Private Healing Promises, Hopeful Hearts

[Arhiia Voronwe]

Tags: Aiden Porte
​

The sanctuary chamber had grown accustomed to silence. The kind of silence that wasn't comforting, but waiting. A silence that gathered in the corners, hung in the rafters, settled in the floorstones like dew. Naboo's temple was never loud, but over the last week and a half, the hush around the bacta chamber had become something else entirely—reverent, brittle, as though the air itself was holding its breath.

The tank stood at the center of the room like a pillar of pale blue light, its glow soft but unwavering, casting long shadows that swayed with each ripple in the fluid.

Inside it, Arhiia floated.

Suspended.
Weightless.

Untouched by gravity, untouched by the outer world, caught in that delicate place between healing and oblivion. Her hair drifted around her like soft halos, strands of her long blonde hair loosened by the solution, shifting with every tiny motion she made.

Most days, she did not move at all.

The healers who took shifts watching her learned the patterns: the stillness, the slow rise and fall of the oxygen mask's faint hum, the occasional flicker of eyelashes when a memory brushed too close to the surface.

But tonight…
Tonight the tank felt colder.
Deeper.


As though something below that calm surface had begun to stir.

Her body twitched first—just a small spasm in her fingertips, a ripple through the floating curtain of her hair. Then her leg jerked faintly, a tremor that made the healers glance toward the monitors.


Brain activity rising.
Rapid eye movement returning.
Dreams intensifying.


Her eyebrows pulled together, soft at first, then sharply—an expression of distress no one waking would ever see her allow.

The bacta fluid shimmered as her arm floated up, fingers curling as though trying to grasp something—or someone—beyond the glass.

The dreams had begun to swallow her again.


Light.
Aiden's face.
Warmth, a kiss, the brush of his hand against her cheek—
Then darkness.
Held down.
Pinned.


The cold bite of a saber slicing through her abdomen. The feral snarl of the Inquisitor. Her own scream—silent in the tank, but deafening in her mind.

Her body lurched.

Bubbles burst violently around her mask as she thrashed once, twice, muscles convulsing before falling still. Monitors spiked. A line of beeps echoed through the chamber like distant starlight cracking.

One healer murmured, "She's dreaming again… fierce ones."

The other only nodded, gaze flicking to the scar across her lower abdomen—the only mark bacta could not erase. Fresh pink. Tender. A wound healed, but not forgotten.

The tank hummed softly, cycling down as the final stage of her healing neared completion. The eeriness deepened, the silence thickening, as though the temple itself leaned in to listen.

Her breathing hitched.

Her lips parted under the oxygen mask—small, broken sounds escaping, lost in the fluid. Her body curled slightly, instinctively trying to protect a wound no longer open.


And then—
A chime.
Soft.
Pure.
Final.

Cycle complete.


The blue light dimmed.

The machinery's steady hum faded into a quieter, almost melancholy sigh. The fluid began to drain, lowering her slowly back into the world she had been kept separate from.

Her body sagged as gravity reclaimed her.
Her eyelids twitched, then fluttered.

As the last of the bacta slipped away, the oxygen mask hissed softly, releasing her from her suspended prison. The healers stepped forward immediately, activating the release seals.

Arhiia's eyelashes trembled once more—then lifted.

Light obliterated her vision.
Too bright. Too real. Too immediate.

She inhaled sharply, chest rising with effort as she sucked in air she hadn't truly tasted in ten days. Her arms moved sluggishly, hands clawing weakly at the blankets the healers draped over her.

Her head lolled forward, hair dripping, eyes half-open but wild with confusion and fear.

"Easy," a healer soothed, guiding her out of the tank. "You're safe. You're back. Just breathe."

She wasn't listening.

A memory hit—warm hands, a kiss under a storm of pain, a voice whispering that he would be there when she woke.

Her breath broke.

Then her voice—raw, hoarse, barely more than a whisper—tore free from her throat:

"…Aiden…?"

Her fingers curled into the healer's sleeve with surprising strength. She tried to sit up. Her legs buckled. Her pulse spiked in frantic beats on the monitor.

"Where—" Her voice cracked, desperate. "Where's A… Aiden…?"

Another healer tried to ease her back onto the bed, but she fought weakly against them, eyes searching the doorway, the shadows, every presence in the room—finding none that matched the one she craved.

Her breath came faster, shaking.

"I—I need him…" she whispered, voice breaking like something inside her had finally fractured. "Aiden… where…?"

Her hands trembled violently now, reaching toward nothing, toward everything, toward him.

The eerie silence shattered.

And the echo of his name lingered in the air like a plea the Force itself could feel.

 

[Aiden Porte]

Arhiia Voronwe​

The days had blurred together.

Aiden had stopped counting sometime after the fifth sunrise, the moment when the distinction between hours and waiting ceased to matter. The bacta chamber had become his world: pale blue light, the low hum of machinery, the rhythmic pulse of monitors, and the ghostly figure suspended within.

He had taken up his post at the edge of the tank the day she was submerged, and he had never truly left.

At first, he stood. Silent, immovable, a sentinel carved from duty and grief. His hands clasped behind his back, eyes fixed on her through the fluid, searching for any sign of movement, any flutter of life beneath the shifting glow. He told himself it was about discipline, about patience, about being what she needed. But as the hours passed, and then days, the truth began to settle like dust in his chest.

He wasn't guarding her., he was anchoring himself to her.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her collapse in his arms again. The flash of red, the smell of scorched flesh, her voice breaking as she cried his name. The sound haunted the silence between his heartbeats.

Sometimes he paced the perimeter of the chamber, slow and measured, boots clicking softly against stone. Other times, he sat cross-legged on the floor, cloak pooling around him, head bowed in meditation that never quite held. His mind would drift, always back to her. To the way her hand had fit against his chest before she went under. To the faint ghost of her lips against his before she slipped into unconsciousness.

He would fall asleep like that, slumped against the wall beside the tank, the hum of the bacta unit lulling him into brief, uneasy dreams. When he woke, it was always with a jolt, heart racing, half-expecting to find the glass empty. But she was always there, motionless, serene, impossibly distant.

Every day, he spoke to her in quiet moments. Never loud enough for anyone else to hear. He would stand before the tank, voice low, words threading into the sound of the machines.

"Still fighting, aren't you?"

Or sometimes, "I promised you a night under the stars, Arhiia. Don't you dare forget it."

It wasn't much, but it helped.

As the days dragged on, fatigue settled into his bones, yet he refused to leave her side for more than a few minutes at a time. He'd tried once, stepping out to clear his head, but the moment the door closed behind him, the weight of the silence on the other side had driven him straight back. The chamber was unbearable, but being away from it was worse.

So he stayed. Through every flicker of the monitors. Through every faint vibration of the sanctuary's walls in the night. Through the endless hum of the machines and bacta tank healing her.

When the healers told him the cycle was nearing completion, he barely reacted. The air in the chamber seemed to thicken, alive with a pressure he hadn't felt in days. The bacta light flickered faintly, casting ripples of soft blue across his face. He stood now, weary but alert, the faint ache in his back forgotten. His hand rested against the tank's surface, fingertips tracing the faint outline of her face through the glass.

"You've been gone long enough," he murmured, voice rough from disuse. "It's time to come back."

He didn't know if she could hear him. He didn't care. He closed his eyes, letting the Force flow through him, feeling for her presence, faint but steady, like a heartbeat muffled by water. It was there. It had always been there.

And when the soft chime finally sounded, the one he'd been waiting for, dreading and longing for in equal measure. He exhaled for the first time in what felt like forever.

The hum of the machines began to shift, the steady rhythm of the bacta tank cycling down. He didn't move. He couldn't.

He simply stood there, hand against the glass, watching through the soft swirl of fluid as the woman he had refused to abandon began, at last, to return to him.

Ten days of silence. Ten days of waiting. Ten days of hope clinging to the edge of exhaustion.

And now, finally, she was coming back to the world.

Aiden's jaw tightened, his voice barely a whisper. "I told you I'd be here when you woke." And he was. Exactly where he had promised to be.

"Where—"

"Where's A… Aiden…?"

