#clone smut

The cargo bay on the lower deck smelled like oil and recycled air. Crosshair stood near the center, a blaster rifle cradled in his arms, his posture slack but his eyes sharp.

He didn't greet you. Just pointed to a pile of equipment near the wall.

"Target practice first. Then we see if you're worth the effort."

The training began with the basics. How to hold the weapon. How to align the sights. Crosshair's instructions came clipped and precise, each one followed by a demonstration that seemed effortless in his hands. He made it look easy. Natural. Like the blaster was an extension of his body.

Then he handed it to you.

The weight was wrong. The grip sat awkwardly in your palm, and the barrel kept dipping toward the floor. You adjusted your stance the way he'd shown, but your arms already ached from holding the thing up.

"You're thinking too much," Crosshair said. "A blaster doesn't care about your thoughts. Just pull the trigger."

You lined up the sight with the first target. A simple circle painted on a durasteel sheet. You fired.

The shot went wide. Hit the wall three feet to the left.

"Again."

You fired again. Closer this time, but still missing.

"Again."

The cycle continued. Reload. Aim. Fire. Miss. Crosshair corrected your grip. Adjusted your stance. Made you do it over and over until your shoulders screamed and your fingers felt numb.

After what felt like hours, you landed a shot on the edge of the target. Not center. Not even close to center. But it hit the circle.

Crosshair grunted. Said nothing.

Then he activated the moving targets.

Small disks that zipped across the bay on wires, unpredictable and fast. You missed the first fifteen. Then twenty. Your frustration built with each failed shot, a hot knot in your chest that made your hands shake.

"Breathe," Crosshair said. "You're choking the trigger."

You exhaled. Slowed down. Waited for the next disk.

It shot across the bay, and you tracked it with the barrel. You squeezed the trigger, smooth and steady.

The disk exploded into sparks.

Crosshair's expression didn't change. But he nodded once. A tiny motion. Almost imperceptible.

"Better."

You lowered the blaster, your arms trembling. Sweat soaked through your shirt. Your lungs burned from holding your breath.

From the doorway, someone clapped slowly.

Hunter leaned against the frame, his arms crossed. He'd been watching. You hadn't noticed when he arrived.

He didn't say anything. Just held your gaze for a moment, something warm flickering behind his eyes. Then he turned and walked away.

You made it to your bunk on autopilot.

Your legs gave out halfway through the door. You collapsed onto the mattress, face-first, not bothering to remove your boots. Every muscle in your body had turned to something between jelly and stone. Your trigger finger throbbed. Your shoulder felt like someone had driven a spike through it.

A soft knock.

"Come in."

The door slid open, and Hunter stepped inside. He sat on the edge of the bunk, the mattress dipping under his weight. For a long moment, he just looked at you.

"You did good," he said.

You groaned into the pillow. "I missed twenty shots."

"You hit the last one. The moving one. That's what matters."

You rolled onto your side to look at him. The light from the corridor caught the lines of his face, softening them.

"Crosshair is hard on everyone," Hunter said. "He's been like that since we were cadets. It's not personal."

"It feels personal."

"It might be. A little." He shrugged. "But that's his way of testing you. If he didn't think you could handle it, he wouldn't waste his time."

You let that settle. It didn't make the soreness go away, but it helped. A little.

Hunter shifted closer. "He's my brother. I share everything with him, without hesitation. If he thinks this training method is the best, I won't stop him."

"I know."

"But..." He paused. "I can still massage your soreness. If you want."

You couldn't help it. You smiled, pushing playfully at his elbow. "You're ridiculous."

He caught your hand, his fingers warm around yours. "I'm offering a legitimate medical service."

"Very legitimate."

He leaned down and kissed you. Soft at first, then deeper. His lips moved against yours with a familiarity that made your chest ache. You remembered everything. His weight on top of you. His breath in your ear. The way he'd said your name like it meant something.

The kiss ended too soon.

He pulled back, his eyes dark, his thumb tracing your jaw. "Get some rest. You'll need it tomorrow."

He stood and walked to the door. It slid open, and he stepped through.

The door closed.

You lay there, your lips still tingling, your heart still hammering. You pressed your fingers to your mouth and smiled. Then the door slid open again.

Crosshair walked in without knocking.

You sat up, startled. "A knock would be welcome."

"I don't do that." He crossed to the foot of your bunk and dropped a rifle on the mattress. It was smaller than the one he'd given you earlier. Sleeker. A carbine of some kind. Then he tossed a single ration bar next to it.

"Tonight, both of us are going on a mission."

You stared at the rifle. Then at him. "What kind of mission?"

"You'll find out when we get there."

"That's not helpful."

"It's not meant to be." He turned toward the door, then paused. "Might want to say goodbye to Hunter's bed tonight. You won't be in it."

Your face went red. Blazing, blistering red. You could feel the heat spread from your cheeks down your neck.

Crosshair's expression stayed flat. But something shifted at the corner of his mouth. The barest hint of a grin. Almost hidden.

He left without another word and you sat there, your heart pounding, your face on fire. The grin. You'd seen it. Just for a second. And it made you feel warmer than you expected.

The shared living space hummed with the sound of a holoprogram. Wrecker sat on the sofa, his massive frame taking up two-thirds of it. Omega was curled beside him, her head resting on his bicep.

On the screen, a sitcom played. Two characters argued about something involving a misplaced shipment of cleaning supplies. The dialogue was cheesy. The laugh track was canned.

You settled onto the empty cushion next to Wrecker, keeping a respectable distance.

Wrecker's laugh boomed through the room when one of the characters slipped on a wet floor. The sofa trembled under you. Omega giggled, her small shoulders shaking.

The show continued. The character tried to explain what happened to his boss, his excuses growing more absurd with each line. You found yourself grinning despite the exhaustion pulling at your bones.

Omega shifted, curling closer to Wrecker. Her eyes drooped.

Then Wrecker's arm came around you.

It was casual. Natural. He pulled you against his side, his hand resting on your far hip, tucking you into the space beside him. His body was solid. Hard muscle under soft fabric. He radiated heat like a furnace.

You tensed for a moment, unsure. But he didn't seem to notice. He just kept watching the show, laughing when the joke landed, his arm heavy and warm around you.

You tried not to think about it. About the way his bicep pressed against your shoulder. About how easily he'd pulled you close. About how comfortable you were, pressed between him and Omega.

The show ended. Another one started. Something about a family trying to run a diner in the Outer Rim.

You blinked. Your eyelids felt heavy. The warmth of Wrecker's body, the steady rhythm of Omega's breathing, the low hum of the ship—it all blended together.

You let your eyes close.

You woke to a soft laugh.

"Told you she was tired."

Wrecker's voice, low and rumbling. You blinked, disoriented, and realized you were still pressed against him. Your cheek was flush against his chest. His arm was still around you.

You looked up. He was grinning down at you, his face split with amusement.

"Didn't mean to fall asleep," you mumbled.

"Nothing to worry about." He shifted, letting you sit up. "Glad such a pretty girl was so close during all this time."

Your face warmed. But it was a good warmth. A flattered one.

You smiled back at him. "Thanks."

You looked at the chrono on the wall. One hour until Crosshair's surprise mission. Time enough.

You stood, stretched, and walked toward the cockpit.

Hunter sat alone in the pilot's seat.

The stars stretched ahead of them, endless and quiet. His hand rested on the console, his eyes fixed forward.

You dropped into the empty seat beside him.

"Hey."

"Hey." His lips curved into a smile.

Silence. Comfortable. The kind that didn't need to be filled.

Then Hunter turned to face you. His expression shifted. More serious.

"What are we?"

The question caught you off guard. You blinked. "What do you mean?"

