Private Shadows of the Canopy

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar didn't speak right away.

He couldn't.
Dean's words hit him with the quiet force of a blaster bolt — not loud, not dramatic, but precise and perfectly placed. Every sentence was a piece of armor she laid at his feet, not removed but deliberately opened for him to see inside. Trust from a Chiss wasn't given; it was granted, earned, razor-edged and rare.

So he held her gaze.
Really held it.

The fire reflected in her crimson eyes, and something in his expression softened — the lines of strain around his jaw easing, the guarded tension he always wore settling into something gentler. His knee stayed against hers, unflinching, steady as she'd called him.

"You're…" he began, voice low, nearly rough with sincerity he didn't bother to hide, "more than you think you are. And far more than most people ever let themselves be."
His fingers twitched — like he almost reached for her hand, then stopped, respecting the space but unable to mask the impulse.
"And for the record," he added with a faint, uneven smile, "I stopped thinking of you as a risk a long time ago."

For a moment, it seemed like the world narrowed to just the two of them — firelight, warmth, the shared quiet between two people who rarely gave such things.

And then—
A soft snuffling sound broke the stillness.
Rynar blinked, turning just in time to see Cupcake, with the careful stealth of a master thief, tugging on something at his belt.
"Hey— what are you—"

The cub gave one decisive yank.
Rynar's entire belt slipped free, jerky sticks attached, and the tiny predator took off into the underbrush with the triumphant screech of a victorious warlord.
"Cupcake!" Rynar sputtered, scrambling upright. "That is leather— give that back!"

The cub vanished into the brush like a furry blue comet.
Rynar stood there for a beat, belt gone, dignity questionable, hair slightly mussed from the sudden movement.
He glanced back at Dean — and the look she gave him, that subtle upward curve of her mouth, made warmth rush through him all over again.

"…I'm going to get that back," he said, trying to sound authoritative and failing because she was absolutely enjoying this.
He took two steps after the cub, stopped, looked back once more — something fond and unguarded in his eyes.
"Don't go anywhere," he said softly.

Then he jogged into the trees, muttering under his breath about "traitorous small beasts" and "jerky is not worth this humiliation," as Cupcake's chirping laughter echoed somewhere ahead.

A moment broken — but not lost.
Because he'd come back.
And she'd be there when he did.

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean didn't laugh — not in the loose, unrestrained way humans often did — but something in her expression softened the moment Rynar disappeared into the underbrush. She watched him go with a quiet intensity, her crimson eyes following the arc of his movement as Cupcake made off with his belt like a tiny marauder. The Mandalorian's muttered curses faded among the trees, accompanied by the occasional chirrup of triumph from the cub, and though the scene should have been ridiculous, Dean found herself holding still in its wake, warmth blooming in her chest in a way she wasn't ready to analyze.

She lowered herself beside the fire again, her motions smooth and controlled as always, but the stillness she settled into wasn't her usual guarded stance. Her posture relaxed: shoulders easing, elbows resting lightly on her knees, the tension she carried like a second skin quietly unwinding. She set the makeshift plate aside and let her fingers brush the ground where Rynar's knee had been pressed against hers moments before. The faint warmth lingering in the soil surprised her more than she wanted to admit. It was small, barely perceptible, but it was proof of something she wasn't accustomed to feeling — a presence she didn't want to vanish the moment he stepped away.

His words lingered with her longer than the warmth in the ground. Don't go anywhere. It wasn't an order. It wasn't a command from a superior. It was something simple, almost human in its ease — something offered, not demanded. And somehow, the simplicity made it resonate even more deeply. She had spent so much of her life being told where to stand, where to fight, who to become. But this… this was the first time in years someone had asked her to stay — not because of duty, not because of skill, but because he wanted her there.

She inhaled slowly, letting the forest air cool her lungs, grounding herself in the present. A Chiss trained for war should have used the moment to scan the perimeter, map exits, and measure threats. She should have slipped seamlessly back into survival mode, the state she lived in more than she slept. But she didn't. Her attention remained on the fire, on the delicate crackle of burning wood, on the way the flames reflected in her own luminous eyes.

And on the place beside her, Rynar would return to.

For a moment, she allowed her mind to roam back into the last hour — the warmth of his voice when he spoke her name, the steady confidence of his hands teaching her to cook, the unfiltered, unguarded smile he'd given her when she shared her complete Chiss lineage. She didn't know what emotion was stirring inside her. Love was a foreign concept — one she had never touched, never explored, never needed. But interest… curiosity… perhaps something deeper beginning to shift beneath the surface — those she could name. She felt drawn to him in a way she didn't understand, but not in a way that frightened her. For the first time she could remember, that feeling felt more stabilizing than dangerous.

Cupcake's chirping echoed faintly through the trees again, followed by Rynar's exasperated, "Give it back, little traitor—!" Dean felt her lips curve once more, a soft, subtle smile she would have hidden from anyone else. Here, in the quiet between the river and the fire, she let it form freely, the warmth of it settling in her chest like something she'd forgotten she could feel.

She stayed exactly where she was, knees angled toward the path he'd taken, posture open in a way that surprised her. She wasn't going anywhere.

And when he returned through the brush, belt in hand or not, she would be here — steady, waiting, willing to take whatever slow steps came next between them. Because for the first time in her life, she had chosen to stay beside someone. And the choice felt right.

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar stepped back through the brush, belt slightly askew and one hand tugging at the loose strap while muttering lowly under his breath. Cupcake trotted ahead, jerky sticking from the corner of her mouth, tail high, triumphant as if she'd just claimed the galaxy itself.

