Private Music for the Soul

[Deanez]

Dean didn't move when he shifted closer. She only registered the subtle increase of warmth at her side, the faint brush of his shoulder against her arm, the pressure of his hand tightening around hers in a way that felt deliberate—anchoring, not demanding. Her pulse lifted slightly, a quiet stir under her skin she hadn't realized she'd allowed. Steady, he said. A pace she set. A pace he was willing—eager—to match.

Something behind her sternum tightened in a way she hadn't expected. Not with discomfort. With awareness. With the slow realization that she had wanted him nearer without admitting it to herself. The music swelled again, a deeper movement now, something lush and expansive that filled the Conservatory with sound, and she let it guide her breath as she turned her gaze toward him.

"I am… aware," she said softly, her voice almost lost in the harmony rising from the stage. "And… I want you here as well." Her words were measured, precise, but softened by something unguarded—something warmer than she usually allowed herself to reveal in public spaces.

She didn't pull her hand away. If anything, she turned her palm slightly, allowing her fingers to slot more securely between his, a small but unmistakable invitation. Her shoulder angled toward him by a fraction of a degree. Not enough to draw attention. Enough to answer his closeness to her own.

This should not feel natural, she had thought at first. It should feel foreign. Uncertain.
But it didn't. It felt… right. More right than the silence of the barracks. More right than the sterile precision of Diarchy training halls. More right than the rigid isolation she'd convinced herself was discipline rather than loneliness.

His voice settled against her like a warmth drawn from the embers of a fire. "I'm here… and I'm not going anywhere."

She felt the words land deeply, stirring something she had once sworn to keep untouched. He meant it. He meant every syllable. And the part of her that her own family had once left behind—the part that had learned to survive through cold efficiency and controlled distance—warmed in a slow, hesitant thaw.

She let her red eyes lift to his, her expression calm but her voice gentler than before.
"That is… good," she murmured, steady but soft. "Because I do not intend to step away from this either."

Her gaze held his one heartbeat longer than necessary, unblinking, deliberate.
"And I do match your pace," she continued. "If you remain steady… then so will I."

Cupcake's proud rumble under the seat made her glance downward, and despite herself, Dean felt the slightest flicker of amusement soften her features. She reached out with her free hand and rested two precise fingers atop the nexu's broad skull, applying the perfect amount of pressure to signal calm.

"Cupcake behaves," she noted evenly, with the slightest upward curve at the corner of her mouth. "Because she understands this moment is important."

And when she returned her attention to Rynar, her thumb brushed once—barely perceptible—across the back of his hand. A gesture she had not planned. A gesture she did not regret.

"I am here," she said again, quietly, firmly. "With you."

And as the music swelled and the hall dissolved into a wash of warm sound, Dean realized something with complete clarity:
This man beside her was becoming someone she did not want to lose.

She wasn't ready to name the feeling.
But she no longer tried to avoid it.

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

He only watched her — not with intensity, not with hunger or awe, but with the quiet reverence of someone memorizing a moment he knew he would replay a thousand times. When Dean said I want you here as well, something inside him loosened in a way he had not allowed in years. He breathed out slowly, something warm flickering behind his eyes.

Then he turned his attention back to the music — not because she had lost his focus, but because he wanted to appreciate this moment fully, the same way she was. Their shoulders touched now in a barely-there line of warmth. Her fingers laced with his. Her thumb brushing across the back of his hand like a heartbeat.

He sank into the sound with her.

The ensemble shifted into a lower register, strings layering in quiet, deliberate patterns. Rynar leaned in the tiniest bit, listening with the sharp focus of someone who understood what this meant to her — and what it was beginning to mean to him.

"That counter-melody…" he murmured, barely audible, almost as though speaking to himself. "It's… interesting. The violins are phrasing in a Chiss cadence, but the cellos are playing Core-world classical underneath. They're weaving two traditions together without letting either one overpower the other."

He tilted his head slightly, catching another detail.
"And that echo pattern… it's like the composer wanted to mimic crystalline acoustics. Maybe even Northern Csilla amphitheaters."
He didn't realize he was smiling until he felt it tug slightly at the corner of his mouth.
"I haven't noticed details like this in years."

Cupcake rumbled contentedly at their feet, the faint vibration humming through the floor. Rynar reached down with his free hand and stroked her head gently once, the way he'd seen Dean do — measured, respectful. The nexu's ears flattened in bliss.

"Good girl… just listen with us."
Then he leaned back again, letting his shoulder rest fully, naturally against Dean's. No hesitation. No apology. Only a quiet certainty.
His voice was soft, but steady — steady the way he'd promised her he would be.

"Thank you… for letting me hear it like this."
A longer pause. A breath he didn't hide.
"Thank you for letting me be close to you."
He didn't say more after that.

Instead he simply listened — truly listened — letting every new harmony thread into the warmth of her hand, her presence, her steady acceptance of him. And for the first time in longer than he could remember, Rynar felt something open inside him.


Something hopeful.
Something steady.
Something that felt a lot like the beginning of love.

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean didn't answer aloud at first.

His words — thank you for letting me be close to you — settled into her with a weight she felt behind her ribs, slow and warm, like the first touch of heat through winter stone. She kept her gaze forward, watching the musicians adjust their phrasing, the shift of bow to string, the way the lights played across polished wood. But every detail of him at her side pressed into her awareness with quiet precision.

