Private Music for the Soul

[Deanez]

She replayed Rynar's voice in her mind more often than she allowed herself to acknowledge—the warm rasp when he said her name, the steady weight behind every promise he made, the rare softness he showed only when the world was quiet enough to hear it. It lingered in her thoughts now as she stood at her console, a faint glow reflecting off her crimson eyes.

The concert announcement blinked on the screen:
Three nights from now.
Temple Plaza Amphitheater.
A joint performance—Chiss classical harmonics intertwined with Republic folk strings.

It felt… peaceful.
Even beautiful.
And she wanted to hear it with him beside her.

Not because she needed company.
But because she wanted his.

That, more than anything, was still the part she wrestled with.

She typed the message once. Deleted it. Typed again—more precise, more true to her voice.

Rynar,
In three days, there will be a concert in the Plaza amphitheater—
classical harmonics blended with Republic folk compositions.
It is a rare arrangement.
I would like to attend.
And… I would like you there with me, if you are able.
I will meet you at the west entrance, one hour before the performance begins.
—Dean

Her thumb hovered over the send key for a quiet, steady heartbeat.

She wasn't nervous.
Just… aware.
Aware that this was a different kind of step—one she couldn't rationalize as tactical or necessary.

Wanting someone close wasn't something she had been taught.
But she wanted him anyway.

She sent the message before she could overanalyze it.

And for a moment after, she let herself imagine how it might feel—
the music rising beneath the open night sky,
Rynar standing beside her,
Cupcake sulking at their feet like an oversized, toothy chaperone.

Whatever this was, it was slowly becoming between them…
she was willing to follow it, carefully and deliberately,
for as long as he walked beside her.

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

The camp was quiet enough that Rynar could hear the wind pushing through the treeline — a low, restless sound that blended with the hum of the portable generator behind him. The makeshift canopy above his workstation rattled faintly as he shifted in his seat, a stack of datapads scattered across the table like the aftermath of a bureaucratic ambush.

Cataloging supply records wasn't glamorous, but after two weeks of nonstop operations, the calm monotony had its own kind of mercy. He sat back, rolling the tension out of his shoulders, stylus tapping against a half-finished requisition form.

Then his communitator chimed.

A single, soft tone — a tone he heard a thousand times but ever since exfil he had hope it would be her each time it sounded.

He froze for half a breath before picking it up.

Her message unfolded in front of him, lines of precise, carefully chosen words glowing against the dusk. As he read, the rest of the camp seemed to fall away: the murmured conversation by the firepit, the clicking of a droid sorting ration crates, the far-off wildlife calls.

Dean.
A concert.
An invitation.
With her.

He felt something settle — a warm pressure deep in his chest he couldn't catalog or file away as easily as the datapads in front of him.

He remembered the last time they'd seen each other: her fingers brushing his when she accepted his blaster, the quiet surety in her eyes when he held onto her knife instead. Two and a half weeks had passed, but the memory hadn't dulled.

He rested his elbows on the table, thumb tracing the worn edge of the communitator. Then he typed, steady and deliberate:

Dean,
I'm honored you asked. More than you know.
I would like to be there with you — truly.
I'll meet you at the west entrance, one hour before the performance.
—Rynar

He hesitated for only a moment before sending it. Not out of doubt, but because he wanted to take in the feeling of choosing this — of choosing her — without rushing it.

When the message sent with a soft pulse of light, he exhaled and leaned back in his chair, letting the canopy's shadows fall over him. A calm he didn't often permit himself edged into his expression.

The datapads on the table suddenly felt a lot less important.


And the thought of Dean — crimson eyes, steady presence, that quiet determination that always drew him in — lingered with him long after the communitator went silent again.

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean arrived early.

Earlier than reason dictated. Earlier than protocol required. She stood at the entrance of the Galactic Conservatory Hall, the evening breeze carrying faint notes of tuning instruments through the open plaza. The building towered above her with a clean, modern elegance—glass and durasteel in sweeping arcs, warm golden lights running along the seams like threads of melody. Nothing about it resembled Csilla. Nothing resembled Bastion. It was a place built purely for art, not function.

Her attire felt almost foreign compared to the familiar weight of armor. She had chosen with precision: a fitted black tunic with subtle structured shoulders, charcoal trousers pressed to a crease, and a tailored coat in midnight-toned fabric that moved lightly with the breeze. Her hair—short, neat, controlled—had been smoothed with more care than she ever afforded it in the field.

She told herself it was because of the venue.

Not because of him.

The plaza's polished stone glimmered beneath soft overhead lights. Citizens gathered in murmuring clusters—dressed for an evening of refined culture, warm conversation, and expectation. Dean stood apart, posture straight, hands behind her back, radiating that quiet Chiss composure that made people instinctively give her a respectful berth.

Then she saw him.

Across the plaza, he stepped into view.

Her breath paused—not visibly, not in any way someone else could detect, but enough that she felt the stillness tighten inside her chest. Rynar moved with the same grounded certainty he carried everywhere, cutting through the crowd without force, without hesitation. He searched the gathering briefly, scanning faces, until his gaze found hers.

The faint softening in his expression—subtle, warm, unmistakably meant for her—landed with more force than she expected.

He came.

A warmth gathered just under her sternum, unwelcome only in its unfamiliarity. Her fingers twitched minutely at her side, a tiny, private signal of her disrupted control. Chiss did not rush. Chiss did not fidget. Chiss did not move first.

But a part of her wanted to.

Her weight shifted forward—half an inch—before she arrested the motion, grounding herself again. She watched him weave closer, each step deliberate, and the conflict flickered sharper inside her:

Do I go to him?

Or do I remain still and let him reach me?

He would not judge either choice.
He never had.
He followed her pace with the same discipline he carried into battle.

Her crimson eyes lifted to meet his fully now, steady despite the warmth threading into her pulse.

Maybe tonight… for this invitation… for him… she could choose something beyond rigid restraint.