"I mean..." He ran a hand through his hair. "I enjoy your company. Last night was amazing. I want you to stay. But that doesn't mean I want the classic life. Dating. An animal. Two kids. None of that."

He leaned forward, his eyes holding yours.

"The Bad Batch is my only priority. If you become part of it, I'll be ready to die for you. But I can't prioritize you over any of them. That's why I don't want anything more than what we're sharing right now."

You absorbed his words. Let them settle.

Then you nodded.

"That's okay," you said. "I like how things are right now."

Something in his shoulders relaxed. He reached out, his hand cupping your cheek.

He kissed you.

His tongue brushed against your lips, and you parted them, letting him deepen the kiss. The heat rose fast. His hand slid to your waist, pulling you closer. His other hand traced your hip, your ribs, your side. He groaned softly against your mouth.

A throat cleared.

You broke apart.

Crosshair stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame. His toothpick shifted from one side of his mouth to the other.

"If you hear me approaching," he said, "and you do, given your hyperaware senses, you could have the decency to stop before I arrive."

Your face burned. You couldn't look at him. Hunter chuckled softly.

Crosshair turned to you. "Ready?"

You nodded, rising from the seat. You followed him out of the cockpit, down the corridor, down the ladder to the lower deck.

A holomap glowed on the table.

You stepped closer to look.

It showed a forest, dense and dark, with markers scattered across the terrain. Dozens of them. Small crosses that dotted the landscape like spots on a fever chart.

Crosshair tapped the map.

"Your mission is simple. We go to each of these points and check if supplies are still there. They're strategic resupply points from the war. Clones used them during active campaigns."

You studied the map. The forest looked thick. Impassable in some sections.

"The forest is known to be very dangerous," Crosshair said. "Wild animals. Venomous plants. No trails."

He looked at you.

"Ready?"

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

Crosshair turned without another word and walked toward the equipment lockers. You followed, your legs still sore from training, your mind spinning with what you'd just agreed to.

He pulled off his armor piece by piece, setting each segment into a storage compartment. You watched, trying not to stare, but it was impossible. The blacks underneath clung to his frame like a second skin. Long and lean, every muscle defined without the bulk of his brothers. Where Wrecker was a mountain of mass and Hunter had that tapered V-shape with shoulders that seemed too wide for any door, Crosshair was all wiry tension. Rope-like cords running along his arms. A narrow waist that somehow still looked strong. He moved with a precision that made you think of a serpent coiling before a strike.

You realized you'd been staring when he spoke without turning around.

"Could you stop checking on me. I know I'm far better than my brother but I still'd rather have you concentrated."

Heat flooded your cheeks. You looked away, fixing your gaze on a crack in the floor plating. "I wasn't—"

"Save it." He pulled a carbine from the locker and handed it to you. Same one from earlier. "You're going to need both hands for this."

You took the weapon, grateful for something to focus on. Your fingers found the grip, the familiar weight settling into your palms. You checked the charge pack the way he'd shown you during training, then slung it across your back.

Crosshair finished gearing up, pulling on his armor with practiced efficiency. His helmet tucked under his arm, his main rifle already in hand. He grabbed a small backpack and tossed it to you.

"Supplies. Water, rations, extra power cells. Don't lose it."

"I won't."

He didn't look convinced. But he turned and climbed the ladder to the upper deck without waiting.

The Marauder hummed around you as you followed. The transition to hyperspace had already smoothed out, the stars becoming streaks of light beyond the viewport. You found your way to the cargo bay, where Crosshair was already running a systems check on a small speeder bike strapped to the floor.

You helped him secure a few cargo nets to the bike's rear rack, then stood back as he finished the check.

The descent took less than an hour. Through the cockpit window, you watched the forest planet grow from a green marble to a carpet of tangled canopy. Hunter brought the ship down through a break in the trees, setting it on a clearing barely large enough for the landing struts.

"Keep your comms open," he said as you passed through the cockpit. "Anything goes wrong, you call."

Crosshair grunted something that might have been acknowledgment. He dropped the ramp, and the forest air flooded in—thick with humidity and the smell of damp earth. Something rotting. Something alive.

You stepped off the ramp, your boots sinking slightly into the mossy ground. The trees stretched high above, their branches interlaced so tightly that the sky was barely visible. Patches of light dappled the floor between shadows that seemed to move when you weren't looking.

Crosshair touched his earpiece. "We're heading northeast. First cache about three klicks."

"Copy," Hunter's voice crackled back.

You started walking.

The forest was quiet in a way that felt wrong. No birds. No insects. Just the rustle of leaves when the wind pushed through, and the occasional snap of a twig under your feet. You kept close to Crosshair, matching his pace, trying to read the terrain the way you'd seen him scan a room.

He stopped abruptly.

You didn't have time to react. Your chest collided with his back, your hands instinctively bracing against his shoulders. He was solid, unyielding, and you felt the muscle beneath his armor tense.

"Watch it," he said, his voice flat.

"Sorry. Why did you—"

He raised a hand, cutting you off. His eyes were fixed on something ahead. You followed his gaze but saw nothing. Just more trees. More shadows. He waited a beat, then continued walking without explanation.

You fell back into step, giving him more space this time.

It happened again. He stopped so suddenly you nearly tripped over your own feet. This time you caught yourself before impacting, but you still ended up close enough to smell the oil on his armor.

He turned his head, his jaw tight.

"All right. You're going in front."

"What? I don't know where we're going."

He pulled a small holomap from his belt and shoved it into your hands. "You have the coordinates. Lead."

You stared at the glowing blue map, the markers scattered across the terrain. The first one was about two klicks northeast. You looked up, trying to orient yourself. The trees all looked the same.

"I can't—"

"Figure it out." He gestured with his rifle. "I'm tired of you running into me."

You swallowed your protest and stepped past him, taking the lead. The holomap showed a faint path, though it was barely visible on the ground. You picked your way through the undergrowth, checking the device every few steps.

Crosshair followed in silence. You could feel his gaze on your back, measuring, waiting for you to make a mistake. The pressure made your palms sweat.

But you found the first marker. A small clearing with a rusted supply crate half-buried in moss. You stopped, and Crosshair moved past you, kneeling to inspect it.

"Not bad," he said, his voice carrying a note of surprise.

You felt a small thrill. "Are you impressed?"

He looked up at you, and for a fraction of a second, the corner of his mouth twitched. "Not yet."

But there was something in his eyes. A glint. Playful, almost. It made your chest warm in a way you didn't expect.

He pried open the crate, revealing a cache of old ration bars, a few lighters, and some small boxes of ammunition. He handed you the ammo and told you to take anything electronic you found.

The next four caches followed the same pattern. You navigated, Crosshair opened, you loaded the supplies onto the speeder bike. The work was tedious, but the rhythm of it settled something in your bones. By the time you reached the fifth cache, the sky had begun to darken, the canopy turning the forest into a cavern of shadows.

The fifth cache was different. A larger bunker built into a hillside, hidden by a slab of durasteel covered in moss. Crosshair found the latch and pried it open with the butt of his rifle. The door swung outward with a groan, revealing a dark staircase leading down.

He descended first. You followed, your boots echoing against metal steps.

The space below was cramped, filled with shelves and stacked crates. Dust hung in the air. Crosshair clicked on a lamp, revealing rows of supplies—more than the previous caches combined. Rations, medical kits, power cells, even a few crates of components that looked like they belonged on a ship.

You worked in silence, sorting through the inventory. Crosshair pointed to a stack of wiring and circuit boards. "Echo and Tech will want that."

You loaded it onto the speeder, which was now parked at the top of the stairs. The bike groaned under the weight, but it held.

