Private Shadows of the Canopy

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar watched her settle beside him, her movements deliberate — like someone crossing a minefield of memories. When her sleeve brushed his arm, he felt the faintest spark of warmth through the cold plates of his armor, an echo of something he hadn't felt in years.

"The fire's warmer," he murmured, almost amused, "because you're not trying to outstare it this time."

He shifted slightly, letting the bark of the tree press against his back, and lifted his left arm — a quiet, wordless gesture that needed no order attached. When she leaned in, he let his hand rest against her right hip, the weight of it steady, protective. His thumb brushed absently against the holstered sidearm there — the one he'd traded her for that knife. A bond of trust forged in silence and steel.

He drew in a slow breath, the rhythm of her words sinking deep into him. Peace is just learning to breathe where you are. She wasn't wrong. For him, peace had always been the time between detonations — a fragile heartbeat before the next strike. But this… this felt different.

"Peace never lasts," he said finally, his tone low but not cold. "But sometimes… it's not about how long it stays. It's about what you let yourself remember while it does."

His gaze stayed on the fire, but his voice softened, a faint ghost of something almost wistful behind the rasp. "When I was younger, I thought peace was weakness. My father… he said it was the only thing worth fighting for." A pause. "Didn't understand him then. Maybe I do now."

He looked down briefly — at her, at the firelight painting her armor in gold. "If you stay," he said quietly, "I'll make sure the galaxy gives you that peace. For as long as I can hold it."


Cupcake gave a slow, sleepy rumble between them. Rynar's arm tightened slightly, his tone dropping to a near whisper. "Rest easy, Dean. I'll keep watch."

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean leaned into the quiet. The warmth of Rynar's side bled through his armor, a steady anchor against the cool jungle air. Cupcake had already drifted close to his other side, a faint purr rolling through the night. Dean's eyes followed the slow curl of smoke rising from the dying fire until its rhythm matched her breathing.

Her thoughts drifted. So this is what it feels like… Not the structure of barracks, not the weight of duty — just stillness, unguarded. It was unfamiliar, but not unwelcome. She let her head rest lightly against his shoulder, her body finally easing out of its constant readiness.

The fire dimmed to embers. The jungle hushed.
Sleep came quietly, almost before she realized she'd stopped resisting it.

When the first pale light filtered through the canopy, Dean stirred. Her lashes fluttered open to find the world washed in soft gold. The fire had collapsed into gray ash, and Rynar hadn't moved — still seated against the tree, armor dulled with dew, eyes half-lidded but alert.

She sat up slowly, studying him in silence. He hadn't slept. Not even a moment. The realization drew something faint and unspoken through her chest — respect, and something gentler that she didn't quite name.

"You kept watch," she said quietly, not as a question but as fact. Her voice was still low from sleep, edges softened.

Her gaze lingered on him for a breath longer — the lines of vigilance carved into his face, the patience that hadn't broken through the night. Then, almost to herself, she murmured, "You never stop protecting people, do you?"

She brushed her hand through her hair, steadying herself back into composure, but the warmth in her eyes lingered. "Thank you," she added, before turning her attention to the pale morning beyond the trees — the kind of peace she hadn't realized she'd been craving

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar tore another bite from the strip of dried jerky between his teeth, the motion unhurried — practiced. The faint crunch broke the hush of morning, mixing with the whisper of waking insects. When Dean's voice reached him, he looked up, a small, lopsided smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Old habits," he said simply, voice still rough with the weight of the night. "Never did learn how to sleep easy when there's trees taller than the horizon. Too much cover… too many things that like to crawl where they shouldn't."

He glanced down at Cupcake, who had rolled onto her back in a lazy sprawl, purring as if to prove him wrong. "Guess not everything out here's a threat," he added, his smile softening.

Then his gaze flicked back to Dean — not the soldier, but the woman beside the dying fire. "And maybe," he said after a moment, quieter now, "part of me just didn't want to miss a morning like this."

He rose to his feet with the smooth ease of someone long used to armor, brushing dew from his gauntlet before extending a hand toward her. "Besides," he went on, a teasing note threading into his tone, "someone had to make sure you didn't try to march off in your sleep."

A faint grin followed, the kind that reached his eyes even if his face stayed mostly composed. "You look better with a few hours of peace, you know. Almost… human."


The last word came with clear humor, light but warm. "Come on," he said, hand still outstretched. "We'll find breakfast before the sun gets too high. Or before Cupcake eats all our rations again."