"Little… traitor," he grumbled, voice threaded with irritation and amusement in equal measure. He shook his head, letting a small, crooked smile tug at his lips as he watched her — the way she'd stayed seated, composed, quietly observing the small chaos. "Honestly… how do you even—never mind."

He crouched beside the dying fire, hands resting on his knees, belt adjusted as best he could with one side still slightly off. The morning sun glanced off the armor at his shoulder, catching the faint angles of his jaw softened by the memory of laughter and warmth that lingered in the space between them.

Cupcake chirped triumphantly again, tail flicking like a banner of victory. Rynar exhaled softly, rubbing the back of his neck, and his eyes found Dean's — steady, observant, and still somehow grounding.

"You're… still here," he said quietly, not a question, not a command. Just a recognition.

Her presence, calm and deliberate, filled the space he'd never thought he'd want anyone in. He let his gaze linger, letting the brief pause stretch without needing to fill it. The cub settled with the spoils of her victory, but his attention remained on Dean, the quiet acknowledgment in his expression unmistakable.


"Good," he murmured, almost to himself. "Because I… wouldn't have it any other way."

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean's breath caught—just barely—when Rynar emerged from the brush again. The belt was undeniably crooked, one strap twisted, the buckle a few degrees off-center in a way that should have been inconsequential. But to a Chiss raised on symmetry, precision, and order…it was a quiet assault on every instinct she possessed.

Her eyes flicked to it immediately.
Then back to him.
Then to it again.

A tiny, almost imperceptible frown pulled at the corner of her mouth. It's wrong, her mind supplied instantly. Crooked. Unbalanced. Improper alignment. Her fingers twitched once against her knee—reflexive, nearly invisible. The urge to fix it surged through her like muscle memory.

And then, just as quickly, the other thought came.
Fixing it meant touching him.
Standing close—too close.
Putting her hands on his armor, his belt, his hip—intimate proximity she wasn't sure she was ready to navigate. A gesture that, among her people, meant trust or familiarity… or something deeper.

She held still, spine straightening slightly as she fought the internal war.
Fix the belt.
Don't embarrass yourself.
It's crooked.
You would have to stand right in front of him. He would feel your hands.
Fix it.
You're not ready for that much closeness.
It's crooked.
Leave it.
You can't leave it.

Her fingers twitched again.

Rynar's quiet, almost relieved "You're… still here" pulled her attention back upward. The way he looked at her—steady, softened, something warm, Unarmored in his eyes—disrupted the battle long enough for her to breathe again.

She swallowed, gathering herself with the subtle discipline drilled into her from childhood. When she finally spoke, her tone was calm, controlled, but gentled in ways she didn't fully understand yet.

"I said I would stay," she replied, voice low but warm. "I do not break my word."

Her gaze flicked—one last time—to the crooked belt. She exhaled, subtly, almost resigned, and stood. Steps precise, slow, deliberate. She paused before him, weighing the moment carefully.

Then, with a soft steadiness she didn't let herself question, she reached forward and rested her fingertips lightly against the lower edge of his armor. Her touch was feather-light, almost hesitant.

"Your belt…" she murmured, eyes narrowing just a fraction. "It is… misaligned."

She didn't ask permission.
But she did wait—just one breath—to see if he pulled away.

When he didn't, she lifted both hands with delicate precision, slowly and carefully adjusting the strap. The closeness—his warmth, the faint brush of her knuckles against his hip, the soft scrape of armor beneath her touch—tightened her chest in a way she hadn't felt before.

A new awareness.
A new boundary crossed.
Chosen.

She stepped back once the belt sat perfectly straight, hands falling to her sides with practiced restraint—though her pulse beat harder than she'd admit.

"There," she said softly, a small, almost shy exhale escaping her. "Better."

It wasn't just about the belt.
It was her choosing closeness.
Choosing him, in the smallest, safest way she could allow herself.

Cupcake chirped approvingly.
Dean ignored her completely.

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar's gaze followed her hands the entire time, scattered thoughts momentarily stilling as he realized what she'd done. His belt—crooked thanks to a certain triumphant cub—was now aligned perfectly, and with it, a quiet, unspoken order returned to the small chaos of their morning.


He let out a soft, almost sheepish breath, the kind that hovered between a chuckle and relief. His helmet tucked under one arm, he offered her that quirky, uneven smile she had come to recognize—the one that never quite reached perfection, but carried sincerity in every tilt.


"Thank you," he murmured, voice low, just above the rustle of leaves and the faint ripple of the creek. "I… didn't even notice it had gone askew until now. My mind's been half on that mischievous little thief and half on… well, not noticing half the things I should."


His gaze flicked down ever so slightly, almost subconsciously, to the pulse racing at her neck—subtle, steady, yet undeniably present. He noticed the faint swell under her skin, the tiny lift that betrayed her controlled composure. It was a small thing, almost imperceptible, but his senses had always been sharp, trained to catch the littlest cues. His chest tightened faintly, awareness sharpening.


"You have a talent for… restoring order, it seems," he added quietly, voice roughened with something softer than usual, "and for not letting me look like a complete fool in front of my own cub."


Cupcake, perched a few feet away with a jerky-stuffed maw, chirped again, tail swishing in clear triumph. Rynar glanced at the cub, then back to Dean, letting the faint humor in his tone mingle with quiet appreciation.


"You've done more than fix a belt, Dean," he said, voice low but warm, eyes flicking once more to the subtle rise and fall of her pulse. "You… helped me notice something I wasn't even aware I'd lost. And for that…" He let the pause linger, a crooked, sincere smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "…I owe you more than thanks."