After ten more minutes of searching the cramped bunker for anything useful, you finally climbed out into the open air. A deep, guttural roar stopped you cold.

A massive creature with four glowing eyes lunged from the shadows. Before you could react, Crosshair stepped in front of you, his rifle already raised and firing. The creature swiped at him, claws raking across his waist, but his shot found its mark. The beast crumpled to the ground, dead.

You rushed to his side, dropping to your knees. Blood seeped through his black undersuit. You pulled the fabric aside, relief flooding you when you saw the wound was shallow. "It's not too deep," you said. "I need to bandage it."

He nodded, a sharp motion.

"Thank you," you said. "For protecting me."

He looked at you, a faint smirk. "You wouldn't have done the same."

You laughed softly, surprising yourself. "Probably not. But still."

You convinced him to let you bandage him properly. Finding a relatively clean spot on the bunker floor, you helped him peel off his armor piece by piece. The black undersuit came next, and you helped him pull it over his head, revealing the lean, chiseled lines of his torso. You couldn't help but let your eyes linger.

He noticed. "So," he said, a hint of amusement in his voice, "better or worse than Hunter?"

Heat bloomed across your face. You looked away, fumbling with the medical kit. "You're both very different. That's for the best."

He smirked, watching you as you took out the bandages. His stare sent a chill down your spine.

You cleaned the wound carefully. He hissed, a low groan escaping his lips, and his hand shot out to grip your thigh for grounding. The pressure of his fingers sent a jolt through you, but you forced yourself to focus on the wound.

You bandaged him gently, your fingertips brushing against the hard planes of his muscles. When you grazed his ribs, goosebumps rose on his skin.

When you finished, he was still watching you. You stood and offered him a hand. He took it, pulling himself up. Then he reached for his armor.

"I can help," you offered.

"No." He began fitting the pieces back on himself. "I've got it."

You watched him finish, then said, "We should stay here tonight. Call the others."

He grunted in agreement.

You called Hunter, who confirmed they'd arrive at first light. The bunker's door sealed, and you settled in for the night—Crosshair on the cot, you on the floor. The aches in your body were deeper now, but you felt a quiet satisfaction. You closed your eyes, the adrenaline fading into a warm exhaustion.

The silence stretched between you, thick and heavy like the humidity still clinging to your clothes. You lay on the floor, staring at the dark ceiling, your body aching in places you didn't know could ache.

"So," Crosshair said, his voice cutting through the quiet, "are Hunter and you... a thing?"

You blinked at the ceiling. The question hung there, unexpected. You thought about it, really thought about it, letting the words settle.

"No," you said. "It's probably just about being attracted physically and sexually to each other. It'll probably always stay this way. Just some sort of... sexfriends."

You heard him shift on the cot. A creak of old springs.

He nodded, though you couldn't see it. You felt it in the pause that followed. "I'm honestly happy you two aren't official or anything."

"Yeah, I know." You let out a breath. "You're not a big fan of me. You want me leaving. You don't want your brother to grow attached."

"No." His voice cut sharper now. "Not only that."

You turned your head, looking at him in the dim light. He was propped on one elbow, his silhouette dark against the grey of the bunker wall. His eyes found yours.

"Me and my brothers," he said, "we share everything with each other. If you stay here, I'm happy to know I'll get the pleasure to make you blush without getting Hunter jealous."

Heat flooded your cheeks. You felt it spread from your neck to your ears, and you cursed yourself for being so transparent. He saw it. Of course he saw it. The smirk that pulled at his lips was just visible in the low light.

You stared at him, not knowing what to say. The silence stretched.

He tried to shift on the cot, adjusting his position, and a wince escaped through his teeth. His hand went to his bandaged side.

"Careful there," you said, pushing yourself up to sit. "You'll reopen the wound."

He gritted his teeth, waiting for the pain to pass.

You couldn't help yourself. "You want a magic kiss to help ease the pain?" you asked, your voice carrying a teasing edge. The kind of thing you'd say to a toddler scraping their knee.

He looked at you. "Yes."

The word landed like a stone in still water.

You searched his face. No hesitation. No mockery. Just that flat stare, steady and waiting.

Your heart picked up its pace. You rose from the floor, your joints protesting, and crossed the small space to the cot. You lowered yourself beside him, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body. His eyes stayed on you, tracking your movement.

You leaned in. Slow. Your breath mingled with his. Your lips brushed against his, quick and light, a peck that lasted less than a second.

You pulled back.

He chuckled, low and rough. "You usually have to kiss the damaged area."

"You're not the doc," you said, matching his tone. "I am. And I know what I'm doing."

He murmured, his voice dropping, "I have to admit... I'm not totally opposed to you staying with the Bad Batch anymore."

You watched each other. The space between you felt charged, humming with something unspoken. His eyes moved to your lips, and you felt the pull, undeniable.

You leaned in again.

This time, the kiss was slower. Your lips met his, and you let them linger, letting the pressure build. His mouth was warm, surprisingly soft against yours. He made a sound, a soft grunt that vibrated against your lips, and his hand came up to grab the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair.

He kissed you back.

Your hands found his chest, fingers splaying across the hard planes. You were careful, avoiding the bandaged side, letting your palms trace the lines of his muscles. Heat pooled low in your stomach, spreading through your limbs like warm syrup.

He broke the kiss just long enough to rise, shifting to sit upright on the cot. His hands found your hips, and he pulled you onto his lap without ceremony. You straddled him, your knees bracketing his thighs, and he kissed you again, deeper now.

His hands moved down. Cupped each of your ass cheeks, squeezing hard, and forced a rocking motion against his lap. His tongue invaded your mouth, and you let him, your own hands tangling in his hair.

You felt him growing hard beneath you. Each rock of your hips drew a soft grunt from him, the sound rough in your ear. His grip on your ass tightened, guiding your movements, and each back-and-forth sent sparks straight to your core.

You were drenched. You could feel it, the wetness pooling between your legs, soaking through your underwear.

He broke the kiss, both of you breathless. A smirk spread across his face.

"Now *this*," he said, his voice a low rasp, "is a magic kiss."

You swallowed, your pulse hammering.

"I'd like to see if your other lips are also magical."

Your face burned, but you nodded. You climbed off his lap, your legs unsteady, and reached for the waistband of your pants. You pushed them down, along with your underwear, stepping out of them in one motion. The air was cool against your bare skin.

Crosshair unbuckled his belt. He pushed his pants and undersuit down, and his cock sprang free, hard and ready. You took a moment to look at him. Long. Thick. The sight made your mouth water.

You climbed back onto his lap, positioning yourself over him. The head of his cock pressed against your entrance, teasing.

He looked at you. "Ready?"

You nodded.

He raised his hips, meeting yours, and pushed inside you.

A moan escaped your throat, low and trembling. He filled you completely, stretching you in a way that made your vision blur. You started to move, riding him, finding a rhythm that made both of you gasp.

His head fell back, his eyes closed, his lips parted. You watched his face shift through pleasure, the hard lines softening just a fraction.

He grabbed your ass cheeks, guiding your movements, pushing you faster. His cock pressed deep, bullying against your cervix, finding a spot that made stars burst behind your eyes.

A loud slap echoed through the bunker.

You heard it before you felt it. The sting bloom across your right cheek, sharp and bright. He was still moving inside you, and the mix of pleasure and pain sent a jolt through your system.

You buried your face in the crook of his neck, breathing him in. Sweat and blood and something sharp that was just *him*. Tears pricked at your eyes, overwhelmed, and you felt his chest rumble with his own pleasure against your cheek.

Another slap. Left cheek this time. Your eyes flew open, wide and startled.

He chuckled, his hand massaging the sting away, fingers kneading the flesh.

