BookishBabe

"Clearly. Since you're still here."

"I was here first."

"Then you have a head start on leaving."

A breath escapes you, low and disbelieving. You press the heel of your hand against your eye. "Can you just go? I'm not asking for much. I am asking you to take your rifle and your terrible personality and leave me alone for five minutes."

He should go. He already put his foot in his mouth with what he said, but the awkwardness in the room tethers him.

"What happened?"

"Don't." Your chin drops. "Don't act like you care."

"I'm asking."

"You're prying." Your gaze goes to somewhere past his left boot. "One of our men didn't make it back from the extraction. In case you didn't notice."

He noticed. He noticed at 1400 when the roster came back short and again at 1800 when no one corrected it.

"And you're surprised," he says.

The look on your face when you glance up makes him aware, a half-second too late, that he's miscalculated yet again.

"Surprised?"

The word is barely a breath, but it cuts through the room. You stand, and your shoulders lock into a rigid line.

"Do you know what your problem is?"

He says nothing. He doesn't even blink.

"You watch people die and you don't even register it." Your voice begins to vibrate, a low hum of electricity. "You just reload. You just line up the next target."

You take a step toward him, closing the gap until you can see your own reflection in his vacant eyes. "One of our men is dead, and you’re standing there like I just gave you a weather report." Your voice thins, sharpening into a blade. "And the worst part? This isn't an act. You’d have to possess a pulse to understand why this is wrong, and yours hasn't skipped a beat. It never has."

The drive hums somewhere below the floor.

Crosshair looks at you for a long moment. His voice, when it comes, is very quiet.

"You want to try that again?"

"Which part?"

"The part where you've decided how I feel."

"I've watched you, Crosshair. Every op. They go down and you move on like they were obstacles clearing out of your way. Like we all are." Your voice frays, the words catching on a jagged edge. "Like I am."

"You want to talk about heartless?" Crosshair’s jaw hitches, a hard knot of muscle popping under the skin. "I had four brothers. A squad that was the only family I'd known since I was grown out of a vat."

He stops. His gaze drops to the metal floor, tracing the lines of the grate. "And they left me. They wanted me to break ranks, and when I wouldn't, they made the choice and left me on the other side of it." His thumb digs into the center of his palm, his fingers curling over it until the knuckles turn white.

You go still, your own breath held tight in your chest.

"Because of what I did while they were gone. Because I made choices that can't be undone." His voice settles to a leveled, mechanical drone, stripped of any rise or fall. "Serving an Empire I am less certain of every cycle."

The silence that follows is filled only by the heavy, rhythmic thrum of the ship’s engines vibrating through the soles of your boots.

His gaze lifts from the grate and finds the wall behind you. The overhead light catches the silver at his temple.

"I said things to them." His thumb is still pressed into the center of his palm, the knuckles white. "When I had the chance to take them back, I didn't."

The ship breathes around you. You watch a muscle at the side of his jaw release.

"What I said to you," he starts, then the words catch. He grinds his back teeth, his jaw set in a hard, silver line. "About being surprised. That wasn't—"

You stay silent, letting the space between you stretch thin.

"You're not a roster number." He shifts, his gaze locking onto yours. He doesn't blink; the stare is heavy, pinning you in place with a sudden, sharp focus. "You haven't been for a long time. I don't know when I stopped treating you like one, but I did. What I said..." He looks away, then right back, the muscles in his throat working. "It didn't reflect that."

He goes rigid, his shoulders squaring as if bracing for a hit. "I'm sorry."

The word sits in the air, unvarnished. He doesn't follow it with anything and in response you sink back to sit on the crate.

"I shouldn't have said what I said either." The words barely carry across the distance between you. "About you never feeling anything. That was cruel."

"It was accurate in places."

"It wasn't."

He doesn't push back. The tension that usually hums between you begins to bleed out, leaving the hold quiet. You pull your knees toward your chest, tucking your chin over them.

"You came in here to ask me something," you say. "Before all of this."

"It can wait."

"Crosshair."

His gaze shifts sideways to you.

"What did you need?"

A long beat. The muscle at the corner of his mouth shifts, before settling back into its usual line.

"I noticed the light on in here. I wanted to know if you were alright." He looks back at the wall. "I have my answer."

You let that land, the ambient lull of the ship humming reaches your ears. Somewhere in the corridor beyond the sealed door, two troopers pass in conversation, their voices muffled down to nothing.

"You deserve better than this," you say eventually. "Than being left out here like this."

"So do you." A pause. "Better than me telling you the ventilation shaft was more private."

The sound you make is brief and quiet and might, in better circumstances, be a laugh.

"You're still terrible at this..."

"Precisely."

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You let it ground you, then laugh silently.

It’s ridiculous, really.

You can stand in front of thousands every day. You command a room, deliver speech after speech without a flicker of doubt. Other senators, dignitaries, entire crowds hanging on your every word. That part is easy.

But this? A date? With Echo?

You’re helpless.

A quiet laugh slips from you as you push away from the window and begin pacing slowly around the room. It’s not even the first time. Not by a long shot. You’ve been seeing him like this for what… seven months now? Always quietly, always carefully.

Seven months of hidden meetings. Of late-night walks through crowded streets where no one paid attention. Of brushing hands beneath tables, of avoiding cameras and journalists and prying eyes.

Even with all that, every time you’re together feels like the first.

A grin creeps onto your face before you can stop it. You let yourself reminisce, the feeling washing over you like a wave. 

—

Your arms are full of stacks of papers, all data reports and schedules. You know it could all be on a single datapad, but you need the tactile evidence of your work, the ability to spread everything out. You’re wrapped up in thinking about the next meeting. 

You take the corner too fast and tumble headfirst into someone. 

Into him. 

You collide with a hard plastoid chest, knocking you to the ground, papers scattering.

“Woah there. Are you okay?” He says, the vocoder of his helmet emphasizing his concern.

You pick yourself off the floor, laughing at yourself. “Sorry. So wrapped up in my own mind I wasn’t watching where I was going. What about you, are you okay?”

The trooper is decorated in blue and not the red you’re used to here in the Senate sector. He reaches up, arms flexing beneath his armor and takes off his helmet. 

You gasp lightly at his eyes, so expressive. And that smile, soft as if somehow holy, sacred. He exudes an air of calm and a strong, grounding presence.

“Let me help you with that.” He says, bending down and helping you gather the papers all about the floor. “Haven’t seen paper like this in so long…” He says, looking up at your face. You blush under his intense gaze. 

“So what senator do you work for?”

You freeze. You look up at him. He looks back at you, inquisitive.

 He doesn’t know. Doesn’t know who you are.

“Uh… Bespin. The Senator for Bespin.” You say back, clearing your throat as if to dislodge the lie. You smile at the rush of excitement the anonymity gives you. 

Soldiers don’t have time for tabloids, you think. Otherwise he would know. You aren't just a senator: Your very public recent breakup with a fellow senator is all over the holonet. And mentions of the breakups before that. You have a label. 

Reckless in love…

Some say worse things.

 But here’s this trooper, this man, helping you pick up papers from the floor, as if you were just a senatorial aid. Something about it, so mundane, feels good. 

You both stand and he hands you the papers, a winning smile on his face. Your hands brush, skin to glove, and you nearly shiver, butterflies erupting in your stomach. Why do you feel like this?

“Here you are. Sorry for knocking into you.” He says, going to put his helmet back on. 

“Wait!” You say, then freeze. 

He pauses and looks at you. “Yes, ma’am?” 

Again another flutter in your stomach. He called you… ma’am. So polite. So formal, and yet he doesn’t know who you are.

“Do you… ah… want to get caf? With me? As a thank you for helping me.” You say, stuttering.

What are you even doing?

His eyes widen and he smiles slightly. “I… I’m on duty, ma’am.” 

You deflate just a little. “Oh. Ofcourse. Sorry.” You say and turn to go, cheeks burning. 

“But, I’m off in an hour.” He calls after you. You turn back to him, biting your lip through a smile. 

“See you in the lobby then?” You say, flushed. 

He nods. “See you then.”

—

You kick your feet where you sit curled on the chaise in your quarters, grinning like an idiot at the memory.

Of course at caf you’d played it cool. Asked about his deployment. His squad. Pretended the pounding in your chest wasn’t happening every time he laughed.

But then caf became dinner, and dinner became a second date.

Then, after a month, it happened.

—

You were walking with him through the lower market levels when a constituent approached you, breathless with excitement.

“Senator! I just wanted to say congratulations on the relief bill passing!”

You felt him pause beside you.

There it was. The moment you’d been dreading. Reality, sinking in.

You gave your practiced smile, thanked the woman politely, and shook her hand. When she left, you braced yourself. For everything, for the inevitable change.

For the way people usually started looking at you like an opportunity instead of a person.

You glanced sideways at him. He was just… watching you.

“So,” he said after a moment, shoving his hands casually into his pockets. “Senator, huh?”

You winced slightly. “Are you… upset?”

“Why would I be?”

“You asked what senator I worked for.”

“And you technically answered,” he said with a crooked grin. “Just left out that it was you.”

You searched his face for negative emotion. 

There was nothing. If anything there was… admiration? But really there was him.

Just him.

“Doesn’t that… bother you?” you asked quietly.

He shrugged. “You’re the same person I’ve been getting to know. Now I just get to know a new side of you.”

Your stomach fluttered again, just like it had the first time he called you ma’am.

“You’re still the same person who almost dropped three hundred papers on my boots,” he added lightly. “Being a senator doesn’t change that.”

You sigh, trying to loosen the knots weaving themselves into your sternum.

“Well. I’m not just a senator. I’m kind of, well… I’m in the news quite a lot.”

“Really?” Echo says, and the two of you resume walking. “For what, bills passing? Speeches?”

You wince.

“Actually… I was dating a senator. It didn’t end well.” Your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag. “My love life has been a little… chaotic. Nothing crazy. It’s just the headlines love a tragic tale, and my past love life fits the bill.”

Echo glances at you, brow slightly raised.

“What kind of chaotic?”

You huff a small laugh.

“The kind where every breakup becomes a political analysis piece,” you say. “Apparently my relationships say something profound about my legislative priorities.”

That pulls a quiet laugh from him.

“I dated Senator Taugh for almost a year,” you continue. “We were photographed everywhere together. The press loved it. Called us the ‘power couple of the Mid Rim.’”

You make little quotation marks with your fingers.

“And then,” you sigh, “he started seeing someone else. Quietly. For months. Without telling me.”

Echo’s jaw tightens just slightly.

“When it finally came out, the story wasn’t ‘Senator cheats,’” you say, shaking your head. “It was ‘Romance implodes, and she’s on to the next.”

You glance sideways at him.

“For the record, I didn’t date for months.”

Echo snorts softly at that.

“That’s ridiculous that they put that on you.”

“Welcome to politics.”

For a moment the only sound between you is the echo of your footsteps against polished stone.

Then you add, quieter now, “So… yeah. If anyone ever sees me with someone, it becomes a story. Speculation. Analysis. Commentaries on the holonet.”

Your shoulders lift in a small, helpless shrug.

“So if anyone sees us talking,” you say lightly, “they’ll probably assume we’re secretly engaged or in the middle of a scandal.”

Echo stops walking. You take one more step before realizing and turning back to him. He’s watching you with that thoughtful, steady gaze again.

For a second you worry you’ve scared him off.

But then he shrugs one shoulder.

“Well,” he says simply, “that doesn’t really bother me.”

You blink. “It doesn’t?”

He shakes his head.

“I spent my whole life being told what I’m supposed to be,” he says. “Soldier. Property of the Republic.” His voice isn’t bitter, just matter-of-fact.

“Clones aren’t supposed to have attachments, its too much of a distraction to date,” he continues. “The Kaminoans didn’t design us for that.”

He pauses, glancing down the quiet alley before looking back at you.

“So if being with you means it has to be quiet…” he says with a small shrug, “…then it’s quiet.”

Something soft settles in your chest.

You tilt your head. “You’re okay with that?”

Echo smiles then, “I’ve spent my whole life doing things the Republic didn’t expect,” he says.

Then he starts walking again.

“So yeah,” he says over his shoulder, voice lighter now. “I think I can handle keeping one secret. Especially one I like this much.”

Your heart fluttered. You laughed, unable to stop yourself, and that was the moment you realized why being with him felt so different.

Everyone else saw the headline first.

Reckless in love, scandals. Even failed bills on the senate floor.

But him?

He just saw you. 

—

There’s a knock at your door.

You jump up, heart pounding. You shake out your hands, trying to stop the flood of nerves rushing through you. You adjust your dress pulling the hem as low as you can. You take a breath and open the door.

And there he is.

He’s in civilian clothes. A dark shirt, dark shorts, an interesting fabric that shimmers slightly. His hair, still short from regulation cuts, is slightly tousled, and his eyes light up the moment he sees you.

“Ready?” you ask.

He nods, giving you a quick peck on the cheek. You leave your quarters, locking the door behind you and switching off the lights. Out in the hallway, you slip your hand into his. His palm is rough and warm against yours, calloused from years of armor plates and blasters. The contrast makes your stomach flutter.

You know you’ll have to drop his hand once you reach the street.

You always do.

If anyone sees where the two of you are going, this little romantic hideaway, if someone recognizes you and snaps a picture…That’s it.

Everyone will know you aren’t just in another relationship.

You’re in one with a soldier.

A clone.

And that’s sure to make headlines.

You make it out of the Senate District without incident, but the moment you step onto the busy promenade Echo gently lets your hand slip from his.

You don’t look at him when it happens.

The two of you call a speeder and ride across the city, the glowing towers of Coruscant streaking past the windows. You doubt he’s ever even been to this section of the city.

This is the luxury quarter.

The speeder drops you off outside a towering building, its glass edges disappearing into the sky. Soft lights glow along the structure like stars caught in metal.

Echo pauses beside you, glancing up.

“You’ve been here before?” He asks, eyes scanning the gilded building as it scrapes the sky.

“Once or twice,” you reply.

Inside, the air is cool and perfumed, the marble floors gleaming beneath your feet. You step up to the front desk and offer a polite smile.

“Two for a reservation,” you say. “Number 2319.”

The Twi’lek attendant glances down at the terminal, then raises his eyebrows slightly.

“The rooftop spa suite,” he says, impressed. “Wonderful choice.”

Echo shoots you a quick look. You cast him a sly smile. You’d told him what to wear, but not the extent to which you’d be pampering him tonight. All of your dates with him up until this have been quiet, reserved. Restaurants off the main strip, small caf shops, anything that wouldn’t draw attention, wouldn’t be the place a senator would take a lover. This, though? This is unlike anything Echo has ever done before, and you’re so grateful to be the one to give it to him. 

The attendant gestures for you to follow and leads the two of you to a private elevator. He presses several buttons and then taps in a security code, the panel chiming softly as the doors slide shut.

The lift begins its smooth ascent toward the top of the tower.

You grab his hand as the doors open and step out into a sweep of open air and sky.

The rooftop stretches wide around you, the city falling away on all sides as if the building itself has risen high enough to brush the clouds. Evening is just beginning to settle in, the horizon painted in layers of molten gold, peach, and deepening violet. The last light of the sun spills across everything it touches, turning glass and water into mirrors of fire.

The first thing that catches your eye is the pool.

It spills toward the edge of the rooftop in a seamless sheet of glassy water, an infinity pool so perfectly placed it looks as though the surface melts directly into the sky. The far lip vanishes against the horizon, leaving the illusion that the water simply pours out into the sunset. Soft steam rises from its surface, catching the fading light and drifting lazily into the warm evening air.

The rooftop is built for comfort, designed for relaxation. Plush chairs settle around the pool, and circle a stone fire pit, flames already licking the sky, with white blankets draped on the edges of each loveseat. Near the firepit is a table of deep, rich mahogany, covered with white linen and plated elegantly.

A small brass bell sits at the edge of the table. One ring and dinner will appear. Until then, the space belongs entirely to you.

There are no crowds. No music drifting up from the streets below. No voices but your own.

Just the slow ripple of water over the infinity edge, the crackle of the fire, and the endless sky glowing as the sun sinks lower and lower, setting the entire rooftop ablaze in gold.

Echo’s hand tightens around yours, and a low, awed breath escapes him. “Wow,” he murmurs. Your chest flutters, a grin splitting your face almost involuntarily. This, the luxury, the view, the quiet grandeur meant for no one but him, this is everything you’d imagined. Everything you’d wanted him to have, to feel.

You lead him by the hand toward the lounge chairs arranged neatly beside the pool, their cushions soft and inviting. The sky above is a painter’s dream: deepening blues bleeding into gentle pinks, streaks of lavender curling over gold. The sunset mirrors the one on your home planet, tugging at a thread of nostalgia you didn’t expect. Echo leans back into one of the pool chairs, and you settle into the chair next to him. Echo leans back, arms folded behind his head, eyes scanning the prismatic sky as if memorizing every brushstroke.

You pause, just for a moment, watching him. The initial shock of the opulence has faded from his expression, but there’s still a subtle tension. He had made it clear from the beginning that your fame, your wealth, your world of luxury wasn’t what drew him. He wanted you. Just you. 

Your hands drift almost instinctively to your thighs. The thought of his touch sends a ripple of anticipation through you. Your fingers gather the hem of your dress, brushing the soft fabric between your palms. Echo’s head turns, his gaze landing on you, steady and observant.

You stand in front of him. Slowly, deliberately, you lift the dress. The fabric slides over your skin, past your thighs, tracing the curve of your hips, rising over your stomach. The night air kisses your exposed skin, cool and thrilling against the heat of your pulse. The shiver it sends up your spine is delicious, prickling every nerve. Finally, the dress slips off entirely. You stand there in your swimsuit, a deep, iridescent purple that seems to drink in the dying light of the sunset and release it across your skin.

Echo exhales a breath that seems to come from the very center of him. He rises, his hands finding your bare waist, fingers warm. You lean into his touch, letting your hands wander to the buttons of his shirt.

His gaze meets yours, steady and reverent, and for a heartbeat, it feels like he’s silently questioning whether this moment is real.

Your fingers work carefully, unbuttoning him one by one. Each parting of fabric reveals familiar planes of muscle and skin. The reflections from the pool dance along his chest, rippling.

For a long moment, neither of you speaks.

Echo watches you. He watches you as though you are the only thing in existence, every detail etched into his mind.

Your fingers linger at the last button.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” he murmurs, low and contemplative. 

You slide the shirt from his shoulders. The fabric whispers against his skin before falling loosely into your hands.

“I know,” you reply, a small smile tugging at your lips. “But I wanted to.”

You reach up, brushing your fingers along the sharp line of his jaw, grounding him in this moment.

“Echo,” you say softly, “I don’t do this to impress you.”

The fire pit crackles nearby, orange light flickering across his face, illuminating the subtle curve of his lips, the warmth in his eyes.

