Paz was always good with foundlings. He knew when to comfort them, when to tease them; who needed to spar their energy out and who needed time alone. Din was awkward, always better at following instructions than feeling things out. His instincts served him well in a fight or on a job. So, he provided for the foundlings by bringing home credits, supplies, materials for their amour to keep them safe.

Din was meant to be beroya. He was never meant to be somebody's buir. 

Grogu started off as a bounty. To be fair, Din was told he was fifty years old. Din was a bounty hunter, but he wasn't heartless. As soon as that pram opened, everything shifted. Those big, black eyes were windows into parts of the galaxy Din had never seen.

Grogu was a child, and that's what Din called him in his mind for months - The Child, Kid, Little Guy. He wasn't going to name him like a stray hound. The kid had a name - probably the one thing that remained from his parents, just like Din - he just couldn't communicate it in a language the Mandalorian knew.

Din had never felt more inadequate than when they met Ahsoka Tano. She could understand Grogu through some sort of Jedi connection. Grogu told her his name right away. How much was the child trying to tell Din every day that he couldn't understand? But there was also joy, bright like a blaster bolt, whenever Din called the kid's name and he looked up with twitching ears and an expectant little grumble. Maybe they could figure it out.

Grogu didn't need to speak for Din to understand him. He became attuned to the angle of his big, green ears, the set of his little mouth, the posture of his body. And Grogu understood Din - he just didn't listen very well when he had something (usually jumping or skittering) in his sights.

Din meant to keep things professional. His duty was to return the child to his people. And that meant keeping him fed, keeping him safe, keeping him happy, then saying goodbye. That's all. 

Grogu was just so easy to love. He was adventurous. He was stubborn. He was sweet. Din liked having him around. He made even the most mundane tasks enjoyable or at least entertaining (if sometimes a little more stressful). Din found himself valuing quiet moments between adventures.

Mandalorians always woke up early, ready to face the challenges of the day. Din used to feed himself through muscle memory and necessity alone with the cheapest and longest-lasting rations he could find. Grogu also woke up early, but only for the few moments it took for him to clamber out of his hammock and tuck himself into the crook of Din's elbow before immediately falling back asleep. Listening to his gurgling snores, feeling the twitch of soft ears against the bottom of his helmet, Din couldn't make himself move to start the day quite yet. Breakfast, once they were both up, was much more of an event with a hungry toddler on the ship. More often than not, Grogu was able to convince Din to go into a market and find something hot and wriggling. If they did have to eat on the Razor Crest, Din found himself getting much more use of his small stove than ever before, chopping vegetables and heating up meat.

He kept sweets hidden in ammo boxes and toys stores in weapons lockers.

Din didn't realize how alone he had felt before he had Grogu.

When the time came, the words fell out of his mouth, as heavy and as certain as gravity.

"Then I will adopt him as my own."

“I didn’t,” Dinar said, more than a little indignantly. “I just took a step.”

“Watch your step then.”

“Well, it’s a little hard to when the entire floor is a junkyard!”

“It’s not all junk.”

“Really?” Dinar pinched the corner of a crumpled, somewhat moldy meal tray and lifted it up, his eyebrows hiking up as he looked pointedly between it and Din.

“That’s not junk; that’s garbage. There’s a difference.”

Dinar dropped the tray and rolled his eyes, shaking his head and muttering low in Lothali. He kicked out in a wide arc, sweeping clear enough space to take his next step. “You really got this ship for free?” he asked, both dubiously and like he could believe nothing else.

Din cast a slow, assessing glance around, turning his head and craning his neck to take in the interior of the craft he—they—had procured.

It wasn’t quite a cruiser, wasn’t quite a gunship or a freighter; whatever it was originally, it wasn’t anymore, not after a few decades of serving different purposes and changing from owner to owner a couple dozen times, each one coming in with very different ideas and intents than the previous.

From the outside, it looked like a squat, boxy beetle with its wings unsheathed and splayed out. Inside, it hid a double deck layout, like the Razor Crest, but more spread out and low. There was a refresher, a double sleeping rack and even a dejarik table with a wrap-around booth seat, but it was all in varying states of incommodious, grubby, or downright un-useable. Not to mention the varied detritus and garbage scattered all over the floor.

In short, it was no Razor Crest, definitely no Ghost, but it was free.

“In terms of money, yes.”