"You feel so good," he murmured against your ear, his voice ragged. "Your pussy clenches every time I slap your ass. You like it, don't you?"

You couldn't answer. You could only moan, your nails digging into his shoulders.

He came inside you with a violence that shook his whole body. You felt him pulse, felt the warmth spread, and you collapsed against him, spent and trembling.

You stayed there, pressed against his chest, your breath evening out. A warmth spread across your belly, warm and wet, and you looked down.

His bandage had shifted. Blood seeped through, a slow trickle that ran down his side.

"It's not bad," you said, your voice hoarse. "But I need to redo it."

He laughed, a breathless sound. "Can't even have a moment of peace."

You climbed off his lap, your legs wobbling beneath you. He watched you, his eyes tracking every movement, a filthy grin spreading across his face.

You grabbed fresh bandages and cleaning supplies from the kit. This time, you sat on his lap as you worked, completely naked, completely exposed to his gaze. He didn't look away. He watched your hands, your face, the way your breasts moved as you leaned forward.

You finished the bandage, pressing it firmly into place.

He pulled you against him, positioning you on his side so you wouldn't press against the wound. He didn't kiss you. There was nothing romantic in the gesture. But you felt it anyway. A shift. A certain respect that hadn't been there before.

"I'm not having sex with you because I want you to like me," you said, the words leaving your mouth before you could stop them.

"That changes nothing," he said, his voice low and steady. "You still desperately need training. You're a talented medic, I admit. An even more talented pussy. But you suck with a blaster. You'll still have to prove yourself with that."

He paused, his hand resting on your hip.

"But if you want to stay and get special training more often..." His fingers traced a lazy circle on your skin. "Well. I'm more than okay with that."

You nodded against him, grateful.

The bunker was quiet. The supplies sat stacked near the door. The speeder bike waited above, laden with everything you'd found. And here, in the dark, pressed against a man who'd wanted you gone just hours ago, you felt something settle.

You closed your eyes.

Sleep came quickly, pulling you both down into its depths, tangled together and completely spent.

Hope you enjoyed

Hunter remembered the fear like it was still curling in his chest.

He remembered standing in the doorway of that cramped med clinic on Ord Mantell, watching Omega shiver under a thin blanket. Her skin had taken on a grey color that made him think of things he didn't want to think about. Things like empty cradles and soldiers who never came home.

The local medic had already told him there was nothing more they could do. Something about the fever being too advanced, the infection too deep for their limited supplies.

Hunter had looked at Crosshair first. Then at Wrecker. Echo had been pacing near the door, his mechanical hand clenching and unclenching in a rhythm that matched Hunter's own heartbeat.

"I'm not leaving her here," he'd said.

Nobody argued.

The frantic search happened through back alleys and shadow markets, through the kind of places where people didn't ask questions but charged triple for answers. Hunter remembered the stench of burning oil and rotting fruit. The way his feet had ached from hours of walking. The desperation that made his enhanced senses sharper than they'd been in months.

That was how he found you.

You weren't advertising yourself as a doctor. Just a woman with steady hands who knew how to handle a fever that wouldn't break. Someone who'd lost your practice to Imperial requisitions and now worked out of a storage room with a cot and a battery-powered sterilizer.

Hunter remembered watching you work. The way your fingers found Omega's pulse without hesitation. How you mixed compounds by eye, never measuring, always precise. Your voice when you spoke to Omega, low and calm, like you'd done this a thousand times before.

Something in Hunter's chest had loosened then. Just a little.

The fever broke six hours later. Omega opened her eyes, confused and thirsty, and Hunter had to turn away so nobody would see his face.

Now, a week later, he stood in the doorway of the Marauder's tiny galley, watching you eat a ration bar. The ship hummed around you both, that familiar vibration that had become his home for more years than he cared to count.

"You don't have to keep thanking me," you said, catching his gaze.

He hadn't realized he was staring.

"I know." He stepped into the galley, the space suddenly feeling smaller. "But I'm going to anyway."

You set the ration bar down. It crumbled on the wrapper.

Hunter's voice dropped, the way it always did when he meant something. "I thought she was going to die. That night. Before I found you."

The words hung in the air between you. He didn't usually talk about things like this. Feelings. Fears. The kind of softness that got people killed.

But something about you made him want to.

"I'm glad I was there," you said.

He nodded and sat across from you. The table was barely wide enough for two plates. He could smell your soap, something floral and cheap, and underneath it, the faint scent of antiseptic that clung to your clothes.

"So what's your story?" he asked. "How does a medic end up on Ord Mantell with no patients and no way off?"

You shrugged, but he caught the way your shoulders tensed. "Bad luck. Bad timing. The Empire doesn't like independent practitioners."

"They don't like anyone who isn't them."

"That too."

He let the silence settle before asking about something lighter. "What made you choose medicine?"

You thought about it, chewing slowly. "I like fixing things. People mostly. They're more complicated than machines, but the satisfaction is better when they walk out on their own."

Hunter smiled, a rare thing that felt strange on his face. "Omega's walking now."

"She is."

He leaned back, studying you. The way you held yourself, careful and contained. The way your eyes scanned a room before you relaxed. A habit you shared with him, he realized.

"What about your tattoo?" you asked, nodding toward his skull face.

He glanced down at it, then back at you. "Nothing mysterious. I just thought it looked cool."

"You're telling me the leader of Clone Force 99 picked a tattoo based on aesthetics?"

"Sometimes that's all there is to it."

You raised an eyebrow, skeptical. Hunter felt the corner of his mouth twitch.

"It goes further, actually," he said, gesturing vaguely toward his torso. "Covers most of my chest. Stops somewhere around my hip."

Your gaze flickered down, then back up. A flush crept across your cheeks.

"You could see it sometime," he said, letting his voice dip lower. "Find out exactly where it stops. Private like."

Your breath caught. He heard it, that tiny hitch, and felt a warmth spread through his chest. Your heart was beating faster now. His senses told him everything he needed to know.

"I—" You cleared your throat. "That's forward."

Hunter shrugged, still smiling. "Even if it's not a reg, I'm still a clone. We don't do subtle."

He stood, leaving you there with your half-eaten ration bar and your crimson cheeks. At the door, he turned back.

"Think about it."

Two hours later, you were sitting at Omega's bedside, watching her sleep.

The girl had been doing better. Her color had returned, her appetite was slowly coming back. She'd spent most of the morning trailing after Wrecker, asking questions about everything he was doing.

But now she was awake, blinking at you with tired eyes.

"Who are you?"

You leaned forward. "I'm a medic. Your brothers brought me on board because they were worried about you."

Omega processed this slowly. "You're the one who helped me?"

"Yes."

She smiled, a small thing, but genuine. "Good. I'm glad you're here. It's nice to have another girl on the crew."

Something in your chest tightened. "Thank you."

Omega sat up, rubbing her eyes. "Is Hunter worried about me?"

"He was. He still is, probably. That's what brothers do."

She nodded, then swung her legs over the side of the bed. "I should go see the others."

You helped her stand, steadying her when she wobbled. She walked toward the main cabin, her steps growing surer with every stride.

Through the open door, you watched her find Wrecker. He scooped her up like she weighed nothing, spinning her around while she laughed. Echo joined them, his usual reserve cracking as he ruffled her hair.

They looked like a family. A broken, scarred, beautiful family.

You stepped back, wanting to give them space, and walked straight into something solid.

Strong hands caught your shoulders before you could stumble.

"Careful there."

Hunter's voice, low and amused, right behind you. His chest was warm against your back. His breath stirred the hair near your ear.

You spun around, heart hammering. "Sorry. I wasn't looking."

"Clearly." He didn't let go. His hands stayed on your shoulders, thumbs brushing against the fabric of your shirt. "You alright?"

