#jillianwrites

It takes his eyes a moment to focus, so he rubs at them languidly, relishing in the way his muscles stretch and wake with each slow movement. Now bleary-eyed, he blinks down at the blanketed form who’s seemingly glued to his front, acting as an inadvertent space heater. 

Despite the morning fog slowing down his brain, Crosshair is delighted to realize that you’re a cuddler. Even while conscious, you seemed to gravitate towards him, always reaching out to hold his hand, or wrap an arm around his torso, or even perhaps comb your fingers through his short hair. He’ll never tire of this newfound desire to be touched constantly by you. 

It’s what makes him close his eyes again, forcing his vision away just so that he can focus precisely on how you fit perfectly against him. 

You’re both on your sides facing each other, the crown of your head in the crook of his neck. An arm is draped around his torso and your legs are tangled with his. 

Maker, you’re adorable. He thinks he could get used to this. Waking up each morning with you, sharing your warmth, feeling safe and protected. 

When he kisses a soft kiss atop your messy head of hair, it’s what causes you to stir. A soft, almost inaudible hum bubbles from your throat and that’s when Crosshair feels it; he’s harder than a crash landing on Kamino. 

It presses against your stomach. Your skin gives when he tries to angle himself away from you but then you’re adjusting yourself back to him, pressing against his erection. 

This feels… too good. 

The desire simmering in his navel is what puts him on high alert. He stays still, trying to figure out how to cool down without waking you up. Maybe he could try to peel himself away from you by—

You stir again. This time, turning away from him (thank the Maker) but only to roll over onto your other side. And then, most devastating of all, you push your ass back.

Onto his erection.

A low, soft moan hits his throat.

You have to be awake. You can’t be doing this unknowingly. 

He tests this hypothesis by reaching an arm over your chest and resting a palm atop one of your breasts. Another ribbon of desire shifts low in Crosshair’s belly at the sensation of your nipple pebbling beneath the calluses of his palm.

You sigh, as if content. 

He… isn’t sure what to do next. Maybe you are still asleep. Maybe half-asleep at best. 

“Morning,” you murmur softly, your voice barely audible.

He presses against you in greeting, relieved. “Good morning,” he says, his breath hitting the shell of your ear. “How’d you sleep?”

“Blissfully,” you reply. “You?”

“Probably the best sleep I’ve had in ages.”

You hum again and arch your back slightly, the sensation going straight to his cock. “I wonder why.”

Yeah, you definitely know what you’re doing. 

The palm on your breast begins to lightly squeeze, massaging in a slow, languid circle. He loves the way your flesh gives under the pads of his fingers, and when he brings his thumb and forefinger to pinch gently the nipple, your moan makes him throb.

He props himself up on an elbow then, careful to keep the contact between your lower bodies, and he leans in to press a kiss at your temple. 

His lips leave a trail of want down to your jaw, and that’s when he feels you tremble. He experiments, rolling once against your backside which earns him another appreciative noise from your pretty lips. 

Another roll of his hips, all while coating your neck in hot-mouthed kisses. At the juncture of your neck and shoulder, he nips once with his teeth and you shudder, your breath hitching up an octave.

“Cross…”

“Hm?” He wastes no breath; heat spreads across his chest, lust pooling in his core as his hands continue their ministrations across your breasts, enjoying how your breath hitches with each slow pinch.

“In me,” you moan. “Need you in me.”

Fuck. He’s a goner.

He’s remiss to leave your chest, but his hand begins its journey across your stomach, smoothing over your skin with ease and anticipation, until he reaches the thatch of curls below your navel and finds your heat. 

One finger glides past your clit, splitting and sinking down into your soaked folds in one fluid movement that has you releasing a string of pretty curses in your mother tongue. 

It’s a sweet noise, the whimpers that pair so well with the wet, back and forth motion of his finger inside you. With how aroused you are, he decides it’s time to slip in another digit, and you clench around him with renewed vigor, welcoming the stretch. 

As he begins to plunge into you, his hips resume their undulations, and he silently thanks the Maker for your incredible ass. Your cheeks part easily for him as he seeks out his satisfaction, uncaring of how dry his cock is against your skin. The roughness adds to his haze of pleasure, especially when you meet him with each thrust. 

Eventually, when your moans rise in pitch, he decides to crook his fingers just so and thumbs over your clit. It proves to only add to the frequency of your whimpering, the sound going straight to his cock as he tries his best to circle around your swollen nub.

He rubs and presses gently, alternating in pattern. When his name comes out like a strangled gasp and your walls clench around him like a vice, it’s too much for him. His hips falter once before he continues to grind, again and again until the tension snaps and he’s painting your back with thick ropes of pearl-white spend, letting out a ragged gasp as his climax overtakes him.

The strokes of pleasure coursing through his body leave his mind whirling, with the more complex concepts like time becoming irrelevant. He lays limply against you, slowing his shallow breaths by syncing with your own, his chest brushing against your upper back. 

It takes more effort than he cares to admit to lift his head and press soft, lazy kisses atop your head. Your eyes flutter closed as he peppers you with these small doses of affection, a small smile sprawling across your mouth.

“You are unbelievable,” you murmur.

He huffs, a smirk breaking across his features. “You love me.” 

“Yes,” you admit. 

It still doesn’t feel real. Those words shouldn’t be directed towards him but in this moment, with the evidence of his spend between your perspiring bodies, he doesn’t grant his anxieties the berth they usually occupy. 

Instead, he forces himself to peel away from you and begin the arduous journey to the refresher. The floor is stark against the pads of his feet, the cold sensation gradually bringing him down from the high he experienced only moments ago. 

He returns with a damp cloth and lays his hand onto you hip as if to ask for permission. When your head tilts, he gently prods your legs open once more to begin wiping away any remaining residue. 

You’re both quiet as he cleans, and he takes his time, watching as your skin shifts and gives with the soft amount of pressure he applies. Eventually, his free hand trails back and forth on small areas of your body, massaging in absent circles as he works. 

He reaches behind you and has to be a bit more forceful with scrubbing away the opaque remnants of himself that dripped down the side of your back and onto the bed sheets.

“I’ll change the sheets,” he says, breaking the silence as he presses the soiled rag against the linens. A hand reaches to stroke the side of his torso and he doesn’t hold back the shiver that snakes up his spine. 

“S’okay,” you say. 

He shakes his head, staring a second longer at the slightly reddened skin on your back. He didn't think he scrubbed too hard. But the rag itself is rather coarse. Guilt pangs in his chest at the sight and he vows to find a softer alternative for you in the future.

Crosshair pulls back and bends down, lowering himself to a kneel at the side of your bed so that he’s at eye level.

“How do you feel?”

Your lips curl at the corners of your mouth. You bring a hand to caress his cheek. 

“Loved.”

It stops his breath. Yes, he thinks. You have no idea.

“You are,” he breathes, slowly leaning in to capture your lips with his own.

Your sweet taste is always incomparable to anything else he has experienced before. He has to tamp down the newfound rise of flutters in his stomach; only you can provoke such a response from him, causing him to wonder about just how much stamina he really has. Chances are that you probably wouldn’t want—

“C’mere,” you beckon, wrapping your arms around his neck, tugging him to rise from his knees.

As you wish, he thinks. 

He decides he’ll soon find out. There’s no rush this morning anyway.

Masterlist

--

Dan saw it for the first time when he was nine.

As a kid he’d often been plagued with trouble sleeping; woken by nightmares; unable to fall asleep due to unease. Eventually he’d even stopped trying to sleep at all, instead sitting in his bed against the corner of the wall, a tower of blankets and pillows surrounding and piled against him. He would sit like that with all the lights on and try to evade sleep, would try to keep it from taking him into its clutches and pulling him down, down, down.

Of course, he hadn’t known why, at the time. He’d just thought that there was something wrong with him, while his parents had assumed that he might have anxiety, or that it was all sprouting from bullies at school. Neither of which were true. It was just that something felt deeply wrong in his room, something was there. He’d even tried sleeping in other places: on the couch, on the kitchen floor, in the bathtub. No matter where he went the feeling of unease followed.

It’d gotten to the point where the bags under his eyes were impossible to ignore anymore. His parents had taken him to the doctor imploring for help. The doctors had ended up prescribing him sleeping pills, ones that he’d been forced to take before bed.

He hated the sleeping pills. He hated them because they actually did their job, and he found himself falling asleep even while behind his barricade of blankets and pillows. Night after night he slept, feeling just as uneasy when he woke as he did falling asleep.

Eventually he got used to pattern, used to the constant uneasiness, to being forced to sleep. Occasionally he would fake taking his pill so he could stay up all night, so he could keep his guard up all night.

It happened when he was nine. A regular night, a familiar pill, a too-familiar feeling, and then he was sleeping. He woke up in the middle of the night, however, his heart thundering in his chest, his hands clenched into fists underneath his body.

His throat felt dry and extremely parched, which he foolishly tried to convince himself was the reason for his awakening. The sleeping pills were so good that on occasion he had wet the bed, the need to relieve his bladder not even enough to wake him from the deep sleep.

So why had he awoken?

That feeling he normally had, the one that lasted all through the night, that followed him through the day—though less prominent—was stronger than ever. He was sure something was wrong, sure something was out of place.

He just had to turn on the lights. He had to turn them on and fill the room with light, and then he’d be safe.

He cautiously looked around the room, searching for a sign of anything out of place, before he slowly sat up in bed. There was a lamp right there on his bedside table, if he could only flip the switch…

Swallowing thickly, he slowly, silently shuffled towards the edge of his bed, leaning out over the edge and stretching towards the table, towards the switch. And then, by some horrible force in his mind, he got the wretched idea to look down.