Not rushing.
Not frozen.
Something in between.

She allowed her posture to soften by a degree, her chin tilting slightly—not a complete step forward, but a subtle signal, an allowance. An unspoken: I am open. Approach.

And she waited, breath calm but warm beneath her ribs, as Rynar crossed the last of the plaza toward her…
While the question lingered quietly in her chest:

How does one meet a man halfway when she's only ever known how to stand alone?

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar wasn't used to feeling underdressed.

Not in the sense of armor or gear, but in the sense that tonight held a different kind of weight. The Conservatory Plaza glowed with warm lights and drifting music, and he stepped into it wearing something simple but intentional: a fitted dark short-sleeved shirt, a charcoal vest over broad shoulders, worn denim, and — predictably — his combat boots.

The short sleeves left his tattoos exposed: etched lines, runic patterns, bits of script he never explained, threading between scars old and pale. Some were clean. Some jagged. Some small and deliberate across his wrists and forearms, the kind that said more than he ever did.

Beside him, Cupcake padded forward with the lethal grace of a full-grown nexu — all muscle, sleek fur, and quietly swaying tails. The service-animal vest looked almost comically official on a creature built for ambush predation, but regulations were regulations.

The muzzle, however, was another story.

Cupcake despised it.
She made this known.

A guttural rumble vibrated from her chest — affronted, dramatic — as she kept trying to scrape the cage-muzzle off against Rynar's leg.

"Cupcake," he muttered, tone somewhere between warning and weary resignation.
She paused.
Considered.

Then tried again, more aggressively.

Rynar sighed in a way only someone who deeply loved a dangerous animal would sigh and nudged her forward with a gentle, steady pressure to the harness.

Then his gaze swept the plaza.

And found her.

Dean stood near the west entrance, a still point of precision and composure in the soft haze of evening lights. Her attire — fitted black tunic, charcoal trousers, midnight coat — was elegant, controlled, undeniably her. Yet something in her stance had shifted. A slight loosening. A fraction of softness.

When her eyes found his, he felt it.

His step slowed, then settled.
Not hesitant — just… aware.

Music drifted from the open amphitheater, tuning instruments weaving into distant chords, but none of it touched him the way the sight of her did.

She had come early.
Not because she needed to.
Because she wanted to.

And he understood the weight of that.

He approached without rushing, Cupcake gliding beside him in low, predatory lines that made the surrounding civilians instinctively step aside. As he drew closer, his expression shifted — subtle, but warm. A softening meant for her alone.

He stopped before her at a respectful but close distance, boots planted firmly, voice low and unmistakably sincere.

"Dean."

A greeting.
A recognition.
A quiet warmth.

His gaze moved over her with restrained appreciation before he murmured:

"You look…"
A breath.
"…incredible."

Right on cue, Cupcake slammed her muzzle against his thigh again, clearly protesting her enforced good behavior.

Rynar didn't look away from Dean, though the corner of his mouth tugged faintly in amusement.


"Thank you for inviting me," he said softly.
He meant it more deeply than he was able to articulate.
"I'm honored to be here with you."

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean's gaze lingered on Rynar a moment longer than she intended — not openly, not with the impulsive warmth of a human, but with the deliberate, assessing stillness of her people. He stood framed in the soft amber glow of the plaza lights, wearing clothing meant for comfort rather than war, and the sight of him in something other than armor tugged at a part of her she hadn't yet named. Broad shoulders outlined beneath the charcoal vest, the worn denim hugging powerful legs, the runic tattoos and old scars visible along his forearms — all of it presented him differently. Not less dangerous. But more… real. More present. And quietly, internally, she found the visual shift unexpectedly compelling.

Cupcake's continued scrape-scrape-scrape against his leg interrupted her thoughts, and Dean turned her attention fully to the nexu. The creature's golden eyes stared back with all the unrepentant dramatics of a spoiled predator. Dean lifted her chin slightly, posture poised yet calm, and addressed her in a tone that brooked no negotiation but carried no aggression — the kind of voice Chiss officers used to speak truth as fact.
"Cupcake. Behave."

The effect was immediate. Cupcake paused mid–attempted muzzle-removal, head tilting up toward Dean as though re-evaluating her entire strategy. A low, muffled grumble vibrated through her chest, but slowly, almost grudgingly, she lowered herself into a seated position beside them. Her tails curled neatly around her feet, and she offered Dean a polite, sulky blink.

Dean took in the unexpected compliance with a measured, silent breath. She didn't smile — not openly — but there was a faint inflection at the corner of her mouth, a softening that Rynar would recognize as her equivalent of surprise. "It seems she responds well to polite instruction," she said, voice smooth, controlled, almost academic in its observation. "This is… useful data." Her crimson eyes flicked to Rynar and back to Cupcake. "Perhaps intimidation is not her motivator."

Cupcake chuffed loudly as if to say Correct.

Dean returned her gaze to Rynar, letting the moment settle. Only then did she speak again, her voice lower, warmer, threaded with a sincerity that stood out all the more for how rarely she displayed it. "You look…" She paused, not for lack of certainty, but for precision — searching for the word that fit him in this light, in this context, in this moment that felt quieter and more intimate than she'd anticipated. "Well put together. Very well." Her eyes traced the tattoos, the worn edges of his vest, the way the evening light caught the lines of his face. "It suits you."

Only then did she gesture — a small sweep of her fingers toward the Conservatory's entrance, lights spilling warmly from inside, the auditorium beyond filling with soft tuning tones. Her coat swayed lightly with the motion, precise and elegant.

"Shall we?" she asked, stepping just close enough for her shoulder to nearly brush his. Her posture remained composed, measured — thoroughly Chiss — yet her gaze held unmistakable warmth as she met his eyes again. "I would like to enter with you."

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar watched Dean command Cupcake with a single, measured word — behave — and the nexu actually listened.
His brows lifted a fraction.
"Useful data," he echoed quietly, amusement threading into his tone. "Remind me to record that in her file. Under 'mysterious Chiss-only obedience protocols.'"

