Espi

San Asceros was more than a kingdom to you. It was not just your home, with rugged mountains and plain fields that seemed to expand like golden horizons. You grew up here, your toes buried in the dirt before your mother scooped you up to scold you for playing around. San Asceros was where you belonged.

You had grown used to your modest life. Your family sold fruit; ripe trees in the heart of your backyard bearing tender mangos and avocados. You were the meticulous one, picking each delicate fruit to sit beside one another, arranging them so the bright colors mixed in spectacular fashion. The fruit stand was your canvas. 

Many people came by. Family, friends, or both, and yet your eyes always strayed up the road from your home. There was a path that led from your back door onto a wider road, and you could follow it up to the palace. The palace that housed the boy you never saw, only heard of through local news. It was rare to see him out and about. Hell, it was rare to see any of the royal family out and about. 

Yet here you were, staring straight into the eyes of a boy you knew you recognized. With the mousy dark brown hair that fell in delicate strands, those deep chocolate eyes that stared wide-eyed at you, and the parting of his lips as he went to speak. Yes, this was your prince. This was Alex.

“What are you doing here?” You blurt suddenly, fingers tightening on a ripe avocado to the point of practically bursting between your fingertips. He was handsome, devilishly handsome, and you almost wanted to ward him off with a cross. “You’re not supposed to be here, right? Is the rest of the family coming?”

“No, no. It’s just me,” his eyes dart to the avocado in your hand. “I promise, I was just…”

“What are you doing here?” 

You emphasize the last word, eyes scanning him as your heart beats rabbit fast in your chest.

“I was just… I came to see your fruit stand. It attracted me, and I just had to come over. I didn’t mean to disturb you. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you say immediately, still a bit apprehensive. Why was the Prince apologizing to you?

A long stretch of silence fills the air, and the two of you take the opportunity to give each other a once-over. Alex's eyes drink you in, flitting over your waist, accentuated by the tie of an apron over your burgundy dress. He glances at your shoes, and you bring one foot behind the other.

Alex looked different. You’d seen a picture of him in the newspaper, and there was a famous painting done when he was younger, but you’d never seen him like this. In all those works of art, he donned a golden crown that seemed to be fitted just for him. He wore regal attire, clean clothes, and luxury cotton. But now? He was dressed down in a simple tunic and fitted pants. His shoes were different, though, no, you could tell they were the shoes of someone well off. The opposite of what you wore. 

“I like your dress,” and you’re snapped out of your thoughts by him. “Who made it? A tailor?”

“My mother, she’s just inside.”

You glance back for good measure and step a little closer, lowering your voice slightly. “She’d freak out if she knew you were here.”

Alex smirks cockily and tilts his head. 

“Well, I am a ladykiller,” he jokes, eyelashes batting softly. 

Something in his goofy voice makes you laugh, as if he were the boy next door. Your smile remains as he picks up a mango, inhaling its scent with closed eyes. It’s only then that you notice the smattering of freckles that dot his face. You wonder if they dot any other parts of his body. 

“Right. I’ve heard rumors about you. You’re meant to be engaged? At least, that’s what they say. That you’re the right age for it and all.”

He looks stricken, glancing around and then vehemently shaking his head. He looks as though he started sweating the minute the words left your mouth. You swallow, wondering if you’ve said something wrong.

“Engaged? Oh, god, no. No, I’m not set to be engaged. Not yet, anyway. What other rumors have you heard?”

“That you’re really good at the piano,” and you feel so drawn to that smile.

“Well, that one is true,” Alex leans against the stand, his hair strands cascading over his face. “I think I’ll buy three mangos. This one, this one, and… you can pick the last one. Pick me a good one!”

“A good mango? Well, the trick is to get them right when they fall off the tree. A ripe mango is always the best one, so always come and get them early. Our mango tree drops fruit when it’s ready; it’s kind of beautiful.”

“It is beautiful,” he affirms, watching you intently.

You feel shy under his gaze, hand coming up to shield your face from the beaming sun. “W-Well, the next thing is to squeeze ‘em. Like this one.”

Fingers pluck a mango from the third row, and your hand squeezes it just slightly, the give under your fingertips obvious but not too soft. You smile approvingly, adding it to a spare bag along with the other fruit. You close it up for him and then hand it to him, your fingertips brushing together and sending an electric spark up your spine.

“How much?”

“Oh, I couldn’t ask you to pay–”

“But how much is it? I don’t mind,” Alex steps closer, his eyes scanning your face and lingering on your lips. You feel so exposed under him, as if he were tearing away your layers one peel at a time. “It’s alright, you don’t have to feel like you need to obey me. I’m just… here, buying fruit from a fruit stand.”

“But you’re the prince.”

“I am,” he nods, but grins and flashes his bright white teeth at you. “I’m also just a boy, talking to a girl, asking her how much her beloved fruit costs.”

Your smile is tender, warm and welcoming. Your fingers clasp together as you rock on your heels before answering. It’s not much, but you watch as Alex digs a few bills from his pocket. He doesn’t even count them, placing them in your hand with a beaming smile. The sun shines on his face, and he’s glowing in front of you. Caramel skin on full display.

“This is far too much,” you say, attempting to hand it back with a small laugh.

“Is it? Hmm, can I tip you for your troubles?”

You’re about to burst into laughter, teeth digging into your bottom lip as Alex pushes your fingers closed to hold the money. He brings your hand to your chest, his warm hands on yours as he cups your joined fingers.

“My prince,” you try to say. 