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean blinked up at him through the morning haze, the faintest curve of amusement tugging at her lips—the line between composure and warmth blurred in the light — soft gold catching in her crimson eyes.

"Old habits," she echoed quietly, standing but not taking his hand right away. "You and your sleepless watch, me and my constant awareness. Between us, peace doesn't stand a chance."

After a moment, she accepted the offered hand — her grip firm, steady — and rose to her feet. "You didn't need to stay awake all night," she said, voice low, though something in her tone betrayed gratitude beneath the formality. "The jungle would have to try harder to get past you… or her." She nodded toward Cupcake, who was now stretching in the dirt, entirely unbothered.

When he teased her, her expression flickered into genuine humor. "Almost human?" she repeated, a quiet laugh escaping before she could restrain it. "You forget — I've made peace with not being one." She tilted her head slightly, studying him with mild challenge. "But I'll take the compliment. From you, it sounds… sincere."

Her gaze shifted to the forest beyond their camp, sunlight filtering through broad leaves in soft ribbons. "Breakfast sounds reasonable," she said finally, pulling her gloves tighter. "But if Cupcake eats first, you can explain to her why she's on ration control."

She started forward then, brushing past him with an ease that hadn't existed the day before — a soldier's stride softened by something lighter. "Come on," she added over her shoulder, the faintest smile ghosting across her face. "Let's see if peace lasts through breakfast."

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar adjusted the strap of his pack as Dean brushed past, her stride calm but lighter than before. He caught himself watching her for a moment longer than necessary — the way the morning light caught in her hair, the faint looseness in her shoulders that hadn't been there the night before.

She looks… different today.

Not in armor, not in stance, but in something subtler. The edges that war had carved into her were still there, sharp and proud — but softened, somehow, by rest. By trust.

He drew a slow breath, the faintest smile tugging beneath his helmet. It wasn't often someone surprised him, but she managed it — not through power or precision, but by being real in a galaxy that had long forgotten what that meant.

"Peace through breakfast?" he said at last, amusement threading through the deep tone of his voice. "That's a taller order than some sieges I've fought."

His boots moved quietly through the dew-soaked underbrush, every step deliberate but relaxed. The air was thick with the scent of soil and rain, the kind of morning that carried its own quiet rhythm. His visor scanned out of habit, picking up faint thermal traces along the ground — nothing hostile, just the whisper of life returning to the waking jungle.

He crouched low, brushing a gloved hand across the faint print of something large — a hoof, pressed deep into damp earth. "Looks like a herd passed through before dawn," he murmured. "Could be good hunting if we move fast."

The words came naturally, but his thoughts drifted elsewhere. He glanced over at her again — the calm confidence in her movement, the faint curve of her smile when she thought he wasn't looking. It was… grounding.

Strange, he thought. For once, the mission doesn't feel like the point.

A sound caught his attention — the low, rhythmic murmur of running water. He straightened, tilting his head slightly toward it, listening. "There's a creek nearby," he said. "Freshwater. Might have fish."

Cupcake's tail thumped once against the ground, as if voicing her opinion.

Rynar chuckled under his breath, turning back to Dean. "So," he said, voice carrying that familiar rough-edged warmth, "what'll it be? Big game and a fight… or fish and a quiet meal?"

He let his hand rest at his side — not on a weapon, just near enough to remind himself he was still alert. Still a warrior. But as the morning light spilled across them, the thought flickered unbidden:

If this is what peace feels like… maybe it's worth protecting, too.

 

[Deanez]

Dean slowed beside him, her gaze dropping briefly to the prints in the mud before flicking toward the line of trees ahead. The forest shimmered with morning mist, sunlight cutting through it in soft ribbons that turned the air gold.

"Fish," she said after a moment, her voice even but faintly amused. "I think we've had enough fighting to last through breakfast."

She stepped past him, the deliberate precision of a soldier tempered by quiet ease. "Besides," she added, glancing back over her shoulder, "I've never caught one before. Seems as good a day to learn as any."

Cupcake's ears twitched, her head lifting as if she approved of the choice. Dean bent slightly, brushing her hand once over the nexu's fur — a small, wordless show of affection — before straightening again.

The ground softened beneath her boots as they moved toward the sound of running water. The scent of damp moss and river stone filled the air, fresh and alive. Dean's eyes followed the slow curve of the creek when it came into view — narrow but clear, reflecting the sky through the breaks in the canopy.

She looked back at Rynar, the faintest smile touching her lips. "You were right," she said quietly. "Peace isn't permanent. But maybe it doesn't have to be, if we know what to do with it while it's here."

