Private Cantina Crossroads

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren didn't look away when he said it — that quiet, uncertain admission that would've sounded impossible from him only an hour ago. She didn't rush to fill the silence, didn't offer reassurance he didn't ask for. Instead, she let his words settle, the way she always let delicate machinery finish its cycle before touching anything. Some things worked better unforced.

Only when he truly lifted his eyes to her did she breathe in and answer.

"Skars… logic doesn't always get the final say." Her voice wasn't soft exactly — Aren didn't do soft — but it held a steady clarity, like a correctly tuned frequency. "People think everything can be broken down into mechanics. Inputs and outputs. Signals and responses. But that's just tech."

She tapped their joined hands gently with her thumb, a subtle grounding gesture.

"We're not machines. Not everything we do has a neat sequence behind it." Her gaze held his without wavering. "Sometimes something just… happens. Not because someone forced it, or planned it, or messed with your head. Sometimes it's just the moment. The right one. The kind that doesn't need to be dissected to be real."

She took a slow breath, the faintest quirk of a smile shaping her mouth — small, but genuine.

"You don't have to understand why it happened. You don't have to trace the steps. Logic isn't a requirement for… this." Her fingers curled a little more securely around his, steady, deliberate, accepting. "You let yourself stop hiding for one moment. That's all. Doesn't need proof or reason."

Her head tilted slightly, eyes warm in a way that wasn't soft, but unmistakably sincere.

"And if you chose to be open because you wanted to?" She gave a slight nod, an engineer's version of certainty. "Then that's enough. Wanting is its own reason."

A brief pause — not tense, not hesitant, simply real.

"I'm not going to question it. And you don't need to, either."

She didn't pull him closer or make the moment bigger than it was. She held his hand a little more securely — an anchor that didn't demand anything, didn't push him forward or pull him back—just held the space they'd chosen together.

Truth spoken plainly, in the only way she ever offered it.

Akyla Rein (Skars)

 

[Akyla Rein (Skars)]

Skars stayed silent for a moment—not lost this time, but actually absorbing what she had said, truly letting it sink in, like a piece finally finding the exact place it was meant to lock into.

Then he nodded slowly.

“Alright… fine.”

The word sounded simple, but in his voice it carried the weight of a rare decision. “No logic needed. No dissecting what I feel. I can… just let it exist.”

He let out a breath, not quite a laugh, but something close to one—sincere and a little incredulous.

“You realize you just convinced someone like me to stop overthinking?”

He shook his head lightly, but the look he gave her was clear, sharper than it had ever been.

“Congratulations. Not many people pull that off.”

He loosened his hold on her hand just enough to take it again in a different way—not hesitant, not retreating, but a gesture that acknowledged the moment and moved it forward instead of freezing it.

“Listen…”

He drew in a long breath, as if preparing for another step.

“If I’m going to learn to stop hiding behind my walls, I’d rather do it with someone who knows when to talk and when to let things breathe. So…”

A brief smile flickered—small, tired, but genuine.

“What do we do now? Stay here? Tell each other a little more truth? Walk? Get another drink? You decide.”

Not a flight.
Not a recoil.
An opening—real, deliberate—toward whatever the next moment could become.
Maybe even a desire to prove to himself that he can let go—not just with words, though for him that was already a b
ig step, but through actions.

Aren D'Shade

 

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren didn't react right away, and it wasn't because she was calculating or keeping distance. It was because she could see it — really see it — the subtle but fundamental shift in him. Not enough to erase the weight he carried, not enough to pretend he wasn't still stitched together by habit and caution… but enough to change the shape of the night. Enough to make the air between them feel different, steadier, something neither of them had planned for.

A quiet breath slid from her nose — half a laugh, half something softer — as she eased back against the cushion, letting her hand rest in his where he had moved it. Her thumb brushed gently across his, slow and deliberate, acknowledging everything he'd said without trying to steer it or dissect it.

"That's the thing about logic," she murmured, her voice low and steady. "It's useful… until it isn't. Sometimes you just let the moment be what it is. Sometimes that's enough."

Her gaze lifted to meet his — calm, unhurried, warm in a way she rarely let herself be. "And I didn't convince you to stop overthinking. You did that. I just gave you a space where it was safe to try." One corner of her mouth curled in a faint smirk. "If I could actually make people do what I want, my life would be a hell of a lot easier."

She shifted just slightly toward him on the seat, not pulling away, but turning so she faced him more fully. The fog of her earlier haze had thinned; her eyes were clearer, but the softness lingered — not vulnerability, just presence—a choice to stay in this moment with him.

"No big leaps," she said quietly. "No tests. You're opening a door that took you years even to touch. You don't have to sprint through it."

Her thumb pressed lightly against his again — a brief, steady reassurance.

"And for someone who claims he's bad at this, you're doing just fine."

The silence settled again—warm this time, not fragile—and for a while she let it breathe between them. But after a moment, amusement flickered faintly across her face.

"You know…" she murmured, leaning back just enough for him to look at her properly, "I think we might be committing a crime."

She nodded toward their untouched table.

"We've been sitting here this long with empty glasses."

Her voice softened, smoothing into something warm and quietly inviting.

"If we're going to talk about walls and trust and whatever this is turning into… we should probably have something in front of us besides the cushions."

She didn't stand; she didn't pull away. Instead, she shifted just enough that her knee brushed his — intentional, steady, a small anchor between them.

