Private Even the Stars Feel Quiet

[Deanez]

The cockpit remained steady while the scene shifted on her end of the call, the faint blue projection widening just enough to frame not only Rynar but the larger, unmistakable presence settling beside him. Dean's eyes moved over Korda without hesitation, taking in the posture, the easy banter, the cigar balanced between his fingers, and the simple fact that he was upright and talking at all, alive, recovering, and still himself in all the ways that mattered.

Her attention lingered on him for only a moment before returning to Rynar, though a faint thread of curiosity stayed in her expression, subtle but present.

When Korda spoke, she did not react immediately. She allowed the exchange to unfold in its natural rhythm, the teasing, the familiar back-and-forth, the kind of camaraderie that carried more meaning than either of them would ever bother to articulate. She watched them with the quiet patience of someone who understood that some bonds were built in places she had never been.

Only when the moment settled did she incline her head slightly.

"Korda," she said, her voice carrying clearly through the comm, composed and entirely unbothered by his theatrics. "It is good to see you conscious and fully capable of making questionable choices again."

Cupcake, still sprawled across the co-pilot's chair, lifted her head at the sound of his voice and chuffed softly toward the projection, as if offering her own greeting to someone she recognized. Dean reached over and rested a hand lightly against the nexu's shoulder, a quiet reassurance rather than a correction.

"No," she murmured, not as a reprimand but as a reminder that Korda was not physically present to be pounced on.

Cupcake settled again, though her eyes remained fixed on the projection with keen interest, her tail flicking once in approval.

Dean's gaze returned to the two Mandalorians, her expression steady.

"If you intend to 'steal' him," she said, addressing Korda with the same calm tone she used for everything else, "I will expect him returned in functional condition."

A small pause followed, just long enough to let the implication breathe.

"I would prefer him without additional burns."

Her attention shifted back to Rynar then, the dry edge of humor softening into something warmer, something that carried the quiet weight of someone who had been waiting for this call longer than she meant to admit.

"You declined the cigar," she observed, not with judgment or approval, simply acknowledging the detail the way she always did, cataloguing him with the same care she used for the ship.

Her eyes lingered on him for a moment, taking in the exhaustion he had not tried to hide, the soot still streaked across his skin, the way he held himself like someone who had pushed through more than he should have. There was no alarm in her expression, only a quiet, steady recognition.

"You are still here," she said softly, the words carrying more meaning than the simplicity of them suggested.

Her hand moved again through Cupcake's fur, grounding herself in the familiar warmth beside her while the Vigo hummed around them, the ship's steady presence filling the silence she did not quite know how to name.

"I have kept the Vigo ready," she continued, her voice gentle but carrying a faint heaviness beneath it, the kind that came from too many quiet hours alone. "Whenever you return, you will not need to worry about anything except resting."

Another pause followed, longer this time, unhurried, as though she were choosing her words with care.

"And you still have not been replaced," she added, her tone softening even further, the warmth in it unmistakable despite the restraint she tried to maintain.

Her gaze held his through the projection, steady and unwavering.

"Despite Cupcake's efforts."

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar actually laughed this time. Not the tired ghost of one. A real one. Low and rough, but alive.
"You're impossible," he muttered, shaking his head slightly as Dean calmly negotiated his potential kidnapping like it was a logistics contract.

Beside him, Korda gave an exaggerated nod toward the projection. "Functional condition? No promises."
Rynar elbowed him lightly, then glanced sideways with a narrowed look. "When were you going to tell me you joined the Mandalorian Supercommandos?"
That got Korda to pause mid-drag.
The cigar lowered slowly.
"What."

Rynar's eyes flicked to the insignia he had very clearly noticed earlier. "Don't play dumb. That isn't standard line infantry."
Korda shrugged, like it was nothing. "Hard to get in."
"You did not 'just get in,'" Rynar shot back.
Korda smacked him solidly between the shoulders in a playful but heavy thump that made the crate groan again. "Don't worry about it."