Your voice is quieter, softer, a lull of a siren in the dark waters. Alex stares at you intensely, his gaze never wavering. You’re fully locked into this moment, frozen where you stand and your knees want to buckle under the weight of his gaze. He looked at you the way a man looked at a woman, like he wanted you desperately.

“Take it for me,” he whispers kindly. His voice is low. “As thanks for the fruit.”

“Okay,” you reply, lungs rippling as you shakily inhaled.

Alex finally pulls back, and you can breathe again.

You’re sure it’s his shoes that attract all the attention. They weren’t like the modest, worn slippers other folks in town wore. No, they were white and attractive. All things that would belong to the prince. A deep voice is first to call out.

“My prince?!”

“Where?” A woman exclaims, her child in tow, looking awfully confused as his mother whipped around to spot the two of you now huddled together.

You chance a look at Alex, and his eyes are boyish and wide as more and more people recognize him. They begin to hound him like dogs, nipping at his heels with arms reaching out to give scratches. They wanted to touch him, to say hello, to greet their prince. It was too much. You knew from the way Alex’s fingers tightened in your dress.

“Over there!”

“I have to go,” Alex says suddenly, turning to look down at you. He regretfully pulls his hand away from you, throat bobbing. “Will I see you again?”

He looks behind him desperately, immediately being crowded around by curious onlookers. Your reply is rushed, nodding as he grows farther and farther away.

“Yes!”

He keeps his eyes on you as he’s swallowed into the crowd, cheers, and cries of laughter echoing in the middle of town. Alex’s voice is loud, happy and bright, not at all low and relaxed like when he was talking to you. You don’t see him, but you know he’s there as the crowd gravitates as a whole to the palace.

You watch them walk him all the way up to the palace gates, your hand shielding your face from the blaring sun. You wonder if he’s thinking about you. No, that would be foolish. Your hand drops, and you use all your resolve to turn on your heel and march purposefully back to your home.

You’re burning out. It creeps up slowly, then all at once—missed deadlines, cold coffee at 2 a.m., a to-do list that keeps growing no matter how much you scratch off.

You start skipping breakfast. Then sleep. Then lectures you used to love.

And he notices.

He always notices.

“Have you eaten?” he texts one morning. You lie. “Yeah, all good.”

A minute later, your phone buzzes again. [soobin 🐰]: check your doorstep

He’d left a breakfast bag and a note scribbled in sleepy handwriting:

please eat. you’re better when you eat. also i miss your forehead wrinkle when you’re concentrating. fighting ~ 🐰

You laugh softly, pressing the paper to your chest.

But then your ex texts you.

Hey. Hope you’re good. Just like that. No context. No apology. Like he didn’t ghost you mid-crisis six months ago. Like he didn’t post someone else’s hand in his story a week later.

It shouldn't matter now. But it does.

You freeze. Try to breathe. Fail. Then cry.

Not the cinematic kind—this is raw, red-eyed, sink-to-the-floor kind of crying. You’re curled up on the cold tiles in the student union bathroom, hoodie sleeves soaked, breathing too fast.

And then—somehow—Soobin finds you.

“Hey,” he calls gently through the door. “It’s me.”

You crack it open and he’s already crouching beside you. No questions, no pity. Just quiet, steady presence. You slump forward into him. His hoodie smells like laundry powder and cinnamon. He doesn’t hesitate—wraps his arms around you and just holds on.

No noise. No fixing. Just there.

You don't realize how long you've been clinging to him until your heartbeat slows and you finally speak.

“Sorry,” you murmur into his chest. “For what?” “For ruining your day.”

His grip tightens almost imperceptibly. “You didn’t.”

You’re still a little hollow when it happens.

Later that afternoon, you're in the quad together. You’re trying to be okay. Acting like the air isn’t still sharp in your lungs. He’s sitting beside you on the grass, flipping through notes.

Then your ex walks by.

He doesn’t say anything. Just looks at you—smirks, maybe. Or maybe you imagine it.

But Soobin feels you tense.

And in an instant, he’s up.

“Soob,” you say sharply. He’s already walking. “Wait—please.”

You grab his sleeve. He pauses, fists clenched.

“I’m not gonna do anything,” he mutters, but his voice is tight. “I just want him to know he’s not invisible.”

You step in front of him. “Please don’t. I don’t want this to be a thing.”

He looks at you then. Really looks. And something breaks inside him. He takes a long breath. Shoulders fall.

He stays. Because you asked.

And it’s not about pride for him. Not really. It’s about you.

That night, you’re in his room again. Same shared playlist playing softly. Same dim desk lamp flickering.

You’re both supposed to be working, but neither of you are.

Soobin’s pacing slowly, chewing his cheek. You sit curled up on the bed, knees tucked under your chin.

He stops by the desk, then finally speaks.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

You blink. “About what?”

He doesn't look at you. “That he texted.”

You swallow. “Didn’t want to bother you.”

He turns then. Not angry. But something’s there—something tight and aching behind his eyes.

“You’re not a bother.”

You look away. “I didn’t know how to explain. I just… shut down.”

“I get that,” he says quietly. “But next time… I want to be the one you shut down with. Okay?”

You nod, throat closing.

He hesitates. Then steps closer.

“Can I tell you something weird?”

You look up. “Always.”

He rubs the back of his neck, looking somewhere near your foot.

“I don’t like fighting,” he says. “I don’t even like yelling. I don’t know how to handle it. But the second I saw him—your ex—I wanted to throw a punch so bad.”

Your breath catches.

He laughs once, awkwardly. “I didn’t, obviously. Because you asked me not to. But… I was close.”

