WHAT IF WE NEVER MET?

By the time Monday rolled around you felt back to normal, but he insisted on staying a few more days…just to be sure.

He makes you your favorite tea, steeping it an extra minute so it's extra strong, and adds in a splash of unsweetened vanilla almond milk. Just the way you love.

He brings you breakfast in bed-fluffy, golden scrambled eggs topped with cheese, extra crispy bacon-and he even runs to the store when he sees you’re out of potatoes to make you hash browns.

All of it makes something in your chest tighten and twist as it eats away at you, silently torturing you. You come close to blurting out the truth on more than one occasion just to selfishly finally feel some much-needed relief from keeping this secret locked inside.

Would Frankie still be doing all of this if he knew you and Santiago had fucked?

Your agonizing thoughts consume and occupy every space of your mind. You hate to admit that part of you hopes he would care, because maybe it would mean your feelings are reciprocated. That maybe Frankie saw you as more than just a friend. But at the same time, conflicting and warring together, is the thought that if Frankie did actually feel the same way, he would be hurt. The thought of hurting him was enough to destroy you in a way you could never be put back together again.

Yet if Frankie was truly indifferent, and your feelings all of this time had been unrequited? You can’t even stomach the thought without feeling a fresh wave of nausea grip your stomach in a painful vice.

You find yourself constantly replaying the moment he cupped your face, the way he brushed your hair behind your ear, and how it felt like he wanted to kiss you. The way he read that poem and spoke about it afterward like it meant something, the implication sitting underneath the surface…it felt real in a way that couldn’t be written off as wishful thinking. And you want to finally tell him the truth that has lived in your heart and soul for every day for almost seven years-that you are hopelessly in love with him.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You sat on the couch together Monday night, less space than usual between you, after putting a DVD on.

“You know, I haven’t seen Airplane! since I was a kid,” Frankie said as he put a bowl of popcorn in his lap, grabbing a few pieces and popping them in his mouth.

“What? Surely you can’t be serious?” You grinned as you held the remote out, flipping through the DVD menu until you reached ‘play’.

“I am serious. And don’t call me Shirley,” He quoted back without missing a beat as he grabbed another handful of popcorn and tossed it in his mouth, a brilliant smile illuminating his face as the crinkles by his eyes deepened.

You both burst out in a fit of laughter as the movie started to play. Frankie’s hand flew up to his mouth as he nearly spit his popcorn back out, leaning over the bowl as his shoulders shook from the force of his laugh. As your giggle faded, you watched him with soft eyes, struggling to even look at the TV. You subconsciously moved closer, your knee barely grazing his.

For a brief, fleeting moment, you almost told him.

-----------------------‐--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

On Tuesday morning, you woke up early. You brewed a pot of coffee and poured a cup for him. You carefully walked into the living room and put the mug down on the coffee table.

You found Frankie still sound asleep on the couch, a hand tucked securely under his pillow. His lips were slightly parted with a light snore slipping out between each soft breath. One dark curl, in particular, was rebelliously flipped outward and rested just above his eyebrow. He must have sensed your presence because soon he started to stir, one eye squinting up at you.

“Morning, Biscuit,” he said in a husky, deep voice laced with the remnants of sleep as he saw the coffee and smiled tenderly up at you. Your stomach flipped and your heart leapt into your throat as you smiled back. The thought of waking up to that voice and that face every single day for the rest of your life immediately flooded your mind.

You almost told him then.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

On Tuesday afternoon, you and Frankie went out to eat, sitting at an outdoor patio table at your favorite fast-food restaurant to enjoy the exceptionally warm and sunny day.

“The burgers here are so fucking good it’s actually stupid,” Frankie groans happily as he leans forward in his chair and takes another huge bite, ketchup dripping down his chin and sticking to the thick, wiry hairs of his patchy beard.

“Right?!” you mumbled, your mouth full, as you dug through the bag of fries on your tray. You swallowed the bite of burger and immediately let out a sudden, loud fit of laughter as you pulled a fry out from the bottom of your bag.

“Holy shit, look how big this fry is!” You exclaimed, holding it out and turning it around in front of him in amused wonderment.

“Damn, you hit the jackpot!” Frankie grabbed the fry to examine it for a moment. “It’s almost twice as wide as your face!” He leaned forward and held the fry out in front of you, jokingly measuring the length of it in comparison to your face, and his fingers brushed slightly against the corner of your lips.

You almost told him then.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

On Tuesday night you stood at the bathroom sink as you brushed your teeth, freshly showered with your hair still dripping wet, leaving droplets of water on your thick cotton robe.

Frankie knocked on the door, the sound echoing through the walls.

“Come in,” you mumbled, spitting out the excess toothpaste that filled your mouth into the sink right as the door creaked open.

He walked in, wearing dark blue, plaid patterned pj pants and that faded Fleetwood Mac shirt he’s had for years. The one that’s so well-worn it has a small hole on the seam of one shoulder and another at the bottom of the hem, but he refuses to get rid of it. It’s his favorite and yours, too.

His hair was slicked back, still slightly damp from his own shower, and he set a small, square container of floss on the edge of the sink.

“You ran out,” he explained as you turned the sink on to rinse your mouth.

“Fuck, I forgot to grab it…” You picked up a hand towel folded haphazardly on the sink and wiped your face. “Thanks, Cat.”

“Anything for my Biscuit,” he gave you a lopsided grin as he left, closing the door behind him with a faint click.

Before he shut the door, you almost told him.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You woke up Wednesday morning lying flat on your stomach, groaning slightly as you blindly reached for your phone on the nightstand. Once you made contact with the cool glass you wrapped your fingers around it and picked it up, blinking rapidly as your eyes adjusted to the light to check the time- 7:43 a.m.

You see a text notification and unlocked your phone with a click, opening up the texting app and expecting the message to be from Santiago, or maybe even a few messages in the group chat you have with the guys.

Your eyebrows instinctively rose when you saw it was Frankie.

You clicked on his name, opening the long texting thread between you.

Cat🐱🐠: Look what I just found! 😂

Underneath the text, sent a mere twenty minutes prior, was a meme.It was a still image from Airplane!, of Dr. Rumack, with a thought bubble to the side of his head that read ‘Who am I kidding? Deep down inside, I’ve always been a Shirley.”

You let out a loud snort as you rolled over onto your back and started typing.

Are you really texting me from my living room?

He immediately starts typing back.

Cat🐱🐠: Yes. Yes, I am.

You dork.

Cat🐱🐠: It seemed imperative to share as soon as possible. What better way than to have it there and ready when you woke up?

Cat🐱🐠: Are you hungry?

Starving.

You waited a minute for Frankie to start typing, but then your bedroom door creaked open.

“Want pancakes?” He stood there against the doorframe looking at you with those soft brown eyes.

You looked up, a wide smile on your face.

“Yes, with…”

“Blueberries,” he interjected, smirking with a gleam in his eyes.

You simply nodded, watching him turn to leave.

As you heard the sound of a pan being placed on the stove and bowls being pulled down from the kitchen cabinets and set on the counter in preparation of breakfast, you look down at your text thread, still open.

You looked at the meme, chuckling again, before you glanced up at his contact photo; that picture of him leaned over laughing on the couch during Ben’s birthday party.

I love you, Frankie.

You typed the words that have sat uselessly behind your lips for nearly seven years, the ones you’ve been too afraid to say out loud…just to see them. To let yourself imagine for just a fleeting second…

You erased the message, leaving your phone by the pillow as you left to make breakfast with Frankie.

----------------------------------------------------‐---------------------------------------------------

By Wednesday evening, Frankie starts to leave. He stands on your porch in front of the door’s threshold with his duffel bag hanging loosely at his side.

“Are you sure you’re okay? I can stay longer….” He offers, rubbing the back of his neck.

You want to tell him yes, that you want him to stay, but you don’t.

“I’m feeling much better, honestly. Plus, I gotta get back to work tomorrow.”

“Right, right.” He straightens upright and runs a hand through his messy curls.

“Thank you for taking care of me, Cat,” you say sincerely, reaching out and gingerly placing your hand on his arm. His gaze meets yours, and you feel that same shift you felt when he read you the poem.

There have been so many moments in the last seven years where you wanted to tell Frankie that you were in love with him. Hell, there have been so many moments in the last few days you wanted to tell him. But you'll never know what things could be like if you don’t say it, if you don’t try. And maybe every day can be like this past week has been if you do.

This is it. This is the time.

You swallow hard, your heart thudding so rapidly in your chest you can see each beat around the border of your vision.

“Frankie, I have to tell you something,” you begin, your voice audibly trembling. “I’m in…”

His eyes widen as he rapidly searches yours, and a look of panic floods his features as he seems to realize what you’re about to confess to.

He interrupts you.

“I really should get going. And no need to thank me for taking care of you; it’s no problem. I’d be a shitty friend if I didn’t. I mean, you’re practically my sister, after all.”

The second those words leave his lips you pull your hand back, a bit too abruptly, as if that simple touch, that connection, burns your skin.

Sister.

Your breathing shifts, fracturing into quick, sharp inhalations and shaky exhales. You stare at him, wide-eyed and completely frozen in place, as your heart stutters painfully in your chest.

Never, in seven years, has Frankie referred to you as his sister. Not even once.

“S-sister…?” you finally blurt out, your voice pitching so high it cracks. You search his eyes in desperation, hoping to see something…anything…that tells you it isn’t true. It can’t be. But Frankie’s expression is neutral, entirely devoid of any signs of conflicting emotions.

“Are you feeling sick again? You look pale,” Frankie frowns, reaching his hand out to touch your forehead but you take a rough step backward, moving just out of his reach before he can get too close, to put as much distance between you as physically possible. His hand hovers awkwardly in the empty space between you for a moment before slowly dropping back to his side.

“I’m fine, Francisco. You can go.” The words come out rough, calloused, as you cross your arms over your chest and bite the inside of your cheek to suppress the tears that threaten to fill your eyes.

You see the bobbing of his Adam’s apple, the shadowing over his gaze. It looks like he wants to say something, a muscle tightening in his jaw, but he simply nods instead.

Frankie steps off your porch and walks to his truck, opening the door and falling into the seat. As he starts his truck, you watch him, your hand gripping the front door so tight your knuckles blanch pure white. He backs out of the driveway and drives off without a single glance at you.

You slam the door with an echoing thud, and the tears that immediately follow threaten to pull you under and drown you. At this point, you think you would welcome such a fate.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You show up at the office the next morning looking perfectly composed. On the outside, you look polished and professional; a façade that no one else would be able to see through.

On the inside?

You feel dead. Completely dead.

You stop by the break room to get a cup of coffee, grabbing a mug from inside the top cabinet and absent-mindedly pouring from the carafe. You hope to muster enough energy to get through the day because you are sure you didn’t sleep a single minute all night. You tossed and turned from side to side, struggling to find a comfortable position, but it was useless anyway when your mind was in so much turmoil.

You ended up spending most of the night looking through photos of you and Frankie together, as well as texts you’ve shared, all the while silently chastising yourself for doing so.

'I mean, you’re practically my sister, after all.'

His words have not stopped echoing through your mind since the moment he spoke them into existence, cruelly mocking you and shattering every hope and dream you have held for the last seven years. No, not just shattered…dead.

You spent seven years longing after Frankie, wistful and hopeful, but ultimately too afraid to put yourself out there. What if you had misinterpreted his friendship? What if it was unrequited? What if you just lost his friendship and subsequently all of him afterward?After the past week, and the moment that really emboldened you-when he looked at you in that way like he wanted to kiss you and talked about that poem…you were finally brave enough to tell him. But you couldn’t even get the words out before he put up a wall between you. One that confirmed your biggest fear; it was all in your head this whole time.

And then today was the first day he didn’t text you good morning.

“Hey, good to have you back!” A loud, booming voice coming up from behind you startles you, causing you to near tip your mug over. “Feeling better?”

Before you can even turn around, Alex appears at your side with a bright smile, leaning casually against the counter.

“Hey,” you manage a small, cordial smile as you reach past him and grab the creamer sitting out, pouring a splash into your mug and grabbing a stirrer, swirling it through your coffee. “I am better, thanks for asking.”

Alex, who sits across from you and is five years your junior, is the ideal co-worker-friendly, enthusiastic, competent, and eternally cheerful. At over six feet tall, with a warm olive complexion, light hazel eyes, and side-swept, jet-black hair, he is traditionally handsome. To most, he would be eye-catching. But to you? He isn’t Frankie Morales.

Normally you enjoy the casual morning chats at work in the break room, but the exuberant energy he exhibits is far too much for your nervous system this morning. Truthfully the last thing you feel like doing right now is socializing in any capacity.

“Glad to hear it,” he responds, taking a sip of his own coffee. “We have been struggling without you. Did you have one of those bugs going around, or something?”

“Yeah, something like that,” you mutter, tossing the coffee stirrer into the trash can.

“Well, hey…tomorrow is Friday. Got any weekend plans?”

Your hand stills, mug halfway to your lips, at the question. You have never, in seven years, missed out on a Friday night with the guys. Even once you were no longer active duty, instead taking on a new position as an OSINT Analyst, the camaraderie and strong bond you had forged with the men you’ve always considered your brothers was sacred.

Until you fucked up, and fucked Santiago.

And stupidly fell in love with Frankie, who doesn’t even love you back.

How can you possibly go back to the bar and sit there at that same table, drinking beer and shooting the breeze with them after you drunkenly fucked Santiago? And Frankie didn’t take the blonde from last week home…but what if he takes someone home tomorrow night? He’s a grown man who can make his own decisions, and if he wants to take someone home he can, as he painfully pointed out to you.

You can’t handle that thought anymore.

“No, no plans,” you reply as you turned around, your hip resting against the corner of the counter. “I think I'll stay home and rest. How about you?”

“No plans here, either. But, hey…if you decide you want to do something, maybe I could take you out for coffee?” Alex propositions, and your eyebrows raise slightly in surprise.

“Oh..um. Maybe. It depends on how I’m feeling, honestly. I’ll let you know,” you say measuredly. “But I better get back to work. I have so much to catch up on, you know.”

He gives you a nod and a bright smile as you walk out and head back to your desk, gripping your mug tightly. You sit down in your chair with a heartbroken and exhausted sigh. Before you even look at your computer you grab your phone and see no new notifications. Still no text from Frankie.

You open up your text thread with Santiago and type a quick message.

I’m not gonna be able to make it tomorrow night. I hope you guys have fun.

You click your phone off and force yourself to work.

Data evaluation. Intelligence reports. Briefings. Zero focus.

You are on autopilot for the duration of the day, unable to fully concentrate. Your vision blurs at the edges and the words on the papers in front of you bleed together. The rest of the day is slow and torturous, and the ambient noise of the office- the clacking of keys on keyboards, the hum of constant chattering, and phones ringing-is nothing short of irritating.

Once it hits 5, you can’t leave fast enough. You head out to your car, grabbing your phone before even touching your keys.

No text from Frankie.

Your heart sinks as you sigh, opening up your latest notification.

Santi: Are you okay? Is something wrong? Is it lingering side effects from the plan B?

You debate on what to write back, eventually settling on a safe excuse.

I feel like I’m coming down with something. But I’m okay. Thank you for asking.

You head home, exhausted and emotionally spent.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Friday morning finds you no better: in fact, you feel even worse.

You think you managed to sleep an hour or two, at least.

Your heart sinks a little further when you see there’s still no text from Frankie. You briefly consider texting him, but you change your mind, deciding against it. What would you even say?

Sister.

You keep hearing the word over and over and it feels more poisonous each time. It sits like a dead weight in the center of your chest, sharp yet aching at the same time.

You open up your contact list and click on Sarah’s page, dialing her number. You turn on your left side in bed, holding the phone to your ear. After two rings, she picks up.

“My God! You’re alive?!” She exclaims jokingly. “I haven’t heard from you in over a week!”

You let out a faint chuckle. “I know, I know. I’ve been the worst at communicating lately. But things have been…crazy. How are you?”

“Good, just busy. Work has been crazy. Apparently everyone in town needed their dogs groomed during the same week,” she laughs, and you can hear a cabinet door shutting. “But you said things have been crazy. What happened?”

“Frankie came over last weekend and stayed for half of the week,” you say carefully, rolling over onto your back and looking up at the ceiling as you debate on what to divulge. Sarah has been one of your closest friends since Kindergarten and you know she can keep a secret, but telling her what happened with Santiago feels wrong.

“Seriously??” She asks, a hint of excitement shifting her voice to a higher pitch. “Tell me everything!”

“I drank too much last weekend and things got kinda weird. He was worried and came over to check on me. When I got sick, he decided to stay and take care of me. He even made me breakfast in bed, brewed my tea the way I love, read me poetry…”

“Shut up, that’s so fucking sweet!” Sarah interjects, the sound of coffee pouring into a mug faintly filtering through the receiver.

“I finally decided to tell him how I feel.”

“What?!?” She practically screams into your ear, causing you to instinctively pull the phone away for a moment. “Wait, what did he say?!”

“Before I could even say it, he interrupted me and said I was practically his sister.”

The line suddenly goes so silent that you pull your phone back for a second again, this time to make sure the call didn’t disconnect.

“He. Did. Not.” She snarls, huffing into the phone.

“He did. And he hasn’t talked to me since he left Wednesday.” Your voice cracks a bit as you struggle to keep yourself together.

“That fucking dick! He is such a liar!” Sarah rants, abandoning her coffee as she paces back and forth in the kitchen.

“I don’t think he was lying. He knew what I was going to say. If he felt the same way, why would he say that?”

“Because he is a fucking COWARD!!” She shouts as she continues to pace. “I don’t know what his dumbass reasoning for lying is, but I’ve been around the two of you enough to see it. If that’s how he looks at his sister? That’s fucking illegal.”

You can’t help but laugh at that. “I don’t know, maybe we're both wrong.”

Sarah snorts. “Please. If, somehow, we were wrong and Frankie isn’t in love with you I’ll eat my fucking shoes.”

You laugh harder. “I love you.”

“And I love you. I gotta go, but if Frankie needs his ass kicked you know I’ll happily oblige.”

You hang up, still laughing to yourself, now feeling better prepared to handle the day. Thankfully it's almost the weekend.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The bar on Friday night is busier than normal; the music is more shrill and the people are louder.

The usual table that you always sit at with the guys is filled...with the exception of your empty seat. Will, Ben, and Tom are chatting away, obliviously laughing at a joke Ben told that neither Santiago or Frankie hear.

“So she really isn’t coming tonight?” Will asks, glancing across the table at Santiago.

“No. She said she thought she was getting sick,” Santiago replies so quietly his voice is barely audible over the loud chatter and laughter surrounding them. “I’m texting her now to check on her. Might stop by her place after this.”

Frankie hadn’t said a single word all night as he sat slumped over his beer and staring off at nothing in particular. When Santiago grabs his phone and starts texting you, however, Frankie suddenly snaps into focus. A scowl appears on his face as he watches him.

“You two are getting really close,” Frankie utters with a roll of his eyes, taking another swig of beer.

Santiago’s eyes drift up to him, one eyebrow cocked. “I don’t know what you mean, man.”

“Yeah, you do,” Frankie asserts sharply, the tension radiating off of him in waves. “You show up to her place to bring her medicine and tea, and now you’re suddenly texting her all the fucking time.”

“What are you trying to say, Fish?” Santiago leans back in his chair nonchalantly. "I can't text a friend? Or help her when she's sick?"

“You know exactly what I am saying,” Frankie grits out, his voice suddenly lower and less controlled.

The two of them glare at each other in a silent challenge.

“Whatever the fuck you guys are doing, you can stop.” Tom barks out, sensing the growing hostility between them starting to escalate. “Right now.”

Santiago looks back at his phone and continues to text you, a small smile on his face.

Frankie straightens upright, his shoulders and back tensing as he watches intently, his gaze shifting from Santiago to his phone.

“What are you saying to her?” He demands, his ire clearly rising.

“None of your business,” Santiago retorts without looking up as his phone chimes with a text notification.

Frankie’s brows furrow and his nostrils flare as he grips his beer bottle so tight it nearly shatters in his hand. He can't take another second.

“Fuck this. I’m out.” He stands up abruptly, nearly knocking his chair over, as he reaches in the pocket of his jeans and tosses a set of crumpled bills onto the table. Santiago watches him with a hardened stare. Without another word Frankie grabs his jacket off the back of his chair and walks out of the bar, slamming the door open as he goes.

Will, Ben, and Tom look at each other in quiet bewilderment as Santiago stares ahead, a muscle feathering violently in his jaw as he grips his phone tighter.

You notice his absence in these sudden, jarring moments as you walk through your apartment sometimes- memories triggered by something innocent and innocuous. Like when you were vacuuming two days ago, moving the coffee table out of the way, and your thumb rested against the corner where the marble swirl pattern had a defect. Frankie always joked that it looked like a smiley face etched into the tabletop. And when you saw your thumb resting over that exact spot, the corner of the table slipped from your grip and you couldn’t breathe.

And sometimes those moments are a direct assault on your senses. Like when you did laundry a few days after he left and you grabbed the towels he had used, still hanging over the shower curtain, and smelled him. Cedarwood and vetiver, as well as something else that was uniquely Frankie. It was the scent that enveloped you in comfort in every embrace for seven years, but in that moment it made an ugly sob tear painfully from your throat.

He has been a staple in your life for all of these years and now he is suddenly…gone. No explanation, no reason. The grief comes in waves, but it lives in every corner of every room waiting.

You force yourself to live in survival mode because you don't know how to give more of yourself right now.

You hadn’t gone to the bar the past few weeks, but as another Friday approaches, dread and anxiety settle heavily into the pit of your stomach with a deep ache. You start to feel sick at the mere thought of going-in equal measure of seeing and not seeing Frankie in his usual spot.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

On Thursday night you sit propped up in bed, The Poetry of Pablo Neruda resting in your lap. Your hands rest on a page you have read at least a dozen times by now without seeing a single word, when your phone suddenly vibrates beside you.

You don’t get hopeful that it’s Frankie, not like you did those first few days apart. It’s never him anymore.

You look over at the glowing screen and see that it’s Santiago. You quickly answer.

“Hey, Santi,” you greet him casually, even though you feel anything but. “What’s up?”

“I just wanted to check on you, Starshine.” He sounds guarded. “None of us have heard from you in a few days…”

“I’m okay. I’ve just been busy with work.” It’s not a lie, technically; work has been busier than usual. But, truthfully, you haven't been in the right head space to talk to anyone.

“Good, that’s a relief, I’ve been worried,” he pauses, clearing his throat. “Will you be coming tomorrow night?”

“Will Frankie be there?” The words slip out of your mouth unintentionally, almost as if it’s a reflex that you can’t control.

Santiago is quiet for several seconds. You can hear the slight change in his voice immediately. Lower, almost cold. “Probably not.”

“Have you talked to him, Santi?” You can't stop yourself. You have to ask. You have to know.

“No.”

“No…?” You echo back, your brows knitting tightly together as you shut the book and place it carefully on the nightstand.

“No,” he repeats. His tone is clipped, offering absolutely no further commentary or explanation, and is completely devoid of his usual easy-going nature.

You know you should probably let it go. But you can’t. Because it’s Frankie. “Did something happen?” you ask gingerly, your fingers nervously fidgeting with the edge of your comforter.

“Just Frankie being Frankie,” he says, a subtle shift in his voice that borders on sarcasm. You can hear a short, frustrated huff of breath through the receiver.

You continue your interrogation as a wave of fear nearly paralyzes you. “What about Ben? Has he talked to him recently? I know he had a fight last weekend…”

“No.”

“Santi…”

A heavy silence stretches between the two of you for an agonizingly long time before you finally break it.

“He stopped talking to me,” you admit, your voice trembling ever so slightly as you fight a losing battle to keep yourself together.

Santiago softens slightly at that. “Since when?” he asks gently.

“Since he left after staying and taking care of me when I was sick from…the plan B. I haven’t heard from him at all.”

“I see,” Santiago pauses for a moment, the faint static of the line filtering through the phone. “Well, he didn’t show up last Friday and none of us have heard from him.”

You sit up straighter, your grip on the phone tightening. “No one has heard from him…?”

“No. You know how he gets sometimes, though. All broody and shit.” He says it so calmly and nonchalantly, but your stomach suddenly feels sicker. Frankie not talking to you was one thing…but not talking to the men he has considered his brothers for nearly two decades was another matter entirely.

“I caused this,” you whisper in a fractured voice. “It’s my fault.”

“Your fault…?” he asks, concern and confusion lacing into his words. “What do you mean? What's your fault?”

“When he left my apartment, I tried telling him,” the confession starts pouring from you and you are utterly helpless to stop it. “I tried telling him I’m in love with him, Santi. I couldn't even get the words out before he stopped me. He told me that he'd be a shitty friend if he didn't take care of me, because I was practically his sister.”

“What…?” He suddenly shifts from concern to a stunned anger that radiates through the phone. “He said what?”

“He disappeared right after that. I ruined everything.” A few tears fall down your face and you quickly wipe them away with the back of your hand. “I was such an idiot for thinking he felt the same way.”

“I’m sorry. Fuck, I’m so sorry.” Santiago murmurs. “But don’t you fucking dare say that about yourself. If he doesn’t feel the same way, then he is the idiot. His loss.”

“That’s sweet of you to say,” you say with a sad smile. “Thank you, Santi. I’ll be there tomorrow.”

“Good.” He hesitates for a moment. “Can’t wait to see you,” he adds quietly, almost as if he is afraid to say it.

“I can’t wait to see you, either. I’ve missed you guys.”

His voice comes through much quieter. “Yeah…” He lets out a small sigh. “We have missed you too. See you tomorrow. Text me if you need me.”

“Always.”

You quickly hang up and hold your phone with trembling hands. After a moment, you click on Frankie’s contact listing and your thumb hovers over the ‘call’ button. You debate on tapping it. But when you think of how no one has heard from him and he didn’t go to the bar last week, you have to make sure he is okay. If he doesn’t reciprocate your feelings, fine. But you have to know if he is okay. You have to. You click to dial his number and bring the phone to your ear. The shaking in your hands becomes violent as you hear the line trilling through the speaker.

After several rings, the call goes to voicemail.

You hang up and immediately dial again.

This time, it goes to voicemail after only two rings.

He declined the call.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Friday is off to a terrible start.

You wake up to a horrifying wave of nausea the moment your feet touch the floor, your stomach churning violently as a cold sweat breaks out across your forehead.

“Oh, God…” you groan, one hand flying up to cover your mouth as you run to the bathroom. You drop to your knees and throw the toilet lid up just in time to fully empty your stomach contents through waves of violent heaving and gagging that leave you gasping for air afterward. You flush the toilet and close the lid, resting your burning face on the cool porcelain surface. You have a terrible sense of déjà vu from a few weeks ago, except this time you’re alone.

You stand up on weak and shaky legs that can barely support your weight as you carefully walk back into your bedroom. You force yourself to get dressed for work, ignoring the date on the calendar.

Sarah texts you right as you arrive at the office.

Sarah💜: Want to have lunch together? Miss your face.

A genuine smile breaks out over your face as you text back.

Fuck yes. Noon okay?

Sarah💜: Yes! Thai work for you?

You scrunch your nose in disgust at the thought, excess saliva immediately filling your mouth.

Sounds good. Meet you there!

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The morning goes by at a torturously slow pace. Once it is a quarter to twelve, you head out to your car to drive to the Thai restaurant just down the road from the office. Once you pull into a parking spot and kill your car’s engine, waiting for Sarah, your phone buzzes loudly from its spot in the cup holder. You see it’s a text from Santiago.

Santi: Will called Fish last night and talked to him. Said he was fine and should be there tonight. Thought you’d want to know.

You stare blankly at the text for what feels like hours, the words blurring together as your thoughts race as wildly as your thudding heart.

Last night. Will talked to him last night. For a moment you feel a profound rush of relief knowing Frankie is okay before it twists into an ugly knot of anger deep in your chest. He purposefully ignored your call and sent you to voicemail, yet he happily talked to Will on the phone?

What the fuck is his problem?

The sudden honking of a horn shatters you from your spiraling thoughts and you jump in your seat. You look over to see Sarah parked next to you, waving with a puzzled expression on her face.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“So you looked more than a little upset when I pulled in,” Sarah observes a few minutes later, sliding into the vinyl booth by the front window inside the restaurant.

“I was,” you sigh, sitting across from her and slumping forward on the table.

“You still haven’t heard from that dickhead?” Her dark blue eyes narrow sharply and she purses her lips in restrained anger.

You shake your head. “Not even once. I actually tried calling him last night…he declined it. But apparently he talked to Will.”

The waitress comes by and drops off two laminated menus with a smile. You give her a stiff, acknowledging nod in return.

“What the actual fuck??” Sarah responds furiously, her light blonde hair spilling from behind her shoulders and falling around her face as she leans in closer to you. “I can’t believe the way he’s acting! Who does that to their best friend?”

Before you can formulate a response, the waitress walks in quick strides past your table carrying a tray with Tom Yum Goong. The heavy, fragrant scent of lemongrass and seafood is so overwhelming that you immediately cover your mouth as your stomach starts to churn.

“Hey, are you okay…? You look really pale…” she stops mid-rant, leaning further back in the booth as she studies you with a look of concern.

“Yeah. Sorry,” you say measuredly, taking short, shallow breaths through your nose. “Just…the stress of all of this, I guess. You know how sick I get when I’m stressed.”

Sarah nods in understanding. “I don’t need to tell you I have the obvious urge to kick Frankie’s ass for all of this.” She pauses as the waitress comes by and you both order- you hope the Pad Thai and Cha Yen will settle well on your sensitive stomach-and Sarah orders a Café Yen and Khao Pad.

Once the waitress leaves, Sarah leans back in. “None of this makes any sense. You’re going to confess your feelings, he panics, and hits you with the sister line?”

“I think the obvious conclusion is he doesn’t feel the same way.”

“That’s absolute bullshit,” she insists. “I told you before how obvious it is that he is in love with you, too. There’s gotta be more to this.”

You sit in quiet contemplation for a few moments, your fingers tracing over the grain of the wooden table. “Santiago and I have been closer lately,” you mention casually, neglecting to explain exactly why that is.

She raises an eyebrow at you. “Aren’t they really close...? Maybe Frankie is jealous, thinks you’re into Santiago?”

“They are, but I doubt Frankie would think that, or even care. Not when I’m basically his sister, apparently.”

“I don’t know, it’s a very real possibility…” She watches as the waitress sets your drinks on the table. Once you’re alone again, she smirks. “And what’s the deal with Santiago, anyway?”

“He is just a friend,” you answer as you drop the straw into your glass and take a sip of tea.

“A friend like me, or a friend like Frankie…?”

“Sarah, come on,” you groan, leaning back into the booth and shaking your head.

“It’s a valid question! I mean, I’ve seen him before. He’s nice, respectful, and he is hot as fuck. If Frankie is going to act like an immature asshole and ignore you, maybe you should just move on.”

“You aren’t really suggesting I date Santiago, are you…? The man Frankie considers his brother?”

“Why not? Since you’re his sister,” she says sarcastically, using air quotes, “he should be perfectly normal about it.”

You look down at the table, rolling the paper wrapper from your straw into a tight ball between your fingers. The sudden, awkward memory of waking up in Santiago’s bed flashes in your mind, as well as the image of him standing naked in front of you. You feel your face grow hot and you clear your throat.

“Santiago is a friend…and I mean a friend,” you state firmly, refusing to meet her gaze as you look at your glass of tea. “But enough about all of my drama. How are things with you?”

“Well, I do have great news,” Sarah takes a swig of her coffee and rests her arms on the table. “Aaron and I are about to start IVF!”

“Are you serious?!” Your eyes widen in excitement. “Oh, my God! That is incredible!”

“I know it’ll probably be a long and difficult road, but I have faith!”

“Sarah!” You reach out and hold her hand. “I am so happy for you. And I’ll be there for you every step of the way; anything you need. You will be such an amazing mother, and no one deserves this as much as you do.”

“Stop. You’re going to make me cry,” she laughs, her eyes tearing up as she squeezes your hand. “And for the record, you will be an amazing aunt.”

“It would be an absolute honor,” you say with a slight hitch in your voice as you try to hold your own tears back. “I need constant updates. I hope you don’t mind.”

“I’m going to tell you everything!” she grins. The waitress stops by the table to drop your food off and you pull your hand back as she sets the bowls down.

Once she leaves, you let out a laugh. “I promise that I will teach him or her how to ride a bike since you never learned. I don’t want my future niece or nephew crashing into a mailbox, after all.”

Sarah laughs even harder. “You won’t ever let that go, will you?” She grabs her fork and takes a bite.

“Never,” you respond with a solemn nod before laughing again, secretly hoping you can keep your food down.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

By the time Friday evening rolls around, you get ready to leave for the bar. Normally you feel excited to catch up with the guys and...of course...to see Frankie, but tonight you have a storm of emotions at war with each other, the turmoil nearly unbearable as it weighs down every muscle in your body.

You’re nervous. You’re hurt. You’re confused. And, most of all…you’re angry. He abandoned you after you were finally brave enough to tell him how you feel, to take that emotional leap after seven years. And in your most vulnerable moment, he completely crushed you and seemingly ended your friendship without a single conversation. He refused to answer your call when you were worried about him. But he answered Will’s call.

You take a deep breath, swallowing down a wave of nervous nausea, as you head out.

The bar is the same as always; raucous, stuffy, and filled with the smell of cheap beer and cigarettes. The booming bass from the jukebox vibrates the scuffed floor underneath your feet as you weave your way to the same booth in the back you always sit at.

You immediately spot Will, Ben, and Tom, already halfway through their first round of drinks and laughing. Santiago is on the outer edge of the seat across from them, silently sipping his drink.

Frankie’s spot in the middle is empty.

“Hey, look who’s here!” Will calls out to you as you approach them, causing Ben and Tom to turn around and Santiago to look up. “We were starting to think you abandoned us,” he chuckles light-heartedly.

“No, never,” you manage a small smile as Santiago scoots over and you sit down. “Things have just been crazy busy. It’s so good to see you guys, I’ve missed this.”

“It’s not been the same without you,” Tom says as he takes another swig of beer and slides one your way. “You keep these assholes in line.”

“Definitely not the same,” Ben agrees, his blue eyes sparkling even under the dim neon lights. “Missed you, beautiful.”

You smile before your gaze falls on Frankie’s empty seat. Your chest immediately aches, and you’re angry at yourself for it.

Santiago is watching you carefully, his demeanor completely different after your confession last night. He shifts his weight, his arm resting heavily on the back of the booth behind your shoulder.

“It’s okay, Starshine,” he murmurs, looking down at you with a reassuring smile. You nod, leaning your head over on his shoulder as you take a deep breath in and let yourself relax.

"You got here just in time," Tom chuckles, gesturing over at Ben. "Benny here is telling us about the absolute freakshow at his gym today."

“I swear to God, you can’t make this shit up,” Ben grins, leaning forward over the scuffed wood of the table, fully engrossing himself into the picture he weaves. “Coach brings in this new dude for me to spar with. The guy is built like a fuckin’ tank, right? Has this thick ass neck but a tiny little goatee.”

Will lets out a snort in his beer as he shakes his head. “How quick did you get knocked out?”

“That’s the thing!” Ben laughs animatedly. “He wanted to get a few rounds in with the heavy bag. He hypes himself up, goes for a roundhouse kick, but hits too low. He slips and falls face first on the gym floor. Out cold.”

Tom bursts into a booming laugh, nearly spilling his beer. Will howls, leaning over and slapping his hand on the table.

“You’re kidding?!” You ask with a snort, the mental image Ben just painted giving you a welcome distraction as you hold the beer without drinking it. Santiago chuckles lightly as he scoots closer in to you.

The bar door suddenly swings open, and when you look up all of the oxygen leaves your lungs in an instant.

Frankie.

He walks in, scanning the room, before his gaze falls at the table.

And then on you.

He stares at you with a burning intensity as you continue leaning on Santiago, the hard clenching of his jaw apparent even from a distance. He walks over, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his khaki pants. The residual laughter at the table suddenly dies in the surrounding air as everyone stops and stares up at him.

Frankie looks completely, utterly wrecked. His face is pale, completely devoid of its usual color. His signature cap is pulled down low but does nothing to hide the dark, bruising purple under his eyes, a clear indicator of his lack of sleep. His patchy beard is uncharacteristically unkempt, and his entire body goes rigid as his gaze drops to Santiago’s arm around you.

Up close, you see a look on his face you have never seen before. The easy-going smile he usually wears around you is gone, along with the soft look in his dark eyes when he calls you Biscuit. This is a raw and visceral anger, one masking a pain so deep it sharpens his features into something harsh and unrecognizable.

Will, Ben, and Tom scoot down and Frankie sits on the opposite side of the booth, on the very edge as if he isn’t committed to staying long.

“Sorry I’m late,” he sneers as he glares at Santiago. “But I see everyone is already comfortably settled in.”

You feel Santiago tense underneath you and you move your head off his shoulder, sitting upright in a poor attempt to diffuse the situation.

“Um…all good, man,” Will says, his gaze shifting back and forth between them. “You okay..?”

“I’m great, thanks for asking,” Frankie leans back, his eyes still locked on Santiago.

The heavy silence and tension in the air is suffocating, and you start to shake as a rush of adrenaline floods your veins.

“I’ve got you, Starshine,” Santiago whispers under his breath, leaning closer in to your ear. Frankie watches, his hand on the table balling into a tight fist.

“What’s the big secret?” He asks sarcastically. “Why don’t you share with the rest of us, Pope?”

“Shut up, Fish,” Santiago warns. “You need to relax.”

“Relax? Nah, I’m good. I was curious, though, when you were going to tell the rest of us about the two of you.”

Your eyes widen fractionally and you look over at Santiago. Will, Ben, and Tom exchange uneasy glances as they look at all three of you.

“What, that we are friends? Sorry you haven’t figured that out in the last seven years,” Santiago laughs derisively, and Frankie quickly stands up.

“Oh, no, this isn’t friendship…is it Pope? It goes beyond that,” Frankie’s voice becomes louder and more aggressive and you shrink down in the booth, paralyzed.

“Why the fuck would you care if it was?! She is just your sister after all, right?!” Santiago shouts back, slamming his hands on the table. The chaotic noise of the bar seems to fade as the outburst at the table catches the attention of everyone nearby.

Frankie stills, his eyes wide, as he looks directly at you with too many emotions to name.

“You told him that…?” He whispers, his voice cracking.

For a split second you soften..before your anger comes back and you can't hold it back anymore.

“Yeah, I did! You fucking abandoned me! I even called you last night because I was so worried when I found out no one had heard from you…I thought you were fucking hurt, or even dead! But you ignored my call. You declined my call!” You don’t even recognize your voice as every emotion you have felt and held back since the moment he walked off your porch comes out at once. "Seven years of friendship didn't mean a fucking thing to you if you could throw it away so easily!"

Frankie just stares at you, a look of raw agony in his dark brown eyes, and you see tears fill the waterline of his eyes. Without another word, completely depleted of all of the anger he held just moments ago, he walks out of the bar.

Santiago doesn’t move, while Will, Tom, and Ben are rendered speechless.

You watch Frankie leave as your own tears burn at the back of your eyes, wishing you could go after him...but you have nothing left to give. 

The TV is on, but you and Javi are just laughing your asses off, drinking your second bottle of champagne to celebrate the beginning of the filming of his next movie. The one he wrote for you to star in, alongside Dieter Bravo, the award-winning actor. He was chosen by Javi himself to be working alongside you. The thing is, you both always admired Dieter’s work, especially Cliff Beasts. With his accent, he was so good. Even Nick Cage agreed with you two.

“How did you feel today on set, bebita?” Javi asks, sipping his champagne.

“Nice, everyone is so welcoming, and I love to be playing something you wrote.” You smirk to your husband. “What were your first impressions?”

“Good, I’m really excited!” he widens his eyes and smiles. “But you know, Javi, that actor is so yummy, mi amor.” You say, looking at your husband over the rim of your glass.

“You think so, princesa?” Javi bites his lip. “You mean Dieter?”

“Yes.” You shrug and giggle, kind of embarrassed by your confession. “It will be difficult to keep it professional.”

“Would you do what I’m thinking?” Javi smirks.

“A threesome? With you two?” you laugh, your head falling back, your mouth watering just from imagining it. “Absolutely.”

There is not a pinch of hesitation in your answer. By the look on Javi’s face he’s already imagining that. And he is, in fact. He can see the three of you on your bed. You both are open to those types of experiences, always have been. Open-minded. And Dieter, in fact, is someone you both share interest in.

A week after the movie started the first sexually charged moment comes. You and Dieter are filming a romantic dance scene. Your husband is behind the camera, watching you and Dieter as you get ready. He screams “Action” and Dieter’s hand finds your waist, pulling you to him. His warmth in contrast with the conditioner. You feel his scent inebriating you. Lips brushing against your forehead and when he pulls back you two exchange glances, intense, it lingers more than it should.

“You are so great, partner.” Dieter says, winking at you.

“I can say the same about you… Sexy.” You bite your lip.

“We match the character’s fire don’t we?” he whispers in your ear.

“One day we might find out.” You whisper back.

Javi watches everything, this tension making him horny. And when your lips meet in a kiss, he sees that it is more real than it was supposed to be. Dieter’s lips are soft and taste like cherry. You smile against his mouth and he pulls back once Javi screams “Cut” against his will and calls both of you to see something on the monitor.

“Great kisser.” You smirk, turning your back to him, swaying your hips until you reach your husband, and he stares at your beautiful ass under your denim pants.

Dieter follows you after he comes back to his senses. You are so hot and all he wants to do is have steamy sex with you. And he takes a very good look at your husband, desiring him just the same. When he comes closer his body presses against your back, you can feel his cock against your thigh. He leans closer as your husband speaks.

“You see, I need this kiss more passionately.” Javi points to your lips, replaying it in slow motion, the three of you looking at the screen, pulsing.

“Yes, mi amor.” you nod.

“Understand, Dieter? Grab her neck like you want to devour her.” Javi says with a lot of passion, his hand resting on Dieter’s lower back.

“Okay, Javi.” Dieter nods, feeling the warmth of the director’s hand and enjoying it.

During the table readings you couldn’t take your eyes off each other. Dieter’s eyes roamed your body, loving every inch of you. When you had to wear clothes that showed more skin he would come home to masturbate thinking about you. Just as you and Javi fucked thinking about him.

Every time you touched him and were touched by him was a moment to savour, all three of you feeding from these small moments, small touches and lingering glances.

Finally the day comes, the premiere after party. Javi made sure that it would happen in his compound, a big and extravagant party. Just the way he loves. He is wearing a blue suit - you love this suit - beige sarge pants, his wavy hair perfectly styled. You’re wearing your golden dress, the one your husband helped design for you, it shines against the lights.

You two are talking to some executives when Dieter arrives. He is wearing a black suit, with that kind of childish way. He takes a glass of champagne and is greeted by some guests. You spot him and poke Javi with your elbows. It is your third glass of champagne and you’re losing your decency. Your husband is already on his fifth, he is talking a bit too loud and stumbling on a few words. But both of you are still conscious.

“What do you think, mi amor?” you whisper into his ear. “Tonight is the night?”

“Is that what you want?” he asks, kissing your cheek.

“Yes!” you nod, excited.

“Then if he gives us the opportunity.” He takes your hand and kisses it. “He will be in our bed tonight!”

There is another bottle of champagne on the nightstand, your glasses already retired. Now you rest your back on the headboard and Javi is in front of you massaging your feet. Dieter is sitting by his side. The laughter and conversation are easy, the three of you light-headed.

“No way, you’ve spent so many days locked in?” you ask with your eyes wide.

“Yes, they kept isolating us all the time.” Dieter lights a joint, blowing the smoke up. “I hated it! But at least I got free KitKat.”

“I love KitKat, right mi amor?” you poke Javi with your foot.

He passes the joint to you and you pull the smoke, letting it burn your lungs. Javi gets close to you opening his mouth so you can blow the smoke inside of it. And that’s what you do. Dieter watches it, biting his lips.

“You know, Javi, you have this amazing view.” Dieter says with a smirk. “Now knowing your wife I can see it goes beyond movies.” You can see his eyes lingering on Javi’s broad chest that peeks from his now unbuttoned shirt.

The smirk that opens on your face is from victory. Dieter also wants you two, now it is clear as day. Javi strokes your legs.

“She is my greatest muse.” Javi’s accent is always so attractive. “And I can say that your acting is also something unique.”

The tension between the two of them starts to boil inside of you. The way they talk to each other, how they look at each other’s bodies. You bite your lip and decide to crawl to your husband and capture his mouth with yours. It starts softly but then it deepens. You are on all fours, Dieter staring at your ass.

“Mind if I…” he clears his throat. “Join in? Maybe a little taste?”

“Come here already.” you pull back from your husband, smiling.

First Dieter comes closer, he is not hesitant, in fact he is very quick to join you. His mouth finds yours, open so your tongues play around, messily and lazily. It tastes like the tequila you both had just drank. Javi watches it stroking his cock from over his pants. He crawls on the bed to get behind you kissing your neck. 

Dieter kisses a trail down your neck as you turn your head to kiss your husband. Javi plays around with your tongue, teasingly, he licks your lips and sucks your tongue. Your pussy aches with need. Your hands slide over both of their necks, pulling them closer so you can all kiss together, turning it into a messy triple kiss, three mouths colliding, tongues tangling in a shared rhythm.

It doesn’t take long for you to pull back and watch them kissing with a smirk. Javi’s beard grazes Dieter’s cheek, at first it is just a peck. But soon you watch as your husband’s hand grip the guest’s neck, pulling him to deepen the kiss. His tongues lazily sliding against one another. It is heated, just like the one rising on your pussy, and you let your hand slide inside your panties touching yourself as you watch them devour each other.

They pull away just to shed their clothes, shirts going one way and pants the other. Dieter's body is different from your husband’s, you’ve touched it before, during the scenes you’ve filmed, but right now you’ll touch it for real, with desire. You’ve dreamt about licking his tummy, straddling it, and now it is yours. The last thing they shed is their boxers, and oh my, what a view. Their cocks spring free: both of them big and heavy, but Javi’s is thick and straight as Dieter has a curve, you like that.

The attention comes back to you once they notice your hand inside of your panties. Your dress is pulled up to your waist. Leaning and pressing against you both of them claim you, kissing your neck, pulling the zipper of your dress, the two mouths finding different areas of your body.

“God, princesa, I need to savour you” Javi murmurs against the sensitive skin of your neck, nibbling at it

“Me too, l want to have a taste” Dieter is breathless

You lay on the bed, nodding, legs spread, they both slid down and you wonder how, with all their broadness, will they fit in between your thighs, but they manage. One of your legs is over Dieter’s shoulder and the other over Javi’s. They bump into each other in a playful and teasing competition for space.Your husband is the first to dive in, he licks your folds slowly, taking all of your wetness with a groan.

Dieter joins in, going for your clit, sucking it as Javi licks lower, their mouths finding synchrony. You just feel it, their lips and tongues on your slick and sensitive skin. You moan loudly every time your pussy pulses under their work, hips bucking. Javi’s tongue thrusts inside of you as Dieter continues in your clit, they switch, breaths hot and ragged. Their free hands wander, Javi’s hand finds Dieter’s cock, stroking slowly and firmly, Dieter returns the favor jerking Javi a little bit fast. 

When you see them pleasuring each other as they devour you, push you over the edge, and your orgasm hits harder, thighs trembling as you come on their faces, swearing loudly. They suck all of your cum humming, satisfied.

“Now is your turn” Dieter pulls back and looks at Javi

He doesn’t take long to swallow Javi’s whole cock while Javi buries his face back in your pussy, now his tongue licks you non stop, matching your guest’s rhythm on his cock, who bobs deep, throat working deliciously around your husband’s length. One of his hands penetrates you as the other plays with Javi’s balls. He moans into you, vibrating against your folds sending sparks up your spine. 

They swap: Javi takes Dieter’s cock into his mouth, sucking it hard, tongue swirling teasingly on the tip as Dieter sucks your clit, fingers still into your pussy. All of this vision makes the pleasure build fast, you scream out pulsing around Dieter’s fingers as another orgasm overwhelms you. And Javi hums in approval around your guest’s throbbing cock.

Javi pulls back as Dieter, and he is the one to set you on all fours, Dieter kneels behind you, gripping your hips, your pussy clenching in anticipation, you look back, but your husband turns your face to him. Dieter slides his cock into your soaked pussy with a loud grunt, filling you inch by inch. The stretch of his thick cock makes you gasp. Meanwhile you lean forward, taking Javi’s cock in your mouth, sucking it eagerly as he holds your hair. Above you, Javi and Dieter lean towards each other, lips meeting in a deep kiss. Their tongues dancing and sliding desperately, both moaning into each other’s mouth.

Dieter’s thrusts are steady, skin slapping against skin. He is panting when he pulls out when Javi asks for them to switch, he wants to fuck you. They exchange positions and your husband deeps himself in your pussy, you moan loudly with him, and you deep throat Dieter, gagging slightly on his cock. They’re back to kissing each other over you, the guest nipping your husband’s lower lip. 

Javi reaches for your clit and the intensity of it all pushes you to the edge, you come first, walls clenching around Javi, moaning around Dieter’s length. Your husband comes right after, filling you up with his hot cum, grunting loudly. Dieter also follows by spilling down your throat with a shudder, and you swallow every bit of his sweet cum. 

Exhausted, the three of you collapse on the bed together, you stay in between them on the bed. All of you laugh lightly. Dieter lights another spliff and you pass around, their hands still roaming around your body, your guest traces circles on your boob and Javi kisses your shoulder. With all the adrenaline leaving your bodies, you all drift off, bodies tangled.

You are awakened by soft kisses on you, Javi on your lips and Dieter on your neck. Soon the heat rises quickly, their hands exploring your body and your breaths quickening. They roll you on your back, Javi’s fingers dives into your already soaked pussy, the mixture of your releases coating his thick digits as they pump slowly into you, Dieter thumbs presses and rubs your clit in firm circles. 

