Private Shadows of the Canopy

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar's breath finally slowed, the pulse in his throat easing as the last remnants of adrenaline bled from his system. His grip on her eased gradually, not because he wanted distance, but because instinct surrendered to awareness—his awareness of her. Of the way she stayed pressed to him without fear. Of her hand resting over his. Of her voice pulling him gently out of whatever dark place his mind had tried to drag him into.
He exhaled, long and quiet, forehead dipping down until it brushed the crown of her hair.
"I don't know," he admitted, gaze lingering hard on the dark treeline. "I've hunted on half a hundred worlds. Heard things scream before they die. That one… wasn't familiar."

Cupcake, fully grown and bristling, had risen behind them—fur spiked along her spine, claws dug into the soil, pupils narrowed to predatory slits. The massive nexu prowled a slow circle around the two of them, low growls rolling deep from her chest as she scented the direction Rynar had fired. When nothing answered, she snorted sharply and padded back, sitting at Rynar's side like a living wall of muscle and teeth, her tail lashing once against the dirt.

Rynar didn't force himself upright. Didn't shift her off his lap. He simply angled his head enough to reassure Cupcake with a subtle click of his tongue before refocusing fully on Dean.

"I'm not going after it," he said, voice low, firm. "Whatever it was, it's wounded… and smart enough to keep its distance. If I chase it, I risk leading it back here or walking into its den."

His hand—still laced with hers—tightened just a fraction, thumb brushing the ridge of her knuckle.

"My priority is you. And her."
A nod toward Cupcake, whose ears twitched in fierce approval.

The quiet between them settled for a moment, warm and grounding despite the tension still lingering in the air. Then her question touched him—head-on, simple, and without hesitation the way only she could manage.

Cyar'ika.

Rynar's eyes softened—just slightly, but unmistakably—and he finally met her gaze fully.
"It's Mando'a," he said gently. "The word… it means 'beloved.' Or 'dear one.' Someone cherished."
A beat. Calm. Honest.

"It doesn't have to mean romance. Not always. It's a word we reserve for someone we… hold close. Someone we wouldn't let be taken from us." His chest rose slowly beneath her cheek, his voice dropping quieter, roughened truth threading through each syllable. "I said it without thinking. That usually means it's true."


His fingers lifted, brushing a stray lock of dark-blue hair behind her ear with surprising care for a man who could command a nexu with only a look
"But if it makes you uncomfortable, Dean," he added softly, "tell me. I won't call you anything you do not want."
A faint smile ghosted across his mouth—small, tired, but real.
"Otherwise… cyar'ika fits."

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean absorbed his explanation without breaking their closeness, her cheek still resting against the steady rise of his chest. The meaning of the word settled in her like snow—quiet, soft, but with weight that promised not to melt away quickly. She didn't stiffen at it. Didn't withdraw. Instead, her fingers tightened around his hand once, a silent acceptance.

"Beloved…" she echoed quietly, tasting the word with calm precision. "It does not make me uncomfortable."

She shifted just slightly, enough to look up at him without breaking the warmth between them. Her crimson eyes held steady, a rare, gentle clarity.

"It is… more than I thought you would ever call me. But it is not something I reject."

There was no blush, no stammer—just quiet truth. And then, more softly:

"It is… fine."

Her thumb brushed once across the back of his hand, a small, instinctive motion. A reciprocation.

"But if cyar'ika is your people's word for someone you hold close…" she continued, voice lowering with a rare softness, "then I should give you one of mine. One that belongs to the Chiss. One that means I trust you."

She paused—searching her mind through memories she had long tucked away. Childhood words her parents had used before their fear had silenced things like affection. She exhaled softly as the right one surfaced.

"In Cheunh… the closest term is ch'acah'cosep," she murmured.
The sound was fluid and cool, soft on the tongue—beautiful, the way Chiss language often was.

"It means 'trusted heart.' Or… more simply, 'dear friend.' Someone we rely on. Someone we choose."

Her gaze held his, steady and warm.

"I have never given that word to anyone in the Diarchy," she admitted quietly. "Only to you."

She let her head settle back against him, her features softening in a way she rarely allowed.

"You may call me cyar'ika, Rynar," she whispered.
"And I will call you ch'acah'cosep."

Not a promise.
Not a bond forced into shape.

Rynar Solde
Just two truths, offered gently across the small space between two hearts learning to trust.

