Private Lorn Reingard, Open This Door!

[Ala Quin]

The Tarsai Vigil had to be exposed—Ala was determined.

Thanks to Ala Quin’s persistence, the Royal Assembly had been forced to reckon with the truth: the Vigil was response for the disappearance, no the destruction, of the Larkspur Crescent. Tarsai Vigil had been responsible for the destruction of the ship and the death of the civilian passengers, including a family that just wanted to move to a new home. She had received nothing but stonewalling from Her but she expected more from the Royal Assembly.

What had the Assembly decided to do about it?

Investigations. Queries. Sub-committees. And, of course, endless meetings.

The truth was unraveling, the threads were fraying, and Ala could feel the truth slipping through her fingers—and no one else seemed to feel the urgency. But there was someone she could count on to do something. Someone who wouldn’t be satisfied with waiting for a council report.

That’s why Ala Quin stormed through Shiraya's Rest, her curls bouncing with every indignant step, and marched straight to Lorn Reingard’s quarters.

She didn’t knock delicately. She banged. The door opened—and Ala didn’t wait.

"I just left the Assembly and I swear to all that is holy if I hear the word taskforce one more time I am going to levitate out of pure frustration—do you know what they said? They said ‘we must be measured.’ Measured! The Tarsai Vigil attacked and destroyed a civilian transport vessel—someone—from within the Vigil even sent me data on it before they....mysteriously disappeared." She waved her hands around mockingly. "...mysteriously disappeared."

She breezed right past him, arms waving, voice a barely-contained spiral of righteous fury.

"And I know what you're going to say, Lorn, something about keeping calm or being strategic, but I’m done being quiet and noble and non-threatening. These people are playing a game while others are paying in blood and trauma and nobody seems to care that the Vigil is getting away with this—they’re just confident in the contracts they have in place..."

There was a pause. Her eyes scanned the room, her breaths finally slowing. The fire was still there, but the fury softened just a hair.

She blinked.

"Your place is really nice. You did a really good job."

| Lorn Reingard |​

 

[Lorn Reingard]

​

Lorn Reingard sat cross-legged at his low desk, a stylus in one hand and his chin in the other. The datapad blinked patiently beneath his fingers, filled with half-written sentences, redacted names, and the gentle hiss of reports that would never be read by anyone who mattered. Outside the window, Naboo's twin moons were visible even in daylight.

He let out a long breath, the kind that sounded like someone giving up on dignity one sentence at a time. The same report he'd rewritten four times still refused to become anything other than a grim list of classified errors. His mind wandered, back to a lake, to a fire, to a boy he used to be and the friends who never got the chance. He was good at this part now. Staring. Sulking. Whispering entire conversations to people who weren't alive enough to argue.

And then-

BANG.

The kind of knock that made your ancestors sit up in their graves and check the locks.

Lorn flinched like he'd been shot in the soul. His stylus clattered to the ground. For half a second, he wondered if he'd accidentally joined a war again without realizing it.

He rose, slow but annoyed, muttering under his breath, "If this is Ketro again with a missing food requisition I will personally-"

Another bang.

"Oh for Shiraya's sake," he grunted, striding over to the door with the precision of a man preparing to fight bureaucracy with violence.

The door hissed open - and then exploded inward with the force of one Ala Quin, storm incarnate, curls bouncing like they were trying to escape the conversation.

He blinked. He staggered backward. It was unclear whether it was the gust of wind or sheer anger that almost knocked him over.

"What - Ala?" His voice cracked like an old datapad speaker. He hadn't even had time to put on his boots.

She breezed past him in a fury of words and fire, and Lorn stood there, momentarily stunned like someone who'd just been hit by an entire starship manifesto.

She was speaking - no, declaring war - on every vowel, syllable, and bureaucratic term in the Republic. Lorn's eyes followed her helplessly, brain still buffering somewhere between "why is she here" and "did I just get attacked by some curly haired hurricane."

He slowly closed the door behind her, as if he was afraid the walls might start speaking too.

And then she paused. Looked around. Complimented his interior decorating.

Lorn stared at her. Then at the room. Then at her again.

"...Thank you?" he said, still deeply unsure whether this was a compliment or the beginning of a trap.

He ran a hand through his beard, took a breath like he was preparing to climb back into war, and muttered, "Let's slow down and backtrack a little, yeah?" He sighed, already moving toward the kettle. "Tea? I don't imagine I can whip up a milkshake here."

Ala Quin​

 

[Ala Quin]

"Oh Force—tea would be great, yes, thank you, sorry—I didn’t mean to—well I did mean to storm in but not like, emotionally trample your whole evening and also possibly your very soul, you looked like you were mid-brood and I hate interrupting a good brood—" She made a soft, helpless sound and spun on her heel halfway through the room, motioning to nothing in particular.