“In other terms?” Dinar asked like he was too scared to hear the answer.

Din shrugged as he bent to pick a loose motivator off the ground (where an R-series astromech motivator even came from and why it now lay here, among crumpled ration bar packets and miscellaneous bits of ship innards, he had no idea). “I made a deal with the yard owner. We can take the ship and go anywhere we want with it, so long as we fix it up and return it in better condition than we found it in.”

“And you can do that?”

“Yes.”

“But can it fly? I mean, is it safe to fly?”

“We’ll see.”

“You’re awfully cavalier about this.”

“I’m not.”

“You’ve done this before?”

“Yes.”

“And it was… safe?”

“I’m not dead, am I?”

“Miraculously.”

“Heard that.”

Picking his way through the debris with flimsy foil packets and unhelpful chunks of machine parts crunching under his boots, he reached the ladder leading up to the cockpit. He climbed up, Dinar following reluctantly behind.

The cockpit was tight: two seats—pilot and co-pilot—stood side by side, facing a narrow but familiar control panel.

Feeling at home, Din slid into the left-most seat: the pilot’s seat. The padding had thinned to near nonexistence and the mechanisms protested with mournful squeaks and grating creaks. By pure muscle memory, he keyed in the start-up sequence, the only difficulty being that he had to stretch and lean over to flick some switches on the co-pilot’s side—he either had to reroute the controls entirely to his side or teach Dinar to operate these. The systems blinked, fritzed, threatened to die once and for all, then whirred and came online like an old, loyal pet roused from a coma-like nap.

He checked the fuel gauge, checked the power levels and the environment controls, then tested the engines, coaxing them to start. They spluttered and coughed and wheezed but rattled and whirred on, their operating drone slow to build and weary to maintain but ultimately steady.

Reliable.

He felt it in his bones.

This ship could be trusted.

“What’s its name?” Dinar asked as he squeezed past Din to get into the co-pilot’s spot. He looked over the buttons and dials and levers, his brow knotting tight and low as his eyes bulged.

Din opened up the ship’s registration info on the mildly glitching computer situated in the middle of the dash. “The Moth.”

“More like the Moth-Eaten.”

“I didn’t pick it and I don’t care to change it,” Din said as he skimmed through the rest of the registration info.

“What’s all that?” Dinar asked, leaning closer and squinting at the computer, looking like what he saw displayed was written in a foreign language to him (which, Din realized belatedly, was an apt description: if his other self had never been off-world, had never flown a starship, then this jargon would make as much sense as Tusken poetry to him).

Din tapped the screen with a gloved finger, producing a padded sound. “This is the ship’s clearance and registration. See this string of numbers? That indicates it’s a merchant’s ship.”

“Which means…?”

“We’ll look innocuous and like we belong. Anywhere.”

“Which is a good thing?”

“Yes. It’s a good thing. Strap yourself in.”

Dinar did so, fumbling with the belt and buckle, the thick fabric of his robe rustling loud in the confined space. “We’re going now? Right now?”

“What did you expect? We have what we need. And it shouldn’t be a long trip.”

“In space,” Dinar tacked on, only for Din to shake his head.

“No. Not yet.”

“What do you mean ‘not yet’? I thought we were going to another planet. How else do you do that than through space?”

Din’s hand paused, halfway through keying in coordinates. Rustily, he lowered his hand to rest on the dash, fingers curling into a fist as he thought.

In the planning and convincing, he had made no secret of the fact his son would be on a different planet. He did mention he was in danger and he intended to explain that they would likely find him under the guard of two dozen (or so) Niktos, but Dinar’s reaction to the prior point—of a different planet—had inadvertently compelled Din to skip any further details for the time being for fear it would dissuade himself from coming along entirely.

He—Din—was going to return home to his own universe after all this. Eventually. Somehow… And when he did, he wouldn’t be able to take this world’s Grogu with him. He would have to leave him with Dinar and his family. He’d be cared for here, well and completely; he’d have a better—

Din shook his head and made himself stop thinking on that track.

“The time I saved my son in my world, I had help,” he said, cautious with each word. “I would… prefer to have help this time again. I know someone who can help us—who would help us. She should be on Lothal right now. I want to find her first.”

“Okay. And then in space?” Dinar asked, his voice sounding tight like he was bracing for the answer.

“Hyperspace.”

