Private Life Day Bounty

[Cassian Abrantes]

Shade ​

Cassian Abrantes had faced Sith, senators, and hostile boardrooms with steadier hands than the ones currently balancing a warm pizza box and a neatly wrapped Life Day gift as he walked up the path to Shade's home. The snow and the night sky together left a lovely scene about the planet.

Naboo was quiet tonight, the good kind of quiet. Not the brittle stillness before violence, but the soft, breathing calm of lanternlight reflected in shallow water, of distant insects humming beneath a clear sky. Her place sat just beyond the main thoroughfares, understated and deliberate, like everything about her. No guards in sight. No obvious defenses. Which, Cassian knew, meant it was one of the safest places on the planet.

He paused at the door, exhaling slowly through his nose.

This wasn't a mission. That was the strange part.

Graham Deras was dead. Not arrested. Not escaped. Finished. A name that would no longer be whispered in briefings or coded reports, no longer lurking in the margins of old operations like a stain that wouldn't quite scrub out. Cassian was there with Shade, and now finally they could celebrate, and felt something in his chest loosen that he hadn't realized had been tight for many long months.

They deserved to mark it. Not with speeches or toasts in sterile rooms, but with something simple. Human. Pizza, a incredibly tasty dish that Cassian had only tried on a few occasions, but each one, was something truly magnificent. The gift tucked under his arm was smaller, more thoughtful. Not flashy. Something chosen carefully. For her.

A surprise, yes, but not an ambush.

Cassian shifted his weight, allowed himself a small, private smile, and raised his hand to knock on her door. While she had always given him permission to just come in, he always wanted to give her the respect and courtesy of knocking. Especially when coming by unnanounced.

 

[Shade]

Shade felt him before the knock ever came.

Not through the Force in any dramatic sense, not as a flare or a pull—just a familiar alignment in the quiet of her home, the subtle shift that came from knowing someone's presence so well it registered like a change in pressure rather than sound. His steps on the stone path, the brief pause at the threshold, the steadying breath she could almost map by memory alone.

She was already moving before his knuckles touched the door.

The house was dim and warm, lights kept low by habit rather than mood. No holos running. No tactical overlays. The faint scent of spice and citrus from earlier cooking lingered in the air, understated and clean. Off to one side of the living space, a small Life Day tree stood on a low table—real branches, trimmed neatly, adorned with only a handful of simple ornaments and a soft, steady glow. A couple of presents under it. Nothing excessive. Nothing accidental.

Shade reached the door and rested her hand against the panel for half a second—not hesitation, just acknowledgment—before opening it.

Cassian stood there framed by lanternlight and snow, pizza box balanced carefully in one arm, a neatly wrapped package tucked beneath the other. The sight of it—of him like this, unarmored by rank or urgency—settled something in her chest that she hadn't realized had still been braced.

She wasn't in her work clothes. Instead of structured lines and layered armor, she wore something soft and dark, loose enough to move easily in, fitted only by choice rather than necessity. Long sleeves, worn thin with comfort. Bare feet against the stone floor. Her hair hung loose over her shoulders, silver-black strands catching the warm interior light instead of being pulled back into its usual precision. The effect wasn't dramatic. It was simply… her, unguarded in the quiet way she allowed only when no one else was meant to see.

Her eyes lifted to his, crimson steady and calm, and for a moment she said nothing at all.

Then, dry as ever, but lower than usual—less assessment, more presence—

"You found the place without me walking with you," she said. Not a question. A confirmation.

Her gaze flicked briefly to the pizza box, then to the wrapped gift, before returning to his face. No surprise. Just recognition, and the subtle acceptance of what he'd chosen to bring. "Come in. Set the food in the kitchen," she added, stepping aside to clear the threshold.

The door sealed behind him, shutting out the cold and the night. The quiet inside reclaimed its shape. Shade turned back toward him, posture easy, unhurried, the faint glow from the Life Day tree catching along the edge of her hair.

"You didn't need a reason," she said, nodding once toward what he carried—not dismissive, not refusing. Simply stating how she saw it. A brief pause followed. Measured. Intentional. "But I'm glad you're here." It wasn't said lightly. Or loudly. It was given the way Shade gave anything that mattered—once, clearly, and without retreat.