You don’t know what to say. You don’t have to.

Then he says the thing that really does it.

“I just… care. That’s all.”

Your chest caves.

It’s not a confession. Not exactly. But it feels like one.

You don’t kiss after that. No swelling music. No fireworks.

But when you lie back beside him on his bed, your head finds his shoulder, and his hand finds your hair.

He twirls it slowly, carefully. You melt into the blanket. Into him.

You study the curve of his lips, the little mole beneath his chin, the way his lashes brush his cheeks when he’s concentrating.

"This isn't my job," you hissed, taking a backward pace towards the ship. "This is yours, actually."

The bounty hunter stared at you for a long moment. You knew why he wanted you to do this, he needed the comfort of mind. Those times when he'd leave you in the ship alone, armed with nothing but a blaster and a farewell nod, it would plague him.

"It's everyone's job to know how to defend themselves," Din rasped, unbuckling the strap on his shoulder. The rifle framing his back sagged and he leaned it against a nearby boulder.

"This isn't fair," you were beginning to panic, now. "You're a big-ass Mandalorian in a shell of impenetrable armor with decades of training."

He nodded dismissively as he removed the jetpack, lowering it gently to sit by his weapon.

"I'm a mechanic," you said simply. "I don't want to get hurt right now, I want to go fix the rust bucket."

Din straightened, finally finishing the offload of his personal arsenal. The sunlight glinted off his visor, temporarily blinding you. Rubbing your eyes with a soft curse, you were startled to find him close when you recovered.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he negotiated softly, "you need this."

"I don't need to get body-slammed," you snapped.

"If you're afraid now, how do you think you'll go when someone is actually trying to kill you?"

He was getting frustrated with your lack of co-operation. You could hear it in the lilt of his voice, the sudden husk of his words. It made you shiver, you didn't want to be riling up someone who was teaching you to fight.

You had always relied on him for your protection just as he had relied on you for your technical abilities. The difference was that he knew enough about your trade to stop his ship from falling out of the sky, whereas, you couldn't fight your way out of a wet paper bag.

"If you punch me," you pointed a shaky finger to his chest, "I will wire the Crest to self-ignite."

"Deal."

With that damning statement, he gripped you by the shoulders.

You blinked at him, nervously sinking into his hold. That was quick, although you weren't sure why you had expected a warning. Was he about to throw you? Headbutt you? Squeeze you to death?

To your surprise, it was none of the above. Rather, the hunter simply stood unmoving. It was as though he was almost... expectant.

"Well?" He jostled you lightly in his grip. "What would you do?"

You stared at him owlishly.

There was a sigh, his fingers dipping into the skin of your shoulders. You were pushing his buttons without trying and for once you were too afraid to take advantage of it.

"If somebody did this to you, how would you handle it?" Mando clarified.

Oh. You bit your lip as your mind raced to answer his question. You knew a little from your days before the bounty hunter, although you weren't sure it would do much against him.

When you opened your mouth to explain, the Mandalorian shook his head.

"Show me," he said.

You did what you remembered: a simple maneuver that had you pushing at the insides of his arms. To your relief, he let go and allowed you to carry out your plans. Reversing the roles, you snatched his hands beneath your biceps, and once he was trapped, you raised your knee in the pretense of a groin kick.

"Good," Mando nodded, fingers resting against your back. You quickly let him go. The training was a lot gentler than you had expected, and although it was a pleasant surprise, your companion had a wicked sense of humor. You rarely got to see it, but when you did, you were generally the butt of the joke.

"The aim is to get away," Din said, casually stepping into your space. "Don't stick around to fight."

You surrendered some ground, inching backward in the face of his approach. You didn't want him too close, purely based on the lack of reaction time you would be given. "Really?" You snarked quietly, "I think I could take you."

There was a surprised chuckle from beneath the helmet, so short you would have missed it had you not been so hyperaware of his presence.

"Yeah?" He teased you softly, walking you backward with slow strides.

"Yeah," you breathed.

"Come here, then." Din tilted his head.

"Nope," you wheezed, "no, I think I'm good."

He said nothing, offering only a small nod. The hunter made a show of looking over your shoulder and you felt a cold sweat trickle down your spine.

You should have been looking behind you, should have been aware of your surroundings. Had you not been so distracted by the man in front of you, you would have noticed that he'd been backing you towards a boulder.

Your breath was knocked from your lungs when your body made contact, the fabric of your clothes snatching against the rough rock. This wasn't a good spot to be in. Whatever was coming next would either be painful or humiliating and you sighed.

A quick glance over your shoulder confirmed that you wouldn't be able to simply walk around it. The obstacle was as wide as it was tall.

You made no attempt to move as the Mandalorian approached, where could you go? You'd concede to this loss and maybe he'd let you return to your actual job. But, instead, you realized he was toying with you, moving with the same torturously slow pace.

"Always be aware of your surroundings," he said with an arrogant shrug.

"You distracted me." You snapped, anxiety crawling from your stomach to your chest. You had no reason to be afraid, he wouldn't hurt you and you knew it. There was just something in the way that he walked, a demeanor you'd never seen before.

You wonder if you had mistaken a very different feeling for fear.

"I seem to do that a lot," the words were honeyed, suspiciously so.

The urge to close your eyes in anticipation was strong when he finally came to a stop in front of you. Settling for a squint, you flinched as he raised his hand to your neck.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he murmured roughly, "but if this was real you'd be dead."

"That's not fair," you huffed, framing the statement with a sardonic laugh. "You haven't even given me a scenario to work with yet."