"Fine. Great. Perfect."

The words came out too fast. His eyes crinkled at the corners.

"Come talk to me," he said. "In my bunk."

Every nerve in your body fired at once. "Your bunk?"

"My room. For talking." He paused. "Unless you want it to be something else."

You didn't answer. Couldn't. Your throat had closed up.

He released your shoulders slowly, like he was savoring the moment, then turned and walked down the corridor without waiting for your reply. And of course you followed.

His room was smaller than you'd expected. A bunk, a locker, a shelf bolted to the wall. On that shelf sat a collection of objects that seemed out of place in a soldier's quarters: a crumpled drawing of what looked like a loth-cat, a bracelet made of woven string, a small carved bantha that had seen better days.

Omega's work, you guessed.

Hunter noticed your gaze. "She makes things. Gives them to all of us."

"That's sweet."

"It is." He gestured to the bunk. "Sit."

You sat. The mattress dipped under your weight, and he settled beside you, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him.

"I wanted to talk about something," he said.

Your stomach dropped. "Is everything okay?"

"Fine. Better than fine." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Look, I'm grateful for what you did for Omega. We all are. But I need to be honest with you."

"About what?"

He met your eyes, and his gaze was steady. Serious. "We're enemies of the Empire. All five of us. Every job we take puts us deeper on their radar. I don't want to push too far with your generosity. I don't want to put you in danger."

You held his gaze. "I know what I signed up for."

"Do you?" He leaned closer. "In two days, we're stopping on a civilized planet. If you want, in four days, I can have you back on Ord Mantell. Back where we found you."

Your heart clenched. "What if I don't want to go back?"

"Then you stay. But I need you to choose. Consciously. Not because you feel obligated."

You thought about the empty med clinic. The patients who'd stopped coming. The Empire agents who'd knocked on your door twice already, asking questions you'd deflected.

"I'll stay," you said. "For now."

"Good." He exhaled. "I don't want you to feel trapped."

"I don't."

He shifted closer, and his hand landed on your thigh. Warm. Heavy. Deliberate.

"You're welcome to stay as long as you want," he said. "Whatever you need, we'll figure it out."

Your skin tingled where he touched you. Heat spread up your leg, into your stomach, your chest.

"You're blushing," he said. "Your heart is racing."

His thumb traced a circle on your thigh. "I can hear it. Smell it. I know exactly what I do to you."

Mortification and arousal tangled in your gut. "That's.. you're..."

"It would be a shame if you left so soon." His voice dropped, rough and warm. "I haven't had nearly enough time to get more reactions out of you."

You forced yourself to hold his gaze. His eyes were dark, pupils blown, fixed on you like you were the only thing in the room.

He lifted his hand from your thigh and cupped your chin. His thumb traced your lower lip, feather-soft.

And then he kissed you.

It started gentle, almost questioning. His lips moved against yours, testing, tasting. You parted your mouth without thinking, and he took the invitation, pressing his tongue against yours.

Heat flooded through you. Your hands found his hair, threading through the strands, and he groaned, a sound that vibrated through his chest and into yours.

He deepened the kiss, pulling you closer, and you let him guide you back onto the mattress. His weight settled over you, straddling your hips, his hands roaming your sides.

"You have no idea," he murmured against your lips, "how long I've wanted—"

A knock.

Both of you froze.

"Hunter?" Omega's voice filtered through the door. "Have you seen the medic? I can't find her anywhere."

You looked at Hunter. He looked at you.

Your breath came fast. His hair was tousled, his lips swollen. He looked completely undone, and somehow that made everything worse.

He pressed his forehead to yours, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

"Give me a second, Omega," he called, his voice steady despite the chaos. "She's probably in the refresher. I'll be right out."

"Okay!"

Her footsteps retreated. Hunter stayed where he was, still laughing, his breath warm against your skin.

"That was close," you whispered.

"Too close." He kissed your forehead, lingering. "We're not done."

He rolled off you, stood, and straightened his shirt. At the door, he looked back, his gaze burning.

"Later," he promised.

And then he was gone.

You took a moment to collect yourself after the door slid shut.

Your heart was still pounding. Your lips tingled from the kiss. The taste of him lingered, mixed with the stale air of his quarters. You pressed a hand to your chest, feeling the rapid thump under your ribs, and took a slow breath. Then another. Then you stood, smoothed your shirt, and walked out into the corridor.

Crosshair was waiting.

He stood against the wall, arms crossed, his toothpick shifting from one side of his mouth to the other. The lighting in the corridor caught the sharp angles of his face, making him look even more gaunt than usual. He didn't say anything at first. Just watched you with those narrow eyes that seemed to see straight through walls.

You stopped. "Crosshair."

He pushed off the wall, falling into step beside you as you started walking. His presence was cold, deliberate. You could feel the tension radiating off him like heat from a broken engine.

"You should leave," he said.

The words landed flat. No preamble. No softening. You kept walking. "Excuse me?"

"At the next stop. Get off the ship and don't look back." He matched your pace easily, his boots silent where yours scuffed the deck plates. "It's better for you. We're all criminals. The Empire has us on every watch list in the galaxy."

"I know what I signed up for."

He stopped walking. You stopped too, turning to face him. His expression hadn't changed, but something in his jaw tightened.

"No," he said, "you don't. You're a civilian. You have no training, no augmentation. If we get pinned down, you'll be dead weight. A liability." He stepped closer, his voice dropping. "And Hunter doesn't need a weakness that obvious. None of us do."

The words stung. You felt them settle somewhere deep, like a splinter you couldn't dig out.

"I'm a medic," you said. "I can help."

"You can get yourself killed. And then he'll blame himself forever." Crosshair's eyes flicked down the corridor, toward the shared space where laughter echoed. "You think he can afford that? Any of us can afford that?"

You didn't answer.

He held your gaze for a long moment, then turned and walked away without another word. His silhouette disappeared around a corner, leaving you alone in the humming corridor.

You stood there, breathing. Then you walked toward the sound of voices.

The shared space was warm, cluttered with people and equipment. Wrecker sat on the floor, legs crossed, while Omega perched on a crate beside him. She was showing him something on a datapad, her small fingers tracing the screen. Tech and Echo were hunched over an open panel near the cockpit, wires spilling out like colorful entrails. Tech muttered something about voltage regulators, and Echo handed him a tool without looking.

You settled onto a bench near the edge of the room, keeping your distance.

Omega noticed you almost immediately. Her face lit up.

"Medic!" She hopped off the crate and padded over, her bare feet slapping against the metal floor. "Want to see what I found? It's a picture of a loth-cat. I think it's a baby one."

She thrust the datapad into your hands. The image showed a blurry holo of a small, fluffy creature with oversized ears. It was chewing on a cable.

"Cute," you said.

"Right? I want to get one someday. Hunter said maybe, when we have a place that stays still."

Wrecker lumbered over, grinning. "A loth-cat? Those things shed everywhere. I knew a guy on Corellia who had one. Got hair in his food for three years."

"Three years?" Omega's eyes went wide.

"At least."

She giggled, and something in your chest loosened. Crosshair's words still echoed, but this—this was easier. Soft. You let yourself sink into it.

Dinner came in the form of ration packs and reconstituted protein. Wrecker heated everything in the galley's tiny oven, humming something off-key. Tech and Echo joined them briefly, but Tech was still muttering about the power coupling issue, and Echo followed after him with a resigned shrug.

Omega sat next to you, her knee brushing yours as she ate.

"How old are you?" she asked between bites.

"Old enough to have been working for a while," you said.

"What kind of medicine do you like best? Emergency stuff, or the slow kind?"

"I like fixing things. People mostly. Emergency stuff gives you a rush, but the steady work feels better."

