#etchedbox

You wonder what he’ll be like. As an employer, of course. You know he’s quiet, but how much of that was an act you can’t gage. You shouldn’t even be thinking of him. Yet the Mandalorian refuses to leave your mind, and so you refuse to keep going, tearing your hand away from your body, your jaw clenching when it takes more willpower than you expect. The lower half of you is wound tight with disappointment, your arousal festering the more you deny it. That’s the second time today you’ve been left high and dry, though you doubt the stranger from the cantina would’ve given you what you’re looking for—what you needed—had things been allowed to… proceed.

You roll over to lessen the temptation of sliding your hand back exactly where you want it. You’re not going to think about the Mandalorian like this—you’re not supposed to. You don’t know anything about him and his people; you’ve only heard the stories, but that’s all they’ve ever felt like—stories.

Tonight, you had tried your best to gather whatever information on the mysterious bounty hunter floated around Nevarro. All you got from the patrons of the cantina was a semblance of Mando’s ludicrous backstory, and even that confounded you deeply. A Mandalorian who could fight off twenty men… You scoff. The Guild… The Child… You had expected some useful intel, just a inkling that could shed light on the contradiction of him: a fighter clad in beskar cradling a baby. Instead your head was filled with useless hearsay and dizzy with cheap brandy. There has to be more. You wonder how he lives, how he fights, how he fucks—

You stop yourself from thinking of it again, your breaths still coming in desperate, little, pants despite your best efforts. Fuck, you had been close before he popped into your head. An unwanted intruder in your mind. You need a release so badly you could burst, and truthfully, you don’t even remember what you had been imagining prior to him. Pressing your cheek to the cool bedsheet, you think it must be the way he moves—besides his voice, of course. You’ve spent so much of your short life among the stars that you’re more familiar with how ships cut through air than how people move.

The Mandalorian could be green under the helmet. Or he could be human, like you. But there’s something different about the way he walks, the swagger of his stride under the weight of all that beskar steel. It reminds you of what he is. A warrior. 

You shut your eyes, trying to catch a few hours of sleep before the sun rises.

*****

Mando wakes in complete darkness. The Kid is still asleep and it won’t be long until the Pilot arrives. He wasn’t prepared for her yesterday, a situation for which he blames Karga. When he found the Pilot in the back-alley of that blasted cantina, Mando had expected someone quite different. He remembers the cowering mess of a boy who stood by her, but mostly he remembers the determination in the Pilot’s eyes.

You’re looking for me. 

Mando struggles in recalling all the finer details from yesterday, the sharp planes of her face or the olive color of her skin; he wants to figure out the exact reason why he’s so taken by her. And then there was that choker he glimpsed, flush to her slim neck and mostly obscured by a worn scarf. The necklace was made of a delicate metal, something that clearly had no place on the Outer Rim.

Mando feels blindly for the panel on the cot’s side, wincing as the muscles in his back stretch after another night in the cramped space. As the bright light of the Crest’s hold hits him, he studies the scars that litter his forearms—some still raised and angry, others fading into pale slivers. Mando's extremely quiet as he shuts the door and dons his armor. He shouldn’t wake the Child.

When he lowers the ramp, the Pilot’s already waiting.

He admires her profile against the dawn of the sky. There’s barely enough light for Mando to make out the outline of her, but through the visor he can see that she carries a small pack. There’s a blaster pistol, chunky and oversized, strapped to her right thigh. That wasn’t there yesterday. 

“Mando.” The Pilot walks up the ramp without invitation. “I asked around about you last night.”

He pauses. He probably should have done the same for her, but he trusted Karga’s word. “And what did you hear?”

“That they call you Mando. And I heard about the Guild, the Child, how you’re good at killing…” Her voice trails off as she slides the pack off her shoulder. “But mostly I heard your ship was a piece of junk.” She dumps her pack unceremoniously on the ground. “Which I said I would be the judge of.”

She starts surveying the inside of the Crest. Most people keep their eyes on him at all times, forever wary of his reputation and the danger he presents; the Pilot doesn’t look at him at all.

When the Mandalorian offers her no reply, the Pilot doesn’t waste her time. Before Mando can stop her, she’s moving through the hold, pressing buttons and wrenching open panels. Random doors clumsily swing open, battering loudly against the sides of the metal ship. 

