#ct5597

The rain on Kamino hammered relentlessly against the durasteel of Tipoca City so hard that it seemed to vibrate the buildings themselves. As a Jedi that spent most of their time with the Coruscant Guard, you were used to gray, smog choked drizzle. Having something different was a good change of scenery.

Your official duties had been a laundry list of what you liked to call ‘administrative garbage’. You had spent the last two weeks conducting drills with the latest batch of Guard recruits, coordinating logistics with the Prime Minister, and sitting through meetings that were so boring, it made the council meetings feel fun. It was the kind of work that made your lightsaber feel like a decorative display.

But through it all, there had been a persistent, quiet itch in the back of your mind.

You had seen the transfer order months ago.

Transfer to ARC Program - Candidate 5597. 

When you first saw it, you felt a surge of pride. He had earned it. Jesse’s stubborn, brilliant, reckless streak of his was finally being recognized. But you also knew the reputation of the ARC Program. They were designed to break a man down to his molecular level and rebuild him into something formidable.

In the early days of the war, Jesse was a staple of the Coruscant Guard. His sharp wit and high energy often served as the only thing that kept the long, grueling shifts at the Senate building from becoming unbearable. While most of the Coruscant Guard was known for a certain rigid, humorless discipline, Jesse had a way of mixing his outgoing personality into the mix. He dedicated to being the best soldier he could be. By the end of his run with the Guard, he knew exactly how you liked your caf and which Senators were likely to cause you the most trouble. You grew accustomed to his presence - and you enjoyed that.

Then came the transfer. The Republic’s need for aggressive, front line leaders had spiked, and the 501st Legion was losing more men than ever in the outer rim. 501st leadership looked at Jesse’s training scores from Kamino and his uncanny ability to improvise under pressure. Ultimately, they decided he was wasted on city patrol. You remember the day he traded his crimson markings for the deep blue of the 501st being a quiet one. There was no grand ceremony, just a fresh new set of shiny armor and a lopsided grin. He told you that he would see you on his next shore leave. Except with how busy both you and him have been, that never happened. 

Now, seeing he received an ARC promotion, it was clear he was making a big impact in the 501st.

Unfortunately, taking care of your duties on another planet did not change how busy you were. You didn’t have time to send a comm and were too busy to even think about trying to pull rank to visit the training center. Besides, the training was demanding. He didn't need a Jedi distraction or the comfort of an old friend. He needed to be a soldier. 

Now, the rain of Kamino was finally behind you. The Tranquility was off to Coruscant with both you and Jesse on board. The Tranquility was a stark contrast to the quiet, almost funereal-like atmosphere of the Jedi Temple on Coruscant. It was loud, chaotic, and always awake.

As you navigated the corridors toward the on-ship Jedi quarters, you felt it. The Force didn't just nudge you, it pulled you. You turned your heels and pivoted toward Hangar Bay 3.

The hangar was a hive of frantic activity. Gunships were being maintenance checked, and pit droids were screeching as they scurried between the legs of workers. But in a quieter spot, hidden behind a stack of storage containers was Jesse.

He was tucked into the shadow of a crate, sitting on an upturned power cell. He was stripped down to his blacks, his white and blue plates of armor scattered around him like the pieces of a giant, expensive puzzle. The signature ARC double pauldrons were already finished, the 501st blue looking sharp against the grey floor.

But it was the man himself who held your gaze.

Jesse looked different. The soft edges of the Coruscant Guard member you knew had been honed into something lethal. He was broader, more built, and there were fresh bags under his eyes that spoke of the hellish weeks on Kamino. He was hunched over his helmet, a fine tipped brush held in a hand that was visibly trembling. Not from fear, but from the kind of muscular collapse that comes after days of being pushed beyond the limits of human endurance.

You stayed back for a moment, shrouded in the deep shadow of a fighter’s wing. You watched the way he squinted, his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth in a display of concentration that was so "Jesse" it made your heart ache with a sudden, sharp nostalgia. He was trying to trace the intricate circular patterns of the Republic cog on the dome of his helmet, but his eyes were bloodshot and blinking slowly - far too slowly.

He was beyond exhausted. He was running on pure, stubborn Jesse adrenaline. You watched as he dipped the brush, his head nodding forward for a split second, chin nearly hitting his chest, before he jerked it back up with a start. He barely caught himself, a small droplet of blue pigment nearly splashing onto his bare knees.

He was a hero of the Republic, a newly minted ARC trooper, and a friend you had missed every single day since his transfer. And right now, he was currently losing a fight with a cup of paint and his own eyelids.

You didn't want to startle him (well, perhaps a little) but mostly, you just wanted to catch him before he ruined that helmet.