Rynar turned sharply toward him, irritation flashing through the exhaustion.
"Gar cuyir bal talar ni." he snapped in Mando'a, the words sharp and fast before he caught himself. His jaw tightened. "Gar paryc ni nuh cuyir?"

Korda just grinned around the cigar.
Rynar exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "That missing left canine of yours helps hold the cigar in place, doesn't it?"

Korda barked a laugh at that, the sound deep and unbothered.
As if summoned by the noise, something small and scaled slithered up from behind the crate. Oro, Korda's fluffy hognose, climbed easily up his arm and draped herself around his shoulders and neck, settling there like a living scarf. Her head lifted slightly, tiny tongue flicking, as if claiming her territory.

"See?" Korda muttered. "I have protection."

Rynar just stared at the reptile for a moment. "That is not protection."
Oro tightened slightly around Korda's collar in response, as if offended.
Rynar finally looked back to Dean, the faint smile returning when his eyes found her.
"I checked my assignment duration," he said, tone quieter now. "I'm here as long as he is."
He tilted his head slightly toward Korda.
"Four more weeks. Then he ships back to Mandalore. Or the Iron Citadel."

His gaze settled fully on her again.
"I'm coming back to you."
It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't grand.
It was steady.
Certain.
A faint smirk tugged at his mouth.

"And I have not missed the nexu hair everywhere."
The smallest hint of warmth lingered in his eyes as he held her gaze through the projection, soot and exhaustion and distance between them, and still anchored.

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean watched the exchange unfold without interrupting, her gaze moving between the three of them with the kind of steady, unhurried attention that made it seem as though she were standing in the same room rather than separated by systems and the long, indifferent stretch of space. She absorbed every shift in tone, every flicker of humor or irritation, every moment where Rynar's voice dipped into Mando'a as if the language itself carried weight he didn't want to translate. All of it settled into her with the quiet inevitability of something familiar.

When Oro appeared and draped herself across Korda's shoulders, Dean's eyes followed the small creature with a calm, almost clinical curiosity. Cupcake, however, reacted with far less restraint. The nexu's head lifted sharply, ears pricking forward as she studied the snake through the projection with a level of focus that suggested she was already calculating the distance between them.

Dean's hand pressed more firmly against the nexu's shoulder, a subtle reminder.

"No," she murmured, her voice soft but carrying the kind of certainty Cupcake rarely challenged.

The nexu huffed, unconvinced but compliant, settling back into her sprawl with the air of someone who would remember this injustice for later.

Dean's attention returned to Rynar as he spoke. About the assignment, about the time remaining, about Mandalore. She listened with the same precision she applied to diagnostics and flight paths, letting the information click into place one piece at a time.

Four weeks.

Her expression barely shifted, but something inside her tightened in that small, familiar way she never examined too closely. It wasn't disappointment, not exactly. More like the quiet recalibration of someone who had long ago learned how to make peace with waiting, even when the waiting carved out a little more space inside her than she intended to give.

And then he said it.

I'm coming back to you.

She held his gaze through the projection, steady and unflinching, as if anchoring the words before they could drift away into the static between them.

"I know," she said, her voice low and certain, carrying none of the small, hollow echo that settled beneath her ribs whenever she remembered how empty the ship felt without him.

Cupcake shifted again, stretching across the co‑pilot's seat with the lazy entitlement of someone who had fully claimed Rynar's space in his absence. Her tail brushed across the console, leaving a fresh trail of fur that Dean didn't bother brushing away.

"You would not recognize the ship without it," she said, a faint thread of dry humor threading through her tone. "It has become part of the system."

Her eyes lifted back to his, softer now, though she didn't seem aware of it.

"Four weeks is… acceptable," she continued, the pause not quite long enough to betray the way the number settled into her chest like a weight she would carry quietly. "It will give me time to finish the upgrades. And to review the archive material."

