#roy writes

You wince as you hear your own words, and quickly try to remedy the bland answer. After all, this is a wonder of the world you’re looking at, and one you’d never thought you’d get the chance to see. The least you could do is sound enthusiastic.

Your hands clap together, and you bounce on the balls of your feet, your usual vigor returning.

"I mean, it's incredible! I love the columns. And the… the floor. The floor is lovely," you add, a little breathless as you gesture vaguely at the stone beneath your feet. You try to think of something more intelligent to say. "And the ceiling is… very high."

Zuko snorts a laugh, his lips twitching as he fights off a smile. It’s a relief to see it, even if it’s at your expense. He's been remarkably stiff since you arrived a few hours ago, ushered into the throne room where he’d been holding court, looking so serious and regal that you hardly recognized him. You’d kept to the side, intimidated into silence by the formality of it all, until he’d beckoned you over with a nod. You'd followed him meekly out of the throne room after, and he'd introduced you to the palace with all the enthusiasm of an overworked docent.

You’re not sure if it’s the effect of the crown on his head, or the fact that he is the Fire Lord, but the Zuko you once knew seems to have been replaced by some stiff, formal stranger. You're itching to peel back the layers and find your friend again. It's why you accepted his invitation to stay at the palace for a few days, after all, when he'd found out you were in the Fire Nation.

Your relationship with Zuko has been complicated from the beginning. When he first joined the group, you had a healthy fear of him, and his distrust of the rest of you hadn't made it easy. But as the weeks turned into months, and you grew closer, that fear had turned to friendship. It was easy, when he had finally opened up, to see the kind, lonely boy beneath the angry exterior. You'd grown to care for him, and after the war, you'd eagerly kept up a correspondence as he settled into his new role. But you hadn't actually seen him in nearly a year, and you were determined to break through the formal veneer and get to the man you know underneath.

You can see a bit of it now as he finally leans against one of the grand marble pillars, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. His scowl softens into something more familiar, more teasing.

“You don’t have to spare my feelings,” he says wryly. “It’s a bit much, isn’t it?”

You shrug, feeling your cheeks heat. You can admit that the palace is a bit... gaudy. Certainly, it's not to your tastes, but you've seen far worse in your travels. You've seen communities utterly devastated by the war, stripped of all beauty and warmth. At least this place has an abundance of that, even if it's covered in enough gold to make your teeth ache.

"I think it's lovely," you say honestly. "And you're doing a great job with the reforms. It's not as..." You trail off, searching for a delicate word, but he just rolls his eyes.

"Garish? Pretentious? A ridiculous, tasteless display of wealth and power?" 

He says each word with a wave of his hand, and you can't help the giggle that escapes you at his theatricality. There's the Zuko you know. You bite your lip to keep from grinning as he sighs and shakes his head. 

"It's a work in progress," he admits. "I've been trying to make it more welcoming, but it's a slow process. Most of the council is still made up of my father's cronies, and they don't like change."

You hum in understanding, leaning against the column beside him. He’s hinted at his struggles in his letters, and you can imagine how frustrating it must be, trying to undo so many years of damage and tradition. Especially with so many people fighting him at every turn, and every nation watching his every move. You're impressed by how much he's managed to accomplish, even if it's clearly taking a toll on him. He seems older, more tired, than he should. 

You frown as you study his face, noting the dark circles under his eyes and the tightness around his mouth. He's been working himself to the bone, that much is obvious. You'll have to make sure he gets some rest while you're here.

Zuko raises an eyebrow at your scrutiny, and you quickly look away. You clear your throat and walk to the wall, where a grand battle scene is carved into black obsidian. You can see the Fire Nation's army, led by a man who looks remarkably like Ozai, marching across the carved landscape.

It's beautifully done, you have to admit, but you can't help but wonder at the subject matter. It seems a bit grim for a place meant to welcome people across the world. Then again, this is the Fire Nation. Aggression is in their blood.

You trace the lines of the carving with a finger, frowning. "This is a lot of death," you say slowly, and you hear Zuko sigh behind you.

"Yeah. It's not exactly the most uplifting decor, is it?" 

He joins you at the wall, studying the carving with a critical eye. You watch as he runs a hand through his loose hair, messing up the perfect, regal style he had earlier.

"I've been meaning to replace them, but it's a big undertaking. And, well..." He hesitates, and you turn to look at him. His gaze is fixed on the opposite wall, where another battle scene is depicted. "Some of the council thinks it's a sign of weakness to remove them. They say it's erasing our history, and I don’t have the energy to fight them on it right now."

You hum in understanding, turning back to the carving. You can see his point. The Fire Nation has a complicated history, and it's not something that can be easily swept away. But you also understand his desire to create a new image for his nation, one of peace and prosperity rather than conquest and domination.

There's so much more that could be done with these walls, so much beauty that could be created instead of celebrating violence and conquest. You wonder if he'd let you have a crack at it. You've always had a bit of an artistic streak, and you've been known to dabble in sculpture. Or you could just… accidentally crack some of them, if he’d let you.

You bite back a smile at the thought, and Zuko shoots you a curious look. You quickly school your features into a neutral mask, but you can tell he's not fooled. He narrows his eyes, his lips twitching in a barely-suppressed grin.

"What are you planning?" he asks, and you feign innocence.

"Me? Nothing. Just admiring the craftsmanship," you say airily, and he snorts. You can't help but grin at the sound, and you turn back to the carving. "It is impressive, I'll give you that. But maybe something a little less... morbid would be nice. Something that celebrates life, instead of death."

He hums thoughtfully. "Well, maybe you can help me come up with some ideas. I could use a fresh perspective."

You light up at the suggestion, and you turn to face him fully, a smile on your face. "I'd love to." 

Zuko returns your smile with a small, shy one of his own, and your grin widens. Smiling suits him much more than scowling does. He looks younger, less burdened, and you feel a sudden, overwhelming urge to hug him. You resist, knowing that he's not a particularly touchy-feely person, but it's a near thing. You settle for bumping your shoulder against his as you step away from the wall.

"So," you say brightly, "what else is there to see? I'm sure there's more to this place than just fancy columns and morbid carvings."

"Oh, there's plenty more," he says with a huff of laughter, gesturing for you to follow him. "But I think I've tortured you with enough culture for one day. We should let you get settled in before dinner."

You nod in agreement, and fall into step beside him as he leads you down a long, winding hallway. The walls here are lined with tapestries, each one depicting a different scene from Fire Nation history. They're not as morbid as the carvings, but they're still a bit… much. You find your gaze drifting to the floor instead, where an intricate pattern of red and gold tiles stretches out before you. The sheer amount of marble in this palace is staggering. You could probably build an entire village with what's in this hallway alone.

"You're quiet," Zuko comments, and you look up to find him watching you.

"Just trying to take it all in," you say with a shrug. "It's a lot to process."

He nods, but he doesn't look convinced. "You know, you don't have to be so formal with me. You can tell me if you hate it."

"I don't hate it," you insist. "It's just… a lot."

"A lot of what?"

"A lot of everything," you say, waving a hand at the hallway. "It's just so grand. And so… red."

Zuko chuckles, and the tension in your shoulders eases slightly. You're glad he finds you amusing, at least. You were worried you might be offending him with your lack of sophistication, but he seems to be taking it in stride. He always has been more patient with you than anyone else.

"Well, the red is kind of our thing," he says dryly. "But I get it. It can be a bit overwhelming. Especially for someone who's used to, you know, dirt."

You bristle at the teasing, and you're about to defend your love of dirt when you see the glint in his eye. He's just trying to get a rise out of you, the same way he always has. You roll your eyes and shove him lightly, and he stumbles a step before catching himself.

"Hey," he says, but he's smiling. "I'm the Fire Lord. You can't just shove me."

"Oh, I'm sorry," you say, not sounding sorry at all. "Would you prefer I bow instead? Your Highness?"

His smile widens, and he shakes his head. "No, that's even worse. Please don't bow."

"Good, because I wasn't going to," you say primly, and he snorts.

You walk in comfortable silence for a few more minutes, Zuko’s sharp footsteps and your softer ones echoing on the polished floors. You're starting to get used to the grandeur, but you're still a little on edge. It's hard to relax in a place like this, where everything is so perfect and pristine. You feel like you're going to break something just by looking at it.

The stares that follow you as you go aren’t helping matters, either. It seems every servant and guard you pass is unable to tear their gaze away from your simple, worn tunic and trousers in the colors of the Earth Kingdom. It's a far cry from the silks and brocades that everyone else is wearing, and you can't help but feel a little out of place. 

You're used to being stared at, you're a novelty in many places, but this is different. This is... judgmental. And they’re clearly whispering about you, behind their hands and behind the doors as they scurry away. You're starting to regret your decision to wear your travel clothes, but it's not like you brought anything fancier with you. You'd packed for a working trip, not a royal audience.

Not that you'd expected a royal audience, either. Zuko had just asked you to visit, and you'd assumed it would be a casual affair. You hadn't realized you'd be paraded through the palace like a prized pig at a fair. If you had, you might have… well, you still would have come. But you would have at least tried to find a shirt without holes in it.

Zuko slows his steps and shifts closer to you, his elbow bumping yours. "Ignore them," he murmurs, his voice low enough that only you can hear him. "They're just not used to having… normal people in the palace."

"Normal?" you ask, raising an eyebrow. "You saying I'm normal?"

"I'm saying you're not a sycophantic noble with a stick up their ass," he says flatly. "It's a compliment."

"Well, thank you, I think," you laugh. You're glad he noticed your discomfort, even if he's not great at comforting people. It's the thought that counts, right? And the thought is that he cares enough to try. "But you know, you could have warned me that I'd be under a magnifying glass. I would have dressed up. Or at least tried to wash the dirt out from under my fingernails."

You hold up your hands for inspection, and he just shakes his head. "It doesn't matter. I wouldn't want you any other way."

The sincerity in his voice takes you by surprise, and you feel a flush creep up your neck. You look away, focusing on the tapestry in front of you. It's a depiction of a great naval battle, with the Fire Nation's ships emerging victorious from a sea of flames. You don't have to look at him to know that he's watching you. You can feel the weight of his gaze on the side of your face, and it's both comforting and unnerving at the same time.

You've never been able to figure out the dynamic between the two of you. You're friends, yes, but sometimes it feels like there's something more there. A deeper connection that you can't quite put your finger on. You've dismissed it as your imagination more times than you can count, but moments like this make you wonder. He’s just so… intense. So Zuko. You haven't figured out how to navigate that intensity, so you mostly just ignore it and hope it goes away. It doesn't, but a girl can dream.

Zuko finally turns away, clearing his throat. "Anyway, here we are."

You look up to find that you've stopped in front of a set of ornate, round double doors, flanked by two stoic guards. They're carved from a dark, gleaming wood, with two ruby-eyed dragons circling a flaming sun in the center. They're impressive, but also a little much. Like everything else in this palace.

“Here we are, where?” you ask, and he gestures to the doors.

“These are your rooms.”

You stare at the doors, then at him, your mouth falling open. “My rooms? Plural? As in more than one?”

“Of course,” he says, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “You’re not staying in a closet. You’re my guest.”

Before you can protest, both of the guards step forward and take a burnished gold handle in hand. They open the doors in perfect unison, revealing a suite that is larger than your family's entire home. Your jaw drops as you take in the sheer scale of it. There's a sitting area with a couch and two armchairs, a massive four-poster bed, and a balcony overlooking the caldera. But the signature red and gold covering the rest of the palace is notably absent. Here the walls are a deep blue-green, like the sea after a storm, and the furniture is made of a dark, polished wood.

The most stunning feature, however, is the fresco of water lilies and lotus flowers on the ceiling, painted in shades of white, pink, and green. A soft, natural light filters in from the balcony, illuminating the delicate brushstrokes. You walk inside in a daze, your fingers trailing over the back of a brocade armchair, your head craned back to take in the ceiling. You’ve never seen anything so beautiful in your entire life.

“It’s… it’s not red,” you manage to say, your voice barely a whisper. You turn to look at Zuko, who’s standing in the doorway with his hands in his sleeves. He has a nervous energy about him, shifting from foot to foot like he’s expecting a fight.

“No. I had it changed,” he says, avoiding your gaze. “I remembered you said you liked the color of the sea at Kyoshi Island.”

You stare at him, your mind racing. You did say that, but it was years ago. A casual comment made over a shared meal, long forgotten. You can’t believe he remembered. You can’t believe he had an entire suite redecorated for you. The amount of thought and effort that must have taken, especially with everything else he has on his plate… it's staggering. You don't know what to say.

You’re so touched by the gesture that you have to fight back the sudden prickling behind your eyes. You blink rapidly, focusing on a loose thread on the cushion of the armchair. You will not cry. You will not make this awkward. You take a deep, steadying breath, and when you look back at him, you’ve pasted a bright, breezy smile on your face.

"Well, it's perfect," you say, your voice a little too high. "I love it. I never knew you had such good taste."

"I had some help," he admits, rubbing the back of his neck. "Mai, mostly. She's got a better eye for this sort of thing."

The name hits you like a splash of cold water, and the warm, fuzzy feeling you’ve been nursing vanishes. Of course. Mai. You should have known. You feel a surge of disappointment that is so sharp and so sudden that it takes you by surprise. You push it down, ignoring the way your stomach twists. You force your smile to stay in place, even as it feels like it's cracking around the edges.

"Well, she did an amazing job," you say sincerely. "You should have her do the rest of the palace. She could really tone down the blood and fire theme."

You try to keep your tone light, but you can hear the strain in your own voice. You turn away and walk towards the balcony, needing some air. The view is breathtaking, the caldera spread out below you like a painting, but you can't appreciate it. All you can think about is Zuko and Mai, discussing paint colors and furniture, a perfect, royal couple, a world away from you. You're a fool. You’ve been a fool this whole time.

"I'll tell her you said so," Zuko says, and he sounds… odd. You can't quite place the emotion in his voice, but it's enough to make you turn back to him. He's still standing in the doorway, his hands clasped behind his back, a stiffness in his posture that wasn't there a moment ago. “I’ll let you settle in. Dinner is at sunset. I'll, uh, I'll send someone to guide you there."

You nod, not sure what to make of his sudden awkwardness. "Okay," you say, and he gives you a tight smile before turning and leaving the room. You watch him go, frowning as the doors close behind him. What was that about?

You shake your head, deciding to worry about it later. You have a few hours before dinner, and you want to make the most of them. You explore the rest of the suite, opening doors and peeking into closets and cupboards. You find a bathroom with a tub large enough to swim in, a dressing room full of clothes that are clearly not yours, and a small study with a desk and a bookshelf. There’s even a small bonsai tree on the desk pruned in the shape of a turtle duck.

It's all so overwhelming, and so thoughtful, and it makes your chest ache with a feeling you're not ready to name. You've been living out of a backpack for years, and this kind of luxury is a world away from your own. It's a world away from Zuko's, too, you think. He may be the Fire Lord, but he's never been one for indulgence. If anything, he's even more frugal and practical than you are. So why did he do this? What was he trying to prove?

You shake your head and focus on unpacking your things. Your clothes and shoes look pitifully shabby next to the finery that's already in the closet, but you hang them up anyway. Your collection of souvenirs from your travels — a stone carving of a koi, a shell from the beach at Ember Island, a pressed flower from the Southern Air Temple — looks equally pathetic on the bookshelf, but you leave them there. You refuse to let his over-the-top gesture get to you. This is your room, and you'll do what you want. 

You sit on the edge of the bed and stare out the window, taking a deep breath. This is all a bit much, but you can deal with it. You can deal with him. You can get through the next few days, and then you can go back to your simple, uncomplicated life.

You just wish you could figure out why your heart hurts so much.

The sun is setting over the caldera when your guide arrives, and you try your best not to let the glances she sneaks your way as you follow her bother you. You’re used to being an oddity, and the Fire Nation has always been a bit stuffy. You're not sure you'll ever get used to the way they look at you, like you're a fascinating but slightly disgusting bug they've found under a rock, but you're determined not to let it ruin your evening. You're here to see Zuko, and you're not going to let a few judgmental glares get in the way of that.

You follow your guide through the grand dining hall, and your jaw drops at the sight before you. The room is even bigger than the throne room, with a long, polished table that could seat a hundred people. But the only person at the table is Zuko, looking regal and handsome in a simple black robe, a few loose strands of hair falling into his eyes. He's bent over a scroll, his brow furrowed in concentration, and you have the strange urge to go over there and smooth the lines from his forehead.

He looks up as you enter, and a smile lights up his face. He’s on his feet and rounding the long table to the place setting at the opposite end before you even get close. He stops and pulls out your chair before you can even think to sit, and you give him a questioning look.

“I’m not an invalid,” you say, a teasing note in your voice.

“I know,” he says, but he doesn’t move until you sit. “Just trying to be a good host.”

You hum in response, watching as he walks the distance back to his seat. The table is absurdly long, and you have to lean to the side to see him around the large centerpiece of hibiscus flowers. He’s far enough away that you’ll have to raise your voice to be heard, which is ridiculous. This isn’t a dinner, it's a state function. 

You have a sudden, vivid memory of a shared meal in a cramped Earth Kingdom tavern, the table sticky with spilled beer, the air thick with smoke and laughter. You and Zuko had sat shoulder to shoulder, and you’d stolen food off his plate when he wasn’t looking. He’d grumbled and complained, but he’d still let you have the last piece of roasted duck. That felt more real than this. This feels like a performance.

"So," you say, your voice a little too loud in the cavernous room. "This is cozy. Very… intimate.”

He snorts. "Yeah, well, I thought you'd prefer it this way. I didn't want to subject you to a formal dinner with the council. They can be a bit much."

"You mean you didn't want to subject them to me,” you counter with a raised brow. “I get it. I'm a bad influence."

"No,” he says, and the sudden force of the denial surprises you. "That's not what I meant at all. I just… I wanted it to be just us."

"Oh." You blink at him, a little taken aback by the earnestness in his voice. "Well, I appreciate it. Though, I’d prefer it if you sat next to me. I feel like I’m yelling at you from here.”

Zuko’s brows raise, and he looks at the empty space between you as if seeing it for the first time. He looks back at you, a flush creeping up his neck. He seems to come to a sudden decision, standing up so abruptly that his chair scrapes against the floor.

“You’re right,” he says. “This is stupid.”

You watch, amused, as he gathers up his plate, his cup, and his utensils and marches down the length of the table. He deposits them with a clatter at the place setting right next to yours, and the cup wobbles precariously before he steadies it with a finger. He collapses into the chair, raking a hand through his hair.

“Better?” he asks, a little breathless, and you grin.

“Much,” you reply. “Now I can steal your food.”

“You could try." He lifts his chin. “But I’ve gotten faster.”

“We’ll see about that.”

The two of you look up as a servant with brown hair slides the door open and steps inside, holding a decanter of wine like an offering. Her steps falter when she sees the Fire Lord's place has been abandoned. She looks from the empty seat at the head of the table to the two of you, sitting together like conspirators at the far end. 

Zuko doesn't even give her a chance to ask. "Just... just set it down, please. We can get it ourselves."

“I… of course, my lord,” she says, her eyes darting between the two of you.

She sets the decanter down with a trembling hand, her movements jerky. You feel a pang of sympathy for her. She's clearly been drilled in the proper way to serve the Fire Lord, and Zuko has just thrown a wrench in her carefully choreographed routine. You give her a reassuring smile, but she doesn't see it. She’s already backing out of the room, her eyes fixed on the floor. 

As soon as the door slides shut, Zuko sighs and slouches in his chair. "Sorry about that. They're not used to improvisation."

"It's fine," you say, watching as he stands to pour the wine. "They're just doing their jobs."

"Still," he mutters, handing you a glass. The deep red liquid swirls in the crystal, catching the light from the candles. "I wish they'd relax."

You take a sip of the wine, a sweet, fruity vintage that’s surprisingly good. You’re more of a beer girl yourself, but you can appreciate this. It’s smooth and rich, and it goes down easily. Maybe too easily. You take another sip, bigger this time.

"So," you say, setting your glass down. "What have you been up to? Besides redecorating and terrifying the staff."

He grimaces. "Mostly council meetings. And trade agreements. And trying to convince the old guard that reforming the education system is not a sign of weakness."

"Sounds riveting," you say, and he snorts. "No, seriously, that's good work. Important."

"It is," he agrees, "but it's also boring as hell. I'd rather be fighting a platypus-bear."

You laugh, and the sound echoes in the large room. "I'm sure we could arrange that. I saw some on the way in. Big ones, too."

"Don't tempt me," he says, a longing look on his face. "I'd take a good mauling over another budget meeting any day."

You shake your head, a smile playing on your lips. You forget sometimes how much he's changed. The boy you met was so desperate for honor and respect, so focused on his destiny, that he couldn't see anything else. The man sitting across from you now is still driven, still determined, but he's also... tired. He’s weary of the politics and the posturing, and you can see it in the lines around his eyes and the slump of his shoulders.

“Is it really that bad?” you ask softly.

“Sometimes,” he admits, his thumb tracing the rim of his glass. “They mean well, most of them. But they’re stuck in their ways. They don’t see the world the way I do.”

“Because you’ve seen it,” you say, and he nods.

You understand, more than anyone. You've walked through rice paddies in the Earth Kingdom that glowed green under the full moon, and you've tasted fruit in the Air Temples so sweet it made your teeth ache. You've slept under unfamiliar stars in so many different lands that you sometimes forget which hemisphere you're in. Seeing the world changes you. It sands down your rough edges, and it opens your eyes to the way other people live.

He's seen more than most, and he's learned from it. It's in the way he carries himself, the way he speaks about different nations with a respect that was nowhere to be found when you first met him. It makes him a better leader, a better person.

But it also makes him a target. For political machinations, or worse, you’re sure. He’s surrounded by vipers, and you know it. You've been around enough politicians to recognize them. And while Zuko is a formidable bender and a cunning strategist, he’s also still so earnest. He wants to believe the best in people, even when they’ve given him no reason to.

He’s also an idiot. A brave, noble, kind-hearted idiot. But an idiot nonetheless. You know him.

“You need to get away more.” You lean forward and propping your chin on your hand. “You’re getting pale.”

“I’m not pale,” he scoffs. “I’m a Fire Nation native. This is my natural skin tone.”

“Sure it is,” you say, a teasing note in your voice. “Whatever helps you sleep at night. But you’re still too pale. You need some sun.”

“There’s sun here,” he argues, gesturing to the window, but you just shake your head.

“Not the same,” you say. “You need real sun. The kind you get from working in a field all day. Or, you know, sitting on a beach and drinking cheap wine.”

“That sounds…” he trails off, a wistful look on his face. “That sounds really nice.”

You’re struck by the sudden urge to offer him a way out. You could leave together tomorrow, you and him, just like old times. You could travel the world, and he could remember what it’s like to be free. He could leave all this behind, and you could…

You could what? Be a burden? A distraction? He has a country to run. You can’t just ask him to abandon it because you’re feeling nostalgic for the good old days. That’s not how the world works.

You push the thought away as the door slides open again, and a parade of servants stream through the doors in single file. They move with a practiced efficiency, placing dish after dish on the long table between you. Roasted duck-turkey, glazed with a sweet and spicy sauce. Sea-prunes simmered in a savory broth. Flaky pastries filled with spiced vegetables. The servants are gone as quickly as they came, leaving the two of you in a stunned silence.

You stare at the spread, your mind boggling at the sheer excess of it all. This isn’t a dinner, it’s a feast. And it's all for you. You feel a knot of guilt tighten in your stomach. You know how much food costs, how much effort it takes to produce it. This is a waste, a gross indulgence, and you hate it.

