Private Anchored in Darkness

[Aren D'Shade]

The neon lights of the bar flickered across the wet pavement, casting streaks of pink and blue across Aren's blurred vision. The warmth in her chest wasn't comforting; it was sharp, a lingering ache from a breakup that hadn't yet dulled. Each sip had been an attempt to wash it away, but now the alcohol only made the pain wobble through her veins with the rhythm of her unsteady steps.


She swayed on her boots, laughter spilling out in fits that felt hollow, broken at the edges. Her fingers fumbled against the strap of her bag as she tried and failed to keep her balance, the world tipping in uneven angles.

A strong arm slid around her waist, steadying her, and another hand caught hers as she stumbled, guiding her away from the street. She leaned into him without thinking, letting his quiet presence keep her upright as the pavement wobbled beneath her.

"I'm fine," she whispered to herself, voice cracked and slurred. Her grin was crooked, a fragile attempt at masking the ache in her chest. The alcohol, the heartbreak, the dizzying blur of lights, they had turned her into a bundle of chaos.


Step by careful step, he led her through the quiet streets, his hands firm at her waist and shoulder, steering her with patient precision. The sounds of the city, the distant speeders, the hum of neon, the occasional laugh from late-night pedestrians- filtered around her like fog. She clung to the rhythm of his steps, each one keeping her from collapsing, each one a tether to reality she wasn't quite ready to face alone.

The night stretched on, cool and dark, and Aren let herself be guided, the sting of heartbreak and the haze of alcohol mingling together. Somewhere ahead, Andrew's place waited, and she let the thought anchor her just enough to keep moving.

Andrew Lonek

 

[Andrew Lonek]

Andrew didn't argue. He just tightened his grip slightly, his tone steady and confident, as if the chaos of the night couldn't touch him.
"Sure you are," he murmured, his usual cool sarcasm softened at the edges. "But maybe let's trade the bar floor for something that doesn't spin."

He guided her through the narrow street, his pace unhurried, boots echoing against the slick ground. The faint glow of the Raucous Bounty dimmed behind them as the skyline opened up—Mandalore's steel bones rising against the faint stars.

Andrew spoke again, casual but precise, like every word was chosen on purpose.
"You know," he said, glancing at her sidelong through his black-out shades, "a night like this? It's why I keep a place nearby. Malibu-style loft. Skylights, imported fabric, soundproof glass—the whole narcissist package." A small smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Comes in handy for nights when people think they're fine."

As they turned the corner, the faint hum of his L.T.I. shuttle pulsed in the distance. He touched the comm at his wrist.
"C.E.R.A.," he said under his breath, "I'm inbound with a guest. Clear entry and keep all armor and weaponry out of sight. Let's not give her a heart attack."

The AI's crisp tone replied instantly, only he could hear it.

"Acknowledged. Loft is secure. Lighting adjusted to comfort setting. Refreshments are being prepped."

"Good," Andrew murmured, then turned his focus back to Aren. He adjusted his jacket with one hand, the other still guiding her carefully as they neared the landing pad. "You're lucky," he said lightly, "most people don't get first-class recovery treatment. But you looked like someone who could use a reset."

The shuttle's soft blue lights flared to life ahead, cutting through the night mist.

"C'mon," he said, voice low but steady. "Let's get you some water, a warm seat, and maybe figure out why you're letting ghosts rent space in your head."

Aren D'Shade

 

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren swayed slightly, catching herself on his arm with a lopsided grin. "You… really think of everything, don't you?" she slurred, voice warm and unsteady, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Loft…skylights…fancy fabrics…soundproof…wow. Not that I've ever had anyone do this for me before. I just hope you're not going to try and murder me in that soundproofed area."

She hiccuped softly, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. "Ghosts…bah! They don't stand a chance…not with someone…like you around," she said, letting the words trail teasingly, playful but completely unserious.

Her gaze flicked toward the skyline, then back at him, mischievous and a little bold. "First-class recovery, huh? Don't need instructions… though you might need to make sure I don't…topple over," she added, voice dipping teasingly, letting the words linger just enough to draw a reaction.

Aren leaned slightly closer, a wobbly but deliberate tilt of her head, letting her grin widen. "Careful," she said, smirking, "I might start thinking you're…dangerously good at this."

She gave a soft, unsteady laugh and let her fingers tap lightly against the railing. Not looking for a man…she thought, shaking her head with a wry, tipsy smile. But I can't resist teasing him a little.