"I—I need him…"

Aiden smiled as he moved forward as she was placed on the bed. "Hey, easy, stubbornhead." He whispered, with a small chuckle, taking her hand in his own, siting on the bed next to her, as the healers worked around him. "I'm right here, don't worry. I promised you I'd be here." He kissed her hands, sweetly. Then one hand moved to the side of her cheek. "Relax and breath, your back now. You are home."

 

[Arhiia Voronwe]

Tags: Aiden Porte ​

Her fingers twitched before her mind fully registered the warmth they found—strong, steady, alive. The glassy haze of the bacta dreams still clinging to her mind began to dissolve as sensation returned. She could feel the press of his hand, the steady, grounding weight that seemed to tether her to this world, to him.

Her eyes fluttered open, blinking against the harsh medbay lights. She reached instinctively, hand stretching toward the warmth she remembered, and found him. His presence—solid, familiar, tethering—brought a small, shaky laugh from her lips.

Weak at first, her body moved almost on its own. She lifted herself slowly, groaning softly as the remnants of stiffness protested, until she could lean forward, brushing her nose against his. Her lips found his without hesitation, tender and urgent, a kiss that spoke of longing, of dreams, of nights spent imagining this moment.

She pressed closer, letting her body curve against him, feeling the strength of his arms holding her. Her fingers threaded through his hair, nails brushing the nape of his neck, as if drawing him into herself, grounding herself in the reality of him. Her breaths came uneven, a mixture of lingering sleep and the ache of days spent suspended in sterile quiet.

A quiet, breathless chuckle escaped her as she held him tighter, chest rising against his. "I dreamt of you," she whispered, voice soft but intimate, laced with heat and wonder. "Of us… under the stars."

Her head tilted, lips brushing the corner of his mouth in a second, gentler kiss, playful even amidst the exhaustion. Her hands never left him, one still cradling his face, the other resting against his chest, holding on as though letting go would shatter the fragile tether they'd rebuilt.

She leaned back slightly, just enough to look up at him, her eyes bright with unshed tears and a small, teasing spark. "Did this patient… earn a night out?" she murmured, breathless, letting her fingers squeeze his in quiet insistence, letting her body press forward again as if claiming her right to the moment.

Even as the healers moved around them, she didn't release him. Her body, her hands, her gaze—all of it clung, claimed, and surrendered to the safety and warmth he offered. Every twitch, every brush of skin, every small laugh or whispered word was hers, asserting that she was here, alive, and awake—and that she wanted nothing more than this moment with him.

Her forehead still rested lightly against his when the soft, pointed sound of someone clearing their throat cut through the warm haze settling over her. A small huff of breath slipped from her—half amusement, half reluctant acknowledgment—as her eyes unashamedly flicked sideways toward the healer standing rigidly at the foot of the bed.

The healer cleared their throat again, addressing Aiden with a tone that strained for professionalism.

"Knight Porte," they said carefully, as if trying not to look directly at how closely she was pressed to him, "your… ah… Miss Arhiia is cleared to be released. Mobility is stable, vitals are within acceptable ranges."

Arhiia's fingers tightened around his hand, her thumb brushing once along the ridge of his knuckle.

The healer continued, still speaking past her and straight to him. "She is restricted to light duty for one standard week. No missions off-world, no combat drills, and minimal strain on abdominal tissue. She will return mid-week for a follow-up evaluation."

Arhiia exhaled a soft, amused breath through her nose—barely a smile, but unmistakably there—at how the healer was very obviously trying not to comment on how tangled together the two of them still were.

She lifted her chin just slightly, her forehead brushing his again as she murmured up to him, voice warm, still hoarse from days asleep:

"There you have it, Aiden. Doctor's orders."

Her hand remained in his, steady, but sure.

 

[Aiden Porte]

Arhiia Voronwe​

Aiden hadn't realized how long he'd been holding his breath until her fingers twitched against his.

At first, he thought he'd imagined it. The weeks of waiting had trained him to expect the silence, the still, haunting calm of the bacta chamber, the endless hum that had filled every sleepless night. But then her hand moved again, unmistakable this time, brushing weakly against his palm.

His heart lurched.

The shift was so small, so fragile, yet it shattered the stillness of the sanctuary like thunder in his chest. He was beside her before he even realized he'd moved, one hand pressing gently over hers, the other steadying himself against the side of the chamber as the final traces of bacta drained away. Her eyes opened slowly, blinking against the harsh light, and for the first time in days, weeks, Aiden saw life flicker behind them. Not just the faint echo of the Force he had sensed through the glass, but her. The warmth, the clarity, the presence that had haunted every meditation and every restless hour of his vigil.

When she reached for him, he met her halfway.

The hand that had once trembled in his grasp now rose, seeking him with trembling certainty. He leaned in, letting her fingers find him, letting her touch erase every ghost of fear that had lived beneath his skin since the night she fell. Her skin was still cold from the bacta's residue, but her pulse, it was there. Steady. Human. And then she was against him.

The moment she leaned forward, all the resolve, all the calm he had forced himself to maintain, broke apart. Her lips met his soft, searching, full of all the longing and promise that had filled his thoughts through ten endless nights of silence. The world fell away. He didn't think. He couldn't.

His arms came around her instinctively, careful of her wounds, but strong enough to hold her when her weight sagged against him. She fit against him perfectly, her head tilted just enough that he could taste the faint salt of her tears on his lips. The kiss deepened, slow and deliberate, his hand rising to cradle the back of her head as if to protect the fragile moment from anything that might take it away.

When she whispered that she had dreamed of him, his eyes softened. He leaned his forehead against hers, the touch quiet but electric. Her words sank deep into him, unraveling the walls he had built out of duty and self-control. He had dreamed of her, too, of the sound of her laughter echoing through the temple gardens, of the weight of her hand in his, of the way she looked at him when the chaos fell away.

He had dreamed of her alive.

The corner of his mouth curved faintly when she kissed him again, her lips finding his with a tenderness that made his pulse skip. His hand slipped to her waist, just above the fresh line of bandaged skin, holding her steady but never pressing too hard. She was fragile still, every movement a reminder of how close he had come to losing her, and he treated her like something sacred.

When she pulled back just enough to look at him, her face still inches from his, her eyes would catch the clear and blue and full of emotion he had no words for. He searched them silently, as though memorizing every shade, every detail, every subtle quiver of life returning to her.

The sound of her soft, teasing question broke through the charged quiet.

'Did this patient earn a night out?'

Aiden's lips twitched into the smallest smile, a smile that didn't quite hide the exhaustion, the relief, or the overwhelming affection in his eyes. His voice, when it came, was low, threaded with warmth.

"You've earned more than that," he said, brushing his thumb along her jaw, tracing the faint scar the bacta hadn't erased. "You fought your way back to me, Arhiia. Force know that's worth more than one night under the sky."

He let his hand drift to hers, their fingers interlacing again. Her grip was stronger this time, no longer the trembling grasp of someone half-dreaming, but the deliberate touch of someone who chose to stay.

When her forehead came to rest against his once more, Aiden closed his eyes and breathed her in, the faint scent of bacta and rain and something uniquely hers. The hum of the machines faded around them, the world shrinking to the quiet space they shared.

"I never left your side," he whispered. "Every day. Every night. I told you I'd be here when you woke."

Her breath brushed his lips when she laughed softly, that sound he had missed more than he would ever admit.

The echo of someone clearing their throat somewhere behind him barely registered at first. It was only when her amusement flickered against his skin that he realized they weren't alone. He didn't move, though; he couldn't. Not yet. He simply looked at her, really looked, his expression softening into something entirely unguarded.

'There you have it, Aiden. Doctor's order' He felt his smile widen, the quiet rumble of a laugh escaping him before he could stop it.

His fingers tightened around hers, his voice just above a whisper.

"Then I suppose we'd better follow them."

He let his thumb brush over the back of her hand again, the touch lingering, slow, deliberate, reverent. Every movement, every breath, every look between them was a vow unspoken but felt all the same.

As she leaned into him once more, her forehead against his, he allowed himself one last moment of stillness, a moment of peace hard-won and deeply, desperately cherished.

Aiden didn't care about the healers, the temple, or the rules waiting outside that door. All that mattered was that she was here, breathing, awake, her heartbeat syncing softly against his chest.

"Let's get you back. I'm gonna look after you."