Dinar paled. He swallowed and it seemed to not go down. “Hyperspace?” he repeated, his voice high-pitched and choked off.

“Well, to get where my son should be, it’s either three hours in hyperspace or many, many months, possibly years, in regular space. Your choice,” Din said (even though there was no way he was going to leave it to Dinar to decide. They were going and that was final).

“And you’re sure this is—?”

Before Dinar could finish his question, Din slid the thrust control lever forward and the Moth, after an obscenely dramatic cough from the engines which bucked the craft as if rammed by a ravinak, lifted into the air.

One hand on the steering yoke, holding the ship steady as it rose into the night sky, Din let his other hand stay on the lever, the round knob pressing into his palm.

It was bigger and older than the one from the Razor Crest. Neglect and age had clouded the metal and a testing shift of his hand found it had rusted and fused onto the shaft.

Grogu would have loved it anyway.

In the back of his mind, in a part not needed for working the controls, setting the nav, and convincing the tired old ship to take-off and get up into the atmosphere, he imagined his son’s eyes widening and glittering as they beheld this not-toy. His ears would perk and he’d get that covetous look, his little claws ticking and twitching, itching to reach out and take it. Din would tell him he couldn’t have it and that would only increase its allure. Then it would become a game, a challenge to steal it when he wasn’t looking.

And Din would let him, all the while watching his mischief play out in the corner of his visor while he pretended he didn’t notice a thing. All so he could hear his boy trill in satisfied triumph when he procured his prize.

I’ll find you, he vowed, silently, lifting his gaze from the controls to the stars as they levelled out among them, the little port-town of Kothal shrinking to a blip beneath and behind them. I will find you and I will make sure you’re safe.

A sharp but thin slice of a gasp pulled his gaze over to Dinar.

His eyes were screwed shut, one hand gripping the edge of the seat he sat on, the other up, holding onto a stabilizing strap for dear life.

(Din recalled his buir assuming a similar position the first time he let him pilot the ‘Crest.)

“Are you holding your breath?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Dinar answered, the rigid strain of his voice answering the question for him. His eyes remained shut, his entire face screwed up to keep him from peeking.

“Relax. We haven’t even left atmosphere.”

“I’ve never been higher than the third floor.”

“Well, just… just breathe, okay? Or you’ll pass out.”

“I’m hoping to.”

Dinar did not pass out.

Neither did he open his eyes for even a second.

For the duration of the flight from Kothal to the outskirts of Capital City, he sat like a figure frozen in carbonite. Only when they touched down and the engines whined to a stop did he dare pry his eyes open a mere crack.

His face morphed from twisted in silent, paralyzing terror to a puzzled frown in under a heartbeat. “Where are we?” he asked, leaning forward to glance around at the moonlit fields. Din saw the moment he caught sight of the tower, stationed on their port side.

“The LothNet Tower,” he answered, setting the ship to rest.

“Why?”

“It should be where my friend lives.”

“Your friend lives in a HoloNet tower?”

“Well, it was Ezra’s to begin with,” Din admitted. “She came to look after the place for him after he left.”

“Your Ezra, you mean,” Dinar corrected.

Din opened his mouth to reply but the word got stuck before it could reach his vocal chords. He froze, his hands stilling midway through their work.

“Oh. Right.”

“If my Ezra never lived here, how can you be sure your friend lives here now?”

Din shook his head. “I don’t… I don’t know.”

“Well,” Dinar said after a long, pensive silence, his tone like the one Din used when he was trying to explain something to a stubborn Grogu and ultimately decided on a compromise he didn’t really want, “we’re here now.” He unbuckled his seatbelt and began extricating himself from the cramped spot. “May as well give it a go.”

Whatever path they had cleared in the hold between the ladder and the hatch had grown over again with junk and trash dislodged during the short flight. Every rattle and rustle as they waded through scraped on Din’s nerves.

He didn’t know how to explain it, but he knew from the moment they stepped out there was no one but them out here… and there hadn’t been anyone else in a long, long time.

Grass and weeds grew through cracks in the duracrete landing pad. Spire rose vines had grown thick and wild up the conical base of the tower. The building materials showed signs of untended damage and disrepair.