His shoulder now rested fully against hers. His fingers remained interlaced with hers, the weight and warmth steady. His commentary — the cadence, the crystalline acoustics, the blending of traditions — had struck something inside her she hadn't expected. He listens like a Chiss, she thought. He hears what most ignore.

It stirred a memory she had not allowed herself to feel in years: sitting beside her father during a rare family function, listening to a performance she hadn't understood but had tried to decode purely to win his approval. She remembered the coldness in his eyes. The disappointment. The way he corrected her posture rather than answering her questions.

Rynar's presence felt nothing like that.
He didn't demand she understand the music.
He didn't require perfection.
He simply… listened with her.
As if the act itself was worth sharing.

She turned her head slightly — not enough to break the etiquette of the hall, but enough that she could see him from the corner of her eye. His face softened by the low light, the faint outline of scars catching the glow. The almost-smile at the edge of his mouth when he realized he was enjoying something he thought he'd forgotten how to appreciate.

She let her thumb brush across his knuckles again, slower this time. More deliberate.

"I am glad you hear it like that," she said softly, her voice low and precise, meant only for him. "I am glad you hear… more."

Her thoughts, however, carried the fuller truth.

He listens to the layers. To the meanings beneath the sound. Just as he listens to me.
Not because he wants something from me. Not because he calculates the advantage. Because he chooses to.

Her chest tightened, subtle but undeniable.

She inhaled quietly — deeper than she meant to — and let her shoulder rest more comfortably into his. Not leaning. Not clinging. Just… settling. A slight shift, a small allowance that she realized she had never granted to anyone outside the Chiss — and rarely even within them.

"I do not allow people close," she added, barely above a whisper. "Not often. Not easily."

A beat.

"But I am… pleased you are here."

The words were simple. Controlled. But her thumb moved against his hand again, smoothing a small, unconscious arc that betrayed something warmer, something growing before she could study it properly.

This is the beginning of something, she realized.
Something neither of them had named.
Something steady.
Something she didn't fear.

Her crimson eyes softened slightly — enough that he might notice if he looked at her.

"And Rynar… I hear more, too," she said, her voice still quiet but threaded with truth. "When you are beside me."

The music swelled — rich, crystalline, layered — and Dean let herself breathe it in with him, settling deeper into a moment she had not expected to want this much.

A moment she hoped would not be the last.

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar felt her shift before he fully returned from the music.

Her thumb moved against his hand again — slower, gentler — and it pulled him back into the present like a tether wrapped around his chest. The hum in his throat faded as he inhaled, steady but deeper, the kind of breath someone takes when they realize they've been completely unguarded without meaning to.

He didn't look at her immediately.
Couldn't.

He'd felt his sleeve slide. Felt the cool air brush across that patch of skin. And he knew — he knew — that if she'd looked even for a heartbeat, she would've seen it. The brand wasn't something he could explain with a lie. Or with the vague dismissals he'd used on others.

Most people either stared too long or pretended not to see.
Dean did neither.

That alone shook him more than he expected.

He kept his gaze forward, eyes fixed on the musicians as if he could anchor himself in their precision. But the heat in his chest didn't come from the music anymore. It came from the realization that she saw the mark and didn't withdraw her hand. Didn't change her breathing. Didn't treat him differently.

She just… stayed.

When she leaned into him, just slightly, his whole body tightened — not in fear, not in shame — but in something warm and unfamiliar that curled low in his stomach. Her voice reached him in the space between movements, soft enough that only he could hear.

"I am here. With all that means."
He closed his eyes for a brief moment.
That sentence lodged deeper than he expected.

He turned his head just enough that he could see her in his periphery. Her face lit by the soft glow of the hall, her expression forward-facing but unmistakably present with him. He didn't speak at first — his throat felt too tight, too full of things he hadn't let surface in years.

But eventually… quietly… he found his voice.
"You shouldn't have had to see that," he murmured. Not ashamed — just honest. "Most people… don't react the way you just did."
He exhaled slowly, something fragile uncoiling under his ribs.

"They either stare, or they pretend not to. And I never know which is worse."
A beat.
"But you… you just stayed. Like it didn't change anything."

He finally turned his hand in hers, letting his thumb sweep along her fingers — a mirror of the reassurance she'd given him, though rougher, unpracticed, but sincere.
"It means more than you know," he added, voice lowered further. "Having someone see something like that and not… flinch."

Another small breath.
Then, softer — almost afraid of the truth in the words:
"I'm glad you're here too."

The orchestra swelled again, rising into a warm, layered harmony, but this time he wasn't lost in it. He listened, but he stayed grounded in the weight of her hand, the warmth of her shoulder, the steady presence she'd offered without hesitation.
And for the first time in a long, long while, he didn't hide from someone's nearness.
He welcomed it.

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean didn't react at first. She breathed, letting the movement of the orchestra wash through the hall while her mind focused entirely on the man beside her. His voice had shifted—quiet, roughened, weighted by something he clearly hadn't shared with anyone in a very long time. She had felt the moment he realized she'd seen the mark, not through tension, but through the stillness that passed through him like a shadow remembering its shape.

She didn't withdraw her hand. She didn't look away. Instead, she let her fingers tighten around his just slightly—enough for him to feel her answer before she spoke, enough to tell him she was present, grounded, and not disturbed by what little she had glimpsed.

