Private A Quiet Between

[Shade]

The wavering neon of the city's night streets broke into pale streams across the low bench outside the memorial alcove. Shade stood there silently—cobalt skin and silver‑black braid muted in the reflection of the glass wall behind her. Her shoulders squared, arms at her sides, though the quiet ache beneath her ribs didn't pretend to be absent.

The date had come around again—another orbit with no family. No home. Only the shifting remainder of a line erased by war. The air smelled of ionized rain, and she pulled her coat tighter for the memory of cold nights on Csilla—wind howling above endless ice, the long silent nights before the storm broke, before the purge.

She knelt. No formal ceremony. No words for people who'd already spoken too many. She placed her hand against the polished name‑stone: her family crest etched there in quiet silver beneath the stark letters listing the lost. Her scar beneath the collarbone brushed faintly against her tunic as she leaned forward—an echo of the marks they had left behind, of survival.

In the stillness, she did the only justice she could: she acknowledged what could not be undone. She didn't pray for their return. She didn't ask for mercy. She simply stood witness.

"Sixteen years," she whispered, voice low as shadow. "And the line remains broken. But I keep its name alive."

Her gaze travelled upward, past the memorial wall to the sky's pale glow—the ghost of stars she once knew. This is why I train. This is why I endure.

She pushed to her feet. The night's rain began anew, tapping steel and glass, the cool droplets threading down her braid. Her blades rested at her hips, silent. Her weight shifted, one foot ahead of the other—forward, as always.

At the edge of the alcove, she paused, just long enough. A breath in the cold air. A moment of recognition, not for what was lost, but for what she still carried. Then she moved on.
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The bar was warm when she entered, low light pooling over worn wood and brass. The faint hum of conversation and the subtle clink of glassware filled the space, a muted rhythm against the city outside. She moved past it all and slid into a booth in the corner, back pressed to the leather, body angled just enough to observe without being observed.

She signaled the bartender with a small, precise nod.

"Jedha's Tear," she said, voice low, even. "Straight." No ice, no garnish. Just the clean burn she wanted.

The glass arrived in a single motion, the liquid catching the muted light like liquid silver. She lifted it, inhaled the sharp scent, and let the first swallow slide down her throat. The warmth spread through her, grounding, anchoring.

Her gaze drifted to the rain outside, the city blurred in streaks of neon and shadow. Memories pressed at the edges of her control—her family, the years she had endured, the losses she had carried—but she remained still. Collected.

The glass rested in her hand, a weight and a reminder. For tonight, she allowed herself a quiet acknowledgment of survival, of grief contained, and of the steady burn that kept her present, watching, enduring.

Cassian Abrantes

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Shade ​

The door hissed open on a gust of cold rain and streetlight. Cassian Abrantes stepped through his coat still damp from the walk, the collar turned high against the wind. The bar's dim warmth wrapped around him like a reprieve he didn't quite believe in. He paused just inside, letting his eyes adjust, scanning the crowd with the easy precision of someone who had long ago made a habit of noticing everything.

Then he saw her.

Shade.

She hadn't changed much since the last time he'd seen her at least not on the surface. The same quiet precision, the same stillness that always seemed to draw the noise out of a room until it bent around her. But there was something different in the set of her shoulders, in the way her gaze lingered on the rain outside instead of the exits. Not the predator tonight. Not the operative. Something quieter.

He made his way through the narrow aisle, boots scuffing against old wood, each step carrying the faint weight of memory missions shared, close calls survived, and the long silences between them that said more than orders ever could.

When he reached the booth, he didn't sit immediately. He just stood there for a breath, rainwater tracing slow lines down the sleeve of his glove.

"Hey." Cassian said, his voice low, steady, carrying the faint rasp of exhaustion that didn't quite dull its warmth.

He nodded toward her untouched glass before sliding into the opposite seat, the leather sighing beneath his weight.