"I just… I shouldn’t have barged in, but if I had gone home I would’ve screamed into a pillow and then exploded it, which I know is not a real Force technique but if it was one, I would’ve mastered it tonight. I can leave—should I leave? This is your space, you’re barefoot, oh stars—were you meditating? I totally destroyed the meditation zone, didn't I?"

Ala ran both hands through her curls and then flailed them at her sides in a useless gesture.

"Okay. No. I’m staying. Because this is serious, and I can’t just sit with this on my chest another second. The Tarsai Vigil destroyed the Larkspur Crescent. A whole transport—gone. Civilians, children, just trying to start a new life. And I had evidence. Someone sent it to me. And then that someone vanished into a convenient narrative of ‘missing in action,’ which I do not believe for a second."

She took a sharp breath in. Not to calm down—just to keep breathing.

"And I thought, maybe, just maybe, if I showed the Royal Assembly the truth, they’d act. But no. No. They want ‘committees’ and ‘careful consideration.’ And I know what you're thinking—I know I should be patient, be Jedi about it—but Lorn, if one more person tells me to wait while people disappear, I’m going to light my own boots on fire and call it an alert beacon."

Her eyes found his again, softer now.

"I came to you because you listen. You see things the way they are. And because… I trust you. Even when I probably shouldn’t knock like I’m invading a small planet."

She smiled, barely. Not because it was funny. But because it was true.

| Lorn Reingard |​

 

[Lorn Reingard]

​

Lorn moved with the practiced quiet of a man who had once crossed warzones in silence, and now applied the same solemn grace to boiling water. His quarters weren't fancy - just neat, lived-in, the kind of place where someone kept their ghosts folded on shelves like spare cloaks. The kettle gave a soft chirp, like it knew it was interrupting something far more volatile than steam.

He didn't speak right away. He rarely did. Ala's words had come out like a hyperspace jump: fast, dangerous, and impossible to interrupt without structural damage. He just listened - stirring in the herbs, pouring hot water into the cups, anchoring the moment with small, deliberate movements. His bare feet padded softly on the floor, the only sound other than her breathing.

When she finally stopped, Lorn turned, set the two cups gently on the low table, and said with infinite calm, "You should stay."

She didn't move right away, too charged and caught between fight-or-ignite.

So, without speaking again, Lorn reached out - carefully, like she was made of lightning - and set a hand on her elbow. His touch was featherlight, but steady. Not pulling. Just there.

Then, with a light pressure, he guided her toward the cushions beside the table, grounding her with the quiet steadiness. His palm lingered only a moment, then withdrew as she sat, like he didn't want to take up more space than he was allowed. Only once she'd settled in did he lower himself to the floor opposite her, knees drawn up just enough to look casual, but not so much that it seemed like he'd ever been relaxed in his life.

"You're not interrupting anything," he said, voice low, scratchy, but kind. "Unless you count me losing a staring contest with a report I've rewritten so many times it's begun to mock me."

He picked up his tea, blew across the surface. "Honestly, I was starting to wonder when I'd see you next. Thought maybe you were off starting a small insurrection or blowing up the Assembly with righteous indignation and poetry."

He met her eyes and gave her the kind of smile he saved for rare occasions - small, lopsided, and gone before it could make a home on his face. "Turns out I was half right."

Then he leaned back against the wall, one arm draped over his knee, and gave her his full attention - not the nod and smile kind of listening, but the deep, dangerous kind. The kind where you felt like your words had weight. Like someone might actually do something with them.

"I believe you, Ala," he said quietly. "About the Vigil. About the message. About the missing whistleblower who somehow vanished between a hallway camera and official indifference."

He sipped his tea. Let the silence linger just long enough to carry weight - but not enough to be awkward.

"And for what it's worth," he added, tilting his head slightly, "if you had come in here to scream and explode a pillow with the Force, I would've held it still for you."

His expression didn't shift, but his voice softened, like someone gently dusting off old armor. "You don't need to be patient with me. You don't need to be careful. I've lived through enough carefully worded betrayals to know that sometimes the truth needs to break the furniture."

Then he set his cup down. Leaned forward slightly.

"So," he said, voice steady now. "The Assembly wants to wait. The Vigil wants to vanish. The evidence is gone and the blood is fresh."

He locked eyes with her, no command, no push, just the quiet heat of someone ready to burn something down with you if you asked.

"What are we going to do about it?"