"I saw," she said softly, her voice a calm, steady thread beneath the music. She didn't layer the words with pity or alarm; she delivered them with the same precision she used in every truth she gave him. "And I remain."

Only then did she turn her head toward him, not entirely, just enough that he could see the openness in her eyes. Crimson shimmered faintly in the warm hall lighting, but there was nothing cold in her gaze—only certainty and something warmer slowly taking shape.

"It changes nothing for me," she continued, keeping her tone quiet enough for him alone. Her thumb brushed the side of his hand in a smooth, deliberate motion—not to soothe, but to anchor the truth she was speaking. "Your past is yours to reveal on your own pace. Your scars are yours to define. I won't demand explanations you are not ready to give."

She shifted a little closer, a small but unmistakably intentional movement. Her shoulder settled fully against his arm, her posture precise but relaxed, letting him feel her presence without hesitation. The contact was warm and steady, more intimate than the handhold itself.

"I do not flinch from what you carry," she said, voice steady despite the softness. "And it does not make me think less of you. If anything… it makes me respect you more."

The last words came with a subtle breath she didn't often allow herself to release in front of others. She rested her forehead lightly against the curve of his upper arm, not in dependence or fragility, but in trust—a Chiss gesture that said she accepted his nearness, his history, and the vulnerability he had accidentally shared.

"I am here," she murmured again, quieter but more certain than before. "With all that means."

The music swelled around them in layered crystalline harmonics, but for Dean, it faded into a warm backdrop. What mattered was the quiet thrum of Rynar's heartbeat beneath her cheek, the gentle pressure of his fingers laced with hers, and the simple truth she had just chosen to give him:

Whatever his past held, whatever scars he carried, she would not turn away.

Not now.
Not later.

She was here—and she intended to stay.

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Dean's words settled into him with a weight that was both steady and disarming. It wasn't the sort of comfort that tried to smooth things over or chase shadows away—it was presence, a calm he wasn't accustomed to being offered rather than forged through his own discipline.

He exhaled slowly. Not a sigh, not tension—just breath, controlled but real.

The orchestra swelled, a low undercurrent of strings and horns lifting through the hall, and he let that sound fill the spaces in him that suddenly felt exposed.

He turned his head just slightly toward her. Enough to see her crimson eyes, steady and unwavering. Enough to feel the warmth of her forehead against his arm. Enough to understand that she wasn't pulling away.

His voice came low and quiet—almost the same tone he used when speaking in the dark of early mornings, or when the weight of something too old for words sat on his shoulders.

"…It wasn't a mark I earned," he murmured, the admission brittle around the edges but spoken with intent. "Not like the others."

He didn't look down at his arm. He didn't need to. He had memorized the shape of the brand long before he ever understood what duty meant.
"Other than my helmet," he continued, voice softening into something rawer, "it's the only physical thing I have left of my father."
A heartbeat passed.

Then another.
The next words were quieter. Barely above the whisper of breath.
"And it wasn't given. It was… inflicted."

He didn't try to soften the truth. Didn't try to explain it away. He offered only what he had the strength to offer—nothing more, nothing less.

Rynar's hand tightened gently around hers, a subtle, grounding pressure. Not seeking reassurance. Not testing her words. Simply… acknowledging the moment between them.

"I don't speak of him," he said. "Not because I fear the memories. Because I don't wish to give them more room than they already take."

He turned his gaze forward again, watching the light arc across the stage, his posture still relaxed from the earlier music but his focus wholly anchored in the woman at his side.
"But you saw," he murmured, tone dipping into something warmer, something unguarded in a way he rarely allowed. "And still you remain."
His thumb brushed the side of her fingers—small, deliberate, echoing her earlier gesture.

"I am… not used to that."
Another breath—soft, steady, real.
"But I find I don't want you to go."

He didn't move away from her touch, didn't shift to break the closeness. Instead, he tilted his head the slightest fraction toward hers, letting the contact between them speak where words felt too heavy.

"For now," he said quietly, "that is the truth I can give."


And he stayed like that—warm, grounded, present—as the music carried them both forward.

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean didn't move at his confession. Not when he said the mark was not earned, not when he revealed it came from his father, not when the word inflicted fell into the space between them like a quiet fracture. She remained exactly as she was — forehead resting against the curve of his arm, fingers woven through his, her posture straight and controlled even in closeness. But internally, she felt the most minor shift, something low and soft warming beneath her sternum. He trusted her with this. He chose to speak this. That struck deeper than any brand could ever mark him.

"I remain," she said, because she meant every syllable. Her voice stayed quiet, reserved, composed — the tone she had always used to deliver truth without embellishment. She didn't try to comfort him with false promises or emotional flourishes. Instead, she slid her thumb across his knuckles again, purposeful and steady, a Chiss gesture of solidarity. "And not because I am ignoring what you told me. I remain because it does not drive me away."

She did not hesitate as her other hand rose slowly to rest against his forearm — just above where the sleeve had slipped. Not touching the brand itself, not claiming the wound or its history, but acknowledging the space around it with deliberate care. Her touch was firm, composed, not pitying. She wanted him to feel that difference. "Your father's cruelty does not diminish you. It is not a truth I fear, nor one that makes me think less of you." Her voice remained calm as ever, but there was a softness threaded beneath the precision. "If anything, it clarifies how much strength you carry."