You arch into them, and your hands wrapping around their cocks - Javi in your left and Dieter in your right, stroking them relentlessly, your thumb spreading the pre cum over their tips. Javi leans in and kisses you, deep and passionately as he always does, you love this man. Then Dieter comes, lips trailing down your neck, sucking your skin. Your mouths collide into a triple kiss, it is sloppy but heated. 

“Please, you both, fuck me” you beg, another orgasm getting closer.

“What if I fuck her…” Javi’s eyes meet Dieter’s “And you fuck me?” 

Dieter grins nodding. Javi slides down, tongue trailing your whole pussy from your ass to your clit cleaning the remnants of last night. Behind him, Dieter grabbed a lube bottle from the drawer that you signaled to him. He kneels close to your husband, kissing his back.

“You can relax, I’ve got you” Dieter whispers

His middle finger circles Javi’s hole, pushing it slowly and twisting it making him gasp into your folds. Dieter adds a second one and scissor them carefully so he can stretch before entering.

“Does it feel good?” he whispers

Javi just nods sucking your clit harder, making you moan. When he is ready, Javi raises your hips up and you wrap your legs around his waist. He positions his cock at your entrance and thrusts gradually, enjoying every bit of the stretch. You moan loudly. Dieter aligned behind your husband, his lubed up hands stroking his own cock nudging his ass.

“Just breathe, baby” Dieter murmurs

And he eases in inch by inch, letting Javi control the depth as his face contorts in pleasure and pain, still he pushes back, taking more until Dieter is fully inside. They find their pace, Javi taking himself out from you as Dieter pulls back then slamming forward together. Your guest’s thrusts drive Javi deeper into your pussy. The tension builds, Dieter’s hips snapping harder, hands gripping Javi’s waist pulling him onto his cock while pushing him into you. 

Your husband’s strokes turn erratic, Dieter hits his prostate just right and he comes first, groaning loud, cock pulsing ropes of cum inside you. He doesn’t stop leaning down to lick your clit, diving into his own mess as Dieter keeps pounding his ass, you hear the skin slapping and it makes you reach your climax, squirting against Javi’s mouth, body shaking. Dieter lasts longest, burying himself deep into Javi in a final thrust, releasing a big load of hot cum, dripping from your husband’s ass.

Once more, you three collapse together, you beneath your amazing husband and Dieter draped over you both - chest heaving, grinning, satisfied. 

“That was…” Dieter pants, kissing Javi’s shoulder. “Intense.”

“God, you are so hot, Dieter, you should come here more.” you prop yourself on your elbow to look at him and wink.

“Agreed.” Javi is exhausted.

You kiss his temple with tenderness.

“Love you baby.” you whisper.

The three of you take a moment to just breathe and take in everything that has just happened. You are the one to get up first to clean yourself up, a mixture of cum, saliva and sweat all over your body.

Soon both of the men follow you to the bathroom where you all take a shower. Just a few more kisses and touches but you are too exhausted to start anything else.

Back in the room you work together to change the sheets and lie down again cuddling with you in between them, their arms draped over your waist. Dieter kisses your shoulder and Javi gives a peck on your lips.

And after all this wild sex you allow yourself to drift back to sleep.

Lead me not into temptation | part 23 @tateypots

Closer @time-for-my-weekly-spanking (Tess x reader x Joel)

Trying to control her attraction to you was one of the hardest things Tess had ever done. But she'd succeeded. Until you made it clear how much you wanted to get closer to her. For Joel, falling into this scenario was just the natural closing of the circle

Endorphins @baronessvonglitter

The hot personal trainer in your neighborhood gives you a one-on-one session

Marking @mcthsman

Your boyfriend catches everyone’s eyes. Joel, for the most part, doesn’t seem to notice but you know better: They want him just as much as you do, and you need to figure out a way to keep people away

Love on the brain @time-for-my-weekly-spanking

As a storm rages over Jackson, you finally confront the man who saved you. And who has chosen to ignore you, even though you're forced to live in the same house. You’re pretty much convinced he hates you. And like a flash of lightning that tears through the sky and lights up the night, the truth finally dawns before your eyes. And maybe it's not what you expected…

Give me another @shadowqueen2024

After a few days of Joel working late with patrols, watch duty or contacting duties for Jackson's safety, comes with the price of not being able to spend as much time with you as he'd like. Since today is his day off, the two of you spent it being lazy, staying at home, ending with the perfect nighttime routine you had missed

Gifted kid burnout @hanahleah

After weeks of working overtime, between looming deadlines and a dreaded annual performance review something just had to give. The AC gave out first. You weren’t far behind

Baby mine | part 1 | part 2 @tateypots

After losing Ellie to the fireflies Joel has lost his purpose. He finds a new one when he meets you.

Aka, Joel is obsessed with you being pregnant, whether you want to be or not.

Homecoming @magpiepills

Coach Joel has to deal with cheerleader reader at the homecoming dance!

You should feel lucky | part 8 | part 9 | Joel can't get it up @ess-evo

He wants you, and he is going to find you

Piece of you @aurorawritestoescape

There’s a rule in Joel’s house — you give him a hard-on, you deal with it!

The wolf you feed | part 8 @arcane-fox

Set in fictional New England town, you fall for your handsome, intense and outdoorsy neighbor while renting out your parent's vacant summer home during a brutal winter

Joel Dealing with His Girlfriend (pre-wifey): Milestone @pedge-page

Clint Flood

Obligations of love @ess-evo

Clint is the man of your dreams. You're planning a wedding; every day with him is filled with love and affection, so then why do you have a knot in your stomach every time he leaves home?

Marcus Pike

Restoration @peepawmiller

Marcus is a workaholic, and you're not sure your marriage is strong enough to handle the strain

Javier Peña

Headcanons @cowgirlscrubs

Until the end of time @cozymochaa

You and Javier have the house to yourselves this weekend

Din Djarin

Eyes drabble @sawymredfox

Pero Tovar

Magnolia blooms with you | Act II @kokoluwie

Deciding to stay at The Great Wall of China might just be the best decision Pero Tovar has ever made. Peace after annihilating the Tao Tei? Maybe. In love with a comrade? Absolutely. Retirement plan? Secured

Dave York

Video vixen @baronessvonglitter

You're Dave's favorite camgirl and his ultimate fantasy. Could he ever see you as anything else?

Frankie Morales

When I think about you, I touch myself @aurorawritestoescape

Your older brother Santi has always been against you dating his hot best friend, Frankie Morales, so when the cockblocker leaves town for a week, you work out a daring plan to seduce the man of your wet dreams

The small things of a whole | part 3 | part 4 @sawymredfox (Frankie x Ben Miller)

A gentle morning coaxes a meaningful conversation and a revelation

Oh baby @aurorawritestoescape

Frankie finds your panties in his pocket and his mind starts wandering

My writing

Somewhere only we know (Javi p x reader)

It’s a story about two people who are very dear to each other, but too scared to turn their friendship into something else. They search for each other in other people and places until fate brings them back together at the right time

Clint was the man of your dreams. He was charming. He had a subtlety about him that still had your thighs clenching, even after all this time. He was funny. You hadn’t learned that until a few months in when he finally let down his guard enough to show you his goofy side. That was when you fell in love. 

The first time you saw Clint was at the video rental store. It was a Friday night - your usual night to grab a movie and some takeout on your way home from work and unwind on the couch. The store was more quiet than usual, so you got lost in the movies in front of you as you scanned the drama section thoroughly. 

It was his scent that caught your attention first. As your fingers skimmed the VHS tapes in front of you, a whiff of cigarette smoke drifted by. You looked up, seeing a large man in a black leather jacket and slicked back hair looking at the shelf just a few feet away from you. Even though you hated the smell of cigarettes, the aroma coming off of him was mixed with a leather scent that made it significantly less putrid. 

You couldn’t help but stare for a moment. He was broad and solid, the kind of presence that you imagined could either feel incredibly comforting or terrifying. Your eyes traveled down his body, and when they made their way back up to his face, you saw that he was looking back at you. You quickly redirected your vision back to the shelf in front of you. Heat rose to your cheeks as you tried to read the movies in front of you. It was useless. You could feel his gaze on you and you wanted to shrink away, but instead just felt frozen in place. 

“I wouldn’t recommend that one.” His voice was low, and quieter than you would’ve expected. You swallowed and looked over at him, hoping that your own voice would cooperate. 

“Which one?” You’d had no idea what you were looking at before.

Clint gave a sideways smile and moved closer. His scent fully enveloped you now as he reached in front of you to tap his finger on the VHS tape that read Anatomy of Hell. 

“Never heard of it. Sounds interesting though,” you mused.

He shook his head and said, “Yeah, well, it isn’t. Take my word for it.” He winked and then hesitated, as if he wasn’t sure he should have done that. He cleared his throat. “What, uh, movies do you usually like?” 

“Mm…” You allowed yourself to think for a moment with Clint standing patiently beside you. “Taxi Driver, Gone with the Wind…The Godfather.” 

“Got good taste,” Clint responded with a smile. You liked how it reached his eyes. His smile transformed his entire face from a harsh, stony look to a soft and gentle expression that had you aching to be closer to him. “Can I make a recommendation?”

“Please,” you answered more breathily than you’d intended. Clint’s eyes dropped to your lips as you spoke. You saw his throat bob before he responded.

“On the Waterfront,” he said with confidence. “Hands down Brando’s best performance. If you like him in The Godfather, you’ll love him in that.” His eyes scanned the shelves, taking a step back as he searched for the O’s. He found the film and plucked it from in-between the others, handing it to you. 

As you watched him, you realized he bore a striking resemblance to Marlon Brando himself. It caused the already simmering need within you to nearly boil and you gave a shy smile with a nod as you said, “Thanks, I’ll check it out.” 

Clint gave a simple nod as he started to walk back toward the checkout counter. “Let me know if you like it,” he said with a wink. 

You froze for a moment, just holding the tape down at your side. Your mouth opened as though you were going to say something, but then he was gone. You worried your lip between your teeth before murmuring fuck it to yourself. 

When you stood behind him in line, you asked, “How am I supposed to tell you if I liked it?”

The person in front of Clint finished checking out, grabbing their stack of movies and stepping around the two of you. Clint didn’t answer you, but instead reached over the counter to grab a pen, then turned toward you and took your hand. You watched as he wrote his phone number on the inside of your wrist. As much as you were surprised by the bold move, you were too distracted by the feeling of his touch against your skin to object in any way. 

By the time you’d left the video store, your head was so fuzzy that you weren’t sure you could even manage your way home. There was something about his presence, something so commanding that you knew you couldn’t ignore. 

You only got halfway through the movie before you called Clint. What could have been just a five minute conversation, instead turned into a two hour phone call, a series of desperate dates, and now a relationship that you’d been steadily in for two years now. 

“I think we should take out A Streetcar Named Desire,” you chimed in, knowing that Clint was going to have a negative reaction.

“What? No. We can’t do that. That’s a classic!” He pulled the piece of paper closer to him, musing over it and pointing at Annie Hall. “Let’s ditch this one.”

You sighed and rolled your eyes. “Clint, honey, we can’t have half of our wedding tables be Marlon Brando movies.” 

“And why not?” Clint retorted. “That’s the whole foundation of our relationship!” 

“Really?” You gave him an unamused look. “That’s the foundation of our relationship? Marlon Brando?”

Clint rolled his eyes now. “You know what I mean…”

It was rare that you gave in to Clint, but this was the one part of wedding planning that he seemed genuinely interested in, so you wanted to throw him a bone. “Fine, fine. Streetcar stays…and I’ll nix Annie Hall.” 

Clint kisses you on the cheek and stands up from the dining table where you have all of your wedding planning stuff laid out. “Did you say you needed me to pick somethin’ up from the store? The cake stuff?”

He walks toward the coat rack, starting to slip on his shoes. You watch him as anxiety starts to build in your core. You hate that you still feel this way every time he leaves the house. 

“Mhhm,” you answer. “The bakery has the cake tasting kit ready. They close at six, though.” 

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” Clint says as he shrugs on his leather jacket. He glances over and sees you nervously biting your nails. “Thought you were tryin’ to quit that before the wedding,” he says playfully.

You remove your hand from your mouth and sigh. Pushing up from the table, you start to collect all of the wedding materials and organize them back in your neat binder. “I don’t know, Clint…I just-” You shake your head. “Nevermind.”

Clint sighs. He knows what this is about. It’s the only argument the two of you ever have. “I told you, baby. In just a couple days, I’ll be done. We’re almost there.”

“I just don’t get why it’s still gone on this long, Clint. You’re smart. You’re capable. You can find another job. A real job.” Tears prick at your eyes.

Clint looks up at the ceiling then back at you. “Yes, sweetheart…you’ve said all this before. I hear you. ‘N I will. As soon as it’s wrapped up with this client, huh? The Guy knows it’s my last job. I promise.” 

You shake your head, picking up the binder and starting to walk away. “I’ve heard it all before, Clint.” 

You cry silently to yourself as you hear the front door close. 

When Clint returns home that night, it’s the usual. You’re laying awake in bed, your back facing the bedroom door as you stare at the wall and the moonlight that reflects on it. The front door creaks open and then shuts quietly. But the house is so quiet, that you can hear everything - his boots thunking on the floor after he takes them off, the sound of his leather jacket rustling against the hanger, and his slow footsteps as he ascends the stairs. 

You keep your back to the bedroom door as he enters the room. He walks carefully to the en suite bathroom, closing the door and turning on the shower. He showered this morning. If he’s showering now, there’s a reason, and you automatically don’t like it. Your stomach twists as you prepare yourself for how beat up he’s going to look. 

When the water shuts off, you get out of bed, grabbing your robe to pull over your satin pajama set that he got you for Valentine’s Day. Patting across the bedroom floor, you slowly open the bathroom door, peeking inside to see Clint just wrapping a towel around his waist. His back is to you and he doesn’t hear the door open. 

As upset as you are, you take the moment to admire him. His sturdiness is always something that has been reassuring to you. And hot. As your eyes scan him, you notice a red mark on his side. The first injury you spot.

He turns around and sees you leaning into the bathroom, half of your body still concealed by the door. He smiles, only wincing slightly at his split lip. His nose has a cut across the bridge and one of his eyes has swelling around it. 

“Baby,” he moves toward you, opening the door the rest of the way and wrapping his arms around you. He’s still a little wet from the shower, but also warm. You hug him back despite the annoyance you feel deep down. “Thought you’d be sleeping, sweetheart.” He kisses the top of your head. 

You take a step back and look up at him. “You know I can’t sleep when you’re out.” You study his injuries and look at him with tears in your eyes, “What did you do, baby?” 

Clint’s face falls for a moment and then he says stoically, “I did what I had to do, sweetheart.”

You start to worry your lip between your teeth and Clint reaches forward, his thumb swiping down to relax your mouth. “Gotta quit these nervous habits, baby.” 

You shoot him a look. “Me? I’m the issue here?” You sigh and turn toward the mirror, looking at the two of you standing in the small bathroom. “Clint, this is ridiculous. Did-” You stop yourself, shaking your head and looking down at the sink. 

“Did what?” His hand comes to your lower back, trying to soothe you. 

“Did you even remember to pick up the cake?” Your voice sounds sad before you even get the answer from him. 

Clint glances at you in the mirror before putting his hands on the sides of your arms to pivot you toward him. He takes a seat on the closed toilet lid, and pulls you into his lap. “I was gonna talk to you about that in the morning…the job got…a little out of hand, and I couldn’t get over there in time. I’m sorry.” You shake your head and he kisses your cheek apologetically. “I called them though, they said I can pick it up in the morning, so it’s fine. We’ll just-”

You stand up from his lap, looking straight at him. “No, it’s not fine, Clint. That’s the whole issue!” You sigh in exasperation, leaving the bathroom and heading back to bed. This has been a routine argument. You can practically map it all out in your head now. There’s no point in getting into it again. 

Clint gives you a minute before he follows you into bed. He, too, is familiar with this routine, and has learned by now that it’s best he gives you a couple minutes to cool down. He finishes drying off, brushes his teeth, then turns off the bathroom light, coming into the bedroom. He takes a quick glance at you in bed before pulling on fresh boxers and climbing in next to you. Your back is to him as he gets into bed, and his arm immediately wraps around you as he kisses the back of your neck.

“I’m sorry, baby…” His warm breath on the back of your neck feels claiming, comforting. You can’t help but move back against him and enjoy the warmth of his presence. 

“I promise…this is the last one, okay?” He becomes hard against the round of your ass as you grind back into him. “The last one, and then we’ll be free from this. We’ll have enough money for the wedding, and I can-” He groans as he feels you press firmer into him. “I can start that security gig at the club.” 

“Prove it,” you respond in a breathy voice that you know is going to drive him wild.

His hand grabs your hip, pulling you flat against the bed as he rolls on top of you, his weight pressing you down into the mattress. “Yeah?” He smiles, leaning down and kissing your neck. “Prove it, huh?” His large palm glides up and down your side until he reaches down and slides off your satin sleep shorts and panties. He looks down at your slick that’s already accumulated. “Goddamn, baby…”

He slides down, kissing your hips and then your thighs as he works closer to your center. You need to feel him. You can’t take it. 

Shaking your head, your hands move into his hair, tugging gently. “Just need to feel you, Clint…please…”

He can never resist when you beg. His brown eyes roam up to yours as he smiles, moving back up your body and peppering kisses along the way. “So beautiful,” he murmurs against your skin. Your body breaks out in goosebumps and you hum happily, feeling him work his way up your body. Clint reaches your lips, kissing you passionately as his cock presses to your core. You arch into him. 

He lines himself up with your center, the head of his cock swiping up and down a couple times before he starts to press in. You gasp at the intrusion. No matter how many times the two of you have fucked, the sheer size of him is always enough to cause your jaw to drop. 

“Breathe, baby,” Clint says with a smirk as he continues working his way inside. “Oh, thatta girl,” he continues as he sees your chest rise and fall with your deep breath. 

“Mm..feel so good..” you mumble out, closing your eyes as you work to accommodate his girth. 

He rolls his hips to push the last inch inside of you, and your back arches again as you wrap your legs around his sides. Clint always starts out slow, methodical. He’s been an attentive lover since the very beginning, and it’s one of the things you love most about him. 

His thick cock drags against your walls as he pulls his hips back, then pushes back into you, nudging your spongy center as he presses in again. He does this over and over, slowly, deeply, firmly. It’s enough to have your head already spinning a little. Things start to get fuzzy and you can feel yourself getting wetter and wetter around him with each lazy thrust. 

Clint’s hands are solid against your body, holding you beneath him as he works his way in and out. One of his hands comes beside your head, pressing into the mattress, while the other has a firm hold on your hip. His pace picks up slowly and he looks up at you. “How’s this feel, sweetheart?”

Your eyes roll back as you feel his thrusts increase in speed. The tip of his cock continually rubs against your sensitive center and you sigh as you respond, “Ohhh fuck, so good..fuck..need more..”

“More?” He’s panting now as his hips move quicker. “I can give you more, honey.” He moves onto his forearm, hovering right above you as his other hand slips between your bodies and he starts rubbing your pulsing clit. 

You didn’t realize how close you already were until the added sensation causes you to scream out as your thighs tense around him. “Oh my god, Clint!! Fuck!” 

“Yeah? That feel good?” He presses slightly firmer, keeping the same pace. He kisses you, his tongue dips into your mouth and then he pulls back just slightly while his lips brush yours. 

“Let me feel, sweetheart…” Clint kisses you again. “Let me feel you fall apart underneath me.” 

Your nails dig into his shoulders. You’re starting to become as desperate for your own release as he is. Your hips move in rhythm with his, allowing his cock to go deeper and deeper. The pressure builds and you can hardly hear your own moans over the whooshing of the blood through your body as your orgasm peaks and you quiver underneath him. 

Clint kisses you through it, even when your mouth falls open and tears stream down your face at the sheer overwhelming sensations. He slows his pace down, careful to not overstimulate you too much. His kisses continue as he seeks his own finale. His hand moves from in between your legs to your tits. He groans as he pushes in to the hilt, squeezing your breast as he comes in thick, heavy spurts inside of you. You can’t help but raise your hips, urging him in even deeper so that you can feel him fully. 

You come down together, kissing and massaging each other before either of you even say a word. It’s quiet, intimate, just like how you want it. He’s everything you want. 

Clint’s gone when you wake up. While that’s not always typical, it also isn’t entirely out of the ordinary. There’s a note by the coffee pot saying that he is picking up the items from the bakery. He’s already brewed coffee, and you go to pour a cup, noticing that it’s cold. 

You check the clock. It’s only a little after 8 A.M. - he must have made the coffee at least a couple hours ago. Sighing, you pull out your phone, your stomach already in a tight knot as you look up the bakery and what time they open - 9 A.M. Great. There are no texts from him, no explanation as to why he left so early to grab the cake. 

This moment - the pit in your stomach, the detective work, the wondering what he’s up to - has been a defining characteristic of the relationship. And yet, Clint didn’t seem to truly understand why it was so upsetting to you. He’d reassure you over and over that he wasn’t having an affair, wasn’t even remotely interested in anyone but you, and thing was, you believed him. You never thought he’d do that to you. You saw the way he looked at you, the constant care and admiration he poured in your direction, how aroused he’d get at a mere cheek kiss, the way he’d always have his arm around you in public. All of these things were reassuring enough.

What Clint didn’t understand was that your biggest fear wasn’t him having an affair, it was him getting himself killed. It’s like the man thought he was invincible, but you’d seen enough injuries on him to know otherwise. He always just brushed it off, reassured you that he was okay and that it was ‘just a scratch’ as you watched him stitch himself. How were you supposed to be comfortable marrying and having children with a man who you weren’t sure would come home at the end of the day? 

It was an exhausting pattern. There would be weeks, sometimes even months, when he didn’t get into any scuffles or dangerous situations. Sometimes his jobs were easy and just required him to pick up money or check-in on a debt. When that business was slower, he’d pick up shifts as a bouncer at the club down the street. Those were the nights you could actually sleep without him being home. But these lulls never lasted long and before you knew it, you’d be fighting all over again about his ‘work.’ 

When Clint returns home an hour later, you’re finishing up cleaning from the breakfast you had cooked yourself. He walks in, kicking off his shoes and glancing into the kitchen. He has a tentative smile as he approaches you. His hand comes to your lower back as you’re rinsing the pan you just washed. 

“Good morning, baby.” He leans forward, kissing your cheek. 

You oblige, offering a quaint smile and a simple ‘good morning’ in return as you pull back from the sink and dry your hands on the kitchen towel looped over the oven handle. There’s a tension in the room, as though Clint knows that you’re upset, that you know that he lied. Neither of you say anything. 

Instead, you sit on the couch with the cake tasting supplies laid out on the coffee table in front of you. It takes a moment to warm up to it, but then it’s fun. It brings out the best parts of both of you as you chat about the flavors, laugh, and kiss between bites. Being with Clint is easy. He makes it easy. 

By the end of the tasting, all that’s left is a small tub of buttercream. The cake was delicious and you’re relieved that you and Clint agree on the flavors. He kisses you, lingering buttercream still on his lips that you lick off as you deepen the kiss. 

The initially sweet kiss quickly devolves into a sloppy makeout involving tongues, wandering hands, and needy grinding. You mewl into his mouth as you feel his bulge press between his legs and within a moment, he’s pulling down your shirt, revealing your bare breasts that are now seated above the neckline of your shirt. He kisses away from your lips, down your neck, chest, and then sucks your nipples into his mouth, one at a time, moving between the two like he’s trying to split his attention. It has you bucking up into him, needing him more and more as each second passes.

He pulls away for a moment, eliciting a whine from you as he reaches over to the table, dipping his fingers into the buttercream. He brings his digits to your bare tits, swiping the buttercream across both of your nipples with a mischievous smile as he looks up at you. Your eyes are wide, anticipating what’s to come and eager to feel his mouth on you. 

His tongue moves in slow strokes as he licks the icing off your nipples. Your fingers push through his hair, holding him gently as you toss your head back, enjoying the sensation. He takes his time, sucking them completely clean when he’s finished, and then he lowers himself down your body, eating your needy pussy just the way you crave. 

By the time you both are done, nearly two hours have passed and you’re both satiated and tired. You take a mid-day nap together, and for just a bit, everything feels right. It reminds you of why you’re with Clint, why you chose him, and why you plan to marry him in just six months.

Clint knows, as he sips his coffee at the diner, that what is going to happen in this meeting will be less than desirable. He doesn’t acknowledge Jason when he enters the diner, just continues with his coffee. The diner is fairly busy for a Thursday evening. He spots what looks to be a bowling league taking up most of the bar seating. 

He’s in a booth toward the back. The light above his particular table is flickering, setting an uneasy ambience that feels just slightly too on the nose for the meeting that’s about to happen. There’s a jukebox to his right with a couple teenage girls skipping through the various track options. One of them keeps popping her pink bubblegum, and Clint does what he can to not give her a dirty look with each pop that causes him to glance over. His eyes raise slightly as Jason slides into the booth. 

“Hey Clint,” he says, his voice laced with either exhaustion or exasperation, Clint can’t quite tell. 

Regardless, Clint doesn’t say anything, just sets his mug down and leans back, waiting for whatever the hell it is that Jason has to say to him. It doesn’t come quickly. The waitress spots a new addition to Clint’s table, making her way over and topping off Clint’s mug as she asks the other man what he’d like. He orders a cheeseburger, fries, and a coke, and the waitress gives an empty smile as she retreats to put in his order. 

Finally, when it’s just the two of them again, Jason starts. 

“So uh, The Guy said you didn’t finish the job.” Jason reaches over and thumbs the small container of sugar packets as he talks. 

In the meantime, Clint has inserted a toothpick into his mouth, subtly chewing on it as he responds, “Bullshit. Job’s done.” 

Jason shakes his head and says tauntingly, “Nuh, uh, uh…there’s another guy.” 

“The hell you mean, another guy?” Clint’s paying attention now, already angry and preparing to dispute whatever comes next out of Jason’s mouth. 

“There’s another guy.” Clint rolls his eyes as Jason speaks. His posture is stiff and stoic, but inside his guts are churning. 

Jason continues, “The money’s all there, but I guess there was a witness.” He looks up at Clint, wagging his finger side to side as he says, “tsk, tsk,” under his breath. “Now whoever this guy is has threatened to go to the cops if he’s not paid off.” 

Clint shakes his head, “Not my fuckin’ problem.” He takes a sip of his coffee but can’t ignore the churning in his gut. 

“Well, it’s about to be.” Jason is interrupted by his food coming out. He gives a nod to the waitress then looks back at Clint. “Your mess to clean up, man. Afraid there’s not a way around it.”

Clint knows there’s no point in arguing. He saves his breath and finishes his coffee, preparing to slide out of the booth. 

“You’re gonna want this..” Jason slides a small piece of paper to Clint. He takes it and pockets it without looking at him and heads out of the diner, leaving Jason to his dinner. 

The air outside smells wet, like it’s about to rain. He’s thankful for it. He hopes that maybe it will wash away the sins he’s about to commit. He thinks of you - of how much you love storms, but how the thunder still scares you. His heart aches when he realizes he won’t be there to hold you tonight. 

He’s lost count of the number of times he’s told you he’s done. He’s not even sure how many promises he’s broken at this point, but he knows it’s too many. Clint has never made a promise with the intention to break it, but he’s learned over time that he’s not great at keeping them. He holds his phone in his hand, debating on just telling you the truth, but he knows how upset you’ll be. He doesn’t want you worrying. 

Eventually, he settles on texting you that he is wrapping things up with The Guy and will be home by morning. He leaves out what he’ll be doing and that this is indeed another job he’s taking. He doesn’t feel right as he sends the text, sitting in his car with a lit cigarette as he looks out across the dash. Then your response comes through, and he somehow feels even worse. 

You already know how I feel. Do with that what you will.

It doesn’t feel like a scolding; it feels like a warning. Clint rubs his brow and then takes another drag from his cigarette. He doesn’t have a choice. He knows there’s nothing he can say to make you feel better, so he tucks his phone back in his pocket, pulls out the piece of paper, and starts driving toward the address.

When his text comes through, it hardly phases you. Your heart sinks slightly, but in the back of your mind, you knew it was coming. It wasn’t until you registered your own lack of a reaction that you realized how little you trusted him and his words. If you chose to marry him, you’d also be choosing this life. 

There were parts of it that you loved. He’d given you all of the best moments of your life - you couldn’t deny that. But the scale was tipped too far in the other direction now. 

Tears stream down your face as you pull out your suitcases. You didn’t need everything, just enough. Everything you picked up to pack away carried weight with it. The folded clothes and jewelry felt heavy in your hands - a constant reminder of the weight of the decision you were making. 

You pull out your second suitcase and catch a glimpse of your wedding dress tucked in the back of the closet. Hand outstretched, you touch the delicate lace. The tears flow faster now, you can’t shake the image of how Clint would’ve looked at you in that dress. How do you just walk away from someone that you love so very much? 

For a few minutes, you kneel in front of the closet - one hand on the dress and the other on your suitcase. It doesn’t feel real. This can’t be the place you’re finding yourself now. You debate whether you’re making a mistake. Closing your eyes, you will your heart to choose the right thing.

It’s late when Clint parks in front of the house. He rushed the job as much as he could in order to get home before morning. He texted you a couple updates, but never heard a response other than a thumbs up emoji sent his way. 

He takes a deep breath as he approaches the front door. He’s relieved that it’s finally all over. He finished the job, told The Guy he was done, and he’s more convinced than ever before that he’s fully out of that whole mess now. Clint knew that he never should’ve gotten involved in the first place, but he needed money, it seemed easy, and when he first started, he felt like he had nothing to lose. 

That all changed the day he met you. Everything became infinitely more important and he wanted nothing but to be with you, every day. It didn’t take long for you to piece together what he did for ‘work’ and you voiced your displeasure immediately. In hindsight, Clint wishes he had tried harder to get out. But he did it. He’s done now. 

The key clicks into the lock, and he opens the door, stepping inside and taking a breath as he takes his shoes off. It’s quiet, per usual. But it doesn’t take long for something to start feeling off. Clint looks around, nothing seems out of place. He isn’t sure why his stomach is in a knot until he goes to walk upstairs and out of the corner of his eye, spots a piece of paper on the coffee table in the living room, where the two of you had just done the cake tasting.

He knows what it says in his gut before even picking it up. And yet, when he sees just two sentences written on the paper, his heart shatters. 

I love you. I did what I had to do.

i was afraid he got killed, or she got killed, so is it ok that i'm a little relieved? 👀😶 because my little heart can imagine that they get back together at some point 😶

You didn’t look back. That was the rule. Yours, though you hadn’t known it long enough to name it.

You kept your gaze ahead and your steps steady, leaving the past where it belonged. Colm had taught you that much without ever saying it directly. The past was weight and weight slowed you down.

But your pulse hadn't settled.

You rode hard out of Valentine, the noise of the street swallowed by open land. The men around you were tight-jawed and wordless, and that suited you fine. 

It was only when the road stayed empty and the dust had settled that your grip on the reins finally eased.

You told yourself it was the close call. A chaotic street, too many men moving at once, a townsman blundering between you and your shot. Disruptions happened. You'd learned to account for them.

That wasn't what was bothering you.

The ride back passed in near silence, feeling longer than it should have.

They hadn't turned straight for camp. After clearing Valentine, they'd cut wide across open land, doubling back once and keeping to lower ground—just in case anyone had thought to follow. 

Dusk was settling in, the last light thinning across the plains and stretching their shadows long beneath them.

Javier rode a little ahead, glancing back now and then like he had something to say but thought better of it while Hosea kept an even pace beside Arthur, offering no push for conversation. 

Whatever thoughts the men carried stayed their own as they watched the road ahead, letting the silence remain undisturbed.

Arthur rode with his eyes forward, hands doing nothing more than holding the reins.

He'd had worse rides. Worse days. He kept telling himself that but the words didn't take.

You were alive.

The image had settled behind his eyes with no intention of moving—you in green, moving through the chaos of Valentine's main street with that particular economy of motion that had always been yours. Directing men who followed without question. The steadiness in your aim. The way you'd looked at him.

As if you didn't know him.

That was the part that wouldn't let go. He'd said your name and you'd stared back at him and acted as if he was a stranger. 

Eventually the land began to rise beneath them, the path narrowing as it wound toward the ridge overlooking the Heartlands, the familiar shape of camp slowly taking form against the fading sky.

As they crested the final rise, Lenny shifted at the edge of camp, stepping out from beside a tree with his rifle resting easy in his hands. When he recognized them, he lowered it and gave a small nod.

"'Bout time," he called. "Town still standing, or you three tear it down this time?"

Javier lifted a hand in acknowledgment as they guided their horses through. "Still standing… more or less."

Lenny’s gaze moved between them, lingering briefly on Arthur. He didn’t so much as acknowledge him like he normally would, his expression closed off, a faint dark streak of dried blood marking his ear.

"You get clipped?"

Hosea slowed just enough to catch Lenny’s eye as he passed, giving him a small shake of his head—a silent not now. Lenny understood. He gave a faint nod and stepped back toward his post without another word.

They rode into the clearing, hooves thudding against packed dirt as lantern light caught on dust-streaked coats and tired horses. The usual hum of evening softened at their arrival, a few faces near the fire glancing up.

Arthur guided his horse to the hitching post and swung down without a word, tugging off his gloves with sharp, impatient pulls.

Bill moved in. “Well? Sounded like the whole damn town—”

Arthur looked up at him. Just a lift of his head but the expression on his face was hard enough to warn him off and whatever Bill had been about to say thinned out and died in his throat.

Hosea and Javier dismounted just behind him. Javier offered the gang a faint smile that didn’t quite hold.

Arthur barely seemed to notice. He hauled the reins through the hitching post, hands working the rope with quick, practiced movements.

He glanced up, gaze moving across the clearing until it settled on a figure near the wagons and stayed there.

Without breaking that stare, Arthur gave the rope a sudden, hard yank, cinching the knot tight. Leather snapped sharply against the wood—louder than it needed to be—and the crack carried across the clearing, turning a few more heads.

He stepped back from the post, rolling his shoulders beneath his coat. Whatever distant fog had followed him in from Valentine was gone now, burned off and replaced with something sharper.

Near the wagons, Kieran paused mid-stroke, the brush still in his hand where he’d been working oil into a saddle. The sharp crack of leather against wood made him glance up with the others across the clearing.

He hadn’t done anything wrong and hadn’t said a word.

But for some reason Arthur’s stare was already fixed on him like he did.

Arthur started toward him.

"What the hell happened?" Bill asked quietly, watching his retreating figure.

"Valentine happened," Javier muttered.

Bill frowned. "That ain't an explanation."

Javier let out a slow breath. "Wish I had one." He clapped Bill once on the shoulder before moving past him, leaving Bill standing there none the wiser.

Ahead, Arthur crossed the clearing without hurry, his stride steady and his gaze locked. The camp grew quieter as heads turned to watch, eyes following him across the dirt. 

Kieran had gone stiff the moment he realized that Arthur was heading straight for him, the brush hanging useless at his side. Confusion flickered across his face before the old, uneasy caution settled in, his shoulders drawing slightly inward.

"Hey, Arthur," he tried, aiming for something close to normal. "You're back quick."

Arthur didn't slow.

He closed the last of the distance and grabbed Kieran by the front of his shirt, fist bunching the fabric tight. Kieran stumbled forward with a startled sound, boots scraping the dirt as he was hauled closer.

"I ain't done nothin'," he blurted immediately, hands hovering but not daring to push back. "I swear to you, I ain't."

Arthur’s grip tightened just enough to still him before he spoke, his voice low and controlled, carrying a weight far more dangerous than a shout.

Around them, a few members of the camp had started watching, exchanging uncertain looks. The sharp edge in Arthur’s voice was enough to put them on alert, though none of them yet knew what had set him off.

“Valentine was crawling with O’Driscolls. More than usual.”

His eyes didn’t leave Kieran’s. “You wanna tell me why?”

Kieran blinked, genuine confusion cutting through the fear. “Valentine? I don't know nothin' about that. I ain't been near ’em.”

Arthur studied his face hard, searching for the slightest flicker of deceit.

“What’s Colm doing?” he pressed. “He movin’ camps? Shiftin’ men into town?”

“I don’t know,” Kieran insisted, panic edging into his voice now. “He don’t tell me things. You know that. I ain’t exactly trusted with that.”

Arthur held him there another second, jaw set.

“There was a woman,” he said at last. “Ridin’ with ’em. Givin’ orders.”

Kieran’s brow knit. “A woman?” he repeated. “Colm don’t—that ain’t how he runs things.”

The confusion lingered a moment before something shifted behind the panicked man’s eyes—slight, but Arthur caught it immediately and his gaze sharpened at once.

“I heard talk,” Kieran admitted, his voice tightening.

“Wasn’t with ’em long enough to see much. But there was someone Colm took an interest in. Didn’t think it meant nothin’.”

He shifted uneasily beneath Arthur’s stare before continuing.

"Colm took her in. Didn't come with the rest of us—just showed up one day, and he kept her. Didn't put her in the back like the others. Had her riding out after a while." 

The members who had been watching the confrontation exchanged muted looks, low murmurs passing quietly between them.

“She been with ’em long?” Arthur asked.

"Long enough. Saw her once. Men listened when she spoke—even the rough ones." He frowned faintly. "Colm don't usually waste time on charity."

Arthur held him there another second, weighing the words and finding no comfort in them. Whatever he’d been looking for, he hadn’t found.

With a rough shove, he let him go.

Kieran stumbled back a step, barely keeping his footing as his hand went to his shirt. He stayed where he was, uncertain whether to speak again or quietly make himself scarce.

Behind Arthur, Hosea stepped closer and called his name carefully.

Arthur didn’t turn. The silence stretched, heavy and watchful.

Then the flap of the biggest tent in camp snapped open and a familiar voice cut through the stillness.

"You boys make quite the entrance."

Dutch stepped out into the evening light.

His gaze moved slowly across the clearing, taking in the stilled bodies and the quiet that had settled there, then the tension set deep in Arthur’s shoulders before noting how close he stood to the boy clutching at his shirt near the collar, looking shaken and unsure of himself.

A faint trace of amusement tugged at Dutch’s mouth, as if the scene had caught his curiosity more than his concern.

He started toward them at an easy pace, eyes shifting from Arthur to Hosea as he closed the distance.

"How'd it go? Doctor's office as profitable as we hoped?"

“Back room was full of O’Driscolls,” Hosea said. “Managed to get a few stacks, but the deputies came quickly.” His gaze flicked briefly toward Arthur before he added, more carefully, “More… company showed up after—must’ve heard the shots. Whole street turned into a mess.”

Arthur’s jaw tightened, the muscle shifting beneath his skin. For a moment it looked as if he might say something.

“We got what we could,” Hosea finished quietly. “But it stirred more than we expected.”

Dutch nodded, then his gaze returned to Arthur and lingered. The easy amusement in his expression faded into something more curious as he stepped closer, tilting his head slightly.

"You're bleeding."

Arthur reached up as though only just remembering it, his fingers brushing the cut along his ear where your bullet had grazed him earlier. The blood had already dried against his skin. After a moment, he lowered his hand.

“Just a scratch.”

Dutch’s mouth curved faintly, though he didn’t look convinced. His gaze drifted across the clearing, taking in the quiet camp and the O’Driscoll boy still clutching at his shirt before settling back on Arthur.

“Well then. Care to explain why you came ridin’ back with half of Valentine at your heels… and then decided to start a second war in my own camp?”

Arthur turned his head just enough to acknowledge him. “Wasn’t startin’ nothin’.”

Dutch’s eyes flicked briefly to Kieran, who straightened instinctively under the weight of that glance.

“Kieran,” Dutch said evenly, “you care to explain why my best man looks ready to skin you alive?”

“I—I don’t know what’s got into him,” Kieran answered quickly. “He asked about the O’Driscolls. I told him what I knew.”

“And what’s that?”

“They’ve got a woman riding with ’em. Colm’s keeping her close.”

A faint crease appeared between Dutch’s brows. “A woman,” he repeated, as though weighing the word. “Well. That is… new.”

“She ain’t just with them,” Kieran added, glancing uneasily at Arthur before continuing. “She’s leadin’ his men.”

Dutch’s expression sharpened with interest. “Is that so.”

Kieran nodded carefully. “That’s what I heard before I left. Colm don’t take in strays for nothing. If he kept her, it’s for a reason.”

Dutch let that settle for a moment, turning the thought over before his gaze returned to Arthur.

“And this concerns you why, Arthur?” he asked lightly.

The question hung in the air.

Arthur didn’t answer right away. His gaze dropped briefly to the ground between them, one hand flexing faintly at his side before going still again. When he finally looked up, his attention settled back on Dutch.

“…Because I know her.”

A subtle shift moved through the clearing at that. A few of the men straightened, the weight of the admission drawing more of their attention.

Arthur kept his eyes forward.

“Or I did.”

Dutch’s interest sharpened. “And who might that be?”

Arthur hesitated, the pause just long enough to notice before he said your name, and the silence that followed was a different kind entirely.

Across the fire, Abigail had gone very still. At the sound of the name, her eyes found Arthur’s face immediately, searching it with the sharp focus of someone who remembered her just as well. Her lips parted slightly, but whatever she’d been about to say dissolved before it reached the air.

From where he sat near the poker table, John looked over at Arthur, confusion creasing his brow. “What’re you saying?”

Arthur’s jaw clenched hard enough to ache. He stared at the ground for a moment, like he might swallow the words back down, but they came anyway—rough and low, dragged out of him.

“I saw her.”

Dutch blinked once, the easy amusement slipping into something more puzzled.

“…That can’t be right,” he said slowly. “Arthur, we all thought she’s gone.”

Arthur’s mouth tightened slightly. “Yeah. So did I.”

“And you’re tellin’ me the woman… ridin’ with Colm’s men… is her?”

“That’s what I’m tellin’ you.”

Dutch was quiet for a moment, turning the pieces over in his mind before speaking again. “That does leave a rather important question.” 

His gaze moved between Arthur and Kieran as he weighed it aloud. “How exactly does a woman we all thought dead end up ridin’ with Colm O’Driscoll’s men?”

Arthur didn’t answer. He only held Dutch’s gaze, the quiet between them thickening.

For a moment Dutch simply watched him, the faint curiosity in his expression sharpening into something more thoughtful.

“Then I reckon if she’s ridin’ with O’Driscolls and givin’ ’em orders…” he continued, “that rather makes her one of Colm’s people now, don’t it?”

Arthur’s shoulders went still. He hadn’t wanted to admit it to himself at first, but the thought had already settled into place. You were with Colm now. That made you the enemy. That part, at least, was simple.

He looked away briefly, jaw set hard before answering. “I saw her with ’em,” he said, voice quieter now. “That’s all I’m sayin’.”

“You’re certain it was her then.”

“I ain’t mistaken.”

Arthur didn’t waver. He could still see it—the alley, the sharp set of your shoulders as you turned, the instant the bandana came down and the world had briefly, violently rearranged itself.

Not a trick of light. Not a memory playing cruel games on a man who’d grieved too long.

Hosea spoke then, low and careful, the way he always did when the ground needed steadying beneath someone else's feet.

“We saw her too—Javier and I… or near enough to be sure.” He met his gaze evenly, hands quiet at his sides. “It was her, Dutch.”

The firelight caught the faces around the clearing one by one—confusion, disbelief, the slow dawning of something none of them quite knew how to hold.

Dutch slowly rubbed his jaw, turning the thought over in silence. Whatever calculation ran behind his eyes seemed to finish, and he let out a long breath through his nose, folding his arms across his chest.

“That is a strange thing,” he said at last.

Arthur gave a short, humorless breath.

His voice settled back into something easier. “Still, there ain’t much sense in gnawin’ on it tonight.” His gaze swept across the small circle of faces gathered nearby. “Whatever the truth of it is, we’ll learn soon enough.”

Arthur didn’t answer.

He studied Arthur another second, then gave a small nod, as though deciding to leave it there. “Alright,” he said lightly. “That’s enough excitement for one day.”

With that, he turned and started back toward his tent.

It didn’t stay quiet long.

By the time Dutch had retreated toward his tent, the camp had already started turning it over.

Bill was first. 

He planted himself near the hitching post while Arthur checked his horse, squinting at him with that perpetually baffled look he wore whenever the world declined to make sense on his terms.

"So she's just... what. One of them now? Just like that?"

"Don't know," Arthur said, not looking up.

"And she acted like she didn't know who you were."

"I said I don't know, Bill."

"Well, which is it? Is she playin' 'em or is she—"

"I don't know." Quiet. Final.

Bill shifted his weight, glancing past Arthur toward the rest of camp before lowering his voice a notch. 

“Could be she’s runnin’ some kind of game on Colm. Workin’ her way in… waitin’ for the right moment. Or could be she—”

“Bill.”

Arthur’s voice came out low, a warning without being raised. “I ain’t got more answers than you. So let it alone.”

Bill opened his mouth like he meant to argue, then thought better of it. He huffed under his breath and wandered off toward the fire, muttering something about it being a simple question.

Charles tried next.

He approached quieter than Bill had, stopping beside Arthur while he finished seeing to the horse.

“You alright?” he asked.

“Fine.”

Charles didn’t push right away. He stood there a moment, watching Arthur work, then spoke again, more carefully.

“You think she knew it was you… before she fired?”

Arthur stilled.

He’d asked himself the same thing about thirty times since Valentine and hadn’t come up with anything worth saying.

Arthur only gave a small shrug.

Charles nodded once and left it there. That, at least, Arthur was grateful for.

Dutch found him again as the evening deepened, materializing from the direction of his tent.

“You know,” Dutch began, settling beside him, “if she’s in there running her own game…if she’s working Colm from the inside—that’s exactly the kind of position we’d want someone in.”

“We don’t know that’s what’s happening,” Arthur said.

“No,” Dutch agreed pleasantly. “But we could find out. Make contact. See what she does when she’s got a friendly face in front of her.”

“And if she ain’t running a game?” Arthur asked. “If she just—” He stopped.

Dutch glanced at him. “If she just what?”

Arthur didn’t finish it. There were too many ways it could go, and none of them sat right. Maybe she was playing Colm and had kept it from him for reasons he couldn’t begin to guess. Maybe something had happened to her—something that made the look on her face in that alley real, like she truly hadn’t known him.

Or maybe she’d known exactly who he was and pulled the trigger anyway.

Arthur didn’t know which of those he could stomach least.

“Regardless,” Dutch continued, voice smooth and measured, “she’s inside Colm’s operation. Close to him. That has value to us.”

Arthur’s gaze lifted from the fire.

“She ain’t a chess piece, Dutch.”

“I didn’t say she was.” Dutch raised a hand, patient. “I’m saying she’s alive. I’m saying there’s time. And I’m saying we’ve got options we didn’t have this morning.”

“And if she fires at one of us again?”

Dutch held his gaze a moment before answering. “Then we’ll deal with that when it happens.”

Arthur’s jaw tightened. “That your plan?”

“My plan,” Dutch said evenly, “is not to throw away an opportunity before we understand it.”

Arthur let out a quiet breath through his nose, his eyes drifting toward the fire. “You’re already talkin’ about her like she’s part of some play.”

“I’m talkin’ about the situation,” Dutch replied calmly. “There’s a difference.”

Arthur shook his head once. “You don’t know her.”

Dutch didn’t rise to it. “No,” he said evenly. “But you do.”

That hung between them for a moment. Arthur stared at him another second, something hard settling behind his eyes. “Yeah,” he muttered at last, the word low and flat.

Then he turned away.

Arthur crossed the grounds without another word, shoulders tight as he stepped out of the circle of firelight and headed toward the far edge of camp. He’d made it only a few steps before Dutch spoke again behind him.

“Arthur. We’re going to need to think about this clearly.”

Arthur kept walking.

“Whatever she knew—or didn’t know—today, she’s in Colm’s camp tonight. That puts her in the middle of this whether—”

“I’m very aware of where she is.”

The clearing went still at the sudden sharpness in Arthur’s voice.

He stood there another second before adding, rougher now, “So give me one damn minute before we start decidin’ what that means.”

Silence settled over the camp. Dutch said nothing more.

Arthur moved past the hitching post and the last of the lantern light, continuing until the camp fell behind him and there was nothing ahead but open dark and the pale edge of the ridge.

Hosea watched him go. He lingered where he was for a moment, his gaze resting on the space Arthur had left behind while Dutch stood beside the fire, quieter now, the sharp edge of the conversation settling into something more thoughtful.

After a moment Hosea glanced toward him, a look passing between them that said more than words would have managed.

“Let me,” he said simply.

Dutch met his gaze. For a moment he said nothing, his eyes drifting toward the darkness where Arthur had disappeared, the faintest crease forming between his brows.

“Yeah,” he said after a beat, quieter now.

He gave a small nod and turned back toward the fire.

Hosea adjusted his hat and headed in the direction Arthur had gone, unhurried, like he had all the time in the world.

The edge of the overlook fell away sharply a dozen yards beyond the last of the camp's lantern reach, the ground sloping to a lip of pale rock that jutted out over the land below.

From up here, the plain stretched enormous and still beneath the darkening sky, the Dakota River a pale thread of silver winding through the low ground far below. The grasses rolled in slow, even waves where the evening breeze moved through them.

Arthur stood at the edge of the rock with his hands in his pockets, hat tilted slightly back. He hadn't looked at any of it. His gaze had fixed itself somewhere in the middle distance and stayed there.

Hosea came up beside him and settled with the easy familiarity of a man who had done this sort of thing many times before. He tucked his thumbs into his vest and looked out across the Heartlands.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

Eventually Hosea broke the silence.

“Hell of a day.”

Arthur let out a short breath in response. Not quite a laugh.

Hosea tilted his head slightly, still looking out over the land. “You want to say it, or you want me to wait until you're ready?”

Arthur’s jaw shifted. His gaze dropped to the rock beneath his boots.

“I don’t know what I want.”

“That’s a start.”

A long pause followed before Arthur spoke again.

“She looked right at me. I said her name, and for a second there something moved across her face. I saw it.” He shook his head faintly. “And then it was gone. She pulled the cover back up like nothing happened.”