“I do it,” you continue, voice low, “Because you deserve to feel like this, have all of this. You deserve something beautiful.”

Something shifts in him then, a subtle tilt of understanding, deeper than surprise.

His hand slides from your waist to the small of your back, drawing you closer until there is no space left between you.

“You already give me that,” he murmurs, sincerity threading through every syllable. Your chest tightens. His eyes flick down to your lips, then back up to your own eyes. Your breath mingles as you draw ever closer. Your lips brush, tenative at first, then softly, gently. He kisses you deeply then, one hand in your hair, the other at your waist. When the kiss breaks, you swear the sun roars a final burst of color before setting at last.

Above, the first stars glitter, scattered across the darkening sky. Your gaze flickers toward the pool. Echo follows your eyes, his expression softening further, a slow grin spreading across his face.

“You planning on swimming,” he teases, a playful lilt returning to his tone, “or were you just trying to distract me?”

You laugh softly, the sound lighter than you expected.

“Maybe both,” you admit.

Without another word, he extends his hand toward you, eyes sparkling.

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s see if the water’s as wonderful as the view.”

Your fingers curl around his, warm and sure, and together you step toward the pool. The firelight dances behind you, the stars stretch endlessly above, and all at once the world feels entirely, impossibly, yours.

One step into the pool and you sigh. The water is perfectly heated, a soft warmth that slips over your skin and settles into your muscles. You let yourself gently collapse into its embrace, letting the liquid hold you, floating for a heartbeat.

Echo steps in behind you, careful at first. Then his arms slide around your middle, holding you close, grounding you. You lean your head back into the nape of his neck, feeling the steady heat of his skin against yours, and exhale deeply, letting the tension of months drain away.

“You know,” you murmur, voice muffled slightly against his shoulder, “you’re… really good at what you do. I mean, your whole life has served one purpose, and it isn’t one you chose.”

He shifts slightly, letting the water buoy him so he can look down at you. “Yeah,” he admits quietly, tone almost shy. “I’ve… gotten used to it. That’s all.”

You hum softly, fingers tracing lazy circles over his forearms. “Used to it doesn’t mean you don’t need a break. You’re always the one holding everyone together, keeping people alive… your brothers. And I think… you deserve something like this. Actually, all of you do.”

His lips twitch in a faint, grateful smile, the sort that doesn’t quite reach his eyes yet, weighed down by years of responsibility. “We… we don’t usually get to stop. Not like this.”

You tilt your head back, studying the way the last light of sunset flickers on his skin, the water catching reflections like liquid fire. “Well,” you say, a little mischievously, “I know how to fix that.”

He frowns, curious. “How’s that?”

“I know tonight is about us, but what if we make a plan to bring your brothers here sometime. We can grill, have drinks. I’d love to officially meet them, and besides, they deserve a night off too.”

He releases a breath in surprise. “Yeah… yeah, I think you’re right.”

The corners of his mouth turn up a little more, and there’s a softness in his eyes you rarely see, the kind reserved for moments when the armor drops, when the soldier is just a man again.

You tilt your head, brushing your lips against the curve of his jaw. “So, tonight… let yourself rest. You’ve earned it, Echo. And maybe… maybe next time we can make it a regular thing. Your brothers, too. I’ll handle it.”

His arms tighten around you, warm and steady, the rhythm of his heartbeat matching yours. “I… I’d like that,” he murmurs.

For a long moment, the two of you float there, letting the water and warmth hold you, the fire’s glow flickering across the terrace, the stars climbing higher overhead, and the city far below fading into nothing. The warmth of the evening still lingers in your skin, but the chill of the night air has crept in, urging the two of you out of the pool. Echo’s hand brushes against yours as you step onto the terrace, droplets of water glimmering on your skin in the firelight. 

You look down and see in the cement two perfect outlines in water, his hand and yours. How you wish it was in unsettled cement, so that the two of you and this moment, this night, could be set in memory forever. 

You dry off carefully, the towels soft against your skin, and slip into fresh clothes.

By the time you return to the table, the terrace has transformed into something almost magical. The bell you ring at the dining table sends a quiet summons into the night, and almost instantly a waiter appears with a cart. He lays out the domed dishes one by one, uncovering them with care. A bottle of champagne glints under the soft lights as the waiter pours it into two crystal flutes, leaving the table perfectly arranged before disappearing into the shadows.

Echo pulls out your chair and helps you to sit, ever the gentleman.

“This is… unlike anything I’ve ever seen, ever had,” he says, voice low, awed. “And I haven’t even tried it yet.”

You laugh, warmth spilling into your chest. “This is a traditional dinner from Bespin. I had the chef here recreate it. I wanted to share it with you. If you don’t like it, I can have them make you anything else.”

“I’ll love it. I trust you.” He sits opposite of you, taking his drink in his hand.

You lift your flute, and he mirrors you, glasses meeting with a delicate clink. The champagne glimmers in the candlelight as you sip.

After a moment of quiet enjoyment, you set your glass down. “Echo… can I ask you something?”

His gaze flicks to yours, curious, attentive. “Anything.”

You take a slow breath, letting the flickering firelight calm your nerves. “I… Would you want to be, seen with me? Publicly. I mean would you want to be… official?”

He tilts his head slightly, the golden light catching the curve of his jaw. “I think about that. Every day.” he admits softly. “I think about us. What we are. What we could be. I actually even asked my captain what he thought about having an official attachment… ” His hand hovers near yours, uncertain. “It’s not easy. For us. For… clones with everything else in our lives. We have rules.”

You reach across the table, letting your fingers brush his. “I know,” you say, voice gentle. “I don’t want to make your life anymore complicated. I just… I just want you to be… with me. Out there, in the world. I want everyone to know how amazing you are. I want you by my side.” You pause, sadness creeping in. “But I suppose that’s not meant for us.”

His hand closes over yours, warm and grounding.  “I think… I know I’m ready for that. I would give anything to be with you in the open. But… I’m happy just having you in the quiet moments for as long as I can.”

You squeeze his hand, feeling a flutter of sadness. “Maybe… maybe we can tell a few people? Just the ones we trust, those most important in our lives. Then it won’t feel so… isolating. So secret.”

Echo’s smile is slow but sure. “I can do that,” he says. “For you. I’ve always wanted to. But with your permission, I can tell my squad. They’re safe, they can keep it between them.”

You both fall into a comfortable silence for a moment, letting the words sink in.

“Then,” you say softly, “we do it. We share us. With more than just us.”

Echo leans across the table, his forehead brushing yours in a gentle, grounding touch. “More than just us.”

You laugh softly, heart swelling, as the fire flickers, stars blaze overhead, and the city hums far below, invisible, irrelevant. This relationship will soon exist beyond the careful walls and borders that protect you both, even if only to a few. The thought excites you. Scares you. But more than anything, it makes this feel more real. 

Dinner slips by little by little, the conversation easy and unhurried. As the night cools, you ring the bell once more. Almost immediately, a waiter appears, clearing the table with quiet precision. You top off both your glasses with the leftover champagne, the bubbles sparkling in the firelight as you take a slow sip.

You guide Echo to the firepit just beyond the pool. The loveseat is plush, enveloping, positioned perfectly so the warmth of the fire washes over you as the night breeze brushes past. You sink into it first, letting the cushions cradle you, and Echo follows, curling in beside you.

The embers leap from the pit, tiny sparks drifting up into the sky, mingling with the stars. The glow washes over Echo’s face, softening the lines of fatigue, highlighting the strength in his jaw, the warmth in his eyes. You lean slightly into him, letting your shoulder rest against his, feeling the steady beat of his chest beneath your hand.

For a while, neither of you speaks. You watch the sparks curl and drift upward, the quiet crackle of the fire filling the space between your thoughts. There’s a stillness here that feels almost sacred, removed from everything else: the war, the responsibilities, the expectations. 

Finally, Echo shifts slightly, turning so his arm can wrap around your shoulders. His hand rests lightly on your arm, thumb brushing in slow, reassuring circles. You look up at him, catching the faintest shadow of hesitation in his gaze, the same one you’ve seen before whenever he allows himself to be truly vulnerable.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you something.” He says, voice low.

Your heart tightens, a flutter of nerves mingling with anticipation.

He swallows, gaze dropping to your hands, then back to your eyes, steady and unwavering. “I love you,” he says finally. “I’ve… I’ve loved you for a long time, and I just… I needed you to know.”

The warmth of the fire seems to wrap around you like a blanket as those words sink in. Your breath catches. “I… I love you too,” you whisper, barely above the crackle of the flames.

He draws you closer, the two of you melting into each other, limbs entwining naturally, the firelight flickering over the curve of his jaw, the line of his shoulders. The two of you stay there for a long time, speaking in quiet confessions, laughter spilling out between soft kisses, hands brushing over one another as the fire crackles and pops. Each spark that rises into the night sky feels like a promise. You rest your head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, and he presses a gentle kiss to your hair. No more words are needed. Tonight, the world has slipped away, leaving only this. Only the two of you, and the warmth of everything you’ve finally said out loud.

The galaxy might be a terrifying place, and one not kind to a love like yours. But tonight? Tonight is yours. And that is enough.

-----

Inspiration Lyrics:

Flamingo pink Sunrise Boulevard Clink, clink Being this young is art Aquamarine Moonlit swimming pool What if all I need is you?

Love to think you'll never forget Handprints in wet cement Adorned with smoke on my clothes Lovelorn and nobody knows Love thorns all over this rose I'll pay the price, you won't

And I break down, then he's pullin' me in In a world of boys, he's a gentleman

In the tangerine, neon light This is luxury You're not saying you're in love with me But you're going to

----

It started because Wrecker couldn't keep his mouth shut.

"I'm just sayin’," Wrecker announced to no one and everyone, dropping onto one of the Marauder's cockpit seats, "that Nola from the supply depot was askin’ about you, Echo. Specifically. By name."

Echo didn't look up from the console he was running diagnostics on. "No."

"You didn't even let me finish!"

"You were going to ask me if I wanted you to set something up." He turned a dial. "No."

Wrecker looked at you. His grin was enormous. You looked back down at your work, because if you made eye contact with him right now you were going to laugh and Echo would know you were on Wrecker's side, which you weren't. 

This was a recurring event. Every port, every depot, every settlement with more than four people in it, someone decided Echo needed a partner. 

The thing was, it had taken the squad an embarrassingly long time to find Echo's weak spot. Hunter got his by mentioning any amount of effort he put into his hair. Tech's was any implication that he might have gotten something wrong. Wrecker didn't really have one, which was deeply unfair. Echo had been impervious to everything until three weeks ago when someone floated the idea of setting him up with a contact on Felucia and something in his expression cracked. Wrecker, of course, grabbed onto that immediately.

Since then it had become the squad's favorite sport.

"She has great aim," Wrecker offered. "You like aim."

Echo picked up his tool again. "I'm done talking about this."

Wrecker caught your eye and mouthed he likes aim with visible joy.

You smirked and pressed your lips together to keep from laughing, but took the moment to assess Echo’s less-than-pleased expression.

You knew Echo hated it. He'd actually told you once, sitting on the ship's ramp while everyone else was asleep. He said it made him feel like people were looking at him and only seeing what was missing. Just like the scomp where his hand used to be. The cybernetic legs that carried him with a soldier's posture regardless, back straight, chin level. His body, whether human or machine, still remembered the Republic even when everything else had changed.

You sat with that thought for a long time after.

You brought it up the next morning, when the ship was quiet and the two of you were running inventory in the cargo hold.

"I have a solution to your problem," you said.

Echo looked up from the crate he was logging.

You set down a supply kit. "If you tell everyone we're together, they'll drop it."

He looked up. His brows pulled in slightly and he set the datapad down, eyes on your face.

"That's going to create other problems," he said.

"Like what?"

The corner of his mouth moved. "Hunter will see through it."

"Hunter sees through everything and doesn't say anything. He'll let it go." You shrugged. "It stops the setups. You stop getting that look on your face every time Wrecker opens his mouth. Everybody wins."

"What look?"

"The one you're doing right now." His jaw was tight and his eyes had gone somewhere flat, the look of a man waiting for something unpleasant to be over.

Then he looked up at you, and the tension in his jaw eased a little. "You'd actually do that for me?"

"Yeah," you said. "I would."

He nodded slowly. "Alright. Thank you."

You decided to tell them at dinner.

It felt like the lowest stakes version of the thing. Everyone was tired, Hunter was focused on the nav charts, Tech was eating with one hand and datapad-ing with the other. Wrecker was the only one fully present, which was either ideal or the worst possible scenario depending on how you looked at it.

You were sitting next to Echo already. You looked at him, a silent whenever you're ready, and he looked back at you for just a second before turning to the table.

"We're together," he said. Simple.

You shifted closer to him and wrapped both hands around his arm, the way you had seen people do. Easy, natural, like you had done it before. It was for the room. You knew it was for the room. His arm was warm under your hands and solid in the way everything about Echo was solid, and you looked at the table and told yourself to focus.

The ship hummed as the eyes of the rest of the Batch all fixated on two two of you. Your heart was doing something stupid and fast in your chest that you were hoping wasn't visible.

Wrecker put his fork down. He looked at Echo. He looked at you. He looked back at Echo.

"CALLED IT," he bellowed, loud enough that Hunter's head came up sharply and Tech's datapad slipped out of his hand. "I called it, I said it, nobody listened to me—"

"You did not call it," Tech said, retrieving the datapad from the floor.

"I implied it."

"You implied nothing, you were actively trying to set him up with someone else yesterday—"

"That was a test."

"That was not a test, Wrecker. A test is a procedure intended to establish the quality, performance, or reliability of something. You have no idea what a test is—"

You felt Echo exhale beside you, slow and quiet, and when you glanced at him his eyes were closed as he pinched the bridge of his nose. When he opened them he looked at you, and the corner of his mouth pulled up just slightly, and something in your chest stopped racing and went warm instead.

You shifted your hold on Echo's arm and leaned your head against his shoulder, because Wrecker was watching and you were supposed to be convincing. Echo went still for half a second. Then his posture shifted, just slightly, making room for you.

"See," Wrecker said, pointing at the two of you with his fork like he had just proven something in to the Galactic Senate.

"Eat your food," Echo said.

Hunter looked at you both across the table. He didn't say anything. He just nodded once, like he'd already known and had simply been waiting for you to catch up, and went back to his charts.

Omega leaned over and grabbed your arm with both hands. "I knew it," she whispered, delighted.

"Wrecker's rubbing off on you," you told her.

From across the table Wrecker was still going. "I want everyone to acknowledge that I saw this coming—"

"Nobody is acknowledging that," Echo said.

The table got loud again with Tech and Wrecker going back and forth, and you lifted your head off Echo's shoulder. He didn't say anything about it. Neither did you. But you were aware of the warmth his shoulder had left behind and you focused very carefully on your food for the rest of dinner.

The plan you set into motion worked immediately and completely.

Wrecker celebrated by making himself as involved as possible. He started referring to you as a unit, saved you adjacent seats without being asked, and physically relocated Tech once so you could sit next to Echo at a briefing, which Tech objected to at length while Wrecker ignored him entirely.

The briefing was the first time it felt like actual pressure. Hunter was running through the Genosis job, holomap lit blue in the centre of the room, and you were aware of Wrecker and Omega watching the two of you. Echo must have felt it too because his arm came up along the back of your seat, loose and easy, like it was nothing. Like he had done it a hundred times.

He, of course, hadn't, but you kept your eyes on the holomap. Hunter was talking about entry points. You retained next to none of it.

At some point Echo leaned forward to point something out on the map and the arm dropped. When he sat back he didn't put it up again. You didn't know whether you were relieved or not, but you forced yourself to not think about it.

"This is getting out of hand," Echo said after a few weeks of doing this dance they did. The two of you were standing in the Marauder's small corridor while Wrecker's voice carried through from the cockpit, loud and pleased with himself.

"Yeah, two rooms,” he told their contact, “One for the squad and one for my brother and his girl."

You and Echo looked at each other.

He moved toward the cockpit first. You followed, and by the time you got there Wrecker had already ended the comm and was turning around with the expression of someone who had done something very generous and wanted credit for it.

"You're welcome," he said.

"I didn't ask you to do that," Echo said.

"No, but I did it anyway. You're together now. You need your own room." He paused. "You're welcome," he said again, since the first time hadn't landed.

You stepped around Echo and touched Wrecker's arm. "That was really thoughtful," you said, and it came out warm. "Thank you."

Wrecker's whole face opened up. "See," he said, pointing at you and looking at Echo. "That's how you respond."

You turned back to Echo. He was looking at you with an expression that was doing its best to stay neutral and not entirely succeeding. You gave him a small smile and mouthed it's fine.

Something in his shoulders dropped half an inch.

"Thank you, Wrecker," he said, with the energy of a man who had lost a battle gracefully.

Wrecker clapped him on the back hard enough to stagger him. "That's what I thought."

Genosis was loud and warm and the streets from the landing pad to the depot were packed enough that you and Echo moved close together without forcing it.

Omega was just behind with Hunter and Wrecker was somewhere further back, loudly narrating the market stalls to Tech, which meant the whole squad had a clear sightline and you both knew it.

Echo's hand found yours. You looked straight ahead and matched his pace and told yourself this was the job.

A vendor called out from a stall to your left and you instinctively turned to look. When you turned back a strand of hair had fallen across your face. Echo reached over without dropping your hand and tucked it behind your ear, the scomp tracing a cool, careful line along your cheekbone. Sure, you guys had this act going on, but you hadn’t been this close to his face before. You could see the faint scar at his jaw, the steadiness in his eyes, the unusual absence of self-consciousness in what he'd just done.

Then he was looking ahead. Just keeping up appearances.

You faced forward and said nothing.

The room Wrecker had booked was small, which you suspected had less to do with the depot's availability and more to do with Wrecker specifically requesting it. There were two narrow windows, a table, and one bed.

Echo stood in the doorway and took it in without expression.

"I'll take the floor," he said the moment the door swung shut.

"Echo."

"It's fine. I've slept in worse." He was already moving toward the corner, pulling his jacket off and folding it with the automatic precision of someone who had spent years making do with whatever space a bunk or a battlefield offered. 

His jaw was tight.

You sat on the edge of the bed and watched him arrange nothing in particular in the corner and felt something pull at you that you'd been ignoring for longer than you wanted to admit.

"You don't have to sleep on the floor," you said.

"Well, I'm not putting you on the floor."

"That's not what I said."

He stopped. His back was still to you. He stood there long enough that the street noise outside filled the room, someone laughing below, music drifting up thin and distant, and then he turned around.

"This got complicated," he said.

"I know."

"I don't want to make things strange between us."

You looked at him. "Things are already strange. They've been strange since I suggested this mess."