 

[Arhiia Voronwe]

Tags: Aiden Porte
​

Arhiia eased her hands along Aiden's arms as if ready to stand immediately—ready to bolt straight from the medbay doors and chase the night sky he had promised her. The eagerness lit her eyes, bright and fierce, stronger than the body that had been healing in stillness for ten long days.

She pushed herself upright… and nearly swayed sideways.

Her breath hitched. Her fingers clutched the linen hospital blanket beneath her. Every muscle trembled, not from pain but from weakness; a deep, residual heaviness like gravity had doubled around her.

Her jaw tightened—not in fear, but frustration.

She tried again, slower this time, planting one foot on the cool floor. Her knee buckled immediately. A soft, sharp exhale escaped her as her body betrayed her enthusiasm.

She lifted her chin, shot a look toward the healer still lingering nearby, then pointed toward the doorway with a small, embarrassed gesture.

Her voice came hoarse, but steady:

"…my office. There's a cane mounted near the far wall. Bring it, please."

The healer nodded and hurried out.

Arhiia turned back to Aiden, cheeks warming, her fingers curling into the blanket with something shy and hopeful. She glanced at him once, then away—then back at him again, unable to keep her composure steady. Her hands slid toward him, palms open, silently asking.

Her voice, soft but unashamed:

"…would you… carry me? Just for now?"

A faint flush climbed higher across her freckles. She wet her lips, swallowed, and added—quieter still:

"And… maybe I could… take a shower at your place? If you're… comfortable with that, but we’ll need to stop by my quarters for a change of clothes first…."

Her throat worked around the last word; her eyes held his, searching.

Before he could answer, the healer returned—carrying a cane made of beskar so old the metal had begun to dull around the handle. Time had not softened it. It gleamed in places where years of hands had worn it smooth, the edges still sharp, still powerful. Her father's.

The healer offered it reverently.

Arhiia reached out, fingers brushing the cool metal before taking its full weight. The moment the cane touched her hand, it thudded to the floor— the weight clumsy in her hand.

A soft, metallic chime sang out, pure and resonant, like wind sliding across a blade.

The sound carried through the room, low and haunting, filling the air in a way no simple piece of metal should. Her breath stilled. Her lashes lowered. She leaned lightly into the cane, head tilting, listening as though expecting footsteps behind the sound—footsteps that would never come.

Her eyes glossed, not with tears, but with recognition.

For a heartbeat she stood suspended between memory and now, hearing the same sound she'd heard all her childhood—always moments before her father appeared around a corner, before his shadow stretched long across a doorway, before his hand came to rest gently on her shoulder.

Even now—gone, ashes, only stories left—his presence steadied her limb by limb.

She shifted her grip on the cane, trying to straighten out her spine, but once again failed, now leaning her weight into Aiden’s chest.

Her smile was tired. Hungry. Hopeful.
But strong.

"Let's go."

 

[Aiden Porte]

Arhiia Voronwe​

Aiden had waited long enough for her to wake; he wasn't about to let her stand on trembling legs alone. The faint tremor that ran through her when she leaned into him was all the reminder he needed of how fragile she still was beneath her fierce determination. Without a word, his arms slipped around her, steadying her effortlessly. Her weight against him was feather-light, but the meaning of it carried more than he could ever put to words.

He could feel the warmth of her breath against his neck, the rise and fall of her chest, the subtle rhythm of her heartbeat syncing with his own. The scent of bacta and clean linen clung to her, threaded with something faintly floral, something that was her, unmistakably. When she asked, hesitant, but hopeful, if she could stay with him, something inside him softened completely. The answer came before the thought: of course she could. Of course she would.

He wanted her close, safe, grounded, somewhere she could heal without feeling the walls of the medbay pressing in. On the homestead it was more than sufficient, and there was more than enough room for her. Truth be told it would be nice to have some company out there. More than that, he wanted her to wake in a place where the first thing she saw wasn't sterile light, but peace.

Aiden reached for his communicator, his thumb brushing the worn metal casing before he keyed in the private frequency. His voice was low but firm, carrying that quiet authority that had once belonged to his father. "This is Knight Porte. I need a transport ready at the Sanctuary's south landing pad."

The reply came almost immediately, steady, efficient, unquestioning. Shiraya's Hope personnel, men who served in the Galactic Alliance and the Alliance in Exile during the Knightfall campaign. Men loyal to his father and his legacy, and now loyal to him as well. They would see it done without delay. They were soldiers who understood loyalty, precision, indomitable will.

He turned back toward the small corner of the chamber where her belongings had been set aside. Within minutes, he had arranged for her essentials to be gathered, clothing, datapad, her father's cane carefully wrapped in silk to protect its dulled metal. They would be able to come back after a few days, enough to where she was able to walk without it causing too much pain.

When it was done, he went back to her side.

Aiden's gaze softened when he looked at her, tired but glowing faintly beneath the pale temple light. The stubborn set of her jaw was still there, that quiet defiance that refused to bow even to injury. But there was something else now too, a kind of vulnerability she didn't often let anyone see.

He reached for her gently, one arm sliding beneath her knees, the other supporting her back. The warmth of her skin seeped through the fabric, a pulse of life against his chest.

He held her close as he began to walk, his steps unhurried, deliberate. The echo of his boots on the stone floor was soft beneath the hum of the sanctuary's lanterns. Each stride carried the faint scent of rain drifting in through the open arches, the Naboo air cool and damp against the skin. Aiden didn't look back at the medbay. He simply carried her forward, through the still corridors that had become too empty without her voice in them.

He could feel her breathing steady with each step, the tension bleeding away as exhaustion took over. Aiden felt her head resting lightly against his shoulder, her hair brushing his neck.. His grip shifted slightly, gentle, protective.

By the time they reached the main entryway, the transport was waiting, sleek, silver. The soldiers stood as as the hatch opened, Aiden acknowledged them, giving them a small smile as they cleared way for her. His primary focus never left the woman in his arms.

She was safe. She was alive.

He paused at the base of the ramp, glancing up at the clear blue sky and the light from the shining sun. He allowed himself a small, quiet breath, the kind that carried both relief and promise.

Then, without breaking his stride, he stepped aboard the transport, Arhiia cradled against him as if the very act of carrying her was something sacred.

"Everything's going to be okay, I swear to you."

 

[Arhiia Voronwe]

Tags: Aiden Porte
​

She didn't remember falling asleep.

She remembered his arms—warm, steady, unyielding—lifting her as if she weighed no more than breath. She remembered the soft murmur of his voice against her hair, the thrum of the transport's engines, the way her fingers curled instinctively in the fabric of his tunic as her body finally gave in.

Then the carrier's interior blurred.
Then darkness took her.
A darkness that wasn't empty.

Dreams found her quickly, as they always had these past nights—dreams layered like memories and hope and nightmares all stitched together at odd angles. Aiden's laugh. Her father's calloused hand steady on her shoulder. Children's voices, distant but warm. The rhythm of duty, of routine, of their days before she fell.

And then—like every night—the crimson glow.
The saber's vicious hum swallowing the air.

The man's voice—distorted through the haze of pain—curling around her like cold metal.

The white-hot burn tearing through her ribs again, so real she almost felt her breath catch.


It's a dream.
It's just a dream.
Just a dream—


But the pain still lanced through her like memory refusing to loosen its claws.

She flinched awake.
Light—real, warm, steady—met her instead of red.

Arhiia sucked in a sharp breath, her chest rising too fast, too shallow, until she forced herself to slow it. The room around her was nothing like the medbay—no sterile glare, no distant hissing of machines.

Silk sheets brushed her skin, cool and impossibly soft. A thick comforter draped over her like a gentle weight, its warmth wrapping her in a cocoon that felt… safe. Sunlight poured in through tall windows, flooding the room in soft gold. Outside, she heard birds—actual birds—singing against the quiet hush of morning wind.

If peace had a sound, it lived here.

Her blue eyes wandered slowly, blinking through the remnants of sleep, and she recognized it—not from memory, but from the way it felt.

Aiden's home.

She smiled, the smallest, softest tug of her lips, feeling something inside her unclench for the first time since she'd been struck down.

She shifted, wincing at the soreness threaded through her torso as she pushed herself upright. That was when she saw it—leaning carefully against the bedside table.