Hosea kept his eyes on the plains.

“You think she knew it was you?”

Arthur let out a quiet breath. “I don’t know.”

Silence settled again between them.

“If she’s running some kind of game on Colm and she couldn’t show it… that makes sense,” Arthur went on after a moment. “That I could follow.”

He paused, gaze still lowered.

“But she didn’t hesitate.”

The words came out flat.

“She lined up and fired like I was just another man in her way.”

Hosea considered that quietly before answering.

“If she knew it was you and still held it together in front of Colm’s men… that takes something.”

“Or she just didn’t care.”

“Maybe. But you said you saw something.”

Arthur didn’t answer. His hand had found the locket without him noticing, fingers pressing it through the worn fabric of his vest as he stared out across the darkening plain.

“You’ve always been good at reading people,” Hosea continued quietly. “Better than you give yourself credit for. You saw something. Don’t rush deciding what it means.”

Arthur stood there a long moment before speaking again.

“I’m relieved,” he said at last, voice low. “She’s alive. I hadn’t let myself think she might be.”

He swallowed.

“And now she is… and she’s in Colm’s camp tonight.”

The words carried a different weight now.

“Either she’s playing some angle I don’t know about… or she’s chosen it.”

Hosea turned his head then, studying him.

“That’s a hard thing to sit with.”

“Yeah.” Arthur’s voice had gone rough. “It is.”

The wind moved quietly through the grass below. Arthur watched it for a moment before speaking again.

“What if she’s there because she wants to be?”

Hosea didn’t answer right away. He gave the question the space it deserved.

“Then you’ll know,” he said at last. “And you’ll grieve it proper. But you won’t spend the rest of your life wondering.”

Arthur stared out at the dark plain.

“You know what the worst part is?” he said quietly.

Hosea glanced at him but didn’t interrupt.

“It ain’t even the bullet.” Arthur shook his head faintly. “It’s the way she looked at me after.”

His jaw tightened.

“Like I was nobody.”

The anger had crept into his voice now, quiet and steady.

“She’s been with them long enough that Kieran’s heard about her. Long enough that Colm’s got her riding with his men, giving orders.” He let out a slow breath through his nose. “That ain’t something you stumble into.”

Hosea studied him carefully.

“Or something you survive long enough to become.”

Arthur didn’t look at him.

“Maybe.”

The word came out flat.

“But she didn’t run.”

He lifted his head slightly, eyes still fixed on the dark plains below.

“She saw me. If there was any piece of the old her left… that was the moment it would’ve shown.”

His jaw worked once, the muscle tightening hard beneath his skin.

“And it didn’t.”

The wind shifted across the ridge, tugging faintly at the brim of his hat. Arthur stood there another moment, staring out into the dark like he might still find some other answer waiting for him out there.

But nothing came.

Arthur straightened slowly, something in his expression hardening now, the last of that uncertainty giving way to something colder.

“Whatever the reason is,” he said at last, his voice low and tight, “one thing’s clear.”

He turned away from the overlook.

“She chose her side.”

The words landed heavy in the quiet.

Arthur started back toward camp, shoulders drawn tight beneath his coat. After a few steps he added, rougher now, the anger finally slipping through the cracks.

“And it ain’t ours.”

Mornings had taken on a quieter rhythm lately.

Not that the camp was ever truly still. Smoke curled from the cookfire, carrying the sharp scent of stew as someone swore under their breath. Laughter rang out too loud for the early hour. And near the wagons, Grimshaw’s voice cracked through.

“Try not to ruin what little we have left!”

A scattered chorus of apologies followed. Karen bent toward Mary-Beth, murmuring a complaint behind her hand, careful not to let it carry. 

Off to the side, John and Uncle were bickering over something small and pointless, their overlapping arguments blending into the steady hum of camp life set high above the Heartlands at Horseshoe Overlook.

Through it all Arthur moved, walking across camp in steady and unhurried strides, hands loose at his sides. 

“Arthur. You look worse than usual.”

Micah’s voice slid in from the right. He was propped against a tree, hat tipped back, that crooked grin already in place like he’d been waiting for something to poke at.

Arthur didn’t so much as glance his way, his stride never faltering. 

“Then stop lookin’.”

A low chuckle followed him, but he was already moving on, heading straight for his tent at the edge of camp. He stepped beneath the canvas without ceremony, boots thudding dully against the packed earth before he sank down onto his cot with a quiet exhale.

He’d been up since before dawn, long before the others started stirring—hands busy with chores that didn’t strictly need doing. Hauled sacks. Chopped wood. Checked the horses twice over. 

Anything to fill the hours a sleepless night had left behind.

He dragged a hand over his face, then stretched back onto the cot, staring up at the canvas overhead. 

A hand moved absently to his vest, fingers brushing along the worn seam of his pocket in a motion that had become habit, pausing when he felt the solid shape beneath the fabric. His hand stilled there for a moment before he reached inside.

Metal caught the light the moment it left his pocket, the soft glint drawing his full attention. Arthur looked at the locket quietly, thumb moving over the scratched surface as he traced the grooves worn in by time and handling.

He had not opened it in days, maybe longer. Not because he did not want to but because it always did the same thing when he did—steadied something in his chest while breaking it at the same time.

“Arthur!”

Grimshaw’s voice carried through the canvas, sharp even without being loud.

“Arthur,” she called again, closer now, tone brisk as ever. “Up. I ain’t got all morning.”

Arthur shifted forward, resting his forearms on his knees for a second before slipping the locket back into his pocket. He straightened, dragging a hand down his face as he pushed himself up from the cot.

“What is it?”

“Well, since you’ve finally decided to rejoin the living, there’s a letter for you. Tilly picked it up in town. From that Mary Gillis.”

“Mary?” Arthur echoed, the word leaving him slower than he meant it to, caught off guard by the name alone. 

After all this time, she was still willing to reach out. 

Grimshaw studied him for a moment, her expression unreadable but not unkind.

“I never liked her, Mr. Morgan,” Grimshaw added, matter-of-fact, like she was commenting on the weather. “Always felt like trouble. Funny business.”

She hesitated, then softer than usual.

“You had better.”

The words were simple, not sharp nor scolding. Just honest.

Arthur’s jaw tightened slightly at that. He didn’t respond. He took the envelope when she offered it, gave her a short nod, then stepped back under the canvas and toward his cot, lowering himself onto it once more.

For a moment he studied the handwriting. Mary’s hand, clear and unmistakable

Arthur turned the envelope over once before tearing it open, eyes moving across the page as he unfolded it. Her words were careful but carried urgency beneath them. 

She had heard the gang was nearby and recognized one of the girls who could pass along a letter and was asking for his help to check on her brother, Jamie, who had fallen in with the Chelonians—one of those robe-wearing zealot types preaching about abandoning the world and finding enlightenment somewhere inconvenient.

He exhaled quietly, the letter lowering slightly in his hand as gaze drifted across the tent. 

Mary’s name no longer stirred what it once had. There was no ache for old promises or thoughts of the life they never managed to build. 

What remained was simpler than that—a sense of duty, and the quiet understanding that she would not have written unless she had nowhere else to turn.

A year ago, he might have folded the letter and set it aside. Told himself it was not his place anymore. Now he understood something different. 

He knew what it was like to lose someone before you were ready. Knew the hollow feeling of reaching out and not knowing if anyone would answer.

This wasn’t about Mary—not truly. It was about her brother, about the fear threaded through every line she’d written. The kind of fear that came from standing on the edge of losing someone you still had time to save.

Arthur knew that fear too well.

He read the final lines once more before folding the letter along its creases. With a quiet exhale, he pushed himself to his feet and slipped it into his satchel, the decision already made. 

Arthur stepped out from beneath the shade of the canvas, barely crossing a few paces when his name carried across the clearing. 

He glanced over to see Hosea approaching, eyes already fixed on him.

“You headin’ somewhere?” Hosea asked.

Arthur paused, shifting his weight slightly before answering. 

“Got a letter. Mary.”

“That so.”

“Her brother,” Arthur continued. “Joined up with them Chelonians out in Cumberland Forest. Wants me to check on him.”

Hosea considered that for a moment, gaze drifting briefly before returning to Arthur. 

“And you’re thinkin’ you’ll ride out.”

“Just might.”

Hosea studied him a second longer before nodding. 

“Right—well, anyhow. Dutch wants a few of us ridin’ into Valentine later, seems the O’Driscolls been sniffin’ around again.”

Arthur’s expression hardened. “Figures.”

“Heard some talk,” Hosea added. “Doctor’s office might not be as clean as it looks. Back room business.”

“Yeah?”

Hosea gave a small shrug. “Enough smoke to make me curious. Figured you might want to be there.”

“Sure. I’ll take a look.” Arthur inclined his head. “I’ll ride out first. Shouldn’t take long.”

Hosea nodded. “Alright. We’ll be in town. Take care of your business… then come find us.”

Arthur answered with a low grunt, more acknowledgment than words, and Hosea gave a small nod before turning back toward the heart of camp. 

He lingered only a moment, then made for his horse, pulling himself into the saddle in one smooth motion, shoulders set and mind already on the road ahead.

He found Mary waiting where she’d said she would be, in a modest room rented just north of Valentine. She wasted little time explaining. 

Jamie had fallen deep in with the Chelonians, talking of devotion and abandoning everything he’d ever known. Her husband was gone now, and what little stability she had been clinging to felt like it was slipping through her fingers with her brother following after it.

He tracked the group into Cumberland Forest and found Jamie among them, dressed in white, speaking like he believed every word. 

The moment Arthur stepped in, that calm broke. Jamie ran.

The chase ended in panic and shaking hands, Jamie standing at the edge of himself with a gun raised and nowhere left to go. Arthur spoke steadily, patient, trying to reach him. When that failed, one careful shot knocked the weapon from Jamie’s hand.

After that, Jamie came quietly.

Mary saw them before they reached the platform, relief crossing her face so quickly it almost hurt to look at. 

She hurried forward, hands trembling as they settled on Jamie’s shoulders, checking him over like she needed proof he was real.

“Jamie…”

“I’m alright,” he assured her, though his voice still shook. “I’m alright, Mary.”

Arthur lingered a few steps back, giving them the space they needed. After a moment, Jamie looked past his sister toward him—sheepish but grateful. Arthur answered with a small nod.

When Mary finally turned to him, the tension in her face had softened.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

Arthur shifted his weight, brushing it off as best he could. 

“He just got mixed up. Happens.”

Before either of them could speak again, the sharp cry of the train whistle split the air, steam hissing along the tracks as the engine pulled in.

Mary seemed to gather herself at the sound. 

“Take care of yourself,” she said, quieter now.

Arthur gave a small nod. “You too.”

Jamie took a step behind her before climbing aboard, hesitating just long enough to look back.  “I… I’m sorry, Arthur," he added before diappearing into the cart.

Mary lingered a second longer at the steps, her hand resting on the rail. Her eyes stayed on Arthur, quiet and searching, as though fixing him in her mind before she finally turned and disappeared into the carriage.

The conductor called out as the engine hissed, metal groaning against metal as the train lurched forward.

Arthur stood where he was, hat tipped low, watching until the train became nothing more than movement on the horizon.

Only then did he let out a slow breath, turn on his heel, and make his way back toward his horse.

Upon arrival into Valentine, the town was already in full swing. 

Wagon wheels churned thick mud into deep ruts, horses snorted and stamped and cattle lowed somewhere beyond the stockyards. Men leaned along the boardwalks with cigarettes hanging loose from their lips, calling out to one another over the racket of hammering and shouted orders.

He guided his horse through the traffic, easing past a supply wagon before drawing up near the hitching rail beside the small theatre. 

A glance was all it took to spot the familiar mounts tied along the rail—Javier’s dark gelding and Hosea’s steady bay.

Arthur swung down, tied his mare off alongside them, and gave her neck a brief pat before turning back toward the street, scanning the boardwalks for the men who’d ridden in ahead of him.

Across the street near the saloon steps, Javier leaned against a post, dark hair falling loose beneath the brim of his flat-crowned hat as he brushed dust from the sleeve of his jacket while Hosea stood beside him, calm and observant as ever, eyes tracking the flow of townsfolk like he was already weighing what might be useful.

Javier spotted Arthur first.

“’Bout time you showed,” Javier called, pushing off the post. “We were startin’ to think you’d taken the long way around, hermano.”

Arthur gave him a look. "Figured you could use the wait.” 

“Ah, we were sufferin’, truly,” Javier quipped with a smirk.

Hosea let out a soft breath through his nose, somewhere between a chuckle and a sigh. 

“If you two are quite finished,” he said mildly, glancing toward the saloon doors, “we do actually have business to attend to.”

He adjusted his coat with easy patience. 

“No need to stand out here announcin’ ourselves. Come on. Let’s go find out what this town’s been busy with.”

Arthur glanced at him. “Place still the same?”

“Far as I can tell,” Hosea replied, eyes drifting briefly toward the saloon doors. “Busy enough no one’s payin’ much mind to anything else. That can work in our favor—long as we don’t go drawin’ attention.”

Javier spread his hands lightly. “Me? I am always subtle.”

Arthur snorted. 

“That so.”

“Let’s try and keep it that way, shall we?” Hosea said as he gave both men a measured look.

The three of them pushed through the swinging doors of the saloon.

Upon entry, smoke greeted them as it hung thick beneath the lantern glow trapping the heat and the noise inside, the whole place carrying the heavy scent of cheap whiskey, sweat, and sawdust.

The piano in the corner clattered out something half cheerful, half worn, nearly drowned out by the roar of men crowding the poker tables. 

Glasses knocked together at the bar where a line of ranch hands leaned shoulder to shoulder, already red-faced despite the hour. 

Arthur paused just inside, letting his eyes adjust as he took in the scene. Satisfied, he moved toward the bar and slid onto a stool beside Javier and Hosea.

The bartender glanced their way, offering a brief nod as he continued wiping down a cloudy glass.

“Whiskey,” Arthur said quietly, his gaze already drifting past the man to the rest of the saloon.

Javier leaned back on his stool with an easy smirk. 

“Quiet day in Valentine, huh? Don’t think I’ve seen a duller mornin’.”

Arthur gave a soft huff. 

“Dull’s one word for it. Tolerable’s another.”

The bartender set their glasses down with a muted thud, and for a time they drank in silence, letting the piano’s uneven melody and the swell of voices fill the space between them.

It might have stayed that way.

Then something shifted.

Arthur’s gaze snagged on movement near the back of the room. A man leaned close over a table, speaking low to another patron. 

Nothing about him stood out at first—plain coat, worn boots, the look of any ranch hand passing through.

Except for the faded green neckerchief knotted loose at his throat.

Arthur’s expression hardened slightly.

O’Driscoll.

He shifted back on the stool, angling just enough toward the men beside him. He kept his gaze on his glass, voice low beneath the noise of the room.

“Back corner,” he muttered under his breath. “Green neckerchief.”

Javier’s smirk faded as his eyes shifted, quick and sharp. Hosea followed more carefully, casting a brief glance over his shoulder just enough to confirm without making it obvious.

At the table, the man reached into his coat and slid a small stack of cash across the wood before a short nod passed between them.

Then the O’Driscoll rat rose and made for the back doors.

“Hang on,” Arthur murmured, finishing his whiskey in a single swallow. 

He set the glass down with a soft clink and slid off the stool, moving along the edge of the room where the lamplight didn’t quite reach.

The man reached the plain wooden back door and slipped through it without drawing notice.

Arthur counted a beat—then followed, stepping out just as quietly.

Outside, the noise of the saloon dulled to a muffled hum. The O’Driscoll didn’t go far—just across the narrow stretch of dirt to the back entrance of the doctor’s office sitting right beside the saloon. 

Two sharp knocks before the O’Driscoll lingered a second, casting a quick glance over his shoulder.

The door cracked open from within just enough for the man to slip through without a word before it snapped shut behind him.

Arthur crossed to a stack of warped crates along the wall and crouched low in their shadow. 

After a moment, he rose just enough to peer through the narrow, grime-streaked window at the back of the building.

Inside, the room was dim. The outside light pooled over a table cluttered with cash, bottles, and laid-out weapons. 

A handful of O’Driscoll men sat hunched over it, counting bills. 

Arthur lingered a moment longer, taking stock—counting faces, weighing the weapons within reach, marking the exits and who stood closest to them. 

When he had what he needed, he lowered himself back behind the crates and slipped away from the window without a sound.

He crossed the narrow yard without hurry and pushed back through the saloon’s rear doors, returning to the bar where Javier and Hosea waited, both still nursing their drinks casually.

“Find somethin’?” Javier asked, glancing at him.

“Four of ’em. All armed. Countin’ cash like they own the place.”

Javier’s mouth twitched. “Bold.”

Hosea’s eyes narrowed slightly, thoughtful rather than surprised. 

“Mm. So the rumors weren’t exaggerated.”

Arthur rested his forearms on the bar. “Ain’t exactly hidin’ it.”

Hosea nodded, setting his glass down. 

“Well,” he said evenly, “reckon it’s time we pay the doctor’s office a visit.”

Javier drained his glass and set it down with a soft clink. 

“You feelin’ subtle,” he murmured, rolling his shoulders loose, “or we makin’ it memorable?”

“Subtle,” Hosea replied as he rose from his seat, smoothing down his vest. “Sheriff’s office is right next door. No sense invitin’ the law in Valentine to join us.”

Arthur pushed off the bar and adjusted his hat. “Front door then. We keep it calm.”

“And if calm don’t hold?” Javier asked lightly.

Arthur’s mouth twitched faintly.

“Then it won’t be calm.”

They left a few coins behind and stepped out through the saloon doors into the bright afternoon light. 

They turned toward the doctor’s office and stepped up onto the boardwalk, boots thudding softly against the worn planks, the town too busy with its own troubles to spare them more than a passing glance. 

Arthur slowed just short of the door and gave the street one long sweep. No deputies watching. No curious eyes lingering too long.

Hosea came up beside him, voice low and steady. 

“Inside’s quiet.”

Through the dusty front window, the doctor moved behind his counter, fussing with bottles. The waiting chairs sat empty.

Javier nudged his hat back a fraction. “Now?”

Arthur gave a single nod and reached for the handle.

In one practiced motion, the three men drew their bandanas up over their faces and stepped inside.

The bell above the door gave a light jingle and the doctor glanced up from behind the counter.

“Gentlemen—”

In the same breath, Arthur and Hosea quickly cut his sentence short as their revolvers rose smooth and certain across the counter. 

The doctor froze mid-word, eyes widening as his hands lifted instinctively into the air.

“Now hold on—” he stammered. “You can take whatever’s in the register—”

“We ain’t here for that,” Arthur cut in, voice calm and firm behind the cloth. “You’re gonna walk us to that back room. Slow. And you ain’t gonna raise your voice.”

The doctor blinked rapidly. “I—I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about—”

Hosea cocked his head slightly, tone polite but unyielding. 

“Now, sir, I’d advise you not to trouble yourself with that line. We’re well aware what’s goin’ on in your back room.”

Javier shifted toward the front door, turning just enough to keep an eye on the street through the glass, one hand resting loose near his revolver in case anyone decided to wander in.

Arthur tapped the counter once with the barrel of his gun. 

“Go on,” he said evenly. “Open it. Nice and slow.”

“Alright… alright.”

Swallowing hard, the doctor made for the side door that led toward the rear of the building. Beyond it, faint voices drifted through the wall.

He fumbled with the key hanging from his belt, fingers clumsy against the metal. Before sliding it into the lock before leaning a fraction closer to the door and calling out, forcing steadiness into his voice.

“It’s just me.”

Inside, a voice answered back, irritated, “make it quick.”

The moment the latch gave, Arthur moved.

In one swift motion, he brought the butt of his revolver down against the side of the doctor’s head, dropping him cold to the floor, not sparing him another glance as he gave Hosea the slightest nod and pushed through the door.

The sudden movement sent the O’Driscolls snapping to attention, chairs scraping back as they lurched upright from around the table.

“What the—?” one of them muttered, his hand darting for the revolver at his hip.

“Don’t. Move.” Arthur’s voice cut through the room, low and steady. 

For a moment, the air went tight as the men straightened, eyes flicking between Arthur and Hosea. 

Hosea stepped forward slightly with his revolver level and unwavering, tone calm—pleasant, even.

“Now let’s do this nice and easy, gentlemen. Hands where I can see ’em. No sudden notions.” 

He gave a small glance toward the wall. “Sheriff’s right next door, and I’d just as soon not invite him in.”

Two of the O’Driscolls exchanged a look, uncertainty creeping in as their hands lifted inch by inch.

The third didn’t hesitate, his gun clearing the leather from his belt.

Too slow.

Arthur saw it in the man’s shoulders before the barrel even came up and fired without hesitation.

The shot thundered through the small room, the O’Driscoll slamming backward into the wall as he slid down before he ever got a shot off.

Arthur lowered his smoking revolver a fraction. 

“Well,” he muttered, voice dry, “so much for quiet.”

That broke whatever restraint remained. 

The table overturned as another O’Driscoll lunged for the rifles stacked nearby. Hosea pivoted and fired clean, dropping him mid-step. 

A third shot splintered wood near Arthur’s side as someone fired blind from behind the table.

Gunfire filled the room, loud and unavoidable. Glass shattered. Wood chipped from the walls. 

There was no mistaking it now…half of Valentine would’ve heard.

From the front of the shop came the sharp jingle of the doorbell, followed by Javier’s voice cutting through the chaos.

“Yeah, real subtle, hermanos,” he called out. A shot cracked from his position outside. “We got lawmen movin’ in—unless this was all part of your plan!”

Arthur ducked as another round ripped through the doorframe beside him, more splinters biting into his coat. He leaned out just far enough to sight his target and fired once. 

The man behind the overturned table jerked and went still.

Smoke hung thick in the room. Arthur stepped forward through it, boots crunching over shattered glass when something metal scraped beneath his heel.

He glanced down and was greeted with the sight of a Schofield revolver laying half-spilled from its case, abandoned in the scramble.

He stooped just enough to snatch it up, the weight settling comfortably in his hand, and without much ceremony put a round into the last O’Driscoll still trying to rise near the wall. 

Hosea shifted smoothly to the side, keeping his revolver trained until the body stilled completely, his eyes sweeping the corners to ensure no one else was fool enough to twitch.

Alas, the gunfire inside died down—but with their luck this was only the beginning.

Boots thundered outside as a voice barked sharp orders from somewhere near the sheriff’s office. 

Another shot punched through the front window, glass exploding inward and scattering across the floor in a spray of shards.

A second later Javier burst into the back room, revolver raised and jaw tight.

“I held ’em off as best I could,” he said, breath tight but steady. “But there’s too many. They’re tryin’ to push through the front.”

Arthur didn’t waste time answering. 

He stepped over one of the fallen men and crouched briefly, sweeping the loose bills from the overturned table into his hand. A few more notes lay scattered near a safe in which he scooped those too and shoved the small stack into his satchel.

“Reckon that’ll cover the trouble,” he muttered.

The front door exploded inward with a violent crack, slamming against the wall hard enough to rattle the shelves. 

Boots pounded across the floorboards, heavy and fast, and another shot tore through the wall near the back room doorway, splinters spraying into the room.

Hosea shot a sharp look toward the hall. “Arthur.”

“I’m movin’,” Arthur replied, snapping the flap of his satchel shut and turning toward the rear exit.

The three of them shoved through the back door and spilled into the alley, the relative quiet already shattered by gunfire and shouted orders rolling from the front as deputies were swarming the building.

“Left,” Arthur ordered.

They sprinted down the narrow strip between buildings, boots hammering packed dirt and scattered debris. 

A deputy rounded the far corner just as they did, rifle coming up in startled reflex.

Arthur fired first.

They cut hard across the open stretch toward the street, bullets snapping past and chewing into wood behind them. 

Reaching the general store, they dove behind a stack of supply crates, splinters flying as shots struck the edges.

“Whole damn town’s up now,” Javier muttered, thumbing fresh rounds into his revolver.

Across the street, the deputies poured out from the doctor’s office, fanning wide and ducking behind wagons and buildings. Shots cracked in sharp succession, kicking up chips from the crates and tearing into the storefront behind them.

Then, from the far end of the street, came another sound—boots pounding fast and heavy, voices rough and shouting over one another.

Arthur risked a glance.

A cluster of men in faded green attire stormed in from the north end, rifles already raised.

Arthur swore under his breath. “You gotta be kiddin’ me.”

The O’Driscolls didn’t break stride. They raised their rifles and fired without hesitation—aiming first for the deputies, but not caring much who else stood in the way.

In an instant, the street collapsed into chaos.

Deputies scrambled for new cover, their fire swinging toward the fresh threat as more O’Driscolls shouted and surged forward, answering shot for shot. 

It wasn’t a shootout anymore.

It was a three-way war.

And Arthur took the first opportunity once he spotted an opening.

“Now,” he snapped.

As the deputies redirected their fire toward the flood of green figures, the three of them broke from cover and moved fast, keeping low along the storefronts. 

They hugged the buildings, slipping past an abandoned wagon while gunfire and shouting pulled most eyes elsewhere.

They were nearly clear of the worst of it when one of the O’Driscolls half-hidden behind a water trough caught sight of them, his eyes narrowing.

“That’s Morgan!” he shouted. “And the other two!”

Arthur didn’t slow. “Damn it.”

The man swung his rifle toward them and fired. 

“Cover!” Hosea called.

They dove behind a row of barrels stacked outside just by the hotel, wood thudding as bullets slammed into them. 

More O’Driscolls peeled off from the fight with the deputies, shifting their aim toward the three of them.

Arthur leaned out and returned, dropping the man who’d recognized him, but two more had already taken up position behind a wagon in the middle of the street, rifles braced over the wheel.

Javier fired from the other side of the barrels. “So much for slippin’ out quiet!”

Arthur gritted his teeth and took another shot, forcing one of them back into cover. 

“Keep movin’ when they duck,” he said. “We don’t stay pinned.”

Across the street, the deputies were still trading shots with the remaining O’Driscolls.

Fortunately, not all enemy attention had turned toward them yet, but the window was closing fast as more O’Driscolls began shifting their focus in their direction.

Even so, the deputies pressed forward, gaining ground as more of the gang went down.

Arthur reloaded quick and glanced down the stretch toward the far end of town where their horses were tied.

“We push through,” he said. “Straight for the mounts.”

And with another burst of gunfire cracking across Valentine’s main street, they broke from cover again.

Arthur raised the Schofield and dropped a green-clad man lining up a shot on Hosea—but before he could advance, a steady, commanding voice cut clean through the chaos.

“Left side! Two of ’em—push ’em back!”

Arthur slowed without meaning to, head turning toward the sound.

Through the smoke and drifting dust, he caught sight of her—a woman cutting clean through the crossfire, a green bandana pulled up over her face. 

She moved with control, slipping behind cover, rising only enough to take a careful shot before shifting again.

The men near her responded when she spoke. They repositioned. They followed her direction without argument.

Something about it struck him wrong.

Not wrong—familiar.

The way she kept her shoulders loose. The steady grip on her weapon. The quick scan of the street before committing to movement. 

There was no wasted motion in her, no reckless firing. Every step had intention.

Arthur felt his chest tighten.

He had seen someone move like that before.

A bullet struck the dirt near his boot, snapping him back into the moment.

Arthur fired once more, forcing an O’Driscoll back behind a trough, but his eyes drifted toward her again before he could stop himself.

This time, he was met with her eyes trained on him.

Focused.

Her eyes held the cold precision of someone measuring distance, threat, timing. 

For a split second, the world seemed to narrow between them, the noise of the street dulling beneath the weight of that stare.

Then her arm came up.

Arthur saw the motion too late to question it. 

She fired.

He twisted on instinct, just fast enough that the bullet snapped past his head though too close that he felt the heat of it graze his ear enough to nick it.

“Arthur!” Javier shouted from ahead.

Arthur tore his gaze away and ducked back, firing once to keep the O’Driscolls from advancing before turning and running after Hosea and Javier who were already breaking for the far end of town where they’d left the horses tied. 

He quickly veered between the gunsmith’s shop and the hotel to avoid the worst of the chaos out on the street, slipping into a narrow alley and nearly clearingthe midpoint when he heard footsteps behind him.

Arthur turned, Schofield rising in one smooth motion.

The woman from earlier stepped into the mouth of the alley, revolver steady and aimed square at him. 

Her dark hat sat low on her head, the brim casting a hard shadow over her face. The green bandana covered the rest, leaving only her eyes visible beneath the tilt.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

“You’re chasin’ the wrong man,” Arthur said evenly. “Plenty of deputies out there needin’ your attention.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly above the cloth. “You looked more interestin’,” she replied. “Reckon you’re quick enough?”

Arthur gave the faintest huff. “Guess we’re about to find out.”

Neither of them lowered their weapon. The air in the alley felt tight, stretched thin between them.

Then hoofbeats thundered in from the far end.

Javier rode in first, Hosea just behind him, Arthur’s horse reined hard and skidding slightly in the dirt as they swung into the alley. 

The sudden movement fractured the stillness, pulling both Arthur’s and the woman’s attention for a split second.

At that same moment, a panicked townsman barreled between them, fleeing the gunfire. He clipped her shoulder on the way through, making her stumble half a step before catching herself against the wall.

“Watch it!” she snapped, instinctively yanking the bandana down from her face to scowl after him.

And in that unguarded second, Arthur saw her fully.

The world didn’t stop—it shattered.

Every sound from the street seemed to drop away at once. The gunfire, the shouting, the pounding hooves—all of it dulled beneath the sudden, violent thud of his own heartbeat.

You.

Not smoke. Not a ghost dragged up from grief.

You.

Alive. Standing ten paces from him. Revolver steady in your hand.

The breath left him before he could stop it. Your name fell from his mouth, low and disbelieving, like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud at all.

You froze.

Just for a second. Not in recognition. 

Confusion.

Your eyes locked onto his, searching his face as if trying to understand why a stranger would say your name like that. Something flickered there, brief and unsettled. 

A pull you couldn’t place. 

The way he looked at you—like he’d seen you before, like he knew you—didn’t make sense.

Behind him, Javier had pulled his horse up short. He followed Arthur’s stare then leaned forward slightly in his saddle, recognition dawning fast. 

“That ain’t—” he started, disbelief catching in his voice.

Hosea didn’t speak right away, but the look in his eyes shifted sharply as he took you in. He knew.

For a heartbeat, the weight of it pressed against you. The silence between you stretched thin, charged with something you couldn’t explain.

Then it hardened.

You pulled the bandana back up over your face and shoved the brim of your hat low, sealing whatever had flickered there behind something steadier. Colder.

Before another word could pass, a voice barked from behind you.

“We gotta move!”

One of the O’Driscolls grabbed at your arm, urgency sharp in his tone. 

“Law’s closin’ in!”

Gunfire cracked at the mouth of the passage as deputies pushed deeper into town, bullets striking brick and wood, allowing the moment to quickly shatter.

You stepped back toward your men, your eyes finding Arthur one last time—measured, guarded, unreadable—before you turned away.

Arthur didn’t move.

The weight of it settled in him all at once. 

You weren’t dead. You were here.

“Arthur.” Hosea’s voice came firm and steady beside him. “We need to leave. Now.”

Arthur forced his feet to move.

He shoved the Schofield back into its holster and strode for his horse, jaw set tight enough to ache. Javier had already wheeled his mount around, Hosea holding Arthur’s reins out toward him.

“Come on!” Javier barked.

Arthur caught the saddle and swung up in one fluid motion, settling hard into the seat. His hands moved on instinct, gathering the reins, heels pressing in as his horse lunged forward.

Gunfire chased them out of town.

They tore down the far end of Valentine’s main street, deputies shouting behind them, O’Driscolls still trading shots in the chaos they’d left behind. 

They didn’t slow until the town had fallen behind them and the open stretch of land swallowed the noise.

Only then did Arthur lift his head. His jaw was set so tight it ached, reins pulled firm in his hands as his horse pushed on beneath him.

He kept his eyes forward, riding in silence, the wind cutting past him as the land stretched wide and indifferent ahead.

The image would not leave him—you in green, the steadiness in your aim, the way you had looked at him—without recognition. Without hesitation.

For a year he had accepted something final because there had been no other choice. He had made peace with it the only way a man like him could.

Now that certainty was gone.

What replaced it sat heavier. More complicated. And it did not sit easy.

He hadn’t buried the past.

It had just drawn a gun on him.

It began when trouble found you first—a group of grimy thieves who mistook your isolation for weakness. Arthur and Hosea spotted the commotion from afar, billows of smoke rising where they shouldn’t in the heart of the dense forest, beckoning them in that direction. 

As they drew closer, Arthur caught sight of a shadow weaving beneath the thick shrubs with hurried movements.

Then shouts rang out, followed by gunfire. 

The figure returned fire without hesitation, each shot steady as if honed from experience. Only when their weapon went silent and was forced out from cover did he realize it was a young woman, but there was no time to process it.

The attackers pressed harder than you could handle alone, bullets tearing through the trees as they closed in. Just when it seemed you might be overrun, two men charged in, guns drawn.

The bigger one of them was off his horse in an instant, revolver cracking as he took down the attackers one by one. 

But the sight only deepened your confusion and panic, leaving you unsure whether to decide the sudden presence as friends or foes. Taking cover quickly behind a tree, you kept your eyes fixed on the commotion.

At the edge of your vision, one of them appeared. A slightly older man took careful steps toward you with his hands raised. His voice was calm and steady assuring you he meant no harm.

You brought your rifle up, even knowing it was empty, warning him to stay back as you followed his movements, refusing to let him come within arm’s reach. Still, the gentleness in his voice reached you just enough to ease some of your caution.

Soon the shooting finally stopped, dust beginning to settle as the silence fell over.

“What in the world happened here?”one of them called out.

You didn’t answer, didn’t care to. You ran past them towards your cabin, leaving them baffled and confused as you went.

“Stay back!” you yelled over your shoulder, heart hammering. 

You got there just in the knick of time, flames licking at the edges and the smoke curling thickly around the structure. 

Inside the floorboards groaned under your weight warning you that time was running out. You quickly dug through the debris, hands shaking until you found what you’d come for.

Gripping it tightly, you darted out just as the roof began to splinter, stumbling onto solid ground. Behind you, the cabin groaned one last time before collapsing in on itself and swallowing whatever life you had left inside.

Coughing and chest heaving, you glanced up and caught sight of movement just to your left followed by a low, steady drawl that cut through the smoke and careful enough not to startle you.

“Alright there, Miss?”

You turned and saw the gunman from earlier, the older one just behind him, standing a short distance away. 

You took him in—broad shouldered, wearing a gambler’s hat tipped low over his eyes, hair falling slightly beneath the brim. Even from a little ways off, he drew your attention, and for reasons you couldn’t name a flicker of curiosity stirred in your chest.

“I think so,” you answered, unsure if he could hear the tremor in your voice.

He gave an almost imperceptible nod, tipping his hat back just slightly, allowing you to see his face. 

“Alright then.” He paused for a moment, eyes lingering on the wreckage before flicking back to you. “Next time, try not to catch fire, yeah?”

You gave a shaky laugh, partly from relief and partly from the absurdity of the moment. 

“Anyplace we can get you to, keep you safe?”

You shook your head. You had nowhere. No one.

He gave a small understanding nod, silence hanging for a moment before the older man behind him stepped forward.

“Perhaps we can offer you a temporary place of refuge. We’ve got a camp not far from here. Could use a warm fire and a bit of shelter for the night. What do you say?” 

Arthur froze at the suggestion, his eyes narrowing on Hosea.

“Hosea… you can’t just—”

Hosea cut in, lifting a hand in reassurance. His gaze flicked briefly to Arthur, acknowledging the younger man’s caution.

“I know it’s sudden… but we can’t rightly leave her defenseless out here alone, not with no protection.”

Bringing an unknown into their camp meant risk. Loose talk and wrong intentions…trouble he couldn’t afford. And judging by what he’d seen earlier, you seemed skilled enough to make things even more complicated.

He didn’t like it one bit—bringing strangers into camp on a whim. Still, there was something about you looking slight and almost defeated that kept him from further objecting… for now.

Arthur let out a gruff exhale. He said nothing more, leaving the space open for you to make your choice. 

Hosea turned back to you and gave a patient nudge with his words. 

“Sometimes a safe place is worth takin’, even if it’s only for a little while.”

Arthur watched you ponder, the pause stretching thin. A small glint caught his eye where your fingers curled tight around something that he assumed what you’d risked yourself  to pull from the fire. 

As you lifted your gaze, it drifted between the two of them and the wreckage behind you as if you were trying to measure the danger in your surroundings, and for a moment he wondered if you’d decline. 

But then finally, after a breath you gave a small nod, signaling your choice. Hosea offered a soft smile, while Arthur stayed quiet, gaze lingering on you a moment longer than he intended.

The ride to their camp passed mostly in silence, broken only in the first few minutes by brief introductions that eased some of the wary tension hanging between you.

Partway through the journey, Hosea spoke up, voice measured like he was feeling out your reaction before committing to his words. They weren’t a typical traveling group, he explained. Life with them required flexibility. A willingness to keep your head down and an understanding that some things were better left unsaid.

It wasn’t a confession, not outright, but it didn’t need to be. You understood well enough.

These were people who lived outside the law, and staying with them meant you would too.

You let that sit with you for a moment, turning it over in your mind. Truthfully, it wasn’t so different from the life you’d already known. You’d learned early on that the world had little interest in fairness, and that survival often came with a cost.

There had been a time when you’d done what was necessary. When danger pressed too close and there were no better choices left, you’d defended yourself. You’d taken a life because there was no other way to keep your own.

It didn’t sit easy in your chest—never did—being the reason someone was robbed of their life, whether they deserved it or not. Years on the road had taught you that survival often demanded hard decisions.

Still, there was honesty in the way Hosea spoke. A quiet trust in how he shared just enough for you to understand that, however rough or dangerous their lives might be, they were decent people at their core.

Before long, the forest began to thin, pale light filtering through the trees. The rustle of leaves and distant birdcalls slowly gave way to the low hum of activity ahead. As you drew closer, you began to make out shapes of tents and wagons from a distance.

“Who’s there?” came a sudden raspy voice from the brush’s edge. 

A young man, lean and wiry with dark hair falling just past his ears stepped into the path, rifle clutched in his hands. He blinked past the brim of his hat, taking a quick look. 

“Arthur. Hosea. Mornin’.”

Then his gaze flicked toward your figure peeking over Hosea’s back where you sat, and he paused, brow furrowing in curiosity.

“Hell… what’s this? You men bringin’ in some scrappy little runt along now?” he smirked, eyes narrowing at what looked like a kid, a young boy too slight to be any kind of trouble.

You leaned slightly to the side, allowing him to get a clear look at you before meeting his gaze with a long, steady stare. His smirk faltered then he straightened awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. 

“Oh… uh… sorry, miss,” he muttered, then glanced back toward the men, mumbling. “Didn’t know you two were ridin’ in with a… uh… pretty lady.”

You lifted a brow, letting the pause stretch just long enough to make the young man shift uncomfortably, cheeks flushing beneath the brim of his hat as he shuffled from one foot to the other under your stare.

Arthur caught it all, smirking before leaning back in his saddle as he spoke.

“Funny thing, John… most men with a woman an’ a kid don’t usually find the time to go courtin’ every other woman they meet.”

John scratched the back of his neck. “Well… reckon I’m just makin’ sure I ain’t forgotten how, can’t blame a man for bein’ polite, right?”

“Polite, huh? Sure you ain’t just practicin’ on the wrong lady?”

“Aw, hell… maybe a little,” John admitted, shrugging sheepishly.

Arthur rolled his eyes and shot him an exasperated look. “Now you best quit yer runnin’ off and do right by your family once in a while.”

Before John could argue, Hosea butted in. “Now, now… you boys be on your best behavior. Can’t be actin’ like damn fools in front of our guest… though, I reckon Arthur’s got a point, John.”

You couldn’t help the sliver of the amused smile tugging at your lips, finding the interaction between them very familial.

John then muttered something under his breath, almost like a grumbled sarcastic string of words that you couldn’t quite make out. He gave Arthur a pointed look before slinging the rifle over his shoulder and without another word, stepped back toward the edge of the clearing to take his initial post.

The camp stirred in the soft morning light and for a moment you simply watched. Men, and a couple women, moved through familiar routines and somewhere nearby you hear the sound of a baby’s cry echoing across the camp. 

Every now and then you caught a few of them glancing your way before they returned to their conversations, the subtle shift in their attention told you enough that your sudden arrival definitely hadn’t gone unnoticed.

You and Arthur lingered near the horse hitches, as Hosea slipped away to speak with their supposed leader. From where you stood, you could hear the low hum of their voices carrying back to you.

“She’s alone, Dutch,” Hosea explained. “Been fending for herself out there. Skilled, careful… Arthur and I’ve seen it. She could be useful to the gang.”

Dutch’s gaze lingered on you from afar, letting Hosea’s words settle. Then slowly he turned to Hosea and nodded, the corners of his mouth lifting into a small grin before his hands swept toward the camp in a grand, commanding gesture.

“Hosea, my friend,” he said, voice warm and confident, “we’ve always been more than a gang. We’re a family—folks cast aside, left to rot by a world that don’t understand ’em. If that’s what she needs, then we’ll give it, because that’s what we do.”

You watched in amusement, surprise flickering as their leader accepted you without hesitation, brushing past the earlier protests of the man beside you.

Arthur stayed quiet, jaw set. He’d learned long ago not to question Dutch when that familiar gleam lit his eyes, the fire of a man utterly convinced of his own vision. Either way he respected him and trusted his judgment, even if he couldn’t help but think that Dutch’s convictions sometimes carried more show than sense.

Hosea returned a moment later, a small approving smile etched on his face. 

“Looks like you’re part of us… at least for the time being. Of course, that’s if you’re willin’ to stick around.”

Arthur shifted beside you, eyes narrowing slightly as they flicked your way.

“Don’t go gettin’ too comfortable yet,” he said, voice doubtful. “You do your part, and you’ll be alright. But don’t forget… we ain’t real quick to trust strangers. Step outta line, and you’ll see why.”

His gaze held yours as if weighing you up and testing you. You didn’t look away, matching the intensity of his stare. After a beat, he gave a small, almost reluctant nod before turning away.

You suppose that was as close to an invitation you were going to get.

Hosea stepped beside you as he clapped you gently on the shoulder, grinning as Arthur walked away. 

“Best not worry ‘bout him. He’s a grump, sure, but you’ll see. Good to have around once you get to know him.”

You could’ve called the situation convenient more than anything. Right place, right time—or misfortune, depending on how you looked at it. But at that moment it was all you had.

And even so… the choice wasn’t much of a choice at all. 

So the next morning, you stayed. And the days that followed. 

Before long, you had been in camp long enough to weave yourself quietly into their routines and gotten to know some of the members more. Some of the men offered polite nods. Others hung back, wary of the newcomer. A few were rowdy albeit friendly in their own rough way.

The women—the only other two aside from yourself—drew your attention differently. Abigail warmed to you after a while, and you found yourself helping her with Jack, John’s restless little boy. Watching her with him, you could see the care she carried, balancing tenderness with the harsh rhythm of gang life.

Grimshaw, on the other hand, barely hid her disapproval. She was always quick to point out mistakes or question your work. You met her scrutiny with patience, keeping your head down though a small spark of irritation flared each time she spoke.

By now, you had also formed impressions of the men who led the gang. 

Dutch was restless and commanding, always a step ahead in his own head, full of grand ideas and visions of freedom. Hosea, in contrast, was thoughtful and clever—a man who could read people and situations before they spoke. Steady and patient, he had a way of making you feel understood without ever forcing it.

And then there was Arthur.

He moved with quiet strength that drew your attention without effort, but he kept his distance and rarely spoke to you, letting the days pass without exchanging more than a few words. 

You could feel his gaze lingering on you sometimes but every time you met his stare, he was quick to look away. Of course, you couldn’t blame him for being cautious about a stranger but each time it made your stomach tighten and you find yourself shifting and straightening, making sure none of your movements could be taken the wrong way.

Yet you still couldn’t help but wonder more about the man.

Pieces of insights came slowly, mainly in scraps of conversation around the fire. Some mentioned that Arthur didn’t warm easily to new faces, that he carried a weight the gang didn’t pry into.

Abigail gave you a clearer picture one evening as you helped her with Jack. “He ain’t always like that,” she said softly. 

You tore your gaze from Arthur who sat off to the side sharpening a knife and looked to Abigail, only to find your eyes drifting back to where hers were fixed on him.

“Sure, he’s quiet,” she continued, “but it’s not just bein’ gruff. There’s… history there.” Her gaze softened for a moment. “Mary.”

You frowned. “Mary?”

“A woman he cared for. Thought it would last… but she left just a couple months before you came in and he… well, since then he don’t let folks in too easy these days.”

You nodded slowly, taking it in. It explained the distance, the short words, and the way he rarely lingered in conversation. It wasn’t coldness, it was caution—self-protection, built from heartbreak and the life he lives.

Abigail glanced at you again, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “You watch him a lot, don’t you?” she asked, teasing gently.

You froze, caught off guard and cheeks warming but you managed a small shrug. “Maybe a little.”

She chuckled softly, shaking her head. “Just… don’t let him see you starin’, or he’ll think you’re plannin’ trouble.”

As the months passed, trust slowly grew on both sides and eventually you were allowed to leave the camp. 

When the gang rode into town, you tagged along—“in need of a practiced hand,” Dutch had said. It was here in the bustling streets and shadowed alleys that you learned how to move without drawing attention, how to lift a coin purse or slip a pocket watch and be gone before anyone realized it was missing. 

Eyes quick, hands quicker. 

Then it was Hosea who reminded Dutch of the day they’d found you, rifle in hand. Your skill with a gun had been clear from the start, and Dutch of course wanted you sharper, faster, more precise. 

And who better to teach you, he thought, than Arthur Morgan himself. A man whose reputation alone kept most men in line.

One morning, Arthur met you at the edge of camp, holster riding low on his hip, his revolver catching the pale light. He studied you for a moment before speaking.

“Ever killed a man before?” he asked, then spoke again before you could even answer. 

“If you haven’t… I’ll say this once. Hesitation’ll get you killed. Ain’t room for it. You move, you shoot, you survive. Got it?”

You met his gaze, a spark of stubbornness flickering in your eyes as you wanted nothing more than to talk back at him, but kept your voice steady. 

“Got it.” Words said carefully to not sound too defiant but not soft either as to prove that you weren’t anything less than capable.

From that day, your lessons became almost like a ritual. Draw, aim, breathe, fire, reload. 

Over and over, until each motion felt like second nature—and much to your delight, you’d learned faster than he’d expected. 

Before long, Dutch began pairing the two of you on jobs. Arthur grumbled about it at first but you proved useful. And more than that the two of you worked surprisingly well together. 

There were a few occasions where you spotted trouble before he did, probably saving his ass more times than he’d ever admit.

“Hell,” he muttered once with that familiar drawl, “reckon you’re quicker than me.”

You smirked. “Don’t let it bruise your pride, Morgan.”

For the first time, a flicker of something softer crossed his face—a reluctant acknowledgment. It wasn’t praise, not yet, but it was a crack in the armor.

Gradually, the distance between you began to shrink.

It didn’t happen all at once. At first, it was in the ordinary moments: swapping stories by the fire, passing a flask of whiskey under the stars, the quiet ease of simply being near each other.

Then came the smaller, almost unnoticed gestures. The way he lingered just a little longer when tending your scrapes, the way he’d shrug off his coat and drape it over your shoulders at the faintest chill, and the way his usually gruff voice softened when he thought no one was listening.

Then one evening after a run in on the outskirts of a town, dirt caked on your face and exhaustion settling into your bones, he looked at you—and for the first time you saw something soft, unguarded. 

Almost without warning, the line between acquaintance and something deeper began to blur. A touch lingered too long, a look held too meaningfully, drawing you to him with a force that was magnetic and urgent—pulling you closer before either of you even realized it.

And when you both finally gave in, it was electric. 

Fire and heat surged through every glance, every brush of skin. Your hands gripped his, lips met, and in that instant, everything else fell away. There was no hesitation, no doubt. Only the raw, consuming intensity of being together.

From then on you were inseparable. The love you shared was fierce and unrelenting, unlike anything you had known before. 

Alive. 

It burned into you intensely, and you welcomed the fire.

While Mary had been his first love, a dream of something softer and cleaner than the life he led—loving her had meant wanting out.

With you, there were no half measures or hesitations. 

You laughed with him when it seemed impossible to laugh, stood firm when the world threatened to break him, and never wavered when he needed you most. You fought by his side, breathed alongside him and shared the rawness of survival.

You didn’t ask him to be better, you stood beside him in the dirt and smoke. Understood the cost of it all. You were the one he trusted and made him feel fully seen.

Where Mary represented escape, you represented endurance. 

Where she belonged to a gentler world, you survived in his.

And Arthur loved you fiercely for it.

And yet, for all the strength of your bond, the world outside waited for no one. 

O’Driscoll Hideout, 1898

The job was supposed to be simple. 

Some O’Driscoll men had been spotted holed up in a small cabin, tucked deep in the forest. Arthur stayed with you as Bill and Javier scouted it out, while John and Charles—a steady and capable newer addition to the gang—went to cover the other side of the clearing.

You slipped into position, silent and eyes sharp. From across, Arthur’s gaze met yours for a steady moment, gaze heavy with unspoken care. 

“Clean and quick,” he murmured,” then we’re gone.”

You nodded once, tight-lipped. “No mistakes.” 

You let your fingers brush the small locket at your neck, the one thing you’d saved from that very fire that brought down the place you once called home. 

The familiar weight steadied you as you traced it lightly. But this time, the locket held more than the picture of your parents. The once-empty space was filled with a photograph of the man before you—someone who now mattered just as much as those you had lost.

The thought of the image held inside brought your mind briefly back to the day it was taken. You’d gone into a small town once with Arthur and found a photographer’s studio tucked down a quiet street. He didn’t want to go at first, grumbling the whole way, but you’d persuaded him. 

