Private Sunlight and Spice

[Xian Xiao]

The morning sunlight slanted through her window, warm and golden, painting soft patterns across the floor and highlighting the small table she had set with care. Plates of simple, steaming food sat neatly before her—modest, but prepared with thought, each dish a quiet offering of the happiness she carried. She smoothed a napkin again, feeling a slight tremble in her fingers, and caught herself taking a shallow breath.

Xian's mind drifted back to the festival and the first kiss. The memory lingered like a gentle fire, warm and unshakable. The way his lips had met hers, soft and deliberate, had left a trace of something she hadn't felt in a long time. Her chest tightened, a flutter of nerves accompanying the warmth that still lingered from the touch of his hand. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, biting her lip softly as she glanced at the neatly arranged plates, adjusting one slightly — though not because it needed it, only because it made her feel less exposed.

Caelan's absence remained a shadow in the corners of her thoughts, but with Veyran, she felt a different kind of possibility—small, ordinary joys that now seemed almost within reach. Quiet mornings like this, sharing a meal, a laugh, or even a glance that said more than words ever could—it was a glimpse of a life she wanted to build, step by step, beside him.

She imagined the conversations that might fill the space between them, the laughter that could echo through these walls, the gentle quiet of evenings spent together. Her nerves prickled in anticipation, each thought of him both thrilling and grounding, a tender hope she hadn't dared allow herself before.

When the door opened and he stepped inside, Xian's soft smile appeared almost involuntarily. She stepped slightly aside, gesturing toward the table, but found her hands lingering on the edge of a chair for a brief moment, her stomach fluttering. "Sit," she said, voice casual though her heartbeat betrayed her excitement. "I made lunch. I thought… maybe we could have a quiet moment together."

The city hummed faintly outside, but here, in her quarters, the world felt smaller, quieter, and entirely their own—just enough space for new memories, gentle beginnings, and the tender hope of a future shared with him.

Veyran Solis

 

[Veyran Solis]

Xian Xiao​

Veyran paused at the doorway for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the light that spilled into the room. The warmth of it caught him off guard soft, golden, and utterly domestic. He had grown so used to the half-light of hangars, the low hum of command decks, and the crimson glow of forge fires that a room bathed in morning calm felt almost unreal. The scent reached him first something warm, faintly spiced, grounding. Food. Real food.

He closed the door quietly behind him, the faint click sounding louder than it should have. His gaze lingered on the table: two plates, the neat folds of napkins, the care in each placement. It wasn't grand, but it was… intentional. He could see her hand in every detail, the way she smoothed edges that didn't need smoothing, the small tremor in her stillness. And that realization struck deeper than he expected.

For a heartbeat, the memory of the festival flickered across his mind, the lantern light, her hand in his, the taste of her breath before the kiss. It had felt dangerous then, like crossing a threshold he couldn't come back from. But here, now, that danger had softened into something else. Something quieter.

He drew a slow breath and stepped forward, his boots a muted thud against the floor. "You didn't have to go through the trouble." he said, his voice low, carrying a rough warmth that hinted at both gratitude and disbelief. His gaze flicked toward her not the confident sweep he used with others, but something more searching, almost hesitant.

She gestured toward the chair again, and he obeyed, sliding into it with a motion that was deliberate, careful as though afraid that any sudden movement might break the spell of the moment. There was silence between them, but not the kind that demanded to be filled. He let it stretch, let it breathe. Outside, the hum of the city bled faintly through the walls, yet it felt distant, almost irrelevant. Here, there was only the light, the warmth of the food, and the woman who had somehow made space for him in a world he had long thought he no longer belonged to.

 

[Xian Xiao]

Xian leaned back slightly in her chair, the soft morning light spilling across her face and catching the strands of her hair, gilding them like the lanterns from last night's festival. A small, self-satisfied smile tugged at her lips as she gestured toward the breakfast tray, the warm scent of spiced pastries and fresh bread filling the air between them.

"It's no trouble at all," she said, her voice quiet, carrying a soft, almost imperceptible warmth. Her fingers brushed the edge of the napkin, and she let herself pause for a heartbeat, letting her thoughts drift back to the festival—the chaos of color and sound, the children spinning tops, the way he had let her hand rest in his, steady and unafraid. And then the kiss. The brush of his lips against hers, brief, fleeting, yet impossible to forget. She felt the memory stir in her chest again, a fluttering warmth she wasn't ready to name, but couldn't ignore.

"I… enjoy doing this. Cooking, I mean," she continued, her gaze dropping for a moment to the plates in front of them. "There's something satisfying about seeing it all laid out, all neat and warm… and knowing someone actually eats it. Especially when I know it's for someone who matters."