“You have got to be kidding me,” you say, your voice low. “Zuko, this is… this is too much.”

He looks from your face to the food and back again, a confused frown on his face. “What’s wrong? Don’t you like it?”

“I like it fine,” you say, trying to keep the irritation out of your voice. “But there’s enough here to feed an army. We can’t possibly eat all of this.”

“I know,” he says. “But I wanted you to have a choice. I didn’t know what you’d be in the mood for.”

You stare at him, dumbfounded. He’s so sincere, so genuinely baffled by your reaction, that you can’t even be mad. You just… you don’t understand him. You thought he’d grown up on the road with you, that he’d learned to appreciate the simple things. But it seems like the palace has erased all of that, replacing it with this… this opulence. This wastefulness.

“Zuko,” you say, your patient, teacher-voice coming out despite yourself. “I’ve been living on rice and beans for the last six months. I would have been happy with a bowl of soup. This is… this is a lot.”

You try to be gentle, but you can see the flash of hurt in his eyes before he masks it with a blank expression. He straightens up, his shoulders stiffening, and you know you’ve said the wrong thing. You’ve insulted him, and you didn’t mean to. You were just trying to make him see reason.

“I’m sorry,” you start, but he holds up a hand.

“No, you’re right,” he says, his voice flat. “It’s too much. I’ll have them take some of it away.”

He stands up and walks to the door, and you watch him go, your heart sinking. You’ve ruined it. You’ve ruined the nice evening he was trying to give you, and you feel like a complete and utter jerk. You didn’t mean to hurt him, you were just… you were just being you. And you’re starting to realize that your version of ‘you’ doesn’t really fit in here.

He’s gone for a few minutes, and you use the time to pile a little bit of everything onto your plate. You’re starving, and you’re not going to let his pride get in the way of a good meal. When he comes back, the tension between you is thick enough to cut with a knife.

“They’re taking the rest to the kitchens,” he says, sitting down. “The staff can have it.”

“Good,” you reply quietly. At least it won’t go to waste.

You eat in silence for a while, the only sounds the clinking of silverware against porcelain. The food is delicious, some of the best you’ve ever had, but you can’t enjoy it. All you can think about is the wounded look on Zuko’s face, and the way he’s pointedly not looking at you. You’ve never been good at this kind of thing, at navigating the minefield of other people’s feelings. You’re a doer, not a talker, and you’re at a loss as to how to fix this.

You take a deep breath and decide to just rip the bandage off.

“I’m sorry,” you say, setting your fork down. “I didn’t mean to be rude.”

He finally looks at you, a weariness in his eyes. “You weren’t rude,” he says. “You were just being honest. I’m the one who’s out of touch.”

“You’re not out of touch,” you argue. “You’re just… used to a different way of life. It’s fine.”

“Is it?” he asks, and he sounds so genuinely lost that you have to fight the urge to reach across the table and take his hand. “Because it doesn’t feel fine. It feels like I’m failing at… at everything.”

“You’re not failing,” you say, your voice firm. “You’re doing great. You’re a good Fire Lord, Zuko. A great one.”

“You don’t know that,” he scoffs. “You haven’t been here.”

“Your letters told me enough,” you counter. “And I see it in your eyes. You’re trying. You’re really trying, and that’s more than most people can say.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, and you can see the wheels turning in his head. He’s so hard on himself, always has been. He expects perfection, and when he doesn’t get it, he beats himself up. It’s one of the things you love about him, and one of the things that drives you crazy. He’s his own worst critic, and it’s a battle he can never win.

“What about you?” he asks, finally. “What have you been up to?”

The question catches you off guard, and you blink at him. He looks so earnest, so eager for a change of subject, that you decide to let him have it. You pick up your fork again and poke at a piece of duck-turkey, contemplating your answer. What have you been up to, these last few months? Traveling, mostly, with the occasional stint as a farmhand. Nothing particularly exciting or notable. You haven’t done anything nearly as important as him. But you know he won’t let you get away with that answer, so you try to find something more interesting to say.

"Oh, you know, the usual. Traveling, farming, getting chased out of villages by angry mobs." You shrug. "Same old, same old."

Zuko snorts, the corners of his mouth lifting into a smile. "You got chased out of a village again?"

"Hey, in my defense, it wasn't my fault this time," you say, pointing your fork at him. "I was just trying to help. They had a serious blight problem, and I told them how to fix it, but they didn't want to listen. Some people are just stubborn."

"Some people are," he agrees, a knowing look on his face. "So you fixed it anyway, didn't you?"

"Of course I did," you say, indignant. "I wasn't going to let their crops die just because they were too proud to take advice from a stranger. So I waited until they were all asleep, and I… helped."

"Define 'helped'," he says, a suspicious glint in his eye.

"I may have… encouraged the earth to be a little more… receptive to the seeds," you say, evasively. "And maybe I smoothed out a few of the hills so they'd get more sun. And I might have redirected a small stream to water the fields. But that's it."

"That's it?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

"That's it," you confirm, nodding for emphasis. You put a hand to your heart, trying to mask the twitch of your lips. "I swear."

He's silent for a moment, and you can see him trying to hold back a laugh. He's not doing a very good job. A snort escapes him, and then another, until he's full-on laughing. It's a deep, genuine laugh that rumbles in his chest and makes your own lips curve into a smile. You've missed this. You've missed him. You've missed the easy banter and the comfortable silence, the way he looks at you like you're the only person in the room.

You've missed the way he looks at you, period. Even when he was angry and frustrating, there was something in his eyes that made you feel… seen. He saw the real you, the person you hid from everyone else, and he didn't run away. He stayed. He challenged you, and he pushed you, and he made you a better person. And you’ve been trying to do the same for him, though you’re not sure you can take the credit. He’s grown into someone truly remarkable, and you can’t help but feel proud of him.

"What?" you ask, feigning innocence. "It's not funny. I almost got arrested."

"I'm sorry," he says, but he's still laughing. "I'm trying to picture it. You, sneaking around in the middle of the night, rearranging the landscape."

"Well, it's either that or let them starve," you say, taking a sip of your wine. "So, yes, I would do it again. And I did, in the next village over. They were much more appreciative."

"I bet," he says, finally getting himself under control. He wipes a tear from the corner of his eye, his face flushed with amusement. “So, is that what you do now? Travel the countryside and secretly earthbend for people who don't appreciate it?"

"Pretty much," you say with a shrug. "Someone has to. The war left a lot of scars, and not all of them are on people. The land needs healing, too."

You look away, focusing on the candle flame flickering on the table between you. You don't like to talk about your work, not really. It’s too personal, too close to the bone. You pour your heart and soul into the land, into the seeds you plant and the trees you nurture. You pour your own grief and rage into the soil, and you watch as it transforms into something beautiful, something alive. It’s a kind of magic, a kind of alchemy, and it’s the only thing that keeps you going some days. You've seen too much death, too much destruction, and you need to create something, anything, to balance it out.

Zuko is quiet, and you can feel his gaze on you. It's heavy and intense, and it makes you want to squirm in your seat. You're not used to being looked at like this, with so much… something. You don't know what it is, but it's a lot, and you don't know what to do with it.

"You do good work," he says, and the sincerity in his voice makes your throat tight. "The world is a better place because you're in it."

You stare at him, your mind racing. You're not used to compliments, especially not from him. He's not one for flowery words or empty platitudes. When he says something, he means it. And he means this. He really, truly believes it, and you don't know how to respond.

"It's nothing," you say, waving a dismissive hand. "Anyone could do it."

“They could, but they won’t,” he counters, his gaze unwavering. “That’s the difference.”

You’re saved from having to answer by the return of the servants, who clear away the dinner plates and replace them with, blessedly, a single plate of dessert for each of you. It’s a simple dish of mango shaved ice, drizzled with a sweet, creamy sauce and sprinkled with toasted coconut flakes, and you can’t help but smile. It’s a relief after the excess of the main course, and you can tell from the look on Zuko’s face that he knows it.

“You still like mango, right?” he asks, and you nod.

“I do,” you say, taking a bite. The cool, sweet ice melts on your tongue, and you close your eyes in bliss. “Oh, wow. This is amazing.”

“Good,” he says, a pleased look on his face. “I remembered you said it was your favorite.”

You open your eyes and stare at him, your spoon halfway to your mouth. He’s already digging into his own bowl, so you have a moment to process this. He remembered your favorite dessert. He remembered the color you liked. He remembered a casual comment you made years ago. He remembers all of it, and you don’t know what to do with that information.

You’re so used to being the one who remembers, the one who pays attention to the little details. You’re the one who remembers that Sokka is allergic to strawberries, and that Katara prefers her tea with two sugars, and that Toph hates the feel of velvet. You’re the one who remembers the little things, because that’s how you show people you care. To be on the receiving end of that kind of attention, from him of all people, is… disconcerting.

It’s also a little bit wonderful.

“It’s still my favorite,” you say, and you give him a smile. “Thank you.”

He doesn’t say anything, just nods and keeps eating, but you can see the faint blush on the back of his neck. He’s not good at receiving compliments, either, and you find that you kind of like that you can make him flustered. It’s a nice change from the stoic, formal Fire Lord he’s been playing at since you arrived. 

You finish your dessert in a comfortable silence, your spoons scraping against the glass bowls. When you’re done, you set your spoon down and lean back in your chair, a contented sigh escaping you. You’re full, and warm, and more relaxed than you’ve been in months. You could get used to this, which is a terrifying thought. You’re not supposed to get used to things. You’re supposed to keep moving.

“Okay,” you say, breaking the silence. “This was much better than the state dinner I was expecting. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he says, a genuine smile on his face. “I told you I wanted it to be just us.”

“Yeah, you did,” you agree, and you let yourself really look at him. He looks different in the soft candlelight, the sharp angles of his face softened by the warm glow. He looks… happy. And you realize, with a jolt, that you’ve missed him more than you thought. You’ve missed the easy companionship, the shared laughter, the simple act of being in the same room with him.

You stand up, and Zuko follows suit, a questioning look on his face. “It’s getting late. I should probably, you know, turn in.”

“Right,” he sighs. “Of course. I’ll walk you back to your rooms.”

“You don’t have to do that,” you protest, but he’s already shaking his head.

“I want to,” he says, and the force of the conviction in his voice surprises you. “It’s a big palace. You could get lost.”

“I’m an earthbender,” you say, a teasing note in your voice. “I can always follow the walls.”

“Humor me,” he says, a wry smile playing on his lips. He holds out his arm. “Indulge the Fire Lord in his desire to be a proper host.”

You stare at his offered arm, then at his face. He’s joking, you think, but there’s something in his eyes, a seriousness that makes you pause. He’s asking for something, and you’re not sure what it is, but you know that you want to give it to him. So you take a deep breath and loop your arm through his.

His sleeve is cool silk against your skin, and you can feel the solid muscle of his bicep beneath it. You’re acutely aware of the warmth of his body, the scent of smoke and spice that clings to him, and you have to fight the urge to lean in closer. Has he always smelled like this? You don't think so, but maybe you've never been close enough to notice.

“Okay, fine,” you say, your voice a little breathless. “Walk me to my door, Your Excellency. But only because you asked so nicely.”

He doesn't say anything, just leads you out of the dining hall and into the quiet, candle-lit corridors. The servants are gone, and the sound of your footsteps and the wind whistling through the eaves fill the silence between you. It's peaceful, in a way. The palace is different at night, less imposing, more… intimate. The shadows hide the garish excess, and the candlelight softens the hard edges of the stone.

You walk in silence for a while, content to just be in his company. You’re not sure what to say, and you’re afraid that if you open your mouth, you’ll say something stupid. So you just walk, your arm tucked in his, and you try to ignore the way your heart is beating a little too fast in your chest.

“You know,” he says, breaking the silence. “You never told me what you were doing in the Fire Nation. Your letter was… vague.”

You wince. You’d been purposefully vague, not wanting to worry him. The truth is, you were in trouble. You’d gotten mixed up in some local politics, and you’d had to make a quick exit. You’d planned on lying low for a few weeks, using the cover of Caldera City’s bustling crowds to disappear for a while. You never expected him to find you, let alone invite you to the palace.

“Oh, you know,” you say, trying to sound casual. “Just seeing the sights. Taking in the local culture.”

Zuko stops walking, and you stumble, pulled up short by his sudden stillness. He turns to face you, and you can see the concern etched on his face in the flickering torchlight. He’s not buying it. Of course, he’s not buying it. He knows you too well.

“What’s really going on?” he asks, his voice low and serious. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”

You open your mouth to deny it, to brush off his concern with a lighthearted joke, but the words won't come. You look into his eyes, and you see the genuine worry there, the fierce protectiveness that has always been a part of him, a part of him that he usually keeps hidden beneath layers of anger and insecurity. You can’t lie to him. Not when he's looking at you like that.

You take a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. "It's nothing, really. Just a misunderstanding. I may have… insulted a local governor."

"You insulted a governor?" he repeats, incredulous. "How did you manage to do that?"

"It's a long story," you say, waving a dismissive hand. "He was being a jerk, and I may have suggested that he was a corrupt, incompetent, pig-headed tyrant who was more interested in lining his own pockets than in helping his people."

You say it all in one breath, and you brace yourself for the lecture you know is coming. You’ve heard it before, from him and from Sokka and from just about everyone else who cares about you. You’re too reckless, too impulsive, too quick to speak your mind. You’re going to get yourself killed one of these days, and they won’t be able to save you. You’ve heard it all, and you’re tired of it.

But Zuko doesn't lecture you. He doesn't even look angry. He just looks… tired. Resigned. Like he’s been expecting this. And that’s somehow worse than the lecture.

"What did he do?" he asks lowly.

"He was withholding food rations from a village that had been hit by a landslide," you say, your voice barely a whisper. "He was selling them on the black market instead. I… I may have redirected the food shipments. And I may have… caused a small earthquake that knocked over his statue."

He closes his eyes for a moment, and you can see the muscle twitching in his jaw. He's trying to keep his temper, you can tell, and you're grateful for the effort. You don't want to fight with him, not now, not here. You just want to enjoy the few days you have together before you have to leave again. Before you have to go back to your life of running and hiding and trying to fix the world, one small act of rebellion at a time.

"So he put a bounty on your head," he says. It’s not a question. You wince.

"He did," you confirm, nodding. "Which is why I'm here. It's a good place to disappear for a while."

"And you were just going to… what? Hole up in some cheap boarding house and hope for the best?" he asks, and the anger is finally there, simmering just beneath the surface. "You know, for someone who's so smart, you can be really stupid sometimes."

"Hey," you protest, but he holds up a hand.

"No, don't 'hey' me," he says, his voice rising. "This is serious. These aren't some backwoods thugs we're talking about. This is a Fire Nation governor. He has resources. He could find you."

You flinch at the harshness of his tone, and he must see it, because he takes a deep breath and runs a hand through his hair. The anger in his eyes fades, replaced by a familiar, weary resignation.

"I'm sorry," he says, his voice softer now. "I didn't mean to snap. I'm just… worried. I worry about you."

"I know," you say, and you do. You know he worries, and you appreciate it, even if it sometimes feels like he's trying to wrap you in cotton wool. "But I can take care of myself."

"I know you can," he says. "But you shouldn't have to. Not all the time."

You don't know what to say to that, so you just stand there in the flickering torchlight, your arm still tucked in his, and you wish, not for the first or the last time, that things were different. That the world was a kinder place, or at least a fairer one. That you could just be two people, walking down a hallway, without the weight of the world on your shoulders.

"Why didn't you come to me?" he asks quietly, his brow furrowed. "Why didn't you just tell me you were in trouble?"

“You have enough to deal with without me adding to it,” you murmur, pulling your arm away to wrap it around your own middle. “I didn’t want to be another problem on your list.”

Zuko takes a step forward, closing the distance you just created. The sudden warmth of him in the cool stone corridor makes you look up. His eyes are boring into yours, and the intensity there steals the breath from your lungs.

“You are not a problem,” he says, his voice low and rough. “You are my friend. More than my friend. You're… you. And if you're in trouble, I want to know. I want to help."

Your heart does a strange, stuttering thing in your chest, like a trapped bird beating against your ribs. You open your mouth to say something, anything, but the words are gone. All you can do is stare at him, at the sincerity in his face, at the fire in his eyes, and you feel a sudden, overwhelming urge to just… give in. To let him take care of you, just for a little while. To let him be the strong one.

But that’s not who you are. And that’s not who he needs you to be.

So you take a deep breath and you take a step back, putting some distance between you. "I'm fine," you say, and your voice is stronger now, more like your own. "I'm always fine. And even if I wasn't, I can handle it. I've been handling it for a long time."

He doesn't say anything, just watches you with those unreadable eyes, and you can see the frustration in the tense set of his shoulders. He wants to argue, you can tell, but he's holding back. He's respecting your boundaries, even if it kills him, and you're grateful for it. You're also a little bit disappointed, which is a stupid, selfish thought, and you push it away. You have enough stupid, selfish thoughts to last a lifetime. You don't need to add to the collection.

"You're impossible," he breathes out, and the words are so quiet you almost miss them.

"You're one to talk," you retort, a ghost of a smile on your lips. "We're a matched set, you and me. A couple of impossible idiots."

He shakes his head. "Yeah, I guess we are."

You turn and start walking again, and after a moment, he follows. You don't take his arm this time, but he walks close enough that your shoulders brush with every other step. It’s a small point of contact, but it’s enough. It’s more than enough.

“So, about this governor,” he starts, and you fight the urge to sigh. You knew he wasn’t going to let it go.

“He’s not a problem,” you say, keeping your eyes on the corridor ahead. “I can handle him.”

“I don’t doubt that,” he says smoothly. “But you won’t have to. I’ll have a dispatch sent to the local magistrate. The charges will be dropped by morning.”

You stop walking and turn to face him, your hands on your hips. “You can’t do that. That’s an abuse of power.”

“It’s a perfectly legal use of power,” he counters, a stubborn set to his jaw. “The governor is embezzling state funds and withholding aid. That’s a crime. I’m just… expediting the justice process.”

Despite yourself, a slow smile spreads across your face. He’s so noble. So ridiculously, frustratingly noble. He’s always been like this, even when he was trying to capture Aang. He has this rigid, unshakeable moral compass, and he refuses to compromise it, even when it would be easier to just… look the other way. It’s one of the things you admire most about him, and one of the things that drives you the craziest. You just wish he would bend the rules for himself, just once, instead of for everyone else.

“Fine,” you say, holding up your hands in surrender. “Do whatever you want. You’re the Fire Lord.”

“I am,” he smirks. “And don’t you forget it.”

You roll your eyes and start walking again, and you can feel the smugness radiating off him in waves. He’s so pleased with himself, and you can’t help but find it endearing. He’s not smug in a cruel way, or a condescending one. He’s just… happy. He’s happy that he can help you, that he can take this burden off your shoulders. He’s happy that he can be your hero, even if you don't need one. And you’re a little bit happy, too, even if you won’t admit it. It’s nice to have someone in your corner, someone who has your back, no matter what.

The walk to your rooms is short, and before you know it, you’re standing in front of the round, dragon-carved doors again. He stops, and you stop with him, and you’re both just standing there, the silence stretching between you. 

“So,” you say, your voice a little too loud in the quiet hallway. “This is me.”

“This is you,” he agrees. His gaze drifts from your face to the door, then back again. He rocks back on his heels, his hands clasped behind his back, and glances at the guards doing a convincing impression of statues. “I, uh, I hope you’re comfortable here.”

“I am,” you say, and you mean it. The room is still a bit much, but the thought behind it… that you understand. “It’s really beautiful.”

He relaxes, a small, genuine smile touching his lips. “Good. I’m glad.”

He doesn't move, and you don't either. You know you should say goodnight, open the door, and disappear into your lavish, temporary prison. But your feet feel rooted to the polished floor. You're not ready for the night to end. You're not ready to be alone with your thoughts, with the confusing, unwelcome feelings that he's stirred up in you. You'd rather stand here in this awkward, charged silence than face them.

“Do you… have any plans for your stay?” he asks, breaking the silence. “I mean, besides hiding from a corrupt governor.”

“Not really,” you admit with a shrug. “I was just planning on laying low for a while. See the sights, eat too much food, let you spoil me rotten.”

You say the last part with a wink, trying to keep the tone light, but he doesn't react.

“I can arrange that,” he says, and he sounds so serious that you have to bite back a laugh. He takes your bait, even when you're not fishing. “But I was hoping… I mean, I have some things I need to do tomorrow. And I was wondering if you’d want to come with me. To the royal gardens. And then… well, there’s something I want to show you.”

“The royal gardens, huh?” you ask, raising an eyebrow. “What, are you going to show me your prize-winning komodo chickens?”

“They’re peacocks,” he says, a faint smile on his lips. “And no. It’s not that. It’s… something else.”

You study his face, trying to figure out what he’s not saying. He’s nervous, you can see it in the way he won’t quite meet your eyes, in the way he’s twisting his hands together behind his back. He’s hiding something, and you have a feeling it has nothing to do with prize-winning poultry.

“Is it a secret?” you press, a teasing note in your voice.

“Sort of,” he admits. “But it’s a good secret. I think.”

You’re intrigued, you have to admit. You’ve known Zuko for a long time, and you’ve seen him at his best and at his worst. You’ve seen him angry and frustrated, vulnerable and afraid. You’ve seen him laugh and cry and rage. But you’ve never seen him like this. He’s nervous, and hopeful, and a little bit terrified, and you have no idea why. But you want to find out.

“Okay,” you say, and you try to keep the eagerness out of your voice. “I’ll go. But if it’s a surprise party, I’m leaving.”

“It’s not a surprise party,” he says, a laugh escaping him. “I promise. No party. Just… us.”

“Just us,” you repeat. You're not sure what he means by that, or if he even knows what he means by that, but it makes your stomach do a funny, flippy thing that you’re going to ignore. You’re going to ignore it so hard.

You stand there, lost in thought, until he clears his throat. The sound is loud in the quiet hallway, and it makes you jump.

“I should let you get to bed,” he says, and he sounds as reluctant as you feel. “Big day tomorrow. Komodo peacocks don’t just show themselves off, you know.”

“I’ll be sure to wear my finest,” you grin. “Goodnight, Zuko. And… thank you. For everything.”

“Goodnight."

He hesitates for a moment, like he wants to say something else, but then he just turns and walks away, leaving you alone in the flickering torchlight.

You watch him go, his back straight and his shoulders squared, until he disappears around the corner. You stand there for a long moment, just staring at the empty hallway, before you finally turn and push open the heavy door to your rooms. The cool, night air rushes in to meet you, and you step inside, closing the door behind you.

You stand in the middle of the room, your bare feet sinking into the plush, patterned rug. The moon is high in the sky, its silver light streaming through the open balcony doors and painting the room in shades of gray and blue. The fresco on the ceiling is even more beautiful in the moonlight, the water lilies and lotus flowers seeming to glow with an otherworldly light. It’s a breathtaking sight, and for a moment, you just stand there, mesmerized by the sheer, unexpected beauty of it all.

You can’t believe he did this for you. You can’t believe he remembered.

You walk to the balcony, your bare feet silent on the cool stone. The night air is warm and fragrant, filled with the scent of night-blooming jasmine and the distant, salty smell of the sea. You lean on the railing, looking out at the sleeping city below. The caldera is a bowl of darkness, dotted with the warm lights of homes and businesses. From here, it looks peaceful. Serene. You can almost forget the blood that was spilled here, the lives that were lost in the name of a twisted ideology.