Cassian Abrantes

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Shade ​

Cassian let the door seal behind him and felt Naboo's night fall away like a held breath finally released.

Warmth replaced the cold immediately, not just from the house, but from her. From the way she stood there, unguarded and real in a way she never allowed herself to be anywhere else. No armor. No angles. Just Shade, in low light and quiet certainty, and it hit him harder than any battlefield revelation ever had.

He huffed a soft breath at her first comment, the corner of his mouth lifting.

"Please," he said mildly, but with a tease to it. "I'd find this place in a blackout with my eyes closed. Your pathing's too deliberate to forget."

He set the pizza down on the kitchen counter exactly where it wouldn't be in the way, muscle memory from a lifetime of shared operational kitchens and borrowed safehouses. The gift stayed tucked under his arm for the moment. When he turned back, his gaze snagged, briefly, respectfully, on the Life Day tree. The restraint of it. The intention. It was hers in the way everything she chose to keep always was.

Her words landed then. You didn't need a reason. Cassian nodded once, acknowledging the truth of it, but his voice was quieter when he replied.

"No," he agreed. "But tonight felt like one worth marking."

He shifted the gift into his hand and held it out to her, not ceremoniously, not hesitant. Just honest.
"Life Day," he added, as if the words themselves carried weight. "I didn't know if you'd planned on… anything. So I figured simple was safer than clever."

A beat. His expression changed then, not dramatic, but unshielded in that rare way he allowed only with her.

"And," he continued, voice lower, steadier, "Deras is gone. For good. The Agency's already drinking itself into insufferable self-congratulation, but…" His shoulders eased, the tension finally bleeding out of them. "I didn't want that. I wanted this. With you."

He met her eyes again, no bravado left in it. Just presence.

"We survived him," Cassian said quietly. "I thought we could celebrate that. Together."

He closed the remaining distance with the same quiet certainty she used when committing to something that mattered, arms coming around her, firm and warm, drawing her in until her weight settled naturally against his chest. Not possessive. Not rushed. Just unmistakably there.

Cassian lowered his head and pressed a small, unassuming kiss to her lips, brief, gentle, more promise than punctuation. When he pulled back, it wasn't far. His mouth traced instead along her jaw, slower now, deliberate, until he found the soft line beneath her ear. He placed a series of quiet kisses there, unhurried, each one a grounding touch rather than a demand. Familiar. Earned.

His breath warmed her skin as he lingered, forehead brushing lightly against her temple.

When he finally leaned back, he didn't let go. One arm remained around her, thumb resting idly at her side as if it belonged there, which, somehow, it did. He looked down at her then, really looked, and the smile that curved his mouth wasn't the one he wore for briefings or banter.

It was softer. Real.

"Hi," he murmured, like he hadn't already crossed half the galaxy to stand in her doorway with pizza and a Life Day gift. Like this, was the part he'd been holding his breath for.

His thumb gave a small, absent-minded shift against her side, grounding them both.

"I missed you," Cassian said simply.

 

[Shade]

Shade didn't move away when he closed the distance.

She felt him the moment his arms settled around her, the familiar weight and warmth grounding in a way no Force technique ever could. Her body aligned with his without thought, as natural as breath, as if this had always been where she was meant to stand once the noise finally stopped. One hand rose to rest at his side, fingers curling lightly into the fabric of his jacket—not clinging, not hesitant, just there.

His kiss was gentle. Intentional. She received it without surprise, without reservation, answering it in the quiet way she always responded to things that mattered—fully, but without excess. When his mouth traced along her jaw, when his breath warmed her skin beneath her ear, a soft exhale slipped from her before she could stop it, more a release than a sound.

She let it happen.

When he finally stilled, forehead brushing her temple, arms still firm around her, Shade turned her face just enough to look up at him. Her crimson eyes were steady, but softened now, the sharp edges she wore in the field set aside because there was no need for them here.

"You don't need to mark the night," she said quietly, voice low and even, threaded with something unmistakably sincere. "Being here is enough."

Her gaze flicked briefly to the Life Day tree, to the small pool of light it cast across the room, then back to him. One corner of her mouth curved—not quite a smile, but close enough that he would recognize it.