There, between the edge of his bed and the table, was a person’s hand, gripping the wood of his bed frame in its pale fingers. Horror shot through Dan’s body, dragging through him and ensnaring him in its claws. Between the wooden bed frame and the mattress he glimpsed an eye, a hint of a grin, and with that he’d been scrambling backwards—unable to scream—and slamming himself against the wall. He wrenched all of his blankets and pillows around himself, hugging them to himself tightly as he shook uncontrollably.

The lights, he thought desperately. I need to turn on the lights!

But he was immobilized with fear, forced to sit there and shake, to sit there and pray to a God that he’d never really believed in. For how could God exist when night after night, he was plagued with fear? When now there was something under his bed? Under his bed. It was under his bed!

He spent the entire night in a similar state of terror, but daylight eventually squeezed its way through the blinds on the other side of his room. He waited until the room was full of the glorious light before carefully, legs shaking unbelievably, crawling out of his bed. A quick, terrifying search revealed that the underside of his bed was free of intruders, and he stood with a relieved sigh.

It was then that something gripped his arm.

His scream lodged itself in his throat, wanting desperately to escape but unable to due to the sheer terror coursing through his body. The presence behind him shifted slightly, the fingers around his arm holding him so lightly. Dan could’ve easily broken free, except he couldn’t. He couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything with the fear taking up all the room in his body, shoving him out of the way and filling him from head to toe.

“Did you really think it was the light keeping me away?” an unfamiliar voice said quietly. Except Dan had the uneasy sense that he’d heard it before—in his dreams, perhaps.

A whimper escaped him then, a mere fraction of the noise he actually wanted to make. The intruder’s other hand came up and played with his hair, twirling the curly locks around his finger before grabbing Dan’s chin and turning it to the side. Out of his peripheral vision he could make out the boy.

Older than Dan by a few years and as pale as if he’d never seen the sun. His hair was as dark as Dan’s room was without lights. The boy’s eyes were sharp and piercing, cold and blue. And his mouth was pulled up in an amused grin.

“Can’t you talk?” the boy said, frowning in annoyance. Of course Dan could talk. But at that moment he felt very, very unable to. And so he said nothing, he let himself stand there with the boy’s hands holding him hostage.

The very next moment his bedroom door flew open and Dan thanked every god in existence. His parents! They could save him!

He yanked his chin out of the other boy’s grasp, turning towards the door with wide eyes. His mother peered into the room.

“Dear, aren’t you getting ready for school?”

The world crashed around him. Couldn’t she… couldn’t she see the boy behind him? Holding his arm?

“Y-yes,” he finally managed, his voice barely a whisper.

“Are you okay?” she asked, concern flooding her voice as her brows furrowed. The boy behind him chuckled at that, and then leant forward and rested his chin on Dan’s shoulder, his breaths fluttering past his ear. Dan stiffened even more.

“Yes,” he repeated, and his mother nodded slowly.

“You look tired,” she said then. “You slept last night right?”

“Yes.”

With a nod, his mother left the room. And Dan started to panic, his breaths ripping and forcing their way in and out of his chest, all the while the boy—apparently invisible to others—stood draped over him.

“So you can talk!” he laughed, before peeling himself away from Dan and circling around him.

Finally free from the… the… thing’s touch, Dan scrambled backwards to the one place he’d always been safe. He threw himself into his bed and behind his barricade of pillows, pressing himself tightly against the wall and squeezing his eyes shut. He squeezed his hands into fists as he wrapped them around his knees and held himself still, praying to be left alone, for the other boy to leave him alone.

All that fear and unease he’d been feeling for so long, that had plagued him night after night, was like a tether to that boy. Like a connection between them.

“It’s less fun when you’re scared,” the other boy commented lightly, directly into Dan’s ear. He jumped, his shoulder slamming into the wall, as he wrenched his eyes back open and stared at the other boy. He hadn’t even felt the bed settle beneath his weight, nor had he felt the pillows move.

He’d looked for the pillows, on the bed and the floor, only to finally notice them out of the corner of his eye, stuck to the ceiling. Icy cold had gripped his lungs. Would he feel like this for the rest of his life? Unable to be happy or normal or not afraid?

“What are you?” he finally whispered, managing to look towards the other boy.

“Your worst nightmare,” the boy answered, a wicked grin plastered on his face. Dan had whimpered. “But I’d rather be your friend.”

—

Dan refused to be his friend. He said no outright to the boy, the /demon/. This had angered him—his eyes flaring red while he'd glared at Dan, disappearing immediately afterward.

At the time, Dan had thought he'd somehow managed to defeat the demon. He'd proceeded to go to school, feeling shaky but oddly safe, and returned home still feeling perfectly fine. That night he'd slept soundly, even after not taking his sleeping pills.

Following that he'd had a week of absolute bliss: he'd slept easily and woken feeling perfectly safe, had gone about his week as any normal kid should. He'd thought that that was the end of it, that he was finally free.

He was wrong.

It was a familiar feeling that woke Dan, like fear and dread coiling in his gut. He woke immediately, his eyes flying open, only to see another pair of eyes staring right back at him. A strangled gasp ripped itself out of his mouth as he flung himself backwards, pressing himself against the wall and wishing he would shrink, praying he could just disappear.

He flinched as cold fingers brushed his hair out of his face, gripping his comforter even tighter to his chest.

"Leave me alone," he whispered, after dredging up whatever scraps of courage he could find. The other boy laughed.

"I did," he answered. "For a whole week. Do you know how bored I've been?"

Dan kept his eyes clenched shut, tried to block out the boy in front of him. "Go away," he hissed.

The other boy huffed angrily before grabbing Dan's chin in his icy fingers. Dan's eyes flew open as he tried to jerk backward to no avail.

"I won't go away," the boy promised. "I'll always come back."

"Who are you?" Dan demanded.

"Your worst—"

"No. Who are you?"

The boy blinked, his head tilting to the side, before he smirked. "You can call me Phil."

--

After that, Phil started showing up even when Dan wasn't alone, even when it wasn't night.

The first time it happened Dan was in class.

"Watchya learning?" a voice asked loudly behind him, talking over the teacher. With the voice came the familiar feeling in Dan's stomach. He stiffened, his eyes darting left and right to see if anyone else had noticed the voice. No one had reacted, all of them still writing as the teacher talked. Her voice sounded muffled to Dan's ears though, his heart beating too loudly for him to hear her.

Phil leaned over his shoulder, one of his hands resting on Dan's as he peered at the paper on his desk.

"Division? You don't already know how to do that?"

Dan was shaking. And of course he didn't know, he was just now learning it!

Go away, he wrote on his paper. Need to learn.

"I could teach you division much better than this old hag," Phil proclaimed. The pencil in Dan's hand was slick with sweat and he was having trouble holding it. His entire body was shaking slightly.

"Dan? Your teacher's talking to you. Aren't you listening?"

Dan's head shot up at that, his eyes wide. His teacher was, in fact, looking at him—and all the students too.

Concentrate, he told himself. Listen.

"Daniel," his teacher said, likely not for the first time. He never corrected them, never asked them to call him Dan—he was too embarrassed.

"Yes?" he managed.

"Are you okay? Do you need to go to the nurse?"

"Yes," he answered.

"To which one, dear?"

"Nurse."

With that Dan rose shakily from his seat and stalked to the door, closing it firmly behind him, hoping it would deter Phil, that the demon would stay away from him.

"You need to learn to pay attention," Phil's voice commented lightly beside him. Dan ignored him, hurrying down the hall and escaping into the bathroom.

Thankfully, it was empty. He stood in front of the mirror and gripped the edges of the sink, staring into his own eyes. His entire face looked pale, his eyes sunken and surrounded with dark bruises. He was exhausted. And terrified.

"You're not lookin' too hot," Phil said, appearing in the mirror behind Dan, who flinched.

"Why are you here?" Dan demanded. "Why me?"

"Because I want to be. Because I like you," Phil answered. "Why are you so scared of me? I've never given you reason to be."

Dan just shook his head. He couldn't explain it, the pit of terror that grew from his stomach and flowed through his veins, filling his whole body. He couldn't explain how just Phil's presence did this to him, how being around him was unbearable.

"Just stop being afraid," Phil said, before placing his hands on Dan's shoulders. He stiffened and met the other boy's eyes in the mirror. Even as he was asking Dan not to fear him, his eyes twinkled mischievously, evilly. Dan wrenched himself out of his grasp.

"Leave me alone."

--

Phil didn't leave him alone. More often than not he appeared with Dan wherever he was. Shopping with his mother, learning in school, reading in bed—Phil would show up.

But, perhaps thankfully, the fear started to subside. Or at least, Dan could think around it. The other boy was right in saying he'd never done anything to make Dan fear him outright (other than being an actual demon, of course). Really, he was more of a nuisance than anything else.

When Phil showed up on his bed, stretched out and lounging in the exact middle, Dan would press himself against the wall. Or he'd move and sit at his desk.

In school, Dan would do his best to pay attention to the teacher, even as Phil walked along the desks, snooped on the other students.

"Hey," Phil had once called from the other side of the room, where he was peering over Susie's shoulder. "She wrote your name in a heart!" Dan had avoided Susie that afternoon at recess.

But really, Dan had only stopped fearing Phil when he was twelve. Three years of tolerating Phil, of wondering why he was here and what his purpose was and why he wasn't eating Dan's soul. Three years of secretly fearing him, wondering if Phil would one day decide it was time to torment Dan. Three years of clenching his eyes shut at night and holding in tears, wondering if it would be a night he could sleep or if would be one where he was forced to stay awake as Phil accompanied him, as the fear swirled in his body and kept him from falling asleep. (His parents had stopped buying him sleeping pills a couple years back, after Dan had proclaimed that he was now fine without them.)

It'd been three years of all that before he finally stopped feeling afraid of Phil.