"Come on," she said quietly. "Let's get another drink. Together."

Not an escape.
Not a reset.
Just the next step forward — one he didn't have to take alone.

"If we're figuring this out one breath at a time," she added with a small, warm smile, "we might as well do it with a full glass."

Akyla Rein (Skars)

 

[Akyla Rein (Skars)]

Skars erupted into laughter, a genuine, full-bodied laugh, the kind of laugh belonging to someone unafraid to assert themselves in the galaxy, indifferent to glances or judgment. He let the sound spill out, raw and liberating, unraveling years of careful calculation. His shoulders relaxed slightly, as if an invisible weight had just been lifted.

The laughter faded slowly, and he returned to seriousness, though a calm smile lingered on his lips. His eyes drifted around the room, taking in the light, the surroundings, before he straightened gently, his breath lighter, steadier.

“This crime…” he murmured to himself, low but firm, “might be worse than anything I’ve ever done.”

He gestured, and two additional glasses were soon placed before him, the clink of crystal punctuating the quiet of the room. Skars picked up one of the glasses, turning it in his fingers, watching the reflections dance on its surface.

His gaze wandered to the void beyond, his thoughts stretching down the corridors of his past. His fingers traced invisible circles along the rim of the glass.
“I spent so long thinking the world had nothing but walls…”

He murmured to himself, almost inaudibly. He shook his head slowly, imperceptibly, as if to shake off a memory.

He inhaled deeply, then exhaled slowly, a breath that seemed to lay decades of caution and defiance upon the table. His hands clenched the glass for a moment, then relaxed, letting the moment settle.

A slight nod accompanied his silent decision. He raised his glass, contemplative, watching the liquid reflect the surrounding lights. His smile was barely perceptible, but his eyes were more open, calmer.

He stayed like that for a moment, letting the room and the night stretch around him. A breath, a gesture, a restrained laugh, a slight nod — every part of his body spoke of acceptance, fully, without rushing, without fleeing.

Then, without hurry, he brought the glass to his lips, marking the first tangible step of this night in which he had chosen to remain… to open up, to simply exist.

Aren D'Shade

 

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren watched him laugh — really laugh — and something inside her softened in a way she hadn't expected. Not because the sound surprised her, though it did, but because of how freely it came out of him. Loud, unguarded, unashamed. It wasn't the laugh of a man pretending. It wasn't a mask or a cover or a deflection. It was Skars, stripped of the tight control he lived in, letting something human and alive slip through the cracks on purpose. For a moment she simply watched, leaning an elbow on the table, the faintest smirk tugging at her lips despite herself. It wasn't a reaction she could hide even if she tried.

When his laughter faded into that quiet smile, she let her own eyes follow the motion of his hand as he reached for the glass. The dim light of the room hit the surface of the drink, reflecting in shifting amber lines across his knuckles. Her gaze lifted back to him when he spoke, amusement slipping warm into her features.

"Trust me," she murmured, her voice low and even, "if empty glasses are the worst crime on your record tonight, you're doing surprisingly well."

She picked up her own glass with a slow, steady movement, letting the cool surface settle into her palm. The faint warmth at the back of her mind — the remnants of her earlier haze — made the moment feel suspended, softened at the edges but still sharp enough to register every detail: the way his shoulders had eased for the first time since she'd met him, the way his breath seemed less like a weapon he held and more like something he allowed.

Her eyes stayed on him as she lifted her glass just slightly, not quite a toast but close enough. "Walls make sense," she said quietly. "Especially when they've kept you alive this long. But… sometimes they stop being shields and start being cages. You don't always notice when the shift happens."

She let that hang in the air, not pressing, not probing — simply offering a truth she'd learned the hard way herself.

Her gaze drifted to the two glasses on the table, then back to him with a faint, knowing tilt of her head. "But maybe," she continued, "the world isn't just walls. Or maybe some people are worth opening a door for. If only halfway."

Aren took a sip — slow, unhurried — letting the burn settle comfortably down her throat before she set the glass back down, her fingers lingering on the rim for a moment.

"You're staying," she added softly, a subtle undercurrent of approval threading through the words. "Not because you have to. Not because someone cornered you into it. But because you chose to. That matters more than you think."

She shifted slightly, settling into the cushions, letting her knee brush his under the table in a quiet mirror of his earlier gesture — not pushing for anything, just acknowledging the closeness that had finally started to feel natural.

"Drink," she said gently, almost like a suggestion rather than an instruction. "Take the moment for what it is. No past. No logic. Just this."

She lifted her glass again in a slow, understated gesture — an invitation, not a ceremony.

"To staying," she murmured, voice warm but steady. "In whatever way you choose to."

And she remained there beside him — steady, calm, quietly present — matching his decision with her own.

Akyla Rein (Skars)

 

[Akyla Rein (Skars)]

Skars leaned back slightly, letting his shoulders drop in a way that felt foreign but liberating. The glass sat heavy in his hand, and he turned it slowly, watching the amber liquid catch the light. A quiet, almost imperceptible smile curved his lips, the kind that didn’t demand attention but carried the weight of something long held back.

He exhaled, low and steady, letting the warmth of the moment settle over him. His gaze drifted from the glass to the table, then to the cushions beside him, tracing the space they shared without moving. A thought flickered, unspoken, as he realized how unusual this calm felt — how rare it was to let time pass without the constant tension of vigilance.