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar didn't move when she settled back against him. He only breathed—slowly, deliberately—letting her words sink into the fading thunder of his pulse. The last threads of adrenaline still trembled in his hands, but her weight against his chest smoothed the worst of it, drawing him back down into himself.

When she said the word—ch'acah'cosep—something in him went still.

Not tense.
Not startled.
Just… caught.

He felt her say it more than he heard it, the sound vibrating softly through the fabric of his undersuit where her cheek rested. His arm around her tightened by instinct, a subtle pull that brought her just a little deeper into his warmth.
His breath left him in a low exhale. He turned his head so his cheek brushed the top of her hair as he murmured back:
"Ch… ch'a-cah—cosep."

A small stutter caught on the first syllable, not from uncertainty but from the last remnants of the fight-or-flight surge shaking itself out of his muscles. He tried again, slower, letting the syllables roll through his mouth like a language he wasn't meant to know.
"Ch'acah'cosep."

This time it came cleaner—almost perfect. Almost.
He felt her fingers tighten slightly in his, and warmth unfurled through his chest in a slow, steady bloom.
"Means a lot… hearing that," he murmured, voice low and a little rough. "More than I've earned."
His thumb brushed the back of her hand in slow, grounding arcs—not rushed, not anxious, just present.

The forest around them shifted subtly; a faint gold began gathering in the canopy, soft as breath. Rynar noticed the sun before he even lifted his head—the light warming the chill that had clung to the night, the slow brightening of colors around them. Dawn. A reminder that time didn't care for the moments it interrupted.
He breathed in and let his eyes open fully, watching the light creep across the creek, the moss, the edge of Dean's hair.

"We should… probably get up soon," he muttered quietly.
But he didn't move.
Didn't shift.
Didn't loosen his hold.

If anything, his arm tightened around her again, the weight of his hand at her hip settling into a more protective shape. Cupcake snored once—loud, grumbling, offended by the morning—and Rynar huffed a tired, faint laugh against Dean's hair.

He dipped his head closer to hers.
"Maybe," he added, softer now, "just a little longer."
And though the sun continued to rise, Rynar stayed exactly where he was—warm, steady, and unwilling to be the first to let the moment go.

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean felt no need to move when he tightened his hold; if anything, her body sank more naturally into the lines of his. His arm around her waist felt steady, grounding rather than restrictive, and the sound of his voice—still rough from instinct and the remnants of sleep—settled something deep inside her she hadn't realized had gone taut. The Chiss term lingered between them, warm in a way she wasn't familiar with, but not unwelcome. She didn't flinch from him, didn't retreat into her usual rigid posture. Instead, she listened to him carefully shape each syllable, watched the effort he made to speak it correctly, and felt a small, quiet ripple of satisfaction move through her chest.

He said her word as if it mattered. As if she mattered.

Her hand tightened faintly in his when he repeated it more cleanly, and a breath she hadn't realized she was holding eased out against the fabric of his undersuit. The sunrise spreading across the canopy cast faint gold across his forearm and the edge of her cheek, and in that light, she felt the weight of the moment settle—heavy, warm, and strangely peaceful. His remark about not earning the name tugged at something inside her she rarely let go unguarded, something like confusion threaded with a sincerity she didn't yet know how to name.

She didn't move for a long moment, simply absorbing the warmth of him, the protective way he held her, the echo of his heartbeat against her ear. And when he murmured that they should get up, she didn't shift. Didn't straighten. Didn't retreat. Instead, she let her fingers slide slightly along the back of his hand, a slight movement that felt deliberate and almost intimate.

"You do not have to earn it," she said softly, her voice steady despite the gentle truth in the words. "If I give a name, it is because it is correct." Spoken present tense, as always. But the meaning behind it carried something older—heritage, trust, a careful offering she did not give lightly.

Her cheek pressed a fraction deeper into his chest as Cupcake's disgruntled snore vibrated behind them. The sound almost made her smile—nearly—a slight upward curve ghosting at the corner of her mouth before her discipline reclaimed the expression. She allowed herself a long, quiet inhale, memorizing the warmth of him, the steadiness of his breathing, the faint scent of river-water and smoke still clinging to his undersuit.

When she finally spoke again, her voice had settled into something even softer. "I remain like this," she murmured, "because I… prefer it."

The admission wasn't dramatic. It wasn't emotional. It was simply honest—raw in its simplicity, profound in its rarity.

She shifted just enough to angle her face upward, not pulling away from his chest but allowing him to see her eyes. Crimson meeting the soft brown beneath his lashes, steady and unflinching. "A little longer is acceptable," she added, tone controlled but faintly warm around the edges. "You woke sharply. Staying close ensures stability."