As a twelve year old, he'd begun to realize that where other boys enjoyed talking about girls and daring each other to ask them out, Dan liked watching their eyes light up as they talked about them. He liked the shape of them under their t-shirts, he liked secretly watching them as they changed for gym, though his heart pounded relentlessly whenever he did this.

It happened as he was walking home from school. His parents had just bought him an ipod and headphones, which he now always has stuffed in his ears as he walked home from the bus stop. (They were especially useful against Phil, who sometimes wouldn't stop talking to him even when he was trying to do homework. Though Phil would yank them out of his ears if he Dan ignored him for long enough.)

It was just as Dan thought that that the cord was pulled, the bud tugged from his ear. He huffed angrily and spun to tell Phil off, to tell him to let him walk home in peace, only to see it wasn't Phil.

It was two boys from his bus, though they'd never gotten off at his stop before.

"What do you want?" Dan demanded. The taller of the two boys sneered, the shorter rolling his eyes.

"We know your secret," the taller finally said. Dan's heart immediately lodged itself into his throat. How did they know?

"I don't have a secret," Dan said, though his voice shook. He took an unsteady step backwards.

"Oh yeah? So you're not gay then?"

Dan's eyes widened and his breath halted. How did they know how did they know howdidtheyknow?

"N-no," Dan muttered. The shorter boy scoffed, and the taller took a step forward and shoved Dan.

"Liar!" he shouted.

"I'm not lying," Dan protested. He glanced around, debating where the best place to run would be, when something collided with his jaw and black spots danced across his vision, moments before pain exploded. He crumbled to the ground as the two boys surrounded him, yelling insults and kicking his sides. He curled into a ball, trying desperately to protect his head as their blows continued.

And then dread filled his stomach—and with it, hope.

He pried his eyes open and peered around the legs of the boys attacking him,

biting down on a whimper as a particularly harsh kick landed in his stomach. Phil was staring with wide eyes, his mouth open in surprise, before his expression was overcome with rage.

He stormed forward and ripped one of the boys away from Dan (Dan hadn't even realized Phil could touch people other than him), sending him flying to the ground. Both boys cried out at that, the taller of the two having suddenly flown through the air without a reason that they could see.

They both ran away after that, sprinting from Dan without a backward glance. He just curled further in on himself, his entire body throbbing.

"Dan!" Phil said, speaking in a whisper for some reason. His hands gripped Dan shoulders tightly as he peered into his eyes. "Are you okay?"

Belatedly, Dan realized that the fear was no longer coursing through him, that Phil touching him wasn't causing him to stiffen.

"Yes," he answered.

-- -- --

Dan woke up to find Phil staring at him.

"Go away," he grumbled, rolling over and burying his face into his pillows.

"I'm bored," Phil answered, hooking his leg around Dan's and pulling him backward. Dan groaned in protest.

"Gotta sleep," he insisted. “Test tomorrow.”

“I’ll help you cheat,” Phil promised, and Dan knew he would. Like Dan could sleep anyway—Phil’s presence almost always meant that Dan wouldn’t be able to get any rest. He didn’t know if it was something lingering from when he’d been younger, that innate fear that had lived inside him, or if it was a power of Phil’s: the ability to steal sleep from Dan.

He had little powers like that, things that Dan never knew about until Phil used them. He didn’t ask questions about Phil—he was pretty sure that wasn’t allowed. No one had ever told him so, but it just felt like the truth. Like up was up, down was down, and Dan wasn’t allowed to ask about Phil.

But sometimes Phil’s abilities would just reveal themselves, paired with a wicked grin from the owner. For example, one time Dan had been reading his book and resolutely ignoring Phil, at which point his book had floated out of his hand.

“I—what!” he’d exclaimed, gaping at his book, now out of reach. “That’s not fair!”

“You not paying attention to me is what’s not fair,” Phil had retorted.

Now, Dan kicked Phil’s leg off himself and hugged his comforter tighter, pressing himself up against the wall. It reminded him of when he’d been younger and scared of Phil, though now he was just scared of the lack of sleep that was threatening him.

Phil sidled up next to his side and pressed his cold fingers against Dan’s neck, who jerked and elbowed Phil viciously in the stomach. “Don’t!” he hissed, wrapping his entire self in a cocoon of comforter in response. He knew it wouldn’t do much to deter Phil, knew Phil had those creepy powers…

The comforter disappeared between one blink of an eye and another, after which Phil was pinning him to the bed. Dan frowned up at the other boy.

“You should just let my sleep.”

“Imagine how boring it is for me, having to sit and watch you sleep,” Phil sighed dramatically. “You’d think you’d be more apt to entertain me.”

“You’d think you could just disappear to wherever you go until morning.”

Phil frowned. “That’s mean.” He rested his weight more fully against Dan, pressing him into the bed even more. Dan knew that by now there was no hope left, he was going to have to deal with Phil’s antics.

He tried to squirm out from under Phil but found himself thoroughly trapped. “Let me go,” he said, trying to shove Phil away. The thing was, Phil was strong. He could only be shoved away if he wanted to be, and he grinned down at Dan in a way that suggested he didn’t want to be. “I want to put on a sweatshirt.”

Now that the comforter was gone Dan was noticeably colder, the cold air assaulting his bare chest. Phil having a lower than normal body temperature wasn’t helping the situation either.

“I don’t want you to put on a sweatshirt,” Phil countered. Dan huffed in annoyance, prepared to argue, when Phil’s finger flicked across his nipple.

“Why do they do this when you’re cold?” Phil asked. He was still touching it, running his cold fingers back and forth over it curiously. Dan’s breathing had turned shallow at the touch.

“I-I don’t know,” he responded, trying to squirm out from under Phil again. Phil didn’t budge.

“Either let me sleep or let me put on a sweatshirt,” Dan said. Phil huffed dramatically but he slid off Dan, shoving him towards the edge of the bed. Dan shivered as he shuffled towards his closet.

--

Dan rushed home, constantly scanning his surroundings. It wasn’t that he was afraid of muggers or bullies or anything like that, it was that he was afraid Phil would appear. Usually Phil chose to show up by sneaking up on Dan, though other times he had made dramatic entrances such as jumping out of trees or standing on top of a moving car (he thought he was funny like that).

He didn’t want Phil to show up today, however. And so he returned home as fast as he could without running, shouting a hello to his parents before storming up the stairs.

Finding his room blissfully empty, Dan locked the door and tore off his clothes before climbing into his bed. Having time to himself was basically nonexistent, and though he was comfortable around Phil, he wasn’t quite at the point of asking Phil to go disappear somewhere so he could masturbate. Instead he had to wait for a moment when he was alone and hope Phil wouldn’t show up during it.

That’s how Dan found himself ten minutes later, flat on his back and teasing himself, his mouth open as he panted. He so rarely got to do this, got to enjoy himself like this…

He whimpered slightly as he ran his thumb over the head of his cock, his hips jerking into the touch. His other hand was pinching and twisting his nipple, his toes curled as pleasure thrummed through his body.

“Looks like fun.”

Dan jerked backward, his eyes flying open to find Phil lounging beside him, his eyes running from Dan’s head to toes. Dan was pressed against the wall with a pillow in his lap in miliseconds, his face burning as he buried it in his hands.

“What the fuck,” he whispered, heart pounding no longer from pleasure, but embarrassment.

“Don’t stop on my account,” Phil said. Dan could hear the smirk in his voice. He wanted to disappear.

“Can’t you just go away?” he begged, still not daring to look at Phil.

“Being away isn’t as fun as being here.”

Dan whimpered. His cock throbbed. He was going to get blue balls because of a fucking demon.

“Why don’t you just continue?” Phil asked lightly.

“You’re an asshole,” Dan muttered.

“I doubt you wanted to stop, anyway,” Phil continued. “After all, you looked pretty into it.”

Dan felt his face turn even redder, hidden beneath his hands, and he groaned. “You’re the worst,” he whispered. To make matters worse, his clothes were on the other side of Phil. As was the comforter. He couldn’t get to anything without having to bypass the other boy.

“Am I?” Phil asked lightly. His fingers danced along the edge of Dan’s ankle, which Dan managed to yank away. “It’s not like I’ll judge you. Everybody does it.”

“Pervert,” Dan accused, and the bed shifted as Phil moved. Dan felt him settle beside him, his shoulder pressed up against Dan’s. Dan held his pillow tighter.

His eyes finally flew open when he felt Phil’s breath against the shell of his ear. Every nerve in his body was suddenly active and waiting as the other boy’s lips descended on his neck, slowly sucking the skin into his mouth. His tongue flicked against it and Dan shivered, his fingers clenching in the pillow held against his lap. Dan couldn’t help tilting his head, giving Phil more access. Phil took advantage of the movement and sucked even harder, his teeth scraping against the sensitive skin. Dan whimpered.

And then he shoved his hand under the pillow. He gasped as his hand came in contact with his cock, and Phil moved down his neck a bit, sucking on a new section of his neck. Dan was panting again in no time as he worked his hand over himself, his other hand clutching desperately at the pillow.

“Fuck,” he breathed, and Phil chuckled against his neck. His fingers creeped up Dan’s chest and played with his nipple, making his breath hitch in his throat. He turned his head into Phil’s shoulder, dislodging the other boy’s mouth in doing so. His hand was getting faster and faster, his breathing doing the same.

Phil knocked the pillow aside and slid away from Dan, only to rearrange himself lower.

“Yes,” Dan whispered in realization, as Phil grinned up at him, hovering over his cock.

“What do you say?”

“Yes. Please, God, Phil!” Dan managed, and Phil descended upon him, his mouth hot, hot, hot where the rest of him was cold, cold, cold. His fingers were latched around Dan’s hips, keeping them from bucking as he swallowed him down.

“Fuck,” Dan whined, again and again, as his hand snuck down to latch itself in Phil’s hair. He was shaking, his body practically vibrating because of all the sensations.

