Private Hearthfire

[Dominic Praxon]

The last of his whiskey swirled in the bottom of the broad glass. He had been staring into it for too long, hoping for some revelation that never came.

With an elbow braced against the mantle, Dominic let the fire's warmth soak into him. The flames were the only light in the room, throwing his silhouette against the shelves and furniture. The shadows danced and flickered, mocking him in their rhythm.

He slumped further, forehead resting on his arm. Teeth clenched, eyes shut.

Eighteen percent.

The number hovered in his mind like a brand.

He was going to lose. And yet…why did it sting so deeply? He was new to the political arena, little more than a back-room aide before this campaign. To climb from obscurity to nearly twenty percent was, by any measure, respectable. Admirable, even. Something to be proud of.

He almost smiled at the thought. Almost.

But no.

He could already hear his father's voice: that soft, reluctant praise that landed like a blow. Ordon Trozky would send word within hours of the results, just enough to prove he had been watching closely all along, without having lifted a finger to help.

Dominic pushed off the mantle and began to pace. His shadow loomed, long and distorted, as if it were judging him more harshly than anyone else could.

And then Loria. Sweet, unassuming Loria. His chest tightened at the thought of her, of how he was using her. He could happily give himself to the cheerful fantasy of her. But he doubted she would see beyond his aspirations.

He pressed the glass to his forehead, the cool crystal biting against his skin. A bitter laugh nearly escaped him, but it caught in his throat.

Aspirations. Fools chased them. And perhaps he was the greatest fool of all. He being willing to risk reputation, to toy with a good woman's heart, all for the fantasy that he could "save" the Republic.

The laugh twisted into a hiss, low and guttural. He saw Loria's disappointment when she discovered the truth. Bastila's hurt when she realized there would never be more. And behind it all, his father's looming judgment. His constant...unrelenting disfavour.

The growl tore out of him before he could stop it. He spun and hurled the glass at the hearth. For a moment the fire faltered, as if forgetting how to burn, before the liquor caught and the blaze roared up with sudden fury.

Dominic sagged, shoulders heavy. His hands rose to cover his face.

He had lost control. Again.

The door buzzed.

He ignored it.

It buzzed again.

"Come in," he snapped, sharper than intended.

The protocol droid shuffled through, polished frame glinting awkwardly in the firelight. Even for him, the moment seemed ill-suited.

"What is it?" Dominic asked, drawing himself upright, though weariness still visibly clung to him.

"Sir. You have a visitor."

His eyes narrowed. "At this hour?"

The droid gave a stiff nod. Dominic exhaled slowly, then flicked his fingers toward the door. "Send them in."

Bastila Sal-Soren​

 

[Bastila Sal-Soren]

​

The droid barely had time to shuffle aside before Bastila slipped through the door. She didn’t wait for the usual formalities, not tonight. She stepped inside as if she’d been here a hundred times before, cloak sliding off one shoulder as she moved into his presence. The chill of outside still clung to her clothes, damp with the bite of the evening, her hair loosened in strands around her face.

“Your droid looks like it’s about to faint,” she said lightly, her voice carrying an edge of amusement that didn’t match the smouldering firelight. Her eyes caught the fire first; the way it leapt too high, too sudden, licking the chimney as though it had been provoked. Then they moved to the broken glass glittering at the edge of the hearth. Her brow rose.

“Well,” she said, her voice lighter than the room deserved, “Guess I missed the party.”

She let the cloak slide from her shoulders onto the nearest chair, leaning lazily against the mantle as if she were entirely at home. For a moment she let the silence stretch, watching him, gauging him. His shoulders were stiff, his face shadowed by more than just the firelight.

“You look like hell,” she murmured, her tone still carrying the faintest hint of a smirk.

But she felt it suddenly, the aura around him wasn’t one she had felt before, and something shifted in her chest. The casual mask slipped. Her gaze dropped to his hands, still trembling faintly. His breathing wasn’t steady. There was a sharpness to his presence, the kind that came from too many nights with too little rest.

“Dominic…” she said, quieter this time. Her arms folded, though there was no defence in her pose now, more to stop her own unease from showing too much. She tilted her head, studying him, almost afraid of what she was seeing.

The laughter she’d been ready to throw into the room; anything to lighten it, died before it reached her tongue. This wasn’t garden party politics, it also wasn’t one of their half-sparring exchanges. This was private, this was him fraying at the edges, burned by something far deeper than the campaign or the numbers it spat back at him. This was her being here when she needed to be. Like he had been for her, even if that still had gone unsaid.