For a heartbeat, she let herself stand there — the jungle alive around them, the sound of water over stone steady and calm. Then, with a tilt of her head, she added, "Show me how to fish, hunter. Before your cub decides we're both too slow to feed her."

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar gave a quiet huff of laughter through his helmet, his visor faintly catching the light as he looked toward the creek. Fish, she'd said — a simple word, but the way she'd said it, soft and almost teasing, settled something warm in his chest. For the first time in a long while, the morning didn't feel like a battlefield waiting to happen.

"Many ways to catch a fish," he said, voice carrying that familiar low rasp as he slung his pack off his shoulder. "Some use nets. Some wait with bait. Others…" He tilted his head toward Cupcake, who had already crouched low by the edge of the creek, tail flicking in anticipation. "Use sharper teeth."

As if on cue, the cub lunged — a splash, a blur of fur and spray — and came back up proudly with a small, thrashing fish clamped in her jaws. Rynar couldn't help the grin that ghosted his features beneath the helmet. "Like that."

He waded into the creek without hesitation, the cool water soaking up to his knees, rippling around the plates of his armor. The air smelled of river stone and wet moss — clean, grounding. He crouched slightly, scanning the water with a hunter's eye, every motion deliberate and practiced.

"You'll find patience matters more than aim," he said over his shoulder to Dean, his tone easy, almost playful. "The water moves, but if you watch it long enough, you learn its rhythm."

His hand went to the knife at his hip — the same blade she'd traded him for a blaster the day before, the steel catching the sunlight in a brief flash. He remembered that exchange clearly now: the unspoken trust, the way her eyes had met his when she offered it. A soldier's bargain turned into something far more human.

When a shadow darted just beneath the surface, he moved. The blade struck true, clean and fast — the motion almost too fluid to see. He lifted the knife, the fish writhing once before stilling, its scales glinting like silver glass in the light.

"Or," he said with a grin that reached his voice this time, "you just have to be quicker than breakfast."

He turned slightly toward her, the light playing across his visor as he added, "You next, vod'ika. See if the Diarchy taught you patience as well as precision."


Inside, he found himself watching her more than the water — the way the sun caught in her eyes, the ease in her shoulders. Maybe peace isn't meant to last, he thought, but if it keeps bringing mornings like this… maybe that's enough.

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean listened in silence, taking in every word as the creek rippled at their feet. Her eyes followed the movement of the water, the patterns shifting over stone and sunlight — the rhythm Rynar had spoken of.

When Cupcake proudly trotted back with her catch, Dean's mouth curved faintly. "Efficient," she murmured, voice low but laced with dry amusement. "Though I doubt I have her teeth."

She waded in after him, the cool water swirling around her boots. For a moment she simply stood there, watching, letting her breathing match the current. Her hand brushed the hilt of the knife at her thigh — the second of her pair — and she closed her eyes briefly.

Patience before precision.

The Force hummed faintly beneath her skin — not loud, not showy, but present, threading through the water, through her pulse, through the slow turn of the world. When she moved, it was smooth and silent: one breath, one motion, one throw.

The knife struck cleanly, splitting the surface with a sharp snap before embedding deep into the shallow bank. A silver flash beneath the ripples stilled.

Dean exhaled once, calm and satisfied, as she stepped forward to retrieve both blade and catch. The motion was methodical — graceful in its restraint. "Patience," she said, glancing up at him, "and timing. Two things I was trained never to underestimate."

She held up the fish, water trailing down her gloves, and let a small, genuine smile flicker across her face. "It seems the Diarchy's lessons are still… applicable."

Turning slightly, she added, her tone lighter now, "Though I think your cub's still faster. Perhaps you should start letting her lead the missions."

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar couldn't help the laugh that broke through — low, rich, and unguarded in a way that felt strange on his tongue after so many years of war. It startled a few birds from the branches above, but he didn't care. The sound of it made the world seem lighter for a moment.

"Careful," he said, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he waded through the water toward her, "Cupcake's going to start thinking she's in charge already. And I'm not sure I'd survive her leadership style."

He crouched slightly to rinse his blade, watching the current twist around the metal before sheathing it. The sight of Dean standing there — hair catching light, posture relaxed but ready, the faintest smile still on her face — held him still longer than he expected.

She was… different this morning. Not the steel-edged soldier from before, but something softer, freer. The kind of calm that didn't come from orders or routine — it came from choosing to exist, even for a moment, without duty's shadow looming overhead.