His fingers tapped lightly against the rim of the glass, a subtle rhythm, almost as if he were measuring the quiet. Then, he shifted his grip, turning the glass just enough to reflect the light back toward him, and for a moment, he caught his own reflection — alert, cautious, yet oddly soft around the edges.

A low, quiet chuckle escaped him, brief and unguarded, the sound almost alien to the habitual armor he carried. His eyes lifted, tracing a line across the room before returning to the table, thoughtful. There was no rush, no pressure — only the deliberate, measured acknowledgment of the space Aren had offered.

He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, hands still holding the glass. His gaze traced the room, then back to the empty space beside him, the gesture small but significant: a silent inventory of possibilities, a recognition that some moments didn’t require words, only presence.

Finally, he set the glass down with care, a soft tap against the table that seemed to punctuate his quiet agreement with the unspoken. His fingers lingered near it for a beat longer, as if testing the balance between action and restraint, before he shifted again, back into a posture of measured attention, ready for whatever came next.

Aren D'Shade

 

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren didn't rush to fill the silence he left behind. She watched him instead — the way he leaned back with that rare looseness in his shoulders, the way the light caught in the glass he kept turning between his fingers, the faint curve of a smile that appeared and faded like something he wasn't entirely aware he was doing.

It was subtle, but unmistakable.

He was letting the moment exist.

Her gaze softened at the edges, a quiet, appreciative warmth threading into her expression as she let her body sink deeper into the cushions. She took a slow sip from her glass, setting it down with the same careful ease he had used, as if mirroring his pace without drawing attention to it. When she finally spoke, it was with a tone as steady and comfortable as the room around them.

"You're finally breathing," she murmured, not as an observation to tease him with, but as a simple truth. "Feels different when you actually let yourself do it, doesn't it?"

She let her arm rest along the back of the couch, her posture relaxed, her presence close enough to be felt but never crowding him. Her knee brushed lightly against his again — a small, steady point of contact that grounded the space between them without asking anything from him.

For a moment, she followed his gaze, letting her eyes drift over the room, over the dim lights and the quiet familiarity settling around them. Then she looked back at him, her voice dropping just a touch lower, smoother.

"You don't have to talk," she said softly. "Not unless you want to. But I like watching you settle in. There's something… honest about it."

A faint smirk tugged at one corner of her mouth — not sharp, not teasing, just quietly amused. "Most people try to fill the silence with noise. You're the first person I've met who actually lets it breathe."

Her fingers nudged her glass a few centimeters closer to his before she lifted her gaze again, meeting his with a calm that had no urgency in it at all.

"So take your time," she said. "We're in no hurry. Not tonight."

She leaned back again, letting her shoulder rest loosely against the cushion, close enough that he could feel the warmth of her without feeling trapped by it.

"I'm right here," she added, quietly but with absolute certainty. "Whenever you're ready for whatever comes next."

She didn't press.
She didn't push.
She matched him — breath for breath, quiet for quiet — and stayed exactly where he needed her to be.

Akyla Rein (Skars)

 

[Akyla Rein (Skars)]

Skars remained silent for a long moment, his eyes fixed on the glass he was spinning between his fingers. He felt Aren’s presence just a few centimeters away, but this time, there was no tension in his shoulders. Just a strange lightness he hadn’t felt in years.

He let out a slow, almost imperceptible breath, feeling his pulse calm slightly. The room around him seemed to slow down, as if even the air had decided to take its time, allowing him to come back to himself. Finally, he lifted his eyes to the place where he knew she was, a steady, calm gaze, but filled with recognition. Recognition for what she had given him: a space where he could finally be himself, without filters, without control.

He drew a deep breath, his hands tightening slightly around the glass, then relaxing. Every movement was measured, deliberate. His eyes fixed on a point in front of him, then drifted back toward her, gently, as if to check that everything he felt could remain here without words. To check that all of this could simply exist. And thanks to the anchor Aren provided, he succeeded.

Finally, he inclined his head slightly, a subtle gesture, but heavy with meaning, like a silent agreement with everything she had just allowed him. His fingers played with the glass for a moment, then he set it gently on the table, letting his hands fall onto his knees.

“Thank you.”

A simple word, spoken strangely, like in another tongue not mastered by Akyla. The language of recognition. One of those idioms he knew only by name, by legend, without ever truly tasting it.

Aren D'Shade

 

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren didn't answer right away. She didn't need to. The word hung between them—thank you—and she felt the shift behind it, the unfamiliar shape it took in his voice. Gratitude wasn't something men like Skars were taught how to give. Not sincerely. Not like this.

So she didn't rush in to fill the space with anything loud or awkward. Instead, she let the quiet absorb the weight of what he'd offered. Only when the moment settled, when his shoulders had eased that last, faint degree, did she turn slightly toward him, enough that her shoulder brushed the edge of his arm.

Her voice was low when it came, warm in that effortless way she rarely let anyone hear. "You don't owe me thanks for that," she said softly. "You don't have to thank someone for giving you space to breathe."

She let her fingers trail lightly along the side of her own glass, not drinking—just grounding herself in the same way he had a moment ago. Her gaze slid to him, calm and sure, meeting his without expecting anything further.

"You made the choice," she went on. "I just didn't get in your way."

A faint exhale left her, something like a quiet smile but not quite shaped into one. She turned her hand over on her knee, palm up—not asking for his, not pushing, just opening the option if he wanted it.