She nodded seriously. "I think I'd like the steady kind. But maybe emergency sometimes."

"That's a good balance." She chewed thoughtfully, then asked, "Are you single?"

The question caught you off guard. You felt heat rise to your cheeks before you could stop it.

"Yes," you said.

And you couldn't help it. Your gaze drifted across the room, searching, and found Hunter leaning against the doorframe of the galley. His arms were crossed, but his eyes were warm, and the corner of his mouth curved into that knowing smirk. He'd heard everything. Of course he had.

Then your eyes moved past him, into the shadowed corner near the storage lockers.

Crosshair sat there, cleaning his rifle with slow, deliberate strokes. His face was a mask, but his movements were too precise, too controlled. He looked pissed. The kind of pissed that simmered under the surface, ready to boil.

You looked away quickly.

Omega was still watching you, her head tilted. "Why are you blushing?"

"I'm not."

"Yes, you are. Wrecker, look, she's blushing."

Wrecker squinted at you. "Yeah, you're pretty red. You feeling okay? Need some water?"

"I'm fine." You stood, gathering your tray. "Just tired. Long day."

Omega set down her fork. "Can you put me to bed? Hunter usually does it, but he's busy."

You glanced at Hunter. He was watching you, his smirk still in place. He gave a slight nod, almost imperceptible.

"Sure," you said. "Lead the way."

Omega took your hand and pulled you down the corridor, past the bunks, past the refresher, to a small door near the end. Her room was tidy, a single bunk with a faded blanket and a shelf of trinkets. She climbed in, and you tucked the blanket around her.

"Will you stay for a bit?" she asked, her voice already softening.

"Just until you fall asleep."

She smiled and closed her eyes. Within minutes, her breathing evened out.

You sat there for a while, watching her face relax. Then you stood, careful not to make noise, and stepped back into the corridor.

Hunter was waiting.

He leaned against the wall opposite the door, his arms crossed, his eyes dark in the dim light. He didn't say anything. Just pushed off the wall and stepped close, close enough that his breath stirred your hair.

"I'd love to have you get me to bed too," he whispered, his voice low and rough.

Your face burned. Your mouth opened, but no words came out.

He smiled, slow and satisfied, then turned and walked away. You watched his back disappear into the shadows of the corridor, your heart hammering, your legs barely steady.

You made it to the refresher on autopilot. Closed the door. Leaned against the sink, staring at your reflection. Your cheeks were flushed, your eyes too bright. You looked like someone who'd just been kissed within an inch of her life. You splashed cold water on your face, took a breath, then another.

When you stepped out, the corridor was empty. You passed the shared living space on the way to Hunter's room, and through the open door, you caught a glimpse of Crosshair. He was still sitting in the corner, his rifle reassembled, his eyes fixed on you.

You held his gaze for a second. Then you looked away and kept walking.

The door to Hunter's quarters was ahead. You stopped in front of it, your hand hovering over the panel. You could hear his heartbeat through the metal, steady and patient.

You knocked softly.

The door slid open.

He stood there, shirtless, his tattoo curling across his chest and down his hip. The light from the corridor caught the lines of his body, the scars, the muscle.

He looked at you, and his eyes darkened.

"Come in."

You stepped inside, and the door closed behind you.

He didn't move. He just studied you, his gaze traveling from your face to your hands to the way you were holding yourself. His lips curved into a smirk.

"Your heart's racing," he said. "Loud enough to wake the whole ship."

"Shut up."

He laughed, low and warm, and stepped closer. His hand came up, cupping your cheek. His thumb traced your jaw, feather-light.

"You're so beautiful when you blush."

And he kissed you.

Soft at first, then deeper. His tongue brushed your lower lip, and you parted your mouth, letting him in. His other hand found your hip, pulling you against him. You felt the heat of his skin through your clothes, the hard planes of his body.

Your hands found his chest. The tattoo was smooth under your fingertips, warm even. He sighed into your mouth, a sound that made your knees weak.

He pulled back just far enough to whisper, "I really want to take off your shirt."

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

He did it slowly, fingers brushing your sides as he lifted the fabric over your head. It fell somewhere on the floor. He stepped back, just enough to look at you, and his breath caught.

"Stars," he murmured.

Then he pushed you gently onto the mattress. You landed on your back, looking up at him as he climbed over you, his weight settling on your hips. He lowered his head, his mouth finding your right breast. His tongue circled your nipple, then he took it into his mouth, sucking gently.

You gasped, your back arching. His hand moved to your left breast, fingers finding your other nipple, rolling it between thumb and forefinger. He alternated between the two, licking, sucking, pinching until you were moaning, your hands fisting in the sheets.

He groaned against your skin, the vibration sending sparks through you.

You felt him rock his hips against yours. The pressure was unmistakable. He was hard, and he was big. The thought made heat pool low in your stomach.

He lifted his head, and you reached out, tracing the tattoo. Black lines curled over his collarbone, down his sternum, across his ribs. You followed them with your fingers, watching his muscles twitch under your touch.

He unfastened his pants and pushed them down. Then yours. Then he settled over you again, skin to skin, and the sensation was overwhelming.

He entered you slowly.

You both moaned. He filled you completely, stretching you, and you felt every inch. He paused, letting you adjust, his forehead pressed to yours.

"You feel incredible," he breathed.

"So do you."

He started to move. Slow at first, deep strokes that made your vision blur. Each thrust hit a spot that sent pleasure rippling through your body. You gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders.

He covered your mouth with his hand, his eyes glinting.

"Quiet," he whispered. "You'll wake Omega."

You nodded, muffling your sounds against his palm. He kissed you then, swallowing your moans, his tongue moving in time with his hips.

The rhythm built. He turned you onto your belly, pulling your hips up, and entered you from behind. This angle was different, deeper. He found a spot that made you cry out, and he pressed his arm around your head, his bicep against your throat.

"Bite if you need to," he murmured.

You did. You sank your teeth into his forearm, muffling the sounds that wanted to tear out of you. He moved faster, harder, his breath ragged in your ear.

His thrusts grew sloppy. He buried himself inside you, and you felt him pulse, felt the warmth spread. He collapsed over you, his weight pressing you into the mattress, his heart hammering against your back.

After a moment, he rolled off you. You lay side by side, both breathing hard, the air thick with the scent of sweat and sex.

He reached over and pulled you close, spooning you from behind. His arm wrapped around your belly, drawing you against him. His lips pressed to the back of your head.

"Stay," he whispered.

You didn't answer. You just closed your eyes and let the warmth of him pull you down into sleep.

You woke to the sound of Omega's laughter, distant and bright. It filtered through the metal walls like sunlight through blinds.

For a moment, you didn't move. Your body was heavy, weighed down by sleep and the warmth of a bed that wasn't yours. The sheets smelled like Hunter. Like sweat and soap and something deeper, something you couldn't name.

Then you shifted, and the ache settled into your muscles.

Everything came back in a rush. His hands. His mouth. The way he'd pressed you into the mattress like you were something precious. Heat crawled up your neck as you pushed yourself upright.

The bunk was empty beside you. The sheets were cool where he'd lain.

You looked around, and your gaze caught on a folded pile of fabric near the edge of the bed. Clean clothes. A soft grey shirt and dark pants. You reached for them, and as you unfolded the shirt, you noticed the collar. It rose high, almost to your chin.

You slipped the clothes on. They fit well, maybe a little loose in the shoulders. The collar sat snug against your throat.

You caught your reflection in the small mirror bolted to the wall. The shirt covered everything. Every mark. Every bruise. You turned your head and saw the edge of a dark spot peeking out near your jaw, just below your ear. You adjusted the collar. Covered.

You left the room.

