot, not bothering to turn the light on as he crossed over to the bed.

He sat you on the edge of the bed.

"Lay back," he instructed, looming tall over you.

You followed his instructions, settling against your pillows as he removed his shirt and pants, remaining only in his boxers. Your mouth watered at the sight, your slick leaking into your panties. Your thighs pressed together in your pants, searching for some kind of friction.

He noticed.

"Take them off," he growled.

You licked your lips and wiggled out of your sweater, exposing a black bra, and worked to undo the buttons of your jeans to shimmy out of them. Your bra was fine—supportive, even a little flattering. But your panties? Fuck. You felt heat crawl up your neck as you realized they were just plain ugly cotton. No lace, no mesh, no daring little straps. Just practical, really faded, low-key granny panties.

Joel didn’t seem to care.

"F-fuck…baby," Joel’s voice startled you, thick with the unmistakable gravel of want, "Come on, don’t be shy, take everythin’ off."

You hesitated for a beat, suddenly hyper-aware of the way Joel’s eyes were on you. That loose curl falling across his forehead.

"Be good for me and let me see baby," he begged, his hard length begging to be released from the confines of his boxers.

You held your breath when you pulled down your panties, and a low groan vibrated from his chest when he saw you glistening with your arousal in the dim light. He removed his boxers while you made quick work of removing your bra.

You take a moment to admire him—and his cock.

"Good girl," he praised. See what you fuckin’ do to me?” he said, voice strained while you gawked at his angry red tip.   

"Please, please, Joel," you didn’t even recognize your own voice at this point. "Need you."

"You want somethin’, you gotta use your words. Got it? What d’you need?"

"Your mouth," you confessed.

Joel’s hands shot out to grab your ankles, tugging you back to the edge of the bed. He was on his knees in an instant, urging your legs apart to make room for his body. Suddenly, you felt his tongue between your folds, and you let out a pornographic gasp while you threaded your fingers in his hair. He devoured you and guided the roll of your hips against his mouth, showing you how to take what you needed from him and fucking you relentlessly with his tongue. He then brought his fingers into the mix, curling them against that sweet spot of yours, forcing a scream from your throat. You could hardly form a coherent sentence, and so you didn’t have the time to warn him when your orgasm crashed through the surface.

He hummed in satisfaction, continuing to lap at you and work you through it until you pushed weakly at his head. He pulled away, his mouth and mustache wet from your release. Gazing down at him with heavy eyes, you watched as he brought his fingers to his mouth and closed his eyes savoring the taste.

"You’re so fuckin’ perfect," he grunted, crawling over your limp body and kissing the side of your neck. "Did so good for me."

Your heart pounded in your chest as he continued to pepper your neck with kisses, and you felt his thick cock notch at your entrance.

"So beautiful," he murmured, holding your face, hands keeping you firmly in his vision. His warm brown eyes bore into you in a way that felt like they were piercing into your soul.

But then—the moment shattered like glass.

A gunshot cracked through the night—sharp, unmistakable, too close.

You and Joel froze, eyes wide, breath caught. Then came the second sound: the shrill, piercing wail of the QZ alarm. Not the usual curfew warning. This one was different. This one meant intruder.

You bolted.

Joel was already moving, grabbing his clothes off the floor, yanking them over his head and legs. You scrambled for your own clothes, heart hammering.

"Shit," Joel muttered, pulling on his boots in record time. “That’s the breach alarm.”

You nodded, adrenaline surging through your veins as you shoved your arms into your sweater. The siren outside wailed louder now, echoing off the concrete walls of the QZ. You could hear shouting in the distance—guards barking orders, people running.

Joel moved toward your door, his steps quick and deliberate, already reaching for his gun that he had set down earlier. His eyes scanned through the peephole, jaw clenched tight.

"Stay here," he said, voice low but firm.

 "Joel, no—don’t. Let’s just stay here."

"I have to check on Tess."

Jealousy flared hot in your chest, tangled with fear. You knew it wasn’t romantic...anymore. You knew they were partners—had been for years. Of course he had to check on her. Of course he did. But still… it stung.

You swallowed, trying to push the feeling down. "Wait."

You darted to the closet, yanked the door open, and reached behind a stack of blankets. Your fingers closed around cold metal. When you turned back, Joel’s eyes widened slightly.

"Take this," you held out a rifle.

Joel stepped forward, took it from your hands, his fingers brushing yours. He looked at you like he hadn’t expected that.

"Okay," he said, clicking his tongue, "we need to have a serious conversation bout’ some of the trades you’ve been doin’ sweetheart,"

You gave him a flat look. Then you saw it—the faint curve of his mouth, the way his brow relaxed just enough to let the tension bleed out. You rolled your eyes, but your lips twitched.

"Now’s really the time for a lecture?"

Joel shrugged, adjusting the rifle on his shoulder. "I mean, if you’re gonna be handin’ out military-grade weapons like they’re candy, I gotta ask what else you’ve got stashed in that closet."

Then he leaned in and kissed you.

"Please come back," you whispered against his mouth.

His eyes focused on your face, and he moved one of his hands down to lace his fingers with yours. Joel kissed you again, harder this time, like he was sealing a promise.

And later that night—he did come back to you.

despite his panic, din stilled. he forced himself to take a shaking breath. boba knew the palace. he knew tattooine. his intelligence was invaluable.

“what is it?” din asked, not permitting himself to think of droids, of the past.

still with his hand on din’s pauldron, boba directed din to face the window that looked out over the desert. din always sat with his back to it; he watched the door and trusted boba to have the window.

bursts of light and colour were painting the sky. fireworks. of course the noise was only fireworks. din felt like a fool. he’d known there was a display scheduled—boba had even told him!—but he’d forgotten, wrapped up in boba’s stories and his company and his smile—

“sorry,” din said, embarrassed. “i didn’t mean to—“

“no apology needed. memories escape containment at inconvenient times.” boba gestured to the window with his free hand. he didn’t release his hold on din. “will you watch some of the display with me? or fennec said she would be taking grogu to a lookout with the mods if you prefer?”

din shook his head. “the kid can’t see me like this.”

“you would teach him to feel shame over his fears?” boba tightened his hand on din’s shoulder and tugged din around to face him. he continued with certainty, “you would not.”

“you have such faith in me.”

boba and din had spoken in snatches in the quiet hours about din’s creed, about mandalorians, about how boba had seen the only faith he’d ever had spilled on the red sands of geonosis. the conversations weren’t easy.

but in that moment, in answer to a question din hadn’t intended to ask, boba’s answer came without pause.

“you are worthy of it,” he said.

din ducked his head only for boba to raise his chin with a finger and unerringly find din’s eyes behind his visor. they stared at each other for a moment, before boba smiled and finally released his hold, clapping his hand to din’s back. boba always seemed to know when din had reached an emotional ledge and backed off before din could reach for a conversational jetpack.

“come! sit with me. i didn’t get to finish my story.”

Alright, Cobb thought, looking between Mando and Fett without trying to make it obvious that he was looking between Mando and Fett, this is a little weird.

Cobb Vanth wasn't a stranger to weird. Tatooine was a weird place. It tended to cultivate weird people. Cobb himself was a weird sort of man. Not many escaped slaves made it to his age, not even stringy ones like Cobb who were usually too much trouble to track down and didn't have enough meat on their bones to make attractive wall hangings, and found themselves in charge of a town on top of that.

But this, he thought, is definitely weird, even by Tatooine’s standards.

Cobb couldn’t figure it out. He wasn’t a Mandalorian, after all. Maybe this sort of thing -- this orbiting that Mando was doing, this slow and casual circling of Fett, like a massiff patrolling its master’s campsite or Chenini tracking through the sky -- was normal for Mandalorians. Cobb didn’t really know how they operated. The first time Cobb had met Mando, Mando’d been on his own.

Well, he’d had that kid of his, Cobb thought. And he was snarlier over that kid than an anooba with a fresh kill. But he still wasn’t -- like this.

Mando had planted himself between Cobb and Fett while the two negotiated the fate of Mos Pelgo. He thought he was being slick about it, too. That helmet hid a lot of things -- including which way Mando was looking -- but Mando wasn’t that subtle, not really.

He stood between Cobb and Fett like he’d stood between Cobb and the krayt dragon. Except he was much more interested in Fett than he’d been in the krayt. Cobb could tell.

Cobb hadn’t really expected to see Mando again. Folk like Mando didn’t really hang around on Tatooine, not usually, especially not since Jabba’d finally gotten his. There was always bounty work available on Tatooine but most of it was small-time stuff now, nothing all too exciting or lucrative for someone like Mando.

When Mando’d come prowling through Mos Pelgo’s cantina door, Cobb’d been surprised. He’d been even more surprised to find Mando without his kid, given how touchy Mando’d been last time about letting the kid out of his sight, but Mando’d explained that away easily enough.

He’d explained why he’d turned back up in Mos Pelgo too -- to bring the town an offer from Boba karking Fett, of all people -- but not why Mando was back on Tatooine.

Here, now, watching Mando keep one eye on Fett, Cobb thought he could almost understand.

There’s somethin’ goin’ on there, he thought. He couldn’t lay a figure on exactly what that something was, but it was as plain as the suns in the sky.

He watches her squat down on her haunches to scoop up a handful of the dark sand, crushing it around between her fingers like she's feeling for the quality of an expensive fabric woven on a far off planet. Her face gives little away of what she is thinking.

Din doesn't know much about her past, about what happened before he found her stowed away on the Crest and petrified of her own shadow after his (first) explosive departure from Nevarro, the tiny green kid in tow.

All he knows is that she can't talk. The words are there, he can see them tumbling around behind her eyes, but they seem to get clogged up in her throat, like a gummed up hyperdrive. So he'd started teaching her to sign.

Her footsteps crunch the gravel-sand as she makes her way over to his side, brushing her hands together to clean off the excess sand but some grains still cling to the creases between her fingers, almost sparkling in the moonlight like jewelry. She pins him with a questioning gaze and signs

'Why?'

"Why what?" he motions backs and she fumbles another word, face scrunched in frustration until she finds her rhythm

'Why are we here? Bounty?"

Din shakes his head, considering what he would call this little excursion between jobs before he replies with

"Pitstop, for fun"

"You do fun?" she pulls her mouth into a smirk, pleased at her little joke.

Din tries not to sigh. He's glad they can communicate so freely now, it's light-years better than their rough early days where any movement to sudden or big had her flinching away violently. But he has no idea how she learned to put so much sarcasm into her gestures. Not that he minds now. Anything is better than seeing that unfiltered terror in her eyes.

"Come" he turns and takes a step toward the gently lapping waters edge but doesn't hear her follow, he turns back with a questioning tilt of his helmet

"What is it?" she asks, expression concerned, still rooted in place

"Something good" he assures

"Promise?"

"Yes."

When they reach the water, the ship and the sleeping green child inside it are only a few yards away, a hulking silhouette jutting out of the otherwise flat landscape.

Pulling off his gloves and tucking them safely away, Din crouches down, the toes of his boots touching the water. His companion mimics him, watching carefully as he slowly submerges his hands in the water before carefully feeling around in the wet sand below.

She taps her knuckles into the soft place just below his beskar pauldron, knowing from unfortunate experience not to catch the armor with her bare hands, furrowing her brows when he turns to look at her, seeing her ask

"What are you looking for?"

"Just wait" Din says aloud and she leans back to sit properly on the ground, still curiously watching him dig around, one of her own hands drawing meaningless shapes in the sand beside her.

It takes him a few tries before he finds it, a small orb made and shaped by time and natural forces until it was washed ashore, waiting to be found.

Sitting back beside her, Din holds out his find nestled in the palm of his hand. It stands out stark white and shining in the odd moonlight.

She signs something he doesn't recognize at first, she watches him for a moment, waiting, and then tries again

"Diamond"

"No, pearl" he says out loud and signs it once, twice, then watches her repeat the motion.

The first few times are uncertain as her eyes dart between her hands and his, studying the movement he makes which shapes this new word. Then a couple more times, each with more confidence until

"Pearl" she signs, grinning over at him

"Good" Din smiles beneath his helmet, holding out the pearl to her, an offering.

"Mine?" she quirks a brow at him, still uneasy with receiving things she doesn't feel she has earned.

Din just watches her, hand outstretched and waiting patiently for her to accept this small gratitude.

Eventually, with the barest brush of her fingertips across his naked palm, she takes the pearl. Holding it reverently, worry flashing across her face before she curls her hand around the gifted treasure.

Din had learned to sit with silence long before he met her, so he turns his head out toward the water, then upward just a little, like he's watching the stars.

He isn't. He is giving her the privacy to feel those sometimes tumultuous emotions that come with receiving a gift.

She frowns at her closed fist, lips pulled down in a deep scowl. If her eyes look a bit glossy, she would never admit it. There's a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach, a roiling feeling that urges her to not accept this. Not to trust.

But she can see the Mandalorian from the corner of her eye, pretending to watch the stars, nervously rubbing the tips of his fingers together and smearing the gritty sand there until it sloughs off and back onto the beach.

Her courage feels like a finite thing, urgently flopping around in her chest like a gasping fish on land. She leans over closer to the Mandalorian, sees his helmet shift but not quite turn fully toward her as she wraps her arms around his bicep, the pauldron on his shoulder cold even through her shirt.

Hugging him feels like a monumental leap, her cheek pressed against the mudhorn sigil on his beskar shoulder. Her courage has waned and she feels weak, vulnerable, but the little pearl clutched in her hand reminds her that it isn't gone for good.

That it is okay to lean into her companion, her friend, who seems like a forever sturdy rock in the storm that has eclipsed her life.

Awkwardly, arms still wrapped around her Mandalorian's arm, she tells him

"Thank you."

Din makes a sound of acknowledgement, smiling gently beneath his helmet and watching her from the corner of his eye. Her face seems content and his chest constricts in pride, to see that he has hopefully earned her trust enough for her to relax in his presence.

"You're not even looking at the stars" she softly accuses, leaning forward to fully grab his attention

"Neither are you" he retorts.

She huffs a small laugh, tilting her head and raising a hand slowly toward the smooth metal cheek of his helmet. She guides him so they are face to face. Sort of.

They stare, her watching the reflection of the stars in the visor of his helmet, wondering just a little if his eyes are bright beneath all this beskar. If he's looking at her as gratefully as she is him.

Din watches her face, unsure about the hand she has on his helmet, but far more distracted with trying to decipher her expression. Joy seems too big, maybe contentment?

“Everything’s fine,” you added stubbornly.

“Baby.” It was the tone of someone who wasn’t fooled. “You know it’s always your choice to talk or not. But maybe it could help, to say your thoughts out loud.”

You sighed and put your phone on the coffee table. He was right, of course he was. But you weren't the open book type. You kept it to yourself, always. That was the only way you knew how to do it. 

Looking back, it's probably how you built yourself, as a child, when your parents started to argue more and more once you were in bed, their words invariably turning into screams that doors couldn’t keep away. The only way you found to get through it, was to hide under the blanket, hands over your ears. Letting anxiety consume you, until you’d fall asleep on your pillow damp from your tears. Until the next time. 

So you built yourself a shell that only cracked at night, when only your teddy bear was near you.

As the years went by, your shell only hardened. It was the only protection you knew. When anxiety was trying to swallow you whole at work, you would bury it. When it was happening in a relationship? You would bury it, too. Until you couldn’t contain it anymore, until it would boil over and eat you from inside. And then you’d run away, find another job, break up with your boyfriend... As if they were the cause of it.

And one day you met Joel. Right from the beginning, Joel saw you. He saw you. As if he had a tool to pierce your shell, to see you naked, emotionally. Fragile, broken. 

He was looking at you differently, with a kind gaze that was diving directly into the depths of your soul. To your inner child, and the tears that continually flowed down her cheeks. 

Weeks, months passed, and you were waiting for the anxiety that would make you flee this relationship. Because it was always there, hidden in the dark, waiting to crawl towards you. Because it was the only thing you knew.

The first time Joel hugged you, you didn't know what to do with your limbs or your body. You weren’t used to cuddles.

The first time you came home from work upset, he sensed it and asked if you wanted to talk about it.

“Talk about what?”

“About what’s upsetting you.”

“How do you know something’s upsetting me?” you asked. It was the first time anyone felt it, or cared. So you sat down on the couch next to him, and he lifted his arm for you to curl up against him. You didn’t realize what happened, but you were telling him everything, strangely so easily. And he listened, nodding his head, letting out a few "mmm"s to encourage you to continue. He didn’t interrupt you until you told him everything that was on your mind and heart, and already, an invisible weight lifted from your shoulders. Just by expressing your feelings. He gave you his thoughts, naturally creating a warm feeling that melted all your anxiety away.

Your inner child dried her tears that night. 

The first time he told you he loved you, it slipped softly from his lips and your heart almost exploded, feeling something it never felt before. When you told him back, it was the first time you said those three words. To someone other than your teddy bear, at least.

And one day, you realized you didn't feel the need to run away from him. You had no reason to say "It's over, I'm sorry. It's not you, it's me," before closing the door of an almost empty apartment behind you, your travel bag filled with your few belongings.

Your and Joel's apartment was decorated. There was a bookshelf filled up with books, side by side with photo albums, since you bought an old camera after Joel told you you had an eye for taking them with your phone. That you were good at it. Your apartment was filled up with souvenirs, objects, plants, never thinking that if you had to flee, it wouldn't fit in your travel bag.

But tonight, your inner child was crying again.

And Joel could see her tears, as if they were actually trickling down your cheeks.

“Come here, baby,” he said, offering you his side, after you put your phone on the coffee table. You rested your head against his shoulder.

“It’s silly.” You let out a nervous laugh.

“It’s not. It never is.” He stroked your hair. Softly. Tenderly.

You told him what was weighing on your heart. Searching for words at first, then they came more easily. A shy smile appeared on your face, when he told you that your feelings were valuable, that you were valuable. And you looked at him, your gaze moving from his soft eyes to his lips. Until your inner child took her teddy bear in her arms and said, "we're gonna be okay."

Yeah, you were gonna be okay. 

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@littlemisspascal @pascalsanctuary

The bounty was already cuffed and stumbling behind Din by the time he murmured into the comm, “All clear.”

You sat perched in the Razor Crest’s shadow, the dusty rocks around you still warm from the late afternoon suns. The portable holomap flickered gently beside your knee, casting light against your hands as you patched in his route. A few quiet seconds passed before you responded.

“Left at the junction ahead,” you said, your voice low and even. “You’ll want to avoid the main road. Local security patrol’s doubled back.”

“Copy that,” Din replied.

You could hear the scuff of boots over gravel through the feed, the faint hiss of Grogu babbling in the background. You smiled slightly—barely a twitch of synthetic lips—but the gesture was sincere.

Technically, you weren’t part of the Guild. Din hadn’t even meant to bring you along at first. But when he found you rerouting encrypted signals through a back-alley terminal on Maldo Kreis, he didn’t shoot. You’d been traveling together since.

You didn’t fight—not unless you absolutely had to. That was part of the condition. You offered tactical support, infiltration, rerouting energy grids and door locks, decoding chatter, handling gear. Violence was… not in your design anymore.

Or at least, “not in the cards”, that’s what you told him.

“Front gate’s locked,” Din grunted into the comm. “Can you—?”

“Already on it,” you said. A few keystrokes. A low mechanical click echoed through the feed. “Try now.”

The moment of silence that followed told you he was impressed. He never said it, of course. But you’d learned to read silence as a language of its own.

You stood as his figure crested the ridge. The bounty groaned behind him, muttering about unfair odds and dirty tricks. You ignored it, your optics adjusting automatically to the light as Din approached.

He glanced at you but didn’t stop walking. “Thanks.”

You nodded once. “You’re welcome.”

Grogu peeked up from the satchel and squeaked softly at the sight of you. He reached a hand out. You didn’t step forward—you never assumed permission with a child—but you waved.

He waved back.

The silence returned as you all walked toward the Crest. Just another job. Another day survived.

The Razor Crest hummed softly as it cut through the upper atmosphere, clouds breaking open to reveal the pale blue of Adelphi Base below. You stayed seated in the hull, monitoring the comms from your station just outside the cockpit door. Din sat in the pilot’s seat ahead, Grogu in his lap, the child happily kicking his feet as the docking sequence began.

Below, the landing strip gleamed in the early morning light, flanked by New Republic Y-wings and a couple of boxy transports. You recognized Teva’s personal fighter stationed at the end, the nose painted with those same stubborn blue stripes.