Her crimson eyes lifted, meeting his fully now, unblinking and unwavering. She held his gaze in a way only a Chiss could — direct, assessing, but filled with quiet certainty rather than scrutiny. She thought to herself that the depth of his honesty was something she had not been offered by anyone in the Diarchy, not even in the ranks she had trained with her entire youth. And it moved something in her she had assumed would remain untouched.

"You say you are not used to someone staying after seeing this." Her hand remained on his arm as her voice softened another fraction. "Then allow this to be new for you. I am not going anywhere."

Dean shifted closer, just enough that her temple touched his shoulder, her breath brushing lightly across his upper arm as she settled again. "I hear the truth you give," she murmured. "And I accept what you choose to share at your pace. All of it."

The orchestra swelled around them in a wash of crystalline harmonics, but she barely noticed the sound anymore. Her focus was on him — on the steady warmth under his skin, on the way his breath eased when she leaned in, on the fact that he had allowed himself to be vulnerable and had not been met with exploitation or judgment.

"I am here," she repeated, quiet but confident. "With all that means."

Her thumb traced once more across the back of his hand, a final deliberate affirmation. "And I do not want to go either."

She let the silence settle after that — warm, certain, and unshaken — letting him feel and know that nothing he revealed would make her release his hand. Not now.
Not ever by force.

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar's shoulders relaxed fractionally beneath her touch, but he remained quiet for a long moment, letting the words she offered sink into him like a tide against well-worn stones. Her presence didn't demand confession, didn't demand apology. It simply allowed him to exist fully in the moment — the boy, the man, the scars, the music, the warmth of her steady hand.

Finally, his voice came, low, deliberate, threaded with memory and the faintest trace of lingering resentment:
"My father… it was a tradition. When a boy came of age, he was branded. Either with the family sigil… or the father's own mark. If you earned it, the symbol represented the man you'd become. I… didn't earn this one." He paused, swallowed, and exhaled slowly, as if letting some of the weight fall away in the quiet of the hall. "He drank too much that night. My mother protested… I was not ready. But he told me… the day I became a man was the day I fought back."

He let the memory rest there a moment, as if testing how it felt to speak it aloud. "The next week, he came again. I resisted. I fought back. And… after that, he stopped drinking. He… he respected me. Perhaps not the boy he wanted me to be, but the one I had shown myself to be."

He shifted slightly so his shoulder pressed a bit more firmly against hers, letting the quiet confession settle into her presence, trusting it would be met with her measured understanding rather than judgment. His fingers squeezed hers lightly, almost unconsciously — a tether to the moment, to her, to the fact that he was not alone.

"I… did not tell anyone this before. Not in detail. Not anyone I cared for. And I…" His voice faltered for just a fraction, then steadied, "I… trust you enough to say it."


He lowered his gaze to their intertwined hands, tracing the line of her fingers with the tip of his thumb. The orchestra swelled, the notes carrying both memory and release, and Rynar let himself rest, if only slightly, in the safety of the connection she offered.

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean didn't speak at first. She didn't need to. The truth he'd shared was not something to interrupt, not something to rush into comfort or dilute with sentiment. It was something to hold. Something to honor. And so she remained with him, posture poised but softened by proximity, her fingers steady in his, her breathing controlled but undeniably present.

Her thoughts, however, moved beneath that stillness like a deep current.

He trusted her enough to open a wound carved into him as a child.
Trusted her with the memory of pain, of shame, of a rite twisted into cruelty.
Trusted her with the truth of how he became the man she was beginning—slowly, steadily—to fall for.

She shifted only enough to bring her other hand to rest lightly over his forearm, her touch precise, careful, but unmistakably grounding. Her voice, when it came, stayed in that composed Chiss cadence—measured, present-tense—but threaded with a warmth she rarely allowed into her speech.

"That was never a mark that defined you," she said softly, fingers brushing once across his skin just above the fabric of his sleeve. "A man who inflicts pain on a child to prove strength reveals weakness, not power. What you proved—fighting back, becoming more than what he tried to burn into you—that is what defines you."

She did not flinch at his story. She did not pity him. She accepted the truth as he gave it to her, as he asked her to hold it.

Her head rested more fully against his shoulder, temple brushing the line of his arm, a deliberate shift that signaled closeness without spectacle. "You trusted me with this," she murmured. "With something that shaped you before you had any choice in the matter. That trust…" Her thumb swept across his knuckles in a slow arc, letting the contact steady both of them. "I do not take it lightly."

The music swelled, crystalline and mournful, and Dean let it weave through the space between them as she continued, voice low enough to blend with the orchestra.

"I see the man you became, not the man he tried to force you to be. I hear your truth, and I stay because it is yours." She shifted her fingers so they laced more firmly through his, a deliberate, gentle closing of the space between them. "And because I trust you enough to give you pieces of my own."

Her crimson eyes lifted to him—not sharp, not dissecting, but clear, open in a way she offered to no one else. "You are not alone in this," she said. "Not anymore."

She let that truth settle, then leaned slightly, just enough that her nose brushed the curve of his shoulder before she straightened again—her version of an embrace, restrained but real.

"And… Rynar," she added quietly, "thank you for trusting me. I remain. With all that means."