“Hey.” His tone is sterner than he wants it to be. He’s springing into motion after her, deactivating the buttons she’s pressed, following the trail of chaos the Pilot leaves in her wake. She’s been on the Crest less than a minute and she’s already encroaching on his life—on his solitude. “Girl—"

She ignores him completely. Muttering to herself, the Pilot also ignores his weapons cabinet, the fresher and the small cot, opting to clamber up the ladder to the cockpit instead. “Hey!” Mando reaches up to stop her, but she’s unusually fast. His gloved fingers miss her ankle, slipping past it to fasten onto a metal rung. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m doing my job.” She doesn’t glance back as he climbs up after her. She’s too occupied with flipping more switches, not even bothering to hide her disdain when she hears the initial rumble of the engine. Her fingers are nimble, moving impossibly fast across the mechanical dashboard and only pausing intermittently to push the dark hair away from her eyes. “You do know you don’t actually don’t need an extra pilot to fly this thing, right? I’ve never even touched one of these pre-Imperial ships before. With the credits you’re offering, you could buy a droid, a nice R2 unit—”

“No droids,” Mando says pointedly. He doesn’t like how easily she slides into the pilot’s chair—how comfortable she looks. It’s his space. She turns the chair, staring up at him. 

“They also mentioned that you had a… droid thing.” He can’t believe the Pilot’s already working to undermine his authority. “I have bad news for you though, Mando. Your ship is a piece of junk.”

“I just got her repaired.“

“Well—” And then the Pilot shrugs. Shrugs, like Mando’s ship—the Razor Crest— is some throwaway piece of scrap metal she found foraging in a deadbeat junkyard. “It’s not what’s on the outside that matters. The inside is a mess too. The engine and the hyperdrive… don’t get me started. I haven’t even taken a good look and I can already tell that it’s not—”

“Enough.” He’s heard this all before.

She looks around, pausing when she notices the metal ball on top of one the levers is missing. She stares at it, cocking her head, but doesn’t stop talking. “I’ll work on it,” she decides. “While you’re out doing what you do. I’m not a mechanic or a miracle maker, but your ship can use a look.” She stares up at him again.

He waits for her to ask for more of the cut, but the request never comes. After a few moments, he realizes it isn’t coming at all. In his world, one that’s dictated by cold transactions and mercenaries, her silence is confusing. She’s just waiting for his reply.

“Alright,” he agrees.

She chews her lip and looks away. “Is the Child asleep?” Her voice is quiet when she asks about the Kid.

He nods.

They stay in a comfortable silence, her sitting and him standing. She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, offering him a small smile. It’s kinder than anything else she’s done so far, and though he doesn’t want to admit that he’s noticed… the Mandalorian knows the Pilot is pretty. Beautiful, even. A defined jawline, her face shaped like a heart; her bright eyes blink up at him, the juxtaposition of passion and innocence infinitely jarring. Tempting. He is curious. There are so many questions Mando wants to ask her. Where she’s from—why she’s on Nevarro when she looks like that—what she was doing with that boy yesterday. 

He settles on the most harmless question he can think of: “How old are you?”

She starts at this, but recovers well. He memorizes the look on her face, the flash of uncertainty in her eyes right before she conceals it, hiding. “Twenty-five.” She doesn’t ask how old he is.

So young. Mando wouldn’t have guessed that from the way the Pilot carries herself. He counts the years back to the start of the rebellion. “You were young when you flew in the rebellion.” She doesn’t reply, doesn’t move. He regrets saying anything at all. “What did you do?”

“I was in a starfighter squadron.” She doesn’t hesitate to answer this time. There’s a weight to her response, a strange heaviness. Mando had guessed that she was a cargo pilot, or part of the crew on a command ship—not a pilot in a starfighter squadron. But now that she’s said it, it fits. The ferocity in her eyes, the determination. The hunger, threatening to consume him. The calmness and the nonchalance—the scrappiness. The false arrogance that she uses like a shield. It all fits. Now, Mando can’t picture her as anything else but a starfighter.

He also can’t think of a reply, but she cracks another smile. “Bet you weren’t expecting that.”

He wasn’t, and he wonders whether she can tell by the way he stiffens like a cornered creature. He feels a retort on the edge of his tongue, sharp and barbed—

—but the Pilot’s already spinning away from him, fiddling with the numerous knobs and levers on the dashboard.

She doesn’t turn around again.