But you can’t forget. You won’t. You’ve seen too much, lost too much, to ever forget. And you know Zuko hasn’t forgotten either. He’s carrying the weight of his father’s legacy on his shoulders, and he’s trying to build something new from the ashes. It’s a burden that would crush a lesser man. But he’s not a lesser man. He’s stronger than anyone you’ve ever met, and he’s doing it.

And he’s doing it alone.

A pang of guilt shoots through you, sharp and sudden. You left him. You and the others, you all went back to your lives, back to your own problems, and you left him here to clean up the mess. You visit, when you can, you send letters, but it’s not enough. It’s not the same. He’s alone in this, and you had no idea how alone he was until now.

You thought he had Mai. You thought he had someone to talk to, someone to share the burden with. But something in your conversation tonight makes you question that. You can’t put your finger on it, but there was a… a hollowness to him. A loneliness that he tries to hide with a stern face and a sharp tongue, but that you can see in his eyes.

You shake your head, trying to clear it. You’re being ridiculous. You’re projecting your own loneliness onto him. He’s the Fire Lord. He’s surrounded by people, by advisors and servants and courtiers. He’s not alone. He can’t be. You’re just feeling sorry for yourself because your life is a mess, and you’re looking for a distraction.

You turn away from the railing and walk back into the room, your arms wrapped around your middle. You need to get a grip. You’re here for a few days, a week at most. You’re going to lay low, let Zuko handle your governor problem, and then you’re going to leave. You’re going to go back to your life, to your work, and you’re not going to get sucked into this… this whatever this is.

You change into a simple cotton nightdress, one of the few things you own that doesn’t have a hole in it, and crawl into the big, soft bed. The mattress is plush, the sheets are cool and smooth, and the down-filled pillow is like resting your head on a cloud. It’s the most comfortable bed you’ve ever slept in, and you know, with a certainty that settles like a stone in your stomach, that you’re not going to sleep a wink.

“She’s fine,” Harry said, his throat strangely tight.

He realized, rather abruptly, that despite Hermione’s evident concern there was no guarantee of a reconciliation between them. For all he knew the moment of terror had been a fluke, not a sign of closing the rift between them. He’d missed them both as his best friends, missed the easy days where there hadn’t been bickering and he hadn’t had to try all the time not to tread on someone’s feelings.

Ron nodded, “Where is she?”

“In Arithmancy,” Harry explained.

“Oh,” Ron said, looking confused.

Nevertheless he accepted the answer and lay back down, shutting his eyes and breathing heavily.

“Ron?” Harry asked after a moment when it seemed clear he wasn’t just resting his eyes.

Again, Ron’s eyes shot open and he frantically looked around. “Harry! Harry, what’s happened?”

“You’re in the hospital wing,” Harry explained again.

Again the frantic searching, peering around the room. “Where’s Hermione?”

Harry didn’t have the heart to explain it to him again but this time Ron had less energy for he didn’t even try and get up, falling back against the bed as soon as Harry said, “In class.”

“She’s alright?” Ron mumbled, “You’re alright?”

“Yeah,” Harry said gently, “We’re fine.”

Almost at once Ron was snoring again, his mouth open and in a deep sleep as if he’d never been awake. Harry leaned in closer but stopped when suddenly a hand gently lay on his shoulder. He jumped but it was only Madame Pomfrey, looking as nonplused as ever.

“He’s been doing that since last night,” Madame Pomfrey explained, removing her hand and brushing past Harry to get to Ron’s side. “Keeps waking up, thinking it’s last year.”

“Last year?” Harry questioned.

“After the department of mysteries,” she said, pushing back his sleeve and examining the swirling scars. They looked incredibly dark against his pale skin, paler than Harry had seen them in awhile. “Rather focused on your and Miss. Granger’s whereabouts.”

Harry couldn’t think of anything to say, staring at his now fast asleep best friend.

“It’s a good sign, the waking.” She went on, pushing back the sleeve and continuing with her examination. “I doubt he’ll remember any of it, not with the potions he’s under.”

“He’ll be alright?” Harry asked quietly, needing reassurance once more but feeling bad for pestering her.

“Yes,” she said patiently, “You saved his life, Mr. Potter. Now all we can do is wait for the damage to finish healing.”

The bell rang, but Harry barely heard it. It wasn’t until Madame Pomfrey cleared her throat pointedly that Harry recognized that the buzzing in his ears was actually the sound of students entering into the corridors, passing to their next classes. Hastily Harry gathered the book that had fallen from his lap. His unfinished essay had gotten smudged but he didn’t think Professor Slughorn would mind, not after what had happened.

He hovered uncomfortably at the foot of the bed, finding it hard to leave knowing that Ron could again wake up without anyone there.

“There are only certain things you should keep hidden, mijo.  Like plans for a birthday surprise, or maybe the ending of a t.v. show or book.” Her voice was soft, sounding like how a feather would feel as it soothed some of the anxiety he had away.  He leaned into her touch as she ran her fingers through his hair, gentle and slow as she played with his curls.  Her movements followed along with the melody of the ocean before them, the waves crashing and dragging along the sand before them in a silent beat that only they could hear.  

“And the stuff  we can do, right?” Lance asked, his grip tightening around the hand she had offered to him.  

“Especially the stuff we can do.  However, there are certain circumstances, certain situations, where it is okay to tell or show someone our magic.  Like today.”  Her words were supposed to be reassuring, but a spike of anxiety echoed through his body instead, making him want nothing more to curl into a tighter ball and hide.  Today he had messed up.

“I’m sorry Mama.” He sniffed, tears trailing down his cheeks.

“Oh, Lance.  Look at me mijo” She gently coerced him into standing in front of her, her hands gently lifting his face so that she could look him in the eye.   

“I showed Hunk!” He cried.

“You did what was right.  You saved your friend's life!  You knew you could save him if you used your magic, and you did.  I am so very proud of you Lance.” She gently wiped the tears away, leaning down and kissing his forehead with so much love, Lance could practically feel it wrapping around him.  

“But…  But what about our secret?” He asked.  

“It is still our secret.  Do you trust Hunk?” She asked.

“Yes!  He’s my best friend!  And he won’t tell anyone I promise!” He grabbed her hands, yelling as if it would emphasize his trust.  And to him it did.  

“You see?  While it’s important that we keep our magic to ourselves, you will come across people that you can trust to tell.  You just have to trust your judgement, and wait for the right time.  Sometimes the time will come when you least expect it.” She said, smiling softly.  

She took his hands into her own, holding them tightly before humming.  He followed her gaze then, looking to the ocean and listening closely to the melody it sung.  

…

Lance could still feel the ghost of his mother’s fingers running through his hair as the wind blew over him.  He shivered as chills ran down his spine, the cold bite of the autumn air making him shake a bit.  He pulled his sweater tighter around himself as he sat up, rubbing his arms to warm himself up a bit.  He squinted through the brightness and looked around, noting that the sun hadn’t moved all that much.  Neither Hunk or Adam had returned either, so he could tell he hadn’t slept for long.  But it was long enough that he was cold.  Another gust of wind blew through the small clearing again, Lance deciding that he could think about everything after he got himself into the sun.  He left the stuff behind, figuring they could grab it later once his friends came back.

While the dream was short, it was more than enough to give him the message it had intended to pass over.  Or at least he thinks he knew what it  was about.  He just didn’t really know how it fitted in with the rest.   Every other memory seems to emphasize that the event was about Keith, that it had something to do with him.  But there was something more than just that, he just didn’t know what.  He could feel it though, like trying to remember an artist to a song he loved.  On the tip of his tongue, but the words didn't come until it was already too late to matter.  

A million questions ran through his mind as he crouched down by the pond, basking in the sunlight as he let himself warm up.  He was always one for the sun, but even it’s warmth wasn’t comforting as he thought about the problem at hand.  There was also a feeling that sat heavy in his stomach, one that he had been ignoring since the visions started.  He was afraid to acknowledge it, knew what it meant if he did.  But at this point, there really wasn’t anyway of not feeling it.  

For once in a very long time, there was hope that Keith was alive.  That maybe…  he was coming back.

The word hope kept echoing through his mind then, drowning out all the questions that had been repeating themselves.  While some of them were concerning, it didn’t seem as important as the fact that Keith was alive.  Why else would he be having visions of him?  

“I swear if I’m wrong-” He cut himself off when he heard something, dropping down to his knee and looking around to see where it was coming from.  The sudden panic pulsed through his chest, his heart pounding loudly in his ears.  It sounded like something was running towards the edge of the clearing, nearing where he had just left their stuff.  He let out a breath of relief, figuring it was Hunk or Adam coming back from taking a look around, probably finding nothing.  He stood up and brushed the dirt off his knee, prepared to call out to his friend.

What he hadn’t expected was to see a  wolf jumping through the trees and stopping short of their bags.  

Lance had only seen wolves through pictures or at a distance at the zoo.  He had never seen one up close, and though he thought they were pretty cool, it really wasn’t on his agenda to make that happen.  He had joked about them just being bigger dogs, but he knew better.  He knew they were dangerous and now that he was staring into the eyes of a gray wolf, he could tell that they were a lot bigger than he had initially imagined.  Bigger, and scarier.  

He tried to remember all of the details that he had read the last time he was at the zoo, trying to think of anything that could help him in this situation.  But all he could think about was the fact that wolves usually traveled in a pack when hunting.  He hadn’t ever heard about wolves being in the woods though, so there was a possibility that this one was alone.  It had been a while since they had come here, so the wolf could have shown up in that time,  and there had been rumors floating around that animals started showing up.  He just thought that they were about his friends.  But if the wolf was alone, there was a chance he could just scare it off and then try to signal his friends to come back so they could leave.  

That plan was quickly tossed out the window when the wolf slowly raised its head, Lance’s heart dropping as a loud howl echoed around them.  There were others, and he wasn’t about to stick around to find out just how many there were.  He took the opportunity, turning on his heel before taking off into the opposite direction.  If he could make it to the trees, to one with low enough branches, he could climb his way up and avoid becoming lunch for the wildlife.  The howl was loud, so there was no doubt that his friends were already on their way back, and they couldn’t be too far.  Hopefully.  

The howl was short though, hardly giving him a good enough head start.  He could hear it kick one of the bags as it began chasing after him, Lance refusing to glance behind to see just how close the wolf was already to him.  He cursed when he couldn’t reach the branches of the first few trees he neared, growing desperate as he tried to go further in while trying not to trip over the roots.  Running from it was inevitable though, the wolf circling in front of him and blocking his way.  He skidded to a stop, cursing as he landed on his ass, the pain shooting up his spine.  He wasn’t running for long, but he still panted, his panic seeping into his lungs as he tried to scoot backwards.  Tears welled in his eyes as the wolf stepped closer, Lance letting out a strangled yell.  It made the creature pause, it’s head lowering, and if he wasn’t panicking, he could probably see the guilt in its movements.  But instead he backed himself against a tree, pushing against it as if he could simply dissolve into the trunk.  He squeezed his eyes shut out of fear, desperately trying not to imagine the amount of pain he was about to be in.  

For the second time that day, something unexpected happened.  

He felt the nose of the wolf press against his cheek in a gentle manner, Lance shivering at the way it felt slightly wet.  Gross.  He didn’t relax though, shaking as the wolf began to sniff him, hovering over his face, hair, neck, chest, like it was looking for something particular.  He swallowed nervously as he felt the wolf pull away, a grunt coming from what sounded like their chest.  He took a deep breath and slowly peeked an eye open, flinching slightly at how close the wolf had stayed.  

It was then he actually looked at their eyes and took it in.  They weren’t yellow like had initially thought, or how most wolves he had seen.  Instead they were like light purple-gray and one that he had become accustomed to.  But he couldn’t remember where he had seen the color before, and for some reason it bothered him.  It drew him in with their familiarity, distracting him from the fact that he had just been running away from a creature that could kill him within seconds, it’s teeth only inches away from his throat.  There was something… almost human.  His eyes widened and it clicked in his mind that he wasn’t just looking at a wolf. 

“You’re a… Shapeshifter…?” He mumbled.  When the wolf’s ears perked up, it only confirmed what he had said.  He relaxed a little, and if it weren’t for the situation, Lance would have found the way the wolf seemed to nod comical.  

He wanted to ask them another question, find out what was going on.  But he snapped his mouth shut when the wolf started growling suddenly, once familiar eyes now an eerie yellow.  The fear from earlier quickly returned as he flinched when the wolf moved, watching as they turned away.  

A loud bellow was the only sign Lance needed to know that Hunk was there, spotting the large brown bear rushing towards them.  The wolf started barking, teeth bared and snapping their jaw in an attempt to intimidate the other, but Hunk didn’t stop.  He threw his whole body against the wolf, knocking them away from Lance in one swift movement.  The wolf caught himself though, landing on their feet before rushing back.  They jumped onto Hunk’s back and sank their teeth into his neck, latching on as they clawed anywhere they could reach.

“Wait!  Stop it!!” He yelled, panic building in his gut as he watched the two knocked one another around.  Either neither of them heard him, or they were too caught up in the fight to acknowledge what he had said.  He wasn’t entirely sure what to do either, tears of frustration welling in his eyes as Hunk let out a pained whine.  He was panting heavily, and Lance could see multiple scratches on his friend’s body.  The wolf didn’t look any better, standing on shaking legs with a distinct limp.  

The growls, roars, or yelps they made covered any sign of the new creature that sprung forward, latching itself onto Hunk’s front paw before it could strike the wolf again.  As if things weren’t crazy enough, it was a panther that came to the wolf’s rescue, standing protectively over the other when Hunk finally shook them off.  

 It was who the wolf had called for earlier.  

“Lance!  Over here!” He spotted Adam standing by the pond, arms waving for his attention.  The panther seemed to notice him too though, darting towards the brunette.  Hunk tried to go after them, to stop them, but the wolf caught him off guard, slamming its body into Hunk and knocking him over.  

Lance got the gist of what Adam was telling him though, his hands stretching before him as he felt a sharp chill spread from his chest, down his arms and into his hands.  Markings that had once been invisible glowed under his jacket as he concentrated, gritting his teeth as he felt the strain.  The pond water rose and twisted from it’s bed, shooting out like a snake as it quickly scooped the panther up, carrying them along as it then scooped the wolf up.  He was careful though, not wanting them to drown as he pulled his arms in, the water copying his movements as he pulled it towards him.  He waited till they were a few feet away before letting them down gently. He couldn’t hold the yell that ripped from his throat as the water froze around them in a makeshift jail, feeling his arms grow painfully cold.  

“Too much.” He mumbled to himself, his teeth chattering.  He let himself sink down to the ground, his body shaking violently from the sudden drop in his body temperature. He was pretty sure his lips were blue, his breath visible as he let out a shaky huff.  

“Take your jacket off.” Adam instructed as he ran up beside him, cupping his hands under the sun. 

“Sheesh, you haven’t even bought me dinner.” He said, never the one to give up on an opportunity to joke.  

“Lance!” 

“Okay, okay!” 

Lance whimpered slightly as he did what he was asked, wincing when the air hit his bare arms.  There were clumps of ice stuck on his skin, snowflake patterns etched into the layer of frost that covered the rest.  He would probably find it beautiful, if it weren’t for the fact that his arms felt like they had frostbite.

Hunk limped over as quickly as he could, huffing with what Lance could tell was agitation.  Leaves started to form and collect around him as he walked closer, a sudden gust of wind whipping the leaves around him until he was completely covered.  Just as quickly as they formed, they evaporated, Hunk no long a bear.  He still limped as he made his way over, plopping down beside him with a hiss.  He never looked away from the others though, still tense and on alert.  Lance grimaced at how many wounds the other had, knowing that there were more under his clothes. 

A glow coming from Adam’s hands caught his attention again, bits of light floating upwards like fireflies.  He brought it over and slowly poured the light over his arms, Lance immediately feeling the warmth seep deep into his sink, ice melting off instantly.  His shivering subsided, his eyes slipping closed as he let Adam’s magic do it’s thing.  

“My own personal heater.” He joked, hearing Adam snort.

“Lucky me.” He heard, and he hummed in response.  

“So what do we do with them?” Hunk asked, Lance opening his eyes to see the wolf staring back.  In fact the panther was staring at them too, the two of them watching with wide eyes.  It was weird to say the least. 

“They’re shapeshifters.  Or at least I think they are” Lance stated, the tension only growing when he said that.  

Once his arms were fully healed, he put his jacket back on, still feeling the chill of his magic pulsing within him.  He could feel something push at the magic that kept the water frozen, feeling like it was a nudge or a scratch that he couldn’t reach.  He frowned, unsure what he was feeling.  It wasn’t until he looked back to the shifters did he realize what he had done unintentionally.  They looked confused, focused on some unseen force before padding around impatiently, tails flicking with frustration.  

“I’m going to let them go-” 

“Lance, no!” 

“Just trust me.” He quickly said.

“We trust you Lance.  But we don’t trust them.  How do we know they won’t attack us once they’re free?” Adam asked, and he could understand his concern.  But he didn’t feel like there was a need for it.

“Because if the wolf wanted to hurt or kill me, they would have done it before Hunk got here.  There was plenty of time for it.  We can’t get answers if we don’t talk to them.  And until I drop my magic, they won’t be able to shift back, and Hunk you are in no condition to be switching back and forth to play translator.” He reasoned.

It was silent for a few minutes before Hunk sighed.  

“Okay.” 

He grinned, a wave of determination pushing him to climb to his feet.  He ignored the way his legs felt like jello, figuring that they all had enough to worry about as he walked up to the ice.  He slowly took a deep breath, looking to the panther and the wolf for a second.  They looked antsy as they padded closer, and instead of scaring him, it sparked a jolt of excitement.  

A shiver ran up his spine.  

“Okay, before I let you out, just know that I could have frozen you solid and left you like those cavemen you seen in cartoons.  So be nice or I’ll actually do that.” He warned, his tone light, but he was also serious.  

He took a deep breath before pressing his hand against the ice, his stomach doing a flip as he felt part of his magic return to him.  He felt less cold as he changed the ice back to water, returning it back to where it belonged.  His legs didn’t feel like they would give out under him anymore, the chill in his chest dwindling away.  

“Okay.  You guys should be able to turn back now.” He said, looking back to the shapeshifters.  They both looked to one another, and he quickly looked away to give them their privacy.  With Hunk, it was fine, but for them, it almost felt too intimate to watch.  He turned towards Hunk and Adam to give them a reassuring smile, wanting to reiterate that things were fine.  

“Lance.” It was just above a whisper, and he noticed that it didn’t seem to come from either of his friends.  The voice… sounded so familiar, but there was something else that made it the opposite.  It was deeper, rougher than what he remembered, trying to place it to a face, to a person.  He knew that voice.  

“Lance.” This time his name was said louder, sounding almost desperate and pained.  

Time felt like it had slowed as he turned towards him, his breath caught in his throat as locked eyes with the same gray ones he’d seen earlier.  Only this time he recognized them, recognized the person who was staring at him as if he was a ghost.  Maybe he was?  Maybe he was actually dead and this was just his version of heaven or hell or whatever you’d like to call it.  The last two years had flown by, and maybe the numbness that filled his chest was maybe his spirit drifting between existence and the afterlife.  But it couldn’t have been that.  No.  

Because the pain that was blossoming in his chest felt very real.  It hurt.  As did the sob that ripped through his throat.  

“Keith?”

...

You give another charming smile to the Pantoran, hoping to convince him to buy you a drink and distract you. This is a rare opportunity, a chance for you to relax. And the Commander, for all his stubbornness, isn't going to stop you from enjoying it. 

The Pantoran takes the bait. A slow smile spreads across his face, revealing sharp canines. "That one looked like it burned," he says, his voice a low rumble that cuts through 79s’ blaring music. "Let me get you something smoother."

You arch a brow. "Smooth can be boring."

"Maybe," he says, leaning in closer. His breath smells of cloves and wine. "But I have a feeling you could use a little less excitement in your life."

The droid bartender returns with two glasses, one filled with a pale green liquid, the other with a dark amber one. The Pantoran slides the green one toward you. You take a sip. It's sweet and fragrant, with a hint of mint. The warmth from the alcohol returns, but this time it’s a gentle heat, not a raging fire. You relax into it.

It feels good to let go, even just for a little bit. The past few weeks have been a series of close calls and harrowing battles, your medbay a constant buzz of activity as the 104th took their place on the front lines. You were constantly running on the bare minimum amount of sleep, and the stress was beginning to wear you thin. It was why you'd come to 79s tonight. Just a few hours of fun, a little time to blow off steam, a distraction from the horrors of war.

It was also why you and Wolffe had gotten into another one of your arguments. You were sick of it. Sick of the tension, sick of the constant back and forth, sick of his stubborn, reckless behavior and the fact that he refused to listen to you. You were his doctor, for Force's sake, and he was supposed to trust you. Instead, he constantly defied you, and you were constantly left to clean up the mess.

And here he was, still watching you. No matter where you went or who you talked to, tracking you with a sniper’s precision. You should be used to it by now, this constant need of his to be near. It’s part of who he is, part of what makes him such a good soldier. But it’s also one of the many things that drives you absolutely insane.

"Something on your mind?" the Pantoran asks, interrupting your thoughts. He’s closer now, a hand on your leg, his touch searing through your clothes and into your skin. His eyes are dark, full of a hunger that both excites and unnerves you.

You shake your head and force a smile, and force Wolffe from your thoughts. "Just enjoying the company."

The Pantoran's hand travels higher as you take another long drink, and you lean into it, your body aching for the touch, the affection, the connection.

This is a bad idea. You know it is.

You also don't care.

“I’m glad to hear it,” he says, his breath hot against your ear. “I was worried I was being too forward.”

"Not at all," you say, your voice a low purr. "I appreciate a man who knows what he wants."

It's a risky thing to say, a dangerous game you're playing. You're not used to this, not anymore. It's been years since you've let yourself get close to anyone, years since you've allowed yourself this kind of vulnerability. The war has changed you, hardened you, made you more cautious, more guarded. But right now, in the dimly lit confines of this crowded bar, you feel a flicker of the woman you used to be. A woman who was unafraid to take risks, to live a little, to have some fun.

It's a refreshing change of pace.

The man next to you smiles again, and you can see the desire in his eyes. He wants you. You want him, too. Or, at least, you think you do.

The conversation continues, but it doesn't flow smoothly like you expected. Instead it’s a series of stilted, awkward questions and vague, evasive answers. The Pantoran, who introduces himself as Ryen, tries to get you to talk about yourself, to open up, but you find yourself deflecting, changing the subject, offering only the bare minimum of information.

You don't want to talk about your job, your life, or the reasons you're here on Coruscant. You just want to enjoy the moment and lose yourself in the pleasure of someone’s company that isn't Wolffe. You’re not looking for deep conversations or emotional connections, just to forget, for a little while.

But Wolffe is still there. Still watching you.

And suddenly, the alcohol doesn't feel like enough. Ryen's touch doesn't feel like enough. The music doesn't feel like enough.

“Something’s on your mind,” Ryen says, and he pulls back, his brows furrowed. "You're a million light years away. Am I boring you?"

“No,” you say, shaking your head and taking another sip of your drink. You try to smile, but you know it's not working. You're not a very good liar. “I’m just… tired. Long week.”

“Bad day at the office?” he asks with a charming smile. “Let me guess, you’re a Republic accountant?”

You laugh weakly. “Something like that.”

There's an awkward silence. The music pounds in the background, but it's no longer loud, no longer drowning out your thoughts. Instead it's amplifying them, making them louder, more insistent. It didn’t work. Of course it didn’t. You’re not sure why you ever thought you could outrun this.