The photograph had been taken in an honest, unguarded moment, showing him exactly as he was. You treasured it because it captured the side of Arthur that had become yours.

Refocusing on the task at hand, you let your gaze flick toward the others moving into position. 

Bill slipped behind the wall of the cabin, using it for cover, then leaned out just enough to raise his shotgun and with one pull of the trigger, it sent an O’Driscoll sprawling. 

Javier’s rifle followed quickly, taking down two more who had been standing nearby.

On the opposite side, Charles moved through the trees cutting down men attempting to flank the cabin, each shot clean and precise. While nearby, John fired his pistol, keeping the attackers at bay.

With the flanks covered, you and Arthur pushed forward as one. 

Another O’Driscoll rounded the corner and barely had time to register you before Arthur’s shot dropped him, already in motion beside you as he cut down another with the same ruthless timing.

Everyone’s movement was quick and deliberate, moving in a deadly rhythm, each shot tearing through flesh and splintered wood. For a moment, the upper hand was yours entirely, almost feeling like you were close to victory.

Almost.

In the span of a heartbeat, everything unraveled. 

Reinforcements poured in from the treelines, shouts rising over the gunfire.

There wasn’t any time to react or regroup before the rhythm you’d found shattered and chaos erupted as O’Driscolls surged forward from every side. 

Somewhere in the middle of it all, Arthur heard your voice cut through the noise calling his name.

Sharp. Frantic. Unforgettable.

Then came the explosion.

A blinding flash of fire and deafening roar that tore through the air. 

The world tilted violently as Arthur was thrown backward, the force of it slamming into him so hard it had knocked the wind out of him. Pain shot through his body as wood and debris rained around him. Ears ringing, the heat scorching his skin, smoke stinging his eyes and lungs.

Strong hands grabbed him out of nowhere, gripping him with bone-deep force as they pulled him upright, offering just enough support to get him back on his feet. He barely had time to catch his footing before he was hauled up onto a horse, the animal rearing beneath the sudden weight. 

Through the ringing in his ears a low, muffled voice reached him, the words blurring as his vision dimmed.

The last thing he registered was the sound of your voice, distant but unmistakable, echoing faintly in his mind as consciousness finally slipped away.

When Arthur woke, there was no shouting or gunfire—just an eerie stillness. 

His awareness came back slowly, feeling his head throbbing and it took a moment before he could bring himself to open his eyes and focus on his surroundings. 

When he finally did, the first thing he saw was the canvas roof of his tent. He was back in camp, the site quiet, a lamp beside his cot illuminating the area.

Then he saw Hosea, sat near the end where his feet rested, his expression grave, every line etched with sorrow and unspoken warning. 

Arthur’s gaze shifted past him, searching without thinking when he realized that you weren’t there.

He looked to Hosea, throat dry as he forced out the only sound he could manage. 

Your name—broken and barely more than a breath.

Hosea rushed to his side, face tightened and eyes heavy with sorrow before he spoke and the words that followed struck Arthur like a second, cruel blow, sharper than any bullet.

You hadn’t made it out.

Arthur bolted upright, every muscle screaming in protest. Pain tore through his ribs and arms, each breath sharp and unforgiving but he barely noticed. 

Hosea’s hand shot out, gripping his shoulder firmly to steady him. 

“Easy, Arthur. That blast did a number on ya. You need to rest.”

Arthur’s throat burned, frustration and helplessness coiling in his chest. 

“Where is she? I…I gotta find her,” he rasped, voice rough and urgent. 

He had to find you. Had to know you were still alive.

Hosea’s grip didn’t loosen, his eyes locking on Arthur’s. 

“Son… I know how you feel, but listen to me. You won’t do her no good if you ride yourself into the ground. Hell, you can barely stand, let alone ride. I’ve sent John and Javier to look. You need to stay here, rest, and get your strength back.”

Arthur’s eyes stayed on Hosea, desperate, his heart pounding as his mind replayed the moments before everything went wrong. Every second you were out there, possibly hurt and alone, felt like a knife twisting deeper in his chest. All he could do was sit, trapped in helplessness, the heavy silence of the camp pressing in around him.

Finally, after much convincing from Hosea, Arthur had no choice but to back down. Even if he couldn’t go himself, he knew at least that no time was being wasted with John and Javier already out there, searching for you.

But Arthur couldn’t stay still for long. 

Days later once he felt strong enough to stand, he immediately set off towards his horse, ready to ride out in search of you.

Much to Hosea’s protest, the older man couldn’t convince Arthur to stay behind so he finally agreed and offered to accompany him, returning to the site and checking every trail, creek, and hollow. 

Later, Charles joined Arthur, using his keen eye for tracking to help scour the countryside for any sign of you.

Eventually more days passed, and the search turned up with nothing. Each trail offered no clue.

Until finally came a grim discovery. 

Charles returned one morning, carrying something with him as he strode to Arthur’s tent before Charles held it out to him, expression heavy with the weight of what it meant.

The moment Arthur saw the faint glimmer, his stomach dropped—throat going dry, and for a moment he couldn’t breathe properly.

A locket. 

Not just any locket that they would’ve usually sold to a fence for a quick fortune—this was the one you always wore around your neck, so rarely removed that even Arthur hardly ever saw you without it.

He reached for it, hands trembling as he studied it carefully, treating it like it might break at any moment. The metal was slightly scuffed, as if it had been hastily discarded with careless hands, but it still held the photographs inside. 

Rage, fear, and grief twisted together in his chest but he refused to let that be the end of it. Shoving the weight of his despair aside, it only fuelled him to search harder. 

He went to Dutch that same day, insisting they track every O’Driscoll hideout they could find, searching for any sign that you might’ve been taken. 

Dutch studied him thoughtfully, weighing the determination in Arthur’s eyes. He could see the raw need driving him, and though he knew the search might lead nowhere, he agreed—driven not only by the chance to follow Arthur’s lead but also to hunt down Colm O’Driscoll and strike at the gang while they could.

And for a time, that was exactly what they did. 

They followed rumors, scouted campsites, and rode hard through hostile territory as Arthur still clung to the thin hope that you were still out there somewhere.

But then things changed. Micah joined the gang, and Dutch’s focus shifted. 

Jobs became more frequent and raids, schemes, and the relentless pace left little time for Arthur—and the search for you fell by the wayside. 

With each sunrise that passed without looking for you, Arthur’s hope that you were still alive began to fade. All he could do was hope Dutch got what he wanted, so he could return to what mattered most.

Then Blackwater happened. 

Hunted and on the run with the law closing in, the gang was forced out of New Austin, leaving everything they had built in ruins. 

Colter, 1899

The fire crackled in the small cabin, the only warmth against the biting cold that seeped through the walls. 

Outside, snow drifted silently against the mountains of Colter, where the gang had temporarily taken refuge. 

Arthur sat on a rough wooden chair, staring at the locket in his hands, the weight of hopelessness pressing on his shoulders. 

He knew there was no going back, not when stepping onto New Austin soil meant risking being shot dead on sight. The hope he’d held onto for so long was slipping away, leaving a hollow ache that nothing could touch.

Hosea noticed the solemn weight in Arthur’s posture and stepped closer, resting a steady hand on his shoulder, offering what comfort he could give.

“Arthur… I know what you’re holdin’ onto, but you can’t keep riding yourself into the ground for somethin’ that’s gone. Not like this.”

Arthur’s jaw tightened, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. He wanted to argue, to refuse, but the firelight reflected in his eyes showed the doubt he couldn’t shake.

Hosea’s voice softened, careful but firm. “If she were still out there, she’d have found her way back to us by now. And if she hasn’t…I’m sorry, Arthur, but I reckon she’s likely gone.”

His chest tightened at the words, and he looked up at Hosea, eyes burning with unshed grief. “I… I can’t just forget her.” 

“You ain’t forgettin’ her,” Hosea said, shaking his head slightly. “But you gotta live, Arthur. The gang needs you. You need you. Holdin’ on like this… it’s killin’ you more than it’s helpin.”

Arthur swallowed hard, the firelight catching the unspoken grief in his eyes. For a long moment, the only sound was the crackle of the flames as Hosea’s words sank into the hollow spaces of his heart.

He stared into the fire in thought as he said nothing, but the weight of Hosea’s words settled in him.

For the first time in a long while, he felt a small shift. A quiet possibility that maybe it was time for him to let go.

And for the sake of the gang, Arthur did.

Far from the mountains just somewhere near the small town of Valentine, Colm O’Driscoll sat at a scarred wooden table in a half forgotten building, rolling cigars and counting the remnants of yesterday’s take. 

Firelight crawled along the walls, stretching shadows that shifted with every small movement of his hands. The door creaked open, followed by the dull thud of something soft and heavy hitting the table.

He paused, slowly looking up at the stack of cash in front of him, one brow lifting as his gaze settled on the money before a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Well now,” he drawled, voice low, almost impressed. “Someone’s been busy.”

He thumbed through the bills as he continued, “I’ll admit… didn’t think anyone could pull it off.”

Only then did he lift his eyes.

You stood in front of him, a faint smirk on your lips as you met his gaze. 

“Don’t get used to it.”

Colm’s smile widened, slow and pleased, as the fire’s warm glow danced between the two of you.

A/N: Hey friends! I’m back to writing after way too long (more than a year oof). Anyways...I’m so excited to write this series and I hope you’ll stick around!

“Ms. Jones! Ms. L/N! Does it bring you some sense of backwards pride to be the last ones awake in the camp?” The older womans voice seemed to boom from above, her complaints earning an immediate groan from your roommate, and a soft sigh from you.

“Mornin’ Mrs. Grimshaw,” You rub your eyes as you suddenly sit up from your small make shift cot on the ground, encouraging them to adjust to the brightness that flooded in through the open door. Your eyes flickered from her, arms crossed and looking down at you expectantly, to Karen, who still had yet to move a muscle despite Mrs. Grimshaws complaints. “Didnt realize what time it was… what time s’it anyways?” You question, eyes now adjusted to your surroundings showed that the glistening light pouring in still had a slight pinkness to it from the recent sunrise, it couldnt have been past 7am by any means.

“Its time to get up and get packing,” she began, slightly furrowing her eyebrows and looking down her nose at you, a look you had gotten used to from her over the years. It didnt seem to matter how much money you contributed to the camp or how helpful you tried to be, Ms. Grimshaw always had something to nitpick about. “Its finally time to get out of these god forsaken mountains, but it seems your slumber is more important than freezin’ t’ death.”

That statement alone sent a rush of excitement through your chest, any traces of sleepiness getting flushed out of your body. “Were leavin’ today?” Even with Susans aggressive delivery of the message, you couldnt help but to feel a bit giddy at the news. The group really hadnt been here that long, but between being broke as a joke, the lack of food, and the once seemingly-never ending snow storm, every second in the run down town you came to know as “Coulter”, felt hours longer.

“Yes, and if you dont hurry your sorry asses up, were leavin’ you girls here for the wolves!” Mrs. Grimshaw glared at you, then shifted her attention to Karen, who had still yet to turn over and acknowledge Susan, figuring her best interest was just to ignore the older woman. This causes Grimshaw to shake her head disapprovingly with a huff, continuing to shake her head and mumble about her disapproval as she turned around and marched toward the door “Now get up, n’ get goin’!” Was the last thing you heard before she walked out the door. It closed with a slam, and you allow yourself a moment to breathe in the frosty air, relishing in the thought about how soon the air you breathe will no longer numb your nose. You take another moment to stretch, rising your arms above your head only to remind you of your recent injury with a sharp pain from your left shoulder.

‘Oh yeah… forgot about that’

The gangs most recent ill-fated venture in Blackwater didnt leave you unscathed, receiving graze from a bullet as the group made a mad dash away from the scene of the crime. Luckily for you, the bullet went straight through, but still left a decent sized crater through the side of your upper left arm, which Abigail had so kindly stitched up. The extreme cold that surrounded you must have momentarily distracted you from the sharp pain of the wound. You shift slightly on your cot, gently tugging down your jacket you had slept in for a little extra warmth, and your shirt sleeve to reveal the bandages. Wincing as you peel them back, the crisp air makes you involuntarily shutter, countering the throbbing heat that radiates from your leison. A relieved sigh escapes you, seeing no sign of infection, just the normal swelling and a bit of clear serous drainage, your bodys attempt at keeping the wound safe and clean. It doesnt look too bad considering how rough it looked when you had first seen the skin all ripped and damaged. Abigail had done a good job doctoring it, and you figure here in another week or two it should be on track to heal up nicely. Your thoughts shift to how lucky you were to get away with this as your reminder of the endeavor, some of your group mates not near as lucky.

“Healin’ up alright, cowgirl?” Karens questioned ripped you from your previous reflections, voice still groggy with sleep, and you redirected your focus over to her. She had finally sat up as well, looking at you with a raised brow, her eyes shifting from your wound and back up to you.

“Ah, yeah, its nothin’, should be good as new here in a couple weeks” you shrug, carefully placing the bandage back over the damage and patting around it to ensure it stays in its place.

Karen chuckled a bit “Nothin?” She repeated, then gave a light sigh “Tough as ever, L/N” she shook her head, a light grin placed upon her features.

“Naw, not tough, just know it could’a been a lot worse” You explained, now pulling your sleeve and jacket back up, tugging it tightly around you to rewarm your once exposed skin. “I got lucky gettin’ away with just this as a reminder… well that and my now extreme lack of wealth.” You somewhat-joked, finally pushing yourself off your cot and standing at full attention.

Karen nodded at you “Youre tellin’ me, poor John seems to be cursed, first that nasty gunshot and then those wolves tryna’ finish ‘em off” exhaling, her tone quickly shifted from lighthearted to something a bit more worrisome. “Cant belive we lost davey…” she trailed off, eyes dropping to the ground in thought “and Mac… and Jenny… and Sean…” her worries tugged on your heart, the whole camp knew her and Sean were sweet on each other, hell, maybe even more than just ‘sweet’. You pitied her, knowing good and well how painful it is to have someone ripped from your life. You figured it was the unknowing that really did it for her, seeing as no one truly knew if Sean was alive or not.

“Come on now Karen, Seans tough, and no one saw him go down, we just know they took ‘em.” You tried to reassure her, taking a couple steps closer to her to kindly rub her back, hoping to bring some sense of optimism to the situation. “T’ be honest, hes probably yappin’ their ears off as we speak”

Your attempt seems to work and Karen glances up at you with a light smile, nodding as she speaks “He always was loud-mouthed.” She chuckles as she shakes her head

“Thats right. Aint the type to accept defeat either, you know he’d fight like hell to get his freedom back” You further confirm, patting her back one more time before you took a step back. “Now we’d better hurry n’ get out there before Grimshaw really does leave us for the wolves.” You watch as Karen rises from her spot on the ground, she pats her skirt a couple times to rid any dust that may have settled on her.

“Shit, think id prefer the wolves over Grimshaws constant naggin’,” she sighs as she bends down and begins to neatly fold up her blankets, trying to knock some of the dust off of them as well “She’d might be doin’ us a favor- I swear that woman hasnt been satisfied with anythin’ in her life… hope im not that grumpy when i reach the golden years, y’d think shed be in a better mood considering were finally gettin’ out of here”

You simply nod as you listen to Karen, also collecting your items and trying to condense everything into the smallest bundle you can manage. A few more words were exchanged between the two of you as you both packed up your things, mostly trying to guess where the group will end up next. The group hadnt been this far east im what felt like ages, you figured you were still in your early 20s the last time you were anywhere near here. ‘Anywhere’s gotta be better than this iced over hell.’

You secure the last of your things in the same small chest youve been using for years, made of beautiful polished cherry wood with engravings of different flowers and plants scattered all along it, and a tarnished brass buckle to lock it closed- right above the buckle sat your initials, hand carved by a younger version of you. It took you a couple of minutes to organize the small chest so it could be fully latched, you had honestly outgrown the chest about 4 years ago, having quite a few trinkets you had collected over the years, but you didnt have the heart to get rid of it.

Satisfied with your surprising ability to fit so much stuff in such a small amount of space, you walked over to the side table that sat against the entrance wall, swiping up your Cattleman Revolver as well as the spare ammunition scattered along the table. You place it in your hip holster with a nod, then grabbing your scarf, wrapping it tightly around your head and neck in attempts to keep any gusts of cold air from reaching your already-wind-burnt ears. You prepare yourself for more of Susans nagging as you walk over back to the chest, hoisting it up- once again reminding of your stitched would- and making your way to the door. Before stepping out, you turn back to Karen.

“Im gonna go ahead and make my way out”

“Alrighty, ill be out there in a minute” She responded as she grabbed up the last of her things. You acknowledge her words with a nod and face back to the door. Using your foot to push it open, you brace yourself for a strong gust of wind to hit your bare face, but are pleasantly surprised when all you receive is blinding glare from the sun bouncing off the snow, and a lingering frostiness to the air. It really was no colder outside than it was in the cabin now that the snow storm had passed, a calm breeze only floating by here and there.

The snow crunched under your boots with every step you took further into the open world, and despite your readiness to leave the frozen town, you couldnt deny the beauty that currently surrounded you. Trees lined with snow and ice seeming to sparkle as the sun rested upon them, every icicle reflecting the blue sky, water leisurely dripping down and hitting the snow with a light ‘pap’ noise. You supposed every place had its own type of beauty as you glanced around at the scenery, appreciating it for your final moments here.

You continued to walk closer to the group of wagons, just ahead of your temporary home the past few days, and as you neared you spotted Javier standing on the back of the wagon closest to you, grabbing a large box from Mr. Pearson and setting in along the bed of the wagon. Now only a couple feet away from the group, the two males attention adverted to you. “Mornin fella’s”

“Good morning Y/N, nice of you to finally join us” Javier spoke, looking down at you with a teasing expression.

A sigh escaped your lips and you shifted your eyes to avoid his, “i know Escuella, trust me i already heard it from Grimshaw,” sheepishly rocking back and forth on your heels, you glance back up at him. “Didnt realize we were heading out today, guess i shoulda’ figured.” You recall the events of the previous night, Dutch and a few other men in the group going to rob some train before the O’Driscolls could get to it. You reckon it went well, seeing as besides Susan, everyone else seemed to be in high spirits.

Javier grinned “Im messing with you- we had it under control. Havent been packing too long anyhow.”

His words made you feel a bit better. You never take Susans words to heart, most of the time they were simply petty complaints, but you always did your best to contribute and help around the camp, you would have felt bad if you walked out and everyone was already all packed up and waiting on you. You gave a soft smile and nodded up at him, “Good to hear, could ya’ grab this for me?” You gesture down to your chest, still tight in your grip “N’ ill go grab s’more stuff”

Javier squatted down and held out his arms for the chest, allowing you to lift it enough for him to get a steady hold on it. He removed it from your grasp and lugged it to the front on the wagon, placing it upon a bigger box tucked in the corner, then shifting a couple more boxes around for optimal storage space. Now that your hands were freed, you reached in your pockets and pulled out the leather, fleece lined gloves that once belonged to your mother. You cursed yourself a bit for not putting them on earlier, frost bite had already began to nip your finger tips in the couple minutes you had been outside. As you slipped them over your hands, you heard Pearson clear his throat,

“Theres a couple more boxes with cooking supplies sitting next to the barn, since youre feelin’ helpful,” he spoke gruffly, the lingering smell of his late night alcohol filling the air around him. You kept yourself from mentioning it, only giving a curt nod of your head and heading off in that direction, thanking Javier as you walked away. It only took a couple steps to notice the already stacked boxes lined up next to the barn, and a harsher gust of wind encouraged you to put a little pep in your step. Your eyes scan over them as you got closer, trying to decide which one to grab. You assume the biggest box had to be the cast iron pot, and that was to heavy to lift, by yourself anyways. So you end up settling for a medium sized box that was sitting atop another, bending slightly to stretch your arms around it. As you lift, you feel the skin around your wound stretch, shooting a sharp pain through your shoulder and making you wince. Nonetheless, You kept your hold on the box, trying to adjust it to a more comfortable position. It wasn’t genuinely too heavy for you to carry, just an awkward sized box to lug around, especially with your current injury. Still making an effort to relieve your shoulder, you hear a voice speak up from behind you.

“Ya got it?”

You glance over your left arm only to see Arthur Morgan, standing there with a cigarette placed between his lips, watching you finally settle into a some-what more comfortable situation. You let out a light laugh, a little embarrassed that he probably saw you struggling- with a box that wasnt even all that heavy at that. “Look like im strugglin’ or somethin’?” You raised an eyebrow, although you werent sure if you wanted him to answer that question honestly.

“A little bit,”

‘Ah yes, honest, per usual’

“Y’should probably be takin’ it easy on that shoulder on yours, aint gotta get the heavy ones” he continued, taking another hit of his cigarette before grabbing it between two fingers and flicking it off to the side. He started towards you and you shook your head at him, knowing he was going to offer to take it off your hands.

“Aint heavy, just a little awkward s’all” You defended yourself, not wanting to seem weak. You had been with this group since you were nineteen years old, everyone knew good and well you werent weak, you hardly ever seriously asked for help and you were one hell of a force to be reckoned with once you got your mind on something- the group was well aware. A part of you knew this, but your path through life shapes you- the beginning path of your life was rough, and it shaped you into someone to had to be self reliant. You learned early in life that people prey on those they find weaker than themselves, and you had made a vow to never let yourself be too vulnerable. Even in unimportant situations such as the one your were currently in, that commitment ran deep. “I got it under control.”

He continued to make his way closer to you “‘m sure you do” he says incrediously, now standing right next to you. His tone earns him a glare from you, and despite that he grabs the box from your hold with ease. Arthur brings his attention from the box down to you, watching as you cross your arms over your chest and huff lightly, your warm breath creating a fog in the freezing temperatures.

“I said i had it Arthur”

“N’ I agreed witchu’, seen ya’ lift a box before, you aint gotta prove nothin’.”

You kiss your teeth at his words, “Aint tryin’ to prove nothin’ to nobody, just doin’ my part around camp s’all” Uncrossing your arms, you dropped them to rest on your hips and continued on, “just cause i got a little gun shot wound dont mean I cant work”

“I know i know… just think, what kinda’ man would i be if i just sat and watched an injured woman struggle”

You winced at the word ‘struggled’, you werent sure if he was trying to tease you by saying that but it sure felt like it. You internally damned the Lawman who shot you, blaming him and his bullet for having to deal with this. Arthur Morgan was just like you in a way, as in once he got his mind on something he was going to accomplish it one way or another, and you knew good and well he wasnt going to be handing you that box back anytime soon. And besides, it was a kind gesture, you just hated that it came from a place of pity. You sigh “not sure, you should ask Pearson, hes the one who suggested it”

Arthur scoffs “Pearsons ‘bout much of a man as a cactus is a kitten, how bout you grab that box of utensils instead?”

His words earn a chuckle from you, finally accepting defeat of carrying the box. “I reckon you got a point there,” Taking a couple steps to grab the smaller box of cooking utensils, it definitely was a lot more manageable to carry, you lifted it without issue, trying to put your pride aside. Arthur wasnt wrong about taking it easy on your shoulder, last thing you needed was for your stitches to rip and cause more damage, though it was debatable for you if it was more important than your ego. You turn back to face him, yes you may of had a bit of an ego, but you werent so arrogant as to not give some form of thanks for Arthurs help. “Appreciate you helpin’ me”

“Ah, dont mention it” he simply shrugged “C’mon.” He gestured his head towards the wagons and you nod at him, watching as he takes a stride off. You have to take a couple quicker steps to catch up to him, now walking directly beside him. He continues to walk at a leisurely pace as he speaks “Aint seen too much of you the past couple months” Arthur glances over at you for a moment, eyes scanning over your features quickly before he looks back to his surroundings. “N’ when i did we were usually busy shootin’”

You keep your eyes in front of you but your eyebrows slightly quirk up in response to what he said, somewhat surprised. Out of the whole group, you didnt expect Arthur to mention it, considering how busy he always seemed to be. You voice this with a quick “Didnt think anyone noticed.”

“Course people noticed”

You couldnt lie, it felt nice to know that your recent absences from camp didnt go unnoticed. You werent doing it on purpose by any means, just had to get away sometimes. You loved your group, and youd die to protect it, but a certain new comer had put a sour taste in your mouth, and though you werent shy to say what was on your mind, sometimes you thought it was best to just be quiet and put some space between you and the… issue for a while- for the sake of peace at the camp.

“There a reason why?” Arthur looks at you again, but this time his focus remains on you while he walks, trying to read any expression you might make. He had known you long enough to know that if something was wrong, you usually kept it to yourself, and most of the time it took some prying to even get it out of you. You must have felt his gaze, because you look over and lock eyes with his for a quick second, sighing then looking away.

Not having had any chance to really voice your opinion about the recent addition to the group, you give in to his question easily. “Well… just aint exactly fond of one of the new men around camp”

It was extremely easy for Arthur to guess who you could be talking about, there were only two new men in camp, Charles and Micah- and he knew good and well it wasnt Charles who had worked his way on to your nerves. He wasnt exactly a fan of Micah either, but of course, he trusted Dutch, and for some a reason Arthur couldnt possible comprehend, Dutch had taking quite a liking to the blonde man. Arthur nodded, “Hm, Micah huh?” He looked back towards the wagon “He been botherin’ you again or somethin’?” A somewhat protective tone lacing into his voice. Arthur could recall when Micah had only been in the group a couple weeks before one night he tried to make advances on you, only to get a response of “and just who the hell are you?” But of course, if there was one thing Micah was, it was an instigator- so he continued on to say lewd, disrespectful things. Arthur also recalled you putting him at knifepoint before anyone could even think of intervening, threatening him within an inch of his life to “keep it up”

“Aint he always botherin everyone?” You roll your eyes at the thought of Micah, though he hadnt really done anything to you recently, you had definitely seen him bothering other members (particularly the women) of the group, and you just straight up didnt trust the man. Thinking of this, you voice it to Arthur “Guess he aint done anything of late, to me at least. Bein’ an asshole dont help his case but i dont know… he just rubs me the wrong way, i dont trust ‘em one bit. Feels like hes always up to no good.” You glare in no particular direction as you speak “i saw him kick a bunny one time, a baby one too, had just hopped right infront of him- guess it hadnt quite learned to be timid yet. N’ the bastard just reeled back n’ kicked the poor lil’ thing… had the audacity to chuckle afterwards too while it was squirmin on the ground” venom fills your voice as you remember. You had been hunting animals for years, but to blatantly abuse an animal- a baby at that- was something entirely different, and witnessing him do that further confirmed that Micah Bell was one twisted bastard.

Arthur furrowed his eyebrows at your story and shook his head in a disappointed manner. “Yeah, i aint exactly a fan of his presence neither. But you been part of this group for a helluva’ lot longer than he has, shouldnt let ‘im run you outta’ camp”

You nod, honestly you somewhat agree, but the other part of you just couldnt stand the man’s presence. “I know. Its not like im scared of him, its just that-”

“Ah i know you aint scared of ‘em” Arthur smiled lightly “well you just let me know if he does start up botherin’ you again, n’ i’ll rough ‘em up a little” Arthur made no effort to hide how he felt about Micah, often antagonizing the man when he saw him around camp, which has ended with fists swinging a couple times. Micah got on his nerves just as much as he did yours, but Arthur had to admit, Micah was a handy gunslinger, and he assumed that was the main reason Dutch kept him around. Didnt change the fact that he was reckless and rude.

You cant help but smile at Arthur “I appreciate the offer but if he starts botherin’ me again ill kill ‘em myself” you (half) joke, and arthur grins.

“Fine by me”

By this time you and Arthur had finally reached the wagons, and you stand there patiently as you watch Arthur place the box on the wagon without issue, turning to you and reaching out for the box in your arms as well. As you hand your crate over to him you hear a voice from a couple wagons up.

“Please Mister, let me go! I wont say a thing to no one, i swear it!”

Once Arthur removes the box from your arms, you lean to peak past the covered wagon, noticing a man with black hair and a beard being shoved along by Bill, gun pointing directly to the mans back. You raise an eyebrow and peer back at Arthur, you dont even have to ask ‘who the hell is that’, its written on your face plenty.

Arthur huffs, “An O’Driscoll” he states simply, crossing his arms over his chest for a little extra warmth, observing as you peak your head past the wagon once again to get a second look. “Picked ‘em up the other day after we got a jump on that O’Driscoll camp. Dutch thinks he could be of some use.” He further explained, walking to stand behind you and also peer his head around the wagon, watching as Bill basically threw him into one of the wagons up front.

“Noisy thing aint he?” You dont shift your attention from the man, still pleading for his freedom with promises and swears and anything else he can think of. Your interest in the situation is interrupted by Arthur switching the subject, and you turn your gaze to him at he speaks

“What i was sayin’ earlier, about not lettin’ Micah run you outta camp, im serious. Gotta lot of foes right now out t’ get us- Pinkertons, Bounty Hunters, and all these damn O’Driscolls lurkin’ about. Y’should stay closer to camp for a while.” He voices his concern, but down plays it a bit by adding “we might just end up needin’ your expertise in gunslingin’” with a laugh.

As you look up at him you smile, you knew he meant it in a somewhat teasing manner, but you still took it seriously, you might not have been the best gunslinger in existence, but you could sure as hell hold your own. Before joining the group, you had never even held a gun, but Hosea and Dutch were quick to teach you. And now, after many years and plenty of practice, you could keep up with most of the men. “I should be the one tellin’ you that, youre out n’ about just as much as i am. And i can guarantee youre more of a troublemaker” you say matter of fact-ly.

“Heh, cant argue that” Arthur shrugs, and when he hears a door slam to the left of him, he looks past you to see Dutch walking out of the cabin with purpose, making his way over to the rest of the group. “Alright cowgirl, I’ll see ya’ around, gotta have a word with Dutch” he nods a goodbye to you, and you nod back at him.

“Stay safe Arthur” hes already walking away as you speak, responding with a quick “you too, Ms. L/N” over his shoulder. Crossing your arms over your chest, you look around to find something else you can help with. Your eyes scan along the wagons, watching as other people in your group continue loading them up, then drift along the small cabins in the town. Your eyes pause when you spot Mrs. Adler standing by her lonesome under an awning, dressed in some clothes that you and Tilly had given her. You felt awful for her, even with how far away you were from her, you could see the swelling around her eyes from long nights of no sleep and constant tears. She didnt look well- Hell no one in her situation would. So you take it upon yourself to walk over to her before you do anything else, giving her a soft smile as you get closer.

“Good morning Mrs. Adler”

She simply nods a hello in your direction, her gaze only resting on you for a moment before she looks back down at the ground, clearly lost in thought. You could only imagine what all was going through her head, losing her husband, losing her home, and being taken in by a group out outlaws all in a week. Thinking of her situation is a sure reminder of how quickly anyones life can change, and how you never really know how anything is going to play out. Even with her quiet response, making you assume she probably didnt want to be bothered, you pushed a bit more “Have you eaten anything?” You ask softly, although you were sure her answer was probably going to be a ‘no’.

Your assumption was confirmed as Ms. Adler shakes her head, “just… aint been all that hungry” she explains. You nod, you understood that, but you also knew she desperately needed to eat- despite her nerves, you knew her body had to be craving sustenance, you hadnt seen her take a bite of anything since she had been here. And you werent going to voice it, but the last thing the camp needed right now was someone passing out from low blood sugar. So whilst you dig in your side bag for some jerky you had acquired, you speak to her.

“I know food probably dont sound all that appetizing right now, but you really should eat somethin’- starvin’ will just make you feel worse” You use the softest tone you can muster as you speak, holding the jerky out in front of her, hoping she will reach out for it. “Its real good, i got it back in this small little town out west- feller i bought it from went on and on about how he used these rare spices from other countries to give it a taste no one else ‘round here could copy.” It was true, definitely one of the best tasting jerkies you had ever tried, you had been trying to make it last as long as possible seeing as you werent quite sure when youd be able to get more of it- but you figured Ms. Adler would benefit off of it more than you would right now.

Even with the unsure look on Mrs. Adlers face, she reached out and politely took it from you. Your talk of rare spices must have peaked her interest a little bit, and you watched as she brought the jerky close to her nose and gave it a sniff, causing her empty stomach to rumble immediately. “It does smell good… thank you.” But, to your disappointment she still didnt take a bite, only shoving it into the small crossbody bag another woman of camp had let her borrow. You dont mention it.

“Alright, well you just let me know if you need anythin’ at all, ill do my best to help” and with that you turn on your heels to go find something else to do, but Mrs. Adler stops you in your tracks.

“Well, i do have a question actually”

You turn once again to face her, you dont say anything, just wait for her to continue.

“That other group- the O’Driscolls… the ones who killed my husband…” you could see something shift behind her eyes, something between sadness and rage, and you knew that look all to well. The look of wanted retribution. The look of a woman who sought revenge. “Y’all run into them often?”

You answer honestly “Well, for a while we aint seen too many of ‘em, but we were farther out. Seems theres a lot more of ‘em ‘round these parts” you place your hands in your jacket pockets.

She thinks for a moment before speaking again, “What happened between yall?” Mrs. Adler was genuinely curious about the feud, no matter what your response was she would still hate them til the day she died for what they did to her Jake, she figured if anything itd just give her more of a reason to despise them. And your response only confirmed that theory.

Before you answer her you look around, not 100% sure of telling this woman who you didnt know would stick around or not what had happened. But you figure telling her a little wouldnt hurt anything, especially since her husband died at the hands of the O’Driscoll group. “It was a while ago, been fightin’ ‘em for years cause Colm O’Driscoll- their ‘leader’- killed Dutch’s woman, Annabelle. But honestly, they never got along much, we werent ever exactly friendly with them… Nasty sons of bitches…” you leave out the part where Dutch killer Colms brother, not wanting to incriminate him, just in case. “What they did to you and your husband, theyd do to anybody. I aint gonna lie ma’am, our group, aint exactly… compliant with the new ways of the world, but we still got morals- well, more than the O'Driscolls anyways”

Mrs. Adler nods, taking in the new information for a moment. “You been with them for a long time?”

“Since i was a teenager. They took me in when i had nowhere else to go. Sure as hell saved my life and kept the noose off my neck.” You recall when the group had found you, somehow both one of the worst and one of the finest moments of your life, considering that was the night you were truly freed from the hell you once lived in- even if it came with a cost. You could see the cogs turning in Mrs. Adlers mind, and you could easily tell that she was considering sticking around. You give her a light smile “You can stay as long as youd like, im sure everyone else in the camp would agree to it, Its up to you. We may bicker a lot, but at the end of the day were family. And besides, im sure you can hold your own, i saw you standing up to Micah that night.” You had been there when the group found Mrs. Adler, and of course Micah had to act a complete fool towards her. You wince as you remember “‘M sorry about that, by the way, Mrs. Adler. Hes a goddamn idiot, just try to steer clear of him.”

She huffs out a “you dont have to tell me twice.” But then looks at you, eyes a bit softened compared to before “Thank you, for bein’ so kind. And you can call me Sadie.”

Gaining a bit of her trust made you happy- Sadie looked about your age, and although you loved all of the other women in the camp (even Mrs. Grimshaw, despite her nagging) you thought you and Sadie might have more in common, and itd be nice to have another woman your age in camp. “Of course” you begin “Like i said, just let me know if you need somethin’. Im gonna go help finish packin’ up” you give her a small wave and smile “Ill see ya’ around.” She gives a light wave back, so you turn your focus back to the wagons, and start making your way there. You notice the group had been stacking boxes right next to them, and you give yourself the task of grabbing up the boxes and totes (the ones that wouldnt strain your shoulder at least) and handing them up to Charles, who was already standing in one of the covered wagons. You hadnt spoke to Charles much, he had been here around the same time as Micah and like stated previously, you had spent less and less time near the camp since then. But as far as you could tell, he seemed like a decent man. As you handed up boxes, the two of you made friendly small talk, and before you knew it, it was time to get going.

-

You had decided on riding your horse instead of the wagons to your groups next destination- a beautiful silvery-white Missouri Fox Trotter, whos legs and face slowly faded into a darker shade of grey. You had named her Lux- short for luxury, a small inside joke based off of her being the most ‘luxurious’ thing in your life- you had paid a pretty penny for her from a stable out west. And youd happily pay that money for her all over again, she was a damn good horse, by far the fastest you had ever owned, and durable as hell.

Halfway through the ride you had to rid yourself of your jacket, it was incredible how quickly it seemed to warm up as you made your way down the mountain, green patches of grass turned to plains before your eyes, and the world seemed to become more alive- groups of deer and bunnies scurrying away at the sound of horse clatter. You had went ahead with the group to a small clearing called Horseshoe Overlook, and you had to say, it was a huge upgrade compared to where you had just came from.

With everyone pitching in, It took no time for the camp to be set up. You had pitched your tent towards the edge of the camp, a nice spot where a tree had provided the perfect amount of shade from the sun, a little bit farther back from where you had seen Mrs. Grimshaw and Mary-Beth Setting up someone elses camp. Finally setting your cot up, you try to make it as cozy as possible, but even the fact that you had your own tent again satisfied you enough. You didnt mind having karen as your roommate, but everyone needed their space sometimes, and you had gotten used to rooming by yourself overtime. As soon as you were finished, you fell back onto your cot with a pleased sigh, relishing in how good it felt to have a bed off the ground, and how pleasant the sun pouring through the opening of your tent felt on your skin. This was the most relaxed you had felt in days, even though you knew the group had quite a bit to worry about still, it was nice to just live in the serenity of the new camp for a few minutes.

You had been lying there for a moment when you heard another horse-led wagon pull into the camp, followed by Dutches voice calling out to Hosea. This intrigued you enough for you to rise from your oh-so comfortable spot , quickly place your hat upon your head, and take a couple strides closer to listen in, hoping to gain some valuable info on what was going on, or what was soon to be going on. You stay a couple feet away as you tune in to Hosea voicing his concerns to Dutch, Arthur trailing behind the older man- all completely valid concerns in your opinion, but of course he only got the typical response from Dutch about how the group has made it this far, and how Dutch has “kept us together” and “kept us alive” which wasnt entirely false either. You continue to keep to yourself as you watch the men converse, arms crossed and leaning against one of the barrels placed throughout camp, you tilt your head down a bit, using your hat to shade your eyes from the beaming sun. The men seem to finish up their conversation and Dutch turns around to face the camp.

“Now, everyone put your tools down for a moment. Come on gather around, quickly now,” He spoke loudly enough for anyone around camp to hear, so you take a couple steps towards him alongside your other camp members, everyone listening closely to what Dutch had to say. “I know that things have been tough… but we are safe, now, and we are far too poor. So it is time for everyone to get to work!”

Hosea quickly chimes in, bouncing off of Dutch’s statement,“Get to work, but stay out of trouble. Remember, we are itinerant workers.”

“Laid off when they shut down our factory to the north. Now get out there and see what you can find! Uncle, Reverend Swanson… no more passengers.” Dutch finished for Hosea, and the group laughs at his pester. “It is time for everyone to earn their keep!”

Nodding, Hosea continues on “There is a town a little way down the track, name of Valentine, live stock town. All mud and morons if i remember right. That seems a decent place to start.”

Valentine. You had heard of it before, years ago, but you werent quite sure you had ever actually stepped foot in the town. Live stock towns all seemed to be the same to you, Hoseas description of “mud and morons” was spot on for most of the ones you had the pleasure of visiting. Even if they werent the most dazzling towns, they sure were any easy target for robbing fools- especially when youre just passing through. Most of the smaller livestock towns only had a little team of lawmen, and you could only recall a few times where there was a genuine consequence to some of your actions in the small rural communities. You turn your head to Mr. Pearson as you hear him clear his throat to gain peoples attention.

“And… we need food, real food… that means everyday, one of you.” He glances around from person to person as he speaks.

Dutch chimes in once again, grabbing a small lock box from his tent and setting it on a nearby barrel, “And remember, whatever it is that you find, the camp gets its slice.” He points down at the lock box as he speaks, stressing the importance of everyone contributing something, whether it be money, valuables, or food. “Now, be sensible out there.” Is the last thing he says as everyone nods in agreement to Dutches conditions, then disperses once again, getting back to whatever job they were once working at. Your eyes shift around camp as you notice Mrs. Grimshaw leading Arthur ahead to his camp, which you then realize is the one you had sat your camp close to earlier. You reckon Arthur was as good a neighbor to have as any, further satisfied with where you had decided on putting your camp. Pushing yourself off the barrel to stand up fully, you decide to get yourself busy with something.

A few weeks later…

You had awakened with the sun on that early morning, a slow yawn accompanied with a deep stretch- your shoulder had began healing up nicely. You had taken the stitches out yourself a couple days ago, and although it was still tender it felt good to stretch fully without as much strain. You still had to be a little careful with the scab, every now and then youd go a little too hard and it would spilt open, spotting your top with crimson, but nonetheless it was much less of a hassle than before. You roll onto your back and rub your face, trying to massage any bit of sleepiness out and helping your eyes adjust to the soft lighting around you. Unhurriedly rising from cot, you get ready for the day ahead of you, taking your time as it was still quite early in the morning. You decide on a short sleeved shirt today, even though a bit of the coolness from nighttime still lingered in the air, it was surprisingly warm, and you know as the sun rises it will continue to heat up. You pair the short sleeved button up with a vest and jeans, finishing your look with your favorite hat and boots. You didnt put a ton of effort into your outfits, but you still liked to look nice, always making sure the colors complimented each other at least. You buckle your hip hostler around your waist, grab your bag, and out into the world you went.

The camp is already lively, aside from a couple people still trying to sleep in, and the air around the camp feels refreshing. Everyone has gotten comfortable in the newfound home, and things have ran pretty smooth the past couple weeks, money was slowly but surely coming into camp, and sometimes you were even able to forget that your beloved group was currently on the run. You notice Arthur and Hosea speaking ahead of you, but it seems you had just caught the end of their conversation, watching Hosea walk away talking about a book he was planning to read. You still take a couple of steps to Arthurs tent, eyes on him as he finishes the last drink of his coffee and turns to grab one of his guns, not quite noticing you yet. You speak up to grab his attention, “Mornin Arthur”

Hearing your voice, he holsters his gun and faces you, “Morning, Ms. L/N, you doin’ alright today?” Arthur reaches into his satchel and grabs a couple cigarettes, handing one out to you, his way of inviting you to chat for a moment. Growing up around everyone smoking had inevitably led you to doing the same, and now it was a habit that you didnt quite plan on breaking anytime soon.

You smile and grab the cigarette from between his fingers happily, “Im doing just fine, feels nice outside today… and you?” You pull the cigarette up to your lips and watch as Arthur grabs a match, using the bottom of his boot to light it, holding his other hand around the small flame to keep the breeze off of it. In true Arthur fashion, he brings it to your cigarette first, allowing you to lean in and take a deep drag in, encouraging it to light. Taking a few more puffs to ensure it was fully lit, you pull away, nodding him a thank you before he pulls it back to himself to copy you.

After he takes a drag, he responds “‘M good, about to head out to Valentine, Hosea said Javier and some of the other men were already there, figure its worth seein’ trouble theyre gettin’ themselves into.” He takes another drag of his smoke and looks down at you, arguably watching a little too close as you mimic his movements, taking a slow pull from your cigarette. His eyes glance back up to yours.

“Say, theres a stable in Valentine aint there? Ive been needin’ to get Lux some more treats, y’ mind if i come along?” Just like her name, your horses taste in treats were luxurious as well, making it no secret that she preferred fresh fruits over oatcakes and herbs, though you cant say you blame her. But because of this, you always tried to keep a few fruits around for her, and honestly over the past few weeks fresh fruit wasnt exactly widely available, so it had been a minute since she had her favorite snack. You figure it was about time you ride into town and get her some, your girl deserved it.

Arthur nodded “Course ya’ can, just remember, were lyin’ low right now” he pesters you, causing you to roll your eyes playfully and sigh.

“Fine, ill be on my best behavior.” You promise, going along with his teasing. “But only ‘cause you were kind enough to share a smoke with me.” You take a final drag of your cigarette, tossing it on the ground and stepping on it to ensure it was out.

Arthur does the same with his, and gestures his arm out in an “after you” manner, following behind you as you begin to walk to the horses. “If i woulda’ know i could buy your patience with tobacco, id’ve done it long before now.” He states, a pleased smile on his face. Banter like this was common between you and Arthur, hell the whole camp was always teasing and pestering each other- especially the ones that had been around for a long time.

Arthur was looking forward to going on a ride with you- it had been at least a 4 or 5 months since the last ride between just the two of you. He always enjoyed the conversations you guys had- feeling you often had a good insight or opinion on what was going on around camp. He figured it was some kind of womanly-intuition that he would never quite fully understand, though sometimes it was a little eerie how spot on you were with things.

“Im a simple woman Arthur Morgan” You say with a shrug, not bothering to look back at him. Sure you were.

Arthur chuckles a bit and shakes his head, and as the pair of you near your horses, you split for a moment to go saddle up. But of course, you cant go anywhere without setting a moment aside to appreciate your loyal mare. You grin as you walk up to her, “Theres my giiirl” you draw out, reaching out to pat her a couple of times. Lux responds with a satisfied snort, making you laugh a bit. You peck her on the cheek before moving back to place a couple items in your saddle bag, also ensuring you had anything you may need on your journey. Once you confirm this, you slip your boot through stirrup and hoist yourself up, tossing your leg over and centering yourself. You adjust a bit to get comfortable, and glance over to Arthur, only to see him waiting patiently, eyes already on you.

You pretend that noticing him watching you doesnt cause you to clam up a bit, and you try to hide it further with a cocky “Well whatchu’ waitin’ on? Lets go” and you ignore the bit of irony in your statement, obviously he was waiting on you. You had always thought Arthur was an attractive man, in fact, though he was a bit intimidating the first time you met him, you had a small crush on him when you first joined the group. You never really acted on it anyways, but once you found out about Mary it killed any dream of something more- you werent no home wrecker, and you werent going to lust over a man whos heart belonged to someone else. So, instead you got to know Arthur over the years as a good, loyal friend, and you were perfectly satisfied with that. There were a couple months a few years after Mary had gotten married where Arthursy have arguably been a little more than friendly, but you honestly didnt read into it all that much seeing as for the most part he was a gentleman towards most the women in the group.

It was quiet on the first couple minutes of the ride, a comfortable silence allowing you to enjoy the sounds of nature around you. Birds chirped from above, and the tree branches rustles from a squirrel jumping from limb to limb. Somewhere off in the distance you could hear an owl, and the nostalgic sound brought you back to your childhood home for a moment. You close your eyes just for a second to take it all in with a deep breath, exhaling with a sigh.

“Whatchu’ think of the new camp?”

Arthurs words pull you from your thoughts, but you dont answer right away- fully thinking through your feelings. “Its alright so far, obviously much better than Colter. Know we aint stayin’ here forever though- we really stirred the pot back there in Blackwater. I figure we still got a lot more runnin’ to do.” You look over your shoulder to him, “Were real far east. I aint heard of Valentine since… my father was alive” Your eyes shift as you mention your father. Thinking of him was never a pleasant experience for you, from the day you were born til the day you killed him he was a mean old bastard, and you didnt have much regret in ending his life.

Arthur hums in agreement, and he must notice the cogs turning behind your eyes because he, blunt as ever, continues with his questions. “You aint never talked much ‘bout your Pa- i mean, i know you put the old bastard outta’ his misery, but all these years and you aint ever said why.”

“Reckon i didnt think it mattered all that much” You state simply, your eyes now glued to the path in front of you. Thinking back on it, the only person in the camp you had ever told the full story to was Hosea, the night he had found you, walking aimlessly around in a blood soaked nightgown. You had sobbed to him, explaining everything that had happened- and instead of calling you crazy and turning you into the law, he simply listened and wrapped his jacket around you. Took you back to the camp and introduced you to everyone, saying youd be sticking around for a while. It surprised you that Hosea never fully told anyone what had transpired that night, but at the same time it made you feel like you could trust the older man even more. You considered him more of a father than your real dad was. “I mean, ive been in this group for 10 years and yer’ just now askin’ me- m’ shocked Hosea didnt tell you” you somewhat laugh as you speak.

“All Hosea ever said was that you killed ‘em, and that the lowlife deserved it, didnt get into the details” Arthur explained, eyes occasionally switching from the path to you. “Guess it aint really none of my business, but cant say ive never wondered”

“Well i never intended for it to be a secret or nothin’, if you wanted to know you coulda’ just asked me.” You try to stay light hearted about it- again your pride forcing you to act like nothing bothered you, like it wasnt extremely traumatic and the most painful moment in your life. “Whatchu’ wana know?”

Arthur answered “What drove you to killin’ ‘em, i guess”

“He- uhm-“ you try to speak and immediately fumble over your words, internally cursing yourself. This was already proving to be harder than you thought it would be- you hadnt talked about it in so long. So you clear your throat, slightly embarrassed, and collect your thoughts, fiddling with the reins in your grip. You take a deep breath and try again, “Well, he was always a mean man. Dont think i have a single memory where he was nice to me, and as i got older it just got worse. He’d come home and beat me for no good reason- just cause he had a bad day i suppose.” You could feel Arthurs eyes on you, but you refused to meet his. “Soon as i turned 18, he started tryin’ to sell me off for marriage- i was ecstatic, thought gettin’ married was my ticket out of that hell.” You recall the memories as you speak, all of them flashing through your head like a slideshow. In a weird way, saying it out loud felt unreal, like it was hard for your brain to accept that the words coming from your mouth described what used to be your life. It had been so long ago now, and you had separated yourself from it so much that it almost felt like an alternate universe or a bad dream. “But boy was i mistaken- That boy was just as mean as my Pa was, we had only been married ‘bout 2 weeks, n’ he came home one night, madder than a bull” your body involuntarily shudders, and you hope it goes unnoticed. “He was gonna kill me. Aint a doubt in my mind about it. But for the first time in my life i fought back- it was like somethin’ took over my body. Guess all those years of gettin’ beat on finally sent me over the edge- and… i killed him.”