Her cheeks tinged faintly with color as she glanced toward him, as if trying to measure his reaction, trying to see if the memory of last night—the festival, the lanterns, the way he had leaned just close enough—lingered for him too. "Besides," she added, a teasing glint in her eye despite the flush, "it's not often I get to show off a little. Consider yourself my first—and fortunate—audience."

She let the words linger, folding her hands on the table, fingers brushing the napkin, her heartbeat threading quietly beneath the surface. The intimacy of the moment—the quiet of the morning, the sunlight spilling across the room, the way he looked at her now, tentative yet open—tightened her chest with something thrilling and new. She hadn't reached for his hand yet; she didn't need to. The breakfast, the shared space, the simple act of care, carried enough of what she wanted to give. And maybe, she thought, just perhaps, it was enough to let a little of her feelings settle into the light between them.

Veyran Solis

 

[Veyran Solis]

Xian Xiao​

Veyran’s gaze lingered on her longer than he meant to. There was something disarming about the way the sunlight caught in her hair, how it seemed to make the whole room softer, quieter, something almost sacred in its simplicity. The scent of spice and warm bread had already started to thaw the last remnants of his usual restraint, and her words finished the work.

He exhaled, a slow, quiet breath that felt heavier than it should have.

Someone who matters.

“Perhaps you put too much faith in me.”

The phrase lodged somewhere in his chest, unfamiliar and uncomfortably close to hope. He wasn’t used to being spoken to like that, without caution, without calculation. It was too honest. Too human.

“I don’t think anyone’s ever said that to me before.” he admitted after a moment, his voice low, roughened not by command but by something gentler. He glanced down, as though the table itself could absorb some of his uncertainty. “Not without wanting something in return.”

The corners of his mouth twitched into something faint almost a smile, almost disbelief. His hand brushed against the table again, fingers curling against the smooth surface.

“You’ve got a dangerous habit, Xian.” he said finally, his tone lightening, a quiet thread of humor wrapped around the truth. “Making things feel normal.” His gaze lifted then, meeting hers squarely. “I don’t know if I remember what to do with normal anymore.”

For a long moment, he just watched, the quiet curve of her smile, the warmth behind her eyes, the calm she carried like a small rebellion against everything the galaxy demanded of them. Something inside him softened, uncoiled.

He leaned forward, voice dropping to something almost confessional. “You make it look easy.” he murmured. “Like breathing. Like this.…” he gestured slightly toward the table, the morning light, her. “....was always meant to be.”

Silence folded around them again, but this time it wasn’t awkward. It was alive. A shared rhythm between heartbeats and sunlight and the scent of warm bread cooling on the plate.

Then, quietly, so quietly it might’ve gone unheard if not for the stillness, Veyran added, “If this is what you call showing off, I’d like to see what happens when you really try.”

A faint, wry smile touched his lips, but behind it was something else, something fragile and unspoken, an acknowledgment that she had already undone him more than he cared to admit.

“Thank you.”

 

[Xian Xiao]

Xian let a slight, measured smile curl at the edges of her lips, the kind that carried more weight than it appeared to.

"Faith isn't given lightly," she said softly, letting her tone hover somewhere between gentle admonition and quiet honesty. "It isn't offered expecting something in return… only recognition that someone matters."

Her gaze lingered on him, steady and intentional, teasing in the way only she could manage without ever overstepping. "You make it difficult to take seriously, Veyran," she added, the faintest note of amusement threading her words. "With the way you talk, the way you look at things as though they might slip away before you even grasp them."

Her hand brushed lightly against the edge of the table near his, deliberate but subtle, a tether to keep him present. "Making things feel normal… It's not a habit. It's a choice. Something you allow yourself to do, even when it's terrifying."

She paused, lifting a fork just slightly, the soft clink of metal against her plate punctuating the quiet. "As for showing off," she said lightly, a wry glint in her eye, "I doubt you'd survive the real thing." Humor danced in her voice, but so did certainty — the assurance that she had control over this space, this moment.

Her eyes returned to him, calm and deliberate, the faintest warmth threading through the observation. "You… aren't as impossible as you think, Veyran. Perhaps that's why all of this feels easier than it should."

A soft exhale, a subtle tilt of her head, and her smile softened just enough to let him see it. "But don't mistake ease for weakness."

She let the words settle between them, quiet as the morning sunlight spilling across the table, allowing the small, ordinary rituals of breakfast—the scent of warm bread, the steam curling from the cups, the shared silence—to be enough. And for the first time in a long while, she let herself be there with him.