He shifted slightly closer, the proximity deliberate. Sunlight glinted across the edges of his armor, but all his attention stayed on her—on the tiny, human details that others might miss, on the steady warmth she brought into his world without even trying.

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean stilled the moment his attention dipped to her throat.

Not visibly.
Not dramatically.
Just enough that the air around her seemed to tighten.

Because that look of his—sharp, aware, too perceptive for her comfort—told her he'd seen the one thing she hadn't meant to reveal. The faint increase in her pulse. The tiny physiological betrayal her discipline hadn't suppressed quickly enough.

Her chin lifted a fraction, not in defensiveness, but in the subtle Chiss instinct to reassert control of her outward presence. Yet when Rynar stepped closer, when the warmth of him edged into her personal space, she didn't retreat.

She didn't want to.

His words—soft, roughened, sincere—settled over her in quiet, unfamiliar ways. You've done more than fix a belt.
You helped me notice something I wasn't aware I'd lost.
I owe you more than thanks.

It was too much and not enough at the same time.

Dean drew a slow breath, steady but gentle, letting the slightest flicker of vulnerability show in her eyes before smoothing her expression back into something composed.

"You do not owe me anything," she said quietly, the usual precision in her voice softened at the edges. "I corrected a misalignment. That is all."

A beat.
A subtle shift of her weight toward him—not away.

"But…" she added, gaze steady on his, "I chose to correct it. It was not an obligation."

Her hand drifted—briefly, lightly—to tap the now-straightened buckle, fingers grazing the place where armor met fabric. The touch lasted only a second, but it was intentional.

"You would not have asked," she continued, voice low, "and I would not have offered… if I did not trust you."

Another small, controlled breath. Enough to calm the quickened rhythm he'd already noticed.

"And I am… learning," she admitted, the quiet honesty surprising even herself. "How to stay. How to be close. How to let someone stand in my space without preparing for a threat."

Her red eyes lifted to meet his entirely, unflinching.

"So if anything was… restored this morning," she said softly, "it was not only a belt."

Her gaze flicked briefly toward Cupcake—who lay in the grass chewing triumphantly on stolen jerky—before returning to him, warmer now.

"You said my presence matters," she whispered. "Yours… does too."

A pause.
Not to retreat—
but to let the truth settle between them.

Then, with quiet, deliberate care, she stepped half a pace closer—close enough that their forearms brushed, close enough that sharing space didn't feel like an accident anymore.

"I am not ready to… name what this is," she said gently, "but I am not turning away from it either."

Her pulse steadied.

But she didn't look away.

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar's eyes softened as he took in the careful way she moved closer, the slight, deliberate brush of her forearm against his. Every movement of hers spoke volumes he didn't need words to interpret. He could feel the weight of her trust, the quiet acknowledgment that he was no longer just another presence in the field — he was someone she allowed herself to be near. And that… that was rare.

He lifted one hand slowly, deliberately, palm open and steady, letting her choose to take it or not. The gesture carried no command, no expectation — only an invitation. "Dean," he said, voice low, the rasp of sincerity threading through it, "even if you're not ready to name it… we can explore it together."

As he waited, his mind wandered briefly, unbidden. I haven't felt this seen in… years. Maybe since I was a boy learning to move quietly through the alleys of home, where every misstep could mark you. Where every glance had to be measured. He shook the thought away, focusing on the here, the now — on her. On the way she had chosen, however cautiously, to share a fragment of herself.

Her red eyes held his gaze unwavering, and he noticed the subtle flutter of pulse at her neck, the quiet rhythm that mirrored the careful steadiness of her movements. He had seen the smallest betrayals of the body before, the tells soldiers try to hide — but seeing her in this way… it was something different. Vulnerability, yes. But also choice. She was choosing him. Choosing me, he thought, and the realization carried a warmth he hadn't expected to feel so vividly.

"I haven't felt this… seen," he admitted quietly, almost to himself, almost a confession. "Since I was a wee lad. Since before the galaxy taught me to hide behind armor and instinct. But with you…" His gaze flicked to her hands, the way they rested lightly at her sides, the careful way she balanced composure with something gentler, "…I don't have to hide anymore."

He could feel the small tremor in his chest at the weight of it all — the sudden, startling clarity that someone's trust could be grounding. That someone could step into the space he had long barricaded with habit, with armor, with caution, and simply… stay. He swallowed the dry lump that had formed in his throat and shifted slightly closer, offering a small, uneven smile — the one reserved for moments of private vulnerability, rare as starlight.

The creek murmured beside them, carrying the cool, fresh scent of water over stone. The firelight flickered across his armor, catching in the scratches and scars he didn't bother to hide from her. And for the first time in a long while, he allowed himself to simply be present — no strategy, no planning, no pretense. Just this: the warmth of the fire, the scent of the river, and the faint brush of her near him.

He didn't speak again immediately. He didn't need to. His hand remained outstretched, offering presence without expectation, patience without pressure. A small, quiet promise, held in the curve of a gesture: whatever this was — whatever they would eventually call it — he would meet it with her, step by careful, deliberate step.


And as he watched her consider it, as he measured her hesitation and her choice, he couldn't help but think, So much of the galaxy is cold, dangerous, and unforgiving. But here… with her, it might just be worth learning how to trust again.

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean's hesitation was there — but only for a breath.

Not the rigid, defensive pause she reserved for strangers.
Not the cold calculation she used in missions.
Not the wary tension she held around humans.

Just… a breath.
A moment of measuring the shift inside herself.

Then her hand moved.

Slowly, deliberately, as though navigating new terrain — but without fear.