You lingered in the shadow of the ship’s wing for a few moments longer, simply centering yourself. After months of silence and missed connections, the sheer reality of him being a few meters away was exciting. But then his head dipped again, the brush tip dangerously close to the white curve of his helmet, and you knew you had to intervene before he accidentally gave himself a blue facial.

"I heard a rumor they were letting just anyone into the ARC program these days, but I didn't think it was this bad," you chuckled softly, your voice cutting through just enough to over power the mechanical dirge of the hangar.

The effect was instantaneous. Jesse’s head snapped up with such violence you swear you heard his neck pop. The brush flailed in a panicked arc, and he nearly took a tumble off the upturned power cell. He scrambled to find his footing, his steps pressing against the scattered armor as he instinctively tried to snap to attention.

"General! I didn't-"

"Easy, Jesse," you half laughed, stepping into the dim light. You waved him down before he could lock his knees, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. "If you stand up that fast, you’re going to pass out, and I really don't want to explain to Rex why I found his new ARC in a heap behind a storage crate."

The moment he realized it was truly you, the rigid 'soldier' persona he’d been trying to project evaporated. His face lit up, a genuine, bone deep radiance that seemed to wash away the gray exhaustion for a fleeting second. He sank back onto the power cell, his shoulders dropping as he let out a long, shaky breath that sounded like a deflating balloon.

"You," he breathed, his voice a low, gravelly rasp, "I thought I was hallucinating. Like the paint fumes finally got to me."

"The paint fumes might still be a factor," you countered, walking closer until you were standing in the small circle of his makeshift workstation.

Up close, he looked even more ragged. His fingers were stained with streaks of blue pigment, the ink settled into the creases of his knuckles and under his nails. His typical high energy  was clearly fading, replaced by a heavy, leaden lethality that made his every movement look like it was happening underwater.

"How long has it been since you’ve slept, Jesse?" you asked, your tone softening from teasing to genuine concern.

He rubbed a hand over his face, inadvertently smearing a tiny dot of blue onto his forehead, right near the edge of his tattoo. "I don't know. Thirty six hours? Maybe forty? I had to finish the final qualification rotations, then the debriefs, then the gear pick up and then I realized we were docking in a few hours." He looked down at the helmet in his lap, his gaze hazy,"I can't walk off this ship onto Coruscant in blank armor. I’m an ARC now. I have to look the part. Right?"

"You’re going to look like a mess if you keep this up," you said. You reached down, your fingers brushing his as you gently but firmly took his helmet from his lap. He didn't fight you. "You’re done for now."

"I’m not," he protested weakly, though he didn't move to take his helmet back. "I just need to finish the cogs. If I can just get the symmetry right-."

"You’re coming with me," you interrupted, leaving no room for debate. It was the tone you used when a Senator was being particularly difficult. The perfect blend of Jedi authority and stubbornness you’ve come to learn from Fox.

Jesse blinked up at you,"To the Jedi quarters? I don't think I’m allowed-"

"Not the quarters. And you aren't arguing," you interrupted again, already using a flick of your fingers to levitate his gear and drop it into an empty crate. "If you smudge that helmet or spill that paint pot, I’m telling Commander Fox you’ve forgotten every bit of Coruscant Guard discipline we drilled into you. I’ll tell him you’ve gone completely '501st reckless' and need to be sent back to basic."

That got a genuine, tired chuckle out of him. The threat of Fox’s temper was enough to move him, "You wouldn't. That’s low, even for a Jedi."

"Try me," you winked. "Now, grab the paint and crate and follow me."

He stood up slowly, his joints popping in a way that made your own knees ache in sympathy. You led the way out of the hangar, steering him through the maintenance corridors of the Tranquility. You knew the layout of this ship better than most. Throughout the war, you spent hours studying the schematics to find the pockets of dead space where the crew rarely ventured.

You stopped at a nondescript blast door near the aft of the ship, tucked behind a series of coolant pipes. With a quick bypass code, the door hissed open to reveal a hidden paradise.

It was a small, circular room that had once been used for navigation before the ship’s systems were integrated into the bridge. Now, it was a forgotten sanctuary. A massive, curved viewport offered a panoramic look at the swirling, hypnotic blue of hyperspace, casting the room in a cool blue glow.

The floor was covered in haphazard piles of extra junk that had been shoved in the room, along with a few cushions and heavy blankets you salvaged from the laundry deck. It was quiet. Profoundly, beautifully quiet.

Jesse stepped inside, the crate pressed against chest. He stood there for a moment, simply breathing in the stillness. The chaos of the hangar and the pressure of his new role seemed to fall away the moment the door hissed shut behind him.