Cupcake flicked an ear at him, deeply offended.

But Rynar's focus was already returning to Dean — and when she complimented him, not in passing but with deliberate precision, something warm and unguarded moved behind his sternum.

"Well put together," she'd said.

He didn't blush, not visibly. But the warmth settled deeper in his chest, grounding him.
"Coming from you," he murmured, voice low, "that means more than I know how to say."
Her gesture toward the entrance was small, elegant — the kind of subtle invitation he'd learned to read in her.

I would like to enter with you.

He stepped close enough that their shoulders brushed — just lightly, deliberately — and extended his hand toward her. Not commanding. Not assuming. Simply offering.

Palm open.
Fingers relaxed.
An invitation that matched hers.

"If you'll have it," he said softly.

As he shifted, the movement let her see more — the faint outline of a compact blaster tucked discreetly inside his waistband, invisible to most but obvious to someone with her eye for detail. Practical. Familiar. Him.

Lower, at the inside of his boot, the hilt of her knife formed a subtle shape against the material.
He noticed her gaze and leaned in a breath closer, voice dropping to something meant only for her.
"Your knife's with me," he murmured. "Didn't leave camp without it."

Not for utility.
For connection.

When he straightened, the edge of his shirt shifted just enough to reveal the glint of something beneath the fabric — a narrow chain, the pendant hidden but clearly worn close. Around the base of his left pointer finger, an intricately carved ring caught the plaza light: weathered metal, engraved with almost runic precision. Personal. Old. Kept for reasons he'd never said out loud.

Seeing her eyes track these small details, he chuckled under his breath — a rare, warm sound.
"You notice everything," he said gently. "I should've expected that."
He kept his hand extended, steady, patient — but with a subtle warmth in his eyes that hadn't been there in their last encounter.

When she stepped nearer, he met her movement halfway this time.
"Dean," he said, soft enough for only her to hear, "I'd like to walk in with you too."
Cupcake, thoroughly unimpressed with their emotional moment, rose and stomped along behind them with a huff that promised she would tolerate romance exactly as long as snacks were involved.

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean took in the small details one by one — the blaster tucked with efficient subtlety, the familiar outline of her knife at his boot, the chain glinting faintly beneath the collar of his shirt, and the carved ring that looked like it had lived more years than either of them would ever admit. It all registered with the quiet, clinical precision she brought to every mission… yet none of it felt like threat assessment. It felt like recognition. Like understanding him in ways she wasn't sure she had words for.

Her gaze returned to his offered hand — palm open, relaxed, waiting without expectation — and for a moment, something warm pressed against her ribs from the inside. He wasn't asking for command. He wasn't assuming permission. He was offering a place.

To her.

Dean's fingers hovered barely an inch above his — pausing, because old habits still tugged at her wrist. But the hesitation lasted only a breath. She placed her hand in his with quiet certainty, letting her fingers settle slowly, deliberately, between his.

The warmth surprised her more than it should have.

Her voice, when she spoke, stayed level — controlled, composed — yet carrying an undertone no one else would detect.

"I will take your hand, yes," she murmured, her grip firm but not tense. "It is… agreeable."

A Chiss admission. Softer than most would ever receive from her.

Her head tilted slightly when he whispered about her knife, crimson eyes narrowing with an almost imperceptible flicker of something warmer — trust, familiarity, maybe even a thread of pride.

"You kept it close," she observed. A statement, but one that held weight beyond the words. "I appreciate that."

Cupcake huffed loudly at their feet, pushing her enormous head between them as if trying to decide which of them she was officially escorting. Dean looked down at the nexu and pursed her lips for a moment — a rare, almost invisible smile pulling at the corner.

"Cupcake," she said in her calm, soft command tone, "you will behave for the duration of the concert."

The nexu blinked up at her.

Then sat.

Perfectly.

Rynar let out a disbelieving exhale. "How—"

"It seems," Dean said mildly, starting toward the entrance as their hands remained linked, "your nexu responds to order… properly phrased."

She didn't pull him along. Instead, she matched his pace exactly — precise, deliberate. Their shoulders brushed with every third step, a rhythm neither of them adjusted out of.

As they neared the Conservatory doors — music drifting in warm, vibrant strands — she allowed herself one long, quiet look at him. Not analyzing. Not measuring, simply seeing him.

"You look…" Her voice softened, barely above the ambient hum. "…very good, Rynar."

Not an emotional flourish.
Not an uncontrolled tumble of feeling.

Just truth, spoken in the only way she knew how to say it: directly, clearly, with conviction.

Her fingers tightened around his, guiding him toward the entrance as the lights brightened above them.

"I am glad you came," she added quietly — and for her, it was as close to I wanted you here as she had ever said to anyone.

Cupcake stomped behind them like a furry, overgrown shadow.

And Dean walked beside Rynar — hand in his, stride in sync — prepared for music of the soul and whatever might come after.

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar let the weight of her hand settle into his. Firm. Controlled. Comforting. He matched her pace without question, letting her guide the rhythm of their steps as they crossed the plaza toward the Conservatory doors. Cupcake padded along behind them, claws clicking softly on the polished stone, occasionally huffing in dramatic protest at being forced into civility.

A faint, soft smile tugged at the corner of Rynar's lips — subtle, almost quirkily at odds with the usual steel of his expression. He didn't comment on Cupcake. She had learned her lesson, at least for now.

Instead, he let his gaze wander quietly, taking in Dean as she walked ahead of him, confident, composed, precise — every motion deliberate, every angle perfectly controlled. And yet… there was something undeniably human about her tonight. The dark tones of her outfit, the structured coat and fitted tunic, didn't hide the warmth in her movements, the subtle curves softened in the fabric, the way her hair caught the evening light just so.