It was an excuse. A rational explanation. A shield for something far more vulnerable underneath.

But she didn't move away.

She stayed exactly where she was—held, steady, and content in a way she had never allowed herself to be—letting the sunrise wash over them both as the forest slowly woke around their shared quiet.

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar didn't move at first.

Her words, her closeness, the way she stayed in his arms with no tension, no hesitation—those hit deeper than any strike he'd taken in battle. He kept his cheek resting lightly atop her head, inhaling slowly, letting the fading adrenaline bleed out of his system. Her heartbeat—steady, controlled, but undeniably present—echoed faintly through the armor seals he still wore. And for once, he didn't try to analyze it, didn't try to guard himself against it. He simply held her. A little tighter. A little closer.

When she said she preferred it, something in his chest pulled tight.
Not painful—just… full.
He let his thumb brush a slow arc along her hip, not to pull her closer but to acknowledge what she'd just given him.
"Good," he murmured against her hair, voice low and warm with sleep-heavy sincerity. "Because I prefer it too."

The morning light filtered through the trees, scattering gold across her dark uniform and turning her crimson eyes to something almost luminous when she angled her face upward. Rynar met her gaze without flinching, without hiding the softness that settled there—rare, unguarded.
"Dean…" he began, the word quiet but steady, "I know you're thinking ahead. About after evac. About what you return to… and what I return to."
He felt her still slightly, not pulling away—just listening, the way only someone trained to precision could.

"You don't need to decide any of that right now," he continued. "But if you're worried this—" his hand tightened gently at her waist, "—only exists until the mission ends… it doesn't."
His voice dropped further, carrying a firmness born from old promises and older scars.
"I don't walk away from people I care about. Not at the end of a deployment, not across sectors, not because politics or galaxies say it's inconvenient."

For a moment, he hesitated—searching for the right words. Mandalorian loyalty wasn't delicate. It wasn't poetic. It was forged. Chosen. Paid for in blood and stubbornness both.
"Cyar'ika… whatever path you choose after this, I'm not letting distance tear this apart without a fight."

Only then did he shift—one arm loosening just enough so he could reach into the inner plate of his cuirass. It was subtle, practiced, a movement he could have done half-asleep. When his hand emerged, it held a small holodisk—matte black, thin, nearly weightless. Unmarked except for a burnished streak across the edge where it had been stress-tested.
He lifted it slightly so she could see, the device glinting faintly in the early light.

"This," he said softly, "is an encrypted comm-bridge. Custom-made. Off-grid. No registry. No identifiable signature." He paused, watching her eyes. "I had three Jedi slicers try to detect it. They couldn't even prove it existed."
He turned it in his fingers once before gently setting it on the fabric near her leg—within her reach, but not pressed into her hand.
"It only connects to me," he said. "And only if you choose to use it."

No pressure. No expectation. No demand.
Just an offering.
His free hand returned to her waist, steadying her against him as he added, quieter:

"I want to stay in touch. Even if you go back to the Diarchy. Even if things get… complicated." A small huff of breath—a tired half-laugh. "Stars know my life rarely stays simple."
The forest breathed around them—Cupcake shifting behind him with a low, rumbling growl at a dream, the river murmuring its slow morning path.
Rynar lowered his forehead until it brushed gently against hers, his voice barely above a whisper.

"But you tell me what you want, Dean. I'll match whatever pace you choose."
His hand tightened around hers—not possessive, not demanding. Just present. Warm. Waiting.
"And if 'a little longer' is what you want right now…" he murmured, settling her more comfortably against his chest, "…then we stay exactly like this."

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean didn't shift when he pressed the device into her space—didn't recoil, didn't immediately take it either. She watched it for a moment, eyes tracing the matte surface, the barely visible burnished streak where it had been tested against intrusion. Something in her expression softened; not outwardly emotional, but focused in that way she only ever became when something mattered.

After a long, steadying breath, she lifted her hand and picked it up with the same care she used handling unfamiliar weapons. Her thumb brushed over the edge once before she tucked it into the inner seam of her uniform—close to her ribs, beneath the fabric, where warmth from her body could keep it safe and hidden.

She didn't say anything immediately. Instead, she let her head settle against his chest again, listening to the slowing rhythm of his heartbeat. It grounded her enough to speak without her voice betraying anything she didn't intend.