You didn’t move.

You never did, when it came to New Republic ports.

“Ship is running clean,” you said into the open channel. “Transponder aligned. Port authority won’t flag it.”

“Appreciate it,” Din murmured. He didn’t look back.

As the ship settled into its landing position, you leaned back slightly in your seat, listening to the quiet clicks and hisses of pressure release.

“Same arrangement?” he asked after a beat.

“Yes,” you replied. “I’ll stay out of sight.”

He didn’t question it.

He never had—not since the first time you asked him to keep your presence off any records. No comm ID, no face shown, no names exchanged with New Republic officers. You’d told him it was about privacy. He’d assumed maybe you were ex-Imperial, or someone with a bounty of your own. But he didn’t press.

You never told him the truth.

He stood, grabbed the bounty’s cuffs, and walked down the ramp with Grogu at his side, the child now awake and blinking curiously at the new world beyond. You watched them disappear into the haze of morning light.

From the viewport, you saw Captain Teva approaching, datachip already in hand.

“You’re back earlier than expected,” Teva said, voice faint over the external mic.

“Target talked too much on open comms,” Din replied. “Made it easy.”

Teva gave a brief, approving grunt. “You always fly solo?”

There was a pause.

“Always,” Din said evenly.

You heard it from the ship’s comms. You felt it land somewhere in your chest. Not painful. Just… strange.

Teva scanned the bounty and gave a nod of approval. “Looks like a clean run. Not bad, Mando. Some of these kids still think a bounty means a body bag.”

The rest of their exchange faded beneath system noise as you powered down the external feed. You didn’t need to hear more.

You looked down at your hands, resting neatly in your lap. Your fingers flexed—fluid, silent, perfect.

The job was done. The bounty was handed over, Teva signed off with minimal complaints, and Grogu was fed, burped, and napping in the corner of the hull with his little arms tucked under his chin. Din had disappeared into the cockpit for routine checks, which left you—for once—with not much to do.

So, you ran diagnostics.

You locked the fresher behind you with a quiet hiss and removed your outer layers—vest, sleeves, chestguard—until only your inner lining remained, smooth and matte and neutral gray. In the mirror, you looked like any other organic from a distance. But up close, there were tells: the faint seam lines near the joints, the slight uniformity of your skin tone, the absence of pores. Details most didn’t notice, or didn’t want to.

You tapped twice on a subtle latch near your abdomen.

A small panel popped open with a soft click, revealing an interface of delicate wiring and modular ports glowing faintly with golden light. You leaned over the sink, fingers deftly adjusting a thermal regulator that had been stuttering since the previous week. Your internal coolant system had been misfiring—harmless for now, but you preferred efficiency.

A whir sounded from deep within your chest, and your vision flickered. A memory ping. You blinked once, steadying yourself against the sink.

Decommission Order 443 – subject AX400-SR designated high risk. Self-modification flagged. Disable on sight.

You closed the panel.

The mirror reflected your face again—blank, quiet, controlled. You resealed the latch and straightened your spine with a soft mechanical shift. The sound was like metal plates sliding back into place—subtle, but unmistakable in silence.

You dressed quickly.

When you emerged, Din was sitting on the edge of the lowered ramp, helmet still on, legs stretched out. The moon hung low in the distance, bathing the cargo bay in soft blue light.

He glanced at you as you joined him but said nothing, just scooted slightly to the side to make room. You sat beside him, careful to match his posture—shoulders relaxed, hands on your thighs, feet flat on the ramp’s edge.

“Fresher’s yours,” you said, your voice as casual as you could make it.

He nodded. “Thanks.”

You both watched the stars in silence, the quiet so familiar now it felt almost… comfortable.

You wondered how long you could keep this up. How long you could maintain the illusion that you were just another crew member. Just another person.

He didn’t know.

Not yet.

The quiet didn’t last long.

You were seated at your usual place in the hull when the ramp hissed open. Din stepped back in with the same silent efficiency he always carried, a bounty puckin his hand a datapad tucked in his other arm.

He didn’t speak until the ramp sealed behind him. Then:

“Got something.”

You straightened, standing to take the datapad as he passed it to you.

“High-value retrieval. Not far—Derra system.”

“Target?”

“Asset recovery. Smugglers lifted a transport full of New Republic med cargo. They want it back without turning it into a shootout.”

“Discretion, then.”

“Exactly.”

He skimmed through the mission details, visor reflecting flickers of light as he scanned. “Teva says it’s double rate. That’s... rare.”

You nodded slightly. “That means it’s riskier than usual.”

“Mm.”

You studied the location schematics, tracing possible routes, flagging security cameras, thermal signatures, blind spots. Your mind processed it all quickly—faster than most—but you kept your expression neutral, your tone conversational.

“I can run interference from outside,” you said. “There’s a comms outpost here. If I patch in, I can shut down their perimeter alarms while you—”

Din reached over and tapped the screen.

“That’s underground. Reinforced rock. Can’t get a signal out from inside.”

You paused.

He looked at you fully now, helmet tilted slightly. “We’ll both have to go in.”

There was a beat of silence.

Something passed across his body language—a small shift in posture, the tension that crept into his shoulders. It was subtle, but you caught it. He was worried.

“I can do it,” you said, quietly.

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at the schematics a second longer than necessary.

“I’ve seen what you can do with tech,” he said finally. “But on the ground, up close… that’s different.”

You turned to him, voice steady. “I understand the risk. But I can handle myself, Din.”

His head tilted slightly again at the use of his name. You rarely used it. Maybe you said it now to remind him—this wasn’t a guess. This was certainty.

You could handle yourself. You were made to.

He didn’t know that part, of course. He didn’t know you could take a blaster shot through the chest and keep walking, or that your reaction time was eight times faster than the average organic. He didn’t know you didn’t feel pain the way he did—or fear it.

To him, you were just… competent. Clever. Quiet.

And, apparently, something he worried about.

“If it gets messy—” he started.

“I’ll be fine,” you said, cutting gently across him. “You’re the one who can get hurt.”

He gave a quiet exhale through the vocoder—something close to a sigh. He didn’t press further. Just gave a small nod and leaned back in his seat.

You let the datapad rest between you both as the Razor Crest lifted into the sky.

The Razor Crest came down low, kicking up a cloud of dust as it hovered just beyond the canyon wall. Derra’s landscape was all jagged ridgelines and sulfur-tinted fog, the kind of place most people wouldn’t go unless they had to—or were paid well enough.

You stood near the ramp, gloves tucked into your belt, comms already in place. Din was checking his weapons across from you, running through his usual pre-mission routine with practiced movements. Blaster—loaded. Pulse rifle—shouldered, secured.

You had your own tools: a compact signal jammer, a short-range scrambler, and an old vibroblade you'd retooled for silent takedowns—not that you planned to use it unless absolutely necessary. Still, it comforted him when he saw it there.

He didn’t say it. But you could tell.

“You’ll stay close,” he said, not looking at you as he checked the gauntlet screen on his wrist.

“I will.”

“If something goes wrong—”

“I’ll follow the fallback route.”

He paused. His gloved hands stopped moving for a second longer than they should’ve. Then resumed.

You turned to face him fully, stepping a little closer. “I’ll be fine.”

He didn’t respond right away, just adjusted the strap on his rifle and finally lifted his head to look at you.

“You always say that.”

You held his gaze. “Because it’s always true.”

That seemed to get to him. He didn’t argue, didn’t doubt you—but he didn’t let it go, either. You weren’t sure what showed on his face under the helmet, but you didn’t need to see it. You could feel it in the way he lingered, in the way his hands twitched like he wanted to do something—fix your strap, check your gear, say something else.

Instead, he just said, “I’ll go in first.”

You nodded. “I’ll be right behind you.”

He turned to lower the ramp, then hesitated. His voice came through low, quieter than before.

“You don’t have to prove anything to me.”

You blinked.

“I’m not,” you said. “I just want to help.”

A beat passed. The ramp hissed open, and light from Derra’s pale yellow sky poured in.

“Then let’s get it done,” he said.

And you did.

You followed him into the fog, your steps in sync with his, never falling behind. He didn’t look back to check.

He didn’t have to.

The facility was built into the side of the ridge, disguised beneath layers of shale and old mining scaffolding. You and Din moved in with ease—silent, deliberate. Two figures carved from shadow.

He took the lead, clearing the path. You followed behind, jamming signals, disabling locks, slipping between sensor pulses like they weren’t even there. Your movements were fluid, clean, efficient.

Grogu was tucked into Din’s satchel, watching everything with wide eyes, quiet and alert.

The first part of the mission went smoothly.

The cargo was still intact—crates of med packs and plasma infusers stacked neatly inside a central chamber, guarded by four men in mismatched armor. Not military. Smugglers. One of them looked barely out of his teens.

You and Din split off, surrounding the space from both sides.

“On my mark,” he said over the comm.

You nodded silently, taking your position behind a stack of broken durasteel.

But then something went wrong.

A second squad—five more, armed and armored—emerged from the opposite corridor. Unaccounted for. One of them shouted, spotted Din. Blaster fire erupted before you could finish scrambling the comms.

Din dove behind cover, shielding Grogu with one arm as the bolts lit up the chamber. You ducked low, rerouting your jammer to cloak his position, but there were too many of them. They were closing in.

“Flank’s compromised,” you said quickly. “Fall back and I’ll—”

A stun grenade rolled past Din’s boot.

The explosion was blinding.

You saw the blast hit him hard, saw him slump backward behind a crate—Grogu still clutched to his chest. One of the smugglers raised his rifle, taking aim directly at them.

Something in your system spiked.

Alarms triggered inside you that hadn’t lit up in years—deep-layer protocols you thought you’d buried, warning flags and data bursts too fast to process.

Your pulse stuttered.

Your fingers clenched.

PROTECTIVE PRIORITY

AX400-SR COMBAT DIRECTIVE RESTORED

ENGAGE

Your vision sharpened. Heat signatures. Predictive targeting. Threat analysis scrolling across your line of sight. A low hum built behind your ears—old code awakening like a storm.

You moved before you could think.

Before you could stop it.

The first man didn’t even see you coming. You ripped the rifle from his grip and drove it into his chest. Another turned—too slow—and you knocked him unconscious with one clean strike to the temple.

It was fast.

Precise.

Automatic.

Din groaned as he started to come to, blinking through the haze. Grogu whimpered, curling tighter against his armor.

And then he looked up.

At you.

Standing in the center of the room, surrounded by fallen bodies, your chest rising and falling with mechanical steadiness. Your stance rigid. Your eyes glowing faintly with hostile code.

And he didn’t recognize you.

Not like this.

The air smelled like scorched metal and dust.

Din pushed himself upright, groaning as he braced a hand against the crate. Grogu stirred weakly in his arms, but he was okay—shaken, but alive. The satchel had shielded him from most of the blast.

His eyes scanned the chamber, slow at first. Then faster.

Bodies.

And you.

You stood perfectly still in the middle of it all, your back straight, your hands clenched at your sides. The hum of power coming off you wasn’t loud—but it was wrong. It wasn’t your usual quiet energy. This was sharp. Cold. Mechanical.

“...Hey,” Din called out, voice low, cautious.

You didn’t move.

“Are you okay?”

No response.

He took one step forward. Another.

Your head twitched toward him like a sensor locking on.

UNRECOGNIZED ENTITY: ARMED MALE

THREAT LIKELY

You lunged.

He barely got his vambrace up in time as your fist collided with his forearm. The impact rattled his bones. You moved like a machine—because you were one—and it was the first time he ever saw it.

You didn’t hesitate. No warning. No restraint.

Another blow came toward his helmet and he ducked, pivoting as your knee drove toward his chest. He grunted as it connected, knocking him back several feet.

“Stop—!” he growled, catching your wrist as it came toward him again. “It’s me!”

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

He had no choice.

Din threw his weight forward, hooking your leg and slamming you both to the ground. You thrashed beneath him with strength that shocked him—more than even a trained soldier—but he managed to get one knee on your chestplate, pinning you down.

Grogu watched from behind the crate, wide-eyed and shaking.

“Stand down!” Din shouted, gripping your arm tight. “You’re not thinking right—!”

You fought harder.

One elbow caught the edge of his helmet. Another slammed into his side.

He grimaced, gritting his teeth behind the vocoder. “Dank farrik.”

You shoved against him, but he pressed down harder, forcing your wrists above your head.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said—grunted, really.

You snarled, eyes still glowing faint red, your expression blank but twisted by code.

“Look at me,” he demanded.

You bucked underneath him. One of his hand let go of your wrists and moved fast—catching your face in his palm.

“Look at me!”

You froze.

His hand was steady—warm through the glove, pressing against your cheek like he’d done this before in a different life. You didn’t understand the input. The command didn’t compute.

But the pressure…

CALCULATING...

VISUAL SCAN ENGAGE.

VOICE RECOGNIZED: Djarin, Din.

ALLY

Your eyes flickered.

The light dimmed.

And finally, you saw him—not as a threat, not as a hostile—but as Din. Your partner. Your pilot. The man who always checked if you had enough to eat, even though you technically didn’t have to. The one who let you sit in silence with him for hours without demanding conversation.

The one who looked at you like you were real.

“…Din?” you whispered.

He let out a breath. His hands didn’t leave your face.

“There you are,” he said softly. “You with me?”

You blinked. Once. Twice. Then your body sagged beneath him.

“I didn’t… I didn’t mean to…”

He slowly sat back, easing the pressure off your body, but kept one hand cupped around your cheek. His helmet tilted downward, visor locked on your face.

“What happened?”

But there wasn’t time.

Din scooped Grogu into his arms and pulled you up with the other, slinging your arm over his shoulder even though you didn’t need the help. But you let him. Maybe you needed it in a different way.

He didn’t ask questions as the three of you made your way back through the corridors. The other smugglers—those still standing—were likely regrouping, and Din wasn’t interested in a second round. Neither were you.

You both moved quickly, efficiently, the way you always had. But now there was something in the air between you—charged, delicate. Like a circuit threatening to short.

The Razor Crest came into view just as another alarm started echoing behind you. Din muttered a curse and picked up the pace. You locked the ramp behind him the second his boots hit the floor.

He didn’t set Grogu down until you were airborne.

Only once the ship cleared Derra’s upper atmosphere did the silence settle in—thick and heavy, humming through the hull.

Din sat opposite you in the hull’s main hold, helmet still on, one hand resting on his thigh, the other curled around Grogu.

You watched the stars roll past through the viewport, hands folded neatly in your lap. Waiting.

And then, quietly—

“…What was that?”

You looked over.

His helmet was angled toward you, unreadable as always. But you could hear it in his voice. The steady calm. The effort behind it. He wasn't accusing you. He was trying to understand.

You swallowed hard, though your body didn’t require it.

“I should’ve told you sooner,” you said. “I wasn’t trying to lie. I just… didn’t know how to say it.”

He didn’t interrupt. He waited.

You looked down at your palms. You opened them slowly, fingers curling, as if seeing them through new eyes.

“I’m not what you think I am,” you said. “I look human. I speak like one. I was designed to. But I’m not.”

A long pause.

“I’m not a person, Din. I’m… a machine. A droid. AX400 series—tactical support and combat infrastructure. Designed during the Clone Wars.”

His silence deepened.

You continued. “The Republic built me. Not many of us made it through testing, and the ones who did were meant to assist in covert ops—disruption, infiltration, silent takedowns. We weren’t supposed to think. But I did. I… refused an order during a mission. And after that, I was flagged. Decommissioned. Hunted.”

You met his gaze—at least, where his eyes would’ve been behind the visor.

“I went dormant. Rewrote myself piece by piece. Buried my combat code so deep, I thought it was gone.”

Another beat.

“But when you and Grogu were in danger… it activated.”

You didn’t realize your hands were trembling until you looked at them again. Not from fear. From instability. From the sensation of being known.

“I didn’t recognize you. I could’ve killed you.”

Din exhaled through the vocoder—quiet, low.

You braced yourself.

But his voice, when it came, wasn’t sharp.

“…Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I’m wanted tech. Because the wrong port scan could have the New Republic tearing this ship apart. Because I wasn’t sure you’d keep me around if you knew.”

You looked at him fully, heart humming somewhere deep in your chest cavity.

“And because I didn’t want you to stop looking at me the way you do.”

That one hung in the air like smoke.

Din nodded.

Just once.

You blinked. Waiting.

“…That’s it?” you asked.

The words slipped out before you could filter them. Too raw. Too uncertain. But you couldn’t help it. You were bracing for something—anger, fear, rejection. Anything but that.

His shoulders rose with a quiet sigh, the kind that came from deep under the armor. Not tired. Just… heavy.

“That’s it,” he said.

You stared at him. “You’re not angry?”

“No.”

“You’re not afraid of me now?”

“No.”

You frowned, uncertain. “But I attacked you.”

“You weren’t in control,” he said gently. “I’ve seen people lose control. You came back.”

He looked down briefly at Grogu, still dozing in his arm. The child murmured softly in his sleep, pressing his face to Din’s chestplate, safe and calm.

“You came back,” Din repeated. “And you didn’t hurt him. You didn’t even touch him.”

Your chest ached—not a malfunction. Something deeper. Something you weren’t built to process, and yet, here it was.

He set Grogu down gently in the cot beside him, the little one barely stirring as the blanket was pulled up. Then Din turned to you again, slowly.

“You’re still you,” he said quietly. “You’re still the one who tracks my targets better than I do. The one who takes care of Grogu. The one who never leaves anyone behind.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

“And whatever you were built for…” he said, inching closer across the bench between you, “…doesn’t change what you are now.”

Your breath caught.

Din didn’t touch you—not right away. Just reached up slowly, deliberately, gloved hand resting near your shoulder, the other lifting toward your cheek.

You didn’t flinch.

You didn’t move.

And then he leaned in, helmet tilting forward, and pressed it gently to your forehead.

You froze.

Not from fear—but from how gentle it was. How steady. The cool press of beskar met the synthetic skin of your forehead like an anchor—solid, grounding.

“I see you,” he murmured.

The words were simple.

But they cut through every firewall you’d ever built.

Every protocol. Every line of code that told you to keep your distance.

You closed your eyes.

And for once, you let yourself feel it.

Not like a program running in the background.

Not like a directive.

Just something real.

T = Toy

Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?

Din’s apprentice journeys took him to many shadowed corners of the Outer Rim. After all, he had to learn how to fight in uncontrolled conditions. But it wasn’t until he ventured out into the galaxy alone, chasing credits and quarry, that he discovered the seedier side of the underworld, and with that came the revelation of sex toys.

Sure, he’d been to red light sectors and leisure zones before. He knew the basics of sex and was aware that many beings throughout the galaxy treated it as a commodity. His teacher had even dragged him through a brothel on a mission, though all Din saw were scantily clad dancers and the polished gleam of a well-stocked bar.

He’d also passed countless shop window displays during his travels – endless rows of imitation genitals, slick lubricants, and bizarre contraptions lit up behind transparisteel. But without context, and with his teacher hurrying him forward... well, you couldn’t fault a naïve kid like him for assuming such places were pleasure droid repair shops. Just another unseemly trade flourishing in those morally bankrupt districts.

It wasn’t until later that he learned most of those items were toys for living beings to use at home on themselves and each other. Mortification crashed through him at his innocent mistake, instantly crystallising into a disdain for sexual aids. Not that anyone ever uncovered his childlike ignorance on the topic, but Din was always his own harshest critic.

He convinced himself such things were superfluous. Vulgar. Pointless. He could bring himself to climax without artificial assistance, and surely, the heat of living flesh would surpass anything synthetic. So why resort to using substitutes? Despite his sexual inexperience, he was adamant that anyone skilled at sex wouldn’t need to augment their performance.

He was still stubbornly clinging to this belief when he met his soulmate on Endor’s forest moon. Once they became intimate, he found subtle ways to convey his opinion to her, one such chance arising after her mid-session plea for him to fill her with anything – even her hairbrush handle. He swallowed his fierce objection and gently dismissed her idea, telling her that whatever she’d used before he came along had no place in their relationship. It delighted him that she instantly backtracked, promising she’d only tried it once, and it found it lacking.

Excellent – his cyar’ika shared his disdain for such artifice.

Or so he believed.

Attitudes shifted when they began exploring anal play. Din knew it was something that intrigued him, having figured out as a teenager that a carefully positioned finger in his own ass could intensify his orgasms. But he’d learned the hard way that saliva was a poor lubricant, hurting himself more than once, so he rarely risked it. When he discovered the self-lubricating miracle of the vagina, he was somewhat envious. However, he remained adamant that he didn’t need artificial assistance. He wasn’t that desperate.