Phil hummed around him, making Dan jerk underneath his ministrations, his fingers tightening, his toes curling.

It all happened too fast, too quickly, but one moment Phil’s hand was sneaking under him to cup his balls, all while he licked the tip of Dan’s cock, and then he was coming, shaking and moaning and twitching underneath Phil. He lay there panting as Phil sat up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Phil casually tossed the comforter over Dan, who tugged it up noncommittally.

“Was that good?” Phil asked, pressing himself up against Dan’s side.

Dan looked at him, bleary-eyed. “Yeah,” he said. And then he fell asleep.

--

It was odd, falling in love with a demon. Demons weren't made for love. They were made for terrorizing, made for maiming and destroying. They weren't made for love, weren't supposed to hold you tight while you read or brush your hair out of your face while you did homework. But Phil did. For so long, sleep had been almost unimaginable while Phil was around. But now it was easy. Dan went to sleep with Phil by his side, Phil's arm wrapped around his torso, his soft breaths tickling the hair at the back of Dan's neck. Usually when Dan wasn't paying attention Phil would start idly playing with him, massaging his hand or his shoulders, playing with his hair. Dan loved it when Phil touched him. He loved the soft touches like those, and he loved the others ones too, the ones that left him clinging to Phil and crying out, panting and whimpering as his hands worked magic on him. He loved Phil. It was hard not to, after everything. Phil was his only friend, was the person who paid the most attention to him, who actually seemed to care for him. He talked to Phil more than he ever talked to anyone else. Finally, he decided it was time to tell him. Phil was sat across from him on his bed, one of Dan's booked propped open in front of him, when he said it. "Phil," Dan prompted. Phil looked up at him, his eyebrows raised slightly in question. Dan cleared his throat. "I love you." For a second, there was nothing. And then Phil grinned. It split his face from ear to ear, terrible, horrible. And then he disappeared. Dan's heart thudded loudly in his chest. An unfamiliar feeling, one that he had abandoned long ago, coiled in his stomach. It spread throughout his body and left him paralyzed with fear. Phil didn't return; not the next day, not the next week, not the next year. At first Dan questioned why. He was desperate, he was scared and hurt and filled with sorrow. But he knew what it was. How could he not? It was his worst nightmare.

~

~

~

~

When you reach a corner of the town square, you’re relieved to find that it’s unoccupied and somewhat secluded by the colonnade. Crosshair seems to share your relief because he immediately pulls you behind the nearest column and draws you into an embrace. 

A surprised gasp emits from your throat before you melt into his solid frame.

The column shields you from the clamor of the crowd, the abrupt lack of noise deafening, save for the occasional chirp of birdsong. You allow yourself a moment to simply enjoy this display of fondness.

“A bit clingy, are we?”

He huffs before nuzzling his chin into your hair. A hum in contentment bubbles from your throat at the outward affection. 

“More like selective,” he drawls. 

You aren’t complaining. It’s been relentless, the busy harvest schedule requiring both of your attention in the gardens and at the wood-working shop. You've been looking forward to the fall festival markets with him and his brothers now that the toiling hours of labor are finally over, the culmination of the your hard work now being shared with the island residents.

Alone time has been non-existent, which is why one possible solution has been brewing in the recesses of your mind, only growing louder and louder.

It feels like a risk to breach the subject with him and yet, you understand that it's the fear of rejection keeping you from bringing it up. The bottom line is that you miss him and that alone outweighs everything else.

It's what prompts you to ask, “Will you stay over tonight? After evening meal?”

It’s abrupt. It’s out of the blue and perhaps too soon for your budding relationship but you figured you’d try anyway. The worst he can say is that he’s not ready, which would be understandable. It'll be excellent practice to not take his 'no' personally.

Plus, you were the one that requested to take things slow for now anyway.

He hasn’t pulled back, which is a positive sign. In fact, your question earns you a new sensation at the juncture of your neck and shoulder. 

You realize after a moment that it's a kiss. 

He mouthes softly at the sensitive skin of your neck, and the touch sends a ribbon of heat up your spine. Unbidden, a sigh escapes your lips when he reaches your jaw, contentment simmering low in your stomach. 

Crosshair exhales deeply by your ear, the proximity of his breath causing gooseflesh to rise across your body and that’s when you realize just how tightly you’ve wound your grasp onto the back of his shirt. When he draws back, a flare of uncertainty rises from your sternum, and you steel yourself for his impending answer. Are you moving too fast—?

He places a chaste kiss on your forehead and the effect is instantaneous; the tension melts, your shoulders righting themselves down your spine once more, your tongue falling away from the roof your mouth. 

“I’ll stay,” he murmurs. 

For a brief moment, you wonder that you imagined it, that the wind perhaps whisked away what he said, leaving your mind to conjure nonsense.

But the look in his eyes catches you off guard. 

No, you surmise as you bask under his tender gaze.

You didn’t imagine those words at all.

He says nothing when your gazes connect. The restlessness ebbing in your chest momentarily lapses into a familiar warmth, spreading from your stomach all the way up your cheekbones. 

The sensation is enough that it contrasts starkly against this mood, guilt blooming into this hopeless concoction of self-doubt. Guilt, you begrudgingly realize, because he shouldn’t waste his attention on you right now. Not when he has his own demons to combat.

Durasteel fingers massage gentle circles into your lower back, and you hear him sigh before he looks out over the patio railing. 

“Only I’m allowed to be grumpy,” he finally says, his voice brooking a subtle teasing that most people would interpret incorrectly.

You look down at your hands with a huff, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.

You miss the way he eyes your fidgeting fingers as they tug on the hem of your shirt.

“Do you… want to talk?” 

The ocean comes back into view when you crane your head upwards again. It's quiet, a unique kind of silence on Pabu that's only experienced during these late hours.

“Not really,” you say, forcing the words out. “At least, not right now. I have a lot on my mind.” 

He hums in reply, the sound deep and thoughtful. The hand he has on you begins to trail up your spine, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. He reaches the base of your neck and gently digs mechanical fingers into the muscle between your neck and shoulders. Your head dips back at the welcomed affection, your eyes falling closed.

Strong arms wrap around the entirety of your form, bracketing you against his front. The pressure of his embrace feels… grounding.

Safe.

“Is this alright?”

You nod softly, leaning your head against his bicep. A waft of clean laundry and leather, melding with something distinctly him hits your senses, stoking a warmth in your chest.

He moves his head slightly before placing a kiss on your temple. It elicits a sigh from you and his touch lingers, his lips hesitant to break contact. 

It would be so easy to keep these insecurities to yourself. To shed light on them feels far too daunting, especially considering you’re usually unperturbed by such things. If anything, you’re the one comforting Crosshair as he makes leeway with his past, offering a listening ear and comforting touch as he processes.

Maybe he understands that the roles have been reversed. Maybe this is him, offering you the opportunity to lean on him, both proverbially and literally. 

“I’m sorry,” you say, steeling yourself. 

“No, you’re not,” he says, and you feel his smile as he presses his cheek to the side of your head. “I think you just wanted more attention tonight.”

You roll your eyes, the corners of your mouth betraying your amusement by twitching upwards. 

 “Cross…”

“I’m teasing,” he says, squeezing you tighter before loosening his grip. “It’s just weird, you know? You’re normally the… happy one.”

He pauses, seemingly at a loss for words before he lets go of you altogether and you nearly protest, twisting your body around to say as much when he scoops both of your hands into his.

“It feels wrong,” he says, holding your palms to his chest, “I think that was the most I’ve ever talked during dinner. Since when do I yap?” 

You can’t help the giggle that bubbles out of your throat because… he’s not wrong. Usually it’s the other way around, with you talking his ears off while he quietly (and not-so-secretly) enjoys what you have to say.

Your mirth seems to encourage him because Crosshair waits a beat, his mouth twitching into a smirk before he says, “You’ve finally done it. You’ve turned me into a yapper.” 

Tears spring in your eyes because he’s trying his best to make you smile and it’s working. It’s second nature to untangle your hands from his and encompass his torso with your arms, burying your face into his chest. 

Before you know it, the tears start to trail down your cheeks and it becomes harder to breathe steadily. 

“I’m sorry,” you choke out, your voice muffled by his shirt. “It’s been a rough couple of days.”

A hand threads into your hair, brushing strands away from your damp cheeks. 

“It’s okay,” he reassures, his voice soft. “You’ve seen… my bad side, how many times? I’m always waiting for you to realize that I’m no good. That I’m not worth the effort. But... You always listen. You hold me. So I think it’s only fair to hold you in return, too.” 

You think it's the most achingly sweet sentiment he’s ever verbalized. The realization coats your insides with a searing adoration, a heat that builds with each passing second.

You openly cry at that, gripping at him with a newfound ferocity that muscles a chuckle from him. He squeezes you gently before pressing a kiss at the crown of your head.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers. “It’s okay.” 

His reassurance lessens the ache gnawing in your chest. He’s unmoving as he holds you, a pillar for you to lay your troubles upon. Time becomes irrelevant as you will your mind to quiet, a dullness settling in as he draws lazy circles into your skin. 

Tomorrow, you think.

I’ll tell him tomorrow when I have the wherewithal. 

For now, this is enough.

Tech's hair is... slightly askew. 

As he draws nearer, you detect loose, wispy spirals sticking up around the band of his goggles. He seems unperturbed, the rest of his appearance neat and orderly as usual. It’s… unlike him, to say the least, and your fingers twitch in your lap as he settles into the piloting seat next to you.

“You had a question about the databoard?”

He begins his routine survey of the the center console, beginning with the navigation computer, his fingers tapping on the screen to view the remaining distance between now and the next mission destination. He pauses when the fuel gauge shifts onto the screen, no doubt taking in the current state of the Marauder’s oil and fuel levels.

It takes more self-control than you realize to gaze back at his face, his stare currently focused on surveying the control console glowing in front of him.