You finally bring yourself to look over to Arthur, who had a somewhat surprised expression on his face. Not that this story changed his mind at all, but he always saw you as such a strong, independent woman- it was hard to imagine anyone taking advantage of you. Besides, Hosea had never mentioned that you killed your husband, or that you even had one in the first place. Different emotions flooded through his head as he took in the new information about your life, and he wasnt quite sure what to say yet, so he stayed silent, letting you continue on with your story.

“I didnt know what to do, or where to go, so i just went back home, all soaked in blood. Not quite sure what i was thinkin’- if i was thinkin’ at all. N’ when i made it back, there my Pa was, passed out drunk at the table. Its a good thing- ‘m sure he would’ve tried to kill me too if he had been awake, im sure i looked the part of a murderous woman. Thats when i noticed he was readin’ some book before he dosed off- and he wasnt ever the book readin’ type, so i grabbed it up n’ read one of the pages… n’ it was my Mommas journal” your eyebrows furrow. At this point your tone wasnt as calm as it once was, starting to break with a bit of anger, your knuckles now white from gripping the reins so hard. “Pages upon pages of how terrible my Pa was to her… beat her worse than he ever did me. Eventually i get to the pages from when she was pregnant… sayin she hoped for my life and hers that i was a boy. How scared she was of him and how violent he had gotten.” You have to pause to take a deep breath before you continue “and finally i get to a page that was dated the day before my birthday- He always told me that she died during birth, so i was expectin’ that to be the last page… except it wasnt. There were three more pages- talkin’ ‘bout how badly he had beaten her the night i was born, how she couldnt live like this anymore, and how she was gettin’ us outta there. Then it ended. Rest of the pages were blank…”

People say the body never forgets, and they must be right because as you recall the memories, you can feel your heartbeat increase and your stomach drop. It may not have been as strong of a feeling as it was that night, but you sure as hell felt it.

You swallow hard, “it took me a couple a’ seconds to put 2 n’ 2 together, but once i did, i went ballistic. Lost my damn mind. Grabbed a knife from the kitchen and stabbed ‘em… i dont know how many times.” Anger steadily flowing through your body remembering it all, you glare in no particular direction, but a wave of strength passes through you when you recall the moment you vowed to never let someone treat you badly again. “No matter how many it was, he deserved more.”

“Sounds like yer’ Pa got what was comin’ for ‘em. If you ask me, you did the world a service takin’ out those fools” Arthurs words pull you from your memory loop, “But remind me to never make you mad.” He adds, and his attempt to lighten the mood works. You appreciated that he focused on your resolution rather than pitying you for when you were young and weak. He wasnt going to mention it, but he did have a deeper empathy for your situation, seeing as his father wasnt particularly pleasant when he was a child either and his mother also died when he was young. He never expected pity for it, and he knew good and well you didnt either. It seemed the two of you were more similar than Arthur had realized.

You cant help but to huff out a laugh, fully accepting of shifting to a lighter mood after such a heavy topic. “You tend to stay on my good side Arthur, always been kind to me.” It was true, every since you joined the camp Arthur had looked out for you, despite your insists that you “dont need no ones help”, hell there had been more times than you could count on your fingers throughout the years where you had been particularly sassy torwards him after a long day, only for him to say “Now whatchu’ tryin’ to quarrel with me for darlin, i aint done nothin.” Your usual response was to just walk away with a huff, only to ‘apologize’ the next morning by handing him a cup of coffee, which he always accepted.

“Well Ms. L/N, ive seen how you handle business, you can be an intimidatin’ woman” Like stated previously, it was hard for him to even imagine someone taking advantage of you- because for the years hes known you, youve never taken shit from any man. He could recall countless times where he had seen you seriously injure men- there were even a couple of times where he watched you make grown men cry. He had no desire to be on the receiving end of your rage. But, it made him respect you all the more. Not to mention, now that you had been riding with the gang for a while, you had turned into quite the gunman. “I hope i remain on your good side.”

This makes you smile, and you happily entertain the thought of Arthur Morgan being intimidated by you “Well for your sake, i hope you remain on my good side as well Mr. Morgan.” You look over to him simply to show off the smug look on your face, and he cant help but to chuckle.

“Alright, dont go thinking yer’ Landon Ricketts or nothin’,” Arthur shakes his head at you with a grin, then looks back ahead of him, the small town of Valentine getting closer and closer. “Remember Ms. L/N, were lyin’ low, dont go stirin’ up trouble”

“Oh would you hush with that, you aint foolin’ no one” You slightly roll your eyes at his insists that you were the trouble maker in the group. “Where you headin first?”, as the two of you near the town, you want to get everything in line just incase something did happen. You werent planning on stirring anything up, but you werent exactly the type to shy down from a fight either, and if things go left you wanted to make sure you could regroup if need be.

“Figure theyre at the saloon, probably lazin’ about not getting anything productive done” he states plainly, by now you had entered the town, and the saloon was just right around the corner. The town was surprisingly alive this morning, lots of people walking around and sitting on porches having conversations.

You nod at him, and refrain from questioning their presence at a saloon this early in the morning. “Right, well ill meet you fellers there in a minute, gonna go ahead and get Lux her treats,” as you speak you give her a couple of affectionate pats, smiling down at the animal. “Catch ya’ in a few.” You barely give Arthur a chance to respond with a “Sounds good” before you nudge Lux softly to get her to pick up a little speed, heading off in the direction of the stables.

It only takes a couple more moments to reach the stables, and once you near them you position Lux right next to the barn doors, hopping off of her and hitching her to a near by post. You dont even have to say anything, the man running the stables walks over and greats you immediately, shortly following this with a “Wow! Shes a beauty, you aint lookin’ to sell are ya?”

“Oh no no no, she aint going anywhere anytime soon” You stand up straight and place your hands on your hips, “was actually just stoppin’ by to get her some snacks, some pears in particular” you quirk an eyebrow at him “y’all got pears, right?”

“Yer’ in luck Miss, we got plenty of pears-“

“How many?”

After a couple minutes of conversation, mainly you haggling him on the price since you were “gettin’ 20 pears! Deserve some kinda’ bulk deal or somethin” plus, flashing him a smile and batting your eyelashes a couple of times, you were able to bring the price down from $13 to $9, and that was a win in your book. You had thrown all the pears into a woven bag that you attached to the side Lux’s saddle, besides one, holding it right in front of your horse for her to smell, grinning at her and cooing, “Look what i got for ya’, Miss All Luxurious”

Lux wasted no time leaning in to bite the pear, loudly crunching the top half of it off, smacking her lips a bit as she continued to chew. Within a few seconds she was coming back in for the bottom half of the fruit, taking it from your grasp and drooling all over your hand. You groan “Aw man, C’mon Lux, really?” And flick your hand off to the side in attempts to get the drool off of you. You playfully glare at her and she huffs, still chewing away on her treat. “Well im glad you enjoyed it so much, yer’ welcome” You wipe the remaining bit of drool on your pants and rub her nose “lucky yer’ so damn cute” Sighing, you give her one final nose rub and take a step back “Alright, gonna go check on the men, you keep look out for me girl” talking away at her as if she could process a single word you were saying. She only blinks at you and you take that as a sign of acknowledgement, turning on your heels and heading off to the saloon.

As you walk alongside of the pathway through town, townsfolk great you here and there as they pass by, sometimes giving a bit of small talk about how it looked like it was about to rain or other pleasantries, nothing too interesting. Youre only about 10 foot away from the entrance of the saloon when you hear yelling coming from inside, and you just shake your head and sigh, “ah, shit”

You assumed that the likelihood of this yelling not having anything to do with your lovely group members was probably a zero, so you quicken your pace, making your way up the stairs of the saloon and preparing yourself for the mess inside. Just as youre about to push through the entrance you freeze hearing a loud crash of glass breaking to the left of you, and it almost seemed like the world was in slow motion as you watched the one and only Arthur Morgan come tumbling through the window, bouncing off of the porch and into the muddy street. Your eyes widen, hand immediately going to rest on your gun, you hadnt heard any gunshots yet, but you wanted to be prepared. Law didnt seem to be involved yet either, and you didnt want to be the one to start shooting and change that fact. The wooden boards beneath you begin to shake with heavy steps, and you move out of the way just in time as a large man bursts through the entrance of the saloon.

“Come on, pretty boy…” the large man mocks Arthur as we walks down the stairs, and when you look back over to the outlaw, hes already back on his feet, readying himself for more.

“Pretty boy? Yer’ kiddin’ me? Pretty boy??”

You have to suppress a laugh at this, and as you watch the men start fighting again you relax a bit, even though Arthur and the man were really going at it, you could tell this was not a situation that you needed to start shooting over- not yet at least- just a typical bar brawl, definitely not the first one you had witnessed, you figured it wouldnt be the last either. People steadily surround the two men, some chanting for more, some shouting for them to stop, but they kept on going, neither one planning on forfeiting. Figuring Arthur had it under control, you stride over to the porch next to the saloon, granting yourself a quick smoke as you leaned against one of the support beams and continued to watch the quarrel.

You had to give it to the man- ‘Tommy’ you had overheard the towns people calling him- he was putting up a good fight against your fellow gang member, effectively using his size to toss Arthur around a bit. Arthur was no small man, but Tommy had him beat by both weight and height. Most of the time you had seen the gunslinger fight, it was usually him strong-arming everyone else, so it was quite a sight to witness Arthur having to put a bit more thought into his movements, trying to keep a little extra space between him and the brute so he didn’t constantly sling him around. By this time it had started to rain, making the fight even messier than it already had been, mud and blood flinging around with even punch thrown. Even with him starting to adapt to Tommys fighting style, Tommy got one good grab around Arthurs neck and shoved him to the ground, and thats when you started to get a little nervous. You fully trusted in Arthurs fighting abilities, but watching as Tommy shoved his face into the mud, you were starting to take this brawl a little more seriously.

Cigarette still placed between your lips, you stood at full attention, readying yourself incase you needed to intervene, but before you could worry any longer, Arthur was able to reel back and place a hefty punch right against Tommys jaw. The large man stumbled back, losing his balance even more when he received a kick to the groin, which gave Arthur the perfect opportunity to grab the man and flip them over so Tommy was now the one squirming around in the mud, trying to regain his advantage. Arthur gives him no time to recoup as he begins laying punch after punch to the mans face, anger and adrenaline flowing through his veins, urging him to keep going despite the townsfolk now shouting for the fight to end. You just shake your head and huff out a laugh, relieved that Arthur was able to gain control over the situation.

You stay in your spot, leaning back against the support beam once again as an onlooker finally intervenes the quarrel, yelling for Arthur to stop, “You won the fight already, surely thats enough?” he continues to plead with him and Arthur finally releases the grip he had of Tommys shirt while he was striking him, the large man hitting the mud with a squelch.

They exchange a couple more words, before Arthur pushes by him, stumbling a bit as he pushes through the crowd of observers as well, making his way towards the porch you were currently watching from. Now that the townspeople had dispersed a little, you could see Tommy laying borderline lifeless on the wetted soil, face already swollen and all bloodied as the man who stopped the fight tried to bring him to his feet. Arthur had really messed him up- not that this surprised you any.

Rubbing his sore jaw, Arthur glanced up from the ground only to see you, arms folded across your chest and giving him a raised brow. He already knew what you were going to say, especially after all his remarks on the way here about ‘staying out of trouble.’ He places one of his hands on his back to help straighten his posture as he takes a couple steps up the stairs, then wiping some of the mud off of his face- mainly just smearing it everywhere rather than actually removing it. He waits for you to speak first but it doesnt come, you were just looking at him, small smirk on your face while you smoke, so he takes the initiative, “Well, you enjoy the show Ms. L/N?”

Your smirk slowly turns to a grin, and you nod “Sure i did.” you start, and as you speak you pull another cigarette from your satchel, using your own half-smoked cig to light the new one, then you hand it to him. He nods as a quick ‘thanks’ and graciously accepts, taking a drag of it as you continue to talk again. “Ya know,” you point the fingers that held your cigarette torwards him teasingly, “You’ve got a real interestin’ take on the phrase ‘lyin’ low.” Townsfolk continued to pass by as the two of you spoke, mumbling about the fight, and Arthur in general, sending the pair of you dirty looks.

Ah, there it was “Yeah i was waitin’ on that” he mumbled, as he spoke some of the mud made its way into his mouth, making him turn to the side and spit, the taste of mud and iron wasnt exactly pleasant. He tried to wipe around his mouth once again but only smeared it more than he previously had.

You roll your eyes at him and grab his arm, pulling him towards the other end of the porch with a “C’mere.” You had noted a barrel of water sitting farther down the porch when you had first made your way over, so you guided him to it, and once you were in front of it you reached into your satchel to grab a small rag. You dip it into the water with one hand, the other reaching up to softly grab his chin, and you bring the rag up to wipe his face off. Arthur doesnt even bother removing the cigarette between his lips, letting you work away at getting him cleaned up. As you scrub his face you suddenly notice how close the two of you are right now, and the gesture of wiping him off feels a lot more intimate than you intended it to be- hand on his face, only within a few inches of each other. Trying to ignore this thought, you refuse to meet his eyes that seemed to be staring into your soul, focusing on the few dots left of mud around the slit of broken skin on his cheek, being a little more gentle.

The closeness between the two of you didnt go unnoticed to Arthur either, and he wasnt going to admit it, but it felt nice. Unbeknownst to you, he had always thought you were an attractive woman as well, and he liked how you carried yourself. Strong and independent but also soft when you needed to be, extremely caring of those who mattered to you. And funny… sometimes. In his mind, he had made a move on you before- that time long ago, a bit after Mary had been wed- which mostly consisted of him saying something along the lines of “Ya’ look nice this evening Ms. L/N” or “Did you do somethin’ different with yer’ hair? Looks good like that” or other small compliments that you felt was just him being nice. So, since you never clearly showed that you reciprocated those feelings, he just figured you didnt see him in any special way. Maybe you saw him more as a friend, or a brother, or maybe just a no good outlaw, he wasnt sure, but he definitely wasnt going to be the one to make things awkward. All that aside, what man wouldnt enjoy a pretty woman taking care of him after a fight.

You look him over one final time for any last specks of mud- on his face at least- and as you do, you accidentally lock eyes with his for a moment, your hand still resting on his chin. Those couple seconds feel much longer than they actually were, and even with your gentle treatment of his wounds, the one on his cheek still continues to drip a bit of blood down his face. ‘God, how does he still look so handsome, all covered in mud and blood’ you think to yourself, and you have to pull away before your face starts to heat up, now avoiding his gaze. You try to distract yourself from the tension between the two of you by ringing out the rag, recalling the fight once again “Thought that big brute had ya’ there for a second”

Arthur shakes his head “Naw, that fool? I had it under control.” With the way you pulled back from his so quickly, he once again dismisses any possibility of you seeing something in him, ‘Dont get ahead of yourself Morgan’ he repeats in his head, shutting out the thought completely. Hes grateful as he hears a voice shout to him, pulling him from his thoughts and successfully distracting him for the moment.

“Making friends again I see, Arthur.”

You also are pulled from your thoughts, looking up to see Trelawny and Dutch making their way closer. You thank the stars that you didnt have to think of something else to say to Arthur, shifting your full focus to the men in front of you, allowing them to take the spotlight.

“Ah, and Ms. Y/N L/N, hello my dear.” Josiah continues, and you smile at him, waving a hello. He was always a kind man, slippery, but very informative- very grandeur and very sneaky, but not quite one to get his hands dirty, he left that to the professionals.

“Look who we found sniffing about.” Dutch gestures to the man, and Trelawny takes a bow, formal as ever.

“Josiah Trelawny” Arthur smiles a bit, not having seen their old associate in a while. “Well well… I thought youd gone to New York” he laughs and everyone continues to catch up for a moment, Josiah recalling his first hand experience with how badly the gang had stirred stuff up in Blackwater, while Arthur takes a seat on the stairs. It had been weeks and Blackwater was still up in arms, not necessarily surprising you, but not great news to hear either. After a couple more seconds, Charles, Javier, and Bill finally make their way over, all looking equally at roughed up as Arthur, just not quite as muddy, and Trelawny greets them all just as well.

Arthur speaks up mentioning Blackwater once again, “We left a lot of money there.” And Trelawny finally drops the big news,

“And young Sean it seems”

“Sean?” You and Dutch both reconfirm, and your eyes widen. You remembered your conversation a couple weeks ago with Karen, you knew she would be beyond happy to hear this. You were happy as well, even though Sean could be a bit much at times, you had to admit, he was funny and always brought a lightness to camp.

“Youve found him?” Dutch presses more, almost unbelieving at the news, shocked they hadnt killed him already.

“Yes, I have. Hes being held by some bounty hunters, trying to see how much the government will pay them. I know hes in Blackwater… but theres talk of them moving” Josiah confirms with a nod, looking between the lot of you as he speaks.

Arthur speaks up, rubbing his jaw as he finally rises “Well if we step foot in Blackwater… well then were dead men for sure”

You nod regarding Arthurs statement “Already lost folk in Blackwater. Dont need to lose no more but… we cant just leave ‘em there” you shake your head, the gruesome image of Sean getting the noose flashing in your brain. They would definitely hang him for that business in Blackwater.

Dutch hums in approval “Exactly… There’ll be Pinkertons all over the place, but… if hes alive we gotta try”

“Yeah, of course” Arthur mumbles under his breath, nodding along with everyone.

Josiah talks lowly as he mentions “Its you they want Dutch.” As if saying it too loudly would alert someone near by.

Dutch simple shrugs it off with an “Always Is.” And seems unconcerned completely about it. You werent sure if it was a facade or if he really just didnt believe it was a big deal, but you personally thought it was a much bigger situation than he was willing to admit. Dutch begins giving everyone their orders, ordering Charles to get some more info, Josiah to take Javier to Blackwater, and ordering Arthur to get cleaned up and meet the other men there. “Y/N, you go as well, keep them from causing too much trouble” he adds with a charming smile, and you give a curt nod in response.

The group disperses and you follow behind Arthur figuring the two of you could ride together once more, watching as he makes his way over to the barrel of water once again, splashing some of it on him to get the remainjng bit of mud out of his hair and neck. He runs his fingers through his hair and looks back at you, looking all ready to go with your hand on your hip holster.

“Ill go saddle up.” You state plainly, and turn to walk away, but Arthur catches your attention before you can get too far.

“Why dont you just… stay back for this one cowgirl, Blackwater’s real dangerous right now”

You turn and furrow your eyebrows at him, hands immediately moving to your hips as you stood there, looking at him like you had to process what he just said. “Stay back?” You say it like it was an insult. “Dutch told me to go.”

Arthur Whistles for his horse, and takes some steps closer to your position next to the end of the porch, waiting for his mare get closer. He sighs “I know what Dutch said, but Javier and Charles are gonna be there too, plus Trelawny- we got plenty of good men goin’,” As his horse trots in front of him, he walks ahead, already saddling up as he continues to speak “Why dont you… head back to camp? Tell Karen were bringin’ Sean home, she’ll be happy to hear”

Now looking up at him, towering over you from his horse, your furrowed brows deepen as you glare at him, hat protecting your eyes from the bit of rain that continued to fall here and there. “Since when was i the messenger man?” You ask sarcastically, he should have known better than to think you were going to let this go easily. “You aint never questioned my abilities before, whats the problem?” You ask, a bit more serious now.

“There aint no problem Ms. L/N, just… dont need you gettin’ shot again” He was just concerned about your safety, but by the look on your face that was the wrong thing to say.

You scoff at him “Oh, i see, just cause i get shot one time means that i cant carry my own anymore” you throw your arms up in a should-have-been-obvious fashion, then placing them back on your hips, your disapproval evident even in your body language. “You know, you wouldnt be saying that if i was one of the men, Johns been out helping, he got shot and attacked by wolves but i dont see anyone sa-“

“Come on now Darlin’, would’ya just listen t’me for a second” and his words quickly silence you, especially the use of the nickname, and he tries to come up with something that will make you a bit more agreeable. “The three of us are gonna be gone for a bit, need someone to hang back n’ protect camp incase somethin’ goes wrong.”

You give your usual huff at the petname, still not convinced. You felt like a child who got tasked with a simple job by an adult to feel like they were included in helping. Not a feeling that was enjoyed one bit. “And what? If i try to go, yer’ gonna stop me?” You tilt your head to the side.

Arthur is now furrowing his eyebrows at you as well, becoming a little more serious, “Stop bein’ difficult and let me take care of it” tone coming out a bit more demanding than he meant for it to, so he softens his brows and adds a “Please”

You scan his features for a moment, trying to think of someway to change his mind, but finally you sigh, looking away from him. “Fine.” You huff and start walking away, “But this aint becomin’ a common occurrence Arthur,” as you get farther from him, you increase your voice level, assuring he can hear you. “Only reason im agreein’ to it’s cause i got other… work related things to tend to” you choose your words carefully, not needing the towns people knowing that you had a fool nearby to rob. Shouldnt be too hard of a job either, you had overheard some woman a couple days ago blabbing on about how she had recently married into a lot of money- some man who's daddy traded slaves. Her and her newly wed husband were going on a trip, leaving "that nice big house near Citadel Rock" unattended for a couple days, vulnerable and at risk. You knew the one she was talking about, you had rode by it plenty in your few weeks at Horseshoe Overlook. So despite your indifference at the moment you turn back to him, a defeated look on your face, and you speak a little softer than you were before, "Be safe for godsake... aint nothin' good waitin' on you in Blackwater... 'except Sean I guess"

Arthur tips his hat at you with a "Yes ma'am. You be safe too." then glances back up "Though Sean being something' good is debatable." Typical Arthur, always quick to offend but equally as quick to put his head on the line for someone. He nudges his horses side with his foot, muttering a small “Lets go girl”, he gives her a couple pats, and as he passes by you he speaks once more “Ill see ya’ back at camp”

You only nod, still not exactly happy that you were being left out of a mission, and before you know it, you look up and Arthur was long gone. You couldnt wrap your head around it. You had been gunslinging with Arthur for years, why was he being shifty about it so suddenly? As you walk to Lux, your mind continues to ruminate on what could have possibly brought this on. Your gunshot wound had healed up plenty by now, you could easily defend yourself with little issue, was that really why he didnt want you to go? You had been hurt before with all your years of gunslinging and it was never a problem then, what changed? Maybe he was just using that as an excuse and you had made it awkward just then, when you so gently tended to him after the fight, and he no longer felt comfortable around you.

You try to dismiss these thoughts, telling yourself this was not the first time you had tended to Arthur after an injury- Hell, you had even done it for other men in the camp before. But why did you clam up so much this time? You sigh, now finally back to Lux. Per usual, you take a minute to love on her, giving her plenty of pats as you use her as a distraction from your running thoughts. Why were you second guessing yourself so much? You try to blame it on the fact that you were just stressed about all the Blackwater business, plus Pinkertons becoming more and more of an issue, ‘Its the only thing that would make sense’ you think.

Finally climbing on top of Lux you head off in the direction of Citadel Rock. You allow the thought of how much money would be in this house to calm your previous anxieties, slave trading money was unfortunately no joke, and you had no problem at all stealing everything from someone who thought it was acceptable to sell a human being. Youd put the money to better use anyways. The house should be completely uninhabited, but you never know what you might run into- as usual, you always wanted to be prepared. Citadel Rock was just down the beaten path from Valentine, and it shouldnt be much farther before you get there.

As you listen to the gallops of Lux’s feet hitting the ground- a sound that has became comforting to you over the years- you take in the scenery of the east. It was about mid-day at this point, the sun covered by a few lingering clouds offered shade that made the temperature feel perfect, and you watched as a small group of deer ran off, spooked at your sudden presence. You decide that after your house breaking, youd bag a deer before you head back to camp. They seemed to be everywhere around here, shouldnt be too hard of a task. You finally near the house, and just as expected no one seems to be around. ‘Perfect, ill be in and out’

Little did you know, despite telling himself not to ruminate on it, Arthur was also slightly overthinking your actions earlier, and his lengthy ride to Blackwater gave him plenty of time to do so. He always thought that if he had never met Mary, maybe you would have been easier for him to pursue- after the whole situation between Arthur and Mary, his relationship with love was untrusting. But he always thought you were a good woman, and it was easy to get carried away with the ‘what ifs’. He wasnt sure why, but it was like what happened between the two of you earlier awoken a once forgotten crush, and he felt ridiculous for even thinking about you in this light. He thought he was too old to be feeling smitten. Arthur knew you were a caring person, you were probably just being nice, he was just being illogical with this. It didnt help that he had been interacting with you a lot these past couple weeks since you had been hanging around camp more and your tent was pretty close to his.

He rubbed his face, still somewhat sore from the fight, with a sigh as he finally reached Blackwater, how did he allow hisself to contemplate this almost the entire ride over here? Arthur was glad you finally agreed to hanging back for this, he wasnt quite sure if he could have handled the ride over with you by his side whilst he thought all of this. The last thing he wanted to do was look like a fool in front of you, though he definitely already had throughout your years with the gang, maybe just in a different sense than what was currently going on. He tried his best to shove these thoughts aside as he rode deeper into Blackwater, he needed to be on alert and prepare hisself for this upcoming adventure, not yearning for a woman.

Arthur finally spots his fellow men, and he figures once he can get involved with this, he’ll be too distracted to worry about his current predicament, so he hops off his horse and makes his way over on foot, crouching as he gets near. And sure enough, as the rest of the men catch him up on everything, his mind finally wanders from you to his current objective, and he temporarily forgets about it all. Untill he sees you again, that is.

The days that follow are less tense than Din thought they would be. Really, he’s the only one making things tense. You told him you loved him, took it a step further and declared him the love of your life, told him you count Grogu and the baby in your womb as lucky to have him as a father.

He’s not so sure. What kind of father is he if he can’t tell the mother of his children that he reciprocates her love? He’s never said those words in the romantic sense, and hasn't used those words since his biological parents died.

You haven’t stopped touching him. Last night, you pulled his arm over your waist and covered his hand on your belly. At breakfast today, you caressed his shoulder while he fed Grogu.

The way you speak to him hasn’t changed. You still tell him when the baby’s overly active, about something silly Grogu did when Din wasn’t looking. You’ve asked what the flight plans are, what he wants to eat, and you even asked him if he’s ever gotten a sunburn, to which he answered with a stare.

You’re not upset that he hasn’t told you he reciprocates your love. You’re not holding it against him. So why is he? Why is he beating himself up over it?

The answer comes to him fairly quickly; he doesn’t feel worthy of your love. Not for a second. Yes, he tries to be worthy of you. He does. But every day he grapples with what to actually do, trying to decide what he even believes in anymore. 

You’re kind and soft and friendly, and he’s grumpy and harsh and not very welcoming.

Yet, apparently, you love him… You love him, and you’ve taken in Grogu as your own, and you’re happy to carry his unborn baby inside of you, and you love him.

Right now, you’re both in the cockpit. Grogu’s in your lap, perched on top of your belly while Din sets the navigation system for a nearby planet to hunt his next bounty.

Din looks over his shoulder at you and his son, and you smile softly. 

“Are we all set?” you ask softly.

He nods. “Yeah. Should be a few hours.”

About thirty minutes after takeoff, you fall asleep, and Grogu toddles off your lap and up Din’s.

“Hey, kid,” he murmurs to his son. 

Grogu only coos in response.

“Y’know, when the baby comes, I’ll need your help to keep things running smoothly for your mom. I hear newborns take the energy from their parents, their mothers in particular. All I need from you is for you to stay on your best behavior. Can you do that for me?”

Grogu nods, a serious look on his face.

“You’re a good kid, pal. Mhm, and your mom’s got you wrapped around her finger, huh? She’s better at the discipline voice than I am. Hm… She’s got me wrapped around her finger, too.”

Grogu just smiles up at his father.

There’s a moment of silence, and then Din continues, an epiphany happening in real time. “Besides you, she’s the best thing to ever happen to me.”

You begin to stir then, and Din turns the pilot’s chair to face you. Your eyes are tired as you rub them with one eye and your belly with the other. 

“Do you need anything?” he asks.

You shake your head and stand from your chair.

“I’m gonna go to bed. You got him?” you ask, stepping closer to caress Grogu’s head.

Din nods and lets you  take hold of his hand.

“Sure you’re okay?” he asks softly.

You nod and bring his hand to the side of your belly, where he’s greeted with a kick.

“He’s restless,” you say with a yawn. “Wearing me down is all. I’ll see you in the morning?”

Din’s heart stops at the sound of the word he. Usually, you and he simply say they or the baby. Mother’s intuition must be stronger than he previously thought.

He nods and runs his hand over the side of your belly. “Of course. Good night.”

As you descend the ladder and head to bed, you try not to think about the fact that Din is so tense, so awkward, more so than usual. You hope it’s not all because of what you said. You can only hope it won’t affect the baby.

A few hours later, Din lands the Crest in Nevarro. It’s late. He tucks Grogu into bed, washes up, then heads to bed himself. 

He slips in behind you, and for the first time in days, he initiates touch. His hands are warm and protective on your belly. He kisses the back of your head and sighs. 

“Baby?” you mumble softly, barely coherent.

“I’m here,” Din whispers, a possessive tone creeping into his voice. “I got you. You’re mine, you hear that? I’m not going anywhere. It’s you and me, Grogu, and the baby. Nothing else matters.”

You’re barely awake, but you take in every word and let them wash over your body. 

“I love you,” you whisper, covering one of his hands with yours. 

Din kisses your hair and whispers back, “I got you, pretty girl.”

Your breathing evens out again, and Din murmurs against your hair, “Mhi solus tome, mhi solus dar’tome, mhi me’dinui an, mhi ba’juri verde.”

It doesn’t matter to him that you don’t understand what he’s saying, that you’re probably asleep. He means those words with his entire being, and one day, he’ll repeat those vows to you when you’re aware of them being spoken, and when you’ll speak them back to him with a smile on your face. 

///

Now, as your due date becomes more imminent, you don’t do much besides feed yourself and Grogu. You used to take the child on little adventures while Din was out on a job, but that is no longer the case. 

Your feet are swollen, and your back aches. You can’t keep up with a creature as quick as Grogu anymore. 

Din’s just finished his last bounty before the baby comes. The plan is to head to Naboo to have the baby, but Din wants to take Grogu on one last family outing before the baby arrives.

You’re lying down in bed, a book in your hands, when Din comes in, clad in only his pants and his helmet.

He kneels in front of the bed and takes your hand in his. You drop the book, open so you don’t forget your page, resting it on top of your bump.

“Would you be up for one last outing with just the three of us?” he asks softly, rubbing his thumb back and forth on the back of your hand.

You sigh deeply, a great effort on your part these days with how little room the baby inside you leaves your lungs to do it.

“What kind of outing?” you ask, eyes fixed on the contours of Din’s chest, his abdomen. His pants sit low on his hips, revealing his V-line, completely and utterly tantalizing you.

“Low energy,” he says, and it sounds like a vow. “Something fun for Grogu, that’ll make him feel special. Perhaps a holographic for children?”

You smile softly at the idea and nod.

“I think that sounds nice,” you say.

And that’s what the three of you do the next day. You wake to the view of the metal wall. You can feel Din’s body warmth as he drapes his arm over your waist, his hand covering your belly button.

His cock is hard, like it is most mornings, poking you in your lower back.

You don’t want to move; you want to stay here, with his warmth pressing into you, but the baby shifts inside of you, and your current position is no longer comfortable.

As you try to shift to get more comfortable, Din grabs your hips in his sleep, though it’s clear he’s waking up now.

“Feels good,” he mumbles, nearly incoherent.

You whimper at the rough sound of his voice, but also at the dull ache in your hips.

Din doesn’t realize he’s prolonging your discomfort when he starts humping you. You feel the outline of his cock through your panties. He didn’t wear boxers to bed, and he’s so warm this way. It almost takes your mind off how badly your body is telling you to lie on your back or switch the side you’re lying on.

The sound of his skin moving against the soft fabric of your panties isn’t helping either. That, paired with his deep breathing, has you leaking into said panties.

He moves one hand forward, pulling up the t-shirt you wore to bed so he can feel the warm, taut skin of your bump while he keeps humping you.

You feel his breath on your neck, then he dips his head against the base of your skull, and you almost cry out.

He hasn’t been this needy this early in a while, and it’s a lot to take in.

“Din.” Your voice is almost a sob, and that’s when he stops moving his hips.

“Sweetheart?”

He mumbles for you to close your eyes, and as you do, he gently turns you over to lie on your back, and that’s when you let out a deep sigh of relief.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, his tone concerned.

“Nothing’s wrong,” you murmur, slightly out of breath from the slight excitement. 

Din furrows his brow. “You sounded… I’ve made you whine plenty of times, and never has it ever sounded like that. Did I do something? Did I hurt you? The baby?”

You shake your head. “I was just tired of that position. My hips started aching.”

You aren’t saying it to make him feel bad or to gain pity. Din knows that. But the fact that he unknowingly prevented you from getting comfortable when comfort is so rare for you these days makes his stomach twist.

Din kisses your cheeks, then your lips.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, and it almost sounds like his heart is breaking.

It’s kind of sweet.

“I’m okay. Just par for the course at this point, right?”

Din hums discontentedly to himself, like the idea of you in any sort of pain, no matter how normal and little worry is actually warranted, makes him angry.

He lies his head on your pillow, facing your cheek. If you keep your eyes trained on the ceiling, you won’t see his face. For some reason, he really wants you to open your eyes, even though there’s the danger of you seeing his face.

“Open your eyes. Look straight up at the ceiling,” he whispers, his lips tickling your ear as he speaks.

You moan softly, like the danger that you might see his surely perfect face excites you. Slowly, you open your eyes, and though you’re only met with the metal of the ceiling, you’re pleased with your current situation.

“How can I make you feel better, pretty girl?” he purrs in your ear.

You whine in response at first, then he nips at your earlobe. 

“Come on. Be a good girl and let me help you…”

“Mm… Your mouth. Please, Din,” you moan, on the verge of begging.

He smiles, pulls the covers down, then kisses down the length of your body, from your neck to your breasts, making sure to give each of your nipples a peck, then your belly, all the way down to your clothed cunt, which is dripping through the fabric.

“Got wet just from my morning wood?” he teases, nuzzling his nose between your folds through your panties.

“Unh! Fuck, yes, Din,” you whine.

He smiles and kisses you there, his saliva dripping through the fabric. Eventually, he pulls your panties down your legs, then plants a real, sloppy kiss to your juicy cunt, practically making out with it as he teases your hole with the tip of his tongue, moaning against you like he’s eating his favorite snack.

“Oh, shit, Din!” you cry out in pleasure. Your hands go to bury themselves in his hair to encourage him, which pulls a groan of pleasure from Din that reverberates throughout your entire body.

You can feel the smile that’s now adorned on his lips against your pussy, which pulls out another moan from your throat.

“Gonna come? Hm? Gonna come just from me licking your pussy?” Din rumbles against you.

“You’re not just licking my pussy–Motherfucker!”

His teeth graze your clit, and it’s like your whole body is on fire.

“Come on, sweetheart. Come for me. Let me see how good you’re feeling. You’re so sensitive these days, respond to my touch so quickly… Let me see how I made it all better for you.”

With a few more whines, Din pulls your orgasm from you like free-flowing water. He continues to lick you as you come down, then wipes his chin on the back of his hand.

He comes up, kissing your belly on his way, then lies next to you, finding your eyes still trained on the ceiling.

“I bet we can lie here about five more minutes before the kid wants breakfast. Which I will handle today,” Din murmurs, his lips moving against your shoulder.

“Thank you,” you sigh, still breathing heavily.

“No problem.”

Din ends up being right, and a few minutes later, Grogu’s coos, begging for attention, are heard from outside the door.

After breakfast, Din lands the Crest and takes you and Grogu to the theater. It’s mid-morning, so it’s not too busy inside, save for a few other families with small children.

Another mother congratulates you, tells you that you’re glowing. You hear it all the time, and you swear each time Din hears people say it to you, he beams with pride under his helmet.

Inside the theater, Grogu’s eyes stay trained on the screen the entire time, making soft cooing sounds of awe and amazement, occasionally giggling at specific scenes.

Din’s pretty sure you doze off a few times, and he doesn’t blame you. He’s just glad Grogu is having fun with both his parents before there’s a new baby to share all their attention with.

///

It’s late when Din enters the bedroom after putting Grogu down. He quietly opens and shuts the door to his small bedroom, thinking you’re asleep. He begins removing his armor, quietly setting each piece down, hoping not to wake you.

“Don’t have to be so quiet,” you mumble softly. “Your baby won’t let me sleep.”

He looks over to see your eyes open, head lying between your pillow and his. You probably wanted to smell his scent while he was gone. One of your hands rests on top of your bump, trying fruitlessly to calm the energetic baby inside.

“Sorry,” Din whispers, like it’s his fault the baby is so active right now.

He continues undressing, now in just his boxers and helmet. On his way to the bed, he picks up the silk sleep mask you’ve been wearing to bed recently, so you don’t have to sleep in the same position every night. He helps you put it on, then you hear the hiss of his helmet clicking off. 

The sheets rustle as Din joins you in bed, his hands immediately going to your bump, half covered by the now too-small tank top you once loved wearing to bed.

He gently presses against your skin, alerting the child within you to their father’s presence. He leans down and kisses your stomach, murmuring against your skin, “Please go easy on your mother, little one. Your big brother is rambunctious enough for her to handle without you using her organs as punching bags.”

You smile softly at the gentle scolding from father to unborn child. You also can’t deny how good it feels to hear him refer to Grogu as the little one’s “big brother.” You enjoy the notion that the four of you will be one family. Or clan. You’re still not too sure what language Din would prefer.

He kisses your bump one last time before laying his head next to yours, gently rubbing his forehead against yours, grateful for human contact for the first time in hours.

“Tomorrow I’ll set the course for Naboo,” he rumbles in your ear. “You can bring our child into this world on a peaceful planet.”

You hum softly so he knows you heard him. “Sounds perfect.”

Din rubs his warm hand across the globe of your belly, pushing up your tank top while he does.

“Do you have everything you need?” he asks softly. “I heard some women like to bring certain things with them when they deliver their children to make things more comfortable.”

He sounds shy, like he’s nervous he’ll say the wrong thing. 

You open your eyes, but are met with the black silk of your sleeping mask.

Right.

“I actually do have a list of things to get from the market once we’re in Naboo,” you reply with a yawn. “Just a few comforting items.”

Din nods even if you can’t see, but you can hear it. You hear his (probably) gorgeous hair rustle against his pillowcase with the movement.

“I’ve set aside a few credits just for that,” he tells you, his thumb stopped just above your belly button. 

You smile and feel your once again shut eyes well with tears behind your sleep mask.

“Thank you,” you murmur, and Din can hear the emotion in your voice.

He leans forward and gently kisses your lips.

“Sleep,” he orders gently.

///

After setting the course, Din tells you it will take about two days to get to Naboo. You nod in understanding and sigh, hoping you'll make it the two days without going into labor.

The first day of traveling is fine. Din spends most of it cleaning his weapons, while you fold and re-fold all the baby clothes. Grogu is either floating around or playing with his ball; you're not sure. Din said he’d keep an eye on him to give you a peaceful travel day.

By the time Din gets Grogu down for bed, you’re already cuddled up in bed. Din slips his armor off, stripped down to his boxers and helmet. He reaches for your sleep mask and hands it to you.

Once it’s on, he removes his helmet and slips into bed next to you. He wraps his arms around you and rests a hand on your bump. The baby appears to be resting, which he silently thanks his lucky stars for. All he wants is for you to be as comfortable as possible.

“Thank you for doing this,” he whispers against your hair.

You’re barely awake and don’t really have a clue what he's talking about. “Hm?”

“This,” he mumbles, punctuating the words by gently pressing against your bump. “I care deeply for Grogu, but I never thought I’d...have this.”

“Oh. Well, it’s, y’know, just how it happened,” you mumble.

Din grumbles out a sound of disapproval. 

“It may not have been planned, but it is everything to me. It’s not something I ever thought would happen, much less the way it’s happened, but I cannot begin to explain to you how much it means to me. You are giving me a child who is half you. You are amazing, and I could never thank you enough.”

You sigh. That’s probably the most words to ever leave Din’s mouth in such a short window of time. You bring your hand up to cup his cheek. His facial hair, you’ve learned, is sparse, but you love it. He has a full mustache, but patches on his cheeks and jaw. It’s grown out a bit, soft against your palm.

He’s opened up to you, told you what happened to his parents, the story of how he came to be a Mandalorian foundling. His parents died, and even though the Mandalorians took him in, he was still alone in the world. No one took responsibility for him in the way a parent would. 

He was a clan of one for decades until he met Grogu, and he’d struggled with feelings of inadequacy. Maybe Grogu deserves more than just a father who struggles to whisper sweet nothings in his son’s ear when he’s had a nightmare. 

Then you came along, and Din felt something settle. And when you got pregnant, he was definitely scared, but he knew it was right. His parents would live on with him and could continue to do so through this child. 

You don’t know what it’s like to live the life that Din has, but you can understand why this all means so much to him. 

“Don’t worry about thanking me too much,” you mumble sleepily. “Just be here.”

Din turns his face to kiss your open palm. Your lips curl up slightly to smile, then he leans forward to gently press his lips against yours. Chaste, soft, sweet.

“I am here,” he rasps, taking your hands, bringing your knuckles to his lips. “I am here, and you don’t have to worry about anything.”

///

In the morning, you wake to an empty bed, though Din’s side is still warm. You open the door and see Din and Grogu sitting at the small table, eating breakfast. Din has the helmet off, back to you.

You pad over to them and wrap your arms around Din’s chest from behind. You kiss the crown of his head. You’ve never seen his hair in the light. A few times, you’ve seen the back of his head in the darkness of the bedroom, but never in the morning light. It’s magnificent. 

“Sleep okay?” he asks, covering one of your hands with his.

“I’ve slept worse.”

He squeezes your hand and brings your knuckles to his lips, then reaches for his helmet so he can turn around and look at you.

“We should land on Naboo by this time tomorrow,” he says, looking up at you through the visor of his helmet.

Grogu coos beside Din, eager for your attention.

You brush past Din, dropping your hands from his body, and pick Grogu up, who perches himself on top of your bump.

“He’s excited,” Din murmurs, and you swear by the cadence of his voice that he’s smiling beneath the helmet.

You smile down at Grogu, and he babbles something at you, clearly very excited you’ve woken up.

“Are you excited?” you ask softly, directing the question to Din.

Din nods slowly. “I am. Are you?”

He’s sweet, perceptive, and so caring. He didn’t use to be. He softened slightly when you started having sex, but it seems almost all his walls fell the minute you told him you were pregnant.

“Oh, I’m just trying to get through these last few days,” you murmur. 

“I wasn’t aware of just how difficult these final stages are,” Din says, his tone sympathetic. “I feel sorry for being responsible.”

You sigh and take a seat next to him. 

“You should,” you deadpan. Then you smile. “It’s okay, Din. I’m tough.”

Underneath the helmet, he smiles. “I know you are.”

///

You spend most of the day pacing around the hull, trying to alleviate the aches in your body. When you’re not pacing, you’re sitting at the table with Grogu, playing whatever game he likes. 

Throughout the day, you have a few back spasms. They’re painful, and at one point, you have to stop what you’re saying to Grogu when one of the spasms gets intense. 

Din looks up from his spot on the floor where he’d been cleaning one of his blasters, concern in his body language, his brow furrowed beneath the helmet. 

“Mm. Fuck. Okay.” You look from a frightened Grogu to a concerned Din. “I’m okay. Gotta be those practice pains or something. I’m okay.”

Din doesn’t say anything and eventually goes back to cleaning his gun, but his heart is about to beat out of his chest. 

Grogu scoots closer to you, like he hopes to keep you safe with his presence. 

By the time you get an anxious Grogu down for bed, you’re exhausted, and your body is beyond sore. 

You head to the shower and hope the warm water will help alleviate your pain. 

Outside, at the table, Din hears your occasional soft groans of pain over the sound of the shower hitting the shower floor. It breaks his heart, and he has half a mind to barge in there and demand that you tell him how he can help you. 

However, he knows you’d call for him if you needed help, and that you’ll tell him when you’re sure you’re in labor. Plus, at this point, he’s getting anxious, so he instead heads up to the cockpit to check the time left until you all arrive in Naboo. 

He’s disappointed to read that there are thirteen hours left on the clock. Can you last that long? 

As Din descends the ladder, he hears the shower turn off, then watches you walk out of the small bathroom, a baggy sleep shirt and boy-short panties the only things covering your swollen body. 

He’s immediately at your side, gently hovering his hand underneath your elbow. 

“Sweetheart? Are you alright? More false labor, or is it something more?” he asks calmly, his tone not reflecting how he feels on the inside at all. 

You whimper softly and wrap your arms around his neck. 

“I don’t know. Shit, it hurts, but I can’t tell if they’re consistent,” you say, your voice wavering. 

Din nods in understanding. “It’s okay. Why don’t you lie down or sit, and I’ll time everything? Does that sound alright?”

You nod and slowly waddle into the bunk and sit back against the metal wall while you try to get comfortable in bed. 

Clad in only pants and his helmet, his bare hand holds yours. Still sitting next to you, he leans down and pulls a stopwatch out of the drawer beneath the bed, at the ready for your next pain, which comes three minutes later. 

After over an hour of consistent contractions, Din asks you with a shaky voice, “What do you want to do?”

You just look at his visor with a pained look on your face. 

Din sighs. “I can send out an emergency signal—”

“No.” You shake your head. “We land in Naboo in the morning. I can make it. First babies are supposed to take longer to come.”

“He’s coming two weeks early already,” Din points out.

Your stomach twists. “Still. The labor should take upwards of a day.”

“You’ve been in pain all day.”

“Not active labor,” you counter, your teeth gritting. 

“So what do we do?” Din asks, the frustration evident in his voice and demeanor. 

“I’m going to labor in the comfort of my own bed,” you say simply. 

Really, it’s not that comfortable a bed. The thought of you being in pain for hours on end with no relief, no midwife or doctor to check your progress, no medical equipment fit for labor and delivery in sight, is terrifying to Din. 

But he doesn’t want strangers telling him where to land over the comms system and infiltrating the Crest to wheel you out to a low-grade medical center any more than you do. 

Laboring in bed will have to do. 

“Okay,” Din says softly. “Okay, I’m here.”

Over the next few hours, Din does everything in his power to keep you comfortable. He helps readjust your position when you get sore. He rubs your back and hips to help alleviate your pain. He even stimulates your nipples when you ask him to, and doesn’t make you explain the science behind the excerpt you read about this, even though he’s dying to know. 

He holds your hand when you pace around the hull, lets you dig your fingernails into the back of his neck when a contraction comes, and all the while, he whispers praise in your ears.

When a particularly painful contraction washes over your body, Din keeps firm hands on your hips and doesn’t complain when he feels blood pool underneath your fingernails at the back of his neck. 

He whispers in your ear, “You’re doing so good, pretty girl. So good. Your body knows what she’s doing. You’ve got this, and I’ve got you. I’m here, sweetheart, I promise.”

You whimper softly in response, and when the contraction eases, you rest your head between his pecs and sigh.

Throughout the whole laboring process, you’ve been relatively quiet. One of the last things you want is to wake Grogu, causing anxiety and upset. You limit yourself to low groans, soft gasps, and whimpers. 

Slowly, you raise your head from Din’s chest and look straight at his visor.

“Get my mind off of this,” you whine softly. “Please, Din.”

Din stutters for a moment and feels frozen for a moment before his thumbs press deeper into your hips. “Um, what names have you thought of for him?”

You let out a soft moan of pain and a huffy breath.

“I… Fuck. M-Maybe Ezra. Finn is good. I don’t know,” you pant, a line forming between your eyebrows. “How about you?”

Din sighs and gives it a moment of thought. “I haven’t. I… I didn’t think much about the sex of the baby until you started saying he. And I guess I figured you would name him.”

You let out a soft moan of pain, your eyes pinching shut, then you shake your head.

“No. No, we… Ow, fuck. We do it together. We’re both his parents,” you insist.

“Okay,” he whispers, his tone soothing. “We’ll decide together when we see him.”

“Okay,” you mumble, resting your head on his chest again.

A couple of hours go by, and you’re back in bed.

Din holds a warm hand over your belly, underneath your shirt, trying to soothe the baby. The kid doesn’t seem to want to be still in between contractions, and Din is attempting to get the baby to sleep.

You’re in pain and restless and moody, and there’s nothing he can do. Except for showering, apparently.

“I don’t know what it is, but you fucking reek,” you bemoan. “You’ve been sweating, and you’ve got my sweat on you, and… Go shower. Please.”

“You’re sure you’ll be alright on your own for a bit?” Din asks, concern in his tone more present than ever.

“Yeah,” you answer, just a little too snippy.

Din gently rubs a circle on your belly before standing from the bed to head to the small bathroom for a quick shower and the first moment alone he’s had all day.

The baby is coming. He thought he’d be more scared when you went into labor, but extenuating circumstances aside, he’s not terribly nervous. Sure, he’s got some healthy fear for your and the baby’s lives, but he thinks if you were laid up in a medical center’s labor ward bed, he’d be fine.

A baby… You’re having his baby. He never thought he’d have this. Truly. He lost his parents, got taken in by the collective Children of the Watch, never quite anyone’s sole responsibility. He didn’t think that he would feel that specific feeling of belonging that he had with his parents ever again. 

He has Grogu, and he loves him dearly, but Grogu will probably have a dozen parental figures over the course of his very long life. This child you are about to bring into the world is solely his and yours. He contributed his DNA to make up half of this child, and Din will be his only father.

He’s still deep in thought when he gets out of the shower and pulls his boxers on. He’s adjusting the elastic when he hears a thud outside the bathroom door and some banging on the door.

Din slams open the door and looks around, only looking down and to his left when he hears you breathing heavily, sitting on the floor and leaning against the wall between the bedroom and the bathroom.

When he makes eye contact with you, your eyes go wide, then they shut as you let out a low groan.

He’s on his knees in front of you, a gentle hand reaching out to caress your cheek.

“What happened?” he asks, an edge of concern present in his voice yet again.