She said it like a list, like a plan, like something solid she could hold onto in the spaces where silence tended to creep in.

"And it will give you time to make sure he heals properly."

Her gaze flicked toward Korda. Who was still behaving like someone who had never heard the phrase restricted movement, before returning to Rynar with a steadiness that held no judgment, only understanding.

"You are where you need to be right now."

The words were simple, but they carried a kind of quiet gravity, the kind that came from someone who had spent a long time learning how to accept the things she could not change without letting herself feel the edges of them too sharply.

After a moment, she added, softer but no less certain,

"But you will still come back."

There was no question in it. No plea. Just the quiet conviction of someone who had already made space for his return, even if she didn't fully recognize how much of her days had begun to shape themselves around the absence he left behind.

Her hand moved through Cupcake's fur again, grounding herself in the familiar warmth beside her as the Vigo hummed around them, steady, constant, and far too large when she was the only one aboard.

"I will be here when you do," she said, the words gentle and matter‑of‑fact, unaware of how much they revealed.

Unaware of how much she meant them.

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar didn't answer her right away.
He just looked at her.
At the steadiness in her expression. The certainty. The way she said I know like it wasn't hope, wasn't fear, wasn't bargaining with the galaxy.
Just truth.
His mouth curved slowly, something warm and quiet breaking through the exhaustion.
"I'll come back," he said again, softer this time. Not for emphasis. Just because he wanted her to hear it one more time.

The transmission flickered.
The blue light dimmed.
And then she was gone.
The FOB felt louder without the hum of the Vigo in his ears.

Korda shifted beside him, exhaling a slow ribbon of smoke. "You're gone," he muttered.
Rynar stared at the blank projector for a second longer before leaning back.
"…Yeah."
A beat passed.

He held out his hand.
Korda blinked. "Thought you didn't want it."
"Give it."

Korda handed over the cigar without comment.
Rynar took a slow drag, coughed once because he absolutely had not done this in a while, and glared sideways when Korda snorted.
"Shut up."

The Next Morning
The med-tent smelled like antiseptic and poor life decisions.
Rynar was sitting on a low diagnostic bench, jaw clenched, while a medic wrapped synth-cast plating around his left arm.
Both bones in his forearm had snapped clean.
The swelling was already ugly.
Across the tent, Korda stood with a comm device in hand.

Rynar's eyes narrowed.
"Don't."
"I'm telling her."
"You are not."
The comm began dialing.

"You are absolutely not-"
The holoprojector flickered to life mid-argument.
Dean's image resolved just as Rynar hissed under his breath while the medic adjusted the cast.
"This is unnecessary," Rynar muttered.

Korda leaned slightly into the projection.
"Morning," he said. "Before he starts lying by omission, I'm reporting an incident."
Rynar glared at him. "Traitor."
Dean would see it immediately.

The cast.
The rigid way he was holding himself.
The way his jaw was locked like he was trying not to react to the final tightening brace.
Korda continued, almost professionally.
"He was directing a lifter droid near the supply wall. Someone bumped the droid's control rig. It lurched."
Rynar snapped, "You were the dumbass, Korda!"
Korda didn't even look at him.
"The arm got pinned between the droid chassis and the durasteel wall. Snapped both bones. Clean break."

The medic finished locking the cast into place.
Rynar exhaled through his teeth.
Korda finally glanced toward him, then back to Dean.
"He'll heal. They'll keep him on light duty."
A pause.

"…That one's on me."
Rynar blinked at that.
Korda cleared his throat slightly.
"I apologize."
Not dramatic. Not emotional. Just direct.
Rynar shifted on the bench, scowling. "It was an accident."

Korda gave him a look.
Rynar looked back toward the projection, expression softening despite the irritation.
"It's fine," he muttered. "I've had worse."
He lifted the newly casted arm slightly.
"…I just didn't want you finding out when I showed up in four weeks looking like this."