"And if you ever want to sit like this again," she added gently, "you don't need a reason. Or a confession. Or even a conversation."

Her eyes lingered on him for a moment, steady and unafraid.

"You can just be here. That's enough."

She leaned back slightly, letting her shoulder remain touching his, the point of contact warm and grounding—but light enough that he could pull away at any time without feeling it meant anything.

Then, almost as if it were an afterthought—but deliberately chosen—she added, with a softness most people would never hear from her:

"But if you're thanking me… you're welcome."

The words weren't a dismissal.
They were an acceptance.
And between them, they filled the room with something real.

Akyla Rein (Skars)

 

[Akyla Rein (Skars)]

Lost in the glow of the city lights, Akyla let Aren’s words sink into him like dust settling after a battle. He didn’t try to claim them, didn’t try to bend them into something that fit him. He simply acknowledged their presence — and for him, that was already a lot.

He drew a long, quiet breath, barely noticeable, his fingers brushing the rim of the glass one last time before resting against his thigh.
When he finally spoke, his voice carried that calm gravity that only surfaced in very rare moments:

“You say you just avoided getting in my way.”

A brief pause. Light, but unmistakable. He searches for the right words — another rarity.

“To be honest… that’s not something many people have ever done. Most of those I’ve crossed paths with tried to guide me, correct me, restrain me… or break me. Almost never just… let me move where I needed to go.”

He turned his head slightly toward her — not to read her, not to defend himself — but as though looking at her made the words easier to say.

“It’s rare enough that I notice it. And rare enough that I say it.”

He didn’t smile, not really. His mouth simply loosened, as if the smallest — but real — weight had slipped from his shoulders.

His gaze drifted toward the lights beyond the window, the shifting reflections dancing across his skin like echoes of something he would never openly admit.
Then, his voice dropped a shade lower, more honest still:

“Maybe… it’s people like you who keep this galaxy from collapsing.”

There was no distance in you.
No coldness.
No forced politeness.
Just the quiet awkwardness of a man unaccustomed to speaking about what he feels — and even less used to attributing it to someone else.

A faint breath escaped him, almost a laugh, but subdued, like habit forced it back down.
He added, softer:

“Or maybe it’s people like you… who make someone want to be something other than what life made them.”

The words fell naturally, but heavy.
Not a confession.
Not a promise.
Just a truth he had never allowed himself to voice.

His fingers curled slightly against his knee, as if to stop himself from going further — from saying more than he could afford.

He inclined his head, a small, discreet gesture, almost respectful.
“I don’t know what that means yet. Or what I’ll do with it.”

This time, his gaze settled fully on her.
Steady.
And just a little open.

“But… it matters.”

Simple.
Quiet.
Authentic.

Like
him, when he finally let the walls stop weighing on him.

Aren D'Shade

 

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren didn't look away from him immediately. Not because she needed to study him — she wasn't analyzing, wasn't decoding — but because something in his words deserved to be met directly, without deflection or discomfort. Her gaze stayed steady, soft but unwavering, the way someone looks when they see the truth in front of them and choose not to flinch from it.

She shifted her weight slightly, her elbow resting on the back of the booth as she angled herself toward him, purple hair catching the dim lighting like spilled nebula glow. Then she let out a slow breath — not dramatic, not heavy, just controlled. Grounding.

"You know," she murmured, voice low and even, "people always think they're supposed to steer someone like you. Push you, fix you, contain you." Her fingers traced the condensation on her glass, a lazy slide of motion with no rush behind it. "But you're not meant to be handled. And you don't need anyone telling you what direction to walk."

A beat passed.
Her gaze didn't drop.

"I didn't 'avoid getting in your way.' I just… respected it."
Another small breath, gentler now.
"You move like someone who's been cornered too many times. Forced into boxes you never chose. So why would I try to put you in another one?"

She shrugged one shoulder — small, almost elegant in its simplicity.

"That's not who I am. And it's not what you deserve."

For a man like him… her calm mattered.
It wasn't loud.
It wasn't forceful.
It was just there, steady as a frequency she'd long ago learned to run her life by.

Her eyes softened — not pity, not sentimentality, but recognition.

"You think people like me keep the galaxy from collapsing." She shook her head lightly, a faint dry note slipping into her tone. "It's not that dramatic. I just… don't get in the way of who someone is trying to become."

Her thumb circled the rim of her drink once, absentminded but thoughtful.

"And if something I say, or don't say, makes you want to be a little different than what life tried to turn you into?" She gave a quiet, genuine exhale. "Then I'm glad. Really."

For a moment, she dropped her gaze — not out of shyness, but introspection — then lifted it again, more certain.

"But don't mistake it for something I'm trying to do to you. I'm not molding you. I'm not nudging you anywhere." She tilted her head slightly, meeting his eyes with open sincerity. "I just… see you. Without trying to force the rest."

A pause, warm and steady.

"That's all."

She took a sip of her drink, slow and unhurried, setting it down with the faintest clink against the table before continuing — softer now, but unmistakably real:

"And what you said?" Her voice dipped just a shade lower. "It matters to me, too."

Aren didn't smile.
She didn't need to.
Her expression alone held more meaning than any curve of her lips ever could.

She remained there, present and unafraid of the quiet between them — because for once, neither of them needed to fill it.

Just exist in it.

Together.