Veyran Solis

 

[Veyran Solis]

Xian Xiao​

Veyran's expression flickered between surprise and something more difficult to name. Her words didn't strike like a reprimand, they landed, sinking through the armor of practiced distance he'd worn for years. He studied her for a moment, not as one studies an opponent, but as one memorizes a moment they know they'll need later when the dark comes back, and warmth feels like something imagined.

"Faith." he echoed quietly, the word tasting strange on his tongue. "That's not something people have given me much reason to trust in." His gaze dropped, tracing the fine lines of the table's grain before returning to hers. "But you… you speak it like it's a promise. Like it's something you can build, not something you lose."

Her teasing remark had drawn the faintest hint of a smile from him, a ghost of humor breaking through the quiet weight between them. "I suppose I do look at things that way," he admitted. "It's what happens when everything you've held onto slips through your fingers often enough. You start expecting the fall before you even reach."

The wryness faded into something quieter, more sincere. "You're not wrong about choice." he said. "Normal doesn't happen by accident. Maybe I've just forgotten that it's something you have to let happen."


He leaned back slightly, the morning light catching the faint scar that traced his jaw, the kind that only showed when he wasn't trying to hide it. "And for what it's worth." he added, tone softer now, "I don't mistake your ease for weakness. I think it's the kind of strength the rest of us forgot how to have."

He reached for his cup, fingers brushing the rim as if to ground himself. Steam curled between them like breath. "You make it look effortless." he murmured. "Being here. Being kind. It's…" He stopped, searching for the right word, one that didn't sound too exposed. "...Rare."

For a heartbeat, the silence returned, thick, but not heavy. Then, quieter still:

"If I haven't told you yet." he said, looking up again. "Thank you."

 

[Xian Xiao]

Xian's eyes softened as he spoke — that quiet, careful voice of his always seemed to reach her in ways she didn't expect. There was something in the way he said her name, the way he looked at her like he was trying to understand what he didn't quite have words for.

She set her cup down slowly, fingers still curled around its edge. "Maybe faith isn't something you're given," she said after a long pause. "Maybe it's something you decide to keep — even when people give you every reason not to."

Her tone wasn't a correction; it was gentle, almost thoughtful. "You've spent so long bracing for the fall that you've forgotten how to look at what's still standing." Her lips curved slightly, not quite a smile, but something that held warmth all the same. "You don't have to expect loss every time you reach for something."

She hesitated, her gaze drifting toward the window where the sunlight cut across the table between them. "And if I make it look easy… It's not." She breathed out quietly, shoulders relaxing. "It's just that I learned you can't live waiting for things to fall apart. You miss all the small moments that way. The ones that make everything else worth it."

Her eyes met his again — steady, dark, and full of something she didn't yet know how to name. "You've earned more peace than you think, Veyran. And you don't need to thank me for it." A faint smile touched her lips. "If I can make you remember what it feels like to breathe… then that's enough."

For a heartbeat, she let the silence linger — that kind of quiet that hummed with something unspoken between them. Then, softly, she added, "But if you want to thank me…" Her voice dipped just slightly, teasing but sincere. "…then just don't forget what this feels like."

Veyran Solis

 

[Veyran Solis]

Xian Xiao​

Veyran's breath caught, not sharply, but as though her words had reached somewhere too deep to hide from. The sunlight shifted across the table, scattering gold across her features, and for a moment he forgot about the food, the city, the noise that waited beyond the walls. All that existed was the cadence of her voice and the stillness that followed it.

He didn't look away this time. There was nowhere else worth looking.

"I've spent a long time trying not to." he said quietly, his tone stripped bare of the armor it usually carried. "Forgetting, I mean." His eyes traced the space between them the sunlight, the edge of her cup, the warmth that hadn't faded since she first spoke his name. "It's easier to stop remembering when every memory hurts."

He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table, his hand shifting closer until only the smallest space remained between their fingers. He didn't take her hand, not yet. He just let his presence fill that gap, an unspoken promise that he was trying.

"But you…" A faint smile ghosted across his lips, the kind that barely reached his eyes but changed his face nonetheless. "You make it difficult to stay numb." He breathed out, low and steady. "You make me want to remember what it feels like to breathe."

Her words 'don't forget what this feels like' hung in the air like a thread pulled taut between them. Slowly, almost without thinking, his hand shifted that final inch, brushing against hers. It wasn't a grasp, just the barest touch of skin to skin, quiet, deliberate, grounding.

"I won't." he said simply. The words carried a weight that startled even him. "Not this."

