Private The Edge of Trust

[Shade]

Shade's eyes opened to the low hum of her office, the pale holo-light fracturing across the walls in shards. The cot beneath her was stiff, functional enough to sleep, enough to recover. She had slept in far worse conditions. This space, spartan and dim, had become her home, a place to work, to rest, to exist without interruption.

Footsteps. Deliberate. Familiar. Cassian.

Her crimson gaze lifted slowly, calm, controlled, precise. She made no move toward her sidearm, no reflexive tension beyond the awareness already innate to her. Her armor shifted soundlessly with her movements, every click and slide muted to all but the most attentive ear.

"Early," she said evenly, neutrally, with a voice so soft it sounded more like an observation than a greeting.

Her eyes scanned him briefly, noting posture and presence without letting curiosity show. And yet, she felt it, a subtle awareness, a tightening in the chest she did not acknowledge, a fleeting recognition that he had arrived quietly, and that her pulse marked it even as her face remained neutral.

"The cot isn't ideal," she murmured, almost to herself, "but it suffices."

She pushed herself upright with deliberate motions, gloves stacked neatly at her chest, armor shifting soundlessly except for someone listening closely. Her gaze returned to Cassian, steady and professional. Yet, the faintest trace of attention lingered on him; not interest, not desire, but the unwilling acknowledgment that his presence drew her focus more than it should.

"What brings you here?" Her voice remained measured, even, the question surface-level, hiding the subtler probe beneath: how much did he know of her? Of the things she had never spoken?

She did not shift her posture, did not allow herself to relax. Every movement was precise, a quiet, unyielding rhythm. The office, sparse as it was, felt almost like armor itself, shielding her from intrusion while she measured the space and the man before her. And somewhere beneath the control, part of her mind registered the tension in the air, the tiny imperceptible pull of attention she refused to name, because she would not let it exist.

Shade remained as she always did: composed, unreadable, a ghost in the light of the holo-panels. Yet even in her stillness, the faintest trace of distraction lingered, a ghost of her own response that she could neither act on nor entirely dismiss.

Cassian Abrantes

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Shade

​

Cassian's shadow stretched long across the threshold before he stepped inside. The hum of the office was quiet, sterile too quiet for someone like Shade. He could hear the faint crackle of static from the holo-terminals, the whisper of recycled air moving through vents. It wasn't much of a living space, and the sight of the folded cot confirmed the suspicion that had lingered since her last report.

"You weren't exaggerating when you said you'd be staying close to the data feeds." he murmured, tone halfway between disapproval and wry amusement. His boots made no sound on the polished floor as he crossed to her desk, setting down two steaming cups on its edge. "Figured you wouldn't step out long enough to find something decent. It's caf—strong, not the synthetic ration blend."

He took in the details she hadn't tried to hide: armor still fastened, sidearm close at hand, cot neatly aligned against the wall. The kind of discipline that wasn't just habit.

"Shade." he said softly, his voice settling into that low timbre that carried a weight of familiarity. "You've been sleeping here."

It wasn't a question. His eyes met hers steady, unflinching, carrying neither pity nor reprimand, just the quiet recognition of someone who'd done the same once too often. He nudged one of the cups toward her.

"I don't remember this being standard lodging for intelligence operatives." he added, the faintest flicker of dry humor touching his mouth. "Or have you decided the cot's part of your security measures?"

 

[Shade]

Shade pushed herself up from the cot with the same quiet deliberation she carried into everything else. Her movements were precise, each shift of weight measured, the faint scrape of fabric against the floor the only sound marking the motion. Once upright, she folded the cot with practiced efficiency, the corners aligning cleanly, a subtle testament to the discipline she carried even into mundane tasks.

She reached for the cup Cassian had set down, letting her fingers brush its rim with a touch of acknowledgment. A small, almost reluctant smile curved her lips, the faintest loosening of the normally tight line of her mouth.