He motioned for a drink from the attendant, whom knew Cassian's preferred drink by heart.

He just sat as his eyes lingered on her, just a calm and friendly manner, a small smile on his face. He knew something was wrong, but he didn't want to intrude on that. So he would sit here with her for as long as possible.

Whatever was necessary for her, to be at ease.

 

[Shade]

Her fingers circled the rim of the glass, the liquid silver‑clear and untouched, catching the muted light. She didn't drink yet, letting it shimmer, allowing the ritual to anchor her attention away from the memories that pressed in.

Then he was there. Cassian Abrantes. She didn't turn fully, didn't need to. She simply let her awareness sweep across the booth, registering his presence with precision. The quiet weight he brought into the space subtly shifted the tension in her shoulders, easing her ever-so-slightly, a fraction more than she would admit.

"Hello," she said, low and even, her voice carrying nothing more than recognition. No warmth betrayed her, no invitation—just acknowledgment. Yet in the tilt of her head, in the stillness of her posture, there was a trace of space made for him, a subtle opening she refused to name.

Her gaze returned to the glass, tracing the liquid's subtle movements. Not a sip. Not yet. But aware. She didn't move closer, didn't lean away. She remained composed. Measured. Fully herself. And yet, the presence of him across from her grounded her, a quiet tether she accepted without needing to claim it aloud.

Her fingers turned the glass again, a slow, deliberate motion, catching the light just so. The faintest, imperceptible shift in her shoulders—almost invisible—marked that she had noticed him there and, in her own way, welcomed it. She was still Shade: in control, measured, enduring. But the weight of his presence, acknowledged and accepted silently, reminded her that even control could carry something quietly shared.

Cassian Abrantes

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Shade ​

Cassian watched her fingers trace the rim of the glass slow, deliberate, the kind of motion that spoke more than words ever could. Every movement still had purpose, even when it pretended to be idle.

He let the silence stretch a moment longer before speaking, the low hum of the bar filling the space between them. There was the faintest smile at the edge of his mouth not amusement, exactly, but recognition. He'd seen this posture before, in darker rooms, on colder nights. Shade's way of keeping the world at a distance until she decided it had earned the right to draw near.

"I didn't come to intrude." Cassian said, after a moment. "Just thought maybe… the night didn't need to be endured alone."

He drank, slow and measured, the faint burn steadying rather than numbing. When he set the glass down again, he let his hand rest open against the table not reaching, not asking. Just there. Present. A quiet echo of everything that hadn't needed to be said aloud.

 

[Shade]

"You're…not intruding," she said again, the faintest inflection carrying more than the words themselves. Not warmth, exactly, but an opening—a concession she didn't grant lightly. A quiet admission that he could be here, at her pace, on her terms.

Her fingers circled the rim of the glass, deliberate, slow. The silver‑clear liquid caught the bar's muted light, and she let it anchor her attention, a tether between memory and present. She didn't drink—not yet—just let the ritual occupy her, giving shape to her control.


Her gaze flicked up, brief enough to register him across the table. Cassian's presence was familiar, steady, but tonight there was something different. The weight he carried was lighter, less edged with command, more… attentive. It drew her attention in a way she rarely allowed. The faint flare of awareness was quick, almost imperceptible, but real: she noted the lines of his jaw, the way his eyes softened ever so slightly in the dim light, and the careful steadiness of his hand as he rested it near the glass.

A small, internal pulse of curiosity stirred, unbidden. She didn't move closer. She didn't shift outward. She simply noticed. The contrast between her memories of him—precise, controlled, sharp—and the calm warmth now present was subtle, but enough to tug at her focus.

She let the silence stretch, circling the glass once more, her movements smooth and measured. Her lips parted just slightly, the edge of her attention flaring toward him as she asked, voice low and even, "Do you know what day it is?"

Her eyes met his for a heartbeat longer than necessary. Not a challenge, not a plea — just a measured test, a quiet acknowledgment of the weight she carried, and the small comfort of someone else noticing, even without words.

