The paperwork stretched across your desk like a battlefield. Senator Orn Free Taa had a talent for generating documents, a skill that apparently required no actual presence to maintain. You'd been at it for three hours already, your wrist cramping from the endless forms and requisitions and diplomatic correspondence that needed his signature before the end of the week.

He'd left you with a stack of datapads and a vague promise to return within the hour. That was four hours ago.

You didn't bother wondering where he'd gone. The senator had a habit of disappearing into the lower levels of the compound, usually emerging with a grin on his face and some new scheme in his head that would inevitably require your cleanup. You'd learned to stop asking questions. The answers were never worth the frustration.

The door to your office slid open without a knock. Howzer stood there, his chest plate slightly askew, a sheen of sweat across his brow. His eyes were wide, scanning the room before they landed on you.

"He's gone."

You set down your stylus. "Gone where?"

"I don't know." He stepped inside, running a hand through his dark hair. "I turned my back for maybe two minutes. He said he needed to use the refresher. When I checked on him, he wasn't there. The window was open."

You blinked. "The window. On the third floor."

"That's what I said." Howzer's jaw tightened. "I searched the immediate area. The maintenance tunnels. Nothing. I've been looking for nearly an hour before I came here."

An hour. That was worse than you'd thought. The compound was large, full of corridors and storage rooms and empty offices that the senator could wander into. But this wasn't the first time he'd pulled a vanishing act, and you'd developed a sense for where he tended to end up.

You stood, grabbing your personal comm from the desk. "Did you check the eastern wing?"

"The one with the diplomatic quarters?"

"That's where the visiting delegates are staying this week." You walked past him into the hallway. "He's been complaining about the lack of entertainment options. The delegates brought their own staff."

Howzer fell into step beside you. His boots echoed against the stone floor while your own steps made barely a whisper. "You think he'd risk diplomatic trouble for that?"

"I think he'd risk anything for a distraction." You turned left at the junction, heading toward the eastern wing. "He's bored. Boredom makes him stupid. We've been here three weeks without any real excitement. He's probably crawling out of his skin."

The corridors grew dimmer as you moved away from the main hub. The lighting in this section was always inconsistent, a quirk of the compound's outdated power grid. Shadows pooled in the corners, stretching across the walls as you passed.

Howzer stayed close. You could feel his presence behind you, a solid warmth at your back. He'd been that way since the beginning, always positioning himself between you and any potential danger. You never asked him to. He just did it, like it was instinct.

"Do you have any idea where he'd go specifically?" he asked.

"Guest quarters. Room 47 through 52. Those are the ones with the private sitting areas."

"You've thought about this before."

"I've had to find him before." You picked up the pace. "Last time it was a supply closet. The time before that, the communications tower. He's not creative, just persistent."

The eastern wing opened up into a wider hallway lined with doors. Each one was identical, unmarked except for a small number plate near the top. You moved past them quickly, checking for any signs of disturbance.

Room 47 was quiet. Room 48 the same. At 49, you heard something. A muffled sound, barely audible over the humming of the compound's ventilation system.

You stopped. Howzer stopped behind you.

"Did you hear that?" you whispered.

He nodded. His hand drifted toward his blaster, though he didn't draw it. "Stay behind me."

You didn't argue. He moved forward, positioning himself in front of you as he approached the door. The sound came again, clearer this time. A soft thump. Then a giggle.

Howzer exchanged a glance with you. He pressed the door release.

Nothing happened. The door was locked.

"Senator?" he called out. "Are you in there?"

Silence. Then another muffled sound, like someone trying very hard not to make noise and failing.

Howzer sighed. He looked at you, and you could see the exhaustion in his eyes. This was the part of the job neither of you had signed up for. Babysitting a politician who had no sense of self-preservation.

"Override code," he said. "I have clearance for emergencies."

The door clicked open. He pushed it forward, and the light from the hallway spilled into the room.

It was a closet. A small storage room, barely big enough for the two figures pressed together inside. The senator was there, his bulk wedged against a shelf, his robes disheveled. And next to him, a Twi'lek woman with her headtails pulled back and her shirt half-unbuttoned.

They froze. You froze. Howzer froze.

The Twi'lek made a sound of embarrassment, pulling her shirt closed. The senator tried to stand up straight, bumping his head against a shelf in the process.

"Ah," he said. His voice was strained. "My assistant. And my guard. What a delightful surprise."

Howzer didn't respond. He just stared, his face unreadable.

You grabbed his arm. "We should go."

He didn't move. He was still staring at the scene in front of him, his mouth slightly open.

"Now," you said, pulling harder.

He stumbled backward, following you as you turned and walked away. You didn't stop until you reached the end of the hallway, where it branched off into a small sitting area. A couch sat against the wall, next to an empty table.

You stopped. Howzer stopped next to you. For a moment, neither of you said anything.

Then you started laughing.

It came out of nowhere, a burst of sound that surprised even you. You couldn't help it. The image of the senator, caught in the act, his face red and flustered. The way he'd tried to pretend like nothing was happening. The sheer absurdity of it all.

Howzer stared at you. Then his face cracked, and he started laughing too. A deep, genuine laugh that shook his shoulders and made his eyes crinkle at the corners.

"I can't believe it," he said, between breaths. "I searched for an hour. I thought he'd been kidnapped."

"Kidnapped." You wiped at your eyes. "He was getting kidnapped alright."

"By a Twi'lek."

"By a very attractive Twi'lek."