“Look,” you say, setting your glass down and sliding off the stool. Your legs are a little unsteady, but you manage to keep your balance. “It was nice meeting you, Ryen. But I think I’m going to call it a night.”

“Already?” He frowns. “The night’s still young. We could go somewhere else. My place, maybe?”

You hesitate. It’s a tempting offer, and one you would have considered under different circumstances. But right now, it just feels like too much work. Too much effort. You’re not in the mood for this, not anymore. You just want to be alone, to curl up in a ball and forget the world exists.

“I don’t think so. But thank you for the drink.”

You turn to walk away, but his hand on your arm stops you.

“Wait,” he says, his grip a little too tight. “Don’t go. Not like this. Give me another chance.”

You look down at his hand, then back up at his face. There’s a desperation in his eyes that you find both flattering and unsettling. He’s not used to being turned down, you can tell. He’s used to getting what he wants, when he wants it.

You sigh, shaking your head. You know what's coming next, and you're already dreading it. But you don't have the heart to warn him. It wouldn't matter, anyway. Men like Ryen never listen.

So you let it happen.

You feel a shift in the air behind you, a sudden drop in temperature that makes the hair on the back of your neck raise on end. The music seems to fade into the background, the chatter of the other patrons becoming a distant hum. It’s as if the world has narrowed to this one small space, this one tense moment.

Wolffe is there.

You don't have to turn around to know it. His presence is a singularity, impossible to ignore, even in this crowded, chaotic place. It's an aura of power, of control, of dominance. It's the feeling you get when you're standing on the edge of the cliff, staring down into the abyss.

Fear, mixed with fascination.

"Problem here?" he asks, his voice low, edged with steel.

Your eyes flutter closed for a second. You hate him. You hate him for ruining your night, for interrupting your carefully constructed escape. You hate him for being so overbearing, so protective, so... Wolffe.

You also hate the way your body reacts to his presence. The way your skin tingles, your heart races, your breath catches in your throat. It's a betrayal of the highest order, the worst kind of self-sabotage.

Because no matter how hard you try, you can't seem to break free from his orbit.

Ryen’s grip on your arm tightens, then loosens as he turns to face Wolffe. He’s a tall man, but Wolffe is taller, broader, a wall of muscle that casts a long shadow over the both of you. Even in his button down shirt, jacket, and trousers, he’s still imposing. Still a soldier. Still in command.

“We were just having a conversation,” Ryen says, his tone casual, but you can hear the faint thread of unease beneath it. “Isn’t that right?”

You open your eyes and look at Wolffe. He’s not looking at Ryen. He’s looking at you, his gaze a deep, intense thing that sees right through you, past the facade of the carefree woman you're trying to be, and into the glass-fragile soul beneath. His mismatched eyes hold a storm of emotion, each one fighting for dominance. Anger, jealousy, fear, concern, longing.

But mostly anger.

“Is that true, Doc?” he asks, his voice softer now, but no less commanding. “Are you having a good conversation?”

You want to lie. You want to tell him that yes, you're having a wonderful time, and that he can go take a flying leap off the top of the Jedi Temple without his jetpack. But the words won't come. You can't lie to him, not when he's looking at you, through you, like that.

“It’s fine,” you say instead, the words sounding weak even to your own ears. “We were just finishing up.”

Ryen's head whips around, his eyes flashing. "What?"

Wolffe steps forward, his body language deceptively calm, but you can see the tension in his jaw, the subtle clench of his fists. He's not going to hurt him. But he's not going to back down, either.

"You heard the lady. It's time to go.”

Ryen’s eyes narrow, the blue of his skin darkening with anger. He looks from Wolffe to you, and a slow, dawning realization blooms on his face as he comes to the exact conclusion you and your commander have always stayed far away from. The one you are both too scared to admit.

You feel your face heat up. The alcohol is no longer your friend, making your skin feel too tight, your head too light. Dozens of eyes are now openly watching the tense exchange. You feel exposed, vulnerable. And more than anything, you just feel stupid.

“This is your boyfriend?” Ryen scoffs. “Your keeper?”

“No, he’s—“

“Yes,” Wolffe interjects, cutting off whatever weak denial you were about to offer. “I am.”

The lie lands like a flashbang in the space between you, and you turn, staring up at Wolffe with wide eyes. You can’t believe he just said that. You can’t believe he just laid claim to you in front of everyone, in front of this stranger, in front of the entire galaxy. You want to scream. You want to hit him. You want to...

You want him to mean it.

And that's the most terrifying thought of all.

Ryen’s face is a mask of disbelief and disgust. He looks at Wolffe, then back at you, a sneer twisting his lips. “You could have just said you were taken,” he says, his voice dripping with scorn. “You didn’t have to waste my time.”

He finally lets go of your arm, and you stumble back, your legs unsteady. Wolffe’s arm shoots out, wrapping around your waist and yanking you back against him before your knees can give way. He's warm and solid, and he's holding you like he has every right to touch you like this, to hold you like this. Like you're his.

And Force help you, in that moment, you wish that was true.

Ryen backs away, hands raised in surrender. "Whatever," he mutters, already turning to go. "Have fun with your... clone. "

And just like that, he's gone. The music returns to its previous volume, the conversation picks up again, the world spins on. You’re left standing there in the circle of Wolffe’s arms, your body still tingling from his touch, your mind racing with the implications of what just happened.

"You’ve had enough, Doc," he says gruffly, his breath warm against your ear. "We’re leaving.”

You’re too stunned to argue. Your head feels too full and your skin too hot, and you can’t seem to make your tongue work to tell him to get kriffing hands off of you. You let him guide you toward the exit, and Comet catches your eye as you pass by. He’s sitting with Boost and Sinker at their usual booth in the back corner, the three of them watching you with barely-concealed pity on their faces. You give them an awkward smile as you pass, but they just nod, their expressions solemn.

You stumble out of 79s and into the cool, damp night. The Coruscant air is thick with the smell of wet duracrete and exhaust fumes, the endless stream of speeder traffic above you a dizzying blur of light and sound as you blink up at them. It’s an overwhelming assault on your senses, and you suddenly feel too sober and far too aware of Wolffe’s arm around you as he all but drags you down the sidewalk.

"Get off me," you finally manage to spit out, shrugging your shoulders in an attempt to dislodge his suffocating touch.

He doesn't. If anything, his grip tightens, his fingers digging into the fabric of your shirt. He keeps moving you forward, his pace quickening as if he's trying to outrun the scene that's just unfolded. The scene that he caused.

"I said, get off me," you say again, your voice louder this time. You plant your feet and nearly roll your ankle in the process as the heels you're wearing skid against the pavement. You wince in pain, but it's nothing compared to the anger boiling inside of you. “Wolffe, I swear to the Force—"

"Not here," he says, low and tight. "Not on the street."

"Why not?" you snap. "Afraid someone will see the big, bad Commander losing control of his little doctor?"

Wolffe’s jaw ticks, and his grip tightens as he all but drags you along the street. Your feet slip on the wet pavement as you struggle to keep up with his long, purposeful stride, but you can barely focus on anything but the anger coursing through you.

You can't believe him. You can't believe he would do this to you, that he would humiliate you like this, that he would treat you like some sort of… property. Like he had any right to tell you what to do or who to talk to when he can’t be bothered to do anything but watch you from afar.

It was one thing to pull you aside in the medbay or on the battlefield to offer you his opinion or advice, but this? This was too far. This was crossing the line he himself had drawn months ago. And you were done with it.

“Wolffe,” you hiss, struggling in his grasp. “Let go. You're hurting me."

At that, he stops. He lets go of your arm so suddenly that you stumble back, nearly falling in the process. You wince at the dull ache already blooming on your skin and rub at the tender spot where his fingers had dug into your flesh. Wolffe's face is shadowed in the dim glow of the streetlights, but you can see the way he watches the motion. For a fleeting moment, regret breaks through that mask of anger and stoicism. And then it’s gone.

"Let's go," he says again, but this time he doesn't touch you. He just turns and starts walking, expecting you to follow. 

You're not sure why you do. Maybe it's because you're too tipsy to find your own way back, or maybe it's because you're too angry to care about the consequences of following him. 

Or maybe it's the small, traitorous part of you that is still drawn to him, that still wants to be near him, even when you want to strangle him.

Either way, you pick up your pace and walk beside him, the two of you moving in silence through the neon-drenched streets of Coruscant. The righteous anger has faded, and in its wake is the hollow emptiness you’ve been trying to fill all night, raw at the edges like an open wound. You wrap your arms around yourself, shivering despite the warmth of the night.

"Why did you do that?" you ask quietly.

"Do what?"

"The boyfriend thing," you say, keeping your eyes fixed on the pavement in front of you. "Why did you say that?"

Wolffe doesn't answer right away. He just keeps walking, his hands shoved in his pockets, his jaw set in a hard, stubborn line. You're about to give up, to accept that he's not going to answer, when he finally speaks.

"Because he wasn't going to let you go," he says flatly. "And you were too drunk to handle it yourself."

The words hit you like a slap in the face. They're cold, they're cruel, and they're exactly the kind of thing you would expect from him. He's not protecting you. He's managing you. He's not saving you. He's controlling you.

"I was handling it just fine," you say, your voice trembling with a rage that is quickly rising to the surface again. "I didn't need you to swoop in and play the hero. We were just having a conversation."

“You were uncomfortable,” he counters, not even looking at you.

"No, I wasn't,” you shoot back. “You don’t know what I was feeling. You never do.”

Wolffe scoffs. "You were fidgeting. You touched your hair five times in less than a minute, and you were leaning away from him. And when he put his hand on your leg, you flinched. I saw you. Don't lie to me, Doc. Not about this."

The sheer, unyielding certainty in his voice stops you cold. He wasn't just watching; he was analyzing. Cataloging. Turning your every unconscious gesture into data. It's infuriating, invasive, and… not entirely wrong. You had been uncomfortable. You had been flinching. But that wasn't the point. The point was that you could have handled it. You didn't need him to step in. You didn't need him to rescue you. You didn't need him. Period.

But you wanted him. And that was the problem.

"Besides, you've had enough," he continues, his tone shifting from accusatory to clinical. "I could smell the whyren's on you from across the room. When was the last time you ate?"

You roll your eyes. "That's none of your business."

"It is when it affects your performance," he says. "I need you sharp. I need you focused. I can't have you getting sloppy because you're hungover."

The accusation is so far beyond the pale, so utterly insulting, that for a moment, you can't even speak. You just stare at him, your mouth agape, your mind reeling. How dare he? How dare he question your professionalism, your commitment, your competence? How dare he act like he knows better than you, like he has the right to tell you what to do, how to act, how to feel?

He's not your commander. He's not your friend. He's your critic, your judge. And you're done. You're done with him.

"Sloppy?" you finally manage to say, your voice dangerously quiet. "Is that what you think of me? That I'm sloppy?"

"I think you're exhausted," he says, his tone softening, just barely. He’s looking at you now, his eyes scanning your face with the same focused intensity he uses when he's analyzing enemy positions on the battlefield. "And you're not taking care of yourself. That makes you a liability. To yourself, and to my men."

The 'my men' part stings the most. He's right, and you hate him for it. You have been exhausted. You have been running on fumes. But you're not a liability. You're a goddamn miracle worker, and he knows it. You've patched up his soldiers, patched up him, more times than you can count, and you've never once made a mistake. Never once been 'sloppy.'

Tears of frustration prick at the corners of your eyes, and you angrily swipe them away. "I'm fine," you hiss. "I'm always fine."

Before he can respond, you’re turning again, forcing yourself to keep moving down the sidewalk. You’ve figured out his destination now. Your speeder is parked on the street two blocks away from here. You’d driven it to the bar, enjoying the brief sense of freedom that came with the open-air vehicle you rarely ever got to use anymore, even if you’d had to leave the roof on thanks to the rain. You were hoping to avoid Wolffe the whole way back, but apparently, that wasn't an option.

You can feel him following behind you, but you ignore him, focusing instead on the sound of your shoes clicking against the pavement. The rain has started up again, misting against your skin, cool in comparison to the angry heat of your cheeks. Your heart is racing, your stomach churning, but you keep your head high, your shoulders back. You won't give him the satisfaction of seeing you break.

The sleek, silver shape of your speeder finally comes into view, nestled between a battered cargo hauler and a garishly painted patrol craft. You fish in your pocket for the remote, your fingers clumsy and stiff. The speeder chirps in response, and its canopy slides open with a soft hiss. Freedom. An escape pod waiting to launch you away from him and this awful night.

“Keys,” Wolffe suddenly says, holding out a hand as he stops beside you.

You stare at it, then at him. The idea is laughable. "You're not driving my speeder."

"You can barely walk. Keys.”

For a second, you consider making a run for it. You could jump in, slam the door, and be gone before he could react. But he’s faster than you. Stronger. And the game would be over before it even began. With a defeated sigh that feels like it’s been pulled from the depths of your soul, you drop the small fob into his waiting palm.

His fingers brush yours, sending an involuntary jolt through you. The contact stretches for a beat too long before he clenches his fist around the keys and turns away, his boots eating up the remaining steps to the driver's side. You follow after him, struggling to keep up.

"Wolffe, I'm perfectly capable of—"

"I'm not risking my best doctor because you had one too many,” he retorts, not even bothering to look at you. The compliment is backhanded, dismissive, and it still makes something stupid and hopeful flutter in your chest. You hate that feeling almost as much as you hate him right now.

"I am your only doctor," you say through gritted teeth. "And you're not my babysitter. I can drive myself home."

"Get in," he says, ignoring you completely. “I’m taking you home.”

"No."

He stops, one hand on the doorframe, and turns. "No? What do you mean, ‘no?’”

"I mean no," you repeat, crossing your arms. "You don't get to drag me out of a bar, insult me, call me sloppy, and then play the concerned friend. It doesn't work like that.”

A muscle jumps in his jaw. "I'm not letting you drive like this. You're going to get yourself killed."

"You can't force me,” you say, and lift your chin. "I'm not one of your soldiers. You don't get to order me around."

Wolffe lets out a harsh breath, and suddenly, he’s right in front of you. The streetlight casts shadows across his face, highlighting his scar, his sharp cheekbones, and the hard set of his jaw. He's too close, too big, too much. You have to fight the urge to take an instinctive step back.

His hand rests on the roof of the speeder as he leans closer, caging you in, and the smell of him—leather, blaster oil, and something that is purely Wolffe—overwhelms you. You swallow, your throat suddenly dry.

“Doc," he says, his voice a low rumble, "don't push me."

You don’t back down. You step closer, craning your neck to meet his gaze with a defiant glare.

"Or what?" you whisper. "What are you going to do, Commander?"

His gaze dips to your lips, then back up, and you can see his throat bob. The intensity of his stare, the closeness of his body, the way he's holding himself back, it all tells the same story. The same one he’s been dutifully ignoring for months. And it’s the same story you've been trying to pretend you can't read.

His grip on the roof of the speeder tightens, the metal groaning under the pressure. He’s teetering on the edge of something, and you’re both about to fall.

Then, just as quickly as it started, it's over. Wolffe’s eyes widen a fraction before he takes a halting step back. He shoves his hands into his pockets, the picture of disciplined nonchalance, but he’s not fooling you. Not this time. Not when you saw the raw hunger in his expression, felt it mirrored deep within yourself.

He clears his throat, looking anywhere but at you.

"Get in the speeder," he says. "I'm taking you home. Don't make this harder than it has to be."

"No," you repeat, a little softer this time.

You can feel the beginnings of regret pooling in your stomach. You hate when you argue like this, but it always seems to happen, no matter how hard you try to keep things civil between the two of you. It's like you're both magnets, repelling and attracting each other at the same time in equal measure, never finding equilibrium, always pushing each other's boundaries.

You've thought about leaving the 104th a hundred times. Thought about training up another medic, a clone who can keep his head down and follow orders the way you’ve never been able to. It would be better, for him and for everyone, if you did. But you can never bring yourself to do it. You care about these men too much. You care about him too much.

And that's the problem, isn't it?

Despite everything, despite all the fights, all the arguments, all the sleepless nights and frustrating days, you're still here. Still standing in front of him, your heart aching for a man who will never let himself love you back. Who will never cross the line he drew in the sand between the two of you, even when you can see the longing in his eyes.

It’s pathetic. It’s foolish. And it’s the only thing that’s kept you going for the past year.

Wolffe lets out a long, weary sigh, running a hand over his hair that’s starting to grow out of its strict regulation cut. He looks up at the sky, at the endless stream of traffic, and for a moment, you see the weariness in his posture, the heavy weight of the war on his shoulders. When he turns back to you, his eyes are hard with resolve.

“Fine.”

He reaches out and wraps an arm around your waist, and before you can react, he's lifting you. A startled yelp escapes you as he hoists you with an infuriating lack of effort and swings you around the open passenger door.

"Wolffe! Put me down!” you squeal, kicking your legs in protest, your hands scrabbling against his shoulders, but it’s useless. He’s immovable. “You overgrown, overbearing, egotistical..."

He deposits you onto the passenger seat with a surprising amount of restraint, careful not to let you hit your head. You fumble with the seatbelt, trying to fasten it before he can, but your fingers are still clumsy from the alcohol, and the buckle slips from your grasp. 

"Stop.”

"I can do it," you snap, your cheeks burning with a mixture of anger and utter mortification. 

"For fuck’s sake, stop,” he growls, and then he’s leaning over you, his body crowding yours, the scent of him filling your senses and making your head swim. He bats your hands away and grabs the buckle, his knuckles brushing against your thigh as he clicks it into place. 

He's too close. So close you can count the flecks of gold in his good eye, map the faint web of scars that crisscross his face, see the dark shadow of stubble beginning to show on his jaw. If you moved forward, even an inch, you could kiss him. You could close the distance between you. You could finally taste the lips that have haunted your dreams for months.

“There,” he says, his voice low and rough. "All snug and secure."

The sarcasm in his tone is like a splash of cold water on your desire. You blink, snapping back to reality. What the hell are you doing?

"Go to hell," you say, your voice hoarse, your heart racing.

His eyes bore into yours. "Already there.”

For a beat, you’re locked together, suspended in the space between what you are and what you could be. Then, just as before, he retreats to safer ground.

“Don’t crash my speeder,” you call after him as he pulls away and slams your door shut with enough force to rock the vehicle. You lean back in the seat, closing your eyes. This isn’t how you wanted tonight to go. This isn't how any of it was supposed to go.

Wolffe slides into the driver's seat, yanking the door behind him, and the small space of the cockpit is suddenly filled with him. You open one eye to watch him adjust the seat’s position with an annoyed shove, his muscles straining against the confines of his civilian clothing.

"Don't mess with the settings," you say, sitting up straight again. "I like them where they are."

"They're wrong," he says, fiddling with the controls.

"You're wrong," you mutter under your breath. He shoots you a withering look, but the corner of his mouth twitches, betraying the ghost of his amusement.

"You're impossible," he grumbles.

"Well, you're annoying,” you retort, because it's the best you can do on short notice. You’re not feeling particularly clever right now. You feel like you’ve been run over by an AT-TE.

That gets a reaction. A short, sharp exhale that might have been a laugh in another life. Wolffe turns his head, and the glow from the dash board lights illuminates the softening of his features.

"Why are you shaking?" he asks, his tone shifting from angry to clinical, the way it does when he's assessing a wound.

You immediately fold your arms, trying to hide the tell. "I'm not."

"Are you cold?"

"I'm fine, Wolffe."

"Here," he says, and before you can react, he’s leaning forward and shrugging out of his leather jacket. He struggles for a moment to free himself, and you watch, a little amused, as he gets one arm tangled in the sleeve before yanking it free with an irritated grunt.

"I don't want your jacket," you protest, but he's already balling it up and shoving it at you.

"Put it on."

Your mouth twists. You want to throw it back in his face, to make a scene, to prove that you don't need him or his smug, overprotective gestures. But it's warm. And it smells like him. And you are, in fact, starting to feel the chill from the night air seeping through your clothes.

You gingerly take the jacket and pull it on. It's big on you, the sleeves covering your hands and the collar rising up to your cheeks. You’re swimming in it, enveloped by the scent of him, the lingering warmth from his body. It's both a comfort and a cage, and you hate how much you like it.

When you look up, Wolffe watching you. There's an odd expression on his face you can’t begin to parse, and as soon you look up at him, it’s gone. Vanished like your hopes for a peaceful night.

"Hang on," he says, and then he’s gunning the engine, the speeder surging forward with a gut-wrenching lurch that presses you back into your seat. He weaves into the traffic with an aggressive, impatient expertise, cutting off a lumbering transport and earning a blare of angry horns in response.

"Wolffe!" you yelp, grabbing the handle above the door. "Slow down!"

"This is slow," he grunts, not taking his eyes off the river of vehicles in front of him. "You want to see fast?"

"No! I want to get home in one piece. Which means you need to follow the kriffing traffic laws."

He makes a noise that's somewhere between a scoff and a growl. "The traffic laws on this planet are suggestions. Not rules."

"You're not going to win this argument," you say, your knuckles white as you hold on for dear life. "You can't just bully other drivers off the road. Some of us have to live here."

He doesn't respond, but he does ease up on the accelerator, just enough that the knot in your stomach loosens a fraction. He’s still driving like a man with something to prove, but at least you're not in immediate danger of becoming a smear on the side of a skyscraper. You feel secure enough to lean forward and start to input the coordinates for your apartment into the navicomputer, but before you can get past the first three digits, he’s swatting your hand away.

"I know where you live," he says, his tone flat.

You pull your hand back, stung. Of course he does. He's Wolffe. He probably has the floor plans of your building memorized. The knowledge should feel invasive, but it just feels… normal. It's the kind of thing you've come to expect from him, the kind of thing that simultaneously infuriates you and makes you feel a little bit safer.

You've been doing this for a while, the two of you, the push-and-pull. One minute you're arguing, the next, you’re…something else. 

It started small, at first. Little glances, subtle flirting, casual touches. He’d bring you caf when you were pulling an all-nighter in the medbay, and you’d find excuses to visit the command deck when you knew he was on duty. He’d make an offhand comment about your civvies, and you’d find yourself dressing up a little more, just to see if he’d notice. He always did.

But then Abregado happened, and everything changed. He came back different. Harder. Colder. And you became more reckless, more defiant, more determined to break through that wall of ice he’d built around himself. The line between doctor and patient, friend and…something more, blurred and reformed into something new, something you couldn't name.

You spent months trying to fix him. He spent months trying to push you away. The war raged on, and you both lost yourselves in the chaos, finding solace in each other’s company, even if it was just in stolen moments and shared silences. The feelings grew, but the words never came.

They still haven't.

Tonight, you'd given up. You were frustrated, and exhausted, and not in the mood to be polite or tactful or whatever the hell Wolffe expects from you. So you'd gone to 79s with Comet and the boys, hoping to lose yourself in the noise and the alcohol. You'd wanted to forget about him, and the war, and the stupid, complicated mess that was your life. You'd almost succeeded, too. 

And then Wolffe showed up, and everything happened exactly how it always does. A perfect storm of stubbornness and desire, culminating in you being driven home by the one person you were trying to forget, wrapped in his jacket and smelling his scent on your skin.

You hate it.

You also, to your shame, don't want it to end.

The silence stretches on, thick and heavy, and you find yourself watching him. The way his hands grip the controls hard enough to white his knuckles. How the light from the neon signs plastered across the buildings paints his face in shifting colors—red, then blue, then green. He's a man of sharp angles and hard edges, a study in controlled violence.