His chest tightened with a quiet, unfamiliar thought.

Could she ever see me that way?

He glanced down at the water, pretending to study the flow, though his thoughts were far from the river. He'd never expected anyone to look at him for more than his armor, his skill, or his history. Exile, historian, survivor — all titles, none of them particularly lovable. But the way she looked at him sometimes — steady, thoughtful — it made the possibility linger where it shouldn't.

"Seems you've got a natural touch for it," he said finally, voice light but carrying something deeper underneath. "Maybe I should've traded you that blaster sooner."

He stepped closer, holding his hand out for the fish she'd caught, his fingers brushing hers just slightly as he took it. "I'll handle the fire," he added, eyes lingering on hers a second longer than necessary before he turned toward the bank.


As he moved, Cupcake bounded ahead proudly with her own catch, tail flicking high. Rynar chuckled under his breath. "Two hunters and an overqualified cub," he muttered. "Not bad company."

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean's eyes lingered on her own hand for a heartbeat longer than she meant to — remembering the brief brush of his fingers when he'd taken the fish from her. It hadn't been accidental. Not entirely. And it had lasted just a fraction of a second too long for either of them to pretend it hadn't meant something.

She didn't pull away from him now. If anything, she stepped a little closer.

Rynar knelt at the bank, gathering stones and driftwood with that quiet, competent ease of his. Dean watched the line of his shoulders, the practiced rhythm of his movements. He did everything with purpose — even the small things. Especially the small things.

He wasn't just a soldier. He wasn't just a human. He was someone who looked out for her without trying to own her, someone who stayed awake through the night so she could rest, someone who laughed — genuinely — at her presence.

The Diarchy had given her structure. Rynar was giving her something she'd never been taught to want.

She crouched beside him, letting her knee brush his as she sank into the soft earth. "You already took the fish," she said quietly, an edge of dry humor softening her tone. "Which means I assume you want it cooked properly."

He turned slightly, visor catching the early light — and she held his gaze, letting the moment stretch just enough.

"I want you to teach me," she added, her voice low and even, but gentler than before. "Not because I lack the skill…" Her crimson eyes flicked to the fish now resting between them. "But because I want to do this right. With you."

The honesty surprised even her a little — but she didn't retreat from it. Instead, she folded her hands neatly, waiting, her posture composed but open.

Cupcake flopped dramatically beside Rynar's boot, tail thumping as if cheering her on.

Dean's mouth twitched into a faint, brief smile.

"So," she said softly, leaning just enough that her shoulder brushed his arm again — not by mistake this time. "Show me how a Mandalorian cooks breakfast."

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar froze for half a heartbeat — not on the outside, but deep in the quiet places inside his helmet where no one else could see.
She stepped closer.
She stayed close.
She asked to learn from him—not out of necessity, but because she wanted to. With him.

It sent a warm, unfamiliar pressure through his chest. One that felt suspiciously like hope. Dangerous, reckless hope. The kind he hadn't felt since before exile, before war, before he convinced himself no one would ever look at him and want anything more than his blade or his knowledge.

He lowered himself beside her, feeling the brush of her knee against his. It was small—barely a shift of space—but it burned through every layer of armor like a sunrise cutting through fog.
When he removed his helmet, the cool air swept against his face, his hair catching the light. He didn't hide behind steel this time. Not from her.

"Alright," he said softly, steadying his voice even as the fondness in his chest tried to climb into it. "First thing—fish cook fast. So you want it to cook evenly."
He drew the knife she had traded him that first day, the one he'd kept tucked inside his belt like it meant more than a simple exchange of weapons. The blade gleamed as he held the fish steady.

"You cut along the spine… like this."
A smooth, confident slice; precise, practiced.
The fish opened neatly, laid flat against the driftwood board.
"You butterfly it. Lets heat spread faster, keeps it tender."

Dean watched with that sharp, intent focus of hers — the kind that once would've made him tense. Now it made him want to keep talking, keep showing her things just to see that look again.
He placed the flattened fish across a pair of stones, adjusting them until they formed a clean little frame over the small fire.
"See? More surface area. Cooks quicker. Works on everything from game birds to—"

He stopped.

Because she'd leaned in just slightly more, crimson eyes warm, focused on him rather than the meal. Because her shoulder brushed his again. Because her presence sank into the morning like it belonged there.

And the next words slipped out unguarded, warm and quiet:
"—works on everything, love."

Silence.

Rynar's heart stopped dead.
He blinked once, breath catching in his throat, realization slamming into him too late. His chest tightened so sharply he had to look down at the fish to regain his voice.