"How long will it take?" she asked quietly, her tone present, controlled. "To reach the extraction point?"

Even as she spoke, her mind turned inwards.

It would take them time to hike there. Time to think. Time to decide what came next. Her mission parameters were clear; the Diarchy was her home, her purpose, her identity. A Chiss raised in exile serving a human-led order—everything about her life already defied tradition. And this—whatever this was becoming—this connection with him, this warmth she had never allowed herself to feel before… It wasn't something she could categorize, not yet.

Should they pursue this?
The question pulsed in her thoughts like a distant beacon.

It was dangerous. Complicated. Likely to collide with loyalties, duties, politics, and war. The Mando'ade and the Diarchy were not allies. They might never be. This—they—could become a liability. A weakness. A risk neither of them should logically indulge in.

And yet.

Her fingers subtly tightened around his again, her body softening further into his hold. Logic warred with instinct, with feeling, with the quiet warmth expanding beneath her sternum, she didn't have a vocabulary for. Her lips parted on a slow exhale.

She could walk away after the extraction. Let this be a single mission memory. Seal it away behind discipline and duty.

But then the thought struck her with startling clarity:

He would not abandon this without a fight.
And neither, she realized, would she.

Time would tell. It always did. Whether what they had would grow, fracture, evolve, or fade… that was a question for later, for a calmer place far from this wilderness and its firelight confessions. For now, she only knew one truth she could speak.

Her fingers brushed his chest lightly before she murmured, voice low but unwavering: "I want this to continue." A breath. Controlled. Certain. "And I will not abandon it either." She lifted her gaze then, meeting his eyes with steady crimson.

"Perhaps it will last," she added, tone soft but calm, "perhaps it will change. But I am willing to work within whatever parameters we agree on."

Her hand pressed briefly against his heart—a small gesture, deliberate and rare. "For now… 'a little longer together' is enough."

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar didn't move when she slid the holodisk away—didn't tense, didn't second-guess the offering. If anything, the minute shift of her fingers, the deliberate way she tucked it close to her body, eased something tight across his shoulders. Her acceptance meant more than he could find words for.

When she settled against him again, he let one hand rest lightly against the small of her back, steady and warm, his thumb tracing a barely-there arc through the fabric of her uniform—silent acknowledgement, silent gratitude.
Her question pulled his gaze toward the treeline, instincts flicking back into mission-sense even with her weight resting against him.

"Extraction's about thirty mikes out," he murmured automatically.
A beat.
He exhaled faintly and corrected himself.
"Thirty minutes," he said more gently, turning his head enough that his voice brushed through her hair. "Sorry. Still talk like I'm on a squad channel before breakfast."
His hand tightened around hers in a small, grounding squeeze—not urgency, not warning. Just presence.
But whatever he might have said next was cut off by a sudden whump of displaced air followed by a bone-shaking grrrrmmph.

Rynar grunted as Cupcake—a mass of fur, muscle, fangs, and far too much enthusiasm—launched her full-grown Nexu weight directly onto both of them.
"—Cupcake, k'uur! K'uur!" he barked, half-laughing, half-strained as claws dug harmlessly into armor and nonsensically into Dean's sleeve.
The giant feline flopped across their legs, head shoving insistently against Dean's shoulder before nudging its nose directly under Rynar's arm like an oversized, murderous puppy demanding morning affection.

Rynar sighed with a resigned, fond exhale and cautiously patted her broad, muscled shoulder.
"She thinks this is subtle," he muttered. "It's… not."
Cupcake purred louder—the deep-chest, vibrating, proud kind that sounded like a landspeeder idling—and made absolutely no move to get off either of them.

Rynar shifted just enough to keep Dean comfortably held against him instead of jostling her out from underneath the Nexu's weight. He dipped his head, letting his forehead rest a moment against her temple before speaking low, honest words just for her.

"For what you said… that you won't abandon this?"
A breath warmed her ear.
"I won't either. I meant every part of what I said. If this becomes something lasting… I'll meet you there. If it changes… I'll meet you there too."
His hand slid up her back, fingertips tracing the line of her spine in a slow, quiet reassurance he rarely offered anyone.

"We set the pace together," he murmured. "No pressure. No expectations you don't choose."
Cupcake, unsatisfied with the level of attention, flopped her enormous head directly onto Dean's hip with another rattling purr.
Rynar huffed a helpless laugh. "And apparently Cupcake has declared we're not moving yet."