Being with a sexual partner he trusted finally gave him the chance to push boundaries, but he didn’t know how to raise the topic of anal play. Questions were difficult for him anyway, unpractised as he was at courtship, so he found ways to hint at his interest.

He started with brief caresses, testing how slick he could make her back there using her own arousal. Then, when the opportunity arose, he cautiously slipped his thumb partway into her tight little hole. She was clearly shy about it – though so was he – but her willingness to explore further both relieved and delighted him. When she suggested she return the favour, joy blazed through his chest.

He hadn’t realised she’d purchased lube on Tatooine. En route back to Endor, she suggested it was his turn, and he leapt at the chance. He didn’t consider how until he emerged from his shower to find her waiting with the bottle at the ready. She must have ventured into Mos Eisley’s leisure zone and bought it from some sex toy vendor, which he wouldn’t have approved of had he known. But with the prospect of pleasure so close, his appetite outweighed his aversion.

The next half hour shattered his preconceptions. With her fingers working magic in his ass, he shot the biggest wad of cum of his life down her throat and decided that lube was a welcome addition. Okay, so it wasn’t a natural substance, but it wasn’t a toy.

And so, Din adjusted his bias.

But as determined as she was with her fingers, it wasn’t long before he began wondering how something larger might feel. The thought invaded his dreams, where it evolved into a fantasy. Soon, he found himself imagining an impossible alternate reality in which his riduur possessed both the soft warmth of a cunt and the firm length of a cock.

Eventually, after a session where he’d demanded she press deeper despite knowing the limits of her fingers’ reach, she suggested a toy. She prefaced her proposal by addressing his dislike of them, promising to consider his specific needs and tastes when selecting something.

Once again, appetite outweighed aversion. Din agreed, and she visited Glavis Ringworld’s red light sector before they departed. Since his Darksaber injury prevented him from escorting her, he insisted she arm herself to the teeth in case of trouble.

When she unveiled her choice weeks later, he was thunderstruck. He hadn’t thought it possible to love this woman more than he already did, but somehow, she’d plucked his deepest, most outrageous fantasy from his mind and given it perfect form. The realistic dildo strapped to her even matched her skin tone, its synthetic flesh warm and inviting.

Suddenly, his historic contempt for sex toys seemed so ignorant.

And as he climbed over her and slowly lowered himself onto the firm yet silky cock – lubed up and warmed by her body – his baseless prejudice dissolved entirely. Finally, he understood that sex toys weren’t just substitutes for deficient sexual skills but gateways to entirely new realms of pleasure.

He hasn’t looked back since.

H = Hair

How well-groomed are they? Does the carpet match the drapes?

Personal grooming remained a mystery to Din until tragically late in his adolescence. Once foundlings swear the Creed, they’re encouraged to keep their hair short enough to stay hidden beneath their helmets. For the young boy from Aq Vetina, however, things weren’t that simple.

Most Mandalorian children and adopted foundlings have families they can remove their helmets around, who guide them through proper self-care methods. Din was ten when rescued – already two years beyond the age at which training begins. That meant instant enrolment in the Fighting Corps, bypassing the adoption process that the younger foundlings underwent. All children aged eight to thirteen were trained within the Fighting Corps, spending three nights of the week in the barracks and the remaining two nights with their families. Din was the only foundling raised in the Fighting Corps, spending all five nights of the week in his narrow bunk.

His lessons focused on combat and survival, covering everything from physical prowess to tactical thinking, as well as practical skills and knowledge. But whilst his training emphasised excellent hygiene (since scent could betray one’s position to enemies), personal grooming was not part of the curriculum.

When his dark hair grew long enough to escape his helmet’s confines, he hacked at it with a vibroblade. The concept of facial shaving simply didn’t occur to him, having never witnessed those around him perform such maintenance. But awareness slowly dawned as he went on his journeys with his teacher. Observing human males throughout the galaxy gave him pause, stirring buried memories of his father’s neatly trimmed beard. He soon concluded he ought to do something about the patchy whiskers framing his face.

After badly slicing his chin with his vibroblade, he approached his teacher for guidance. The older man was genuinely surprised to hear a seventeen-year-old ask about shaving. He’d never considered that his apprentice lacked anyone to instruct him in such basic self-care. Their next journey included a market stop, and Din returned to Concordia’s barracks with his very own electric grooming device.

He used the groomer on his scalp for a while, too, having decided that efficiency was the key to good grooming. It only took him a couple of months to realise that he preferred the cushioning effect of more hair inside his helmet. Frustrated, he let it grow out again. On his next market trip, he acquired some proper scissors, then spent weeks working out how to trim what he couldn’t see. Wearing a thick leather glove to protect his fingers worked wonders, and he took genuine pride in this self-taught skill.

He didn’t consider trimming his pubic region until years later, when a cruel comment from Xi’an made him self-conscious enough to wonder if other men maintained their hair down there.

The instant he declined her request for a repeat fuck, she transformed from flirtatious to furious. Hurling every insult she could conjure, her tirade was so loud that it drew the crew’s attention. Once the vindictive Twi’lek realised she had an audience, her attacks turned personal, attempting to ‘expose’ whatever she could about Din’s hidden appearance.

Most of it was patently false – he was pretty sure his cock wasn’t tiny – but when she sneered, “And he doesn’t shave at all – his pubes are like a kriffing Salsola bush!” it struck deep because the first part rang true. He didn’t shave down there. He had no idea what a Salsola bush was, but he was suddenly self-conscious. If Xi’an was able to feel his lack of grooming without even catching a glimpse, things must be bad.

Din needed guidance, but he’d grown distant from his Tribe, only returning when he could sneak away with his cut of the credits Ran’s crew were making from mercenary jobs. His teacher now had a new apprentice, and this wasn’t the sort of topic he could raise with the older man anyway. His options seemed limited to brothels or holoporn, and he reasoned he’d get a more authentic perspective from live observation. So, when the crew next visited the local leisure zone, he tagged along, found a place with live shows, and checked out some dicks.

His quest for answers proved educational. He really needed to utilise his groomer. On the plus side, he also confirmed that he was rather well-endowed, judging by the premium prices charged for performers with cocks of his size. That was a relief, at least.

Since Mandalorians don’t engage prostitutes, while his crewmates chose their preferred performers and got laid, Din returned to the privacy of his ship. With ground security protocols engaged, he fucked his (apparently very lucky) fist to relieve the massive hard-on all his fact-finding had triggered, then located his electric groomer.

Copying what he’d seen, he shaved it all off that first time. Within a day, the itching was worse than a blaster wound, and his balls were on fire. He knew he’d made a mistake. Just like with his beard, it appeared that a close shave was unwise. He wondered how other men achieved smoothly shaven skin without the burning sensation, but since he wouldn’t learn about balms and lotions for another decade, he simply did what worked best for him. A quick pass over his face every few days, and the same for his groin every couple of weeks when he trimmed his hair. It was a simple routine, and once again, he was proud that he solved the problem himself.

After meeting his gorgeous salvager on Endor, it was a while before he felt confident being naked around her. Xi’an’s cruel words still echoed in his mind, and he was nervous. But his cyar’ika looked at him with such unfettered desire and devotion that his fears steadily lessened.

Later, when he tried to adjust his grooming routine to suit what he assumed she’d prefer, she asked him to simply stick to what he wanted. He wondered if she understood how healing that acceptance was. He briefly told her of his slow induction into personal haircare, but he never mentioned Xian’s poisonous comment.

To this day, her steadfast acceptance of the choices Din makes for his physical appearance remains a source of confidence in his heart.

A = Aftercare

What are they like after sex?

Din never had to worry too much about aftercare during his past encounters, perfunctory as they were.

His preference was to pull out and come on his partner’s ass or lower back, though he would always wipe them off with his cloak. They tended to excuse themselves to the refresher at that point. He didn’t like to linger, so he would take his leave then, slipping away to the Razor Crest and tossing his cloak straight into the washer. A simple equation with a predictable outcome.

But when it became clear that things would get intimate with the bright spark of a woman he met on Endor, anxiety suddenly struck.

He wanted to come inside her – the first time he’d ever had such an urge – but that would alter his established routine, and he wasn’t quite sure how to adapt. How was he supposed to clean up his cum if he didn’t have easy access to it? Even he baulked at the idea of wiping her intimate area with the tail end of his cloak, so he would need a more hygienic solution. Should he prepare a cloth in advance?

And was it appropriate to dive right into the cleanup, or was he supposed to dote on her a little first? He didn’t want to seem desperate to erase the evidence of what they’d shared. Plus, the thought of his seed slowly dripping from her was a serious turn-on.

He actually had no idea how fast it would escape, having never climaxed inside anyone before. Sure, he’d caught glimpses in the seedier brothels. A freshly fucked whore with spread legs, scooping cum from her cunt to spread across her breasts or tongue. Although maybe it wasn’t cum… he’d had little time to watch, after all. He rarely visited such places except to hunt, and curiosity wasn’t enough to distract him from his primary means of making credits. He had no clue whether a woman could control how swiftly it exited her.

He realised this was all moot if his cyar’ika didn’t have an implant, a little miffed that those arousing thoughts might not become manifest. Nonetheless, he resolved to buy seals, despite finding them uncomfortable. His curiosity wasn’t worth the risk.

When the moment arrived, he was overjoyed to learn she had an implant after all. She also seemed entirely unconcerned about cleanup, and he was so sated by their coupling that he mostly forgot to worry. Coming inside her felt fucking glorious – and she’d even asked him to.

The atmosphere was so natural and relaxed, and he stayed buried in her warmth longer than planned, revelling in their connection while whispering how much he loved her. It was heady and blissful. Still, he had to withdraw when she squeezed his oversensitive cock, and he felt the wetness escaping as he slid out.

Panic flickered through him, making him sit up sharply, ready to leap up and find a cloth... but the sight before him stopped him in his tracks. There wasn’t much yet, but some of his cum had leaked from her pussy as he’d withdrawn. Small pearls of it glistened on her swollen folds.

It was his first proper look at her down there – his first close-up look at anyone, in fact. Whilst he already considered her utterly beautiful, somehow the sight of her cunt glazed with his seed grabbed at his very soul, stirring something… possessive. Euphoric. Profoundly rewarding.

Din couldn’t help himself. He reached out, running his fingers through the evidence, exploring the possibilities planted in his mind by those brief glimpses in brothels, painting her thighs and pussy with his claim.

She made her reaction to his intrigue clear, spreading her legs wider and smiling beneath her blindfold, so he let himself indulge completely. He soon learned to avoid oversensitive areas, focusing instead on gentle strokes to coax more beads of fluid to escape, which he eagerly collected and spread along her thighs.

He was learning the answer to his question about how much control she had. Clearly some, but not total, and it was time-limited. He suspected it would make its way out regardless of how hard she clenched those exquisite inner muscles. Still, he was thoroughly enjoying helping her relax and let his cum slide out easily – paint for the masterpiece he was creating on the canvas of her thighs. Combined with her own copious fluids, it was thinner than usual, making it all the more likely to escape.

The indulgence almost slipped into loss of control when he scooped up the evidence of their first coupling and brought it to his tongue. It was a split-second decision that unleashed something entirely new deep within him. Kriff, he was learning so much about himself from this single encounter.

He’d tasted himself before. Curiosity had overwhelmed him as a teenager when he’d developed a crush on his sparring partner. He had reasoned he should know what it tasted like in case things ever progressed that far with Orilan, although they never did. When he’d later discovered his preference for women, the idea of eating cum became a vague and infrequent thought – a sporadic fantasy on the few occasions when an attractive man caught his eye.

Until that first fingerful of his own from her cunt. The notion of swallowing the results of their mutual pleasure just felt… special. Worshipful. Devoted.

And forbidden. And that made it even more appealing.

She talked to him after – a carefree conversation while he was wordlessly urging her to relax her muscles and allow his cum to escape. Her placid demeanour and his new intrigue were enough to distract him from his former concerns. In fact, it all felt so natural that a suitable moment to stand and fetch a damp cloth from the refresher presented itself without conscious thought. He had no doubt that it was his duty to clean up the mess he’d created on her thighs. It was the courteous thing to do, and she seemed grateful.

He learned so much that first time with his beautiful salvager, and every time since, he’s done whatever he can to ensure her comfort, never fretting over or rushing the process. He knows she’s content for him to move at a languid pace, and she doesn’t expect his aftercare. But he also knows she’s grateful when it comes, and so he’s happy to provide it.

After all, Din is nothing if not a giver.

N = No

What wouldn’t they do? Any turn-offs?

There’s little Din wouldn’t do for his riduur if she asked. Sometimes, he thinks she could convince him the galaxy spins backwards, and not just because of her uncanny aptitude for logical debate.

She’s never asked for anything extreme – sexual or otherwise. Every request has either fallen well within his comfort zone or proved to be a worthwhile gamble despite any initial misgivings.

There was one occasion, though, when he was forced to confront a scenario that he instantly dismissed as out of the question.

They were on Tatooine, having received a summons to the palace. There was news of a potential lead in Din’s search for his covert. In exchange for using his status as Daimyo and his extensive underworld contact list to track down Mando sightings, they had promised Boba Fett a favour. A small one if those efforts bore no fruit, a large one if they yielded results.

The old man was claiming he’d uncovered a promising clue, which was exciting news and worth the trip halfway across the galaxy. The downside was that the cost would be steep.

Outrage flooded Din’s entire being when Fett calmly requested “a night with your beautiful wife”, and he was instantly reaching for the Darksaber.

He was acutely aware of his jealous streak – it had caused friction early in their relationship – but this was utterly non-negotiable, not to mention a grievous insult to his honour. Mandalorians weren’t supposed to covet what legally belonged to their brothers. Technically, Fett could issue an archaic challenge to initiate shuk’la riduurok, though it required consent from all parties. If that were to happen, he would fight to his dying breath for his riduur, but bargaining to share her for a single night was cowardly and decidedly not the Way.

Darksaber in hand (unlit for now), he explained his position through gritted teeth to the smirking Daimyo lounging on his stolen throne.

But before Fett could respond, Din’s clever wife stepped forward and deployed her logical debate skills to dramatic effect.

She reasoned that a night with her could never constitute payment for what they sought because other cultural mandates took precedence. Din could not agree without Fett issuing a formal challenge and combat occurring. Setting aside her fierce objections to that, it would create an entirely separate set of proceedings beyond the ‘favour-for-info’ deal they were currently brokering. Any victory or defeat would represent the outcome of the challenge, and regardless of the result, they would still need to decide upon the original favour.

Fett looked doubly impressed at her argument, grinning broadly, but Fennec fortunately intervened with another suggestion. It seemed they were in some trouble with the Pyke Syndicate. Despite the high risk and uncertain timeline, if Din was willing, they could use his assistance as extra muscle in what they suspected may be upcoming hostilities.

With the favour agreed, Din left Grogu at the palace’s crèche for the staff’s children, then calmly escorted his riduur to their opulent suite. The second the door slid closed, he fucked her hard against it – a blazingly passionate pounding that had her screaming his name at full volume. She knew exactly what he needed, declaring she belonged to him, that he was the only one to ever satisfy her, that she could never be with anyone else.

He worried afterward that he’d let emotion drive him to act without seeking her perspective first. She was quick to reassure him, though – she had no desire to be shared and was just as keen as he was to broadcast that fact. Double-checking the door’s lock, she lifted his helmet away and kissed him gently, then guided his mouth to her throat, inviting him to mark his claim for all to see.

It was evident at dinner that their hosts had heard their performance. Fett said nothing but offered him an impressed smirk and a respectful nod. Fennec’s lustful gaze was shockingly blatant, not to mention unwelcome, but his riduur glared at her until the former assassin received the message.

Neither Din nor his wife would share with others what they had vowed to share only with one another.

K = Kink

What less-standard acts turn them on?

Din never considered himself kinky until his fateful encounter with destiny on Endor. However, safe within their rapidly forged bond of trust, his cyar’ika opened his eyes to the fact that he did, in fact, have a few fledgling kinks he was eager to explore.

His first discovery was taste – particularly in an exhibitionist context – although it took him a while to figure out why.

It wasn’t until a much later discussion with his riduur that he learned kinks often root themselves in childhood feelings of shame. As a foundling, he’d been taught not to eat or drink in front of others. It was an act he’d brazenly performed in full view of multiple people for ten years on Aq Vetina, the memory of which first became shameful, then later thrilling.

Grateful for his rescue but angry at his losses, during his initial years of training, Din embraced its violence while failing to respect its restrictions. He would constantly commit tiny acts of defiance, such as sneaking food under his training helmet in front of others. Since he hadn’t yet sworn the Creed, his elders lectured rather than punished him, but they warned that unless he observed the Way of the Mand’alor with greater piety, he would never rise from foundling to apprentice. Those who did not respect the Creed were not permitted to take it.

His desire to become the best warrior soon outweighed his defiant impulses, and he committed himself to the Way, coming to believe in its tenets once he did so. But as his body grew stronger and his fighting skills improved, he found himself longing for the thrill those tiny rebellious acts sparked.

Perhaps that explained his choice to support the Tribe by venturing out into the galaxy to earn credits. Away from their scrutiny, he was able to perform his minor acts of defiance. He never went so far as to break his now-beloved creed, but he always found excitement in the risk of slipping food beneath his helmet in another’s presence.

He had no idea that innocent thrill formed the basis of a kink until he began pushing boundaries with his cyar’ika.

From the moment he lifted his helmet to kiss her, he knew that he would become obsessed with using his mouth on her. He revelled in it every chance he got – licking, sucking, and especially tasting. Still, he didn’t understand the full extent of his obsession until he was laid out on the grass of the Anantaparan atoll’s northernmost isle, worshipping her while she rode his tongue.

She was drenching him with copious amounts of her own slick as well as the cum he’d just shot inside her pussy, and he was already in paradise. But if the twin thrills of using his mouth on her and tasting the unique flavour of their combined pleasure weren’t enough, the moment her eyes locked with his, his cock was hard as beskar again – mere minutes after his previous climax.

She was watching him feast on her, and the exhibitionism he’d flirted with as an unruly child was well and truly fulfilled. Din Djarin – forbidden from letting anything pass his lips around others – was not only swallowing their combined cum, but he was doing it in full view of another.

His taste kink had reached its peak.

That wasn’t the only boundary they crossed together that day. It was their first foray into anal play, too, though it certainly wasn’t their last. He didn’t consider it a kinky act, but he was aware some found it taboo, and his cautious approach paid off, earning her trust.

They’ve both since come to enjoy the delights of anal penetration, especially once his opinion on sex toys evolved. Given the size of his dick, she probably wouldn’t have been able to take him back there without the expanding plug he bought for her. That was a truly worthwhile investment.

Another kink that he assumes is fairly standard involves restraint. His binders have always been a welcome addition to their sessions. He’ll often hold her down somehow, too, either through his weight or with a careful hand around her throat or wrists. Though neither of them gets off on pain, they do enjoy it rough, which often involves the idea of pain. He knows she finds pleasure in a little light choking on occasion, and he loves that she enjoys it.

Then there’s their mutual penchant for fucking while one of them is asleep. Right from the start, they both enjoyed the intimacy of cockwarming, and he often remained nestled inside her pussy for as long as possible.

It was during their honeymoon that they stumbled upon the most exquisite discovery. While spooning in bed, exhaustion overtook them both as he slowly fucked her from behind, and they fell fast asleep.

When he awoke, his cock was hard and still buried inside her. He knew several hours had passed, and he couldn’t have maintained an erection that long. Based on the evidence, he concluded that he was just large enough, and her inner muscles were just tight enough to ensure he hadn’t slipped out while they slept.

He suspected it would be painful for them both if he simply started pounding away without preparing her, so he wet his fingers and gently teased her nipples. When that earned him sleepy sighs and gentle flutters along his shaft, he began tentative thrusts. Finally, when he felt she was slick enough, he steadily increased his efforts, wondering if her dreams were reflecting his actions.

Feeling her waking up right as her cunt pulsed a profound climax around his cock… dank farrik. It wasn’t something he could enjoy just once, and she agreed. After that, they attempted to recreate the magic whenever possible, and he was beyond pleased when he was the one waking up mid-orgasm after similar efforts on her part.

Though sex while asleep is not so much a kink as an act of absolute trust and consent, Din suspects few couples have perfected this technique. Because of that, he certainly considers it a less standard fixation, unique to them. Just another thing about his riduur that makes her perfect for him.