Do you tell him?

Maybe he’s experimenting, trying out a new style. But that seems outlandish, considering he doesn’t seem to put much stock into personal style in general. He’s more pragmatic about his appearance. As purposeful as he is, a large part of you thinks that this has to be a mistake. 

Tech says your name, his tone mingled with confusion.

Kriff.

You were staring.

He’s frowning at you, his eyes doing a clean sweep of your features as you try to summon an explanation of sorts.

You display your mastery of eloquence when you gesture ambiguously towards him.

“Uh.. your hair looks… different.” 

Heat rushes to your cheeks when he falters, his brows furrowing for a moment before he sweeps a hand over his head.

“Ah,” he says, and you swear you see a tinge of red across his cheekbones, “another consequence of sleeping in late.”

He makes an effort to smooth it down, but you spy a stray curl that’s adamant on falling across the top of his forehead. He continues to miss it and you eye the strand, feeling called to assist him, as if it’s beckoning you to run your hand through it. 

“Tech,” you say.

He looks up with a hum. Through his goggles, you spy a curious set of brown eyes and something else inscrutable in his gaze. It’s enough to spur you forward, bringing a hand up before you register the action and you attempt to brush the curl back with his other locks. 

You’ve noticed that he's usually routine with his trimming habits, but the last few missions have been consequent, failing to provide much free-time within the last two months.

And to your secret delight, you find that you like this specific trait about him.

It's adorable, you think.

The curl fails to stay in place despite your efforts but then against your better judgment, you continue to caress Tech's hair, enjoying the thick texture contrasting against the softness of the pads of your fingers. 

He surprises you then by sighing, the sound almost inaudible as he leans into your touch.

For a moment, you forget to breathe, too busy relishing in the way he closes his eyes, his expression softening. It isn’t lost on you how intimate this gesture is, and you wonder what’s going on in that head of his; how does he interpret this, the way you’re combing him with your fingers? Is he... as nervous as you are in this very moment?

Content, even?

It’s silent, save for the lull of hyperspace in the background and the occasional mechanical whirr from the control console. You’re certain he can see the redness blooming across your cheeks, but perhaps the dim lighting and the cast of hyperspace is masking your expression.

A wave of sheepishness overtakes you and so you lean back into the co-pilot chair, bringing your hand to your chest, cradling it close.

When his eyes flutter open, he looks down as if to consider something before pinning his stare back to you. 

An intensity settles in that gaze.

You worry that you've upset him.

A rock sits at the pit of your stomach as you wait for him to scold you, or even reprimand you for the obtrusion into his personal space.

Instead, his tongue darts across his lips, wetting them before he asks, “Was that pleasant for you?”

"...pleasant?" you echo, uncertainty creeping into your voice. It's suddenly harder to think straight, your pulse quickening and thundering, which provokes a flush to spread across your chest. Words evade you as you try to conjure an answer for him.

He tilts his head down once, his eyes never leaving your's.

You could make up an excuse and say you don’t know what came over you. That it was merely an intrusive thought, but…

He’s far too astute for that.  You've never been good at lying anyway.

Maybe it’s time to come clean. 

Your fingers clench against the fabric of your trousers. 

“It was,” you say. You try to swallow, your mouth dry and your tongue sticking when you force out the next question.

“Is that… fine?”

“Well?”

The older lady continues to peer down at him as she stands across the plot of tomatoes. Her expression reads as expectant, mingled with curiosity and… Something else.

Crosshair has never been good with civilians. He once preferred his solidarity up in the rafters, keeping a close eye on every movement, every variation through a narrow scope. Hunter was primarily responsible with handling the civvies if the mission ever required it anyway.

But lately the need for high ground is no longer pressing nor relevant. He hasn’t had a reason to dust off Firepuncher in months. It currently sits in its case, untouched in the corner of his bedroom. 

So now, he rolls the toothpick to a corner of his mouth before sighing through the nose. The afternoon sun beats down on his back as he swiftly plucks one last weed from the vegetable bed. Crosshair attempts to remain cordial when he responds:

“No. I’m not… seeing anyone at the moment.”

It feels asinine, this conversation with Eira. He’s aware she has an affinity for digging into other people’s business but he’s never been on the receiving end of it before. He’d seen it with you, her granddaughter, but he’d never thought twice that her penchant for gossip would soon be directed towards him.

It must be his lucky day.

As he slips off his gardening gloves, Eira’s eyes dip down once to his mechanical prosthetic before locking back onto his gaze. 

“Are all of your brothers single?”

Crosshair wants to inhale the toothpick into his mouth and swallow it. He wonders what would happen if he did. 

Would he choke? 

“No,” he replies, grabbing his gloves and weeding tool before coming to a stand. They’re shoved into his belted caddy as he surveys the freshly turned dirt mounding around the staked plants before him. It took most of the afternoon to weed every bed, which is something he surprisingly doesn’t mind, given how meditative the task is itself when he’s alone. 

He had felt your absence this afternoon, unused to not having someone who’d delegate other projects onto him. This prompted Crosshair to imagine a smaller frame, acting as a constant shadow who would point out which plots needed to be watered, which stalks were ready for harvest, or which insects were considered pests or allies. 

A weird development for him but whatever.

When Eira clears her throat, he realizes he’s gone silent again. He mulls over his words as he reaches a hand to massage his right forearm.

“My brother Tech has Phee.” 

“Ah,” she says with a nod, understanding plain in her features. He figured she’d be familiar with Phee. Daily life on Pabu isn’t exactly conducive to privacy, as everyone seems to know everyone, and if they don’t, they’ll make a point to invite the newcomers over in attempts to dig their dirty little paws into other people’s business.

The Batch would know. When they had permanently become residents, it seemed like the island wouldn’t stop celebrating with picnics and evening barbecues. This is apparently paramount to the inhabitants, a tradition that’s grown over the last few months whenever new residents settle in. 

Which is often. The intentions are always kind, of course, despite how uncomfortable it makes Crosshair feel. At this point, he thinks he’s met the entire population but can only recall a handful of names, if at that.

“A good man. He must have his priorities straight.” 

The toothpick swivels as he chews on it.

Are Tech’s priorities straight because he’s with Phee? Or is it merely because he is pursuing someone romantically which then makes him superior in Eira’s eyes? 

Her wrinkled hands are no longer resting on her hips, a positive sign that Crosshair has come to know as appeasement.

She shifts from one leg to the other and says, “I know a young lady who lives just down the street. She’s the carpenter’s daughter. Maker, what was her name? Mildred? Millie? I can’t recall but she’s sprightly girl who always smiles when we cross paths—”

He tunes her out. Crosshair doesn’t know if he’s interested in… whatever it is that Eira’s so adamant about all the time. 

He’s heard her rant to you on many occasions about potential… partners? Boyfriends? He isn’t exactly sure. It’s not his business to begin with, but he’s often within earshot when Eira drills you about your previous dates. 

It was fine. But I don’t want any commitments right now, is what you tell her time and time again.

Presently, Crosshair lets Eira continue her stream of consciousness as she toddles behind him on the dirt path leading into the old equipment shed. The air is humid, an aspect of island life for which Crosshair feels nothing but apathy.

Sweating means he’s outside. Being outside means he’s not inside, isolating himself in his room from his siblings. Can’t have that happening anymore.

His kelpcotton shirt clings to his torso as he unbuckles his caddy and deposits it onto his designated shelf space. His hands rearrange the tools into a neat and orderly pile and then dusts off his gloves before discarding them on top of everything else.

“—so what do you think?” 

His prosthetic hand halts midair as he reaches to take off his bucket hat. 

Kriff. What was she saying? 

Fragments of her monologue float around in his head but it isn’t much. Something about dinner and a girl…

Messy, short curls fall across his forehead as he removes his hat. He runs a hand through them out of habit, making a mental note to ask Omega for a trim when he returns home. The hat, courtesy of you when you realized he didn’t own any sort of sun protection, is plopped on top of his other work essentials. It’s a worn article, something he uses daily, but part of Crosshair secretly relishes in the fact that it used to smell nice. 

Maybe he should take it home and wash it.

When he looks over, Eira’s features are twisted into an expression reminiscent of Wrecker’s shit-eating grin after winning a game of sabacc.

“Uh,” he says, because he’s unable to muster anything coherent at the moment. He curses the Kaminoans for the umpteenth time, wondering why, out of all of the genetically engineered qualities within him, words fail him more often than not lately. 

This could also be due to the fact that he’s attempting to cut back on the snark for Omega’s sake. Less snark equals more awkward silences.

“Perfect! I’ll ask her tomorrow. I’m sure she’ll say yes, she’s a sharp one—”

A flare of panic flickers in his chest. How did this old woman interpret his lack of response as an affirmative? It’s a bit of a reach, even for her. He tries to come up with an excuse but every reply would garner an earful from Omega, if she were to hear him.

How should he handle this?

He lets himself imagine for a moment that he did say ‘yes’ to Eira. 

A faceless woman appears in his mind. She’s sitting at a table, the surroundings similar to his preferred caf shop in the upper levels of the island. Having never been on a date before, he isn’t certain how he would feel. More likely than not, he assumes he would feel scrutinized, as if this lady is trying to gauge whether he’s worthy of her time and attention. 

But that’s not what gives him pause. 

No, it’s the fact that as he tries to imagine this woman and give her more prominent characteristics, she starts resembling…

Hmm.

He chews harder on the toothpick.

On second thought, Crosshair decides he doesn't like the idea of going on a date with a stranger.

Before he’s able to muster a polite ‘no,’ the old woman cuts him off with a surprised croak.

“Ah, there she is!”

Eira is already out of the shed and waddling over to the gate entrance when Crosshair hears your voice before he sees you. Some of the tension coiling in his chest starts to unwind. 