Her father's cane.

The polished metal caught the sunlight, sending soft reflections dancing across the wooden floorboards. Her breath stilled. Something warm pressed behind her ribs—ache, longing, gratitude all tangled.

Slowly, she reached out.

Her fingers curled around the handle, familiar grooves settling against her palm like an old embrace. She drew it toward her, setting it between her feet. The linen shirt she wore shifted around her shoulders—soft, oversized, definitely not hers—and heat crept into her cheeks at the realization.

He must've…

Well. He had been a gentleman about it, she was sure.

Her blush softened into a small, private smile.

Arhiia lowered her gaze to the cane again, thumbs brushing over the worn places. She lifted it and tapped the end gently against the floor—once. Twice. The quiet ring echoed through the room, steady and grounding.

Her father's voice rose in her memory, deep, warm, and stern in the ways she needed most:

"Strength isn't standing without shaking, Arhiia. Strength is standing again after you do."

Another tap.

"And don't ever confuse healing with weakness. The wounded who rise are stronger than those who never fall."

Her breath trembled, but not with fear.

With resolve.

She held the cane a moment longer, letting the weight of his words settle into her bones, the kind of strength that didn't roar—but rooted.

Finally, she shifted forward, preparing to stand. Her feet touched the floor.

She pushed.

Her knees buckled instantly.

A sharp gasp escaped her, her hand gripping the cane like a lifeline as pain shot up her side. Her breath hitched, humiliation and frustration burning hot beneath her skin.

"Come on…" she whispered under her breath, jaw clenching as she tried again.

Nothing.
Her body refused.

She sank back onto the bed, chest heaving with the effort, anger and sorrow flickering through her all at once.

Her voice was barely audible:

"…Aiden?"

Not a call of panic— but need.

Trust.

A reaching she had never allowed herself with anyone but him.

Quiet lingered for a heartbeat before her voice softened further, fragile but steadying:

"…I'm awake. But I… I can't stand."

Her fingers tightened around the cane. Light caught her hair and made it glow like a halo, golden curls brushing her shoulders and the oversized white shirt slipping slightly down one arm.

She lifted her eyes toward the doorway, the softest hope threading through her exhaustion.

"Could you… come here?"

Because despite the pain, the trembling legs, the sting of helplessness—

She knew she was safe.
She knew he would come.
And for the first morning in far too long—

She felt home.

 

[Aiden Porte]

Arhiia Voronwe​

Aiden had been awake long before the sunlight reached the windows.

Sleep never lasted long for him anymore, not since the night he'd carried her out of the medbay. Even here, in the calm embrace of his home, with the scent of Naboo's early mist drifting through the open veranda and the sound of morning wind moving softly through the curtains, his mind refused to rest fully.

He had spent most of the night in the adjoining study, its door cracked open so he could hear if she stirred. Every few hours, he would rise from the chair, cross the silent room, and check on her, each time reassured by the steady rhythm of her breathing, the gentle rise and fall beneath the blankets. He'd told himself it was simply caution, the instincts of a protector unwilling to relax until his charge was safe. But it wasn't that simple. It hadn't been for a long time.

When he finally heard her voice, faint but unmistakable, his name, shaped softly like a prayer.

It wasn't the pain in her tone that hit him first. It was the trust. The quiet, unguarded way she said it, as though she knew he was there before she'd even looked for him. Aiden set the datapad he'd been holding aside, its light dimming as he moved toward the doorway. The sight that met him as he stepped inside the room stopped him mid-breath.

Arhiia sat on the edge of the bed, sunlight pooling around her in sheets of gold. Her hair, still tousled from sleep, caught the light like liquid fire; her father's cane rested beside her, the metal gleaming faintly. The oversized white shirt she wore brushed the tops of her thighs, the fabric ghosting over skin still pale from recovery. She looked delicate, but not fragile, alive in a way that made something in his chest loosen.

He could see the strain in her posture, the tightness in her grip on the cane, the way her breath caught as she tried, and failed, to stand. Every instinct in him moved at once.

He crossed the room in a few long strides, the faint sound of his boots on the polished floor the only thing breaking the quiet. When he reached her, he dropped to one knee without hesitation, the movement smooth and deliberate, bringing him level with her.

He could see it in her eyes, a mixture of exhaustion, frustration, and something softer that caught him off guard every time he saw it.

He didn't speak at first. Words felt unnecessary. Instead, his hand rose, fingers brushing along her knee, just enough to steady her trembling leg. His other hand came up to cup her cheek, thumb tracing the faint warmth there.

"You shouldn't be trying to move yet." he murmured, voice low, roughened by the weight of relief.

He shook his head slightly, the edge of a quiet smile breaking through his composure. "I know you, hate this. But right now, you don't have to stand. You don't have to prove anything."

He reached out, letting his hand find hers, the contact careful, grounding. His thumb traced small, slow circles over her knuckles. The warmth of her skin, the tremor in her grip, it all spoke of exhaustion and endurance in equal measure.

"It's gonna come back to you." he continued, his voice a calm certainty. "You'll run, and laugh, and call me a jackass." He paused for a moment as he looked into her eyes a small chuckle escaping him.

Aiden turned slightly, his cheek brushing her hair, and spoke in that same low tone that always seemed to reach her when words from others could not.

"You're here now, and I'll handle everything else. When you're ready, we can start off slow, take a walk." he added quietly, a trace of warmth in his voice.

The sunlight caught the edges of his expression then, softening the angles, making the calm in his eyes glow with something deeper.

She was awake. She was here.

It was peace.

 

[Arhiia Voronwe]

Tags: Aiden Porte
​

Arhiia let herself exhale slowly, a trembling breath that carried a mix of relief and stubborn pride. She stayed where she was, perched on the edge of the bed, her fingers curling around the worn handle of her father's cane. The metal felt familiar, grounding, almost alive beneath her touch, and she traced its length absently, thinking of his voice, the weight of his presence even in absence.

Her gaze lifted, finding Aiden as he knelt beside her. The corner of her lips lifted into a sleep-worn, crooked smile, playful and intimate, almost teasing. "I don't need to run," she murmured, voice husky, "or laugh, or do anything at all… to call you a jackass." Her eyes sparkled with mischief even as her chest rose and fell unevenly with lingering weakness.

When his hand brushed a strand of hair from her face, his thumb grazing her cheek, her own fingers tightened slightly on the cane. Her skin flared warm, a slow fire creeping up her neck, her ears, the blush spreading to the delicate slope of her jaw. "Jackass," she whispered again, mock exasperation dancing in the word, though her lips quirked up against it. The sound felt both dangerous and safe, a confession and a challenge all at once.

She stayed quiet for a moment, letting him look at her, letting the heat of his presence wash over her in slow, deliberate waves. Her fingers moved, tracing absent patterns over the cane's metal as she chewed lightly on her bottom lip, a habit she didn't notice until she realized how much it betrayed her. Only he could draw that out of her—the small, unguarded things she normally kept buried.

Then, her voice shifted, steadying, even as her eyes lingered on him. "I came in strong," she admitted softly, almost reluctantly, "I understand if everything you've given me—your care, your…attention—only started when I was hurt." The words fell heavy between them, but there was no anger, only honesty, the kind she rarely allowed herself.

Her fingers drummed lightly against the cane, a hypnotic rhythm that grounded her as her thoughts swirled. She wondered, not for the first time, if she'd been foolish—if what she had done, what she had let happen between them, had no name, no shape. But the pull, the ache, the way he made her body and mind react… she couldn't deny it.

"What… what am I to you?" she asked quietly, voice barely above a whisper, as though speaking it aloud could fracture the fragile moment. Her eyes searched his, wide, honest, and tinged with the vulnerability she never let show elsewhere. "And… what are you to me? Because I—" She bit her lip, hesitated, then looked away for the briefest second, letting her fingers tighten around the cane. Her pulse hitched as her heart thumped in answer to his nearness. "…I don't know what to call this, or if I should be scared of it. But I don't want to run."

Her hand flexed over the cane again, as though drawing strength from its weight, from the memory of her father's voice and his quiet insistence that weakness could be met with resilience, not shame. Her blue eyes flicked back to him, softening, yet alight with everything she felt but couldn't yet name.