Bastila stepped closer, voice softer than it had been in weeks. “Dominic, what happened?”

Dominic Praxon ​

 

[Dominic Praxon]

He didn't laugh. He barely breathed.

Bastila.

She spoke. He barely listened, hands shaking still, though from something different now. His shoulders had tensed, neck locking into place, and jaw taut with muscles that threatened to cramp.

He did, probably, look like hell. The fire light washing over him probably did not diminish the metaphor in the slightest.

"Thanks," he said, through clenched teeth.

He had to regain some composure, control the situation. Control himself.

He looked away, to the decanter on the credenza beyond the high backed leather reading chairs. The break in eye contact, despite her pleas for answers allowed Dominic to reign himself in, for the moment. He walked rigidly toward the five glasses that lay upside down on the silver tray. The ring of dust around where the sixth once lay served as a reminder to him of his actions just moments ago.

Father likes this set.

He tipped a glass over. It caught on the edge of the tray and tumbled out of his hand, skipping across the wooden cabinet top. He moved quickly, catching it before it fell off. Gripping the glass firmly, he placed it carefully back on the tray. Only the barest of glances was spared for his guest.

"Whiskey?" He said, using the single word to loosen his throat, so he could attempt a full sentence.

He was already pouring himself another couple of mouthfuls. Any more and the fire it could start might spread to the whole house.

"And an explanation as to why you are here," he said, still not looking at her. How could he? Remember the night at the races, the words she said, and he was fool enough to believe. The promises they made. His determined bid for power. Her willingness to step aside and permit him his rise, while she awaited the right moment to join his side.

"Between end of campaign parties, and recovery from your injuries," he said, turning another glass over and preparing to pour. He finally looked up at her, eyes betraying his irritation. "A late night visit to Praxon Estate feels like the last thing you should be doing."

Bastila Sal-Soren​

 

[Bastila Sal-Soren]

​

Bastila let out a short, dry laugh when he offered the glass, as though the weight in the room couldn’t quite smother her instinct to deflect. “Whiskey? You realize I’m not supposed to be drinking yet. Recovery rules, stern lectures from the healers, all of it.” She reached for the glass anyway, her fingers brushing his as she took it. “But then again, rules and I… we’ve never had much of a lasting friendship.”

She raised it in a mock salute, let the rim just touch her lips, and sipped. She coughed as it burnt her throat, instantly reminding her that not a month ago it had been crushed by the fingers of an assassin droid, she again did her almost snort of a dry laugh and lowered it onto the tray again. The faint amusement in her face dimmed as the silence wrapped around them; silence heavy with firelight and shadows, thick with everything unspoken.

“I..I didn’t come for that,” she said softly, almost startling herself with how earnest her own voice sounded. She stepped closer, the space between them narrowing until she could feel the warmth of the hearth across his shoulder as much as she could feel the tension in him. Her hand lifted, hesitated, then came to rest gently on that shoulder. The contact was simple, grounding, but it carried more weight than she intended.

“I couldn’t sleep and I was thinking all the thoughts that come to mind in such a situation, that I should come here and talk about your campaign, that I should shake you and tell you eighteen percent is amazing and that you are amazing and..." She caught herself and took a breath. "Then I just had to, so I did…I came because I wanted to say thank you.”

The words seemed too small, too fragile against the blaze of his turmoil, but even as rushed as they were she pressed on. “They told me… when I woke. That you were there. Every day. Well they actually said every minute.” Her gaze wavered, as though the thought itself unsettled her. “I don’t think anyone’s ever done that for me.”

She moved around so she could see his face better, cast in the hues of the fire like mood incarnate. Her eyes found his again, and this time she didn’t look away. The fire cracked, shadows leaping up the walls, as if the whole house was listening. She felt it then, the feeling that she had told was gone, that she had to ignore; the edge of something neither of them could sidestep. Gratitude, yes, but tangled with the gravity of paths that kept pulling them back into one another’s orbit.

“I don’t know what that means, or why you were?” she admitted, her voice quieter now, almost a whisper. “But it feels like it matters. Like it was… meant to and it does matter to me Dominic.”

Dominic Praxon​

 

[Dominic Praxon]

He felt the heaviness of her touch. Not in her strength, but in its meaning. It was quietly, presumptuously possessive. As if her hand belonged there. He turned away, her hand falling from his shoulder. It was not a harsh movement, but the intent was clear, even though his eyes struggled to break from her gaze.