Akyla Rein (Skars)

 

[Akyla Rein (Skars)]

Lost in the fading lights of the city, Akyla let the young woman’s words settle inside him, not trying to claim them, only acknowledging that they existed.
He drew a slow breath, as if testing the weight of what she had said against the silence stretching between them.

"You say you simply avoided standing in my way. The truth is… very few people have ever done that when they crossed paths with me.
His thoughts moved with a quiet, almost reluctant honesty.
"It’s rare enough to notice. And maybe… maybe it’s people like you who keep this galaxy from collapsing."

He didn’t emphasize the you as something distant or impersonal. Rather, the faint shimmer of something else—hope, perhaps, or the fragile desire to become… not better, but different—slid through him like a breath of colder air.

A version of himself he had never truly tried to imagine.
A version that might exist because someone, for once, hadn’t tried to restrain him, fix him, or fear him.

Only let him be.

And somehow, that simple act reshaped more than she could ever know.

Aren D'Shade

 

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren didn't look away from him when he said it. She didn't shift, didn't fidget, didn't soften in any obvious way. Her expression stayed calm, steady, the way it always did when she was listening — really listening — not just to his words but to what they meant underneath.

She let a breath ease out through her nose, slow and quiet, almost as though she was weighing how much to say in return. When she finally spoke, her voice carried that same even, practical warmth she rarely showed anyone outside her closest circle.

"You give me too much credit," she said, not dismissive, just honest. "I didn't keep the galaxy from collapsing. I barely kept my own life from doing that." Her fingers brushed lightly against her own glass, not as a fidget but as a grounding point. "All I did was see you for who you were in the moment. Not what you were trained to be. Not what the galaxy decided you were."

She shifted her posture slightly, turning a little more toward him — not enough to invade his space, but enough to make it clear she wasn't dodging the weight of his thoughts.

"And I didn't avoid getting in your way for any noble reason. I did it because you never needed someone dragging you by the arm or telling you which direction to walk. People like you don't respond to control. Or fear. Or pressure." Her gaze stayed fixed on his, even and unflinching. "You respond to space. To clarity. To someone who trusts you enough to let you make your own decisions."

Another breath left her, this one softer.

"If that meant I kept you from collapsing? Maybe. Or maybe you did that on your own, and I didn't interfere."

A slight shift in her expression, subtle but real — the closest Aren ever came to something like gentleness.

"And as for this version of yourself you're talking about… the one you think you could become? That's not because of me." She gave the faintest tilt of her head, acknowledging him fully. "That's because somewhere in you, you wanted to stop being the man everyone expected you to be."

Her voice dropped lower, steady as bedrock.

"I just didn't stand in the way of that either."

She let a final moment of quiet settle between them, not heavy, not tense — shared.

"But if you think that makes me someone who holds the galaxy together…" she exhaled lightly, almost amused, "then you really haven't been paying attention. I just let people breathe. You're the one choosing what you become after that."

And she stayed there beside him, not trying to fix him, not trying to guide him — simply matching his presence with her own.

Akyla Rein (Skars)

 

[Akyla Rein (Skars)]

Unconsciously, his gaze drifted back toward the entrance — a movement so quick and subtle it could have been dismissed as a nervous reflex… if Aren hadn’t seen it.
She caught it easily, now able to read the shifts and nuances in him the way one learns the rhythm of a familiar song.

It wasn’t the same confident glance he had given the first time, the look of a man convinced nothing could reach him, nothing could frighten him. No. This time it was different. This time something trembled beneath the surface. A tension almost imperceptible — not in his body, but in his fear.

A fear not of the outside world.
Not of something dangerous walking through that door.
Not of an enemy, not of a shadow.

No — a fear far more intimate, far more violent:
the fear of losing the very moment he was living.

And it was so stark, almost striking.
It wasn’t the fear of dying.
He had survived too much for death itself to unsettle him like that.
It was the fear of seeing this moment shatter from one second to the next — as if believing in it might be enough to make it disappear.

The kind of fear you see in someone who has been torn away from every good thing too many times.

He had that look in his eyes.
The look of a man who knows he’s fragile on a ground where he never allowed himself to be.

And beyond the fear of watching the moment collapse… she could see something else. Something darker, harder.

It wasn’t just the fear of losing this moment.
It was the fear of giving it up himself.

The fear of slipping back into what always pulled at him — the forward escape he knew by heart, that silent “drug” made of violence, solitude, disconnection. That part of him that offered oblivion, ease, silence in his mind… at the cost of everything else.

And he knew it.
That was why he feared it.
Because he knew how easy it would be to go back.
Too easy.

His glance toward the entrance wasn’t the look of a man scanning his surroundings.
It was the look of a man afraid of his own shadow.
Afraid it might come back to claim him.

And yet, he was here.
Sitting in front of her.
Fighting against what he had always been.
Choosing — if only for a moment — something more fragile, more risky, more real.

That look, that fear…
it wasn’t w
eakness.
No.

It was proof he was trying.
Truly.


Aren D'Shade

 

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren didn't react immediately, not with tension or questions or a shift in her posture. Instead, she watched him, letting the moment unfold without intruding, allowing him the space to breathe through whatever stirred behind that glance toward the entrance. She knew what she had seen; she wasn't naïve enough to mistake it for vigilance or habit. It wasn't the sharp, calculating awareness he carried into every unfamiliar room, nor the quiet, methodical threat assessment she'd grown used to reading in him. What flickered across his eyes this time was different—lighter in some ways, heavier in others. It was the reflexive look of a man who had been pulled away from too many good things in his life, too abruptly, too violently, and who hadn't yet learned how to exist in a moment without expecting it to collapse beneath him.