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

The holoprojector steadied, its soft blue glow settling across the cockpit, and for a long, measured moment, Dean didn't speak at all. Her silence wasn't hesitation so much as a kind of deliberate stillness, the kind she fell into when she needed to take in every detail before she allowed herself to react.

Her eyes moved over the scene with quiet precision, absorbing the med‑tent's sterile lighting, the cast bracing his arm, the faint tension in Rynar's shoulders that told her he was holding himself together through sheer will rather than comfort. She noticed the way he stood just a little too rigidly, the way exhaustion clung to him like a second skin. Each detail settled into place in her mind with the ease of long practice, though something in her expression tightened almost imperceptibly as she catalogued them.

Her hand stilled against Cupcake's fur, fingers pausing mid‑motion as if her body had registered something her voice wasn't ready to acknowledge.

She didn't look away.

Not when she saw the tightness in his jaw. Not when she recognized the fatigue still etched into the lines of his face. Not even when the distance between them was measured in light-years, and the cold hum of the holoprojector pressed a little harder against her ribs.

A faint shift passed through her posture, subtle enough that most would miss it, but it carried the weight of something heavier settling beneath her composure. The distance felt sharper for a heartbeat, more defined, as though she could suddenly feel every inch of the space he wasn't occupying beside her. She didn't let it show beyond that small adjustment.

She inclined her head slightly toward Korda, her voice steady when she finally spoke.

"Thank you for informing me," she said, each word controlled and even. "And for clarifying the cause."

Her tone held no edge, no visible reaction to the explanation. Just the calm, measured cadence she used when she needed to keep everything inside her neatly contained.

Her attention returned to Rynar, her gaze settling on him with a steadiness that bordered on clinical, though something softer flickered beneath it.

"You should not be directing heavy equipment while operating on limited rest," she said, her voice smooth, almost detached in its precision. "Your reaction time would be compromised."

There was no reprimand in it. No frustration. Just the quiet, matter‑of‑fact observation of someone who had spent far too long watching him push himself past the point of reason.

Her gaze dropped to the cast again, lingering for a moment before lifting back to his face.

"You were fortunate the damage was contained to your arm."

A small pause followed, the kind that stretched just a little too long, as though she were holding back the rest of the thought.

"Fractures of that nature will heal cleanly with proper immobilization."

Her hand slipped from Cupcake's fur to the edge of the console, fingers resting there lightly, grounding herself in the familiar texture beneath her palm. It was a small gesture, but it carried the quiet weight of someone who needed the anchor more than she realized.

She didn't comment on the pain she knew he wasn't admitting to. She didn't comment on the nights she suspected were still difficult. She didn't comment on the distance that had begun to feel like a second atmosphere around her.

But something lingered in the way she looked at him—an extra second of stillness, a softness she didn't consciously allow, a quiet ache she didn't recognize as her own.

"You will follow the medical restrictions," she said.

Not a command. Not quite a request. Something in between, shaped by concern she didn't know how to name. Her expression softened, just barely, the shift subtle but unmistakable.

"And you will rest."

Cupcake pressed lightly against her arm, sensing the tension she wasn't acknowledging. Dean didn't move, didn't break her focus, didn't let herself retreat behind the usual layers of composure.

Her gaze remained fixed on Rynar.

"I would prefer you return with all limbs fully functional."

The dry humor threaded through her voice, but it didn't quite mask the weight beneath the words—the quiet fear she didn't let herself examine too closely.

Then, after a brief pause, her voice dropped to something softer, something almost fragile in its honesty:

"I am glad you are alright."

She let the words settle between them, offering nothing more and nothing less, as though anything beyond that might unravel something she wasn't prepared to face.

And through it all, she held herself steady.

Even as something unspoken, something heavier and quieter, settled deeper beneath the surface, unnoticed by her, but unmistakably there.