Flames reflected in his eyes, and she lingered in his periphery burning him more than fire ever could.

"You owe me no thanks," he said at last, words almost steady, "what I did…was no more than anyone should do for a friend. For a colleague."

The words were chosen intentionally. But his heart beat faster for the heat they might generate. It was the most direct way known to indicate his thoughts on the matter they had not addressed. He prayed she would understand without pressing further.

He raised his glass, let the amber liquid catch the light, and swallowed before continuing.

"You were hurt. It was right to stay." His tone had cooled, more formal now, though his eyes refused to harden the same way. They lingered too long on her, the slope of her jaw, how the strands of hair that caught the fire's glow.

Another step carried him closer to the blaze, yet it only deepened the tension strung tight in the air. The warmth of the fire pressed against his chest; the warmth of her pressed against his thoughts. He could not, must not, give either more room.

His lips thinned, his voice taut. "Thank you for your encouragement. I look forward to working with you more in the weeks to come," he said, sounding like a professional dismissal despite it being spoken by someone still wide-eyed with simmering anger.

"You should go. Rest. There is a lot of work to do. Do not worry about me. I am just...worn from the campaign is all. I'll be fine in the morning."

Bastila Sal-Soren​

 

[Bastila Sal-Soren]

​

The word caught her like a blade she hadn’t expected.

Colleague.

It rang in her ears with an authority she couldn’t quite challenge. For all the shadows and fire, for all the ways the air between them crackled, he had chosen that word to stand between them.

Her lips parted, but no answer came at first. Her hand slipped back to her side, suddenly useless. For once, Bastila didn’t hide the falter in her expression. The silence weighing on the both of them like the pressure of the depths rolling in around them

“So,” she said at last, her voice lower, thinner and cracking as she spoke, “we are colleagues now?” The way she lingered on the word gave it hold over her. It wasn’t sharp, not like a weapon drawn to cut for blood, but something far more dangerous; uncertainty, doubt, the quiet ache of someone who’d been caught off guard and had been found wanting.

The fire cracked and shifted, sparks leaping up the chimney as if trying to fill the silence. Outside, the faint whistle of Naboo’s evening wind brushed at the house, pulling the night deeper into the room.

Bastila’s arm folded across herself, not in defiance, but as though holding something close, her hand gripping tightly to her other forearm, the tension of the moment clearly hitting her more than he. She tilted her head just enough to study him again; his profile etched hard against the firelight, his jaw, squared as it was clenched as if the tension alone held him upright. He looked every inch the man trying to burn himself into control, every inch the man she wanted to grab and tell not to ever let her go.

She drew a slow breath, steadier this time. “Is that’s what you need me to be, Dominic? If it is I’ll play the part. You know I will.” She almost smiled, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I’m good at playing parts.” She added quietly, softly almost like a secret between herself and the space around her.

The words lingered, brittle as glass. Then, quietly, she stepped forward.

The distance between them closed by degrees, careful, unhurried, until the firelight touched both their faces evenly. She let her arms uncross, one hand lifting, not to take his glass or force his attention, but to settle again upon his shoulder. Not presumptive this time, not demanding. Simply there.

Her gaze found his fully, her eyes meeting his and settling steady within them, risking losing herself in them despite the tension. “But colleagues don’t sit at a hospital bed every day,” she said softly. “They don’t stay every minute.”

The flames shifted again, throwing her shadow into his, until the two merged on the wall behind them.

Her hand lingered at his shoulder for a moment longer, then slid downward, slowly and with deliberate motion across the line of fabric until her palm came to rest over his chest. Right above his heart. The beat was there, uneven but strong, and she let her fingers spread slightly as if to steady it.

The fire cast them both in gold and shadow, the heat between them no longer belonging only to the hearth.

Bastila’s breath caught, not from nerves but from the closeness, the undeniable reality of him here, again so close to her, closer then he had been since that night, that night that felt like it was a lifetime ago. She tilted her head just enough that she could look fully into his eyes. “You’re fighting yourself harder than I ever could Dominic.” she said softly, her voice almost a whisper now, “send me away if you want.” There was no challenge in her voice that was so quiet that it was for him and only ever him.