Ala Quin​

 

[Ala Quin]

"Stay...?" She blinked once, as if the word had four syllables and she had to decode all of them at hyperspeed. "Wait—do you mean like, stay stay or just... have-the-tea-and-leave-in-a-very-composed-and-non-scandalous-way kind of stay? Because I flexible... I mean, I’m very good at temporary stays. Adaptable! Not... not flexible. Well, I am flexible, just not in the way—Force, Ala, stop talking."

She caught her own face in her hands for a moment, dragging her fingers down in mild despair and then letting out a breathy, awkward laugh. "Tea. I will stay. For tea. That is what we’re doing. Tea."

As he moved with deliberate ease, she finally began to notice the room—not in the flurry of arrival, but in that gentle, uncertain quiet that followed. Her gaze wandered to the shelves, the worn edges of cushions, the subtle way everything in the space belonged. It felt like him. Not curated, but considered. Not cold, but careful.

"You really do have good taste," she murmured, fingertips brushing a thread on the edge of a nearby pillow. "It’s quiet here. Not empty-quiet. More like... safe-quiet."

And then his hand touched her elbow. Her breath caught. It wasn’t dramatic—no sweeping music, no sudden light shift. Just skin, warmth, steadiness. But something moved in her—like a string pulled taut, like memory and mystery tangled in a single heartbeat.

She didn’t pull away. She followed. Silently. And when she sat, she stole a small glance down to where his fingers had been. Her heart was not quiet.

As he spoke, her eyes met his, and for once, Ala Quin—storm, spark, whirlwind of words—was very, very still.

Then came the question. "What are we going to do about it?"

She exhaled through a smile that knew exactly what it was doing. Reached for the tea, held it in both hands like it might steady her next storm.

"We are going to drink tea." A sip. A sniff. Her eyes didn’t leave his. "Then we're going to play a card game. Something with bluffing. Something I’ll win." And then—softly, like she was whispering an obscenity in a cathedral— "Then we kick the Tarsai Vigil’s ass."

Her grin was not sweet. It was wicked. Earnest. A little scandalized by itself. And utterly, undeniably Ala.

| Lorn Reingard |​

 

[Lorn Reingard]

​

Lorn watched her, unblinking, as she tripped over her own mouth like it was a loose power cable in a crowded hangar. When she got flustered, it was like watching someone trying to gracefully exit a landspeeder going 100 kilometers an hour - with style, somehow, and usually on fire.

He didn't laugh, not exactly. But something in his face softened in that rare way it did when Ala was around - like the tension in his jaw took a break, like the room exhaled with him.

"Stay stay," he echoed under his breath, shaking his head, the corners of his mouth betraying a full-on, actual smile.

He leaned back, picked up his tea again, and took a slow sip like it was buying him time. And maybe it was. Because it was these moments - the weird, vulnerable tangles of nerves and heart and sincerity - that always threw him. At least they used to. Now they felt like a strange kind of gravity he'd gotten used to falling toward.

When she complimented the room again, he just glanced at it over his shoulder and murmured, "It's not much. But it's mine. And you're right. It's safe. Or, safe-adjacent. And you are always welcome for 'temporary stays'."

Then she took the tea, and something in her settled.

And she smiled.

And made threats involving card games and vengeance and bluffing and-

"Then we kick the Tarsai Vigil's ass."

Lorn set down his tea, reached into a nearby drawer, and pulled out a small deck of worn cards bound together with a bit of twine. He held it up between two fingers like it was contraband.

"You ever played Fragments?" he asked, already untying the deck. "It's half bluffing, half deduction, all humiliation. We used to play it during those uncomfortable times of waiting before a battle. When no one could sleep and you knew you wouldn't see some of the camp the next day. It helped keep everyone light and sane."

He started to shuffle. The cards were hand-marked and half the ink had faded with use. Some were clearly rewritten with different handwriting. One had teeth marks. "It works like this: each round, you draw a card with a scenario on it. You tell a story. Real or fake - doesn't matter. The other person has to guess if it's true or not. If they're wrong, you get a point and they answer a question of your choosing. If they're right, they get the point and you have to answer something."

He dealt them both a hand with the theatrical seriousness of a sabacc dealer mid-duel.

Then he looked up, eyes glinting, voice quiet.

"So let's see how well you are good at bluffing."

He handed her the first card. It read, in handwritten scrawl:

"Tell me about a time you kissed someone and immediately regretted it."

Lorn leaned back, sipping his tea again, entirely too pleased with himself.

"Go on," he said, smirking. "Truth or trap, Miss Quin?"

Ala Quin​

 

[Ala Quin]

His words—"Stay stay." Her brain—exploded.