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar pushed himself off the med‑tent cot, each movement slow and careful with his broken arm secured in the cast. The holoprojector flickered faintly on the wall, Korda's projection already lit in the cockpit. He could hear Dean's voice steady and calm through the comm, a thread of warmth threading through the exhaustion clinging to him.

Korda was lounging a little too comfortably, cigar balanced between his fingers, grinning as if he owned the moment. "Seems like I'll have to watch over you now," the big Mandalorian said, leaning forward slightly, voice teasing. "Don't think I won't steal your husband from you while you're gone."

Rynar felt the familiar spark of irritation, and amusement, rise at the same time. He crossed the floor quickly, ignoring the soreness in his arm, and let his right hook fly, catching Korda square in the jaw. "That's for touching my comm link," he growled, "and that's for knocking the droid off balance."

Korda staggered back, rubbing his jaw, still grinning. "Alright, alright," he muttered, voice laced with humor, "my bad."

Rynar grabbed Korda's flask as he passed, tilting it back for a quick sip before glancing at Dean's projection. She didn't comment on the bruise forming at Korda's jaw, just watched him with that calm, steady gaze he never could ignore. A tired smirk tugged at his lips. "They said it'll take the rest of the assignment to heal," he said, tapping the cast. "Hopefully when I get back, this won't be a permanent accessory."

Returning the flask to Korda, he snagged one of the cigars from the big man's belt pouch. "Don't worry, I'm not smoking it," he said, tucking it onto his own belt. "Saving it for some occasion."

Rynar leaned against the edge of the med‑tent, letting the weight of exhaustion settle a little, and chuckled, shaking his head. "Out here, it's hard to find a good book that isn't a lewd magazine. Don't know how anyone could read that crap." Korda muttered something in agreement, still rubbing his jaw, clearly unfazed by both the hit and the joke.

Then Rynar remembered the scene from last night and couldn't resist. "After we hung up… some Mandalorian tried flirting with another one. The one being flirted with didn't take a certain comment well. Kicked the guy hard in the balls. Heard the crack all the way across the base."

Dean's gaze softened through the projection, a faint smirk brushing her expression. Cupcake stirred in the co‑pilot's chair, tail flicking lazily as if she approved of the story entirely. Rynar exhaled slowly, letting some of the tension drain from his shoulders. Even broken, even soot-streaked and exhausted, he felt a little steadier just hearing Dean's voice, and seeing her watch over him from across the stars.

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean watched the exchange without interrupting, her attention fixed on the projection as the moment unfolded with all the familiar rhythm of Mandalorian chaos. The strike, the easy retaliation, the humor layered over pain and exhaustion, it all registered at once, settling into place with the same quiet precision she brought to everything else.

Her gaze lingered on Rynar, following the way he moved more carefully than he wanted to admit, the subtle adjustments around the cast, the fatigue that clung to him no matter how much he tried to carry himself normally. She said nothing about it, not with Korda present, but the awareness was there, steady and unshaken.

When he mentioned the cast lasting the rest of the assignment, she inclined her head slightly.

"Then you will have time to let it heal correctly," she said, her voice calm and even. "That is preferable to rushing it and creating a permanent problem."

Her attention shifted briefly to Korda, who still seemed entirely unbothered by being struck.

"You appear to be recovering well," she added, her tone composed but faintly dry. "Your ability to make questionable decisions remains unaffected."

Cupcake gave a quiet chuff from the co-pilot's chair, her tail flicking lazily as if she approved of that assessment. Dean's hand moved through the nexu's fur in a slow, grounding motion, more for herself than the creature.

When Rynar shared the story from the previous night, a faint trace of amusement touched her expression.

"That does sound consistent with Mandalorian conflict resolution," she replied. "Direct, decisive, and lacking in subtlety."

The warmth faded gradually as her focus returned fully to him.

"You are still pushing yourself," she observed, her tone quieter now, though still composed. "Even with the injury."

It was not criticism, just recognition.