"I— I mean—"
He cleared his throat, ears burning under his curls.
"The technique. The technique, love— Dean. I meant Dean."

But the damage was done.
And for the first time in… years… the great hunter, the exile, the Mandalorian who feared nothing—
looked genuinely flustered.

Cupcake made a delighted, chirping sound as if she understood every implication.

Rynar kept his eyes fixed on the fish, but his voice softened without permission.
"…Sorry. Didn't mean to— it just slipped out."

But his thoughts?
Could she like me? Could she really…?
Stars help me, if she does…

He dared one quick glance at her, his expression open and unguarded for the briefest heartbeat.
"…didn't sound wrong, though."

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean didn't recoil.
Didn't snap back.
Didn't slip behind the hard edges of her discipline like she usually did when something hit too close.

But she did go still — the precise, quiet kind of stillness Chiss children are trained into from the cradle. A stillness that meant she was feeling something she didn't quite have language for.

Her crimson eyes lifted to Rynar's, widening just slightly — not in alarm, but in startled awareness, as though the word he'd used had brushed against a part of her she had kept locked and untouched.

Slowly, deliberately, she reached out and touched the back of his hand.
A small gesture.
A controlled one.
But unmistakably intentional.

"Names matter," she said softly. "And I do not give mine lightly."

Her fingers withdrew, but not far — staying within the space between them that had become familiar, warm in a way she had not expected to want.

"You surprised me," she continued, her voice steady but softened in a rare, quiet way. "And… it didn't sound wrong. Just early."

A faint flush touched her cheeks when Cupcake chirped delightedly — and Dean shot the cub a look that should have been stern, but the ghost of a smile betrayed her.

She shifted closer, shoulder brushing his again — not by accident, not from stumbling, but because she chose to.

"I like learning from you," she said. "And I like being here. With you. I will move at the pace I understand… but I am not turning away."

Then — after a long, steady breath — she met his gaze fully.

"You used a name I haven't earned," she said quietly. "A name I have never given. Only people who matter get that."

The words settled between them like something sacred.

"My full name," she said at last, voice low and deliberate, "is Tenge'deanez'zoza."

The Chiss syllables were smooth but heavy with history — with exile, with silence, with meaning.

"I have not spoken it aloud in years," she admitted. "Only one other Chiss in the Diarchy has heard it. No humans. No Mandalorians."

Her hand brushed his again — gentle, intentional.

"I'm giving it to you."

Her eyes warmed — crimson softened by morning light and something she had never allowed herself to feel before now.

"You may call me Dean," she added, "or Deanez… if you want something closer to the truth."

A small breath, steady but warm.

"Now," she said, reclaiming a hint of humor as she glanced at the fish, "you can teach me before Cupcake decides she's the most qualified cook here."

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar froze—not with fear, but with the sharp, breathless awareness of a man realizing he'd crossed a line he didn't know he'd stepped toward.
Her touch on his hand anchored him. Gentle. Intentional. A choice.
And when she spoke her full name, the world seemed to quiet around the syllables, as if even the jungle understood the weight of what she was giving him.


"Tenge'deanez'zoza…" he repeated softly.
He tried again, slower, honoring every sound as best he could with a human tongue.
"Tenge'de…anez…'zoza."


He huffed a small, sheepish breath through his nose—the closest he ever came to being flustered.
"Beautiful," he said simply. "But I… think I'd better stick with Dean. At least until I learn not to butcher it."
His voice had gone lower, rougher at the edges, but warm. Very warm.


He shifted closer to her, their knees brushing as he spoke—not by accident, not by habit, but because the space between them felt wrong now if it wasn't shared.
"As for… what I called you," he added quietly, eyes dropping for a moment before lifting again to hers, "I wasn't thinking. It just… slipped out."


He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, helmet resting at his hip, the morning light catching the scar that cut across his jaw.
"But I didn't say it by mistake."
The admission hung between them—unguarded, earnest.


He let out a soft breath, something between a laugh and a sigh.
"That's the problem with being out here with you. I forget to watch my words."
A beat.
"Or maybe I just don't want to."


Before the moment could become too heavy, he nodded toward the fish and crouched beside the small firepit he'd begun to build.
"We cook it open-side down first," he explained, "lets the juices settle instead of boiling out."

He placed the fish over the fire, adjusting the coals with a stick so the heat hit just right. A faint sizzle rose, carrying the clean scent of river-water and fresh meat. Dean's knee brushed his as she watched, but this time the contact simply made him smile rather than stiffen.