The quiet stretched, but it wasn't empty. It hummed with the same current that had guided their first kiss, only softer now, less about passion, more about presence.

He tilted his head slightly, a wry glint threading through the sincerity. "You do realize." he murmured, "That you've set a dangerous precedent, Xian. If you keep reminding me what peace feels like… I might start chasing it."

The edge of humor softened the confession, but the truth in it lingered. His free hand reached for hers, his fingers curling around hers. "This is good, thank you for the invitation."

Outside, the city stirred, a faint echo of life beyond their small world. Inside, the light caught on the curve of her smile, the shimmer of his scar, and for the first time in years, Veyran felt the quiet not as absence, but as belonging.

 

[Xian Xiao]

Xian's lips curved into a quiet, deliberate smile, the kind that didn't need to be loud to carry weight. She let her hand rest against his, soft and unhurried, letting him anchor himself if only for a fleeting moment. The sunlight caught the delicate strands of her hair, casting a muted halo across her features, and she let the warmth of it settle into the stillness between them.

"You don't have to chase it," she murmured, her voice low but steady, carrying an ease that was almost disarming. "It's here. Right now. You… notice it." Her thumb traced a careful, rhythmic path across the back of his hand, deliberate yet effortless, almost instinctively offering reassurance. She wasn't asking him to say anything, or promise anything—she was creating a small, solid space where he could breathe.

Her black eyes held his, unflinching, reflecting sunlight and something steadier than hesitation, something that seemed to anchor the room itself. "And… maybe it's okay to remember," she added softly, leaning just slightly closer, her words carrying an intimacy that didn't need to be spoken aloud. "Not everything has to hurt. Some things—some people—they remind you of what's worth holding onto. Even if it's just for a moment."

A faint, teasing tilt of her head broke through the quiet, the shadow of a grin threading through the sincerity. "But… don't let it go to your head," she said lightly, though the warmth in her voice belied the humor. "I'm not responsible for you chasing peace all over the city."

Her hand lingered against his, and the silence between them hummed with a gentle rhythm, a quiet current that felt like it could stretch into hours without growing heavy. Every tiny motion—the tilt of her chin, the brush of her fingers—spoke of a trust that had been hard-earned, of a patience that didn't demand anything but presence.

"Just… be here with me for now," she whispered finally, and it was the simplest thing in the world, but the weight of it was almost tangible. Not a plea, not a command, just an invitation. To notice. To feel. To exist in a shared moment without fear, without expectation. She let herself sink a little more into the quiet, allowing the soft light, the warmth of breakfast still lingering in the room, and the brush of their hands to carry them both into something neither had been sure they remembered how to have—a peace that wasn't fleeting, yet wasn't claimed, just allowed.

She shifted slightly — a deliberate movement that didn't break the contact —letting the gravity of the moment linger. Her smile softened, almost imperceptibly, a reflection of the trust she was offering. "We don't have to figure out tomorrow yet," she added softly. "Right now, this is enough."

The hum of the city beyond her window faded into insignificance. The light, the quiet, the simple presence of another person—someone who saw her, really saw her—was enough. And for the first time in a long time, Xian felt that maybe it could be enough for him, too.

Veyran Solis

 

[Veyran Solis]

Xian Xiao​

Veyran's breath eased out slowly, as though her words had carved a space wide enough for him to finally set it down, the tension, the weight, the endless readiness to fight or flee. He didn't speak at first. He just listened: to the steadiness in her voice, to the quiet between heartbeats, to the sound of the world outside that no longer felt like it was pressing in.


Her hand against his, small, deliberate, real, was all the tether he needed. His fingers curled slightly around hers, not with the possessiveness of someone afraid to lose, but the gentleness of someone finally allowing himself to hold on. He had known touch as control, as grounding before battle, as a means of focus. This was none of those. This was something altogether rarer.


"You make it sound so simple." he murmured, voice low enough that it barely rose above the hush of the morning. "Being here. Letting things be." He glanced down at their joined hands, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "But I think you already know that's the hardest thing for me."

Her teasing drew the smallest laugh from him, quiet, roughened with disbelief but honest. His thumb brushing the side of her hand in a reflex he hadn't meant to betray. "But… I can't promise not to chase this feeling again."


He looked at her then, really looked. The way her hair caught the light, the calm that wrapped around her like it had nowhere else to go. Something inside him loosened. "I spent years convincing myself peace was a lie, there was just war and darkness." he said softly. "Peace was something that the lightside told, that was a lie." His gaze held hers. "You. Me. A morning that needs to be exactly what it is. When I'm with you I want to believe in peace."