"But I understand why you wanted to," she added. At his last words, something in her expression shifted. Not surprise. Not sadness. Recognition. She lifted her free hand, resting it against his chest, fingers splayed flat over his heartbeat. Steady. Real. Alive.

"I missed you too," she said, without hesitation, without deflection. The words were simple, but she didn't soften them, didn't retreat from their weight. "More than I intended to." Her thumb moved once, slow and absent-minded against his jacket, grounding them both.

"Deras is gone," she continued, calm but resolute. "But what matters is that we're still standing." She leaned in, pressing her forehead briefly to his, a quiet, deliberate gesture that spoke of trust more clearly than any vow. "Together," she finished. She didn't let go of him. She didn't need to.

"Let's get your coat off."

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Shade​

Cassian didn't argue. He never did with her when she said something like that, when it wasn't a suggestion so much as an understanding already reached.

He let out a quiet breath against her hair and loosened his hold just enough to shift, his hands sliding from her back to her arms as if reluctant to give up the contact entirely. Even then, he didn't step away. The space between them remained narrow, intentional, the kind that existed only because neither of them felt the need to retreat.

"If you insist," he murmured, amusement threading softly through his voice.

He shrugged out of his coat at her guidance, movements unhurried, practiced. The fabric slid free and she took it from him without ceremony, setting it aside like it belonged there, like he did. Cassian watched her for a moment as she did, taking in the ease of her movements, the way she occupied her own space when she was truly at rest. It was a rare thing, seeing her like this. Rarer still knowing she had chosen to let him see it.

When he turned back to her, he reached out again, this time slower, giving her every chance to pull away if she wanted to. She didn't. His fingers brushed her wrist first, then slid to lace gently with hers, grounding rather than claiming. He lifted her hand just enough to press his lips to her knuckles, an old habit, one that carried more reverence than romance.

"Still standing," he echoed quietly, eyes lifting to meet hers. "That's not nothing."

His gaze flicked briefly around the room, the soft light, the careful absence of clutter, the Life Day tree glowing with restrained warmth. It felt like stepping into the inside of her mind when she wasn't at war with the galaxy. The realization settled deep and steady in his chest.

"You know," he said after a beat, tone lighter but no less sincere, "I had half a dozen speeches ready. Something appropriately grim, something vaguely inspirational." A faint smile tugged at his mouth. "Turns out I didn't need any of them."

He stepped closer again, resting his forehead briefly against hers, breathing her in, spice and citrus and something uniquely Shade. When he pulled back, his expression was open in a way few ever saw.

"Pizza's still hot," Cassian added gently. "Gift's still a surprise. And for once…" He squeezed her hand, just once, a quiet promise wrapped in pressure. "…we don't have to rush anything."

He tilted his head, studying her face with that same careful attention he brought to everything that mattered.

"Lead the way," he said softly.

 

[Shade]

Shade's fingers tightened around his for just a fraction of a second at his last words.

Not enough to stop him. Not enough to betray surprise. Just enough to acknowledge what he'd offered without pressing—time, unguarded and unmeasured. The absence of urgency settled over her like a weight she hadn't realized she'd been carrying, and something in her posture eased in response, shoulders lowering by a hair's breadth, breath slowing.

"No rush," she repeated quietly, as if testing the phrase for balance. It held. After a beat, the faintest curve touched her mouth—dry, restrained, but genuine. "That is… acceptable."

She released his hand only to turn, brushing past him close enough that her sleeve skimmed his arm, a deliberate choice rather than an accident. The kitchen lights came up softly as she entered, warm and indirect, casting clean lines across stone counters and neatly arranged shelves. Everything was exactly where it needed to be. Planned, but not rigid. Lived-in, but controlled.

"I have gifts for you as well, Cassian," she said over her shoulder, tone even, but with a quiet certainty beneath it. Not an afterthought. Not an obligation. Something chosen.

She moved with unhurried efficiency, retrieving plates from a cabinet and setting them side by side, the small domestic ritual performed with the same precision she brought to anything else—only here, it carried no tension. She reached for a bottle next, pausing just long enough to glance back at him.

"Wine," she offered, already knowing his answer but giving him the choice anyway. "Or something stronger. I also have caf, if you plan on staying awake."

The implication wasn't emphasized. She didn't need to say overnight for it to be understood.