"And then," he continued, flicking a glance her way with a hint of playful pride, "we let patience do the rest. Kind of your specialty, apparently."


Cupcake plopped down beside them, tail thumping proudly, clearly expecting praise for her earlier catch.
Rynar snorted, shaking his head fondly.
"Don't look at me like that," he told the pup. "You're getting the first bite anyway."


He glanced at Dean again, softer this time.
"Breakfast'll be done soon. River-caught, fire-cooked, and—" he smirked faintly, "—cub approved."

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean listened, crimson eyes steady on him as he repeated her name — carefully, respectfully, as though it were something fragile in his hands. Something precious. And for the first time in her life, it felt that way.

When he mangled the middle consonant, she didn't flinch. When he said it was beautiful, her breath caught — a tiny, involuntary pause. No one had ever said that before. No one had cared enough to try.

But when he admitted he hadn't said love by mistake… something inside her shifted.

Not fear. Not rejection. Not Chiss discipline snapping back into place.

Something quieter. Something she didn't yet have a name for.

She moved closer without thinking, her knee pressing lightly against his as he tended the fire. The contact was deliberate, chosen… warm.

"Love…" she echoed softly, almost tasting the unfamiliar shape of the word. "It is not something I understand yet."

She said it without shame, without apology — just fact, spoken with the same precision she used for weapons and tactics.

Her gaze softened, the faintest warmth weaving into her voice. "But… maybe one day, I will. With time. With… someone patient."

Her eyes lingered on him for a heartbeat — long enough to make her intention unmistakable. But she didn't push further, didn't promise what she didn't yet know how to feel.

Instead, she leaned in a fraction more, her shoulder brushing his lightly, grounding herself in the simple closeness.

"But for now," she added quietly, "I know I like this."

The fire. The warmth. The way he had said her name like it meant something.

"And I know I like you."

Cupcake flopped onto her side with a triumphant chirp as if taking full credit, and Dean huffed a soft, amused breath through her nose.

Her gaze drifted to the fish sizzling over the coals, then back to Rynar with a slight, earnest curve to her lips.

"Breakfast," she said softly. "River-caught, fire-cooked… and cub approved."

Then, even gentler — almost shy, but steady:

"And maybe… someday… I will learn the rest."

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar glanced down at Cupcake, who had sprawled beside the fire with a triumphant chirp, tail flicking in what could only be interpreted as approval. Then he looked at Dean, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

"Well," he said, flipping the fish carefully with the knife, the skin hissing over the coals, "if Cupcake approves, I suppose that counts as… official." His gaze lingered on Dean, playful warmth threading through his voice. "Though I have to admit… it's kind of nice to know someone actually likes me around here."

He caught her blinking, a faint curve of amusement crossing her features, and his smirk widened just a fraction. She actually likes me? The thought lingered unbidden, unpracticed, and not entirely unwelcome. That's… disarming. Not the way anyone else looks at me. Not like her.

Dean didn't answer right away, just raised a brow, the tiniest flicker of a smile playing at her lips — the one that always came after she'd been surprised.

"Careful," Rynar added, shaking his head with a laugh that was quiet but genuine. "At this rate, even the cub might start thinking I'm the favorite here."


He turned the fish again, the coals releasing a small flare of smoke, and glanced up at her once more. His voice softened slightly, teasing but steady. "River-caught, fire-cooked, cub-approved… and apparently… chiss-approved too. Lucky me."

Cupcake let out another satisfied chirp, curling closer as if to punctuate the moment. Rynar's shoulders relaxed, and he laughed quietly, the sound easy and unguarded. Yeah… I think I could get used to this. Being here. With her. Even if it's just over fish and a clever little pup.


"Alright," he said finally, tossing a glance toward the cooking fish, "breakfast is almost ready, and I think we all know who the real winner here is."

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean kept her posture steady, composed — the picture of calm Chiss confidence — but inside, Rynar's last remark caught on something she didn't fully understand.

Chiss-approved.
Lucky me.

Approved… how? Approved in what way? Emotionally? Socially? Personally?

Her mind turned over possibilities too quickly, too thoroughly — instincts sharpened by a lifetime of analyzing threat and intent, not affection. She didn't feel foolish, but she didn't fully understand the implications to respond without exposing the gap in her knowledge.

And she had no intention of looking inexperienced in front of him.

So she did what a trained operative would: she held her expression perfectly neutral… and let a single, intentional eyebrow rise.