"I've… never felt like this — ever, for anyone ," she admitted, almost to herself, almost to him. "And… you make me feel like… like maybe it's okay to be too much. Too stubborn, weak…. Too… everything." Her gaze lingered on his, searching, trembling, aching. "And yet… I want to be enough for you. Even if I don't know how. Even if I don't know what I'm supposed to be."

Her shoulders rose, a shiver passing through her, and she let herself lean slightly toward him, the faintest brush, as though even that was a plea for reassurance, for permission, for connection. The cane felt heavy between her hands, but she drew from it the courage to meet him in the silence that stretched, electric and unbroken.

 

[Aiden Porte]

Arhiia Voronwe​

Aiden listened without interrupting.

He didn't try to fill the air with comfort or platitudes, he just let her speak, each word striking deeper than she probably realized. The sound of her voice, rough with emotion and uncertainty, carried the same strength that had drawn him to her from the beginning. Even broken, she spoke like someone unafraid to confront what frightened her.

He stayed where he was, kneeling beside the bed, his eyes never leaving hers. The sunlight slanted through the window and caught her hair, painting gold across her cheekbones. Her pulse fluttered at the base of her throat, fragile but alive, and the faint tremor in her fingers as she gripped the cane told him she was still fighting, just differently now.

When she asked what she was to him, he felt the question land like a physical blow. There was no easy answer. Not one he could wrap in neat, Jedi-approved language or hide behind duty. The truth lived in the quiet things, every sleepless night he'd spent watching over her, the way his breath steadied only when she was near, the ache that lingered when she wasn't.

The Jedi Order wasn't what it used to be, there were no laws against attachment, not laws against families, loved, caring, nurturing or anything of that sort. Aiden have often believed that love in all forms was essential to life. Hope was born of that love, it wasn't something that he wanted to shy away from.

He moved to sit right next to her, facing her fully. His voice, when it came, was low and even, though there was a rough edge to it he couldn't quite temper. "You were never just someone I cared for because you were hurt," he said softly. "If that's what you think… then I've done a poor job showing you what's real."

He reached out, letting his fingers trace the faint outline of her hand where it rested on the cane. "You've always been more than that to me. Long before this. Do you remember when we first met? You called me stubborn, you spoke of your mother, and father. Their sacrifices, and what you felt you were meant to do. And you called me a jackass." He chuckled, as he searched for words that matched what he felt. "You said you weren't trying to stop me, but to reach me. You didn't want me to break." Aiden took a small breath as he leaned in and gave her a kiss, gentle, sweet and pure.

"You're… the calm that makes the noise in my head go quiet. The person I look for when everything else turns to chaos. You make it easy to breathe again. When we were writing to each other, I wished I was there with you wherever you were at."

A small smile ghosted across his lips, more a breath than expression. "And I don't need you to be anything other than yourself. Not stronger, not perfect, not fearless. Just you. The woman who stands even when she shakes. The one who calls me a jackass and still means it kindly."

He exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing as he spoke. "You want to know what you are to me?" He tilted his head, eyes searching hers. "Maybe I'm the one who's supposed to remind you you're allowed to be seen. To be known. To be cared for without it being a weakness."

Aiden let the silence stretch for a heartbeat, steady and intimate. The hum of morning drifted in through the window. He didn't say the words, he couldn't say them yet, but his emotions and feelings were there.

"I don't want you to run," he said finally, his tone barely more than a murmur. "Not from me. Not from this. Because what this is… it's worth standing still for."

He shifted closer, not to claim space, but to offer it. His hand rose, brushing her cheek with deliberate gentleness, thumb lingering just long enough for her to feel the steady pulse beneath his touch. "I've seen you stand for me, where others wouldn't survive." he whispered. "You don't have to name it yet. Just… let it exist. Let us exist."

For a long moment, he said nothing more. The world seemed to narrow to the faint rhythm of her breathing and the warmth that passed between them. Then, quieter still, a promise slipped through the space between them, unforced, unspoken in its simplicity.

"You're enough, Arhiia. I'm only looking at you, you are the only one I want."

He stayed there beside her, the sunlight catching the edge of his tunic, the quiet weight of the moment settling around them like something sacred.

 

[Arhiia Voronwe]

Tags: Aiden Porte
​

Arhiia didn't speak at first.

She sat very still beside him, Aiden's words settling into her like warmth pushing through cold stone. Her fingers tightened around the cane for a moment, then loosened, tracing over the metal as if it helped her gather breath and courage at the same time.

A soft, shaky chuckle slipped out of her as she bit her lip, eyes glinting with something tender. Her free hand lifted and brushed along the back of his, fingertips light, as though memorizing him.

"Careful Porte….," she murmured, a quiet warning wrapped in affection. "Been told all my life I’m a lot to handle."

Her thumb traced over his knuckles, slow and sure. "But… I trust you. More than you know, more than even I think I understand."

She looked at him then — really looked — and something in her expression fluttered between awe and fear and the beginnings of surrender. Her breath caught as she leaned a little closer, shoulder brushing his.

"You say I'm enough for you," she whispered, eyes dropping to their joined hands, "and I want to believe that. I do." She swallowed softly. "I've never… been this with anyone. I don't know the rules. I don't know what I'm doing — I just know what i feel..."

Her voice dropped lower. "And my heart?…" Her lashes lowered, trembling. "It's… already yours. Only yours."

Her hand slipped from his to rest against her father's cane. A small smile curved her lips, tinged with grief and love. "My father… Iston… you two would've driven each other crazy at first," she said with a watery laugh. "He would have interrogated you for hours, poked at every corner of your mind just to see what you were made of."

She blinked, a single tear finally escaping down her cheek. "And then… he would've adored you. Called you a softhearted brute. Told me not to let you go."

Her grip tightened around the cane, her gaze softening. "I miss him." Her voice cracked—quiet, but not weak. "And what I feel with you… this is the closest I've ever come to belonging since he died. Just when I thought I had no one left…" She looked back at him, eyes shining. "…you came crashing into my life like you'd been searching for it."

She leaned in slowly, her hand rising to the side of his neck, fingers threading gently into the short hairs there. Her blue eyes flared—emotion, longing, something unguarded and burning.

"Ai'shara tor'en valis…" she whispered in her Epicanthix tongue, breath brushing his lips - in basic tongue — My heart has chosen its path.

Then she kissed him.

Not soft — not shy — but deep, full, a heartbeat-changing kiss that told him every unspoken word she didn't know how to say in Basic. Her cane slipped from her hand and thudded softly to the floor, forgotten.

When she finally broke the kiss, she stayed close, lips brushing his as she breathed a small, breathless laugh.

"…I'm hungry," she murmured, almost coy. "We should make breakfast and start there, cowboy."

She eased back only enough to look him in the eyes, mischief returning in a slow-growing grin. "Once I'm healed, we'll see who the better cook is. And I already know it's me… but I'll let you try."

Her hand skimmed down his arm, fingers curling lightly around his wrist.

"So—help me downstairs," she added, giving him a teasing wink. "And I'll stand behind you and critique everything. Really motivate you."

 

[Aiden Porte]

Arhiia Voronwe​

Aiden could still taste her words in the air long after she stopped speaking.

He sat beside her in the quiet that followed, the faint hum of the morning breeze slipping through the windows and stirring the curtains. His heart hadn't quite caught up to what had just happened, the confession, the kiss, the soft humor she used to wrap her vulnerability, but his mind was steady in its understanding. He knew what it meant, and he knew how much it cost her to say it aloud.


He didn't rush to answer. He wanted to meet the weight of her honesty with something real, something worthy of it. His hand found hers again, fingers threading through gently, his thumb brushing the back of her palm as if tracing the pulse there.

"Arhiia," he said quietly, his voice low and certain, "There isn't a part of you that's too much for me."

He let that truth hang there between them, letting her see it in his eyes before he went on.

"You think you're hard to handle? Maybe you are," he said, a small, genuine smile ghosting across his lips. "But that's never been a reason for me to turn away. It's the reason I stay. You fight for everything you believe in, even when you're hurting. Even when it scares you. That's one of the greatest strengths I've ever seen"


He paused, looking down at their joined hands, his thumb still drawing idle patterns against her skin. "I've spent years, facing the darkness. Facing uncertainty. I should've died so many times already, but here I am, living again. It was always hope that kept me going. The times I'm with you, I remember more clearly why we fight at all. You make all the chaos make sense."