All of it wore down Din’s hope, like waves agitated by a storm washing away the shoreline. But he held on, his mind racing to conjure reasons for it all—maybe this world’s Ezra got away from the Inquisitors and he came and lived here and still found the Spectres, still became a Jedi, still sacrificed himself for Lothal. After all, this world still stood, it was thriving and safe and the Empire hadn’t swallowed it up. How could that be if not for Ezra?

So he must’ve still come here and, if that were so, then Sabine would still have taken up residency in the tower after him. Maybe in this world she simply preferred the overgrown look. She did have a strange affinity for aesthetics which baffled Din more than half the time—this could all very well be an artistic choice.

His hope took a massive blow when he came upon the doors to the lift.

They were covered, carpeted, in layers upon layers of vines.

No one had used this lift in years.

For a while, probably too long, he stood there. He stared. He tried to think.

He considered jetting up to the observatory deck but, to what end, he wasn’t sure.

His hand ghosted up, gloved fingertips brushing a small spire rosebud yet to bloom.

If she wasn’t here, then where else in the galaxy could she be?

“I don’t think anyone lives here but some Loth-rats,” Dinar said, trying to be gentle. He put a hand on Din’s shoulder. “We should go on.”

“Yes,” Din agreed, mechanically. A beat later, he nodded, the discs in his neck creaking.

He straightened up, let his hand fall back to his side. He cast one last, pointless glance up the length of the tower, its edges gilded in faint silver moonlight, then turned and didn’t look back.

They returned to the Moth.

Dinar muttered and griped about the mess in the hold as they went through and climbed up into the cockpit. It didn’t have the same heat as earlier; it came off more like he was trying to distract Din.

“Where now?” he asked as he sat down again in the co-pilot’s seat.

“To the city starport,” Din replied, waking up the engines which had barely had time to cool. “Get the ship cleaned. Get fuel. And… and maybe see if anyone knows where to find my friend.”

Dinar exhaled, slow and controlled. He buckled in and resumed the position from earlier: one hand death-gripping the seat, the other over-dramatically clutching the stabilizing handle. As Din began the take-off cycle, he shut his eyes tight again.

In the privacy of his helmet, Din chuffed at that.

You were never meant to be a part of a bounty hunter’s story.

You weren’t a Mandalorian. You weren’t a fighter. You weren’t someone who belonged among blasters, bounties, and the endless battles of the Outer Rim.

You were just someone trying to survive. Someone who never expected to end up so far from home.

Naboo was where your story began.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

As you began adulthood you were working as a mechanic at your father’s repair shop. All you knew was repairing ships, speeders, and old machinery.

You preferred machines over people, they were a lot easier to understand.

The sun shined bright over Naboo, making your forehead glisten with sweat.

You were finishing up a repair for a long time customer Tavian Rell, he’d been a friend of your fathers for many years.

“It was the repulsor coil. It had started failing, which is why you were feeling the speeder pull to one side.”

You explained, turning around as you spoke to the tall and slender man standing beside his speeder.

“I swapped it out and ran a few tests. Everything’s working again, but I’d keep an eye on it. Old speeders have a habit of finding new ways to break.”

He nods his head, sticking out a handfull of credits.

“Thank you, I appreciate the help.”

Before you were able to say or do anything you heard blasters going off and people running.

You took a quick glance out of the window to see your beautiful home become almost unrecognizable.

Quickly, you helped Tavian get his belongings and leave on his newley repaired speeder.

As you locked up shop, you could hear the destruction of Naboo around you. The streets that were once filled with familiarity and comfort, now raced with chaos and fear.

This was everything you had ever known.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

A few hours have passed, the streets of Naboo have become empty besides the faint whistle of wind rushing through the empty streets.

You stared out at the two moons you’ve looked at your whole life, Ohma-D’un and Rori.

Distracted by the moonlight glistening on the water of Paonga Lake, you didnt realize someone walked into your shop.

“Excuse me. Are you a mechanic?”

You turned around as fear ran through your veins, but that fear quickly turned into intrigue.

A Mandalorian stood in front of you, with a little green creature secured at his hip.

Cautiously, you respond to the Mandalorian.

“I am yes, can I help you?”

He tilted his helmet, studying you in the moonlit shop.

“My ship needs repairs.”

You nodded your head signaling him to take you to his ship.

Once you two reach the Razor Crest, you immediately notice the ship.

“This ship has been held together by repairs for so long, I’m not sure where the original ends and the replacement parts begin.”

The Mandalorian shrugged his shoulders.