Even as her posture remained controlled—shoulders squared, expression neutral—the faintest flicker of something unspoken—interest, awareness, acknowledgment—lingered, threading through her discipline like a spark behind steel.

Shade's fingers tilted the glass just enough, letting the silver‑clear liquid catch the light before she lifted it. The burn hit clean and precise, grounding her and anchoring her attention in the present.

Her gaze flicked briefly to Cassian as she set the glass down, the faint flare of awareness still lingering. He was quiet, patient, letting her maintain the rhythm she needed. She didn't lean closer, didn't invite more, but she noticed the steady calm he carried—and in that recognition, something sharp and small stirred behind her control.

She returned her focus to the glass, letting the warmth trace through her, steadying and familiar. For now, it was enough: the drink, the silence, and the presence across from her, unspoken but accepted.

Cassian Abrantes

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Shade ​

Cassian's gaze lingered on her, steady, unflinching. He caught the subtle shift in her tone the slight give in a wall that never truly lowered, only adjusted. To anyone else it would've sounded like indifference. But to him, it was everything. The words didn't need elaboration. They hung between them, soft but heavy, like the slow pulse of the rain against the window. He didn't press further, didn't reach across the table, didn't offer the hollow comfort of platitudes. He knew better than to speak over her silences.

He inclined his head slightly, the faintest acknowledgment. "I know." he said quietly. It was that acknowledgment, that quiet understanding, that had been ingrained in him since he picked up weapon. Since he started his first training and entered his first battle. He was able to pick up on things quicker than most, he wasn't no Jedi. But damn he was pretty close when it come to understanding especially those that he fought with and those he cared about. Something that could've silenced her as it was doing right now, she told him about it, while not all the details. But he was smart enough to put the pieces that were missing, together.

He leaned back slightly, his hand still resting near hers on the table, close enough that the warmth from his skin edged across the cool varnish. "You don't have to talk about it." Cassian said, voice steady, almost formal. "But I'll listen if you do."

A small pause. Then, softer. "You don't have to drink alone, either."

He didn't move closer, didn't press. Just stayed there, anchored, patient, as if the stillness itself was the conversation.

 

[Shade]

Shade lifted her gaze from the glass, slow and deliberate, letting the silver‑clear liquid catch the muted light before settling. Her eyes found his across the table, steady, and she let herself carry a fraction of her focus toward him—a small concession, measured, deliberate.

"I… want to talk," she said, low and even, the words precise but carrying the weight of choice. Not a plea, not a need—just an acknowledgment that she was willing to let someone share the space of her night.

Her right hand stayed wrapped around the base of the glass, fingers curved just so, grounding her attention. Her left hand shifted slightly across the table, inching closer to his—not reaching, not inviting contact, just feeling the warmth between them and the distance shrink ever so slightly. A brick had fallen from the wall she kept so meticulously built.

Her shoulders eased, the faintest hint of weight lifting from them, though her posture remained composed. Awareness lingered in the air around her, subtle, like a pulse. She remained Shade—controlled, measured, enduring—but the small motion, the deliberate tilt of the glass, the quiet acknowledgment in her gaze, and the inching of her hand marked the first fracture in her solitude tonight.

Cassian Abrantes

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Shade ​

Cassian didn't move at first. He simply met her gaze, the low light catching the flecks of steel and amber in his eyes. He'd seen her in motion in battle, in briefing rooms, in the cold corridors between assignments but this stillness was rarer, and infinitely more fragile.

When she spoke, the quiet declaration landed with more force than a blaster report. I want to talk.

He inclined his head slightly, a breath leaving him in something that almost resembled relief. "All right." he said softly. No demand, no pressure. Just permission, returned in kind.

His hand, the one resting near hers, shifted only a fraction. He didn't close the distance. Instead, he turned his palm upward, an unspoken gesture that was both offering and restraint. A way of saying: I'm here. At your pace.