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar hesitated for a heartbeat, the quiet resonance of Dean's words settling deep in his chest. Then, slowly, deliberately, he rolled the sleeve of his uniform higher, exposing the mark fully in the soft glow of the hall lights. It wasn't done for show, not for pride or bravado. It was a demonstration of trust, the unspoken acknowledgment that he had nothing left to hide from her in that moment.

The brand's clean lines, faintly raised and etched into his skin, caught the illumination like a cold echo of his past. He didn't flinch as Dean's gaze met it, didn't curl away from the truth of it. Instead, he let the action speak for him: a careful unveiling, a declaration that this part of him—scarred, branded, and survived—was hers to see if she chose to.

His hand still held hers, steady, grounding, and his expression softened, a small, unguarded tilt of his lips. "There," he murmured quietly, voice low but firm, "now you see all of it. Everything that was forced… and everything I fought to own."


The music swelled again, and he let himself sink into it, letting each note wash over them, and over the brand he no longer hid. The trust between them felt weighty and unspoken, a shared current running beneath their fingers, their closeness, their quiet acknowledgment of each other.

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean's breath stilled as he bared the brand fully—not because she feared it, nor because it unsettled her, but because of what the gesture meant. Rynar revealing something so forcibly written into his past was not a display. It was an offering. A trust few people ever earned.

She shifted closer, not with suddenness, but with the purposeful calm of someone granting respect to a truth laid bare. Her fingers tightened around his, and her other hand lifted with controlled precision, hovering for a moment above the raised lines of the brand as if to ask permission without words.

When he didn't pull away, she let her fingertips brush the edge of the scar—barely a touch, feather-light, reverent. Not pitying. Not hesitant. Simply accepting.

In that single gesture, every lesson drilled into her as a Chiss child—reserve, distance, emotional restraint—folded quietly around a new truth: she wanted to touch the parts of him he trusted her with.

Her voice—calm, present, low—carried that truth.

"I see it," she murmured, eyes tracing the lines with steady, unflinching clarity. "All of it. Not just the pain… but the strength that came after."

She let her hand linger, warmth meeting the cool raised texture of the old burn. Her thoughts, softer than her tone, moved beneath her composure like a pulse:

He shows me this because he trusts me. Because he wants me to see what shaped him. And I am not afraid of any piece of him.

Her thumb brushed the edge once more before she eased her hand back to lace her fingers with his again.

"This mark does not diminish you," she said, leaning in with quiet certainty so only he could hear. "It does not define you. You define it—by surviving, by choosing your own path, not the one your father tried to carve into you."

The music rose again, soft strings layering with a low brass hymn, and Dean felt the vibration of it through her bones, through their joined hands, through the shared stillness between them.

"And you share this with me," she added, her tone gentling even further, "because you trust me enough to be seen."

Her shoulder pressed lightly, deliberately, against his.

"I remain worthy of that trust," she finished softly. "And I remain here. With all that means."

She didn't look away.
Didn't release his hand.
Didn't pull her composure back up like a shield.

She simply stayed—
grounded,
calm,
and present with him,
as the music wrapped around them both like a quiet vow.

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar didn't speak at first. He didn't need to. The softness of her touch on the scar — gentle, deliberate, unflinching — settled into him deeper than any words could. He held still, not out of tension, but because something in him simply stilled when she touched his past like that. When she didn't recoil. When she didn't change.

Her words sank into him — steady, certain, unwavering.
A breath left him, slow. Almost a laugh. Almost.

"That's…" he murmured, voice low. "Probably the nicest thing anyone's ever said about it."
He glanced at her, the faintest curve appearing at the corner of his mouth — not quite a smile, but close, warmer than anything he'd given anyone in years.
"And… if I wasn't already holding your hand," he added, a quiet hint of humor slipping through his normally rough tone, "I might've fallen over."

A beat.
Soft. Dry. But undeniably fond.

Then his attention flicked to the music — not to escape the moment, but because letting her in had shifted something, loosened him in a way he wasn't used to. His voice grew thoughtful, steady, almost gentle as he listened.

"Right there," he murmured, tilting his head slightly toward the orchestra. "Hear that low undercurrent? That's the bass clarinet. Most people miss it because the strings carry the melody… but it's what gives this part weight."

The warmth in his chest vibrated beneath her cheek as he continued — more comfortable now, letting something familiar ground him.
"And when the violas come in — that soft swell? — they're echoing the first phrasing, but slower. Like it was meant to be a memory instead of a statement."
He hummed again, low and instinctive, matching the line beneath the melody.

"That's why it feels like the music is… settling," he added quietly. "Not sad. Not triumphant. Just… honest."
His fingers curled around hers a little more firmly.
"Kind of like you," he said, glancing at her again — the softest smile now surfacing, real this time. "Steady. Not loud. But… grounding."

Deanez

The music rose.
The hall glowed.
And Rynar, for once, didn't hide any of it.

 

[Deanez]

Dean didn't lift her eyes right away. She didn't have to. She could hear the honesty in his voice, feel the quiet tremor beneath her cheek where his heartbeat lived — unguarded, present, and so very real in this moment.

Her words had landed. She knew it from the way his breath left him, from the warmth that settled into his voice when he teased her with that faint edge of humor. And though she didn't smile often — Chiss expressions were precise, subtle — something softened in her features, a small shift of her mouth, a slower blink, a quiet ease in her posture that mirrored the trust he offered.