“Fuck, you didn’t put the helmet back on,” you groan, eyes still pinched shut like you’re trying to wipe the memory of his face from your mind.

Din’s heart drops to his stomach, then rises again, then probably beats out of his chest, all in the span of five seconds. Surprisingly, he doesn’t care about the helmet at all right now. 

“That’s not the concern right now,” he says with a shaky voice, his thumb gently rubbing back and forth against your cheekbone.

“Din, are you serious?” you pant, eyes still shut. “Ow, fuck, shit. Din, I–”

He shakes his head, and with his free hand, he puts your hand on his cheek.

“You know this face,” he whispers. “You’ve mapped out every feature of this face in the dark. You’ve drawn it, cyar’ika. This face belongs to you and our children. No one else. This face is yours to look at.”

You whimper and shake your head. Din brings your foreheads together and sighs.

“Why did you get out of bed?” he asks softly.

“Needed you,” you whisper. 

“You have me. All of me. I’m here.”

At that, you whimper, and your eyes begin to open. You look him in the eyes and almost melt into him.

“You’re handsome,” you say softly.

Din’s cheeks warm at the compliment. He has the urge to brush it off, but doesn’t feel like making you put your energy into arguing.

“Thank you. You’re beautiful,” he whispers.

“I… Wow.” You pull back and lean your head against the wall to get a good look at him. “Wow, I hope he has your nose.”

He chuckles softly and gently presses his lips to yours. 

“He’ll be perfect, no matter what he looks like,” he whispers. 

The two of you are granted another minute of peace and calm before another contraction peaks. It has you digging your nails into Din’s shoulders, pulling his forehead to yours, and whimpering through gritted teeth.

He rubs his thumbs into your hips and whispers words of praise. 

“That’s it, sweetheart. There you go. Just breathe through it. I’m here. I’ve got you. I’m here, pretty girl,” he whispers, his voice low and gravely and thick with affection. 

He kisses the tip of your nose, and you sniff. He watches a tear fall from your eye, and the concern inside him grows.

“Hey, what is it?” he asks.

“It hurts,” you whine, your voice broken and riddled with pain. 

“I’m so sorry, baby,” he whispers. 

Din looks down and watches your tightened belly soften, then wraps his arms around you.

You bury your face in his neck, and Din tries not to shed tears of his own when he feels yours stain his skin. He brings a hand up to gently caress the back of your head, your hair soft against his palm.

The two of you stay on the floor of the hull between the bedroom and the bathroom for minutes or hours. Neither of you can tell, but eventually, you feel something leak out of you.

“Sorry,” you whisper.

It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve wet yourself over the course of the pregnancy.

But the look in Din’s eyes is strange.

“What?” you ask softly, your face screwing up as another contraction comes.

“Your water broke,” he says.

“Huh?” you grit through your teeth.

Din’s hands rub your hips, and he kisses the top of your head when you rest your head on his chest.

“The smell. Plus, it’s still coming. You don’t urinate this long.”

Once the contraction passes, you plant your hands on Din’s shoulders and use his body to stand. The liquid has soaked through your underwear and continues to flow down your legs. He’s right; the smell is off. 

“Oh.” The word is soft and breathy as it comes out of your mouth.

Din slowly stands up as well and plants his hands on your waist.

Before he can say anything, a grimace appears on your face.

“What?” he asks as calmly as he can.

“I… There’s so much pressure in my fucking vagina,” you say, your voice tight.

You thought all that pressure was from sitting on the floor too long, but it’s distinctly concentrated in your pelvis even as you stand, and it’s different from before.

“Okay,” he says, still trying to stay calm. “I’m going to take your underwear off, okay?”

You nod.

Din hooks his fingers in the elastic of your boy shorts and pulls the wet fabric down your body.

“Do you feel like you might need to push?” he asks, looking up at you through his lashes.

“I don’t know,” you admit softly.

“That’s okay. What do you want to do?”

You take a breath and run a hand through Din’s mostly dry hair.

“Can we sit in the shower?” you ask. “Can I sit in your lap?”

Din nods, then stands again and carefully walks you into the bathroom. He’s keeping his boxers on so as not to accidentally stimulate your sensitive privates.

He turns the water on, and once it’s hot enough, he steps in and waits for you.

You take off your shirt, already feeling a bit overstimulated from the wet panties earlier, then step inside the shower.

Din sits on the floor with his back to the shower wall, and you straddle him, your thighs on top of his and your hands on his biceps.

Another contraction comes, and the warm water cascading over your back actually helps some with the pain. Din dutifully rubs his hands over your hips and lets you press your forehead against his lips. 

When it’s over, you lift your head and bring your lips to his. They’re soft and plush, and you think they go so well with the rest of his face. A hand goes to cup his cheek, and the other buries itself in his hair.

“I love you,” you whine against his lips.

Din doesn’t respond. He just keeps kissing you, one hand buried in your hair and the other caressing your back.

“I’ve got you,” he vows. “Do you hear me, sweet girl? I’m here for you and our child. My hands are steady and waiting.”

You moan softly and kiss him again, the oxytocin releasing in your brain and easing your pain.

Your moan of pleasure quickly turns into one of pain, and the pressure between your legs is only growing more intense.

“Din, I need to push,” you pant when the contraction passes.

Those words suddenly break down every wall that was left standing inside the usually stone-cold Mandalorian. Yes, he is unbreakable; his hands are steady and waiting, and he’s here for you, and he has you and the baby, but he never thought he’d be here, sitting in his shower with his riduur laboring in his lap, about to push.

Luckily, at the last appointment, while you were in the bathroom, he asked the doctor at the clinic what the important things were to remember should he have to deliver the baby. She instructed him to gently place his hands on the baby’s head when they crown, do not pull the baby out, be mindful of how slippery the baby will be when they’re out, and immediately put the baby on the mother’s bare chest to help regulate temperature and hormones.

He goes over each step in his head over the few moments he takes to prepare himself, and you, as you wait for the next contraction.

You bear down in Din’s lap and push with all your might. When the first push is over, Din kisses your face and tells you what a good push it was, how brave you are, and how strong you are.

The last time you spoke with the doctor, she informed you that pushing can take anywhere from ten minutes to three hours.

When twenty minutes pass, the tears start flowing again. 

“Hey.” Din’s voice is soft and supportive. He brings his thumb to wipe the tear off your cheek, though maybe it’s water. “You’ve got this. It’s okay if it takes a while. It’s normal. You’re doing amazing, mesh’la. I’ve got you.”

“Din, this is so fucking hard,” you sob, your arms wrapping around his neck.

One hand rests between your shoulder blades, and the other cradles the back of your head.

“You’re a warrior, pretty girl. Warriors do hard things. Only a warrior could put up with Grogu and me.” He kisses your cheek.

“I don’t know,” you whine.

“Well, I do,” Din says confidently. “You’ve been laboring in a ship that was built before the New Republic, with no pain relief, and only a bounty hunter to help you, all without waking up Grogu. That sounds like a warrior to me.”

You let out a dry laugh at that, which then turns into a soft whine.

“See? You’re laughing in pain’s face,” he whispers, his voice soothing while his hand runs back and forth over your spine. “You’ve got this, I promise. Now, on the next contraction, you’re gonna push with it. Okay, sweetheart?”

You nod begrudgingly, and Din pecks your lips.

Another hour goes by, and your body goes slack in Din’s arms. It’s all too much, and you’re tired and hungry, and you just want this baby out of you.

“I can’t do it,” you sniff. “Din, please make it stop. I can’t… Oh, fuck, it hurts.”

The sight of you sobbing in his lap and the feeling of your body being so weak break Din’s heart as much as when Grogu left for Jedi training.

“You can,” he insists, picking your head up with gentle hands so he can look you in the eye. “You are. You’ve been doing it all night. You’re so close. The baby is about to crown.”

All of that goes in one ear and out the other. You shake your head.

“Sweetheart, I love you, and I wish I could do this for you, but I can’t, so I need you to keep being brave and push so you can hold our baby in your arms,” Din says softly, his voice full of urgency.

“You don’t love me,” you whimper, your heart twisting at his words. “You’re only saying that because you want me to push. If you love me, you would’ve said it back when I said it the first time.”

Din furrows his brow and gently cradles your face in his hands. 

“I’ve loved you since you started loving my son,” Din says, his voice firm, as if you don’t comprehend what he’s saying, he might explode. “That day I came back from hunting that Ithorian, and Grogu had fallen when he was playing, and you were holding him and kissing his bandage, and telling him how brave he was. That’s when I knew.”

You sniffle. That day was two months before you ever slept with him. For some reason, that adds to his credibility.

You still haven’t answered, so Din goes on. 

“I didn’t think you deserved to hear from a man like me that I love you. I didn’t say it back that night because I didn’t feel worthy of saying it, but I know now it’s not about that. It’s about being what you need. A few nights after you told me you love me–”

He’s cut off by a contraction. “Okay, okay, push, sweet girl. You got it. Good job. Nice, big push for me. Good, don’t forget to breathe.”

When it’s over, you lean your forehead against his and ask, “What happened? What were you saying before?”

“I… That night we landed in Nevarro, I spoke the Mandalorian marriage vows to you as you slept.”

Your tired eyes widen. “Say them again.”

Din inhales deeply, but is in no position to argue. “Mhi solus tome. Mhi solus dar’tome. Mhi me’dinui an. Mhi ba’juri verde.”

You whimper as your next contraction peaks. “What does it mean?” 

“It means: we are one together. We are one when we are parted. We share all. We will raise warriors,” he tells you, his thumbs still adding counterpressure to your hips.

The contraction dissipates, and you take a deep breath in. “We are one together. We are one when we are parted. We share all. We will raise warriors.”

Your voice is fraught with tension and pain, but also love, and Din doesn’t feel deserving. 

“That’s right. We are one,” he vows. “I love you more than life itself, cyar’ika.”

You peck his lips. “You call me that all the time, and I never thought to ask what it meant.”

Din kisses your cheek. “It translates to sweetheart or darling. It’s a pet name for one’s riduur.”

“What does that one mean?”

“...Partner, or spouse. Wife.”

He speaks softly, like he’s shy, and you’ve come to know that he can be, and you love it.

“You’re my husband,” you declare.

Din nods. “You’re my wife.”

It seems like that was all the encouragement you needed, because on the next contraction, you crown, and Din keeps his hands steady on his child’s head as he coaches you through the next contraction. 

“That’s it. You’re almost there. Come on, one more, riduur. Please, just one more. You can do it. I’m right here,” he assures you. 

With a soft groan, the head is out.

“Head’s out, sweetheart. Now the shoulders. You got it; come on, sweetheart.”

Din is in either shock or awe as half his child’s body is in his hands, the other half inside of you still. It’s the most miraculous experience he’s ever witnessed, and he’s in complete love with you.

“Shit,” you gasp when the rest of the body is delivered. “Fuck, is he okay?” you ask, your heart filling with joy when you hear your baby’s cries for the first time.

“She’s okay,” Din assures you. “She’s a girl.”

A tired laugh escapes your lips as Din places your daughter on your chest for the first time.

A daughter. You’re thanking your lucky stars. You had been secretly hoping for a girl the entire pregnancy, but recently started referring to the baby as a “he” in order to minimize any disappointment you would have if the baby were a boy. Luckily, she’s the most beautiful girl you’ve ever seen. 

“She’s amazing,” you sigh, a look in your eyes so full of life and hope and wonder.

“She is. So are you,” he replies, a hand still on the newborn’s body.

“Hello,” you whisper down to the baby. “I’m your mama. Hi, baby girl. I love you so much. You are so loved, little one.”

You lean your head down to kiss her head, and her cries seem to quiet.

“You’re amazing,” Din tells you, his other hand now cradling your cheek. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” you say, your voice thick with emotion.

“I love you, little girl,” Din whispers to the baby before kissing her head. “I love you with everything that I am.”

Din holds the two of you in his lap for a while, even through the delivery of the placenta. 

Eventually, your legs catch up with your body, and you need to move, so Din shuts off the water and carefully stands, being mindful of the baby. He wraps a towel around you, then tells you to wait there for a moment.

You lean against the shower wall with your daughter in your arms, the towel lazily draped around your shoulders as you await Din’s return.

He comes back with a clean knife and cuts the cord connecting your daughter to the placenta and ties it off with a scrap of fabric.

Then he helps you to the bed and finds some underwear for you to wear, and he sticks a makeshift pad into it to absorb the slight bleeding. Then he trades his soaked boxers for dry ones. 

He feels terrible about how unprepared he was for this, but then you pull his hand, and he joins you in bed with the baby. He wraps one arm around your shoulders and places his other hand on top of his daughter’s back, protective and loving.

An hour goes by, just lying in bed with his girls, before the cockpit sends a signal to the hull that Din has to land soon.

He begrudgingly leaves the bed and dons his flight suit, armor, and helmet, then settles into the cockpit to perform the landing. While he does so, he calls the medical center you planned to give birth in and alerts them of the situation. They arrange for a vehicle to be waiting once the Crest lands.

After the landing is complete, Din helps you dress and haphazardly swaddles the baby before returning her to your arms.

Then he finds Grogu and wakes him up.

“Guess what?”

Grogu coos tiredly in response.

“You’re a big brother now.”

Grogu perks up and smiles.

“Mom’s got the baby in our bed. It’s a girl. She’s very tiny, and Mom is very sore, so be gentle. You understand, kiddo?”

Grogu nods, and Din carries him into the room.

You light up when you see his green face. 

“Hello, little guy,” you whisper from your spot sitting on the bed. “Do you want to meet your baby sister?”

Grogu nods, and Din sits next to you, Grogu in his lap.

Your son smiles at the baby and reaches out the most tentative hand you’ve ever seen from him. He gently strokes his sister’s head and smiles when she grunts in response to his touch.

“She likes you,” you tell him with a smile.

Grogu seems to blush.

“We’ve got to take Mom and your sister to the hospital. They have to get checked over by the doctors to make sure everything is okay,” Din explains. “You’ll come with us, though. We’re not leaving you behind.”

Grogu nods, and Din gets a signal that the pickup vehicle is here.

Carefully, he helps you down the ramp with the baby, then he goes back to retrieve the placenta, which he stored in a metal container. He isn’t sure what to do with it.

Grogu follows and hops into the car while Din stands awkwardly in front of a nurse with the container.

Once things are sorted out, Din gets in the vehicle and sits next to you, making sure your seatbelt is secure but not too rough on your tender lower abdomen.

After you’re checked into the hospital, it’s determined that you and the baby are healthy, and Din is given a pat on the back from the doctor for successfully delivering his own baby.

“Most men would choke, Mando. Good on you.”

They keep you overnight for observation, and in the morning, they ask if you have a name ready for the birth certificate. 

The two of you stare at her for what feels like hours before you say it. “Sage.”

Din nods. “Sage. I like it.”

With the paperwork filed, you’re given the okay to go home. 

When you make it back to the Crest, Din makes it his mission to make sure you and Sage are comfortable. He doesn’t even think to take off his armor until you take his hand.

He looks through the visor at you, Sage in your arms, Grogu at your side, captivated by his younger sister.

“We’re all okay, Din. There’s water on the nightstand and snacks in the drawer, and everyone’s diaper is dry. Be with us,” you say softly.

He nods, and for the first time, you get to watch him remove the helmet.

Throughout Sage’s delivery, you were fully aware how special it was that Din was showing you his face, however unintentional it was. But you couldn’t really take it in. Now, without adrenaline running through you, your hormones trying to settle, you can take in the face of your husband.

He has a strong jawline, a very plush bottom lip, a patchy beard but a respectable mustache, wrinkles both from stress and age, a strong aquiline nose, his hairline is intact, and his brown eyes are soft and welcoming.

You see him in Sage. Her nose seems to be a mix of both her parents, but her lips are all Din, and you can’t help but think they’re the cutest thing ever.

As Din strips down to his boxers, he crawls into bed with you, allowing Grogu to crawl over your lap and give his father a cuddle.

He feels vulnerable now with your gaze stuck on him. You’re not occupied by contractions or your daughter’s head being lodged in your birth canal anymore. His face has your full attention. Yes, you called him handsome in the throes of labor, but what do you think now, with a clear head?

“There were times I wondered if I was pregnant with a homely child,” you admit.

Din scoffs and shakes his head.

“It’s shallow, but it’s true,” you go on. “It wouldn’t have mattered, of course. Though now, looking at you… There’s no way Sage would have ever been homely.”

He smiles softly at that and leans over Grogu to kiss your cheek.

“Yeah, you’re not so bad yourself, mama,” he whispers against your skin.

Then he leans his head down and kisses Sage’s head, her downy hair soft against his lips.

She coos softly at the feeling of her father’s lips on her head, and it’s the sweetest sound.

“You wanna hold her?” you ask softly.

Din hesitates. Even though she’s now thirty-two hours old, he still has yet to hold his own daughter for longer than a brief moment. While waiting to land the ship and transport the two of you to the medical center, he was more worried about regulating your hormones, as well as Sage’s, and he thought the best way to do that was to keep her on your chest.

Now she’s home, and both of you have a clean bill of health, and you shouldn’t have to hold her all of the time. He doesn’t want your arms to get tired.

He nods and holds out steady hands to take the baby.

She’s only six and a half pounds, but when he lays her on his bare chest, Din feels glued to the spot. He can’t imagine a better feeling in the world than the weight of his daughter on his chest.

Grogu coos, needing attention too, so you hold your arms out, and your son readily cuddles close to your side as you watch your husband with your daughter.

Over the course of your pregnancy, you bought a few clothes for the baby, but not a bassinet or anything else a baby might need. It would reduce the Razor Crest’s abilities.

“Din, we need to… We can’t live on the Crest with a newborn,” you say softly.

He looks from Sage to you. You expect some pushback, but instead, he nods.

“I know. I don’t know why I thought she’d be like Grogu, but… She’s not. She needs a house,” he says.

Within the week, Din secures the deed to a three-bedroom house on the outskirts of Naboo’s capital. When he takes you to see it, you wonder where he got the credits for it. Then you remember he lived as a single man for over a decade before he took in Grogu. The pros of starting a family later in life.

Din dutifully assembles the furniture for both children’s rooms and lets you decorate however you want. Over the weeks you take decorating the house, Din loves watching you walk around, scrutinizing every bare spot with Sage strapped into the baby carrier, her cheek smushed against your chest.

When Sage is a month old, Din comes to bed with a serious look on his face.

“Are you okay?” you ask softly when he pulls the covers over his legs.

He nods and scrubs a hand over his face. “I want to ask you about how you’d feel getting our marriage officially blessed.”

Your eyes widen slightly. “Would it make you happy?”

Din nods again. “The leader of Mand’alor is Bo-Katan Kryze. I know her. I believe getting our marriage blessed by her would be painless.”

“Well, why wouldn’t it be painless?” you ask, your brow furrowing.

He sighs. “It will be. Don’t worry.”

You nod and gently peck his lips before turning off the light at your bedside and lying your head on Din’s shoulder.

The only way to make getting a marriage blessing painful would be to go back to the Armorer. She wouldn’t approve of his situation with you, and while there’s a part of Din that is upset by that, it’s not loud enough for him to care or to hesitate with you any longer.

Sage is here, and she doesn’t yet know how to deal with unpredictability. Her parents need to be officially married. 

Two weeks later, Din sends a message to Bo-Katan, and she agrees to him and his family coming to Mand’alor for a marriage blessing, though she does seem like she’d rather be doing something else.

Regardless, when Sage is two months old, Din packs up you and the children and makes the trip.

The entire walk from the Crest to the palace, you’re in awe. It’s technically Din’s homeland, but it’s also not, and beyond that, it’s beautiful.

When the two of you stand before Bo-Katan at her throne, another Mandalorian offers to hold Sage for you. You hesitate. Why would you give your baby to a stranger? But Din seems willing, so you carefully hand your baby to the strange Mandalorian and watch Grogu toddle nearby, seemingly ready to protect his sister if need be.

You and Din stand facing Bo-Katan, hands held.

Bo-Katan clears her throat and stands from her throne. 

“Marriage is a sacred covenant between people in love,” she begins. “I didn’t think Din Djarin would ever marry. I must admit that seeing the two of you together gives me hope for the galaxy. I wish you and your family infinite happiness. As the ruler of Mand’alor, I bless the marriage between the two people standing before me. This is the way.”

Din squeezes your hand and turns his helmet-clad head toward you. You smile and kiss the pauldron on his shoulder.

The momentary babysitting Mandalorian approaches you, and Din takes Sage from their hands. You crouch down to pick up Grogu, and your little family is off. 

At home, you have Grogu’s favorite dinner and go about the nighttime routine. Din bathes Grogu while you sit in the nursery with Sage, rocking her and nursing her.

He brings your son in to say good night, and you place a sweet kiss on the green boy’s head. With a gentle hand, Grogu caresses Sage’s head, then heads to his room with Din to be tucked in.

He comes back, just as Sage comes off your breast. Din isn’t sure if there’s a greater sight than his wife nursing his daughter. He kneels in front of the glider chair, kisses Sage’s forehead, and takes her from you to burp her.

All you can think about is that he really looks good. Ever since he unceremoniously revealed his face to you, Din mostly walks around the house in just pants. All the windows in the house are tinted so no one can see inside, and everything is just so perfect.

Sage eventually lets out a loud belch, which brings a smile to Din’s face before he lowers her into her crib.

He holds his hand out for you and helps you up, bringing you to the bedroom.

The two of you shower together quickly and soon after, crawl into bed.

You lie on your sides and stare at one another.

It’s been two months since you had Sage, and the doctor cleared you two weeks ago for all activity. She even gave you a birth control implant. You told Din about it, and he simply insisted that you take the lead on your return to intimacy.

The night your marriage was blessed must be as good a night as any, right?

Slowly, you lean forward and kiss him. Kissing never stopped, but this one is heavier.

His hand settles on your waist, and you scoot closer to him.

“I want you,” you whisper against Din’s lips.

Din moans into your mouth, then kisses down your body.

Your breasts, swollen and full of milk for his baby, have never looked better, in his opinion. You’d have to agree, and not even from a conceited standpoint. They just really do look that good.

You feel less confident about what lies below your swollen and perky breasts. Your stomach has shrunk down some, but it’s still soft, the skin is still loose, and the new stretch marks don’t look as beautiful as they did when they adorned a full belly, in your opinion.

Din feels you tense up beneath him and watches your face turn to the side when he gets to your sternum.

“You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen in my life,” he says softly. “Human or otherwise. There is not a woman in the entire galaxy that I could find more attractive than you, mesh’la. You bore my daughter, gave birth to her right in my lap. I watched you grow her for nine months, and you looked so pretty doing it. I love you, and I am not deterred by the current state of your abdomen. I love your body in all its phases. Do you understand me, riduur?”

You turn your head and look down at him. You brush his hair off his forehead and smile. 

“Yeah?” you whisper, your voice giving away how insecure you feel.

He nods emphatically. “Absolutely. I love you and your body. You’re perfect.”

“I love you, too,” you whisper, your hand cradling his cheek. 

Din leans into your hand and smiles softly. “What are you comfortable with? I planned to make you come on my tongue first, but I’ll do whatever you want.”

“I want that. Just be gentle,” you whisper. 

“Of course,” he says, his face schooled into the most serious expression you’ve ever seen. 

You smile again, and Din continues kissing his way back down your body, lingering at your lower abdomen before making it to your inner thighs. 

He kisses your outer labia, then up and down your slit, then his tongue finally peeks out, and he licks a stripe from your hole to your clit. 

He licks up and down for a moment, and when you start squirming, he takes your clit in between his lips and sucks.

His hands move up and down your thighs, keeping your legs open and also just feeling you. 

You moan and gasp softly, and Din drinks it all in. He’s buried in his favorite place in the galaxy. This is the place he’s spent countless times buried in over the last year and a half, and it’s the place from which his daughter entered the world. There isn’t a single thing in the world Din could love more than your cunt. 

“So pretty,” he moans in between licks. 

He looks up at you and asks, “Can I add a finger?”

You nod and whimper out a yes. 

Din gently pushes his middle finger inside of you, and once you’re accustomed to it, he slowly fucks it in and out of you while his tongue laps at your clit. 

“Fuck, Din,” you whimper as your cunt flutters around his finger. 

“Good girl,” he rasps. “Just let yourself feel good.”

“I’m gonna come,” you warn him, your voice tight and high-pitched. 

“I know,” he soothes. “Good girl. Come on my tongue.”

You whimper, and your walls squeeze his finger as his tongue stimulates your clit. He doesn’t move away until you yank on his hair. 

He crawls up your body and gently kisses you. 

“Did so good for me,” he whispers. “So good. I love you.”

You smile against his lips and pull to the side to look at his face. Since Sage was born, it’s like all Din can say is that he loves you, and all you can do is look at his face. 

“Love you, too.”

He lies on his side, and you roll on yours. You reach out and start stroking his cock.

Both of you inch closer and watch as you line Din’s cock up with your entrance.

Slowly, he pushes inside, one inch at a time, keeping a close eye on your face at all times, watching to make sure he’s not hurting you.

When he bottoms out, you let out a deep sigh of relief. He wraps his arms around you and pulls you close. 

“Feel okay?” he asks softly, successfully holding back from giving in to his instincts that are telling him to ram his cock into you.

You nod, panting softly. “Mhm, I’m good.”

You reach a hand up to gently cradle his face.

It’s the first time you get to see Din in his rawest form: fully naked, inside the woman he loves.

“Fuck, this is amazing,” Din grits out, his voice tight. “Everything about you is… Shit, I can’t explain it, but you’ve somehow become even more perfect.”

You smile and lean forward to kiss him, your hand creeping up to bury itself in his hair.

“Mm. Din, you can move. But gentle, baby,” you moan against his lips. “Slow.”

He nods against your forehead and gently pulls out of you the tiniest bit, then back inside, then he repeats the motion.

“Like that?” he asks softly.

“Mhm. Perfect, baby. You’re so good to me.”

“You’re amazing,” he coos, keeping a gentle pace, his hands gently exploring your body. “Gave me a daughter, made this house a cozy home for our children, nursing the baby, still paying enough attention to Grogu, still making me feel like the luckiest bastard in the galaxy… You’re incredible. You’re the most spectacular woman I’ve ever met. Plus, you’re gorgeous. I’m drunk on you,” he babbles.

You hum contentedly and press your lips to his, swallowing his words of praise.

“I love you,” you mutter in between kisses. “Already knew you were a good dad, but seeing you hold Sage, no shirt on… Swear, each time I see it, I could die.”

Din moans and goes to kiss the underside of your jaw. There’s no reality where him doing skin-to-skin bonding with Sage is the biggest undoing possible.

“Know what’s worse?” he moans. “Watching you nurse her. You’re so good at it. Always so calm and so pretty, so careful with her. Such a good mommy.”

You gently scratch his scalp as you bury your hands in his hair and start meeting his thrusts with your own.

“Yeah? Are you happy you put a baby in me? You like watching my body do everything for our baby?” you whisper teasingly in his hair, his mouth on the top of your breast.

He groans against you, sending vibrations through your body.

Din looks up at you through his lashes and sighs shakily. “You have no idea how amazing I think you are. I’ve always thought so. You basically gave me no choice but to let you start as Grogu’s babysitter, just by talking. You’re an incredible artist, a good cook, intelligent beyond comprehension, a fantastic wife and lover, and the best mother I’ve ever witnessed. These days, I get hard just looking at you. I love you. I would do anything for you.”

Your eyes glaze over as he fills your ears with praise. You gently stroke his cheek and sigh, pulling his face closer so you can kiss him.

“Nothing I come up with right now could even come close to that,” you whisper.

“That’s okay,” Din says. “I don’t need you to say anything. Just feel how much I love you.”

You nod, and he kisses you again, the heat behind his thrusts picking up as he brings a hand down between your bodies to rub at your clit. 

“Mm, fuck… You know I never thought about this when I was growing up,” you murmur. “Marriage, having a partner.”

Din furrows his brow, a silent way to tell you he’s listening while he focuses on fucking you.

“I sometimes thought about kids, so Sage… That was easy. Barely thought about it when I found out outside of some healthy panic,” you joke. “But I never thought I’d have this.”

He sighs and kisses the side of your mouth. “I love you.”

You smile and kiss his mustache. “I love you, and I love our life together, and I’m so happy.”

Din moans at your words.

“What, you get off on my happiness?” you joke, brushing his hair off his forehead so you can see as much of his face as possible.

“As a matter of fact, I do,” he murmurs, leaning in to kiss you once more, his thumb pressing harder on your clit.

“Mm, good.”

The simple response pulls a soft laugh from Din, and he hugs you closer and gently angles his head so he can kiss each of your sensitive nipples, which pulls eager whines from your throat.

“Shit, I’m gonna come,” you whine.

“Good, that’s good, pretty girl. Come for me. Squeeze my cock,” he rasps in your ear.

You pull him in for another kiss, and he swallows your moans as you clench around his cock.

“Did so good,” he coos. “My pretty wife. I love you.”

Din kisses you as his cock twitches inside of you. When you come down from your orgasm, you mumble against his lips, “Fill me up.”

He moans, and his thrusting picks up speed. His fingers flex against your back, and soon you’re full of his warm cum, watching his brows furrow and his mouth gape as he comes.

The first time you’ve ever seen his face when he comes, and all you want is to see it again and again.

You kiss him and whisper, “I love you, Din Djarin. Mhi solus tome, mhi solus dar’tome, mhi me’dinui an, mhi ba’juri verde.”

Hearing the Mandalorian marriage vows spoken by you is almost enough to make Din’s heart stop. He kisses you fiercely and tightens his arms around you.

“You’re perfect,” he whispers. “I love you so much, I can’t even describe it.”

The post-sex haze is broken by Sage’s cries down the hall, but neither of you is even the slightest bit upset. 

///

When Sage is three months old, Din makes the decision to take a step back from bounty hunting. He still hunts, but less often and focuses more on high-paying bounties. He gets a steady and predictable job working as a pilot for the Royal Space Fighter Corps. You get a job as an art teacher. When you come home and grade projects, Grogu likes to sit and watch, usually doodling something of his own. 

“Like mother, like son,” Din says. 

As Sage grows up, there are conversations about whether or not to teach her the Mandalorian ways. Din still struggles with how much of it he even truly believes in, and you don’t believe in much of anything besides being a good person.

You both decide on teaching her about as many perspectives as possible and taking her to Mand’alor twice a year as she grows up.

It seems that Sage didn’t only complete you, but she also settled something inside of Din. You’re not sure what, but as she grows up, Din seems calmer than he did when you met him. It’s like he’s lighter, not so rigid.

Even if his relationship with the way of the Mandalorians is less intense than it once was, one thing is still for certain: you and he are one, no matter where the other is, there are no secrets, and as Grogu and Sage mature, it’s clear. They’re growing into warriors.

Read part one here!

all works tags: @person-005 @madpanda75 @tearsweetenedtea

You came along with the Mandalorian and the child to provide childcare for Grogu when his father was hunting bounties. Mando allowed you on this ship to take care of his child because you wanted to see the galaxy, and this babysitting job was the best way to do that at a low expense.

He met you when you were a struggling artist. He was at the flea market with Grogu to look for mittens in preparation for a stretch of bounties on cold planets. 

The mitten booth was next to yours, where you were selling plates, silverware, bowls, as well as paintings and drawings. Everything, at least in his opinion, was very carefully crafted, priced fairly, though maybe a little too fairly. 

As Mando purchased Grogu’s mittens, the green child toddled over to your booth and stroked your painting of a porg. 

“Grogu, don’t touch that,” he scolded as soon as he handed the mitten attendant her credits. 

He scooped up his son and looked at you. “I’m sorry. He gets excited. He didn’t scratch it, did he?”

You shook your head, an easy smile on your face. 

“No, it’s okay,” you said, barely glancing at the painting, too transfixed by Grogu’s large eyes. “Y’know, your kid looks easy to draw, Mando.”

He scoffed beneath the helmet. “Yeah, I guess so. Anyway, I’m sorry for the disruption.”

He was about to walk away when you asked, “You need a babysitter?”

Mando stayed silent for a moment. “Why?”

“You’re a bounty hunter, and he’s a little kid. Unless you’ve got a lady, then I guess… Anyway, if you need one, take me with you, wherever you’re going.”

He was shocked at the pair on you. What kind of stranger just asks to babysit? Out of the goodness of their heart? Fat chance. 

“What would you get out of babysitting the child?” Mando asked. “Are your sales that bad?”

You sighed, trying not to give away how much that offended you. “You’re a bounty hunter, right? I mean, if you’re not, you have to start carrying yourself differently.”

He nodded. 

“That means you go all over the galaxy, hunting dangerous bounties. I want to see the galaxy; your kid needs stable childcare.”

Selfish reasons. Mando could accept that. You were right. Leaving Grogu with the nearest person and shoving an obscene amount of credits in their hands wasn’t the best idea. 

“You may accompany us today. I’ll let you take the reins for the day. Depending on how you do with him, I’ll make my decision,” he said. 

He watched you take the lead with Grogu that day as if you knew the child from birth. You directed him easily, clearly, and fairly.

When Mando dropped you off outside your apartment building at the end of the night, he told you to pack warm, that he’d be back for you in the morning, and that was that.

///

One night, after working for him for a year and a half, he came back to the ship in the middle of the night after a hunt, limping. Someone threw a knife, and it landed in his leg, particularly in a spot that the beskar didn’t protect. Once you fixed him up, you excused yourself. He had whined and moaned and panted the whole time, and it all went straight to your core. You needed to relieve yourself.

He saw right through you.

“Do it here,” he rasped through the voice modulator.

You turned on your heel with a mortified look on your face.

“I saw you rubbing your thighs together the whole time. If you’re going to take care of that ache between your thighs, do it here, in front of me.”

“Mando–”

“Tell me you’re not about to slip your fingers under your panties,” he interrupted, “and I’ll let it go. We’ll forget this happened.”

You stayed silent for a moment, then lowered yourself to sit on the floor in front of him.

The Mandalorian lost control that day; he let himself get hurt, and he almost lost a bounty that he needed the credits for to pay you and care for his child. Fear struck him as he realized how much he depended on predictability, on him keeping it together, on keeping you and Grogu safe. 

Mixed with the fear was something else that made him feel raw in a way he wasn’t sure if he liked. Losing control terrified him, meant he was vulnerable, and he wasn’t comfortable with that. In that moment, he desperately needed the control back, and you were going to give it to him.

You kicked off your shoes and socks and pulled your pants down. You weren’t totally sure where he was looking exactly, but you knew he was focused on you. Either on the way that your nipples began to harden against your thin shirt and bra, the wet spot that grew in your panties, or the tremble in your thighs occurring because of his scrutinizing gaze, or at least what you think is his gaze.

Slowly and tentatively, you sat down on the cold floor in front of the Mandalorian, about two feet of distance between the two of you.

“Do it the same way you do when you’re in the shower,” he instructed.

Your eyes widened. Fuck, he heard that? Fuck.

You started with what Mando could only call a pet to your clothed pussy. You gently repeated the motion a few times, then added more pressure.

“Take them off,” Mando said, his voice clear and demanding.

He watched you bite your bottom lip, probably to suppress a moan or a whine as you pulled your panties down.

Mando let out a soft groan, muffled by his helmet’s modulator, when you bared your cunt to him.

“Finger yourself,” was his next demand, but his voice shook, and the dichotomy of his making a demand with such a pitiful tone of voice was nearly enough to make you come on the spot.

You did as he said, and when he told you to add a second, then a third finger, you complied then too.

“Fuck, Mando,” you mumbled softly, your entire body on the verge of convulsing.

Pleasuring yourself was always something you did in private, not shamefully, but definitely privately. But doing it in front of the Mandalorian, simply because he asked, was sending a rush throughout your body that you couldn’t explain.

“I’m gonna come,” you whined softly, so as not to wake the child.

“Good girl,” Mando crooned. “Good, show me how you come. Be a good girl for me.”

With a silent shout, you clamped down on your fingers as you came. Mando’s breath hitched as he watched your thighs tremble uncontrollably as you came down.

Carefully, Mando inched closer to you as you caught your breath. He picked up your discarded panties and gently pulled your hand away from your cunt. He used the panties to clean your own juices off your hand and off your vulva.

Then he tugged at the hem of your shirt, a silent plea for you to remove the garment.

As you stripped naked, Mando unzipped his flight pants and yanked out his devastatingly hard cock, red and dripping pre-cum.

“Fuck, I need you,” he rumbled.

His voice, altered by the voice modulator, went straight to your core.

You nodded and lay back on the floor, legs spread so Mando could fuck you. 

You weren’t normally so pliant under the people with whom you’d had sex with in the past, but Mando… If the way he shot the man in the leg who made lewd comments about you at a cantina about six months ago was any indication, you knew he’d rather cut off his own arm than hurt you.

He lined himself up and gently pushed inside, checking in with you along the way. He thrusted a few times, probably for less than two or three minutes. Then he was whining and pulling out, coming all over your red, puffy cunt. 

“Shit. Fuck,” he panted. “I’m sorry. I–”

You shook your head. You knew he was repressed—not a virgin—but definitely repressed, probably more so after he took in Grogu. What kind of single father has time for one-night stands?

“It’s okay, Mando,” you assured him. “If you want… We can have a do-over sometime.”

From there, things escalated. You started sleeping in his bed with him, rather than the hammock in the hull after the night he fucked you in the cockpit.

You had straddled his lap, and the beskar of his thigh plates dug into your ass, but fuck, it was worth it. His gloved hands roamed your body and pinched your nipples through your shirt and bra. You leaned your forehead against the cool metal of his helmet and came with a soft yelp.

As he tucked his cock back into his pants, he said he was heading for bed. 

When he saw you toeing your boots off in front of the hammock in the hull that you’d called a bed, he gently wrapped a hand around your wrist and pulled you into his bedroom.

He tucked you in, handling you so carefully that you worried he was hallucinating you to be mere inches tall and green-skinned.

Mando instructed you to face the wall, and once you were, you heard the clink and clank of him removing his armor. All but the helmet.

His hands were warm on your body, his arms were strong as he held you. You’d never felt safer in your life. You could live with never seeing his face. 

What he allowed you to have of himself was surely ten times better than the whole of any other man.

A few months after that was the first time he fucked you without his helmet. You think that’s when it happened. He barely pulled out of you, so it made sense.

He had quietly tiptoed into the bedroom after meeting with Karga to collect more bounties.

You turned over in bed and blinked the sleep from your eyes.

“Mando?”

“Sorry,” he murmured as he began removing the armor.

You sighed and faced the wall again, but stretched your hand out behind you, a silent plea for his touch.

Once Din removed everything but his helmet, fully nude with the exception of his head, he climbed in behind you. He wasn’t quite sure then, and still isn't sure, what made him remove the helmet at that moment, but he did.

You heard the soft pull, then the quiet thud of Mando setting his helmet on the floor, which filled the small bedroom.

“Mando!” you whispered, your voice tight and clipped, almost panicked.

You froze, your eyes trained on the metal wall, unsure what to do now. To your knowledge, Mando took his religion very seriously, was part of a very devout sect, and would only remove his helmet in the presence of his clan.

Did it not count if you didn’t see? What was his plan here?

“It’s alright,” Mando whispered in your ear, his breath warm on your skin. “I trust you.”

That sent a tingle down your spine.

“Just keep your eyes trained on the wall,” he warned softly.

You swallowed roughly, then nodded, the back of your head moving enough for him to see. “Okay.”

Mando pulled at the panties you wore while you removed your sleep shirt, baring your body to him. The idea of being fully naked with him, even if you couldn’t see him, was thrilling.

He gently started rubbing your clit, eventually pulling soft whines from your mouth. It was like music to Mando’s ears.

“Oh, you’re such a good girl for me. You’ll do anything I tell you, huh?” he whispers in your ear as he circles your hole with his fingertip. “You like this? Watching me come undone for you? Huh?”

You gasped out softly when his finger penetrated you. His words were melting you, making you putty in his hands.

“Mando, I… Oh, fuck, I need you,” you whined, your voice a high-pitched whisper.

The Mandalorian growled in response to your vulnerability. He worked you open with two fingers, but didn’t bother making you come. You needed him, and he needed you just as much.

He’d gotten you wet, but not quite wet enough to take him, so he spit on his palm and rubbed it onto his cock before pushing inside of you.

Mando buried his face in the back of your hair for the first time so he could muffle his groans. It was heavenly, having your soft hair rub against his face.

“Fuck, cyar’ika,” he mumbled against your hair, squeezing his hands around your body. “Ori’meshla.”

You clenched around Mando’s cock as he spoke in his religion’s tongue. He was really giving it to you with both barrels. Removing his helmet in your presence and speaking in his native language while he was balls deep inside of you felt like a fucking marriage proposal, but better. 

“Oh, my–Fuck, Mando,” you cried.

He started thrusting and set a quick pace immediately. He still hadn’t quite gotten the hang of the sensual side of things, and you’d been a bit apprehensive to dare make things more emotional in addition to physical. 

The dirty talk, though? That just kept getting better.

“Your cunt is so good,” he whined in your ear, one hand busying itself with rubbing your clit, the other groping your breast and rolling your nipple. “Oh, shit, I shouldn’t want you this much. I’ve never wanted anybody this much,” he whispered.

“Oh, fuck, Mando, I–shit–I want you so bad. Your cock is… Oh!” you babbled, completely drunk on his cock.

“Fuck,” he moaned, sounding absolutely pitiful. You only wished you could see the facial expression that went along with that sound. “Fuck. I take off the helmet, and suddenly you’re cock drunk? Huh? You usually don’t get like this until round two, sweet thing. What? Does it turn you on knowing all it would take is you turning your head around for me to break my creed? Huh? You like the danger of it?”

You buried your face into the pillow beneath your head and let out the most pathetic whine Mando had ever heard from you. If only you could’ve seen the smirk on his face.

He picked your head up by your hair and made you stare at the wall.

“Don’t hide your sweet noises,” he whispered in your ear, his facial hair rubbing against you.

Fuck, he was definitely attractive. No one could act like that and not have the face to match the behavior. 

“I won’t,” you promised, hissing softly when he pulled on your hair before releasing it from his grip.

“That’s a good girl. Yeah, you’re my good girl, huh? You feel special because I took off the helmet for you? Hm? You like hearing my voice clear and unmodulated? Did you like feeling my beard rub on your ear? Tell me.”

“Oh!” you shrieked. His fingers just pressed harder against your clit. “Fuck, I like it, Mando! F-Feel so fucking special. Your voice is so–mm–so smooth and, oh, shit, your beard! Fuck, so sexy, Mando, fuck! I need you!”

He had you right where he wanted you: completely dumb for him. He’d watched you, a highly competent woman, care for his son when he was away and when he was tired, watched you intelligently converse with store merchants and negotiate for the best deals on clothing or snacks for Grogu, listened to you list off facts about the new planets he brought you to. You were smart, and you had your shit together, so making you lose it with just his body made him feel like a fucking king.

“Yeah? Gonna come for me?” he whispered in your ear again, rubbing his cheek against your ear to scratch you with his beard.

“Mm! Yes! Oh, gonna come, Mando! Fuck!” you yelped.

Mando began to rub your clit a little faster, and the orgasm he pulled from you was world-shattering.

Your pussy clenched down on his cock so hard that he thought it might fall off.

“Want you to come now,” you panted. “Come on, Mando, use my pussy.”

The Mandalorian whined in your ear and bit down on your earlobe. He took hold of your hips and gently pushed you to lie on your stomach.

“That okay?” he asked breathily.

“Mhm!”

With your okay, Mando started ramming his cock into you, the small room filled with the sound of skin slapping against skin.

“Fuck,” he whispered under his breath.

His orgasm overtook him; he was already coming by the time his tip exited your body. 

“Sorry,” he gritted out as he pumped his cock over your ass. “Still have your implant?” he asked, already reaching for his underwear to wipe his cum off of you.

“Yeah,” you murmured softly.

Mando tossed his underwear to the floor and turned you on your side, facing the wall. He wrapped his arms around you and whispered, “Close your eyes.”

You did so and mumbled, “Closed.”

He gently brought his hand to your face and turned you toward him. You could feel his breath on you, and you held yours.

When his lips pressed against yours for the first time, it was like ecstasy ran through your body. He was unsure, didn’t use his tongue, but you could feel his passion.

He pulled away and kissed your shoulder, then tightened his arms around you.

“Thank you,” he whispered, and you weren’t sure what to say.

You just took hold of one of his hands and brought his knuckles to your lips.

///

It’s been six weeks since the Mandalorian barely pulled out of you in time, and you’ve been sick a few days over the last two weeks. Unrelated, right? You fucking hope so. When Mando lands the ship, he slips some credits into your hand for shopping, like always, but this time the quantity is greater.

“Find something to make yourself feel better,” he says.

“Hm?” You furrow your brow.

“I’ve heard you in the bathroom,” Mando says softly. “If you’re looking after a child as rambunctious as Grogu, you need your energy. Get better.”

“Thanks,” you murmur, taken aback.

You watch as he heads down the ramp, then look down at Grogu, playing with his silver ball in the corner.

“How does a trip to the market sound today, kid?” you ask softly as you walk toward him.

Grogu coos excitedly in response, and you pull your bag over your shoulder, then help the child get situated inside.

It’s a nice town that Mando’s landed in. You wish he would take the time to explore it once he collects the bounty; it seems all he ever does is hunt for bounties rather than a shop that carries his new favorite product. He has a hard time enjoying things and taking everything in, in your opinion. 

The walk to the market is easy. Grogu coos excitedly every once in a while as you make your way through the shops, buying items you’ll need for the week.

When you make it to the medical shop to stock up on first aid, you notice a doctor’s business card left by the box of bandages. Why not get a quick checkup for you and Grogu?

When you enter the clinic, it’s empty, save for the receptionist.

“Walk in?” they ask.

“Uh, yes,” you reply. “For the kid and me. I wondered if we could just get checkups?”

They nod, not looking at you as they search for the forms.

“Fill these out. I’ll let the doctor know.”

You take a seat, take Grogu out of your bag, and set him on the chair next to you.

“Don’t move,” you tell him, your tone stern but loving.

He makes a sound of discontent, but does as you say while you fill out the paperwork.

Then the door opens, and an older man simply asks, “Ready?”

Unprofessional at best, but you still pick up Grogu and head down the hall with the doctor.

Grogu goes first. You don’t even know what species he is, so the doctor ends up grumbling while taking the child’s history.

Eventually, your green charge is deemed to be in good health.

“Alright,” the doctor sighs after handing Grogu a candy. “For you? Just a physical?”

“Uh, I’m actually more concerned about, um, just checking my vitals,” you say.

The doctor furrows his brow. “What was the day of your last cycle?”

“I guess seven weeks ago. Maybe eight?”

He shakes his head. “Let me go get the bioscan device.”

The doctor steps out, and you turn to Grogu. “You keep this between us, buddy, and there’ll be extra cookies in your future.”

The child beams at you, then the doctor comes back. He unceremoniously scans your body, looks at the results, then sighs when he looks at you. 

“Congratulations,” he says. “You’re pregnant. One human baby.”

Fuck, is all you can think.

“Do you do birth control implant removals?” you ask after a few moments.

The doctor nods.

Once the procedure is done and you’re bandaged up and prescribed anti-nausea medication, you take the kid and split, heading back to the Crest.

Shit, what kind of idiot gets pregnant by a Mandalorian? Wait, that’s being too hard on yourself. The birth control failed. This isn’t anyone’s fault.

Oh, fuck, what is Mando going to say?

You’ve never seen his face. Never. Not in the two years you’ve worked for him. He’s fucked you senseless, let you touch his face in the dark, even kissed you with your eyes closed, but you’ve never seen his face. 

Sometimes he’ll walk around the ship in just his pants, the helmet on. Sometimes he’ll even be naked, except for the helmet. 

You’ve gotten over it. He’s given you other pieces of himself. His bed, his cock, his trust, as well as his seed. 

His fucking seed. 

You’re pregnant with the elusive Mandalorian’s child, yet you've never seen his face, and you still don’t know his name.

When you get back to the Crest, Mando’s already back, sitting at the small table in the hull, the bounty encased in carbonite. 

Grogu coos excitedly and jumps out of the bag, toddling toward his father. 

“Hey, kid,” Mando murmurs softly as he picks up his son. “Get everything we need?” he asks you. 

We. Fuck. 

“Uh, yeah,” you say, setting the bag on the small table. “I even took Grogu to the doctor, just for a checkup. He’s healthy.”

Mando cocks his head to the side, slightly confused. “Why did you take him?”

You take a deep breath in through your nose. “Because I needed to get a bioscan. Figured, since we were there, y’know.”

He stays quiet, waiting for you to continue as he lets Grogu hold his finger. 

You thought you’d sit on it for a few days, let the news sink in on your own. Just looking at him is enough to break you. Grogu will still get his cookies; you don’t break promises. 

“I thought I might be pregnant.” Your breath hitches. “I am. The doctor gave me anti-nausea medicine.”

You say it with feigned nonchalance. You may appear stoic on the outside, but on the inside, you’re terrified. These are not technically the proper circumstances to carry a child in, much less to raise a child in, despite the fact that Grogu does so well. 

This stage of your life, traveling and babysitting, was never meant to be the time you raised a baby. It was meant to give you some perspective on the galaxy, help you get to know yourself. 

You aren’t sure how your baby will fare, raised by a woman who does not yet fully know herself and a man who takes his faction of religion so seriously that those in the same religion consider it to be a cult. 

But what if this is how it’s meant to be? What if this is how you grow into yourself? What if this child is the last piece of yourself left for you to be whole? There are so many what-ifs, and that’s what’s tearing you apart. 

Grogu may still be technically similar to a human toddler, but he’s also had decades to learn to adapt to life. You’re not sure how your baby would do with adapting to a new climate so often. It would be entirely different from Grogu’s experience; the baby would be human. What’s more, what if Mando can’t handle this? What if he pulls away?

He’s said taking care of Grogu has been the greatest honor of his life, and that Mandalorians pride themselves on raising foundlings. What if biological children are seen as less than, as adding a soul to the world who didn’t ask for it?