At his side, Mando’s fist clenches. He turns and leaves her in the cockpit.

*****

You both fall into a routine faster than you anticipate, working side by side or sitting in the cockpit. Mostly, though, the two of you avoid each other like orbiting planets on opposite ends of a system. The whole “quiet-and-brooding-silent-warrior” thing wasn’t just an act of his, but a reality you’ve come to live with. After two weeks working with the Mandalorian there’s no more small talk—no more questions—and certainly no more banter. 

You think your presence irritates him, though it’s impossible to know. Sometimes you sense his frustration even though you can’t think of what you did to possibly earn it. Maybe it was the teasing on that first day… Perhaps the Mandalorian is particularly sensitive about his ship. Even though it’s almost falling apart, the Razor Crest is classic—a ship with real character. You liked it. If you were being honest, you even admired his dedication to the Crest. Something about it felt so timeless, like him.

Maybe the Mandalorian didn’t understand these sentiments of yours. Guilt over your harsh words on the first day stings at the edge of your consciousness, and you wonder if it would be weird to apologize now, to say something to him about it—

Something grabs your leg.

“Oh hey there, Kid.” You stop looking at the panel you’re working on and stoop to pick up the Kid who’s hugging your leg with his little green arms. “What do you want?” You stare down at him and grin when he smiles back. You can’t help it. The Kid has a way of lightening your heart, even with all the tension that simmers between you and Mando. The Kid doesn’t know about it, and if he feels it, he certainly doesn’t care.

“Thought he was still in his seat, but he disappeared.” The Mandalorian’s gruff voice makes you jump. For someone so big and metal, he moves around the ship like a ghost, so stealthy that you can never tell when he’s right behind you. “He wants attention today.”

“Do you now?” The Kid babbles in reply and holds up the little metal ball from his favorite lever to show you. “And Mando wasn’t giving you attention?”

“What did I say about taking that out of the cockpit?” Annoyed, Mando steps closer to grab the ball out of the Kid’s fingers. The instant the ball leaves his hands, the Child’s face falls, his big eyes narrowing.

“Oh, come on.” You pluck the ball back from Mando’s gloved hand before he can stop you. “He’s just a kid.” You smile down at the tiny creature in your arms as you return the ball to him, ignoring how his father’s spine stiffens. He’s so tall;Mando always makes you feel tiny without even trying. Concentrating your energy on the Kid instead, you twist your features into a silly face, earning a giggle.

Mando just stands there. Your heart is racing—pounding in your chest—and you’re terrified, anxious that he has some kind of sensor out of the thousands in his helmet that can see that. Even if not, you’re positive that the goosebumps that erupted on your skin at his proximity are visible, dotting your bare arms and neck. You’re not scared of the Mandalorian anymore but he still makes you nervous, sending your stomach into a flutter. You don’t want to give a name to that. Not yet.

“What are you working on?”

It’s the first question the Mandalorian has asked you in weeks, the first acknowledgement of all the tinkering you’ve done on the ship since you’ve boarded. “Uh—just…” You struggle to gesture at the panel with the Kid in your arms. You’ve pulled out the metal covering and there’s a whole mess of wires showing. Not the best look. “I’m making it better, I swear.”

“I know.” The helmet tilts down.

All he had to say were two words in that low voice—I know—not even straightforward acknowledgement—and you’re floundering. You were always a sucker for praise. For someone who prided yourself on keeping your cool during missions, you’re a flustered mess now. “I… I’ve got some of the drives working at almost maximum capacity, but you’re not going to get it all the way there without replacement parts. This—what I’m doing now—is just so you don’t get a delay when you’re opening—” You trail on, just knowing that Mando’s eyes haven’t left your face. You don’t know how, but you feel his gaze on you, heavy like his armor. To make matters worse, you can feel a blush creeping across your cheeks. Just keep talking. “—I’m just having trouble with—”

All of the sudden, Mando reaches towards you. You flinch.

“Sorry,” he says. “The Kid.”

You look down to see the green baby asleep in your arms, ears twitching and mouth opening with his adorable snores. “Oh.” The bounty hunter takes the Child from you with one arm. You watch as Mando turns and takes the Child to the cot, tenderly resting the baby in his little swing.