She drew in a faint breath, and her lips curved; barely and wistfully. The faint scent of whiskey from him and her perfumed aroma of peaches drifted between them, sharper now that the distance was gone. Her eyes softened. “Tell me to leave.” For a moment she let the silence swallow them again. Her face so close she could see herself in his eyes. Her hand still on his chest, she could feel his warmth beneath it, the faint crackle of fire filling the gaps between words.

“I’m not going to listen though.” she murmured, her tone carrying challenge now. “Every day. Every minute.”

Dominic Praxon​

 

[Dominic Praxon]

His hand rose, covering hers where it pressed against his chest. For a moment he held it there, not to push her away but to hold it in place. The fire burned at his back, but the greater flame was the one threatening to consume him here, in the press of her palm, the unrelenting determination of her eyes.

He should have pulled away immediately. He should have spoken with the clarity of a man resolved. But the whiskey loosened him, softened his will. His fingers tangled with hers, lingering, as if to say what his mouth would never dare. The temptation was there. It was fierce, and immediate. The need to draw her closer, to bridge the inch between them with a kiss that would undo everything.

But then another image forced itself into his mind.

Loria. Sweet, unassuming, affable Loria. A lightness in her company that came without weight or fire. She had become something he had not expected. Not only was she his clearest path to the Senate, but someone he had grown genuinely fond of. He winced inwardly at the thought, the guilt tightening his chest even beneath Bastila's hand. For he knew — he knew — how cruel it was to let ambition mix with affection.

Bastila was the blaze. Loria, the quiet hearth. Both pulled him. Both burned him in their own ways.

He swallowed hard, breaking the silence at last. "Loria Sorelle…" The name sounded heavy in the air, "she is more than useful. She is…kind. Trusting...and....I like...her. I could convince her. Convince her of us. Of marriage, if it came to it."

His voice wavered between conviction and disgust at himself, the words seasoned with bile even as he forced them out. His hand lingered still entwined with Bastila's, as though he needed her presence to steady him while he damned himself with what he confessed.

At last, he released her fingers. Slowly, deliberately. But he did not step away.

The distance was still gone between them. The heat was still there.

"That is the path, Bastila. The path I must walk."

And yet, even as he said it, his eyes betrayed him, locked to hers, refusing to let go.

Bastila Sal-Soren​

 

[Bastila Sal-Soren]

​

Bastila’s breath caught in her throat at the word marriage. It rang like the sound of a steel blade drawn from his sheathe, the slow and precise flow of it slicing into her chest. Her hand didn’t move from him, She physically couldn’t even though every nerve screamed to recoil. Her palm pressed harder, almost as if she believed sheer pressure could anchor him here, with her, and not with the phantom of some smiling, trusting girl he’d spoken into the air between them.

Her throat worked, but no words came. For once in her life, Bastila Sal-Soren, the quick-tongued, sharp-eyed, impossible to silence, youngest of the Sal-Soren’s, was struck dumb.

Her eyes burned into his, searching with breaking desperation. “Marriage?” The word trembled, not with fear but with fury, with growing disbelief. “You would bind yourself to her, for, for…Senate votes and a quiet smile, all while the Force itself drags me to you?”

The scent of whiskey clung to his breath, the warmth of it grazing her cheek as he stood so maddeningly close. She inhaled it, and she hated it, all while she deeply craved it. Her voice dropped, lower now, the roughness unwillingly showing. “Dominic, what does she give you that I cannot? Do You think she will keep you steady? Is that it? She cannot even touch the fire that burns in you. And I…” her voice faltered, her throat tightening, but she forced it through clenched teeth, “I feel that fire every time you look at me. Don’t you dare tell me you don’t feel it too.”

“I am not her. I am not kind. I am not safe. But I am yours. Whether you like it or not. Whether it damns us both or not.” Her other hand rose without permission, fingers brushing against his jaw, her fingers trembling with suppressed rage and longing. “You would throw that away for a quiet hearth?”

Her voice cracked then, it wasn’t soft, nor was it pleading but it had started breaking in its own rawness. For a second she looked almost lost, as though she stood on the edge of an abyss she could neither leap nor retreat from. “You would do this for her…” she whispered, the words quivering like glass, her mind remembering her visions in the hospital, of the promise she had to make, “and for what? To pretend you don’t burn every time you look at me? To pretend this…” A tear led the way for more, creating a trail that she could now not stop. “Doesn’t exist?”

The air between them shivered with the heat of her words, with the dangerous edge of a girl too young to master the fire inside her. Something inside her spoke, it whispered through her veins, a low hum, almost mournful, almost commanding: Stand. Fight. Claim what is yours.