He crossed the room and sat on the other end of the bed, forearms on his cybernetic knees, eyes on the floor.The silence stretched long enough that you started to regret opening your mouth.

Then he said, "I stopped pretending a while ago."

You looked at him.

"That's why I didn't want things to get strange between us." He kept his eyes on the floor. "Not because of the cover. Because I didn't want you to find out and have it change everything."

"When did it stop being pretend for you," you asked.

He was quiet for a moment. "The briefing. You had your head on my shoulder and I spent the whole time trying to remember what Hunter was saying."

You laughed once, short and surprised. "Me too."

He looked up at that, eyebrows raised.

"I kept telling myself I was helping a friend," you said. "And I was. I meant it when I offered. But somewhere in the middle of all of it I stopped having to pretend to want to be close to you, and I didn't know what to do with that." You looked at your hands. "I didn't want to lose you over it. You're my friend first. That mattered more than whatever this was."

The room was quiet.

"Is," he said.

You looked up.

"Whatever this is," he said. "Not was."

He reached over and his hand covered yours, warm and steady. He didn't say anything else for a moment. With Echo, you had learned, silence usually meant he was making sure he got the next part right.

"I don't want to pretend anymore," he said. "I want the actual thing."

You turned your hand over under his.

"That's what I want too," you told him.

Outside the city kept its noise and the music floated up from somewhere below. The two of you stayed in the room that night, and none of it felt like pretending.

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“What?” You try for wounded dignity. It probably looks more like a tooka that’s just been caught with its head stuck in a box. “I’m trying to make conversation. In a… a place of social gathering. This is what people do, right? They talk?”

“Yeah, but they don’t usually ask the guy they’ve been working with for two years if he comes to the one decent cantina in town often,” he points out, but there’s no real heat in it. Just that familiar, lazy amusement you’ve come to rely on. He gestures with his bottle toward the room at large. “Besides, you know the answer to that. You’ve been here with us before.”

“Right.” You smooth a non-existent wrinkle in your skirt. Your fingers feel clumsy. “Just trying to get back in the swing of things.”

“The swing of things,” he repeats, like he’s tasting the words. He sets the bottle down with a solid thud on the sticky tabletop. The condensation leaves a perfect, dark ring. “Is that what this is? Getting back in the swing of things?”

“It’s a drink, Howzer,” you say, finally meeting his gaze. “In a cantina. I’m… re-entering polite society.”

That makes him chuckle, deep and rumbling. “Polite society’s a few parsecs west of here, I think. This is more like… slightly-less-impolite society.”

“Baby steps,” you mutter, and take a sip of your own drink. It’s some local fruit wine, deceptively sweet and potent. It curls through your veins like a friendly warning. You’re already halfway to tipsy, a few sips in, and you wonder how long it’s been since you’ve done anything like this.

You glance up at Howzer again and wonder why you invited him. Or why he accepted. Or if he’ll make you go back home before you’re done with this wine.

The answer to all of the above, of course, is that you’re a moron. You’re a moron who’s been staring at the back of Howzer’s shoulders during PT, listening to his laugh over comms when you’re all out in the field, thinking about how he looks when he’s asleep in the back of the transport, the way he’d looked at you that night by the bonfire…

Howzer leans forward, forearms resting on the sticky tabletop, and you swallow hard. The way he’s looking at you now. It’s a lot.

The cantina is noisy, a dull roar of conversation and clanking glassware and the tinny, distant thrum of a jukebox that’s probably older than both of you combined. But it feels quiet, all the same. Just you and Howzer in a dimly lit corner, knees knocking under the tiny table.

You’ve been stationed on Ryloth for the better part of the year now, and the planet has a way of getting under your skin, into your bones. It’s all dust and heat and vast, empty skies that go purple at dusk. But there’s a hardness here, a resilience you respect. And the people… well. They’re survivors. Howzer fits right in. Always has. He seems to take to every planet, every culture, like he was born to it. Like he’s been at home everywhere, all his life. He doesn’t seem like a man who can be cowed.

It’s part of what makes you want him so much.

You slowly mimic his posture, bracing your elbows on the table and feeling a little spark of triumph when the movement doesn’t feel too awkward. His eyes flick down, just for a second, to the bit of skin showing at your neckline. A quick, almost unconscious glance. You feel the triumph bloom into something warmer, brighter.

“Alright then, smartass,” you say, keeping your voice low to match the sudden thrum that’s started up under your own skin. “Your turn. Make conversation. Impress me.”

He grins, and it’s a real grin this time, not just a quirk of his lips. It crinkles the corners of his dark eyes, makes him look younger. More approachable. Less like the stoic, by-the-book Clone Captain you first met two years ago and more like the man who’s come to be a good friend.

“Challenge accepted,” he says. He leans in a little closer. You match him. If anyone were to pass by your booth, they’d probably think you were discussing something serious. Top secret intel. Coordinating a battle plan. But the cantina is nearly deserted this late in the evening, and the few other patrons are either well on their way to drunken oblivion or too busy trying to keep their nuna skewers from falling to the dusty floor to pay much attention to the two Republic soldiers huddled in the corner.

The jukebox clicks, skips, starts playing a slow, lilting melody. The voice that emerges is sweet, a little smoky. A Twi’lek woman, crooning an old ballad in her native tongue. The words are unfamiliar, but the meaning is clear. Your heart beats a little faster.

Howzer is silent for a moment, eyes searching yours. It’s hard to read his expression. There’s a guardedness there, a tension. He’s a soldier, after all. He’s used to keeping his cards close to his chest. But he’s been different with you, lately. Softer. More open. And you find yourself wondering, not for the first time, what it would be like to press your lips to that little furrow of tension that’s formed between his brows.

Finally, he clears his throat. “So… What’s a beautiful girl like you doing in a shithole like this?”

You can’t help it. You burst out laughing before you can catch yourself, nearly spilling your wine in your lap in the process. It’s such a ridiculous line. You can’t believe he actually said it.

Howzer is looking at you like he’s just won some kind of prize. Like he knows he’s got you now. And, oh, he does. He really does. Because you’ve been on the receiving end of his stupid jokes before, but never like this. Never with that look in his eyes.

He’s got you, and he knows it.

“Oh, come on,” you say through stifled laughter. “I said impress me, not make me laugh. That was terrible.”

“It was not!” he protests with a grin. “I thought it was quite smooth, actually.”

“Sure you did.” You roll your eyes and take a sip of your drink. “I bet all the girls fall for that one.”

He snorts at that and leans back in the booth, settling his broad shoulders comfortably against the vinyl. “Please. I don’t need cheesy pickup lines to woo the ladies.”

“And how’s that working out for you?” you quip.

His answering smirk is positively feral.

You’re not sure how you got here. One minute you were sharing a quiet drink in the mess hall, toasting another successful mission. The next you were following him to this little hole-in-the-wall cantina, the kind of place where no one looks twice at a couple of Republic soldiers. The kind of place where no one asks questions. Where no one cares.

You’re not sure when it happened, exactly. When you went from being just another soldier, just another member of his team, to… whatever you are to him now. But it happened. Somewhere between the endless training drills, the late-night planning sessions, the shared cups of caffa, the stolen moments of quiet.

And now here you are, sitting in a dimly lit cantina, with the music of a thousand forgotten lovesongs hanging in the air between you.

“Come on,” you tease. “I bet you can do better than that.”

“Alright, alright. Let me try again,” he says. He takes a long swig of his beer and sets it down with a decisive thunk. His gaze dips again, lingering this time, and when it comes back to yours, the amusement has been banked into something else. Something that makes the hairs on your arms stand up. “You look beautiful tonight, you know that?”

Your breath hitches. It’s such a simple, stupid thing to say. And it’s not something you’d normally go for. But coming from him… it’s different. The way he says it—like he’s noting a fundamental truth of the universe, like he’s just now fully realizing it and the realization is staggering—makes it something more.

You have to swallow before you can answer. “Oh. Thanks.” Your brain short-circuits. “You also… you clean up good.” 

It’s not a lie. He’s just wearing the standard issue black t-shirt and cargos, but they might as well be tailored for the way they fit him across the shoulders, the lean strength of him. The sides of his head are freshly shaven, the dark curls on top neat for once. He looks less like a soldier and more like a man. Just a man, sitting across from you in a dingy cantina, with broad shoulders and kind eyes and a stare that feels like it’s stripping you down to the bone.

“Yeah?” He sounds pleased. Pleased and a little smug. You can practically see him preening under the praise.

“Yeah,” you confirm, your voice a little steadier now. You take a sip of your cocktail, the condensation slick against your palm. “Almost didn’t recognize you without the bucket on your head.”

Howzer laughs, and it crinkles around the corners of his eyes. “Funny. Almost didn’t recognize you with… all of that.” 

He gestures vaguely with one hand, encompassing your dress, your hair, the whole ridiculous effort. It had been a sudden, desperate idea. A way to force the issue. A way to see if he would ever look at you and see you.

He is looking at you now. He really, truly is.

“I can go change,” you offer, the tease coming out a little breathier than you intended. “Throw on some combat boots and a grease-stained jumpsuit. Make you feel more at home.”

“Don’t you dare.” 

The words are immediate, firm. A command. The humor vanishes from his face, replaced by that intense, focused look again. His tongue darts out, wetting his lower lip. Your own lips tingle in sympathy. 

“You stay right where you are,” he says, softer this time. “Just like that.”

And in the noisy, crowded, sticky-floored cantina, with the bad music and the worse lighting, everything goes quiet. The world narrows down to the two of you, to the force of his gaze and the frantic, hopeful beat of your own heart. He sees you. He’s finally seeing you. And the look on his face tells you that he likes, very much, what he sees. 

Howzer reaches across the table, his movements slow and deliberate, giving you every chance to pull away. You don’t. You couldn’t move if a thermal detonator went off in the corner. His fingers, calloused and warm, brush against your wrist. Your hand lifts, and you allow him to turn it over, to trace the lines of your palm with the calloused pad of his thumb. The touch is light, tentative, but it sends a jolt through you that’s more potent than any jolt of electricity from a malfunctioning droid. 

“So,” he starts again, his voice a low rumble that you feel more than hear. “Not a drill.”

The corner of your mouth kicks up. “Definitely not a drill.”

“Good.” His thumb strokes your palm once more, a slow, deliberate circle that feels like a brand. “Because I was starting to run out of excuses to talk to you.”

A bright, startled laugh escapes you. You cover your face with your free hand, overwhelmed, suddenly, by it all. By you, and him, and the endless dance of the last few months, finally, finally culminating in this. This warm, calloused thumb stroking your skin in the sticky vinyl booth of a Ryloth cantina.

“Stars above, Howzer,” you breathe, your voice muffled. “You too?”

His grin through your fingers is a thing of beauty. “Me too. For ages.”

You drop your hand. He’s still holding the other one, his thumb still resting in the center of your palm. He lifts it to his lips, presses a soft, warm kiss to the sensitive skin of your inner wrist. It’s a chaste, almost old-fashioned gesture, but it’s the most intimate thing anyone has ever done to you.

Your entire body goes hot. You feel it from the tips of your toes to the roots of your hair. He watches you, his eyes dark, as he lowers your hand back to the table, but doesn’t let go.

“If I knew all it took was a dress,” you murmur, a bit dazed. “I would’ve worn one months ago.”

Howzer’s answering chuckle is low and warm, and it vibrates through you, settling somewhere deep in your gut. “Well, if it helps, you look damn good in a mechanic’s jumpsuit, too.”

“Flatterer,” you reply with a huff, but you’re smiling, and you can’t bring yourself to stop. You feel bright, and bubbly, and dangerous. Like you could take on the whole CIS with nothing but this feeling humming under your skin. “You’re not so bad yourself, you know.”

“Mmm.” He squeezes your hand, and you squeeze back. The small, simple contact feels more real, more solid, than anything else in this war. “So… what now?”

The noise of the cantina slowly bleeds back in. The jukebox clicks, whirring to life with a new, equally terrible song. A group of locals at the bar starts arguing loudly about the outcome of some podracing bet. Someone drops a glass, and it shatters with a sound like a strike of lightning. Life goes on, loud and messy and exactly as it was five minutes ago. But for you, sitting in a sticky vinyl booth with a warm, calloused hand tangled in yours, the world has tilted on its axis.

This is it. This is the precipice. All the little glances, the near-touches, the easy banter that always hovered on the edge of something more—it’s all been leading to this. You could thank him for the drink, pull your hand back, and go back to the comfortable, aching familiarity of your roles. 

Or, you could…

“Walk me home, Captain?” The words are out before you can think better of them, but you don’t regret them. Not for a second. The title is a deliberate choice, a little bit of a challenge. A reminder that you’re still both soldiers, that this isn't just some fleeting cantina flirtation.

His grip tightens on your hand. “It’s Howzer.”

“Alright,” you concede, a little breathlessly. “Walk me home, Howzer?”

You watch him process it. Watch the muscles in his jaw work as he weighs the implications, the risks. He’s a soldier, and he’s always thinking three steps ahead. But the way he looks at you, like he’s starving and you’re the only meal he’s seen in a decade… it’s a fight he’s already lost.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. “Yeah, I can do that.”

He doesn’t let go of your hand as he slides out of the booth, and you follow, your movements feeling both clumsy and impossibly fluid. You’re pulled onto your feet and into his orbit, and you don’t fight it. You don’t want to. He throws a few credits down on the table—more than enough for the two drinks—without looking, a careless, imprecise gesture that’s so unlike the Howzer you know on the field. It makes something in your chest loosen, just a little. He’s as off-balance as you are. He’s feeling it too.

The walk back to the small, prefab barracks they’d assigned you is short. Too short. You find yourself slowing your steps, trying to stretch out the moments. The night air on Ryloth is cool and smells of dust and blooming ghost flowers, a gentle breeze ruffling the hem of your skirt. The sun has long since set, but the sky isn’t black; it’s a deep, bruised purple, streaked with the silver light of the moons. The few street lights that work cast long, distorted shadows that dance and writhe like living things.

You’re walking shoulder-to-shoulder, your hands swinging in a tentative rhythm, pulling and pushing with every step. It’s a ridiculous, juvenile game, and you love it. You’ve never felt more… like yourself. Not the soldier, not the mechanic, not the Republic asset. Just… you.

The silence between you is comfortable. Filled with all the things you don’t need to say. He lets go of your hand only to wrap an arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer. You respond without thinking, tucking yourself into his side, your head resting against the solid warmth of him.

And then you’re there. Your building looms out of the darkness ahead, a two-story rectangle of permacrete and reinforced plasteel, all sharp edges and hard angles. A functional box for functional soldiers. You’re one of a handful of natborn officers housed there, a small island of individuality in a sea of identical barracks, and the privacy is a luxury you’ve come to cherish. Even though now, it feels like a very loaded question.

You stop at the base of the steps that lead up to your second-floor unit, and the gravel crunches under your impractical heels as you turn to face him. You have to tilt your head back to look up at him.

The streetlight is a weak, buzzing thing that casts long, distorted shadows. It illuminates one side of his face, carving the hard lines of his jaw, the proud bridge of his nose, the jagged scar that spans across his cheek. The other side is lost in shadow, a mystery. His eyes, though, are bright. Alert. Fixed on you.

“So,” you start, your voice sounding a little too loud in the sudden stillness. “This is me.”

His gaze flicks from your face to the building and back again. He doesn’t let go of your hand. “Looks… sturdy.”

A small laugh escapes you. “It’s not much. But it’s got a roof. And a working shower. And…no roommates. Which is a definite plus.”

You say the last part without meaning to, a slip of the tongue fueled by wine and hope. But the words hang in the air between you, heavy with implication. His eyes darken, and he takes a half-step closer, crowding you, eliminating any pretense of personal space. The gravel shifts under his boots.

“No roommates,” he repeats, and it’s not a question. It’s a statement of fact. A confirmation. He shifts his grip on your hand, intertwining your fingers together. His thumb finds the pulse point in your wrist, stroking it in a slow, deliberate rhythm. “Good to know.”

You look up at him, and the last of your careful control, your practiced composure, just… dissolves. This is Howzer. Your Howzer. The man who’s had your back in a dozen firefights, who’s patched you up when you’ve been stupid, who’s listened to you rant about supply requisitions and faulty droids at 0300 in the mess. He’s here. He’s right here. And he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in the entire galaxy. You can't just say goodnight and walk away. You can’t.

“Do you want…” you begin, your voice barely a whisper. “Would you like to… come in?”

The invitation is clumsy. Awkward. The most straightforward thing you’ve ever said to him. The words feel enormous, irrevocable. You hold your breath, waiting.

For a moment, he just looks at you. The silence stretches, taut and thin, pulled to its breaking point. You can hear the distant hum of a speeder bike, the chirp of some nocturnal creature in the nearby desert. Then, a slow smile spreads across his face, transforming it from something hard and stoic into something unbearably warm and real.

“I’d like that,” he says, his voice a low, intimate rumble that seems to vibrate through the very marrow of your bones.

The relief that washes through you is so potent it almost brings you to your knees. You turn and lead the way up the metal stairs, making the final steps between the public world of the barracks and your private haven. You can feel him right behind you, a solid, warm presence. The hem of your skirt brushes against the fabric of his cargos with every step.

When you reach your door, Howzer's hand lands on your waist, and he turns you, crowding you gently against it. His other braces on the wall beside your head. You're trapped. You've never felt safer in your life. 

“What changed?” he asks, his voice a low murmur against your temple. “Tonight?”

His breath smells of cheap beer. Your hands, which had been dangling uselessly at your sides, come up to rest on the hard plane of his chest, right over his heart. You can feel the steady, solid beat of it through the thin cotton of his shirt.

“I got tired of waiting,” you admit, your gaze fixed on the worn collar of his shirt. Your fingers trace the frayed edge of the fabric. “I got tired of pretending I didn’t notice the way you look at me. Or the way I look at you. I figured… someone had to do something.”

He cups your cheek, tilting your head up until you have no choice but to meet his gaze. His thumb strokes the curve of your jaw, teasing the edge of your lower lip, and you instinctively part your lips for him.

“I’ve been looking at you for a long time, cyar’ika,” he says, the Mando’a endearment falling from his lips with an easy familiarity that makes your toes curl. “I just wasn’t sure if you were looking back.”

“Oh,” you breathe, the word barely a puff of air. “I was looking. I promise you, I was looking.”

Howzer huffs a shaky laugh and presses his forehead to yours. It’s a simple, grounding gesture, but it feels more intimate than anything you’ve ever done before. You close your eyes, savoring the contact, the warmth of him, the smell of him.

“I know,” he says, a world of relief in those two simple words. “I know now.”