His eyes lingered, not in judgment, not in calculation, but in a kind of quiet appreciation he rarely allowed himself. He noted how her shoulders shifted under the coat, how her boots tapped lightly against the stone, how the hem of her sleeves revealed just the slightest hint of wrist — a subtle vulnerability he respected, not exploited.

"You look… good," he murmured quietly under his breath, not to draw attention, but because he couldn't quite help it. The words were soft, low, meant only for her if she happened to notice.

He let her take the lead entirely, allowing the concert and the hum of life around them to fall away behind the simple pleasure of following her, hand in hand. Every step was deliberate, every breath measured. And as he walked, the warmth of their linked hands reminded him of the unspoken trust between them — a language neither needed to articulate aloud.

Cupcake, of course, made sure they never forgot she existed, but Rynar didn't mind. Even the nexu's occasional dramatic protest only made the moment more real.

He stepped behind her slightly, letting her set the pace, letting her guide the entrance. And in the quiet anticipation of music, of shared space, of the simple act of being together, he allowed himself the faintest, almost imperceptible sense of ease — a rare thing for someone who usually moved through the world measured and precise.


For now, that was enough.

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean felt Rynar fall in step behind her, the subtle shift in his presence familiar in a way she hadn't expected to find comforting. His footsteps were heavy enough to register but quiet enough to blend with the drifting music ahead, and the warm pressure of his hand around hers remained steady as they angled toward the Conservatory doors. Cupcake's claws tapped sharply on the stone a few paces behind them, punctuated by the occasional offended huff that made Dean inhale once, faintly, through her nose. A dramatic creature, she thought, not unkindly.

Rynar's quiet compliment reached her in a low murmur she almost missed. Almost. The words brushed the edge of her awareness like a warm pulse of air, subtle and unassuming, and something in her chest tightened before she could stop it. Compliments were not something she expected from humans—nor from him—and certainly not directed at her appearance. Still, she didn't stiffen or break stride. Instead, her fingers curled slightly around his in a controlled acknowledgment.

"I appreciate the observation," she said, her voice smooth, calm, the faintest hint of warmth woven between every syllable. "You… look good as well."

It was a simple sentence. Measured. Precise. But for her, it carried weight—more than she was used to offering anyone outside mission parameters. She did not elaborate, not verbally, but her gaze drifted over him briefly as they stepped beneath the wash of warm lantern light. The short sleeves suited him far too well. The vest framed his shoulders with an ease that was more dangerous than armor. The tattoos… she had noticed every line, every old scar threaded between them. Interesting patterns, she had thought. I should ask what they signify. And the ring—old, worn, and carved—had pulled at her curiosity in a way she had not allowed to show on her face.

Her coat brushed softly against his side as she slowed near the entrance, adjusting their shared pace so he walked fully at her shoulder. She guided them not because she felt the need to lead him, but because it felt natural—like the easy rhythm they'd settled into in the jungle without ever discussing it. His warmth at her side, the slight pressure of his fingers interlaced with hers… it all felt strangely steadying.

Cupcake flopped dramatically at their heels with a heavy thump, muzzle scraping against the stone in renewed protest. Dean glanced back with a level, unimpressed look.

"Cupcake," she said evenly. "Continue to behave."

The nexu stilled. Immediately.

She returned her attention to Rynar, lifting her chin slightly as they stepped beneath the archway into the soft glow of the Conservatory's grand entry. "Your nexu respects order," she added quietly, with the faint ghost of a Chiss smirk tugging at one corner of her mouth. "That is a very good trait."

Her gaze lingered on him for a moment longer, openly taking him in—not as a human she was tolerating, not as a warrior evaluating a comrade, but as someone she had chosen to invite into her evening.

Into her space.

Into her company.

He looks… very good tonight, the thought surfaced unbidden, and she let it sit there, quietly acknowledged but not spoken aloud.

She tightened her grip on his hand—not possessive, but secure—and stepped with him into the glowing entry hall, her steps steady and composed.

"Come," she said softly. "I would like to sit before the hall becomes crowded."

And for the first time, the thought brushed gently across the edge of her mind:

This feels right.

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

The Conservatory hall was awash in warm light, the polished floor reflecting the glow of overhead chandeliers. The faint murmur of tuning instruments floated through the air, and the scent of polished wood and faint perfume carried a quiet elegance that made Rynar feel simultaneously out of place and oddly calm.

Dean led the way with assured steps, and Rynar followed without hesitation, letting her take the lead. They found their seats in the fourth row from the stage, positioned toward the center, giving them a clear view of the musicians as they put the finishing touches on the first movements.

Rynar's eyes flicked instinctively over the hall, mapping exits, noting crowd density, imagining contingencies — habits born from the constant vigilance of forward camps. For a heartbeat, he felt the familiar tension coil in his chest, muscles tightening, mind running the mental checklist of worst-case scenarios.

And then he let it go.

Dean was here. She had chosen this evening, this place, with him in mind. There was no ambush, no threat, no urgent mission. The realization softened his posture. He allowed himself a slow exhale and shifted his attention back to the stage.

Beside him, Cupcake had already claimed her seat on the floor, her powerful body curling neatly against the side of the chair, still wearing her service-animal vest and cage-muzzle. She huffed once, annoyed but compliant, golden eyes glinting in the warm light.

Rynar dug into a small pouch at his belt and produced a jerky stick, handing it to her. She took it without hesitation, chewing with exaggerated satisfaction as though the treat were a small reward for tolerating the human world.

"Good girl," he murmured under his breath, letting his gaze wander briefly to Dean. She was settling into her seat, posture perfectly straight, eyes scanning the hall before they eventually found him. Her fingers brushed lightly against his as she adjusted her position, a subtle, silent acknowledgment that neither of them needed to speak aloud.

For the first time that evening, Rynar allowed himself to relax fully, leaning back slightly, shoulders uncoiling. He still carried the instincts of the field — ever alert, ever calculating — but now they were quiet, muted, held at bay by the steady presence beside him and the soft rhythmic breathing of the nexu at his side.