You’re realizing more and more that you really have no idea how Mando thinks, what his values truly are, and that scares you more than you’d like to admit. 

Mando still hasn’t said anything, and it’s making you uneasy. You wish you could see his face to at least know what he might be feeling.

On second thought, maybe not knowing is better.

Mando eventually leans his elbows on his knees, then straightens up again. He’s fucking fidgeting. The first time he’s moved in about twenty seconds. “You’re… Okay. Wow.”

You’ve never seen the Mandalorian falter. You’ve never wanted to. You definitely didn’t want to be the reason. 

“Mando, I swear I had the implant,” you assure him. “I got it out today, though; it’s obviously shit.”

You lower the hem of your pants to show the bandage over your hip. “See?”

Mando shakes his head. “I believe you. It’s okay.” A breath. “So, anti-nausea medicine… You intend to keep the pregnancy?”

You hesitate, then sigh. “I-I guess so. I don’t… I’m not sure I could bring myself to terminate. Y’know, personally…”

He nods. “That’s your decision. I… If you’re keeping it, I can’t allow myself not to be involved.”

It’s part of his creed to be united with one’s family. Mando’s already an amazing father to Grogu; your child won’t have to worry. 

“I understand,” you murmur softly. “That’s good, y’know? Good for the kid.”

A moment of silence goes by, like you’re both silently begging the other to continue or end the conversation. Eventually, Mando is the braver party. 

“Grogu. He’s a rambunctious child,” he says, looking at his son in his lap. “Will you be able to continue caring for him when I’m away? I could get another sitter; I’d make it work.”

You shake your head. “I’ve got him.”

Mando gently sets Grogu on the floor, then stands slowly, rising to his full height in front of you. He places a gloved hand on your shoulder as he takes a step forward. He takes another step and drops his hand.

He turns to face the other way and takes another step toward the bathroom, but it’s like he can’t. Eventually, he turns his body ever so slightly. 

“My name is Din Djarin,” he says over his shoulder.

Your stomach drops. You never expected he would tell you his name, but then nothing with him has ever been expected.

“I figure you deserve to know the name of the man whose child you bear.”

And then he disappears into the bathroom, leaving you reeling.

///

The night that follows you telling Din that you bear his child, all you can think about is his name. He trusts you enough to tell you his name. 

Din Djarin… 

It’s a simple name, but strong, like him.

That night, after your shower, you find him in the bedroom, clad in boxers and his helmet, sitting on the edge of the bed. You drop the towel and bare your naked body to him. He grunts softly in appreciation and holds his hand out for you.

You pad over to him and straddle his lap. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, you hold up a scrap of fabric.

Live with a man for two years, and he’ll know what you mean without you having to say a word. Or at least Din will. 

Din takes the scrap from you and holds it over your eyes and ties it off behind your head, blindfolding you.

“So gentle, Din,” you whisper.

He hums softly in response, but otherwise stays silent.

Big day, big news; you understand. You won’t push tonight.

Din takes in your body. He just had you last night. Neither of you knew a child was growing beneath your heart, but now you do know, and it feels different, like someone’s watching.

You look the same as you did months before. You shouldn’t look different quite yet. He knows that. It’s still too early for any visible changes to your body. He’ll love them; he knows that. It’ll be his seed growing inside of you, responsible for the changes to occur down the line.

This situation feels precarious, and he isn’t sure why. All he knows is that whether or not this baby was planned, he needs to protect them with his life and show you all the care and adoration in the world in the meantime.

He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to spread the ability to be a father between two children, but he knows he’ll try. He’ll try with everything he has, regardless of how scared he is. 

Din slips his boxers off and removes the helmet.

You moan when you hear the beskar hit the floor. Tentatively, your hands go to his cheeks, letting his beard scratch against your palms as your hands make their way to his hair.

He’s come to understand that his hair, any of it–whether it be his beard, the mop on his head, arm hair, leg hair, his bush, even his fucking armpit hair–is your favorite part of his body. You fucking love it all.

“Can I kiss you, Din?” you whisper, brushing your nose against his.

The sex, neither of you has a problem with. You know that kissing is another story for him, so you’re in the habit of always asking before you kiss him.

He nods, then remembers that you can’t see him.

“Yes,” he rasps. “Please.”

You lean forward blindly, and when your lips meet his, you moan. He seeks entrance into your mouth by tonguing the seam of your lips. He gets better at this every time.

You tug gently on his hair, and he whines into your mouth.

“Oh, shit, sweetheart,” he moans.

His hands are all over you. It’s like he’s mapping your body out, looking for any changes. His right hand eventually stops above your hip. He gently drags his thumb back and forth over your lower belly. Soothing himself? You? The baby? You’re not sure, but it leaves a pit in your stomach, and you whine into his mouth.

“Din, fuck,” you whine, leaning your forehead against his. 

You grind on the erection growing beneath you and sigh.

“Get inside me, Din,” you whisper breathlessly.

He’s quick. You hold your hips up, and he drags his tip through your wet folds a few times, then helps you sink down when the tip is inside.

You throw your head back in pleasure, and Din scooches back on the bed. He wraps his arms around you and lies back, then turns the two of you on your sides so that you don’t have to do so much of the work.

He’s quieter than normal, and it makes you want to overcompensate by talking more than usual, but you hold back. He needs to process in silence. It’s what he’s used to, so you bite your bottom lip and moan each time your lips want to move.

You whimper and moan when his thumb starts circling your clit, when his other thumb starts tweaking your nipples, so sensitive with the new rush of hormones in your body.

“Shit,” you pant. “Oh, so good, Din.”

“So pretty,” Din murmurs to you as he thrusts a little harder.

“Oh! Din!”

“I got you,” he whispers before kissing you again.

He keeps a steady pace of his hips, as well as his thumbs, pushing you over the edge in no time.

“Din, shit,” you whine. “Fuck, baby.”

He swallows your whines and fucks into you with no abandon as he chases his own high. You’re carrying his baby. His seed is growing inside of you. He got you pregnant. Oh, fuck just the simple thought is enough to make him come.

He spills inside of you and doesn’t pull out halfway through for the first time, and it’s divine. His cum is warm and thick and comforting, and you swear you might want it as a snack later.

You moan softly, and Din watches your ribs rise and fall as you regain your composure. He takes your hand and kisses your knuckles.

“You like my name,” he whispers.

“Hm?”

“You couldn’t stop saying it.”

You shrug.

He smiles.

///

Even with the anti-nausea medicine from the clinic, the first trimester of pregnancy isn’t easy. You’re always so tired and hungry, but you often have trouble sleeping, and pretty much no food ever sounds good. 

Din is understanding. He keeps his distance, but is sure to show his support. 

After a hunt on Naboo, Din coaxes you out of bed and out to the flea market. 

You don’t say much, but he figures fresh air and things to look at other than the contents of the Crest might do you good. 

Grogu makes noises of excitement as he toddles along with you and Din. 

Usually, you’re much more eager to try the vendors’ samples and make a few purchases, but you honestly look dead on your feet. 

“Was this too much too soon?” he asks you in between vendors. 

Your arms are crossed, hugged closely to your body, just trying not to keel over from all the overwhelming sounds and smells. He tried to do a good thing, a sweet thing, and you know that’s a little hard for him. He’s not used to being sweet. 

“It was a nice thought,” you whisper softly, squinting as you look up at him, the sun hitting his armor reflecting right into your eye. 

“I thought the fresh air would help with your fatigue,” he murmurs softly, a gloved hand reaching out to gently caress your bicep. 

You just shrug. Grogu approaches, his hands pulling on your boot. 

“He’s… He’s been cooped up the last two days,” you say softly. “I don’t want to ruin his fun. I’ll go into the cantina, try and choke down some broth. Come find me when he’s ready.”

You’re already walking away, a kind smile on your face. 

Din shifts his weight awkwardly. Grogu looks up at him like it’s his fault you’re gone. 

A woman in the booth nearby shoots Din a knowing look. He cocks his head to the side, and she smiles. 

“The first trimester is difficult,” she says as Din walks closer with Grogu. “Her body is getting used to not belonging solely to her anymore. She’s starving but struggles to keep food down. Tired, but has a hard time shutting off her mind long enough to get to sleep. And it looks like she’s already got a little one to look after. An energetic one, by the looks of things.”

The woman nods over to Grogu, a few feet away, jumping up and down in front of some children, practically begging for them to share their cookies with him. 

Din calls Grogu over, then looks back at the woman. 

“I thought coming here, getting some fresh air and exercise, looking at all the shops would make her feel better,” Din admits, feeling a little silly saying it. 

The woman smiles. “I sell a tea that is sure to at least ease your wife’s symptoms.”

Din doesn’t even realize that this woman has mistaken you for his wife at first. For a moment, he grapples with whether or not it matters that she knows you’re actually his son’s babysitter turned dubious hookup turned mother of his second child. 

“Mando?” The woman’s voice is calm, like she’s making sure his train of thought doesn’t take him too far. 

“Right. I’ll take it,” Din says, glancing over her prices and handing her extra credits. “Thank you. I’m sure my…wife will be grateful.”

The woman smiles and watches him walk off with Grogu. 

Din’s seriously buzzing under all the armor at referring to you as his wife. Is it wrong? He’s not sure. But is it so bad to live in that fantasy where everything is plain and simple and easy and not scary and hard and awkward, for just a moment?

He buys a couple of staples for Grogu’s snacks, then finds you at the cantina, sitting in the back booth, a half-full bowl of broth in front of you. 

“He have fun?” you ask, the bags under your eyes darker than when you left. 

Din looks at the smiling child, then to you, and shrugs. 

“He missed you, mostly. Though, I gave him a cookie to soften the blow,” he tells you, and you let out a soft laugh through your nose.

“Find anything interesting?”

“In a way,” Din replies. “A woman noticed our conversation before you left.”

You tense slightly in your seat. For some reason, the image of a woman ready to be Din’s bubbly arm candy, happy to be at the market, ready to replace your cranky, grumpy self, enters your head for a split second. 

You don’t like the idea, and you don’t like the feeling it gives you. 

“She caught on to your…condition. She said this tea might help,” he says, pulling the box from the bag. “I can go up to the bar and have them make you a cup.”

Normally, you’d just make the tea on the ship, but the walk from the town to the ship is longer than you’d like, and you feel like death warmed over, so you nod, and Din’s out of his seat. 

He speaks to the barkeep for a moment, then stands in wait, occasionally looking over his shoulder at you and Grogu. 

Just a few minutes later, he’s back at the table with the tea. 

“It’s hot,” he warns.

You sigh and rest your chin on your knuckles, your elbow on the table. Grogu stares up at you, and you smile. 

“Wanna blow on it for me, pal? Cool it down?” you ask softly. 

The child smiles and blows air out on your tea, though a little too harshly, making a noise that pulls the first genuine laugh out of you that Din’s heard in a few days. 

Eventually, Grogu deems the tea cool enough for you, and gently pushes it toward you. 

You take a sip, and make a slight face of disgust, then eventually, one of acceptance.

“Fuck, I hope that works,” you mutter.

And it seems to. Half an hour later, the three of you are walking back to the Crest, and you’re in better spirits, smiling at Grogu, cracking the occasional joke.

For the first time all week, you take care of Grogu’s bedtime routine.

On the inside, Din is buzzing, utterly pleased with himself that the tea has worked.

He takes a quick shower while you put Grogu down, and once you’re washed up for the night, you meet Din in the bedroom, his helmet and boxers down. 

Once you’re settled in bed, Din removes the helmet and kisses your cheek, spooning you.

“Thank you,” you mutter softly. “For the tea and trying to make me feel better.”

“Don’t mention it,” he whispers.

///

When Din realizes you’re showing, he’s feral. 

He’s more pleased about the pregnancy than you thought he’d be. 

As the months have gone on, he’s been silently examining your body every day, scanning for new changes, changes that tell the world that his baby is inside you, growing and healthy.

So when you come to bed tonight, he notices the curve of your stomach, more defined than it was last week, not as soft as when you’re bloated, and he feels all the blood rush to his head. 

You squint at him. “Am I paranoid, or are you staring at me?”

“You’re showing,” is all he responds with, sitting on the edge of the bed, helmet and boxers on.

You laugh it off, but then he grabs your hand and pulls you toward him. He has you standing between his legs. He pulls your shirt up and sure enough… There’s an undeniable bump.

“Hm. Guess you’re right,” you mutter.

“How can you be so nonchalant?” Din asks, disbelief creeping into his voice.

“What?”

“You’re showing,” Din says again. “People can look at you now and know, undoubtedly, that you are with child. You are visibly pregnant with my child.”

You furrow your brows, not quite grasping why Din feels so intensely about your bump. “Yeah, I know…”

Din sighs and brings both his hands to stroke your belly.

He’s just completed a hunt on Umbara, and you’re still here, landed in an isolated area. Sunlight doesn’t reach this planet. All you have to do is turn off the soft lamp, and you’ll be in complete darkness. Din won’t have to keep the helmet on, and you won’t have to wear a blindfold.

“Turn the light off,” Din whispers, his voice dominant and commanding.

You hesitate for a moment, then reach over and turn the light switch.

Now in pitch black, Din removes his helmet and sets it on the floor.

You’re already leaking into your panties. 

He removes his boxers, then gently tugs on your shirt and helps you get it off, then your sleep shorts and panties.

He palms your cunt and moans appreciatively. 

“All this for me? All we’ve done is get undressed,” he whispers.

“Hormones,” you mumble.

In the dark, he smirks, and the tip of his middle finger breaches your entrance.

Your breath hitches, and he pushes it deeper inside.

“I’m gonna make you come on my hand,” Din rasps, “and then I’m gonna explain to you how amazing your new body is with my cock.”

You moan at his words and clamp around his finger, then his speed picks up just a little. He adds clitoral stimulation, and with his other hand, he gropes your ass. He leans forward and meets your breast with his lips. He wraps his lips around your sensitive nipple and moans around it, sending vibrations through your body that quickly send you over the edge.

“Shit, Din,” you whine, a hand tugging on his hair for balance. 

“Good girl. Did so good letting me get you all wet for my cock. Now, we’re gonna lie down, okay?”

“Okay,” you pant.

Din maneuvers your pliant body with ease. He stands and turns you around, lying you down in the middle of the bed. He may not be able to see your body, but he knows it inside and out, and he’s ready to worship its new changes.

With you flat on your back, Din runs a hand from your cheek, down the side of your neck, over the curve of your breast, to caress your new bump. He shivers when he holds his palm over it. He swears he could die right here. His child is under his hand, and just the thought is making his cock harden.

Your breathing is deep and heavy, and the sound is music to Din’s ears. He leans down and kisses your belly, just beneath your belly button.

“You have my child inside of you, visibly growing and healthy,” he mutters against your skin. “Do you understand what that does to a man like me?”

A man like me… You can’t even begin to understand all the implications there. Din, who has only ever had physical intimacy since his parents died. Emotional intimacy has only been found with Grogu, yet it wasn’t enough for Din. 

To have his child growing inside of you, to see what it’s doing to your body, what his touch did to you… He hadn’t touched another person in decades, and never the way he touches you.

His touch was one of passion, clearly, and it resulted in the beginnings of new life.

New life that is now palpable.

“This is so special,” Din whispers as he kisses his way up your body.

He hovers over you, one hand planted next to your body as he lines himself up with your entrance with his other hand. 

When he pushes in, you both sigh, relieved and excited.

He lowers his face and kisses you as he gets you used to the feeling of him. It’s almost hungry on Din’s part, and you love it.

Honestly, you were wondering just last week if he would back off once you were really showing. You wondered if he might be too scared or just uninterested. Evidently, neither is true, because he’s barely controlling himself from grinding against you.

“Din, you can move,” you tell him breathily. “It’s okay, baby.”

Immediately, Din starts thrusting hard, but not too fast.

“Oh, shit, pretty girl,” he whines. “Do you have any idea what this is doing to me?”

You just giggle in response, and Din snakes his hands under your body and pulls you up. Now, he has his left foot planted on the floor, his knee hitting the side of the bed, his right knee sinking into the bed. He has you balanced on his right thigh, and you instinctively wrap your legs around his waist and your arms around his neck and shoulder. His hands roam your back and side, and his cock is hitting deeper places inside of you than ever before.

“Fuck, you look so incredibly beautiful carrying our baby,” he pants as he goes to kiss your neck.

You moan and arch your back, giving him more access to your neck, and the feeling of your bump pressing into his abdomen makes his cock twitch inside of you.

“Oh, shit, sweetheart,” he rasps, his fingers flexing against your skin, his head resting against your clavicle as you both meet the other’s thrusts.

“Fuck, feels so good, Din. Shit!”

All that’s heard in the small room is the sound of skin slapping against skin and breathy moans and whines. It’s pure ecstasy, and neither of you wants it to stop.

“So good to me,” you whine. “Taking such good care of your pregnant slut, huh? Making sure my needs are met, Din? Huh?”

“Don’t call yourself a slut,” Din pants, still thrusting. “You’re perfect. You have my baby inside of you. You’re all mine. Mine.”

“Mm, all yours, huh? Wanna keep me for yourself?” you ask before licking a stripe up his neck.

“Mhm. Mother of my baby. Such a pretty mommy…”

You moan and let yourself fall back a bit, pulling Din with you. He has this musk you can’t describe, and you need a closer angle.

“Smell so good,” you pant, kissing up and down his neck.

Din grabs your jaw and lazily licks the outline of your lips before kissing you again.

You scratch your nails down his triceps and clench around his cock when he hisses in pain.

He moves his arm so he can cup the back of your head, and you lean in to smell his armpit.

It shocks him, and he gasps, but you moan and hold his arm up so you can keep sniffing.

“Fuck, you smell so good, baby,” you moan dreamily.

It’s taboo, even a little gross, to sniff your lover’s armpit and claim it smells good, and you wouldn’t normally do that, but Din knows it’s your hormones. Your hormones are out of whack because of the baby he put inside of you, and now you love the smell of his armpit.

It’s enough to wreck a man.

He feels your nose brush against his armpit hair, and he shivers. Then you have the audacity to kiss and lick his armpit, and the moan that comes out of you has him blowing his load in under ten seconds, which triggers your own climax.

By the end of it, you’re both sweaty, stupid messes.

Din kisses your bump about eleven times before he finally lies down.

///

Five and a half months pregnant and bored while Din has been on a hunt the last two days, you manage to scrounge up some old sketch paper from a box in the back of the ship.

It seems that since you entered the second trimester, you haven’t been drawing as much.

You start with Grogu. He sits beside you while he eats his lunch and plays with his silver ball. You’re halfway through when he peers over your shoulder and oohs and ahs at it.

“Like it, buddy?” you ask.

He smiles in response and drags his fingers over the ears you drew.

You smile. “Accurate?”

Grogu nods.

Next, you draw your new side profile, hoping it will make you feel a little better about it. Din may be crazy for it, but it’s taking some getting used to for you. 

You work on it on and off, watching Grogu play outside, then in between bites at dinner. By the end, you’d like to say it’s worked at least a little, in terms of being a confidence booster. 

After you put Grogu to bed, you sit back down at the table and stare at your paper and pencil.

You’ve mapped out every inch of Din’s face with your hands. Maybe you could try to sketch his face?

For some reason, that makes you nervous, so instead, you sketch his body, fully nude, and you don’t forget even a single scar.

You’re so into it that you don’t hear the ramp open and close or Din’s footsteps when he approaches you from behind, a hand resting on your shoulder.

You jump in your seat and turn around, your heart beating out of your chest.

“Shit,” you laugh softly to yourself.

“You were in the zone,” Din remarks, sitting next to you, looking over your shoulder just as Grogu had done earlier.

Like father, like son.

“Is that me?” he asks softly when he notices the scar you’ve sketched on the figure’s right side.

“Yeah,” you answer simply. 

He stares at the drawing for a moment, eyes squinting inside the helmet. 

“My cock’s not that big,” he mutters softly.

You snort out a laugh, then cover your mouth in embarrassment. You smile and look from his crotch to his helmet, hopefully making eye contact with him.

“Din, yes, it is,” you manage to say in between laughs.

He shrugs and focuses back on the drawing, then notices you’ve started drawing his jaw and wonders how far you’ll go with that.

“Do you think you can draw my face?” he asks.

You inhale sharply and consider it for a moment.

“I’m not sure.” Then you look up at his helmet-covered face. “Would it be okay if I tried? You wouldn’t have to tell me if it was right, or close, or anything.”

Din sighs and removes one of his gloves, then reaches out to rub your belly, something he does lately when you say something that makes him think.

“I’d actually like to see what you come up with,” he says.

You smile, pick your pencil back up, and get to work with the rough sketch.

As he watches you draw, he scoots his chair to be behind yours, his arms settling on top of your bump, his hands able to roam the globe of it while you work.

He watches you sketch sparse hair on the cheeks for his patchy beard, the almost exact slope of his nose, the messy waves of the mop on his head. You get close to the size and shape of his eyes, his chin. All of it is…strangely close to accurate for someone who’s never seen his face.

Din doesn’t say anything until you’re finished, and you hold the piece of paper up for him to assess. 

You’re almost nervous by how long he’s been silent; then he speaks.

“You’re a hell of an artist, sweetheart,” he murmurs before standing from his chair.

That night in bed, you shut your eyes and move your fingers over his facial features once again, as if you’re trying to identify any mistakes you made in your drawing, and also the parts you got right.

///

The first time the baby kicks, it’s the middle of the night. 

You feel some pressure on your bladder and are mentally preparing yourself to blindly crawl over Din to get to the bathroom without catching even a glimpse of his face when it happens. 

A little flutter. 

You gasp and bring your hand to the side of your belly. With a gentle press against your skin, you encourage another flutter, which pulls a breathy laugh from you. 

Behind you, Din stirs, his hand flexing on your hip. 

“Okay?” he mumbles tiredly. 

You take his hand off your hip and push it against your stomach. 

Din’s eyes are barely open as you drag his hand over your belly. He’s always down to feel your bump, but he’s not quite sure why it has to be now. 

Then he feels it. 

“That’s them?” he asks, his voice rough with sleep but full of awe. 

“That’s our baby,” you whisper, staring down at the small ripple of your skin under Din’s hand. 

There’s a lump in both your throats. You’ve both known this was happening for months, that a baby was on the way. Din’s been in a state of perpetual protectiveness since you told him you were pregnant, and it got worse when you were showing, and now the baby can move, and you can both feel it and see it, and it’s miraculous and amazing, and neither of you feel worthy of this child. 

Din kisses the back of your neck and peers over your shoulder, his beard rubbing against your ear as he watches the small movements made by the baby in your belly. 

“What does it feel like?” he whispers. “On the inside, what does it feel like?”

You inhale deeply as you think about how to answer. 

“Kind of like when your leg twitches, or maybe tiny taps, but from  the inside,” you mutter softly, your hand on the top of his forearm while he gently strokes back and forth across your stomach. 

“It doesn’t hurt?”

“No. No, it’s just strange. It’ll take some getting used to.”

Din hums contentedly and kisses the top of your cheek. The two of you just stay like that for a few moments, your hands roaming your stomach, following the baby as they roll around in your womb. 

He kisses your ear and lets you gently push his weight off of you. 

“I have to pee,” you whisper, turning your face toward him with your eyes closed. 

He chuckles softly at the sight and takes your hand, carefully guiding you out of bed and out to the bathroom. He dutifully waits outside the door for you. While he waits, he feels the phantom movements on his palm, like his hand is still on your stomach. In all his travels, Din has experienced a great deal of amazing things, but nothing has come close to feeling his child move in your womb. 

When you open the door, eyes shut and your hand held out for Din, he takes it and guides you to the bedroom. He pulls the covers over you both once you’re in bed and holds you until you fall asleep. 

Slowly and carefully, Din pulls the covers down for just a moment and leans down to kiss your stomach. He’s not sure why he does; he just feels the need to. Like when Grogu sits on his lap, and he carefully squeezes his son’s little body. 

He nuzzles his nose against your belly and sighs. There’s an urge to speak to the baby like he often catches you doing these days, but he isn’t sure what to say, plus he doesn’t want to wake you up again. 

So Din presses another kiss to your belly, then straightens out his body again, his hands cradling your stomach as you sleep. With one more kiss to the back of your neck, he shuts his eyes, ready to fall asleep again. 

///

Din just completed a bounty yesterday, but he hasn’t set the course for a new destination yet. You don’t have any complaints; traveling has fucked with your stomach for the last month. Seven months pregnant and constantly flying in the Crest can’t be the healthiest way to live while pregnant, but you don’t have another choice. 

Or maybe you do, but you just don’t want to make it. 

You’re sitting outside the Crest on a smooth rock in front of Grogu, who’s currently focusing on moving his silver ball with the Force. It’s actually going pretty well, and you cheer him on when the ball moves even an inch. 

The ramp is open, and you can see Din inside the Crest, flight pants and helmet on. Nothing else. The fucking tease. 

You like that he feels comfortable enough to bare even just the top half of his body. In the three days you’ve been set up here, not another soul has shown up. 

“Any progress?” Din calls out, leaning against the opening of the ramp, crossing his feet, his arms around his chest. 

“A little,” you reply, leaning back on your palms. 

He chuckles softly and walks down the ramp toward you and Grogu. He takes a seat next to you and lets his pinkie brush against yours. 

“He’s getting stronger every day,” Din remarks. 

You nod. “Tough little green guy.”

That pulls a soft chuckle from the Mandalorian. You lean your head on his shoulder. Quiet intimacy, something that began when you got pregnant. 

You didn’t realize you had been doing it, but Din did. It startled him at first, but he was often tense when you touched him anyway, so you didn’t think much of it. Eventually, he relaxed when you leaned into him.

Right now is no different. 

“I heard the dinner served at the café in town is good,” he says softly. 

“Mm. I want stew tonight. Do they have stew?”

“They should.”

There are a few moments of comfortable silence before Din slowly brings a hand to your belly. He still finds himself feeling awkward initiating the casual side of intimacy, but he knows you need it. You need the reassurance that he’s there for you and the baby, that he’s not just here to get his dick wet and fulfill his biological duty.

The baby rolls under your skin in reaction to their father’s touch.

“Mm. Always so excited to tell you hello,” you murmur, adjusting your weight as you sit, your body upset at the baby’s movement. “Mmph.”

“Are you alright?” Din asks, an edge of concern in his voice.

“The kid’s energetic at the moment,” you say, your voice calm and even, which lets Din lose some of the tension in his shoulders. “Restless, like their father.”

Din scoffs softly at that.

“It’s true.” You shrug.

Underneath the helmet, Din smiles.

After a few more minutes of play for Grogu, Din heads into the Crest to get dressed in his flight suit and adorn his armor.

The walk to the café is somewhat long, but it’s good for your heart, which is good for the baby, Din says.

The three of you are seated rather quickly. No one wants to make the pregnant woman, accompanied by a wordless Mandalorian, wait.

That’s one of the things Din appreciates about you; you do all the talking with strangers. If he can help it, he prefers silence and observing. 

When he met you, you basically offered the role of Grogu’s babysitter to yourself. You were a struggling artist who only sold one piece worth enough to feed you for a year, but you sent that money to your parents to pay off their debts. After that, you hit a rough patch until you met Din and Grogu. You talked your way out of that rough spot, and Din still admires you for it.

Halfway through the meal, an elderly woman approaches your table with the biggest smile on her face.

“My dear, you are positively radiant,” she exclaims, taking your hands in hers.

“Oh, thank you,” you reply kindly, giving her a soft smile.

“I haven’t seen a woman carry as beautifully as you are in ages,” she continues.

Across from you, you know Din is tense, anxious about the attention you’re receiving, scared that this woman will pull you to the floor, maybe take the unused knife from his place setting, and stab you in the belly. He can tolerate the simple congratulations you often receive, but getting interrupted at dinner to hear about how you carry so beautifully is making him uneasy.

“That’s very kind,” you say.

The woman keeps beaming and notices Grogu. 

“Ah, the little one will soon not be the littlest one. Going from one to two is a whirlwind, I must warn you,” she cautions.

“Well, we’ve been preparing, so hopefully it won’t hit us too hard.”

The woman sighs and looks from you to Din. “Well, if I know anything about Mandalorians, I’m sure your husband will at the very least protect all of you with his life. Good luck to you and your sweet family, dear.”

And then she’s off, but there’s something hanging in the air now.

Husband…

Is Din even allowed to be your husband? Who even are you to him besides the mother of his second child, who also happens to love his first with all your heart?

After dinner is wrapped up and the walk to the Crest is complete, Din goes about Grogu’s bedtime routine while you wash up.

When he meets you in the bedroom, you’re sitting up, your back against the metal wall he makes you face every night.

“Are you alright?” he asks softly as he removes his gloves.

You shrug. 

“I’m fine. I just can’t stop thinking about that woman mistaking you for my husband,” you admit, your hands gently caressing the sides of your bump.

“Oh,” he says, removing the armor from his arms.

“Oh? That’s it?”

Din sighs and leans back against the opposite wall. “I’m not sure what to say, sweetheart. I… I didn’t know until recently that Mandalorians could marry outside our religion, that there’s the possibility of living while showing your face to the world.”

You don’t say anything for a moment. Din chews on the inside of his cheek and removes the armor from his legs, then from his front and back, now just clad in the helmet and flight suit.

He sighs again and inches toward the bed, sitting on the edge, but turning his body to face you. He takes one of your hands from your belly and holds it.

“I never had intimacy before I met you,” he whispers softly. “Sex, sure, but not intimacy. I want to do right by you, make sure you receive what you deserve.”

You take a shaky breath in and then exhale. 

“I can go at your pace,” you whisper, your voice breaking. 

Din’s heart thumps roughly in his chest at the sound of your voice breaking. He wishes he could wrap his arms around you and protect you from everything bad in the world. You, Grogu, and the baby in your belly are all he cares about. 

“I know,” he whispers. “And you… You’re amazing, sweetheart. Better than I deserve.”

You let out a soft whimper at that, too emotional to rebuke his statement, but so, so capable of doing so. 

Din sighs. 

“Can I kiss you?” he asks softly. 

You nod and shut your eyes, awaiting the sound of his helmet coming off, but instead you hear his voice. 

“Keep your eyes open,” he murmurs. 

Your eyes open, and he tips back his helmet, revealing his chin, his bottom lip, then his top lip and cheeks. 

Just the bottom half of his face is so utterly beautiful, you think you might be sick. 

You sniff, and with his free hand, he pulls you closer and presses his lips to yours. He tastes a tear on your lips and licks it up. 

In the past, you had mapped out his features with your hands in the dark. You knew his bottom lip felt plush and slightly curved, but to see it, and to see the patchiness of his beard, to see the shape of his chin… It’s all overwhelming. 

When he pulls back, he reaches up to kiss your forehead, then lowers the helmet again. 

“I love you,” you whisper through your quiet tears. 

Din’s heart almost bursts in his chest. He feels sick upon hearing your words. He’s dreamed of hearing that for months now. He tries to make his lips move, tries to say it back, but he’s paralyzed.

He’s scared he’s upset you further, frightened that you’re about to turn over and shut your eyes for the night, but you don’t. 

What actually happens breaks his heart even more. 

“Din Djarin, I love you. I wouldn’t change a thing about you. You’re the love of my life,” you say in between sniffles and wiping your eyes. “You’re the greatest man I’ve ever known, and our children are lucky to have you as a father.”

His stomach twists, and you give him the kindest, softest smile he’s ever seen, and then you lie down, pull the covers over your body, and face the wall.

Read part two here!

all works tags: @person-005 @madpanda75 @tearsweetenedtea

Melted beskar was the lifeblood of the covert in the eyes of all those who came before and all who would find themselves behind the visor of a helmet. Though rare and scattered across the galaxy after the siege of Mandalore, the steel remained marked with the screams of people you never knew, but could hear nonetheless. They called each piece blood money—claimed it to be cursed like the ruins of the planet its own people couldn’t return to.

But it poured the same into molds carved near a century ago. It bent the same beneath the swing of a hammer and the flame of the press meant to mold it into shape.

You could taste the sparks at the back of your tongue when she brought her tool down with one final swing, the sound resounding off the walls with a harsh clang. Your ears used to ring with the noise as a teenager. Back when you first came stumbling off the ship that rescued you from Concordia after an attack from the Empire.

It would keep you up at night. Pinging with a vibration that sat low in your stomach. Each loud hit a new wound as she molded you new pieces to fit your growing form, the old pauldrons and chest plate destroyed in battle.

The helmet sat in your lap most nights. Staring back at a face you could no longer recognize after years of forgoing ever glancing in the mirror and ignoring you had a face altogether. Perhaps if no one could see your eyes they wouldn’t notice the tears that burned hot down your cheeks at night. They’d forget you existed behind the wall of beskar and the barrel of your blaster.

The screams of your mother to run as she held your father’s corpse in her arms became a ghost you couldn’t exorcise—their spirits were tattooed onto the very skin they never got a chance to see one final time.

You think your mother had brown eyes. Or blue. Or…something.

All you could recall was the black T of her visor staring at you, shouting in a language that was rooted down to your very being. Your father’s eyes were already rolled to the back of his head before you could discern their color to have for when you simply wanted to remember.

The picture you formed halfway of what they must have looked like blended together until you could no longer tell which of your features came from your mother or which were given by father. Perhaps they wanted it this way. For you to forget what they looked like and only remember the splash of blue across your mother’s helmet and the scratch on your fathers that resembled a scar he must have harbored on his skin.

“What’s the most important part of the covert?” Her voice was clear as a drum through her modulator, helmet fixed on yours while you fidgeted with a new pauldron for a child.

“The foundlings,” you uttered quickly.

“And why do we protect the foundlings?”

“Because they are the future of the covert.”

Another swing forced a jolt right down to your bones, the power of it reverberating beneath your dark beskar. Gold littered your armor and traced along your visor, scattering along your chest plate and pauldrons. The color black was certainly different for a Mandalorian to wear, but you felt you had earned the dark hue after witnessing far too much death. Friends fallen, family slaughtered, an entire clan turned to ash because the Empire willed it so. Jaig eyes once marked in gold and now smeared in a mess of red you hastily painted on one night through tears became a reminder for those who watched you pass in the tunnels.

Their whispers followed like a permanent half written story you never bothered to help finish. They knew you came from Concordia, that your parents were Mandalorian, and that your line traced back to the the planet Mandalore at some point in the past. But that didn’t stop them from talking—making assumptions that you were hand picked because of your bloodline.

Not because you witnessed more death in the tribe than most had in their entire lives.

“You seem distracted today prudii (shadow).”

Her words cut through you, forcing your attention back to what she was doing. “I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“Your dreams of their end still haunt you then?” Your head snapped up, mouth opening and closing beneath your helmet, but she’d already snagged the thread of your irritation and began to unravel it at an alarming rate. “The sacrifice of your parents is an honorable one. As their child, protecting you was an act for the future of their clan.”

“I hear them sometimes,” you whispered, setting the pauldron down and watching the firelight play off the silver. “They tell me what to do, let me know if what I’m becoming is a mistake.”

“To be chosen as leader is a path every Mandalorian would wish for their legacy. You wear their honor-” She gestured to your helmet, the crimson jaig burning a hole in your skull each time you set the beskar into place. A ceremonial crown you hoped one day they wouldn’t bestow on you. “Bearing it with shame only turns their final act into failure.”

Betrayal in the Mandalorian culture didn’t fade like others, leaving behind a wound that might heal one day even if the blow inflicted was ugly and torn. To betray a Mandalorian brother or sister was to sever the ties with one another entirely. To betray a family member—living or dead—would taint their honor and bring ruin to its once honorable status.

No matter how much you willed the future they chose for you to be handed off to someone else, buried and forgotten in a grave you would dig yourself. This was one choice you couldn’t make for yourself.

Ruining their honor.

Decimating a legacy that spanned for generations beyond them and you.

You’d rather face death—the full might of the Empire—than rip the remains of their spirit out of your body. You were their child, the future of the clan they would no longer get to uphold. It was your honor, your duty, to carry out their wishes until your dying breath passed it on to the next foundling in line.

“I understand,” you got out between clenched teeth and a throat constricted with the burn of guilt. “It’s an honor to carry them.”

The Amorer didn’t believe you. The lie that slid off your tongue was translucent and shallower than the waters that flowed in the underground of the planet. But her question that would normally come in the tip of her helmet was overshadowed by the sound of boots thudding down the steps, the soft clang of metal against metal echoing in the darkened space only lit by the forges fire.

Rusted red armor and a blue pauldron lit by the orange glow rounded the corner as the familiar echo of his modulated voice greeting the Armorer filled your ears. Din Djarin. A fellow warrior that you met in the first week of finding your place in Nevarro. He’d come from the same moon as you, though trained in a different section with foundlings that were rescued on planets attacked and burnt to the ground.

Considering the brutality he’d faced as a child you didn’t expect to find yourself latching onto someone like him. Although you supposed that was the irony of why you stood closer to him in training than others, why you sat side by side around firelight as the elders spoke of a time when Mandalorians didn’t have to hide. Why you once snuck out to meet him years back in the middle of the night to practice with a blaster he stole from someone’s bunk; a choice that would later come with consequences he refused to let you be apart of.

You both emerged from the embers of a stolen life and chose survival at the end of that suffering.

“My pauldron,” he said, allowing the Armorer to inspect what damage had come to the metal. “I tried to fix it myself but-” He winced when she yanked it clean off, gesturing to the bench one usually took in the building process. “It’s been awhile since I’ve worked with it.”

“A Mandalorian must always know how to fix ones armor,” she snipped never bothering to glance over her shoulder. You could taste his shame in the air as he ducked his head, fingers curling into fists on his thighs.

“Always trying to be the best,” you muttered soft enough to blend into the hiss of hot metal touching wires.

His head reared back, visor fixed on the sight of you welding together the inside of a foundlings chest plate. “Like you wouldn’t do the same?”

You scoffed into your work, ignoring the burn of his gaze through his black visor that you could feel through the metal clasped along your body. “What’s there to prove with me? When my future is marked out.”

The clang of metal hit the table before he could reply, his blue pauldron flickering on the inside. “Prudii (shadow) you will finish this piece. I will take the chest plate to the foundling. He will no doubt be pleased with your work.”

“Of course.”

Din’s back stiffened, fingers splayed wide and elbows locked at his sides as you stepped in close. He could feel the nerves along his spine jolt, want a sweet taste on the tip of his tongue. The pauldron was heavy in your hands but set in nicely with a familiar click, the magnetized wiring on the inside fitting back into their proper space. You’d learned the inner workings of the armor well enough to know that this would last him for years to come—quite possibly his entire life if he stayed out of trouble.

Highly unlikely in his case.

“You don’t want this,” he finally said as the fire spit viscously into the air, as if handing over your answer for you.

“And you know what I want.”

His head tipped back to find your visor. You stood over him, a shadow of night bathed in the orange glow of a flame that knew you far more intimately than he did. And still he saw you. Past the black armor, beneath the markings of a warrior, until he peered into the eyes of the person that somehow still lingered in between the destruction.

“Your future,” he hesitated, a hand shifting until the back of his glove pressed to the plate on your thigh. “It isn’t carved into beskar.”

“To them it is.”

“What about to you?”

The question occurred to you more times than you cared to admit. Especially to yourself. For as long as you’d been alive your future existed in a line, always straight and headed directly to a point marked and forged by the people who brought you to existence. It never curved, never arced sharply to the right or left. You were destined to be clan leader even if they had to drag you down bloody and fighting to take what they deemed your rightful place.

More often than not you found yourself considering a hasty plan to escape off world in the middle of the night. A chance to run from what you feared the most—a life that existed beyond any choice of your own.

“To me…” You faltered when his hand curled around your wrist that hung loose at your side, tongue twisting and chest a rapid thud at the sight of his large palm clasped around yours. The fine line was drawn in the sand the day you met him—you stay just out of reach of being friends, nothing more, nothing less—and now it blurred with the shift of his body angling closer than before. “I don’t exist,” you finally admitted in between heavy breaths and a heart that sounded different in this shade of darkness.

“I can see you just fine from here.”

Your lips curled, tongue sweeping along your bottom lip. If only he could see you beneath the beskar—oh how he longed to. “I mean, I’m not my own person like you or the others. I’m made up of my parents and their parents and their parents before them. I’m…vheh (dust).”

“Dust,” he muttered. “I don’t…”

“Don’t you remember the theory of stardust told to us on Concordia?” For a brief moment you allowed your palm to linger on his shoulder, thumb dragging along the pauldron and Din felt as if you were touching his bare skin. “Everyone is made up of what first created the galaxy: the dust of stars. The start of everything.”

He chuckled dry and low enough to simmer a flame in your stomach. “A myth if you ask me.”

“I used to think so too. But…I’m the dust of my family’s legacy. Their clan. Many leaders came before me and as expected many will follow, but to uphold that future I must sacrifice my own. For the good of the covert.”

A scoff ruptured through the modulator, startling you. “You sound like the elders. Did they tell you to say that?”

“It’s true!”

“It’s bantha shit-” The sharp thwack of your hand striking his side echoed off the walls, punctuated by his muffled groan as he doubled over in pain.

“Do you think I’m blindly following their advice? I know my choice Djarin.”

“Your choice is because of what your parents wanted.” Standing up he felt part of his shoulder pop beneath the weight of beskar set back in its original spot. He ignored the splint of pain to catch how you deliberately shifted back.

The possibility of more lingered between the two of you longer than either of you cared to admit. He could taste it some days. Like sugar stuck behind his teeth that he continued to pick at—the constant question of maybe became the wall erected in the space where your touch remained. Never able to press through the steel but still warm enough to burn.

“But you understand that,” you reminded him, your mouth tugging down. “The need to keep a part of them alive.”

He did.

Probably more than most.

The foundlings that were rescued came to Concordia as children younger than him—many small and malnourished from years on their own. Which meant the memories of their parents had time to fade, to become distant images that blurred in the back of their minds. They were given the opportunity of a fresh start. The title of Mandalorian never hindering where they came from or who they might have become. But his parents were burned into the front of his mind day and night. He could no sooner forget them than he could you.

Handing over pieces of yourself that might have survived beneath the rubble of a former life, in order to save something so insignificant to others yet everything to the Mandalorians, made sense to him. If he was in your position he would act no different. He’d wade through blood and bone and the death of his future to keep hold of what little memory still remained of his parents. You were merely doing what had always been expected of you.

“I should get back to work,” you got out, chest tight and lungs aching with the burn of shame.

“Okay.”

“Make sure not to damage that again. Or she’ll have your head—helmet included.”

“We wouldn’t want that to happen,” he dryly said though you could hear the smile in his words. “Ret’ (goodbye) Ca’tra.”

He turned, cape brushing the table as he re-attached the rifle along his back and left up the steps. You watched his form vanish into the shadows but still refused to move even when he was long gone. There were nights you wished you were a foundling unearthed from a life that held no return. Days you wanted to be just like him. Free.

The hope that he might turn back around with a plan for escape burned eternal in the base of your chest. To even think of it felt like a form of madness in its own way, but you had little to grasp onto. If anyone were able to drag you from the grave carved in the names of your parents, you hoped it would have been him. Perhaps that’s why you found Din Djarin. A person to keep you stable.

An ally to depend on. A friend to place your trust in.

The welcome sound of metal clashing and the pained groan of a fist colliding with its intended mark filled the tunnels of Nevarro’s underground. You likened them to the songs of old; to the memories of Concordia as a child. Sparring happened before dinner, when the energy had yet to dwindle and spirits were high. You grew to look forward to that time—when the clan found peace in those few hours and allowed themselves the chance to settle.

Warriors, ones your age and younger, took the center space as the others buried themselves with tasks at hand and matters of business your generation wasn’t privy to. Every now and then they spared a glance and on the rare occasion, traded credits in favor of who might come out victorious.

“Kaysh shu’shuk. (He’s a disaster),” Paz grumbled beside you, glaring at the helpless grip the youngest Mandalorian had on an older boy nearly twice his size.

“He’s trying,” you retorted.

“They’re gonna eat him alive.”

“Vizsla,” you growled under your breath, clamping teeth into your lip to stifle a laugh.

“We trained you better than that!” he barked.

The youngling tripped over himself, slipping out of their grasp. This was the nature of finding one’s footing in the covert. An opportunity to grow into the warrior’s shadow cast upon everyone at a young age. Harsh as it may be there was little you could do as Paz clipped their helmet with the base of his palm, maneuvering their legs back into a stance that wouldn’t knock them down.

The duty of the older Mandalorians was to train the young. Everyone was required to spend time dedicating their skills. And you were no exception.

As leader the Alor was the example from which others followed. They upheld the way of all Mandalorians and so you did as you were told—following traditions that had been passed down longer than Mandalore had existed. The young learned what you were taught as a child on Concordia. Lessons handed down from your ancestors. Not simply the ways of battle—though certainly important—but the politics of why Mandalore fell. Why it existed in the first place.

You spoke the history of a people they would never get to know in the hopes that they might do better. That if the culture of Mandalorians were tested once again at the hands of fury, they wouldn’t allow ego and old grievances to dictate centuries of legend.

“Keep your hands up,” you ordered. “Don’t let them catch you off guard. You are as much a weapon as the tools you use. To keep your faith in whether your blaster will work each time you pull the trigger is a fools way of fighting.”

Your father’s words slid easily off your tongue. His voice a baritone echo in the back of your mind, filled with the grit of battle and the knowledge of what his enemies blood tasted like on his tongue. It made your lips curl to hear your voice recount them—your stomach bubbling with acid at the knowledge that you became the child he might honor with pride.

The boy nodded, arms rising to block a jab. You could feel the burn of one too many eyes on your back, regarding you as the leader you weren’t. Years from now you’d stand before them and take the oath. You would recite the vows and promise them a life that was never yours. The signet of a Raqour’daan—a dark wolf—worn by your parents and theirs before them would finally be set into your armor. Solidifying you as their perfect warrior.

Honor. Legacy. The words lost all meaning in the face of something you didn’t fight to keep. When the Empire set ruin on the lands of Mandalore you understood that the future they planned for you—the fate tied in red knots around your wrists—would be the only outcome of your life. If they weren’t alive to train the next generation then you’d set your boots into their footprints and hope to fill it the same way.

Burden.

You loathed the word.

Mandalorians stood for digging their blades into the stones of the past and using them as a foothold to craft the future. But no matter how many different ways you looked at the sum total of your life and the results that now lay in tatters at your feet—honor and legacy had nothing to do with you becoming leader. You didn’t earn the title. You weren’t deserving of its prestige.

They built your burden from their own wishes cracked off from pieces of your shattered bones that were set in place to resemble a child. You didn’t exist.

What dreams you tucked in the back of your mind and hopes that echoed with the striking burn of desire vanished in the face of their expectations.

Maybe Din was right. Maybe you were just spouting the nonsense the elders ingrained in your mind the day you first arrived here.

“How about you get in the ring?” A voice not yet matured with the years he pretended to carry sounded behind you. The ego dripped off his tongue and you didn’t need to turn around to know who bothered to goad you on.

Orron Dene. He was a year older than you, stood half a foot taller, and wore his new clan marking like a crown the covert never awarded him. Although his helmet was certainly big enough for his head, you didn’t see it surviving beneath the weight of his ego for much longer. He singled you out your first week there, intent on digging just far enough to find your breaking point. A nuisance in blue and silver armor.

“I’m helping today Orron. Maybe you should give it a try.”

He scoffed and you caught sight of Paz’s large form taking the space at your right—a weapon in case you needed him. Though you never did. But something else tugged sharp at the back of your mind, heat spreading along your neck as another set of eyes drilled holes into your armor. You didn’t need to find his helmet to know he stood in the shadows away from the rest.

A guard dog primed and begging to sink his teeth into the flesh of your opponent.

He’d taste the blood so you didn’t have to. Even if he knew you enjoyed the flavor just the same.

“Then show them how its done. I challenge you to fight.” You nearly laughed at the ridiculous spectacle he made of detaching his cowl and dropping it at the edge of the hand drawn circle. “C’mon, don’t you wanna prove your worth of being our Alor?”

You stepped into the ring. “I don’t need to prove anything.”

“Really?” The condescending smile dripped into his words. “You’re just that bloodthirsty huh?”

“Keep it civil Dene,” Paz growled.

“Civility is an earned right on Mandalore. Isn’t that right?” His head tipped, fists rising and you watched his feet slide into the traditional stance you taught the younglings on the daily. “Or do you not remember seeing as how you were born on Concordia.”

He swung towards your face and you dipped to the side, grabbing his arm in your grip and twisting it until his shoulder popped. He stumbled nearly hitting the ground with his knee but caught himself before he could land out of bounds. The sparring wasn’t so much about hurting one another rather than knocking the other out far enough to lose. At least those were rules you abided by. Orron didn’t seem to care.

Another swing landed a hit to your side and you felt the pain splinter with malice up your chest. His shrill laugh echoed off the walls, piercing your ears as you ducked another swing. Your knee came up into his thigh, elbow smashing into the space just beneath the pauldron set on his shoulder. It was hard to fight the smile of his pained grunt when he fell to the side.

“That’s all you got?” he huffed, scrambling back to his feet.

“We’re sparring.”

“Are we?” A kick to the side of your thigh and fist to the base of your chin just beneath your helmet left you gasping for air. “I challenged you oh great future clan leader. So give me a challenge.”

You blocked his fist but didn’t anticipate the boot in your hip as pain slid up your torso and the air punched from your chest. The crack of the metal strapped to your knee hitting the ground drew all conversation to a halt. The stillness of the quiet drowning everyone out until all you could hear was the sharp ragged gasp of you fighting for air. An ache bloomed in your body and you knew you’d be sporting sore limbs for days to come.

Orron didn’t stop there.

The punch to the back of your neck sent you forward, hands slapping to the ground to keep you steady as he rammed another swift and heavy kick to your side.

“That’s enough!” Paz snarled. “You’ve made your point Dene.”

“I don’t think I have,” he chuckled dryly. “I wanna see the wolf in her natural state.”

“Fuck you.” The words spit out against your helmet, rage seeping into your already hazy vision.