The admission hung there, quiet and fragile but sure. He didn't move closer, he didn't need to. The space between them was already filled with understanding, with warmth that didn't demand more of them than this shared stillness.


After a while, his voice found her again, almost tender. "Xian...." He started, trying to find the words. "What happens if I fail, what happens if I can't. What if I can't turn away from the hate."

 

[Xian Xiao]

Xian didn't look away from him. The morning light caught against her dark eyes, softening their depth but not their resolve. For a heartbeat, she didn't speak, just watched him — the way his voice faltered, how his fingers still held hers like something precious and uncertain. There was a steadiness in her silence, the kind that came not from indifference but from understanding too deep to rush.

When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of something unshakable.

"If you have to chase," she said, her thumb tracing a slow circle over his hand, "then come find me."

She let the words linger there between them, the promise threading through the air. "Even if the hate doesn't let you go. Even if you lose sight of the light for a while." Her gaze softened, not with pity, but with certainty. "I'll still be here."

Her smile — small, real, a little sad — curved as she leaned forward just slightly, so close that her following words fell between them like a vow. "I don't need you to be perfect, Veyran. I don't even need you to be good all the time. I just need you to be."

Her hand tightened, enough for him to feel it. "Whatever happens… I'll find you in the storm. Because I already have."

For a moment, she hesitated, her next breath trembling with the truth that wanted out. "I love the man sitting across from me. The one who still tries, even when everything in him says to give up."

Her voice dropped to a whisper. "And I wouldn't have him any other way."

The quiet that followed wasn't fragile this time. It was full of sunlight, and the faint hum of the world waking outside, and the unspoken promise that no matter how far he fell, he would never fall alone.

Veyran Solis

 

[Veyran Solis]

Xian Xiao​

Veyran froze for the smallest moment, her words sinking into him like sunlight after years in the cold. He didn't flinch this time. He didn't look away or reach for the mask he usually wore when something cut too close. He simply breathed, and for once it didn't hurt.

His fingers tightened around hers, slow and deliberate, as if to make sure she was really there and not another flicker of light destined to fade. The room felt impossibly still, his heartbeat too loud, the world outside too distant.

"Xian…" The name escaped him as more of an exhale than a word, reverent, as though saying it might break the fragile balance between them. His voice came rough after that, low and unsteady. "You shouldn't...." He stopped himself. There was no conviction in the protest, only awe.

Her promise 'I'll still be here' echoed through him like something sacred, and he realized with a kind of quiet terror that he believed her. No one had ever said it like that before. Not an oath, not a plea. Just truth.

His thumb brushed along the side of her hand, tracing warmth into her skin. When he finally spoke again, it was softer. "You're not supposed to love someone like me." he said, almost gently. "Someone who's still… learning what to do with peace, someone in darkness." He swallowed, eyes searching hers. "But I'm glad you do."

The faintest breath of a smile crossed his face, unsteady, but real. "Because you're right. I don't know what comes after this. I don't know if I'll ever stop falling. But I think—" His voice broke, just slightly. "I know...I'll keep searching for you."

The silence that followed wasn't empty. It was alive with heartbeat and light and the faint hum of life beyond the walls. He leaned forward just enough that his forehead brushed hers, the contact light, almost reverent.

"Thank you." he whispered, the words nearly lost between them. "For finding me."

 

[Xian Xiao]

Xian's lips curved, a smile that began in her eyes before it ever reached her mouth. She didn't pull back when his forehead touched hers — instead, she leaned into the quiet between them, letting her breath mingle with his. Her hand remained clasped in his, the rhythm of their pulse blurring into one steady line.

Then, softly, she spoke.

"Why not?"

Her tone wasn't sharp, but threaded with strength — the quiet defiance of someone who had already decided her truth. She drew back just enough to look at him, eyes dark and unwavering.

"Who are you," she asked, voice low but clear, "to tell me who I am or am not supposed to love?"

Her words weren't accusations — they were certainty. A heartbeat of fire in the stillness. She lifted her free hand, fingers brushing lightly against the scar at his jaw, her touch gentle but sure. "You think this was something that just happened to you?" Her thumb traced the faint edge of his cheekbone, her smile small but fierce. "On that stormy day, you didn't fall into me, Veyran. We found each other."

Her voice softened, the edge giving way to warmth. "Together."

Silence retook them, not heavy, but full, breathing. "So maybe I wasn't supposed to love you," she continued quietly, "and maybe you weren't supposed to find peace. But neither of us ever did what we were supposed to, did we?"