"Caf," she murmured softly, amusement threading her voice. "…strong. Thank you." Her crimson gaze lifted to meet his, carrying the faintest hint of curiosity now.

A chuckle followed, just enough to betray a trace of warmth. "And how exactly did you figure out I'd been sleeping here?" Her tone was even, controlled. Still, there was an undercurrent of intrigue as she tilted her head slightly, eyes flicking briefly to the folded cot before returning to Cassian, the slightest acknowledgment of shared experience threading through her careful composure.

Cassian Abrantes

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Shade ​

Cassian's mouth curved in that familiar, quiet way of his half a smile, half something unspoken.

"I didn't have to figure it out." he said, voice low, carrying the kind of gentleness that slipped in when he wasn't trying to command a room. "You left the light pattern running on your terminal overnight. Subtle, but not subtle enough for someone who knows what to look for."

He lifted his cup and took a slow sip, eyes never leaving hers. "Besides." he went on, "You have that look. The one people get when they've been keeping themselves busy to avoid thinking about why."

He set the cup down beside hers, the faint clink breaking the hush. "I've worn it before."

Cassian straightened slightly, his gaze drifting toward the holo-panels humming along the far wall before returning to her. "It's efficient," he admitted. "Less distraction. Less noise. But it's not sustainable." There was no accusation in his tone, only observation the voice of someone who'd had the same argument with himself a hundred times.

"I can help you find a place to stay Shade, you just gotta talk to me." He said with a small smile as he took a seat opposite side of her desk.

 

[Shade]

Shade let her gaze linger on him, the faint shadow of a smile tugging at her lips, not the humorless line of habit, but something softer, just enough to hint at acknowledgement. She adjusted the cot one last time, smoothing the fold with a precise motion, then shifted her weight to lean slightly against the desk as she accepted the caf, fingers brushing the warm ceramic.

"Efficient," she murmured, letting the word hang between them, "…and yet somehow unsustainable. You've made it sound like an observation rather than a lecture."

Her crimson eyes met his, steady, assessing, yet softened with a faint curiosity she rarely allowed herself to show. "I suppose you've worn that look too, then," she added, voice quiet but carrying a trace of respect, a subtle undercurrent of shared understanding threading through her words.

She brought the caf to her lips and let herself take a slow sip, allowing the warmth to anchor her for just a moment. Then, after a pause, she added more, her voice careful, hesitant, threading through the space between them. "It's… hard, you know," she admitted softly, the words unusual from her. "Opening enough to talk. To ask for help. I've… done everything for myself for so long, I don't even remember how to… not be solo anymore."

Her posture remained controlled, but the tension eased just enough that it was visible only in the subtlest way—an acknowledgment that she might, just this once, let someone else see the corner of the armor she usually kept tightly sealed. "Thank you, Cassian," she said, tilting her head slightly, a hint of amusement in the curve of her mouth, "for noticing, and for…offering to help."

The caf warmed her hands, and for the briefest instant, the office, the cot, the scattered holo-terminals, the faint hum of recycled air, it felt less like a containment and more like a space where she could exist without the constant weight of vigilance. She didn't say more, didn't need to; the small opening she allowed herself was enough for now.

Cassian Abrantes

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Shade​

Cassian stood quiet for a few breaths, the low hum of the holo displays filling the space between their words. The way she spoke carefully, deliberately wasn't lost on him. Neither was the weight that came with it.

He stepped closer, not intruding, just enough that the light caught his face, softening the sharpness of his usual composure. "Observation's easier to take than a lecture." he said quietly. "Especially from someone who's been on both sides of one."

A wry half-smile followed, fleeting but genuine. "And yes," he admitted, "I've worn that look. Still do, some days. The habit of not asking for help dies hard. Even harder when you've convinced yourself you function better without it."

He took another sip of his caf, eyes steady on her over the rim. "Truth is, we don't forget how to let people in we just get out of practice. The work trains us to close doors, not open them. But the skill's still there. Buried somewhere under the discipline and the sleepless nights."