Her eyes sparkled with challenge, bright and daring. "Don't think I'm going to fall for you…not that fast," she said, voice playful, "but…hmm…you're definitely entertaining."

She swayed on her feet, still steady enough, letting her tipsy energy linger between them—fun, teasing, and mischievous, with just enough flirt to keep him guessing, but nothing more serious than that.

Andrew Lonek

 

[Andrew Lonek]

Andrew slowed his pace as she spoke, the corner of his mouth curving into that familiar, half-amused grin that came easier than he liked to admit. The rain-specked pavement gleamed under the neon as he guided her along, his tone warm but laced with that dry humor he used when he didn't want to seem too concerned.


"Well, I can promise you this," he said, tightening his arm around her waist just enough to keep her upright, "murder's never been my recovery method of choice. And I think you'll find the soundproofing's more about neighbors than victims."


He glanced down at her, the shimmer of her grin catching the streetlight. "You've got a wicked sense of humor for someone wobbling between heartbreak and oblivion, you know that?"


When she called him "dangerously good at this," his brow arched slightly, but there was warmth behind the teasing. "Maybe I've had practice," he said lightly, then paused. "Or maybe I just know what people look like when they're about to collapse and pretend they aren't."


The shuttle's distant hum drew closer, lights cutting through the mist ahead. Andrew pressed a finger to the small comm on his wrist.
"Make sure home entry protocol is followed—don't want to scare the guest."


"Protocol acknowledged, Andrew," came the calm, modulated voice in his ear.


He glanced back to Aren. "See? Even my AI knows how to keep up appearances."

"If you're going to wallow in sorrow," he said finally, his voice lowering as the shuttle neared, "my place is about as safe as it gets. Luxuries, bad music, and no ghosts. I've got it all covered."


Then, quieter, almost like a thought escaping before he could reel it back, he added, "And for some reason I can't quite name, I'm… drawn to you. Maybe time'll make sense of it. For now, let's just get you inside before the night tries to claim you again."


He opened the shuttle door for her, gesturing with a small, gentlemanly flourish — a mix of confidence, mischief, and something just a little too genuine to hide.

 

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren blinked up at him, rain smearing along her lashes as if the world itself were blurry — or maybe it was just her. She'd drunk enough to forget the sharp edges of a heartbreak that still throbbed in her chest, to leave space for something… anything else. And somehow, Andrew had stepped straight into that hollow spot, filling it with warmth and mischief she hadn't realized she needed.

"Oh, I don't wobble," she slurred lightly, the words coming out softer than she intended, laughter in her voice despite the slight tremor beneath it. "I… gracefully resist gravity."

Her hand, too sure despite her unsteady legs, slipped to his chest for balance. She let it rest there, letting the contact anchor her more than she cared to admit.

"And soundproofing is always suspicious," she continued, her wit flickering through the haze of drink. "Only innocent people explain it ahead of time."

He'd said he was drawn to her. Usually, she might have laughed, pushed back, or scuttled away. Tonight, she didn't. She let it sink in, let herself feel it, letting the ache of loss mingle with something new — something unspoken and untested.

She looked up, meeting his eyes fully for the first time since he'd pulled her away from the bar. For a fleeting moment, there was no joke, no armor, no pretending.

"Thank you," she murmured — two small words that carried more than they should have. "For seeing me… before I even noticed I was about to fall."

The shuttle door slid open behind him, and she tried to step forward, only for her knee to falter slightly. Her hand tightened against him, breath hitching with the tiniest bit of embarrassment.

"…Gracefully," she muttered again, barely above a whisper, a drunken afterthought.

Aren let him help her up into the shuttle, leaning closer than she might have usually, forehead brushing his temple, voice low:

"You know… if you're drawn to me, that's dangerous."
Her lips curved faintly, mischievous even in her haze.
"But I'm too drunk… and too tired… to care right now."

She settled into the seat, eyes heavy, still searching his, vulnerability and curiosity tangled in the dim shuttle light.

"Take me home, Andrew," she murmured finally.
A softer beat.
"Just… don't let go yet."

Andrew Lonek

 

[Andrew Lonek]

Andrew eased in beside her as the shuttle door slid shut, the cabin filling with soft, ambient light and the faint hum of repulsors. Rain streaked the window as the city began to fall away behind them, a glowing smear of motion and color.

"Home it is," he murmured, his voice low and steady, the usual confidence softening into something quieter. He adjusted the seat's recline for her comfort, making sure her head wouldn't loll too far as she settled. "Just rest. You've done enough graceful resisting for one night."