And you are the one who keeps trying to smooth those edges.

The speeder banks left, taking the off-ramp toward your residential district. The towering skyscrapers of the commercial sector give way to the more subdued, upscale apartments in your district. It’s quiet here, the streets clean and well-lit. It feels like a different world, a million light-years away from the grimy, chaotic energy of 79s, and the grim reality of the Triumphant II. It's the world you're supposed to live in, the world you left behind when you volunteered for service. A world of quiet nights, and safe streets, and comfortable, predictable lives.

A world without Wolffe.

The thought is followed by a pang of something you can't quite name. Regret? Longing? You're not sure.

"Did I really fidget that much?" you ask quietly.

Wolffe glances at you, surprised by the sudden break in the silence. "What?"

"Back at the bar," you say, picking at a loose thread on the sleeve of his jacket. "You said I was fidgeting."

He's silent for a moment, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. You can see him out of the corner of your eye, the slight tightening of his jaw as he considers his response. Finally, he nods.

“Yeah. You did.”

You huff out a breath and look down at your lap. "I can't believe you were paying that close attention.”

"I'm always paying attention,” he says. There's no arrogance in his tone, just a simple statement of fact. "It's my job to notice things."

"You sure were noticing an awful lot," you mutter under your breath, but you know he hears you.

"And you were doing a lot of fidgeting," he counters with a small smirk. It’s barely there, imperceptible to those who don’t know how to look for it, but you do. You catch the way the corner of his mouth twitches.

"So? Maybe I was a little uncomfortable. That doesn't mean you had to get all alpha-male and start throwing your weight around," you grumble, crossing your arms over your chest. You toe off your heels, letting them fall to the floor with a soft thud, and sink further into your seat with an exhausted sigh. "I had it under control."

"Throwing my weight around?” he repeats with a scoff. His eyes flick toward you, taking in the way you're curled up in the passenger seat, painted toes tapping at the floormat, before he quickly looks away. "You call that throwing my weight around? I could have thrown him across the room if I'd wanted to. That was me being polite."

"Yes, Wolffe, you're a very scary, very intimidating commander,” you mutter, rolling your eyes. “I’m sure Ryen was absolutely terrified.”

"Ryen.” Wolffe’s nose wrinkles. "What kind of name is Ryen?"

"It's a perfectly good name," you defend, though you're not sure why. You couldn't care less about Ryen or his stupid name now. "What’s wrong with it?”

He snorts. "Sounds like a brand of cleaning agent.”

A shocked laugh escapes your lips, too loud in the confined space of the speeder. You immediately clamp your mouth shut and sink further into his jacket, but it's too late. The damage is done. 

"Don't," you warn, though the effect is ruined by the smile tugging at the corner of your lips. "That wasn't funny."

You hear Wolffe’s soft chuckle from beside you, as rare as it is surprising. The sound warms something deep inside of you, thawing the cold emptiness that's been plaguing you for months. For just one second, it's like nothing's changed.

"He did have a very starched shirt," you admit. "I'll give you that."

"And too much product in his hair," Wolffe adds, his tone still light. "Looked like he'd dipped his head in a vat of grease."

You giggle again, and this time you don't try to stop it. The anger and frustration and general feeling of disappointment that has been building since your failed attempt at escape earlier takes a back seat to this fleeting moment of levity. You want to reach out and capture it with both hands, keep it safe from the harsh realities that are waiting outside of the speeder, but you know it's only temporary.

Soon, the war will be back, looming large in the distance, its shadow threatening to drown out the light. But for now, for these few, precious moments, it's just you and him. Two people, caught up in the same war, the same tragedy, the same impossible hope.

Without your righteous fury propping you up, you can feel exhaustion start to pull at your limbs. A yawn threatens to slip out, but you manage to stifle it behind your hand. The alcohol is still humming through your veins, but it’s a mellower buzz now. A soft, fuzzy warmth that lulls you into a state of drowsy contentment. You lean your head against the cool glass of the window, watching the city lights blur into streaks of color.

"You okay, doc?" Wolffe asks, his voice softer than you've heard it all night. He’s slowed down now, navigating the quiet streets with a practiced ease. He's not in a hurry anymore. Neither are you.

"I'm fine," you say, your words slurring slightly. You're not sure if it's the alcohol, or the long hours, or the emotional whiplash of the evening, but you can feel the weight of the past few weeks settling on you like a heavy blanket. "Just... tired."

"You're drunk," he corrects.

"No. I'm relaxed,” you mumble, turning toward him and resting your cheek on the seat. You look up at him through heavy-lidded eyes. "'S a temporary condition. You should try it sometime."

"I am relaxed," he says. "This is me being relaxed."

"Mmm."

The sound comes out as more of an incoherent hum than an actual word, but he seems to understand. You watch him for another long, lazy moment, the passing streetlights casting shadows across his face. He looks different, somehow. Softer. Less like the hard, uncompromising man he pretends to be, more like the man you've glimpsed underneath it all.

"Don't be mad," you murmur, your voice small. "Please?"

Wolffe lets out a long, slow breath, and shakes his head. "I'm not mad."

"Yes, you are. I can tell. You get all..." You trail off, waving your hand in the space between the two of you.

"Get all what?" he asks, a hint of amusement back in his voice.

"You know."

"No, I do not," he replies with a huff that sounds suspiciously like a laugh. "You're going to have to be more specific, Doc. Use your words."

"Stiff," you say, poking him in the arm. Your finger bounces back, hitting solid muscle, but he makes no move to stop you. He just watches you out of the corner of his eye, his expression unreadable. "You get all stiff and commander-y. Your jaw does that thing. You look like you're sucking on a sour lozenge."

He rolls his eyes. "I do not."

"Do too," you counter, your head lolling back against the headrest. “It’s very serious. Very authoritative. Makes me want to... to..." You're about to say 'disobey orders,' but you catch yourself just in time. You're not that drunk. "Argue with you," you finish lamely.

"You always want to argue with me," he says softly. "It's your favorite hobby."

"It's not my favorite hobby," you protest, but you're smiling. "It's... a necessary evil."

"Necessary evil, huh?" he repeats.

"You're impossible," you mutter, shaking your head. "A big, grumpy, impossible... man."

Wolffe chuckles, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. You're not sure if it's the alcohol or the sound of his laugh that makes your stomach do flips, but you can't stop the way your body reacts to him. You realize you haven't seen him smile or laugh like this in a long, long time. And even though you're the one who's tipsy, he's the one who looks lighter, less weighed down by the burdens he's carrying.

The wave of melancholy that washes over you is sudden, but not unexpected. You can feel it building inside you, like floodwaters against the walls of the dam, threatening to burst through the cracks. You miss him. You miss the way he used to be, the way you used to be. Before Abregado, before the nightmares, before the scars.

Before you let yourself fall in love with him.

"What?" Wolffe asks, his smile fading as he sees the shift in your mood. "What is it?"

"Nothing," you say, shaking your head. "I'm just... being dumb."

"Talk to me," he says gently as the speeder slows, turning into the parking deck attached to your building. He finds an empty spot near the turbolifts and eases the vehicle into it with a precision you've come to expect from him, and he cuts the engine.

You're home. The night is over.

The sudden silence is deafening. You sit up straight, struggling to free yourself from your seatbelt and the tangle of your own emotions. Wolffe steps out of the speeder, leaving you alone with your thoughts for the briefest moment before he's opening your door and leaning in.

"I'm fine," you insist, but he's already scooping up your heels from the floor. "Wolffe, seriously, I'm—"

"Stop," he says, not unkindly. "Stop lying to me."

You open your mouth, but the words die on your lips. He's right. You are lying. To him, to yourself, to everyone. Because if you can convince him that you're fine, that you can handle yourself, maybe you'll finally start to believe it, too.

You let out a breath and look away. "Okay."

"Come on," he says, holding out his hand.

You take it. His skin is rough, his grip strong, but his fingers close over yours with surprising gentleness. He helps you out of the speeder, not bothering to ask if you need his assistance. He just does it, as if it's the most natural thing in the world. As if you haven't spent the past six months fighting him every step of the way, and he hasn't spent them trying to make you bend to his will.

His fingers linger for just an instant longer than they should before he drops his hand. It's an awkward moment, both of you unsure how to navigate this uncharted space between you. There are words there, on the tip of your tongue, but you swallow them back down. 

"Thanks," you say quietly.

"Anytime."

Wolffe holds your heels in one hand, the other resting at the small of your back as he steers you toward the turbolift. You lean into him, just barely, the way you did earlier.

This. This is why you stay.

The two of you step inside the lift, and it lurches once before rocketing upward toward the top floors. You grab onto the handlebar next to the door for support as the motion jostles you, closing your eyes to keep the nausea at bay. You can feel Wolffe's hand hover over the small of your back, ready to steady you if you stumble, but he makes no move to touch you again.

"How much did you have to drink?" he asks, his voice carefully neutral.

"Not enough,” you mutter, not opening your eyes.

"Answer the question."

"Five shots. Whyren's. And some green thing he bought me."

Wolffe lets out a loud sigh. "You're an idiot."

"Thanks," you mumble.

"No, I'm serious," he says, his tone shifting to something harder. "You're a doctor. You know better. Going to a bar by yourself, getting wasted with a stranger... What the hell were you thinking?"

Your head snaps up, the nausea forgotten as hot anger rushes through you. "I wasn't 'wasted'," you retort. "And I wasn't by myself. Comet was with me. And Boost and Sinker. You saw them."

"I did," he says, his jaw tight. "And I also saw you leave them. I saw you go to the bar with him. Alone."

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize I needed your permission to talk to someone!" you seethe, your voice rising with indignation. "I didn't realize I needed to file a leave request in triplicate to have a life outside of that kriffing ship!"

He flinches. It's subtle, but you see it, the slight twitch in his brow. You’ve wounded him with your words. Good. He deserves it. After everything he’s put you through, he deserves to feel even a fraction of what you’re feeling right now.

The lift dings, and the doors slide open, revealing the quiet carpeted hallway of your floor. Wolffe steps out first, checking the corridor before beckoning you forward. "Don't be ridiculous," he says. "This isn't about permission. This is about common sense. Something you seem to be in short supply of tonight."

"Common sense?" you repeat, incredulous. You shoulder past him. "You have some nerve talking to me about common sense, Wolffe. You're the one who runs headfirst into battle without a second thought. You're the one who gets himself shot and stabbed and blown up on a weekly basis!"

"That's my job!" he shoots back as he stomps after you. "I'm a soldier. That's what I do! What's your excuse?"

"My excuse is that I'm tired!" you yell, spinning around to face him, the tears you've been fighting back finally spilling over. "I just wanted one night. One night to be a normal person. To have a drink, and a conversation, and to forget! Is that too much to ask? Is it?"

Wolffe stops, the angry retort dying on his lips as he takes in the sight of you. His shoulders slump, and the hard set of his jaw softens into something that looks like regret. He reaches out, then lets his hand fall back to his side, curling into a fist at his side.

"No," he whispers. "It's not."

The admission hangs in the air between you, fragile and new. You can't stand to see him look at you with that expression, that mixture of pity and concern. You turn away and stomp down the rest of the hall, fumbling with the lock on your door with trembling fingers. You can’t get the keycard to work. You try again, and again, the light flashing red each time.

"Here," he says, coming up behind you and gently taking the card from your hand. He slots it into the reader, and the light flashes green. The door slides open with a soft hiss, revealing the dark, quiet space of your apartment.

He guides you inside, keeping a steadying hand on your arm. You stumble into the living room, throwing off the jacket that’s wrapped around your shoulders and letting it fall to the floor in a heap. You don't care. You just want to be free of it, free of him, free of this night.

"Wolffe," you say, your back still to him as you stare out the large window overlooking the city. "Please, just... go."

You hear him sigh, followed by the soft thud of your heels hitting the floor by the door. "I will," he says quietly. "After you've had some water, and eaten something. And after I'm sure you're not going to pass out and hit your head."

You let out a watery, humorless laugh. "You're not my keeper."

"I know."

You feel a gentle touch on your arm, and you flinch, but you don't pull away. He guides you toward the kitchen, his movements slow, cautious, the way he approaches injured animals or hostile locals. He's treating you like glass, like something fragile that could shatter at any moment. It makes you feel small, insignificant.

"Sit," he orders softly.

"Stop ordering me around," you grumble, though the bite of your words is missing.

"Sit," he repeats, this time more firmly, steering you toward your small, round table, the one you bought at a street market on a rare day of shore leave, the one you've never had a chance to use. Until now. “Do you have any food? Anything that isn’t caffeinated or a nutrient packet?”

You shake your head. "I haven't had a chance to go to the market."

"Right," he says with a sigh, turning to your small, well-organized kitchen. “I’ll see what I can do.”

You watch him, a detached sort of fascination taking hold as he moves through your space. He's so out of place here in your quiet, feminine apartment, with its soft colors and delicate furniture. His bulk seems to fill the space, making the whole apartment feel smaller. He looks too big, too harsh, too dangerous, surrounded by your things.

And yet, he also looks…right. Like he belongs here. With you.

Wolffe opens your conservator, the cool light illuminating his face, and he lets out a soft whistle. “Fancy,” he murmurs, scanning up and down. “I didn’t know the GAR paid our medics this well.”

“They don’t,” you mumble, resting your chin on your palm. “This is all… from before.”

He stills, one hand on the door. He doesn't turn, but you can see the tension in the set of his shoulders. He knows what you mean, and you can tell he wishes you hadn't said it. Before. Before the war, before the clones, before the Triumphant, before him. Before your life became a series of endless, bleeding wounds. 

Before you started to bleed with it.

He clears his throat, reaching for the bottle of juice and popping the top. You watch as he brings it to his nose, sniffing it with the critical eye of a soldier who’s seen more than his fair share of spoiled rations.

“Best by yesterday,” he announces, turning to show you the bottle. “We’ll live dangerously.”

He grabs two clean glasses from the shelf above the sink, then reaches back in and pulls out a half-empty bag of ration crackers you forgot you had. He sets everything down on the table with a quiet thud, placing one of the glasses in front of you before sliding into the chair opposite yours.

The simple domesticity of it all makes your chest ache. It’s the kind of moment you’ve dreamed of, the kind of life you’ve secretly wanted with him. Quiet nights, shared meals, easy silence. But it’s not real. It’s an illusion, a brief reprieve from the harsh reality of your lives. And you’re not sure how much more of it you can take.

You stare at the glass, at the condensation already beginning to bead on its surface. Wolffe watches you, his mismatched eyes unreadable in the dim light of the kitchen. He doesn't push, he doesn't prod. He just waits.

Finally, with a sigh, you reach for the glass. You take a tentative sip, and when your stomach doesn't immediately rebel, you drink deeply. The cool liquid soothes the ache in your throat, washing away the lingering taste of the alcohol from earlier, and you pick at the crackers, taking small bites as your stomach slowly settles.

Wolffe watches you, his hands loosely clasped on the table. "Good?"

You nod, the food grounding you, calming your nerves. "Yeah."

He gives you another one of his small, fleeting smiles, but it's gone as quickly as it appeared. He leans forward, resting his forearms on the table, his fingers drumming against the wooden surface. 

"I'm sorry."

The words are spoken so softly, you almost miss them. You look up, your hand freezing mid-cracker, but Wolffe is staring down at the table.

"What?" you ask.

"I'm sorry," he repeats, looking up. His gaze is intense, holding yours, pinning you in place. "For tonight. For the way I acted. It was..."

"Inappropriate?" you offer, your tone still bitter.

He winces. "I was going to say wrong."

"Wrong," you echo, dropping the cracker back onto the plate. You wipe your fingers on the napkin, suddenly losing your appetite. "So, what, you're going to apologize, but not change? Just go back to being an ass the next time something inconveniences you?"

"That's not fair."

"No," you say, the words spilling out, unstoppable now. "No, it's not. This isn't the first time, Wolffe. I keep trying to be reasonable, I keep trying to be civil, but nothing changes. It's like we're stuck. In this... this place, this limbo, this whatever the hell this is between us. I can't—"

"Stop," he says, reaching across the table to grip your hand. "Stop."

You do, your voice dying in your throat. The feel of his calloused fingers, warm on your skin, sends sparks up your arm, igniting your veins. He's touching you. After months of avoiding you, pushing you away, he's touching you. Holding your hand like it's something precious, something fragile. Something to be cherished.

"I'm trying," he says, his tone pleading. "I am. I just... I'm not good at this."

"At what?"

"This," he repeats. He shakes his head, looking down at the table, at his hand over yours. "At relationships. At... talking. I'm better at shooting people. And yelling."

You let out an exasperated sigh, but you can't help the smile that tugs at the corner of your mouth. "I've noticed."

"You deserve better," he says, still staring down at your joined hands. His thumb strokes along the length of yours, tracing patterns on your skin, sending tiny, delicious shivers through your body.

"So you've told me," you say, swallowing hard. "Several times."

He sighs. "It's the truth."

"And I've told you it's not," you reply, your voice softening. You squeeze his hand. "I know who you are, Wolffe. As much as you try to hide from me, I notice things, too. And I've seen the way you are with the men. How you take care of them. How you take care of me."

"I yelled at you tonight," he counters, shaking his head. "I hurt you. I said things I didn’t mean, and I made you feel like shit. That's not taking care of you."

"You did," you say, your smile fading. "You did make me feel like shit. But that's not... I'm not talking about the yelling. Or the fighting. Or any of that. I'm talking about the way you make sure I eat. And the way you stay up with me when I'm pulling extra shifts in the medbay. You're always there, every time. You're always the one to check on me and make sure I'm okay. Even when we're fighting, you're still looking out for me."

He lets out an exasperated breath, pulling his hand back. "Because someone has to."

"No," you counter, leaning forward. You grab his hand and mold his fingers until they’re laced with yours, and you hold up your joined hands for him to see. "Because you care. And I'm tired of pretending that we're both fine with the way things are."

Wolffe's breath hitches. His fingers flex around yours, as if he's testing the reality of the moment. You hold on, determined to prove him wrong.

“You’re drunk,” he mutters, staring at your interlocked fingers.

You snort. "Not that drunk."

"Still drunk."

"Enough to say things I probably wouldn't have said otherwise," you admit. "But not too drunk that I can't recognize that this"—you nod down at your joined hands—"is what I've wanted for months."

He swallows hard. You can see his throat working, the muscles of his jaw twitching. He's struggling with the admission, but you've been patient, too patient, for too long. You won't be pushed aside anymore. Not by him, not by the war, not by anything. 

"Why do you push me away?" you whisper.

He's silent, his thumb idly stroking the back of your hand, his eyes locked on the place where your bodies meet. You can tell he's fighting with himself, trying to decide if he should let you in, or put the walls back up, as strong as before.

You can feel him slipping away, retreating behind his defenses, but you refuse to let him go. 

"I'm right here, Wolffe," you murmur, tightening your grip. "I'm not going anywhere. You can tell me."

He lets out an unsteady breath, his gaze lifting from your hands to your face. He holds you in place, the intensity of his stare pinning you to the spot, stripping you bare.

"Because it hurts," he rasps. He takes another breath, as if he's preparing to jump off the edge of the cliff, the one he's been skirting for months. "It hurts to look at you. It hurts to hear you laugh, or see you smile, or touch you. Because every time I do, it reminds me that I can't keep you safe. And that terrifies me."

You suck in your breath. Your heart is racing, thundering in your chest. "Wolffe—"

"I can't protect you, Doc," he whispers, his expression full of anguish. "You're too good, too soft, too..." He shakes his head, frustrated, his fingers flexing against yours. "I've been trained for this, my whole life, but you... I can't risk losing you."

The confession hangs in the air between you, raw, vulnerable.

"You won't," you whisper.

He shakes his head. "You can't know that."

"You're right," you agree, your voice stronger now. "I can't. None of us can. The war could end tomorrow, or it could go on for another twenty years. We can't predict the future. We can only live in the moment. And I can't think of anyone else I'd rather be in this moment with than you."

He exhales sharply, as if you've punched him. You can see the emotion playing across his features, the desire, the longing, the fear. He's been keeping this in for months, denying his own feelings, burying them under layers of armor. You know he has. You've done the same thing, but the alcohol has worn down your resolve, making you brave. Making you bold. 

"Please, Wolffe," you say as you rise from your seat. He watches you, his expression wary, his body tensing as if he's bracing for impact. But he stays seated, his gaze locked on yours.

"Doc—"

"I'm tired," you murmur, coming to stand in front of him. You gently tug his hand, urging him to stand. "I'm tired of the fighting. I'm tired of the yelling. I'm tired of us hurting each other."

"Me too," he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Please," you repeat.

He rises from his seat, his free hand reaching out to grasp your hip. You shiver as his fingers dig into your skin, but you stand firm. You won't be the first to break. You've come too far, pushed too hard, to give in now.

You tilt your chin up, holding his gaze. In the bright light of your kitchen, he almost seems unworldly, too real to be believed.

You reach out with trembling fingers, tracing the line of his cheek, his scar, the ridge of his brow. Wolffe closes his eyes, letting out his breath in one, shaky exhale, his hand tightening on your hip. You can feel his strength, coiled beneath the surface, but he holds himself in check. He's always been careful with you. Always afraid.

“Tell me to go," he says, his voice rough.

"No," you murmur, cupping his cheek. 

"Tell me."

"No."

He opens his eyes, the gray of his right one meeting the amber of his left, holding yours in an unbreakable gaze. "Why?"

You give him the only answer that matters.

"Because I love you."

Wolffe stills. The hand on your hip tightens, his fingers digging into your skin. His mouth opens and closes, but no words come out. He's not breathing. He's not blinking. He's frozen in place, trapped in the moment.

You wait, your breath held, your heart in your throat.

It feels like an eternity, suspended on the edge of an impossible cliff. The moment stretches out, thin, delicate, impossibly fragile. One wrong move, one word, could shatter it. And you know, somehow, that this is the final test. The last barrier between you, between what could be, or what could never be.

And, just when you think he'll pull away, the moment passes.

His mouth descends, hard and desperate. Wolffe captures your lips, swallowing the startled noise of surprise that rises in your throat. His hand slips from your hip to the small of your back, and he presses you closer until your chests meet. He's everywhere, all at once, surrounding you, consuming you, devouring you.

You whimper into his mouth, your fingers tangling in his hair, holding on for dear life. His lips are rough and insistent as he pulls on your lower lip, teeth dragging across the plump flesh before he dives back in, kissing you with an intensity that leaves you dizzy.

Wolffe kisses you like it's the only thing he knows how to do. Like his life depends on it. Like he's been waiting for it, dreaming of it, craving it. And you realize, with startling clarity, that he has.

He's been holding back, too.

"Doc," he murmurs against your mouth, his fingers digging into the soft curve of your skin. You let out a needy hum and press closer to him, your breasts flush against the hard planes of his chest, your hips bumping against his.

"Doc," he tries again, pulling away just far to speak, just far to breathe, but you refuse to let him. You kiss him again, harder this time, pouring everything you can't say into the movement of your lips against his. The frustration, the fear, the anger, the loneliness. 

"Sweetheart," he growls against your lips. He breaks the kiss, his hands moving from your hips to your shoulders, gripping them hard. "Slow down. I—"

"I've waited long for this," you murmur, tilting your head back, baring your neck to him. "I'm not wasting another second."

"Kriff," he rasps, his eyes locked on the sight of you. He stares at you for one long, heavy moment before he finally, mercifully, leans in, his mouth finding the soft, sensitive spot where your shoulder meets your neck.

