Private Through Fire

[Aiden Porte]

Alina Grayson​

Aiden didn't answer right away.

He let her words settle the way she had, without rushing to claim them, without trying to shape them into something clever or worthy. The candle flame wavered once, reflected in the dark of his eyes as he watched her lean back, at ease in a way that felt rare and quietly earned.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low, unforced.

"I know what you mean," he said. "About honesty being… costly." A faint, rueful curve touched his mouth, not quite a smile, more an acknowledgment. "The truth has a way of stripping things bare. People like the comfort of shadows. Even when they hurt them."

He reached for his own glass, not to drink yet, just to ground his hand around it. His thumb traced the rim absently, thoughtful.

"But I've found," he continued, lifting his gaze back to hers, "That the moments where you don't have to guard yourself, where you can simply be, those are the ones the Force feels closest. Not louder. Just…clearer."

At her assurance, something in his posture eased, subtle but unmistakable. The habitual readiness, the careful composure he carried so often, softened in the quiet she'd made safe.

"Thank you," he said simply, meeting her steady gaze. No rank. No title. Just the man. "For that. And for the reminder."

He lifted his glass in return, aligning it with hers the same way, near, deliberate, , and this time he did take a sip, the moment unhurried. When he leaned back, it was with a quiet exhale, eyes drifting briefly to the lake where starlight trembled on the water's surface.

 

[Alina Grayson]

Alina mirrored him without needing to think lifting her own glass again, letting the silence stretch, comfortable and clean. Her eyes lingered on him across the table, reflecting the lanternlight with that same quiet steadiness she carried into every battle, every storm, every truth she refused to flinch from.

"Most people don't want the truth," she said softly, resting her glass back down. "They want certainty. They want something easy to believe in, something that doesn't require anything of them."

Her gaze dropped for a moment, not in avoidance, but in thought, fingers lightly tracing the rim of her plate. "But honesty it keeps the ground real. Even if it hurts sometimes. Even if it costs you everything. At least you know where you stand."

She didn't say especially when the wars are over but the scars still ache but it was in the way she looked back up at him, in the brief flicker of something deeper behind the calm.

"That's why I stay," she added after a beat, voice barely above the hush of the lake breeze. "Here. On Naboo. With people like you." A hint of a smile touched her lips something small and sincere, not polished for diplomacy. "Because for once, I don't have to perform for the room. I don't have to carry everyone else's expectations before I've had a chance to breathe."

Alina reached for her drink again, tilting it gently in his direction not a toast, not formality. A shared language. A way of saying I get it without needing to say anything at all.

"And because…" her voice dipped just slightly, a touch more personal, "the food really is good."

The glint in her eye then subtle but playful was a promise that even honesty could be light, could be warm, if you let it be.

TAG: Aiden Porte

 

[Aiden Porte]

Alina Grayson​

Aiden let out a quiet breath that might have been a laugh if it had chosen to finish becoming one.

It didn't break the moment, if anything, it warmed it.

"You're not wrong," he said, eyes still on her, the corner of his mouth lifting just enough to acknowledge the truth in what she'd said. "Certainty is comforting. It asks less than honesty does." His gaze drifted briefly to the lake, to the way the water shifted under the stars. "The Force itself isn't certain. It moves. Changes. Responds. I think that unsettles people more than they like to admit."

When she spoke of staying, of Naboo, of people like you, his attention came back to her fully. There was no surprise in his expression, but there was something quieter: recognition. The sense of two paths having crossed not by accident, but by choice.

"That's why I built my life here," he said after a moment. "Not the homestead. Not the land." His hand lifted slightly, a small, encompassing gesture. "This. The space to breathe. To lay things down when the day's done."

Her playful addendum drew the smile out of him at last, real, unguarded, the kind that didn't often make it past duty.

"And here I was thinking it was the lake that kept everyone," he replied lightly. "But yes. The food helps. A great deal."

He lifted his glass again, mirroring her tilt, not a toast, not a promise. Just alignment. "For what it's worth," he added, voice softer again, "you don't ask anything of this place that it isn't already willing to give. And neither do I."

The candle burned low between them. The lake breathed. The night carried on. And in the shared quiet, honest, unperformed, gently alive, it felt like exactly the right place to stay.