"Whoa," he whispered, his voice barely audible, "I didn’t know there was a place like this on the venators."

"It’s the only place on the ship where nobody wants anything from me," you huffed, gesturing toward the pile of cushions, "And right now, it’s the only place where somebody will force you to shut your eyes. Sit. That’s not a request."

He didn't need to be told twice. He collapsed onto the cushions, his heavy frame sinking into the soft fabric with a groan of pure relief. Even as he settled, his hand drifted back toward the helmet resting on the crate beside him, his fingers twitching toward the paint. "I really should just finish-"

"Jesse, stop," you laughed, reaching over to catch his wrist. His skin was warm, his pulse thrumming with frantic, fading energy. "You have two choices. You can stay here and actually get some rest, or, if you really have that much energy to burn, you can put the rest of the kit on and give me a little fashion show. You seem so excited about your new gear. I certainly wouldn't be opposed to seeing the final result."

Jesse froze. In the cool blue light of hyperspace, you could see the tips of his ears turn a deep, sudden red. He looked down at his armor, then back at your face, completely derailed by the suggestion. 

"A fashion show?" he repeated slowly.

"You seem so insistent on showing off your new status," you teased, sitting down and leaning back against your own pile of cushions. "Why wait for the hangar at Coruscant? Now hand me that paint brush and gear up.”

Defeated by a mix of exhaustion and sheer embarrassment, he finally let out a huffed laugh and slid the brush across the floor towards you, "It’s terrifying how convincing you are. Has anyone told you that?"

"Daily," you winked.

Jesse lingered on the edge of the cushions, looking at the pile of blue and white plates with a sudden, renewed spark of energy. Your ‘fashion show’ comment had clearly gotten to his pride. He looked at you, then at the gear, then back to you.

"You really want to see it?" he asked, his voice losing some of its abrasiveness.

"Let's see the upgrade!"

He moved with a surprising grace for someone so exhausted, his muscle memory taking over as he snapped the gear into place. His silhouette changed as he pulled on the heavy double pauldrons. He adjusted the kama, the heavy fabric falling along his sides as he straightened his posture.

He stood in the center of the small room, the blue glow of hyperspace catching the stark white of his new kit. He tried to maintain a formal military composure but his eyes were dancing, and the corners of his mouth were twitching. He looked like a cadet who had just been handed his first real blaster.

"Well?" he asked, brushing his hands across the pocket for his DC-17’s, "Does it meet Jedi standards?"

You leaned back, letting your gaze travel slowly from his boots to the new pauldrons. You didn't hide the smile. "Honestly? It looks incredible. Like it was always meant to be yours."

Jesse blinked, his formal posture faltering for a second. He shifted his weight, looking down at his own chest plate as if seeing it for the first time. "You- you actually mean that? You’re not just saying it?"

"I mean I’d rather the blue be red but,” you paused, “no, blue looks nice on you.”

A flush crept up his neck. He let out a breathless, self deprecating laugh and rubbed the back of his head. "Careful, General," he teased, though there was a flicker of deep vulnerability in his eyes, "If you don’t take it easy with the compliments, I might actually start to dream of you having a crush on me or something."

The air in the room seemed to thin for a breath. You didn't look away, letting the silence stretch just long enough to be meaningful before you reached for a small, sealed container hidden behind a box of old navigation charts.

"Don't get ahead of yourself, trooper. I’m just trying to keep your ego inflated enough to keep you awake," you countered, popping the lid of the container.

The smell hit the air immediately. It was sweet, yeasty, and spiked with cinnamon. "Since I was stuck on Kamino doing boring Jedi stuff, I had a lot of time to trade favors with the supply ships. I managed to get my hands on some real Corellian sweet bread and spiced crackers. Want some?"

You held the container out to him.

Jesse’s eyes widened. Still in his gear, he dropped back onto the cushions. All pretense of military decorum was gone, "Real food? Not paste or ration sticks?"

"Real food," you confirmed, handing him a piece.

He took a bite, his eyes fluttering shut as he let out a low groan of appreciation. "I think I owe you multiple rounds for this," he mumbled around a mouthful of spice and sugar.

You laughed, settling into the cushions directly across from him. The space between you was small, your knees nearly brushing. Once he’d finished the first cracker, you held out your hand and cocked your head. He understood immediately. He picked up his helmet and handed it to you so carefully, it made it seem like a sacred relic.

You  dipped the fine tipped brush into the blue paint, your hand steady as you began to paint the first arc of the Republic cog.

"Remember that senate meeting on fuel taxes?" you asked, your eyes laser focused on painting the perfect curve, "The one in the lower Senate chambers where the heating system broke?"