He shifted just slightly, keeping Dean tucked firmly against him despite the Nexu sprawled across their legs.
"A few minutes longer," he said softly, voice low with quiet warmth, "before we start the thirty-minute hike."
His fingers laced with hers again, steady and sure.
"After all…" he added, nuzzling her hair once with surprising gentleness, "you said you prefer it this way."


And for now—for this sunrise, this moment—he truly did too

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean didn't flinch when Cupcake landed on them like a small landslide—didn't startle, didn't jerk, didn't do anything except absorb the sudden weight with a controlled exhale. A normal human would have yelped, gasped, cursed, or at the very least scrambled to get out from under the Nexu's bulk. Dean… adjusted. Shifted her balance. Redirected pressure. She had always adapted quickly to new variables, and Cupcake's presence, while enormous, was merely another variable.

But she did blink once—slow, deliberate, faintly incredulous—as an entire predator's head settled across her hip.

"Cupcake," she said in that precise, flat tone she used in the field when something absurd happened, but she refused to acknowledge it as such. "You are heavy."

Cupcake responded by purring louder, as if proud of both the statement and the weight.

Dean's breath left her in a very soft, very controlled near-sigh. Not frustration. Something closer to resignation… and, reluctantly, amusement. She allowed her free hand to slide over the Nexu's head, fingers brushing the thick fur between its ears.

The gentle rumble under her palm surprised her. Presently, she said, "You trust remarkably fast," her voice directed at the beast, but her eyes glancing briefly toward Rynar. The implication was shared.

Still resting against him, she felt the subtle change in his breathing when he spoke—felt the warmth of the words more than the sound. His forehead at her temple, his voice low against her ear, the quiet promise threaded through each syllable… it settled into the space behind her ribs with a weight she hadn't expected.

His hand traced her spine in that slow, steady way—not searching, not demanding affection, just offering connection. Dean closed her eyes for a moment, letting the touch settle—her thoughts—ordered, disciplined, usually razor-sharp—softened at the edges.

She remained where she was, tucked safely against him, her fingers curled with his in a hold she did not release.

"Then we agree," she said, voice quiet but sure. "No pressure. No expectations. No rushing."

She shifted slightly—just enough so she could angle her head to rest more comfortably against his shoulder, cheek brushing the warmth of his collarbone. Cupcake kneaded her claws once into the soil beside Dean's thigh, the massive rumble vibrating through all three of them.

"And when we decide pace," Dean added, her voice almost a murmur, "we decide together."

The morning warmth edged across her face, softening the discipline she usually wore like a second layer of skin. She didn't hide it. Didn't pull away. Her fingers tightened just a fraction more around his.

"…Thirty minutes is not long," she observed, almost to herself. The thought of the extraction site tugged at the back of her mind—a reminder of return, responsibility, the Diarchy. But not a threat. Just… a next step.

For now, she stayed exactly where she was, with a Nexu sprawled across her hip and a Mandalorian's arms around her.

"And a few minutes longer," she added, voice quiet but certain, "would be preferable."

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Cupcake's weight settled over both of them with all the subtlety of a crashing starship, and Rynar let out a low, amused rumble in his chest. He didn't push her off—didn't even try. Instead, he shifted slightly beneath Dean, making room, letting Cupcake drape herself over them like a furry, possessive avalanche.

"Of course she's heavy," he murmured, brushing his fingers once through the Nexu's thick fur. "She knows it. She weaponizes it."
Cupcake purred louder, clearly agreeing.

Rynar's gaze drifted down to Dean—still in his arms, still calm beneath the weight of a creature most beings would sprint away from. The sight tugged at something deep in him, warm and quiet. His hand resumed its slow path along her spine, steady and deliberate, not coaxing—just offering.
"You know," he said softly, voice brushing her ear in that gravel-warm tone, "Cupcake… doesn't act like this with anyone."
His thumb traced a small, absent circle at her waist.

"She's protective. Guards her space. Doesn't let other people close. Not physically, not emotionally." A faint breath escaped him, part chuckle, part quiet truth. "Honestly… she's worse than I am about it."
Cupcake huffed at him, offended.
Rynar smirked. "Don't give me that look, meshla. You know it's true."

Then he glanced back down at Dean—her face softened in a way he'd only seen glimpses of before, her fingers steady around his, her breathing calm beneath the tangle of Nexu fur and Mandalorian armor.

"But you…" His voice dropped into something gentler, almost reverent. "She let you close. Immediately." His forehead brushed lightly against her temple again—a small, instinctive motion. "I'm glad she did."
He shifted, only enough to angle his face so he could see her more clearly, the sunrise catching in her crimson eyes.