Howzer laughed harder. He leaned against the wall, pressing a hand to his chest. "I was so worried. I thought something terrible had happened. I thought—" He shook his head. "I don't even know what I thought."

You sat down on the couch, still chuckling. "That's the senator for you. No danger too great, no risk too small."

"He's going to give me grey hair." Howzer sat down next to you, close enough that his arm brushed against yours.

"You're not supposed to have to rescue your charge from a closet either."

"True." He let out a long breath. "That's something I definitely wasn't trained for."

The laughter subsided, replaced by a comfortable silence. The sitting area was dim, lit only by a single overhead light that cast long shadows across the floor.

You looked at Howzer. He was staring at the wall, his expression distant. His hands rested on his knees, fingers tapping a slow rhythm against his armor.

"What are you thinking about?" you asked.

He hesitated. "Nothing. Just—" He shook his head. "That was the first time I've ever seen something like that."

"Like what?"

"Two people. Together." He seemed to struggle with the words. "I mean, I know it happens. I know how it works. But I've never actually... seen it. Not even on holoprograms."

You looked at him, surprised. "Never?"

"Clones aren't exactly raised with access to that kind of thing." He spoke carefully, each word measured. "We have training modules and combat simulations. We have basic biological education. But nothing like... what we just walked in on."

"Howzer." You shifted to face him. "Are you saying you've never...?"

He met your eyes. His cheeks were darker than usual. "I'm a soldier. That's all I was made to be."

The words hung between you. A confession, delivered quietly, almost shyly. This was the same man who'd thrown himself into firefights without hesitation, who'd stared down armed assailants without flinching. And now he was blushing in a dim sitting room, admitting something he clearly found embarrassing.

You felt your own cheeks warm. "There's nothing wrong with that."

"I know." He didn't sound like he believed it. "It's just... strange. Thinking about what I've missed."

"Have you ever wanted to?"

He was quiet for a moment. "I didn't think about it much. There was always the next mission. The next battle. You don't stop to consider things like that when you might not be alive tomorrow."

"But you're alive now."

"I'm alive now." He turned to look at you fully. His eyes were dark in the low light, searching yours. "What are you suggesting?"

You weren't sure. The words had come out before you'd thought them through, and now you were sitting here, heart pounding, saying things you hadn't planned to say. But something about the moment felt right. The quiet. The closeness. The way he looked at you like you were the only thing in the room worth seeing.

"I could be your first time."

The words left your mouth before you could stop them. You felt your face go hot, a flush spreading down your neck.

Howzer's eyes widened. He didn't move. Didn't speak. Just stared at you, his breath catching in his throat.

"I mean," you said, suddenly flustered, "if you wanted. Only if you wanted. I just thought, maybe, since we're here, and we're alone, and—"

"Yes."

The word came out rough. He cleared his throat. "Yes. I want that."

You swallowed. Your heart was beating so hard you could feel it in your fingers. "Okay."

"Okay." He repeated the word like he was testing it. "Okay. How do we—"

"Like this." You reached out, placing your hand on his cheek. His skin was warm, rougher than you'd expected, the beginnings of stubble scratching against your palm. "Just like this."

You leaned in. Your lips met his.

The kiss was soft at first, tentative. He didn't seem to know what to do, his mouth pressed against yours, unmoving. You guided him, tilting your head, parting your lips slightly. After a moment, he responded, his hand coming up to rest on your waist.

You deepened the kiss. His mouth opened, and you felt the heat of his tongue against yours. He made a sound, low and surprised, his fingers tightening on your hip.

You pulled back, just enough to look at him. His eyes were glazed, his breathing uneven.

"Was that okay?" you asked.

He nodded. "More than okay."

You kissed him again. This time he was more confident, his hand moving from your waist to your back, pulling you closer. You shifted on the couch, turning to face him properly, your knees brushing against his armored legs.

You broke the kiss long enough to say, "You can touch me."

"I don't know where."

"Wherever feels right."

He hesitated. Then his hand moved, slowly, from your back to your side. He traced the curve of your ribs through your dress, his fingers trembling slightly. He stopped at the swell of your breast, his palm hovering over the fabric.

"Here?" he asked.

You nodded. "Go ahead."

He cupped you gently, his thumb brushing over the fabric. You gasped at the contact. He removed his hand immediately, looking at you with concern.

"Did I hurt you?"

"No." You took his hand and placed it back. "It felt good. Keep going."

He did. His fingers moved more confidently now, exploring the shape of you through the fabric. He found your nipple and pressed, watching your face for any sign of discomfort. You arched into his touch, encouraging him.

He groaned. It was a sound of pure pleasure, deep and rough. He pressed his forehead against yours, his breath hot on your skin.

"This feels good," he murmured.

"Then keep going."

He did. His hand moved from your chest to your shoulder, pushing the strap of your dress down. He followed the path of fabric with his mouth, kissing the exposed skin of your collarbone.

You shivered. His lips were warm, slightly chapped, tracing a line down your shoulder. He paused at the edge of your dress, looking up at you.

"Can I—"

"Take it off?"

He nodded and you reached behind you, unzipping the dress. It fell forward, pooling around your waist. You were left in your underwear, the dim light of the room casting shadows across your skin.

Howzer stared. His eyes traveled down your body, lingering on the curve of your breasts, the line of your stomach. He swallowed.

"You're beautiful," he said.

You felt heat rise to your cheeks. "Thank you."