Her fingers slipped into his palm with a controlled certainty, the contact warm against his roughened skin. Her grip wasn't timid or fragile, but neither was it forceful; it was steady, intentional, an answer without embellishment.

Her crimson gaze lifted to meet his, and for the first time, there was no mask of discipline between them — no disguise of duty, no armor of distance. Just the quiet honesty she rarely allowed anyone to witness.

"I know," she said softly.

Two words — simple, but threaded with more truth than most people spoke in hours.

"You never had to hide with me," she continued, thumb brushing once over the back of his hand in a gesture so small it almost wasn't there. "Not since the first night by the fire. You were… real. Not guarded. Not pretending."

A faint breath escaped her — not shaky, not uncertain, but as if finally acknowledging something she'd been carrying in silence.

"And I never hid from you either," she admitted, her voice still low but warmer now, "not the parts I don't understand, not the parts that scare me, not the parts I've never shown anyone else."

She shifted slightly closer, closing the last fraction of space between their knees, her shoulder brushing his arm — not by accident this time, not by timid curiosity, but by choice.

"I don't give trust easily," she added, looking down briefly at their joined hands as if memorizing the shape of the moment. "But I gave it to you."

Her eyes rose again, steady, open.

"And I'm not taking it back."

The creek murmured behind them.
The fire crackled.
Cupcake snorted in her sleep.

And Dean — careful, disciplined, precise Dean — held his hand as though it was something worth protecting.

"Whatever this is," she said finally, "we can learn it. Together."

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar felt the steady warmth of her fingers in his palm and let his own curl around hers, holding her hand with deliberate care. The simple contact anchored him in a way he hadn't realized he needed, reminding him that she was here, present, and choosing to be.

He shifted slightly, easing one hand to rest lightly at her hip, thumb hooking into her belt almost unconsciously — the same motion he used on his own armor, instinctive, habitual — but now carrying a different weight. It grounded him in the moment, in her.


His gaze lingered on her face, taking in the smallest details: the subtle lift of her brow, the soft curve of her lips, the way the day light danced in her crimson eyes. Every tiny nuance tugged at something inside him he hadn't felt in years — a mixture of awe, wonder, and a quiet, unspoken longing.

"You've given me more than trust," he murmured, his voice low and rough at the edges but threaded with a rare softness. "You've given me presence… something I haven't known since I was a boy sitting by a fire with nothing but the stars for company."

He paused, letting the words settle between them, and leaned in slightly, close enough that the heat of his face brushed hers. The motion was careful, deliberate — inviting, but respectful.

His lips hovered near hers, close enough to feel her breath mingle with his own. He didn't press, didn't close the distance fully. Instead, he let the moment linger, a quiet question in the space between them.

Cupcake, sitting a short distance away, tilted her head, ears perked, and let out a single, derpy chirp. Her tail thumped in slow, deliberate approval — or perhaps sheer curiosity — as if marking the moment as her own.


Rynar smiled softly, letting his other hand rest lightly on the small of her back, keeping them steady in the quiet hush. The forest whispered around them, the creek murmured, and the fire flickered — and neither of them needed to speak to acknowledge the intimacy that existed in the space just between them.

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean felt him lean in — steady, deliberate, a question asked in breath rather than words. Something inside her loosened at that closeness, something she hadn't realized she'd been guarding so fiercely. She didn't retreat. She didn't freeze. Instead, her hand moved on its own, rising with a softness she'd never practiced but somehow understood intuitively.

Her fingertips brushed his cheek first — feather-light, cautious, as though testing the temperature of a new world. The warmth of his skin surprised her; it softened something in her chest she didn't know existed. Her fingers drifted upward, tracing the line of a scar that cut across his cheek. She followed it slowly, reverently, reading it like a piece of history written in his skin. Every contour felt intentional, lived-in, earned, and her breath caught with a quiet, unfamiliar ache.

Rynar's breath tightened — barely, but enough for her to feel it. Her crimson eyes lifted to meet his, searching for any sign that she had misstepped, crossed a line, trespassed where she shouldn't. Instead, she found openness. Patience. A quiet invitation that held no pressure — the steady assurance that he wanted her to choose, not react.

So she did.

Dean closed the final inch and pressed her lips to his in a careful, tentative kiss. It wasn't practiced. It wasn't polished. It was soft, hesitant, shaped by caution and curiosity alike. A kiss that asked is this allowed? With every heartbeat, she found her answer in the gentle way he returned it. Her hand slid from his cheek to cradle his jaw, her thumb brushing the scar she'd traced, grounding her in the moment.

When she drew back, it was only by a breath — not to retreat, but to see him. To confirm that he was still there, still steady, still meeting her where she stood. His warmth radiated against her skin, and she let herself lean into it, into him.

Then she moved closer, slow and deliberate, letting the space between them close entirely as she lay her head against his chest.

The shift was careful, almost shy — but certain. His armor was warm from the sun, but beneath that, she felt the steady thrum of his heartbeat. Strong. Grounding. Real. Her hand, still curled along his jaw, relaxed as she let her cheek rest against the firm plane of his chest, her breath brushing the fabric of his undersuit.

"Rynar…" she said softly, not questioning, not uncertain. Just speaking to him — anchoring herself in the reality of what they had just shared.

His scent, the faint hint of metal and earth and something uniquely him, settled around her like a quiet shield. She closed her eyes briefly, feeling the rise and fall of his breath beneath her cheek, letting the moment hold her with a gentleness she had never allowed herself to experience.

"That was…" She searched for words, for language she had never been taught but suddenly needed. "…right."

Not rushed.
Not overwhelming.
Not confusing.

Just right.