When he spoke of the music, she listened — not out of politeness, not because she needed to learn, but because he was the one speaking. Because he noticed things she did not. Because his voice carried warmth when he described the instruments, and because he allowed her into that part of him without hesitation.

Her thumb moved once across the back of his hand, a measured, thoughtful arc.

"You hear layers where others hear sound," she murmured, her voice calm, steady, present as ever. "It is one of the things I… respect."

She tilted her head just enough to meet his gaze, crimson eyes steady and bright in the soft glow of the hall. The faint curve of his smile — small but unquestionably sincere — drew something warm from beneath her composed exterior. Something she didn't rush. Didn't deny.

"You breathe with the music," she observed quietly, a rare gentleness shaping her tone. "That is… grounding. Clear."

Her fingers tightened lightly around his — not out of need, but out of choice.

"And I do not mind the comparison," she added, after a heartbeat. "If steady is what you feel with me… then I am content to be steady."

She allowed herself a longer moment to watch him, absorbing the softened lines of his face, the way he looked at her without fear or hesitation, the way his sleeve still rested above the scar she had touched.

"You let me see you," she said, voice as soft as she ever allowed it to be in public. "Not just the brand. But… your response to being seen."

Her chin dipped slightly — a Chiss gesture of acknowledgment, intimate in its restraint.

"I do not take that lightly."

The orchestra swelled, the harmonies rising into something expansive and warm, and Dean leaned in again — resting her head against his upper arm with deliberate calm, letting that closeness be its own answer, its own vow.

She didn't need to declare more.
Not yet.
Not when the slow warmth blooming inside her was still so new, so careful, so steady.

But it was there — unmistakable.

And she didn't hide it from him.

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar let the quiet settle between them, warm and steady, her head against his arm, her fingers threaded through his. Something in him eased in a way he hadn't felt in years—bones unclenching, breath loosening, the world shrinking down to the weight of her presence and the music washing over them like light through water.

He closed his eyes.
Not to hide—he didn't need to hide from her—but to let the orchestra thread through him the way it always had. A slow, layered swell, strings blooming beneath brass, woodwinds weaving between it all like a second heartbeat. Dean was right. He did breathe with it. Always had.

Maybe for the first time, he wasn't doing it alone.
A soft beep chirped from his jacket pocket.
Barely audible—but Dean felt the subtle shift of his chest as he exhaled through his nose, equal parts annoyance and something bordering on amusement.

He cracked one eye open, reached into the pocket with his free hand, and pulled out the small comm device. KOR-3's, Korda Veydran , ID blinked insistently across the screen.
Rynar huffed a quiet breath that might have been a laugh if he ever allowed himself one.
"…He's probably asking to borrow my tools again," he muttered, thumb hovering over the alert for a moment before he clicked the device off entirely and tucked it back into his pocket. "Or he's broken something and wants me to pretend it wasn't him."

He felt Dean's head shift minutely against his arm—her version of a knowing, quiet response.
Rynar looked down at her, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, softer than before, warmed by the glow of the strings rising around them.
"He can wait," he said simply.

And the truth threading through the words was obvious, even to him:
I want to be here.
With you.
Right now.
More than anywhere else.

He let the music rise again, eyes drifting shut once more as he breathed with the tempo—and with her steady, grounding presence tucked against his side.

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

The final note dissolved into the hush of the hall, the musicians lowering their instruments as the lights rose just enough to signal the intermission. The sudden shift — the soft murmur of conversation, the rustle of clothing, the creak of seats — brushed at the edge of Dean's awareness, but she didn't move. Not yet.

Her head lifted from where it had rested against his arm, slow and deliberate, giving her a moment to breathe in the space between movements. Rynar remained beside her, still for now, the warmth of his presence settling against her shoulder in a way that did not press or crowd. Their hands were still joined — not clasped tightly, not clinging,… connected. A steady point of contact in the gentle chaos of the crowd rising around them.

She watched him in the shifting light, the softened lines of his profile, the quiet way he came back from the music rather than snapping to attention like a soldier waking from a nightmare. He let himself return gradually, calmly, as though the world around them posed no immediate threat — a subtle but undeniable sign of trust.

Cupcake stretched with a theatrical groan at their feet, tails sweeping the floor in slow arcs. Dean reached down with her free hand, giving the nexu a brief scratch behind one ear, earning a rumbling purr that vibrated through the soles of her boots.

Only then did she turn her attention fully back to Rynar.

He hadn't spoken yet. He hadn't needed to. The softness in his shoulders, the gentling of his breath, the flicker of warmth that still lingered from the music — it said enough.

Dean shifted slightly toward him, not pulling away from the contact but aligning her posture so she could speak quietly without being overheard. She let her thumb brush the back of his hand once, deliberate, grounding. Her eyes lifted to him, steady and calm, though there was a new warmth under the surface — one she could feel growing with a pace she hadn't intended… but didn't resist.

When she spoke, her voice was low, precise, but gentled by something she rarely allowed into her tone.

"What happens after the concert?"

No preamble.
No hesitation.
A simple, direct question — but one carrying weight.

Not pressure.
Not expectation.

Just honesty.

She held his hand a little more securely, expression composed but open in a way she rarely offered anyone.

"I would… like to know."

And she waited — quietly, steadily — for whatever came next.

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar didn't answer her right away.