He leaned forward, pressing his lips to the top of your chest. Then lower, following the path his hands had traced earlier. He found your nipple through the thin fabric of your bra, his tongue circling it slowly.

You moaned, your fingers finding their way into his hair. It was softer than you'd expected, the dark strands slipping between your fingers as he continued his exploration.

He pulled the fabric down, exposing your breast fully. He didn't hesitate. His mouth closed around you, his tongue working in careful strokes.

"Does it taste good?" you asked, your voice breathy.

He pulled back for a moment. "You taste good. All of you."

He returned to his work, his mouth moving from one breast to the other. His hips shifted, pressing against your thigh, and you felt the hard line of him through his blacks.

You reached down, your fingers brushing against the bulge. He gasped, his whole body tensing.

"Sorry," you said. "Too much?"

"No." He shook his head. "Just unexpected."

You smiled. You pressed your palm against him more firmly, feeling the heat of him through the fabric. He groaned, his hips bucking involuntarily.

"Can I—" His voice cracked. "Can I touch you? There?"

"You can touch me anywhere you want."

His hand moved to the waistband of your underwear. He paused, looking at you for confirmation. You nodded.

He slid the fabric down, his fingers following the curve of your hip. He was careful, almost reverent, like he was handling something precious. When the fabric fell away, he sat back, looking at you fully naked.

"I want to see you too," you said.

He stood, his hands moving to the seals on his blacks. He fumbled with them, his fingers clumsy. You stood with him, gently pushing his hands aside.

"Let me."

You worked the seals yourself, pulling the fabric apart. His chest was bare underneath, broad and muscled, covered in a thin layer of hair. You traced your fingers along the lines of his pectorals, down his stomach, stopping at the waistband of his leggings.

He held his breath as you pushed the fabric down. His length sprang free, hard and already slick at the tip. You wrapped your fingers around him, feeling the weight of him in your hand.

He groaned, his head falling back. "That feels..."

"Good?"

"Amazing."

You stroked him slowly, watching his face. His eyes were closed, his lips parted, his breathing ragged. He looked undone, completely vulnerable in a way you'd never seen him.

He opened his eyes. "I want to be inside you." You nodded.

He guided you back to the couch. You lay down, and he positioned himself above you, his body blocking out the light. He looked down at you, something soft and wondering in his gaze.

"How do I—"

"Just guide yourself in." You reached down, helping him align. "Slowly."

He pushed forward, and you felt the head of him press against you. He paused, looking at you for confirmation. You nodded.

He entered you slowly. The sensation was overwhelming, the stretch of him filling you completely. You let out a sound, half-moan, half-gasp.

He stopped halfway. "Did I hurt you?"

"No." You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him deeper. "It feels good. Keep going."

He did. He pushed all the way in, his hips flush against yours. He stayed there for a moment, both of you breathing hard, adjusting to the sensation.

"You feel incredible," he whispered.

"So do you."

He started moving. Slowly at first, experimental thrusts that made him groan with each one. He watched your face, studying your reactions, learning what made you gasp and what made you sigh.

"Like that," you said. "Just like that."

He found a rhythm, his hips rocking against yours. His hand found yours, fingers lacing together, pressing into the cushion beside your head.

He was close. You could feel it in the way his movements became less controlled, in the way his breath came in short, desperate gasps.

"I'm going to—" He tried to pull out. You stopped him.

"Inside. It's okay."

He groaned. His hips stuttered, and you felt him release, a warmth spreading inside you. He collapsed against you, his face buried in your neck, his whole body shaking.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice muffled. "I couldn't hold it."

"Don't apologize." You ran your fingers through his hair. "That was perfect."

He lifted his head, looking at you with an expression you couldn't quite read. "I'm glad it was with you. My first time."

"How was it?" you asked.

He laughed softly. "It was maybe not a good idea."

You blinked. "Why?"

He stood in the doorway, backlit by the dim hallway lights. His blacks clung to him like a second skin, and the holocamera in his hand caught the faint glow from the barracks.

You sat up, heart still racing from the sound that woke you. "You came here."

"Couldn't wait." He said it simply, like it was the most natural thing in the world. "My bunk, your bunk. Same, no difference."

It wasn't the same difference. You told him to meet you at his bunk. He was the one who suggested it, clearly wanting to control the situation. But now he stood at your door, unable to wait even a few more hours. That meant something. You weren't sure what exactly, but it pulled at something in your chest.

Fives stepped inside, moving quietly despite his size. The barracks were dark, most of the troopers already asleep.

He stopped beside your mattress, looking down at you with an expression you couldn't quite read. The playful confidence from earlier had softened into something more serious.

"I meant what I said." His voice came low, barely above a whisper. "You're the most precious person I have."

Your throat tightened. "You said that earlier."

"I know." He set the holocamera on your footlocker. "I wanted to say it again. In case you thought I was just trying to smooth things over."

You hadn't thought that. But hearing it again made it real in a way it wasn't before. He could have shown up with a joke, deflected with humor like he always did. Instead he stood there, serious and open, waiting for you to say something.

You reached for him.

He came down to you, one knee on the mattress, hands finding your waist. The kiss started gentle, almost tentative, like he was still testing whether this was real. Then your fingers tangled in his hair, and he pulled you closer, deeper.

"I've wanted this," he murmured against your mouth. "For a while now."

"Me too."

His hands moved up your back, warm through the thin fabric of your sleep shirt. You tugged at the hem of his blacks, wanting to feel skin. He helped you pull it over his head, breaking the kiss just long enough to get the fabric past his shoulders.