“It still flies.”

⊹ ࣪ ˖

An hour of being silently stared at later, you finished the checkup and started on repairs.

The Mandalorian and the creature had stayed nearby the entire process, you could tell they were silently making sure you were doing what you were supposed to.

“The power coupling was starting to fail, and your hyperdrive motivator wasn’t looking much better. I replaced both, ran a few tests, and everything seems to be working again.”

You waited for a response, not getting one as he walked around you to take a look at the Razor Crest.

“But your hull plating has taken some serious damage. It’s holding for now, but I’d get it repaired sooner rather than later. You don’t want to wait until it becomes the thing keeping you from getting home.”

There was a beat of silence, before the armor-clad man turned to you.

“You make it sound worse than it is.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“Your hull plating is damaged, your power coupling was failing, and your hyperdrive was barely holding together.”

A pause.

“So yes. It is worse than it sounds.”

He looked back at the Razor Crest.

“It still works.”

“That is not the same thing.”

You started repairs on the hull plate, the Mandalorian heard something around the corner and went to check.

You heard voices and in an instant, the situation around the corner escalated.

Blasters were going off, you heard voices screaming and footsteps getting closer.

You began to panic. You weren’t a fighter, you were a runner.

Before you could find an exit, The Mandalorian rounded the corner.

“Get on the ship.”

Without giving you a chance to argue, he grabbed your arm and guided you aboard the Razor Crest.

You had spent your entire life repairing ships, you never expected one would be the thing that carried you away from home.

John watches you out of the corner of his eye, and his lips quirk up in a soft smile as he listens to you talk. He's never been one for conversation, so he doesn't mind listening to you go on and on about the animals the two of you have seen so far. He cuts in at the appropriate times, sharing his own soft opinions and matching your small smile when the two of you watch a young girl beg her mother for an ice cream.

“Do you want one?” John asks when he catches your eyes lingering on the flavors. His thumb strokes over the back of your knuckles. He wants to buy you things, make sure you want for nothing. You've done so much for him already.

“Hmm. Yeah, why not? We can share if you want.” You offer. You've already had the lemonade, and too many sweet things make your stomach hurt. “What flavor are you thinking?”

John rakes his eyes over the list, and his blue eyes linger on something called rocky road. He murmured his choice, and once he had your agreement, the super soldier loped over to stand in line. You can't help the snort that leaves you when he comes back. The ice cream cone looks comically small in his huge hand, and he quickly hands it off to you once he is close enough, then frowns down at his sticky hand.

However, he is soon distracted when he catches you licking up the melted ice cream, your tongue scooping up the sweet liquid as you make a soft sound of appreciation at the taste. John swallows harshly, and his blue eyes go dark and stormy in arousal the longer he watches you.

His palms begin to sweat, and his mind begins to wander in a direction not appropriate for such a setting. What would your tongue feel like on him? Your lips in places other than his own? John knows how soft your hands are; he'd held them long enough to start to memorize each knuckle and scar on your flesh. His body buzzes in arousal, and he knows you see it in his eyes when you look up and catch them. The spartan watches as a blush blooms across your face, and you laugh nervously at his gaze.

But you don’t look away from him. Instead, you swipe your tongue over the sweet treat again, eyes half lidded as you watch John suck in a sharp breath and shift on his booted feet. You hear him say your name softly, almost like a curse, and then you are being drug away from the crowd and to a shaded corner. John glances around and then takes your ice cream, tosses it in the nearest bin, and then he is on you, lips pressed against your own and tongue sweeping across your lips to taste the sweet treat.

You make a sound of delight in the back of your throat, eyes shuttering as you open up under his assault. John kisses you like it's going out of style, big hands cupping your cheeks and angling you up just the way he wants. Your hands find his shoulders, and you hang on for dear life, chest heaving from the display of public affection. You hadn’t thought that the big man would go this far with so many people around.

As quickly as he had swept you away, John released you, realizing that the Zoo, of all places, wasn’t the best place for this sort of thing. You step back after a lingering kiss to his cheek and grin brightly up at him. His face flushes to the tips of his ears, suddenly embarrassed about his lack of decorum.

“I apologize. I shouldn’t have done that,” John murmured, but you are quick to snort and shake your head and take his big hands in your own.