He closes the remaining distance between you, capturing your lips in a kiss that’s surprisingly gentle. A soft, tentative press of lips that is as much about seeking permission as it is about expressing desire. He’s still holding back, still giving you an out. You answer by tightening your hold on his shirt and pulling him down, deepening the kiss. You feel him smile against your mouth, and then he’s kissing you for real. 

One of his hands slides into your hair, angling your head just so, while the other presses against the small of your back, pulling you flush against him. You kiss him back with everything you have, winding your arms around his neck, your fingers tangling in the soft curls at the back of his head. You part your lips, and he follows suit, his tongue slipping into your mouth to tease and explore. The kiss is both chaste and filthy, a clash of tongues and teeth that leaves you breathless, dizzy, aching for more.

He kisses you like he’s been starving for it, like he’s been dying to taste you for as long as you’ve been dying to taste him.  There’s no hesitation, no awkward fumbling. Just the firm, sure pressure of his mouth against yours, the confident slide of his tongue, the way his hands grip your hips like he has every right to be there. Like you belong in his arms.

And you do. You do.

When your fingers tighten in his hair, he makes a low, desperate noise in the back of his throat that sends a fresh wave of heat through you. You bite back a groan of your own, your body arching into his, seeking the solid warmth of him. He responds by tightening his hold, his fingers digging into the fabric of your dress, his mouth moving against yours in a fierce, possessive rhythm. It’s the most perfect, exhilarating, terrifying thing you’ve ever experienced.

When he finally pulls away, you’re both panting, and his pupils are blown wide, his lips kiss-bitten and slick. His hands are still on your hips, and you can feel the way his fingers twitch, like he can’t decide if he wants to pull you closer or put some distance between you. But when he looks at you, it’s not with regret. It’s with a fierce, hungry kind of determination.

“Inside,” he says, his voice ragged. “Can we go inside? I need to—” His hips shift, and you feel the firm press of him against the soft flesh of your stomach for the first time. Your breath hitches. “I need to do that again. Properly.”

You don’t hesitate. Your fingers shake, but you manage to key in the code before you’re stumbling into the dim, cramped space beyond. You don’t bother turning on the lights, or doing anything else for that matter. You’re too busy kissing him again, your mouths slotting together like puzzle pieces, his tongue slick and hot and insistent against yours. He kicks the door closed behind him and presses you up against it, his hands finding your hips again, holding you in place as he rocks against you.

You wrap a leg around his waist, opening yourself to him, and his groan is raw and guttural and so, so satisfying. He rolls his hips again, slower this time, grinding against the place where you’re already hot and aching for him. You gasp into the kiss, and he swallows the sound greedily, his teeth nipping at your lower lip. When you try to pull away, to catch your breath, he follows, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, your neck, the sensitive skin of your collarbone. His mouth is relentless, demanding, and you arch into his touch, your fingers tangling in his curls, holding him close. He kisses you like he’s claiming you, branding you as his own, and you can’t get enough. You never want it to stop.

“Kriff,” he growls, his lips trailing down to the neckline of your dress, his breath hot against your skin. “You’re perfect. You’re fucking perfect.”

You don’t feel perfect. You feel dizzy. Overheated. Desperate to touch and be touched. Your skin feels too tight, and you can’t stop the small, needy noises that escape your lips as he hikes you higher against the door and rocks against you again, his cock a hard, insistent pressure against the place that needs him most. It’s too much and not nearly enough, but it’s the closest thing you’ve felt to relief all night.

“Howzer…” 

You try to say more, to demand more, but it’s hard to form words when he’s kissing you like this. With the same single-minded determination that you’ve seen him apply to his work, to the battlefield. He’s kissing you like he’s been thinking about it for a long time, like he has plans for you, and you can’t wait to find out what they are.

But not here. Not up against your front door, still in your heels.

You break the kiss, and this time, he lets you pull away. He’s breathing hard, his chest heaving against yours, his pupils blown so wide you can barely see the brown of his eyes. 

"Bed?” you manage, the word coming out in a high, thready whine. You’ve never heard that tone in your voice before, but it seems to work on him. His cock jumps against you in response.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Where? Please tell me it’s close.”

You nod, too dazed to laugh at the sheer, unadulterated want in his voice. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s—” You gesture vaguely behind him. “That way. It’s—”

He doesn’t give you time to finish. He just shifts his grip, cupping your ass and squeezing hard, and then he’s lifting you, pulling you away from the door and into his arms. Your arms wrap around his neck, holding on tight as he carries you through the darkness. He bumps into a chair, curses, fumbles for the lightswitch, curses again when he knocks something off a table, and it crashes to the ground.

You don’t bother to check the damage. You can’t. You’re too busy kissing him, your mouths still locked together in a desperate, messy tangle. You nip at his lower lip, and the noise he makes is a low, primal thing that sends a fresh jolt of heat straight to your core.

“Careful,” he huffs against your lips, but he’s laughing. “I’d rather not crack my skull open before we get to the good part.”

“Can’t have that,” you murmur between kisses. “What would I do with the body?”

That earns you a real, full-throated laugh, and then you’re falling, the mattress rising to meet you as he drops you onto the bed. You bounce once, twice, before he’s on you, caging you in with his arms, his knees bracketing your thighs. The cheap, prefab mattress groans under his weight, but you barely register it. All you can think about is the solid, heavy press of him against you, the sheer, overwhelming reality of him.

He’s still laughing as he looks down at you. His hair is a mess, the dark curls sticking up at odd angles. His pupils are still blown wide, and there’s a faint flush to his cheeks. He looks disheveled. Wild. Unhinged in the best way. And the way he’s looking at you…

It’s a lot.

You reach up to brush a stray curl out of his eyes, and he turns his head to press a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the center of your palm. His lips linger there, his eyes closing for a long moment as he inhales, taking in the scent of your skin. When he looks down at you again, his eyes are dark with hunger.

“Hey,” you whisper.

“Hi.” He grins, his teeth a flash of white in the dimness. “We made it.”

“We did.” You trail your hand down to the nape of his neck. “Took us long enough.”

“Yeah.” He ducks down to nuzzle at your throat. “Took us long enough.”

He doesn’t kiss you again, not right away. He just explores, his nose nudging at your skin, his lips ghosting over the line of your jaw, the sensitive skin of your throat, the hollow of your collarbone. He’s taking his time, memorizing the landscape of you. It’s both incredibly sweet and incredibly frustrating.

“Howzer…”

He hums against your skin in response. “Patience, cyar’ika.” He shifts, his hands finding your hips again. “I’m getting to it.”

He slides one hand up your side, the calloused pads of his fingers tracing the curve of your waist, the swell of your breast. He’s not rushing. He’s savoring. You, on the other hand, are about to combust. You squirm under his touch, arching into him, silently demanding more.

When he finally cups your breast, the cheap fabric of your dress does little to dull the heat of his touch. His thumb finds your nipple, and he circles it once, twice, before pinching, just hard enough to make you gasp. He does it again, and this time, you can’t stop the low, breathy moan that escapes you.

“There it is,” he murmurs, the words warm against your skin. “Like that, don’t you?”

You nod, a frantic, jerky motion. You can’t form words. You can’t think. All you can do is feel.

“Good.”

He shifts again, this time moving to sit up. You follow, rising up on your elbows as you watch him, your breath catching in your throat. He kneels there on your bed, looking down at you, his hands resting on his own thighs. He’s so solid. So real. Like something out of a dream you didn't know you were having.

He reaches down, takes one of your feet in his lap, and starts to work on the strap of your heel. His fingers are long and deft, and they make short work of the flimsy buckle. The shoe falls away, and he repeats the process on the other side, setting both shoes on the floor beside the bed with a reverence that feels disproportionate, and yet, entirely right. You feel a sudden pang of affection for this man, this soldier, who is taking the time to remove your shoes with the same care he would take disassembling a blaster rifle.

When he’s done, he runs his hands up your calves, his thumbs stroking the sensitive skin behind your knees. You shiver, and you see a flash of a smile. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you. And he’s enjoying it. The bastard.

“Now, then,” he says, his hands continuing their journey up your thighs, pushing the hem of your dress with them. “Let’s see what we’re working with.”

He pushes the fabric up, over your hips, baring your legs to the dim light of the room. You’d worn your good underwear, the lacy black set you usually saved for special occasions that never seemed to happen. You’re glad, now, that you’d made the effort. From the way he’s looking at you, he’s glad, too.

“Fuck,” he breathes, his hands sliding higher, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties. “Just...fuck.”

You open your mouth to say something, but the words die in your throat as he leans down, his lips brushing against the inside of your thigh. He nips at the skin there, just hard enough to sting, before soothing the spot with a hot, open-mouthed kiss. He does it again, a little higher this time, and then again, until he’s leaving a trail of bites and kisses up your thigh, his mouth getting closer and closer to the place that’s already hot and aching for him. You’re practically vibrating under him, your hands fisting in the sheets.

When he finally, finally reaches your cunt, you think you might actually sob. His tongue drags a broad, hot stripe over the lace of your underwear, and the noise you make is low and guttural and utterly inhuman.

“Kriffing stars above,” you manage. “Howzer—”

He hums against you, his hands sliding under your thighs to wrap around your hips, holding you in place as he teases you through the fabric. You’re already so wet that it’s a useless barrier, and you know he can tell. He’s not being subtle about the way he’s inhaling, breathing you in, tasting you through the soaked fabric. He lingers over your clit, his tongue swirling around the sensitive bundle of nerves in a slow, lazy circle that has your hips bucking up against his face.

“Easy, cyar’ika,” he says, his breath hot against your skin. He glances up at you, his gaze dark and hungry. “Let me savor this.”

He presses a kiss to the front of your panties before finally, finally hooking a finger under the fabric and pulling it aside. Your cunt is wet and glistening, and he makes a low, appreciative noise as he runs a finger through the slick, spreading it over your lips, your clit, your entrance.

“Beautiful.”

The first drag of his tongue against your bare flesh is enough to have your back arching off the bed, your hands fisting in the sheets. He takes his time, exploring every inch of your cunt, his tongue dipping inside before dragging up to your clit, where he swirls slow, tight circles around the sensitive bundle of nerves.

Your head falls back, your eyes closing, your mouth falling open in a silent cry. You’ve been eaten out before, sure. But never like this. Never with the kind of single-minded focus and determination that Howzer is bringing to the task. It’s like he’s studying you, cataloguing every sigh and moan, every twitch of your hips, every clench of your fists in the sheets. He’s learning you.

He’s still fully dressed, and the fabric of his shirt is rough against the backs of your thighs as he pulls you closer, throwing your legs over his shoulders and wrapping his arms around your waist to get a better angle. You’re completely at his mercy, and you’ve never felt so safe.

One of his hands moves down to press against your lower belly, pinning you in place as he starts to really work your clit. The other slides lower, his fingers tracing your entrance in slow, deliberate circles. When he finally presses one inside, you nearly come off the bed.

“Kriff, you’re tight.”

There’s a note of awe in his voice, and it sends a jolt of pleasure straight to your core. You can feel yourself clenching around him, the way your body is already aching to keep him inside.

“Been a while,” you gasp as he starts to move his finger in and out, curling it up to hit that spot that makes your toes curl. “Not since— oh, fuck— not since before Ryloth.”

“Really?” He sounds genuinely surprised. His lips brush against your clit as he speaks, sending little jolts of pleasure through you.

“Mm-hmm.” 

It’s all you can manage. You’re too busy focusing on the way he’s working your clit, the steady slide of his finger inside you, the way your entire body is already starting to tense up, to coil tight like a spring.

He adds a second finger, and your hand flies to his head, your fingers tangling in his hair, holding him close. You can feel his smile against your skin as he starts to fuck you in earnest, his fingers pumping in and out of your slick heat as he works your clit, alternating between slow, lazy circles and fast, hard flicks that have you gasping. Your hips buck up against his face, and he follows your rhythm, letting you grind against his mouth, letting you use him.

That’s what it is, you realize with a jolt. You’re using him. You’re taking your pleasure from him. And he’s letting you. He’s encouraging it.

You lose all sense of time. All sense of space. The world shrinks down to the feeling of his mouth, his fingers, the solid weight of him pinning you to the bed, the desperate, needy sounds you’re making. You can hear the soft grunts he makes when you pull his hair, the little hums of pleasure he lets out when you grind against his face. He’s enjoying this. He’s enjoying you. And that knowledge is almost as powerful as the pleasure he’s giving you.

“I’m—” you gasp, your heels digging into his back, your thighs starting to shake. “Kriff, Howzer, I’m—”

He doesn’t let you finish. He just doubles down, sucking your clit into his mouth and swirling his tongue over it in a hard, fast rhythm that sends you over the edge. A high-pitched keen tears from your throat, and you come, your cunt clenching around his fingers as wave after wave of pleasure washes over you, so intense it’s almost painful.

He doesn’t stop. He works you through it, drawing out your orgasm until you’re a writhing, whimpering mess beneath him, until you’re begging him to stop, your hands pushing weakly at his head.

“Howzer, please,” you breathe, throwing your head back against the pillow as his tongue slides from your dripping entrance back to your overly sensitive clit. “Please, I can’t—”

He lifts his head, and his face is slick with you, a look of pure, unadulterated triumph in his eyes. He’s grinning, a wide, feral grin that makes your cunt ache all over again. Your soaked underwear is still pushed to the side, and he runs his fingers over your puffy outer lips, spreading your slick over the flushed, tender skin.

“One more,” he says, his voice a low, commanding growl that sends a fresh jolt of heat straight to your core.

“What?” you gasp.

“One more.” The hand on your belly presses down, a clear, unmistakable order. “Stay still for me. Let me make you come again.”

You’re helpless to do anything but obey. Your body is a live wire, every nerve ending firing at once. You’re so sensitive that even the gentle brush of his breath against your cunt is enough to make you twitch.

He’s methodical now, a conqueror mapping out the territory he’s just claimed. He licks you clean, his tongue dragging through your folds, gathering your slick before delving inside, fucking you with it in slow, shallow thrusts. The two fingers he had inside you return, but he doesn’t fuck you with them this time. He just holds them there, a solid, grounding presence, as he mouths at your clit, his tongue soft and wet and impossibly gentle. 

 It’s too much. It’s not enough. It’s a slow, deliberate kind of torture that has your toes curling, your hands fisting in the sheets again, your head thrashing back and forth against the pillow. You’re caught in a state of suspended animation, hovering on the knife’s edge of another orgasm, so close you can taste it, but unable to fall. Not until he lets you.

He’s watching you, you realize. Through it all, through the relentless press of his mouth, the insistent curl of his fingers inside you, he’s watching. Those dark, intense eyes are locked on your face, studying you, learning you. Cataloguing every twitch, every moan, every plea.

You try to beg again, to plead with him to let you come, but the words won’t come. All you can do is lie there and take it, your body coiled tight, your breath coming in short, ragged pants. You can feel the sweat trickling down the back of your neck, the ache in your thighs from where they’ve been pressed against his ears for so long. You can feel everything. Every single nerve ending in your body is alive and singing.

When he finally, finally lets you come, it’s like a bomb going off. Your vision goes white, your back arching off the bed, your hands flying to his head, holding him in place as you ride his face through it, grinding your cunt against his mouth, your hips moving in a frantic, desperate rhythm. You think you scream, but you can’t be sure. All you can hear is the rush of blood in your ears, the thundering of your heart.

He lets you come back down this time with a gentleness that belies his earlier intensity. His fingers slide out of you, and he kisses your clit once, twice, before laving his tongue through your folds one last time, cleaning you up. He kisses the insides of your thighs, your hips, your belly. The warm press of his lips continues up and up along with the hem of your dress, and you’re pliant in his hands as he sits back and pulls it over your head, tossing it aside.

There’s a pause as he looks at you, laid bare and still panting. You can see him, too. You can see his chest heaving, his lips swollen and slick, his eyes dark and hungry. You can see the clear evidence of his arousal pressing against the front of his fatigues. You can see him.

You reach for him, and he comes to you, his lips meeting yours in a soft, sweet kiss that’s a far cry from the desperation of before. His mouth still tastes of you, but you don’t care. You kiss him back with everything you have, your hands sliding into his hair, holding him close. He’s solid and warm against you, a comforting weight.

“Kriff, you’re beautiful,” he murmurs, his nose bumping against yours, his breath hot on your skin. “That was… you were… fuck, I don’t have the words.”

“You’re telling me,” you say with a breathless laugh that has him grinning. “That was… that was…” You shake your head. “Yeah, I don’t have the words either.”

He huffs a soft laugh against your mouth as his hand slides up your spine, and you take the hint, arching your back so he can undo the clasp of your bra and toss it away. Your soaked underwear is quick to follow, leaving you entirely naked under his appreciative gaze.

“You’re perfect,” he says, his voice a low rumble that you feel in your bones. “Just… perfect.”

Your hands slide to his shoulders, tracing the muscles of his back over his shirt. It feels unfair, suddenly, that he’s still dressed. That he’s seen you entirely and you’ve only gotten glimpses. You want to know him, too.

You tug at his shirt. “Off.”

He smirks, but he doesn’t object. He sits back on his heels and pulls his shirt over his head, revealing the broad expanse of his chest, the hard planes of his stomach. There’s a dusting of dark hair across his pecs, a trail of it leading down to the waistband of his fatigues. He’s not the most chiseled man you’ve ever seen, but he’s solid, muscular in a way that speaks to functionality rather than aesthetics.

You reach out and run your hand over the hard-packed muscle of his stomach, and the skin jumps under your touch. You trace the lines of his abs, the ridges of his hips, the little valley where his thigh meets his groin. You can feel the tension in him, the way he’s holding himself back, letting you explore.

When your fingers brush against the button of his pants, he inhales sharply, his eyes fluttering shut. You work the button open and slide the zipper down before slipping your hand inside. You can feel him through his underwear, hard and hot and straining against the fabric. When you cup him, his hips jerk, and he lets out a low, choked-off groan.

“Howzer,” you say, your voice barely more than a whisper.

“Mm?”

“Are you clean?”

His eyes snap open, and he looks at you for a long moment before nodding. “Yeah. Medics run regular tests on all the troops.”

“Implant,” you say, a non-sequitur, but he gets the point.

He exhales slowly, his hands coming up to cover yours. “You sure?”

“Yeah.” You nod, looking down to where his cock is tenting the front of his underwear. “Yeah, I’m sure. I want to feel you.”

He doesn’t need any further encouragement. He kicks off his pants and briefs, his cock springing free and slapping against his belly, leaving a trail of wetness. It’s big, bigger than you expected. The head is flushed a deep, angry red, the shaft thick and veiny, the tip already dripping with precum.

He gives himself a slow stroke, biting his lip as he does it, his eyes never leaving your face. You watch as he gathers a bead of moisture from the head and spreads it over the shaft, the skin glistening in the dim light.

“Like what you see?” he asks, a note of teasing in his voice.