The scar along his ribs caught the faint light. You traced it with your fingers, felt him shiver under your touch.

"Battle of Ryloth," he said. "Shrapnel."

"Does it hurt?"

"Not anymore." He caught your hand, brought it to his lips. "Not when you touch it."

You pulled him back down, kissing him harder this time. His weight pressed you into the mattress, solid and warm. Your hands explored his chest, his shoulders, the curve of his spine. He groaned softly when you scraped your nails down his back.

"Wait." He pulled back, breath uneven. "You wanted a picture, right?"

Your mind was hazy, full of him. "What?"

He grinned, that familiar mischievous light returning to his eyes. "You stole my picture of you. I offered you a trade. Remember?"

You remembered. You just hadn't expected him to bring it up now, in the middle of everything.

"You're serious?"

"Always." He sat up, reaching for the holocamera. "I promised you a picture. I'm a man of my word."

He stood by the foot of the bed, naked now, the dim light carving shadows across his body. He struck a pose, flexing his arms, chest puffed out. The grin on his face was pure showmanship.

"Go ahead." He winked. "Capture the moment."

You grabbed the holocamera, fingers fumbling slightly with the unfamiliar controls. The device was old, manual, nothing like the sleek holorecorders the army issued. You aimed it at him, trying to find the right angle.

"Hold still."

"I'm always still."

You pressed the button. The flash illuminated the room for a split second, followed by the soft whir of the picture printing. The flimsi slid out of the slot, pale and developing slowly in the darkness.

He flopped back onto the bed, landing beside you. "See? Worth keeping under your pillow."

"It's still developing."

"Give it time." He rolled onto his side, facing you. "Good things take time."

You set the picture aside, still dark, and turned to him. The humor faded from his face, replaced by something quieter. He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek.

"Come here."

You went. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you close until there was no space left between you. His skin was warm against yours, heartbeat steady against your chest.

"Tell me if you want to stop," he said. "At any point. I mean it."

"I know."

He kissed you again, slower this time. His hands moved with deliberate care, learning the shape of you. When you guided him closer, he followed without hesitation.

The world narrowed to the space between you—his breath against your neck, the scrape of his stubble on your shoulder, the way he whispered your name like it mattered. Each touch built on the last, steady and patient. He took his time, letting you set the pace, watching your face for any sign of hesitation.

You didn't hesitate. Not once.

When he finally pushed into you, slow and deliberate, his forehead pressed to yours. He kept his eyes open, watching your face as he filled you inch by inch. The sensation was overwhelming—the stretch, the heat, the way he seemed to reach so deep inside you. You gasped, your fingers digging into his shoulders.

He stilled. "Okay?"

"Yes. Don't stop."

He began to move, a slow, deep rhythm that had your breath catching with each thrust. You could feel every inch of him, the way his cock slid against your walls, the fullness that left you speechless. He groaned low in his throat, his pace steady and patient.

"You feel so good." His voice cracked. "So good. I—"

He didn't finish. Didn't need to. You pulled him closer, legs wrapping around his waist, urging him deeper. The rhythm built, faster now, the room filling with the sound of your shared breaths. His movements grew less controlled, more urgent, the earlier patience giving way to raw need. Each thrust sent sparks through you, and you could feel yourself tightening around him.

He was sloppy now, his rhythm faltering as he got lost in the feeling. The words he spoke came broken, whispered against your skin—how long he'd wanted this, how many times he'd imagined it, how he never thought it would actually happen. Each confession made your chest ache, but you held him through it, your fingers tracing patterns on his back.

"Where do you want it?" he panted against your ear. "Tell me."

"Inside." You gripped his arms, pulling him closer. "I want it inside."

He drove into you once, hard, and came with a shudder, filling you with his first release. But he didn't stop—he kept moving, kept thrusting even as your walls clenched around him. A second surge followed, spilling into you again, hotter and deeper. You were trembling, overwhelmed by the fullness. A third time, and he finally stilled, his body pressed fully against yours, his breath ragged against your neck. You could feel him still pulsing, the warmth spreading inside you, filling you to the brim.

You collapsed against him, breathless and trembling. His arms stayed wrapped around you, holding you close like he was afraid you'd disappear.

When it ended, you collapsed against him, breathless and trembling. His arms stayed wrapped around you, holding you close like he was afraid you'd disappear.

"Stay," he whispered. "Just... stay."

"I'm not going anywhere."

He pressed a kiss to your forehead, then settled back against the pillow. One hand found your hair, fingers threading through the strands with gentle repetition. The motion was soothing, rhythmic, pulling you toward sleep.

Your eyes grew heavy. The warmth of his body, the steady beat of his heart under your ear, the soft caress of his hand—it all blurred together into a haze of comfort.

You were almost asleep when you heard it.

A soft click. A flash of light, brief enough that it barely registered through your closed eyelids.

You stirred, blinking. "What—"

Fives was grinning, holocamera in hand, a fresh picture sliding out of the slot. "Compensation."

"For what?"

"For stealing my picture of you." He held up the developing flimsi, still dark. "Now we're even."

"You took a picture of me sleeping?"

"Of you falling asleep." He looked at the picture, then at you. "I wanted to remember this."

Your face heated. "That's not fair. I was—"

"Perfect." He set the camera aside, pulling you back against his chest. "You were perfect."