You let out an involuntary gasp as he nips at the delicate skin, the tiny prick of pain followed by the soothing caress of his tongue. His hands move to clutch the counter on either side of your hips, caging you in, leaving you nowhere to go but toward him. And you do, tilting your head to accept the slow, sensual assault.

"Wolffe," you whisper, sliding your hand over his shoulder, along his neck, until your fingers are tangled in his hair. He makes an appreciative sound against your skin, and you shiver as his stubble scrapes against the tender flesh with every new kiss.

You've never felt anything like this. This sense of rightness, this feeling of completion, this overwhelming wave of desire. He's been holding back from you, you realize. You've had your suspicions, your glimpses, but never like this. Never with this raw, animalistic need.

Never like you're the center of his world.

You run your hands over his chest, the thin fabric of his shirt doing nothing to disguise the solid strength of his body. Your palms drift lower, over his stomach, tracing the lines of his abs, and you feel the hard muscles flex beneath your touch. You smile against his mouth, pleased by his reaction, before continuing down, further, further, until you reach the waistband of his pants.

He's already hard.

Wolffe breaks the kiss, his head falling back with an obscene groan as you palm him through his clothes. He's big, the size of him filling your hand, but you're not afraid. You've seen him naked before, countless times, treating his wounds. You know exactly what you're in for, what he's capable of, but it only heightens your arousal.

You've always loved the way he challenges you.

"Fuck," he mutters, his hips bucking forward. "Doc, I..."

"Wolffe," you murmur, squeezing lightly.

"Wait," he breathes, and his hand closes around your wrist, stilling the movement. "Just—wait."

You pull back, confused, until you see the conflict written across his face. The war is still there, written in the tension of his jaw, the furrow of his brow. The fear, the hesitation. The wall is still there, keeping you at bay.

"Stop," he says quietly, but firmly.

You swallow hard, your hand dropping to your side. "Okay."

He shakes his head. "No, not..." He sighs and drops his chin to his chest, his gaze boring into yours. "I meant, stop. As in, we should... we should slow down. Sleep on it, at least. Give ourselves some time to think about this."

"I've thought about it," you counter, raising an eyebrow. "What more do I need to think about?"

Wolffe huffs out an exasperated laugh, and he leans forward to rest his forehead against yours. His thumb strokes along the shell of your ear as his fingers tangle in your hair, his other hand still on the counter.

"If you could see yourself right now…" he trails off, his voice rough. "You're drunk. And upset. And not thinking clearly."

"So are you," you point out.

"I am," he agrees with the barest hint of a smile. "But not as much as you. And I can't...I won't take advantage of you. Not like this."

"But what if I'm taking advantage of you?" you tease, nuzzling his nose with yours.

"Oh, sweetheart, trust me," he murmurs, his voice dipping lower, sending delicious shivers down your spine. "You're not."

"Mm."

You're both silent for another long, lingering moment. His hand moves from your hair to the nape of your neck, his fingers gently stroking the sensitive skin. It's intimate, comforting, but the hunger is still there. You can feel it, simmering beneath the surface, waiting for the smallest spark.

"Come here," he murmurs, tilting your chin up, his lips brushing against yours. "One more."

You sigh into his mouth as his mouth meet syours again. It's different this time. Gentler. Slow and sweet and achingly tender. Wolffe pulls back until his lips barely brush against yours, kissing you softly, over and over, each touch of his lips lingering a moment longer than the last. 

"We should stop," he murmurs, even as he's leaning back in, unable to keep his lips off of yours. "Before I lose control."

"Lose control," you whisper, your fingers flexing on his shoulders, wanting him closer.

"Kriff, sweetheart," he mutters, breaking the kiss. "You have no idea what you do to me, do you?"

"Show me."

His expression darkens, the heat in his gaze searing right through you to the bone. The hand on the back of your neck tightens its grip, just barely, but it's the first show of true possessiveness he's given you. It's subtle, but it's there. And the thrill it sends through you is as potent as the whyren's.

"When you're sober," he rasps, lowering his head again, this time to press a gentle kiss to your forehead. "When you're sure this is what you want."

You drop your head and bury your face in his chest, a groan slipping past your lips. He's right, and you know it. If the roles were reversed, you'd be doing the same thing. But, kriff, you wish he wasn't being the responsible one. You wish he would just kiss you and forget about everything else, and just let the two of you enjoy this.

But that's not who Wolffe is.

And it's part of why you love him.

"Ugh, why are you such a good person?" you grumble against his chest.

"I'm not," he replies with a huff of laughter. His arms wrap around you, and he leans his cheek against the top of your head. "If I was, I would've left as soon as I walked in the door."

"But you're staying," you murmur as you reach up and slide your hand over his heart, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

"Yeah," Wolffe whispers. "I'm staying."

You nod and press closer, letting your ear rest against his chest. The steady beat of his heart, his breath, his presence, soothes you in a way that no medicine ever could. Your eyelids begin to flutter shut as the fatigue hits, the adrenaline of the evening fading, leaving behind only the familiar exhaustion and new contentment settling into your bones.

Finally, you lean back and press a kiss to his jaw, taking his hands in yours. 

"Come on," you murmur, lacing your fingers together, and you start to lead him down the hall. His grip tightens on yours the further you walk from the front door, his steps halting and hesitant. "Let's go to bed."

"Bed?"

You sigh. "Yes, Wolffe, bed.”

You come to a stop outside the bedroom door, and it slides open, revealing a tidy room and a made bed. But when you move to pull him inside, he freezes in the doorway, planting his feet.

"Whoa, whoa, hey, hold on a minute," Wolffe stutters, trying to pull his hands free. You turn and raise a brow to see him eying your bed like it's going to reach out and bite him. "Where do you think you're taking me?"

"My room,” you answer slowly. “Where did you think I was taking you?"

"I thought I was sleeping on the couch," he admits, his eyes wide.

"Why the hell would you sleep on the couch?" you ask. "That thing is like four feet long, you're not going to fit."

"Doc," he starts, his tone warning.

"Wolffe," you respond, mimicking his tone. Your patience is wearing thin. All you want is to take your makeup off and crawl into bed and sleep. Preferably next to the very handsome, very attractive, and very willing man in front of you. "We're just sleeping. Well, I am, anyway. You can do whatever you like."

He narrows his eyes at you. "That's not funny."

"Who's laughing?"

Wolffe groans, looking away. He runs his hand over the back of his neck, his mouth twisted in an adorable pout. You've never seen him this flustered before. And, under any other circumstances, you'd be delighted by it. But now? Now, you just really, really need to take your damn dress off.

"I'm serious," you say, your tone softer. "I'm not going to jump you, Wolffe. I'm just tired. I can barely stand, much less get up to any of the nefarious things you seem to think I have planned. Besides," you add with an impish grin, "you've already proven you can resist my feminine wiles."

"That was..." He trails off, shaking his head, the corner of his mouth lifting. "I wouldn't call that feminine wiles. More like you trying to get your hands down my pants."

You shrug. "Same difference."

Wolffe looks back at the bed, chewing his lip. He's nervous, unsure, his whole body radiating tension. It's like he's never slept in someone's bed before. Which, now that you think about it, might actually be true. 

You reach up, cupping his cheek. "Hey."

He turns back to you, his gaze meeting yours.

"I'm not asking for anything," you murmur. "This isn't an ultimatum, or an invitation. I'm just offering you the use of my very comfortable bed, in the nicest apartment I've ever lived in. And as your physician, I highly recommend that you take me up on my generous offer and get the recommended six hours of sleep.”

His lips twitch into the beginning of his usual smirk. "Are you trying to use your position of power over me for your own personal gain, Doc?"

"Absolutely," you reply, raising up on your toes to press your lips against his. He's still for just an instant, startled, before he relaxes into the kiss, his mouth moving against yours with gentle slowness. You pull away with an exaggerated smack and grin up at him. "Is it working?"

Wolffe huffs out his breath, his arms tightening around you. "Yeah," he murmurs, leaning his forehead against yours. "Yeah, it is."

You take his hand again, tugging him toward the bed, and he lets you. You're not sure what it is, if it's the alcohol, or the lateness of the hour, or the simple fact that neither of you has had the opportunity to share anything resembling normalcy in the past few years, but something has shifted between the two of you. 

Or, rather, something has finally slid into place.

The tension is gone, the unease. There's no more hesitation, no more wariness. No more holding back, no more pushing away. For the first time since you've known him, Wolffe is letting his guard down.

He's trusting you.

"I'm going to wash up," you say as you pull back the blankets on your bed. "Can you please find some pajamas for me? Top drawer."

"Sure."

You smile at him, your first genuine, unguarded smile all night, before slipping into the bathroom. You take your time, washing your face, brushing your teeth, combing out the tangles in your hair. By the time you emerge, you're ready for sleep, but you're surprised to find Wolffe standing in front of your dresser, his back to you. He’s still wearing his clothes, but his boots are tucked neatly at the foot of the bed, his shirt sleeves unbuttoned and pushed up to reveal his forearms.

He glances over his shoulder, then turns back to the dresser, fiddling with something on top. "You took this?"

You pad across the room and wrap your arms around his waist from behind. He tenses for a moment before his hand covers yours, his thumb tracing along your knuckles. His eyes are on a holo of the Wolfpack you’d taken early on in your tenure, shortly after the mission to Felucia. Wolffe had been absent that night at 79s, the only one he ever missed, but Comet had dragged you along, and you'd ended up enjoying yourself. 

"Yeah," you answer, your voice soft. "I had to get proof they exist outside of their armor.”

He gives a soft huff, shaking his head. There’s something vulnerable about this, him standing here in his socks, holding a holo of you and his men, the ones who are more like family than anyone else in the galaxy. It’s a piece of your world, but it's also a piece of him. A piece he's willing to share with you now.

"What's wrong?" you ask quietly, pressing your ear to his back.

"Nothing," he says, but you can hear the lie in the slight tremor of his voice. He's quiet for another long moment before he lets out a rattling breath. "Just... never thought anyone other than the General would ever care about us the way you do. That they'd ever... "

He trails off, but you hear the unspoken words. That they'd ever love us back.

You tighten your grip around him, burying your face in the warmth of his skin, trying to absorb the pain you hear in his voice. "They're my boys, Wolffe. Of course I care."

"They're lucky to have you," he murmurs, and he turns in your arms. His hands cup your face, his thumbs stroking along your jawline as he looks down at you, his gaze full of an emotion you can't name. "I'm lucky to have you."

"You have me?" you tease, a watery laugh bubbling in your chest.

He hums softly. "If you'll let me."

Your breath catches in your throat, and you press yourself closer, sliding your arms around his neck and pulling him closer still. Wolffe goes willingly, sighing against your mouth as your lips meet his, his hands dropping to your hips.

"Then I'm lucky to have you too," you whisper.

Wolffe shakes his head, smiling, before leaning down to kiss you again. Your lips part with the barest touch of his, your tongue teasing the seam of his mouth. He opens for you with another sigh, his hands slipping down until they're on the swell of your ass, resting possessively, as his tongue meets yours in an unhurried dance. It feels good, it feels right, to have him like this. Not just the taste and the heat of him, but the simple, sweet intimacy of being here, together, with no one else in the room.

With no barriers between you.

Your fingers trail up his chest, toying with the collar of his shirt before settling on the top button. It pops open easily beneath your fingers, and Wolffe pulls back, watching through half-lidded eyes as you make your way down. The white cotton is soft against your fingertips as you work each button loose. Your knuckles brush his bare skin every time, and the muscles of his stomach flutter beneath the touch.

"You, uh... you said something about sleeping," Wolffe stutters, his fingers clenching and unclenching on your hips. "Not sure this counts."

"Do you want me to stop?" you ask quietly.

"No."

"Good," you breathe. You slip your fingers into the opening of his shirt and drag your palms up his bare chest, savoring the way his skin jumps under your touch. The hair on his chest is softer than you expected. You run your fingers through it slowly, teasing, and Wolffe shivers. 

"Sweetheart," he groans. "I'm only human."

"I'm well aware," you smirk as you press a kiss to the side of his jaw.

"And I have a reputation to maintain," he mutters.

"Your secret is safe with me."

"Mhm," he hums.

Wolffe kisses you again, hard and fast and desperate, and then pulls away, taking a step back and putting distance between the two of you. You whimper at the loss, and the sound makes the corner of his mouth quirk up as he leans back against the dresser.

"Bed," he orders, licking his lips. “Get changed. I'm not gonna watch you strip down. This is already torture."

"What if I want you to watch?" 

"Fuck," he groans, and he lets out a huff of laughter before throwing a pair of sleep shorts and a t-shirt at your head. "Put those on. I'm trying to be respectful here."

"I know. I'm sorry," you giggle, pulling the offending garment off your head. "I'm just teasing."

"Yeah, well, keep teasing, and I'm gonna start making fun of you, too," he retorts. 

His voice is gruff, his eyes dark, but there’s a playfulness to his smile that makes your chest warm. You can’t help but marvel at the difference between this Wolffe and the one you see every day. He's... happy.

It suits him.

"Start?" you scoff, rolling your eyes. "Oh, please. As if you haven't been making fun of me the whole time."

"I've got plenty of ammunition."

"And yet, you're still here," you say, unzipping the back of your dress. "Which says more about you than it does about me."

"That I have horrible taste in women?" he chuckles, but the amusement disappears the moment the dress starts to slide off your shoulders. “Or… maybe not.”

You turn away from him, dropping the dress and stepping out of it with practiced ease. The air is cool against your skin, but the weight of his gaze makes it feel ten times hotter. You can't resist giving an extra wiggle as you step into the sleep shorts, just to see if he'll react, and you’re rewarded by the sharp hiss of breath behind you.

"Wolffe," you call softly, reaching for the clasp of your bra. “I don’t mind if you look, but I thought you wanted to be a gentleman."

"I do," he grumbles, turning around, facing the door. "I've decided. No more looking."

"No?"

"No," he says firmly. "That way lies madness."

"Suit yourself," you say, grinning to yourself, and you drop the bra on the floor and reach for the old oversized shirt Wolffe had found for you. When you spin around, you find him pointedly turned away from you, fiddling with his commlink. “Everything okay?”

"Just letting the boys know I won't be home tonight," he explains without looking up.

“Are you telling them why?” you tease as you hang up your dress in the closet.

Wolffe glances up at you. "You’re funny.”

"You're cute," you smirk, and he rolls his eyes at you. You make your way to the bed and slide under the covers, rolling onto your side to watch him finish his message. His eyes keep flicking toward you, though, like he can't quite help himself, and the light of the comm reveals the slight darkening of his cheeks. "What are you going to tell them?"

"I'm not telling them anything," he snorts. He tucks the comm into his back pocket and reaches for his belt. You can't help but stare as his fingers deftly undo the buckle and pull the leather free. The belt lands with a heavy thud on the floor, and you swallow hard, your throat suddenly dry. "And I'd rather not talk about the boys while I'm taking my pants off. Bad form."

"You're the one who brought them up," you murmur.

"Yeah, because one of them has a tendency to overreact, as we've both discovered," he grunts, popping the button. He shoves the fabric down, and the sight of him, nearly naked, standing in the middle of your bedroom, is almost more than you can take. 

His thighs are thick and toned, his stomach and chest well-muscled under a layer of softness and dark hair. The scars that decorate his body are even more prominent now, pale against his tanned skin, and they draw your attention, criss-crossing across his torso and over his right hip. But your eyes drift lower, and the breath catches in your throat. 

Because, beneath the black boxers, there's no mistaking the shape of him, the outline of him, half-hard and pressing against the fabric. You were right. Kriff, you were right.

"What, no quips?"

The sound of his voice forces you to drag your eyes back up his body, finding his eyes glinting with mischief. 

"Oh, I have plenty of quips," you murmur, swallowing hard. "But they're all highly inappropriate, and I’ve promised to behave myself for the next six hours. Give or take.”

"Like I said," he chuckles, crossing the room. He stops at the side of the bed, his expression turning serious. "Last chance to tell me to leave."

"Get in the damn bed already, Wolffe," you reply, throwing the blankets back.

After another long look, Wolffe slides in beside you, the mattress dipping with his weight. He's stiff, unsure, and you can feel the tension radiating from him. You wait, giving him space, as he settles on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, the other resting on the covers between the two of you. 

You have to fight the urge to laugh. He’s as stiff as the cadets during their first inspection. You're tempted to ask if he wants you to whip out the white glove. Instead, you roll toward him, propping yourself up on one elbow, your head resting on your palm.

"You're really going to just lie there?" you tease.

Wolffe glances down at you, the lines around his mouth softening. "I'm not sure what the protocol is for this."

"There's no protocol." You reach out to touch him, your hand on his stomach. His muscles tighten as you trace your fingers along his skin, drawing lazy circles around his navel, the coarse hairs tickling your palm. "You can do whatever you like."

"Whatever I like," he murmurs. His eyes slide shut, his head tilting back. "Dangerous words, sweetheart."

"Why?" you ask, leaning forward to press your lips to the center of his chest. "Afraid you'll like it?"

Wolffe's only response is to exhale your name, the sound of it rough, ragged, dragged from the depths of his chest. His arm drops from behind his head, and he rolls to face you, cupping the back of your neck. His hand is warm against your skin, the pressure just hard enough to tilt your head up, forcing your gaze to his.

"Afraid I won't be able to stop," he whispers.

You meet his stare, refusing to look away. His eyes are dark, the pupil of his good eye so dilated it nearly eclipses the amber entirely. He looks wild, untamed, but the fear is gone. There's only the hunger now. Only the need.

"Don't stop," you murmur, tilting your chin, daring him. "I told you. I'm not afraid."

"Kriff, Doc," he growls, and closes his eyes. He presses his forehead against yours, his breathing shallow. 

"Wolffe. If you keep calling me Doc, I'm going to start charging."

"I'm sure the boys would have plenty to say about that," he smirks.

"Probably," you grin, but the smile falls away as his hand drifts lower, tracing the line of your shoulder, over the curve of your collarbone. "What... what do you like?"

He hesitates, his fingers halting their motion, hovering just below the hollow of your throat. You can see him thinking, weighing his words, measuring his answer.

"This," he admits finally.

"Talking?"

He shakes his head. "Touching."

Your breath catches. He's telling the truth. You can see it in the flush on his cheeks, the way his gaze darts away. Wolffe, Commander Wolffe, the man who's spent the better part of the past two years pushing you away, is admitting that he likes touching you. And it's almost more than you can handle.

You close your eyes, swallowing hard. You reach for his hand, tangling your fingers together, before you bring his knuckles to your lips, kissing each one. He lets you, his chest rising with an unsteady breath, as your thumb traces each bone, each crease. You move lower, pressing his palm against your cheek, nuzzling into the warmth of his touch.

"Like this?" you whisper.

"Yeah," he answers, his voice hoarse.

You nod, leaning into his touch. You run your free hand over his stomach, enjoying the feel of the soft hairs under your fingertips, before sliding it higher, tracing the line of his chest, the dip of his collarbone, the strong line of his throat. You feel his pulse jump as your fingers dance over the sensitive skin.

"And this?"

"Yes.” He takes your hand in his, turning it over and pressing his lips to the tender spot where your pulse races. “Sweetheart, if you only knew."

"Knew what?"

"How often I think about this," he murmurs, his lips brushing against the back of your hand.

"How often?"

"Every day," he answers, his lips moving to the inside of your wrist.

"Me too," you confess, closing your eyes. His lips trail over the delicate skin of your wrist, over the vein, his tongue darting out to taste the salt on your skin.

"Every day," he repeats, his breath hot against your arm. "I've thought about it since the moment I met you. And every single day since."

"Wolffe—"

"Let me finish," he murmurs, his eyes lifting to yours. "I have. I've thought about touching you, what it would feel like to hold you. I've imagined every single scenario, every possible way it could go, but I never imagined... I never thought it would be like this."

"What did you imagine?"

"A fight," he sighs, his voice gruff. He releases your hand, his palm sliding to the back of your neck, his fingers threading through your hair. "Something stupid and petty, just like every other time. Or," he continues, his eyes falling to your lips, "a desperate fuck, in the supply closet. Quick and dirty, and meaningless. Something to take the edge off. But this... kriff, this is..."

He trails off, his jaw clenched.

"Not what you were expecting?" you finish quietly.

“It’s everything,” he rasps, his fingers clenching in your hair. His arm wraps around you, pulling you closer until you're flush against him. You feel his lips press against the top of your head, and you can’t help but nuzzle further into him, burying your face in the warmth of his skin. 

"Me too," you whisper.

Wolffe lets out his breath in an unsteady exhale, and you feel the tension in his body melt away underneath you. His hand strokes your hair with long, soothing motions, lulling you into relaxation. The last traces of adrenaline, the alcohol, the stress of the night, it all slips away. Your eyelids flutter shut, sleep tugging at the corners of your mind.

"Wolffe?"

"Hm?"

"Stay with me," you mumble, already half asleep.

"Yeah, sweetheart," he whispers against your temple. "I'll stay."

You pass the bright holographic signs flickering in the twilight, promising exotic vacations, droid companionship, and the finest Corellian ale this side of the Trade Spine. They paint the rain-slicked duracrete in shifting shades of blue and magenta, and you have to shield your eyes against the white light of a particularly obnoxious Zippozi energy drink ad. It seems to follow you down the street, its mascot, a grinning blue alien, winking and thrusting a can toward you with manic persistence. Behind it, the real skyline of Coruscant claws at the perpetual twilight, a thousand spires of light and steel piercing the smog.

Most days, the surface world of the ecumenopolis boasts shining buildings and sparkling sunlight, a perfect utopia for the perfect citizen. Its weather systems are carefully controlled and calibrated to the second. The city was a machine, and everything within it—from the traffic patterns to the atmospheric pressure—ran on a precisely tuned schedule. Rain was a rarity, a controlled event meant to clean the grime from the upper levels.

This was not that kind of rain.

It falls in fat, heavy drops, smelling of rust and metal, and the wind carries it on sharp, unpredictable gusts. A perfect punctuation mark to a dreary day spent pouring over the latest sentiment report on GAR troop morale—down three points from last quarter—and arguing with the procurement droid about the cost of new ink cartridges. You're trying to forget the whole mess.

A crackle of thunder rumbles overhead, so deep you feel it in your bones. The sky dumps a fresh torrent of water, and the crowd rushes for cover. There’s no point in following them. You’re already soaked through to the bone.

It's just one more thing to add to the growing list of grievances that constitute your life right now. Coruscant’s endless churn, the soul-crushing work of spinning words for the Republic, the messages gone unanswered on your datapad, the neighbors who think 3 AM is an excellent time to recalibrate their sonic scrubber, the creeping, gnawing certainty that you are a tiny, insignificant cog in a galaxy-spanning machine that is slowly, deliberately grinding itself into dust.

And to top it all off, you've just remembered that you forgot to buy caf-pods.

You finally reach the narrow steps that lead down to your sublevel apartment, and the sweet scent of damp soil and mildew replaces the exhaust of the upper levels. Your boots squeak on the stone as you descend, the ambient glow from the street above fading with each step, replaced by the dim, humming phosphorescence of the corridor lights. Three doors down, on the left, is yours. The lock is a fussy antique, a real tumbler mechanism that requires a heavy, ridged key, not a scan or a code. It jams, as it always does, and you have to jiggle it just so, muttering under your breath as you do.

The teeth finally catch just as you hear a muffled rustling from the other side. You freeze, key still in the lock, and hold your breath.