Cassian leaned forward then, just enough that the shadows along his jaw deepened. "You once told me silence was safer than truth." he said, his voice steady, low enough that only she could hear. "But I think tonight deserves a little risk."

 

[Shade]

Shade lifted the glass, letting the clear liquid catch the dim light one last time before tilting it back and swallowing. The burn slid down her throat, steadying her thoughts. She set the glass down carefully, her right hand coming to rest on the table just beside her left, which rested near his. Not reaching for him, not claiming him—simply acknowledging the shared space, the tether that existed without words.

Her eyes traced the edges of his face for a moment—steady, unflinching, familiar—but the faintest flicker of something more passed through her expression. Concern. Hesitation. The quiet question: Is it worth it? The risk of exposing the fractures she had spent years masking. Her lips parted slightly, a soft exhale leaving her as she met it.

"I was away," she said finally, voice low, even, measured, carrying that controlled weight that made her presence so unshakable. "When Csilla fell. When…when my family died." Her gaze flicked to the window, the neon rain blurring into streaks that reflected in the glass like fractured memories. She swallowed again, the ache behind her ribs pressing but contained. "I wasn't there. And I…I've carried that. Every day."

A pause stretched, deliberate, as the memory sharpened. Bastion. She'd told him this before, long ago. Yet the retelling tonight carried a heavier gravity—proof not of novelty, but of trust renewed, of the risk she allowed herself to take now.

"And then…the Veiled Sight recruited me," she continued, words slow, deliberate, softened by the intimacy of confession. "Trained. Directed. Every skill, every instinct honed into something that didn't leave room for anything else. I became…efficient. Contained. Dangerous—but empty in ways I hadn't accounted for."

Her gaze dropped for a fraction of a second, the slightest shadow cutting across her features. "Varin…" The name hung like smoke, curling in the quiet. "I—" She inhaled sharply, catching herself on the edge of the emotion. "I have his blood on my hands. I did what I was told…What I had to. I've never…reconciled it. Never forgiven myself entirely."

Her eyes lifted to meet his again, steady, deliberate, yet raw in a way she rarely allowed. She didn't reach for him. She didn't ask for solace. She let her words rest in the space between them, each one measured, each one a brick removed from the fortress she had spent so long building.

Her right hand stayed beside her left, hovering near him without crossing the threshold. It was a quiet acknowledgment, a tether that spoke volumes without a single word. She didn't move closer, didn't lean away. But the deliberate risk—the act of letting him see the fractures beneath her precision and restraint—had begun.

And for the first time tonight, in the soft glow of the bar and the muted hum of conversation, Shade allowed herself a fleeting awareness: the weight she carried didn't feel quite so unbearable with him here.

Cassian Abrantes

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Shade ​

Cassian listened in silence, the kind of silence that didn't demand or judge only absorbed. The low hum of the bar faded to a distant thrum, replaced by the steady cadence of her voice. Each word carried weight, but what struck him more was how carefully she held it all like she feared if she let go, it would crush them both. When she finished, his gaze didn't waver. He leaned forward slightly, forearm resting against the table, his palm still open, next to her hand, steady, patient.

"Shade." he said quietly, his voice roughened by something that wasn't weariness but depth. "Don't do that to yourself." He let the thought hang for a heartbeat before continuing, tone low but firm. "What happened on Csilla wasn't your fault. You didn't bring the storm. You just lived through it. And that's not a crime."

His eyes softened then, the hard lines at their edges easing. As she mentioned Varin, he could piece the cluse together, he must've been someone of great importance to her, someone she maybe loved. He could see it through the fractures in her demeanor and her poise.

He reached toward her then, not to close the distance completely, but enough that the faint heat of his hand brushed against the air between them.

"You don't need to keep punishing yourself...." Cassian murmured. "Don't close yourself off, don't shut us out. Don't shut me out. We are a team, I'm with you no matter what."