As she exhaled, eyes fluttering shut, Andrew let out a slow breath of his own and turned his wrist slightly, tapping the embedded comm link.
"C.E.R.A.," he said under his breath, tone returning to that crisp, command cadence. "Run a background scan—Aren. Female, human, mid-twenties, last seen at The Circuit Bar. Cross-check with local IDs and planetary logs."

A soft hum answered him. "Scanning… no registered data match found within current systems. Parameters incomplete. Would you like to expand search radius?"

Andrew frowned slightly, glancing toward Aren as she shifted, half-asleep now, her head tilted against the shuttle's side window. "No, hold off," he muttered. "If she's not showing up locally, she doesn't want to be found."

C.E.R.A.'s tone remained neutral. "Concealment methods consistent with deliberate data masking. Possible use of scrambled identity patterns."

He leaned back, watching her breathing steady into something peaceful. "Clever gal," he said softly, almost to himself. "Either you've made a habit of disappearing… or you're running from something worth hiding."

The shuttle banked right, lights gliding across her features—soft lines, faint traces of rain, and that quiet fragility people only showed when they thought no one was watching.

Andrew rubbed the back of his neck, eyes fixed ahead as the cityscape opened up toward his private district. "All right, mystery woman," he whispered with a faint smirk, "let's get you home safe before I start asking questions you're too drunk to answer."

The shuttle hummed on through the clouds, sleek and silent.

 

[Aren D'Shade]

A soft sound escaped her as the shuttle leveled out, something between a hum and a sigh. The faint vibration of the repulsors seemed to cradle her in rhythm, lulling her somewhere between waking and sleep. City lights stretched below them, neon veins fading into darkness, and the reflection of it all shimmered faintly across the cabin walls.

Her eyes fluttered open halfway, brown irises catching the low light as she turned her head slightly toward him. "'Course I've kept myself hidden," she murmured, her words slurred but sure. "That's what I do. Nature of the game…"

Aren's voice carried a soft rasp — exhaustion, liquor, and truth tangled together. "You live long enough out there, you learn not to leave a trail. Makes it harder for anyone to burn you twice."

The corner of her mouth lifted faintly, though it was more habit than humor. "You don't find people like me by accident," she added after a moment, her tone quieter, thoughtful. "You… stumble into us. Usually when you're not looking."

Her head tilted back against the window, eyes tracing the blurred lights beyond the glass. The reflection of rain streaked across her face, distorting into something that looked almost peaceful — or maybe just tired. The hum of the shuttle filled the silence between them, steady and constant, a sound that felt safer than most things she'd known in years.

After a long pause, she exhaled softly, her voice slipping out like a half-formed thought meant only for herself. "Cassian…" Her brow creased faintly, the name carrying the weight of memory. "Told you I'd stop running."

The words hung there for a moment before dissolving into the hum of the engines. Her eyes drifted shut again, the faint rise and fall of her chest steadying as sleep took hold.

Even then, the smallest trace of tension lingered in her — the kind that never entirely left someone used to watching doors and exits, even in dreams.

Andrew Lonek

 

[Andrew Lonek]

Andrew's gaze lingered on her reflection in the cabin window—rain-slicked light gliding across her cheekbones, the name she'd just whispered still echoing faintly in the small space between them.

"Cassian…" he repeated under his breath, tasting the name like a clue. His tone softened, more curiosity than prying. "Who is Cassian?"

No answer came, just the low hum of the engines and the quiet rhythm of her breathing.

He leaned back, eyes flicking toward the dark skyline ahead. "Guess that's a story for when you're sober," he murmured, half to himself, half to the night. "And if you remember telling it."

Moments later, the shuttle began to descend, gliding smoothly toward a landing platform tucked beside a narrow residential tower. The lights beneath the craft illuminated rain-slick duracrete, the kind of neighborhood that looked lived in but discreet — just like her.

As the doors slid open, the cool night air met them again. Andrew stood, stretching slightly before glancing down at her with a faint, wry smile. "Well, Miss Vanishing Act," he said, offering his hand to steady her, "seems we've arrived."

She stirred faintly, blinking awake as he helped her down onto the platform. The rain had softened to a mist, and the glow from a nearby sign traced along her face.

Andrew smirked, eyes flicking toward the modest entryway behind her. "I'll admit, I'm a little curious to see where a woman with no data trail hides her secrets," he said lightly. "As long as you don't kill me the moment I step inside, I'm happy to check the place out."

He gave a small laugh, though there was something more in it—a subtle note of admiration beneath the teasing.