You’re staring. You turn back to the panel quickly, the focus of your vision still blurry as you stare down at the wires. What were you doing again? The lights of the Crest dim for the Kid’s nap. Why are your palms so sweaty? You rip the tech jumpsuit you’re wearing off your shoulders, tying it around your waist. You use it as an excuse to reach down and wipe your hands before studying the wires again. It was a difficult task before, but with everything that’s happened (and nothing’s happened, really)—it now feels impossible.

“What are you having trouble with?” Mando’s beside you, stretching upwards to rest a gauntlet on the wall of the ship. He unintentionally cages you in as he stoops to try and get a better look at the wires you’re handling.

“Just…” Not daring to glance back over at him, you hold up the wires. “Just a really delicate set. I don’t have enough hands. If I was an Ardennian this would be easier.” It was supposed to be a joke, but you hear a quick rip of velcro and the slide of leather—

And then… his hands are in your line of vision. Ungloved hands. Real hands. His real hands.

They’re large and scarred, thick fingers with the nails cut short, but they’re human. “How can I help?” His voice is softer because he’s so close to you, and you think you can hear two layers to it: the mechanical modulated baritone, and just maybe—or maybe it’s your imagination—you can hear his very own breaths. His real ones. You try not to shiver. It’s the first time you’ve seen any of his skin, ever, and the tone of it is strikingly warm, only a minute shade darker than your own.

You’re staring again. You’re still refusing to look at his helmet, but you manage to swallow your surprise. “If you could hold these right here. I need to fuse them.“

“Okay.”

“Here.“ You hand him the wires, your fingers brushing his for a second. You take a deep breath. Keep it together. “Ready?”

“Ready.” True to his word, he stays still as a statue as you start fusing the wires, his hands comically large. You squint and roll out your stiff neck, starting to work.

The both of you stay like that. You’ve never been this close, never worked together like this. You take another deep breath, your exhale shaky as you try to level your heart rate.

It's so incredibly dim in the Crest’s hold. Only the electric sparks from your tools cast flickers of light on your face, on his hands, only the intermittent buzzing, a low hum, breaks the silence. When you finally find your focus, everything else but you and the Mandalorian seems to melt away. Not only that—all the anger, all the frustration you and him have felt about invading each other’s space—it all seems to vanish like it was never real in the first place.

You can’t hear his real breaths, you decide. They’re still modulated, but you’re so aware of the rise and fall of his armored chest, the movement only inches away from your bare shoulder. Even with all that beskar shrouding him, you can feel the heat of his body and see the hair on his hands, wonderfully dark and rich. You want to kiss them. It’s a silly thought, and so you bite back the instinct. You’re trying your hardest to not let the tremble in your own hands show, trying so hard not to think of him in the way you were the night before you boarded his ship.

You don’t know when Mando starts looking at you again, but it happens. You sense the minuscule shifts in his gaze; you feel his eyes on your face once more, on your neck, on your bare shoulders. Your blush deepens, and you hope he thinks it’s the heat. You would simply die if he knew he did this to you, made you blush with such a tiny sliver of his skin, of his attention. Two weeks on this ship and you’re so pent up, so desperate for his acknowledgement. You move your legs, feeling the arousal pool between them—

“Done,” you say. You pull away from the panel abruptly and he drops the wires. They’re fused, and you test them; even when you yank lightly with your little finger, they refuse to come apart. “Looks solid.” You grin and give his helmet a quick nod. It’s the first time you’ve mustered the courage to look at him straight since he put the Kid to sleep.

“Good job.” He tests the wires too, and you take the opportunity to ogle his hands again.

“No, thank you.” Your voice is shamelessly breathy. You look down at the floor to avoid the helmet and shake your head. Your hair falls in your eyes. Why are you so dizzy? “Thank you for helping, it made it a lot easier to manage—” Before you finish your sentence, you’re reaching up to brush your hair back.

Mando beats you to it.

His big hand comes up to tuck the hair behind your ear, and you freeze.

Maker, did he just… Did he…  

You stare up at him, the both of you suspended in that precious moment for what feels like forever. His rough fingertips, warm flesh and blood, rest on the side of your neck.

You wait.

It’s him who steps back first, retracting his hand as if from a hot flame. You bite your lip as he tightens the same hand into a fist, promptly yanking his gloves free from his belt where he tucked them.