He glanced down at Cupcake, who had momentarily paused her chewing to observe the other attendees with mild disdain, and gave her a faint, amused shake of his head.

The concert hadn't even started, and yet something in the air felt right. The soft anticipation, the gentle warmth of her hand in his, the quiet, composed power of her presence — it grounded him, made the vigilance fade into background hum.


Rynar's eyes drifted back to Dean, subtle lines of tension finally easing as he took a mental note: this night, this moment, was theirs. And for once, he would let it be enough.

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean noticed it the moment they sat — the subtle tightening of his shoulders, the quiet shift of his posture, the almost imperceptible flick of his eyes toward the upper balconies and the side exits. It wasn't fear. Not even unease. It was a habit. Instinct. The same instinct she lived by every day.

For a few breaths, she didn't speak, simply observed him the way she always had: cataloging tension, noting the angle of his head, the slight brace in his spine. Assessing the environment, she thought. Of course he is.

Then she allowed herself a small inhale, a quiet smile ghosting across her lips — there and gone like a flicker of candlelight.

"I saw it," she murmured softly, turning her head just enough that her words reached him alone. "You mapped the exits."

Her voice remained calm, precise, her Chiss composure intact — but the edges of her tone carried warmth, something private that only he ever seemed to draw out of her.

"I did the same thing," she added, crimson eyes lifting toward the balcony before sliding back to him. "Before you sat down."

Her fingers grazed his — just lightly, deliberately — a brush of acknowledgment rather than affection, though the meaning behind it was unmistakable. "It is… reassuring," she said quietly. "Having someone beside me whose mind moves like mine."

A breath. Smooth. Controlled.

"We think alike," she concluded, the faint upward curve of her mouth softening her usually disciplined expression. "I like that."

Cupcake snorted at their feet, unimpressed by the subtle exchange, and Dean's gaze flicked briefly downward before returning to Rynar.

"And for now," she added, voice low but steady, "there is no danger here."

Her fingers curled around his for a heartbeat — the smallest, most carefully measured gesture — before she loosened her touch again, settling back in her seat with composed elegance.

"But if there were…" She glanced at him sideways, the faint glimmer of something playful, almost daring, glinting in her eyes. "I know exactly who I would want to meet it with."

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar's lips lifted in a faint, almost imperceptible smile, the corners tugging up with a quiet warmth reserved only for her.

"I wouldn't want to meet danger with anyone else," he murmured, his voice low enough for her alone. Without waiting for her to respond, he bent slightly and brushed his lips against the back of her hand, a gesture measured, deliberate, but undeniably intimate.

Then the music began.

A single note rose, crisp and clear, followed by others weaving together in intricate patterns. Rynar closed his eyes almost immediately, letting the sound wash over him, letting the hall and the audience blur into background. Every strain, every subtle shift in tone, every nuance of tempo and pitch drew his attention.

He breathed slowly, methodically — the same way he had in camps on far-flung worlds when he needed to center himself — but this time it wasn't tension that he was centering. It was presence.

When he opened his eyes, they flicked to the stage, observing not just the musicians but their instruments, the angles of the bows, the way the strings vibrated, the delicate movements of fingers across keys. Every detail was noted, every element cataloged, not out of duty, but in fascination.

His body relaxed fully, shoulders lowering, the habitual rigidity melting away as he leaned slightly back in his chair. Cupcake settled at his side, her large body curling neatly against his leg, tail flicking in quiet time with the rhythm.

Rynar's free hand moved almost without thought, hovering lightly above the air as if he were conducting the music himself, tracing the rise and fall of the melody. It was a subtle, unconscious gesture, a reflection of how deeply he savored this — every note, every harmony — even though it was foreign to him.

His gaze flicked to Dean, just briefly, noting how she listened, how she let herself absorb it. The small, deliberate handhold they shared remained, and in that touch, in that shared quiet, he allowed himself the rare luxury of being fully present — with her, with the music, with the moment.

For once, Rynar wasn't scanning exits. He wasn't cataloging threats. He was simply… here.


And it felt like home.

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean did not close her eyes.

She watched the performers, the instruments, the movement of the bows across the strings — but she listened with every fiber of her being.

The first crystalline tones rose into the air like frost forming on transparent glass, delicate and precise, and she felt something tighten beneath her ribs. It was not the tightening of alarm or instinct or discipline, but something older — something she had not touched in years.

A memory.

Not sharp.
Not visual.
Just… a sound.

The faintest echo of a crystalline lullaby from Csaplar's inner districts — the kind played on votra-harps at dusk, drifting through the open courtyards when she was very small. Notes that shimmered like blue-white lights reflected in polished stone. Her mother's voice — measured, soft, never indulgent — humming in perfect time with the melody as she brushed dust from a child's uniform collar.

You are Chiss. You must hold yourself with dignity.

Listen carefully. Every note should be understood before it is repeated.

Dean had forgotten the song's structure long ago, forgotten the words that had accompanied it. But the sound — the icy clarity, the mathematical precision, the gentle melancholy threaded between the lines — sank into her chest now like thawing ice.

Her lips parted just slightly.

"…it reminds me," she breathed, barely audible even to him, "of a lullaby from Csilla."

The admission slipped free before she could stop it.

Her fingers curled a bit tighter around Rynar's hand as the harmonic layers deepened — three-part, then five-part, interlocking with the flawless discipline only a trained ensemble could produce. Chiss music had always valued structure, perfection, restraint — and though this was not Chiss, not truly, the composition gestured toward it. Borrowed from it, echoed it.

And that echo pulled at a part of her she had buried for years.

She stayed very still, her posture perfect and straight, but her eyes softened — not melting, not openly emotional, but quiet in a way that would have startled anyone who only knew her in the field.

"It sounds like home," she murmured, voice low, steady, but touched with something unguarded beneath it. "Not the place itself… but the discipline. The arrangement. The intention."

Another soft harmony swept in, brushing like cold wind over warm stone.