Jesse let out a snort, leaning his head back against the wall so he could watch you work, "Three hours of a senator arguing over liquid hydrogen tariffs? That one? I think I counted every single durasteel panel in that room. You were sitting there looking all formal, but I could see your eyelid twitching every time he hit the table."

"I was three minutes away from using a mind trick to make him suggest a recess," you admitted, carefully filling in a line with paint, "You kept shifting your weight so your armor would clank just enough to distract him. I never thanked you for that."

"Better late than never" he shrugged, “just wanted to help a friend out.”

The conversation drifted, the old ease of your partnership returning as if the year plus of separation were nothing more than a bad dream. But as you worked on the second half of the cog, the tone shifted. You looked up from the paint, meeting his gaze.

"I’m so proud of you, Jesse."

He started to make a joke, but the look on your face stopped him.

"I mean it," you continued, "I know people thought I might be bitter when you got the 501st transfer. But seeing you now, I’m just glad you made it. I’m glad others get to see what I saw back then."

You reached out, not with your hand, but with the Force. You let your presence brush against his, "Your light in the Force, it feels even stronger now. Harder, maybe. More defined. But it’s brighter than it ever was in the Guard."

Jesse went quiet, his eyes searching yours in the blue hyperspace glow. He didn't have a witty comeback for that. Instead, he let out a breath and looked down at the floor. "You know about a month after the transfer went through, I almost put in a request to come back."

You froze, the paint brush hovering just millimeters from the helmet, "What? Jesse, why? You were their top candidate."

"It wasn't about that," he admitted, "It was too quiet. I mean, the 501st is the loudest kriffing legion in the Grand Army, but it was quiet here," He tapped his chest, right over his heart, "I’d be on a long range recon or sitting in a trench on some mud ball in the Mid Rim, and I’d go to make a joke about a Senator, or I’d look to my left to see if you’d caught the same ridiculous thing I just saw and you weren't there."

He looked back up, his expression earnest, "Don't get me wrong. I’d die for General Skywalker. He’s a hell of a leader, and my brothers? Fives, Echo, Rex, they’re the best men I’ve ever known. I’d follow them into the void itself. But General Skywalker can’t replace you. Nobody can."

The confession hung in the air. It was the kind of honesty that usually only came out in the middle of a firefight or after too many rounds at a cantina. Hearing it here, in your secret sanctuary, made your heart do a slow, painful roll in your chest. 

You cleared your throat, feeling the sudden need to break the tension before you did something reckless.

"Well," you hummed, your voice a bit breathier than you intended, "if I’d known you were that miserable, I might have actually put in the request myself. But since we’re both here now, I think we need something a bit stronger than spiced crackers."

You reached back into your hidden stash and pulled out a small, unmarked flask. Jesse’s eyebrows shot up, a familiar glint of mischief returning to his eyes.

"Is that-?"

"A very high quality spiced rum that a freighter captain 'donated' to the Guard's evidence locker," you winked, unscrewing the cap and pouring some into a spare glass, "Consider it a reward for surviving training."

Jesse took the glass, his fingers brushing yours in a lingering contact that sent a jolt up your arm. He took a sip and let out a long, appreciative sigh, "That’s the real deal, huh. It almost feels like the old days. Remember when the war was new? We’d finish a fourteen hour shift and the whole squad would pile into 79’s?"

You rolled your eyes, "I remember you trying to teach me how to play Sabacc. You lost fifty credits to a maintenance droid."

"That droid was cheating," he defended, though he was smiling now. He took another sip, his gaze turning reflective, "Do you still go? To 79’s? With the rest of the Guard?"

You looked into the bottle of rum, "I do. Occasionally. Fox usually drags me along to make sure the shinies don't start a riot." you paused, swirling your drink, "But it’s not as fun without you. The music is too loud, the drinks are too watery, and there’s nobody there to tell me which Senators are secretly dating each other."

Another silence followed, but this one was different. You looked at him again, your gaze lingering on the way the double pauldrons sat on his shoulders.

"I mean it, though," you whispered, "The armor. You look powerful. It really does suit you."

Jesse downed the rest of his drink in one go, his eyes never leaving yours. He carefully took the bottle from your hand and poured himself another glass before setting it down with a purposeful clink on the metal floor.

"You really think so?" he asked. His voice had changed. It was deeper, more confident. He shifted, propping himself up on his knees and shuffling forward.

The cushions crinkled under his weight as he invaded your space, stopping only when your knees touched. He was so close you could smell the spice of the crackers and the sharp tang of the rum on his breath.

"I know how to make it look better," he smirked.

"How?" you asked, your heart hammering against your ribs at his close proximity.