Her gaze dropped briefly to the cast before lifting again, and for a moment something unspoken settled behind her eyes. The distance between them felt sharper in that instant, more defined, and she did not quite manage to push that awareness aside as easily as she usually could.

"You should be resting more," she said gently. "Recovery will be slower if you continue to operate at that pace."

She let the words settle without pressing them further, knowing he would hear what he chose to hear.

"I am glad you are still steady," she added after a moment, the phrasing deliberate, the meaning layered beneath it.

Her hand stilled briefly against Cupcake's fur before resuming its slow movement, the small contact anchoring her as the quiet of the cockpit pressed in around her again.

"You are where you need to be," she continued, her tone returning to something more neutral, more controlled. "And you will come back when that is finished."

Her gaze held his, unwavering, even as something quieter lingered beneath it, something she did not give voice to, especially not now, not with Korda there to hear it.

"I will keep the Vigo ready," she said. "Everything will be in place when you return."

A small pause followed, longer than it needed to be, as though she were measuring the space between them without meaning to.

Then, softer, but still composed,

"Try not to give him another reason to test your reflexes."

She did not smile, not fully.

But the warmth was there, just beneath the surface, held carefully in place.

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar listened without interrupting.
He always did, when she spoke like that.
Measured. Steady. Calm in a way that made him feel both seen and quietly corrected at the same time.
A faint smirk tugged at his mouth when she mentioned reflexes.
"No promises," he replied easily. "He keeps volunteering."

Korda gave him a sideways look. "You throw like a medic."
Rynar ignored him and looked back at Dean's projection, exhaustion softening the lines of his face.
"When I get back," he said, voice quieter now, less performative, "I just want to flop into a real bed. With you. And not move for at least a day."

It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't flirted up for Korda's benefit.
It was simple. Honest.
Behind him, Korda made a low sound in his throat.
"Speaking of flopping into beds," Korda said casually, cigar rolling between his fingers, "when are you going to be a dad?"
Rynar blinked.
"What."

Korda shrugged like he was asking about weather patterns. "I'm ready to be an uncle. I'll teach the kid how to blow things up properly. Someone has to."
Dean's projection flickered faintly with the steady hum of the connection.
Korda continued, tone lighter than the words underneath it. "Not like I'm having any. Blasted medics told me that years ago. So I'm investing in yours."

It was said in a very Korda way. Casual. Unbothered. Like he was talking about a defective rifle part instead of something that actually mattered.
Rynar stared at him for a full second.
Then, without thinking, he swung.

With his left arm.
The cast connected solidly with Korda's shoulder.
Pain exploded up Rynar's forearm instantly.

He went rigid.
"…That was a mistake."
Korda winced more out of reflex than damage. "You absolute idiot," he muttered. "That's your broken arm."
Rynar sucked in a breath through his teeth, trying very hard not to show just how much that hurt.

"You don't just...." he started, then stopped, recalibrating. "You don't just ambush someone with that."
Korda shrugged again. "I'm efficient."
Rynar shot him a look that promised future violence and then slowly turned back toward Dean's projection.

There was a faint flush under the soot now. Not embarrassment exactly.
Just… awareness.
"Ignore him," Rynar muttered. "He thinks everything is solved with explosives and poor timing."
Korda nodded solemnly. "It works surprisingly often."
Rynar exhaled, shaking his head, and met Dean's gaze again.

"Four weeks," he said, softer now. "Then I'm back. Bed. Quiet. No droids. No lifters. No idiots."
He glanced sideways at Korda.

"…Fewer idiots."
Despite the cast. Despite the exhaustion. Despite the lingering sting in his arm.
His eyes were steady.
Anchored.
Already halfway home.

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean did not react immediately.

Her gaze remained on him through the projection, steady and attentive, taking in the way he held himself after the strike, the subtle tension in his posture, the way he tried to smooth it over without drawing attention to it. She said nothing about the arm. Not with Korda there, not with the moment already carrying enough weight of its own.