She shifted only slightly, not enough to crowd him, but enough that the warmth of her knee brushed his leg in a way that anchored rather than startled. It was an understated gesture, deliberate in its simplicity, meant to meet him exactly where he was instead of dragging him somewhere he wasn't ready to stand. Aren rested her hand on the cushion beside him, palm open against the fabric, not touching him directly but creating a point of stillness—an unspoken marker of presence he could reach for only if he chose. When she finally spoke, her voice slipped into the space between them without force or urgency, low and steady and without the sharp edges she used on the rest of the galaxy.

"Hey," she said quietly, her words carried by the same calm breath she used to steady delicate wiring or a trembling engine part. "You're here. That's all you need to focus on."

Her tone wasn't meant to soothe or correct; it carried no pressure to explain himself and no expectation for him to pretend he wasn't fighting a familiar pull beneath the surface. She knew that pull well enough—she could see it in the way his shoulders held just a fraction too tight, in the way his eyes flickered back to the door as if some old instinct insisted that nothing this steady, nothing this fragile, could last. And she knew better than to shame him for that. Fear wasn't a flaw in him. It was a habit built over years, maybe decades, of being torn away from anything soft before he had the chance to understand it.

"You're not going to lose anything by sitting here with me," she continued, her voice settling deeper into the warmth of the room. "Nothing's coming through that door to take this away. Not unless you decide you're done."

She let that truth linger, unembellished and unquestioned. Aren didn't reach for his hand. She didn't close the distance or try to coax him into her space. She existed beside him in a way that didn't threaten the moment he was trying so hard to hold together. Her gaze lifted to meet his, steady and unflinching, the faintest thread of something gentle weaving through it—not pity, not sympathy, but a grounded certainty that she had no intention of leaving him alone with that old shadow he feared might pull him back.

"If you feel something pulling at you," she said, her head tilting just slightly, "then let it be a pull, not a command. You don't have to follow it. You don't owe anything to the part of yourself that survives by running."

The soft light in the room shifted across her features as she leaned back just a little, still close, still present, but giving him room to breathe on his own terms. "You're allowed to stay in this moment," she added, her voice almost contemplative now, as if the truth of it was something meant to sit between them rather than be driven into him. "Whether it feels fragile or strange or wrong—that doesn't make it any less real."

She didn't look away as she said it. She didn't flinch or hesitate. She stayed exactly where she was, anchored and still, offering him nothing more and nothing less than the space to remain exactly as he was, without fear of being pushed, pulled, or judged for the instinct that had made him glance toward the door.

"And I'm not going anywhere," she said finally—not as comfort, but as fact, spoken with the simple steadiness of someone who understood precisely what it meant to be feared and trusted at the same time. Then she let the quiet return between them, warm and unbroken, ready for him to decide whether to stay within it.

Akyla Rein (Skars)

 

[Akyla Rein (Skars)]

Skars didn’t respond right away.
He didn’t move.

At first, there was a nearly imperceptible twitch, somewhere between his breathing and the tension in his fingers, betraying the impact of Aren’s words. They didn’t slide off him like the rest of the world so often did—they sank in. Slowly. Gently. Without force. As if they had found places inside him he had never known how to name, but which instinctively recognized them.

He remained still, listening to the silence she had left afterward, that silence that demanded nothing, required no justification, no façade, no reflex to hide what still trembled in his eyes.

Then his gaze stopped drifting toward the entrance.
Not suddenly.
Not as a deliberate choice.
But as a surrender.
The surrender of vigilance born of habit, not of danger.

He inhaled more slowly, and for the first time since he had glanced toward the door… he stayed there.
Here.
With her.

His hands, until then clenched around his own control, loosened just enough for his fingers to glide lightly over the fabric of his pants, seeking an anchor that was no longer a defense, but a marker.

He didn’t immediately look at Aren.
It was too much.
Not in the sense of pain—but in the sense of truth.
So he let his eyes settle on his own breathing, as if confirming that he was still breathing could make everything else easier.

When he finally turned his head toward her, it wasn’t with confidence, nor even courage.
It was more fragile than that.
Rarer.

A bare look.
Without a mask.
Without a wall.

He fixed his gaze for a moment on her open hand on the cushion, that gesture she had made without touching him, without forcing him, without expecting him.
A gesture that hadn’t been an invitation…
but a permission.

His breath caught for just a fraction of a second.

Then he spoke.
In a low voice, very low, as if even the slightest volume might erase the balance he had just barely found.

“It’s not…” He paused, searching for the right word—not one that hid, but one that truly expressed. “It’s not the outside I’m watching.”

His eyes drifted briefly to the door, then returned immediately to her—a conscious choice, this time.

“It’s me.”

He blinked slowly, a deliberate, almost hesitant motion, as if testing the solidity of this truth spoken aloud.

“I’m not used to…”
He searched again.
The words he knew weren’t meant for this.
Then he chose the simplest, the barest:
“…staying.”

His throat tightened briefly, but he continued:

“I was taught to leave before it breaks.”
A breath, almost a laugh, without joy or bitterness—just lucid.
“Or before I’m the one to break it.”

Silence fell again, not heavy.
Just real.