Without a word, Mando turns and walks away from you, striding towards the ladder to the cockpit. Your heart drops as you think he’s just going to just leave you again, leave you in this silence you’ve been living in—

But then he speaks. “I’ll be in the cockpit.” His voice sounds different. Strained. Even under the helmet. Even through the modulator. “Let me know if…” He stops talking then, letting his words die and blend into the hum of the Crest’s engine, into hyperspace. He starts to climb.

“Sure,” you say, but the Mandalorian is already gone.

*****

The Girl and the Kid are sound asleep by the time Mando locks himself in the fresher that night. She’s taken to sleeping in the cockpit most nights, her small figure curled up with a blanket in the chair of her choice.

She’s been driving the Mandalorian mad for the past few weeks. It’s not one thing or the other, but everything combined: the way she flies, calm and confident, eyes brimming with excitement as she moves the Crest through the stars; the care in the work she does fixing the ship, chewing her lip raw as she concentrates on the delicate wiring; the way she cares for the Kid, her expression softening as she cradles the baby. Mando didn’t expect any of it. The sum of it is maddening. Mando’s certain he’s never been jealous of an inanimate object (especially one in the state of the Razor Crest) or his own son before, but he is now. The Mandalorian craves the Girl, her looks and smiles, her attention—her laugh when the Kid does something cute.

The Girl’s hair is actually a dark brown, not black like Mando initially thought. He knows this because he’s spent hours staring at the back of her head, memorizing the curve of her shoulder and the graceful bend of her neck while she flies. She’s none the wiser. It’s one of the few times Mando’s been completely thankful for the helmet, if only so she doesn’t know how much time he spends just… staring. Mando’s a man, yes, but he’s ashamed of how many times he’s pictured her naked in the past day—or in the past hour. It’s getting ridiculous how easily he slides into that headspace, letting the lust take ahold of him. He’ll come down the hatch and see her on all fours tightening a screw and—yeah, he’s pictured it again. And again. It drives him mad that he doesn’t know.He doesn't know any of the finer details, and it's killing him. 

He doesn’t know much about her at all.

He doesn’t even know her name. He didn’t bother to ask, and like so many others on the Outer Rim, she didn’t offer it. Names have never been important to Mando, at least in casual business exchanges. Because he never offers his own, because he keeps it to himself, he’s gotten used to assigning random pronouns to people like they’re objects passing through his fingers. The Kid. The Pilot—no—The Girl.

The singular mystery that’s been driving Mando wild with desire isn’t visual. She’s a good-looking girl, no one was denying that, but… Mando can’t get enough of how she smells. Before, in the absence of her presence, when he took off his helmet he was greeted by the stale chemical tang of recycled air, same as on most ships. Now the scent of her lingers everywhere. It greets him in the darkness when he wakes in his cot, and it’s the first thing that hits him when he takes off the helmet after a long day. It’s like sitting in a field of flowers, or smoking so much spice that his head spins with it. It’s delicious but diluted—just a trace of her—not even close to the potent fragrance it could be if he pressed his nose right into her bare skin. The possibility of it makes Mando’s mouth water. He’s never without her, not truly, never able to stop thinking, wondering, imagining—even when they’re in separate spaces, when they’re working in different rooms. She stays with him. What would she look like bent over for him? What would she smell like? How would she taste?

The Girl had never done anything to hint that she wanted him too—not until today. He made note of the spark of desire in her eyes after he brushed her hair back. So when Mando locks himself away in the fresher and takes off his helmet tonight, he knows what he’s about to do again. Especially after their interaction, if Mando doesn’t take care of himself, he’ll be distracted tomorrow. Or more distracted than he already is. She’s driving him—a Mandalorian, a warriorbound to an ancient, religious, creed—to distraction. And that won’t do.

He looks downwards, studying his own hands. She did seem to like those. His knuckles have lost their color from how tightly he’s gripping the sink. Usually (which is more often now she’s here), Mando would make quick work of his sexual needs. He would barely strip off the armor, rarely taking a second longer than required. Since she’s filled his head with these thoughts, however, he’s hungry for all the time in the world—time he doesn’t have. Already free from his armor, he tears off his shirt, leaning against the metal wall, keeping as quiet as he can. It’s a small fresher and sounds in this ship echo.