Orron crouched to your level, gripping the edge of your helmet and dragging you forward. “Are you gonna take me out kyr’am (death)? Thought that’s what your clan was known for. The dark wolves of Mandalore sent out to do the dirty work.”

You pulled back but he kept a hold of your face, the burn of everything you swallowed—the grief you buried—bubbling to the surface and searing heat into your chest. His sneer ripped the fine line of your patience in two. “Or are you just as I thought. I’ll put your out your misery, but be sure to tell your parents I said hi.”

Sucking in a breath you felt the lick of red wash along the edges of your vision, coiling anger at the base of your spine and you swung before you could drag it back in. Your fist collided with the side of his jaw with a sharp crack and he fell back. You heard the cry tear from your throat, felt the spit burn hot at the back of your mouth as you ground out words that were said with the same explicit rage your mother exhibited the day she died.

The day you lost everything.

“Gar kyr'am. Ibac’ner.” (Your death. It’s mine.)

In a reckless move he swung his leg to knock your feet out and you grinned when you smashed your foot into his knee. His sharp wailing moan nearly overlapped the loud snap of his bone shattering. You swung for his face, clipping his jaw, his neck and side. Anywhere you could drive your fist into his body you went for it, colliding metal into flesh until blood began to pour between the crevices of his armor. He blocked your hits the best he could, clawing away from you with wet gasps for air, but you dragged him back with a snarl.

“Laandur (weak, pathetic),” you spit harshly. “Get up and fight.”

“Stop-” Your knee hit his chest sending him sprawling onto his back. “Please-”

You clambered onto his form, rearing your arm back with a growl and a heavy breath, the rage narrowing your desire for his blood that hung in the air. The death of your parents, the loss of a planet, the home you once knew turned to rubble that still smoldered with the stench of dead bodies buried beneath the metal of armor you’d never be able to pry off. It played in your mind as you pummeled him until you could no longer feel your hands, the pain in your knuckles now a numb ache.

“He’s had enough!” Someone yelled as they watched you seek the death you vowed to take from his immobile body. “Get her off him!”

“No!” you roared as two arms banded around your waist and hauled you up and off Orron. “Get off me! Get your hands off me!”

They didn’t bother fighting off your meager attempts to hit them with your elbow as you were all but dragged out of the room and into the empty hallways. The crowd gathering around Orron to make sure he was alive became the last thing you saw before the door slammed shut. Leaving you bathed in the jaundiced yellow glow of Nevarro’s underground.

“Get off me,” you gasped, air difficult to come by as the rage fell back into the shadows of your mind and reality set back in. “Please. Let me go.” The words croaked from your mouth, thick with the rush of tears.

“Ca’tra,” Din murmured, turning you into the wall with an arm still holding you upright. You slumped into the concrete, legs giving out as you struggled to come back from the waves that begged to drag you under.

A minute passed—the hallway filled with the sound of your breath—before you spoke again. Guilt lay heavy on your tongue oddly tasting of Orron’s blood that still coated your knuckles. “Is he dead?”

“No,” Din replied quickly.

You nodded, icy relief flooding your veins. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” You reared back, watching as he pressed his other hand into the wall beside your head and dropped his helmet to yours. “Orron’s an ass. What he said about your parents crossed a line.”

“No I crossed the line. We were supposed to be sparring and I should have ignored him-”

“If you hadn’t done it I would have.”

“Din-”

The hand on your hip killed what protests lay on the tip of your tongue. Always primed for a fight—that was the nature of your being. But around him it retreated to the back of your mind. In his presence you could picture the person you were and not the warrior everyone else wished you to be. He silenced their words with a touch and you wished some part of you was eloquent enough to tell him that, to thank him for giving you a piece back to yourself.

He sighed long and low. “I’m leaving Ca’tra.”

You imagined what it felt like to die many times over. After having witnessed enough of it you were able to gather the basics of what it meant to leave this mortal plane. But never did you think about how it would feel. Standing there you finally understood what it was to die as your heart dropped to your stomach and pain erupted along every nerve and vein. Until you couldn’t even catch what little breath remained in your lungs.

“What do you mean you’re leaving?” you got out, hot tears spilling down your cheeks.

“I joined The Guild that operates above ground. The covert needs the credits and I can’t hide anymore.”

“So you’re just going to go? Were you planning to tell anyone or is that just your way.”

“I’m telling you,” he said.

You scoffed. “Yeah thanks for the consideration. I’ll see you when you get back-”

“Atin verd (stubborn warrior),” he chuckled hand shifting to tip your helmet until you could look nowhere other than his visor. “I want you to come with me.”

You paused, sucking in a breath as his words absorbed into your already tired mind. Leave the covert. Step out beneath the winding corridors of Nevarro’s underground and see sunlight for the first time in who knows how long. You couldn’t remember the color of the sky most days. Instead you began to pretend you still existed on Concordia with its pale blue and bright sun. The last time you breached above ground you were seeking medicine for the younglings when fever spread quick and deadly.

But this was an opportunity to leave the planet altogether. To see the stars once more. You viscerally recalled how their light flickered in the vast expanse of space as you left the surface of Concordia still coated in mud and blood and the ash of battle. Did they shine the same way? Were they as beautiful as you once thought? Or would you see them differently now that you weren’t drowning in death.

“I can’t leave the covert Din they need me here.” Excuses that tasted the same as lies. You knew it, he knew it. But what else was there to say when he offered your dream in the palm of his hand? “The Alor wouldn’t allow it.”

“She thinks it would be good for you to gain experience off world. To train somewhere Mandalorians aren’t.”

The words died on the back of your throat, eyes going wide. “What do you mean she thinks?”

His shoulders moved as he laughed with a rasp that burned a hole in your chest. You swore you could feel your heartbeat at the back of your throat, the speed growing quicker by the second. He had no idea what he did to you. What you spent so long fighting.

“I asked her.”

“When?” you pressed, the accusatory tone enough to send him into another bout of laughter.

“The moment after I was handed my Fob and given the clear. Early this evening.”

“Your pauldron was damaged…”

He nodded. “To join The Guild you have to bring in a bounty. I found one on the next moon over.”

“You went off world.” Din hummed and you suddenly you felt dizzy, your hand clamping onto his arm to keep you upright. “You left Nevarro.”

The days you couldn’t find him suddenly made perfect sense. When Din Djarin had suddenly up and disappeared from the covert altogether. You thought he was sick or dying or possibly avoiding you, but he’d been off world to plan his escape all along. You were right in your assumption.

He’d drag you out of the grave never meant for your body without question. As long as it kept you alive.

“I did.” The press of his thumb along your neck spilled heat into your fluttering stomach, body growing warm at his touch. “Will you come with me?”

“But the clan. They expect their future leader to be here at all times.”

He interrupted you with a huff, helmet knocking into yours gently. “Don’t you want to know what it’s like beyond Nevarro? Or what it’s like to not have to hide all the time?”

“Of course I do. You know I do.” Perhaps that was the most difficult part of it all. He’d been off world before many times and you were trapped by the walls of the underground. Fused to the beskar of everyone’s armor as they plotted where your feet would go next. “I dream of the day the covert won’t have to hide anymore and can just exist. But I have to protect everyone, for the good of the clan.”

His thumb pressed into your throat and he felt the racing of your heart. Satisfaction bled into his chest at the knowledge that you were affected by him, that this thing wasn’t something he made up in his own mind. But rather something tangible that existed between your bodies.

“What about the good of their future leader?” Your teeth clicked as you shut your mouth. “How can you expect to lead these people if you don’t know what’s above ground? You dream of not hiding. Then stop hiding.”

You needed a push. A hand to hold as you dropped into the unknown once more. Din understood your hesitation, why your heart beat the way it did in difficult situations, but he could see your willingness to yield. When it came to your future you remained on the precipice for every chance that arose. He ran his thumb along your neck and felt the shift in your breathing as his heart rammed hard in his chest.

“Come with me Ca’tra. See the galaxy with me,” he murmured.

Your breath hitched and his knees trembled. “Yes,” you whispered, relenting into his hold. Setting your heart in his shaking hands as he vowed to die protecting it. Til you were old and frail and could no longer remember his name.

Until all the stars burned out in the galaxy.

The muscles of your back screamed with each step, the edge of your chest plate digging into your side. Sweat clung to your face, dripping down your chin as you were suffocated by the hot air of the planet Cantonica. What you wouldn’t give for a hot shower and a quiet place to strip yourself of your armor. Din trudged beside you with his weapon at the ready, body stiff and breaths heavy. He was suffering as much as you were in this fucking place—a sauna that threatened to kill the both of you with heat stroke.

“How much further does the map say?” he asked abruptly. His armor was hot to the touch even through his own gloves. He tried to maintain what little peace he had left in his mind, but the thought of being out here longer than necessary began to grate on his nerves.

“One click away.”

He nodded. “Good. Let’s finish this.”

You took the lead, blaster in your hand and feet silently hitting the ground. He admired your ability to remain stoic in moments like this—even as you flinched each time the breeze of hot air pushed along your bodies. The thought of collapsing on the floor of his ship with the sound of you cleaning off in the fresher muddled his brain. What he wouldn’t give to join you, to wipe the sweat off your body, but the line remained dug into the ground deep enough to crack the foundation of your friendship.

Din wouldn’t risk collapsing it over something as trivial as sex.

The first two bounties you and him found were simple. Having fought side by side together for years you moved in sync with ease. The battles were over quicker with you at his side and you settled into his ship without difficulty. But the close quarters are what drove him to the brink—the knowledge that somewhere on the Razor Crest you were without your armor or bare from your helmet in order to eat.

On Nevarro he could ignore the way his heart leapt at the sound of your voice or the sharp tug of need that pulled at his gut when he stood in the same room as you. All things that were easily rectified with him putting distance between your bodies. Except on The Crest you were there all the time. At every corner he turned he found traces of you and it left his heart clawing at the cage in his chest.

“This one is different,” you finally said, drawing him out of his own mind.

“What do you mean?”

“The bounty.” You huffed as you pulled yourself up and over a fallen tree in the middle of the road. He followed silently. “They know how to hide compared to the other two. This one has been on the run before.”

Din grunted, tearing his eyes away from your form when you bent to fix the armor on your leg. “Makes sense. He’s a thief with a history.”

“You’re the one with more knowledge under your belt about thieves. So how would they think?”

“I wasn’t a thief.”

You shrugged. “Then what do you call those missions you went on with that crew? You were bringing credits back each time.”

Long before you were friends, before he found it was harder to remove himself from your life each day he saw you. He didn’t think you noticed him at that point—so buried in your grief stricken mind to even bother with anything other than what the Alor instructed you to do. He’d witnessed the days it took everything in you to even step outside of the Armory. You were a shell of the person who must have existed on Concordia. Silent, a shadow that clung to the walls most days.

No wonder the covert began to call you death.

You carried it with you. The memory of those you knew, the living embodiment of the last remnants of Mandalore. It dug into your shoulders and he watched your spine snap beneath the weight.

Only when you finally spoke your first words to him: your shitty armor will get you killed, did he understand why he found his way to this clan in the first place. You. It would always be you. The shadow, the dark wolf of Mandalore. Din became a warrior in pieces that you put together—shards of the boy who grew to be a man that followed wherever you lead.

He existed for you.

“I did jobs with them, but I wasn’t a part of their…family.”

The tilt of your helmet dug into his chest. You read him with perfect ease and some days he hated it. Found the idea of you peering into his mind far too invasive for him to handle. But more often than not he delighted in how you perused him in any way you could. As if you couldn’t get enough of the man you saw faint traces of beneath the mask.

“They didn’t trust you did they?” He didn’t need to respond for you to see the answer written in the way his shoulders tensed. “I do. I trust you.”

He smiled, warmth blooming along his face. “I trust you too.”

“Besides if you were still tagging along with them I wouldn’t have the pleasure of your company,” you threw over your shoulder tracking the map to a crossroads. Tall thin trees offered no shade but you would take what you could get, leaning against the smooth bark with a sigh.

Din followed suit. “I asked you to come.”

“Would you have gotten this far without me?”

“Yes.”

If you were anyone else and he was simply a man who grew up on his home planet, he wondered if he would have found you. In the grand scheme of the galaxy, out of all the mapped planets and moon and star systems was there a chance he’d come across you? In a different life, with a different creed. Din liked to believe there was no doubt. That if neither of you weren’t Mandalorian he’d recognize your face in any life. He’d know the curve of your smile simply from hearing your voice.

“But I prefer doing this with you,” he admitted softly, seeing how you shifted from one foot to the other. A nervous tick that came when you were battling emotions others might never see.

You toyed with the handle of your blaster. “I suppose I’m pleasing company.”

“You’re more than that.”

“Less annoying than Paz?”

He groaned, helmet knocking against the tree with a thunk. “I prefer you any day over those utreekovs (fools, idiots).”

“Careful. I might hold you to that when you finally get fed up with me.”

Falling silent he turned to watch you through his visor until the echo of insects and hot air brushing along dead bark filled the space. You wanted to laugh off the words, play them with humor to fight the heat that clung to every inch of your body. Any other time you would, but Din fixed you in place. He trapped you where you stood and picked at the scabbed over chasm you pretended didn’t exist in the center of your chest.

“That wouldn’t happen,” he finally murmured, voice a soft rasp through his modulator. “I’d spend every day with you and still look forward to the next.”

Heat spilled into your face, the thud of your heart resembling wings of a bird ready to take flight. “Oh.”

Din picked the right lane off instinct—even if you knew it was most likely a guess—and you fell into step with him as the sun blared in the sky. It was closer to the planet than others in its system. Which caused the burn you felt seep through your layers and warm the black of your armor. Din’s red chest plate kept the temperature regulated but you were burning up even with the cooling system built into your suit.

“There should be a small cantina up this path. The planet is too hot. They would have had to stop somewhere to cool off before sunset.”

He nodded. “You think they’re that naive?”

“I think they’re in the same situation as us. Thirsty and lacking anything to drink.”

“You’re right,” he replied. “We’re too far from Canto Bight to get there without any sort of transportation. They’d be going on foot.”

The small hut built from clay they foraged from the ground stuck out in the distance. Unlike the trees that you could spot from several clicks back this blended into the surroundings with ease. The formation looked like a boulder that had been there since the very beginnings of the planet itself, but the sign clattering in the breeze set it apart from the terrain. You caught etchings in Cantonican that had to be the name of the place. If you had the data pad stored back in Din’s ship you’d be able to translate it with ease.

A Chinar tree wound up to the sky bending low over the front of the cantina providing shade. The pump set to the left of most likely artificial water poured freely into a pit dug in the ground for animals to drink from. You spotted a few before they scurried away at the sound of your boots.

“Keep an eye out for other hunters,” Din said holstering his blaster and walking up the makeshift porch. Nodding you followed close.

The doors swung open with a creak, sand kicking up where your feet hit the floor as Din headed straight for the bar set in the center of the room. Tables were scattered to and fro; chairs held layers of sand on them as if the place had been vacant for awhile. Four occupants in the corner dealing Sabaac cards barely acknowledged your existence with a glance over their shoulders and a sniff of most likely some type of spice sold on the outskirts of Canto Bight.

“What can I get ya Mando?” An Ithorian wiped glasses clouded in dust most likely set in to the glass as Din silently dropped credits on the bar. “Ah…information. You people are usually the strictly business type.”

“We’re looking for someone,” Din said.

“Got a name?”

You dropped the Fob and clicked the holo-image on. “Rix Halcorr.”

“Must have done somethin’ awful to warrant two Mandalorians on his tail.”

“You can say that,” you replied. “What do you have to drink around here?”

Din stiffened, his hand knocking your thigh. Sticking around would give Rix time to get away, or at least offer him a head start that would lead you trailing after him for days to come. But your tongue was sticking to the roof of your mouth and you could feel your throat begin to grate each time you sucked in a breath. It was either steal away to drink something now or suffer the heat stroke later.

“Artificial water ‘s all I can offer ‘round these parts. Alcohol won’t get shipped in for another three weeks.”

You smiled and felt another drop of sweat follow the curve of your cheek. “Perfect.”

Sand burrowed between suit and beskar as you took the chair closest to the shadows. Din ordered nothing, opting to angle his seat to block any prying eyes as you lifted the base of your helmet and downed the water with a soft hum. The hot air on the base of your chin told you it was just as fucking hot inside as it was outside—the water doing very little to kill the heat curling around every limb.

“They’re still here,” you muttered dropping your helmet back into place with a pitched hiss.

Din nodded. “I know.”

“The bartender is helping him. Did you see how he tensed at the sight of Rix’s face?”

“Looks like you should order another cup. We’ll head around the back when you’re done and the sun is ready to set.”

Rising from your chair you nudged him as you passed, lips curling into a grin. “And you said you’d get this far without me.”

Your stomach sloshed as you moved into a more comfortable position with a sigh. Two hours passed before the pale sky began to fade into a dark purplish hue that made the planet famous. If you stepped outside you’d be able to spot the nebula that brightened in the dark—drawing in crowds of people to the casinos of Canto Bight.

Only the rich frequented the city, or people with freshly earned credits to burn. But out here in the desert you were surrounded by sand and stars—the noise of the city an afterthought as quiet overtook everything but the echo of insects and the splash of artificial water.

“You know this isn’t my first hunt,” you mused leaning back against the trunk of the Chinar tree.

Din stood above you, arms crossed and helmet tipped down. One would think he was asleep if they didn’t know any better. You knew he was peering down at you, keeping guard as you took the time to regain your strength. The act became second nature around you—his need to protect. Even if he understood that when it came to a fight you were far more lethal. Hunting was in your ancestry, a descendant of the dark wolves that kept Mandalore safe from enemies that wished to do it harm.

He grunted, a small acknowledgement as the exhaustion began to weigh on him. The sound made you smile as you picked at the dead leaves scattered on the ground.

“There was a boy on Concordia.” He went still, shoulders tensing as you spoke. It was rare you recounted stories of your past—the memories usually clouded by the haze of grief—so he took every moment you offered. “Castin Vancil. A cousin of the Viszlas who was sent there to train. He was…my friend.”

A lick of jealousy burned down his spine and he swallowed it down with a dry mouth. “What was the hunt?”

“We were sent to the other side of the moon as apart of our training. A fake bounty created by the leaders, but it felt real to us. Well real enough that we were shot at multiple times and nearly killed.”

“They took your training seriously. We were just told to pretend in the mountains.”

You shrugged. “Part of it had to do with me. A child of the wolves must learn to the hunt like one. That’s what my father used to say. Castin was dragged along because the Vizslas wouldn’t stand for a member of their clan not having the same capabilities.”

He remained quiet, just another notch on the tree that hoped with baited breath you might continue. Water spilled into the ground as chirps from critters you could barely see bathed and drank what little they could get.

“He kissed me on the last night.”

Din’s stomach churned, breath stilling in his lungs as you spoke with a grin he could blatantly hear. His fingers clenched tight until an ache spread to his knuckles and the leather of his gloves cracked beneath the strain. “Oh.”

“It was nothing special. I don’t even think he liked me but rather the fact that he could say his first kiss was with a future ruler of a clan.”

He wanted to ram his fist into the boy’s face. Even if it was irrational and stupid Din couldn’t help the twist in his gut at the thought of your first kiss going to someone so inconsiderate. If only he’d met you sooner. He sucked in a breath, leveled his racing heart, and asked the question that he already knew the answer to. Deep down in his bones he knew where Castin was, where everyone on Concordia wound up.

“What happened to him?”

Your back went rigid and Din ached to reach out and stuff the words back down his throat. “He was killed on the same day as my parents. At least that’s what I think happened. We were taking the foundlings to a transport before his parents called him in for reinforcements. I didn’t see him again after that.”

Everyone you knew, the people you were closest to now lay in a grave the size of an entire moon. He was sure the destruction the Empire caused still existed on the surface of Concordia, but by that time he was gone to a different planet. You were left behind to deal with it all on your own. He could recognize the grief in your voice, your throat now thick with emotion. It was familiar to those who lost everything in one fell swoop—the residue of who you were bleeding through the person who existed now.

Before he could stutter out frayed condolences the creak of the door swinging open put you on edge. A man stumbled out of the cantina, bottle in hand and mouth sticky with alcohol. He muttered words you couldn’t hear and called a name you didn’t recognize. But the wide brim hat that tipped over his eyes and the leather coat that flapped around his clumsy feet told you enough.

“Rix Halcorr,” you said under your breath.

The man’s head swung up with a grin, liquid dribbling out the corner of his mouth. “In the flesh.”

“Watch out for him. Plays it off like he’s some broken tortured soul but he’ll rip you to shreds if given the chance.”

The words tasted rotten along the back of your throat, but you the truth seeped through as Rix staggered down the steps. Far too balanced for a man who supposedly drank half the cantina that housed no alcohol. You could see his fingers slide to the side, no doubt anticipating how Din’s hand twitched. This was a man who found joy in the act of violence—a thief with the spirit of a hellion at war.

“To what do I owe the-” he burps in a long breath, coupled with the gurgle of something dragging up the back of his throat. “-pleasure. Two Mandalorians? The Guild is just desperate ain’t they?”

“You have a reputation,” you throw out, getting to your feet as Din stood, body stiff and ready to fight. “Word travels fast around the galaxy.”

“Fast huh?” Yellow teeth and beady violet eyes. You’ve never seen anyone quite like him, but you had half a mind to bet beneath that hat there was a collection of horns that stuck up at odd angles. “D’ya like it fast?”

Din growled a response you could barely hear over the sound of his feet thundering forward, but you know it’s not good. Your hand rammed into his chest before he passed you entirely, mind reeling. Rix Halcorr, notorious escapee from prisons even you haven’t heard of, wouldn’t just walk out of a cantina drunk and on his own. That wasn’t the way for someone of his caliber.

“Plays it off,” you muttered, hand reaching for the blaster at your side before Rix’s smile can curl deep enough to morph into a sneer.

“Shame. Yer smarter than most,” Rix croons.

A blaster went off in the distance with a sharp whistle you heard coming before it could hit its mark. Ramming into Din’s side you knocked him out of the way with a gasp as the bolt embedded itself into the part of you not covered in armor. Your hip. The shot burned as it tore through flesh and you hit the ground with a guttural shout, the breath in your chest punched clean out of you.

“Shit,” Din bit out, whipping around to shoot at the sniper in the distance as Rix took off with a rasped laugh.

Rage burned almost as bright as your wound and you let it fuel what parts of you aren’t injured. Pointing your weapon you suck in a hot breath, aim at Rix’s retreating form, and pull the trigger as Din busied himself with the two men at the back of the cantina. Rix dropped with a scream, clutching his thigh. But you didn’t have time to gloat and Din let you know it. The burn in your hip went ignored as you got to your feet with a sharp groan, aiming your blaster at the bartender who held an old fashioned blaster between two large hands.

“He’s wanted by The Guild.” Din let his own blaster drop an inch, but yours remained with a finger on the trigger.

“Rix is a friend.”

You’d heard those words before. People attempting to find reason for the wrongdoings of others, who fought tooth and nail for people who wouldn’t do the same for them. Kindness bled through the man’s eyes. You wondered if Rix tore out his heart would his eyes shine the same?

If the roles were reversed would Din protect you with as much ferocity as this man? Would you protect him?

The acrid burn of smoke from the bartender’s pipe filtered through your helmet and you swallowed the ball in your throat. It hit your stomach with a twist that you wished more than anything you could ignore. Pain flared to life along your thigh. Soon your leg would collapse and dragging Rix back to The Crest wouldn’t be your only problem. Surviving the heat wave of tomorrow was one thing, doing it injured and on a limb that might not make it was something else.

“Your friend killed people.” The truth cut a hole in his chest—you watched the light dim and set your jaw with a harsh breath. “He blew a hole in a building housing fighters from the Rebellion. They were meant to be honored by The Republic.”

“No he wouldn’t do that-” Din stepped forward and reached a hand out in silence; a gesture of kindness that felt foreign to you and the streak of cruelty that curled tight around your spine. “We fought together against the Empire.”

“The Republic is the one who called in the bounty,” Din explained, taking the blaster from the man’s hand and you felt the compassion in his movements even if they remained stiff.

The man’s silence isn’t what made you drop your weapon, allowing him a moment to grieve. It was Din’s hand on his shoulder. Steady and enduring and burning with the fires of Mandalorian’s songs. A warrior second and a protector first. He didn’t say anything—there was nothing to be offered—but Din enveloped the man in a stillness that could only be shared by those who understood the word betrayal. You nodded his way and he watched you through the visor when you reached for the binders on your waist, limping over to Rix and his crumpled form.

He kicked at your leg with a hiss, the burn clawing up into your chest until you had no choice but to dry heave into your helmet as you slammed a fist into his the side of his face.

A shuffle of boots on sand dragged your attention up to Din’s form approaching, the bartender nowhere in sight, and you smiled. Heat washed down your spine, the burn of open flesh partially cauterized drowning you in the hum of insects that floated nearby. You swallowed around a dry mouth, throat raw and pinched each time you sucked in hot air through the filter of your helmet.

“Guess we can go home now,” you said between shuddered breaths that sent an ache through your lungs.

“I’ll find us transport.”

“I can help.”

Pushing up on your only good leg the pain rammed into you, a cold sweat breaking out and soaking through your clothing. You muttered a curse, unable to fight the wave of bile rushing up the back of your throat. Black spots clouded your vision and Din’s voice calling your name in a tone cracked with worry became the last thing you latched onto as you careened towards the ground. Hands flying out to brace for an impact you wouldn’t feel.

The wound on your leg pulsed, skin burning against the desert air. Din’s knees hit the ground beside your head, fingers tearing at the fabric by your hip. You heard the drag of leather along beskar steel and felt the press of his touch along your thigh as he pulled you into a place where he could see better. Stupidly you grinned behind the cover of your helmet. A delirious fucking smile that curled deep into your cheeks and gave way to the emotions that fluttered against your heart.

“Yes,” you mumbled, fingers digging into his cape. “I think we would.”

Panic edged along his voice as he dug through the small pouch on his hip for the bacta tin. Questions flew from his mouth: can you feel this? where does it hurt? are you okay?. But the heat was pulling you under, cocooning you in the safety of his touch and the low rasp of his voice pushing through the modulator. Your eyes slipped shut, hand loosening its grip with a sigh. Din’s voice a distant hum you felt in the base of your chest.

The frigid air tasted stale along the roof of your mouth, light flashing in bursts behind your shut eyelids as pain hit you with a swing you hadn’t been anticipating. A groan was the first thing you were capable of, your body stuck in a desperate loop of needing more sleep and itching to move about the space. You weren’t sure how long you’d been out of it. Or even where you were, but the sound of a ship’s hum and recycled oxygen that pushed around The Crest gave you enough of a clue.

“You’re awake.”

Your eyes slid open to the cavern of darkness, pitch black nothingness expanded beyond where you could currently see. The only light that came through was the gleam of hyperspace trailing down from the cockpit’s ladder. He must have left the door open to light his path to you.

A hand flew to your face, your fingers sliding along bare skin and terror seized around your heart. “My armor-”

“I haven’t been able to see you,” he quickly replied. His voice sounded…different. Warmer—free from the technical modulation of a helmet. “I removed mine to stay…blind.”

“Blind. Of course.”

He moved closer and you noticed the absence of beskar clanging together gently each time he moved. You slid a palm down your chest, the other going for your thigh and found soft clothing in its place. The suit you wore was cut open at your hip, boots off and discarded to the side, but other than that he’d left you as you were. Careful enough to strip you of what blocked him while maintaining your dignity and creed. The thought left your throat thick with emotion, the hot sting of tears pulsing at the back of your tightly shut eyelids.

“Thank you,” you managed to get out.

“Drink this.” A glass of water pressed close to your face, knocking against your chin as he blindly followed your voice. “I’ll need to put a fresh layer of bacta gel on it, but its healing nicely.”

You swallowed the cold liquid and nearly moaned when it washed down your throat. “How did we get back here?”

“Slowly.” A thump echoed in the space as he sat nearby, his legs drawn up and back to the wall. “I couldn’t carry you and Rix back so I tied him to a small loader from the bar. I helped you walk back where I could.”

The echo of distant memories scraped at the edge of your mind. His soft mutters of encouragement and nonsensical conversation to keep you alert, your feet unable to remain in a straight line as he all but dragged you beside him. You were half awake, one foot entirely in a different world. That certainly explained the ache in your legs.

“Rix is-”

“In carbonite.”

“Good.”

There was so much built in the back of your throat, words that clung to the roof of your mouth and cut the enamel off your teeth. You wanted to thank him for helping you escape Nevarro, for the adventures you’d been on. But most of all you wanted to whisper words that you never even heard your own parents say to one another. Sayings that were carved in your chest with the unsteady hand of someone who couldn’t fathom that intimacy had another name entirely. One you wanted to use.

The consequence of falling in love with Din Djarin was that there seemed to exist no consequence at all. Until it was too late to stop it from happening altogether.

“Ready?” he asked abruptly somehow closer than you expected. His voice came from above you and you imagined what the curve of his face looked like, the shape of his mouth and slant of his eyes. Was he handsome? Or did he hold exterior scars on top of the ones he stitched together beneath his flesh and bone.

You nodded and he must have heard the sound of your head shifting against the blanket spread beneath you. The soft press of bare fingers to your hip sent heat rocketing up your spine. You gasped, twisting your fingers into the soft fabric as he apologized with a rough hum.

Physical touch wasn’t unusual to you, having experienced the warmth of another body and the pleasure sex could bring you. But this seared a hole in your pounding heart so large you couldn’t patch it up. He spread the bacta along your wound gently, pulling the ripped fabric away to give him more space and you sucked in a sharp breath as goosebumps sprouting along your entire body just from the heat of his hand.

His fingers weren’t calloused or rough. An after effect of wearing leather constantly to protect you from the elements. But oh how you wished they would be. If just slightly to give you something to imagine later in your solitude.

“How’s that?”

Your chin jutted down, teeth sinking into your bottom lip hard enough to cut through the soft skin. “Fine.”

“No pain?”

“N-No.”

Another swipe of his fingers had your spine going taut, body rigid and hands clammy as you struggled for any semblance of air. “You scared me out there.”

You willed yourself to say something—anything—that might distract you from the need that ripped at your insides. “They were going to shoot you.”

“So you let them shoot you instead.” His voice was too close now, his breath practically washing across your face. “Don’t do that again. Don’t risk your life for mine.”

“I’m okay-”

“You’re not.” Your teeth clicked shut when his thumb pressed high up on your hip, slipping beneath the fabric. “When you hit the ground I thought I lost you. I haven’t felt fear like that in a long time.”

“Din,” you breathed.

Another inch higher and you knew he could feel the rapid pulse of your heart that spread down through your body. “Cyare,” he sighed, head dropping low enough to feel the brush of his hair along your forehead. It was longer than you originally thought—slightly curled too.

Whatever breath you were holding onto vanished as he spoke a word you’d never been called before. One that was traded between spouses and partners who had spoken the traditional vows. Rarely heard in the light of day and only uttered among others when the alcohol flowed freely and the hefty weight of reality was light. Beloved. A word your mother used once when she cradled your father’s dying form, his head in her lap and eyes glassed over, permanently fixed on his final sight. Her helmet.

Your heart flipped, mouth dropping open to say anything back, but what could you say? How would you phrase years of emotion into something so small?

“Can I try something?” he finally asked breaking the thick silence that blanketed both of you.

“Yes,” the word was soft and almost meek. It didn’t sound like you, held no resemblance of the strong capable warrior you knew yourself to be, but rather echoed the sentiment of someone desperate for touch—a person who begged silently for love.

He exhaled and you felt it along your chin, his nose dragging against the side of your cheek and you dug your fingers into the blanket when his mouth found yours. His lips were chapped, the dry weather of the planet doing neither of you any good, but you couldn’t think past the feel of their warmth. How they moved against yours. A sound pulled from the back of your throat and you replaced the blanket with the front of his shirt, your mouth parting to slide your tongue along his bottom lip.

Din jerked back with a hitch in his breath, but you felt the flutter of his eyes closing as he sunk into you. A hand propping itself above your head and body shifting to slide along yours. You kissed him until you couldn’t breathe. Tasting the burnt caf he must have made on the ship and something entirely him. Spit clung to your mouths, the wet sound of his lips findings yours over and over again drowning out the hum of hyperspace.

“You’re in my dreams,” he breathed quickly against your cheek, kissing along your jaw and cupping the back of your neck. “Every fucking night.”

“Oh-”

He groaned, teeth sinking into your throat and you jolted, hand curling tight into his curls. “I think about you like this. On my ship, in my bed, on Nevarro.”

So it wasn’t just you plagued by that stirring in your chest. The dormant feelings of something ancient rising up out of the ashes of a former life you held no knowledge of. Maybe somewhere in the past you hung in the sky together. Two stars dancing amidst the galaxies endless planets and moons.

“I think about you too,” you gasped, slotting your mouth against his again. Only this time you knew where this would lead, what the burn in your stomach meant as it screamed through the rest of your body.

Clumsy fingers tugged at your suit as you ripped at his shirt. You wanted to see him, admire his physique and burn the color of his eyes into your mind. The fate of your parents—unable to see one another in their final moments—wouldn’t be yours with him. You couldn’t allow that to happen. So you traced his chest with your bare fingers and mapped him in your imagination—the slope of his shoulders, the muscles that bunched on his arms when he moved to settle between your legs.

Existence without him sounded like a hell that only the galaxy could deliver. So you battled against it with your lips, dragging them along his throat until he all but purred at the attention. Your tongue followed the line of his collarbone, teeth indenting into the top of his heart and Din dug a hand into the back of your head to wrench you up to his mouth.

“Can I have you?”

The question made you smile, your teeth latching onto his lip and tugging it into your mouth. “You already have me Din Djarin.”

He laughed but you could feel the nerves rattle beneath his skin when his hand slid along your waist. “Do I?”

“Ratiin (always),” you spoke against his lips. “There wasn’t a day you didn’t.”

Stripping yourself of armor was easy. There didn’t seem to be difficulty in letting the beskar hit the floor and giving Din the time to pull the fabric from your body until you felt his bare chest against your own. But prying open the walls of a heart that had seen far too much and been given back too little became a convoluted labyrinth you couldn’t escape from. You once thought they’d be sealed shut forever—trapping you inside.

He broke you free.

Din took your hand and yanked you from the grave, he dragged you off Nevarro and beyond the walls of the underground. He salvaged any parts of you that remained and let you put the pieces back together as he watched. Always there in the background. Waiting for you to open your palm to him and lead him through the door.

“You’re beautiful.” His mouth closed around your nipple, your back arching up and off the cold floor of the ship as he sucked on it with a moan.

“You—Maker—you can’t see me.”

“I don’t have to.” Thick deft fingers slid beneath your pants and into the folds already sticky with your slick. He groaned long and loud against your chest, mouth planting open mouthed kisses down your stomach. “I’ve known you were beautiful since I first saw you.”

“Don’t mess with my ego Djarin.”

He smiled, thumb pressing down on your clit as you pulled at his hair. “I like your ego sweetheart.”

“Most people don’t-” Your moth dropped open when he pulled your pants down the rest of the way, careful of your hip and mouthed at your cunt with a rumble in his chest. “T-They think I’m difficult to handle.”

A wicked grin curled on his lips as he licked at you in a slow line, fingers dipping into the heat of your entrance. “Oh I can handle you just fine Ca’tra.”

Your eyes rolled back, noise pulling from the base of your chest when he curled two fingers into you, sucking at your clit and letting it go with a loud pop. The shame that would normally come from being with someone bare and open like this didn’t curl around your stomach. Instead need replaced it, burning down your limbs until you could feel it in the tips of your fingers.

The audible moans Din let out vibrated against your cunt, his tongue flicking against your clit and fingers pumping fast. A third one slid in easily and your legs trembled, breaths coming in pants as you sunk into the searing bliss pulling taut in your torso.

“Din,” you gasped, pulling at his curls. “I need you to fuck me-”

His mouth ripped from you as he clambered back up to your mouth, thumb pressing down hard and you came with a shout. It split you open down the center, pulled the unraveled edges of you together and set something whole in your chest. He kissed you—swallowed your moans—and let you taste yourself as you coated his hand in another wave of slick.

“Again.” Though you couldn’t see him you imagined his eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with lust. “I want another one.”

The hard line of his cock pressed to your thigh and you tugged at his pants with a shuddered moan. Your fingers wouldn’t stop shaking. He knocked them aside to pull himself free, letting you curl a hand around the hot length of him as he all but collapsed on top of you. A ragged whine tearing free when you slid a thumb along his tip, dragging what precum was there down.

“Oh fuck, baby.”

You smiled. “When’s the last time you touched yourself Din?”

He stilled, mouth shifting to your throat and you pumped him slowly, enjoying the shudder that went down his spine. “Two days ago.”

“And?” you whispered. The question was traded in silence, hanging in the air as he rutted into your palm and let out another low pitched whine.

“Yes,” he gasped. “You. I think about you every time.”

For years you ignored the emotions that stuck beneath your skin and burrowed their way to your heart. The grief shrouded any concept of love, blinded you to the devotion of his actions. He bled the parts of life you’d been missing for so long. You were two halves of a whole that had been forged into beskar armor. The songs may ring in your heart, but his name sounded louder than anything you’d heard before.

A distant call that grew into a deafening crescendo. You welcomed it with a blissful sigh, feeling him drag his cock throughout your folds. A cracked sound falling into your open mouth.

His hand found yours, pressing it into the blanket as he began to press into you with a groan. And you clutched it when the stretch burned with the strike of a match. He sunk into you slowly, pulling back every inch to press forward again. You were making a mess with each thrust but that made your skin grow warmer. The heat beneath your cheeks bloomed down into your neck, your thighs hitching up around his hips as he stilled. Filling you in a way that killed something deep within you.

That lingering ache of loneliness. The belief that there would come a day you’d be utterly alone in this universe. He chased it away with his lips on your jaw and his cock sliding back into you with a throaty grunt.

“I can feel you in my chest.” Your words tripped over themselves on the way out. Eyes screwed shut and head pushed into the floor. You wanted to see him. Watch his cock slide in and out of your stretched open cunt, see how his eyes rolled back when your walls fluttered as he hit the rough patch that had your toes curling.

“You’re so fucking warm,” he rambled. “So fucking beautiful.”

“Din-” Your heart rammed against your chest, mouth falling open and he kissed you clumsily, knocking his teeth into yours with a throaty laugh.

“Feels good cyar'ika?”

You nodded, digging your nails into his back.

The glow of hyperspace flashed behind his head and you watched it play along his spine. The light giving you something to latch onto. Tan skin and a broad form and the ink of a tattoo that seemed to be on his side or stretching up from his hip. You weren’t able to tell in the darkness. But you took what you could get and shut your eyes to the rest—your teeth finding a home in his shoulder as he pounded into you.

Everything narrowed to how his cock dragged inside you, how he nipped at your jaw and licked along your neck. How he grinded down perfectly so your clit caught along his pelvis. It rose at the back of your spine, trickling into every part of you it could reach, and you let it take you.

“Gonna come,” you choked. “Oh fuck Din don’t stop. Please. Don’t—oh—”

“I need it.” His forehead dropped to yours, hips ramming down into you until you had no choice but to take it. “C’mon sweetheart. Give it to me yeah?”

His teeth closing around your nipple and tugging it sent you over the edge with a hoarse shout, your hips meeting his thrusts the best you could. His fingers tightened on around your hand, mouth colliding with yours as he chased his own release. The wet slick of your come was a mess between your thighs and it splattered against his stomach with the force of his hips, a stuttered cry echoing off the walls of the ship.

Din came with your name on his lips, his spine going taut beneath your hand and muscles contracting along his shoulders. He spilled into you, sighing as you dragged your mouth along his jaw. Content to lay there for as long as he wanted. Until you could no longer feel the pain in your hip.

Silence gathered you both in a comfort you welcomed. His cock softened in you twitching every time your walls fluttered, but Din refused to budge. He dropped his head to your shoulder and allowed the both of you time to simply exist before the demands of bounty hunting caught up to you once more. The press of his thumb into your wrist pulled a smile along your lips, eyes shining with the burn of tears—far too overwhelmed to work through the feelings that pressed insistently against your chest.

He dragged his cloak up and over your waists, letting it warm you in the frigid vacuum of space. Such a small gesture, barely anything to marvel at. But you understood why love was something people died for—why battles were fought and why at the end of the day death was a simple act for your other half.

“Strange to think we never met on Concordia,” you finally utter, his mouth finding yours for a brief moment.

“If we had I’d have been in trouble a lot sooner.”

“I didn’t cause trouble,” you exclaim. “I was perfect.”

“Somehow I doubt that.”

You grinned and wrapped an arm around his neck. “I guess you can say we’re made from the same moon.”

Made from the dirt of Concordia, forged in the same fire used to mold and shape the strongest steel in the galaxy. Pieces of who you used to be bound together to create who you would one day become. Maybe that’s what you needed to endure to find one another. The grief, the never ending tragedy your life amounted to. It grew dim in his light—faded to nothing in the warmth of his heart.

“Dust from the moon of Confordia,” he mumbled, thumb smoothing a line beneath your eye. His skin was soft, though you could tell when he was on his own he bit at it the same way you did.

“Dust from the moon,” you sighed, finding his mouth in the darkness.

Want turned your insides molten as you slung your legs higher and felt his cock twitch inside of you. The wet press of his lips slid over yours, tongue a needy mess in your mouth but you met his fervor with a whine. Rutting yourself against his hot skin, your slick caught on his pubic hair as he shifted forward. Dragging you back into the bliss that still flickered with life in the base of your chest.

ONE YEAR LATER

“Hunting bounties has made you strong.” Her voice rang through the armory as she set a finished piece of armor on the table where you sat. “You hold yourself differently.”

Over the past year you’d been everywhere the galaxy allotted you to go. Traversing places you didn’t think were possible to get to. You’d seen planets with no life, moons teeming with it, and through it all he remained at your side. Hunting whatever The Guild offered just for the sake of getting off world and away from the covert for as long as possible. You barely returned in the months you’d been gone. Stopping in briefly to deliver credits and oversee the progress of the younglings before heading off on another job.

The freedom gave you time to think. Space to consider the future you were returning to. Yet every choice you came up with—all the options you ran through—they all lead back to Din. To his ship and the home you’d made together.

That morning he took you in the cockpit, a hand banded over your waist and helmet knocking into the back of yours as he fucked up into you so hard your legs shook when you got back up. Even now you felt the heat of his body. You tasted his mouth and smelled the soap he used that never quite got rid of how leather always lingered on his skin.

You returned today at the behest of the Armorer and like a dutiful lamb you offered yourself back up for slaughter. For the good of the covert.

If only you understood the full extent of what that meant. Maybe then you might not have left the ship.

“It is time you came back to us here on Nevarro.”

Your heart dropped, fingers curling into fists as you watched her set another piece of armor on the table. A pauldron of black beskar with the signet of a dark wolf, a marking that had been etched into your skin since the day you were born. You knew the day would come when they’d burn it into you—when the freedom you so desperately ached for was no longer an option. But that seemed like such a distant afterthought, a life you could run from.

Now it stared you in the face, curling its lips back to reveal teeth ready to sink into your flesh. Unbreakable jaws that now clamped around your throat until blood ran down from its jowls.

“My training isn’t finished.”

She nodded. “That is true. I had hoped you would find other Mandalorians in your journey. That they would teach you the lessons of old that your parents never finished, but it seems I must take that upon myself.”

No.

You couldn’t let go of it all now. Not when you had the life Din offered in the palm of your hand. His necklace hung around your throat, tucked safely into the confines of your suit buried away from prying eyes, but it burned you now. A reminder that what you pretended to have was fake. Simply a dream you concocted to flee the path to being Alor. Something you never wanted.

“Give me a few more months. I’ll complete your training, I’ll find others-”

“The covert needs to see you are ready to lead.”

“They have you.”

“My role is not permanent. Neither is our survival. We each make choices that don’t always benefit us. For the good of the covert.”

You sucked in a breath, shrinking back down to the person you were a year ago. Despite all your running, the nights spent with Din in his ship. Mornings lost to one another as he fucked you into the floor and whispered sweet nothings into your throat afterwards. Days spent walking ground you might never return to, if only to make memories you could dig out and admire later on. It was fiction. And you were now being forced to step back into reality. Tears burned your eyes, dripping down your cheeks and for once you felt thankful that you wore a helmet that shielded you from prying eyes.

“Of course,” you finally replied, voice heavy with grief. You endured it once before—leaving everything you loved behind—and so the pattern repeated and you endured it again. “For the good of the covert.”

“You must tell him.”

“Tell him…”

“If he is to be at your side when the time comes. If he is to speak the vows then he will need to know that the hunting must come to an end. For both of you.”

Both of you.

Not only would you have to leave it all behind, but Din would too. He’d have to let go of a life he built from the ground up, relinquish his ties to The Guild, and start over again trapped in the underground. You might be able to survive that, but Din had changed too much of himself to let it all go now. You wouldn’t allow it. He’d suffocate a slow and grueling death if he let go of the freedom he worked so hard to keep—the future he planned to build…with you.

“I will.”

The pauldron glared at you the longer you fixed your gaze on its shape. You weren’t sure how long you sat there, how many minutes or hours had gone by since the Armorer left to attend to other tasks. How many days had gone by? Would you wither up and fade to dust if you sat there any longer? Or would your armor become a fixture in the armory—a reminder to those who passed you by that this is what happens when you give yourself up. When you meld into the clan and forget who you were.

“I’ve been looking for you.” His voice sliced through your chest, a blaster bolt to your heart as he came down the steps and entered the room. “You missed dinner with the clan.”

“I’ve just been…here.”

He froze at the monotone lilt in your voice, the stiffness in your form. “What did she say?”

If he is to be at your side…

“She told me that I’ve gotten stronger. That our hunts have been doing what she hoped.”

The smile in his voice was obvious and you wished you didn’t know what it felt like on your skin, how it fit into the base of your throat when you told a joke that made him break. You wished you could stop the flow of tears that hadn’t ceased since she uttered those words. How your heart chipped off pieces the longer you sat there and stared your future in the face. You wished you could disappear.

“Something is still wrong.”

“Nothing-”

“You haven’t moved cyar'ika.” The endearment hit like another bolt you weren’t expecting and you swallowed the pain down before it could morph into a sob.

Shutting your eyes to his form, you felt your heart give way as you made the choice that would damn you for eternity. “I’m staying here Din.”

You didn’t need to see him to know his heart stopped. “What?”

Sucking in a breath you got to your feet and met him head on, as a warrior would. “I’m not doing this to hurt you. It’s time I take responsibility for what they trained me to do. I’m doing this…for the good of the covert.”

He snapped, hand gripping your arm to drag you forward. “Those aren’t your words. So tell me the truth.”

The truth was that you loved him. You didn’t think there was a day in your months of hunting that you didn’t love him, that you wouldn’t make the same choice and take a blaster bolt right to the chest for him. The amount of times you nearly died for another would never outweigh the times you should have told him how you felt. How you knew he felt.

Din’s heart rammed in his chest, unsteady and twisting with a pain he remembered from childhood. The same agony that came with uprooting his life after witnessing his parent’s death, the brutal slap of reality that accompanied starting a new life on a strange moon. The same home he thought you were meant to be find one another on. He watched you choke on words that didn’t belong to you and yet he wasn’t surprised by how easy the rolled off your tongue.

The walls in your heart were far too high for him to climb and he’d done all he could to find a way over them. But not even that was enough for you to let him in.

“I have to be focused on the needs of our clan if I’m ever to take on the role of being Alor.”

The words were sour on your tongue. Lies you spewed to make him feel better about the situation both of you were handed. They were practically transparent and you could see him peering right through them. His gaze fixed on the root of what all of this amounted to. You were never meant to be free. Your red string of fate was a noose he never noticed before and it was growing tighter each day you spent away from the walls of the underground.

They forged you here with purpose and here you would remain.

Footsteps echoed in the distance and Din stiffened as the Armorer entered. “Din Djarin I hear you have brought something back for the clan.”

A beat of silence passed before Din pushed forward, the line digging just a few feet deeper than before. “Yes.”

You stepped back into the role of apprentice, your shadow playing along the wall as Din took his place at the table. The sight of his fingers curling into fists at the pauldron already on the table twisted your stomach into knots. He knew what the symbol meant. Could see the path of your future set in the beskar steel before him and did what he could to ignore the rage that simmered at the base of his chest. Not at you—never at you. At the clan that claimed you long before he ever had a chance to.

A slab of beskar was set on the surface and you nearly dropped at the sight of it. An empirical symbol set into the metal as the Armorer lifted it with curiosity.

“This was gathered in the great purge. It is good it is back with the tribe.” The purge that left you stranded—the consequence of power falling into the wrong hands that now had you trapped. The Armorer continued before you could say anything. “A pauldron would be in order. Has your signet been revealed?”

Yours stared him in the face and you itched to slam it into a different shape, mold it into something neither of you would recognize.

“Not yet,” he replied briskly.

“Soon.”

She turned to gather supplies as you fell into old motions and removed the pauldron from his shoulder. “Your meeting with Greef Karga,” you muttered under your breath.

“A new job.”

One you wouldn’t be joining him on. For the first time in a year he would leave this place alone and remain that way until he chose otherwise. All because you couldn’t find the courage to rip yourself away. They lay dirt over your grave faster than you could dig and you were unable to claw your way out as he stood by and watched. No longer the one to pull you free.

“You may set the pauldron,” she said, handing you the steel that was still hot from the fires. You ignored the burn that came through your gloves and set it into place as you swallowed a choked cry—tears blurring your vision.

A hand curled around your thigh briefly, fingers dragging along the back of it before leaving you entirely. The hot air of the armory drenching you in a warmth that existed without him. A life written in beskar steel and forged in the fires of old long before you were born. Din could see that now—watched how you were wrapped in a legacy so tight no blade could cut you loose. So he let you go.

“Thank you,” he uttered and glanced at you briefly, helmet tipped down and fingers twitching at his side. “Ret’urcye mhi (goodbye, may we meet again).”

Smiling beneath your mask you nodded once and released him with a breath. “Ret’urcye mhi Din Djarin.”