Then he looked again at her hand.
Still motionless.
Still free.

And very slowly—very slowly—he moved his own hand, not to take hers, not to completely close the space…
but to let it rest a few millimeters away from hers.

A chosen closeness.
Fragile.
Honest.

His fingers trembled slightly—but they didn’t pull back.

“I know I have nothing to lose by sitting here…” he murmured.
“…but that’s not how my body learned to survive.”

His eyes rose to meet hers, this time without fleeing, without fear of what she might read there.

“I want to learn differently.”

It was the truth.
Clear.
Raw.
Offered.

Almost a vow, far more powerful than any he had ever spoken in his life.

And in this suspended moment, he remained there—not watching the door, not guarding against his own fall…
but truly choosing, choosing to stay in this moment, allowing himself to exist fully in the present.

Aren D'Shade

 

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren didn't look away from him this time. She didn't blink, didn't tense, didn't interrupt the fragile truth he laid bare. She absorbed it—every quiet fracture, every long pause, every piece of him that had never belonged to anyone's silence before this. She let it settle in the space between them, not as a weight, but as a living thing that needed room to breathe.

When his hand stopped just short of hers—so close she could feel the faint warmth radiating from his skin, so close it felt like the air itself was holding its breath—she didn't rush to close the distance. She understood the magnitude of those few millimeters better than any dramatic gesture he could have made. He wasn't asking for reassurance. He wasn't giving it either. He was choosing to exist in a place that defied every survival instinct he had been built from.

Aren drew a slow breath, grounding herself before she spoke. When she did, her voice was calm and steady, carrying that deliberate gentleness she so rarely used.

"You don't have to unlearn everything in one night."

Her words flowed without hesitation, without breaking the delicate rhythm he had struggled to establish. Her gaze stayed on him, unwavering, but soft—not prying, not pressing, simply present.

"And staying…" she continued, her tone warm but level, "doesn't mean you're trapped. It doesn't mean you owe me anything. It doesn't mean you're weak for wanting to try."

She let her hand shift—not to close the space, but to mirror the distance he'd left, respecting the boundary he had chosen while acknowledging it at the same time. Her fingers rested on the cushion, a quiet echo of his gesture—a promise of presence without demand.

"You learned to leave because leaving kept you alive. I'm not going to pretend that was the wrong choice for the life you had." A faint exhale slipped out of her, not quite a sigh—more like an acknowledgment of how heavy that history must feel. "But you're not in that life right now. And I'm not someone you need to run from."

Her shoulder softened just slightly as she continued, the shadows of the room shifting across her expression.

"Wanting to stay? That's not something to be ashamed of. That's you recognizing that this moment is real. And that it's yours to keep for as long as you want it."

Slowly—very slowly—she let her knee press lightly into his again, a steady, grounding contact meant to anchor him rather than pull him forward. She watched him with that same quiet certainty, a steadiness that didn't need to raise its voice to be heard.

"You're already learning differently," she said, her tone dropping into something deeper, something quietly resolute. "Right now. Right here. Every breath you don't use to run is part of it."

Aren shifted just a touch closer—not closing the distance between their hands, but meeting him halfway in the unspoken truth he had offered.

"And I'm here for all of it. Every piece. Every step. However long it takes."

Her gaze stayed locked with his, patient and unwavering, as if holding the moment steady for both of them.

"You're not going to break this by staying," she added, softer still. "And you're not going to break me."

Then she let the silence return—not empty, not tense, but warm, steady, and open—giving him the space to feel the truth of her words settle beside him. A silence in which he didn't have to watch the door.

Because she wasn't going anywhere.

Akyla Rein (Skars)

 

[Akyla Rein (Skars)]

Skars remained still for a long time after she finished speaking.
Not out of resistance.
Not out of hesitation.
But because she had just said something he had never believed he could deserve to hear.

His eyes dropped for a moment, as if he needed to make sure the ground hadn’t vanished beneath him, as if he needed confirmation that this was real. It was almost imperceptible, but his breathing shifted—less tight, less defensive, almost human. And when he finally lifted his gaze back to her, there was something new in his eyes: not certainty, but the beginning of trust… fragile, hesitant, real.

He swallowed, his jaw working briefly before the words managed to cross the barrier of his throat.

“You talk like… like I could still learn to be someone else.”
It wasn’t a protest.
It was an admission.

He watched her for a moment, maybe trying to understand how she could be so calm, so sure, when he knew just how unstable he still was. Her knee brushing lightly against his gave him a strange sensation of gravity, as if that small point of contact alone kept him from falling back into old habits.

“I never knew what it felt like,” he murmured at last.
“To stay somewhere where I’m not… in danger. Or dangerous.”

His hand, still resting just a few millimeters from hers, trembled slightly. But this time, it wasn’t from fear—it was the trembling acceptance of something new, something too big for him but that he refused to push away.

“You say I have nothing to prove. That I don’t owe you anything.”
He drew a slow breath.
“I… I want to believe you. You don’t know how much I want to believe you.”

His gaze shifted from her hand to her eyes, as if searching for balance between the two.

“But I don’t know how to do that. Not yet. So if you really want… to stay with me while I learn…”
He searched for the right words, a faint, almost invisible smile ghosting across his lips—a smile born more of vulnerability than of joy.
“…then I’ll try. Not because I’m no longer afraid. But because you make me feel like I don’t have to run with every breath I take.”