 

[Aren D'Shade]

The mist caught in her hair as she stepped down from the shuttle, the world tilting for a moment before she found her balance again. Andrew's hand steadied her, and for a brief instant, she didn't pull away. The contact was grounding — something solid in the blur between exhaustion and regret.

"Cassian," she echoed softly, her brow furrowing as if the name had followed her out of a dream. "You'd find him if you looked hard enough. The galaxy's got his name on more than a few records…" Her voice slurred slightly, a tired smirk tugging at her lips. "Just not mine."

She took a few careful steps toward the entryway, the glow of the sign washing her in soft orange light. "You wanted to see where ghosts hide?" she murmured, voice quiet but steady despite the haze. "Careful what you ask for."

The door hissed open on her gesture — a modest interior, clean but utilitarian, the kind of space built for function, not comfort. "Don't mind the mess," she added absently. There was none. "And don't touch the terminals. They bite."

Her eyes lingered on him for a moment, brown and unfocused but not without intent. "Thanks," she said simply, the word heavy with more than it appeared. "For getting me home."

Then she turned, stepping just far enough inside for the soft glow of the doorway to fall across her shoulders. "You can come in if you want," she added after a beat, voice quieter now. "Just… don't expect it to feel like a home."

Andrew Lonek

 

[Andrew Lonek]

Andrew followed her in, his boots clicking softly against the smooth floor as the door sealed shut behind him. The faint hum of the shuttle faded, replaced by the low thrum of hidden tech — systems he could sense more than see.

"Everywhere I go tends to feel like home," he said, voice low, carrying an easy kind of charm. "Battlefields, boardrooms, beaches — they all start to blur together after a while. Guess I just bring the home with me."

His eyes wandered over the room — the pristine counters, the sparse furniture, the terminals that seemed to hum faintly, alive and alert. He could tell immediately: this wasn't a space built for staying. It was for waiting, working, maybe running.

He took a slow step closer to one of the terminals, his expression curious but careful. "So these bite, huh?" he said lightly, eyes narrowing just enough to catch the flicker of security code cycling beneath the surface. "They look like they bite hard."

Turning back toward her, his tone softened, curiosity replacing his teasing edge. "You live alone, then? Or maybe that's by design."

He studied her for a beat — the way her eyes seemed to drift but never relax, the guardedness beneath the fatigue. "What about family?" he asked finally. "Do you have one… or did you, once?"

He leaned against the wall beside her entryway, crossing his arms casually but watching her carefully, as if her answer mattered more than he'd admit.

 

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren kicked off her boots near the door, steadying herself with a hand against the wall as the hum of the terminals filled the small space. "Everywhere you go, huh?" she murmured, voice still slurred but aware. "You sound like someone who's seen too many places that stopped feeling different."

The word battlefields caught her off guard. Her posture shifted — not much, but enough to show she'd heard it. "I try to avoid those," she said after a beat. "Never had the stomach for them. Doesn't matter who wins; the clean-up always looks the same."

She moved past him toward one of the consoles, eyes narrowing slightly as the terminal lights pulsed. "Yeah, they bite," she said, tone light but laced with truth. "They're territorial. Like their owner." The faintest smirk flickered and faded. "They keep me safe… and keep everyone else out."

When he asked about family, she hesitated. "They're alive," she said finally, quiet but deliberate. "Zakuul. Last I checked, anyway." Her tone wasn't cold, just distant — as if she'd sealed that part of her life behind a door she didn't plan to reopen. "They have their world, and I have mine. It's better that way."

Aren's gaze drifted back to him, her brown eyes clearer now beneath the haze. "You don't strike me as the family type either," she added, soft but direct. "So what about you? What kind of man calls battlefields home?"

Andrew Lonek

 

[Andrew Lonek]

Andrew let out a quiet breath — not a sigh, but something measured, like he was deciding how much truth to give her. He stepped farther into the room, letting the glow of her terminals cast faint patterns across his face as he leaned a shoulder against the wall.

"You may or may not have heard of me," he began, tone steady, almost casual, though the weight beneath it was anything but. "I'm the Iron Soldier."

He didn't say it like a title. He said it like a fact he was tired of carrying.

"Been through a few wars. More than a few rescue runs. Took contracts nobody else wanted. Represented a coalition effort for the Elysium Empire before it all fell apart." A humorless curve touched his mouth. "Turns out even the brightest empires have an expiration date."

He shifted, eyes glancing over her space again — the precision, the emptiness, the quiet tension threaded through everything. It felt familiar in a way he didn't admit out loud.