The corner of his mouth lifted slightly as he straightened, the warmth in his expression tempered by understanding. "You don't owe me gratitude, Shade. Just… remember that you don't have to keep the galaxy at arm's length all the time. We are a team."

His eyes lingered on hers for a moment longer quiet, steady, almost grounding. "You can keep your armor," he added softly, "Just… remember to breathe underneath it."

 

[Shade]

Shade let the silence settle between them, not as discomfort but as something measured, intentional. She looked down at the caf in her hands—the faint ripple of steam rising from it, the soft heat seeping into her fingers—and exhaled slowly through her nose. It wasn't a sigh, exactly. More the sound of someone trying to remember what it felt like to let a breath go without calculation.

"Breathe underneath it," she echoed, voice low, almost thoughtful. "You make it sound simple."

Her gaze lifted to his, a trace of quiet irony ghosting across her expression before softening into something more honest. "I've worn it so long it feels like part of me now. The stillness, the control…they are what have kept me alive. But sometimes it's difficult to know where the armor ends and I begin."

She took another small sip of caf, letting the bitterness settle before she spoke again. "You're right, though," she admitted softly. "Maybe it isn't about forgetting—just about forgetting how to trust the quiet that comes after. You said before that you feel you can trust me. Maybe I should return that. Learn to trust again. On more than myself."

Her eyes flicked briefly to the cot, then back to him, a faint, self-aware curve touching her lips. "A team," she repeated quietly. "That's…new. But not unwelcome."

The moment lingered—not charged, not fragile, just real. She shifted her weight slightly, the subtle sound of her armor moving a whisper in the still air, and for the first time since she'd joined Republic Intelligence, the office didn't feel like a place she needed to defend.

"I'll try to remember to breathe," she said at last, the faintest trace of warmth threading through her tone. "No promises on the armor."

Cassian Abrantes

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Shade ​

Cassian's expression softened, the hint of a smile catching in the quiet like light. He didn't move closer this time; he didn't need to. The distance between them felt intentional, mutual an understanding rather than a barrier.

"Simple." he said at length, his tone low and almost fond, "Isn't the same as easy."

He studied her for a moment, eyes tracing the familiar precision in her stance, the way her fingers rested on the rim of the cup as if anchoring herself there. "You don't have to take it off," he went on. "The armor. The stillness. Those things kept you alive. They still might. But there's a difference between armor and isolation. You just have to remember why you built it and when to let it rest."

The words came without the weight of command or persuasion, quiet and human, shaped by experience more than duty. He lifted his own caf, taking a small drink, and added with a faint flicker of humor and tease. "Besides, I'd trust you more with armor than without. You'd probably be unbearable if you ever decided to relax."

A pause then, softer: "But I'd like to see it someday."

The holo-lights pulsed faintly across the room, painting him in fractured blue and silver. "And for what it's worth," he said, a touch of warmth cutting through the words, "You're doing better than most. You noticed the breath, after all."

He tipped his cup toward her slightly, an understated salute. "So keep the armor." he murmured, "But let the air in once in a while. The galaxy's heavy enough without holding your breath through it."

 

[Shade]

Shade's lips curved, faint but deliberate, not quite a smile, yet more than neutrality.

"Unbearable?" she echoed, tone steady but laced with quiet irony. "That sounds like a challenge, General."

Her gaze drifted toward the viewport, the city lights fractured across the glass and mirrored in her eyes. For a few moments, she said nothing, letting the hum of the holo-panels fill the space between them. When she spoke again, her voice was low, deliberate. "You are right about one thing. Armor and isolation… are easy to confuse."

Her fingers brushed the cup's rim absently; it was a grounding gesture he had noted. "After years of surviving, everything begins to feel like defense. You stop asking if you need to fight, and assume you do." The words weren't a confession, not entirely more a measured observation wrapped in logic.

She lifted her gaze back to him, eyes steady. "Letting it rest…takes effort. I am still learning what that means."