You wanted to argue, but the exhaustion pulled at you again. His hand resumed its gentle stroking through your hair, and your eyes drifted shut despite your best efforts.

"I'll show it to you tomorrow," he murmured. "When it's fully developed."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

The word hung in the air, soft and warm. You felt his lips press against your hair one more time, felt his arm tighten around you, felt the steady rhythm of his breathing slow as he relaxed into sleep.

The barracks smelled like sweat and cleaning solvent, the familiar mixture that clung to every surface after a mission. You dropped your gear by your bunk and stretched your shoulders, still feeling the tension from the last forty-eight hours. The door to the refresher was closed, water running inside, which meant someone was still washing off the grime.

Fives' helmet sat on his bunk, abandoned like he'd just tossed it there without thinking. You'd seen him do that a hundred times already, always in a rush to get to something else. But today something caught your eye—a small piece of flimsi tucked inside the visor, held in place by the padding.

You glanced toward the refresher door. Still closed. Still running.

The picture was small, creased at the edges like someone had handled it too many times. You picked up the helmet, telling yourself you were just curious about what he kept in there. Maybe a holo of his batchmates. Maybe some kind of lucky charm.

It was you.

Your own face stared back from the flimsi, caught mid-laugh during some briefing you barely remembered. You were looking off to the side, hair messy from a long day, something amused on your face that you couldn't even recall feeling. The picture wasn't anything special. It wasn't posed or flattering. It was just you, existing.

He kept a picture of you in his helmet.

Your face went warm, then hotter. You set the helmet down carefully, expecting someone to walk in any second and catch you red-handed. But the barracks stayed empty. Just you and this impossible discovery.

Fives flirted with everyone. That was just who he was. He'd charm a droid if it stood still long enough. You'd watched him work his way through supply officers, medics, even that Twi'lek diplomat who visited last month. He treated flirting like breathing, automatic and constant.

So this picture didn't mean anything special. Probably. It could be a friendly thing. He kept pictures of all his squadmates, right? Echo was probably in there somewhere too, tucked away in another crevice.

But you knew that wasn't true. You'd seen inside his helmet before, glanced at it when he left it lying around. There was never a picture before. This was new.

The refresher door creaked. Water stopped running.

You made a decision quick, before your brain could talk you out of it. Your fingers slipped the picture into your pocket, smooth and fast. Then you stepped back to your bunk, grabbing a datapad off your pillow like you'd been reading it the whole time.

Fives came out with a towel around his waist, hair dripping water down his chest. He nodded at you, easy and relaxed.

"Long mission," he said.

"Long enough."

He didn't notice. He picked up his helmet, gave it a casual glance, then set it on his footlocker. No panic. No checking for the picture. He just pulled on a fresh undersuit and started lacing his boots like nothing had happened.

You sat on your bunk, datapad in hand, not reading a single word.

The shared restroom was loud when you got there. Troopers crowded around the sinks and mirrors, some still in armor, others already stripped down to their blacks. Steam rose from the open showers, voices bouncing off the duracrete walls.

Fives stood near the far wall, arms crossed, jaw tight. He looked like he'd been like that for a while already.

"Where is it?" His voice cut through the noise, sharp enough to make a few conversations pause. "I'm not asking again."

Echo stood across from him, hands raised in a placating gesture. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"The picture. Someone took it from my helmet while I was in the shower."

The room went quieter. You felt your stomach drop somewhere down to your boots.

"Why would I take a picture from your helmet?" Echo sounded genuinely confused, which made it worse. He wasn't faking. "What picture?"

"That's what I'd like to know." Fives stepped closer, shoulders squared. "Only someone in this room would have access to my bunk while I was gone. So whoever has it, now's the time to speak up."

Nobody spoke. You pressed your back against the wall, heart hammering.

"I'm not going to let this go." Fives' voice went lower, more dangerous. "That picture was important to me, and I want it back. If I have to search every locker in this room, I will."

Echo's expression shifted from confusion to frustration. "You're accusing me of stealing from you? I'm your brother."

"I'm not accusing anyone specifically. But I'm not dropping this either."

The tension in the room felt physical, like you could reach out and touch it. Troopers exchanged glances, uncomfortable and uncertain. Most of them had never seen Fives like this, usually easygoing and cracking jokes even in the middle of firefights.

You pushed off the wall and walked toward them, trying to keep your steps steady. Echo noticed you first, relief flickering across his face like he was grateful for an interruption.

"Hey," you said, keeping your voice light. "What's going on?"

Fives didn't look at you. "Nothing you need to worry about."

"Someone took something from him." Echo shrugged. "He thinks it was me."

"I didn't say it was you. I said—"

"I took it."

The words came out before you could stop them. Fives finally turned, his eyes narrowing. Confusion replaced some of the anger.

"You what?"

"Your picture." You reached into your pocket and pulled it out, the flimsi still warm from being pressed against your thigh. "I took it from your helmet earlier. I was curious."

The restroom went dead silent. Even the water from the showers seemed quieter.

Fives stared at the picture in your hand, then at your face, then back at the picture. A flush crept up his neck, spreading toward his cheeks. You'd never seen him embarrassed before, not once, but he looked it now, caught and exposed.

"Why?" His voice came out rougher than before.

"Because it was me." You held the picture out to him. "I saw it and I wanted to know what you'd do. If you'd notice."

He took the picture, fingers brushing yours for just a second. Then he looked at it, the image of you caught mid-laugh, and something in his face softened.

"Of course I'd notice." He said it quiet, almost to himself. "I always notice when something's missing."