Aiden shifted slightly closer, enough that their shoulders brushed, the warmth between them quiet but grounding. "You said your heart's already chosen its path," he murmured, eyes softening as he met hers. "Then I'll walk it with you. No fear. No distance."

He reached up, brushing a stray lock of hair from her cheek, his fingertips lingering there for a breath longer than necessary. "And your father… if he was anything like you, I can already hear him asking me if I'll take care of his daughter." A faint smirk tugged at his lips. "The answer's yes. I already am."

He leaned forward just slightly, enough that his voice dropped into something warmer, something meant only for her. "You don't need to wonder what you are to me. You're the person I didn't know I was waiting for."

He sat back then, exhaling slowly, the air between them charged and calm all at once. The sunlight caught her hair, the faint blush still clinging to her cheeks, and he couldn't help the quiet laugh that slipped out when she mentioned breakfast. "Breakfast, huh?" he said, the smile reaching his eyes this time. "You make a promise like that after a kiss like that, and you expect me to focus on cooking?" Aiden chuckled lightly. Cooking and baking was indeed his forte, if this whole Jedi thing didn't work out, he would be set to go. On top of his Job working with John Locke , who had been a true, great friend to his family.

His tone softened again as he rose to his feet, offering her his hand, not as a gesture of pity, but partnership. His gaze was steady, voice low but certain.

"Let's take it one step at a time, Arhiia. You, me, and the morning."

He stayed close as she prepared to stand, ready to catch her if she faltered, not because he doubted her strength, he'd never doubted that, but because he wanted her to know she didn't have to carry it alone anymore. He would help her rise, his hand still holding hers,

Aiden moved carefully, mindful of the weight he supported and the subtle tremor he felt through her frame. Every step down the staircase was measured, his arm steady around her waist, his other hand guiding hers along the railing. The sunlight streaming through the high windows cast pale gold over the steps, and the quiet of the Sanctuary was broken only by the soft echo of their footfalls.

When they reached the kitchen, he helped her into the cushioned chair by the wide window, facing the gardens. Which he had finally was able to complete. However there was still some work that needed to be done with it. He adjusted the throw across her legs, the gesture practical but tender, before straightening and taking a breath that felt deeper than any in days. The air here was lighter. It smelled of rain-soaked stone, blooming lilies, and the faint trace of the wild herbs that grew outside.

He rolled his sleeves past his elbows and crossed to the counter. The morning light hit the polished durasteel of the kitchen fixtures, scattering a thousand small reflections as he gathered ingredients: fresh bread, Nabooan eggs, bacon, sliced fruit, and a steaming pot of rich caf. The quiet rhythm of preparation steadied him, knife against board, skillet warming, the gentle hiss of butter melting.

There was peace in the small rituals. He found himself moving through them with the same precision he brought with force training, only here, the purpose was gentler. Each motion felt like rebuilding something broken, not just her strength, but the stillness they'd both forgotten how to keep.

As he cracked the eggs into the pan, he glanced briefly toward the open window, where the morning breeze stirred the curtains and carried in the scent of the lake. The calm of it seeped into him. He let his shoulders relax, let the sound of sizzling and the soft hum of the environment fill the silence that years of conflict had carved into him.

He poured the caf into two cups, the dark aroma rising in gentle spirals. The simplicity of the act struck him, how ordinary it felt, and how much he wanted to protect that ordinariness for as long as he could.

Aiden stirred the pan slowly, watching the edges of the meal take shape, golden and warm beneath his hands. His chest eased, a quiet certainty taking hold: this was what he had fought for. Not glory. Not victory. Just this. morning light, peace, and the faint sound of someone breathing safely behind him. He plated the food with the same care he gave every other duty, setting the finished meal on the counter before turning to the caf again. The steam curled in the air, soft and fleeting, and he let himself breathe it in, grounding himself in the moment.

For once, there was no mission waiting, no storm outside the door. There was only Arhiia, the smell of breakfast, and the quiet satisfaction of knowing that, for now, he had kept his promise.

Aiden glanced toward the light spilling across the room. For the first time in what felt like years, the world didn't feel like something that needed saving. It simply felt like living.

 

[Arhiia Voronwe]

Tags: Aiden Porte
​

Arhiia eased back into the cushions, letting the blanket fall naturally over her legs. The morning light warmed her cheek, but it was the sight of him at the counter that held her attention. Her fingers stilled against the fabric, blue eyes tracking the deliberate way he moved—confident, practiced, almost meditative.

A quiet breath escaped her, not quite a sigh, more a soft exhale of disbelief. She hadn't expected any of this. Not the gentleness. Not the ease. Not the feeling that settled in her chest now—steady, certain, warm in a way that almost startled her.

Her gaze followed the long line of his back, the roll of his sleeves, the way his forearm flexed as he whisked the eggs. A small, knowing smile curved at the corner of her mouth.

"Mmhmmm…" she murmured, leaning an elbow against the armrest, chin balanced lightly in her hand. "You're stirring too fast."

She let the tease hang there, entirely unbothered by whether she was right or wrong. Her tone was warm, amused, the kind of jab she saved only for someone she trusted with the softer edges of her voice.

"You keep that up," she added, smirking faintly, "and you'll scramble them into paste. And if I have to pretend that tastes good, I'll make sure you regret it."

Her eyes glittered with mirth—playful, flirtatious, entirely in control.

Silence settled again, but not an empty one. She watched him, a quiet contemplation taking root behind her gaze. Something softened there, a gentler curiosity rising to the surface.

After a moment, her voice found him again, unhurried.

"Aiden," she said, not loud enough to break the peace, but enough that it carried across the kitchen.

She waited until he glanced back over his shoulder, until his eyes met hers, steady and clear in the morning light.

"What do you think about children?" she asked, tone deceptively simple. "A family of your own, I mean."

Her expression didn't waver, didn't shy away. She held his gaze, open and unflinching—no hesitation, no fear of asking what she wanted to know.

"I ask because…" Her fingers traced the stitching of the blanket, thoughtful. "I always pictured something larger than the life I had. A full home. Noise. Mess. More than one voice at the table."

She paused, letting him see the truth of it—not fragile, not exposed, just honest in a way she rarely allowed.

"I'd want a big family," she admitted quietly. "If the future allowed it."

Then, just as the moment could turn too solemn, her smirk returned—sharp, warm, unmistakably her.

"Assuming," she added, tilting her head with deliberate mischief, "you can cook well enough to keep a household alive. Because if not…" She clicked her tongue softly, feigning disappointment. "Force help whichever child gets your culinary instincts."

Her foot nudged the leg of the table beneath the blanket—light, teasing, testing—to draw his attention back to her.

"And don't worry," she said, eyes bright, voice low with affection wrapped in humor,

"I'll critique you lovingly. Mostly."

She settled back again, watching him with the quiet certainty of someone who had already chosen her path—steady, measured, and undeniably his.

 

[Aiden Porte]

Arhiia Voronwe​

Aiden turned his head at her voice, the corners of his mouth lifting into a faint smile. The teasing came as easily as breath between them now, and he found that he liked the way she said his name when she was trying not to grin.

He glanced back toward the pan, exaggerated the motion of his wrist once just to provoke her, then slowed to an almost painfully careful rhythm. "Paste, huh?" he murmured under his breath, the amusement clear in his tone. "You wound me, Arhiia. I'll have you know these eggs are being stirred with the precision of a lightsaber kata."

He let the scent of browning butter and herbs fill the pause before adding, "But if you're volunteering to critique my technique, I'll make sure to overcook a batch or two, purely for research."

The quiet between them stretched again, not empty but easy. He felt her eyes on his back, and for a moment he just let himself enjoy it, the weight of another presence in a room that had gone too long without laughter.

When her next question came, he didn't turn right away. He finished what he was doing first, plated the food with deliberate calm, and only then set the utensils aside. His hands rested on the counter, and he let his gaze drift to the window where sunlight spilled across the lake.

Her question wasn't simple, but his answer was.

"I've thought about it," he said finally, his voice quieter now, steady but reflective. "About what it would mean to stop fighting long enough to build something worth keeping. A home that doesn't burn. A table that never goes empty."