You nod, your tongue darting out to wet your lips. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

He moves back up to kneel between your spread legs, his cock bobbing heavy and thick between his thighs. He runs his hands up the insides of your thighs, spreading them even wider, and a cool draft of air whispers across your cunt. You’re so wet that you’re dripping, the sheets under you damp and sticky with it. He notices, too. He trails a finger through the mess and raises it to your mouth. You don’t hesitate. You suck his finger into your mouth, tasting yourself on his skin. His breath hitches, and you can see his cock jump, a fresh bead of moisture welling at the tip.

He slides his hand down your stomach to settle on your belly again, a silent request. Stay still. Let me do the work.

You nod.

He lines himself up, the thick head of his cock nudging at your entrance. You can feel him there, hot and heavy and so, so ready. But he doesn’t rush. He doesn’t force himself inside. Instead, he rubs the head of his cock up and down your slit, gathering your wetness on the tip before dipping inside just a fraction.

He does this again and again, teasing you with the head of his cock, getting it nice and slick. It’s maddening. You’re so wet that every motion makes a filthy, lewd sound, and the air is heavy with the scent of sex. You’re aching for him, your cunt clenching around nothing, desperate to be filled. You want to beg, to plead, but the words won’t come. All you can do is lie there and let him have you, let him take his time, let him work you up again. You feel like you’re going to burst.

When he finally, finally pushes inside, you’re so ready for him that you take it all in one long, smooth slide. The stretch of him, the weight of him, the sheer, overwhelming fullness of him inside you is almost too much. You can feel him in your throat, in your teeth, in the tips of your fingers. You can feel him everywhere.

You cry out, your eyes screwing shut, your hands fisting in the sheets. He grunts, his hips jerking forward in a quick, reflexive thrust that has his balls pressing against your ass.

“Kriffing stars above,” he breathes, and you can hear the strain in his voice, the effort it’s taking him to hold himself back. “You feel— you’re so— fuck.”

You open your eyes to look at him, and the sight is almost enough to make you come right then and there. His eyes are squeezed shut, his brow furrowed in concentration, his mouth hanging open. He looks lost in it, lost in you. You reach up to cup his face in your hands, and his eyes flutter open. He looks at you, and there’s so much in his gaze that you can’t even begin to unpack it.

“Hey,” you say, your voice shaky. “You good?”

He huffs a breathless laugh, his hands flexing where they grip your hips. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”

“Good.” You tilt your hips up, just a little, and he groans. “Because I really, really need you to move.”

He doesn’t need any further encouragement. He pulls out until just the head of his cock is inside you, and then he slides back in, his hips moving in a slow, steady rhythm that has you seeing stars. He’s so deep inside you that you can feel him in your throat, and every time he bottoms out, the impact sends a jolt of pleasure straight to your core. You’re so full, so impossibly full, that you can barely breathe. You can’t think. You can only feel.

It doesn’t take him long to find a rhythm that works for both of you. It’s a slow, deep grind, his hips circling as he pulls out before snapping forward to bury himself inside you again. Every thrust hits a spot inside you that has your eyes rolling back in your head, and every time he bottoms out, the impact of his hips against yours is a bright, sharp burst of pleasure that makes you gasp. 

You’re so wet that every thrust is a slick, messy glide that makes the most obscene sounds. You’re dripping, the sheets beneath you soaked with it. And still, he doesn’t stop. Still, he doesn’t rush.

He’s fucking you like he’s got all the time in the world, like he’s content to spend the rest of his days right here, buried inside you, making you feel good. And you, for your part, are more than happy to let him. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, your heels digging into the small of his back. Your hands slide up and down the slick, sweat-sheened muscles of his back as your body rocks with the force of his thrusts. You cling to him, an anchor in a storm of sensation.

This is what you wanted. This is what you’ve been craving. Not just the pleasure, though that’s a part of it. It’s the connection. The feeling of being known, of being seen. The feeling of being wanted, of being desired. The feeling of being cherished. That’s what you see in his eyes, in the way he touches you, in the way he’s holding himself back, even now.

It’s overwhelming. It’s too much.

It’s not enough.

You arch your back, pressing your chest against his, and Howzer’s hips stutter, a soft groan escaping his lips. He ducks his head, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his mouth hot and wet on your skin. His hands slide down to grip your ass, lifting you off the bed and changing the angle of his thrusts, and you nearly sob when the head of his cock hits a spot inside you that has sparks dancing at the edge of your vision.

“Kriff, there,” you gasp, your nails digging into his back. “There. Right there. Please. Harder.”

He doesn’t hesitate. He snaps his hips forward, pounding into you with enough force to shake the bed, to knock the wind out of you. His hands grip your ass tight enough to bruise, and you know you’ll have his fingerprints on you tomorrow, a tangible reminder of this night. The thought is enough to make you clench around him, and he groans, his teeth scraping against your skin.

“You close?” he asks, his voice rough, strained.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m—” You swallow hard, struggling to find the words. “I’m close.”

“Good.” He nuzzles against your neck, planting hot, open-mouthed kisses on your skin. “Want to feel you come. Want to feel you come on my cock.”

“Keep talking like that, and you will.”

He huffs a breathless laugh, his hips losing their rhythm, his thrusts becoming more erratic. “You like that? You like it when I talk to you like that?”

“Yeah,” you breathe, your nails raking down his back. “Yeah, I do.”

“I can’t believe this is happening,” he says, his voice barely more than a whisper, a secret shared between the two of you. “Can’t believe I’m here, with you like this. Can’t believe you— fuck, you feel so good. You’re so beautiful.”

You can’t respond. You can’t do anything but hold on as he pounds into you, the headboard slamming into the wall. He’s babbling now, a litany of praises and filthy promises falling from his lips, but you can barely hear him over the rush of blood in your ears. Your entire world narrows down to the heat building in your core, the weight of him inside you, the slide of his cock.

When you finally, finally fall over the edge, it’s with a high-pitched keen that you can’t contain. Your body arches up off the bed, pressing against him, clenching around his cock in a desperate attempt to keep him inside. You feel your legs kick out uselessly, your toes curling so hard it almost hurts. Howzer grabs for them and pushes your legs back, bending you almost in half, and your eyes roll back in your head as he fucks you through your orgasm with short, hard thrusts that have you sobbing.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Just like that. Just like that.”

When it passes, you slump back against the bed, boneless, your vision blurry, your body still twitching and spasming around his cock. His pace slows, but he doesn’t stop, not until the overstimulation becomes too much and you push at his shoulders.

He pulls out, and the sudden emptiness has you gasping, your hands flying to your stomach. You feel hollow, aching, your cunt still fluttering weakly around nothing. You can hear the slick sound of him stroking his cock, the wet slap of his hand, and you look up to see him kneeling between your thighs once again, his fist flying over his cock.

“I’m close,” he says, his voice tight, his face twisted in a pained grimace. “Where do you want it? Where—”

You don’t even think about it. You pull your knees up to your chest, exposing your dripping cunt. “Here. On me. Please.”

He grunts, and his hand moves even faster. You can see the muscles of his abdomen tense, the veins in his neck stand out. He’s right on the edge, and you can’t look away. You can’t stop watching.

When he finally, finally tips over the edge, he does it with a guttural moan that has heat pooling low in your belly. His cock jerks in his hand, a thick spurt of cum painting a line across your cunt. He strokes himself through it, his teeth sinking into his lower lip as he wrings every last drop from his cock. It lands on you, hot and thick, coating your cunt, your stomach, your chest.

You’ve never felt so claimed.

It takes a minute for him to come down from his high. His chest is heaving, his skin shiny with sweat, his eyes glazed. When he finally opens them again, he looks down at you, at the mess he’s made of you, and his breath hitches.

“Kriff,” he says, his voice hoarse.

“Yeah,” you agree, your own voice sounding faraway and dreamy.

He leans down and presses a soft, sweet kiss to your lips. Then to your forehead, your cheek, your nose. It’s a gentle, unhurried exploration, a quiet apology and a promise all in one. You respond in kind, your hands sliding up and down the slick, sweat-sheened muscles of his back as you kiss him back, your mouth soft and pliant under his.

When he finally pulls away, it’s with a sigh. He pushes himself up and off the bed, and gives you a long, slow look. His gaze is heavy, possessive, and it sends a fresh jolt of heat straight to your core.

“Don’t move,” he says, his voice still rough.

You watch him walk into the ‘fresher, his muscular back and firm ass on display, and you can’t help the surge of affection that wells up inside you. You can’t believe that this is your life. You can’t believe that this is real.

He comes back with a towel, and you spread your legs to give him better access. He’s gentle as he cleans you up, his touch firm but careful, and you can’t help but be reminded of the way he handled your feet earlier. He’s thorough, too, making sure to wipe away every last trace of him from your body. When he’s finished, he tosses the towel in the general direction of the ‘fresher and climbs back into bed with you.

You shift onto your side, and he spoons up behind you, his arm wrapping around your waist. You can feel his chest hair tickling your back, the soft swell of his belly, the hard line of his cock nestled between your ass cheeks. It’s a solid, comforting weight, and you sigh happily as you relax into him.

He presses a kiss to the back of your neck, and you hum, your eyes closing. “This okay?” he asks quietly.

“More than okay.”

“Good.” He yawns, his breath warm on your skin, and nuzzles into your neck. “I don’t know if you had plans for the rest of the evening, but I was kinda hoping I could spend the night.”

You snort. “You think you’re leaving after that? I’m keeping you. Forever.”

He chuckles, a low, sleepy sound, and tightens his hold on you. “Yeah? Forever’s a long time. You think you can handle me?”

“I handled you tonight, didn’t I?”

“You did,” he agrees. “You did. And it was… it was everything.”

You reach down and lace your fingers with his where they rest on your stomach. “Yeah. It was.”

“You should know,” he says, his voice already thick with sleep, “that I have no intentions of letting this be a one-time thing. I plan on taking you to dinner tomorrow night, too. Properly, this time. No cheap cantina wine for you.”

“Are you asking me on a date, Howzer?”

“Mm-hmm.” His lips press to the crook of your neck. “So? What do you say?”

“I say,” you say, grinning into the darkness, “I’d like that. A lot.”

“Good.” He yawns again, and this time, he’s out. His breathing evens out, deep and steady, and you can feel the gentle rise and fall of his chest against your back.

You lie there for a long time, just listening to him breathe. You can feel the drying stickiness of sweat and sex on your skin, the ache in your muscles, the tender throb between your legs. It’s a pleasant ache, a reminder of the pleasure you just experienced.

You think about the last few months, about the slow, gradual shift in your relationship with Howzer. The lingering glances, the casual touches, the easy banter that always hovered on the edge of something more. You think about all the wasted opportunities, all the moments you could have said something, did something, but didn’t.

You don’t regret it, though. You don’t think you could have handled this sooner. You had to be ready. You had to be sure. And you are. You’ve never been more sure of anything in your life. You close your eyes, and for the first time in a long, long while, you’re not afraid. You’re not worried about the future, about the war, about what comes next. You’re just… happy.

You fall asleep with a smile on your face, wrapped in his arms.

The Marauder’s cockpit was quiet except for the soft hum of idle systems and the occasional beep from Tech’s datapad.

Tech had been staring at the same sensor data for the past eleven minutes, his eyes tracking the numbers without actually processing them. He was waiting, though he would never admit that to himself. Waiting implied expectation, and expectation implied hope, and hope was a variable Tech preferred not to factor into his calculations.

Except you had come to the cockpit every night for the past six nights. The pattern was established. The data was clear.

The probability of your arrival sat cleanly at eighty-nine percent.

Then he heard your footsteps in the corridor. Right on schedule. You were as predictable as orbital mechanics, and Tech found that reassuring in ways he could not quite quantify.

The cockpit door slid open.

You stepped inside without a word, moving to the co-pilot’s seat like you had done this a hundred times instead of just six. You settled in with a quiet exhale, drawing your knees up and wrapping your arms around them.

Tech did not look at you directly. That was the agreement the two of you had developed without ever discussing it: silence, no expectations, just existing in the same space while the rest of the ship slept. His datapad glowed in the dim lighting, casting blue across his face.

You shifted in your seat, and Tech’s awareness zeroed in on the sound despite his best efforts to focus on his screen. Usually the silence was immediate and total, but tonight felt different, charged somehow, like the air before a lightning strike.

Tech’s thumb hovered over his datapad, not quite touching the screen. He could feel you looking at him, and his heart rate increased about twelve percent.

“Tech?” Your voice was soft, careful, like you were testing the weight of breaking your established pattern.

Tech’s hand tightened on the datapad. “Yes?”

He still did not look at you, could not look at you, because if he did he would see whatever expression you were wearing, and that expression might undo every carefully constructed defense he had built around these quiet nights together.

“Can I ask you something?”

Tech’s throat went dry. This was new territory. You had never initiated conversation during these sessions, never asked questions. The silence had been safe and easy, but now you were changing the parameters and Tech had no data for how to proceed.

“Of course,” he said, aiming for calm and landing slightly strained.

Silence stretched between you. Tech counted his heartbeats. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen.

“What are you working on?” you finally asked.

Tech blinked. That was your question? Not why he spent every night alone in the cockpit or why he never joined the others in the hold or any of the hundred more invasive questions you could have asked? Relief and disappointment warred in his chest.

“Maintenance protocols,” he said, which was true in the most technical sense. “Reviewing system efficiency reports.”

“At twenty-three hundred hours?”

“The time of day is irrelevant to data analysis.”

He heard rather than saw your small smile. Something in the quality of your breathing changed. Perhaps a slight laugh.

“You do this every night,” you observed.

Tech’s fingers stilled on the datapad. “The Marauder requires consistent monitoring.”

“Hunter doesn’t monitor it every night.”

“Hunter has different priorities.”

“And yours are…?”

Sitting here hoping you will show up so I can pretend I am not completely alone with my thoughts. Making sure everyone survives another day. Trying not to think about all the ways today’s mission could have gone wrong. Memorizing the sound of your footsteps so I know when you are near.

“Ensuring optimal ship performance,” Tech said instead.

Another pause. Then: “Can I see what you are looking at?”

His hands moved before his mind could catch up, angling the datapad toward you.

You leaned forward to look, and suddenly you were closer. Much closer. Close enough that Tech could see the faint shadows under your eyes and smell whatever soap you used and feel the warmth radiating from your shoulder nearly touching his.

“These are power consumption rates?” you asked, pointing at a column of numbers.

“Yes. Each system’s energy draw over the past forty-eight hours. I am identifying areas where we can improve efficiency.”

“This one here,” your finger traced a line on the screen, “The environmental controls. They are using more power than the others.”

“Correct.” Tech pulled up a secondary screen from the ship’s console, trying to focus on data instead of the fact that you were right there and actually seemed interested in power consumption analytics. “The starboard crew quarters has a faulty seal. The system is compensating by working harder to maintain temperature.”

“Can you fix it?”

“Yes. It requires approximately thirty minutes and standard tools.”

You hummed thoughtfully, still studying the screen. “You notice everything, don’t you?”

Tech’s chest tightened. It was not a question, not really, but it felt like one, like you were asking something deeper than whether he noticed power fluctuations.

“It is necessary,” he said quietly. “Small problems compound. A faulty seal becomes a system failure. A system failure becomes a mission compromise.”

If I do not notice, people die. If I do not pay attention to every detail, I lose the people I care about. If I am not hypervigilant every moment, something will slip through and it will be my fault.

“That sounds exhausting,” you said softly.

Tech’s jaw tightened. “It is simply how my mind works.”

“I know.” Your voice carried something warm. “I wasn’t criticizing. I was just… observing.”

You pulled back slightly, and Tech’s shoulder felt cold where your warmth had been.

“I like watching you work,” you continued, and Tech’s entire thought process derailed. “You get this focused expression. Like nothing else in the galaxy exists except whatever problem you are solving.”

Tech stared at his datapad. You liked watching him work. You had been observing him enough to notice his expressions, and you were telling him this at twenty-three hundred hours in the quiet of the cockpit like it was a casual piece of information and not something that would replay in his mind for the next several weeks.

“I…” His voice failed him. Start over. Organize your thoughts. Respond like a functional human being.

“Thank you,” he managed. “That is… I am pleased that my work ethic is noticeable.”

You laughed quietly, and the sound did something devastating to his cardiovascular system.

“Your work ethic,” you repeated, and there was something teasing in your tone. “Sure. That’s what I meant.”

Tech had no idea what you actually meant, and his brain was too busy malfunctioning to calculate the possibilities. He pulled his datapad back and pulled up another screen just to have something to do with his hands.

“Why do you come here?” The question escaped before he could stop it. “Every night. To the cockpit.”

Silence filled the space between you, and Tech immediately regretted asking. He had broken the unspoken rule, questioned the pattern instead of simply accepting it, and now you would realize how pathetic it was that he noticed, that he counted the minutes until you arrived, that your presence had become the only thing that made the late hours bearable.

“Because you’re here,” you said simply.

Tech’s hands froze on the datapad.

His mind raced through possible interpretations. You came because he was here. Because you wanted to be where he was. Because his presence was somehow desirable rather than merely tolerable.

The data did not make sense.

“I am here every night,” he said carefully. “It would be more logical to spend your rest hours sleeping.”

“Probably,” you agreed. “But I like it here.”

Here. With me. You like being here with me.

Tech’s throat felt tight.

“The cockpit does provide optimal solitude,” he managed.

“That’s not why I like it.”

His heart was doing something arrhythmic and entirely outside standard protocol. Not that he and his brothers usually followed standard protocol anyways.

“Then why?” The question came out quieter than he intended.

You were silent for a long moment, and Tech risked a glance at your face.

You were already looking at him, your expression soft in the blue glow of the instruments. Something in your eyes made his breath catch.

“Because it’s peaceful,” you said. “And because you don’t expect me to be anything other than what I am. I can just… exist. Without speaking…. or performing, or explaining or trying to fit.”

Tech understood that feeling more than he could articulate.

“I find your presence similarly comfortable,” he managed, but knew it was an insurmountable understatement.

I find these nights with you are the only time my mind quiets.

Your smile was small and genuine.

“Good,” you said. “Because I’ve been worried I was bothering you.”

“Bothering me?” Tech’s voice came out sharper than intended. “No. You are not… you could not…”

He trailed off, struggling to find words adequate for the magnitude of how wrong that assumption was.

“You are welcome here,” he said finally, firmly. “Always.”

The word hung between you. Always. Infinite. Absolute. Your expression softened into something that made Tech’s chest ache.

You settled back into your seat, pulling your knees up again, and Tech tried to remember what he had been doing before this conversation rewrote his entire neural pathway. Right. Maintenance logs. Power consumption. Things that made sense.

Except now he could not focus on any of it because you were still here and you had said you liked being here with him and his mind was entirely occupied with processing that information.