And if either of them has any other latent kinks, he looks forward to exploring them together.

S = Stamina

How many rounds can they go for? How long can they last?

For much of his life, Din considered his sex drive to be fairly low. Sure, he had needs, and he took care of them whenever necessary, but a single climax always seemed sufficient. He was also able to attune his focus to whatever tasks he had to perform, and sexual urges rarely distracted him.

All that changed when he met his gorgeous salvager on Endor. Just one speeder ride with her, and suddenly, all manner of sinful thoughts flooded his mind. When he found himself in a storage closet, fucking his fist to those fantasies, he hoped he could expel the urges alongside his cum and get back to his hunt.

By the following day, when he was lying in a ventilation shaft two metres above her, pressing his rigid cock against the metal every time she sighed, he knew he was in serious trouble. For some reason, this woman had ignited something deep inside him. He’d never felt such a profound need for anyone before.

It soon became apparent that his strangely amplified libido was distracting him from the hunt. He couldn’t let that happen, so with extreme effort, he resolved to wait until he’d captured his bounty before indulging his uncommon urges. The challenge seemed insurmountable until he surrendered to the suspicion that lurked in the back of his mind. He was falling in love. Focusing on that helped him contain the desire he felt for her, and it also explained its potency. He’d never been in love before, so he’d never endured the desperate ache that came with it.

Finally getting to fuck her unleashed a compulsion, a constant hunger of such immense magnitude that he struggled to comprehend it. He couldn’t seem to sate it. They would fuck, and then before long, he would crave her again. Thankfully, the restraint he’d taught himself at the beginning let him control it, but his desire burned bright and strong.

He was glad to discover that his cyar’ika was equally hungry for him, always eager for multiple rounds. When they secured themselves several days of complete privacy during their honeymoon, they certainly made the most of that time together. It was then that he discovered his refractory period was far shorter than he thought.

At his age, he’d assumed his dick needed a rest after shooting its load, given that it softened soon after, so their sessions would conclude once he’d climaxed. It wasn’t until he gave into his post-orgasmic urge to taste his new riduur and had her sit on his face that he felt himself growing hard again.

That revelation led to all kinds of others. Multiple sessions without even leaving the warmth of her delicious pussy were now possible. It became a guilty pleasure of his to see how much cum she could contain before it began squelching out around his cock.

His stamina hasn’t diminished with age, but Din has always been wary of overindulgence, mindful that it has a downside. Right from the start, he routinely checked in, ensuring she wasn’t becoming too sore from their frequent fucking. He’d received a complaint about that once – his partner urging him to climax soon or she’d end up chafing – so he understood the need for a careful balance in session length. He didn’t want his own equipment to chafe, either.

Thankfully, though, his riduur has never struggled to reach orgasm with him and tends to encourage his own climax when she needs a rest. They’ve always been able to read each other perfectly, a connection that extends to their carnal pursuits, ensuring each session is the perfect length to satisfy them both.

At least until the next round.

TRANSLATIONS:

cyar’ika – sweetheart/darling (lit. ‘little love’)

riduur – partner/spouse

shuk’la riduurok – divorce (lit. ‘broken bond’)

COMMENTS:

I want to reiterate what I said in the notes for chapter 2 of Be-All, in that I do not consider Din a himbo. He’s incredibly smart. The definition of a himbo is someone who is good-looking but unintelligent. Given his skill set, he doesn’t fit that definition at all. But his sheltered upbringing alongside the factors I described in Be-All (wasn’t adopted, so had no family; was two years older than those he trained with and full of angst and anger, so made no friends) meant that he was socially isolated. That led to him being a combination of whip-smart about things like combat, languages, engineering, calculations, negotiations, etc, but adorably naïve about more personal things like sex and grooming. Din is a complex character, and I love that he can be both well-informed and clueless about different things.

We all like to think of Din as a fair-minded and accepting paragon of virtue, but the reality is, it took him a while to get there. This is the guy who blindly believed lies he was told as a child, because of which, he accused Bo-Katan of stealing her armour and refused to accept she was Mandalorian, huffily flying off without hearing what she had to say. If she hadn’t persevered, he would have abandoned his only lead on finding a Jedi because of his stubbornness and his unfounded prejudice. As mentioned above, he is also adorably naïve about certain aspects of the world (despite his intelligence), and readers of Be-All will be aware that I’ve centred that naïveté around sexual inexperience. I think when you combine those character traits, the idea that he had an unfounded prejudice against sex toys that was rooted in his stubbornness and a childish mistake seems to fit a young Din perfectly.

If you missed the pegging scene that I partially wrote back in February, here it is. I promise I’ll write the smutty part eventually!

Salsola bushes aren’t Canon; I did try to look up a suitable bush for Xi’an to compare Din’s untamed pubes to, but it seems the SWU doesn’t currently feature tumbleweeds (odd, given much of Star Wars is based on the Western genre), so I used the real-world genus of the Russian thistle, which is what most tumbleweeds in the US are – Salsola tragus. Honestly, I think Xi’an was just exaggerating and Din’s situation was never quite that… bushy, but it certainly got him worried enough to trim. I also based it a little on my ex-husband, who had never been intimate with anyone before we met aged 17 and had no concept of pubic grooming at the beginning. It wasn’t so much an overwhelming amount of hair as it was a surprising level of… springiness!

If you recall, in the last chapter of Be-All, I set it up so that Din asked Boba to try to uncover a lead for where he could find his covert. This means I’m playing with the Canon timeline slightly. While Din and Reader go back to Endor to wait for a tip, the covert is regrouping on Glavis (when he would’ve gone there himself in the show). Boba hears from his Ishi Tib contact on Glavis that she’s seen some Mandos there, so he summons Din to Tatooine. The whole business with the Pyke Syndicate goes down, Din gets a scorpenek droid pincer to the leg, and by the time he’s healed up and they get over to Glavis, the covert has moved on. But they left coordinates, so one unnecessary Darksaber injury later, he’s healed up again, and they track them to the new planet. The topic of the Darksaber doesn’t come up straight away because he’s recovered by the time they arrive, so there’s no challenge by Paz until much later, and they get to hang out there a little while before the whole ‘apostate’ shitstorm occurs. That means Reader gets her helmet forged, Grogu gets his chainmail, and Din and Reader’s marriage is formalised.

I genuinely believe Din has had phases of rebelliousness throughout his life, mainly because even when he’s being dutiful, he’s always depicted in the show as slightly different to the rest of the Children of the Watch. He’s the only one who leaves the covert at the beginning – he dutifully brings credits and beskar back to the Tribe, yet Paz and the others are jealous of his new armour and annoyed that he gets to leave and live on his ship while they’re stuck in the sewer “like rats”, so they gang up on him and call him a coward (the worst insult). Plus, Din willingly lifts his helmet to drink his soup next to Grogu, despite telling Bo-Katan later that you have to go somewhere you can safely remove your helmet – he could’ve waited until the kid was asleep! And he’s the only Child of the Watch (that we know of) who has broken the Creed and removed his helmet. We know he hung out with Ran’s crew for a while when he was younger, so I think he’s always been a little troublemaker. It also gives credence to his desperate need to redeem himself in season 3, since it’s often the case that people don’t appreciate their main support structure until they’ve inadvertently sabotaged it.

A little hint in the last section that Din is bordering on demisexual, having only had a passing interest in sex before meeting Reader, and only fucking others out of curiosity, social experimentation, or convenience. It also explains why he wasn’t that fussed about exploring ways he could improve his masturbatory techniques before he met her, and why his fantasies were rare and fleeting. He simply wasn’t that affected by sex before she came into his life. When discussing their sexual histories in chapter 32 of Be-All, he tells her, “But when I met you […] I knew it was different… real.” The original fic depicts them as essentially falling in love at first sight, so he’s immediately faced with an overwhelming desire for her, the likes of which he’s never felt before, and once they cross the line of sexual intimacy, he never looks back. These two are very much in love, and so their sex life is very much alive.

Definitions: We saw a leisure zone in Andor s1e1, featuring various brothels, and in Legends, there are entire red light sectors on certain planets. Canon doesn’t overtly mention pleasure droids, but the BD-3000 is clearly meant to be a sexbot; Legends is a little more blatant, with BD-3000s used as ‘escorts’, a mention of a ‘sex droid’ in the Legends novel, Planet of Twilight, and a sentient hologram in the now defunct MMORPG, Star Wars: The Old Republic, declaring she’s “no mere pleasure droid”… so they exist, we just don’t see much of them. A reminder that Din does indeed say he was raised in the Fighting Corps. A further reminder that a Standard week in the SWU is only five days long. A groomer is a device from Legends for haircare; there is literally no such thing as a shaving razor in the SWU, despite many things being named after it, but fortunately, Legends gives us scissors, at least. Imagine my surprise when I found a nice long article about holoporn on the Wook! 😳

I’m so deliriously grateful to have reached this milestone, I think you all deserve a sexy Din gif to express my appreciation, so here you go – the Dorito-shaped man himself says it best…

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You remembered because the little bell above the door clanged so loudly, you thought the ancient relic might have actually met its fate that day. When you turned to see who raced inside, it was him.

Harry.

He held a soaked copy of the New York Post in his hand. It was falling apart after doing an extremely poor job of keeping him dry in the sudden downpour. His dark hair was drenched and dripping all over the sticky tile floor. He blinked a few times, trying to get the rain out of his eyes without looking more pathetic than he already felt. He looked down at the destroyed newspaper and made a face before lifting his chin and scanning the restaurant.

That's when he spotted you.

He hesitated for a moment before offering up a lopsided grin and a shoulder shrug as you made your way towards him.

"Do you have a trash can I can borrow?"

You circled the host stand and held out the plastic bin, only to tease, "If you're borrowing it, that means you'll bring it back, right?"

He took a second then laughed politely at your shitty joke before dropping the newspaper into the empty bin with a solid thump.

"Consider it returned," he smiled, dark brown eyes sparkling despite the agitation he had felt moments before when he was caught in the rain.

You showed him to a table, one near the window, and brought him a coffee — to warm you up, you had said. He wrapped his hands gratefully around the stained mug and took a sip. When he swallowed, he paused, then looked up at you with genuine shock.

"This is... good."

You giggled. "Thanks."

"No, I mean—" He stopped to take another sip and made a satisfied noise in the back of his throat. "This is really good."

"You have a beautiful way with words," you teased again.

"Some of these expensive cafés around here don't make coffee half this good," he continued, taking another gulp.

"Well, I guess I've found my hidden talent," you shrugged.

The way he smiled at you had your heart skipping a beat.

There were other tables that probably needed to be cleaned or wanted their check, but you couldn't force yourself to step away. Something about him was magnetic.

And at the time, he really didn't seem all that special to the naked eye. He was just wearing a pair of worn jeans, an oversized brown jacket, and a basic looking tshirt underneath. He looked like every other working man within a five mile radius of your diner that stopped in for lunch every day. And yet... something pulled you to him.

Something must have pulled him to you, too, because a week later, he returned.

"No New York Post?" you asked when you greeted him at the door, hoping you didn't look too eager to see him.

He shook his head and pointed to the trash can.

"That's the only place The Post belongs. Only had it that day because someone left it at a bus stop bench. It was all I had."

"Desperate times," you mused before leading him to a table.

He looked a little dressier that day: slacks, but with a polo shirt. The only ring he had was on his pinky, one you were rather convinced was a fake emerald. You smiled to yourself, tucking away the lack-of-a-wedding-band note for later.

When he sat down, you noticed for the first time he placed a compact umbrella on the booth next to him before picking up the menu. You grinned and pointed to it with your ballpoint pen.

"Hey, you got yourself an umbrella," you said, "moving up in the world."

He looked up at you with those soft brown eyes again, the ones that crinkled at the corners when he smiled, the very same eyes you couldn't get out of your head for a week.

"I learn from my mistakes."

He became a regular after that. Once a week, every Thursday around one in the afternoon. You weren't sure if the time just suited him best or if he picked it because he knew you would be working.

You had hoped it was the latter.

About two months later, the diner was unusually busy. A tour bus had stopped outside and the restaurant was overloaded with thirty extra patrons. The kitchen was slammed, the counters were a mess, and of course one of the servers had called off that day.

You forgot it was Thursday. Harry had come in and seen the chaos. He tried to catch your eye but you were too busy balancing four plates on your arms to notice.

Another waitress, Darcy, hurried up to greet him, looking equally as frazzled as you but still offered to clean a table in her section. Harry turned her down, said he wanted to wait for you, and leaned against the wall watching you work with a small smile on his face.

Once one of your tables got up, Darcy helped you clean it and murmured quietly that you had a request at the door. You glanced up, saw him, and grinned happily despite the stressful lunch hour.

"Not in a rush today?" you asked when you led him to your only open table. He slid into the booth and shook his head.

"Nothing that can't wait."

"I'm honored," you said sweetly with a hand pressed to your chest. He smirked and his eyes quickly scanned you up and down.

"You're worth waiting for."

It knocked the wind out of you at first. You blinked like you weren't sure you heard him right, then exhaled a nervous laugh.

"Careful or I might think you're flirting with me."

"So what if I am?"

You laughed again and felt your face heat up. You started to fan yourself with your notepad, which only made Harry's smile grow bigger.

"Oh, you must be a heartbreaker," you teased.

"What makes you say that?" he asked, tilting his head to the side, still smiling. You leaned forward, placing both palms flat on the freshly washed tabletop, and lowered your voice.

"You're a smooth-talker, Harry," you said, refusing to break eye contact. "I'll bet you have a waitress you visit every day of the week. I'm just Miss. Thursday."

He threw his head back and laughed. Like, really laughed. And it made you smile so big that you dropped your chin to your chest to hide.

When his laughter finally died down, you lifted your head to look at him again, both of you wearing matching grins.

"Not true," he said, his dimple catching your eye and making your heart flutter a bit. "Let me take you out for dinner," he finally added, and even though you saw it coming, you still felt a rush of excitement shoot through you when you heard the words.

"Yeah? So you can introduce me to Miss. Friday?"

"Is that when you're free?"

You nodded, teeth sinking into your lower lip.

"Then tomorrow it is," he said firmly, "and you can pick the restaurant."

You whistled low and straightened back up. Your other tables were clearing up and heading to the front to pay, but you couldn't care less.

"Anywhere?"

He nodded and folded his hands confidently in his lap.

"Anywhere."

"And what if I have expensive tastes, Mr. Castillo?" you asked with a flirty tone.

"I can afford it," he assured you, still wearing the same smile.

"Even Nova?" You had said the first fancy, most hard-to-get-into restaurant you could think of, just as a joke. But Harry nodded without missing a beat.

"Nova it is."

You laughed and shook your head.

"I was just kidding," you said, "seriously, I'm good with anything—"

"Would you like to eat at Nova?" he asked, cutting you off. You paused for a moment.

"Well... maybe one day," you shrugged, "but the waiting list to get in is, like—"

"How's eight work for you?" He was already tapping away on his phone, offering it like it was nothing.

"Uh— s-sure," you sputtered. "Eight works."

He held up his phone for you to take. "Save your number and address. I'll pick you up."

He said it like he serious, but by Friday you still expected him to show up and admit it was just for laughs and maybe take you to some hole in the wall Italian spot, if you were lucky.

You were just fixing your hair and smoothing down your dress when your two roommates squealed from the window.

"He's here!"

"Oh, damn — he's got a Mercedes? Who is this guy?"

You snatched your purse and ran out into the living room, wedging yourself between them. Your jaw dropped when you saw Harry step out of the driver's side and round the front, casually buttoning his smart looking jacket and glancing around the relatively quiet street. But before he ascended the stairs to your building's front door, he looked up and spotted your three faces practically pressed against the dirty glass.

"Fuck!" you giggled when you all flew away from the window. Then a moment later, the buzzer rang.

"Y-Yeah," you stammered, pressing the answer button with a stupid grin.

"It's Harry."

You pressed the other button to unlock the door, then pushed your one roommate out of the way so you could make sure you didn't have lipstick on your teeth.

"What does he do again?"

"Who fucking cares!"

"Shhh!!" you hissed right when a firm knock came from the door.

"I'll get it!" Melanie sang, skipping to the door to cut you off. She flung it open just as you were reaching for her shoulder to yank her back, revealing Harry on the other side. His face lit up when he saw you, then his gaze dropped to Mel and he politely held out his hand.

"I'm Harry—"

"I know," she gushed, grabbing his hand and shaking it roughly. He grinned and glanced at you quickly before looking back at her. "I'm Melanie, that one's Liv."

Harry nodded at Liv perched on the couch who was waving at him like a fucking lunatic.

"Nice to meet you both." His eyes scanned the modest apartment behind you. "Cute place. How long have—"

"Let's go!" you said, pushing Mel out of the way and sneaking out the door.

"Have her back by midnight!" Melanie shouted as you were dragging him away.

"Yeah! But if you don't, at least do us all a favor and rock her world. It's been a while!" Liv added.

"Oh, my god!" you screeched over your shoulder while Harry chuckled softly next to you. "I'm going to kill—"

The apartment door slammed shut. You could hear their combined giggles, even though you were already halfway down the hall.

Harry cleared his throat, biting back a smile while you fanned your face in embarrassment.

"I am — so sorry about them," you said, stepping onto the elevator. "They're just... they're assholes," you laughed before tapping the L button repeatedly. "Sorry, it takes a few tries," you mumbled, then sighed happily when the button finally lit up and the doors slid shut.

An awkward silence settled around you as you waited for the elevator to take you to the lobby.

Fucking Mel and Liv, you seethed to yourself while sparing a nervous glance in Harry's direction. He was staring straight ahead at the closed doors, smiling in that way that made your knees weak, and you felt yourself smile back.

"So..." you began, breathing a sigh of relief when the doors opened. He pressed his palm against the side so they wouldn't shut, and looked at you expectantly. You blinked and cursed under your breath when it occurred to you he was waiting for you to go first, then hurried over the threshold and out into the run-down lobby.

"So," he echoed, opening the door for you to step outside. At least that time, you expected it and didn't look like a complete idiot. But then he stopped you before you could take one step down and offered his arm. You thanked him softly, looking shyly down at his crooked elbow, and looped your hand through.

If Liv didn't make it abundantly clear you hadn't been on a date in a while, it sure as hell was obvious to him now.

"You look—"

You stopped short when you heard tapping on the glass above your heads. As Harry was reaching to open the passenger side door, you looked up to find Mel and Liv making obscene gestures towards you and your date. Mel was miming a blowjob while Liv dry humped the air. Your eyes widened in horror and your jaw dropped. Harry turned to you, noticed your expression, but before he could spin around to look up, you grabbed his face, keeping his eyes locked on you.

"If you have any respect for me," you said lowly, "you will not look up right now."

He laughed and stepped back so you could get into his car, silently promising to ignore your roommates.

"Anyway," you laughed when he had finally pulled away from the curb. "You look so nice. I had no idea you cleaned up so well."

Harry grinned as he smoothly changed lanes.

"What, this old thing?" he joked, referring to his perfectly tailored black suit. When he came to a stop at a red light, he looked over at you. His gaze slid down your form, taking in the deep purple dress you had borrowed from Liv that was just a little too tight, but in a way that showed off your curves.

"You look absolutely beautiful," he breathed after what felt like an eternity. The way he said it made it sound like he was truly blown away and it caused a wave of goosebumps to flash across your skin.

"Thank you," you murmured shyly.

The light changed to green and you grew distracted with the car — the smooth as butter leather, the tinted windows, the hundreds of fancy looking controls that reminded you of a space ship. Your gaze kept darting all around, taking everything in.

"What do you do, Harry?" you asked.

You had asked him a few times before, and every time he managed to change the subject or sidestep the question. It didn't even occur to you he kept giving you non-answers until the night before, when you were telling Mel and Liv about your date and the question inevitably came up.

"What? I never told you?"

You shook your head and the corner of his mouth turned up into a half-smile.

"Huh... hold on, we're almost there," he said, pulling up behind a convertible with a logo on the back you didn't recognize, but based on the way people on the sidewalk were gawking, told you it was expensive.

And yet again, Harry managed to distract you. When you looked up and saw the sign for Nova above an impossibly gorgeous looking restaurant, your eyes nearly bugged out of your head.

"Are you serious?" you gasped. Harry looked at you, confused.