The room still watched. You felt their eyes on both of you, putting pieces together that you weren't ready to acknowledge. Echo cleared his throat, then turned and walked away, signaling for the others to give space. They dispersed slowly, conversations restarting in hushed tones.

Fives grabbed your elbow, gentle but firm. "Come here."

He pulled you out of the restroom and into the corridor, where the lighting was dimmer and the noise faded to a distant hum. He stopped near a supply closet, turning to face you with the picture still in his hand.

"You didn't have to do that," he said. "Admitting it in front of everyone."

"I couldn't let you blame Echo."

"You could have told me later. Privately."

"I wasn't thinking." You leaned against the wall, suddenly exhausted. "I just saw you getting angry and I didn't want it to go further."

He looked at the picture again, running his thumb along the edge. "You know why I keep this, right?"

You shook your head.

"Because you're one of the most important people in my life." He said it simply, like it was obvious, like it didn't make your heart stop. "You and Echo. You're the ones I trust most. When I'm out there, when things get bad, I look at this and I remember what I'm fighting for."

Your throat felt tight. "You keep a picture of me in your helmet to give you courage."

"Yeah." He laughed, self-conscious. "Sounds stupid when you say it out loud."

"It doesn't sound stupid."

He looked at you then, really looked, like he was seeing something new. The corridor was quiet, just the two of you standing close enough that you could feel the heat coming off his skin.

"You know," he said, a hint of his usual humor creeping back, "since you stole mine, I think you owe me a picture in exchange."

"Of what?"

He winked. The gesture was so familiar, so him, that you almost laughed. "Of me. A good one. Maybe something worth keeping under your pillow."

You felt your face go red. "You're suggesting—"

"I'm suggesting whatever you want me to suggest." He grinned, full charm now. "A picture of me. A nice one. Or not nice. Depending on your preferences."

The joke landed somewhere between embarrassing and thrilling. You should have laughed it off, called him ridiculous, walked away. That would have been the sensible thing.

"I want it," you said.

Fives' grin froze. His eyes went wide, genuine surprise replacing the performative confidence. "Wait. Really?"

"I said I want it."

He opened his mouth to respond, but before he could get the words out, a voice echoed from down the hall. "Fives! Command wants you in the briefing room, now!"

He looked toward the voice, then back at you. Something unreadable passed across his face. "I have to go."

"I know."

But he didn't move right away. He stood there, caught between duty and something else, before finally shaking his head like he was clearing it. "Tonight. After lights out. My bunk."

"Your bunk?"

"If you want the picture." The grin returned, softer this time. "I'll have something worth taking a picture of."

He walked away before you could respond, disappearing around the corner toward the briefing room. You stayed against the wall, heart pounding, the picture of yourself still warm where it rested in your palm.

You'd stolen his picture to see what he'd do.

You hadn't expected this.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. You went through your duties mechanically, logging mission data and updating cartography files, but your mind kept drifting back to the corridor. To the look on his face when he said you were one of the most important people in his life. To the way he winked when he offered you a picture. To the fact that you said yes.

The barracks felt different when you returned that evening. The lights were dimmed, most of the bunks occupied with troopers settling in for the night. Echo was already asleep by the door, his breathing steady and deep. A few others murmured quietly, but the room had that heavy, drowsy atmosphere that came after a long day.

Fives' bunk was empty.

You lay down on your own mattress, staring at the ceiling, trying to convince yourself that he'd forgotten. That the briefing ran long, that he'd been pulled into something else. That you could just close your eyes and let this whole thing fade into an awkward memory.

But you didn't close your eyes. You lay there, listening, waiting.

The faint sound came near midnight. A soft tap against the doorframe, barely audible over the hum of the ventilation system. You sat up, heart already racing.

Fives stood in the doorway, backlit by the dim hallway lights. He wore only his blacks, the thin fabric clinging to his frame. In his hand, he held something small and rectangular—a holocamera, old-fashioned, the kind that printed physical pictures.

He smiled, slow and lopsided.

You didn't sleep that night.

The cot felt too empty without him, and the ceiling offered no answers. You lay there, replaying the kiss, the way his hand had cradled your jaw, the sound he made when you touched his chest. Over and over, until the memory blurred into something you couldn't trust anymore.

Morning came anyway. You dragged yourself through the sonic shower, pulled on a clean coverall, and walked to the hangar.

The 501st was already moving. Clones in white and blue armor crossed the deck, carrying crates and checking equipment. The ship you'd repaired sat in the same spot, gleaming under the lights. A few troopers nodded at you as you passed, and you nodded back, trying to look normal. Trying to look like someone who hadn't spent the night thinking about their captain's mouth.

You found him near the port stabilizer, running a diagnostic on the panel you'd recalibrated. His helmet was on, which made him look taller. Made him look like every other clone.

"Captain."

He turned. The visor stared at you, expressionless. "Mechanic."

The word landed like a slap. Not your name. Not even your rank. Just "mechanic," like you were a tool in his inventory.

"I wanted to check on the ship," you said. "See if the new calibration held up overnight."

"She's fine. Good work."

He turned back to the panel. The dismissal was clear—sharp enough to cut. You stood there for a moment, waiting for something else. A glance. A crack in the armor. Nothing.

"Rex," you said, quieter.

He didn't respond. His fingers moved across the diagnostic screen, methodical and precise. A machine checking a machine.