You'd barely finished your sentence when he moved.

A hard boot kicked the inside of your foot, forcing you to widen your stance. The cold, hard beskar of his thigh pressed against the inside of your legs, pressuring them to remain open.

A sharp gasp fell involuntarily from your lips when his hand raised to rest against the base of your neck. Your eyes squeezed shut, grimacing as you held his wrist instinctively. His grip was soft, almost a caress, but the warning twitch of his fingers indicated that he would squeeze if needed.

The hunter's other hand settled against your waist, fingers digging firmly into the curve of your body. Another silent announcement that he could make it really hurt if he'd wanted to.

"Better?" He asked roughly against your ear. Your eyes shot open, chest heaving as you assessed his position. The inky black of his visor was barely a couple of inches from your face and your nose brushed against the metal of his helmet.

"You're really close right now," you blurted. The proximity made you dizzy, you would have swayed had he not been holding you so tightly. Both your hands gripped his wrist hard as he tightened his fingers fractionally before loosening again. The movement was almost playful and you knew then that he was enjoying this.

"I could be closer, Mesh'la," he murmured. He tugged at the hem of your shirt softly, slipping his touch to your skin. The leather of his gloves was cool against the raging warmth of your body.

You choked at the sensation.

"Are you flirting with me?" You whimpered disbelievingly. When you woke up this morning, nobody could have convinced you that this would be your afternoon.

"I'm trying to make you uncomfortable," he corrected.

"That's not the word I'd use, Din," you breathed.

There was a stunned silence and his fingers twitched against your skin. It was one of his tells, the small movement an easy way to assess his emotional state.

"How-" he cleared his throat, "how would you get out of this?"

"I wouldn't," you said simply.

"Why not?"

"You'd have never let anybody get this close," you rasped, watching him from beneath your lashes. You knew that wasn't what he was asking, not what this training session was for. In your defense, he had thrown that out the second he'd shoved himself in between your legs.

Your core tightened, pooling with a delicious heat that settled low. The pair of you had danced around your feelings for each other for so long, never approaching the topic but acknowledging it silently.

But Din had never been so bold before.

"What if I wasn't there?" He rebutted, tilting his head lightly. Your breath hitched in your throat as his thumb slowly stroked the skin of your side. "What if you were alone?"

"You're always there," you uttered lowly, the promise of a smile playing on the corner of your mouth.

"And what about now?" Din murmured, slowly pulling you to his chest. The hand around your throat lifted, skimming the skin of your neck to settle on your jaw. "How will you handle this?"

"Take me to the Crest and I'll show you."

“I’m not impatient,” Din grumbles lowly.

You raise a brow at that and lift Grogu into your arms. “You’re always impatient, Mando.” His head jerks to the side at your assessment.

You have to bite back a laugh. In truth, he is incredibly patient. Most of the time, and especially when it came to you and Grogu. The only time you’ve seen him truly lose his temper was with the Jawas, and really, that couldn’t be helped. 

The child reaches for Din when you turn back to him, and the Mandalorian immediately holds out his arms to take him from you. You deposit the little green baby there before grabbing your shawl. “Yes, we’re ready,” you finally answer. 

The baby gets tucked into the pouch at Din’s hip, before he descends the ship’s ramp out into the desert air that awaits you. 

You roll your eyes gently. 

Not impatient, but not entirely patient either. 

You follow, wrapping the light material around your shoulders. 

It’s subtle, but he does wait for you, his pace slower than if he were alone. His right elbow ticks out a fraction, and you smile before cupping your hand there. He would never ask you to take his arm, still the offer is usually there if he can accommodate it. 

He relaxes a little when you fit your hand against his bicep. “Supplies only,” he reminds you, ever practical. 

“Supplies only,” you agree. “Unless I see something for Grogu.” 

“The child is becoming spoiled,” he complains lightly. “We won’t have enough room in the ship soon.” 

You shrug and tighten your grip on his arm. You like the way he says we. So, you return with, “That’s just because our child deserves the best.” 

Din’s spine straightens a fraction and his shoulders tilt back. 

He’s somehow both stoic and incredibly bad at hiding his emotions. You can tell, just by the slope of his shoulders or the exact angle of the helmet or the precise way he stands or walks, exactly what and how he’s feeling. 

Or, maybe you’ve just spent too much time around him. 

Maybe, you just know him too well. 

And right now, he’s swollen with pride. Though you don’t know if it's because you’ve complimented the way he takes care of the child or if it were something else. Something in the way you said our.  

It’s not long before you reach the market, and Din sighs as soon as it comes into view. It’s much larger than the ones you normally frequent, a riot of color and sound that you both know you won’t be able to resist. The town seems to be in the midst of some kind of festival. 

The smell of fried food greets you before you’ve even breached the perimeter of the town, and your mouth waters. Something better than rations awaited you there. 

Din is single minded though, and you know he’ll immediately make for the most boring of the stalls and shops. 

Supplies only, after all, is what you’d come for. 

“Mando,” you remove your hand from his arm and he immediately halts at the loss of your touch and turns to you. “I’m going to go look around.” 

He stares at you, helmet tilting down. He doesn’t like telling you no, and knows it wouldn’t matter if he did anyways. But, he worries and so it takes a moment for him to reply. “Don’t go far,” he advises. “Do you have a comlink?”

“Yes.” 

“A weapon?” 

You pretend to search your person, “Hm, what’s that again?” 

“Riduur,” he reprimands your teasing. 

That word makes the inside of your skin light up pleasantly. Riduur. If only you knew what it meant. 