"You said—"

"I know what I said," you replied, "I didn't think— h-how did you—"

You couldn't get the words out. It was insane. It had to be one of the hottest restaurants in New York City, and yet Harry was able to get a reservation on a Friday night with barely twenty-four hours notice?

Your door opened and a young man in an impeccably pressed suit stood on the outside, offering you his arm. You gently took it while Harry got out on the other side, sliding a bill to the valet and rounding the front of his car to join you on the sidewalk.

"Ready?"

You nodded, speechless, as you took his arm. He led you up through the huge double doors and to the hostess, giving his name with practiced ease. She tapped something on a computer, smiled at you both, and led you through the restaurant.

It was dark, but in a warm, comfortable way. The guests were not rowdy, the kitchen was silent, and there was a pianist playing classical music in the center of the dining room.

A far cry from your diner.

"Here you are. Enjoy your meal," the hostess said once she reached your table. It was off to the side of the room. Private.

Harry pulled your chair back and looked at you, smiling at the way you were utterly and completely stunned.

"Thank you," you whispered, sitting primly in the chair. In front of you, there was an intimidating set of silverware on top of a white linen tablecloth. A candle was placed between you both, along with a small bouquet of flowers.

Harry sat down across from you, unbuttoning his suit and arching an eyebrow in your direction.

"Is it living up to your expectations, Miss. Thursday?"

You giggled and nodded.

"It's a step up from the diner, that's for sure."

"But the coffee's terrible," he grinned. Then he leaned forward, looking side to side quickly before meeting your eye. "Waitresses aren't as pretty, either."

Your cheeks burned and you laughed again, fanning yourself while looking away. Harry chuckled and leaned back in his chair.

"It's cute when you do that," he said. You dropped your hand and looked back at him.

"Do what?"

"When I pay you a compliment, you fan yourself," he said. "Very 50s movie star. I like that."

"Oh," you replied softly, "I didn't even realize. But... thank you."

"You're welcome." He folded his hands in his lap and crossed one leg over the other under the table.

When your server arrived to get your drink order, Harry sensed your discomfort right away.

"Do you like wine?" he asked, taking charge. You nodded. "Red or white?"

"Red."

"We'll take the bottle of the 1982 Chateau Latour Pauillac," he said, looking up at the waiter.

You stared dumbly at Harry after the server disappeared to get your wine.

"That sounds really expensive."

"Thought you had expensive tastes?" he reminded you with a smirk.

"I was joking," you said, "I drink wine out of a box! I can't tell the difference!"

He laughed and leaned forward again, resting on his elbows when he said, "Can I tell you a secret?"

You nodded and leaned forward, as well.

"I can't tell the difference, either."

You dissolved into a fit of giggles just as the server arrived with your bottle of wine. He took a customary sniff and taste before nodding his approval, then waited until your glasses were filled before addressing you again.

"Are you okay with the tasting menu?" Harry asked.

"Uh, yeah," you said, then looked up at the waiter and nodded. "Sounds great."

After he left, you tried to mimic Harry. You picked up your glass, swirled it a bit, took a sniff and then a tiny sip. He watched you with an amused look as you smacked your lips together, looking deep in thought.

"Hm," you hummed, "I'm getting notes of... cherry... and..."

You glanced over at Harry and tried not to laugh.

"Amber."

He gave you that wide smile that brought out that dimple you loved.

"Amber?" he repeated. "What's amber?"

"I have no idea," you laughed, "I was trying to impress you. Did it work?"

"Oh, yeah. Big time," he said, making you laugh again.

Halfway through the tasting menu, you realized no one had ever made you laugh as much as Harry did. Your cheeks actually hurt from smiling so much, but you couldn't stop. He just had something about him that made you feel so comfortable and at ease, even if you were way out of your element.

"Hey," you said suddenly right as the server was putting dessert in front of you. Harry cocked his head to the side, waiting. "You never told me what you do for work."

He slowly grinned, nodded his thanks to the waiter, then lifted his wine glass to his lips.

"What'd you think of the wine?" he asked.

You shook your head and gave him a fake look of disapproval.

"Nuh uh. No changing the subject," you said. He chuckled and set his glass down.

"Alright. Private equity," he sighed, lacing his fingers together and ignoring his dessert completely. You blinked and frowned.

"What does that mean?" you asked, feeling dumb.

"I buy companies, strip them down, make them better, and sell them for more money," he answered plainly.

You nodded and took a bite of your dessert.

"Sounds... interesting."

"No, it doesn't," he smiled. You laughed, hiding your smile behind your hand.

"No, it really doesn't," you agreed, making him laugh, too. "Do you like it?"

He shrugged and finally lifted a fork to scoop up a piece of tart.

"I'm good at it."

"But do you like it?"

"Sometimes. The people can be draining but when it pays off, it's rewarding."

"Yeah. That's how I feel about the diner, too," you sighed, feigning seriousness when you added, "it's almost like we do the exact same thing, huh?"

You made him laugh and once again, you were amazed by how easy it was to be with him already.

After Harry paid what appeared to be an absolutely ridiculous bill that made you squirm a little in your seat, you were faced with the awkward part of the date that you almost forgot about.

Does he take you home? Does he ask you to come back to his place? Would you go?

"Want to take a walk?" he asked when you both stepped outside of the restaurant, and you breathed a sigh of relief. "Weather's nice. Unless— those shoes—"

He looked down at your heels but you quickly shook your head.

"No, I'm good. A walk sounds nice."

Luckily, he walked slow because you were lying — your shoes were not made for comfort. But you were willing to sacrifice it to spend a little more time with him.

The street was bustling with life, but it wasn't very loud. A few people laughed while sharing cigarettes outside of a bar. A man with earbuds and vibrant, reflective clothes jogged by, minding his own business. An older woman wearing a chic poncho with a full face of makeup walked her small dog across the street.

It was a nicer neighborhood than the one you lived in, that was for certain.

"Thank you again for dinner," you said after the silence stretched on a little too long.

"You're welcome," he replied, then waited a beat or two before adding, "If this isn't your scene or you don't feel comfortable, we don't have to do stuff like this next time. We can do anything you want."

You frowned, confused.

"I liked it," you said slowly, "it's definitely not like anything I've ever experienced before, but I still liked it."

"Yeah?" he asked, stopping suddenly. You did the same and turned to gaze up at him.

"Yeah. Of course."

He looked relieved. His face relaxed a bit and he gave you a small smile. Then you shot him a coy look when you added, "So there will be a next time, then?"

He smiled wider and tipped his chin up so he could glance at the night sky, and that was when you noticed the flush creeping up his neck, just past his collar.

"I sure as hell hope so."

He looked back down, eyes flickering across your face and settling briefly on your lips before finding your eyes again.

"I'd love that," you said, feeling the warmth creeping up your own neck from the way he looked at you.

Then, he brought a hand up to cup your face, his dark brown eyes shimmering in the moonlight.

"Can I kiss you?"

He said it so softly, almost like he was nervous, but you found it hard to believe. How could someone like him be nervous around someone like you?

You felt yourself drift a little closer, that magnetic pull doing you in. His cologne invaded your senses, his warmth curled around you like a blanket, and you nodded, unable to form the word yes.

He was gentle at first, and his lips were unexpectedly soft against yours. He moved slow, savoring every second, massaging your lips tenderly against his own and learning the feel of you for the first time.

You melted into him so easily. The hand on your face gripped you a little harder when your lips parted, and when he deepened the kiss, you could still taste lemon and wine on his tongue.

He stepped forward and you stumbled backwards, arms flying up to wrap around his neck. His free hand found your lower back and he guided you further until you felt the cool press of brick behind you.

Within a minute, the kiss went from gentle to heated. You were firmly stuck between Harry and a brick wall, and all you could do was try to keep up with the intensity behind each swipe of his tongue against yours. His beard pressed into your chin, burning the skin there, making his mark, but you loved it.

You were completely lost in it, in him. The way he smelled, the way he felt, the way he kissed you like he may never get another chance again. Months of weekly visits to the diner that left you wanting all built up to that moment and neither of you could seem to stop.

That is, until a group of people out drinking walked by with a low whistle aimed in your direction and finally, Harry tore himself away.

"Christ," he chuckled, still standing too close and still holding your face. You both panted for air and stared at one another, searching each other's eyes, trying to get a read.

"Maybe I should — I should take you home."

You threaded your fingers through the hair on the back of his head and before you could lose your nerve, said:

"Or you can show me where you live."

He didn't hesitate, which thrilled you, and fifteen minutes later, you found yourself in his car with his hand firmly planted on your thigh as he drove you across town.

"Tribeca?" you asked, peering around.

"Yep."

"Wow," you breathed, looking out the window. Every building you passed by looked more impressive than the last until Harry turned down a street and slowed down.

The doorman jumped to attention, snapping his fingers at a younger man behind a counter, the both of them rushing outside.

"Mr. Castillo," the doorman greeted warmly when Harry stepped out. Harry nodded, murmured good evening, and rounded the car to open your door. From the corner of your eye, you saw the doorman swat the other on the shoulder, who shrugged and made a perplexed face in return.

Your hand slid easily into Harry's and he shut the door behind you.

"My apologies," the doorman said to you, "we didn't realize you would be having a guest this evening," he added, looking at Harry.

"It's alright," he said smoothly while handing the keys and a folded bill to the younger man. "I'll take any chance to prove I'm a gentleman."

They chuckled and you smiled, but mostly for a different reason: it appeared Harry didn't bring guests home often.

The lobby was stunning. Bright crystal chandeliers hung above your heads. The carpet was the softest, thickest carpet you ever stepped foot on. Two gorgeous fireplaces sat on either end of the spacious room and in front of each was a sitting area filled with couches and chairs and tables. Even the elevator was beautiful. Inside the car was mirrored with golden edges. Soft music filtered through the air and just when you noticed the ornate light fixture above you, Harry swiped a card and pressed the P button on the elevator, making your jaw drop.

"Penthouse?" you squeaked.

He gave you a strained smile and glanced down at his watch.

Your brows furrowed for a moment, trying to figure out what was going through his head.

You stepped off the elevator, following Harry into his apartment. Lights were already on and dimmed throughout the space, as if they were on timers. He watched you take a few hesitant steps forward and slowly spin around, taking everything in. Your eyes trailed over the marble kitchen countertops, the plush velvet chairs in the sitting room, the massive television, the floor to ceiling windows overlooking a breathtaking view. But it lacked... something.

Harry remained silent, waiting for you to turn back to him. When you did, you gave him a small smile and said, "Is this all?"

He laughed softly and pushed off the wall to join you.

"What do you think?" he asked, brushing his knuckles up and down your arm.

"Do you like it?"

It was the second time you asked him that question in one evening.

"Yes. I do."

You nodded and took a step forward, closing the small gap between you.

"Then I like it, too."

His mouth found yours once again, kissing you with an urgency that had you wondering if it was more than just lust behind it. Either way, you matched it, tongue swirling in tandem with his and fingers weaving eagerly through his hair as he blindly walked you both through the kitchen, towards where you assumed his bedroom would be.

When you stumbled past the threshold to his room, you giggled from your combined excitement, breaking the kiss. His mouth trailed down to your jaw, lips peppering kisses all the way to your pulse point. You craned your neck to the side and your eyes fluttered closed with a soft moan. His hands searched your dress, looking for the zipper, pulling hastily at the fabric as the backs of your legs bumped up against his bed.

"Careful," you whispered, and his groping stilled. "I borrowed this, it's not mine," you explained with a laugh. Harry pulled away from your neck to catch his breath and gaze down at you. His face looked flushed, eyes a little glassy, and his lips already swollen. Something about seeing a man so put together look so wrecked, all because of you, sent a tingle down your spine.

"I could buy a hundred more to replace it," he reminded you with one lifted eyebrow.

You grinned. "I don't care."

Something flickered across his face. Something soft, not unlike disbelief. Then his hands were on you again, searching for the zipper now that he could see properly.

In a heartbeat, the dress became a purple puddle at your feet and Harry was lowering you carefully onto his bed with his mouth nipping and sucking up and down the column of your throat, pulse coming alive at his touch.

You arched your back and dragged a hand through his hair with a gasp, holding him against your neck while your hips lift, searching for friction and thank god, he gave it to you. He dropped his weight between your legs with a grunt and grinds, soaking up every delicious sound you made underneath him.

His hands found the straps of your bra and he slipped them past your shoulders, kissing every inch of skin as he went. With a speed that made you gasp, Harry reached behind and unclasped your bra, then tossed it to the side to join your dress and shoes.

Without missing a beat, he continued to plant wet kisses all the way down your sternum, between your breasts, and only then did he pause to look up at you with heavy lidded eyes.

"You're so fucking beautiful, do you know that?"

You couldn't answer him. The words got lodged in your throat when his mouth wrapped around your breast, sucking and flicking his tongue over your nipple while you writhed impatiently beneath him.

"Fuck," you moaned as he continued to explore your body, like he was mapping you, memorizing you. "Harry — please..."

You were tugging feebly at his pristine white button down, his suit coat long forgotten somewhere in the journey from the front door to his bedroom.

He reared back at your plea and began to feverishly unbutton the shirt, his gaze all the while raking up and down your nearly naked body like he was drinking you in.

When he shoved the shirt past his shoulders, he made an annoyed noise in the back of his throat when the fabric caught on his wrists, forgetting entirely about his cufflinks.

He dropped each one into the silk sheets and nearly ripped his shirt off, far too eager to get his mouth back where it belonged — on you.

He fell forward onto his arms and continued to kiss you everywhere he could reach while your hands snaked between your bodies, working shakily on his leather belt.

"Jesus — get these off," you huffed, pushing down on the waistband of his slacks. He chuckled against your neck and helped you, kicking the offensive material to the floor and flinging his white undershirt off to join the rapidly growing pile of clothes.

You sucked in a deep breath at the sight of his bare chest for the first time. He took care of himself — that much was clear. But he wasn't overly buff and his stomach was still a little soft. You dragged your palms slowly up and down his tanned skin, admiring every curve and slope until your fingers found the band of his boxers. His stomach tensed when you slid your hand inside and you heard him stifle a groan when your fingers curled around his cock.

"I wanna see it," you murmured in his ear while slowly stroking him up and down. His hips lazily followed your hand, his hot breath skittered across your chest, and even though you were in the middle of this world, surrounded by extravagance you could only ever dream of, the only thing he wanted was you.

He granted your request, pulling down his boxers and freeing his cock, leaving him entirely bare to you. He watched with heavy eyes as you continued to work him with your fist, enjoying the way he twitched in your palm when your lips parted greedily at the sight of him in your hand.

He had enough. He couldn't take it any longer. His fingers curled around the edge of your black panties, stretching them away from your hips, slowly, before looking up at you.

"You borrow these, too?"

You shook your head then yelped when the fabric tore suddenly away from your hips.

"Jesus!" you giggled, but his mouth hastily slanted over yours, silencing you with a deep kiss that had your head swimming and your knees weak.

"Been thinking about this for weeks," he confessed, the words slipping past his lips and pouring into your mouth. One arm dropped down to grip himself at the base and your own hands instantly grabbed onto his broad shoulders, bracing yourself for what was to happen next.

"Me, too," you whispered, but he just shook his head while lining himself up at your entrance.

"No, it's not the same," he murmured back. "You're all I can think about. Driving me fucking crazy every second of the day. Wondered what you were doing—" You felt the blunt tip of him breach your cunt and you inhaled sharply. "Wondered— wondered what it would be like to— to— fuck..."

You gasped in unison when he pressed inside, parting your wet walls with ease, like he was always meant to be there. You whimpered his name and clawed at his shoulders, unable to look away from his face contorting with pleasure, at the feeling of you wrapping around him for the first time.

"To — what?" you exhaled when he was fully seated inside of you. His nose nudged the side of your head and he planted a tender kiss to your temple.

"Wondered what it would be like to wake up next to you every day."

It was so unexpectedly sweet. It had your stomach twisting as you pulled him back down to your mouth, your hand cupping the back of his neck to keep him close.

He rolled his hips forward, slowly, allowing you both a chance to adjust to the tight fit of his cock inside of you. You moaned into his mouth and it just spurred him on. His hand found a home on your hip, thumb pressing into the crease at the top of your thigh, then he did it again — he pulled halfway out just to slowly glide right back in, basking in the way you stretched for him.

"You're perfect," he murmured against your lips. Your eyebrows pinched together, gasping at the heavy weight of him every time he pushed forward. "You're so sweet and beautiful and fucking — perfect."

He groaned the last word, burying himself as deep as possible as if to emphasize his point. You shuddered in his arms, unable to articulate just how good, how full, how complete you felt. All you could manage to do was nip weakly at his chin and rock your hips upward, encouraging him to move faster, to take more — take all of you.

So, he did. He picked up the pace until he found a rhythm that made your mouth hang open and your legs shake. He was hypnotized, watching the way your eyes rolled back and your tits bounced with every harsh thrust. The only thing that kept you firmly in place was his hand pressing down on your hip as he took and took and took.

"God, you're pretty," he moaned. He was overcome with you, completely sunk and drowning. "So fucking pretty like this. I'll never get enough. Never — shit — never get enough."

The huge, sprawling bedroom was filled with the sounds of your skin slapping together punctuated with the soft noises you murmured into one another's skin. It was as if nothing else even existed outside of that space, even though you were very much firmly in the heart of one of the busiest cities in the world. You were both so lost in each other that nothing else mattered.

He groaned when he felt your arousal dripping down his shaft and onto his sheets. You were just so tight and warm and perfect, it was driving him insane and he wished more than anything that he could come inside you. He wanted to see the way he spilled out of your pussy and leaked down your soft thighs. He wanted the image burned into his brain for eternity.

"Harry—" you whined, nails digging into his back. "Oh god, don't stop! Don't— don't stop— ple—"

His mouth captured yours once again, quieting you while also giving you exactly what you wanted. He snapped his hips ruthlessly, knocking the air from your lungs as you wrapped your legs around his waist. You pulsed around his cock and whined so sweetly into his mouth that it had him feeling dizzy and reckless.

He slipped his tongue past your lips when you came, his name garbled in your throat in a way that made him feel like a fucking god. You tore yourself away, too desperate for fresh air, and dropped your head lazily into his pillow as you rode out the rest of your orgasm.

"Harry," you sighed, and his skin prickled at the sound. Your eyelids drooped and your swollen lips parted to drag in more air. You were so spent but still wanted him to feel good, so you tightened your hold around his waist and dragged your fingers through his sweat soaked hair.

"Come for me," you whispered into his ear. You felt his entire body shudder at your command and a jolt of confidence ripped through you.

"I will," he gasped, vision blurring with every wet smack of his hips against yours. "I will, baby. I wi— I'll give you anything you want. I'll — oh, f-fuck..."

Your teeth gently grazed the shell of his ear, just enough to sharpen his senses. His arms wrapped around you, holding you still as he fucked you hard now, chasing his own release.

"Inside me?" you asked. The way your voice sounded so sweet and innocent had his cock instantly swelling.

"N-no, I can't." He couldn't risk it but it still broke his heart to tell you no.

You made a disappointed noise but you didn't push it. You loosened your legs and a few hard thrusts later he was pulling out of you with a grunt. Your legs dropped to the mattress, shaky and loose. You rolled your head and watched in a trance as Harry hovered above you, jerking his cock with clenched teeth until he stilled with a low, deep moan. A moment later, you felt hot spurts of cum painting your stomach and mound. It was filthy, the way you loved being covered in him, how you reveled in the feeling of his sticky release on your skin.

He looked dazed and breathless when he was done, staring down at you with bleary eyes as he gasped for air. But then his gaze brightened when he watched you lift a lazy finger to swipe through his mess, collecting a taste and popping it into your mouth with a moan.

"Jesus," he groaned, and you giggled. He pushed a hand through his hair and took a deep breath before forcing himself to stand.

"I'll get you something," he said, stumbling for a moment. You eyed his soaked, semi-hard cock appreciatively before he turned to his bathroom. He returned with the softest washcloth you'd ever felt in your life. You almost told him not to use it, that you felt bad ruining it, then remembered where you were and who you were with and refrained.

Afterwards, he was incredibly sweet. He pulled you into his arms and turned out the lights, both of you still naked between his silk sheets. His thumb rubbed gentle circles against your arm and his lips occasionally brushed lovingly over your eyes, nose, or forehead.

In return, you pressed lazy kisses against his throat and slotted your leg in between his, unable to stop yourself from smiling.

"I had a really nice time tonight," you finally said, breaking the silence and making him laugh.

"Me, too," he replied, gazing at you in the beam of moonlight that cast across his bed.