Her eyes held his, steady and bright. "We survive. We find our way through the dark. And when we can't…" Her fingers tightened around his hand, grounding, unshakable. "We find each other again."

She leaned closer, the space between them humming with the same weight as that morning, the same heartbeat of warmth and light. "So don't thank me, Veyran. Don't let go."

And then, without hesitation, she closed the distance, pressing her lips to his with the same deliberate softness, the same reverent intimacy he had offered her the night before — a kiss that carried trust, certainty, and the promise that they would find each other, again and again, no matter the storm.

Veyran Solis

 

[Veyran Solis]

Xian Xiao​

Veyran met her halfway, instinctively, without the armor of thought, the way gravity meets the ground. The kiss was quiet, but it burned through the space between them with a kind of inevitability. His hand came up to her cheek, calloused thumb brushing the line of her jaw where the morning light still lingered.

There was no desperation in it this time, no edge of battle or fear, only the steady pulse of something earned. Her warmth, her steadiness, the scent of spiced bread and sunlit air all folded into the moment until it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.

When he finally drew back, he stayed close enough for his breath to catch against her skin. His voice came low, roughened at the edges. "You always have an answer." he murmured, half smile breaking through the quiet. "And somehow, it's the one that makes everything stop spinning."

He pressed his forehead to hers again, eyes closing. "Together, then." he said softly. "Even when the dark tries to take it back."

He drew her in, closing the distance until her heartbeat pressed against his chest. Then he kissed her again, deeper this time, fuller, no longer the tentative brush of shared hesitation but something grounded, claimed. His lips met hers with certainty, a slow, steady pressure that spoke all the things words would have ruined: the gratitude, the ache, the silent vow that whatever came after this moment, that he wouldn't face things alone, nor would she. Her piercing strength enough to ground them both.

The air between them thickened with warmth and quiet sound, the faint rustle of fabric, the creak of the chair beneath them as he pulled her closer still. Every motion was careful, reverent, as if he were memorizing the shape of her, the weight of her presence, the way her fingers caught lightly at his collar.

It was everything.

 

[Xian Xiao]

Xian met him without hesitation — no pause, no flinch, no thought of the world beyond that heartbeat. Her hand rose to his chest, feeling the steady rhythm beneath her palm as their lips met, not with the rush of something new, but with the quiet certainty of something found. The warmth between them deepened, slow and deliberate, every breath shared, every motion careful.

When he drew back just enough to speak, she could still feel the echo of the kiss lingering against her lips, the ghost of his breath in the space between them. His words — that quiet, wry confession — drew a smile from her, soft and luminous. "You call them answers," she murmured, her thumb tracing a small circle at his throat, "but really, I'm just reminding you of what you already know."

His forehead rested against hers again, and she closed her eyes at the simple contact, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Together," she echoed, steady and sure. "Even when the dark tries to take it back. Especially then."

When he pulled her closer, she went willingly, her hands slipping up around his shoulders, fingers threading into the fabric near his collar. The second kiss came like a promise — deeper, surer — still gentle, but carrying the weight of everything left unspoken. It wasn't hunger that drove it, but the unyielding need to remember: that they had found one another once in the storm, and they could do so again.

The air hummed around them — quiet, alive. The soft catch of breath, the faint shift of light across skin, the warmth of her against him. When the kiss finally broke, she stayed there, her lips still brushing the edge of his.

"Then it's decided," she whispered. "No more running from it. No more pretending this wasn't meant to be."

She leaned in one last time, pressing a softer kiss against the corner of his mouth, her voice barely a breath against his skin. "We found each other, Veyran. We won't lose that — not to the dark. Not to anything."

Veyran Solis

 

[Veyran Solis]

Xian Xiao​

After the kiss and he looked into her eyes, something shifted not heavy, just intent. He reached up, brushing a strand of hair from her face, his thumb lingering at her temple. "Tell me everything." he said quietly.

"I mean it." he continued, his hand still resting against her cheek. "I want to know everything. All of it, the places that made you, the people you've lost, the things you won't tell anyone else." His voice softened. "I want to know what the world looks like through your eyes."

He didn't look away as he spoke, didn't let the moment slip back into pretense. His chest rose and fell against hers, a steady rhythm that matched her own. "I've spent a long time living in the dark, Xian." he said finally. "Let me see what the light looks like."

And then, quieter, almost an echo. "Tell me everything. I want to know you."

The words hung between them, not as a demand, but as an offering. A promise that he was ready to listen, ready to understand, ready to stay.

 

[Xian Xiao]

Xian didn't answer right away. She just looked at him — really looked — until the air between them felt heavy with meaning. Then she took his hand, small fingers threading through his, and rose quietly.