He reached for a towel, wiped his hands, then looked over his shoulder toward her. His eyes softened, the faintest trace of a grin breaking through the calm.

"If the right girl came along…" he said, letting the words hang, "…I wouldn't mind a family of my own. A big one, even."

He paused, just long enough for the sunlight to catch the faint gleam of mischief in his expression before he added, "Though, I suppose she'd have to be patient enough to deal with my cooking. And bold enough to tell me when I've overdone it."

He turned then, leaning a hip against the counter, his gaze finding hers with quiet certainty.

"In the right future," he said, the warmth in his voice threaded with something deeper, something that carried promise, "We could have that. All of it."

A single wink followed, soft and teasing, but the look that lingered after wasn't a joke. It was the kind of look that said he meant every word.

"If that was something you would want."

 

[Arhiia Voronwe]

Tags: Aiden Porte
​

For the first time that morning, the breath caught in her throat.

Not visibly — she was too disciplined for that — but something in her posture tightened. The teasing she'd thrown so effortlessly a moment before boomeranged back and hit her square in the chest. His we could have that landed like a pulse shot to her ribs.

A pulse of violet rose along her cheekbones — quick, sharp, betraying — and her breath stuttered just once, almost too quietly to notice. Her eyes lowered, then lifted again, drawn back to him like the pull of a tide she could no longer resist.

Stars, he was still looking at her.

Arhiia had faced triage wards without blinking. Had walked alone through battlefields without fear. But this — this simple promise, offered with soft certainty — unraveled her in ways she had no defense for.

She swallowed, the motion small, her voice catching before it steadied.

"Yes," she said quietly, the admission slipping out before she could harden it. "I… would want that. A big family too —…"

Her fingers curled in the blanket, grounding herself against the warmth rising under her skin. She let herself meet his gaze fully — those deep blue eyes reflecting firelight and something far more dangerous than desire.

"If the right man came along," she continued, her voice lower now, steadier but trembling with truth, "I wouldn't hesitate."

A breath.
Barely a whisper.

"I'd give him everything."

Her cheeks burned warmer, the violet flush spreading down her neck. For a moment she looked away, unable to hold his gaze without combusting — then looked back with a courage that felt like stepping off a cliff.

"And I would…"

The words faltered, her breath hitching in her throat. She pushed through anyway.

"I would carry as many of his children as the Force allowed."

It wasn't crude.
It wasn't bold.
It wasn't even loud.

But the way she said it — soft, reverent, almost prayer-like — made it feel more intimate than anything else she could have spoken.

Immediately afterward, the fluster hit her all at once, sharp and overwhelming.

Her eyes darted toward the stove. Then, to the lake as if it suddenly required her immediate tactical evaluation. Her voice, when it finally emerged, was steady but a half-shade lower than usual.

"I— I think your eggs are burning," she muttered, knowing full well they weren't, needing something to hide behind.

But her gaze flicked back to him a heartbeat later, heat still shimmering under her skin.

She hadn't taken it back.
She meant every word.

 

[Aiden Porte]

Arhiia Voronwe​

Aiden didn't move at first. Her words sank into the quiet between them, reshaping it, deepening it into something that hummed low and alive beneath the morning calm. He could feel the air shift, heavy with everything she wasn't trying to hide anymore.

For a long moment, he simply looked at her, the faint tremor in her voice, the fire in her eyes that no injury or fear could dull. The sunlight caught on her skin, painting the faint blush along her throat, and he felt something tighten in his chest, a warmth that settled deep and stayed there.

His reply came slow, deliberate, as though he wanted to match the weight of her truth with one of his own.

"Then," he said quietly, his tone low but sure, "If the Force ever grants us that future… I think we'd build something worth remembering."

He turned back to the stove, not to escape her gaze, but because the steadiness of his hands gave him somewhere to channel the flood of feeling threatening to spill over. The scent of the food filled the small kitchen, grounding him in the moment, in her, in the unspoken promise now hanging between them.

He adjusted the heat, stirred the pan with exaggerated care, and said over his shoulder, softly, teasingly. "And for the record, the eggs are fine."

The smallest pause. Then, with a half-smile curving at the corner of his mouth, he added, "But if you're volunteering to keep watch, I wouldn't mind."

He plated the meal with calm precision, but his mind wasn't on the food anymore. It was on the words still echoing through him, the picture she'd painted with quiet conviction, of a home, a family, of laughter that didn't belong to war.

He could see it, clear as any vision the Force had ever given him. Her at the center of it. The kind of peace he hadn't dared believe he could have.

Aiden set the plates down, his movements slower now, thoughtful. His voice softened as he spoke again, this time almost to himself.

"I've seen enough of destruction," he murmured. "If the future gives me the chance to build something… to protect something like that.." He exhaled, his jaw tightening just a little before relaxing again. "Then I'll give everything I am to it."

He turned then, leaning against the counter, his eyes finding hers again. There was no teasing left now, only quiet certainty and the faintest glimmer of something deeper, a vow made not in ceremony, but in the simple act of meaning it.

"And if the right woman came along," he said, a slow smile tugging at the edge of his mouth, "I wouldn't hesitate either."

He nudged her gentle, unhurried, but deliberate. The kind that said he saw her, truly saw her, and meant every word he'd just spoken.

The moment lingered, stretched thin between them, and for once, the galaxy outside didn't matter. There was only the warmth of the kitchen, the morning light, and the quiet, unshakable knowledge that the path ahead, whatever it became.

He wondered what all it could be.

 

[Arhiia Voronwe]

Tags: Aiden Porte
​

Arhiia watched Aiden approach with the plates, each step deliberate, as if even carrying breakfast required the same precision he brought to everything else. Her blue eyes widened slightly at the spread before her. Steam curled off the golden eggs, bacon crisped to perfection, fruit glistening, and the rich aroma of caf filling the room. She had to pause a moment, just to take it all in.

Before she reached for a single bite, she lifted her hand and took his, pressing her fingers gently to his palm. Quietly, she murmured a blessing—not for the food alone, but for herself: for the strength she needed to heal, for the scars that had yet to mend, for the life her body had fought to keep — whispering thanks to Ashla. She lingered in that moment, letting the warmth of his hand anchor her, before finally letting go and reaching for her utensils.

The first bite hit her, and she froze for just a breath—then let out a soft, surprised laugh. She leaned back in the chair, eyes still wide as the simple realization struck her: she was hungry, hungrier than she'd expected. The food became almost hypnotic, each bite drawing her further into quiet awe.

"Hmm," she murmured, the teasing edge creeping into her voice despite herself, "I was so hungry I could've eaten anything. But… wow… this… this is amazing." She leaned forward slightly, taking another bite with deliberate gusto, letting the taste linger on her tongue, savoring the crispness, the creaminess, the subtle warmth of spices she knew he'd layered in just right.

As she chewed, her gaze traveled from the plate back to him. She let her eyes roam over the familiar angles of his face, the way he moved around the counter, the quiet confidence in his hands. Her lips curved in the faintest, almost mischievous smile, and she tilted her head slightly. "Honestly, Aiden… you could try to hide your Jedi skills, but I'm starting to think you put as much thought into cooking as you do anything else…. Not that I'm complaining… but might be time to hang up the saber and pick the apron up full time." Another bite followed, slower this time, savoring not just the food but the quiet intimacy of the moment.

She set her fork down briefly, still leaning back, letting her eyes hold his. "So," she said, a spark of curiosity dancing in her gaze, "what's next on the agenda for the day?" Her tone was light, teasing, but her posture, the tilt of her chin, the glint in her eyes, spoke of deeper questions—ones only asked when trust, comfort, and something stronger than friendship had settled between them.

Her fingers tapped lightly against the edge of the table as she waited, a small, playful challenge in her gaze, as if daring him to surprise her further, to reveal what ordinary—or extraordinary—day with him might hold next.

 

[Aiden Porte]

Arhiia Voronwe​

He watched curiously how she looked at the food, as she took it all in, and he couldn't help but smile. For the first time since bringing her home, the lines of tension in his chest loosened.