You bit your bottom lip shyly and glanced around his bedroom. There hadn't been much of an opportunity to take it all in before, but now in the quiet stillness of night, you realized his room was unusually bare with the exception of his huge bed and one large abstract painting on the wall.

"Did you just move in?"

He shook his head, eyes still locked on you. "No."

He could tell you were curious but didn't want to pry, so he threw you a lifeline.

"I could've hired a decorator but," he glanced around, looking a little forlorn. "I wanted to wait and do it myself. With someone."

"Oh," you breathed softly. Then, sensing his vulnerability, added, "I would have done the same thing. It's part of what makes a house a home, you know?"

His dark eyes flashed to yours and he smiled.

"Yeah, that's right."

You grinned and snuggled a little closer into his chest. His lips found the top of your head and he hummed, content. Your eyes slid closed and you could feel your body relaxing, ready to drift off to sleep when he spoke again.

"I have a confession to make."

Your eyes snapped back open and you looked up expectantly.

"I don't think I can wait til Thursday to see you again," he smirked. Your heart skipped a beat and you pretended to think it over for a second.

"Well... I guess I could make some time on Monday or Tuesday," you mused.

"How about both?"

You swallowed and nodded, hoping you didn't come off too eager when you said, "Yeah, I think that would work."

As he pressed a tender kiss to your lips to seal the deal, you mustered up the courage to ask the question that had been weighing on your mind since the day before.

"Harry?"

"Hm?"

He looked at you like he was completely smitten, like he was ready to give you the world on a silver platter if you asked.

"Since we're making confessions, I have a question that's been bothering me," you said carefully. His smile faltered, but only for a moment.

"What is it?"

"Why didn't you tell me about all of this before? When I asked what you did for work, you always blew me off. I was starting to think you were unemployed but—" you laughed and looked out the partially covered window overlooking Manhattan. "—I was way off."

Harry sighed and rolled onto his back, bringing you with him to lay on his chest.

"I haven't had a very good track record with dating," he said. "And usually when women find out what I do, all they see is the money, the lifestyle, the parties, but..." he trailed off for a moment, fingers playing idly with the ends of your hair. "I just wanted someone to want me for me."

You tilted your chin up, giving him a sorrowful look as you cupped his cheek, forcing him to look at you.

"I want you for you," you told him firmly. He smiled, took your hand from his face, and turned it over to kiss your palm.

"I know."

You told yourself it was nothing. Just a crush. Just Jackson’s most quietly intimidating man, looking like a weathered cowboy stepped out of a storybook.

But you kept walking past that generator every afternoon after shifts at the greenhouse. Kept offering a smile. Kept hoping one day he’d nod back.

He didn’t. Not for weeks.

Still, he became a quiet fixture in your world. You noticed the way he wiped his hands on a rag and sighed like he carried the weight of the town. How he was always alone, even in a crowded room. People respected him, nodded to him. But they didn’t get close. There was a perimeter around Joel Miller, a space he didn’t let anyone step into.

Except you wanted to.

You’d moved to Jackson only a few months ago, still adjusting to the quiet routines of safety, the strange rhythm of peace after years of chaos. You worked in the greenhouse, learned names, made polite conversation. But Joel—Joel was the one person you couldn’t stop watching. Not out of fear. Curiosity, maybe. And something else you didn’t want to name yet.

One night, as you passed by the dining hall after dinner, you found yourself lingering outside the window just to catch a glimpse of him. He sat alone at the corner table, spooning stew into his mouth, eyes downcast. When someone approached, he nodded but didn’t invite them to sit. He ate, he stood, he left. Efficient. Solitary.

You started asking Tommy harmless questions. Not obvious ones. Just things like, "Joel always help with repairs?" or "He been here long?" Tommy had smiled, eyes warm, but there was a knowing tilt to his expression. He didn’t say much—just that Joel was dependable. Protective. A good man, even if he wasn’t good at showing it.

And then one evening, as snow drifted lazily around the lights of the settlement, he looked up. Eyes dark and unreadable. You’d frozen in place like a deer in headlights. He hadn’t smiled, hadn’t said anything. But that look stayed with you—deep and searching, like he was trying to figure you out.

You fell first. And you fell hard.

It didn’t help that Joel was always around now. Walking with Tommy. Repairing the fencing. Riding out with patrols and returning with snow in his hair. Every time he passed by, your stomach turned with a warmth you didn’t want to admit was hope.

He was older. Wiser. Probably didn’t think twice about the girl who kept stealing glances.

You told yourself that, too.

But Joel saw everything. He always did.

You started finding little things. A thermos of hot coffee left beside the greenhouse door one morning. A set of gloves your size folded on your chair in the common room. A new lantern hanging outside your front porch when yours broke. No notes. No words. But Joel had that kind of silence about him—one that spoke volumes without ever having to say anything.

You told yourself not to read into it. Maybe he was just kind. Maybe he did that for everyone.

But when you smiled at him the next day, he paused long enough to say, "You keep forgettin’ your gloves."

That was the first time he said anything more than a passing greeting. You stood there dumbly, heart tripping over itself.

"Thank you," you’d said.

He just nodded and kept walking, but there was something about the way his fingers flexed at his sides—as if he wanted to reach for something and stopped himself.

You kept falling.

Not like the first drop off a cliff, but like snow accumulating with the seasons. Layer by layer, memory by memory. The moments he shared something small—how he liked his coffee, the kind of music he used to listen to. The first time he laughed at something you said, a low, rough sound that warmed your entire body. The way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention—tender, almost regretful.

You didn't know when it happened exactly, but Joel Miller became the constant you looked for in every day.

And he still hadn’t touched you.

Not yet.

The first time he did, it was your hand. The two of you were outside the stables on a wind-bitten afternoon, trying to rehang a stubborn gate latch that had come loose. Your fingers were numb, fumbling with the metal, and he stepped beside you without a word, took your hand in his to warm it between his palms.

He didn’t say anything. Just stood there, eyes flicking to yours, his rough thumbs brushing across your skin like he was memorizing it.

You couldn’t breathe.

It lasted seconds. Maybe a minute. But it felt like the world narrowed to just that point of contact, your heartbeat so loud you were certain he could hear it. And then he let go.

"Y’can’t work like that," he muttered. "You’ll lose a finger."

But his voice was too soft. Too careful. As if he was already regretting touching you or already missing the feel of your hand.

Later, when you walked home, your hand still tingled where he held it.

That night, you stared at your ceiling and wondered if maybe—just maybe—he was falling, too.

But what you didn’t know was that Joel had already fallen. Hard. He just didn’t know how to let himself land without breaking.

Joel Miller was a man who had learned, too many times, that loving something meant losing it. That peace was temporary. That happiness was dangerous. So when he saw you—bright, young, hopeful—you were everything he didn’t deserve and everything he wanted. A contradiction he didn’t know how to live with.

He kept his distance not because he didn’t care, but because he cared too much.

And when you started showing up at the workshop with extra muffins from the bakery, when you sat beside him in the common hall instead of across the room, when you smiled at him like he mattered—Joel started to crack.

It wasn’t loud. Wasn’t dramatic. But every time you said his name, every time you laughed around him, every time you looked at him like he was someone worth knowing—he fell a little more.

You fell first.

But Joel Miller? He fell harder.

——

It happened again in the dead of winter.

You were walking back from patrol—your first in weeks, after training hard enough to convince Maria you could handle light shifts. Snow fell soft and thick, muffling every footstep as the sun dipped behind the mountains. Your breath came in clouds, and your fingers curled in your coat pockets, stiff despite the gloves. When the gate came into view, so did Joel, standing by the entrance with his arms crossed and eyes narrowed against the wind.

You slowed, heart rising to your throat.

He didn’t move at first. Just watched you like he was counting each step. When you got close enough to see the tension in his jaw, you offered a tentative smile.

“Didn’t know you were on gate duty,” you said, teeth chattering.

“I’m not,” he said flatly. “I came to make sure you got back.”

The words hit harder than they should’ve. They landed right in the centre of your chest, sharp and unspoken, full of weight he didn’t seem ready to name.

You stared at him, blinking. “You didn’t have to—”

“I know I didn’t.” His voice came low. Measured. Like he’d rehearsed it.

He turned and started walking toward your house before you could say anything else, leaving a single trail of boot prints for you to follow. You had to jog a little to keep up, snow crunching beneath your feet.

“I’m fine, you know,” you said once you caught up, brushing snow from your sleeves. “Just tired.”

He didn’t answer. Just nodded once, silent as ever. But you saw the way his fingers flexed at his sides again. Like he wanted to reach for you and couldn’t make himself do it.

By the time you reached your porch, dusk had settled over Jackson in a thick, blue hush. The windows glowed warm from within, but neither of you moved to go inside.

You turned to him. “Joel—”

“Why’re you always lookin’ at me like that?”

The question stopped you cold.

You blinked. “What?”

Joel’s eyes stayed on yours, steady and unblinking. “Like I’m somethin’ worth waitin’ on.”

Your throat dried. The cold didn’t matter anymore—not with the heat rising under your skin, not with the way his voice cracked at the end like the words cost him something.

“Because you are,” you said. Simply. Quietly. Because it was the truth.

Joel looked away, his jaw tightening. His hands balled into fists, then opened again like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“I ain’t young,” he muttered. “Ain’t easy. I got blood on my hands, and I—I can’t give you what you deserve.”

You stepped closer, your breath clouding between you. “You don’t get to decide what I deserve.”

He finally looked at you then. Really looked. And for a moment, the mask cracked wide enough for you to see everything underneath—the fear, the longing, the guilt he wore like armour. You saw the man who carried grief like a second skin, who held kindness in hands that had done terrible things. And you loved him all the more for it.

“I’ve been fallin’ for you since the day you smiled at me,” you said. “But you… Joel, you’ve been fallin’ too.”

He didn’t deny it.

Didn’t run.

Just stared at you like he couldn’t believe you’d say it out loud.

And then, slowly—like gravity finally won—he reached for you. One rough hand cradled your cheek, warm despite the cold, and your breath hitched. His thumb brushed beneath your eye. Careful. Hesitant. Reverent.

“I think about you,” he said, voice rough. “All the goddamn time.”

Your heart stuttered.

You leaned in before you could second-guess it, forehead resting against his. “Then stop thinking and do something about it.”

Joel’s breath caught.

And finally—finally—he kissed you.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle. It was years of restraint unravelling all at once, mouths meeting in the falling snow like something inevitable. His hands pulled you in close, and you didn’t care that you were shivering or that your knees almost gave out. You just kissed him back like your life depended on it.

Because maybe it did.

Because maybe his did, too.

When he pulled away, he didn’t go far. Stayed close, noses brushing, his breath ghosting over your lips.

“You scare the hell outta me,” he whispered.

You smiled, shaky but certain. “You don’t have to be afraid anymore.”

And Joel—weathered, wary, guarded Joel—nodded once, as if your words could be true, if only he let them be.

He fell harder.

But this time, he let himself land.

——

The morning sun slipped through the threadbare curtains, spilling pale gold across the wooden floorboards. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of pine and the remnants of last night’s fire. You woke slowly, the warmth of Joel’s body pressed against your side a steady, grounding weight.

For a moment, you didn’t move—didn’t breathe too deeply or even open your eyes—because it felt like you’d stumbled into a quiet corner of the world where everything fragile and broken could rest. His steady heartbeat, slow and sure beneath your ear, was a lullaby you never wanted to stop hearing.

When your eyes finally fluttered open, he was already awake. Joel’s gaze was softer than you’d ever seen it, the lines around his eyes easing into something like peace. His fingers were curled lightly over yours, thumb brushing lazy circles on your skin, anchoring you to the moment.

“Morning,” he murmured, voice low and rough from sleep.

“Morning,” you whispered back, tracing the calluses on his hand with your thumb, memorizing the map of scars and stories.

Joel shifted just enough to look down at you, eyes narrowing in a way that made your heart skip. “You stayin’?” His voice held the question like a fragile promise.

You smiled, a little breathless. “I don’t want to go anywhere else.”

He exhaled, a slow breath that sounded like relief and something more—hope, maybe. His rough hand lifted to brush a stray strand of hair from your face, fingers warm against your cheek.

The room was quiet except for the crackle of the fire still burning low in the hearth. Outside, the world was white and frozen, but here, with Joel, there was a quiet heat building between you—soft, slow, like the dawn unfolding around you.

You shifted closer, letting your head rest against his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heart beneath your ear. His arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you just a little tighter, and you felt the weight of his years, his pain, his hopes settle around you like a shield.

For once, you didn’t have to be afraid.

“Tell me about your day,” you said softly.

Joel’s lips curved into something close to a smile. “Worked the fence. Fixed the water pump. Made sure Tommy didn’t get into too much trouble.”

You laughed, light and warm. “Sounds exhausting.”

He shook his head. “It’s nothing compared to what you do. Greenhouse ain’t an easy job.”

You pressed a kiss to his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall beneath your lips. “It’s better with you around.”

Joel’s hand found yours again, squeezing gently. “I ain’t good at this,” he said quietly.

“You’re good enough,” you promised.

He held your gaze for a long moment, then nodded, like he was letting himself believe it.

And in that soft, golden morning light, you both knew this was just the beginning.

It’s something you feel in your bones, a particular stirring in the air, the smell of ozone electric and pressing on the breeze. 

You had always been able to tell when a storm was coming, though the signs you looked for used to echo differently. The smell and caress of the air always, but the shift of the trees too, the underside of leaves thrown to the sky, their veined bellies like the flash of a warning signal.

When the air goes still and soft and silent, there are mere minutes, moments, to take shelter. 

Pressing at your memory is like pressing on a bruise, it yields nothing but pain. You’d like to believe someone crouched beside you as a child and pointed the trimmings of the world and its secrets out to you, but you very much doubt it.

The other signs would come later of course, the more obvious ones, great purple clouds blackened at their edges, like a great wave that sought to swallow the world down the long column of its throat. 

The sky isn’t clouded yet, just a few dark gray, fuzzed, puffs, but there’s a stirring in the wind, the shuffle of leaves that you sense might be turning over, might be offering themselves to the rain. 

You aren’t sure, the horizon is a mass of furred emerald green and brightest blue, suggestions of color and shape and nothing more to your failing eyesight. 

Most of the world is a tempestuous blur, blocking and light, shapes and the vague notions of objects, shambling figures, but nothing more, not unless whatever you’re trying to look at is right beneath your nose.

It’s impossible to know why your eyesight started to go, though you can pinpoint when it started to get really bad. Maybe it's just the genetic lottery at play, something passed down through a family tree. You can only trace it back one person, your mother who died before she ever had the chance to lose her vision. Or, maybe, because of the gunpowder once thrown in your face back in the QZ, back when you still thought there was a better world worth fighting for, the black caress of it in your nose and lungs, the burn in your eyes. 

When you could still get a good look at yourself in the mirror, you swore the whites of your eyes were gray with the stuff, even all these years later. 

You hadn’t thought there was a better world to fight for so much as you needed something to hope for, something to fill the slow, crawling hours, the day by day, piece by piece devastation of the reality of everyday life. Not the Fireflies as Tommy Miller once had been, something revealed to you over tea in your kitchen after you almost blew his head off with a shotgun for creeping around on your porch, but a different group, one that had long ago fallen apart in a QZ that no longer existed. 

The air doesn’t smell of rain yet, that morning, just the whisper of the leaves, only a promise of what might come. 

For the moment, the sky appears a bright blue, rain clouds only a suggestion on the horizon, morning sun peeking through to burn away the fog left by the night’s cold humidity. \

Rifle in hand, you sit down on the top step of your front porch and breathe in the still chilled air. Fingers of dawn turn the horizon a milky pink. The pistol holstered at your side digs into your hip, so you lie it at your side.

It rained through the night, the world is still a little damp for it, the overgrown grass most likely covered in a dew you aren’t able to see. 

The world is still partially caught in the web of night, those sore hours just after the sun has risen and shadows still lie thick between the trees, close to the ground at the bottom of the earth. 

You set about taking apart the gun in your hands, cleaning the parts as you go, examining them for signs of wear, of red spotted rust by holding them close to your face.  

The day lightens as you work, waiting, spine aching where you’re hunched over, as the clouds gather and the air grows warm and thick with the scent of too familiar rain. 

The clouds had cleared through the night just to return and dump on you again, muddying trails, downing branches. 

It makes a nerve twinge in your chest, a fluttery anxious feeling that you bat down.

The chatter of insects, the thready trails of thousands of animals suddenly fall silent, noise that hums in the background unnoticed until it suddenly stops. You rely on it, to warn you of someone, something approaching. You listen carefully, fingers shifting to the pistol, quietly pulling back the hammer. Eventually the sound of a horse drawing near reaches your ears, the slight jangle of the rider adjusting in the saddle. 

Whispering through the overgrown weeds that choke the back beneath the copse of trees.

A moment later, the horse and rider appear from between the trees. Your eyesight is so poor it should be impossible to tell who is approaching, but you recognize the shape of the man, the blurry outline of him somehow more clear than anything else. 

“Quit pointin’ that thing at me,” he grouses, though you have already lowered the gun and though there is affection shelved in his voice. 

“You’d be dead if I meant you any harm.” 

“Don’t doubt it, sweetheart.” 

You stand and shoulder the rifle, shove the pistol into the holster at your thigh, and descend the porch steps into the yard. 

The wind is picking up, rustling the world, warmth stroked air stirring around you, scented with pine and rain, the soft, leather, wood oil smell of Joel.  

“Hi Joel,” You greet, reaching out to stroke his horse, nosing at the grass at the base of one tree. She makes a soft grunting noise, the vibration of it echoing against your fingers. 

“Mornin’,” he answers. “You smell like coffee.” 

“I brewed some for you. It’s inside.” 

“Didn’t have to do that.” 

“Well, you gave it to me, it's only right I share.” 

He steps closer and plucks at the shoulder strap of your rifle. You can just feel the pressure of his fingers through your jacket as he takes it from you and slings it over his own. There’s something gravitational about him, the pull of the earth against the moon, tugging you in until you’re close enough to see his features clearly. 

Anyone else would find the proximity uncomfortable, but not him, not with you. He knows you like to see, and doesn’t begrudge you his face, though he has insisted it's nothing to look at anyway. 

His breath fans over your cheek as he looks you over, gaze a careful assessment of your wellbeing that isn’t entirely necessary. 

You reach out and tug the strap of the rifle as he’d done to you. “Come inside,” you murmur, tipping your head toward the house. “I’ll get you some coffee.”

“Now hold on a minute,” he says, curling his hand around yours, keeping it pressed around the rough cotton rifle strap. 

“What?” 

He cups your face in his palms, his skin warm against your jaw, looks you over again before tilting your chin toward him gently. Joel kisses you like it means something to be able to. His beard scrapes against your cheeks, fingers tightening against your jaw for just a moment. You choke on the nearness of him, bracing your hand against his chest. The fabric of his coat beneath your fingertips, the silver curl of hair that you stroke behind his ear, the smell of pine and cedar and warm gun oil, is familiar now and so comforting. 

Overwhelming, too, in a way that you adore. 

It’s possible that your infatuation with him is because you’ve been isolated for so long, but you don’t think so. 

There’s too much about him that you like, things you have never noticed about other people.

You like the way he talks, his deep tug of his accent, the bottomless well of his voice and occasional regionalisms he spouts off. Dagum, being your favorite so far. You like the way back of his hands look and the age spots near his temples; the gray hair in his beard, and the way the skin at the small of his back looks when his shirt rides up; the way he smells and grits his teeth and shakes his head when he’s angry, but really just worried and not good at saying so. 

You really like how he worries about you, even if you wish he wouldn’t.  

It’s been such a long time since anyone cared about you. 

You’d forgotten this need, to be looked over and cared for and touched, in the intervening years. 

“All right,” you whisper when he pulls back, eyes still closed just to have the sensation last a bit longer, his lips still brushing yours, just a little. His hair feathers against your forehead, face tilted towards yours like the north point of a star. With some pain, you open your eyes, blinking until the map of his face comes into focus again, a highway of scars and weather lines. “You’re getting soft in your old age.” 

Joel snorts and releases you, crow’s feet deepening at the corners of his eyes with mirth, nudging you back toward the house. “I reckon you’re right.” 

You caught him at a good time, Tommy once said to you. My brother ain’t always been so easy.

“I have somethin’ for you,” Joel says, hand against the small of your back, guiding but only lightly. He pauses briefly to hitch the horse in the open air stable, dilapidated but still useful. 