Very slowly, with a palpable hesitation but no retreat, he moved his hand a millimeter closer. Not to touch hers completely.
Just to show her he wanted to go on.

“Thank you for not leaving, Aren.”
His eyes stayed on hers, open, unguarded.

“I’ll try… as long as you’re here.”

Aren D'Shade

 

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren didn't move at first. She let his words wash over the space between them, let the tremor behind them settle into something she could read, something she could meet without pressure or urgency. The softness in his voice, that raw edge of someone stepping into unfamiliar ground, didn't frighten her. It didn't demand anything from her. It simply… existed. And she let it.

Slowly, almost without thinking, she shifted—not away, but closer by the smallest measure, enough that their knees met again with more deliberate contact this time, a quiet reassurance that his vulnerability hadn't unsettled her in the slightest. Her hand stayed exactly where it was, unmoving, allowing him the space to choose—but her posture softened, her breath eased, her presence wrapped around the moment with the steady patience that had guided him here.

"You don't have to become someone else," she said, her voice low and warm, the kind that carried conviction without force. "Not for me. Not for anyone."

Her gaze held his, firm but gentle, grounding him the way she seemed to do without ever trying.

"You don't need to learn how to be a different man. You only need to learn how to exist without punishing yourself for breathing." A faint exhale slipped from her nose. "That's all I'm asking."

She watched the slight tremor in his fingers, not with worry, but with a kind of quiet pride—because he hadn't pulled away. Because he was still here. Because he was trying.

"You think I'm calm because I know how this ends," she continued, her tone softening even more. "I don't. None of this is something I've done before. Letting someone in. Letting myself stay. Letting myself trust someone who scares me exactly because he's trying so hard to be better than what he came from."

Her hand inched just a little closer—not touching yet, not overwhelming the small distance he still needed—but close enough that he could feel the warmth radiate from her skin.

"You say you don't know how to stay somewhere safe. That you've never been anywhere you weren't dangerous." Her eyes narrowed slightly—not in anger, but in certainty. "You're not dangerous to me, Skars. Not your past, not your instincts, not whatever you think is broken inside you."

She let that sit, heavy and honest.

"If you were… I wouldn't be here."

A moment passed—quiet, steady, unbroken—before she leaned in just slightly, enough for her shoulder to touch his, light as breath.

"You don't have to believe me yet," she murmured. "Belief comes slowly. Trust even slower. I know that more than most." Her voice gentled. "But trying? Trying is enough."

She finally let her hand shift that last fraction of distance, her fingers brushing against his—not grabbing, not claiming, simply meeting him exactly where he dared to reach.

"And Skars… you're not the only one who's learning."

Her thumb glided once across his knuckle, soft and deliberate.

"You think I stayed because I'm some steady anchor. I stayed because you didn't run. Because you listened. Because you let yourself be seen even when it terrified you." She paused, her voice almost a whisper now. "That matters. Enough to keep me right here."

Her forehead dipped toward his, not quite touching, but close enough that he could feel the warmth of her breath when she spoke the next words.

"If you try… I'll be here. Not to pull you. Not to push you. To walk with you. That's all."

And then, with the softest brush of her fingers against his, she added one more line—quiet, sure, and unmistakably hers:

"I'm not leaving. Not unless you tell me to."

She stayed exactly where she was, every line of her body open, steady, and present—inviting him to stay without ever binding him.

Akyla Rein (Skars)

 

[Akyla Rein (Skars)]

Skars opened his mouth… then closed it again, as if the words he wanted to speak were still fighting each other inside him. When they finally managed to take shape, they came out in a breath barely audible, more fragile than a confession, less steady than a certainty.


"No."
He shook his head slightly, his brows drawing together as though he were afraid of saying something wrong—something too much.
"No… I…"


He drew a breath, searching for his courage somewhere between their hands that brushed and the weight of his own fear.


"I think… the fact that you're here is the only thing that protects me."


He didn't explain. He didn't have to.
The silence behind his words spoke for him—heavy, old, almost painful.
He wasn't talking about an enemy out there.
He wasn't talking about shadows, or ghosts, or the monsters he had faced across the galaxy.


He was talking about himself.


About something tucked deep in a corner of his soul, a facet he had spent years refusing to look at.
A part of Skars—the coldest, the sharpest, the most frightening—that time hadn't killed.
Only pushed into a frozen sleep, like a dangerous creature locked away without anyone daring to believe it was truly gone.


He swallowed, his gaze slipping aside for a second, as if saying these things suddenly made them too real.


"I… I spent years convincing myself I was just a function. A blade someone else held."
His voice trembled.
"And then… I kept surviving because I didn't know how to do anything else. Survival on survival, like a habit. Like… inertia."


He looked back up at her, and for once, there was no armor behind his gaze.
Just a man caught between what he had been and what he might become.


"But since you've been here, I… I've started to understand why some people live. Really live."


He drew in another breath, as if the words cut into him even as they freed something inside.


"And why I've only been getting by."
A second passed—fragile, suspended.
"I think I understand the difference now."


His knee trembled against hers, but he didn't pull away.
He stayed there, anchored to her, as if she was the only thing keeping him from falling back into the darkness he still carried.


And when he spoke again, his voice was nothing more than a hesitant whisper, a suspended confession:


"And it scares me. Worse—it terrifies me.
But… less when you're here."


He didn't say anything more.
He didn't need to.

Aren D'Shade