You’re beaming, hauling a basket of overflowing floral bouquets as you swing the garden center gates open and approach, excitement palpable with each of your steps. The color of the day is green, judging by your bandana. The small fabric somehow manages to tame the wild locks of hair that he’s only ever seen pulled back by whatever weaving techniques you’ve mastered.

Crosshair doesn’t consider himself overly perceptive to such benign things like appearance but that doesn’t mean that he hasn’t noticed your apparent collection of colorful head scarves and hats. They suit you, in a way. Maybe they’re endearing because it reminds him of Hunter and Omega. 

“Shep said yes to featuring our flowers!”

Eira grabs the basket from you and places it down before wrapping you into a fierce hug. “I had no doubt that he would, dear. That was a brilliant idea,” she coos, loosening her hold to pat the sides of your arms, “you suggesting we offer our blooms for the Festival of Love event.”

Your bright eyes turn shy, the corners of your mouth pulling into a small grin as you peer away from your grandmother to Crosshair, who stands outside the shed with his hands in his pockets. 

He doesn’t recall your eyes ever dulling. If anything, they seem to sparkle whenever your attention is on him.

Not that he’s noticed, of course. 

“Well, I can’t take all of the credit. Crosshair is sick of tending to the dahlias. And can we blame him? Those tubers are rather cumbersome as you well know.”

Crosshair sighs once for dramatic effect, the corners of his mouth betraying his mirth. “One can only pick so many snails off the stocks, Eira. Not to mention the staking… and the constant watering.”

You shoot your grandmother a grin. “To translate; he’s ready to lay the blooms to rest.” 

Eira rolls her eyes, feigning exasperation. “Yes, well, those tubers are older than the both of you combined. I’d rather pass a painful and slow death than let them go to waste.”

She softens marginally. “I suppose you’ll both have your work cut out for you, arranging all of those bouquets together. The Festival is in less than a week so time is of the essence! But for now, I think we ought to call it a day. Crosshair,” she suddenly interjects his name like it’s almost a curse, “don’t you forget to grab a bucket or two of those bloomberries. We’re overflowing in the storage room as it is and we shouldn’t let them waste.”

Crosshair mutters something along the lines of ‘no need to tell me twice,’ and nods to both you and your grandmother before heading back to the Center to bring what he’ll suspect will make Omega’s day. No doubt will her eyes grow big when she sees the fruit. He’s sure it’ll be another puzzle for Wrecker to solve in the kitchen as they figure out ways to preserve the fruit or make the most use out of baking with it.

The tart-sweetness of the fruit coats his tongue as he pops one between his lips. The cobblestones that lead him home are brimming with other islanders, the top of the hour prime time for early evening commutes back to their families. After tomorrow, it’ll be a market day for the Center. He technically has the day off, but he’ll probably show up to the greenhouse and find you among cut flowers and messy foliage as you attempt to meet the demands of Shep’s requests for the Festival. 

After that, he supposes he could help Tech out in the workshop by being his brother’s lackey for the latest technological pursuit for the sake of the island. It’s not like Crosshair has anything else planned—

It dawns on him suddenly; he forgot to tell Eira ‘no’ about the carpenter’s daughter.

Kriff.

He peers up at the cloudless sky and sighs.

Shoving Crosshair into the supply closet was not on the afternoon agenda.

While it may not be your best idea, you’re running on a volatile mix of adrenaline and horror, all because you saw your grandmother hobbling towards the gardens with a familiar short man in tow. 

Bronson. 

Thirty-five and divorced with two kids, he runs the fish shop by the docks. While everyone regards him as the happy-go-lucky fisherman, you get the heebie jeebies whenever you look at his bearded face. He normally sports a jacket that reeks of alcohol as well. It’s a low blow to your pride for Eira to even suggest him as a potential romantic partner.

The first time she’d mentioned him, you had no qualms in giving her an earful. However, your efforts proved fruitless. Trying to reason with her is like trying to convince an Imperial officer that they’re a terrorist. She usually proceeds to scold you and in Bronson’s case, she retorted that ‘it’s bad luck to judge others by their past and appearance.’

“I don’t give a tooka’s ass about bad luck, especially considering how his wife left him because he prioritizes fishing above everything else.”

“Stability, granddaughter. What he offers is stability.” 

You’d been furious at her insinuation. It’s not like you haven’t fought tooth and nail to get the Garden Center running at full efficiency. Writing grant proposals, dedicating your weekends to the farmers markets, having to be your own hiring manager on top of it all. Stability is your middle name, for crying out loud.

But It’s grown to be a lot of responsibility. It’s nearly time to consolidate your workload, having recently added more hands to the team and buying new harvest droids. All of this is in the name of streamlining the process so that you can separate all of the work from your personal life. 

Which, coincidentally, hardly exists. You can blame your poor work-life balance on your grandma. She’s proving to grow trickier as the years pass.

Bronson still hasn’t spotted you yet. You drop the watering hose into the garden bed, discard your gloves, all of which prompts Crosshair to pause his pruning of the plume shrubs. 

“What’s wrong?”

You don’t hear him. You stare ahead and map out all possible exits, trying to figure out how you could escape without being seen or causing a scene. They’re nearly to the gate, and you think that if you can sneak off to the—

“Hey,” Crosshair’s tone is firmer now. Suddenly, the flight kicks in. 

You’ve never run into the Garden Center like your life depended on it before but there’s a first for everything. Heart pounding, you survey the main room and debate hiding behind the old leather couch. Unreliable, considering Grandma will probably give Bronson a full-fledged Center tour, which should only be for employees or volunteers. 

Not that she cares.

The door behind slings open and the rational part of you knows it has to be Crosshair but you still startle and make for the first logical solution to your predicament; hiding in the supply closet. 

“What,” he says from behind you, “are you doing?” 

You swing open the closet and quickly shoot a furtive glance through the entrance windows to see that the emerging figures are still far away enough for you to pull this off.

Crosshair follows your line of sight, his eyebrows furrowing as he stares. Not a moment later, his scrutiny relaxes.

“Another one of Eira’s ploys?”

“Yeah,” you say, unable to explain just how embarrassed and frustrated you truly feel. You run a hand across the back of your neck, slick skin coating your palm with sweat. Your chest tightens and it’s enough to encourage you to pull the door closed, yearning for privacy.

Except that Crosshair wraps a hand around the frame of it and pries it back open.

“Cross—”

“Do I need to talk to him?”

HIs words are abrupt. He peers back over his shoulder, narrowing his eyes. The lines of his tattoo shifts as his expression darkens.

“I said,” he directs his gaze back to you, “do I need to talk to him? Or do I tell your grandma that you’re feeling ill—”

The prospect of Crosshair speaking on your behalf sounds downright mortifying. You should be able to confront her yourself. In a perfect world, you’d have the gall to do it. But alas, here you are, fleeing like a coward. 

“No! Noo, no, no, just—”

Your hands act on their own accord, reaching out to grasp Crosshair by the neckline of his shirt and pulling hard. He releases a surprised grunt before stumbling into the cramped space next to you. As you reach for the doorknob behind him, he’s pushed against the shelving in order to make room for your efforts.

The door slams closed with a forceful tug and then it’s pitch black. 

Which is Makersent, because you’re practically embracing Crosshair in this position.

“Hit the light,” he says, his voice betraying no indication of what he’s feeling.

You pull back before his words register but then you have to press into him once again to find purchase for the switch—

“For Force sake,” he mutters and okay, his mouth is right next to your ear. Has he always sounded like that? He’s unmoving against you but you can feel, based off the way his torso presses against your chest, just how built he actually is—

He turns abruptly in an attempt to give you more leeway but it proves to be the wrong move. Your balance is thrown off kilter and with no sight to aid you in regaining any semblance of equilibrium, you’re about to faceplant because… why not? 

Let’s add to your piling mortification.

An arm snakes around your midsection, catching you mid-plummet, and you think you hear him grunt as he rights your balance with surprising precision.

(You shouldn’t kid yourself. This man has been precise since day one. You’ve seen the way he stakes the tomatoes.) 

A cold metal palm presses against the skin of your exposed lower back, your shirt evidently deciding to ride up without your consent. It’s his mechanical hand, holding you up. You have to remind yourself to breathe. 

Which is another mistake because a waft of tilled earth, sweat, and something distinctly minty hits your nose, reminding you of the herb beds situated at the front of the center. You risk another deep inhale, daring to inch closer. The light still isn’t on and you will yourself to relax, despite being hyper aware of the close proximity and of every point of contact where you both touch.

Each of your breaths brushes against his own. Which, you aren’t complaining since his scent is a welcome reprieve against the damp smell that is signature to this old closet.

At this point, maybe confronting Bronson would be less daunting than whatever this is. Sharing close quarters with your favorite employee (you’d never admit as much to him) isn’t exactly ideal.

But then that slippery, bearded smile flashes once in your mind and that’s enough to tell you otherwise.

You also really don’t want to see Crosshair’s expression right now. 

“That bad, huh?”

Maybe it’s just because his face must be inches away from yours but his voice seems to reverberate through you, trailing all the way to your toes. You’re struck with the odd thought that despite how gravelly it sounds, it’s… nice.

“Yeah,” you croak, a bead of sweat trailing down the back of your neck. “She’s relentless. I’m… starting to get sick of it.”

You feel a huff of air across your face. 

“I don’t blame you.”

Definitely mint. He must’ve eaten a few leaves from the herb garden. Now that you think about it, he’s almost always chewing on something.

After a moment, he releases his hold on you and a silence blankets you both. The air feels stuffy against your exposed skin, mingling with the humidity of outside. This building could really use a functional cooling system. Soon enough, that’ll change; you’d spent the last week pouring over crude plans and trying to figure which upgrade to take first. Grandma certainly made her two credits clear on what she would do, but not without making you feel guilty.

“Update that sign first. You should consider changing the Center name to honor your grandpa.”