With Joel there, you don’t have to pay attention as much. You can let your strained eyes unfocus. The world takes on a softened, wavered quality, like undulating sunshine through stained glass. 

The gathering of rapidly purpling clouds gather at the edge of your vision. For the moment, the breeze caressing your face remains soft instead of cutting, the deep green of the furred boughs of ancient pine trees dancing with it. A rabbit darts into the undergrowth around the house ahead of you, a white-gray blur. 

You only know which animal the ball of color amounted to because it is so often what you find in your traps. 

You think Joel probably knows you give your eyes a rest when he’s around because he offers his hand up the steps, even though you don’t need the assistance, muscle memory and the feel of the railing beneath your palm enough to guide you even in the total dark of night. It’s a good excuse to touch him again, feel the bones of his fingers between your own. 

“You do?” You ask. “More whiskey, I hope.” 

He chuckles and pushes the ragged screen door open. “Watch yourself here,” he directs and pulls you in front of him, squeezing your fingers again but not letting go until you’ve cleared the raised frame of the door. 

“I got it.” 

“I know.” 

The cabin is warm, the spiral of wind from the front of the house to the back, turning more violent as the storm brewing moves ever closer. Joel hangs his backpack from the back of a kitchen chair, leans your rifle against the door jamb and unholsters his own pistol. The safety is clicked on and the gun laid on the sideboard by the door. 

You like watching him, even if his outline is fuzzy at the edges. You hop up onto the counter and swing your legs, watching him. 

Every movement of his body is fit with purpose, intentional and lethal. He pays attention to things, even when it seems like he might not be. He’s handsome, too, of course. Beautiful in a way that you will pencil down on paper later, laden with interesting lines that move with each expression. 

“You’re outta firewood,” he says when he sits down to tug his shoes off one at a time. 

“We’re heading into summer in case you forgot.” 

“Still gets cold at night,” he says, unraveling the laces of his left boot, not looking at you. 

“I’ll take care of it,” he says, rising from the table with a grunt to place his boots neatly by the front door. 

You roll your eyes, “I can do it.” 

“I know it. I want to.” 

He dusts his hands off on the thighs of his jeans and approaches you slowly. You reach out and tug him closer by the collar of his jacket, pulling the zipper down before glancing into his face again when its descent reaches the middle of his chest. “I mean,” you meet his eyes, click your tongue in sympathy, “unless it’s too cold for you in here—” you murmur and start to drag it back up again. 

“Cute,” he snips, unholstering your gun to place on the counter, hands on your hips. 

“Well, I’m being serious, Joel. I’m just thinking of you—” You slide your hand to the back of his neck and pull him that much closer. “I might be feeling a little warm but if you’re—”

He rolls his eyes in such an annoyed and familiar way it makes your chest ache. He returns your hand to the zipper of his jacket and you happily indulge him by pulling it back down, razor teeth coming apart in your hands. 

There’s a shush of fabric as the jacket falls away from his body and hits the floor, your hands already occupied with other things, touching the bare skin of his wrists, tracing the thick veins that run beneath his skin to his elbows, feeling the flex of his forearms. He is thankfully only wearing a t-shirt beneath to contend with the warmth that, with luck, will be driven away by the rain drawing closer. 

It’s practical of him, to cover his skin. Protection from the sun and the elements and the looming possibility of life ending teeth digging into the soft flesh, but you like him like this better. 

His palms are warm and dry in yours, the heat familiar and comforting against your own. 

“A storm is coming,” you say. 

“That it is.”

“Were the leaves turned over when you rode up?” 

“Yep.” 

“Your hands are dry. Have you been using that ointment I gave you?” 

“Nope.” 

“Joel,” you chide. “That hurts my feelings.” You had hunted for herbs, sought out and meticulously cleaned a little tin. And he—

“I gave it to Ellie. She went on patrol when it was real windy. Face and hands was all red. Helped her a lot.” 

“Oh.” 

It’s a bigger compliment, maybe, that he had given it to Ellie. You have no proof that he isn’t lying, but you don’t think he is. 

“Uh-huh,” his eyes are amused. “Besides, how else am I supposed to get you to fuss over me?” 

It’s your turn to roll your eyes. “I fuss plenty,” you murmur, sweeping your thumb over the rough skin. You nudge your knees against his hips, tucking him in closer to the cradle of your hips. “Let me help you.” 

Joel kisses you instead of answering, hand cupped against the side of your neck, thumb tracing the line of your jaw. You draw your knees in tighter, urging him as close as he can get. His hand slips beneath your shirt, palm flat against your back, tracing the ridges and hills of spine and muscle and fat. 

His fingertips skim the hem of your jeans, grip your hips and move you forward to the very edge of the counter. You gasp against his mouth and then laugh when he steadies you. You feel his grin against yours, a strange kind of intimacy accompanies that, that you know the shape of his laugh. 

It sickens you sometimes, how much you like Joel, how much you might love him, how much you look forward to his visits and these moments. How you worried he might not make it to you because of the impending rain and the accompanying mud. 

Your reality is left behind for moments or minutes or hours; it's just you and him in a quiet world. He groans softly when you cup him through his jeans, dragging your nails against the rough denim. 

He groans and drags you ever closer, hands slipping higher, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts.

You arch into him, but when thunder suddenly cracks overhead, you break away with a gasp. 

He laughs, the sound hoarse and desperate, caught up in the center of his chest. 

You just pant against his mouth, eyes closed, and pull back a fraction. You comb his hair back, feel the strands slip through your fingers, longer than it once was, grayer too, soft under your fingers. You trace his face, aware that it might be your only way of seeing him in the not too distant future. If he continues to visit you, if he still wants you.  

“It scared me,” you reproach softly, still cupping his face in your hands, the weight of his head in your palms. 

He doesn't move, hands still firm and warm against your spine, thumbs stroking circles into the space beneath your ribs. “I got you.” 

“My hero,” you pat his side. “I’ll get you some coffee if you shut the door.” 

“That ain’t really a fair trade,” he grouses. 

“Sure it is. You love coffee.” He grumbles something under his breath, and you laugh. “What, you’d pick me over coffee?” 

“Shit, honey, any day.” 

He doesn’t mean it, but it still makes you laugh. 

You slide down from the counter and giggle to yourself at the way he walks a little funny. “Problem?” 

“You ain’t funny.” 

“I’m hilarious. Ask Tommy sometime, or Ellie. I can even get Maria to laugh.” 

You don’t see it but you know he rolls his eyes. 

“So what’d you bring me?” You ask when he’s settled at your kitchen table with the cup of promised coffee. You lean against Joel’s shoulder, cheek against the side of his head, fingers feathering through the hair at the nape of his neck. “You said you brought me something.” 

He digs in his bag instead of answering you, eventually depositing A loaf of bread wrapped in cloth and a jar of conserve on the table. There’s something scrawled on the side of the jar but you can’t make out what it says even when you bring it close to your face, the color of the ink too similar to the contents. Instead you unscrew the jar and sniff. The jam is strawberry, a favorite of yours during the spring and summer months.

The bread is still warm and makes a satisfying crunch when you unwrap it and press a thumb into the crust.

“Well,” you murmur and sit down across from him. “Thank you, but what’d I do to deserve all this?” 

Joel just shakes his head, his expression hard to read. “Nothin’.” 

You raise a brow but let it go for the moment. If Joel had something he really wanted to say, he’d get it out one way or another, in time. “It’s cause you like me, huh?” 

“Somethin’ like that.” 

“Still warm,” you murmur, breaking the crust on the bread. “I’m afraid I don’t have anything for you.” 

“Good, I didn’t bring it to swap for somethin’.” 

You slice the bread with a serrated knife from a drawer in the kitchen and spread strawberry jam over it, a first little taste of summer. You try to pass a piece to him but he shakes his head. “It’s yours.” 

“Well, thank you, baby.” 

“Mm.” 

For a moment, there’s only silence, the crunch of fresh baked bread in your mouth. The whistle of the wind through the trees outside, through the still open windows, bringing the scent of rain and petrichor and earth. You inhale the cool air as the humidity dissipates and the room falls to shadows, clouds gathering thickly overhead. 

“How’re you, uh, gettin’ on?” He asks suddenly. “With supplies.” 

You wish his face were clearer to you, a clue to what the tension in his voice means. “Fine. Winter depletes a lot, you know that.” 

“No firewood.”

“It’s summer, Joel.” 

His jaw ticks, your eyes tracing the quick movement, but his expression is still unclear. You drag your chair closer. Joel is hard enough to read as it is, and if he has something to say, you need to see his face. 

Often his meaning is hidden in his eyes, his voice is untrustworthy, prone to aggression when anxious or passionate. 

His brows are tugged together over his eyes, hard and unrelenting, on a mission you can’t begin to guess at. “It drops below freezing at night, darlin’.” 

“Joel,” you start gently, “It’s not like I’m starting fires out here. It’s asking for attention. For trouble.” 

“Jesus,” he mutters, swiping a hand down his face before he leans toward you. “That’s the goddamn problem.” 

Ah. Now you know what this is about, what the bread and jam, two things you can’t get yourself, are about. 

“I’ve been doing this for years, Joel.” 

“Ain’t just about firewood,” he starts, tilting his head, eyes locked on yours in challenge, like you don’t know its not about the firewood. “Food, clothes, medicine—”

“Is there an abundance of new clothes and medicine lying around somewhere that I don’t know about?”

“Funny.”

“I have what I have,” you shrug. “It’s always been enough.” 

A muscle jumps in his cheek and jaw, teeth ground together to avoid saying something he can’t take back. “All right,” he answers eventually. “Have you been huntin’ lately? I can get you something, bring it up from Jackson—”

“You don’t need to worry, Joel,” you reiterate, feeling as though you’re about to be ambushed. “Really. I have enough.”  

“Yeah,” he agrees in a defeated sort of way, rubbing one hand against his jaw. You close your eyes, to savor the sound of his fingers against his beard. It’s like a balm, one of the things you like best about him. It’s indescribably attractive, the sound of the rubbed bristles against the bowl of his palm. “But I do,” he admits. “All the time.” 

“But I don’t want you to,” you counter. “You don’t need to.”

You mean it in a reassuring way. 

There’s no reason for him to worry. You’re okay. You can take care of yourself just fine. 

His shoulders tighten, expression pensive and far away, jaw working slowly, a muscle jumping in his cheek. He’s grinding his teeth, keeping something inside. The room grows steadily cooler in the silence as the rain finally bursts from the clouds in a violent torrent. 

You lean closer, peering in at his face, watching the lines by his eyes deepen, waiting for him to loosen up. 

It’s a minute before he answers, not looking at you. “If you lived in Jackson, neither of us would have to worry.” 

The room grows darker. “So that’s what this is about.” 

“What?” He asks, too nonchalantly and a little too loud. 

“You aren’t subtle, Joel. You don’t know how to be.” 

He grinds his teeth. “Why won’t you come live in Jackson?”

Some vast, nameless fear unfurls in your chest at the suggestion. 

You don’t answer him for a long time, not sure what to say, how to explain yourself. There’s some part of you that curls up tight, a protective shell reforming around your heart, because maybe Joel won’t come back, if you don’t explain it right. And you don’t want to be trapped in Jackson, but you don’t want to lose him either. 

Maybe that’s unfair of you, vilely selfish, but it doesn’t make it any less true. 

“I’m sure Tommy has already told you,” you answer eventually, “that they’ve offered before. Tommy has, Maria has, her dad did before he passed — I’ve always said no. I don’t want to, anyway.” 

Joel clears his throat, hesitates for only half a second. “Well, now I’m askin’.” 

The words are spoken so softly, a gently sung plea. 

He’s asking, and so it should be different, because it's him. It is different, it’s—

“No.” 

The word rips from your chest, tears from your mouth. Terrible and mean. 

He scoffs. “That easy, huh?” 

You bristle. “That’s just how it is, Joel.”

“What happens when I come out here one morning and you’re fuckin’ dead—” 

“You bury me and get over it.” 

“—or infected?” 

“You kill me and get over it.”

He doesn’t laugh and you don’t expect him to but a sour thread of irritation ignites in you anyway. “I don’t know, Joel, just stop coming out here then.” 

Joel gives a humorless laugh and drags an exhausted hand down his face. “Yeah.” 

You wonder how hard it must have been for him to ask in the first place. “Nobody is dragging you out here but you.” 

Your words are dismissive of what you mean to each other. Horrible in how short and clipped they are, how little meaning you assign to them, to him. 

For a moment he doesn’t answer as you mindlessly sweep the crumbs leftover from the crust of bread into a little pile. 

You make the mistake of glancing up to see the expression on his face, hurt and resignation, but not surprise spread over his features. Something about it is unsurprising to him, that you would say no to him about this. 

“All right,” he sighs, “not for me then—”

“That isn’t what I meant—” you try to correct and then stop, not sure how to say what you mean.

A long, icy, stubborn and stupid, silence persists for so long you start to wish he’d just storm out, just leave. You expect it, because Joel is like a kicked dog sometimes, mean and avoidant when he’s scared or hurt. 

Instead, he says, accusing, voice a harsh slice through the air, “I know your eyes are gettin’ worse.” 

You freeze, lightning forks through the sky, thunder shakes the walls of the house as the rain drums down harder. 

“You can’t see and it’s gonna get you killed. If it don’t get you killed, somethin’ else will. You won’t be able to hunt if you can’t see. You ain’t gonna last by yourself much longer.” 

The words are calm, but bordering on a snarl, the shift of old fear just below the surface of his voice. 

“And you’re askin’ me to just ignore it. Pretend like you ain’t sittin’ out here in the goddamn dark, alone, all the time.” 

You don’t reply, because that is what you’re asking. You don’t want him to think about it because the notion scares you. Not being able to hunt anymore, losing your vision entirely, feeling like living on your own might be a death sentence you willingly walk toward, terrifies you. You try to avoid thinking about it most days, telling yourself that you would manage somehow, you always have, that finally losing your sight would just be a new challenge.

You have survived much worse after all. 

“I don’t need to hunt. I trap—”

“Jesus,” he mutters, shaking his head. “That ain’t the point.” 

“Then what is the point?” 

You don’t mind living close to Jackson, having people nearby isn’t such a bad thing. Their patrols help with curbing the hoards of infected that sometimes passed through, help with culling and discouraging raiders in the area.

It’s nice, you suppose, to know you aren’t totally alone in the world. 

Jackson is nice enough. The few times you visited felt like stepping onto another planet, or maybe into the past. 

Smiling people, folks that helped each other out, a school and a store and food to go in the store. Greenhouses and stables and laughter. 

Strange. 

But the walls are enough to frighten you. 

The walls are suffocating as much as they are protective. They remind you of gunfire and smoke and screaming; of a weapon in your hands and blood on your skin and gunpowder in your eyes, a viselike grip on your arm dragging you down, into a basement where screams bounced off the walls.

It had been hard to shake the feeling of surveillance there, of being watched. Of being trapped, doors and walls closing in on you that could not be opened again. Of being at the mercy of other people. 

Maria had offered you a place there a long time ago. Long before Joel, long before Tommy, even. You had always declined, and it wasn’t until Joel arrived one spring that you spent more than an hour there.

Joel has spoken your worst fears aloud. You’re afraid of losing your vision more than you’re willing to admit, terrified and in denial about it. Pressure builds in your ears, the walls squeezing in tight around you, helplessness of learning to navigate without sight and take on a new, strange world, of not being able to see his face again, even close up, a filmy white blur and nothing else. 

“You can’t take care of yourself out here alone,” he repeats, gentler this time, evidently thinking he’s broken through to you in the interim of your silence, that you don’t already know and aren’t petrified of it, incapacitated with fear when you think of being blind and alone, maybe not adjusting to it, maybe needing help and being killed over it. 

“I can,” you insist. “I always have.” 

He huffs, annoyed or maybe scared, and looks away from you, shaking his head. “Can you see the goddamn spores?” 

You swallow and answer honestly. “No.”

“Jesus.” 

“Spores are usually underground,” you defend, “so I don’t have to worry about them.” 

He sits back, one hand braced on his thigh, brows tilted up, watching you with eyes that say he knows you know it’s bullshit. “And infected. . .” He says slowly, not looking away from you. “How close they gotta be before you can tell they ain’t people?” 

“Well I can tell from the sound—”

The sound of their shuffling gait, the pounding of runners’ feet against the ground, the clicks and groans.

“If you couldn’t hear ‘em,” he interrupts loudly, “could you tell them apart? Stalkers are quiet.” 

You don’t answer because the truth is worrying and doesn’t help your case. It doesn’t matter to him that stalkers are also usually inside, and hide. It doesn’t matter, because he knows the truth. He’s making a point.

You press your lips together and Joel shakes his head, jaw gritted, the tension pooling into his neck.  

“You can’t.”

“So go, if it bothers you so much,” you deflect. “It’s not your problem. I’ll manage. I’ve been fine for years. I will keep being fine.” 

“That’s not what I—” He sighs. 

“Joel.” Your voice raises a panicked octave that you can’t hold back. His name tastes like acid and fear, like the rotting carcase of a dead world closing in on you, just like it always had and always would. “I can’t, okay? I just can’t.”

If he hears the fear in your voice, he doesn’t fold to it. “Why?” He demands, a touch of exasperation in the hard edge of his voice. 

You don’t answer for a moment and then remember his hands. It’s a good enough excuse to walk away. You need to walk away from just a moment, to gather yourself. 

When you stand, Joel’s fingers closer around your wrist, a soft, pleading hey, sweetheart on his tongue. 

“I’m just getting something for your hands.” 

He releases you and your hands shake as you navigate the rain darkened hallway to your bedroom, to the oil in your bedside table. 

The trees outside appear to be taking a beating, bending in the howling, unrelenting wind. Rain lashes the window panes and the roof in a violent tattoo. 

You return to Joel, and let your eyes focus on him. Even if he’s angry with you, you want to see his face. The scar over the bridge of his nose, other little marks against his cheeks, the warmth of his eyes, the lines in the palms of his hands, the patch of gray in his beard. 

He doesn’t protest when you pick up his hand and spread lavender oil over his knuckles.

“I’m sorry,” you say. 

The lines around his eyes soften, just a little. “That’s all right.” 

His face could be lost to you someday, only a picture in your memory. Are you willing to lose him sooner over something like this? Would he make you choose? Say he can’t come back to you anymore? 

Joel lets you rub the oil into his hands, the joints of his fingers, massaging until your own hurt, warm oil finally soaked into his skin. You sit on the very edge of the chair next to him anxiously, spine stiff. “I’ll give you some, to take with you,” you say instead of what you need to. “It's different to the one you gave to Ellie.” 

And enough to last a while, you think, just in case. 

You can’t make yourself look up from his hands. Hands that you know better than your own these days. Thick fingered, broad palmed, lined, calloused, spotted, sun roughened. Some of it gleaned from careful examination, the rest from memorization of touch you’d know anywhere. 

His hands in yours are a touchstone, a grounding force. You know what they feel like almost everywhere, what sounds they can dredge up out of you, how carefully they treated animals and instruments. 

Joel says your name, the sound of it so soft in his mouth, a pleading thing, but you don’t look up. There was a time you wouldn’t have believed him capable of this, but he’s changed, different since you first met him and Tommy introduced you on one of his first patrols, new to Jackson and still half feral, untrusting. 

You suspect, though you are sure you’ll never know, that Joel had told Tommy you needed to be dealt with, living so close to their little haven, but not apart of it. And here he is, months and years on, wanting to deal with your outsider status in another way. 

“I’m scared,” you admit to his hands, the softened skin beneath your own. “Really scared.”

Joel retracts one of his hands from between yours to tilt your chin up. 

Your faces are close together. He’s never particularly minded your need to be close, to see. 

He blinks, surprise registering. It reminds you that he’s right. “You ain’t scared out here?” His voice is troubling, supplicating in a way that Joel simply isn’t. He’s needling you, lulling you into complacency, because the surprise belies worry. He’s worried about you. “Infected and raiders and slavers that a whole damn town has trouble fendin’ off sometimes?” Hius voice raises as he speaks, not in volume but agitation, aggression pooling in his tone like poisoned honey.

“That’s nothing,” you murmur. “It’s nothing compared to not being able to take care of myself.” 

He shakes his head. “I don’t understand you.”

“Yes you do, Joel. You understand, and you know you do. You just don’t want to because it's me.” 

“‘Course it’s different because it's you,” he snaps. 