He pulled out the chair across from her and sat, the movement deliberate, almost ceremonial in its calm. The sunlight filtering through the tall windows painted the room in soft amber, glinting off the steam that rose from the eggs and caf. He wrapped his fingers around his own cup, letting the heat seep into his palms as he watched her press her fingers to his hand in quiet reverence.

Her murmured blessing filled the silence, not a sound meant for him, but one he would remember all the same. It reminded him of Naboo's early dawn rituals, of still mornings at the Sanctuary before the day's chaos began. It reminded him of why he fought.

When she finally ate, the small laugh that escaped her was enough to pull a smile from him. It was light, unguarded, and far too rare. He leaned back slightly, crossing one arm over the other, simply taking in the sight of her, color in her cheeks, life flickering again in her eyes. The sound of her fork against the plate, the faint hum she made after each bite, it all felt like the world setting itself right again.

"I'll take that as high praise," he said at last, voice warm, touched with humor. "You know, I've had my share of field rations, and trust me, those don't exactly inspire confidence in one's culinary future."

He took a slow sip of his caf, eyes glinting over the rim of the cup. "But I learned fast. Long missions. No chefs. You either learn to cook or you learn to starve." A faint smirk curved his lips. "Not to mention, I've been here on my own, so you gotta adapt, and learn to survive."

He let her tease about the apron hang in the air for a moment before he replied, tone soft and amused. "An apron instead of a saber, huh? I think I could manage that. Peace through breakfast." He looked up from his plate, meeting her gaze, his expression deepening with quiet affection. "Still, you should know, if I'm hanging up the saber, you'll have to take the apron sometimes. Fair trade."

He took another bite, letting the silence stretch in that easy, comfortable way that only came when words weren't needed. The domestic rhythm of it, the sound of forks against plates, the smell of herbs, the morning breeze nudging through the curtains, wrapped around him like something he hadn't realized he'd missed.

When she asked about the day's plans, he set his fork down, leaning forward slightly, elbows resting against the edge of the table. The sunlight caught in his dark hair, turning a few strands copper at the edges. His tone shifted, still light but edged with thought.

"Well," A hint of a smile tugged at his mouth. "If you're up to it, we'll take things slow. The gardens at the center of the homestead, the flowers I planted, they are in bloom right now. The air's clean. Quiet. We could walk there, just a short one. Just us."

He paused, fingers idly tracing the rim of his mug. "We aren't to far from the waterfalls, and the springs and lakes there. Used to sit there when I needed to clear my head after missions, and it provided a lot of good time to spend when I was trying to avoid my chores when I was younger. It's where I go when I, need to remember what peace feels like." He exhaled softly. "Seems right that you see it, too."

He smiled faintly, warmth threading through the calm in his voice. "A normal day, if such a thing exists for us. You need that. We both do."

He took one last sip of caf, the morning light catching in his eyes as he added with gentle teasing, "Let's not forget the night I promised you, under the stars. There shouldn't be any cloud cover this night, leaves a lot of room to explore the sky." Aiden smirked and took a deep breath. "If that's still something you wanted to do, unless you were dreaming about that with some other Jedi." He teased as he raised the cup to his lips, tasting the caf once more.

The small grin that followed lingered as he looked back toward her plate, the wind coming of the plains. Just the quiet, and her. And the sense that this, this simple, ordinary morning, was exactly what he'd been fighting to protect.

 

[Arhiia Voronwe]

Tags: Aiden Porte
​

Arhiia's smile brightened at the mention of the gardens, soft blue eyes warming.

"That sounds… wonderful," she said, a gentle, earnest certainty in her voice. "A quiet walk, somewhere you've tended with your own hands… I'd like that very much."

But when he spoke of the springs and lakes — the clear water, the quiet peace of it — something loosened inside her, a longing she hadn't felt in years.

"The springs…" She hesitated, then added with a sudden spark of excitement, "Swimming would be an amazing treat..."

The words were out before she could stop them.

And then they hit her.

She straightened sharply, her eyes widening.

"Oh—wait, I—"

Her face burst into color, blooming scarlet across her cheeks and down her throat.

"I don't—have anything to swim in," she rushed out, her voice cracking with flustered realization. "I didn't even think about that, I just—"

She covered her mouth with her hand, eyes squeezing shut as if she could rewind time itself.

Because she understood exactly what that implied.

With him.
In water.
With no proper clothing.

She swallowed hard, pulse fluttering at the base of her throat like a trapped bird. A small, helpless laugh slipped free — half mortification, half something warm and wanting.

"I… suppose that wouldn't be a huge issue," she muttered into her fingertips, the words barely audible. "By Ashla, listen to me…"

She lowered her hand slowly, forcing herself to look up.

Her cheeks were still burning, but there was no mistaking the soft courage in her gaze.

"I just meant… the idea of the springs sounded lovely."

A breath.

"And… maybe I wouldn't mind the rest."

Her blond hair slid forward over one shoulder as she glanced down, smoothing it back with trembling fingertips — a small tell of her fluster. But then she lifted her chin again, meeting his eyes with quiet sincerity.

"And the night under the stars…" She exhaled, her voice turning softer, more reverent. "I've never had anything like that. Never thought I would."

Her fingers brushed the table near his hand — not quite touching, but close enough her skin warmed at the nearness.

"It feels like something meant for royalty," she whispered, a soft laugh in her breath. "For someone far more graceful than me… but you did promise me…"

Her smile grew, shy and honest.

"But I want it. All of it. The gardens. The springs. The stars. A whole day… like that."

Her eyes softened, and her voice dropped to something unguarded, trembling at the edges.

"And you don't have to worry about other Jedi. You're the only one I can't seem to look away from."

 

[Aiden Porte]

Arhiia Voronwe​

Aiden felt the corner of his mouth curve as she spoke, the shy, spiraling way her words unfolded drawing out something deep and unguarded in him. The shift from her usual composed calm to this, the soft fluster, the sudden rush of color in her cheeks, caught him off guard in a way that nothing on a battlefield ever could.

He leaned back slightly in his chair, letting the morning light fall across his features. The sunlight warmed the scar along his jaw, glinted faintly in his eyes as he studied her, the way her fingers fidgeted with a strand of hair, the way she tried to recover her composure and failed spectacularly.

"The springs," he repeated quietly, his voice carrying a low, amused note that softened at the end. "I think we can make that work."

He took a slow sip from his caf before setting it down, the deliberate pause giving his next words a measured calm, the kind that always made his teasing sound far more dangerous than it was.

"I suppose," he said, tone dipping somewhere between playful and sincere, "If the right woman happened to forget her swimwear, I'd consider that the Force's will."

He looked at her then, really looked, and his smirk deepened into something gentler. "But for the sake of your modesty," he continued, the humor now laced with genuine affection, "I'll make sure we stop by the stores in Theed before heading out. There's bound to be something comfortable enough to use. I won't have you catching a chill because I got distracted by your enthusiasm."

He let the words hang, his voice low and warm, more intimate in its quiet restraint than any overt flirtation could be. The image of her in the soft light of the springs, laughing, unguarded, alive, stirred something fierce and protective in him.

When she mentioned the night under the stars, his smile faded into something steadier, quieter. The kind of expression he rarely let anyone see.

"I haven't forgotten that promise," he said softly. "The night sky out here is clearer than anywhere else on Naboo. When the wind's still, you can see every constellation reflected in the lake. It feels…like the galaxy holds its breath for a while. You forget who you are supposed to be. And you just be, in that moment. Its far greater feeling than anything in the world."

He looked down briefly at his hands, the same hands that had carried her through the fires, that now rested open on the table, steady, clean, human again. "We'll go there after sunset," he murmured. "Just you and the stars, exactly as it should've been from the start."

Then his gaze lifted again, finding hers across the table.

Her last words, the confession wrapped in courage and vulnerability, hit him harder than any blaster bolt. He felt them, sharp and bright, beneath his ribs. The silence that followed was not hesitation, but the weight of meaning gathering between them.

Finally, he spoke, voice low and certain.

"Then it's mutual," he said. "Because out of every voice, every light I've crossed paths with, you're the only one I keep turning toward."

"Let's finish eating." he added, a softer smile tugging at his mouth. "Then we'll head out. The day's waiting, the gardens, the springs, the stars… all of it."

He glanced out the window where sunlight spilled across the homestead. His voice softened one last time, almost to himself.