"Lucky indeed," she said, tone smooth enough to hide the brief turmoil inside. She shifted closer and crouched beside him, letting the firelight catch the edge of her cheekbone. If she didn't understand the subtext, she could still meet it head-on — with controlled confidence.

Her gaze flicked to the cub, then back to him, letting humor soften the steel in her tone.
"And yes, Cupcake is clearly the real victor. She never fails to make her preferences known."

Cupcake chirped proudly, as if proving her point.

Dean allowed a small breath — not quite a laugh, but close. "I am still learning how… approval works," she admitted gently, though phrased carefully enough not to reveal uncertainty. "But I know this: I enjoy your company. And I enjoy being here."

She watched him for a moment, letting that honesty settle between them.

"If that is what you meant," she added quietly, "then yes. You have mine."

Her eyes dipped briefly to the fish sizzling over the fire, then lifted back to him — steady, certain, and warm without losing her precision.

"No need for luck."

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar didn't push, didn't tease further, didn't even speak right away.
He simply watched Dean as she answered — the slight tilt of her eyebrow, the way she held her composure even as something flickered beneath it, the careful precision she used to navigate meaning she wasn't entirely sure how to read.

It made him want to be gentle with her.
It also made him want to smile.

"I meant exactly that," he said quietly. "Your company. Your presence."
A beat. "And Cupcake's. Though she's far less subtle about things."

He nudged the half-cleaned section of bark he'd gathered earlier toward her. With a few deft movements, he slid the finished fish onto it, the skin crisped and the meat steaming. It looked surprisingly good for something cooked on a riverside fire.

He handed the makeshift plate to her with a small nod — not formal, just a simple offering.
"You first," he murmured. "You earned it."
Then he fixed his own portion onto another slab of bark, set it beside him, and finally flicked the remaining scraps toward Cupcake.

She snatched them mid-air with a triumphant chirp that echoed through the trees.
Rynar huffed a breath through his nose, shaking his head.
"Should've known she'd eat before we did," he muttered, affection softening every word. "Little huntress."

He sat back then, settling into the earth with an ease he rarely allowed himself. For a heartbeat, he went still — not tense, not guarded, but caught somewhere between the present and a memory that pulled at the corners of his expression.
His eyes warmed, distant for a moment in that quiet, unguarded way a man gets when the past surfaces gently rather than painfully.

"This…" he said, gesturing vaguely at the fire, the creek, her beside him, "it reminds me of something. Been a long time since I shared a meal like this. With someone who…"
He stopped himself, recalibrated, chose his words with care.
"Someone whose presence matters."

He glanced sideways at her — not demanding, not expecting, just acknowledging.
The nostalgia lingered in his features, softening the angles of his face.
"But this—" he added with a faint, steady smile, "—is better."

He didn't explain the memory.
Not yet.
Not unless she asked.
But he didn't hide the warmth of it either.

He lifted his makeshift plate, offering a small, almost ceremonial nod.
"To breakfast," he said quietly.
"And to company worth sitting with."

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean accepted the bark plate with both hands — not out of ceremony, but because she needed something to hold. Something grounding. Something that kept her from overthinking the way her chest tightened at someone whose presence mattered.

That word — matters — hit somewhere deep, somewhere unpracticed.

She lowered her gaze to the fish, not eating yet, simply studying the way steam curled from the crisped skin. It gave her a moment to steady her own reaction.

Human warmth was… dangerous.
Human closeness was… complicated.
Human kindness was something she'd been trained to distrust altogether.

And yet — she didn't feel any of those instincts telling her to pull away.

She took a small bite, composed and thoughtful, and only after swallowing did she speak.

"This is good," she said quietly. "Better than anything I expected."
A pause.
"Better than anything I am used to."

Her eyes lifted, meeting his with carefully controlled warmth.

"And company… does matter."

The word came early — too early by her standards — but she didn't flinch away from it. She let it sit, honest, even if it tasted unfamiliar on her tongue.

She shifted slightly closer, shoulder brushing his arm again — deliberate, but subtle enough not to appear bold. Just enough to let him know she was comfortable in a way she wasn't used to admitting.

"You are…"
She searched for a phrase that didn't give too much away.
"…easier to sit beside than most."

Cupcake chirped loudly at that, as if this were a dramatic confession. Dean aimed a flat look at the cub, but the faint curve at the corner of her mouth gave her away.

She took another slow bite, eyes drifting toward the creek — not avoiding him, just giving space for the moment to breathe.