Her hands trembled, but she didn’t back away. If anything, she stepped closer, closing the last breath of space between them. Her eyes were wild, locked on his, daring him to deny her. Daring him to break her entirely.

And then she closed the distance. Her lips crashed against his in a kiss that wasn’t soft or tender; it was bruising, claiming, a plea and a punishment in one. The Force coiled through her veins, wild and unbound, sparking in the air around them, rattling the glasses on the table, making the walls hum and the fire spark.

She poured everything into it; the anger, the longing, the terror, the love. It was the storm of Bastila and Dominic breaking all at once. The lake glistening in evening resplendence, the taste of his lips on hers, the smell of the grass at the estate with their exchanged smiles. The sting of her hand against his face, the tears that fell down her face and the hurt that had sunk in so quickly. His eyes locking with hers across the table, that smile, that smile, that damn smile.

When she pulled back, she was breathless, eyes blazing, chest heaving. Her hand was still on his heart, shaking against the steady beat.

Dominic Praxon​

 

[Dominic Praxon]

For just a moment, he let the storm take him.

Her mouth found his and he answered with a low sound he did not recognise as his own. His hand caught at her wrist where it pressed his heart, then slid to her jaw. The other found her waist. He turned with her, guiding, pressing her back against the paneled wall - careful, but hungry - until the tremor of rattling glass and the flare of the hearth folded into the dark around them. The salt of tears on his lips. Whiskey on his breath. The heat of her, the ache of him.

Then he tore himself free. His breathing ragged, eyes shut, like a man hauling himself off a precipice by bloodied fingers.

He turned away sharply, shoulders squared to the fire. One hand braced the mantle as if he needed the stone to keep standing.

Force, I want— He cut the thought in two.

When he spoke, it was half to the flames and half to himself, the argument he had rehearsed a thousand sleepless nights, now said aloud for her to hear.

"Every donor. Every committee room. Every corridor whisper in the High Assembly," His voice steadied by inches, "your name pulls those around it into a trial before they've opened my mouth. With you, every vote becomes a referendum on your father. On your family. Not on policy. Not on Naboo."

He exhaled, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the flames.

"I have made peace with ambition being ugly. I have not made peace with it being impossible."

He turned slightly, enough to see her in the edge of his vision. The line of her mouth, the wet at her lashes, the way the fire gentled her hair to gold. His chest tightened. His hands curled against the stone.

"Loria…is a good…person…" The words came halting, like stones he hated placing. "Someone who will not create questions…but instead will be the answer to many I know not to ask."

He swallowed, the taste of bile rising.

"If I must, I will convince her. If it takes marriage, I will marry her."

Silence took the room for an aching moment.

Then he pushed off the mantle and came back to her, his steps measured, like a stalking inevitability. Finally, the firelight painted them evenly again. He stopped too close, his breath still uneven, the anger not at her but burning through him all the same. He held her gaze because anything less would be cowardice.

"And you..." His voice roughened. He tried again, softer and worse for it. "And you…with your passion and your perfection…and the way you make my heart scream for more…"

The next words fought him. He said them anyway. The cruelty of his next words scorched even as it left him. He flinched as if he'd burned himself. He didn't step back. He couldn't. The space between them stayed charged and perilous, their shadows entwined on the far wall.

"…but you will always be…the daughter of a terrorist."

Bastila Sal-Soren​

 

[Bastila Sal-Soren]

​

His words struck like blaster fire. An assassin’s shot straight to her heart.

The daughter of a terrorist.

His voice rang in her ears, deafening and yet silent all at the same time. The firelight blurred at the edges of her vision through eyes that could no longer see clearly. Her breath caught, shallow and sharp, like Dominic had driven a blade straight between her ribs and twisted it while she watched him do it.

All the battles she had fought, all the victories she had clawed back for herself, none of it mattered now, not with this; those words would always find her. Ready to take hold and drag her down into the shadow she had never asked to inherit.

She wanted to scream, yell and fight. To hurl something and everything back at him with all the venom she could muster. But nothing came. Her throat closed, strangling sound itself.

She stood before him frozen, rigid, her eyes wide with panic even as she forced her body not to move, not to tremble.

Do not let him see.

Because if he saw, if he knew how deep the blade had gone, it would be too much.

The room suddenly seemed darker, the flames of the fire shrinking back as they lost the same oxygen that was being suppressed around her. The air grew tight, as tight as her lungs were feeling. Was she doing that?