She let herself breathe it in.
Allowed the music to touch her without dissecting its purpose.

Then, after a long moment — her voice softer still:

"I did not expect to remember anything of Csilla that felt… gentle."

She did not look at him immediately.

Instead, she listened — truly listened — as though the music were stitching something back together inside her one precise note at a time.

Only then did she turn her gaze toward Rynar, letting him see the quiet shift in her expression — subtle, controlled, yet unmistakably real.

"I am glad you are hearing it with me."

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

The moment Dean spoke of Csilla — of home, of something gentle — Rynar didn't answer right away.
He couldn't.
Because the music shifted then, moving into a warmer, deeper run of notes that hit him in a place he hadn't expected anything tonight to reach. A place he didn't even realize had been left uncovered.

His breath caught — not sharp, not noticeable to anyone else, but enough that his chest tightened, enough that something old uncoiled from where it had been buried.

His aunt's voice.

Soft, bright, endlessly patient where the rest of his world had been harsh and hurried. She'd played music in the evenings — always — humming low melodies that matched the flicker of lantern light in their old stone home on Ord Mantell. Songs with no words. Just emotion. The kind that seeped into a boy's bones without him knowing why.

She used to say, Music is the only language that never lies, Rynar.

For years after she died, he couldn't listen to anything that wasn't noise — battle shanties, ship-engine rhythms, the hum of a rifle charging. Anything raw, anything that didn't remind him.

But now…
The melody onstage rose with slow, aching clarity, and something warm slid down the side of his face before he could stop it.
He blinked, once, startled — not at the tear itself, but at how quietly it had escaped him.

Rynar lowered his gaze, shoulders relaxing as if the music itself gentled them. His fingers shifted, brushing more firmly against Dean's where their hands were still joined — not gripping, not seeking comfort, just grounding himself in the present.

The tear traced along his jawline, catching the low amber light before falling away.
He exhaled slowly.
"It…" His voice was low, almost unrecognizable even to him — roughened, quiet, threaded with something he rarely let surface. "It sounds like something my aunt used to play."

His eyes closed for a moment — letting the memory move, letting it breathe.

"She loved music more than anything. Said it made people honest." A small, soft, almost disbelieving laugh escaped him — barely a sound. "She used to sit me by the window and make me listen. Said 'your ears are older than your age, boy.'"

Another tear threatened, but he blinked it back.

He opened his eyes again, turning his head slightly toward Dean — not hiding anything, not guarding it the way he usually would. Letting her see him exactly as he was in that moment.

"I haven't heard anything like this in… gods, years."

His voice softened further, warm and steady in a way that mirrored her earlier confession.
"Thank you for bringing me here."
His thumb brushed over the back of her hand — slow, gentle, almost reverent.

Not because of the music alone.
But because she had unknowingly returned something to him he didn't realize he'd lost.
And he wanted her to know it.

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean did not look at him immediately. She felt the shift before she saw it—the way the tension in his hand changed, not tightening but melting, a controlled collapse that told her something deep inside him had unlocked. His breath altered, a barely audible tremor in its cadence, and she turned just slightly, enough to read the softened edges of his profile in the warm light of the hall.

When she saw the tear on his cheek, sliding quietly along the line of his jaw, something in her chest drew tight and still all at once. Not an alarm. Not discomfort. Just…recognition. A rare, wordless understanding. She had never seen him unguarded like this. She had not expected to. And yet she found she did not shy from it. She listened to him, letting the melody paint its slow arcs through the air, filling the space around them with something clean and unburdened.

Her hand adjusted in his—a deliberate, subtle shift meant not to grasp but to steady him, letting her fingers rest more firmly across his palm. She did not squeeze. She did not lean toward him. She made her presence unmistakably there, a quiet anchor without the noise of unnecessary comfort.

When he spoke of his aunt, she listened with the precision of someone trained to catch every detail, but with the softness of someone who had never been offered a confession like this before. His voice carried memory. Weight. The kind of unfiltered honesty she had rarely witnessed in anyone, let alone someone like him.

Only after his last words settled between them did she finally tilt her face toward his, the faint glow of the hall catching in her crimson irises.

"It is beautiful," she said softly, voice low, steady, controlled—as always, but gentled at the edges. "And…I am glad it reached you."

Her gaze lowered briefly to where their hands rested between them. She brushed her thumb once along the inside of his wrist, the gesture precise, almost delicate—her version of reassurance.

"You do not need to thank me," she continued, her tone firm but quiet. "You deserved to hear something honest again."

The music rose around them, fuller now, sweeping into a harmony that reminded her faintly of the lullabies she had heard as a child—cool, drifting melodies echoing through the sleeping chambers, the sound of a world that no longer existed. She did not mention it aloud. Not yet. But the familiarity brushed across her mind like a memory half-forgotten, and she let it rest there.

She returned her gaze to him, studying the line of his jaw, the warmth in his eyes, the vulnerability he did not try to mask.

"You listen deeply," she added, voice barely above a whisper. "It suits you."

Her fingers tightened around his—not pulling, just anchoring them both in the moment.

And then, without turning fully, she allowed her shoulder to lean the slightest degree closer to his, a small shift that would be invisible to anyone else in the hall but unmistakable to him.

A silent acknowledgment: She was here. With him. Listening to the music, yes—but also to him. And she preferred it that way.

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar didn't look away this time.

For a moment he simply breathed, slow and uneven in the way a man does when something long-buried has been pulled—gently, unexpectedly—to the surface. The music swelled around them, soft strings brushing at memory and bone, and he let it settle before he spoke.

"…No," he murmured, voice low, the words shaped with quiet certainty. "I do need to thank you."
He shifted slightly toward her—not enough to draw attention, just enough that the space between them felt deliberate, chosen. His thumb brushed once over the back of her hand, a small, steadying movement that grounded him more than he'd expected.