When he spoke about coming back, about the bed, about the quiet, something in her expression softened in a way that was difficult to name but impossible to miss.

"That sounds… appropriate," she said, her voice low and even, though warmer than before. "You will likely require at least that long to recover properly."

Her attention shifted briefly to Korda as he spoke, and while her expression did not change, there was a slight narrowing of focus that suggested she was listening more closely than she let on. His words were casual, almost flippant, but she did not treat them that way.

"I see," she said simply.

There was no discomfort in her tone, no visible reaction to the subject itself. Only a quiet acknowledgment, filed away with the same care she gave everything else.

When Rynar told her to ignore him, her gaze returned to him fully.

"I am capable of filtering relevant input," she replied calmly. "He is… very efficient at providing it."

Cupcake stirred again at the shift in tone, lifting her head just enough to look toward the projection before settling back down, clearly unconcerned with the complexities of Mandalorian conversations.

Dean's hand moved absently along her shoulder, grounding herself in the familiar motion as she held Rynar's gaze.

"Four weeks," she repeated.

Not as a question.

As a measure.

"You will return. You will rest. And you will not be required to manage droids, supply fires, or overconfident Mandalorians."

A small pause followed, her voice softening just slightly as she continued.

"I will ensure the environment is…quieter."

Her eyes lingered on him, the steadiness still there, but beneath it something more restrained, something she did not allow to surface fully, especially not now.

"Try not to injure yourself further before then," she added, her tone returning to its usual calm precision. "Your current condition is already sufficient."

Another brief pause, then, more quietly, "And when you return…you may have your day." It was not framed as a promise. But it carried the weight of one.

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar held her gaze a second longer than necessary.
The quiet promise in her voice settled somewhere deep in his chest, heavier than armor, steadier than discipline.
A faint smile pulled at his mouth.
"I'll hold you to that," he said softly.

There was a pause. Korda shifted in the background, wisely silent for once.
Rynar's eyes didn't leave the projection.
"I love you."

It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't grand.
Just certain.
Then he reached forward and ended the transmission before he could overthink it.

Three Weeks Later

The watchtower was quiet.
Properly quiet.
Rynar sat back in the durasteel chair, rifle resting across his lap as the wind moved lazily across the outpost below. The sky had taken on that dusky gold that made even miserable assignments look almost peaceful.

His left arm was no longer in a cast, only a reinforced brace now. He rotated his wrist slowly, testing it. Not perfect. But usable.
In the barracks below, Korda was unconscious in his bunk after making poor decisions involving a bottle that had definitely not been standard issue.

Which meant Rynar finally had silence.
He checked the chamber of his sidearm blaster out of habit, re-seated it smoothly, then leaned back and lifted his comm.
The projection flickered to life.
He looked… better.

Still lean. Still marked by long nights. But rested. Clearer. The shadows under his eyes faded into something manageable.
He smiled when the hologram stabilized.
"This," he said lightly, gesturing to the empty tower around him, "is my type of assignment."
He lifted a small tin cup and took a sip of tea, steam curling faintly in the cooling air.
"No fires. No lifter droids. No idiots."

A beat.
"Well. One idiot. But he's passed out."
A faint chuckle escaped him as he settled back into the chair, boots braced against the railing.
"One week," he said, softer now.

The wind moved through the tower again, carrying dust and the distant hum of generators.
"One week left before I can hold you again."
His eyes stayed on the projection, steady and warm.
"And I fully intend to collect on that day you promised."

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

The holoprojector took longer to resolve this time, the blue light flickering before it settled, dim and unfocused, as if even the projection felt the distance she'd been living in.

Dean was already in the cockpit.

But the difference in her was immediate.

She still sat with that familiar precision, that composed stillness she carried like armor, yet something in the lines of her posture had softened under the weight of too many silent hours. The lighting washed her features into muted tones, the color drained from her skin in a way that made her look… worn. Not fragile. Just thinned out by solitude.