She didn't move away. She didn't let go of his hand. She stayed against him, resting her weight lightly on his chest, her body relaxed in a way she'd never allowed it to be around anyone else. The fire crackled beside them, the creek murmured, and Cupcake settled down nearby as though recognizing that something important had quietly shifted.

For the first time in her life, Dean let herself be held without needing to justify it.

And she stayed.

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar's hands stayed gentle, one resting lightly on her hip, the other still holding hers, fingers interlaced in a quiet claim neither of them had needed words for. He let the moment stretch, letting the warmth settle between them, the way sunlight pooled on the forest floor, steady and calm. Cupcake, for her part, had rolled onto her back a few feet away, watching with a derpy, approving tilt of her head, but the cub's presence barely registered—they were wrapped in their own small orbit of quiet and trust.

He shifted slightly, leaning back against the sturdy trunk of a tree, Dean moving with him so that her head now rested against the curve of his shoulder. The heat of the fire was distant; here, under the canopy of green, it was the warmth of each other that mattered. Rynar lowered his head gently, pressing the top of it to hers in a soft, lingering touch. A kiss—not on her lips, but on the crown of her head, a quiet reassurance and an acknowledgment of the trust she had shown him.

His gaze lifted slowly, and his hand rose to cradle her chin with the gentlest firmness. "Look at me," he murmured, voice rough but tender, the kind of command softened by care rather than force. Her crimson eyes met his, wide and unguarded, reflecting a mix of curiosity, trust, and something that neither of them had fully named yet.

For a long, deliberate moment, he held her there, drinking in the steadiness she had allowed him to see, the vulnerability she rarely let show. No words were necessary; the pause said enough. When he finally leaned back slightly, he kept his hands where they were, letting her stay close. He rested his forehead lightly against hers, the world around them narrowing to the firelight, the rustle of the creek, and the quiet thrum of two hearts beginning to understand one another.


Cupcake let out a small chirp, stretching lazily, but it was inconsequential—their own orbit held, intimate and patient, unhurried and entirely their own.

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean went still beneath the soft weight of his touch—not with fear, not with shock, but with a quiet, controlled intake of breath that tightened her chest in a way she couldn't fully decipher. Her head remained against his shoulder even as he guided her chin up, and when her crimson eyes met his, her pulse gave one sharp, betraying jump. She didn't pull away. Didn't retreat into formality or discipline. She held his gaze, letting him see her in a way she had never allowed before.

The closeness felt strange and steady all at once; unfamiliar yet grounding. His forehead resting against hers drew a subtle ache from somewhere deep inside her—a memory of childhood nights when warmth meant safety, and she had forgotten what either felt like. Now, pressed gently against him, she recognized it. Not fully. Not fearlessly. But honestly.

Her fingers tightened slightly where they remained laced with his, the motion deliberate and careful. With her other hand, she let her palm settle on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his breathing beneath armor and fabric. The slow, human cadence soothed something frayed inside her. She exhaled through her nose, controlled but faintly tremulous, as though her body knew more of what it felt than she was prepared to name.

"You… do not have to hold me like this," she murmured, her voice low but absent of her usual edge. It was a statement, not a rebuke—soft enough that he would hear the truth beneath it. Her thumb brushed the fabric near his collar, barely a movement. "But I… am not asking you to stop."

She let the silence linger, letting the warmth between them settle as naturally as the drifting morning light. Cupcake's small chirp reached her ears, but she didn't turn toward it. She remained where she was—pressed against him, held by him, steady in the circle of his arm.

Her eyes lowered briefly, lids half-drawn, before lifting to meet his again. The faint hint of vulnerability wasn't hidden this time; she allowed it.

"This is new to me," she admitted quietly. "All of it." A breath. "But it feels… safe."

Not perfect. Not easy. But safe.

Her head shifted just enough for her cheek to rest fully against his chest, her voice muffled slightly by the soft fabric. "Stay like this. Just… a little longer."

And for the first time she could remember, Dean didn't question the request she had made—or the person she had made it to.

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar felt the weight of the moment settle around them like the fading warmth of the sun. Dean pressed against him, steady and soft, and for the first time in what felt like years, he allowed himself to just be—to hold someone without thinking about duty, strategy, or the next mission.

He shifted slightly so her head rested more comfortably against his chest, and in the quiet, he glanced down at his wrist gauntlet. The display flickered, showing the evac zone still within reach, the coordinates slowly ticking closer to sundown. Tomorrow, the extraction would arrive. Not far. Not urgent. But even knowing that, even with the mission still waiting, he felt no need to move.

He let out a slow, almost imperceptible breath, feeling the rise and fall of her cheek against him. She's here. She's safe. And for now, that's enough.

"I checked," he murmured softly, his voice low enough that only she could hear. "Evac's not far. We'll reach it by sundown tomorrow." He paused, tilting his head so her forehead brushed his. "But… that can wait. I want to hold you as long as I can—if it makes you happy."

His words weren't grand. No promises or proclamations—just quiet truth. He let his thumb brush lightly over her knuckles, feeling the subtle tension that had eased since she'd laced her fingers with his.

He thought about the hours they had shared: the fire, the creek, the quiet moments of trust that had grown between them. The world beyond the trees could wait. The missions, the orders, the constant rhythm of survival—they could wait. Right now, the soft thrum of life beneath his hand and the steady warmth against his chest were all that mattered.

Rynar leaned back against the trunk of a tree, letting the last rays of sunlight filter through the leaves, casting gold across their armor and her hair. He closed his eyes for a brief heartbeat, savoring it—the simplicity of her presence, the shared silence, the unspoken understanding that stretched between them.