You stepped closer, close enough that your voice wouldn't carry past his helmet. "What happened last night—"

"Was a mistake." He cut you off without looking up. "I was tired. It shouldn't have happened."

The words hit you in the chest. You'd expected something like this, prepared for it even, but hearing him say it felt different. Felt like walking into a wall.

"I understand," you said, and your voice came out steadier than you felt. "Duty comes first. I get it. But I'm not asking for a commitment. I'm asking if you felt—"

"I felt nothing."

He said it too fast. The words tripped over themselves, desperate to get out.

"Bullshit."

The visor finally turned toward you. You couldn't see his eyes, but you could feel his attention, sharp and heavy.

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me." You crossed your arms, planting your feet. "I was there, Captain. I felt what happened. You felt it too. Don't stand there in that bucket and lie to my face."

He straightened. The movement was slow, deliberate, like he was giving himself time to think. "It doesn't matter what I felt. I have responsibilities. A command. Men who rely on me."

"And what happens to them if you keep pretending you're not a person?"

The question hung in the air. He didn't answer.

"You're a clone," you continued, keeping your voice low. "I know that. You were grown for war. But you're also a man who flew a damaged starfighter through a Separatist blockade to save a transport full of refugees. I read the reports. I've read all of them." You paused, letting that sink in. "That wasn't duty. That was choice. You chose to save those people because you wanted to."

The silence stretched. A trooper walked past, carrying a hydrospanner, and nodded at Rex. Rex nodded back. The moment passed.

"Meet me tonight," you said. "One hour after last rotation. My quarters. We finish what we started."

"That's not—"

"I'm not asking for forever. I'm not asking you to change who you are." You held his gaze, even though you couldn't see his eyes. "I'm asking for one night. A single night where you're just a man, and I'm just a woman, and there's no war outside that door."

He looked at you for a long time. You could see his thought process now. The way he was weighing his options. The way he was drawing lines in his head. And you could see the moment he started crossing them.

"If anyone finds out—"

"They won't."

"I could lose everything."

"You could," you agreed. "But you could also have this. Just once."

His hand dropped from the diagnostic panel. He looked down at his own fingers, flexing them slowly, as if seeing them for the first time. These were the hands that gripped his blasters, that gave orders, that ended lives. He looked like he wondered what else they could do.

"I'll think about it." he said.

Then he walked away, his boots echoing against the hangar floor, and left you standing beside the ship.

The hours crawled by.

You spent them cleaning your quarters. Rearranging the shelf. Wiping down the sonic shower. You found yourself staring at the door more often than you should, imagining him walking through it.

You took the longest sonic shower of your life, scrubbing every inch of skin until it felt raw. You shaved everything, carefully, methodically. Your legs. Your arms. Places you'd never bothered with before. The razor moved across your skin and you thought about his hands, about where they would go and what they would find.

You dried off and stood in front of the small mirror. The woman looking back at you had tired eyes and slightly parted lips. She looked nervous. She looked hopeful. You hated that last part.

You dressed in something simple. A loose shirt, soft from washing. Thin pants. Nothing that suggested too much effort, but nothing that felt like armor either. You wanted him to see you. Not the mechanic, not the grease-stained woman who fixed ships in a backwater outpost. Just you.

You sat on the cot, waiting.

The knock finally came. Three quiet taps against the metal door. You crossed the room in three steps and pressed the release.

He stood in the corridor, out of armor for the first time, wearing only his blacks. The fabric clung to his frame, showing the contours of his shoulders and chest. His so short blond hair was damp, like he'd just showered too. He looked as nervous as you felt.

"Come in," you said.

He stepped inside. The door slid shut behind him with a soft hiss. The room felt smaller now, as if his presence pressed against the walls.

"Drink?" you asked, already reaching for the bottle.

"Yeah."

You poured two cups, handed him one. Your fingers brushed, and neither of you pulled away this time. You let the contact linger, a small act of defiance against everything he'd said earlier.

You sat on the cot, and he joined you. Same position as last night. Same tension, but different now. More deliberate. More chosen.

"I don't know how to do this," he admitted, staring into the cup. "This is not something—they didn't program me for this."

"Good. I don't want you programmed."

He took a long sip. You watched his throat move as he swallowed.

"I thought about you," you said. The words came out before you could stop them. The spotchka was warming your chest, loosening your tongue. "After you left. I thought about you constantly."

He looked at you. His eyes were darker than before, pupils blown wide. "I thought about you too."

"Since when?"

He set the cup down. "You want the truth?"

"Always."

"Since we first met." He ran a hand through his damp hair, not quite meeting your gaze. "Years ago, when I was deployed here the first time. You didn't notice me. You were working on a transport, and I just... watched. I thought, this is what I'm fighting for." He finally looked at you. "People like you. Real people. Not clones, not droids, not senators arguing about budgets. People who just live. I liked the thought that every battle we won meant you got to keep waking up in the morning."

You felt something crack open in your chest. "Rex—"

"Don't." He shook his head, self-deprecating. "I've been thinking about you for years without knowing your name. That was manageable. Now I know your name, and I know the way you look when you're focused on a ship, and I know the way you taste." His voice dropped. "It's not manageable anymore."

You set your cup aside and leaned in.

The kiss was different this time. Slower, more deliberate. He tasted like spotchka and something raw. His hand came up to cup the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair, and when he opened his mouth against yours, you felt his tongue slide across your lower lip.

You parted your lips for him. He deepened the kiss, and you let him, your own hands finding his chest, gripping the fabric of his blacks. He groaned into your mouth, and the sound sent heat pooling in your stomach.