"Maybe she senses something," he murmured. "Or maybe she just decided she likes you more than me."
Cupcake purred loudly—too loudly.
Rynar's cheek twitched with a suppressed laugh. "Or," he added in a mock-serious whisper, "maybe this is her way of keeping you here. A furry hostage situation."

His arm tightened slightly around Dean, not possessive—just anchored.
"And I can't say I blame her."
He let the moment settle between them—the warmth of her against him, Cupcake sprawled protectively over her hip, the golden morning pushing through the forest canopy.

"But whatever this is…" he said softly, "however slow we go… I'm glad we're moving through it together."
His fingers laced with hers again, warm and firm.
"For a few minutes more," he echoed, voice low, "I'm right where I want to be."

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean didn't shift when Cupcake sprawled her entire massive weight across them—didn't flinch, didn't stiffen, didn't even attempt to slide out from under the warm, rumbling bulk. She adjusted her balance with the small, precise economy of someone trained to maintain stability under pressure. Her hand remained loosely curled against Rynar's chest, her breathing slow and controlled, even with a fully grown Nexu claiming her hip like a territorial hilltop.

Cupcake's massive head nudged insistently into her side, and the purr that followed vibrated straight through Dean's ribs. She blinked once, slowly—more bewildered than bothered.

"She is… very confident," Dean said, her tone as measured as if she were reporting a tactical assessment rather than being smothered by a feline apex predator. Her free hand lifted, fingers slipping into Cupcake's fur. The texture was softer than she had expected. Warmer, too. The Nexu pushed into the touch immediately.

Dean raised a brow. "She assumes familiarity with no hesitation."

Her gaze flicked upward toward Rynar when he spoke, the faint rumble of his voice passing close enough to warm the shell of her ear. She listened without interrupting, absorbing his words even as her fingers absently stroked the Nexu's thick mane—something she did not realize she had begun doing until several slow breaths later.

Cupcake didn't act like this with anyone.
Cupcake didn't allow proximity.
Cupcake did not trust easily.

Dean's hand paused at that, just for a heartbeat. The idea that she—xenophobic, chronically distant, raised on emotional austerity—had been accepted by a creature bred for fierce loyalty… it stirred something unfamiliar beneath her composed exterior.

"I did notice," she admitted, voice quiet but steady. She resumed petting Cupcake's fur, the motion smooth and unhurried. "She assessed me for approximately four-point-two seconds before deciding she wished to be touching me at all times." A small pause. "It was… unexpected."

Rynar shifted slightly, angling to look at her more clearly, and Dean felt the brush of his forehead against her temple. She did not pull away. If anything, she leaned subtly into the warmth, the contact grounding, steady.

"If this is a hostage situation," she said, deadpan, her tone dry but softer than its usual edge, "it is a very effective one."

Cupcake purred louder, like an engine warming up, pleased with her assessment.

Dean's attention drifted back to Rynar when he laced their fingers together again. Her hand tightened instinctively—small, but unmistakable. She studied him for a long moment, her expression quiet, thoughtful, warmed by the gold of the rising sun. Then, with measured precision, she shifted just a fraction closer, repositioning her weight so her cheek rested more fully against his chest.

"This," she said, her voice low, steady, present, "is where I prefer to be. For a few minutes more."

Her thoughts drifted briefly—acknowledging the risk, the uncertainty, the potential future complications. Mandalorian Empire. Diarchy politics. Her own nature. His loyalties. A Nexu acting as a furry wedge between two worlds.

But she let the thoughts fade.

"For now…" she added, fingers brushing once along his knuckles in a gesture that felt almost instinctive, "…this pace is acceptable."

She stayed exactly as she was—pressed against him, Cupcake purring possessively over her hip, her hand warm in his—and did not move.

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar let the minutes stretch—quiet, warm, steady. Dean's cheek against his chest, her hand threaded with his, Cupcake sprawled over them like a smug, furry boulder. For once, he didn't measure time by threat assessment or mission parameters. He measured it by her breathing, by the rise and fall of her shoulders, by the soft pressure of her fingers along his knuckles.

It was… grounding. More than he'd expected. More than he'd ever admit out loud.
But eventually, he exhaled a slow breath and murmured, "Alright, mesh'la… time's up."

He clicked his tongue twice—sharp, practiced, the kind of sound animals learned before humans. Cupcake's ears flicked instantly, her massive head lifting just enough for one golden eye to peer at him.