"As for family…" He shook his head. "None. Not anymore."
A beat.
"And friends? Not really my thing." His gaze lowered, thoughtful. "People come and go. Some say they'll stay. Most don't. So I stopped expecting them to."

He looked back at her, something honest — maybe even vulnerable — flickering behind the bravado he carried so well.

"What I have now are acquaintances. People I fight beside, people I protect, people I negotiate with. But friends?" He gave a soft exhale, half a laugh, half a confession. "Haven't had one of those in a long time."

He pushed off the wall, stepping a little closer, not imposing — just present.

"You asked what kind of man calls battlefields home."
His voice lowered, not dark, but true.

"The kind who doesn't have anywhere else to return to."

For the first time, he held her gaze without the earlier teasing edge — steady, unguarded, and unmistakably real.

 

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren blinked slowly as his words settled — not because alcohol dulled her, but because honesty like that didn't often walk willingly into her space. Even half-drunk, her mind processed names like files, scanning them with quiet precision.

Iron Soldier.
Of course, she'd heard it. Even Denon's underlevels whispered that title — some with admiration, some with caution, some with the weary acceptance reserved for people who fought too long and too hard.

Her gaze lifted to him fully now, clearer than before, as if his truth had cut through a bit of the fog in her thoughts.

"Right… Iron Soldier," she murmured, not mocking, not impressed — just recognizing. "I've… heard the name. Hard not to, if you keep your ear to any network."

There was no awe in her voice. Just acknowledgment. Respect without embellishment.

When he spoke about friends — or the lack of them — she didn't flinch. Didn't soften. Didn't try to offer something she couldn't promise.

"I get that," she said quietly. "The… absence. People passing through your life like ghosts. No one staying."

She shifted her weight slightly against the counter, fingers brushing a terminal that hummed beneath her touch. The glow mapped faint lines across her face.

"Right now? I don't have any friends either. Not really."
She shrugged, small and tired. "A few allies. A few people I work with. But friends? No."

Her eyes lifted again to meet his — brown, glassy at the edges, but steady in their focus.

"So you have no home?" she asked, voice soft but direct. Not pitying. Not judging.
Just a simple, human question.

A beat passed.

"Not a place?" she added quietly. "Not a person? Not even a reason to want one?"

Andrew Lonek

 

[Andrew Lonek]

Andrew didn't look away when she asked. He didn't dodge it, didn't deflect with charm or steel or some rehearsed soldier's answer he'd used on people who never actually cared about the truth.
He just answered her.

"I do have a home," he said quietly. "Coruscant. South-east inner city quadrant. Up on the hillside."
He let out a breath — not quite a laugh, not quite regret, something in between.

"It's nice. Malibu-style architecture. Open decks, skylines, a view most people would kill a senator to afford." His eyes flicked past her, as though he were looking at it now — all glass, open air, artificial waves breaking against real stone. "It has its perks."
Then his gaze returned to her, steady.

"But it's not a home. Not really. It's a place I visit when I need sleep, or air, or space to think. It doesn't feel lived in. Just… inhabited."
He shifted slightly, the shadows of her terminals brushing faint highlights along the edges of his jaw.


"There was a person," he admitted. " Sommer Dai ."
He said her name with a strange mixture — not bitterness, not longing exactly, but something that still weighed on him.
"She couldn't live with the reality of what I was. Or what I'd done. Or what I'd have to keep being." A beat. "And I couldn't blame her for it."
He didn't look away, even though speaking it clearly wasn't easy.
"I want friends. Allies. Companions. I want people who stay." His voice dipped, lower, quieter. "But my biggest hurdle is longevity. I don't age the way most people do. I don't break the way most people do."
One shoulder lifted in a tired half-shrug.


"It's hard to build something when everyone else is temporary."
A soft pause.
"But that doesn't mean I don't want to try."
He studied her now — not analyzing, not searching for weaknesses, but genuinely seeing her: a woman who hid herself so thoroughly not even an AI could trace her, who moved like someone used to leaving before dawn, who slept with one ear listening for betrayal.
"And you?" he asked gently.

 

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren blinked slowly at him, the room tilting just a little before settling back into place. Even through the haze, she understood the honesty Andrew had given her — raw, tired, unvarnished. Not many people offered that, especially not men who carried battlefields in their bones.

"…Sommer Dai," she echoed softly, tasting the name with a kind of gentle respect. "Sounds like someone important."
No judgment, no jealousy — just quiet understanding.

She steadied herself with a palm against the wall, brown eyes half-focused on him, half drifting.