A softer, quieter pause followed: "But perhaps I am not entirely hopeless, if I noticed the breath."

She raised her cup in mirrored acknowledgment, the motion fluid, precise. "I will try to remember. The air, the space…the difference between solitude and silence."

Then, the slightest flicker of warmth touched her features — subtle, almost imperceptible, yet near human. "And if I ever do relax," she added, narrowing her eyes just faintly in a hint of humor, "I will make sure you are there to see it. Once."

Cassian Abrantes

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Shade
​

Cassian let a quiet breath escape him, not a laugh exactly, but close soft, knowing, the sound of someone who'd had the same conversation with himself too many times before.

"No promises needed." he said, voice steady but edged with that familiar undercurrent of warmth. "Armor has its place. Just… don't forget you're the one wearing it. Not the other way around."

His eyes returned to hers, steady and deliberate. "But trust… it's the harder thing. Not because it's fragile, but because it demands presence. It's not about leaving yourself exposed. It's about knowing someone else will be watching the angles when you can't."

He let the quiet linger, then added, with a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, "And if that makes this a team well, then we'll both have to adjust."

The humor settled into stillness again, softer this time. Cassian set his cup down beside hers, the faint click of ceramic breaking the hush. "You don't have to rush it," he said, quieter now, almost like a promise. "Trust doesn't come back all at once. It comes in moments like this one."

 

[Shade]

Shade's crimson eyes flicked to him, subtle, assessing, yet not unkind. She let the words settle around her, the cadence of his voice threading through the quiet of the office like a careful undercurrent.

"I know armor has its place," she murmured, her tone low and deliberate, "and not only for protection. You wear it too, I see that. A shield, a measure of control…" Her hand brushed against the edge of her gauntlet, the motion minimal, precise. "If I didn't trust you, even a fraction, my door would have stayed locked."

A faint, almost imperceptible shift of her shoulders carried a quiet acknowledgment, a measured nod that was more than formality. "I look forward to…being a team," she said carefully, voice even but threaded with something closer to anticipation. The words were platonic, surface-level, but beneath them lingered the buried rhythm of an unspoken alliance she wasn't yet ready to fully name, a trust and synergy built in quiet, precise increments.

She allowed herself a fraction longer to meet his gaze, just long enough for the acknowledgment to pass between them. "We'll adjust," she said finally, a faint curl at the corner of her lips betraying a rare, restrained warmth.

Cassian Abrantes

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Shade ​

Cassian's answer came with that faint, steady ease he wore like a second skin controlled, but carrying just enough gravity to reveal he'd heard every word, every subtle inflection.

"Locked doors aren't much of a barrier when trust's already been let in." he said quietly, a trace of wryness threading the tone. "You're right I wear mine too. Old habits. Some harder to put down than others."


His gaze lingered on her a moment longer, the soft hum of the holo-panels painting the side of his face in pale blue light. There was no challenge in his expression, only understanding one professional recognizing another's careful boundaries, and the rare trust implied by lowering them.

He tilted his head slightly, that near-imperceptible smile returning. "I think we'll make it work." he said. "Teams aren't always about knowing everything. Sometimes it's just about being willing to stand in the same quiet and not demand what the other isn't ready to give."

A pause. Then, softer: "That, and good caf."

He nodded once, deliberate. The motion was unhurried, grounded in a sense of ease he hadn't worn here before. "If you want that place to stay, I have a place, its not given out of charity, its because we are together in this. A team...and we help each other out."