Rynar smirked. "You know what that means."

He reached into a side pouch on his belt—still discarded beside him—and flicked a dried meat treat into the grass with a smooth underhand toss. Cupcake launched herself off them with all the grace of a small landslide, thudding onto the ground and pouncing on the treat like she hadn't eaten in hours.

The sudden absence of weight made the air around them feel lighter—warmer.

Rynar sat up with a low grunt, rolling his shoulders once before leaning forward to snag the rest of his armor. He lifted his upper body plates, settling them over the undersuit with familiar precision. Locks clicked. Straps tightened.

Only when everything was secure did he turn fully back toward Dean.
He extended a hand—palm up, steady, offering rather than insisting.

"Come on, cyar'ika." His voice held a soft grit, warm with the remnants of their quiet morning. "We should move before sundown gets to the exfil point before we do."

His gaze dropped briefly to her hand—still half-curled where it had been resting against the ground—then lifted back to her eyes, gentle but unwavering.

"Besides…" A small smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth. "If we take too long, Cupcake will decide you're hers permanently. And then I'll really have to negotiate a hostage situation."

Cupcake, hearing her name, let out a loud, pleased purr through a mouthful of treat.
Rynar kept his hand extended toward Dean, patient and warm, the rising sun catching the edges of his armor and the softness in his eyes.
"Ready when you are, ch'acah'cosep."

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean rose with the controlled precision of someone built to transition instantly from rest to readiness. She pushed off the ground smoothly, her weight shifting without disturbing the grass beneath her boots. The warmth of Rynar's chest faded from her cheek, but a remnant of it lingered—enough to pull a faint, unbidden warmth into her own expression.

She reached for his hand without hesitation.

Not as a formality.
Not as an indulgence.
As a choice.

Her fingers slid into his with quiet certainty, and the strength of his grip met hers halfway—steady, warm, grounding.

"Yes," she said, the word calm and present. "I am ready."

She held his gaze for a long moment, crimson eyes reflecting the early gold of the forest. There was no rush in her movements, no stiffness, no second-guessing. Her voice stayed in its usual cool precision, but there was something softer beneath it—something that had grown slowly, deliberately, in the quiet between them.

"And I will not be taken hostage by your Nexu," she added, dry as frost. "Even if she believes otherwise."

Cupcake puffed out her chest and gave a proud growl-purr in response, which Dean pretended she did not hear.

She adjusted her utility straps, smoothing the last edge of her gear with automatic efficiency. The holodisk Rynar had given her sat secure in a pocket close to her inner layer—where it would remain safe, silent, and hers to access by choice alone.

Dean glanced once toward the trees, assessing the light, the terrain, and how long it would take to reach extraction.

"It will take us approximately thirty minutes at a steady pace," she said, returning her attention to him. "Less if necessary."

A brief pause. Measured. Intentional.

"And I meant what I said earlier," she added, her tone dipping quieter. "I am not abandoning this.
Not without a fight."

Her thumb brushed once against the side of his hand—subtle, nearly imperceptible, but deliberate.

She lifted her chin slightly, expression composed but warmed by the lingering intimacy of the morning.

"Let us go, Rynar," she said, stepping beside him. "Before Cupcake decides reinforcements are required for her negotiations."

Cupcake gave an approving trill.

Dean tightened her grip—not clinging, just anchored—and fell naturally into stride beside him as they began their walk toward extraction.

Rynar Solde

 

[Ironwraith]

(wrong acc, forgot I clicked this one by accident!)

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar moved with her, matching Dean's pace without thought, their strides falling into a natural rhythm as they pushed through the forest's last stretch. Cupcake stalked ahead of them, tail swaying smugly, as though she were escorting two wayward younglings rather than two seasoned combatants.

The light shifted gradually from gold to full morning, cutting in angled beams through the foliage. Rynar walked in silence for most of it—not out of discomfort, but because silence with her had begun to feel… right. Purposeful. Shared.

When the trees finally thinned, the hum of repulsors reached them first.

The extraction shuttle hovered on a low ridge, engines cycling in a slow, steady pattern—waiting. The pilot stood at the ramp's edge, scanning the treeline, ready to brief, ready to debrief.

Rynar didn't slow.
But he also didn't let go of her hand.
He stopped only when they were close enough for the warm air of the engines to ruffle the edge of Dean's uniform. Cupcake sat a few paces away, watching them with a predator's patience—and a guardian's expectation.