Her pulse was suddenly much too loud. Her tea tasted like stars and confusion. Her hands curled tighter around the cup, trying to find warmth she wasn't sure was coming from the drink anymore.

Stay stay? Stay as in stay the night? Stay as in... toothbrush-leaving, side-sleeping, "you can crash here" but maybe also "crash into me" kind of stay?

And then—"temporary stays." That was worse. That sounded almost domestic. Like he wouldn't mind finding her here again. Like... like she could exist in this room without apology.

Did he want her like that? Did she want him like that?

Yes.

No.

Maybe.

Yes. Yes. Definitely yes. But—Force, was she ready? She’d had her heart chewed up and frozen and flung into the stars. And yet... was that ever what stopped her? Was she getting more cautious? More cynical? She used to fall in love like breathing. She used to say it. And now she sat here, terrified by a soft-spoken man holding a deck of cards and the space between two words.

Her eyes sparkled, but it was the kind of sparkle that came with trying not to detonate. He handed her the card.

She read it. Her face didn’t change. Her mind screamed.

"Tell me about a time you kissed someone and immediately regretted it."

Oh. So it was that kind of game.

"Mmm. Okay. I’ve got one," she said lightly, like her heart wasn’t playing sabacc with her ribs.

She gave a theatrical sigh and leaned back against the cushion, swirling the tea like a woman unfazed.

"There was this smuggler. Had a ship called the Twelvefold Promise. Ridiculous name. Anyway, I booked passage once—back before I had rank or resources or, you know, dignity—and he wouldn’t stop calling me ‘angel’ in this voice that made every vowel sound like a crime."

She grinned. Her performance was nearly flawless.

"One night, he leaned in, I panicked, and kissed him just to shut him up. Regretted it before I even pulled away. Worst part? He winked after. Like it had been his idea."

Her voice was steady. Her smile? Bright. But her eyes were dodging landmines. Not about the smuggler. About a real kiss. One that hadn’t happened. One she maybe still wanted.

She set the card down carefully.

"Truth," she said smoothly. Then after a long breath, she raised her brow with faux bravado, even as her throat was dry.

"Your turn, Reingard. Let’s see you play."

Her voice sparkled with challenge. Her eyes shimmered with fear. Her heart? That was another game entirely.

| Lorn Reingard |​

 

[Lorn Reingard]

​

Lorn watched her as she took the card, but not like he was waiting for her move - more like he was trying to study something he wasn't supposed to notice. The slight hitch in her breath. The way her shoulders tried to square up like she was about to leap out of an airlock without a suit. She was spinning up again, her mind running ahead of her mouth, and - Force help him - he found himself caught somewhere between amusement and awe.

She stumbled, just barely, but it was there. A falter in her rhythm, in that electric, unshakable Ala Quin bravado. She was thinking about what he'd said. About stay stay. And Shiraya, now he was thinking about it too.

Did he want her to stay?

Yes.

He possibly thought about it often, but who asked those kinds of questions out loud?

He hadn't thought about something like that in a long time. Not since things fell apart. Not since he'd learned the hard way that people can love you and leave you just as easily. But Ala was different. She stormed in and left things brighter. Louder. Complicated, yes - but somehow simpler too. Like maybe life didn't have to be reduced to loss reports and caution.

She was everything his world wasn't. A whirlwind. A pulse. A laugh. A mess. Real.

He blinked himself back to reality just in time for her to launch into the smuggler story - full theatrics, wry tone, the whole performance.

Lorn actually laughed. An honest, low sound that shook his shoulders and caught him by surprise. "That has to be true." he said, grinning.

He watched her closely, the way her smile tugged at the corners a little too tightly, the way her eyes danced but didn't settle. She was dodging something. Not the smuggler. Something else.

Would she regret kissing him?

The thought landed and didn't leave. Would she even entertain the idea? Was he allowed to want that? Did she already know?

He looked at her like he was seeing the idea form in real time. The idea of her staying, not as a guest but as, something else. The idea of mornings. Of curled tea steam and bare feet. Of a second toothbrush. It felt impossible. It felt... dangerous.

He didn't want her to regret it. If it ever happened, if it ever could - he wanted it to be something she chose. With fire. With intent. Not to shut him up. Not because she panicked. Because she meant it.

He shook himself out of it, tearing his gaze away before it lingered too long. Before she caught it. Before he caught himself.

"Alright," he said, clearing his throat, reaching for a card. "Let's see what the galaxy thinks I should be embarrassed about tonight."

He flipped it. Read it. Froze.

"Describe a time you got caught somewhere you absolutely should not have been, with someone you absolutely shouldn't have been with."