“I think aesthetics are the last thing on my mind, grandma. I’d rather focus on functionality first.”

She didn’t take it well. You apologized over coffee the next morning. You’re trying to take the reins on this and view it as your passion project but to no avail. Though you’ve yet to establish that boundary, it can wait, given what other things are currently taking precedence. 

“I’m… about to pry.”

He takes a deep breath.

“With this… ‘seeing people’ thing,” he says and you wonder if he’s gesturing because you hear his arms drop to his sides, “have you told her to just… stop?”

You pick at your nails. 

Telling Eira ‘no’ is like driving a boat headfirst into a summer thunderstorm. You’ve dropped hints here and there. You had mentioned many times that you aren’t looking to commit to anyone. Dating isn’t a priority right now, especially with the promise of what’s to come for the island gardens. But Eira, stubborn as she is, dismisses each attempt you’ve made, waving a hand in your face or clicking with her tongue before saying that you’re well into your twenties and that it’s time to consider your options. 

“Which are limited,” she always reminds you. One of the many quirks of living on a small island is that she’s right; there aren’t many eligible bachelors to choose from, so in her eyes, ‘one should pick soon before it’s too late.’

“I have,” you finally tell Crosshair, keeping your head down. “She’s not very good at listening.” 

Another huff. He probably detects the euphemism. 

Oddly enough, you feel yourself getting defensive on her behalf because despite how troublesome she is, she’s still family. At the end of the day, her opinion holds weight. Probably more weight than it should, to be honest.

Regardless, this translates as a bite in your tone when you ask, “Why?” 

He stills. Now that you think about it, this is probably the first time he’s ever inquired about your personal life. In the past, he’s taken your rambling in stride but it’s all usually work-related. He never pries and instead listens intently or offers advice when prompted. It’s the exact opposite of how Eira functions. 

That’s probably why you’ve inadvertently started to gravitate towards him. 

You roll your bottom lip between your teeth as you wait for him to answer. It’s not like you asked for his advice this time. But then again, Crosshair doesn’t talk unless it’s warranted, usually opting to stay quiet as you assign new projects to him or rant to him about the dangers of felucian stag-beetles infesting the crops. 

A humorous part of you thinks that maybe this is his round-about way of trying to make you feel better.

“I—”

He’s interrupted by the sound of the Center entrance swinging open with a light chime of a bell.

Your fidgeting hands drop to clenched fists.

“—she must’ve ran home for a midday meal. Sorry ‘bout that, Bronson.”

“It’s no problem. I see her at the marketstands on occasion so perhaps I’ll chat with her next time she’s around. You said she’s interested?”

You blanch. 

You said she’s interested?

A flicker of heat floods your cheeks at the prospect of Grandma lying. It shouldn’t come as a surprise; you’ve witnessed her half-truths before but had opted to brush them off, not giving them too much stock. This, however, stings more than you care to admit. 

Your eyes start to smart as you conjure a scenario where Bronson makes a move. You could give him the cold shoulder. Make up a lie that you’re already seeing someone. The latter thought makes you pause because he’d ask who it is and you can’t really make up a person in a tight-knit community.

Maybe you could even scream in his face. That would get your point across, right? But then everyone would witness it and if there’s anything you’ve learned about living on Pabu over the last four years, it’s that the island's affinity for gossip spreads like wildfire. 

No thanks. You send a silent prayer to the universe that Bronson forgets. Or finds someone else to focus his sleazy energy on.

Actually, no, you wouldn’t wish his advances upon anyone.

Eira’s giving him a tour around the facility, veering from the breakroom to the greenroom where the new seedlings are sowed. Another door clicks closed.

“You’re trembling,” comes that familiar drawl. 

Large palms jar you out of your thoughts, resting on the sides of your shoulders. His fingers wrap gently around your exposed skin and it causes your spine to straighten. One palm is cold, while the other is warm. You’ve wondered about his prosthetic before. On occasion, you’ll catch him massaging the muscle of his forearm attached to the mechanical workings. 

Eira’s voice echoes through the building again, though it’s more distant as you release your breath.

“I don’t know how to tell her off. How to make her stop.” You don’t appreciate how feeble your voice sounds. 

“She and Grandpa… are my only family. The war was tough on us all. I just don’t want to lose anyone else.”  

His thumbs begin to brush in an up and down motion. It’s oddly… gentle of him. Your shoulders gradually sink down with each second that passes, his touch easing away the tension.

Crosshair considers for a moment before asking, “What if… you already had someone?” 

You squint up at Crosshair but the darkness serves to be disappointing. You suddenly yearn for bright, clinical lights to shine directly onto him so you could see exactly which emotion is present across that profile of his. 

“Uh,” you clear your throat, “You’re gonna need to, uh, spell that one out for me. I’m not following.” 

His thumbs still. 

What if you already had someone?

You turn the words over and over in your mind, trying to parse his meaning until his touch leaves you.

“We pretend,” he says, as if this proposition is as easy as commenting on the weather. 

We?

A million questions swirl in your head as you gauge the possibilities; pretending to what, exactly? 

Be a couple? You and him? 

You’d be lying to yourself if you said you hadn’t considered Crosshair before. He and his brothers stick out like sore thumbs whenever they’re in public and that’s primarily due to the fact that they’re extremely popular with everyone, including introverted Crosshair. You could chalk it up to their efforts to keep Pabu safe, or their military training, or something else. But the reality is that they’re not only talented individuals, but they’re also all very attractive. 

What would pretending with Crosshair even entail? Holding hands while you walk alongside the garden beds? A kiss on the cheek in front of Grandma to appease her desires?

Despite the absurdity of the situation, your gut isn’t lurching. It’s… a solid idea, one that could grant you a momentary break from Eira’s nagging so that you can allocate more time with the Center expansion. Knowing Crosshair, he wouldn’t nag. You’re certain there would be no expectations from him.

But It would have to be temporary. That’s the only stipulation; it can’t last forever, because first of all, you don’t want to put Crosshair through that and second of all…

Well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. 

To make matters simpler, Crosshair is easy on the eyes. That’s not something you’ve entertained for long because again, you have other things to worry about. But you’ve watched him haul overgrown squash to the market plaza with no signs of physical strain. He once fended off a garden viper, sparing you a slightly amused smirk after seeing how it made you jump out of your own skin. 

That was the first time he made your face flush.

His gruff demeanor aside, you trust that he means well because he’s never led you astray before, his work ethic proof enough since he always shows up day after day and carries out each task without complaint. Never once has he indicated that he minds working alongside you.

That particular thought alone makes your stomach flip.

Presently, you don’t see him shift from one foot to the other as much as feel him do so. 

“We pretend,” you echo. In the distant background, Bronson releases a dry laugh and it causes you to tense up.

“Yes,” he whispers, keeping his voice low. “It would… help us both catch a break. From Eira.”

It dawns on you then. A familiar blonde flashes in your mind. 

“What about Millie?” 

“Who?”

This isn’t lining up. Grandma said Crosshair agreed to a date with Millie—

Ah.

“You actually didn’t agree to meet with her, did you? The carpenter’s daughter?”

Irritation taints his sigh. “No, I never did. Eira mistook my silence as confirmation.”

By the Maker.

Hot emotion washes over you again because this time, someone else is suffering at the brunt of her agenda. “I’m sorry,” you say, not realizing how loud your voice is growing, “but Grandma needs to get a kriffing grip—”

A hand clamps over your mouth. You startle against the firmness of his skin against your lips, pressing a gasp into his palm when he leans in and murmurs, “Quiet.”

His hand isn’t bruising. It slots over your mouth, bringing a waft of dirt to your nose. The stillness of your body contrasts against the turmoil rolling in your mind like night and day. As you're held against Crosshair, that telltale honeyed-voice hits your ears, loud and too close for comfort. You must’ve been too focused on what Crosshair proposed to notice that they’d left the greenroom.

“—that was probably a moon-yo nearby. You’ve heard that they can parrot human words back occasionally, right? Odd little creatures but bright nonetheless. I’ll walk you out to the door, Bronson, I appreciate you coming—”

The bell chimes as the door closes with thud and the relief is overwhelming enough that you momentarily forget the hand cupping your lips. You sigh, unthinking as you practically slink against Crosshair’s palm, the exhale from your nose trickling against his skin. He withdraws his touch and suddenly the embarrassment of his actions to quiet you is now at the forefront of your mind.

If you felt weird earlier, it’s incomparable to how you feel now. ‘We pretend ‘ is an internal echo that will inevitably nestle its way into your head for the next foreseeable future and you aren’t sure what to make of it. He’s made his own motivations clear for proposing the idea but it still strikes you as odd. The anomaly that is Crosshair and his reserved nature around you doesn’t quite fit this proposition.

And yet, a quiet part of you is growing fond of the idea. 

“Okay,” you break the silence, gripping tightly for the remaining stores of courage that are somehow responsible for what you’re about to say, “I think we should give it a shot. Let’s… Pretend. I’ll do anything at this point to get her off my ass.” 

You try to keep your tone light. This isn’t a terribly serious matter anyway, right? It’s good to keep in mind that Crosshair has been a soldier all of his life and you can only imagine how many covert missions he’s carried out so it would make sense that he would handle this in a similar manner. 

Yes, because you’re so infamous for being stealthy. Said no one ever.

Your own faults aside, you pray that you can pull this off. 

“Fine by me,” he finally says. Silence lapses between you both again. You take a moment to listen outwards. The Center is seemingly empty with the lack of toddling old ladies and  middle-aged men. The constant hum from the energy generator is the only noise. Now would be the opportune time to leave before Grandma returns, but…

It suddenly feels daunting, leaving this closet. You’d be stepping out into reality again, but this time with a fake boyfriend in tow. 

You’re wondering if he feels as uncomfortable as you are when he adds, “Just… Don’t take anything I say personally, alright?”