“Don’t say sorry. I like it when you do things like that,” you say easily, and John deflates at your uncaring attitude. You smirk, lips teasing and cock your head to the side, “But you do owe me another ice cream later.”

John laughs, the sound deep and husky. You can't help the way your thighs rub together at the attractive sound. You shove the need to end the trip early away and tug his hand, tilting your head in the direction of the new exhibit. “Ready?”

“Let’s go,” John intones, and the two of you continue up the trail. Despite being surrounded by animals of all shapes and sizes, the chief only has eyes for you, that blue gaze burning with something he didn’t know the name of. He understands that it might seem a little odd to be so attached, so longing for a civilian woman that he met just the other night, but John couldn’t bring himself to care. Lasky had ordered him to relax, and you were the best thing for that.

The new exhibit is crowded, but thanks to John’s height and bulk, the two of you are able to get through the crowds pretty easily, even if he may have stepped on a couple of toes along the way. You press yourself close to the edge of the railing, squinting your eyes to try and see the animal hidden within. John, with his improved vision, spots it far before you can. He presses close to your back, bending so that he can lower himself closer to your height, his chin grazing the top of your head. He points into the habitat, and you follow it.

“Can you see them?” John asks softly, his tone a low rumble that has a shiver wracking down your spine. You try your best to focus on the pair of Siberian tigers slinking through the tall grass inside the enclosure, but having John pressed so close is very distracting. But once you are able to focus on the big cats, you are reminded heavily of the man behind you.

Major Baroque had told you John was a Spartan, a man created for the purpose of war - a predator among the other men and women of the UNSC. All lean muscle and heightened instincts, honed from decades of fighting the Covenant. John was a dangerous man, just like the tigers stalking the grass below you.

“They’re beautiful,” you murmur and press yourself that much closer to John. He obliges by wrapping an arm around your waist, a big hand splayed across your side as he holds you close. You hear him hum his agreement, but when you look at him, you find John isn’t looking at the tigers but at you.

His eyes burn with a fire that matches the one in your own. A silent agreement passes between the two of you, and John is leading you through the crowds the next moment, arm tight around your waist to keep you close. He scans his surroundings for the best place to hide away from prying eyes within milliseconds, pulling you behind the building for the bathrooms and pressing you up against the wall.

You gasp at being lifted, but get with the program quickly and wrap your legs around his thick waist, anchoring yourself by slinging an arm around his broad shoulders. John leans down, and you meet him halfway, lips pressing against his own in a heated kiss. Your free hand cups his jaw, holding his face as you drop your mouth and lick across the seam of his lips.

The groan John makes is borderline animalistic, and he presses into you, wanting to feel that teasing heat between your thighs. His cock aches in his jeans, and John can’t help but grind into you with a low breath through his nose.

You give just as good, nails biting into his muscled shoulders and holding him as close as you can, hips jerking and gyrating against the thick length you can feel hidden behind his slacks. You feel tiny, doll-like in his arms, but you find that you like the vulnerable feeling that this beast of a man brings about in you. Especially when you know that John would never let anything happen to you, not when he was around.

You suck in grateful lungfuls of oxygen when John breaks the kiss, but he doesn’t stop there. He hefts you higher, his lips finding the column of your throat and laving the sensitive flesh with sweet kisses and kitten nips with sharp teeth. You cling to John, lip trapped between your teeth as you bite back the low groans and sounds of pleasure. You would hate to have someone catch you like this.

John’s free hand slides under the loose shift you wear, rough fingertips crawling along your skin until he reaches your bra. He cups your breast, tugging at the cup until he feels the hardened peak of a nipple graze across the pad of his thumb. John can’t wrap his head around how soft you are, all gentle curves and delicate skin. The Master Chief feels like a giant compared to your smaller stature, but he likes how he can handle you so easily.

John wanted to hear every little breathy moan and suppressed sigh that you made, wanted to bark an order for you to stop holding back, but the zoo wasn’t the best place to keep going at this pace. He begins to slow to a stop, trailing up kisses to your lips, where he lingers a moment longer before he reluctantly pulls away.

“I know we haven’t seen all the animals yet, but can we go now?” You ask, and you don’t try to hide the desperate whine in your voice. You want to keep touching, want to keep being touched.

John can’t help but huff a laugh, but he is setting you down and fixing your shift so that it falls naturally once more. Once more, he can’t help but think that Avery would be proud of him.