Cupcake wasn't in the co-pilot's seat.

She was pressed against the floor beside Dean's chair, her massive body tucked close, as if she'd decided that proximity mattered more than hierarchy now. Dean's hand rested in her fur, fingers moving in slow, absent strokes that spoke more of habit than intention.

She watched him for a long moment before she spoke. Long enough that the silence reached him first.

"You look better," she said quietly.

Her voice was steady, but softer than it used to be, as if it hadn't been used much lately, as if she'd been speaking only to the ship and the nexu and the empty space between stars.

Her gaze moved over him, taking in the brace, the steadier posture, the absence of the exhaustion he'd been carrying like a second skin. She didn't comment on any of it, but the recognition lived in her eyes.

When he spoke about the tower, the quiet, the tea, something faint shifted in her expression. Not a smile, but the memory of one.

"That does sound preferable."

Then he said it. One week.

Her fingers stilled in Cupcake's fur. Not a flinch, just a pause, as if the words had caught on something inside her.

"One week," she repeated, the syllables held carefully, like she was afraid they might slip through her hands if she wasn't deliberate.

The cockpit hummed around her, the empty co-pilot's seat beside her sharper now, more defined by absence than by space. Time hadn't dulled it. It had carved it deeper.

"The Diarchy has fallen." She said it plainly, without ceremony. The kind of truth that didn't need emphasis. "I remained here." A measured pause. "There was no reason to go." The explanation was practical. It wasn't the whole truth. It wasn't even most of it.

Her hand resumed its slow movement through Cupcake's fur, but the touch lingered heavier now, as if she needed the anchor more than the nexu did.

When he spoke about holding her, about collecting the day he was owed, something in her finally softened in a way that wasn't subtle at all. It was small, yes. Fragile. But unmistakably real.

"I will be here," she said, and the quiet in her voice carried more weight than any promise she'd made before.

She drew in a slow breath, the kind that steadied rather than filled.

"When you return… I will meet you at the rendezvous point."

Her eyes held his, steady despite the exhaustion threaded through them.

"You may collect whatever you wish." A beat. Then, softer, almost a confession: "I would prefer not to wait any longer than that." Her gaze didn't waver.

"One week," she said again, barely above a breath. And this time, it wasn't a timeline. It was something she was surviving.

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar shifted slightly in the watchtower, the rifle resting across his knees as his eyes lingered on the projection. He could see it in her, even across the distance
the subtle tension in her posture, the quiet weight pressing at her shoulders. The Diarchy gone.
The only family she had, the one that had shaped her, erased. And still she remained.

He let a small, careful smile tug at the corner of his mouth, though his eyes stayed cautious. He could sense the heaviness, and he knew better than to push against it too hard.

"Dean,"
he said, voice low, steady, carrying the warmth he usually kept buried,
"when I get back… I won't hold you to anything. Nothing at all."

He paused, the hum of the tower and the faint click of his sidearm filling the silence. "If you want, I'll… I'll tend to you. Pamper you until you feel steady again. Until the weight eases, even just a little."

His gaze held hers through the projection, steady, honest.
"I know what it's like to lose the only family you've ever had. I know what it leaves behind." The words weren't pity.
They were understanding, a quiet promise to shoulder some of the burden she carried.

"And when I'm there,"
he continued, letting a faint humor soften his tone,
"you'll tell me what you need. I'll follow. No questions. No hesitation. Whatever will help you feel safe… steady… whatever you want."

He lifted the cup of tea in a small, nervous gesture, the warmth grounding him as much as it did the words he'd spoken. "We'll find a little peace together. Even if it's just for a while."


Rynar leaned back, letting the silence settle between them, a cautious hope threading through the exhaustion in his features. One week. One week until he could hold her, steady and whole, and maybe, just maybe, make this long stretch of waiting worth it.

Deanez