He didn't answer with words. Instead, his hands moved to his shoulders, his fingers working the heavy magnetic clips of his new double pauldron. With a soft clack, it came free. He leaned in even closer and slowly lowered the gear over your head.

It was surprisingly heavy, the cold plastoid resting against your robes, the blue markings of the 501st now draped over your own shoulders. The pauldrons were far too wide for you, making you feel small and protected all at once.

Jesse didn't pull back. He rested back on his calves, just inches away, and let out a soft, breathy smile as he looked at you wearing his colors.

"See?" he grinned, his gaze tracing the way his armor looked on you, "Much better. I think I might have to let you keep it."

You let out a giggle, your hands coming up to steady the heavy plates. "Nah. I’d be executed for treason for wearing blue."

He tilted his head to the side, his expression softening into something so tender it made your breath hitch. He reached out, his hand hovering near your cheek for a second before he pulled back, a ghost of a sigh escaping him.

"I missed you," he exhaled, resting the palm that almost grazed your cheek on his calf. He shook his head as if he couldn't quite believe he was finally saying it. 

"Well," you said, offering a small, lopsided smile as you adjusted the heavy pauldron on your shoulders, "I’m right here."

You expected a quick retort or a flirtatious wink, but Jesse didn't take the bait. He just let out a long, heavy sigh that seemed to rattle in his chest.

"That's exactly it. That. Right there. The way you can just make a joke out of the vacuum of space. I miss the lightheartedness. I miss the way the war used to be."

He continued.

"When I was in the Guard, I was an idiot," he admitted with a bitter little huff of a laugh, "I woke up every day thinking I knew exactly how the next rotation was going to go. I took the shifts, the bad caf, and the boring Senate meetings for granted because I assumed there’d always be another one. It was carefree. I didn't realize how much that mattered until I was standing in a trench on a planet I couldn't spell, wondering if the next grenade was meant for me."

He leaned forward just a small bit, his fingers gripping into his thighs.

"Now? I’m an ARC Trooper. I’m the one they’re going to send in when the odds are suicide. I’m the one who has to lead the charge into the meat grinder. Tomorrow isn't guaranteed for any of us, I know that, but for me? For the 501st?" He shook his head, "Heck, the next few moments of my life aren't guaranteed."

You didn't offer a platitude or Jedi wisdom about the flowing nature of life and death. He didn’t need a General right now, and he certainly didn't need a lecture. You decided to pull him back to the surface.

You leaned in, the movement causing the heavy blue double pauldron to scrape against your Jedi robes with a soft pull on the fabric. The weight of his rank, quite literally, sat heavy on your shoulders, but your gaze was light, flickering with a sudden, sharp spark of mischief. You invaded the last few inches of his personal space until you could see flecks of gold in his eyes, mirrored by the blue hyperspace glow.

"And what exactly are you going to do about that, ARC-5597?" you asked teasingly. By using his designation, you weren't pulling rank. You were throwing down a gauntlet. You were daring the man behind the number to take what he wanted from the moments he claimed were so precious.

Jesse’s vision sharpened instantly. The hazy, exhaustion that had been weighing down his eyelids vanished, replaced by a sudden, predatory focus. He didn't blink. He didn't pull back. Instead, he let his hand slide slowly toward you until his paint-stained knuckles brushed against robe.

"You're playing a very dangerous game," he warned,  "If you keep this up, being caught wearing 501st blue is going to be the absolute least of your concerns."

"Is that right?" You didn't flinch. You didn't move an inch. Instead, you tilted your head, the corner of your mouth twitching into a challenge, "What could possibly be more treacherous than the Jedi General of the Coruscant Guard wearing 501st blue.?"

You were pushing him. You were leaning into the fire, practically begging to be burned. And you wanted him to cross the line. The line you’d both been tiptoeing around back in the Senate halls, over cold caf and shared glances in the city lights.

When Jesse moved, he moved with frantic, explosive release. He lunged forward, his knees digging into the cushions, and his hands coming up to cup your face with a desperation that was almost violent.

The kiss wasn't a question. It was an answer to every unspoken fear he’d just confessed.

When his lips met yours, it was hard and hungry, tasting of the rum and the salt of his own sweat. He kissed you with the kind of crushing intensity that comes from a man who truly believes he might not have a tomorrow. His fingers tangled deep into your hair, his palms rough against your skin, pulling you flush against him until the heavy, cold plastoid of his double pauldron was crushed between your chests.

You gasped into his mouth, the sound swallowed by him. He moved his hands from your face to your waist, his grip bruisingly tight as he hauled you closer, as if he were trying to pull you inside his own skin. He was shaking, not from the exhaustion he’d been fighting for days, but from the sheer, terrifying relief of finally touching you. His kiss deepened, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips with a heat that made the room feel like it was catching fire.