Not because he was unsure. Not because the question startled him. But because something in the way she asked it — quiet, steady, wanting — struck him with the same weight as when she first touched the scar.

It meant something.

And the warmth that rose in his chest at that truth was… new. Steady. Good.

A slow smile shaped itself along his mouth, small but undeniably genuine — the kind that softened the hard lines of his face and made something brighter flicker behind his eyes. He turned his hand so his fingers curled more securely around hers, deliberate in the way he tightened the connection rather than letting it fade.

"I was hoping we could spend a little more time together," he said, voice low, roughened around the edges but warm. "If you'd like that."
He lifted his gaze to hers fully then — no deflection, no hesitation, just quiet openness. The kind he rarely offered anyone.

"And… if you're willing," he continued, a faint huff of amused breath slipping through, "I need to stop by a store after this. Pick up a few things."
His smile widened just a touch — a soft, shy curl at one corner that he tried to suppress and didn't quite succeed at.
"Would you come with me?"

No command.
No assumption.
Just an honest ask, threaded with the hope he didn't bother to hide.

Cupcake bumped her head against his boot as if in agreement, her tails sweeping the floor in lazy approval. Rynar glanced down at the nexu briefly, then back to Dean — eyes warm, steady, and very certain.

"I'd like your company," he said quietly. "After the music… and after everything we shared tonight."
He squeezed her hand once — light, but firm enough to make sure she felt it.
"If you want to, Dean. I'd like that very much."

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean didn't look away when Rynar spoke. His answer wasn't rushed, wasn't evasive, and that alone warmed something at the center of her chest. His fingers tightened around hers with deliberate certainty, not too strong, not too light — a grounding, a quiet acknowledgment that the question she'd asked mattered to him. More than she expected. More than she had prepared for.

She felt the faint rise of a smile tug at the corner of her mouth before she could stop it. Not something bright or careless — something small, measured, but real. His words echoed in her mind with a kind of steady honesty that reminded her of the music: gentle where it could have been loud, certain where it might have been hesitant. She had wondered how openly he would answer. She hadn't expected the warmth in his voice when he said he wanted more time with her.

Her pulse had lifted then — not sharply, not in alarm — just enough for her to feel it beneath her skin.

She shifted slightly toward him, their hands still linked on the armrest, her posture controlled even as something warmer spread through her thoughts. He wanted her company after the music. After opening parts of himself she'd never expected him to share. The thought eased into her slowly, like thawing ice.

Dean turned her hand in his just enough that her fingertips brushed his knuckles in an intentional, steady line.

"I would like that," she said quietly, her voice soft but clear beneath the rising murmur of the intermission crowd. "Spending more time with you. And going with you to the store."

Her gaze lowered briefly to their joined hands, then lifted to him again — not shy, but thoughtful, warm in a way she was still learning how to allow.

"It sounds… good."

A small breath left her, light, controlled, but undeniably touched by something deeper. She didn't let go of his hand. She didn't pull back from the closeness. She allowed herself to lean a fraction closer, just enough that their shoulders brushed again.

Cupcake thumped her tail against the floor in slow approval, earning the faintest upward twitch of Dean's mouth before her eyes returned fully to him.

"And I am glad you asked," she added, voice even softer now — not hesitant, simply honest. "It means something… that you want me there."

Her thumb brushed over his hand again — slow, measured, but warmer than before. She didn't rush the moment. She didn't overstep. She let herself be close to him, steady and sure.

"When the concert ends," she said, tilting her head slightly toward the stage as the lights flickered in warning for the second half, "I will go with you. Wherever you need."

A beat.
And then, quieter, almost tender in its truth:

"And wherever you want."

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar's gaze softened, his sharp features easing into a quiet calm that Dean could feel more than see. The faint shadow of a frown crossed his face, subtle but telling, as if the weight of unspoken frustrations and impossible loyalties rested there. He shifted slightly, letting his shoulder settle fully against hers, a deliberate, grounding touch that drew her closer without demanding anything. His fingers tightened around hers—not possessively, but with that careful insistence that had become his signature, a mirrored rhythm of the steadiness she offered him.

"I hate… how everything has to be so tangled," he murmured, low, almost a rumble beneath the swell of conversation and movement in the hall. His voice was quiet, but every syllable carried the weight of his thought, the restrained frustration of someone trained to control everything yet powerless over the world's machinations. "The Diarchy. The Mandalorian Empire. How each views the other… as a threat. How suspicion shadows even those who want nothing more than peace. Both sides have their strengths," he said, his tone softening slightly, "but both have flaws, dangerous ones. And neither… makes it easy for people like us to simply be."

Dean felt the way his words pressed into the space between them—not a complaint, not a demand, but a truth shared in trust. He gave a small, almost rueful shake of his head, the movement slow, deliberate, like he was weighing each thought before letting it escape. The faintest curve of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—not joy, exactly, but something tender, human, fleetingly unguarded.

"Still…" His voice deepened, gaining weight in the pause. "…none of that changes what I want. None of it changes that I want to be by your side. No matter the rules, no matter the politics or expectations… I choose this. I choose you."

He let the words hang in the air for a heartbeat, giving them space to settle, letting her feel the sincerity behind them. The warmth of his tone folded around her hand and wrist like a quiet, unspoken promise. She could feel it in the slight pressure of his fingers, in the subtle tilt of his body toward hers, in the patience with which he allowed the world to recede for just this shared moment.