He held her gaze, steady and sure, the warmth beneath his tone quiet but certain. "You don't have to keep paying a debt that was never yours to begin with."

The distance between their hands remained a whisper of space but the understanding that passed across it was clear, grounding, unshakable.

 

[Shade]

Shade's gaze held his for a long moment, the air between them close enough to feel the faint warmth that bridged it. The urge to pull back flared first—instinct, training, survival—but it didn't win. Not this time.

Her breath left her slow, controlled, though her voice carried a quiet fracture she didn't mask.

"I was taught to close myself off," she said, the words low, even, but edged with something raw beneath the surface. "Attachment is a liability. A weapon that can be used against me. Same as I could be used against somebody attached to me." Her next breath caught, faint but audible. "After Varin... there hasn't been anybody." Until now. But there was no voice given to that.

The confession lingered in the air between them, heavier than any truth she'd spoken tonight. Her eyes flicked to his open hand, then back to his face. She didn't move closer. Didn't take the offered comfort. But her shoulders eased, fractionally—a surrender not of control, but of isolation.

"I learned to survive by restraint," she continued, the faintest tremor threading through her composure. "Caution… distance… they kept me alive."
A pause—quiet, uncertain. "But maybe they've kept me from living too."

For a heartbeat, silence. Then, slowly, her left hand shifted—deliberate, cautious—until her little finger brushed against his. The contact was feather-light, almost imagined, but it was there: a quiet pulse of heat threading through the stillness.

Her breath caught, subtle but unguarded. She didn't pull back.

"Maybe," she murmured, voice barely above the rain outside, "some risks are worth it."

Her gaze lifted to meet his again—steady, searching—and for the first time, she didn't look away. The wall was still there, but something glowed behind the cracks now—faint, fragile, and undeniably alive.

Cassian Abrantes

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Shade ​

Cassian felt that light touch that was so small and deliberate, and for an instant, every instinct he'd built over decades of duty went still. The contact wasn't about comfort. It wasn't even about closeness. It was a declaration. A whisper of trust from someone who had survived by never giving any.

He didn't move his hand, didn't risk breaking it. As her finger reached out, his did so faintly in response, the barest acknowledgment that he understood what she was offering. The air between them seemed to steady, the noise of the bar retreating to a distant murmur.

He drew in a slow breath, the faintest curve of something like a smile touching his mouth, not amusement, but a quiet kind of awe. "You can keep the discipline. Keep the restraint. But don't let them steal what's left of your humanity. That's not a liability. That's the reason you're still here."

Cassian's other hand came up, resting loosely around his glass but not lifting it. "If you ever decide to risk something again. Whatever that looks like, it doesn't have to be everything at once. It just has to be real."

His voice dipped, almost a murmur. "And this? Right here? It's real."

Outside, the rain softened against the glass. The neon lights flickered across her skin like shifting constellations. He didn't press the contact further; he just let the quiet between them expand and settle.

"Some risks." Cassian said finally, his words low and certain, "Are the only way back to living." And he stayed there, hand steady beside hers, the shared warmth between their fingers enough to hold the silence together.

 

[Shade]

Shade's eyes drifted down to the small space where their fingers brushed, the faint warmth lingering longer than it should have. She didn't smile. She didn't lean in. She didn't speak.

But in the quiet behind her calm, a single thought slipped through the discipline she had practiced for years: I am still here. I can still feel. I can still choose.

Her shoulders eased just a fraction more, and for a heartbeat, the weight she carried didn't press so heavily. The restraint remained, but it had softened—a controlled concession, a recognition that some risks, small and deliberate, were worth taking.

She lifted her gaze to the window, letting the neon rain blur the city outside, and allowed herself to notice that the world—and the man across from her—hadn't shifted, hadn't broken her. Instead, it had held space for her to do something she hadn't let herself do in a long time: be present.