You’ve started to assume it means something similar to cyare or cyar'ika. But he’d had no problem telling you what those words meant. Darling and sweetheart and beloved. He’d had no problem telling you he was calling you beloved. 

But he no longer calls you cyare or cyar'ika. Since the first time he’d called you riduur, the day he removed his armor in front of you for the first time, he’d solely begun calling you riduur. 

Even your name is becoming a rarity from his lips. 

“Udesii! Yes,” you cross your arms. “You know I took care of myself for a very long time without you and nothing ever happened. I’ll be okay.” 

Din doesn’t answer, just sighs and gives a curt nod and marches off towards a shop selling medical supplies. 

The dramatics of it all makes you giggle. You like teasing him, especially because he thinks he hides how flustered you make him well. 

Although you enjoy traveling with the Mandalorian, alone time has become a complete rarity. You were always with Din, or watching your little green menace.

You eat your way through a couple of different stalls selling food, bundling up second and third servings to keep for Din and Grogu. 

Din wouldn’t think to get anything beyond rations. Both you and the child like a little more variety, where Din treats the act of eating like a maintenance routine. 

You drift past stalls hawking trinkets and jewelry, fending off the sellers as you crunch something sweet and sour you’d picked up at the last food stall, not entirely sure what it is.  

Textiles are next, bolts of cloth you run your fingers over but mourn not being able to afford. Still, it's nice to browse, nice to feel normal. The Mandalorian isn’t hunting someone for once, and you aren’t trapped in the interior of the ship, stale recycled dry air burning your nostrils. 

A little supply stop has become a little welcome relief. It’s giving you the chance to stretch your legs, to explore. 

Still, your mind drifts back to Din, the way he calls you something he would not name to you.

You’ve searched before, in other markets, on other worlds, for the answer to your question. What does that word mean and why won’t Din tell you? 

You’d tried to convince him once or twice, with gentle words whispered in his ear, when the helmet was off and your hands were pressed against his skin, the contours of his face still a mystery to you. 

Once, you’d felt the skin of his cheeks go hot beneath your hands when you told him he used his tongue so prettily, couldn’t he use it to tell you what riduur meant? 

He’d mumbled something else in Mando’a but had not explained himself. 

You can understand most of that he says now, but because he’s the only other speaker, you have to rely on him to tell you what new words and phrases mean.

Because the Mandalorians are such an insular people, you never come across any other speakers you could ask. There are no dictionaries to Basic that you could download and peruse. 

It’s frustrating, especially since the word seems to be laden with something heavy. Din says it with reverence, with a softness that doesn't cut through the rest of his words. His voice is softer when he speaks Mando’a anyways, but that word is held with a reverence on his tongue, like it’s precious. 

The only other time you had heard him use that tone was when he once called Grogu ad’ika, which meant child. 

You’ve almost given up on knowing, resigned to that fact that you may never know and he may never tell you.

Whatever it means, you’re sure it's important. You just don’t know why.

The market is loud, boisterous and colorful. Music floats through the air, shouts and laughter. 

It’s nice, it makes you smile and you wish you’d taken the child with you because you’re sure he’d have much more fun with you than with Din picking out rolls of bandage and rations and pulse rifle cartridges if he can find someone that has some. 

You stop suddenly in your tracks when you hear a conversation in a language you immediately recognize, the familiar syllables cutting through the afternoon chatter. 

You spin and find two men in robes speaking gently to each other in Mando’a. Before you can stop yourself, your feet have already carried you to their table where they sit sipping cups of caf. 

“Su cuy'gar,” you greet. They both look surprised, glancing at each other and then back at you. “Sorry to bother you. You speak Mando’a?” 

One smiles, “Yes. Of the few outsiders that do, I think.” 

“Were you foundlings?” It’s the only way, you think, that they could have learned it. 

“Once,” the older of the two says. “This one learned it at a university.” 

You can’t help the curiosity that burns through you, “At a university? Really?” 

“Only the very barest basics. From a woman being courted by a Mandalorian,” he dismisses with a wave of his hand. “That was a long time ago. Really I learned from him.” He gestures between himself and the other man. 

You shake yourself, “I’ve just never met another aruetii that does.” Let alone two of them, you think dizzily. Two outsiders who spoke Mando’a. 

“And how did you learn?” 

“My…” you trail off. 

Your what? You aren’t sure what exactly Din is to you, or what you are to him. You never have been. He treats you like you’re more precious than beskar, yet everything between you remains undefined. 

“My traveling companion. He’s a Mandalorian.” You swallow, “I wonder if you could tell me if you know what a certain word means? It’s one I’ve been curious about.” You don’t want to tell them that you’re seeking it out because it's something he calls you. That feels too private, too close to the chest. “He said it once and I’ve been trying to figure it out ever since.” 

“Why don’t you ask him?” 

“It would wound my pride. He’s already taught me so much. He overestimates my fluency.” 

They laugh and the man who was once a foundling says, “Yes, ask us then.” 

“Riduur,” you say, carefully pronouncing it so they don’t mistake it for another word. “Riduur,” you repeat with more confidence. 

The men glance at each other, brows raised. “Well, it has several meanings,” the more grizzled of the two says, “But I suppose it's all the same in the end. Spouse would be the most overarching translation. Partner, wife, and husband all work too.” 

For a moment, you can’t breathe, you’re sure your heart has come to a leaping halt in your chest. “Truly? Riduur?” You say it again, just to make sure. They laugh and nod and you decide to have your meltdown away from their table. “Well, thank you for clearing that up. Sorry again to bother you.” 