After a slow breath, he tilted his head slightly, eyes meeting hers with a clarity that carried no hesitation, no calculation—only intent. "And I hope… that's enough," he said softly, almost reverently, "that it can be enough."


His thumb traced a deliberate, slow line across the back of her hand, a small gesture of grounding and reassurance, imbued with warmth he did not try to hide. It was quiet, intimate, unassuming—and yet, for Dean, it spoke more clearly than any words ever could.

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean listened without interrupting, without looking away. His words carried weight — political weight, personal weight — and she felt each one settling into the quiet space between them. He chose her. Not recklessly. Not blindly. But with intent. With deliberation. It pressed against something deep in her chest, something she had not realized was growing so quickly.

She drew in a slow breath, steadying first before she spoke. Her thumb brushed once more over his hand, a measured sweep that mirrored the conflict in her thoughts — controlled on the surface, unsettled beneath.

"I understand the tangle," she murmured, her voice low and calm even as her pulse had climbed. "And I understand the cost of choosing anything… or anyone."
Her gaze shifted downward for a moment, to their joined hands resting between them. The sight struck her with a sharp, unexpected tenderness.

Because she wanted this.
Wanted him.
More than she had allowed herself to articulate.

"I need to tell you something," she continued, turning her face toward him fully now. Her eyes held his with a steadiness she didn't entirely feel. "If I were ever forced to choose between you and the Diarchy — I would choose you."

A breath.
Measured.
Certain.

"But not yet," she added, the clarity of her tone anchoring the confession. "I would not rush such a decision. I would not ask you to rush yours either."

The truth pressed harder against the cage of her ribs, rising with the same warmth that had frightened her since the forest. The same warmth that won against fear every time he looked at her like this.

Her voice softened then — not weaker, but more honest. More vulnerable than any report or debriefing had ever trained her for.

"I am falling for you," she said quietly. "Too quickly, perhaps. Too deeply."
Her fingers tightened around his—small, deliberate. "And it confuses me."

A faint breath slipped out of her, something almost like a laugh but without amusement. More like disbelief that she was speaking this aloud at all.

"I have been trained to analyze. To report. To act," she said. "Not to follow this."
Her free hand lifted briefly to her chest, resting there for a second in a gesture she had never used around another person. "Emotion was something I was taught to control, even discard when necessary."

Her hand returned to his, seeking that same grounding he always offered her.

"But with you… I do not want to discard it."
Her voice dropped even softer. "I want to understand it."

The hall lights dimmed slightly, signaling the end of intermission, but Dean didn't look toward the stage.

Her focus remained entirely on him.

"I want to be by your side," she said. "At the pace we choose. Together. Wherever it leads."

Then, quieter still — a confession meant for him alone:

"And I hope that is enough, too."

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

For a moment, Rynar forgot how to breathe.

Not because her words startled him — but because they settled with such quiet force that he felt them in places he'd long assumed were beyond reach. Dean's voice, steady and controlled even as it trembled at the edges, carried truths no one had ever spoken to him. Not about politics. Not about loyalty. Not about falling.

His fingers tightened gently around hers. Not out of fear. Out of certainty.

She would choose him.
Not now.
Not recklessly.
But one day, if it came to it.

And she was falling for him.

Slowly, he exhaled, the breath leaving him warm in a way that cut through every scar, every instinct to retreat behind armor he had lived in since childhood. Dean wasn't asking for declarations. She wasn't asking for promises. She was offering trust — piece by piece, carefully, bravely.

He turned more fully toward her, their shoulders brushing again. Her gaze held his with a vulnerability he had never seen from her directed at anyone else. It humbled him. It steadied him.

"Dean…" he began, voice low, threaded with something that almost sounded like awe. "You don't have to be anything other than what you are right now. Not for me. Not for anyone."
His free hand lifted, slow and deliberate, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear — a gesture he had thought about a hundred times and never dared until now.
"What you feel…" he continued, softer still, "—I understand it. More than you think."

He glanced away for the briefest second, toward the dimmed hall lights, gathering the courage to speak a truth he had been carrying for longer than he'd admitted even to himself.

"I hate that our governments would rather turn us into symbols than people. That the Diarchy sees Mandalorians as a threat. That the Mandalorian Empire sees every Diarchy soldier as a spy. They feed suspicion like it's a weapon." His thumb brushed her knuckles. "Both sides have their flaws. Both have strengths. And neither sees what stands in front of them."

His eyes lifted back to hers — steady, warm, resolute.
"I see you."
The words settled between them like a vow.
"And no empire, no council, no government will ever stop me from choosing to stand beside you."

He didn't raise her hand. He didn't pull her closer too quickly. He simply leaned in — slow, certain — and pressed a gentle kiss to the top of her head, just at the place where her hair parted softly. A touch meant not to claim, but to promise.
Her breath caught, and he felt it.

He lingered there only a heartbeat before pulling back, the music beginning to rise once more from the stage below — strings warming, the audience shifting into their seats.
Rynar's hand remained wrapped with hers as he faced forward with her again, shoulders still brushing, hearts still unguarded.

"Stay with me," he murmured, just loud enough for her alone to hear as the first notes began. "Through the rest of the concert. Through whatever comes after."
His thumb traced a slow, warm line over her fingers.
"I'm not going anywhere."

Deanez