The corridor hummed with the ship's usual vibrations. The lights were dim, set to whatever cycle Tech had programmed for the day cycle. You followed the sound of voices to the shared space.

Wrecker spotted you first. His face split into a grin.

"Look who finally woke up," he said, his voice booming. "Thought you were gonna sleep through the whole rotation. Even I don't sleep that long."

Heat flooded your cheeks. "I was tired."

"Tired." He laughed, slapping his knee. "Sure you were. Come sit. Omega's been asking about you."

Omega appeared from behind Wrecker, her eyes bright. "Do you want to play a game? I found one about constellations. You have to match the stars to the right names."

You opened your mouth to answer.

"She doesn't have time for games."

Crosshair's voice cut through the warmth. He stood in the doorway leading to the cockpit, his arms crossed, his toothpick in place. His eyes were fixed on you.

"She has to get ready. We're dropping her off at the next planet."

Omega's face fell. "What? No. She's not leaving."

"She is."

"I'm not—" you started.

"You have a lot to do," Crosshair said, talking over you. "Your things need to be packed. Better start now."

Omega grabbed your hand. "You can't go. You just got here. And you're still tired. You should rest."

Wrecker nodded, his grin gone. "Yeah, she's right. You look like you need a break. Stay."

Echo leaned against the bulkhead, his mechanical hand still. "She has a point. No reason to rush things."

Tech glanced up from his datapad. "Statistically, a rest period of at least twelve hours after recovery from significant illness is recommended. Omega's assessment is medically sound."

You looked around the room. They were all watching you. All waiting for your answer. All except Hunter, who was nowhere to be seen.

"I still have to think about it," you said.

Crosshair grunted. He held your gaze for a long moment, his jaw tight. Then he turned and walked out of the space without another word.

You excused yourself.

The room they'd given you was small, tucked near the rear of the ship. A bunk, a locker, a small desk. Your bag sat on the floor, half-unpacked. You closed the door behind you and leaned against it.

Your throat tightened. Your eyes burned.

You pressed the heels of your hands against your eyelids and breathed. Once. Twice. Three times.

A soft knock.

You dropped your hands. "Who is it?"

"It's Hunter."

His voice, low and familiar. You crossed the room in three steps and opened the door.

He stood in the corridor, his hair slightly disheveled, his eyes scanning your face. He took in your reddened eyes, the way you were holding yourself, and something in his expression softened.

"Crosshair?" he asked.

You nodded.

He stepped inside. The door slid shut behind him. He sat on the edge of the bunk, looking up at you.

"He's acting like this because he cares," Hunter said. "About his family. About the squad. He doesn't want anyone getting hurt. When he asks you to leave, he's trying to protect everyone. You included."

"It doesn't feel like he's trying to protect me," you said. "It feels like he's trying to protect them. I'm just collateral."

Hunter's mouth quirked. "That's his particular way of expressing concern. It's not pretty. But it's honest."

You sat beside him, the mattress dipping under your weight.

"If you decide to stay," he said, "you should get ready. He won't make it easy."

"I know."

He passed an arm around you, pulling you into a side hug. His hand rested on your shoulder, warm and solid. You leaned into him, letting yourself feel the steadiness of his presence. His thumb traced a slow circle on your arm.

You stayed like that for a while, breathing in sync.

Then you pushed yourself to your feet. "I'm going to talk to him."

Hunter looked up at you, something like pride flickering in his eyes. He stood, and before he left, he tapped your shoulder once. A small gesture. Enough.

"Good luck," he said.

He stepped out and turned toward the cockpit, where Tech's voice was already muttering about power converters.

You walked back to the shared space.

Crosshair had moved. He sat near the storage lockers, a holomap projected in front of him. Planets and routes rotated in blue light, tracing paths through the galaxy.

You stopped a few feet away. "Can we talk?"

He didn't look up. "I'm busy."

"Just for a minute."

A pause. He deactivated the holomap and turned his head. His eyes were flat. "Fine."

He followed you to a quiet corner near the galley. You leaned against the counter. He stood with his arms crossed, his weight on one foot.

"I want to stay," you said.

He didn't react.

"And I want you to give me a chance." You took a breath. "Would you still be this set on me leaving if I proved myself? If I learned how to fight?"

He rolled his shoulders, a slow, deliberate motion. "It could change my judgment. Maybe."

"Then teach me."

He stared at you. A beat of silence.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because it's a waste of time. You're a medic. You don't need to know how to hold a blaster."

"I'm staying for at least a month," you said. "If you train me, it's a win for both of us. I'd be less of a liability. And you'd have time to decide if I'm worth keeping around."

His eyes narrowed.

"You said yourself that your judgment could change," you pressed. "So give me a month. If at the end of it you still think I'm not worth staying, I'll leave. No arguments."

He studied you. The toothpick moved from one side of his mouth to the other.

"Fine," he said. "One month."

Relief flooded through you, tempered by the edge in his voice.

"But I'm not a gentle instructor," he said. "I don't have patience for failure. If you can't keep up, don't expect me to slow down for you."

You nodded. "Understood."

He turned and walked away, his boots silent on the deck plates.

You watched him go, your heart still hammering, but your feet planted firm.

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The apartment door hissed open with that familiar mechanical sigh, and you heard the heavy tread of boots against the floor—slower than usual, weighted. A clatter of something metal hitting the entry table. A long exhalation that carried more exhaustion than relief.

You kept your eyes on the datapad in your lap, or tried to. The words had been blurring for the last hour anyway, some novel about desert planets and forbidden romance that couldn't hold your attention. Not when you knew he was due back. Not when the chrono on the wall kept ticking past the time he'd promised.

Howzer always said not to wait up. You always waited anyway.

The footsteps stopped somewhere behind the sofa. You heard the soft hiss of his helmet being removed, the thud of it settling on the floor. Then nothing. Just breathing, slow and measured.

You turned your head, the datapad forgotten on your lap.

He stood there in full armor, the blue and white plating scuffed and scratched in ways that made your stomach tighten. Dark circles beneath his eyes. A cut along his jaw that had been cleaned but not bandaged. His whole posture sagged inward, like the weight of that armor pressed down harder than usual.

But when he saw you looking, something shifted.

The corners of his mouth twitched upward, fighting through whatever had been weighing on him. The tension in his shoulders eased, just slightly. He took a step forward, then another, until his boots stopped at the edge of the sofa.

"You're up late," he said. His voice was rougher than normal, scraped raw from shouting over comms or from something worse.

"I could say the same about you." You set the datapad aside and shifted to face him properly. "You look terrible."

A short laugh escaped him, more breath than sound. "Missed you too."

He didn't wait for a response. One hand reached down, fingers brushing against your shoulder, then curling inward to grip the fabric of your shirt. He pulled you gently toward him, and you let yourself be pulled, standing up from the sofa to meet him halfway.

He smelled like blaster residue and recycled ship air, with that faint metallic tang of the inside of a helmet. Not pleasant, but familiar. So familiar it ached.

His arms wrapped around you, pulling you against his chest plate, cold and unyielding. But his face buried itself in your hair, and for a moment he just breathed. In. Out. Like you were the first clean air he'd encountered in days.

"You done?" you murmured into his shoulder, where the fabric of his blacks showed beneath the gap in his armor.

"No. They want me back on rotation tomorrow afternoon." He said it flatly, like he was reading a report rather than announcing another departure.

Your arms tightened around him. Tomorrow afternoon. That gave you maybe eighteen hours. Less, if he needed sleep.

But you didn't say anything about that. Not yet. Instead you pulled back, just enough to look at his face, and you let your hand travel up to trace the cut on his jaw. "What happened here?"