And when he opened them again, he let his gaze rest fully on her, quietly patient, waiting to see if she would simply lean in a little closer, if she would let herself stay as he did—safe, steady, and undeniably present.

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean didn't move at first.

She stayed exactly where she was—head rising and falling with his breath, her hand resting steady against his chest, fingers still curled around his. The subtle shift of his arm so she fit more comfortably against him drew a faint, almost imperceptible hum from her throat, something small and involuntary that she would never willingly admit to making.

Evac by tomorrow.
A mission waiting.
A world waiting.

All of it felt distant.

His voice wasn't commanding, wasn't coaxing—just quiet, honest. Words meant for her alone. And she heard them with a clarity that made something warm and unfamiliar bloom behind her ribs.

She breathed in slowly, letting the scent of sun-warmed armor, forest earth, and smoke settle her. There had been too many mornings where she'd woken alone, too many nights where she'd given trust only to have it torn away. But here… this wasn't fragile. It wasn't a danger to prepare for. It was stillness—slow, steady, and strangely safe.

Her fingers shifted where they rested against his chest, tightening just enough to let him feel her response even before she spoke. She tilted her face slightly, letting her cheek settle more firmly against him, her crimson eyes half-lidded as the warmth from his body seeped into her armor and bone.

"I am… happy," she murmured, her voice barely above breath but unmistakably sincere. "Here. Like this. With you."

A pause. Measured, but not cold.

"If evac is tomorrow," she continued softly, "then today is ours. And I intend to… enjoy it."

The admission felt strange on her tongue—foreign, even. She'd never spoken happiness aloud before. Never named it, never allowed herself to. But leaning into him now, she didn't feel exposed. She felt held.

She shifted closer—just slightly—bringing her legs in beside his so the line of their bodies rested against one another, steady and warm. Her free hand lifted and rested lightly above his heart, fingers splayed as if confirming he was real, that this moment was real.

"You do not have to give me anything," she added, quieter now, almost contemplative. "Not protection. Not comfort. Not… this."

Her thumb brushed a slow arc against the fabric over his sternum.

"But you choose to. And I…"
A breath—still steady, but softer.
"…I like that."

It was not a confession of love.
She didn't understand love yet.

But it was the truth.
And for now, that was enough.

Dean let her eyes drift closed, the forest hum surrounding them, her voice one last murmured thread as she settled fully into the circle of his arms:

"So hold me a little longer. I won't mind."

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar's gaze softened as he considered her words, the quiet gravity in her tone pulling a rare, unguarded smile across his face. He shifted slightly, settling fully onto the soft grass, letting the tension in his back ease as he moved. The firelight flickered across the planes of his armor, but he didn't mind the heat or the rigid weight any longer—not with her nestled against him.

"Closer," he murmured, almost to himself, as he began loosening the straps of his upper body armor. Each movement was deliberate, careful, a silent promise of comfort without losing control. The armor clinked softly as he eased it off, setting it aside without a word, leaving only his undersuit between them.

He adjusted his posture so Dean could rest fully against him, pulling her gently onto his lap. One arm wrapped securely around her, the other resting lightly over her back, thumb brushing in tiny, reassuring circles. Her warmth pressed into him, steady and grounding, and he let himself notice every subtle shift—the small rise and fall of her chest, the weight of her head against his shoulder, the quiet brush of her hair against his neck.

Cupcake, completely satisfied after her earlier heist, had curled up across Rynar's shoulders and upper back, snoring softly. Her presence was a gentle, ridiculous contrast to the intimacy of the moment, and Rynar couldn't help the quiet chuckle that slipped past him.

"Better?" he asked quietly, voice low, warm. Not because he needed an answer, but because he wanted her to feel the space he was offering her.

His gaze found hers again, lingering in the crimson depths, reading every subtle twitch and hesitation. He brushed a thumb across the side of her face before leaning in, pressing a gentle, almost-questioning kiss to the top of her head. It wasn't rushed, wasn't demanding—just a quiet mark of care, leaving the space open for her to respond however she chose.

Rynar exhaled slowly, letting the warmth of her body settle fully against his, a grounding in both space and trust. The forest murmured around them, the fire crackling softly, and for a few long moments, the galaxy, the mission, the world beyond this clearing—all of it—faded into a distant hum.

"Then we stay like this," he murmured, voice husky but steady. "As long as you want."

His hand tightened slightly on hers, and he leaned back against the sturdy trunk of a tree, letting Dean settle fully, the quiet rhythm of their shared heartbeat becoming a small, perfect anchor in the wilderness.


Cupcake snorted and twitched in her sleep, a soft, comic punctuation to the serenity surrounding them. And for the first time in a long while, Rynar let himself simply be—present, steady, and entirely here, holding someone who had chosen to stay.

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean stayed exactly where she was—wrapped in the warmth of Rynar's arms, her head rising and falling with each slow breath he took. The steady pull of his hand at her hip, the gentle pressure of his fingers interlaced with hers, and the quiet thrum of his heartbeat beneath her ear created a sense of calm she had never once experienced in her life. The forest around them murmured, Cupcake snored contentedly across Rynar's back, and the morning air carried the smell of river water and embers. For a moment—one precious, stolen moment—she allowed herself to exist there, not as Sable Talon, not as a Diarchy operative, not as a Chiss exile or prodigy, but as a person who had found safety in someone's arms.