Minutes passed in comfortable quiet. Tech pulled up his sensor calibration data, the same screen he had been staring at for the past hour, and made a valiant effort to actually read it this time.

“Tech?”

His attention snapped to you immediately. “Yes?”

“Can I ask you something else?”

His pulse spiked. “Of course.”

You shifted slightly, and there was something nervous in the movement that put Tech on high alert.

“Before you left the Empire,” you started slowly, “before all of this… what was your life like?”

Tech’s entire body went still.

Of all the questions. Of all the topics. You had chosen the one that required him to excavate parts of himself he preferred to keep buried under layers of technical specifications and tactical analysis.

“I…” He paused, buying time by adjusting his goggles even though they did not need adjusting. “Clone Force 99 has been my unit since creation. We were designated experimental. Desirable genetic mutations enhanced our combat ability beyond what was required for standard deployment.”

He kept his voice clinical. Detached. Like he was reciting someone else’s history.

“We trained separately from the regs on Kamino. We were never integrated with the regular clone forces.” He kept his eyes trained on the screen, drowning in blue light as his throat tightened. “It was adequate for our purposes.”

It was isolating. Even among my brothers I was the strange one. Too technical. Too literal. Too much of… everything.

“Adequate,” you echoed, and there was something knowing in your voice.

“Our unit functioned with high efficiency,” Tech clarified. “We had a 100% sucess rate. That was sufficient.”

“But what about when you weren’t on missions? What did you do?”

Tech frowned. “I studied. Maintained equipment. Expanded my technical knowledge base. Standard activities.”

“For fun?”

“The activities were enjoyable.”

“But were they fun? Did you do things just because you wanted to? Not because they were useful or necessary?”

Tech opened his mouth. Closed it.

The honest answer formed in his mind but felt too vulnerable to speak aloud: I never learned how to want things that did not serve a tactical purpose.

“I watched holovids occasionally,” he offered. “Technical documentaries. Engineering analysis programs...”

Your expression shifted into something that looked uncomfortably like sympathy.

“Tech, those are still work.”

“They were informative.”

“That’s not what I meant.” You leaned forward slightly. “Did you ever just… watch something because it was entertaining? Because it made you happy?”

Happy. The word sat strangely in Tech’s mind.

“I did not prioritize entertainment,” he said carefully. “There were always more pressing concerns.”

You were quiet for a long moment, watching him with those eyes that saw too much.

“What about now?” you asked softly. “Do you do things just because they make you happy?”

Tech’s fingers tightened on his datapad.

Did he? He maintained the ship because it was necessary. He studied because knowledge was survival. He came to the cockpit every night because…

Because you were here.

Because somewhere in the past few nights, sitting in silence with you had stopped being about decompression and started being about something he could not quite name but desperately wanted to keep.

“I am… learning to,” he said quietly.

Your smile was soft and warm and made something in his chest crack open.

“Good,” you said. “You deserve to have things that make you happy.”

Tech had no response to that. The concept felt foreign. Revolutionary. Like you had just suggested that gravity was optional.

“What about you?” he asked, redirecting before his defenses crumbled completely. “What was your life like before joining us?”

Your demeanor shifted, brightness creeping over your expression.

“Oh, completely different. I wasn’t military. I worked in Republic Intelligence, data analysis mostly. Very boring compared to this.”

“Data analysis is not boring,” Tech protested immediately.

Your laugh was quiet but genuine. “I had a feeling you’d say that.”

Tech’s face warmed.

“But outside of work,” you continued, “I had a pretty normal life. An apartment, friends, routines. I used to watch holovids on my days off, go to markets, just… normal civilian things.”

Tech tried to imagine it. You in an apartment somewhere, living a life that did not involve firefights and narrow escapes. You watching holovids without worrying about Imperial patrols. You being safe.

His chest tightened.

“Do you miss it?” he asked quietly.

You considered the question with visible thought.

“Sometimes,” you admitted. “I miss the stability. The predictability. Knowing I’d wake up in the same place every day.” You paused. “But I don’t regret leaving. This… what we do now. It matters. And the people I’ve met…”

You trailed off, but you were looking at him again, and Tech’s heart once again struggled to maintain a steady rhythm.

“The people make it worth it,” you finished softly.

Tech swallowed hard.

“I am glad you are here,” he managed, but continued, “Your tactical analysis has proven invaluable. Your ability to remain calm under pressure has contributed significantly to mission success rates.”

You make everything better. You make me feel less alone. I wait here every night because it means I get to sit here with you and pretend that this is normal, that people like me- that clones, get to have things like this.

“Just my tactical analysis?” you asked, and there was something teasing in your tone but also something else. Something hopeful.

Tech’s mind went blank.

Was that a leading question? Was he supposed to read subtext? He was terrible at subtext. Give him an encrypted Imperial transmission and he could break it in minutes- no, seconds! But this?

“No,” he said carefully. “Not just your tactical analysis.”

“What else?”

Tech’s mouth went dry.

“You…” He struggled to organize thoughts and they all felt too large for words. “You listen when I explain things. You ask questions that indicate genuine interest rather than polite tolerance. You make me feel…”

He paused, searching for the right word.

Seen. Valued. Like maybe all the parts of me that other people find excessive or annoying are actually acceptable.

“…less alone,” he finished quietly.

The cockpit felt very small suddenly. Very quiet. Just you and him and the hum of instruments and all the things Tech was not saying hanging in the air between you.

“You make me feel less alone too,” you said softly.

You shifted closer, just slightly, and Tech’s awareness narrowed to the diminishing space between you.

“Can I tell you something?” you asked.

Tech nodded, not trusting his voice.

“There was this show I used to watch,” you said. “And there is a point to me saying this, I promise!”

Tech studied her quietly, slightly off kilter by the sudden topic shift.

“It was before the fall of the Republic. Before all this… called Galactic Frontiers. It was about explorers charting unknown space. Completely ridiculous from a scientific standpoint, but I loved it anyway.”

Tech’s brain latched onto the familiar topic like a lifeline.

“I am familiar with that program,” he said, and there was definitely too much interest in his voice but he could not help it. He paused, adjusting his goggles. “Actually, I had forgotten about it until you mentioned it. The scientific inaccuracies were egregious, but the character dynamics were compelling. I suppose it did not occur to me to mention it earlier because my partaking in Galactic Frontiers was an anomaly.”

Your face lit up like he had just given you the galaxy.

“You’ve seen it?”

“I watched several episodes during downtime on Kamino. The atmospheric consistency alone was statistically impossible. Every planet had identical gravity and breathable air.”

“Right?” You leaned forward eagerly. “And the faster than light travel made no sense. They just… jumped to hyperspace instantly with no calculations or nav computer.”

“Entirely fictional,” Tech agreed, and he could feel enthusiasm creeping into his voice. “Real hyperspace travel requires extensive mathematical modeling and multiple safety protocols.”

“I know! But I loved it anyway. Something about the adventure of it, the discovery. Finding new worlds, meeting new species.” You paused, your expression softening. “Well, my point is… I always wanted to rewatch it with someone who would appreciate how absurd it was while still enjoying it.”

Tech’s heart performed an acrobatic maneuver that would have concerned a medical droid.

With someone. You wanted to watch it with someone. You were telling him this while looking at him with those eyes and, despite the subtext, he knew what that implied, what you were offering.

“I would be interested in that,” he said, trying to sound calm and failing spectacularly. “Watching it. With you. If you wanted to.”

Your smile could have powered the entire Republic fleet.

“Really? You’d want to watch a completely scientifically inaccurate show just to make fun of it with me?”

“Yes.” The answer came without hesitation. “I would find that… enjoyable.”

I would find any activity enjoyable if it involved spending time with you. I would watch the most tedious programming in existence if it meant I got to hear your laugh and see your smile and exist in your proximity for a few hours.

“There’s one problem though,” you said, “We don’t exactly have access to holovid streaming on the Marauder.”

Tech’s mind immediately began calculating solutions.

“I could construct a receiver array using salvaged components from our last supply run. With proper modifications to our comm system, I could potentially access archived Republic entertainment databases. It would require approximately six hours of work and some creative rewiring, but it is feasible.”

You were staring at him.

“You would build an entire system just to watch an old show with me?”

Tech adjusted his goggles, suddenly uncertain.

“Was that… did you not want me to? I apologize if I misunderstood the request. I simply thought—”

“Tech.” You were laughing now, soft and warm. “I would love that. I just… you’re amazing. You know that?”

Amazing. You thought he was amazing?

“I am simply solving a technical problem,” he managed.

“You’re doing it because you want to spend time with me.”

Tech’s face burned hot enough to compromise his goggles’ thermal regulation.

“I…” There was no point denying it. You had stated the obvious truth he had been trying to rationalize away. “Yes. I want to spend time with you.”

The admission hung in the air between you, vulnerable and terrifying and honest.

Your hand moved, reaching across the small space, and suddenly your fingers were brushing against his where they rested on the datapad.

Tech’s entire nervous system went into overdrive.

You were touching him. Deliberately. Your fingers warm against his, the contact soft and tentative like you were asking a question without words.

Tech’s thumb shifted, just slightly, pressing back against yours.

“I want to spend time with you too,” you said quietly. “That’s why I come here every night. Not for the cockpit or the quiet. For you.”

Tech’s throat felt impossibly tight.

“Oh,” he managed, which was possibly the least articulate response he could have managed.

You laughed softly, and your fingers curled more firmly around his.

“You really didn’t know?”

“I…” Tech struggled to form coherent thoughts with your hand holding his. “I considered it a possibility, but the data was inconclusive. I did not want to make assumptions that might compromise our… our current dynamic.”

“Our friendship?”

“Yes.”

“What if I wanted to compromise it?” you asked softly.

Tech’s heart stopped.

Then restarted at approximately twice its normal rate.

“That would…” He swallowed hard. “That would depend on how you intended to compromise it.”

You shifted closer, and suddenly the co-pilot’s seat felt very far away and much too close simultaneously.

“I’m not very good at this,” you admitted. “Saying what I mean. But I like you, Tech. A lot. More than just as a teammate or friend.”

Tech stared at you like you had just rewritten the laws of physics.

“You have romantic interest,” he said, needing the clarification, needing to be absolutely certain he was understanding correctly. “In me.”

“Yes,” you said simply. Though the single word felt inadequate for what was happening in this cockpit with your fingers tangled with his.

“I have…” His voice came out rough. “I have developed similar feelings. For several weeks now. Possibly longer. I have been attempting to analyze them but the data has been inconclusive and I did not want to jeopardize our established rapport by introducing variables that might—”

You kissed him.

One moment Tech was explaining his feelings using the emotional processing capabilities of a particularly anxious droid, and the next your lips were pressed softly against his and his brain forgot how to do anything except feel.

Soft. You were so soft. And warm. And kissing him. You were actually kissing him.

Tech’s datapad clattered to the floor.

His hands came up automatically, one settling carefully on your waist, the other cupping your jaw with the kind of reverence he usually reserved for rare technical components.

You made a small sound against his mouth, and Tech’s entire system overheated to a level nearing catastrophic.

When you pulled back, his goggles were askew and his breathing was unsteady and he was quite certain he had forgotten his own name.

“Was that okay?” you asked softly, and you sounded as breathless as he felt.

“That was…” Tech struggled to find words. “That was significantly more than okay. That was optimal. Exceptional. The data suggests that repeating the experience would be advisable.”

You laughed, and the sound vibrated through him where you were still touching.

“Very smooth, Tech.”

“I apologize. My verbal processing capabilities appear to be compromised by your proximity and the lingering sensory input from—”

You kissed him again.

Tech stopped trying to think and just let himself feel.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, careful around the arm of his goggles. His hand tightened slightly on your waist, pulling you closer across the small space between seats. The angle was awkward and the armrests were digging into his side and none of it mattered because you were kissing him like he was something precious.

Like he was worth wanting.

When you finally pulled away, you were smiling and Tech was quite certain his cardiovascular system would never recover.

“I’ve wanted to do that for weeks,” you admitted.

“I have wanted you to do that for weeks,” Tech replied, then immediately felt his face heat. “That is… I have experienced similar desires. Of a reciprocal nature.”

“Tech?”

“Yes?”

“You can just say you wanted to kiss me.”

“I wanted to kiss you,” he repeated obediently, and then added because apparently his brain-to-mouth filter had been completely demolished: “I want to kiss you again.”

Your smile widened. “Good. Because I want to kiss you again too.”

“Excellent,” Tech said. “Then we are in agreement about the desired course of action and can proceed with—”

You were laughing now, bright and warm, and Tech realized he was being ridiculous but he could not seem to stop.

“You’re adorable when you’re flustered,” you said.

“I am not flustered. I am simply experiencing elevated neurological activity in response to novel stimuli.”

“Uh huh. Very scientific.”

“It is an accurate description of—”

You kissed him again, and Tech decided that you were absolutely right to keep interrupting his explanations with your mouth.

Minutes or hours later—Tech’s usually precise temporal awareness had been completely compromised—you were both sitting pressed together in his pilot’s seat, your head resting on his shoulder, his arm around your waist, hands still tangled together. The cockpit had grown quieter, your breathing evening out into something close to sleep, and Tech found himself perfectly content to sit here holding you for as long as you would let him.

Then you stirred slightly, and Tech glanced at the viewport.

The horizon was beginning to change. The deep black of night was giving way to the faintest hint of color, a gradual lightening that Tech’s pattern recognition immediately identified as pre-dawn.

“Look,” he said softly, not wanting to wake you fully but unable to keep the quiet wonder from his voice.

You lifted your head from his shoulder, blinking sleep from your eyes, and turned toward the viewport.

The sunrise was slow, methodical, exactly as planetary rotation dictated it should be. But watching the sky transform from black to deep purple to brilliant orange felt like witnessing something extraordinary. Light spilled across the landscape beyond the Marauder, illuminating rock formations and scattered vegetation in shades of gold and amber.

Tech had seen countless sunrises on countless planets. He had calculated the exact timing based on axial tilt and orbital position more times than he could count. He had never found them particularly noteworthy beyond their scientific implications.

But this one was different.

Because you were here, your hand still tangled with his, your shoulder warm against his side, watching the same sky transform with an expression of quiet awe that made his chest ache.

“It’s beautiful,” you whispered.

Tech looked at you instead of the sunrise, at the way the growing light caught in your eyes and painted your features in soft gold.

“Yes,” he agreed quietly. “It is.”

You caught him staring and smiled, “We should do this again, watch the sunrise together.”

Tech’s thumb brushed across your knuckles. “I would like that very much,” he said.

And as the sun continued its inevitable rise, painting the cockpit in warm light and chasing away the shadows of night, Tech thought that maybe—just maybe—he was starting to understand what it meant to want things that served no tactical purpose.

To want things simply because they made him happy.

To want you.

To want this.

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Out of all of them, I think he's the BEST one to talk you through it. "right there, huh?" "your heartbeat's racing… you're close, aren't you?" "you fit me so nicely like this" "yeah, you can take it" He edges you mercilessly, using that smoky voice to drive you closer to the edge (lowkey weaponizes it).

Sharp, bitten-off grunts when you clench around him, which turns to long, throaty moans that vibrate against your skin. He curses softly under his breath "kriffing hells…" when he feels you close to unraveling. He just knows what to say based on your reactions, helping you reach the edge with his voice alone.

Climax hits with a raw, prolonged growl that trails into ragged panting. After that his roughness melts into soft huffs and murmured praises while he nuzzles your neck, voice back to its usual calm warmth.

ECHO

I think Echo is shy and hesitant at first. Begins with restrained soft, shaky sighs and quiet exhales, his cybernetic side making every touch feel so sensitive so his breath hitches sharply at the lightest graze.

Then, it will gradually build to emotional, reverent murmurs that crack with vulnerability and emotion. "you're incredible…" "please don't stop" "so pretty for me" "always so perfect for me" he's not gonna be rambling, he wants to say it clearly while he's pleasing you in case you don't hear it well.

When overwhelmed, faint grunt mixes with deep, strangled groans. But when he's between your legs, his noises became high and needy whimpers filled with desperation. ESPECIALLY when you take control. I'd like to think he's quiet when he's the one in charge (to hear you), then LOUDER when you are (so you hear him).

His voice gets breathier and more desperate when he's getting closer. Often trailing off into sharp gasps. Then, his breath hitches into emotional praises like, "don't deserve you" "can't believe you're mine" "too good for me" and a sweet "please, please, please" near the edge.

Finishes with a long, shuddering moan, followed by endless soft whispers of affection and "thank you… thank you…" as he holds you tight. Also, I think he might hum a soft tune under his breath as well to help you fall asleep faster.

TECH

Tech would definitely take note of everything. You'd hear his breathy commentary like "your respiration rate just increased eighteen percent" "your skin flushes a degree higher when touched here–" always delivered in that crisp, clinical tone, before it dissolves into broken sighs when you grind yourself back against him.

Voice cracks into surprised, higher whimpers when you disrupt his rhythm. He stammers mid-sentence "fascinating. wait, that's–" before it melts into uncontrolled groans. Quickly loses his focus when you meet his thrusts, or when you take control, his words trail off into unintelligible mumbling.

He CANNOT talk dirty for the life of him, instead he's rambling about the mechanics of pleasure (nerd). "the angle here provides maximum stimulation. oh, you're clenching me tighter–" "if i reach it from here, your contractions would be–" even as his words slur.

Breathing gets louder and faster with sharp gasps right before he loses it completely. He'll cling to you closer, burying his face at the crook of your neck to muffle his rambling. Sometimes you actually have to slap a hand on his mouth to keep him quiet, but he only moans louder in response.

Post-climax, he pants quietly while murmuring observations and gentle hums, already have listed dozens of improvements for next time.

CROSSHAIR

Bastard thinks he's being cool with that nonchalant facade. Slow, hissing inhales through clenched teeth, low growls, and the occasional dry chuckle when you beg. Truly believes too much noise is too much vulnerability, so he tries to keep himself as silent as possible.

Yeah, it doesn't last long. Because he'll turn into the most cruel tease known to man. "pathetic. already whining for more?" "louder. let me hear how desperate you are" "look at you, so needy for me" delivered with that signature slow, venomous cadence.

When pushed, rare broken moans escape. Rough, gravelly snarls he tries to swallow. He bites his lip hard to stay quiet but fails with a choked "kriff–" when you hit his limit and squeeze him hard enough to make him falter (you see it as a game to make him lose control and let out more noises).

ENJOYS edging you to tears, voice dropping to a whisper. "not yet… beg properly or i'll stop right here" smug even when his own breathing turns ragged and his grip tightens to to show he doesn't really want to stop. All bark and no bite (unless you really push him).

His climax rips out a long, guttural growl from him that he drags out deliberately, then snaps back to heavy, controlled breaths. Aftercare praises are rare, maybe a slip of a few here and there if you're lucky.