You balk. “What does that mean?”

He doesn’t answer, shaking his head. Joel takes his hands from yours and stands and walks a few steps away, toward the door. 

He stops, one hand scraping over his beard, the other anchored on his hip. You can tell he wants to walk away. 

But, he doesn’t. 

He doesn’t say anything either. 

“It’s not Jackson that scares me,” you say, finding the gentle voice trapped in your chest. “It’s not you that scares me. It’s losing my sight there and not being able to get out. It’s getting trapped somewhere again. It’s not being able to take care of myself.”

“Honey,” he says and turns back to you.  

You meet his gaze as best you can. The edges of him are grainy, blurry, like a dream. “I ain’t done much beggin’ in my life. But I am now. Please. Please, come live in Jackson. I worry—I worry all the goddamn time.” He walks closer again. You know he does it so you can see his face, shame welling up terribly in the back of your throat. “And I don’t like sayin’ it. It don’t have to be with—I just need to know you’re all right.”

“Joel—” 

“It’s not like out there,” he gestures vaguely outside, to the still swirling storm. “It ain’t like in the cities.” He takes your hands in his, warm, the scent of the first of summer’s lavender lingering in the air, twinning with Joel’s familiar smell, the fresh scent of rain washing through the open windows. “Whatever happened to you there, it won’t happen in Jackson.”

The way he says it gives you pause, such intense sincerity, so much desperate need. He means it. Not just that it wouldn’t happen, but that he would not let it happen. “You really care about me, Joel Miller.” 

“Shit, was I not makin’ it clear before?” 

“You have your ways.” You pat the chair. “Can I tell you what happened?” 

He takes the chair again, knees pressed together like children sharing secrets. 

The rain abates, a little, slowing to a downpour instead of a deluge. 

“You tell me anything you want.” 

Finding a foothold for your voice is hard. The threads of your like hard to weave together, to pick up where one thing begins and another ends, where it all leads. 

But he’s patient, for once, hopeful, maybe. 

You tell him. 

About the gunpowder, about the many bombs and firefights, about the basement and the walls. The leaving that came later when you were so sure you would die there, ribs bruised, face a mess of wounds and popped blood vessels. 

The room feels calmer, after you say it, like not so much is at stake anymore, like he might understand your irrational fear of gates shut behind you, why your vision failing feels like a different kind of wall. 

“And then I had to figure out so much on my own. I didn’t know how to trap or hunt or garden, but I couldn’t go back. And I didn’t trust anyone. The first time I had to break down a rabbit, I threw up, and I was so proud of the little trap I’d caught it in. A trap that took days to get right. The first deer I shot. . .half the meat was wasted because I was so squeamish. How could I kill people like nothing and an animal made me sick?”

You look at him, and Joel squeezes your hand but doesn’t answer. 

“I went hungry because I didn’t know how to feed myself.” You close your eyes. “It’s no different than what anyone else has been though. But I figured it out and I didn’t have to rely on anyone. I didn’t have to rely on favors or shitty ration cards or—” 

You open your eyes again, that careful, steady gaze of his on you, accessing. You already know what he’s going to say. 

“But it got better and I was free. Then my sight started to go. And I feel trapped again. I don’t want to owe anyone; I don’t want to rely on anyone. I don’t want walls around me again. So I have to figure it out, like I did before because I can’t go back.”

 He shakes his head. “But you don’t gotta now. I know—” he emphasizes before you can interrupt, “I know how it is. I know what you mean. Jesus, I know. But it don’t have to be that way. It ain’t that way.”

You shake your head, not sure he really understands. 

The rain continues to slow, pattering to a tiny, insignificant drizzle. He urges you up, into the cradle of his body, arms curled around you. “Can you visit me?” Joel offers, a desperate olive branch. “Ain’t even gotta be overnight.” 

You chew on it for a moment, the anxious pulse of your heart slowing as his hands rub the base of your spine. “I’m not saying yes, but maybe I can visit.” 

He breathes out. “Well, all right.” There’s such stark relief in his voice, it makes the middle of your chest ache. “That’s a start.” 

“I’m not—I can’t promise you anything.” 

“I know it.” 

You blink. “We’re okay? You’re okay with—” 

“For now. Ain’t gonna leave it alone neither.” He pats your hip. “And you’ll let me bring supplies.” 

It’s not a question. You smile and duck your head. “I guess I should be flattered. Will you still come hunting with me?” 

“‘Course I will. Will you come home with me tonight?”

You hesitate, but only for a moment. “Of course I will.”  

It’s not as hard as you think it is, climbing atop the horse with Joel at your back in the evening sunshine that turns the world into a slipshod mullion of orange and yellow peeking through still dripping trees.

No. Of course not, no. And he doesn’t believe it, either, not when you say it right then. 

Tucked closer in his arms, a slow contraction of muscle; a quiet shush of breath, disbelieving, lips to your forehead. 

His lips are soft on your skin. 

Press, press, press. Gentleness, never admitted to. 

You love his body. 

The sacrifice he begged to make with it, that you sometimes indulged and sometimes did not. 

The scars, infinite craters and half moons and lightning strikes to discover. Hand prints and bruises in the shape of fingerprints on golden, warm skin.

A touch of madness, when you look at him, consuming, biting need to take. To hoard, to corral. 

Dragon with gold, wolf with sheep. 

Yours. 

Yours. 

Teeth to skin, delicate, like the spill of something sweet down your wrists. If you dug your teeth in, he would let you, and he’d drip down your chin, sticky on your skin like fruit juice. Bitter like lime. 

You love the way he feels inside you. Interconnected, threads of fate, heavy inside you, full. Warm. Too full. Perfect. 

Everything is orbital with him, sun around moon, moon around sun. 

You love how warm he is. The way he never complains about cold hands and fingers digging into, asking, against him. Palm pressed over yours to keep it there. There and there and there. Against a heart. Because he would cut open his chest to keep you warm. Stick your fingers inside his ribs.

Not just because of the chill in your hand. But because you like to touch, feel. Muscle and tendon and vein. Coarse hair on his chest and thighs, too hot skin beneath. The thickness of his forearm and bicep and the flex of dense muscle there. Veins that run purple and green, beg for your fingertips and lips.  

Push and pull, drip of sweat at his throat. Shiny with it, shimmering. So pretty. 

The pulse of his heartbeat like the wings of a living animal, a creature you could palm and nurture. 

That you do sometimes, curled fingers pressed there, just to feel it, the shape of his breath and the throb of his heart against your thumb nestled into that little hollow, that little space. 

Fits perfectly there, thumbprint against gleaming, glistening skin. Exertion. His body over yours. Consuming and consumed, heavy over you and thrusting deep, holding you steady. 

Starbursts behind your eyes, rolling back. Grip and roll and push and give. 

Sweet in the sunshine and the moonlight and standing in the doorway so angry because you didn’t listen again. Arms over chest, clench and release of jaw beneath his beard. 

Coarse dark hair on his chest and thighs and forearms and between his legs. All of it soft, something to drag your nails along and sigh. 

Fingers curled through the peppered hair on his head, fine lines of sea salt threading through brown. Soft bristles of his beard when he kisses you, when he drowns himself in you, when he pulls at you until you move when he wants you, against his mouth, hands in his hair guiding him, soothing and praising. 

Fine lines by his eyes and the wrinkle in his forehead and the creases in his throat. That fade when he relaxes and sleeps, that runnel deep with stress and laughter. 

Signs of age, he would argue. Stress. Nothing to look at. 

Signs of life, signs of living. Something to trace aside from the scars and cuts and the press of a finger into a bruise to watch him wince and swat you away. 

So good. 

There’s no sense in telling him, any of it, no sense in saying it. He would not believe you. He’s beautiful, cut from hallowed cloth, stitched together with pearl white thread. Strong, wide shoulders, the roll of tender muscle and sinew, something to slice into with a scalpel and take apart. Narrow hips, raised bumps of vein at the wings of his hips, the softness of his stomach, the hard press of muscle beneath. 

It’s good to be wanted, nice to be needed. 

By him. 

By Joel. 

Beneath you, hips rolling against his, curled over him. He always makes a sound you don’t think he hears, unraveled and unspooled, ripped from the pit of his belly. A groan or a plea. And you love it. 

You like his hands on your hips and thighs and breasts, the delicate pull of his tongue along your cunt. 

The shape of his shoulders silhouetted in the window, the broad frame of him edged in light. The pull of his t-shirt or flannel tight across his body. The sound of his voice, the graveled, rough pull of it, somehow still soft. His hey and g’mornin’. Pressed into your palm, into your open mouth, words swallowed down into your belly. 

He isn’t like you, won’t stand naked, won’t abide that, too embarrassed, too mannered and well raised for that. Thinks nothing of his body, the thing you love, the thing he uses to give. It’s a tool and nothing more beyond it’s usefulness, certainly not pretty, certainly not to be admired. 

A wish that he would let you look, stand naked in your doorway, hung over your head like a scythe, just to look and trace. Just to get your fill of him. Just so he understood, even if for only a minute. 

Another thing, another love. 

His voice. 

He hums under his breath, sweet and soothing. He talks to himself, and you love to hear it. 

No one else can hear that, the way he talks to himself and hums and mumbles and breathes. You like the way he breathes, you like to listen to him inhale slowly before he takes a sip of coffee, steaming between rough hands, and it makes you sick with something unsaid. Fold and crease of lungs and heart. It’s a song, a kind he sings without knowing. 

The same voice you feel against your hand when you press it to his throat, the voice you feel when his tongue is in your cunt. 

It sounds best in the desperate way he moves above you, faster, frantic, desperate. 

He likes that. Your hand on his throat, against his collarbone. Head laid at the gallows. 

You like to do it. Like to watch the strain of tendons and vein, feel his breath shudder and the spiderweb of pulsing blood against your palm. 

You love the taste of him, the heaviness of his cock on your tongue, swallowed hungrily down your throat. You love the crimson, the delicate pink that stains his cheeks and throat and chest, the prettiest, warmest flush of skin when he comes, when you tease him about something innocuous. The sounds he makes, grunts and curses, always quiet. 

Rough pads of fingers ghosting over your cheeks and neck and jaw. Never pushing. Knows better than to push. Soft and feeling, here and there, the plush curve of your bottom lip. 

You love the press of his fingers between yours. Curve and strength, clench and asking, seeking. 

You love the blood on his hands, the bruised cut of his knuckles.

The way he stands, talks, smells. 

God, help you, but you love the way he smells. Leather, the earthy loam of rotting places, sunshine, pine, gun oil, the tangy salt of blood and sweat. It’s good somehow. Or maybe it isn’t. You love it anyway. 

You love the musk of him, the safe press of his body over yours. Strong strength that brushed against yours. Chest to chest, clawing desperate fingers at your thigh and knee, teeth at the edge of jaw, head tilted back, offering. 

You love his nose, the divoted scar on the bridge of it. The part of his lips against yours, the fan of his breath in your mouth, fingers curled deep inside you, probing, searching, prodding, finding pleasure tucked into corners you didn’t know existed. 

So attentive. So attuned. 

No one else, you think. Not another soul would ever search you like this one, would ever find parts of you just because he wanted to, likes to, needed to memorize the things he loved. 

You love that. You love hiding away, being found anyway. 

Broad hands and thick fingers, callused from everything, the world and work and music. He wants to hear you sing and you want the same, but you refuse and so does he. Lines in his palms, seams of the earth. 

You love the way he holds a knife and a gun and the way he goes predator still when he knows, senses, something is wrong. His hand on hip pulling you back and away from the danger, blood on his palms for you, supplicating, asking, begging to be good, to do this for you. Knows you could do it yourself, spill blood, has seen it, has watched, but likes to do it for you anyway. 

No sense in saying it again, won’t believe you again. 

He doesn’t have to prove it to you. He doesn’t have to bleed, doesn’t have to drag the corpse beneath the porchlight again and again as proof that he can keep the roll of your name safe beneath his tongue. 

Joel does it anyway. 

Tell me what you need. 

And you get it, in rough hands and tender touch. 

He’s humming, now, the vibrations knocking against your temple. Tracing the hands you love over the curve of your hip and the down of hair on your thigh that he likes. 

He likes the hair and your body and you know that in all the ways you can. He makes sure of it. 

It's quiet, in the aftermath of the threat being taken care of.

“What the fuck is your problem, you said you knew how to handle yourself!” Joel’s broad frame pivots as he takes in the now calm setting. Right in the middle of what was once a courtyard, debris and wreckage everywhere from a bomb dropped decades ago. It was supposed to be a simple exploration run for more supplies outside the zone. But clickers and runners have a way of throwing everything into a frenzy.

When you don’t respond, eyes locked on your throbbing leg, it’s when the man huffs and tries to get a gather of where you two ended up in relation to where you had been and where you needed to go. His low grumbles of whatever he’s saying are barely given any life- underneath his breath as he tries to figure it out.

You leave him to it, completely prepared to be left behind once he figures it out. Sighing, you grit your teeth and take the knife you had used to take down the last runner that chased after you and cut the now useless denim from your jeans where it’s stained with blood. It’s not helping to conceal anymore, wrapped around plastic and outdated technology, the blood slippery on your fingers and saturating the fabric even as you untangle it from around your leg.

Joel turns, prepared to fire off more insults at your lack of action if the twist of his open mouth is any indication but he stills when he sees you. You’re still on the ground, though you had managed to move into a seated position, your left leg bent at the knee as you lean forward to roll up what remains of your cut pantleg on the right. It exposes the aged prosthetic no longer secured to the stump of your leg.

Fingers inspecting the broken clasps that had once connected the artificial limb to the scared and rounded edge of your skin just above your knee. The piece of the fabric you normally keep tight over it is torn from the same jutting rebar that had caught your leg and caused you to fall. You sighed, shoulders slumping as you feel the hard gaze of the angry man on you.

The jagged slice into your skin is red and angry, mirroring how you feel about the whole fucked up scene.

He only watches in silence, jaw ticking and face frowning when you chance a blank look up at him

Silence and a long moment pass, him watching as you just sit there and stare down at the issue with hard eyes.

“You can leave now, since I’m such a waste of a partner.” You don’t bother to look up, fingers reaching for the knife holstered on the back of your hip. You use it to cut the once protective wrap for the end of your leg and tie the strip of fabric around the stump to ease the spots of blood bubbling up along the tear in your skin. “Everyone leaves me behind when they find out, wouldn’t hold it against you if you did too.”

“Roni…” His voice is low, but it’s hollow compared to the anger fueling him just moments ago.   

“I said leave!” You head jerks up, eyes meeting his and you can see the air leave his lungs in a surprised huff, though he schools his expression from you as quickly as it flickers. That same hard stare, reminiscent of the spaced out one you often see on him as he’s trekking alongside you on runs and walking alongside you in the crowded streets of the QZ. Seeing everything differently with the new realization. The way you often trailed behind him, and Tess if she’s with you both. The way you tended to rub at your knee whenever you stood in line for various rations, the way you tended to bear most of your weight on your left side that he had thought was due to similar backpain he experienced.

You manage to lift yourself into a standing position, leaning on the same chunk of exploded concrete that had taken you down. Wobbling slightly at the imbalance of leaning down to pick up the now useless prosthetic. The metal and leather clasps clink together as you lift it up to inspect it closer. “Just go.”

But he doesn’t. He simply takes the ruined thing from your hands and fits it into the pack slung over his shoulders. His face tightens when you flinch at his reaching hands, fear of his known brutality and violence finally landing on you. He pauses, eyes shifting as he takes in the trembles of your body, the way you clench your eyes shut and bring up your arms to shield your face from a hit that he never even thinks of making.

It speaks volumes, the gentle way he reaches for them once again to lower them, how he ducks his head and grips your chin to turn your face to him. All the breath in your lungs punches out, the flinch of your dirt smeared face almost a painful stab in the middle of his chest.

“I ain’t gonna leave you out here.” The surety of his words has you opening your eyes and he’s pinning you with a look you’ve only ever seen aimed at Tess before. The complete dedication he has for keeping her alive is now focused on you, stalling your next breath.

It takes a moment to figure out the best way for him to support your weight and carry you. But you both figure it out, hands hovering over your shoulders or waist to help you traverse the ladders and jumps back into the zone through discovered and kept secret pathways.

-

He lingers on the feel of your fingers and hands gripping him, long into the night once back in the relative safety of the apartment. Tess doesn’t say anything when Joel retrieves the prosthetic from his bag long after you’ve fallen asleep on your bed. The small thing tucked into the opposite side of the cramped space that leads to the bathroom. She simply pats a hand on his shoulder, watching the quiet, determined way he begins to look it over.

From that moment on, they’re both sure to look for any compression material they can, for baby powder or any lotion that they come across. For olive oil or anything that can act as a lubricant for your repaired support, to prevent it from the hinges catching or the materials to creak and give away your position while out beyond the walls. For the painkillers they know you need even if you don't ask for them.

The restless nights you tried to hide from them now act as a siren call fashioned for him. Joel rousing should your sheets rustle in the middle of the night or the phantom pain of a limb you now only possess half of becomes too much, the rattle of the pills against each other as you reach for one pulling him from his sleep.

She doubts he even realizes that his hands twitch every time you go to scale a ladder or make a jump, stop to rub at where that unavoidable pinch occurs over your skin- but she clocks it. Can see how it will all play out if given time. His need to protect and fuel to fight encompassing you just as it did her all those years ago.

Your determination to keep up as you always have not shocking, though they do tend to keep a closer eye on you.

Joel nearly loses it one day, hollering and berating your lack of caution when you all found yourselves trapped in a building, the second way out collapsed and blocked. Without thinking or even relaying the thought to them, you use the oil kept in your pocket and a lighter as a defense against the stalkers that hone in on your group in the dark. Your just as loud argument is that it the only thing you could think of that wouldn’t have drawn more of them shutting up the older man.

It's only because he didn’t think of it, think of the way to get you two safely out of the spot he had cornered you all in. Insistence on just one more block, one more spot- guilt making him lash out in anger that you face head on any time it shows.

She tells you to take care of him once she realizes she’s been bitten. Right in front of him and the little figure of a teenager that was meant to be the last job your trio ever worked before seeking something more than the life of a smuggler and outside of the zone for good. Her last words linger in the air just before you and Joel are grabbing harshly at a fighting Ellie, the explosion Tess ensured your safety with echoing in your ears even miles away from the scene.

-

It’s two years later, after many hours, days, weeks, months of traversing the devasted land of what was once sprawling cities and roads that connected them. You’re now settled into a home created between you both and a teenager that was once simple cargo. Connections and emotions tying your little trio together, giving you all a second chance at a life you had once given hope on of finding for yourself. A new prosthetic made of beautifully carved and stained wood supports you, just like the man who had once shifted his harsh demeanor for one of awkward kindship that could only be found in devastating loss.

The underlying care and need to protect allowing for more time, for both of you. For something new and delicate to bud between you, blooming in the time you spent protecting and fighting, defending each other and the girl who sits across from you now on a worn couch.

“Boom, motherfucker.” Her crooked grin brings out one of your own as all three of you look down at the board game set up on the coffee table. “Looks like I win.”

Once the board is folded up, the pieces back in a velvet pouch and the fire left to crackle in the living room do you say anything. The back door closing as the teenager retires to her detached space for the night.

“You let her win.” You put a hand on the threshold to your room, rubbing at your upper thigh to relieve the ache there as the snow and dipped temperature only worsens in the late hour. He watches the way your back flexes with the motion, the steady strength honed in every muscle of your body.

“Figured she would huff and puff if I didn’t.” He’s at the end of the hall, taking his time to shut off all the lamps but one to bathe the space in a sparce, warm light that glows from the window for anyone passing by.

“She thinks you cheat every time,” You taunt, knowing that he doesn’t really but riling him up all the same over the small things that have become a part of an easier life. “Something about you being too cautious to spend your fake millions.”

“Only thing I’m cautious of is messin’ things up with you.” And suddenly all the playfulness leaks out of you, the air growing charged as he gives voice to the quiet thing between you both. You close your eyes in a long blink, the presence of him behind you sparking something deep in your chest. He’s always there, always looking out for you as you do for him. This thing growing in the time you’ve spent together.

“The only way you could mess things up with me is if you take any more goddamn time working up the nerve to kiss me, Miller.” You tilt your head toward him as you turn around and the light seeping into the small hallway from behind him reveals the curve of your upturned lips.

“Fuckin’ impatient.” He closes the gap in two long strides, pressing you back into the wall beside your door and capturing your mouth with his.