"Come on," she said softly, tugging him toward the couch near the window.

They sat close, the kind of close that made every movement feel deliberate. She curled one leg beneath her, turned so she could face him, and let her breath steady before she began.

"I was born on Castell," she said at last. "My parents were… good people. My mother worked with the weather monitors, and my father built ships. Simple life. Beautiful, really. Until the fire."

Her voice stayed calm, though her eyes flickered with something fragile. "I was four. I remember the light more than the flames. The kind that eats everything."

Her gaze dropped to her hands. "A red-haired woman found me afterward. I don't think she expected to — she was just there. She got me off Castell and took me to Coruscant. Left me with a shelter. Said it was safer." A pause, then quietly: "She wasn't wrong."

Xian's lips curved faintly, though it didn't reach her eyes. "I don't think she meant to abandon me. She just… wasn't the kind of person who stayed. But she saved me, and that's more than most ever did."

She looked up again, voice softening. "I stayed there until I was thirteen. Learned to fight to keep what little I had. Then the Jedi came. They saw what I could do — how the air moved when I was angry, how the wind listened when I cried — and they took me to Kashyyyk for training."

Her tone lightened slightly, touched with warmth. "That's where I learned control. The forests, the silence, the Masters… they kept abandoning me, but some taught me that power doesn't have to mean chaos. It was the first time I wasn't afraid of what I could do."

Her eyes grew distant, thoughtful. "After that, I grew tired of being alone, and I went back to Castell for a while. Tried to remember what home used to feel like. But it didn't fit anymore. So I left again — Bastion, the Diarchy, the work that keeps me from looking back too much."

She leaned back into the couch, drawing her legs up until her bare feet rested lightly across his lap. One arm hooked along the back of the cushions so she could look at him directly.

"You asked what the world looks like through my eyes," she said, her tone low and steady. "It's… quiet. Sometimes lonely. But it's full of small, bright things that don't give up. Wind through trees. Sparks in the dark. People who shouldn't have found each other — but did anyway."

A small, wry smile. "Like us."

For a heartbeat, she just looked at him — the kind of look that said don't move, don't ruin this. Then, slowly, she reached up and brushed her thumb across his jaw.

"That's everything," she said softly. "The fire, the silence, the people who didn't stay… and the ones who did." Her voice dropped, quieter still. "Now you know me."

She leaned in then, slow and certain, and kissed him the same way he had kissed her the night before — gentle at first, then deeper, warmer, lingering. A breath shared between them that said all the words she didn't have to.

When she drew back, her forehead rested lightly against his.

"That's how the light looks," she murmured, the faintest smile touching her lips. "What about you? Tell me everything."

Veyran Solis

 

[Veyran Solis]

Xian Xiao​

Her feet shifted in his lap, and he caught one gently, holding it for a teasing moment before letting his hand fall back to her knee. "You see light in the smallest things." he continued, voice low. "That's not something you learn from peace. That's something you learn from surviving."

Veyran leaned back against the couch, the faint light from the window tracing the sharp lines of his face. For a moment, he said nothing. Then, with a quiet breath, he began.

"Ruusan." he said softly. "That's where it started. I was born there, though I never really lived there. I remember the cold more than anything the forests, the ruins, the kind of silence that gets inside your bones. My family left me there when I was still small enough to not understand what it meant. By the time I did, they were already ghosts."


His gaze drifted past her shoulder, somewhere distant. "I learned to survive off what I could find. The world was full of echoes — voices from battles long gone. Sometimes I thought they were real. Maybe they were. Maybe that's how the Force found me before I ever knew its name."


He rubbed a thumb absently against the scar along his jaw, the motion grounding him. "When I was eight, I climbed onto a freighter bound for Bespin. Didn't know where it was going. I just knew I needed to leave. Cloud City became my battlefield after that air vents, empty corridors, alleys full of smoke and noise. I learned fast that trust was a luxury, and hunger was a constant teacher."

His mouth quirked faintly, though there was no humor in it. "I fought when I had to. Stole when I had to. Lived by instinct. Sometimes things… happened. When I was cornered or desperate, the world would bend around me. Doors would break, people would fall. I didn't understand it then, just thought I was cursed."


He looked at her then, eyes steady. "When I was sixteen, a Sith agent came through Bespin. He found me. Said he could make the power make sense make me make sense. Said I could matter. I believed him."

Veyran's voice dropped lower, quieter. "He took me to Jutrand. To a Sith enclave. That's where it began, really, the part of my life I don't talk about much. Training, breaking, rebuilding. They called it strength. I thought it was purpose. But it was just survival again, dressed in new words."