 

[Shade]

Shade regarded him for a long, measured moment — the kind of silence that wasn’t distance, but deliberation. The faint blue light from the holo-panels traced across the angular lines of her armor, glinting off silver and shadow, catching in the quiet crimson of her eyes.
"Trust doesn’t come easily," she said at last, her voice low, steady, but softened at the edges. "But I’ve learned it doesn’t always need to. Sometimes it just… exists quietly, where words don’t reach."
Her gaze lingered on him — not searching, just seeing — the smallest acknowledgment of what he’d offered and what it meant to be seen without demand. "And for what it’s worth," she continued, "I don’t mistake what you’ve given for charity. I know what partnership costs in this line of work. You wouldn’t offer it if you didn’t mean it."
She reached for the cup beside her, lifting it with calm precision, the faint scent of caf curling through the air between them. "Then it’s settled," she said, a quiet certainty threading through the words. "We make it work."
A faint, near-humor touched her tone as she added, "And perhaps good caf really does make a difference." Her lips curved — not a smile exactly, but something close, a rare easing in a room made of steel and silence.
When her gaze drifted to the cot folded neatly against the wall, the brief stillness that followed was almost reflective. A breath escaped her — not quite a sigh, pride catching it halfway. "Comfort’s… a dangerous thing," she murmured after a moment, calm but edged with quiet thought. "You stop watching for threats when the floor stops aching beneath you. I’ve slept in worse — far worse — but I’m still here because I learned not to crave ease."
Her eyes found his again, steady and deliberate. The unspoken admission lingered — that his offer tempted her, that the cot was a poor excuse for rest, that part of her wanted to accept.
"Still," she said finally, her tone softening just enough to let honesty slip through. "I’ll think about it. The cot isn’t exactly a luxury suite."
It was as close as she would come to conceding, and she knew he’d recognize it. She took another sip of caf, letting the warmth settle between them before adding, quieter now, almost a promise: "You’ll have my answer soon enough. But for now — this will do."
Her words carried a subtle gratitude, unspoken but undeniable — woven through composure, pride, and the faintest trace of something warmer that lingered in her gaze before she let the calm precision return.

Cassian Abrantes

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Shade ​

Cassian didn't speak right away. He sat there a moment longer, studying her through the pale flicker of holo-light that stretched and broke across the steel edges of the room. There was something about the way she said this will do—not resignation, but choice—that settled deeper than he expected.

His tone, when it came, was quiet, a steady current beneath the hum of the machinery.
"Good." he said simply. "That's all I ever wanted for it to do. For now."

The faint scent of caf and ozone still threading the space between them. "You're right. Trust doesn't need to be loud. Sometimes it's just… knowing the other person will still be standing where you left them." He glanced at her hand around the cup, the deliberate stillness in her posture. "And I don't offer things I don't mean. Not to you or anyone."

There was no flourish to it, no attempt at sentiment. Just fact, plain and deliberate.

When she spoke of comfort, he let a flicker of something like understanding pass through his expression an echo of shared history neither had to name. "Comfort's dangerous." he agreed, the faintest rasp of humor threading through his words, "But exhaustion's worse. You start making mistakes when you convince yourself you don't need rest."


He tipped his cup toward her, mirroring her earlier motion, and the gesture carried the same quiet respect she'd offered. "Think about it," he said. "That's enough. No one's asking you to let your guard down—just to let it breathe a little."

 

[Shade]

Shade leaned against the edge of her desk, holding the warm mug in both hands, letting the heat seep into her palms. The pale holo-light from the monitors fractured across her armor, catching in the angles of silver and shadow, and the faint hum of the systems was the only sound in the office.

She glanced briefly toward the cot, folding neatly against the wall, and gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. Pride held her back from accepting Cassian's offer—comfort had always felt like a luxury she didn't deserve—but she acknowledged it now, quietly, without apology.

Her crimson eyes returned to the flickering holo-light, the warmth of the caf grounding her as she considered the offer. It's not weakness…just…an easier path, she thought, weighing the choice. A faint pull toward acceptance lingered, subtle, almost reluctant, but real.

Still holding the mug, she drew a slow breath, letting the moment stretch. Her posture remained poised, measured, yet there was a softness in the pause, a quiet concession to the idea that she didn't always have to shoulder everything alone. Shade would decide soon, but for now, she let the warmth of the caf and the promise of trust settle quietly around her.

Cassian Abrantes