"Nothing. A graze." He caught your hand and pressed a kiss to your palm. "It's fine."

You didn't believe him. But you also knew when to push and when to let things settle.

He kissed your palm again, then turned your hand over and kissed your wrist, then your forearm, working his way up slowly like he had all the time in the world. The gesture was almost reverent, each kiss landing with a warmth that contrasted the chill of his armor.

Then he stepped back, letting his hands fall from yours, and moved around the sofa. He sank onto the cushion behind you—the spot you'd just vacated—and pulled you down beside him. Or tried to. You landed awkwardly half on his lap, half on the cushion, and he adjusted you with a grunt that might have been amusement.

"Come here." His voice was softer now. He tugged at your shoulder, turning you around until your back rested against his chest. Then his hands settled on your shoulders, fingers pressing into the tight muscles there.

You groaned before you could stop yourself. The pressure was firm and precise, working out knots you hadn't even realized were there. His thumbs traced along your shoulder blades, then down your spine, finding tension spots with an expertise that came from years of muscle memory.

"How was it?" you asked, closing your eyes.

"Long." His breath was warm against your ear. "Lot of dead ends. Lot of waiting. You'd think the Outer Rim would be more exciting, but mostly it's just empty space and bad rations."

"You sound thrilled."

"Thrilled would be an upgrade from how I actually feel." He pressed a kiss to the crown of your head. "But I'm here now."

His hands slid from your shoulders down your arms, then back up, tracing the curve of your neck. He kissed the spot behind your ear, where you were always sensitive, and you felt a shiver run through you.

"You're tense too," he murmured.

"That's what happens when I spend three days worrying about you."

He made a sound that could have been an apology or an acknowledgment. Then his hands moved lower, skimming over your collarbone, dipping beneath the neckline of your shirt. His palms settled over your breasts, cupping them through the thin fabric, and he squeezed gently.

You sucked in a breath.

"Howzer."

"I missed you." He said it against your skin, his lips brushing your shoulder. His fingers found your nipples through the fabric, rubbing in slow circles that made you arch into his touch. "Missed touching you. Missed hearing you."

His hands worked with a practiced tenderness, kneading and stroking until your head fell back against his shoulder. A soft moan escaped you, unbidden, and you felt him smile against your neck.

"That's what I wanted to hear."

His mouth traveled down your shoulder, biting gently at the curve where your neck met your collarbone. One hand left your breast and slid down your stomach, tracing the edge of your waistband. The other kept working, rolling your nipple between thumb and forefinger until you squirmed.

"You're so responsive," he breathed. "Always have been. It drives me insane."

You turned your head to find his lips, and he met you halfway, kissing you with a hunger that surprised you. His tongue swept across your lower lip, then deeper, tasting of caf and something minty. The kiss lasted until you were breathless, pulling away only when your lungs demanded it.

He didn't let you go far. He shifted, moving out from behind you, and knelt in front of the sofa instead. His hands found your knees, spreading them apart as he settled between your legs.

"Just watch," he said.

His fingers went to the fastenings of his chest plate, working the release mechanisms with the efficiency of someone who'd done it a thousand times. The armor clicked and hissed, sections separating until he could pull the whole piece over his head and drop it to the floor with a heavy thud.

Then the shoulder guards. The vambraces. The leg plates. Each piece fell away, revealing the black undersuit beneath that clung to his body like a second skin. You watched the process, watched his muscles shift beneath the fabric as he worked, and you felt a familiar heat coil low in your belly.

He didn't rush.

When he was down to just his blacks, he stood up and held his arms out slightly, letting you look your fill. The undersuit was form-fitting, showing every line of his body—the broad shoulders, the narrow waist, the powerful thighs. There was a patch of dried blood on his left bicep, and you frowned.

"You said it was a graze."

"It is." He glanced at the spot, unconcerned. "Already sealed. Don't worry about it."

He stepped forward, bending down, and before you knew it his arms were under your knees and around your back. He lifted you off the sofa like you weighed nothing.

"Wait—I'm too heavy for that." The protest came automatically, a reflex born of years of insecurity.

He silenced you with a kiss, quick and firm. Then he adjusted his grip, shifting you higher against his chest, and started walking toward the bedroom.

"You're not heavy," he said against your lips. "You're perfect."

He carried you through the doorway and over to the bed, where he lowered you onto the mattress with surprising gentleness. The springs groaned softly under your weight. He straightened up, looking down at you, and his eyes traveled the length of your body with undisguised appreciation.

Then his hands went to your waistband, hooking into the fabric of your leggings and pulling them down. You lifted your hips to help him, and he peeled them off your legs, tossing them somewhere behind him without looking.

The cool air hit your skin, raising goosebumps across your thighs. You were left in just your panties and the loose shirt you'd been wearing.

Howzer's gaze settled on the damp spot already forming on the cotton between your legs. He smiled—a slow, satisfied curve of his lips.

"Already ready for me."

You felt heat rush to your cheeks, but you didn't look away.

He dropped to his knees at the foot of the bed, his hands sliding up your calves, over your knees, coming to rest on your thighs. He pressed a kiss to your right thigh, just above the knee, then another higher up.

"These," he murmured between kisses, "are beautiful. Do you know that?"

"No... You don't have to—"

He bit you. Not hard, but enough to make you gasp. His teeth grazed the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, and he soothed the spot with his tongue.

"I don't have to do anything," he said, pulling back to meet your eyes. "I'm telling you how I feel. Your thighs are beautiful. They're soft and warm and I love them." He kissed the spot he'd bitten. "I love this curve here." His hand traced the line of your hip, then settled on the gentle swell of your lower belly. "And these." He palmed the softness at your waist, his thumbs stroking the skin. "All of you. Perfect."

Your throat tightened. You wanted to argue, to point out everything you didn't like about yourself, but the sincerity in his voice made the words stick. Instead you just watched him, watched his head lower, watched his lips travel down your stomach in a trail of soft kisses.

When he reached the edge of your panties, he nuzzled against the damp fabric. You felt his breath, hot and uneven, through the cotton. His fingers hooked into the waistband, but instead of pulling them down, he pressed his mouth directly over the spot where you needed him most.

The sensation was muffled but electric. You gasped, your hips bucking involuntarily.

"Impatient?" He lifted his head, smirking.

"You're taking too long."

He laughed, the sound low and warm. "Patience, sweetheart."

He dipped his head again, this time pushing the fabric aside with his nose, exposing you to the air. His first lick was slow, deliberate, dragging from bottom to top with the flat of his tongue.

You moaned, your hands flying to his hair, fingers tangling in the short strands. He worked with a rhythm that bordered on obsessive, licking and sucking like he was starving for the taste of you. His tongue circled your clit, pressed flat, flicked against it until you were trembling.

"That's it," he murmured against you, the vibration making you gasp. "Let me hear you."

You couldn't help it. The sounds that escaped you were raw and desperate, filling the room along with the wet noises of his mouth working between your legs. His hands gripped your thighs, holding you open, and his tongue never stopped moving.

When you came, it hit you like a wave, sudden and overwhelming. You cried out, your back arching off the mattress as the pleasure pulsed through you. He didn't stop, riding it out with you, licking through every tremor until you collapsed back against the sheets, breathless.

He lifted his head, his chin slick and glistening. He smiled—that smug, satisfied grin he always wore when he'd made you fall apart—and licked his lips slowly.

"Beautiful," he said again.

Then he crawled up the bed, his body covering yours, and began pressing kisses to your stomach, your ribs, the valley between your breasts. Each kiss landed with a soft murmur of "I love you" against your skin.

He kissed your neck, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. When he reached your lips, he kissed you properly, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his expression softening into something raw and unguarded.

"I love you," he said again, the words quiet and certain.

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.