He fell silent, studying the way her hand rested against her knee, how calm she seemed despite the storm he'd just laid bare.

"That's the truth." he said finally. "Ruusan gave me hunger. Bespin taught me how to endure it. The Sith tried to make it my weapon."

His gaze softened then, quiet but unflinching. "You're the first person I've ever told it to who made me believe it doesn't have to define me anymore."

A faint, fragile smile touched his lips. "That's everything, Xian. The ghosts, the storm, and what's left of me after both."

 

[Xian Xiao]

For a long moment, Xian didn't move. The only sounds were the faint hum of the city outside and the slow, steady rhythm of their breathing. Her dark eyes lingered on him, studying the stillness that had settled after his words — the way he spoke about pain like it was a memory of weather, not a wound.

Then, gently, she shifted — her toes pressing lightly into his thigh before her legs slid closer together, the motion subtle but grounding. Her hand found his again, fingers warm against his scarred knuckles.

"You were never cursed," she said softly. "You were surviving. There's a difference."

Her voice held no pity, only quiet certainty. "You were a child, Veyran. Hungry, alone, trying to make sense of something no one should have to understand. And when the galaxy came for you again, it wasn't because you were weak. It was because you were seen. That's what predators do — they find people who burn too brightly."

She smiled faintly, though her expression was serious. "You kept that light, even when they tried to twist it. That's not something they taught you. That's something that was always yours."

Her thumb traced over the faint scar at his jaw, the one he always touched when he was thinking too hard. "You said the Sith gave you a weapon," she murmured. "But they didn't realize they gave you something stronger — the will to choose what kind of man you'd become."

Her gaze softened, the weight of it tender, unflinching. "And now you're here. Not because they made you this way, but because you refused to stay broken."

She leaned in then, resting her temple briefly against his shoulder, her voice quieter still. "You said I see light in small things." Her lips curved faintly. "That's only because I've met people like you — the ones who shouldn't have survived the dark but did anyway."

After a pause, she tilted her head up, meeting his eyes again. "The ghosts don't define you, Veyran," she said. "They just remind you you're still alive."

Her hand lingered at his jaw, gentle but certain. "And I'm here," she added softly. "Not to chase the light out of you, but to make sure you remember it's still there."

Veyran Solis

 

[Veyran Solis]

Xian Xiao​

Veyran's eyes closed for a heartbeat at her words. They landed like rain on scorched earth, soft, steady, unrelenting in the way only truth could be. For a moment, he didn't trust himself to speak. His hand tightened around hers, rough fingers curling gently over her smaller ones as though anchoring himself there, in the warmth of her touch.

He had been told before that he'd survived, that he'd endured. But no one had ever said it the way she did, with the quiet conviction of someone who had walked through fire herself and still found gentleness left to give.

When he opened his eyes again, he looked at her not as someone who had saved him, but as someone who saw him. All of him, the parts that still bled when the dark called, the fragments of the boy he'd been, and the man who had learned to hide behind duty and control.

"You make it sound like I had a choice." he said softly, voice rough with the weight of memory. "But for a long time… I didn't even know there was one to make." He exhaled, slow and uneven. "I built myself up, strong enough to survive, on Ruusan they sharpened the dull edges and then made sure I believed that was all I could ever be."

He fell silent for a breath, his thumb brushing lightly over the back of her hand. Watching as she leaned against his shoulder. "But you're right." he admitted quietly. "Maybe what they didn't see, the thing they couldn't kill, was that I was still choosing every day not to lose that piece of myself."

His gaze found hers again, steady now, filled with the same soft determination she'd spoken with. "And I didn't even know why I kept fighting until you."

He lifted a hand to her face, tracing the line of her cheek with the care of someone still learning what gentleness felt like. "You remind me that strength isn't always battlefields and scars." he said. "Sometimes it's waking up and letting yourself be seen. Letting someone hold your hand and not pulling away."

His other arm moved around her waist, drawing her closer until she was pressed against him. He breathed her in, her presence, warmth, essence the faint electric hum of the Force that always seemed to follow her.

"You say you're here to remind me of the light." he murmured, voice low against her hair. "But you are the light, you are my light."

"You make me want to stop surviving." he whispered. "You make me want to live."

The city outside moved on, distant, irrelevant. Inside, in the hush of that small space, two survivors sat with the morning sun painting them in gold, holding onto something fragile and fierce. Neither salvation nor redemption, just the rare, precious peace of being seen and still staying.