Jesse groaned a low sound that vibrated deep in his throat and echoed against your own teeth. It was the sound of surrender. In this tiny pocket of space, he wasn't ARC-5597. He was just Jesse, and he was drowning in you. He broke the kiss for a fraction of a second, his forehead dropping against yours, both of you panting, your breaths mingling in the cramped, blue lit space..

"I-” he took a deep breath, his words raspy, “I needed to know if you felt that. I needed one thing that was real before they sent me back out there."

Before you could even draw a full breath to answer, he was back, his mouth finding yours again with a renewed, feverish energy. This time, it was slower and deeper, like a long, soul-searing slide of heat that felt like he was trying to stitch his soul to yours. 

However, the feverish energy of the kiss finally began to give way to the sheer, physical reality of the last forty hours.

Jesse didn't pull away so much as he simply tipped forward. He broke the kiss with a soft, lingering ghost of a sigh, his forehead sliding from yours to rest heavily against your shoulder.. His weight was a sudden, dead load against you, his head thumping softly against the very pauldron he’d draped over you minutes ago. The clatter of plastoid on plastoid was the only sound in the room besides each of your ragged, slowing breaths.

A soft, breathless laugh escaped you. The all so mighty ARC trooper had finally reached his limit.

"Jesse?" you whispered, your hand coming up to cradle the back of his head.

He didn't answer with words, just a faint, unintelligible mumble against your neck. You gently shifted, guiding his body down until he was stretched out across the cushions, his head resting securely in your lap. The movement was slow and tender, a stark contrast to the desperation of moments before.

His eyes fluttered open just a crack. He looked up at you, his features softened by a vulnerability that no one else in the galaxy was allowed to see.

"Hey," he offered, a tiny, lopsided smudge of a smile touching his lips. 

"Hey yourself," you nipped back, picking a piece of your hair off his forehead, "Go to bed, ARC Trooper. That’s a direct order."

"Yes, General," he breathed out, the words trailing off into a heavy exhale.

He didn't let go entirely. As his eyes drifted shut, his hand reached out, fumbling blindly until his fingers found yours. He laced them together, his grip firm even in sleep, anchoring himself to you. He nuzzled closer into the soft fabric of your robes, his breathing evening out into a deep, rhythmic cadence that vibrated against your legs.

The silence of the sanctuary returned. It was peaceful.

Using your free hand, you reached for the brush that was now on the floor. The blue paint was starting to dry, but you didn't reach for that color anyway. Instead, you reached into the small kit for the color that defined your time together.

You picked up his helmet with your spare hand and placed it down carefully at your side. You didn't touch the Republic cog or the symmetry he’d been obsessing over. Instead, you turned the helmet over, and on the smooth, hidden interior of the neck guard, right where it would rest against his skin, you painted a small, perfect heart in Coruscant Guard Red.

It was a tiny, secret mark. A splash of his old life tucked inside his new one. You set the brush down and looked back at the man sleeping in your lap, his hand still tight around yours. The 501st could have his skills, and the Republic could have his service, but as the Tranquility hurtled through the void toward the capital, you made sure he’d always know exactly where his heart belonged.

"You just stood there," you snapped, tossing off your formal coat as you stormed into your apartment. The door slid shut behind the lieutenant in tow with a heavy hiss. "Like every word I said didn’t mean a damn thing."

He didn’t flinch. Instead, he removed his helmet slowly, jaw clenched. "What did you expect me to do, speak out in front of the whole chamber like I’m some kind of diplomat?”

"I expected you to care!” you yelled, turning to face him. "They're your brothers! The Senate talked about you all like you're tools, not people! And you just stood there like it didn’t matter to you at all!”

His eyes flashed. "Don’t question what matters to me.” 

The air crackled with unspoken words. 

"I fight every day for them," he growled, stepping forward. "I bleed for them. I’ve watched them die for this Republic, for senators who don’t even know our names. For you! Don’t talk to me about silence, I’m choking on it every single night!” 

Your breath caught. He was so close now, voice shaking with rage and frustration, desperation, even. The tension only wound up tighter. 

“You think I’m quiet because I don’t care?” he said. “I’m quiet because no one listens. Because it’s easier to shut my mouth than let it suffocate me, knowing that it never makes a difference.”

"Then say something now," you whispered. "I have fought for so long to be your voice. Say what you're really thinking."

“You really want to hear it?” he snapped. “Fine. I think you’re reckless. I think you’re going to get yourself killed trying to fix a system that doesn’t want to change.”

He paused. His jaw locked.