You turn away from them, a roaring in your ears. Your heart stutters in your chest. Riduur. He’s been calling you his partner, his spouse, for months? That word so softly spoken to you - to tease you, to call for you, whispered to you in the dark, said over and over, more than your own name. It meant partner, spouse, wife, husband?

Something inside you lights up with pride. The shape of it is warm, firm in the clasp of your lungs. Riduur. It’s a living, breathing kind of word, one that takes up space inside you. One you’re proud to bear the weight of, the title of. 

Spouse, you think, doesn’t carry the same gravitas as riduur. There’s something heavier and deeper in the word that a translation couldn’t really carry over into Basic. 

You start back down the road, smiling to yourself, but only make it several paces when Din steps up beside you silently from between two stalls. “Dank farrik,” you gasp, stumbling back. “Where did you come from? You scared me.” 

He doesn’t answer you, doesn’t even tilt his head towards you. You may as well have not spoken at all. 

“Mando?” 

Still, he doesn’t answer you. 

You raise a brow but don’t say anything else as he herds you gently out of the market, desert dust swirling around your calves. Eventually, when you reach the edge of the town, he asks, “Did you find everything you need?” His voice is flat, rough. 

“Yes, I got some food for you and Grogu to try. A little feast for you tonight, since it won’t hold.”

He merely grunts and you frown. “Is something wrong?” You glance over your shoulder. “Did something happen? Are we being followed?”

You glance around his legs at the baby, still securely in the brown canvas bag, who’s peering up at both of you with anxious eyes, big ears drooping. 

“No.” He answers curtly. 

The walk back to the ship is silent, and tense, and you aren’t sure why. 

It’s only when you’re in the safety of the mouth of the ship’s ramp, with the baby in your arms, that your irritation spills over. “Are you upset with me? I didn’t wander. I stayed close and had a weapon and -,” 

Din’s hands go to his hips, helm tilting at an angle as he regards you. His voice is agitated when he finally speaks. You expect him to tell you that you wandered too far, that he commed you and you hadn’t picked it up, that you’d unknowingly wandered into danger. And you expect to have to tell him once again that it's all fine, that you are fine, that you’d traveled without him for years and things always turned out alright. 

Instead, he says, “You should not call yourself an aruetii. That is not what you are.” 

For a moment, it doesn’t register with you what he’s talking about, that he’d clearly overheard your conversation with the Mando’a speakers, likely eavesdropped on it. 

All you are, for a few seconds, is confused. “But…I am an aruetii. I am not a Mandalorian.”

Din’s shoulders go stiff at your words. “That does not make you an outsider. You…you are far from an outsider,” he growls and suddenly spins away from you, his footfalls heavy and loud when he stomps across the hull.

He climbs the ladder to the cockpit and disappears, leaving both you and the baby alone, still standing on the ramp up to the ship. “He’s angry with me,” you say in disbelief, glancing down at the child in your arms, not really understanding why. “We’ll let him cool off,” you decide, bouncing the child against your waist. “Hungry?” 

The baby coos and you smile, worry biting into you as you settle with him in the mouth of the ship. The sun is setting on the sand, the air warm, casting red shadows over the world. There’s nothing around you but sand in any direction you glance, aside from the town from which you’d come on the horizon. 

In the distance, fireworks from the town explode in the sky. You point them out to Grogu, gently feeding him bites of food that you’d gotten at the market. He makes a sound that you suppose is a giggle, big eyes focused on the colors dissipating in the sky. He holds a tiny hand up, like he’d like it to fly to him. 

You curl a hand over his. “None of that,” you say with a laugh. “Those are meant for the stars, not you.” 

He goes back to eating, already distracted. 

A weight settles over your chest.

If Din heard you call yourself aruetii then he knows that you now know what riduur means. 

Maybe that was the true source of his irritation, that you’d gone behind his back to figure out what it meant when he clearly hadn’t wanted you to know.

You rub the tip of Grogu’s ear between your fingers and sigh. 

Any warm feelings you’d had are gone. 

Riduur. 

He’s been calling you that for months. But he hadn’t wanted you to know that he was calling you his partner. For some reason it stings. 

The Mandalorian is not cruel, not the type to play with another’s feelings. But, nonetheless, it feels like he might have been. Teasing you in a way you couldn’t begin to guess at. Or, like he could pretend without actually attaching himself to you, and you’d be none the wiser. 

You shake those thoughts away, listening to the music echoing over the sands. 

When Grogu falls asleep and the sun is just disappearing behind the horizon, you secure the ramp of the ship and carry the baby up into the cockpit. 

Din sits silently in the pilot’s chair, and doesn’t look at you as you tuck the child into the floating pod. 

You fidget with his blanket, not sure what to say. 

“I’m sorry,” he breaks the silence first. “Ni ceta.” 

“Din,” you perch next to him in the co-pilot’s seat. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have gone poking around where I don’t belong. I’m sorry.” 

His head tilts toward you, the visor impenetrable. You swallow when he doesn’t answer, an inexplicable lump forming in the back of your throat. “Don’t belong?” 

“I shouldn’t have asked them what riduur meant. You didn’t want me to know.” 

Din stands and holds out a hand to you. You take it carefully and let him pull you to your feet. “That is not why I-,” he stops. “Do you really not know?” 

“Know what?” 

“I should have been…honest about the name I’ve given you.” He tilts his head and releases your hands. “I’m upset because-,” the Mandalorian pauses and seems to consider his next words for a long moment. Finally, he sighs and simply repeats, “You’re not an aruetii. By definition you can’t be.”