Rynar turned to Dean fully then.
He didn't ask for his blaster back.
He didn't even look at it.

He simply left it where she'd secured it—on her person, under her control—as though the decision had been made long before he'd consciously acknowledged it.
A silent agreement.
A trust he did not give lightly.

His hand rose to her waist with slow, deliberate certainty, fingers settling against the curve of her hip in a touch that was firm enough to be grounding but gentle enough to ask permission rather than assume it. He stepped closer, his presence warm and solid, the low thrum of the shuttle framing the moment as something suspended between two worlds.

"Dean."

Her name left him soft—softer than he'd ever used it before.
He angled her slightly toward him, guiding her weight with a warrior's surety. Not forcing. Not claiming. Just offering—an unspoken request written in the careful precision of his movements.
He dipped her only a fraction, enough to draw her a breath closer, enough that the warmth of his breath brushed her lips—but not close enough to steal anything.

There was still space.
A heartbeat's width.
A choice.

His forehead nearly touched hers, and his voice dropped, low and quiet.
"If you want this to continue," he murmured, "all you ever need to do is meet me halfway."
His hand at her waist tightened just slightly—an anchor, not a tether.
"I will not push past what you choose," he added, eyes locked with hers, steady and unflinching. "Not now. Not ever."

He held there—close enough for her to feel the warmth of him, close enough for the moment to tip either direction—with enough restraint to make the intention unmistakable:

She had full control over what happened next.

Whether she closed the last inch…
…or saved it for another day.

Cupcake huffed behind them—loud, impatient—but even the Nexu didn't move closer.


Rynar waited, breath steady, hand warm on her waist, offering her the final say in the space between them.

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean didn't break eye contact—not for the shuttle's thrum, not for the shifting breeze, not even for Cupcake's impatient huff behind them. Rynar stood steady, solid, warm in the morning light, his hand at her waist a grounding weight that asked nothing and offered everything. She felt the restraint in his posture, the careful hold, the slight tension in his fingers—not fear of rejection, but respect for her boundaries. It was a level of control she had rarely seen in humans, and something inside her responded to it with a slow, deep unwinding she couldn't quite name.

Her pulse lifted—not sharply, but with measured awareness—as she raised her hand to his chestplate, placing her palm flat against the cool armor. The gesture felt intimate in a way she had not anticipated, a deliberate placement rather than instinct. His breath hitched just barely beneath her touch, and the subtle reaction stirred something warm in her chest. Dawnlight edged the side of his jaw, tracing the line she had memorized when she kissed him hours before; recalling it now grounded her more than her training ever had.

When she finally leaned up toward him, it wasn't abrupt or rushed. It was slow, controlled, a deliberate movement she allowed herself to make because she chose it. She brushed her lips softly against his—warm, brief, but unhesitating. The kiss wasn't deep, wasn't urgent; it was a reaffirmation, a quiet acceptance, a continuation of what they'd begun at the river's edge. His hand tightened slightly at her waist in immediate response, not pulling her closer but anchoring her in the moment. She lingered there only a heartbeat longer, letting the warmth settle between them, before drawing back enough to speak without breaking the closeness.

"I am meeting you halfway," she murmured against his lips, her voice steady despite the warmth blooming beneath her skin. "Just not all at once." Her thumb traced the seam of his armor, a subtle, grounding stroke meant for him and him alone. "But I choose this. I choose moving at a pace we set together."

She rested her forehead briefly—lightly—against his, a gesture she allowed because it felt natural with him, something she would not have permitted from anyone else. The faint rise and fall of his breathing beneath her hand eased her own thoughts, giving shape to something that felt both dangerous and strangely right. "Whatever happens when we return to our duties," she continued quietly, "whatever line the galaxy draws between us… We will navigate it. At our pace. Together."

Only then did she ease her hand from his chest—but not to withdraw. She slid her fingers into his, linking them with slow, deliberate finality, as though sealing an agreement neither of them needed to voice. The warmth of her face deepened slightly at the contact, but she didn't look away. She didn't hide from it. She turned toward the ramp, her hand guiding his.

"Now," she said, inclining her head toward Cupcake, who had begun pacing in bossy circles around the shuttle's landing skids, "we must board before she decides she owns both of us."

Rynar's chuckle followed her up the ramp, but Dean didn't let go of his hand—not until the three of them disappeared into the shuttle's hold and the door sealed behind them, marking the beginning of whatever future they would build from here.

Rynar Solde