Shade turned back to the counter, took the pizza box from where he'd set it, and opened it with care, steam rising briefly into the warm air. She inhaled once, approving, then reached for utensils.

"Kitchen first," she added calmly. "Then gifts. Then whatever comes after." She glanced back at him again, crimson eyes steady, intent softened by trust. "We have time."

And for her, that was everything.

Cassian Abrantes

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Shade ​

Cassian watched her move for a moment before answering, really watched her. The ease in her shoulders, the way her home seemed to respond to her presence, lights and space aligning as naturally as breath. This was Shade without edges drawn for survival, and it made his chest feel quietly, unexpectedly full.

A smile found him before he meant it to.

"The tree," he said first, nodding toward the soft glow spilling from the living space. "It's perfect. Real. Restrained." His eyes warmed as they returned to her. "Very you. I love it."

He stepped fully into the kitchen then, close enough to feel the warmth she carried with her, close enough that the domesticity of it all felt grounding rather than surreal. The open pizza box earned a soft huff of laughter from him, honest and unguarded.

"And yes," Cassian added, rubbing a hand briefly at the back of his neck, "I'm pretty hungry, to be quite honest. Turns out dismantling criminal empires doesn't come with dinner."

At the mention of wine, he lifted a brow in mock consideration, then nodded once. "Wine works. We are celebrating, after all." His tone softened on the word, the weight of it finally allowed to exist without armor. Celebration, not survival. Not aftermath. Something earned.

He reached out then, resting his hand lightly at her side, not pulling her in, just anchoring himself to the moment.

"I couldn't have done this without you," Cassian said quietly. No qualifiers. No deflection. Just truth. His gaze met hers, steady and sincere. "Not the operation. Not getting through it. Not standing here now."

A beat passed, warm and unhurried.

"There's nowhere else I'd rather be."

 

[Shade]

Shade paused for a fraction of a second after his last words—not because she needed time to think, but because she let herself feel them. She turned slightly toward him, just enough to meet his gaze fully, the soft light of her home catching along the planes of her face and gentling the sharp lines she usually carried out of habit rather than necessity.

The corner of her mouth lifted—not a full smile, not overt, but unmistakably hers. The kind that didn’t ask for attention and didn’t need it.

“I was aiming for restrained,” she said quietly, a note of dry warmth threading through her voice as her eyes flicked briefly toward the tree and then back to him. “Anything louder would feel dishonest.”

She moved past him with unhurried ease, retrieving the wine as if this were the most natural continuation of the day rather than the quiet miracle it actually was. The bottle made a soft sound as she set it on the counter, the domestic normalcy of it grounding in a way she rarely indulged.

At his laugh—real, unguarded—her expression softened further. She glanced at the pizza, then back at him, one brow lifting faintly.

“I suspected the Republic had gaps in its logistical planning,” she murmured. “You’ve been running on fumes.”

She poured the wine with measured care, handing him a glass before lifting her own. When he touched her side, she didn’t still or tense. She leaned into it just slightly, acknowledging the contact without breaking the rhythm of the moment. It wasn’t possession. It wasn’t reassurance. It was presence.

His words—I couldn’t have done this without you—landed deeper than he probably intended. Shade’s gaze stayed on his, steady and open, no deflection, no armor rising to meet it.

“You would have found a way,” she replied honestly. Then, after a beat, just as honestly: “But I’m glad you didn’t have to.”

She stepped closer then, close enough that the space between them ceased to exist, her free hand resting lightly against his chest. Not to check for wounds. Not to anchor herself. Simply because she could.

“This,” she said quietly, her voice lower now, more intimate, “is not something I offer lightly. Not my home. Not my time. Not… this version of myself.”

Her thumb brushed once against the fabric at his collarbone, a small, deliberate gesture.

“You’re here because I want you here,” she continued, meeting his eyes without hesitation. “Because when everything else goes quiet, this feels right.”

She lifted her glass slightly, not in a formal toast, but in acknowledgment.
“To being done,” she said softly. “For tonight.”
And then, after a pause filled with warmth and certainty, she added—just for him: “There’s nowhere else I’d rather have you either.” The words weren’t dramatic. They didn’t need to be. They were simply true.

Cassian Abrantes