“And?” you pushed.

He closed the space between you in one step, rested his forehead against yours like he was trying to steady himself. His gloved hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing the curve of your face with a gentleness that undercut the sharpness of the air.

You leaned into his touch without thinking. Some of the heat in your blood: anger, maybe guilt, melted under his palm. Affection bloomed in your chest. 

“And I think about you. All the time, cyar’ika. When I’m supposed to be counting the exits. When I’m standing behind you while you’re putting a target on your own back. When I’m there, hands at my sides, pretending I haven’t memorised what it feels like to touch you.”

Your throat tightened. The term of endearment hit low in your chest. It was the kind of word that stuck. The one he called you even after the nights ended, the doors closed, and you both pretended like none of this had ever happened.

“When I see you smile at the others,” he added, voice lower now. “And I have to act like it doesn’t do something to me.” His hand slipped to your waist, fingers toying with your robes. He didn’t pull away. “I’m not supposed to want this. Any of this,” he muttered. “But maker, I do.”

You didn’t answer. Your body moved before your brain could catch up– reaching for his collar, dragging him in– and your back hit the wall harder than you meant. His mouth found yours, and that was it. 

It was angry. Desperate, and so achingly familiar.

His kiss tasted like frustration and guilt and all the quiet hours you’d spent pretending you didn’t need this. The prickles of his beard brushed against your chin, and you mewled softly into his mouth. He ate your sounds up eagerly, tongue tasting your mouth with fervour. 

His gloves hit the floor. Then a pauldron. Another. His kama. The sound of metal and fastenings on tile echoed through the room, careless now. His hands were on your thighs, gripping and kneading, and then you were in the air, legs locked around his waist securely. 

You gasped against his lips, fingers tugging at the hems of his blacks.

“You drive me insane,” he growled into your neck, voice rough and honest. 

You bit down on a sound that could’ve been a laugh, could’ve been a sob. His breath tickled the delicate skin.

“Then shut up,” you breathed, cupping his jaw and tilting his head back just enough to meet his eyes. “And do something about it.”

His hand slid down over your stomach, purposeful and certain, like he’d already planned his attack.

“Don’t make me beg,” you whispered.

“Never,” he purred.

Clothes had been tugged, shoved, cast aside by frantic hands. Your nerves were sizzling, and your senses were overwhelmed with friction, skin, heat, desire. His mouth didn’t stay in one place for long: your neck, your collarbone, the skin below your navel, your inner thigh. And then he was on his knees, eye-level with your clothed sex. A position that was the most natural for a soldier bred to obey, but there was nothing submissive about the way he did it.

You clung to him, fingers digging into his shoulders, nails biting into the thick, full muscle. He groaned. 

“This doesn’t leave this room,” you managed, your voice wrecked and breathless.

He gave a short laugh, more exhale than amusement. “No one’s asking.”

His hands slid slowly up your thighs, eyes never leaving yours. He curled his fingers into the waistband of your last layer and tugged with purpose. He tugged the garment down your legs, and then you were bare in front of him– his hands on your hips, his mouth hovering just shy of your skin. And then it was quiet, save for your breathing and the faint hum of Coruscant traffic bleeding in through the glass.

A blush burnt high on your cheeks. His face was so close to you. 

“Jesse.”

“Let me,” he said. His voice was low, calm, serious. Like he’d made peace with every rule he was about to break.

The pad of his thumb dipped between your folds, just lightly rubbing up and down over the slickness. You whined when he grazed over your clit. 

“I follow orders all day.” His deep brown eyes were fixated on where your arousal was glistening on his fingers. “Let me do this.”

He looked up at you for a moment, as if seeking a last permission. You swallowed and nodded. 

And then his mouth was on you.

He pressed the flat of his tongue against your entrance, letting your essence soak his tongue before licking up with one slow, languid movement. His hands stayed firm on your hips, holding you steady as your fingers curled into the fabric of his blacks. A breathless curse slipped from your lips and your eyes clamped shut when his lips brushed against your clit, curving against you to suck at your bundle of nerves. The roughness on his chin tickled the sensitive flesh of your inner thighs. 

The man beneath you groaned and purred, his sounds entwining with your own in an intimate dance of desire. He tried to ignore it and focus on his task of pleasing you, but his cock was so hard it was almost splitting his blacks. Ever the selfless lover, he remained steadfast in his goal, lips and tongue trained on your pussy. 

He moved like he had been reading you—taking cues from the way your thighs tried to press against his head, from each little cry and gasp that left your lips. Every reaction was feedback. Reward. His fingertips dug into the flesh of your hips with each quiet sound you made, grounding you as he worked, methodical and deliberate.