"You asked about me," she murmured. "So… I'll try to give you real answers too."

A slow breath escaped her.

"I was born on Coruscant. Raised on Zakuul. Life there was… clean. Organized. A little too perfect."
She let out a soft, unfocused laugh.

"Then I grew up and ended up on Denon. Loud, messy, alive — but it was home. I had an entire floor of a tower to myself. Workshop, living space, the works."
Her expression flickered — not quite pain, but something close.
"It was mine."

She traced a slow line on the counter with her fingers, grounding herself.

"Then the galaxy did what it always does."
A humorless snort.
"Took it."

Her voice softened again, barely above a whisper:

"And Cassian… he didn't break my heart on purpose. He just stopped choosing me. Chose someone else. And I was stupid enough to hope."

She shook her head as if to clear it — unsuccessfully.

"So now I'm here on Mandalore," she said, motioning vaguely toward the window and the dim city lights outside. "Contract work with the Empire, odd tech jobs, helping where I can. Starting over. Again."

A faint, crooked smile tugged at her lips.

"It's not Denon. But… the Mandalorians treat me like I belong. Or at least like I'm useful."
Her eyes softened.
"And sometimes that's close enough to family."

She looked at him then, really looked at the honesty he'd offered, at the quiet loneliness under all that steel.

"You said people don't stay," she murmured. "I… understand that too well."

She swayed slightly, catching herself on the counter, then huffed out a drunken laugh.

"And right now… I need to sit before Mandalore decides to throw me into a wall."

She stepped toward the small seating alcove and glanced back at him, eyes warm and unguarded in that way only the very drunk can be.

"Sit with me, Andrew?" she asked softly.
"Just for a bit. Before I fall over, or before I start rambling again."

Andrew Lonek

 

[Andrew Lonek]

Andrew didn't answer her right away — not with words.
Instead, his posture shifted with a quiet, deliberate grace. Shoulders easing. Breath steadying. The kind of movement a man makes when he's trying not to look as affected as he feels.

He stepped closer, slow and intentional.

When her balance dipped, he reached out—not grabbing, just guiding. His hand slid gently along her forearm, warm and steady, supporting her weight without overwhelming it. His other hand hovered near her back, ready to catch her if she swayed again. He moved with a softness that didn't match his reputation, as if her bones were carved from something delicate.

"Easy," he murmured, voice low.

He helped her ease into the seating alcove, letting her go only when he was sure she wasn't going to slide right off the cushions. Then he sat beside her—not too close, not far either. Just enough that she could lean if she needed to.

Inside, however, he was anything but steady.

Calm down.
His heart was racing in a way it hadn't in years — not since before the armor, before the wars, before he started living like a man who fully expected everyone around him to vanish. Attraction was an issue of biology; he could handle that. But this… this warmth in his ribs? This sense of familiarity with someone he'd only just met?

That was harder to ignore.

She could be a good friend, he reminded himself.
Steady. Rational. Grounded.
The galaxy was cold enough — having someone like her in his orbit wouldn't hurt.

The thought made something in his chest tighten.

Her skill with tech alone was unreal. Obscuring herself from C.E.R.A.'s databases? Even if she was sloppy drunk, he respected that. Admired it. Maybe even envied it.

He rested his arms lightly on his knees, looking over at her with a calmer expression than he felt.

"You said the Mandalorians treat you like you belong." A soft breath left him. "I get that. I've got someone in the Empire too — a friend. Good at what she does. Strong. Sharper than she lets on."

He faintly shook his head.

"But I think she'll end up going solo. If she hasn't already."

It wasn't meant as a warning — just a truth. Just an observation from someone who recognized people who didn't stay put.

Andrew turned slightly toward Aren, studying her through the quiet hum of her terminals.

"You're better at the 'starting over' thing than you think," he said softly.

Then, after a beat:

"And for what it's worth… I'm glad you asked me to sit." He says as he sits down with eyes locked on her.

 

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren let herself sink into the cushions with a quiet exhale, the kind that carried more than just exhaustion — it carried surrender. The room tilted once, then settled, and the warmth of Andrew's steadying hand lingered on her forearm long after he'd pulled back. She didn't fight the support. She didn't flinch away. In her drunken haze, she was clear-minded enough to recognize that he'd touched her gently — not claiming, not pushing, simply making sure she didn't collapse onto the floor. That alone was rare enough to disarm her. She blinked slowly, brown eyes hazy at the edges but sharp enough to see the way he positioned himself beside her: close enough to help, far enough to respect her space. It surprised her how little she minded that proximity.