Then you hear it again. The sound of something—or someone—moving around inside. And it's not your neighbor's malfunctioning droid this time. You hear something metal, clinking against ceramic. The faint scrape of a chair against the floor. And then, a soft, almost inaudible cough.

Your hand drops from the lock. You are suddenly, painfully aware of your heartbeat, of the cold sweat prickling the back of your neck. You look back up the stairs, at the rain-slicked street. The distant wail of a siren is the only answer you get.

Every instinct screams at you to turn and run, to retreat up those steps and melt back into the anonymous flow of the city. But your legs are rooted to the spot, the damp chill of the corridor seeping through the thin fabric of your trousers. Your eyes dart left and right, but the hallway is empty, the only light the sickly yellow glow from the flickering lum-panel overhead.

You reach slowly, carefully, into your jacket pocket to close around the familiar, reassuring weight of your comlink. You could call the authorities. Coruscant Security. They’d send a couple of droids, maybe a trooper if you were really lucky. They’d sweep the apartment, file a report, and you’d be left to deal with the aftermath. The violation. The paperwork.

Your hand loosens its grip, drifting from your pocket to your bag, and finds the safety of the vibroblade Cody had given to you. ‘For emergencies only,’ he’d said, with the kind of serious look that made your stomach flip.

This feels like an emergency.

You take a deep breath, the musty air catching in your throat. You make your decision. 

The key turns with a final, grudging protest, and the door swings inward on silent hinges. You’re immediately hit with a wave of warmth and humidity, and the familiar, comforting scent of your own space—old books, burnt incense, and the lingering hint of the caf you'd brewed that morning. But beneath it all, there’s something else. Something new. The faint, metallic tang of blaster oil, and the clean, sterile scent of bacta.

The main room of your small apartment is exactly as you left it this morning: the holovid screen dark, the blanket you’d been using on the back of the sofa a rumpled heap, the half-empty mug of caf from yesterday sitting on the end table. Your small street-level windows are covered in raindrops, distorting the neon glow of the city outside into an abstract, watercolor painting.

But there’s something else. A small, compact travel bag, made of scuffed dark leather, sitting on the floor next to the sofa. It’s not yours.

And the sound of that soft, metallic clink—it’s coming from the kitchen.

You transition from the worn carpet of the living area to the cracked linoleum of the kitchenette. Each step is a calculated act of defiance against the instincts screaming at you to flee. Your boots, still wet from the rain, make soft, sucking sounds against the floor, and the vibroblade in your hand vibrates with a secret thrum against your palm that feels both dangerous and somehow comforting.

The kitchen is illuminated by the harsh, sterile glare of the overhead light. The chrome faucet, usually dull and spotted, gleams with a recent polish. The half-eaten protein bar you abandoned on the counter this morning sits there, looking even more desiccated than when you left it.

And then you see him. 

Leaning against your counter as if he has every right to be there, dressed in a pair of soft grey sweatpants and a black shirt that hugs his frame just a little too tightly. A datapad rests in one hand, while his other curls around your favorite mug. 

His eyes lift from the datapad, finding yours across the small kitchen.

He doesn't flinch. He doesn't startle. He simply takes a slow sip from your mug, his gaze unwavering over the rim.

"About time you got home," Cody says, his voice a low, familiar rumble that sends shivers down your spine. "The caf's getting cold."

The vibroblade slips from your nerveless fingers, clattering against the linoleum. The sound echoes in the sudden, overwhelming silence of your tiny apartment.

"Cody?" you breathe, the name barely a whisper on your lips.

He pushes himself off the counter, setting the mug down with a soft click. He looks… different. Tired. The edges are worn away. The crisp uniform of the GAR is gone, replaced by the soft, civilian clothes he keeps in your—his—dresser drawer. But it’s him. The same sharp, intelligent eyes, the same set of his jaw, the same way he stands, as if he’s carrying the weight of a galaxy on his shoulders. Maybe he is.

He takes a step toward you, then another, and you're frozen, a statue of disbelief and shock. He stops just short of you, the space between you crackling with a thousand unspoken questions. He reaches out, not to touch you, but to pick up the vibroblade from the floor. He weighs it in his hand for a moment, then deactivates and places it on the counter with a heavy, final thud.

“You actually remembered to carry it,” he says, a hint of something like pride in his voice. “Good.”

You close the distance in two strides, throwing your arms around his neck. Cody catches you easily, as he always does, one arm banding around your waist, the other coming up to cradle the back of your head. He smells of soap and clean laundry and something else, something metallic and sharp that you can’t quite place. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, breathing him in, the damp wool of your coat pressing against him.

"You're here," you mumble into his skin, the words muffled and thick with unshed tears. "You're actually here."

“I’m here,” he confirms, his lips brushing against your hair. “I told you I’d come back.”

You pull back just enough to look at him, your hands coming up to frame his face. His skin is warm to the touch, his hair damp and curling at his nape, and there's a new scar, thin and silver, that cuts through his left eyebrow. You trace it with your thumb, and he leans into your touch, his eyes fluttering shut for a brief, unguarded moment.

You pull back and slap his chest. Hard.

“You didn’t answer my messages,” you chide, though your heart’s not in it. You’re well aware of the cost of dating a clone soldier during a war by now. “You're a real piece of work, you know that? I was about to ask Admiral Kilian to forward my complaint straight to the Jedi Council.”

Cody doesn't flinch. He just takes the punch, his body swaying a little with the impact. His eyes are warm, crinkling a little at the corners, the ghost of a smile playing at the corners of his lips. You're hit with the sudden, overwhelming urge to slap him again. To do something, anything, to break the spell of unreality that's settled over you.

He catches your wrist before you can land another blow, bringing it to his lips for a soft kiss. 

“My comlink was fried in the last engagement,” he says, and he turns your hand over and traces the lines on your palm with his thumb. “Had to requisition a new one. By the time we got back to the Negotiator, they’d already rotated us out for shore leave.”

You feel a fresh wave of guilt wash over you. “Oh. I... are you okay? Was it…?”

He cuts you off with another kiss, this one to your forehead. 

“It's fine,” he says, and you know he's lying, but you also know you won't get any more out of him. For now. “We’re all fine. A little singed around the edges, but nothing to worry about. The important thing is, I’m here now. And—“ He presses another, more deliberate kiss to your lips. “—I’m on leave for the next two weeks. Two whole weeks.”

The anger, the guilt, the anxiety of the past few weeks—it all melts away, replaced by the warm, fuzzy feeling of hope. Two weeks. Two weeks of having him to yourself, of not having to wake up in the middle of the night with the cold dread that you'll never see him again. Two weeks of him.

"Are you serious?” You’re suddenly grinning like an idiot, the tears welling up in your eyes. “Two weeks? Here?”

“Here,” he confirms, and he’s smiling too, the expression transforming his face, making him look younger, less burdened. “Assuming you’ll have me.”

“Don't be an idiot,” you say, and you pull him in for another kiss, this one deeper and more desperate, your fingers tangling in the soft hair at the nape of his neck. He responds with equal fervor, his hands roaming down your back, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you. 

The world outside your little apartment, with its rain and its grime and its endless, soul-crushing work, simply ceases to exist. You’re floating, adrift in the familiar, comforting warmth of him, and for the first time in what feels like an eternity, you feel safe.

You’re the one to break the kiss, gasping for air. Cody makes a noise of protest, chasing your lips for another quick peck before letting you go. He looks you over, and his smile fades slightly as he takes in your soaked clothes, your messy hair, the dark circles under your eyes. His thumb comes up to brush away the moisture on your cheek, and you’re not sure if it’s rain or tears.

“C’mon, get out of those wet clothes,” he says, his tone shifting from lover to commander in an instant. He presses a kiss to your forehead and steps back, patting your hip. “I put your pajamas in the ‘fresher. They’re warm.”

You look down at yourself, at your soaked jacket and dripping trousers, the boots that have tracked mud all over your clean floor. You look back at him, at the perfect picture of domesticity he makes in your kitchen, and you can’t help but laugh. It’s a slightly hysterical, breathless sound, but it’s a laugh nonetheless.

“You broke into my apartment, made yourself some caf, and did my laundry?” you ask, shaking your head in disbelief. “Commander Cody, you’re turning into quite the househusband.”

He snorts, but you can see the hint of color creeping up the back of his neck. 

“I didn’t do your laundry,” he protests, and he crosses his arms over his chest, trying for stern and missing by about a parsec. “I just put your pajamas in the dryer to warm them up. And I didn’t ‘break in.’ You gave me a key.”

“A spare key,” you correct. “For emergencies.”

“This is an emergency,” he says, deadpan. “I haven't had a decent cup of caf in weeks.”

You roll your eyes and swat at his chest again, but your heart is singing. You head for the refresher, shrugging out of your wet jacket and letting it fall to the floor in a damp heap as you go.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” you warn over your shoulder. “I’m still mad at you. The list of grievances is long, and I plan to go over every single one of them in excruciating detail.”

“I look forward to it,” he calls after you, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “I’ll make some food. You must be starving.”

You are. You hadn't realized it until he said it, but you're ravenous. You shut the door to the refresher, leaning against it for a moment as the adrenaline of the last few minutes finally wears off, leaving you feeling weak and shaky. 

And once again, you’re met with the undeniable reality of Cody’s presence in your space. The leftover humidity from his shower fogging the mirror, the hum of the dryer unit, the neatly folded towels and your favorite pair of pajamas waiting for you. The scent of his soap lingering in the air. On the small shelf above the sink, next to your own messy collection of bottles and jars, sits his kit. You’d left space for it, just in case, and to see it finally back where it belongs fills you with an ache that is both painful and sweet.

You peel off the rest of your wet clothes, leaving them in a sodden pile on the floor. The warm spray of the shower is a welcome balm against your chilled skin, and you stand under it for a long moment, letting the water wash away the grime of the city and the lingering anxiety of the day. You close your eyes, focusing on the sound of the water, the feel of the heat on your skin, the faint sounds of Cody moving around in the other room. The clatter of pans, the hiss of the stove.

You try to remember the last time your apartment felt this much like home. You can’t.

When you finally emerge, wrapped in a thick towel, the smell of something wonderful hits you. Something spicy and savory, a world away from the bland, synthetic taste of the quick meals you make for yourself. You dry yourself quickly and dress yourself in your warm pajama shorts and oversized shirt, and you follow the scent out into the main room.

The holovid screen is on, but it’s muted, playing some mindless travelogue about the crystal beaches of Zeltron. The small table in your eating nook is set with two mismatched placemats, two forks, and two glasses of water. And Cody is standing at your stove, stirring the contents of a pot with the focus and intensity of a general planning a battle, a datapad in his hand.

You lean against the doorframe, content to just watch him for a moment. He’s so focused, so utterly absorbed in the simple domestic task of making dinner, that he doesn’t notice you at first. He moves with an economy of motion, every action precise and efficient. He’s donned your favorite apron, and the sight of him, this legendary commander of the GAR, with the words “Kiss the Cook” emblazoned across his chest, makes you want to laugh and cry at the same time.

“What are you doing?” you finally ask, your voice soft.

“Reading a recipe,” he answers without looking up from the datapad. “This kublag curry is surprisingly complicated.”

You cross the room and peer into the pot. The aroma is intoxicating, and your stomach rumbles in interest. "You’re cooking? From a recipe?”

He finally looks up, and his look of intense focus melts into something softer as his eyes sweep over you. He takes in your flushed cheeks, your damp hair, your ridiculous pajamas covered in little tooka-cats, and the corner of his mouth quirks up into that half-smile you love so much.

“I have a lot of free time on the ship,” he says. “And the mess hall gets… repetitive. I’ve been practicing.”

You step close, wrapping your arms around him from behind and resting your cheek against the solid warmth of his back. He’s tense, the muscles in his shoulders tight and knotted, and you can feel the faint, constant tremor of exhaustion that seems to vibrate through him.

“It smells amazing,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to the spot between his shoulder blades.

“It’s not ready yet,” he says, but he’s leaning into your touch now, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little. He sets the datapad down on the counter and places one of his hands over yours, lacing your fingers together. “Give it another five minutes.”

“Can I help?”

“No,” he says, and it’s not unkind, just… final. “You’ve had a long day. Go sit down. I’ve got this.”

You want to argue. You want to stay right here, to anchor him to this moment, this reality. But you know him. You know that this simple act of making you dinner is more than just dinner. It's a ritual. A way to recalibrate, to transition from the cold, brutal logic of war to the messy, uncertain warmth of peace. It’s his way of telling you he’s home.

So you do as he says. You let him go and retreat to the table, sitting down on the worn, cushioned bench. You wrap your hands around the cool glass of water, watching him as he moves around your kitchen, retrieving bowls and utensils with an ease that speaks of countless nights just like this one, even if they’ve all been in your imagination until now.

He works in silence for a few minutes, the only sounds the soft clink of ceramics and the rhythmic scrape of the spoon against the pot. He moves with a quiet confidence that’s both reassuring and heartbreaking. This is what he does when he’s not fighting. This is what he becomes.

“General Kenobi’s been teaching me,” he says, breaking the silence.

You look up, surprised. “Teaching you what? To cook?”

“To appreciate it,” he corrects, and he turns away from the stove, leaning against the counter and crossing his arms. He looks tired, but it’s a good tired. A settled tired. “He says that in the midst of chaos, it’s the small, deliberate acts that keep us sane. The things we do with our hands. The things that nourish us. He’s right.”

You think about General Kenobi, the Jedi you know more from carefully curated holovids and propaganda reports than from any real interaction. You’ve always pictured him as a serene, almost untouchable figure, a bastion of calm in the storm of war. The idea of him in a kitchen, teaching one of his most trusted commanders how to make curry, is so absurdly normal it makes your head spin.

“I always thought Jedi just… absorbed nutrients from the Force,” you say, only half-joking.

A real, genuine smile breaks across Cody’s face, transforming him completely. It lights up his eyes, makes the new scar on his eyebrow fade into the background. He shakes his head, looking down at the floor for a moment before meeting your gaze again.

"Only when the rations are particularly bad," he jokes, and his smile widens as you laugh, “but he says it lacks… character.” He opens the oven, peering inside, and his next words are slightly muffled by the rush of hot air. “He also says that the ability to cook for another person is one of the most basic forms of love there is.”

The words linger in the air between you, heavy with meaning. Love. It’s not a word either of you uses lightly, or often. It’s too dangerous, too fragile in the face of your respective realities. But here, in the warm glow of your kitchen, with the smell of exotic spices filling the air, it feels true. It feels right.

“Does he…know about us?” you ask, the question barely audible.

Cody closes the oven and straightens up, wiping his hands on the apron. He doesn’t answer right away. He looks at you, and his gaze is so open, so vulnerable, it takes your breath away.

“He knows,” he says finally. “He’s known for a long time.”

Your mind races, trying to process this revelation. General Kenobi knows. And he’s okay with it. He’s teaching Cody how to cook. You suddenly feel like you’ve stepped into an alternate reality, one where the war is still raging, but the lines are blurrier, more human.

“He doesn’t mind?” you press, needing to be sure.

“He trusts my judgment,” Cody says simply. “And he likes you. He thinks you’re good for me.” He turns back to the stove, giving the curry one last stir before turning off the heat. “He thinks we’re good for each other.”

And just like that, the last of your reservations melt away. The fear, the secrecy, the constant, gnawing anxiety that your relationship with him is somehow wrong, or doomed—it all evaporates. You’re not just some clandestine affair, a brief distraction from the war. You’re… something else. Something real.

He ladles the curry into two bowls, topping it with a sprinkle of fresh green herbs you’re not sure you’ve ever seen in your pantry. He pulls a pan of flatbread from the oven, the crust golden and puffed. He arranges it all on a tray, along with two small glasses of a deep red wine you didn’t even know you had, and sets them down with quiet precision. The spread is so thoughtful, so perfect, it makes your heart ache.

Cody finally takes off the apron and hangs it on the hook by the door before sitting down opposite you. The small table suddenly feels impossibly intimate, the space between you charged with an unspoken current of emotion.

For a moment, you’re both silent, just looking at each other across the table. The muted holovid plays on, the light from the screen catching the planes of his face, the warmth in his eyes. You feel like you could sit here for the rest of your leave, just looking at him, memorizing every line, every detail.

"Eat," he commands gently, nudging one of the bowls toward you. "It’ll get cold."

You pick up your fork and take a hesitant bite. The flavors explode in your mouth—spicy and sweet and savory, all at once. It's so delicious, so perfect, you actually moan a little, your eyes fluttering shut as you chew.

“It's good,” you say, your eyes wide with surprise. “Really, really good.”

A genuine, unguarded smile lights up his face. You hadn’t realized how tense he still was until you see it fade, replaced by an expression of pure, simple pride. He looks younger like this, less burdened. More like the fresh-faced trooper you met on Kamino, before the war had carved its harsh reality into him. More like the man he might have been.

“Told you I’ve been practicing,” he says, and he finally takes a bite of his own. He eats with a quiet, focused intensity, clearly analyzing every mouthful.

You eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the only sounds the scrape of forks against ceramic and the distant hum of the city. You can feel the tension in your own body finally starting to uncoil, the anxiety of the past few weeks replaced by the simple, comforting reality of the man sitting across from you.

“I was thinking,” he says, breaking the silence. “We could go away for a few days.”

You pause, your fork halfway to your mouth. “Go away? Where?”

“Anywhere,” he says, and he leans forward, his elbows on the table, his gaze earnest. “There’s a transport leaving tomorrow for Naboo. The Lake Country. We could get a small house, somewhere quiet. Just… be. For a little while.”

Naboo. The name conjures images of rolling green hills, cascading waterfalls, and serene, blue lakes. It's the kind of place you see on the holoboards at the metro terminal, the kind of place that feels like another galaxy entirely from the grimy, neon-drenched canyons of Coruscant. The kind of place that feels impossible.

“You want to go to Naboo?” you ask, your voice barely a whisper. “You and me?”

“Why not?” he asks, and he reaches across the table, taking your free hand in his. His thumb strokes your knuckles, the calloused skin sending shivers down your spine. “We have two weeks. We deserve it. You deserve it.”

You want to say yes. You want to shout it from the rooftops. But the practicalities, the realities of your lives, intrude. The cost, the logistics, the risk. “Cody, I can’t just… my job. I can’t just take off. I’d need to put in for leave, and I don’t know if they’d approve it on such short notice—”

“I already took care of it,” he interrupts, and his grip on your hand tightens. “I spoke to your supervisor this morning.”

Your fork clatters against your bowl, the sound echoing in the sudden, shocking silence. You stare at him, your mind struggling to process what he’s just said. “You… you spoke to Director Pello? My Director Pello?”

“I did,” he says, completely unfazed by your disbelief. “I may have… implied that it was a matter of Republic security. A request from the GAR for your… particular expertise. For an off-books consultation.”

A disbelieving laugh escapes your lips. You can just imagine it: your stuffy, by-the-book superior, with his perfectly pressed suit and his datapad full of tedious memos, getting a direct communiqué from Marshal Commander Cody himself. You picture him stammering, sweating through the collar of that perfect suit, trying to reconcile the mundane reality of your job in the Sub-Administrative Office of Public Affairs with the high-stakes world of Republic Intelligence.

“You didn’t,” you breathe.

“I did,” Cody confirms, and the corner of his mouth ticks up in that familiar, self-satisfied smirk. “He was very… accommodating. Said he’d process the paperwork immediately and wish you the best on your… assignment.”

You’re speechless. You’re also, you have to admit, deeply impressed. And more than a little turned on. The sheer audacity of it, the way he just… moved heaven and earth, rearranged your entire life with a few well-placed words. It would be concerning, if you didn’t trust him so implicitly. It would be terrifying, if you didn’t know that he did it for you.

“That’s quite the spin, Commander,” you manage to say, and you squeeze his hand, hard. “You were paying attention in my classes after all. All that fluff I write about strategic communication really is good for something.”

“You’re a brilliant writer,” he says, and the sincerity in his tone is so disarming it catches you off guard. “And a brilliant strategist. Don’t sell yourself short. You could be running that entire division if you wanted to.”

The compliment hangs in the air, warm and heavy. You’re still not used to this, to someone seeing so much potential in you. To someone seeing you. You’ve spent so long feeling invisible, like your words just disappear into the void, that having him look at you like this—like you matter, like you’re important—is almost too much to bear.

You look down at your plate, at the half-eaten curry, suddenly feeling overwhelmed. “Naboo,” you say, testing the word on your tongue. It feels foreign and wonderful. “What are we going to do in Naboo for two weeks?”

“Absolutely nothing,” he says, and the finality in his voice is music to your ears. “We’re going to sleep. We’re going to eat real food that doesn’t come in a silver packet. We’re going to walk by the lake. We’re going to sit on the grass and do nothing but breathe the clean air. No comlinks, no datapads, no GAR, no Republic. Just us.”

It sounds like heaven. It sounds like a dream you’ve had but never dared to speak aloud. A world without deadlines, without fear, without the constant, crushing weight of expectations.

“Okay,” you say, and you look up, meeting his gaze. You can feel the tears welling up again, and this time you don’t even try to stop them. “Yes. Let’s go to Naboo.”

The relief that washes over his face is palpable. It’s like watching a dam break, the years of built-up tension and exhaustion finally receding, leaving behind something raw and vulnerable and so incredibly beautiful it makes your heart ache.

He pushes back from the table and rounds the corner, pulling you up from your seat and into his arms. He holds you tightly, burying his face in your hair, and you can feel the unsteady rhythm of his heart against your cheek. He’s just as scared as you are. He’s just as hopeful. He’s just as desperate for this little pocket of peace.

You stay like that for a long moment, wrapped up in each other, the rest of the world fading away. The holovid continues to play its silent, colorful story, the remnants of your dinner grow cold on the table, and the storm outside rages on, but in here, in this small circle of light and warmth, there is only the two of you. And the promise of two weeks.

He finally pulls back, but he doesn't let you go. His hands cup your face, his thumbs gently wiping away the tears you hadn't realized were falling.

“Hey,” he says softly, his voice thick with emotion. “No tears. We’re on leave.”

“I know,” you reply with a watery laugh, and you lean into his touch, closing your eyes for just a second. “I’m just… happy.”

“Good,” he says, and he kisses you, soft and deep. It's not the desperate, hurried kiss of two people about to be torn apart, but the slow, deliberate kiss of two people with all the time in the world.

When he finally breaks away, you're both breathless, your heart pounding in your chest.

“You're amazing, you know that?” you murmur, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “The things you do for me.”

“I do what I have to do,” he says, and there’s a shadow of the old commander in his tone, but it’s gone as quickly as it came. “Now, let’s clean up this mess and go to bed. I have two weeks of lost sleep to catch up on.”

You don't argue. You help him clear the table, the simple domesticity of the task feeling more intimate than anything else you’ve done all night. He insists on doing the washing up himself, shooing you away when you try to help. You watch him from the doorway of the small kitchenette, leaning against the frame, content to just soak in the sight of him. The way the muscles in his back shift under the thin fabric of his shirt as he scrubs the pans, the quiet hum of the sanitizer unit, the occasional splash of water. These are the sounds of home.

While he finishes up, you turn your attention to the rest of the apartment, seeing it through new eyes. You tidy up the stack of datapads on the end table, fluff the blanket on the sofa, and finally turn off the silent holovid. The sudden quiet is unnerving at first, but it’s quickly replaced by a profound sense of peace. 

You dim the lights until the room is bathed in the soft, ambient glow of the city beyond the window, and when you turn around, Cody is standing behind you.

“Ready?” he asks, and he holds out his hand.

You take it, lacing your fingers together, and he leads you toward the bedroom.