Before you’re able to discern his meaning, the bell rings again and you let out an inaudible curse. 

Her gait is uneven and purposeful. As each of her steps draws closer, so does your mounting anxiety. She knows, you worry. She knows about the lie already and she’s about to draw the proverbial curtain away to expose you and strip away any shred of dignity that remains.

Crosshair hisses your name, the sound foreign against your ears. Despite how gentle his hand is, the cold metal stings against your hot cheek, your head jerking away before he firmly slides up his durasteel hand across your skin to cradle the side of your head. 

“You’ll have to follow me,” he says, the words too fast for you to process.

“Follow you?” Your mouth is suddenly dry, the words sticking like cotton.

“My lead,” he stresses.

Before you’re able to divine his meaning, his other hand wraps around your waist to pull your body against him. 

Time slows as his mouth slots against yours. 

It’s nonsensical, the way your lips part in surprise. Your heart is hammering loud enough to drown out everything else. All you feel is him; his looming figure that seems to wrap around you with ease, his legs tangling with your own, his hand on your face, his mouth against yours. A chill runs down your spine when his grip tightens but then his lips, warm and surprisingly supple, begin to move.

He tastes like mint leaves, you think deliriously. What’s more is how you respond in a split second of impulsivity, meeting his movements with brushes of your own, pressing firmly against him. A low sound reverberates from his chest, making your skin bloom with gooseflesh as you reach to wrap your arms around his shoulders, coming up to your toes. He meets you halfway, lowering himself to ease your efforts. A fog settles over you, your fingers tangling into the mess of curls at the nape of his neck. It prompts him to do the same, except instead of only grasping at your hair, he gently tugs, inadvertently coaxing your mouth open to moan.

His tongue brushes across your lower lip once and when you tilt your head back more to grant him better access, Crosshair seizes the opportunity; his soft, hot muscle licks and twists, but he welcomes your own advances against him with unpracticed, eager effort. You feel as though you’ve dissolved completely into a puddle, your belly simmering with dizzying want.

But it’s fleeting, as all good things are, because the door slams open.

The sound alone makes your eyes fly open as you straighten in Crosshair’s embrace, breaking the kiss. If you weren’t so close to his face, you would’ve completely missed his startled expression. Despite the onslaught of blinding light, he gently continues to hold you, and to your surprise, he closes his eyes and bends down to rest his forehead against yours.

“We’re a bit busy here,” he says, his words lacking any real bite with how his chest heaves lightly. He lifts away from you and casts a glare towards Eira. You risk a glance, uncertain as to what you’ll find, but judging by the hanging mouth and wide eyes… 

She’s beside herself.

“Clearly,” Eira finally says, the word nearly as airy as you are. She clears her throat, her movements awkward as she coughs once into a closed fist. “Well. I was right then.”

You scrunch your nose slightly in confusion. “You knew?”

If she notices the patchiness in your voice, Eira doesn’t comment on it. Instead, she crosses her arms and purses those thin lips with a hum. “Saved you the embarrassment, I did. Could’ve walked straight up to the door and gave Bronson a run for his money.”

Uh huh, sure. More like you saved yourself from the embarrassment, you thought sourly. You detect her behavior for what it is, an out for her mistake, but you nod despite yourself.

She waves a dismissive hand, closing her eyes as she says, “Whatever you two were doing is between you and the Maker. My question is,” she shoots a disapproving look at Crosshair, who meets her with a cool, indifferent stare, “why didn’t you act on this sooner, mister?”

Curious, you raise your gaze back to Crosshair and the gravity of what you just exchanged with him presses against you with unprecedented force. The nerves reemerge, making your palms clammy as you steal a glance at his lips. You… kissed him. 

To be fair, he kissed you. But you’d reciprocated, almost eager as you explored this new dynamic with him. How will this change things between you both? What happens when you call the ruse off? Most likely he’d want to find work somewhere else, which makes perfect sense.

But it doesn’t explain the pang in your sternum at the thought of him leaving. It’s only because he’s valuable to the Center; his dedication to show up early and leave late has you worrying more often than not, but he claims to have nothing better to do and enjoys the hands-on labor. There’s a handful of other volunteers who show up occasionally but they’re not nearly as driven as Crosshair is.

Regardless, you decide then and there that you don’t want things to change between you both when this all ends. You’d hate to lose him. 

“Who says I didn’t?”

He still has an arm loosely wrapped around your back, but his touch trails down until finding the curve of your waist. His hand stills, resting casually against your hip as if it’s the easiest decision he’s ever made.

Eira coughs again. “Well then.” She continues to stare, her eyes flickering between you both in some sort of silent contemplation. It’s alarming then, when she breaks into a wide grin.

“It all worked out in the end, didn’t it? Maybe I should’ve brought Bronson sooner. All you two needed was a small push—”

“Grandma,” you interrupt, not hiding the exasperation in your voice because of course she would try to take credit for this. Of all the conclusions, she thought Bronson was the catalyst for you ending up in a supply closet with Crosshair.

…Technically she’s not wrong. 

She raises her hands in mock defense, bowing her head slightly. “Alright, alright. Enough from me. Believe it or not, I’ve had enough excitement for one day so I think I’ll head home.” 

You take a deep, steadying breath, nodding encouragingly despite how dizzy you still feel. “Yeah, that’s… That’s a good idea.”

Eira stares at you for a moment longer, almost calculatingly before her eyes dip down to the Crosshair’s hand on your waist. She turns, muttering something about ‘under the Center roof too’ and makes her way towards the entryway to grab her bag and leave.

It’s agonizing to wait. Every second spent within the confines of the closet with Crosshair proves to be a test of patience, but Eira seems to be in no rush, slowly shifting through her bag for her shawl. Once it’s wrapped around her hunched shoulders, she reaches for the door handle but then pauses.

“You best be walking her home every night. You hear?”

It’s cold when Crosshair finally lets go of you. He shifts from one foot to the other, bringing a hand to rub across his five o’clock shadow. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he replies, his voice tired but confident. 

She leaves without another word. You feel as though you can finally breathe, like the sky has cleared and the wind has died. But then… 

It’s just you and Crosshair again.

The moment stretches. Uncertainty prods at you, a fickle thing that makes you sheepishly tuck a strand of hair behind one ear before peering up at the former soldier.

His gaze is downward with brows drawn into contemplation, as if his boots are the most interesting spectacle to behold. You quietly study him amidst the thickening tension, noticing for the first time that his exposed arms are speckled with patches of dirt. Along the expanse of his arms, you spy veins that cord around the lean muscle of his forearms, trailing all the way up to the lower half of his biceps until fabric meets flesh. 

Crosshair is normally pragmatic with his clothing; variety doesn’t seem to be a priority with how he cycles between the same set of tops and pants every week. The normal jacket he sports is absent, you realize for the first time. He must’ve shed it outside before following you. You figure it’s his military background that’s kept him routine and content with simple clothing, a factor still very much prevalent despite being retired. 

When your eyes slink from his shoulders to his neck, you catch a subtle change in your peripherals, causing you to meet his gaze.

Half of his mouth is upturned into a small smirk. He remains silent, however, and reaches a hand behind to slink something out of his back trouser pocket.

A small box is procured. With practised movements, it’s already lodged back into his pants before you realize that he’s placed a toothpick into his mouth.

Your mind seems to short circuit when you realize that his lips have reddened ever so slightly.

You aren’t sure how to breach the obvious bantha in the room. Do you talk about what just happened? Is that… fine? It might make him uncomfortable. Maybe this is part of the ‘pretending’ agreement; there’s no use in discussing what happened because what’s done is done and reminding him of what he had to endure to save your ass would surely leave a sour taste in his mouth.

Unless he liked it just as much as you did. The thought seems far-fetched; it’s unlikely that he’s interested in pursuing a romantic partner, given how much he works and how he spends any of his free time with his own brothers and sister.

“So, um… Back to it, then?” 

It’s definitely not your best work, you’ll admit. But being out in the gardens seems far less suffocating than whatever this is. In fact, you’re certain one of the beds is overflowing with water because you forgot to turn the spigot off during your frenzy to evade the confrontation from earlier. 

It makes sense then that you don’t wait for his response and make for the door. 

He clears throat. “Was that… fine?”

You halt, halfway across the breakroom. He must be asking if he had accidentally crossed a line already.

The thought is oddly considerate and makes your cheeks warm. Part of yourself thinks that it was a solid strategic move on his part. It certainly did the job of convincing Eira. And deep down, you didn’t mind the spontaneity of it all.

It was more than fine. But instead of saying as much, you flounder. “Uh, yeah!” Your voice is a bit more high-pitched than you’d like so you cough once and play it off. “I mean, yeah, that was fine.”

It’s mortifying, feeling this vulnerable in front of him. You need fresh air now.

“Yeah,” you say again, waving a hand at him, “don’t worry about it. I’d say we did our future selves a favor. Now there won’t be any more meddling on grandma’s part. So… this is a win. I think.”

He starts to approach with his usual purposeful steps, which makes you turn towards the door. His long legs make it easy to catch up and before you even have a hand on the handle, the door swings open.

Crosshair is… holding it open for you. 

You mutter your thanks, hoping the warmth in your cheeks isn’t as blatant to him as it feels to you. You duck under his arm and step back into the thrush of the outdoor beds. The fresh air clears your head as you trod to the watering system near the shed.

It’ll be a long afternoon, you think. A droid is activated with its tell-tale beeps and whirring, indicating that Crosshair has turned on a harvesting droid.

But at least he won’t have to go on a date with the carpenter’s daughter anymore.

I'm not entirely happy with this :') But I might write more parts in the future if I get around to it. I have 8 chapters outlined so far. If I decide to follow through with a longfic, I'll be needing a beta reader. Please reach out if this would interest you!