"You brought things back into the light that I thought I'd buried for good," he continued, eyes fixed ahead but softened, unfocused, clearly seeing something far away. "Memories I didn't even realize I'd let go of."
A slow breath. Not tense. Not breaking. Just honest.

"And no one…" He paused, searching for the right phrasing—something that didn't feel like he was giving too much away, yet refused to hide the truth she had already uncovered. "…no one close to me has managed that. Not in years."
He finally turned his head, meeting her crimson eyes with a gaze steadier than before—open in a way he'd never offered anyone.
"I always kept my past locked down," he said softly. "People like us… when we share something, it becomes leverage. A weapon. Something they use later—intentionally or not."

His jaw tightened briefly, a reflexive shadow of old defenses—but it faded as quickly as it appeared.
"But you didn't do that," he said. "You listened. You didn't judge. You didn't try to fix it or pry it open wider. You just… let it be what it was."
The music swelled, filling the quiet between them with gentle resonance.

"You're the first person in a very long time who's heard any piece of my past," he added, voice low, rough-edged but sincere. "And not turned it into something sharp."

A breath. Not a sigh—something steadier.
He leaned in just slightly, so only she could hear the next words:
"That matters to me more than you know."

His hand tightened around hers—not possessively, not desperately, but with a warm, firm certainty. A grounding. A thank you. A trust placed carefully, deliberately.

And for the first time since sitting down, his shoulders fully relaxed, settling into the moment without the shadow of vigilance behind them. He let the music sweep through him again—this time without restraint.

"Thank you, Dean," he murmured, softer still. "For being here. For… being you."

He didn't elaborate further.
He didn't need to.
The music filled in the rest.

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean held his gaze for a long moment, the warm dimming of the hall's lights casting a muted glow across his face—softening the lines near his eyes, catching faintly on the wetness he hadn't bothered to hide. Something in her chest tightened at the honesty there, at the sincerity shaped in every word he'd chosen with such deliberate care. She let the music fill the space between them again before she finally spoke.

"I allow people to move at the pace they choose," she said quietly, her voice calm and steady, woven with the same precision she used in every other part of her life. "Human, Chiss…or anything else. It is important to me that they do."

Her fingers shifted just slightly in his grip—still composed, still deliberate, but with a softness she rarely permitted herself. She had thought she maintained perfect control over her emotional parameters; she had believed she could compartmentalize every new variable, every unexpected connection, the same way she had learned to compartmentalize survival, duty, and loss. Yet, sitting here beside him, with the weight of his gratitude and the music stirring something long-quiet inside her, she realized that control was beginning to loosen.

A part of her—small, cautious, long-buried—had begun to warm.

It startled her. Not enough to pull away. Not enough to retreat into the crisp walls of her disciplined mind. But enough that she became acutely aware of the proximity between them, the steady heat of his hand around hers, the gentle brush of his thumb across her skin, the resonance of his voice when he said her name. She had known him for only three days in the wilderness and one evening here, and yet… she found herself understanding his presence more clearly than people she had trained beside for months.

"I do not force anything," she continued, speaking with the calm certainty of someone stating a fundamental truth. "I…adjust. I give space when it is needed. I match what is offered." Her gaze flickered briefly to the stage, where the musicians moved with effortless synchronicity, before drifting back to him. "It is how I was taught to build trust. And how I prefer to build it."

But beneath the controlled cadence of her words, emotion simmered. Quiet. Unspoken. Growing. She had not expected to feel this. Not this soon. Not with a human. Not with anyone.

Her mind drifted—unwelcome, unbidden—to the moment he had woken from a nightmare with her still held protectively in his arms; the way he had whispered not alone without even realizing he had spoken aloud; the way he had looked at her in the forest dawn as if she mattered in ways she didn't fully understand. She had seen warriors cling to duty, to purpose, to survival. She had rarely seen someone cling to honesty in the way he clung to it tonight.

And she was starting—slowly, dangerously—to fall in love with him.

The realization sat like a sun-warm stone in the center of her chest, heavy but not unwelcome. A truth that would demand time. Patience. Care. A truth she was not ready to voice but could no longer deny.

Her free hand drifted—very slightly, very carefully—to rest near his on the armrest, maintaining the tiniest bridge of contact.

"You choose your pace," she said gently. "And I choose mine. And… I am comfortable where we are." A pause—measured, intentional. "And I am comfortable with you."

She didn't look away after that. Didn't hide the warmth that had softened her expression, nor the flicker of vulnerability that surfaced, quick and quiet, in her eyes.

It wasn't a confession. But it was the closest she had ever allowed herself to come to one.

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar didn't look away from her. Not when her voice softened, not when her hand edged closer to his on the armrest, not when she said she was comfortable with him in a way that felt more intimate than any declaration he'd ever received.

Something warm bloomed under his ribs—slow, steady, undeniable.
I might actually love her.

The thought rose uninvited, unforced, slipping into his mind with the same quiet ease her presence seemed to bring to his world. He had spent years burying the idea of love beneath duty, loss, and the sharp edges of survival. He hadn't let himself feel this… couldn't remember the last time he trusted someone enough to even consider it.

But Dean?
He trusted her without trying. Without fear. Without hesitation.
His fingers curled around hers gently, thumb brushing once over her knuckles—silent, honest.

"Where we are," he murmured back, voice low and roughened by emotion he didn't bother to hide, "is better than anywhere I ever expected to be." His eyes softened, the warmth in them unmistakable. "With anyone."
He swallowed once, steadying himself, because the truth pressed against his tongue, too large to ignore but too raw to speak fully yet.
"But you should know…" His smile grew—not wide, but real, the kind that reached the corners of his eyes. "I… may be a little farther along than I meant to be."

He didn't say in feeling for you.
He didn't say I think I love you.

But it was there. Clear as the music. Clear as the way he looked at her.

Before either of them could say more, Cupcake huffed loudly and began pawing at the side of her muzzle, claws scraping lightly against the leather straps. The movement was getting determined—almost violent.