"Do not mistake subtlety for hesitation," she added, voice low, almost a murmur. "I am… still learning. Humans are difficult to understand."

Her gaze flicked back to him — steady, frank, unafraid now.

"But you are making that easier."

It wasn't a declaration.
It wasn't a promise.
It was a truth — one she was allowing herself to acknowledge, inch by careful inch.

She lifted her makeshift plate in a small return gesture — understated, but sincere.

"To breakfast," she echoed softly.
"And to… company worth learning."

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar's hands stilled around his own bark plate as she spoke. Not because her words alarmed him — but because they landed in a place he'd long ago assumed would stay empty.
Company… matters.

He let out a slow breath through his nose, the kind that wasn't quite a sigh, wasn't quite a laugh — something in between, softened by how much her honesty affected him.

He took a bite of his own fish, chewed thoughtfully, then glanced sideways at her with the kind of look that lingered a little too long to be casual.
"That's good to hear," he murmured. "Because you are… considerably easier to sit beside than most too."

His tone carried quiet humor — but something gentler lived beneath it. Something he didn't try to hide.
Cupcake chirped triumphantly as if she'd orchestrated the entire exchange. Rynar tossed her the last charred scrap near the tail, and the cub snatched it mid-air with the dramatic flair of a champion.

"See?" he said, smirking. "Even the cub agrees. You pass every test she cares about."
He settled back on his palms, plate beside him, the fire warming one side of his face while the creek's cool breath brushed the other. For a moment, his gaze shifted somewhere far past the tree line — softened by a memory he didn't speak of.

"It's been a long time," he said quietly, "since I shared a fire with someone I actually wanted to sit beside."
The confession wasn't dramatic. Just true.
He rolled a small pebble between his fingers, a habit born of long, lonely nights, then let it fall gently into the dirt.

"And humans…" he continued, cutting a look her way with a faint smile, "are difficult to understand even to other humans. You're already doing better than most."
He angled his knee slightly so it brushed hers again — subtle, but unmistakably deliberate.
"And you're not subtle," he added, voice warming at the edges. "You're precise. There's a difference."

Then, after a small, meaningful pause:


"And your company makes the galaxy feel just a little less…"
He searched for the right word.
"…empty."
He didn't look away as he said it.
He let her decide what to do with the weight of it.

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean didn't answer him at first.

Not because she didn't hear him — she had heard every word — but because her instinctive reaction was sharp, startling, and entirely unfamiliar. Something in her chest tightened in a way she didn't have a name for. Chiss did not speak about emptiness. They did not claim any company as comfort. And they certainly didn't share fires with humans and make exceptions for them.

But she didn't move away.

If anything, her knee shifted a fraction closer, brushing his more deliberately now — a small contact, but intentional. Accepting.

Her eyes remained on the fire when she finally spoke, her voice low and even as always… but softened at the edges.

"You make understanding humans less… frustrating," she said quietly. "Most are loud. Unpredictable. You're…"
She paused, searching for a word that fit without revealing too much.
"…measured."

Another tiny pause.

"And honest."

Her gaze flicked to him then, crimson eyes steady, reflective — not shy, but thoughtful in a way that suggested she was cataloging him the same way she would catalog a new weapon or threat… except with far more care.

"When I sit beside others," she continued, "I am aware of every motion. Every noise. Every risk."
A beat.
"I am not thinking of those things right now."

For Dean, that wasn't a compliment — it was an admission of trust.

One she didn't give lightly. One he had earned.

She took another bite of fish, composed but slower this time, letting the warmth settle as she absorbed what he'd said. Empty. The galaxy can feel empty. She'd never considered it — she'd filled the quiet with duty, with missions, with masks.

But here…
Here, it didn't feel empty.

"Your company," she said softly, glancing at him again, "does not feel like a distraction. Or a liability."

Her knee brushed his again — the faintest shift, but deliberate.

"It feels… steady."

Cupcake chirped at that, tail thumping proudly as if she understood the weight of every word. Dean ignored the cub's commentary with practiced neutrality… though the slight curve at her mouth betrayed her.

She looked back at the fire, letting herself sit in the moment — in the warmth, in the closeness, in the quiet.

Then, in a voice almost too soft for a soldier to use:

"I do not make the galaxy feel less empty for anyone. So if you feel that with me…"
She inhaled once, slow and controlled.
"…then I am glad."

She didn't look away this time. Her eyes held his — steady, cautious, open enough — inviting him to share the silence beside her.

Slow burn. Careful steps. But undeniably closer.

Rynar Solde