But as the warmth settled deeper, the thoughts she usually kept locked beneath layers of control began to uncoil. Should she return to the Diarchy? The question pulsed like a cold blade sliding under her ribs. Return to duty, return to the relentless rhythm of missions and reports, return to the structure that had shaped her entire life. It was the path she knew—the only one she'd ever been allowed to walk. Yet sitting in Rynar's lap, cradled against him with the soft weight of his touch grounding her, the certainty of that path began to blur. She wondered, fully and frighteningly, what it would mean to stay with him. Not just until extraction. Not just through this mission. But in a way that was permanent and real. The idea was terrifying. And strangely beautiful.

Her fingers curled against the fabric of his undersuit, clinging a little without meaning to. She imagined mornings like this one, imagined sharing fires, battles, quiet nights beneath the stars, imagined Cupcake grown and still ridiculous, imagined Rynar's laugh near her ear, imagined a life where she was not alone. But reality had sharp teeth, sharper than any dream. Duty demanded her return. Loyalty was carved into her like a second spine. And the Diarchy—her people, her training, her purpose—would not release her easily. She also remembered what she was: a Chiss adult by her culture's standards, but a "child" to most of the galaxy. Too young in appearance, too strange in manner, too disciplined, too alien. How would the universe judge her for choosing a path so drastically different from the one she had been forged for? Would they see a woman? Or a soldier breaking place?

And beyond all that—what future could she and Rynar even have? He belonged to the Mandalorian Empire. She belonged to the Diarchy. Their factions were not allies. They were barely tolerant of one another. Conflict brewed between them like storm clouds gathering over a battlefield. If the Empire and the Diarchy clashed—as they likely would—where would they stand? Opposite sides of a war? Forced apart by duty? Forced to pretend they had never shared a fire, a dance, a kiss? The weight of all these questions pressed hard, threatening to steal the moment's gentleness.

She exhaled softly, letting her cheek settle more firmly against his chest, hiding the brief tightening in her throat. Rynar felt the shift—she knew he did—because his hand tightened faintly around hers, warm and reassuring without demanding anything from her. She closed her eyes and allowed the comfort of that simple gesture to steady her. Tomorrow, decisions would come. Tomorrow, orders would reclaim her. Tomorrow, evac would arrive, and reality would close its fists around them both. But today—this morning—she was allowed to stay. She lifted her voice gently against him, her breath brushing the fabric of his undersuit. "Rynar… there is much I must think about." It wasn't a withdrawal. It wasn't a warning. It was simply the truth, offered with more vulnerability than she usually dared to reveal.

He didn't speak in response. He didn't try to sway her or push her. He only held her a little closer, resting his cheek atop her head with quiet patience. Dean tightened her hold on him as well, just slightly, and let her eyes close again. For now—for these fleeting hours before the galaxy reclaimed them—she chose not to decide. Not to run. Not to analyze. She chose to remain right where she was, in his arms, letting hope be something she was allowed to feel, even if just for one morning.

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar's eyes grew heavy, the warmth of Dean pressed against him anchoring his restless thoughts. His body relaxed more fully than it had in days, weeks, maybe months—the tight coil of vigilance unwinding as the quiet of the forest settled around them. His hand stayed locked with hers, a tether that grounded him even as his mind teetered at the edge of sleep.

A soft, almost inaudible murmur escaped him—half-formed words that sounded like fragments of memories he hadn't visited in years. Dean's presence was steady, quiet, unwavering. He clung to that steadiness like a lifeline, letting it pull him down into sleep even as shadows of old fears flickered behind his eyelids.

For a moment, a flicker of a nightmare crossed him—a battlefield, a fire, the echo of voices that didn't belong. His fingers tightened slightly around hers, the motion involuntary, protective, almost desperate. He shifted closer, pressing the side of his face against the top of her head, drawing in the reassuring weight of her warmth.

"Not… not alone," he whispered in a hoarse, sleep-soft voice. The words were more instinct than thought, a fragment of trust spilling into the darkness.

The tremor of tension eased, slowly fading, replaced by the steady rhythm of her heartbeat against his chest. His jaw relaxed, a slow exhale leaving him, carrying the remnants of the dream with it. Rynar nuzzled gently into her hair, murmuring one more soft, contented syllable, then stilling entirely.

The forest continued its quiet chorus, the creek murmuring, Cupcake snoring lightly on his back. And Rynar, half-asleep and half-aware, held her a little tighter, letting the peace of the moment—and her presence—anchor him completely. For the first time in longer than he cared to count, he allowed himself to simply be, held, and trusted.


Even in dreams, the warmth stayed.

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean felt the exact moment sleep finally claimed him. It wasn't dramatic, no sudden slump or shift, just the gradual softening of the muscles beneath her cheek and the quiet, unguarded rhythm of his breath settling against her hair. His fingers remained intertwined with hers, warm and steady even in unconsciousness, as if holding her grounded him more deeply than the fire or the forest ever could. She didn't move. Didn't speak. Didn't even risk adjusting her weight. Instead, she studied the way peace settled across his features—a peace she suspected he hadn't felt in longer than he would ever admit aloud. His murmured "not alone" lingered in her thoughts like an echo she could feel rather than hear, brushing against her in a way she wasn't prepared for.

But she did not let sleep take her. She couldn't.

Habit, instinct, training—they all rose quietly within her, slotting into place with a precision that felt as natural as breathing. Someone stayed awake. Someone always protected the perimeter. Someone had to be the steady presence in the dark. And after everything he'd given her in the last day—trust, warmth, understanding—Dean did not hesitate to take that role upon herself. She adjusted her breathing to match the cadence of alert stillness, eyes half-lidded but keen, watching the shifting light as morning stretched through the leaves above. She remained pressed softly to his chest, listening to the steady beat beneath her ear while her gaze tracked every movement around them—the flutter of wings overhead, the distant rustle of small creatures in the brush, the lazy shift of the creek's reflection.