Lorn closed his eyes for a moment. "Great," he muttered. "Scandalous and personal. Perfect."

He ran a hand through his beard, then rubbed the back of his neck, stalling like a guilty teenager caught sneaking in past curfew. "Okay. Fine. There was a clan leader's daughter."

He gave a small sigh, embarrassed already. "We were caught. In the woods. Not… doing anything explicit," he clarified quickly, raising an eyebrow at her preemptive smirk. "But definitely not meditating. Her personal guard stormed by and she pretended to faint. Just - full collapse. It was absurd. They tied me upside down by my feet from the tree until my Master could get her to fess up."

He looked at her over the rim of his cup, his ears slightly pink, unfortunately it was true.

"So," he said, trying to regain some composure. "Truth? Miss Quin?"

And then, with a subtle smile tugging at the corner of his mouth-

"If it is true, and you're picturing it, I'd appreciate if you didn't burst into laughter. My dignity's hanging by a thread and a half-rotten memory."

Ala Quin​

 

[Ala Quin]

Her smile faltered, just a breath, just enough. "Okay. Fine. It wasn’t true." She lifted her teacup again, almost hiding behind it, her voice smaller this time. "I’ve never kissed someone and regretted it."

Her eyes flicked up to meet his, sparkling—curious and terrified at once. "Not yet."

She looked away quickly, cheeks flushing, then refocused with a sudden burst of levity as he finished his story.

And that was it—she snorted. A full, unfiltered nose-scrunch laugh she tried desperately to muffle with her hand over her mouth. Her entire body folded slightly as if trying to contain it.

"Oh no. Oh no no no. There is no way that is true. You did not just say that like it was noble!" she wheezed between giggles.

"That’s not a story about restraint. Tell the truth Lorn, it was totally scandalous, wasn't it?" she pointed at him over the rim of her cup, still laughing, "Are trying to make it sound like you were the victim of tree-based justice. Please."

Her laughter softened into a hum, then faded altogether. She drew a new card from the deck and turned it over. But she didn’t read it.

Instead, she set it face down between them and exhaled through her nose.

"Tell me about a time you wanted something you knew you shouldn't."

Her eyes were lowered now. When she spoke again, it was quieter. Different.

"A few nights ago..." she began, thumb rubbing gently over the edge of the card, "...someone from my past visited me. We hadn’t spoken in a while. Not really."

She didn’t say the name yet. She didn’t need to. Not at first.

"She just... appeared. And I should have called for backup. For help. For anything. But I didn’t. Because my heart recognized her before my brain could argue."

Her fingers were still now, voice steady even as her eyes flicked once to his.

"We talked. She warned me about someone—another woman. Someone I didn’t know. I think it was her way of still... caring. The kind of caring that comes all wrapped in sadness." Her jaw tensed, but she didn’t look away.

"There was still a connection. Still something alive between us, even after everything. But it’s not something I can hold onto. Not without losing something else. And she knew that. She said her piece. And left."

Ala picked up the face-down card and slowly slid it back into the deck.

"It’s true." She breathed out slowly, jaggedly. Her voice dropped to a near-whisper.

"A Sith visited my quarters the other night..."

"...and I wanted her to stay."

Silence wrapped around the words. Heavy. Honest. Shattering.

"I know that’s not who I’m supposed to be. I know that probably sounds like a warning bell. But I’m not always sure I’m the Jedi people think I am. And I’m definitely not sure I’m the person you might want me to be."

She looked at him then—really looked. Her eyes were wide, unguarded, full of fear and truth. The kind that comes before a fall.

| Lorn Reingard |​

 

[Lorn Reingard]

​

Lorn nearly choked on his tea as Ala's laugh echoed through the room, sharp and sudden like a blaster bolt through silence. The kind of laugh that made you forget you'd been sitting in the dark with ghosts just moments ago. He grinned despite himself, watching her try, and fail, to smother it behind her cup. The way her whole body curled with it, like laughter had yanked the tension out of her bones and left something freer behind.

"Oh no," she gasped. "There is no way that is true."

Lorn raised both hands in mock defense, trying to hold onto his dignity like it wasn't already dangling from that tree alongside his adolescent pride.

"I'm telling you," he said, a wry smile forming, "I was very much the victim. There was no dignity. Just tree sap and public humiliation."

He leaned forward a little, elbows on his knees, smirking at her. "And for the record? It was scandalous. But I'm not telling you everything. Not until I win at least three rounds."

He was still smiling when she drew the next card, but then something shifted.

She didn't read it.