WRECKER

I pray you don't mind loud men, because he's DEFINITELY the loudest out of all of them. Absolutely shameless too. Big, booming laughs that melt straight into enthusiastic, room-shaking groans. Don't even be surprised at this point.

Playful, shouted dirty talk has him grinning so wide. "squeezin' me so tight, aren't ya?" "keep goin', pretty" "kriff, you feel amazin'" "yeah, let them hear ya" with breathless chuckles every time you squirm for him.

Lots of curses and deep, hearty moans that rumble like thunder. He gets even LOUDER when you ride him, encouraging you through his gritted growls and roughened groans. Expect his large hands everywhere too, absolutely comments on every part of your body with mixed adoration and possession.

My BIGGEST hc of him is overstimulation makes him laugh. Imagine you're on god knows what round now, and he's just laughing when he pulls another one from you. "awww too much?" "nahhh, you can take it!" "c'mon just one more!" it makes you both love and hate how much stamina he has.

Ends with a rumbling groan and moan combo that shakes the bed. Then drops to cuddly, rumbling purrs and "you're the best… c'mere" as he crushes you in an inescapable hug.

CAPTAIN REX

HEAVY praiser and he's so soooo touchy. Actually so touch-starved, but hides it well until you touch him (he WILL melt). He's sweet, considerate, and wants you to know how perfect you are. He starts with warm, low groans kept under tight control, breath even until you push him then it cracks with a husky rasp.

LOTS of affectionate, encouraging murmurs. "that's it, mesh'la… just like that" "i've got you, always" "so beautiful for me" voice thick with emotion even mid-thrust. Never degrades you, it's actually against him to say anything negative to you even in bed (unless you assure him it's fine).

Builds to deeper moans with rare, growled curses "kriff… you're killing me–" And when close, his praises seem endless. "so beautiful… let me hear you come for me" "please, let me feel you" "i'll get you there, mesh'la." "wanna feel you get there"

Dirty talk isn't really dirty talk. It's direct, loving, and commanding in a gentle way. "harder? faster? anything you need, just tell me" Always checking in too, staring at you with utter adoration combined with heat and desire.

His orgasm is a long, shuddering exhale and broken "good… so kriffing good" followed by soft kisses and murmured aftercare like "rest now… i've got you."

COMMANDER CODY

My GUILTY PLEASURE HC of him is he's very much into control (dom/sub undertones anyone???). He wants to be the one to guide you through every order and command. Deep, steady grunts and low rumbles, voice never quite losing its authority even when on the edge.

It's like his rank never leaves him even in the bedroom. Quiet, firm whispers to keep you focused. "eyes on me… let me watch you fall apart" "don't look away, cyare" "keep those legs open" "spread them wider" delivered with that calm, no-nonsense tone that makes you melt.

When he lets go, he lets out rougher throaty moans mix with strained grunts. "taking me so well… don't you dare hold back" "want my brothers to hear you? kriff, maybe you do. you're squeezing me so tight–" Turning from the controlled commands, to encouraging sentences.

Like I said in the first one, I REALLY feel like he's very much into giving commands. And when he sees you submitting yourself to him, fully and without hesitation, that wrecks uncontrollable groans edged with approval out of him. Absolutely gets off to your submission.

His orgasm breaks his restraint with a tight, raw groan that drags loooong. Post-orgasm, he doesn't talk much anymore. Just focuses on cleaning you up and taking care of you. Then calm, heavy breathing and gentle praises as he hugs you close against him once he's back on your side.

COMMANDER WOLFFE

Another contender with Crosshair. REALLY tries to keep his noises down, but you'll hear his gruff and animalistic sounds the longer he goes on. Low snarls, sharp inhales, and growled curses. He's rougher and more intense than most clones.

And unlike Cody, he doesn't order commands. They're demands. "louder" "scream it" "say my name" "i can't hear you, speak up" He's not afraid to be so mean when it comes to bed. But y'know what they say? Meaner in the streets, freakier in the sheets—

Builds to ragged, almost pained guttural moans whenever you clench around him. It actually drives him insane when you do that. He growls deep from his chest, digs his nails into your hips harder the same time his thrusts become sharper.

Secretly LOVES it when you scratch him too, he gets off to your marks (possessive asf) and it goes both ways. When he feels your nails scratching down his back or shoulders, he's releasing louder and more unrestrained growls that vibrate through you.

Finishes with a deep, satisfied rumble and heavy pants. Might mutter a rare, rough "you did good" while stroking your hair.

CAPTAIN HOWZER

Okay back to the soft boys. Howzer is definitely one of the best service tops you can ever have. Warm, earnest, and gentle. His groans are soft, breathy sighs full of affection from the beginning. He's not focused on his sounds, he's focused on yours. Very attuned to your reactions and how your body responds.

Like Echo, his sounds are silent and you can only hear him panting lightly. Except when you're taking control, he'll start talking and rambling. "feels too good… you're incredible–" "don't stop, wanna get there with you" "kriff, you feel so good like this"

But when he had a long day away from you, he won't hesitate on the sweet-dirty praises. "just like that…" "kriff, you're driving me insane" "love how you sound, cyar'ika" "love the way you feel around me" "all for me. just for me, right?" always encouraging and adoring.

Again, I don't think he's very vocal at the start. BUT he gets breathier and more vocal near the end, moaning your name repeatedly in that warm tone. He asks questions too like, "like that, sweetheart?" "you like this better? or this?" "want me deeper? or faster?"

Then, when he finally finishes, it's with a long, relieved moan and soft, affectionate whispers. "stay like that, i'll take care of you"

CAPTAIN GREGOR

Oh, my god. This man right here is the absolute BIGGEST tease you'll ever meet. Playful and cheeky, and he's not against bringing jokes into bed. Lots of lighthearted chuckles that deepen into throaty growls, voice bouncing between teasing and dominating.

When you curse at him, he simply giggles and teases you even more. "like that? c'mon tell me. you know i love hearing you" "what was that? sorry can't hear you over your moans, sweetheart" He gets all cocky and confident at first (especially during foreplay), then he QUICKLY switches up the moment he slides into you and goes quiet.

Voice cracks. You all know and heard it in the show. When he gets lost into the sensation, his jokes dissolve into strangled gasps and those tiny voice cracks. He laughs breathlessly when it feels too good, then sobs when it's too much. I KNOW a switch when I see one.

He's actually pretty versatile. One moment he's fun, lighthearted, and all cheeky. Then, his voice drops into a husky and growly tone. And sometimes, it turns into intense, whimpers when you take over (you love taking charge just to hear more of his voice cracks).

By the end of the first round, he's grinning again. He cuddles you close to him, still breathless when he playfully asks, "round two? i'm game if you are…"

COMMANDER MAYDAY

Another touch-starved soul right here. But unlike Rex, his noises are reduced to a quiet, gravelly start. Worn out exhales and low rumbles, voice rough but warm like he's savoring every second. Not very vocal with words like the others, but his sounds are to die for.

Builds slowly to deep, earned moans that feel raw and vulnerable. He's sparse words, but heavy on sounds. From the way he sounds, it's almost grounding and steady. I feel like Mayday's voice is naturally hoarse and raspy, unused from months of isolation—so when he lets out noises, it's always rasped, strained, and husky.

Not a big fan of intense dirty talk. His words are always heartfelt and weighted. "so good… stay right here with me… don't let go" laced with emotion like he's afraid of you disappearing. He doesn't like to be loud himself, but he doesn't mind if you're the one being loud. He absolutely loves it when you're responsive, it leaves a little proud smile on his face (still got it –him probably in his head).

The way he talks you through it is always slow, taking his time with you, drawing out your pleasure. "oh, that's it–" "you needed this too, don't you?" "i'm here. you can let go" He doesn't talk much because his mouth is ALWAYS on you.

When he finally breaks, throaty, desperate groans with a hint of relief. He holds back until it hurts. Climax with heavy, shuddering breaths and soft, grounding whispers. "you're safe. i've got you… always."

Tech adjusted his goggles as he analyzed the data scrolling across his datapad. The Marauder’s interior temperature had dropped 2.3 degrees in the past hour, and the atmospheric pressure outside indicated an approaching storm system. Rain would arrive within seventeen minutes.

He glanced toward the cockpit where she sat curled in the pilot’s chair, knees drawn to her chest. Her breathing pattern was irregular. Shallow. The angle of her shoulders suggested muscular tension.

“The barometric pressure is declining rapidly,” he said, moving closer. “Rain is imminent.”

She didn’t respond. Tech recalibrated his approach.

“You have been unusually quiet for approximately four hours and twenty-three minutes.” He paused, accessing his mental catalog of human physiological patterns. “Your behavioral changes align with documented premenstrual and menstrual symptoms. The correlation is 94.7% probable.”

Her eyes met his, and he noticed the tightness around them.

“I’m fine, Tech.”

“That statement contradicts observable evidence.” He set his datapad aside. “Your posture indicates abdominal discomfort. Your refusal of rations suggests nausea. The thermal regulation issues you experienced earlier suggest hormonal fluctuations affecting your hypothalamus.”

The first drops of rain struck the viewport. She turned to watch them streak across the transparisteel.

Tech disappeared into the storage compartments. His hands moved with practiced efficiency, pulling items he had cataloged weeks ago in preparation for statistical inevitabilities. The heating pack had been requisitioned during their last supply run. The herbal tea blend had been a fortunate discovery on Pabu, where he had inquired extensively about natural remedies after noticing her previous discomfort.

He returned and crouched beside the chair. “This heating pack will provide consistent warmth for up to six hours.” He activated it, the chemical reaction generating immediate heat. “The temperature will peak at 42 degrees Celsius, which studies indicate is optimal for reducing menstrual cramping.”

She accepted it, and he watched her press it against her abdomen. The slight relaxation of her facial muscles indicated effectiveness.

“I am also preparing tea. The vendor on Pabu specified that this particular blend contains ginger root and chamomile, both of which have documented antispasmodic properties.” He stood, then hesitated. “The rain should last approximately 2.4 hours based on current patterns. Rain sounds have been shown to reduce cortisol levels by 12 to 15%, which may provide additional relief.”

“You researched all this?” Her voice was softer now.

“Of course.” Tech adjusted his goggles again, an unnecessary gesture that had become habitual around her. “You are a valued member of our squad. Maintaining your operational effectiveness is logical.”

She smiled despite the obvious discomfort, and Tech felt something shift in his chest that he could not adequately categorize.

“That’s very sweet, Tech.”

“It is merely practical application of available data.” He turned toward the small heating unit to prepare the tea, but her hand caught his wrist.

“Tech.”

He looked back.

“Thank you.”

The rain drummed steadily against the hull now, a rhythmic percussion that filled the silence. Tech found himself nodding, then remembering additional relevant information.

“I also acquired chocolate. The cocoa content is 73%, which provides sufficient phenylethylamine and serotonin precursors to potentially improve mood while avoiding excessive sugar that might exacerbate inflammation.” He retrieved it from his utility belt. “The recommended serving is 28.3 grams, though I will not enforce rations given current circumstances.”

She laughed, a sound that Tech calculated he preferred to most others. He settled into the copilot’s seat while the tea steeped, pulling up a holonovel on his datapad.

“I do not need to remain here,” he said, though he made no move to leave. “However, studies indicate that companionship during periods of physical discomfort can reduce perceived pain by up to 40%.”

“I’d like you to stay.”

Tech pushed his goggles up. “That is acceptable.”

They sat together as the rain continued, her curled beneath a thermal blanket he had retrieved, the heating pack pressed against her abdomen. Tech read aloud from the holonovel when she requested it, his voice steady and even. He paused periodically to refresh her tea, to adjust the blanket, to offer more chocolate.

He did not mention that he had set calendar reminders for her approximate cycle. He did not explain that he had created a comprehensive file of remedies, preferences, and behavioral patterns he had observed. These were simply logical preparations.

When her breathing finally evened into sleep, Tech dimmed the cockpit lights and continued his reading in silence. The rain had softened to a gentle patter. The Marauder’s temperature had stabilized at optimal comfort levels.

He glanced at her peaceful face and experienced that peculiar chest sensation again. His datapad contained 1,247 academic texts on human emotion and attachment, yet none adequately explained this specific phenomenon.

Perhaps some variables could not be quantified.

Tech adjusted her blanket and returned to his reading, content to remain precisely where he was for as long as she needed him.

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“Kriff!” Fives exclaims as he tosses his card on the table. “It’s like you can read my mind.”

Cheers erupt around the table as you claim all the credits in the middle, a smirk tugging at the corners of your mouth. 

Fives leans forward, hands palm down on the table. “What number am I thinking of? You have three seconds.”

You lean forward, until you are face to face with him across the table. You’re so close you can smell the wintergreen of his breath. You blink your eyes at him and cock an eyebrow.

“Three.” He says. He swallows, hard. 

“Two.” You notice his eyes dart to your lips, so close to his. 

“One.” He whispers. 

“5.” You say, smirking.

 His face goes slack and the table bursts into laughter, Jesse knocking over a drink in the process. You slide back into your seat beside Echo who throws an arm around your shoulder, choking on his laughter. 

You love this. The camaraderie. You have such little time with your boys between missions, that nights like these, at 79’s, are only ever topped by nights at your small apartment. You secretly hoped this night would end back there, the boys having a sleepover right on your floor how they so often did. 

Echo’s leg brushes yours and he pipes up, eyes levelled at his brother.  

“You couldn’t think of a better number than five?” 

Fives snorts and rolls his eyes. “It’s literally in the name, what other number could I have picked? Let’s go again, best two out of three.” 

Hardcase nudges him with an elbow. “You know why she can read you so well?”

Fives turns to him and gives him a look. “Why, ‘Case?” 

Hardcase tears up the paper napkin in front of him, very dramatically, and then tosses the pieces in the air like confetti, sprinkling the table. 

“You’re in loooooooove!”

Laughter passes around the booth with groans intermixed. Fives eyes flash to you, panic on his face for just a split second. 

Your stomach tightens, twisting, turning. You swallow. 

Then he tilts his head back and howls in laughter. Laughing so hard tears stream down his face. 

Your face heats. You laugh under your breath, trying to crack a smile. 

“In love? With her?” He breathes, wiping tears from his eyes. 

Your breath catches.

Echo places a strong hand on your knees and clears his throat. “Hey, now. It’s not that far-fetched. I mean, look at her.” 

You know he means well, but the eyes of Torrent company are now all on you, and after that slight, you feel microscopic. 

Fives jolts in his seat, suddenly seeming to notice your discomfort. 

“I just mean that… you’re… you know. Our girl.”

You nod as the boys all mutter agreements and avoid the slight hurt in your gaze that you try so hard to mask. 

“Excuse me.” You say, leaving the table and heading out into the dark night. 

So much for a sleepover. 

Kriffing Fives. 

As you lean yourself up against the durasteel wall outside 79’s you do your best to keep from crying. Had it been anyone else…

Jesse, you’d have laughed along. 

Echo, you’d have kissed his cheek jokingly. 

Hardcase you’d have thrown something at him. 

But Fives?

The hurt in your chest twists like a knife.

He knew.

You knew that deep down he knew how you felt about him. They all did. They had to. 

You and Fives were closer than any of the others. You spent the most time together. Caf runs, holo marathons. You’d been there each time he had to be patched up, every time he needed someone to talk to. And he’d been your rock through so many hard things. 

Then there was the moments. Hands touching, warmth spreading. Sparks.

Every time the boys were gone you dreamed of them, of their faces. All melding into one in the way clones’  do. 

But it always had a tattoo at the temple. 

You were best friends. But he just had to know that it was more for you.

But then he went and said that? Laughed at you like that?

“He’s an idiot, now I’m sure.” You hear beside you. Echo. He leans against the wall with you and hands you a drink. You huff out something that almost sounds like a laugh. 

“You’re biased.”

“Yeah,” he says easily. “But I’m also right.”

The music from inside 79’s thumps through the walls. You stare out into the neon-lit street.

“I don’t care,” you say quietly.

Echo finally glances at you. “But you do.”

You freeze, then nod. He nudges your shoulder with his.

“He laughed because he panicked.” Echo says, lips an inch away from his glass.

You scoff. “That wasn’t panic. That was… hysteria.”

“Exactly.”

You blink.

Echo continues, voice softer now. “You ever see him when Rex catches us sneaking ration sweets onto the gunship? Same laugh. He does it when he’s scared.”

You swallow.

“That wasn’t scared, Echo. That was embarrassed.”

Echo shakes his head. “No. That was ‘oh kriff everyone can see straight through me and now I don’t know what to do with my hands’.”

You stare down at your drink.

“…you think?”

“I know.”

The hope hurts almost as much as the rejection. Before you can respond to Echo the door to 79’s slams open.

“Move, move out of the way!” Hardcase bursts out first, nearly tripping over the threshold.

“Hardcase, I swear to the Force!” Fives chases after him, flushed and wild eyed. He spots you and stops dead. Hardcase points dramatically at you like he’s delivering a bounty.

“There. Talk. I’m not dying for you two idiots’ unresolved feelings.”

“Hardcase…”

“Nope. I’ve done my duty to the Republic.”

He vanishes back inside. Echo pushes off the wall. “I’m gonna… get another drink,” he says, clearly not needing one. He squeezes your shoulder as he passes. Silent support.

Then you’re alone with him.

Fives shoves his hands in his pockets, takes them out. Crosses his arms, uncrosses them. He looks like he’d rather face a Separatist tank.

“…Hey.”

“Hi.”

Your voice is flat. Controlled. It hurts more than yelling would. He winces.

“About inside…”

“You don’t have to…”

“I do.”

The words come out sharp. You look up. His jaw’s tight.

“I kriffed that up.”

You say nothing. He exhales hard through his nose.

“I wasn’t laughing at you.” He sighs

“It kinda sounded like it.” you retort, the hurt lacing your voice.

“I was laughing at me.” He says quietly.

You frown and he rubs the back of his neck.

“When Hardcase said that… I just…” He huffs. “I didn’t know what to say. Everyone was staring. And if I didn’t laugh I probably would’ve..” He stops himself.

“…would’ve what?”

His eyes flick to yours, then your lips, then away.

“…said something stupid.”

Your heart stutters. “You did say something stupid,” you whisper.

He flinches like you slapped him. “…yeah,” he admits.

There’s a moment of quiet, and the whole city seems to fall to a hush. The universe narrows to just you. Has he always been standing so close to you? You hate this feeling. Things used to be so much easier, before you realized how you felt for him. 

You use a fist to punch him in the shoulder, trying to lighten the mood. “Walk me home?” You ask. 

He nods and you head into the Coruscant night together. The walk is quiet, but close. He drops you off with a gentle goodbye and you do your best to smile at him as you close the door. 

