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Kael's smirk faltered. He looked away — just for a second — then looked back with a rueful glint in his eye.
"I didn't run from you, Sommer. I ran from all of it. From them. From everything."
"Spare me the shabla excuses."
She folded her arms across her chest. "You think you get to stroll in here, drop your cocky little one-liners, and what? I roll out the welcome holo? Offer you a room upstairs?"
He stepped forward now, dropping the performative grin, letting his voice harden just enough to match hers.
"You think I haven't heard the stories? Club owner Sommer Dai, woman of fame, heart of ice, Queen of Clubs. I didn't come to fight. I came because I realized I'm tired of floating out in the void with nothing but regrets and old blaster burns. You're the only thing left that might be real."
"Real?" she snapped, eyes flaring. "Real was watching your name vanish off the comm grids. Real was not seeing you at the funeral. Real was trying to explain to people why the only family I had left ghosted me like some two-credit coward."
"Because while you were out kriffing your way through Twi'leks and gambling your soul away on Nar Shaddaa, I was trying to survive. Every time I looked up at the stars, I wondered if maybe, just maybe, you'd come back. And you didn't."
The music below still pulsed, a slow, seductive rhythm that barely reached the office above. Thick duraglass windows muffled the energy from the main floor, and now it was just the two of them — separated from the chaos, yet still carrying it between them.
Sommer leaned against her desk, arms crossed. She'd poured herself a glass of emerald spice wine — not to offer, just to settle.