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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s got you, and he knows it.

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

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

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

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

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

His answering smirk is positively feral.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t you dare.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or, you could…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you do. You do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Howzer…” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s a lot.

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

“Hey,” you whisper.

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

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

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

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

“Howzer…”

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

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

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

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

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

“Good.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Beautiful.”

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

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

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

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

“Kriff, you’re tight.”

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

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

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

“Mm-hmm.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” you gasp.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You tug at his shirt. “Off.”

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

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

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

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

“Mm?”

“Are you clean?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s overwhelming. It’s too much.

It’s not enough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Keep talking like that, and you will.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’ve never felt so claimed.

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

“Kriff,” he says, his voice hoarse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“More than okay.”

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

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

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

“I handled you tonight, didn’t I?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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