She turned it over, looked at it for a moment, and then placed it carefully on the table between them. And when she finally spoke, the game was gone. The whirlwind had gone still. Her voice held no flourish, no clever sting. Just that rare and quiet edge, the raw underside of all the fire.

Tell me about a time you wanted something you knew you shouldn't.

Lorn didn't move. He didn't blink. He barely breathed.

Because the moment she started speaking, he knew this wasn't a story.

This was a confession.

And she trusted him with it.

The room felt smaller suddenly. Closer. Like the air itself understood it needed to be quiet now. That something fragile was being set down between them, and neither of them should dare to break it.

A Sith. Her.

And Ala hadn't called for backup. Hadn't sounded the alarm.

Because there had been something between them.

When she finished, Lorn didn't fill the silence right away. He didn't need to. She'd bared something real and dangerous, and he wouldn't meet that with platitudes or pity.

So instead, he just let the moment settle.

And then - softly, gently - he said, "You're not alone in that."

His voice wasn't cracked, but it was quieter than usual. Like he was stepping into a space he hadn't opened in a long time.

"If Isla's mother… if Virginia ever came to me, out of nowhere, to talk? I don't know what I'd do."

He stared into his cup, then set it down. His fingers tapped the ceramic once. Twice.

"I tell myself I'd do the right thing. That I'd be calm. Measured. Jedi. But truth is? I'd listen to her. Even now. After everything."

He looked up at Ala then. And it wasn't judgment in his eyes, it was recognition. Shared weight. The unspoken ache of what if.

"I don't open up much because I know exactly how dangerous old feelings can be. I know what it's like to want someone you've already lost. And to know they're not good for you, but still…"

He let the rest hang.

Still.

He leaned forward a little, resting his arms on his knees, his voice low but steady.

"Ala… you're exactly the Jedi people think you are."

Before she could protest, he cut in gently, eyes warm but firm.

"You are. Because being a Jedi doesn't mean you don't struggle. Or want things. Or make mistakes. It means you keep trying. Even when it's hard. Especially when it's hard."

He reached across the table, not grabbing her hand, not making it a moment - just a brief, grounding touch to her wrist. A silent I'm here.

"I don't want you to be anyone you aren't." he said softly. "I want you to be you. The whole storm. The light and the cracks. All of it."

And then, after a beat, with a crooked little smile:

"And if you're still struggling, that's okay. It's heartache. It doesn't just stop. Shiraya, I'm not sure mine ever will."

Quiet settled in, the kind of quiet that didn't feel like hiding. Just understanding.

Ala Quin​

 

[Ala Quin]

Ala blinked slowly, and for once she didn’t try to cover the quiet that followed. She just let it sit there between them—his words, like warm light across her skin. Something about the way he spoke, so plainly, so gently, made her heart ache in that unbearable, human way.

She could still crawl across the table. She could kiss him, right now. Her body was practically vibrating with that kind of heat—the need to feel something simple, whole, and good.

But she couldn’t do it. Not like this.

"Lorn..." she began softly, her voice steadier now, the flustered chaos of earlier settling into something quieter. Not colder. Just... more careful.

Her hand moved—almost instinctively—to rest near his, not touching, but close enough that the warmth might reach.

"You say you don’t open up much. But you just said exactly the right thing."

She looked at him—really looked. The kind of look that saw scars, not just stories.

"You’re a good man, Lorn. A better one than you give yourself credit for. The way you listen... the way you didn’t flinch when I told you about her...that means something. It means everything."

A soft, breathy laugh slipped through, not from nerves but from fondness. "You make it really hard not to want to stay."

Her smile dimmed, not with sorrow, but truth. "But if I stay tonight, it would be the kind of staying that asks for more than I'm ready to give. I’d be crossing a line for the wrong reason. Looking for comfort instead of connection. Letting the heat win over the healing."

She drew in a slow breath, eyes flicking to their empty cups, then back to him. "I want to be someone different when I stay stay."

The words came out with such clarity, it almost startled her. "Not perfect. Not whole. Just... ready. And I'm not there. Not yet. But I think—" She smiled again, warmer now, a little sad, but no less her. "—I think about you. A lot."

And she reached, gently, to brush her fingers across the back of his knuckles—just once—before folding her hands back into her lap.

"Thank you. For not trying to fix me. For not asking me to be anyone else."

And then, softer than before, but still unmistakably Ala. "And for pretending that tree story wasn’t completely made up. You're a gentleman."

| Lorn Reingard |​

 

[Lorn Reingard]

​

Lorn sat still for a long moment, as if afraid to breathe too hard and disrupt the truth she'd just given him. Her words echoed in him - not loudly, but deep. Like they'd landed somewhere far beneath the surface. Somewhere tender.