The Mandalorian gives his cock a good squeeze through the fabric of his pants, holding back a moan and waiting. The Girl would tease him. She would make him wait. It’s all the both of them do now, he thinks. All their fleeting looks through long lashes and beskar, all the missed opportunities disappearing into the vacuous silence of space. There’s so much he wants to do with her—he’s never been shy about how adventurous his sexual tastes run—but for now just the thought of having her, of just having her warm, wanting—waiting for him—is enough to drive him to unbuckle his belt.

“Fuck,” he hisses, running the rough pads of his fingers down his length. Mando wraps a loose fist around his cock, smearing the shiny bead of his precum around the throbbing head with a thumb. His wrist moves lazily, slowly, and he pictures the Girl’s hand in the place of his—smaller and softer. She’s sunken under his skin, and now the thoughts he lives with all day only burnish brighter within his imagination. He exhales softly through his nose, shutting his eyes, welcoming the blank canvas of his closed eyelids.

He’s imagining the Girl looking up at him from her knees, her pretty eyes latched onto his as he fucks her mouth. He’s thinking about how her face would look as she struggled to take him everywhere—if she could handle the size of him. It’s all depraved: his thoughts; the slow, steady, motion of his hand; the way he's locked in the fresher thinking of her while she’s asleep in the cockpit, oblivious to how he feels. Mando pictures the goosebumps on the Girl’s perfectly smooth skin today, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as he flatters himself, his chest swelling as he remembers that he did that to her. He lurches further into his own hand at the thought, whispering again. “Oh, fuck…”

Mando’s free hand leaves the sink, combing through the loose locks of his brown hair before tugging. The sharp pain of it grounds him, bringing him back from the edge. He loves how soft her hair is, and he wants to use it to play with her, to defile her, to pull her backwards as he sinks into her heat. Leaving his hair, the hand slides down to grasp the back of his muscled neck, trailing down his chest, his fingers trickling down the hard ridges of his stomach. What would the Girl do if he touched her? The hand on his cock stills, squeezing the base of it, his grip tightening as he resumes his strokes—slower… then faster, then slower again. He’s already so close. Stilling, he cups his balls as remembers the softness of her skin from today, the pulse in her neck beating a memory into his fingertips. And though he promised himself he would be quiet, Mando’s mouth drops open, his own sharp, quick, desperate, pants echoing out in the fresher, his head titling back to crash against the wall—

The Kid bawls in the next second, loud and clear.

Mando stops, hitting a fist on the side of the sink in frustration before tucking himself back into his trousers. Fuck. There’s a tremble in the walls of the ship as he hears the Girl awaken and dart down the ladder. So fast.

As he hurriedly dons his shirt and helmet, Mando hears her muffled voice as she calms his son. “Mando?”

“I’m here.” He opens the fresher door, almost bumping into her as she waits outside.

“Is—Is he ok?” The Child is quiet now, twitching in her arms, eyes closed. Back asleep. The Girl stares up at him, completely ignorant to why Mando’s been in the fresher so long. 

“Yes.” He steps closer to look at the Kid, relishing how she inhales as he shifts closer. “The Kid has bad dreams sometimes.”

She nods. “Ok. I was just worried.” She holds the Kid tighter against her chest, a blanket still wrapped around her shoulders. “I’ll put him back.”  Mando watches as she deposits the child back in the swing. It’s the most vulnerable Mando’s seen her; her hair is messy with sleep, strewn across her face with disarming innocence.

“You should sleep in the cot,” he tells her. “It’s more comfortable.”

“I’m okay, really.”

“Take it. I'm not tired yet.”

“No, it’s fine.”

He doesn’t understand. “You can’t sleep in a chair every night.”

“It’s ok.” She smiles, and her voice is still drowsy when she pipes up again. “If I sleep in the cot, you can’t. And if we take turns, then...” I can't see you. She doesn't finish the thought, but he knows.

His throat swells at her words, and he’s struck dumb. It’s like he can’t move, like he can’t even refuse the cot after that. The Girl smiles again and moves past him, towards the ladder.

“Girl.” She stops. “Goodnight.” He says it softly, almost like he’s afraid of her hearing. But she does hear, and she turns to him.

Mando allows himself to reach up, to brush the hair away from her face for the second time. On this instance he does it slowly, enjoying the feel of her smooth skin against his bare hand. And ever so slowly, she turns her face into his palm, pressing her lips to his calloused skin. 

His only response is to stroke a thumb across her lips, his breath hitching.

“Goodnight, Mando,” she whispers.

*****