Private Cantina Crossroads

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren didn't rush to answer him. She didn't lean away from his fear or try to smother it beneath reassurances he wasn't ready for. Instead, she watched him quietly, letting his words settle, letting the raw honesty behind them breathe in the space between them. She felt the shift in him—not panic, not retreat, but the vulnerable tightening of someone confronting a truth they had spent a lifetime avoiding.

Only after a long, steady moment did she move. Not dramatically; just enough for her knee to find his with a firmer, intentional press, a quiet anchor that never reached for him more than he reached for her.

"Skars…" she murmured, her voice low and unhurried. "You think I'm protecting you from something out there." She held his gaze, not blinking, not softening too much, but offering him the calm steadiness he couldn't yet have for himself. "But I'm not shielding you from the galaxy."

A faint shake of her head punctuated the words.

"I'm shielding you from the belief that you're only a weapon."

Her tone remained even, but there was a depth beneath it—recognition, not pity. She didn't look away as she continued, "That's the thing you've been fighting all this time. Not enemies. Not shadows. Yourself. The version of you someone else carved into you. The one you were taught to be. The one you survived by becoming."

She shifted slightly toward him, enough that he would feel the intention of her presence, not the pressure of it.

"You survived because that was the only path available to you. No one ever taught you how to live. No one ever showed you that you were allowed to."

Her hand moved then, settling on the cushion beside his—not touching, not reaching, but echoing the closeness he had offered earlier. A quiet mirror. A grounding line between them.

"That doesn't make you dangerous," she said quietly. "It makes you injured. Conditioned. Carrying damage that wasn't your choice."

Her knee pressed a little more firmly into his, guiding him back into the moment when she saw his breath falter.

"And if you're terrified?" Aren's voice softened, not with pity but with understanding. "You're supposed to be. Anyone who's only ever known life in motion—running, fighting, surviving—has no map for peace. No practice in staying."

She let the silence settle for a moment, but this time it didn't feel brittle. It felt intentional.

"You're not wrong about one thing," she added gently. "I am here. And I'm not going anywhere just because you're afraid of the parts of yourself you haven't named yet."

Her eyes met his fully now, steady and unguarded in a rare way that she only ever allowed with him.

"You're not protected because I'm strong, Skars. You're protected because I see more in you than what you were shaped into. And I'm going to keep seeing you that way—even on the days you can't see it yourself."

She didn't lean in further. She didn't grip his hand. She let the closeness remain exactly as he had chosen it and decided to stay beside him with equal measure.

"So if being here makes it even a little easier for you to learn how to stay," she finished, her voice lowering into something quietly resolute, "then I'm here. And I'm staying."

And with that, she sat with him—still, grounded, present—offering not force, not rescue, but the steady truth of someone who wasn't going to run.

Akyla Rein (Skars)

 

[Akyla Rein (Skars)]

He drew in a breath, as if the words burned his throat.

"I… I don't really know how to explain it."

His gaze dropped to the floor for a second, then came back a little too quickly, as if he was afraid to be left alone with his own thoughts.

"What I feel inside… it's blurry. It moves, it rumbles, it feels like… something trying to come back. Something I thought I had locked away for good."

He lifted a hand slightly, then stopped midway, uncertain.

"When you're here, it quiets down. Not completely, but… enough for me to breathe. Enough for me to still tell the difference between who I want to be and who I used to be."

A silence followed. Not heavy—fragile.

"And I think that's what scares me the most. Not the galaxy. Not our enemies. Just… the idea that if you go too far, I might stop seeing the difference. I might lose that line."

This time, he raised his head without looking away.


"So… stay. Even if I don't really deserve it. Just a little. A little longer."


Aren D'Shade

 

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren didn't move to touch him. She didn't reach for his jaw or crowd his space. She just stayed where she was, close enough for him to feel her presence but far enough that nothing about her posture suggested pressure or expectation. She knew better. She knew exactly how far to stand so that he didn't feel cornered, and exactly how to hold the space so he didn't feel abandoned.

When he finished speaking — breath shaky, words half-fragmented by fear he wasn't used to naming — she drew in a slow, measured breath.

"Skars," she said quietly, her voice low but firm, steady as a pulse line, "whatever is waking up inside you… It's not going to take you apart just because I'm not touching you."

Her gaze remained level, calm in a way that wasn't dismissive — only certain.

"You've spent years surviving the worst things the galaxy could make you into. If that old part of you still had real control, you wouldn't be able to sit here and tell me you're afraid of it. People who are consumed by their pasts don't examine them." A faint breath left her, almost a dry scoff. "They don't articulate them."

Aren didn't reach for him, but she shifted one hand on the table — not touching his, but close enough that if he wanted the contact, it was there. A bridge he could choose or not choose.

"You're not afraid of the darkness coming back," she continued, quieter now. "You're afraid of wanting something else. Something that doesn't fit with the life you were taught to live."

She let that thought settle. Gave him time to breathe.

"And that line you're terrified of losing? If it were really that thin, you wouldn't have come to find me tonight. You wouldn't be talking. You wouldn't be fighting yourself this hard to stay present."

Her voice softened, not emotionally — just factually, cleanly.

"You shouldn't be afraid of me walking away. I don't stay places by accident." Her eyes held his, unwavering. "And if I thought you were a danger to yourself or to me, I wouldn't be sitting here. I'd already have you out of this building."

Only then did her fingers inch slightly closer to his — not touching, just near enough that he felt the choice was his.

"I'm here because I choose to be," she said. "Not because you think you deserve it. Or don't. I'm here because I want to be."

Her expression didn't shift much — but her presence deepened, settled.

"If you want me to stay," she murmured, "I'll stay."

A beat. Quiet. Sure.

"And no… you're not going to slip back into who you were. Trust me, Skars." The faintest hint of warmth threaded her tone. "If you were on the edge of that, I'd already know."

She stayed exactly as she was — still, solid, real — giving him room to breathe without making him feel watched.

"I'm not going anywhere," she said softly.

And the space between them held steady, open but grounded, waiting for him to decide how close he wanted to be.

Akyla Rein (Skars)