You stare at him for a long moment, before shaking your head. “I don’t understand.” 

He huffs, helm ticking to the side again. “Would you call Grogu an outsider?” 

“Of course not,” you answer, horrified. “No.” 

“And why is that? He’s not a Mandalorian either.” 

You don’t have to think about it, shaking your head before he’s even finished speaking. “He’s your child.” 

Din steps forward, close to you, but doesn’t say anything. “Our child,” he corrects eventually. “I am upset because you don’t seem to know you are a part of our clan. Even after knowing what I’ve been calling you. Riduur, ner riduur, for months. You still don’t know.”

Oh. Oh. 

“Osi'kyr,” you murmur softly. “How could I know that, Din?” 

He stands silent and still before you, so still you aren’t sure he’s breathing. “I thought it was clear,” he says stiffly. “I thought it was clear I was courting you.”

Something pleasantly warm settles in among your heart and lungs. “Maybe you should explain your customs to me more thoroughly,” you joke lightly. 

He doesn’t laugh, shoulders tense, hands curled in anxious fists. 

“So why not tell me what the word means?” It seems a bit past courting to you, to call someone riduur. It seems to you he’s already chosen you. 

He shifts from foot to foot, the movement somehow laden with vulnerability and worry. “If you did not…want the same - I’m not sure I could bear that.” 

You stare at him, not entirely sure what to say to that. “So, what,” you start, “you expected me to one day just realize you considered me your-,”

“I would have told you,” he interrupts quickly. “One day.” 

“Told me-,” 

“What riduur means,” he corrects. “And asked if you’d like to be that.” Din takes your hands again, “Just know that you are part of this clan, whatever your answer is.” His voice is so sincere, it breaks your heart a little. “Whether you want to be attached to me or not, you have a place in this clan. You are not an aruetii.”

You tilt your head at the same time he does, the nonverbal cues you both habit in reflecting between you. “I’m just a bit confused. Was that your idea of a proposal?” You smile so he knows you’re teasing him. 

Din gives a long suffering sigh. “Mandalorians do not propose.” 

“Oh. So what do you do then?” You lift a brow, sliding your hands to his wrists so you can work on tugging one glove off at a time. 

“We make an agreement,” he says, not trying to stop you. His voice is hoarse. “We make vows.”

You don’t look up, tucking the gloves in your belt before tracing your fingers along the veins in his wrists, the lines of his palms. “Oh. And did you make vows to me that I wasn’t aware of?” 

You’re still joking, but Din takes your words to heart. He shakes one hand loose from yours and presses it beneath your jaw, tipping your head gently back. “I did. I make vows to you everyday.” 

All the air seems to get sucked out of the ship. You gape at him, mouth opening and closing without any sound coming out as you struggle to find words. He chuckles, low and breathy beneath the helmet. You imagine he must be smiling. “Now you see how you make me feel. Like I can’t breathe.”

You finally manage to take a breath, lifting your chin away from his fingers, threads of embarrassment beating under your skin at his teasing. “You could have told me, you know.” 

“It was too large a risk. I wouldn’t risk you.”

Maybe you should hesitate in your next words. 

But you don’t. 

You’ve never been surer in something. 

“Din,” you step close to him. “I would take those vows.” 

“They…they are heavy vows. Not meant to be taken lightly. They’re bonding vows.”

He thinks you don’t get it, that you still don’t understand. “I understand what kind of vows they are. What are the vows?” You step even closer, the heat of his body seeping into yours. 

He smells like sun, like spices from the market and oil on beskar. It makes you dizzy, the usual scent of him is much cooler. Evergreen and pine. 

The cockpit is dark, the very last dregs of light on the horizon gone. The contours of the helm are shadowed, the flicker of lights from the control panels reflecting in blinking lights over the visor. 

There is no hesitation in his voice when he finally speaks. 

“Mhi solus tome, mhi solus dar'tome, mhi me'dinui an, mhi ba'juri verde.” 

You mouth the words, doing your best to translate them. 

But he’s spoken too quickly, and you only understand part of it. He waits for you to ask for him to translate, giving you a moment to attempt it instead of immediately telling you. 

“I only understand part…We are one together and-,”

“We are one when together, we are one when parted, we will share all, we will raise warriors,” he says easily. “We are - we are all of those things already. I have kept the promise I made.” 

Your throat is dry, and you can’t think about how that’s true. “We’re raising warriors?” You attempt a joke. 

“Would you not call the child a warrior?”

“I would,” you agree. “I would also still take those vows, now knowing their meaning.”

There’s a long pause in which you can feel the Mandalorian’s stare. His gaze is intense, assessing, hot against your skin. You patiently look back, waiting. “You don’t have to.”

“You think I don’t want to.” 

He huffs, “I…don’t want you to believe you have to make vows to me. You are a part of our clan no matter what.” 

“Would you still call me riduur?”

“If you allowed it,” he takes a breath. “Yes.” 

The lip of the helm drifts up and you can sense he’s no longer looking at you, embarrassed. “Din.” His head snaps back down. “I know I am not an outsider.” You wait for him to digest those words. “I know this is my clan now. I still would like to make these vows to you.” 

He reaches up and presses his palms to either side of your jaw, the crown of the helmet pressing softly against your forehead for just a moment when he dips his head. “If you’re sure, repeat after me. We’ll say them together.” 

“Elek,” you agree. 

“Mhi solus tome,” he starts, reverence and disbelief lodged in his voice. 