"Thanks," she murmured at last, voice soft and a little slurred. "My balance is taking a vacation without telling me." A faint, lopsided huff escaped — not quite a laugh, but the closest she could manage. Her fingers drifted to her temple, rubbing at the dull ache forming there. As he spoke of his friend in the Empire — this strong, solitary figure who sounded all too familiar — something in her expression shifted. Not pain exactly, not anymore. Just recognition. Understanding. "I know that type," she said quietly. "People who don't stay. People who keep moving so no one has the chance to hold them in place." Her gaze dipped for a moment, lashes lowering as a shadow crossed her features. "Maybe they think it keeps others safe. Or themselves." She didn't say Cassian's name — not again — but the ghost of him threaded through her tone all the same.

She leaned back against the cushioned wall, letting the dim light from the window spill over her face. The glow softened her sharp lines, making her look younger, more tired, more human in a way she rarely allowed herself to show. "You say I'm better at starting over than I think," she murmured, the corner of her mouth lifting faintly. "Maybe. Or maybe I'm just used to losing things." Her voice wasn't bitter — just honest in a way alcohol sometimes pulled out of her. She fell quiet for a few heartbeats, breathing slowly, letting the silence sit between them like a fragile bridge neither of them pushed too hard.

When she finally turned her head toward him, her expression held something steadier, something real. "I asked you to sit because…" she hesitated, searching through the fog in her thoughts for the right word. "…you don't feel dangerous. Not to me." Her eyes held his, unwavering despite the haze. "And I don't mean your reputation. Or your armor. Or whatever 'Iron Soldier' stories exist out there." Her inhale was soft, shallow. "I mean, you don't feel like someone who wants to take anything from me tonight."

Her fingers traced absent patterns on the cushion beside her, her voice dipping lower as if the truth might crumble if spoken too loudly. "That's rare," she said. "Most people want something. Information, credits, a favor, leverage…" Her jaw flexed slightly, then eased. "I don't… have many people I can sit with like this."

The silence that followed wasn't empty; it was full of something cautious and new. Aren let out a slow breath, not looking away this time — not hiding behind the walls she usually kept so firmly in place. "So I'm glad you didn't say no," she finished softly. In the warm, humming quiet of the safehouse, she held his gaze with a steadiness she didn't feel, grounding herself not in him, but in the rare moment of safety he wasn't trying to take advantage of. For someone who spent her life running, hiding, vanishing — tonight, she let herself stay still, just for a moment.

Andrew Lonek

 

[Andrew Lonek]

Andrew listened — really listened — the way a man does when he's spent years surrounded by noise and suddenly finds himself in front of something quiet and real. Aren didn't ramble; she revealed. Piece by fragile piece. And every time she looked at him through that drunken haze with honesty instead of fear, something in his chest tightened in a way he wasn't used to.


He shifted slightly on the cushion, posture still straight but softer now, the kind of softened that only came when he trusted the moment. He let his hands rest loosely between his knees, fingers interlaced, grounding himself against the sudden, unexpected warmth of her closeness.


"You're right," he said quietly. "A lot of people want something."


He didn't look away from her — not because he wanted anything from her, but because she deserved to be looked at when she opened up like that.


"But… wanting something from someone isn't the same thing as wanting to take something."


His voice stayed low, not lecturing, not performing — just sharing a truth carved from years of seeing the best and worst the galaxy could spit out.


"I learned early that respect isn't optional. Not in my work. Not in my life. Titles, armor, rank — none of that gives anyone the right to cross a line."
A small breath left him, almost a sigh.
"I've seen too many soldiers forget that."


His gaze drifted briefly across her safehouse — the terminals, the dim lights, the quiet hum — then back to her.


"You said I don't feel dangerous to you."
A faint, subtle smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Good. I'd rather be predictable than predatory."


He leaned back slightly, shoulders easing as he spoke the next part with a weight that came from years of thinking about it.


"People call the Jedi 'good' and the Sith 'evil.' But after everything I've seen?" He shook his head once. "I don't buy into that. The Force isn't good or bad. Power isn't good or bad. People are the ones who decide whether they're building something… or burning it down."


No judgment. No doctrine. Just conviction.


"In my line of work, I try to stop wars before they start."
His tone darkened just slightly — the voice of a man who'd failed that mission more than once.
"Sometimes I get there in time. Sometimes I don't."

"Oh and im working on a planetary shield system" He let out a short, dry exhale. "Well. They're complicated. Especially against firepower on the level of a Death Star."