Rynar darted a hand toward her with a whispered, urgent, "Cupcake—no, no, don't you dare." He caught her paw mid-swipe and gently pushed her head back down, palm against her fur. "You're gonna get us thrown out. Behave."

Cupcake froze, staring up at him with gigantic betrayed eyes, and let out a low, ridiculous grumble of complaint.
Rynar sighed and gave her a piece of jerky, leaning closer to Dean as he muttered:
"She listens to you. Me? She negotiates."
Cupcake immediately sat straighter, as if proving his point.

Rynar's hand found Dean's again, more certain this time, more grounded.
"And for what it's worth," he added quietly, returning to her earlier words with a sincerity that softened his whole posture, "I… feel safe moving at whatever pace you choose. I'm not going anywhere."
His thumb brushed her hand again—slow, warm, deliberate.
"I'm here."

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean did not look away from him, even when the weight of his words settled over her with surprising gravity. He spoke quietly, but there was nothing small about what he admitted. Farther along than I meant to be. The honesty in it struck her — precise, unflinching, deeply human — and it tugged at something inside her that had already begun to soften around him. She had not planned for this. She had not prepared for the possibility that he might feel more strongly, more quickly, than she did. Yet instead of recoiling from that realization, she found herself… steady. Present. Willing.

What he felt did not frighten her. What scared her was how right it felt.

When he reached for her hand again, this time with greater certainty, she allowed her fingers to lace with his fully. Her grip was controlled, deliberate — but not guarded. The warmth of his skin seeped into her palm, grounding her in a way she had not expected a human's touch to do. She let the music fill the space between them for a few seconds, letting her heartbeat settle, letting her thoughts align into something coherent before she finally spoke.

"I choose the pace I am comfortable with," she said softly, voice steady, even as her chest tightened with the faintest, unfamiliar ache. "And I appreciate that you… respect it." Her thumb brushed once along the inside of his knuckle — a small gesture, almost imperceptible, but one that carried a great deal of meaning coming from her. "But you should also know… I do not wish for you to fall behind. Not emotionally. Not in what we build."

Her gaze dipped for a breath, a rare flicker of vulnerability slipping through the precise mask of her composure before she lifted her eyes to his again.

"I am… warming to you," she admitted, the quiet confession landing between them like a carefully placed stone — intentional, heavy, impossible to misinterpret. "Not slowly. Not quickly. Simply… steadily. And I do not wish to deny that."

His thumb stroked her hand again, grounding, gentle, and she held onto that touch more firmly than she had meant to. She realized then — and accepted — that if this was the beginning of something deeper, she was not resisting it.

She was meeting it.

Cupcake's dramatic display drew a brief, almost amused exhale from her — the closest Dean ever came to laughter in public. She glanced down at the enormous predator sulking with offended dignity at their feet.

"Cupcake," she said, her voice shifting into the same calm command she used on the field, "behave."

The nexu froze… and obeyed.

Rynar made a sound under his breath — half disbelieving, half charmed — and Dean allowed the smallest, private curve of her lips to soften her features before she turned her attention back to him. Her hand tightened around his once more, subtly, intentionally.

"I do not plan to lose you," she said quietly, crimson eyes steady on his. "And I do not permit those I care for to simply… fade from my life." A beat passed — a beat that held far more than her words allowed. "So if you are here, Rynar… then I am here as well."

Her gaze drifted toward the stage, but only for a moment, before returning to him with a warmth she did not try to conceal.

"And I am comfortable," she added, softer now, "being… this close."

She didn't say more.
She didn't need to.

The music swelled around them, but her focus remained on the man beside her, on the warmth of his hand, on the steady truth unfolding between them — a truth she was no longer shying away from.

She was meeting him halfway. And for the first time in her life, that felt entirely, undeniably right.

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar stayed still for a moment, her words settling into him like warmth seeping through armor plates he didn't realize he still wore. Steadily. She was warming to him steadily. Not an accident. Not a misread signal. Not wishful thinking on his part.

Something in his expression softened — not the roguish grin he used on strangers, not the easy smile he used on comrades, but something quieter, deeper. Something he hadn't allowed himself in years.

His fingers tightened around hers in return, not urgently, but with a kind of reverence, like he was holding something fragile and valuable.
"I can match that," he said quietly, the words steady but thick with meaning. "Steady's good. It's… better than anything I've had in a long time."

Cupcake gave a frustrated little huff and pawed at her muzzle again. Rynar exhaled a soft laugh — the kind that came from affection, not amusement — and leaned down. His hand brushed the nexu's skull, slow and soothing, and he adjusted the straps just enough to loosen the pressure while still keeping it secure. Cupcake instantly relaxed, blinking up at him with offended-but-hopeful eyes.

"There," he murmured. "You're still dangerous. Just… comfortably so."
Cupcake gave a proud rumble and curled up again.
Rynar straightened — and that was when he scooted closer.

Not dramatically. Not in a sweeping, theatrical motion. Just a slow, intentional shift, bringing his knee lightly against hers, bringing his shoulder almost brushing her arm, bringing himself into her space without invading it.

A silent question.
A silent answer to hers.
He didn't let go of her hand. If anything, he held it more securely — his thumb brushing the back of her knuckles the way someone does when they're memorizing the shape of another person's touch.

"Dean…" he said her name softly, like it meant something important. Like it had weight. "I'm here. Very much here."

He paused, and for the first time that evening, the quiet in his voice turned vulnerable.
"And I don't think I'm going anywhere."
His gaze stayed on her — steady, warm, unflinching — and the music swelled around them like it was marking the moment.

He leaned in just a little closer, his voice low enough that only she could hear it.
"And if this" — he gave her hand a gentle squeeze — "is the pace you're choosing… then it's exactly where I want to be."
He sat back only enough that their shoulders touched lightly, comfortably.

Not pressing.
Not crowding.
Just… there.

Beside her.
A presence she could lean toward, or away from, or match.
Her choice — and his promise.

Deanez