He was not impatient. Jesse savoured everything. He kept up a steady rhythm, working you over with the slickness of his tongue in a way that had you arching your back against the wall and rolling your hips to meet his mouth, desperate for more. That’s when he gripped your thighs harder and held you still. 

Your eyes snapped open and you looked down at him in protest, lips still parted in a breathy moan. 

He pulled away slightly. “Don’t rush it,” he murmured against you, voice low, rough with restraint. “I want to feel you fall apart slowly. Patience, cyar’ika.” 

There was no arrogance in his tone. Just intent.

Then he continued his onslaught: tongue wet, firm and deliberate, working you in slow, devastating drags that left your thighs trembling. Your fingers brushed against the little spikes of hair at the back of his head, just to ground yourself, and the groan that vibrated against your clit almost undid you completely. 

His hands held you tightly, steadying you. One arm snaked around your lower back to hold you in place, his forearm solid against your spine, anchoring you like he knew just how close you were. He wanted it. All of it: your sounds, your pleasure, the complete loss of your usual composure.  

You glanced down again and the sight nearly wrecked you. 

Jesse was watching you. Watching everything. Every breath. Every twitch. Every time your head rocked back against the wall. His pupils were blown wide, eyes glassy with the kind of focused desperation you usually only saw when he got back from a rough mission. His jaw flexed as he adjusted his rhythm again—tongue flicking tighter, faster, and then slowing just before it was too much. Like he was delaying the inevitable.

His chin was glistening with you. His cheeks were pink. But he was not chasing his own pleasure, he was laser-focused on controlling yours. On dragging you to the edge and holding you there. Not out of cruelty of spite, but out of purpose. To give you even more. To prove himself in giving, rather than taking. 

“Jesse…” your voice was barely there. A whisper pulled from somewhere deep within you. 

He heard it. He felt it. But he didn’t respond with words this time.

Instead, his mouth moved with intent, more pressure. He wasn’t overpowering or dominating you, he was working you. Like giving you pleasure was a skill to be honed, and he is the only one he ever wanted to practice on. A soldier’s precision applied to something personal, messy, and vulnerable. Because giving you this was the only thing that felt fully his.

You felt the moment he started to lose rhythm. Not from lack of control, but from how much he was giving. His breathing grew heavier against you, and you heard a low, aching groan vibrate against your clit, like he was overwhelmed with the scent of you, the taste, the weight of your body trembling in his hands. 

But yet, it wasn’t enough. 

One of his hands slid away from your hip. His fingers dragged slowly between your legs, and when he eased two inside you, it was seamless. Like he had been waiting to fill that space, to know you even deeper, and your body was perfectly ready for him. His mouth never left your clit, but now his fingers matched that rhythm, curling inside your soft, warm walls with subtle precision, pressing into the spot that made your knees weak.

He moaned again—softer this time, needy, and you glanced down.

His eyes were closed.

He wasn’t looking for approval. He wasn’t showing off. He was so fully focused on how your body was moving, how your breath hitched every time his tongue slid just right. You could see the tension in his jaw, the way his brows pulled together, as if he were trying to memorise your reactions with muscle memory alone.

His hand on your hip moved to the inside of your thigh, gently but firmly spreading you wider. The way he touched you was reverent but solid: like you were something delicate, but he was the only one who got to keep you from breaking.

And gods, you were so close.

Your fingers pressed into his shoulders, nails digging into fabric and flesh, but he didn’t falter. He didn’t stop to ask if you were nearly there. Didn’t slow down. He kept giving—deeper, faster, controlled, but unrelenting. Your orgasm stirred and coiled low in your stomach, hot and tight, until it snapped, all at once and entirely overwhelming. 

You cried out his name. Stars bounced behind your eyelids as your entire form arched towards him, writhing, trembling and weak. Your senses sung with a pleasant cocktail of lust, affection and dopamine as your toes curled against the tiles and your muscles tensed.

Jesse groaned, full and wrecked, as he kept his mouth on you, licking through every wave like he needed to collect every drop of your come, feel every spasm of your body. He didn’t stop until you grabbed his head and eased him away, and even then, he pressed a kiss to your inner thigh, and then one above your mons. A soldier swearing loyalty in silence. You tried not to squirm too much when his whiskers tickled you.  

He stayed on his knees for a moment longer. Breathing hard. Eyes opening to gaze up at you, hearts swirling in his pupils. His mouth was wet. His voice was rough. “Still standing?” he asked with a crooked smile, cheeks red.

Somehow there was more satisfaction in that look than you’d ever seen whilst he was in armour. 

“Barely…” you managed, panting, skin flushed, legs still trembling like a newborn foal.