His hand, the one she'd brushed, twitched slightly, as if remembering the touch even as it faded. He stared down at it, then at her. And he could feel it - that pull. The one he'd trained himself to ignore in every other part of life. The one that said risk it.

This time, he didn't look away.

"You think about me," he said, softly. Not teasing, not surprised. Just... letting it settle like snowfall between them. "That's good to know. Because I think about you constantly. And I'm tired of pretending I don't."

His heart was hammering now, traitorous and loud. But still, he shifted - closer this time. Close enough that the space between them wasn't careful anymore. It was intimate. Chosen. Brave.

"Not just in the simple ways," he continued, and now his voice had that same quiet weight he used in command tents before battles - measured, honest, unwavering. "Not just in the way I notice the way you talk too fast when you're nervous, or how you drink your tea like it might run away if you don't stare it down."

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but there was no levity in his eyes. Only truth.

"I think about you when I can't sleep. When I'm walking through the gardens. When I'm in council meetings and someone says something stupid, and I wonder what your face would look like if you were there to hear it."

He reached out then, his hand closing gently over hers, no hesitation. Warm. Solid. Intentional.

"But make no mistake, Ala," he said, low and steady. "I want this to be more than comfort. I want the connection. The real thing. I want the whole storm. The joy. The chaos. The way you rage at injustice and laugh like the universe owes you a favor. The hurt. Even the parts you're scared of."

He squeezed her hand - not hard, not urgent, just enough to ground it in the moment.

"I'm not here because I want the easy version of you. I'm here because I want you. However long that takes."

His thumb brushed once over the back of her hand, and then he let the silence settle again. It wasn't awkward. It was full. Charged. Gentle.

"I know what it's like to be broken open by someone who didn't stay," he said, eyes drifting slightly toward the window. "And I don't want that again. I don't want either of us to get caught in something we're not ready for. But when you are ready - if you are - I'll be here."

He glanced back to her, and his smile this time was sad, maybe, but steady. "No pressure. No rush. I just needed you to know. I don't need perfection. Or timing. Or rules. I just need the truth."

Ala Quin​

 

[Ala Quin]

Ala didn’t move at first.

Her mind was a storm of images and wants—flashes of crossing the table, of straddling his lap, of kissing him until the universe blurred away into breath and skin and heat. She wanted him, gods, she wanted him. Not in a vague or abstract sense. In a bone-deep, soul-hungry way that startled her.

But that was what scared her most. Because she didn’t trust herself. Not yet. Not again.

She took his hands—both of them—and held them in hers, threading her fingers gently through his. It wasn’t just grounding. It was reverence. And when she looked up, her eyes shimmered. No walls. No hiding. Just Ala. Raw and afraid.

"You make it sound so simple," she whispered, smiling faintly as the tears began to form. "And maybe it is. Maybe love should be simple. But I’m not."

She let that hang, then released his hands with a tenderness that lingered even as her palms drifted away.

Her posture shifted—just a little. That familiar drawing inward, like she was wrapping herself in layers of mission and duty to protect what she’d just exposed.

"We’re running out of time with the Larkspur case," she said quietly, smoothing the front of her tunic as she turned her gaze toward the card deck but didn’t draw another.

"There’s still a data trail through the Enarc site for the Tarsai Vigil...they call it the Anomoly...that hasn’t been scrubbed. I have clearance to move a small team in quietly, but I’ll need someone who can coordinate access without drawing attention from planetary security."

Her voice was steady again. Not cold. Not mechanical. Just... shielded.

"You’ve got the Vanguard. And eyes in places I don’t. I think you could help me—if you still want to."

She looked at him, and this time, there was no twinkle or flirtation in her expression. Just tired honesty. The kind you give someone who matters too much to lie to.

Then she exhaled and said, barely above a whisper—"I’m sorry."

| Lorn Reingard |​

 

[Lorn Reingard]

​

Lorn didn't flinch when her hands found his. He let her thread her fingers through his, let the warmth settle there, fleeting, sacred. Like holding something he was afraid to ask for. When she looked up at him with her whole heart exposed, when her voice trembled with I'm not simple, something inside him pulled taut. Not painfully. Just... aware. Of her. Of everything she was handing him and everything she couldn't yet.

And then, she let go. It wasn't a rejection, not really. But it still left his hands cold. He didn't speak at first.

Not when she shifted back into mission-mode. Not when the name Larkspur hit the air like a warning bell. Not even when she said I'm sorry, softly, like a bruise you don't want to admit still hurts.

Instead, he stood slowly. Not abrupt. Not performative. Just quiet, the way wind moves through tall grass. And then, without asking, he reached for her hand again, not to hold it this time, but to help her up.