In the distance, more fireworks explode in the sky. The colors reflect in the glass of the ship’s front window, sparking over the reflective helmet. “Mhi solus tome,” you say slowly, careful to pronounce each word exactly right. 

You’d never imagined yourself as someone who would get married, and certainly not like this. 

But that was before you knew Din. And all this feels to you is right. It’s both sudden and not. 

This was meant to happen. All your years with the Mandalorian lead towards this. 

You repeat the rest of the vows after him, slow and deliberate. 

When the final syllable rolls off your tongue, a muted kind of joy overcomes you. You’ve been a part of it for a long time, but you feel it now, the belonging to a clan and people. 

Din releases you and leans back. His chest rises and falls quickly. 

You close your eyes and reach for the edge of his helmet. 

You want to kiss him at the very least. 

But when your fingers skim over the release, he captures your wrists in one hand. You let go and Din reaches up with his opposite hand to take it off himself. 

You expect him to kiss you right away, but he doesn’t. You can only feel the lingering touch of his gaze. 

“Open your eyes.” 

“What? No-,” you begin to protest. 

“Yes. You can now, riduur.” The word rumbles out of him proudly, heavy in his mouth. 

You tilt your head and frown. “Are you-,” 

“This is the Way.” His voice warbles, just a little. 

“Are you sure?” You get the entire question out this time. 

Now it’s his turn to tease you. “No,” he says dryly. “I’ll change my mind after you open your eyes.” 

“Ha ha,” you deadpan. “You’re very funny.” 

“Open them.” 

You think you might be more nervous than him to see his face. You honestly never thought you would get to, and you had long ago made peace with that. It didn’t matter to you what he looked like, you knew his heart and that was more than enough. 

You’ve tried to picture him before, from tracing your fingers over his face, but the image is only half formed and without detail. It felt wrong, somehow, too, to try to picture the face of someone who deliberately hid it. 

 Slowly, you peek your eyes open at him. Whatever you had pictured is nothing compared to the man you find yourself gazing at. 

A sense of vertigo sweeps through you, because it's almost like looking at a stranger. 

You have to resist the urge, for just a moment, to tear yourself away from him. 

His hair is darker in color than you thought it would be, but just as feathery and lightly curled as you imagined. Din’s eyes are dark, a deep brown that you’d like to spend lifetimes memorizing, falling inside. You were right too, from your explorations of his face with your hands, about the shape of his nose, his mustache, the patchy beard. You’d pictured his eyes all wrong, the shape of jaw.

One thing you couldn’t have guessed at is the naked expressiveness in his eyes. 

It makes sense though, he’s spent a lifetime without the need to school his features into anything other than exactly what he was feeling. 

You wonder how many times he’s looked at you with such longing, and you never knew. 

He says your name, a question mark tagged onto the end of it, his voice wrecked and strange without the modulator muffling his voice. 

The sound of his voice rips the upside down feeling away. It’s his voice, it’s him. Not some handsome stranger. 

Your eyes flit up from where your gaze had lingered on his lips, the pink shape of his mouth against golden skin. “I was right.” 

He frowns, eyes soft and worried. It shocks you again, just how open his emotions read in his eyes. “About what?” 

“I knew you were pretty. You are pretty,” you tease, pressing yourself against him, the hard contours of him biting into you. You fist your hands into the fabric at his sides. “Mesh’la.” 

Din frowns at you. “I told you that means beautiful, didn’t I?” His voice is playful and doesn’t match his expression. 

You nod and don’t answer, reaching up to cup your hand against his cheek. Din’s arm settles easily around your waist, dragging you closer, the weight of his helm in his hand heavy against your hip. Normally, you’d let him close the distance between you but you can’t quite manage to let him now, gazing instead at the planes of his face. “Mesh’la,” you tell him. “Ner riduur.” 

“That’s my line.” 

“Not anymore,” you tease. “Husband.”

You tip your chin into his and wait for him to meet you there. 

He gives a slight smile before leaning into you. “Not husband. Riduur.” 

“Right,” you agree, because really, it isn’t quite the same. It can’t be. “Ner riduur.” 

The kiss lingers long on your lips. He’s savoring you, a warm passion that doesn’t quite extend into heat. Din’s tongue meets yours briefly, the groan it tugs from his mouth sending flashes of lightning all the way down to your toes. 

The fireworks outside are no rival for the feelings clawing up the back of your throat. 

You want to tell him you love him, but you think he already knows. 

He breaks away to set his helmet down. When he turns back to you, his hands roam over you, free in their movement, tugging at the band of your trousers. 

You can’t stop staring at him, suddenly overwhelmed, drinking in the sight of him, the naked expression of him, everything he’s thinking spread over his face like a well loved language. 

All you’d wanted was to know the name he gifted you, instead - this. 

You map your hand over his face, tracing the divot between his brows, the curve of one sharp cheekbone. “I never thought I would see your face,” you whisper. 

Those soft, vulnerable eyes meet yours, arm wrapping around you again, as his bare forehead presses to yours, “And I always knew you would.” 

Thank you for reading! Please let me know your thoughts!

If you want more of Din and his riduur, Significant-verse drabbles can be found here!

Translations:

Riduur - spouse, partner, wife, husband

Ner riduur - my spouse, partner, wife, husband

Cyare - beloved

Cyar'ika - darling, sweetheart

Udesii - Relax, take it easy

Ad’ika - little one, baby

Su cuy'gar - Hello

Aruetii - outsider, foreigner, traitor

Ni ceta - an apology, rare

Osi'kyr - exclamation of surprise

Elek - yes