He had done this for her the night before. Without complaint. Without acknowledgment. Simply because he knew how to carry that weight, it felt… right that she return the gesture. That she keep him safe while he rested, even if she wouldn't call it that—not out loud.

She tightened her fingers around his slightly, feeling the warmth of his hand close around hers even in sleep. It was strange how natural the contact felt. Comfortable. Anchoring. She was Chiss, trained in discipline, precision, and detachment. Yet here she was—heart steady, breath calm, guarding a sleeping Mandalorian as though it was the most natural thing in the galaxy.

Her thoughts drifted briefly—not to duty or conflict, but to the simple realization that she didn't mind being here. That she might even… want it. Not just the safety of the moment, but the connection it represented. A connection she wasn't sure she could keep once they left this forest and returned to their separate worlds.

But that was a concern for later. For after extraction. For when the galaxy intruded again.

Right now, her only responsibility was the warmth of the man sleeping beneath her and the soft rise and fall of his chest against her cheek. Dean kept her senses sharp, listening, watching, guarding—while allowing herself the tiniest sliver of stillness—a moment where she could be both vigilant and close, disciplined and quiet, protective and content.

She didn't know what this was becoming between them. She didn't know what it could be. But she knew this:

He had kept watch over her.
And now, she would keep watch over him.

Silently. Steadily. Without moving from his arms.

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar woke like a detonator going off.

One moment, the world was quiet—her heartbeat against his chest, the steady warmth of her body, Cupcake's soft snoring on his back—and the next, his entire frame locked under the violent snap of instinct. His lungs seized, breath shattering out of him in a harsh, ragged drag as his eyes snapped open, pupils blown wide. His mind didn't catch up. Training did.

Before conscious thought could surface, his hand moved.
Not to his own holster.
To hers.

Fingers slid over her hip with startling precision, curling around the grip of the pistol he'd traded for her blade on the day they met—his silent promise that he trusted her. The weapon cleared her holster with a smooth, practiced pull as he twisted beneath her, bringing his frame around her without jarring her weight. The motion was instinctive, protective, and deadly all at once. His other arm stayed firm around her torso, keeping her close, anchoring her even while his muscles trembled faintly from the remnants of whatever had jerked him awake.

The blaster's priming whine filled the clearing, sharp and rising.
His breath hitched. Once. Twice. Three times. A nightmare's shadow lingered—blood, smoke, the taste of iron on his tongue—but the world sharpened fast, collapsing into a single point of focus between the trees.

He didn't think.
He fired.
The bolt tore through the morning stillness like a blade, burning a line into the shadowed underbrush. A half-second later, a sound answered—a warped, wet, unholy screech that rattled against the trunks and sent Cupcake bolting upright on his back with a startled chirp-squeal, legs flaring clumsily.

Rynar didn't flinch. Didn't breathe. He kept the pistol trained on the exact spot the screech had come from, arm steady as iron despite the tight, shaking adrenaline rolling through his veins. His heart hammered beneath Dean's cheek, harder and faster than it ever had while he slept.
For several seconds, he was pure instinct—warrior, protector, weapon.
Only after the last echo of the creature's cry faded did anything human slip back into his expression.

A slow exhale broke through his chest, hot and uneven. His grip on the pistol eased a fraction, though he didn't lower it. His eyes flicked down—not to the woods, but to Dean, still half draped over him.
And only then did he realize:
He was holding her too tightly. The arm around her waist had pulled her in close during the jolt awake—shielding her automatically, even as he reached for her weapon.

His voice, when it finally came, was low—rough, gravel from sleep and the remnants of fear.
"…Sorry, cyar'ika. Reflex."

He swallowed once, throat tight. The nightmare clung to him like the echo of a blade pressed to his spine, and for a heartbeat he looked almost surprised to find her still in his arms, still steady, still calm.

"You stayed awake," he murmured, breath brushing her hair. Not accusation—something closer to quiet gratitude. "Of course you did."

His fingers flexed around the pistol's grip, readying for a second shot if the creature dared return. But his body shifted subtly, curving around hers in a way that made his priorities unmistakable:

Whatever nightmare had chased him from sleep—
whatever thing he'd sensed in the forest—
whatever threat still skulked out there—

He was between it and her.

Without question.
Without hesitation.
Without thought.

He didn't fully wake gentle.
But he woke protecting her.

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean didn't move—not even an inch. His arm was still firmly around her, his breathing still uneven against her hair, but she remained exactly where he'd pulled her, calm and steady in the circle of his hold. Her cheek rested against his chest, listening to the hard, rapid thrum of his heart settle beat by beat. She didn't fight his grip or correct it. She let him keep her there.

Her hand shifted only enough to rest lightly against the back of his own, steadying him more than herself.

"You reacted well," she murmured, her voice low but unshaken. "You protected us. I'm not going to complain about that."

She lifted her gaze toward the tree line, scanning the underbrush where the creature had screamed. The echo of it still prickled faintly along the edges of her senses—wrong, wet, hungry—but nothing moved now.

"What was that?" she asked quietly, eyes narrowing. "The thing you hit. I didn't recognize the sound."

Her fingers brushed his chest—not a caress, but grounding, deliberate pressure meant to steady him as much as confirm her own presence.

Then, after a breath, her tone shifted—still level, but carrying a thread of curiosity she couldn't mask.

"And… what is cyar'ika?" she asked, voice soft but direct. "You called me that."

She didn't pull back when she said it.
Didn't let go of his hand.
Didn't create distance to hide the question.

"Does it mean something important?" she added, red eyes flicking up toward his with a rare, vulnerable honesty.

Rynar Solde