He pulled her gently to her feet.

And then, because it felt like the only thing he could give her without making it harder, he wrapped his arms around her.

It wasn't a desperate hug. It wasn't a goodbye. It was something still, quiet, strong. One hand on her back, the other settling between her shoulders, anchoring her like he was used to bracing people in storms.

When he finally stepped back, his voice was low.

"Don't be sorry."

His eyes met hers, and this time the sadness wasn't hidden behind any smile. It lived openly across his face. Not because she'd done something wrong. But because he understood.

He let the silence sit for another breath, then nodded once, shifting. Adapting. Sliding into the only thing he was good at: war.

"I can have a team ready within the hour," he said. No edge. No bite. Just resolve. "I'll pull two from the Vanguard, Ketro and Mara. Discreet, capable. I'll handle security clearance from my end. You won't need to move through channels. We'll make it clean."

He moved toward the side table and retrieved a datapad, tapping it once, the screen flickering to life. His voice stayed calm. Controlled.

"Nobody would even know we were ever there."

He didn't look up right away. Just worked. Just focused.

Ala Quin​

 

[Ala Quin]

"An hour? No... by Shiraya—no," Ala exhaled, blinking quickly as the sudden turn from tenderness to tactical precision made her heart lurch.

She moved to him, a hand lifting instinctively—not to stop him, but to feel him. Her palm came to rest on his chest, directly over his heart. She didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there, eyes closed, head bowed ever so slightly, as if the gesture itself was the kiss she didn’t trust herself to give.

"I know I came in all a bluster," she said softly, her voice brushing the silence, "but my brain is actually starting to work again. I have responsibilities here—Padawans, reports, the Assembly. I can’t disappear for a mission tonight. It’s not time yet."

Her fingers lingered just a moment longer against him before she pulled back. The space between them felt like a thread being tugged. She met his eyes again, and despite everything unsaid, her gaze was calm. Sad. But grateful.

"Next week. We’ll go then. I’ll finalize the intel trails and tighten our clearance window. If I move the paperwork quietly, I can sync our disappearance to a logistics sweep. No one will question it...I feel like the Vigil may be the type to have eyes everywhere."

She swallowed once, eyes dipping to the floor, then back up. And then, unable to resist it any longer, she stepped into him. The hug was warm, full-bodied, soft and held just a little too long. Her arms wrapped around his back, fingers curling into his shirt like she wasn’t sure she’d be able to let go—and maybe didn’t want to.

But eventually, with a breath that trembled in her chest, she did. Ala drew back. Just a little. Just enough to breathe. Then, slowly, she turned toward the door.

Every step felt like a choice she wasn’t ready to make. Like her feet were moving before her heart had decided to follow. She paused just shy of the threshold. Didn’t turn around.

"I’m going to go before I forget why I should." The quiet tugged at her. "I’ll see you soon, Lorn."

And with that, she slipped out.

| Lorn Reingard |​

 

[Lorn Reingard]

​

Lorn stood still long after the door hissed shut.

His arms were still warm where she'd held him. His shirt still carried the faint memory of her fingers, curled into the fabric like she hadn't wanted to let go. Like she might have stayed, if the galaxy had been just a little quieter. A little kinder.

But it wasn't.

He breathed in, sharp and silent through his nose, holding it like it might steady the hollow ache opening in his chest. It didn't.

Her scent still lingered faintly in the air, citrus and something wild. Rain-washed and electric. Like a storm on the verge of breaking, and now it was gone. The room, once full of her voice and laughter and heat, felt colder. Larger. Too large. The kind of quiet that made you remember how alone you really were.

He looked down at his hands.

They ached.

Not from injury but from absence. From holding something too briefly. From wanting too much.

He turned from the door slowly, the stiffness in his body not from tension, but restraint. Like every bone in him had wanted to move, to call after her, to stop her, to do something, and he'd ordered each one to stand down.

Discipline. His oldest companion. His cruelest.

Lorn crossed the room with the silence of a man who'd done this before. Who knew the shape of goodbye even when it came wrapped in maybe.

He sat where she had sat. Leaned forward, elbows on knees, staring at the space she'd just left. He ran a hand over his face, through his hair, then down to the table. Picked up one of the cards from the deck and turned it over without looking.

He stared at it. And for once, didn't answer.

Instead, he closed the deck, tucked it back into its drawer, and reached for his datapad again. His thumb hovered over the security log, over the Vanguard deployment rosters, over the false trails they'd need to plant for next week.

His work could wait. The ache couldn't.

"I wish you'd stayed."

Ala Quin​