Her mind spiraled, into the wild, becoming quickly desperate and seeking escape.

Hold it together. Don’t break. Don’t show him. Don’t give him the satisfaction. He doesn’t mean it. He does mean it. Force, he means it. He believes it.

Her lips parted, searching for words, but the only thing that slipped out was a breath that shuddered like a sob she barely caught. She forced it into silence, into stillness.

As she took that breath the room lit again, the air becoming soft once more. The fire behind him roared with renewed life; the heat pressed against her skin, but inside she felt nothing but cold. Icy, choking cold.

Her hand curled in on itself, the same one that had pressed against his heart only moments ago. It trembled now at her side, clenched so hard, that her nails started digging crescents into her palm until it hurt enough to anchor her.

Finally, after too long, her voice came. Soft. Brittle. A whisper frayed at the edges.

“…So that is what I am to you.”

Her eyes shimmered, tears no longer being held back, her chin lifted in a fragile, breaking defiance. “Not the one who bleeds for you, who waits for you, who…” her breath hitched, broke, and she cut herself off before she shattered completely. “I am not my father’s legacy.”

Silence stretched again, unbearable. She took a single step back, just enough to put air between them, as if space could shield her from the weight of what he’d said.

Her heart thundered in her chest, but it felt hollow. Every beat echoed with those words. Daughter of a terrorist.

The girl who had come here to thank him, who had bared herself to him, who had kissed him like the Force itself demanded it; was suddenly so small.

The silence stretched, unbearably tender, and for a moment it felt like the galaxy might hold still if only she could remain in the warmth of his chest, that place where the weight didn’t crush her, that place that was being stolen from her. But the truth pressed back in, merciless as ever. She drew one sharp, unsteady breath and forced herself upright, peeling her eyes away from him as though they burned.

Her gaze flicked away, already dimming, already shuttering. “Forgive me, Mr Praxon.” she murmured, more to the shadows than to him. Then she slipped past, steps too quick, almost stumbling as she tore herself from the room before either of them could say more.

The door gave way to the storm. Rain lashed against her face and hair in torrents, plastering dark strands to her cheeks, soaking through every layer until she could hardly tell what was water and what was the hot sting of tears. She didn’t stop. Didn’t dare.

By the time she reached the speeder, her legs buckled. She caught herself against the cold metal of the door, palms splayed, shoulders heaving. The chill bit into her skin, her breath coming ragged, each exhale swallowed by the downpour. For a moment she pressed her forehead to the frame, eyes squeezed shut, rain dripping from her lashes.

And then it ripped out of her, raw and unrestrained; a sound wrenched from the hollow place she had tried to bury. A scream, muffled by the storm yet cutting through her body like glass, even the force retreated from her in fear as she echoed into the empty nothing around her. She sank down against the speeder door, knees drawn up, fingers curled tight into her soaked clothes as though she could hold herself together.

There, in the tempest’s cover, she let it consume her. No control. No mask. Just grief, unrelenting and absolute grief; hoping that the storm carried it away.

Dominic Praxon​

 

[Dominic Praxon]

The storm outside swallowed her, but its echo lingered inside the room. Her scent, the taste of her still on his lips, the heat of her pressed against him. He shut his eyes and the memory surged. Her passion, her fire. His body ached for it still, ached for her, and he hated himself for the way it nearly consumed him.

He staggered toward the credenza, hand reaching for the decanter. The first pour splashed uneven, his hand not steady. He lifted it, drank deep, but the burn wasn't enough. He pulled the bottle and glass to him, but decided to leave the glass. The bottle would do. He set it down hard on the table, glass clinking, as if the noise could smother her voice ringing still in his ears.

The shadows of the bottle leaned tall across the room, a crooked watchman bearing witness. He stared at it, feeling hollow, his jaw working as he tried to find words. None came. Only a quiet sound between a scoff and a laugh, cut short by the weight in his chest.

What had he almost done? What had her touch nearly driven him to surrender?

He pressed his palms flat to the wood, bent over the bottle, head lowered. His shoulders shook once, twice, and then stilled.

Had it been love? Force, perhaps it had. Perhaps it still was. But even that…even that would not stop him from being what he must.

The fire crackled, spitting sparks that died before they reached the rug. He lifted the bottle to his lips, and the whiskey trembled before he touched it to his lips.

It did not warm him like it usually did.

Bastila Sal-Soren​