Your hands wandered. They traced the curve of his shoulders, the hard planes of his chest, the ridges of scars beneath the fabric. His hands mirrored yours, sliding over your hips, gripping your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you.

He broke the kiss, breath ragged, and looked at you. "Tell me you want this."

"I want this."

"Tell me you're sure."

"I'm sure." You touched his cheek, felt the stubble rough against your palm. "I've never been more sure of anything."

He kissed you again, harder this time, and then he was pressing you back onto the cot. He moved carefully, mindful of his own strength, lowering himself over you like he was handling something precious. His weight settled against you, solid and warm, and you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer.

His mouth found your neck. He kissed the curve of it, the spot just below your ear, and you arched into him. His hands found the hem of your shirt, fingers sliding underneath, and you shivered at the contact.

"Too fast?" he asked, pulling back.

"Perfect pace," you said. "Keep going."

He pulled your shirt over your head. His eyes traveled down, taking in what he'd uncovered. He traced a line from your collarbone to your ribs, featherlight, and you felt the touch like an electric current.

"Beautiful," he murmured.

He leaned down and pressed his mouth to your sternum. Then lower. He kissed a path down your stomach, slow and reverent, until he reached the waistband of your pants.

"Can I—"

"Yes."

He pulled them off, along with everything underneath. The air hit your skin, cool, but his hands were warm where they touched your thighs. He spread them gently, and you felt exposed, vulnerable, and utterly seen.

He lowered his head.

His mouth pressed against you, and you gasped. His tongue moved slow, exploratory, learning the shape of you. He paid careful attention, tasting and circling, and when he found your clit, he lingered. He sucked gently, then harder, and you gripped the sheet beneath you, your breath catching.

"Does that feel good?" he asked, his voice muffled.

"Yes. Don't stop."

He didn't. He worked you with steady rhythm, alternating between his tongue and his lips, and you felt the pressure building low in your belly. Your hand found his head, threading through his hair, pressing him closer.

You came against his mouth with a sharp cry.

He stayed with you through it, gentle and patient, and when you finally relaxed, he lifted his head. His chin was wet. He looked satisfied.

You reached for him, pulling him up. You kissed him, tasting yourself on his lips. "I could return the favor," you said.

He shook his head. "I'd rather taste you again."

He moved lower. His mouth found your chest, kissing the curve of your breast, then the nipple. He sucked gently, and you felt the aftershocks of your climax ripple through you.

"I want you inside me," you said.

He paused. His eyes met yours. "You're sure?"

"I'm sure."

He kissed you soft, a contrast to everything his hands were doing. You helped him peel out of his blacks, your fingers working the fastenings. When he was bare above you, you looked at him.

He was beautiful. All hard lines and scars, muscles built for war. His cock stood erect, and you reached for it, wrapping your fingers around the base. He hissed through his teeth.

"How do you want me?" he asked.

"Like this. I want to see you."

He positioned himself above you, one hand braced beside your head. The other guided himself to your entrance. He pushed in slowly, so slowly you felt every inch, and you stretched around him, your body adjusting to his size.

He waited. He kissed your forehead, your cheek, your lips.

"Okay?" he asked.

"More."

He began to move. A steady rhythm, deep and deliberate. You matched him, your hips rising to meet his thrusts. The cot groaned beneath you, and you laughed breathlessly.

"Don't break the cot," you said.

He laughed too, the first time you'd heard him truly laugh, and the sound made your chest ache. "I'll try."

His pacing quickened. His breaths grew ragged, his movements less controlled. He was losing himself in you, and you wanted that, wanted him unguarded, wanted him selfish.

"Close," he said. "I'm close."

"Inside me. I'm on implant."

His eyes found yours. A flicker of something raw passed between you. He thrust a few more times, and then he stilled, his body tensing as he came inside you.

He stayed there, breathing hard, his forehead pressed to yours.

"I should have asked," he said, his voice rough. "Before I—I should have asked."

"I want it this way." You touched his cheek. "It's fine. I've got it handled."

He collapsed beside you, pulling you into his arms. The cot was barely wide enough for both of you, but you fit together, your back against his chest, his arm wrapped around your waist.

"There's no way this is a one-time thing," you said.

He kissed your shoulder. "Doesn't have to be."

"We'll find ways," you said. "Stolen moments. Quiet corners. You'll have to learn to be more careful."

"The Republic can lock me away for this."

"Worth it, though?" you asked.

He turned you in his arms, meeting your gaze. For a moment he didn't answer. Then he kissed you, long and deep.

"Worth it."

His wrist comm crackled.

"Captain." A voice, sharp and familiar. "I know you're there, and I know exactly where you are."

You both froze. The voice sounded too playful.

"That would be Jesse," Rex said, his voice flat.

"I'm not interrupting anything important, am I, sir? Because we've got an emergency briefing. Command wants all senior officers in fifteen minutes."

Rex pinched the bridge of his nose. "How much did you hear?"

"Enough to know you owe me a favor. Get down here, sir. I'll cover for you."

You could hear the smirk plastered on his face as the soldier was speaking. The comm clicked off.

Rex looked at you, his expression a mixture of regret and amusement. "I have to go."

"I know."

He kissed you. Hard. Then he was pulling on his blacks, his boots, moving with the efficiency of a soldier.

"Same time tomorrow?" you asked.

He paused at the door. "Same time tomorrow."