A beat.
"But I'm working on it."


The way he said it wasn't arrogant — it was matter-of-fact, as if he'd already spent nights buried in schematics and sleepless mornings chasing solutions no one else dared attempt.


He shifted again, this time turning a little more toward her, his voice softening.


"You don't have to worry about me wanting anything from you tonight, Aren."
His eyes held hers, steady and warm.

 

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren blinked at him slowly, letting her focus settle through the fog in her mind as if she were coaxing each word into clarity. Even drunk, her gaze had a steadiness to it — a quiet, anchored calm that refused to slip into the kind of vulnerability lesser people wore like a second skin when intoxicated. She shifted slightly in her seat, curling one leg beneath her and grounding herself with the subtle tap of her fingers against the cushion. When she finally spoke, her voice came low, soft, but unmistakably controlled. "You don't talk like a soldier," she murmured, studying him from beneath half-lowered lashes. "At least… not like the ones I've known." There was something almost contemplative in the way she said it — as if she were taking stock of him not as a threat, not even as a curiosity, but as someone who had surprised her by not fitting the mold she'd expected.

Her eyes drifted, tracing briefly the line of his forearm resting between his knees before she forced her focus away again, letting it flicker toward the glow of her terminal screens. "You talk like someone who's seen too much to think the galaxy is divided into heroes and monsters," she said quietly, the smallest thread of weary humor edging her tone. It wasn't mocking — just the voice of someone who had lived enough life to understand the space between absolutes. A breath slipped out of her, not quite a sigh but something softer, something that hinted at tension beginning to unwind. "Predictable, not predatory," she echoed, with a faint curve of amusement at the corner of her mouth. "Good. I've had enough predators in my life. Being able to sit in the same room without waiting for someone's hand to drift the wrong way is… nicer than I thought it would be."

She let her head tilt slightly against the wall behind her, the movement relaxed in a way she rarely allowed when sober. Her gaze returned to him, steady despite the haze. "And you're right. Wanting something isn't the same as taking it." Her fingers brushed lightly across her own forearm — an unconscious gesture she used to center herself when her emotions rose too near the surface. "I appreciate that you know the difference," she added quietly. It was simple, but not small. Coming from her, it was the closest thing to genuine praise she ever gave strangers.

Her eyes shifted again, taking in his posture, the honesty in what he'd said, and then the surprising ambition behind the words he'd shared earlier. "A planetary shield system," she repeated, her brow lifting a fraction, impressed but hiding it well. "You work on things that change entire worlds. I… build things that keep a handful of people alive in ugly corners of the galaxy." Her voice softened, the guard in it easing under the weight of exhaustion and truth. "Your scale's a bit bigger." Another slow breath left her, the kind that suggested she'd finally let herself relax enough to feel the warmth in the room rather than the cold edges she usually braced against.

"You don't feel dangerous," she said again after a moment, her voice quieter, thoughtful rather than defensive. "Not to me. If you did, I'd have known the moment you stepped into that shuttle." She wasn't boasting — just stating a fact, the way someone accustomed to reading people for survival spoke without embellishment. Her eyes drifted shut for a heartbeat before opening again, slower now. "I'm drunk," she admitted plainly, "but I'm not stupid. And I'm not careless." The words held a muted steel, the kind that came from someone who'd learned the hard way what carelessness cost.

When her gaze finally found his again, there was something warm there — not flirtation, not vulnerability, just honest gratitude wrapped in exhaustion. "I don't worry about you wanting anything from me tonight, Andrew." She let a small, lopsided smile ghost across her lips, the kind that softened her without making her fragile. "If I did… You wouldn't be sitting that close."

She shifted again, just enough to settle herself more comfortably into the alcove seat, a subtle invitation to calm rather than intimacy. Her eyelids grew heavy, but her voice remained clear enough to be understood. "Stay a little while," she murmured, letting her head rest lightly against the wall. "Just… sit."

It wasn't a door cracked open.
It wasn't a request for anything more.
Just a simple human ask — from one person who'd spent too much of her life alone to another who seemed just as used to solitude.

A quiet moment. A shared silence. The kind neither of them had realized they needed until it was already happening.

Andrew Lonek

 

[Andrew Lonek]

He shifted just slightly — not enough to crowd her, just enough so that one knee brushed lightly, intentionally, against her leg on top of the cushions. A silent I'm here, not a push. Then he lifted his hand and nudged her shoulder with two knuckles, a gentle tap more teasing than firm.