It’s the smallest room in the apartment, barely big enough for the bed and the two small dressers on either side. You’d spent your last salary credit on the mattress, splurging on the top-of-the-line model with memory foam and temperature regulation, and it’s the best investment you’ve ever made. You sink into it with a sigh, the familiar softness of the sheets a welcome relief.

Cody doesn't join you right away. He moves with purpose, retrieving the spare datapad from the top of his dresser and plugging it in on the nightstand. He checks the locks on the window, even though you both know they're flimsy at best. He turns off the main light, leaving only the small reading lamp on, casting the room in a warm, golden hue. He’s securing the perimeter, you realize. A final, ingrained habit from a life lived on the front lines.

“Do you want to check under the bed for monsters, too?” you tease as you settle back onto your hands, your feet dangling off the side of the bed.

He gives you a wry look, one eyebrow raised in that way you’ve come to know so well. You watch as he makes his way around to your side of the bed and drops on one knee, hand braced on the mattress next to you. He makes a show of looking under the bed, peering into the dusty darkness with a mock-serious expression, before looking back up at you.

“No monsters,” he confirms, his voice soft. He takes one of your dangling feet in his hand, his thumb gently rubbing the arch. “But I did find some dust bunnies that could probably stand to be dealt with.”

You laugh as you wiggle your toes against his palm, but the sound gets caught in your throat as he leans in, pressing a kiss to the inside of your ankle. Then to your calf. Then to the sensitive skin behind your knee. Each kiss is slow, deliberate, and so full of reverence it makes you shiver.

He continues his upward path, his hands tracing the curve of your legs as he goes. He pushes your shorts aside, his lips following the line of your hip. He’s not in a hurry. He’s mapping you, reacquainting himself with the geography of your body, and every touch is a confirmation that he's really here.

“Cody,” you breathe, your fingers tangling in the sheets.

“Shh,” he murmurs against your skin. “I’m on leave. I have two weeks to do this properly.”

“I hope you’re not planning to spend all two weeks doing this,” you reply, your voice hitching as he nips at your hipbone.

He looks up at you, and the look in his eyes is so full of love and desire it takes your breath away. “Maybe not all of it. But a significant portion. I made a list.”

“A list?” you manage. “You made a list of things to do on leave?”

“A very detailed list,” he confirms as he pushes himself up, his body hovering over yours, one arm braced on the bed beside your head. Slowly, deliberately, he lowers his hips to meet yours, the thin layers of your clothing suddenly feeling like nothing at all. “I have to be efficient with my time off.”

You laugh despite yourself and the heat building in your core. It’s so like him, to approach lovemaking with the same tactical precision he applies to everything else in his life. And you know from experience that he’s very, very good at making the most of his time.

“I expect nothing less than peak performance from my Commander Cody,” you say, running your fingers through his hair, the short, soft strands tickling your palm. “I’ve seen your evaluations. I have high expectations.”

His answering laugh is warm against your cheek. “You should lower them. I haven’t slept in three days.”

“Then maybe we should postpone the efficiency exercise,” you murmur, your fingers tracing the lines of his face, the new scar above his brow, the old one on his temple. “I’d hate to ruin your record.”

“I’m not that tired,” he replies immediately, and he shifts, pressing his thigh against the growing heat between your legs. “I have priorities.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t deny the flutter of anticipation that runs through you at his words. You can feel the tension in him, the way his muscles quiver with the effort of holding himself up, the way his breath catches when you run your fingers down the side of his neck.

“What’s on the agenda, Commander?” you ask, your voice barely above whisper. “What are your priorities?”

He doesn't answer. He just leans down, capturing your lips with his own. The kiss is slow, unhurried, as if he’s trying to imprint the moment on his memory. You can taste the faint, smoky flavor of the wine on his tongue, the lingering heat of the curry. His hand slides under your shirt, his fingers splayed possessively over your ribs, and you arch into his touch, your body craving the contact.

He breaks the kiss and lifts himself up just enough to pull his shirt over his head, tossing it aside with casual grace. The sight of him, half-naked and braced above you, sends your heart into overdrive, and you can’t help the way your hands immediately go to the hard planes of his chest, the lean, chiseled muscles of his abdomen. He’s still got the edge of that youthful, Kaminoan perfection, but the war has left its mark on him, too. The new scar, the faded one on his side, the faint lines of tension around his eyes. You trace each one with your fingers, mapping the story of his body as he mapped yours.

He lets you explore for long moments, his eyes closed, his breath coming in soft, measured gasps. You can feel the weight of his trust, his willingness to be vulnerable, and it fills you with an almost unbearable tenderness. He’s so strong, so powerful, and yet he’s given himself to you, completely and without reservation.

Finally, his hand catches yours, his fingers intertwining with yours. He brings your hand to his lips, kissing the palm before pinning it above your head, his eyes locked on yours.

“Now you,” he says, his voice low and rough with desire.

You comply willingly, lifting up just enough to help him remove your shirt. The cool air of the room pebbles your skin, and you shiver despite the heat of his body. But Cody is back on you before the chill can set in, wasting no time in wrapping his lips around one nipple while his thumb toys with the other. The sudden, sharp spike of pleasure has you gasping, your back arching up off the mattress, your fingers tangling in his hair. He’s not teasing, he’s not playing—he’s claiming, marking his territory again, and you’re only too happy to be claimed.

He lavishes attention on your breasts, alternating between gentle suction and soft, teasing licks. It’s enough to have your head spinning, your body already throbbing with need, but he’s not done. He moves down, trailing kisses along the sensitive underside of your breast, the curve of your waist. He hooks his fingers in the waistband of your shorts, pausing to look up at you, as if asking for permission.

You nod, your breath coming in shallow gasps, and he pulls the shorts down your legs, taking your underwear with them. You’re completely bare before him now, but you’ve never felt more safe, more protected.

He places his hands on your knees, gently coaxing them apart, and you comply, opening yourself to him. The first touch of his lips against your inner thighs has you trembling, and when he finally makes contact with your clit, you nearly come off the bed.

He’s slow at first, his tongue exploring your folds with deliberate care. He teases your clit with soft, feather-light strokes, and when you whimper, he gives you more, his tongue circling and stroking in the patterns he’s spent the past year learning by trial and error. The patterns that can make you fall apart in minutes, if he so chooses.

Tonight, he does so choose. It’s been too long, and you’re both too keyed up to go slow. His tongue is relentless, his hands pinning your hips to the bed, keeping you from squirming away from the intense pleasure. You can feel the orgasm building inside you, the pressure of it, and when he adds two fingers, curling them just so inside you, you shatter. Your back arches, your hands scrabbling for purchase in the sheets, and Cody’s name on your lips.

Cody is still between your legs as you come down from your high, his lips and chin slick with your release, his eyes dark with desire. He presses one last, lingering kiss to your clit before sliding up your body, dropping soft, chaste kisses on your belly, your breasts, your collarbone. He hovers over you, his arms bracketing your head, and you can see the hunger in his gaze, the barely restrained need.

But he waits, giving you time to recover. He’s always been that way, always putting your pleasure before his own. And it only makes you want to give him more, to give him everything.

“I missed you so much,” you whisper, your hands framing his face. “I missed this.”

“Me too,” he says, his voice strained. “Every day, I—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “I need to feel you. Please.”

You reach between you, your fingers tracing the length of his erection through the thin fabric of his sweatpants. He hisses, his hips jerking forward at the contact, and you feel the dampness where he's already leaking against the fabric. You can't resist the urge to press your thumb against the wet patch, feeling the heat of him through the cotton, the way he throbs under your touch.

“Tell me what you want,” you say, looking up at him through your lashes. You may have been the one to teach him the art of dirty talk, but he's become an expert practitioner in his own right. He knows just what to say, how to say it, to send shivers down your spine. To make you wet. To make you want. “Tell me what you want to do to me.”

His eyes flash at that, and you watch the struggle play out across his face, the battle between his natural reserve and his desire to tell you everything, all the filthy, desperate things he's imagined while you've been apart. He swallows hard, his throat bobbing, and you can't resist the urge to lean up and suck lightly on his pulse point, feeling the rapid beat of his heart under your tongue.

“I want to fuck you,” he says, and the raw hunger in his voice has your toes curling, your nails digging into the meat of his shoulders. “I want to fuck you until you forget your own name.”

“That’s not very specific,” you tease, but you can't keep the breathlessness out of your tone. You reach for the waistband of his pants, tugging them down just far enough to free his cock. You take him in your hand, stroking him slowly from root to tip, feeling the way he swells in your grip. “How are you going to fuck me, Commander?”

He groans, his eyes fluttering shut for just an instant. “Like this." His hips jerk forward, his cock pushing through the circle of your first to slide against your clit. You're both sensitive, and the sensation has you gasping, your hand stilling. “Just like this. Deep. Slow.”

“Are you sure that’s what you want?” you ask, your thumb sweeping over the slick head of his cock, smearing the fluid there. You know him too well, know that there’s something else he wants, something he’s holding back. “Are you sure that’s how you want to take me, Cody?”

The sound that rips from his chest is almost feral, and he suddenly pulls back, his hands grabbing your hips and flipping you over onto your stomach. You let out an indignant squeak, but it quickly turns to moan as he drapes himself over your back, the hot, hard length of him pressed against the cleft of your ass. He’s heavy, his solid weight pushing you down into the mattress, and you feel completely surrounded by him, consumed by him.

“This is what I want,” he growls in your ear, his hips rocking against yours. “This is how I want to take you. Hard. Deep. Until you’re begging me to stop.”

You moan again, your hands fisting in the sheets, and he takes that as his cue. He lifts himself up, his hand sliding between your bodies, and you feel the broad, flared head of him pressing against your entrance. He doesn't enter you right away, just teases you with shallow thrusts, pushing in just an inch or two before pulling back. You can feel yourself dripping, practically sobbing with need, and you try to push back, to take him inside you, but his hand on your hip holds you still.

“Cody,” you gasp, your voice muffled by the pillow. “I need you. Please."

"I intend to," he says, and he punctuates his words with another shallow thrust, and you feel the thick head of his cock breaching you. It's not enough, not nearly enough, but it's something, and your inner muscles clamp down on him greedily, trying to pull him in deeper. He groans, his hand flexing against your hip. "Fuck."

“Please," you beg again. “Cody, please.”

And finally, finally, he relents. With one sharp snap of his hips, he buries himself inside you, and the force of it jolts your whole body forward. The stretch of it, the fullness, it's almost too much, and for an instant, the line between pleasure and pain blurs. You gasp, your fingers scrabbling for purchase in the sheets as your body struggles to accommodate him.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice tight with strain. “Did I hurt you?”

“No, I’m good,” you reassure him. “I just… I forgot how big you are.”

He laughs, and you can feel the vibration of it in his chest. “You didn’t forget. You just like to complain.”

You huff in indignation as he pulls back, and his hands find your hips in the darkness, lifting your ass up and back towards him. He slides back in more gently this time, letting you feel every ridge, every vein, every inch of him. His hips press flush against your ass, and he grinds in deep, his cock nudging that spot inside you that has you keening against the pillow.

“Fuck," he grits out, his hands gripping your hips so tightly it’s almost painful. He holds you still, keeping you trapped on his cock as he grinds against that spot again, harder this time. The pleasure of it makes you clench, and he hisses, his hips jerking forward. “Fuck, you’re so tight.”

“I wonder why," you gasp as he grinds in again. “Maybe it’s because someone left me alone in this bed for weeks on end.” You manage to rock back against him, even with his firm grip. It's awkward, uncoordinated, but the friction is delicious. “Maybe it's because I missed you so much, and I—” Your words cut off in another moan as he gives you another sharp, short thrust.

“Don't talk like that," he growls, and you can hear the strain in his voice, the way he's struggling to hold back his own pleasure. “I can't think when you talk like that."

“Then don't think," you challenge. “Stop thinking and just fuck me, Cody. Stop being so damn gentle and just take me the way you said you would."

His fingers flex against your hips, and for an instant, he's motionless. You can practically hear the gears turning in his head as he wars with himself. He's always been so careful with you, so mindful of his strength, of the damage he could do if he lost control. He's never taken you like this before, never truly unleashed himself on you, and you're not sure he's willing to do it now.

But he is. With an animalistic growl, he pulls back, the flared head of him tugging on your entrance, before slamming back in. His hips slap against your ass, the force of his thrust jolting you forward, and you let out an involuntary yelp. He freezes, his cock pulsing inside you, and you can feel the tension in him, the fear that he's gone too far, that he's hurt you.

But the pain is fleeting, and in its wake is only pleasure. You reach back, your fingers finding his hip, and you pull him toward you, urging him to continue.

“Don't stop," you beg, and that's all the encouragement he needs. 

He withdraws again, only to thrust back in, harder this time. Your fingers scrabble for purchase in the sheets, your knees slipping on the soft mattress, but it doesn't matter. You're not going anywhere, not with Cody's hands on you, holding you still for his punishing pace. His hips slam against yours, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing off the walls, and the sound of it, the primal, animalistic rhythm, has your head spinning. He's not being gentle anymore, he's not holding back, and it's everything you've ever wanted from him. Everything you've ever needed.

“You feel so good," he groans, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your ass. He spreads you open, his thumbs pressing against either side of your stretched pussy as he fucks you, and the sensation has you sobbing into the pillow. “So fucking perfect. So tight for me."

You want to respond, to tell him how good he feels, how full, but you can't. You can't do anything but take it, to let him pound you into the mattress with wild, frantic thrusts. He's fucking you like he's trying to break you, like he's trying to split you in two, and it's exactly what you wanted, what you need.

Your climax catches you by surprise, slamming into you like the thrust of Cody's hips. It's sudden and intense, and you're not even sure what does it, what finally pushes you over the edge. All you know is that you're clenching around his cock, your entire body trembling, and he's still fucking you through it, his cock dragging against that spot inside you that has you sobbing into the pillow.

“Fuck, you're beautiful," he says, his voice low and ragged. “You're so beautiful like this.” 

He shifts, leaning down to press his chest against your back, his lips finding the nape of your neck. He sucks at the soft skin there, his tongue tracing the bumps of your spine, and the sensation is almost too much on top of the rest. You're sensitive, overstimulated, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes. It's too much and not enough all at once.

“Cody, I can't," you gasp, even as you're pushing back against him, trying to take him deeper. “It's too much. I can't.”

“You can," he grunts, and his hand slides from your hip to the small of your back, pushing you down until your breasts are pressed against the sheets. The new angle has him hitting even deeper, the head of his cock nudging your cervix with each stroke. “I know you can. You were made for this. You were made for me.”

The words should infuriate you. They’re possessive, they’re presumptuous. They’re the words of someone who believes they own you, body and soul. But all you feel is heat, pulsing through your core, and the truth of them rings through you, undeniable.

So you take it. You take his cock, his words, his love. You let him pour himself into you, and you give yourself back to him, all of you, everything you are.

It doesn't take much longer. Cody's stamina is legendary, and he can keep going long after most men would have collapsed into an exhausted heap. It's one of the many, many benefits of being with an enhanced soldier of the GAR. But even Cody has his limits, and you've pushed him to the brink.

"One more," he grits out, his hand sliding down between your legs. He finds your clit, and the rough pad of his finger against your swollen, sensitive flesh has your hips jerking forward, trying to escape the intense sensation. “Just one more. Come on."

“I can't," you whimper, even as your inner muscles flutter around him. You're exhausted, spent. Your body feels like it's made of lead, heavy and boneless. But he's relentless, his fingers working you even as he slams his hips into yours. And against all odds, against all reason, you feel it building again. That familiar, insistent pressure. The tightening in your core.

“Cody, please," you beg, not even sure what you're asking for anymore. Release, mercy, relief from the overwhelming pleasure that's threatening to tear you apart at the seams. “Please."

“That's it," he coaxes, his fingers relentless. "That's my girl. You can do it. Just one more. Give me one more."

“Oh, fuck," you moan, burying your face in the pillow as your whole body tenses, as you hover on the edge of oblivion. “Fuck, Cody, please."

“Now," he demands, and there's no mistaking the order in his tone this time. It's the voice of Marshal Commander Cody, the man who's led armies, fought battles, won wars. And you obey, because you always obey. Because you're his.

Your orgasm hits like an avalanche, wiping out everything in its path. You're dimly aware of Cody cursing, of his hips stuttering, but all you can focus on is the way your body is spasming around him, the way your pleasure is pouring out of you, drenching his cock and the sheets beneath you. It's too much, too intense, and you're pretty sure you're going to pass out from sheer sensory overload.

But you don't, and Cody doesn't stop. He keeps going, pounding into you even as the last waves of your climax roll through you. His hips are erratic, his breathing harsh, and you can tell he's close. You can tell he's hanging on by the thinnest of threads.

So you give him what he needs, the same thing you've always given him. The thing he can't find anywhere else. The thing that's kept him coming back to you, time and time again.

You give him permission to let go.

“Do it," you urge, reaching back to grasp his forearm, digging your nails into the meat of him. “I want to feel you come in me. I want you to fill me up, Cody. Please."

And that's all it takes. With something that's half roar, half sob, he slams his hips forward one last time, and you can feel the hot, wet rush of his release deep inside you. His cock pulses, throbbing against your inner walls, and you can feel every twitch, every spasm. You're so full of him you feel like you might burst. Like he's marked you in the most primal, most basic of ways.

His climax seems to go on forever, and when he finally collapses on top of you, his weight pinning you to the bed, you can't stop the satisfied smile that curls your lips. This is what you've been craving, what you've been missing in the long weeks apart. And by the way he's still inside you, the way his cock is still pulsing weakly, you know he's missed it too. Missed you.

“Thank you," he whispers, his voice ragged and raw. “Thank you for that."

“I think I should be thanking you," you reply, shifting your hips, and he groans at the sensation. “I forgot how good it was. How much I needed this."

“I didn't," he says as his arms slide around you, pulling you close. He's still inside you, still half-hard, and you're pretty sure he has no intention of pulling out anytime soon. “I've been thinking about it nonstop."

You laugh, and the movement has him twitching inside you, his cock giving another weak pulse. “I could tell. Peak performance indeed, Commander. Very efficient."

He snorts at that, his breath fanning against the nape of your neck. “I have my moments.”

“You have more than moments," you assure him, running your fingers along his arm. You can feel the hard, corded muscle there, the strength that could snap you like kindling if he chose. But he never has, and he never would. He's always been so careful with you. So gentle. “You have everything I need."

He doesn't respond, but you feel him smile against your skin, his lips pressing against the curve of your shoulder. His arms wind around your waist, and he slowly turns on his side, bringing you with him. His cock slides out of you in the process, and you can't stop the little mewl of protest that escapes your lips.

“I'm sorry," he whispers, kissing the back of your head. “I didn't mean to hurt you."

“You didn't," you reassure him as you snuggle back against him. “I just… I wanted you to stay."

“I know," he says, and you can hear the regret in his voice. “But I have to get cleaned up, and I have to take care of you. I don't want you to be sore tomorrow. Not on our first day of leave."

You want to argue, to tell him you don't care if you're sore. That it's worth it for the pleasure he gives you, for the intimacy. But you know he's right, and you don't want to make his job any harder than it has to be. So you let him go, rolling onto your stomach and letting him climb over you, padding off to the bathroom to fetch his supplies.

While he's gone, you take the opportunity to stretch, your body feeling deliciously loose and pliant after the intense workout. You're sticky and wet between your thighs, and when you reach down to touch yourself, you can feel his seed leaking out of you. It's dirty, filthy even, but you can't deny the thrill of satisfaction that runs through you at the thought.

When Cody comes back, carrying his familiar white box, he stops short at the sight of you, your fingers lazily exploring your tender folds.

“You're killing me," he groans, setting the box on the nightstand before settling on the bed beside you. “I'm not sure I'm going to survive this."

“I think you'll manage," you reply, and you spread your legs wider, giving him better access. “Get to work, Commander."

He does, of course. He's nothing if not obedient. He opens his kit and takes out his supplies. Cleans his hands first, as he always does, before cleaning you, as gently as he can. You wince, your flesh still sensitive and swollen, and he murmurs apologies, pressing kisses to the back of your thigh. And when you're both cleaned up to his satisfaction, he covers the bruises on your hips from his frantic fingers with bacta and massages your tired muscles, working the knots and tension from them until you're practically boneless.

By the time he's done, you're almost asleep, your eyes heavy, your body limp. He covers you with the sheet, and you're dimly aware of him moving about the room, picking up the clothes strewn on the floor. You hear the sound of water running, and when he comes back, he's wearing nothing but his briefs, and his hair is damp.

“Come on, baby," he says, kneeling beside the bed and smoothing the hair back from your face. “You need to drink something. And I need to change the sheets."

“S'fine," you murmur, burrowing deeper into the pillow. “Don't need sheets. Just sleep."

“You'll be sorry in the morning," he says firmly, and he scoops you up in his arms, carrying you bridal-style out of the room. “You can sleep on the couch while I clean up."

You're too tired to argue, and the truth is, you don't want to let him go, not for one second. So you let him carry you, let him set you down on the couch, wrap you in your fluffy bathrobe, and press the bottle of water into your hands.

“Drink," he says, tapping the top of the bottle. “All of it. Doctor's orders."

You scowl at him, but you comply, taking small sips. You watch him move back toward the bedroom, and even in your exhausted state, you can't help but admire the view. The way the muscles in his back and shoulders flex as he strips the soiled sheets from the bed. The way his briefs cling to the tight curves of his ass, and the way the dimples just above them seem to be begging you to run your fingers over them.

He's gorgeous, there's no doubt about that. But it's more than his looks that draw you to him. It's his heart, his soul. It's the way he cares for you, the way he loves you. The way he sees you, not just as an object to be desired, but as someone to be cherished. To be protected. To be loved.

“I love you," you say suddenly, and the sliver you can see of him through the doorway freezes, the clean sheet clutched in his hands. “I really, really do."

“I love you, too," he calls back, and you can hear the smile in his voice. The wonder. The awe. “Now finish that water and get some rest. We have to get up early tomorrow if we're going to make our flight to Naboo. I'm not losing the deposit because you were too tired to get out of bed."

“Bossy,” you grumble, but you can't help but smile as you take another sip of water. This is the Cody you love. The Commander. The lover. The man who's already planning your vacation down to the last detail. The man who, for the next two weeks, is all yours.

“I have to be," he says as he appears in the doorway, leaning against the frame. “If I'm not, you'll sleep all day, and we'll miss our flight. And I've been looking forward to this for months. I’m not letting you sabotage it with your laziness."

“My laziness?” you protest, indignant. “You’re the one keeping me up all hours of the night. A girl needs her beauty sleep.”

Cody grunts. “You don’t need beauty sleep. You’re already perfect.”

"Flattery will get you nowhere, Commander,” you say with an eye roll, though you can feel the heat rise in your cheeks.

"I disagree," he replies with one of his rare, genuine smiles that still have the power to make your knees weak. He crosses to the sofa, crouching down in front of you, and takes the half-empty water bottle from your limp hands and sets it on the floor. He leans in, and you think he's going to kiss you, but instead he presses his forehead against yours. "It's gotten me here, hasn't it?"

He has you there. You close your eyes, soaking in the feel of him. The warmth of his skin, the gentle puff of his breath against your cheek, the steady, reassuring beat of his heart. You could stay like this forever, in this small, perfect bubble of peace. In this apartment on the grimy, lower levels of Coruscant that feels more like home than any place you've ever known because he's here with you.

“Yeah,” you whisper, tilting your chin to kiss him again. “It has.”