* * * * * * 

Days pass and things are… fine. Just fine. All the other boys seem to have forgotten the awkwardness of that night, and you are overcompensating in how you act. You pretend nothing happened. That Fives is nothing to you but a friend. You’re bubbly and open and yourself. 

But then Fives pulls you to the side one day. Your heart flutters at the touch of his hand on yours as he guides you away from the group. 

“Can I ask you something?” He says, voice soft, serious. You nod, mouth dry. 

“Can you read this message? I don’t know whether to send it or not.”

You look down at his comm and your heart drops. 

It's a text asking for… a date. Asking someone out. The number at the top of the screen isn’t familiar.

Your eyes widen. You struggle with words. “Yeah. That sounds good.” You say. 

Fives is quiet for a second, staring at you. Then he says, “Thanks… I just didn't know if it was good to send or not.”

You smile at him, forced. 

“Yeah, wouldn’t wanna sound like an idiot again would you?”

He blinks, confused.

“…yeah,” he says slowly.

But you’re already stepping away before your face betrays you. “I’ve got work to do,” you add and you don’t wait for an answer. You don’t look back. If you look back, you might stay. If you stay, you might cry, and you absolutely refuse to cry in front of him.

The rest of the day is a blur. Just you doing anything that keeps your hands busy. Anything that keeps you from thinking about him and that stupid text. 

And her.

Kriff.

You wonder what her laugh sounds like. If she’s pretty. If she’s softer than you. Maybe she’s normal. Maybe that’s what he wants.

Not the girl they call our girl.

Later, the boys pile into the hangar loud as ever, Hardcase arguing with Jesse. Kix yelling about someone skipping med checks. Fives saunters in and suddenly you’re absorbed in your datapad. You don’t look up.

“She said yes!” He says, and you can hear the grin in his voice. 

“Great.” you say flatly. There’s an awkward moment.

Fives is never awkward with you. Well he never used to be. Now it seems more and more often that awkwardness lands between you like a grenade. It makes your chest ache. “So, uh… yeah. We’re going out tonight.”

You keep typing and you focus on the numbers. Because numbers don’t hurt.

Numbers don’t fall in love with other girls.

“That’s great, Fives.” You say and finally look up. His brown eyes are big, bigger than usual. Staring into yours. There’s something there, something unsaid.  Before you can muster the courage to say something you’ll regret, Echo walks up. 

“Are we still meeting at 79’s tomorrow night? I need to wash my civvies if so.” It’s like he could feel the tension across the room and came over to break it. You blink, grateful for the interruption.

“Yeah,” you say quickly, latching onto the normalcy like a lifeline. “Same time. Don’t be late or I’m not saving you a booth.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Echo replies. He studies you for half a second too long. Echo notices everything. The tightness in your jaw. The way you’re not looking at Fives. The way Fives isn’t looking at anything except you.

Fives shifts his weight beside your desk.

“So…,” he says again, softer this time. Like he’s waiting for you to say something.

You don’t.

You just nod once. “Have fun.”

The words taste like rust. He hesitates.

“Yeah. I will.” And he walks away.

You don’t let yourself watch him go. You don’t. You absolutely don’t.

…You do. 

Just for a second. Long enough to see him laughing with Jesse, shoving Hardcase’s shoulder, easy and bright. Like he’s not about to take someone else out tonight. Like he doesn’t carry your favorite caf order in his head. Like he doesn’t knock on your door when nightmares get bad.

You look back down at the datapad so fast the screen blurs.

Numbers. 

Just focus on the numbers, you tell yourself.

But only one comes to mind. 

* * * * *

79’s is tense. Nothing about the familiar walls, the lights, the music can tame the thudding in your chest. You haven’t seen Fives since he told you he had secured a date with that mystery girl. But he’s going to be here, tonight, and you just know he’s going to talk all about it with his brothers. 

With you, too. 

You steel your heart. Focus on Echo, your other best friend. He’ll be stoic, your rock. He knows how you feel, how this will make you feel. He’ll protect you from the worst of it. 

You’re dressed up. You wanted to feel alive, special, like someone that someone would want. You’d resolved that if someone wanted to pick you up tonight, you might actually let them. Normally the brothers chase off anyone who comes near to you, but you’ll brush them off tonight. 

You just want to feel wanted. 

The boys filter in as you finish your first drink. Echo first, sliding into the large booth beside you, a few others after him. 

Then, it’s like the air is pulled from the room when you spot him by the door. In a brown leather jacket, black shirt beneath, dark jeans. Hair neatly laid back, but somehow tousled. It’s like you can smell the whiskey and wintergreen from here. 

 Then you see her. 

His hand is on her lower back, guiding her in. She’s… beautiful. Everything you’re insecure about, everything you lack, she has. She beams in the dim light of the bar. 

You can’t breathe. 

He walks her up to your booth and the two of them slide in. He introduces her and the boys all smile and play nice. You smile kindly at her, pretending you aren’t falling apart at the seams. Echo places a hand on your leg and squeezes, letting you know he’s there. It’s grounding.

You study her as the boys playfully interrogate her. She’s calm, collected. Dazzling smile, charming responses. 

She’s cool. The definition of popular. 

You hate her so much. 

The boys love her, they’re eating out of the palm of her hand. Except Echo. He looks at her skeptically.

“So how’d you two meet?” He asks. 

They look at each other grinning. “Few days ago at another bar. He’s lucky he’s cute, he was so drunk when he asked for my number. Then we went out yesterday.” She says flippantly. 

“Where’d you go?” You ask, the question startling even you. 

“Some little cafe he likes. What was it again?”

Fives looks at you, guilt on every line of his face. “Courts Cafe.”

Your heart drops. Thats… thats your place. Yours and his. Thats where you first went when the friendship was starting, and the place you’ve gone every time you wanted caf or a moment alone since. He took her there?

You plaster a grin on your face, desperately trying to make your eyes light up, “Love that place.” You say. The girl places a hand on Fives arm. She laughs. Then she perks up. 

“Oh! My friends are here finally. Let me go grab them, I’ll pop to the fresher and be right back.” She says, and she squeezes Fives’ arm as she goes. You watch her leave, joining two other equally beautiful girls and heading to the fresher across the way. 

Hardcase doesn’t even wait until she’s out of earshot. The second the fresher door swings shut behind her and her friends, he leans back in the booth like he’s been physically holding it in.

“Well?” he blurts, too loud already. “You tap that yet?”

The table erupts.

Jesse chokes on his drink. Kix smacks Hardcase upside the head. Tup mutters, “Stars, have some tact,” but he’s laughing too.

Fives groans. “Shut up, you idiot.”

“What?” Hardcase shrugs, unapologetic. “It’s been, what… two whole days? That’s basically a lifetime for you.”

“That is not…” Fives rubs his temples. “That’s not how that works.”

“Oh please,” Jesse cuts in. “You brought her here. That’s serious territory.”

“Yeah,” Hardcase adds, waggling his brows. “You don’t bring just anyone to meet us. That’s practically a marriage proposal. Or at least a ‘boots under the bunk’ situation.”

“Hardcase,” Echo warns.

But it’s too late. They’re piling on now.

“So where’d you even disappear to last night?” Jesse asks. “Barracks were real quiet,” Kix says. “Too quiet,” Hardcase echoes dramatically. “Suspiciously quiet.”

Fives’ ears are red. Bright red.

“You’re all kriffing children.”

Hardcase leans across the table. “So that’s a yes…”

“No!”

The word comes out sharp enough that a couple heads turn. Silence hangs for half a second. Your throat is so tight you can’t swallow. 

“Excuse me.” You say and slide out of the booth, heading to the fresher. You need to run your hands under some cool water to stop them from shaking. 

“Way to go, vod.” Echo says as you leave. 

The door swings shut behind you with a dull hiss.

Instantly it’s quieter in here. Muffled bass from the bar. Running water. Fluorescent lights that buzz faintly overhead. You grip the edge of the sink and twist the handle, cold water rushes over your fingers.

They’re shaking.

You brace both hands under the stream, letting the chill bite into your skin, trying to ground yourself. Trying to breathe. You stare at your reflection. You look… wrecked. 

Pathetic.

“He’s so stupid. Like really.”

You freeze.

Water keeps running over your knuckles.

The voice comes from the corner near the floor-length mirror.

Her.

She’s standing with her two friends, lipstick out, reapplying like she’s in some holo drama. One of them is fixing her curls. The other is scrolling her datapad. They haven’t noticed you yet.

“Like dense,” she continues, laughing under her breath. “Can’t hold a conversation to save his life.”

Your stomach drops.

“I think all those clones are probably that way.”

Her friend snorts. “Seriously? They’re kinda just… grown soldiers, right? Like lab experiments.”

“Exactly,” she says. “It’s weird. He kept talking about his brothers. All of them together all the time? It’s codependent as hell.”

Your jaw tightens.

Brothers.

She says it like it’s something dirty, like it’s something to mock.

“I swear,” she goes on, popping her gum, “I had to carry the whole date. I’d ask him something and he’d just stare at me for a second like his brain had to reboot.”

They laugh.

“And the café?” her friend asks. “Was it cute at least?”

She rolls her eyes. “It was fine. Total hole-in-the-wall. He acted like it was some big sentimental thing.” She makes a gagging noise. “Men are so dramatic.”

Your chest aches.

Courts.

The little table by the window. The first time Fives bought you caf because you’d skipped lunch. The way he’d pretended not to watch you smile. The way he’d tapped his fingers when he was nervous. Sentimental because it mattered.

Because you mattered.

“And stars,” she says, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “he’s not even that hot up close.”

Your head snaps up.

Her friend shrugs. “So why’re you here with him?”

She laughs. “Free drinks. His friends are cute.Isn’t that weird? They’re all the same, but different. Anyways,  figured I’d see if any of them are upgrades.”

Upgrades.

Something inside you twists hard and ugly.

“And if not,” she adds, checking her reflection, “I’ll ditch him. It’s not like he’s gonna get it anyway. Sweet, but dumb.”

Your hands are trembling so hard the water splashes onto the counter. You shut it off too fast. The pipes squeal. They finally notice you. Three sets of eyes flick your way. They look you up and down.

“Oh,” she says lightly, like you’re an inconvenience. “Didn’t see you there.” You swallow. Your throat burns.Your hands shake.

Not from nerves anymore, from rage. Rage sharp enough it feels like it’s cutting through your ribs. She’s still smirking at you like this is funny. Like he’s some dumb story to tell her friends later.

“Shut up.” You say.

Hey eyebrows raise. “You his little guard dog or something?” she says, popping her gum.

You don’t even think.

“No,” you say, voice low and steady. “I’m someone who doesn’t let people talk about good men like they’re trash.” Her friends exchange a look. She just laughs.

“Good men?” she repeats. “Honey, he’s a clone. He’s government property.”

Something inside you snaps.

“He’s a person,” you bite out.

She rolls her eyes. “Relax. It’s not that deep.”

“He treated you like you mattered,” you say. “He brought you to meet his brothers. He took you somewhere important to him. And you come in here and call him stupid?”

She shrugs. “Because he is.”

Your vision tunnels.

“He can barely string two sentences together without looking confused. All those clones are the same. Bred to shoot things, not think.”

Your hands ball into fists.

“You don’t know anything about them.”

“I know enough,” she scoffs. “He stared at me like a kicked tooka every time I teased him. It was kinda sad. I almost felt bad.”

Teased.

You picture her laughing at him across that café table. Picture him rubbing the back of his neck, embarrassed, trying anyway. Your chest aches.

“He deserves better than you,” you say quietly.

Her smile drops a fraction.

“Excuse me?”

“He’s smarter than anyone in that bar. Kinder too. And you’re in here using him for free drinks and scouting his friends like they’re upgrades?”

Her friends go quiet.

She flushes. “Wow. You’re way too invested. That’s actually pathetic.”

“Pathetic?” You step closer. “You’re mocking someone who’d take a blaster bolt for people he met five minutes ago.”

She snorts. “Yeah, yeah. That’s all he’s worth. God, you clones groupies are all the same. Acting like they’re real men. Newsflash? They’re lab-grown. Replaceable.”

Replaceable.

You don’t even feel yourself move. Your hand just…swings.

CRACK.

The sound echoes off tile and mirror. Her head snaps to the side. Everyone freezes, even you. Your palm stings. Her lip splits a little. For half a second, there’s complete silence.

Then, “You crazy bitch!” she screams, lunging. She shoves you hard. You stumble back into the sink, metal biting into your hip. She grabs your shirt, nails catching fabric, and you grab hers back on instinct. Years of breaking up trooper scuffles kick in automatically.

She swings wild. Her fist glances off your shoulder. You shove her away and she slams into the paper towel dispenser, plastic cracking. Her friend yelps and runs out the door, hollering for help. She comes at you again, shrieking now, mascara already smudging.

“You don’t get to hit me!”

“You don’t get to talk about him like that!” you shout back.

She claws for your hair. You catch her wrist and twist like you’ve seen Rex do a hundred times. She gasps and tries to knee you. You both crash into the counter, knocking over soap and water everywhere. She finally lands one across your cheek. Your head snaps sideways.

Your ears ring and somehow that just makes you angrier.

“Say it again,” you snarl. “Call him stupid again. I dare you.”

She falters, because she can see it in your eyes, you mean it.

The door swings open.

“What the kriff is going…”

Fives.

And behind him, Echo and Kix.

They freeze at the scene.

Water everywhere. Paper towels torn apart. You and her gripping each other’s shirts like animals.

Fives moves first. You think he’s going to go for her, baby her, take care of her as she sits on her ass bleeding from the nose, the lip.

He grabs your waist and hauls you back effortlessly.

Kix pulls the girl the other way while she screeches about assault charges and psychos.

You’re still breathing hard. Chest heaving.

Fives’ arms are tight around you, solid and grounding and searing your skin.

“Hey,” he murmurs in your ear. “You’re okay. I got you.”

Your cheek throbs. Your knuckles ache.

Across the room, she points at you. “She attacked me!”

You laugh once. Sharp. Humorless. “Maybe don’t call war heroes brain-dead experiments next time.”

Her friends go quiet. Real quiet. Because suddenly it doesn’t sound funny anymore.

Fives squeezes your shoulders.

“You good?” he asks softly.

You nod but your eyes burn. He leads you out of the fresher and into the night as Kix stays behind to patch up the girl and talk her out of pressing charges. 

The bass from the bar thumps through the walls as the door swings shut behind you. Cold night air hits your face like a slap. Your heart is still racing. Cheek stinging.

Adrenaline hasn’t burned off yet and your whole body feels like a live wire.Fives doesn’t let go of you. His hand stays firm on your shoulders, guiding you down the narrow side alley beside 79’s, away from the door, away from prying eyes.

“Easy,” he murmurs. “Watch the step.”

You step down off the curb automatically. This feels so much like the other night, the one where he made fun of the idea of being with you. You, leaving the booth in such a rush, you standing out here in the silence, you and him here with the galaxy between you.

The alley’s dim. One flickering yellow light overhead. You’re shaking. He finally turns you to face him.

“Let me see.”

“I’m fine,” you say too fast.

“You’re not fine.”

His hands come up gentle, thumb brushing your cheek where she hit you.

You hiss an he goes still, jaw tightening.

“Stars,” he mutters. “She got you good.”

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s not.”

His voice is soft but fierce. Protective in that way that makes your chest hurt. You can’t look at him, because if you do, you might cry.

“I’m sorry,” he says suddenly.

“You didn’t have to walk me out,” you mumble. “You should… go back in. Your date’s probably…”

“She’s not my date.”

The words are immediate. You finally look up. He looks distraught. Guilt written all over his face. He runs a hand through his hair, pacing once, boots scraping concrete.

“Kriff,” he mutters under his breath. “I’m an idiot.”

You let out a weak laugh. 

“No, I mean it. I’m a full-on, regulation-issue moron.” He rubs his face. “I didn’t even like her.”

You blink.

“… what?”

“I met her at a bar. She laughed at my jokes. That was it.” He shakes his head. "I never liked her."

“Then why bring her here?” you ask, before you can stop yourself. The question slips out raw. Honest. It hangs between you.

He exhales slow and won’t meet your eyes.

“… Because of you.”

Your heart stutters. “What?”

He finally looks at you.. and he looks scared, like this is worse than any battlefield confession.

“I thought…” He swallows. “I thought maybe if you saw me with someone else, you’d… I dunno… react.”

You just stare.

“I thought maybe you’d get jealous,” he says softly. “Maybe you’d finally see me.”

The world tilts. You shake your head to clear it.

“I’m tired, mesh’la,” he says, voice rough. “Tired of pretending I’m cool just being your friend. Tired of watching you smile at everyone like they get the same version of you I do.”

You can’t breathe.

“I figured… maybe if you thought I was moving on, you’d stop me.”

He laughs once, bitter at himself. “Real smart plan, huh?”

“You brought her… to our place,” you whisper.

“I know.”

“That café…”

“I know,” he says again, sharper. “Stars, I know. The second I said it out loud tonight I wanted to punch myself.”

His hands flex at his sides.

“I was being petty. Stupid. I just… I didn’t know what else to do.”

You feel like your heart’s cracking open.

“All this time,” he says quietly, “I’m thinking maybe you don’t want me like that. Maybe I’m just your vod. So I tried to prove I didn’t care. I laughed you off the other night, when all I could think about was kissing you minutes earlier.”

He laughs weakly. Your eyes burn again.

“You’re such an idiot,” you whisper.

“I know.”

“You absolute, kriffing idiot.”

“I know.”

“You brought a girl you didn’t even like just to make me jealous?” You shove his shoulder.

“Do you have any idea how much that hurt?” You ask quietly.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “I saw your face. Felt like I got shot.”

Your voice wobbles.

“She was in there calling you stupid. Saying you’re replaceable. Laughing at you.”

His brow furrows. “She…”

“You deserve someone who actually sees you,” you say.

His eyes lock on yours.

“I only ever wanted that to be you.” He says.

You gaze up into his eyes, and see stars there. You look down at his mouth. You lean forward. 

Stars. Sparks. Everything you’ve ever wanted. 

You kiss. Lips melding, hands reaching.

You wince as the split in your lip reopens, you laugh lightly as you pull back. 

“My girl.” He  says, hand brushing the blood from your lip, hand tangling in your hair. 

His girl. 

Always.

---

"I could go and read your mind Think about your dumb face all the time Living in your glass house, I'm outside, uh Looking into big blue eyes Did it just to hurt me and make me cry Smiling through it all, yeah, that's my life

You're an idiot, now I'm sure Now I'm positive I should go and warn her

I'll put up a fight, taking out my earrings Don't you know the vibe? Don't you know the feeling? You should spend the night, catch me on your ceiling That's your prize, that's your price, well"

Thanks for reading! Please check out my story "Ruin the Friendship" Linked here: