Private You ARE the Reason I am Here

[Shade]

Shade shut down the last terminal, the soft blue glow fading from her gloves as the system powered down with a gentle sigh. The operations wing had emptied hours ago, leaving only the faint hum of ventilation and that particular stillness that settled over the Directorate after long rotations. She didn't need to turn to know he was there—she felt Cassian's presence moving through the quiet like a gravitational pull she'd learned to recognize long before she admitted it. Even exhausted, he carried himself with discipline, every step measured, every breath controlled. But Shade saw the truth beneath the veneer: the slight drop in his shoulders, the tired rigidity in his spine, the muted drag of breath that came from yet another night spent on a barracks cot rather than anywhere someone might actually rest.

She turned toward him as he approached, stepping into his path—not blocking him, but positioning herself where he would have no choice but to look at her. The soft corridor lights caught in her eyes, turning the crimson into slow-burning coals as she studied him with a gaze that missed nothing. Her posture eased almost imperceptibly, a subtle shift that softened the air between them—not weakness, not hesitation, but an opening she allowed only for him.

"Your rotation's over." A breath—steady, quiet, deliberate. "And so is mine."

Shade let the words settle before she stepped closer, closing the distance until her presence became a quiet pressure in the cool air between them. She didn't touch him, didn't reach, but the intention behind her nearness was unmistakable.

"You've been sleeping in the barracks."

It wasn't a reprimand. It wasn't concern masquerading as command. It was the truth, spoken with the precision of someone who paid attention to every detail he tried to hide. Her expression softened then—only a fraction, but enough for him to see it, enough for him to feel it.

"You don't need to do that tonight."

Her breath moved slowly and controlled through her chest as she bridged the final inch of space, close enough that he could feel the steadiness of her resolve without a single touch. Shade lifted her wrist and activated a discreet holographic projection. Soft blue light shimmered to life between them, displaying a list of fresh ingredients—produce, spice packets, proteins—the kind of order she never placed unless she had a reason. The hologram flickered once before she lowered her hand again, a faint, quiet warmth touching the corner of her mouth.

"I'll make dinner." Her head tilted slightly, just enough to let him see she meant it. "Real food. Not ration bars. Not cafeteria noodles." There was vulnerability beneath her control now, woven into the simplicity of the statement—something she rarely let anyone hear, but she let him hear it.

"You should eat something warm." Her voice dipped lower, gentler. "Sit somewhere quiet for a while." It wasn't persuasion. It wasn't offered like a favor. It was an understanding—born from watching him push too hard, carry too much, and sleep too little.

Shade held his gaze, unyielding and honest in a way she allowed no one else. "And if you want to stay afterward…" She didn't look away. Didn't hide from what she was offering. Didn't soften it with implication or expectation. "…you can."

Silence stretched then—not empty, not tense, but full. Warm. Heavy with everything spoken and unspoken between them. She opened a door most would never see, let alone be invited through, a door she would only ever open for him.

She stepped just a little closer, her voice falling into a quiet, private register meant only for Cassian. "Come home with me." Not a command. Not a request. Simply truth—offered freely, deliberately, and meant only for him.

Cassian Abrantes

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Shade ​

Cassian stopped in the corridor, the low hum of the facility fading into the background as her words reached him. For a long moment, he said nothing. His gaze held on the holographic shimmer between them, the list of ingredients she had shown him, simple things, ordinary things. The kind of detail most would overlook, but not him. Not when it came from her.

She mentioned the barracks, dinner and staying and he couldn't help but smirk. "Yea, its something simple. I don't need too much, its close to work and the soldiers enjoy it. It makes them know they aren't alone and that they have superiors that actually care about them. Regardless of whether they are clones or not."

He studied her the way he always did, quietly, methodically, as if the act itself was a form of discipline. Her stance, the precision in her tone, the way she left space between each sentence so he would have time to hear what wasn't being said. It wasn't an order, and it wasn't mercy. It was something rarer. Something deliberate.

The weight in his chest shifted, something unspoken, something he didn't have a name for. His body ached with exhaustion, but it wasn't the kind that could be solved by sleep. It was the kind that came from weeks of keeping everything intact for everyone else.

He exhaled once, slow, steady. Then he closed the distance between them by a single step, measured, unhurried, deliberate. His eyes met hers, and his hand reached for hers giving it a small squeeze. "I'd like that. A warm meal would be nice."

He didn't argue. He didn't deflect. He didn't hide behind duty or habit. Cassian simply nodded once and small, certain, and the quiet that followed said everything she needed to know.

"Shall we?"

 

[Shade]

Shade’s fingers curled just slightly around his when he took her hand, the warmth of his palm grounding something in her chest she hadn’t expected to unravel so easily. His answer was simple, quiet, but for her it carried a gravity far heavier than the words themselves. He’d said yes. No hesitation. No retreat behind rank or duty. Cassian Abrantes was choosing her space tonight—her table, her quiet, her presence. And that choice settled over her like the first true breath she’d taken all day.

She watched him for a long moment, the soft corridor light catching in the deep blue of her skin, her expression unreadable to anyone but him. The mention of clones and the barracks lingered with her, the way he spoke of them, the weight he carried for them. She understood responsibility; she lived in it every day. But the exhaustion behind his reasoning—the part of him that gave everything until nothing was left for himself—that was why she had asked him to come home with her in the first place.

Shade lifted her free hand and adjusted the edge of her glove, a habit more than a necessity, then stepped closer until the space between them aligned into something steady and familiar. Her voice, when she finally spoke, came low and even, wrapped in the controlled warmth she reserved only for him.

“You do care for them. I see it.”

A small pause followed, measured, thoughtful, her gaze lowering briefly to their joined hands before finding his again.

“But you don’t have to carry everything alone every night.”

Her thumb brushed lightly across the back of his hand—a soft, deliberate motion, almost imperceptible.

“Not when I’m here.”

Shade didn’t smile fully; she rarely did. But something subtle touched the corner of her mouth, the closest thing she ever came to one—a quiet acknowledgment, a rare flicker of softness that existed nowhere else but in the space between them.

She released his hand only long enough to deactivate the holo on her wristband and tuck it away, then reached out to him again, fingertips brushing his wrist in a guiding, wordless invitation. When she spoke next, her tone held the calm certainty of someone who already knew the answer but wanted to offer him the dignity of choosing it.

“Let’s go.”

Another slow breath. Another shift of warmth beneath her voice.

“Dinner’s waiting.”

She turned slightly, not pulling him, but walking close enough that her shoulder brushed his arm as they began down the corridor—quiet, steady steps that carried no urgency, no tension. Just the promise of a night where neither of them had to be an officer, a weapon, or a shield.

Just themselves. Together.

Cassian Abrantes

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Shade ​

Cassian listened in silence, her words settling through him like the slow fade of static after a long transmission. The honesty in them cut through the practiced layers of composure he wore, and for a moment, something in his chest eased. When she told him he didn't have to carry everything alone every night, he met her gaze and let the faintest smile touch his face, small, genuine, unguarded.

He didn't answer, not at first. He showed her a smile, one that he only used for her. "Thanks again." His hand intertwined with hers, even amongst those that were still present, how few they were, as most had went home for the evening. Not caring about his display of affection for her. He would let the whole galaxy no, if it was necessary.

As she turned toward the exit, he fell into step beside her without hesitation. The halls of the Intelligence Headquarters in Moenia were quiet at this hour, the sterile light giving way to the soft glow of the city beyond. He walked with her through the stillness, past the checkpoints and glass corridors, leaving behind the hum of terminals and the weight of command.

Outside, the air was cool, the streets washed in Naboo's evening colors. Cassian matched her pace, saying nothing, only listening to the sound of their footsteps echoing side by side as she led the way toward her home.

 

[Shade]

The walk to her residence passed in a quiet that wasn't empty—just comfortable. Shade didn't often engage in small talk, and he didn't expect her to. But tonight, she allowed herself small interruptions in the silence. A few observations about the shift. A quietly dry remark about a junior analyst who nearly broke a secure line. The faintest hint of amusement when he answered her. She wasn't trying to be someone else; she was letting him closer.

The city thinned as they approached Moenia's residential streets, trading the hum of government buildings for quiet stone paths and the soft glow of evening lanterns. Shade walked a step ahead, her presence cutting clean lines through the cool night air, her hand still linked with his until she reached the door of her building.

She released him only to retrieve the delivered groceries from the small insulated crate outside her apartment. The faint frost on the containers shimmered in the low light as she lifted them with casual ease.

Shade's keycard passed over the reader, the door unlocking with a muted chime. She pushed it open and stepped inside far enough to lower the groceries on the counter just inside the entryway. Then she turned back toward him, one hand braced lightly on the doorframe, the soft glow from inside outlining her silhouette.

Her voice came low and even—calm, but tinged with an intimacy she didn't hide from him anymore.

"Come in."

She didn't step aside fully, didn't gesture dramatically. She held the door open for him in that quiet, intentional way she did everything with him—an invitation that meant more because it was hers to give.

"You're home now."

Cassian Abrantes

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Shade ​

Cassian paused just outside the threshold, the quiet of Moenia's residential district settling around him like a balm after the sterile rhythm of the Directorate. The distant hum of the city was softer here, filtered through stone and foliage, replaced by the sound of lanterns swaying gently in the evening wind. It was the kind of quiet that demanded nothing of him, that gave him permission, if only for a moment, to stop being the man who carried everything.

He looked at her, standing framed in the doorway, the soft light behind her tracing the edge of her shoulders, the sharp line of her jaw tempered by something human and real. Her words lingered in the air between them, simple and deliberate.

'Come in. You're home now.'

Home. The word carried a weight that unsettled him, though not in the way orders or losses did. It was heavier because it was something he'd forgotten how to define. For years, "home" had been Dee'ja Peak, transient quarters, safehouses, command bunkers on various planets, the places between one crisis and the next. The closest thing to belonging he'd had at one point was the the Peak. But ever since the night on the beach, ever since the race against the shadows. The quiet discipline of the barracks had been a subtle quiet that he didn't need to temper.

He drew in a slow breath, the faint scent of Naboo's night air mixing with something warm from within her apartment, real air, not filtered ventilation. For a brief second, Cassian let the smallest flicker of uncertainty cross his features before he stepped forward, crossing the threshold with the same quiet purpose he brought to everything.

Inside, the space was understated, neat, deliberate, each detail reflecting her precision. Yet there were traces of softness, the kind that caught him off guard: a folded jacket over the back of a chair, the faint hum of an old music terminal, the subtle scent of spice from the groceries she had just carried in. It wasn't a space designed to impress; it was one that lived in quiet defiance of loneliness.

He let his eyes adjust, his hand brushing the frame as if to anchor himself. There was something grounding in being here, in the unspoken understanding that she had let him into a space no one else had crossed. The silence stretched, but it wasn't hollow. It was full....of breath, of meaning, of everything that didn't need to be said.

Cassian turned his gaze to her, the faintest smile finding its way onto his features, small, real, and unguarded. It wasn't the practiced one he gave to officers or subordinates; it was something simpler. Gratitude, maybe. Or acknowledgment.

He stepped further in, the sound of his boots soft against the polished floor. For the first time in weeks, his body began to unclench, the habitual readiness easing from his shoulders. He didn't speak, words would have broken something delicate about the moment. Instead, he followed the quiet rhythm of her presence, letting it draw him deeper into the space, toward the promise of warmth and rest he hadn't realized he'd been missing.

For tonight, for a moment he could rest.

"It's nice." Cassian spoke with a soft tone and gentle smile on his face. "Do you need help with anything?"

 

[Shade]

Shade stepped in behind him, letting the door whisper shut with a soft hiss that sealed warmth around them, quiet and protective in a way her home seldom felt. She watched him take it in—the way his shoulders eased the moment the outside world disappeared, the way his breath lengthened, the tension in his frame loosening one careful inch at a time. She didn't break the moment. She let him have it. She let him arrive.

When he finally turned toward her, offering a smile that was small and unguarded and meant only for her, something inside Shade shifted—subtle, but undeniable. She stepped closer, reaching without hesitation for the front of his coat. Her fingers brushed the fabric with a gentleness that came from instinct rather than intention, a quiet offering she didn't extend lightly.

"Give me this."

The words were soft, steady, spoken not as a command but as a truth: let me take something from you tonight, even if it's only your coat.
She slid it off his shoulders with deliberate care and hung it beside the door. When she turned back, the controlled precision of her movements remained, but there was a softness beneath it—one she didn't bother concealing.

She nodded toward the grocery bags near the counter, her voice lowering as she moved past him into the kitchen, the brush of her shoulder warm and intentional.

"If you want to help, unpack everything on the counter."

Shade stepped into the kitchen with the quiet confidence she carried everywhere, activating the stove and washing station with smooth, practiced motions. Soft light fell across dark stone and metal surfaces, reflecting faintly off the silver woven into her braid. She set a pan on the stove, adjusted the heat, then paused—with one hand braced on the counter, the other resting on a spice dish—her breath shifting in a way he would recognize.

"This…" A quiet inhale. No hesitation—recognition. "…this isn't something I thought I'd ever do."

She didn't turn fully, but tilted her head enough for her crimson gaze to meet his across the room. The kitchen light softened her features, grounding her in a rare stillness that she allowed only here, only now.

"Working beside someone. Sharing a space. Cooking together." Her fingertips brushed the counter, slow, thoughtful. "None of that ever belonged in my life."

She shifted, facing him fully now. No armor. No mask. Just truth.

"For most of my life, anything like this was a vulnerability. Something people used." A beat. A breath. "But not with you."

Shade took a small step toward him, enough that the faint scent of spices and warm air mixed with the quiet presence she carried so effortlessly. Her eyes held his without wavering.

"I didn't know something like this could feel… whole." Another soft breath eased through her chest. "Not until now."

The moment lingered, warm and full, before her tone dipped—quiet, almost a smile hidden in sound.

"Come help me unpack, Cassian."

Not an order. Not a request.

A steady, open invitation—into her kitchen, into her evening, and into something far deeper: Not just her rooms. But her life.

Cassian Abrantes

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Shade ​

Cassian stood in the entryway for a moment longer, his eyes tracing the soft lines of the room, the warmth of it settling over him like a quiet tide. The gentle hiss of the door fading into silence was almost symbolic, the closing off of the world outside, the slow unwinding of a man who lived too long in the sharp corners of duty.

He didn't speak. He didn't need to. He simply watched her move, fluid, certain, grounded in a kind of grace that came from control earned the hard way. The way Shade reached for his coat wasn't tentative; it was deliberate. When her fingers brushed against the fabric, he let her take it without resistance. Her touch was careful, almost reverent, as if removing the coat was not an act of convenience but an acknowledgment, of who he was beneath it, of what this space allowed him to be.

When she turned from him to hang it by the door, Cassian let his gaze follow the motion, the soft glint of light tracing along the braid at her back. He hadn't realized how much tension had gathered in him until that moment, the small rituals of arrival unfolding with an intimacy that was both grounding and disarming.

"If you want to help, unpack everything on the counter."

Cassian stepped forward, the sound of his boots soft against the floor. He approached the groceries, methodically unsealing the containers, his movements precise but unhurried. The small, ordinary act of placing fresh produce and packets on a countertop felt almost ceremonial in its simplicity. He had organized, coordinated, but this, standing beside her in a kitchen, felt more profound than any victory report.

When she spoke again, he lifted his head, meeting her eyes across the space. Her words were steady, but he could hear what lived beneath them, the vulnerability woven through her calm. She was letting him see her without the armor, without the mask she wore for the galaxy beyond these walls. Her admission about sharing space, about letting anyone close, drew something quiet out of him. He didn't move to close the distance. He simply listened, the soft light catching in his dark eyes, his expression steady, unreadable except for the faintest flicker of understanding.

His eyes found hers, the crimson light in them a reflection of the flame beneath the pan, of everything burning quiet and bright between them. When he spoke, his voice came low, roughened by something that wasn't fatigue but emotion kept too long unspoken.

"Shade," he began, and even the way he said her name carried weight, reverence. "You don't have to explain."

His tone deepening, softer now. "I know what this is. What it means for you. And I want you to know something just as real."

Cassian drew a slow breath, grounding himself in the closeness between them, the warmth of the stove, the faint hum of the lights, the steady rhythm of her breathing. "You make me feel…" He paused, searching for words that didn't sound small. "Whole. Like I can finally stop being the version of myself that has to hold everything together all the time."

His gaze softened, but the conviction in it didn't waver. "I've already made up my mind about you. About us. Long before this, before the us at the lakehouse."

He reached across the counter, fingers brushing her wrist, barely there, but enough to anchor the words that followed. "I'm yours, Shade. You don't ever have to question that."

Silence fell for a moment, heavy but peaceful. He let it stretch before continuing, his voice quieter now. "I might not be able to stay just yet, not because I don't want to. Because I do. More than I can say. But sometimes…" He exhaled, eyes flicking downward before finding hers again. "Sometimes I still need to figure out how to be still. To be in one place without feeling like I'm neglecting something else."

He smiled then, small, genuine, steady. "But I'm here now. And I'm in this. With you."

Cassian's hand lingered near hers, a silent promise resting in the space between them. "That's not going to change."

 

[Shade]

Shade did not speak immediately.

She stood with one hand resting lightly on the edge of the counter, the faint warmth of the stove brushing her sleeve, the scent of cut herbs threading softly through the air between them. But it was her eyes—steady, luminous, unblinking—that held him, carrying a gravity quieter and deeper than tension. Every word he had given her, every truth spoken in the muted steadiness of his voice, settled into her chest with the slow precision of a blade finding its mark. Her pulse shifted—small, contained, but undeniably real.

She hadn't expected him to say all of that. Not here, in the quiet of her kitchen. Not with the kind of honesty that didn't belong on any briefing or under any encrypted seal. And certainly not with a vulnerability she knew he didn't offer freely. For a moment, Shade absorbed it, standing anchored in the stillness of a space she had never intended to share with anyone.

When she finally moved, it was deliberate—a slow, measured step that carried her across the short distance to the kitchen island. She brushed aside the last of the produce so nothing stood between them, her gaze locking onto his with the kind of focused intensity she usually reserved for far more dangerous moments. But what lived in her expression now wasn't calculation or assessment; it was something deeper, something she had kept sealed behind layers of discipline and necessity for most of her life.

"Cassian."

His name left her low and quiet, controlled as always, but softened in a way that existed only for him. Shade stepped closer—steady, unhurried, intentional—until the warmth of his body mingled with her own in the thin space between them. She didn't reach for him yet. She let the silence settle first, let the truth find its place.

"You don't have to be still for me."

Her voice held no request, no yearning—only understanding. She knew exactly what kind of man stood in front of her. Knew the weight he carried, the instinct to hold every piece of the galaxy together until his hands shook from the effort. She had watched that discipline, that exhaustion, that relentless sense of duty. And she had never once mistaken it for hesitation.

Shade drew in a slow breath, exhaling through words threaded with a warmth she rarely allowed to surface.

"I don't need you anchored to one place to know you're mine."

The words weren't possessive. They were true—an acknowledgment of the trust she had chosen, weightless and absolute. She stepped closer until his breath met hers, and only then did she lift her hand, brushing her fingers lightly along the inside of his wrist—the same spot he had touched earlier. Her contact was feather-soft, but intentional enough that he would feel every ounce of what she meant.

"I know what you carry," she murmured, her eyes unwavering. "And what it costs you to ever put any of it down."

Her thumb traced once, slow and deliberate, over the steady pulse beneath his skin. Shade never made unconscious gestures. Every touch she gave him was a choice, and this one was no exception.

"I'm not asking you to stay every night." Her tone stayed gentle, grounded. "Or to suddenly know how to rest. I want you to have somewhere you can rest—when you choose to."

She shifted closer still, until the warmth of the stove and the warmth of him blurred together in a single, quiet heat between them. For the first time, she let him see every truth she had held since the lakehouse—nothing guarded, nothing hidden.

"You're not alone in this anymore." No tremor. No fear. Just conviction—steady as her heartbeat.

Her breath eased out, softer now, threaded with vulnerability she only allowed here, in this space that belonged entirely to her. "I hear you." Her gaze softened, something rare and unshielded flickering through it. "And I believe you."

Shade's hand slipped from his wrist only long enough for her to settle the remaining ingredients on the counter, her movements fluid, unhurried. When she looked back at him, her expression held the same unwavering steadiness, but something warmer lived beneath it now—something undeniably real.

"You're mine, Cassian." Spoken not as a claim, but as a truth she had decided to live by. And a heartbeat later: "…just as much as I am yours."

Her fingers brushed his as she nudged one of the containers toward him, letting the gesture linger, letting him feel the weight of what they had built in the span of breath and silence.

"Help me finish dinner."

The moment didn't end with the words. It settled. Deepened and shifted into something quiet and solid—something that lived naturally between them without needing to be named. The invitation that followed was not to her kitchen. It was to stay in the space they were already in. Together.

Cassian Abrantes

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Shade ​

Cassian listened in silence, her words threading through him like a steady current that grounded rather than unsettled. The way she spoke, measured, deliberate, and unflinching, held a truth he didn't have to search for. It was there, plain as the light that softened the edges of the kitchen and caught in the faint shimmer of her braid. He could feel the honesty in it, the quiet conviction that came from someone who did not make promises lightly.

For a long moment, he didn't move. He only watched her, the reflection of the stove's flame flickering in his eyes. He took a slow breath, the faintest of smiles touching his face. Not the guarded one, but something smaller, sincere, meant only for her. "You always know how to say exactly what I didn't realize I needed to hear," he said quietly, his voice low, touched by warmth.

He stepped closer to her, close enough that the scent of spice and simmering heat blurred between them. His hand brushed hers as he reached for the nearest container, the contact light but deliberate. "You've already given me more than rest, Shade," he murmured. "You've given me reason to find it."

Cassian finished with the rest of the groceries with quiet precision, arranging the ingredients on the counter beside her. He worked easily in her rhythm, matching her movements without needing instruction. The silence between them wasn't awkward, it was lived-in, full of understanding. Every motion, from setting down a sealed packet to peeling the cover from a container, felt like part of a wordless exchange neither of them needed to name.

He glanced up once, meeting her eyes across the counter, and the corner of his mouth lifted again, soft, real. "Tell me what you need," he said simply, the words carrying more than one meaning.

And as he began slicing and sorting, his shoulders eased further, the burden of the day fading into the warmth of her kitchen. For the first time in weeks, Cassian Abrantes wasn't the Director or the soldier. He was just a man standing beside the woman he loved, helping her make dinner, sharing quiet, and realizing that this, in its simplicity, was everything he hadn't known he'd been missing.

 

[Shade]

Shade didn't answer immediately.

Cassian's words lingered in the air, soft but steady, carrying a sincerity that brushed against her in a way far more intimate than touch. Tell me what you need. It wasn't casual, and it wasn't careless. It was an offering—something honest, something open, something she had never once been given without a hidden price.

Her fingers slowed over the cutting board, the faint scrape of the knife silencing as she stilled. For a breath, maybe two, she remained exactly as she was, shoulders angled toward the stove, head bowed slightly. But the shift was unmistakable—the way her posture softened just enough to betray that his words had struck deeper than he knew.

Then she lifted her gaze. Not abruptly. Not sharply. With a fluid, controlled precision that was unmistakably hers.

Her eyes traveled over him in a quiet, deliberate sweep—from the set of his shoulders, relaxed now in a way she had only ever seen in rare moments, down to the broad line of his chest and the ease in his stance, then lower, taking in the way he held the knife and cutting board with natural competence. She traced the length of him without flinching from the intimacy of the act. When her gaze returned to his face, it carried more truth than any spoken confession.

It was a look that told him she had heard what he meant, not just what he said. A look that acknowledged everything simmering beneath the surface between them. A look that called him hers as clearly as any words ever could.

But Shade didn't linger in the vulnerability. She shifted back into motion with that same controlled elegance she wore like armor, placing a small bowl on the counter and sliding it toward him with the faintest brush of her fingertips against the metal.

When she spoke, her voice came low and level, but softened at the edges in a way she rarely allowed herself. "For now…" A breath—slow, measured—seemed to warm the air between them. "…I need the vegetables chopped fine."

She reached to adjust the flame under the pan, her movements smooth and unhurried, but her gaze flicked back to him, catching his in a way that held unmistakable weight.

"Precision matters."

The words were simple, but the meaning threaded beneath them was not.

She wasn't just telling him how to cut vegetables. She was telling him she trusted him with the details. With the small things. With the quiet spaces of her life.

Her hands resumed their work, slicing through herbs with efficient grace, but the moment lingered—grounding, steady, warm in a way she had never imagined a kitchen could feel. And without looking up again, she added, her tone faintly lower, almost an afterthought:

"You'll do it right."

A truth dressed as instruction. A confession disguised as simplicity. A promise tucked between the mundane motions of cooking.

And Cassian would know—she meant more than the vegetables.

Cassian Abrantes

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Shade ​

Cassian's knife paused mid-motion, the reflection of the kitchen lights glinting off the blade before he set it down gently on the board. Shade's voice, measured, soft, threaded with that quiet authority that came so naturally to her, carried far more than its surface meaning. Precision matters. The words resonated through him, deeper than he expected, landing in the same space where her earlier truths had taken root.

He looked up at her, not to study, not to assess, just to see. The rhythm of her movements, the steady grace that hid so much strength, the way she turned an ordinary moment into something layered and deliberate. She wasn't asking for perfection. She was asking for presence. And he understood that completely.

A faint smile curved his lips, small but sure. "Then precision you'll have," he murmured, voice low and warm, carrying that quiet certainty she had come to recognize as uniquely his.

He resumed his work with the same focus he brought to any mission, but this was different. It wasn't the careful discipline of a soldier; it was gentler, slower, almost reverent. Each motion of his hands, each careful slice, carried intent. He didn't rush. He didn't look away. He simply existed beside her in the rhythm she had set, letting the unspoken understanding between them fill the space like the steady pulse of heat from the stove.

As the sound of the knife met the board again, measured, even, controlled.

After a moment, he spoke, not to break the calm, but to add to it, his tone soft enough to blend into the hum of the kitchen. "You know," he said, glancing toward her, "For all the things I've done… this might be the first time I've wanted to get every detail right for someone."

The admission hung between them, simple and unguarded. He didn't try to fill the pause that followed. He just kept working, matching the precision she'd asked for, the quiet trust she'd placed in him.

When he was done, he pushed the bowl toward her side of the counter, fingertips brushing against hers for the briefest heartbeat. His voice was steady, low, but threaded with emotion he didn't bother to hide. "You were right," he said. "I don't need to stay still. Not when I can move with you."

And then he went back to chopping, the corners of his mouth softening in the faintest smile as the warmth of the stove mingled with something deeper, something neither of them needed to name to understand.

 

[Shade]

Shade didn't react immediately—not with words, not with movement. She stilled, the knife in her hand settling against the cutting board as the cadence of Cassian's voice threaded through the quiet of the kitchen. The honesty in it moved through her with the slow, deliberate certainty of a tide working its way up a shore, inevitable and undeniable. She felt the shift in him as clearly as she would feel a change in wind direction on a mission—subtle, precise, and deeply revealing.

As he spoke, she let her eyes travel over him again, not with the sharpness of an operative evaluating threat, but with something quieter, more anchored. There was a steadiness to the way he held the knife, the deliberate control in the angle of his fingers as he resumed slicing. He wasn't just focusing on the task; he was grounding himself in the moment, in her space, in the rhythm they were building together, one breath, one motion, one shared silence at a time. It stirred something in her that slid beneath the surface of discipline and settled in that fragile part of her chest she rarely acknowledged.

His words—that this was the first time he wanted to get the details right for someone—weren't dramatic, but they carried a gravity that pulled her attention away from the stove and anchored it wholly on him. Her hand slowed over the herbs, the blade whispering against the board before she set it aside for a moment. She didn't interrupt him. She didn't break the fragile weight of what he'd given her by rushing to fill the space. Shade breathed, steady and deep, absorbing the rare openness he offered.

When his fingertips brushed hers as he pushed the bowl toward her side of the counter, the contact was fleeting, but the meaning behind it lingered—warm, certain, intentional. His next words—I don't need to stay still. Not when I can move with you—sent a slow, quiet thrum through her chest that she felt all the way to her spine. The kind of truth that didn't strike but settled. The kind that didn't demand anything of her, yet offered everything in return.

Shade finally set down her knife, the soft click of metal against stone the only signal that she was ready to answer him. She stepped closer, not around the counter but along its edge, leaning just enough for the warm light of the stove to catch the faint shimmer in her eyes. Her expression didn't shift dramatically—it rarely did—but the small, subtle easing at the corner of her mouth was unmistakable to the man who had learned how to read her silence as fluently as her words.

"You want to get it right because you care," she began quietly, her tone a steady blend of softness and steel, "and that is not a weakness. Not here. Not with me."

Her hand lifted, brushing lightly along the side of his forearm—not a fleeting touch, but a slow, deliberate contact that lingered in a way she allowed no one else. She let her fingers rest there for a breath, grounding him, grounding herself, letting the moment settle between them as naturally as the warmth rising from the stove.

"You move with purpose, Cassian," she continued, her voice lowering, threading into something intimate without losing its control. "And if that means sometimes you move toward me and sometimes you move away to carry what you must… I will always know where you stand."

Her thumb grazed his skin once, a quiet acknowledgment before she let her hand fall back to the counter. She glanced toward the vegetables he had prepared—perfectly even, precise, exactly as she would have done it—and allowed herself a breath that softened her shoulders, loosening a tension she hadn't realized she was holding.

"You did it right," she said, and though her tone remained even, something in it warmed, deepened, as her gaze returned to him once more. "Not because the pieces are perfect… but because you listened."

She picked up the bowl he had filled, sliding it closer to the stove while keeping him in her peripheral awareness, as if the quiet tether between them was something she no longer needed to hide. The air felt different now—full, anchored, the kind of silence that wasn't empty but rich with meaning.

Shade didn't need to repeat what he already knew. She didn't need to restate anything she had confessed earlier. All she needed to offer was the simplest truth, spoken as she returned to stand at his side.

"Stay with me while we cook."

Not an order. Not a plea. A quiet request shaped entirely from choice. Her version of intimacy—fluid, grounded, unbroken. And Cassian would know: She didn't ask anyone else for anything like this.

Cassian Abrantes

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Shade ​

Cassian stood still for a long moment after she spoke, letting every word sink into him. The low hum of the stove filled the quiet, wrapping around them like a living thing. Her voice had been steady, calm, soft enough to sound effortless, but the truth within it carried weight. It settled deep in him, grounding him in a way that little else ever did.

He exhaled, a breath that came out slower than he expected. Then he moved, unhurried, deliberate. The distance between them closed in a few measured steps until he stood just behind her, the faint warmth of the stove brushing against his arm, the scent of spice and steam blending with the faint trace of her skin.

He hesitated only for a heartbeat, his gaze fixed on her shoulders, on the way she stood, balanced, unflinching, still radiating that quiet strength he'd fallen for long before he'd ever admitted it to himself. Then, with a gentleness that contrasted the discipline etched into every part of him, Cassian reached out. His hand found her waist, resting there lightly, his fingers curving against the fabric of her shirt as though to steady himself more than her.

He leaned in just enough that his breath brushed against her skin, his lips pressing a soft, deliberate kiss to her cheek, nothing hurried, nothing uncertain. It was a promise made in silence, one she could feel rather than hear.

"I'm not going anywhere," he murmured, the words low and certain against the quiet air between them.

He lingered there for a heartbeat longer before drawing back just enough to meet her gaze again. The look in his eyes wasn't fleeting, it carried the same quiet resolve that lived in his voice, the same steady devotion that never needed to be spoken more than once.

Then he turned his attention back to the counter, seasoning what needed to be, stirring the contents in the pan. Without another word, Cassian resumed the work beside her, his movements smooth and sure. Every slice of the knife, every adjustment of the flame, every moment that passed carried the simple, unspoken truth of what he'd said.

 

[Shade]

Shade didn't anticipate the way he closed the distance—not with hesitation, not with the guarded restraint he often wore, but with quiet, deliberate intent. She felt him before he touched her, the warmth of his presence settling behind her, as if gravity had shifted.

Then his hand found her waist.

The contact was gentle, but it hit her with the precision of a well-placed strike. Shade's breath stilled for a moment, her spine going almost imperceptibly straight—not stiff, not resistant, but reacting in that distinctly Chiss way her species betrayed emotion: a subtle tightening through the shoulders. This faint tremor shivered beneath her skin like the first ripple across frozen water.

And when his lips pressed against her cheek—soft, warm, unhurried—her reaction was even smaller, but far more revealing. A slight twitch at the corner of her mouth, the faintest dilation of her crimson pupils, and a low exhale she hadn't meant to release—a Chiss shudder: controlled, minute, but unmistakably genuine.

He would feel it.

She didn't step away. She didn't armor herself. She stood there, allowing him to see the effect he had on her, allowing herself to feel it.

When he whispered I'm not going anywhere, the words brushed against her like heat across cold metal, and that slight tremor in her breath returned, softer this time, a quiet acknowledgement that slipped through the iron control she held over every part of her being.

As he pulled back to resume the food preparation, Shade didn't immediately move. Her hand rested on the counter, steady but just slightly tighter around the handle of a utensil. Only after a few heartbeats did she turn her head enough for him to catch her profile—calm, composed, but with a glow behind her eyes that had not been there a moment ago.

When she finally spoke, her voice was its usual precision—low, smooth, controlled—but the lingering echo of his touch unmistakably warmed the undertone.

"You do that…and you expect my hands to remain steady?"

Not a complaint. Not teasing. Just truth—quiet, vulnerable, and meant for him alone.

Then she stepped slightly closer, standing beside him again, her movements returning to their steady rhythm. But the faint shimmer in her gaze, and the way her breathing shifted just enough to betray lingering warmth, told him exactly what his kiss had done.

Cassian Abrantes

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Shade ​

Cassian caught the subtle shift in her posture, the faint lift of her shoulders, the quiet stilling of breath that only someone who had spent years studying her could recognize. It wasn't resistance. It wasn't surprise. It was the smallest fracture in the composure she so carefully maintained, a glimpse into something she rarely allowed anyone to see. And it made something inside him soften in a way he couldn't quite disguise.

He saw the way her pupils widened, the delicate tremor in her breath when his lips brushed her cheek. It was a reaction no one else would have noticed, but to him, it said everything. It was trust. It was vulnerability, offered without words.

When she turned her head slightly, that quiet gleam in her crimson eyes catching the light, and murmured, 'You do that… and you expect my hands to remain steady' He couldn't help the smile that curved at the corner of his mouth. It wasn't a smirk or an attempt to deflect; it was warm, genuine, threaded through with something deeply human.

He set down the knife he'd been holding, his hand brushing briefly against hers as he reached for the next ingredient. "I'll take that as proof I'm having the right effect," he said quietly, the edge of humor softened by the warmth in his tone.

Then, with a small glance toward the stove, he added, "Don't worry. I'll make sure neither of us burns dinner."

The words were light, but the meaning beneath them wasn't. It was his way of saying he was still here, in this space, in this moment, with her.

Cassian moved beside her, falling back into rhythm with practiced ease. He adjusted the flame while she stirred, adding the vegetables they'd prepared together, the air filling with the scent of spice and heat. Every so often, their hands brushed, small, incidental touches that felt anything but.

He stole another look at her, watching how she moved, how her focus steadied even after the warmth between them had stirred the air. The faint shimmer in her eyes lingered, catching the flicker of the stove's flame, and he felt the quiet pull of that gravity again, the same one that had drawn him to her from the start.

A quiet satisfaction settled in his chest. He didn't need to speak it aloud; the way he stood close beside her, matching her pace, said enough.

As the meal began to take shape, he smiled faintly again, the sound of simmering filling the space between them. "Smells like we're getting it right," he said softly, his voice barely above the hum of the stove. "What do you think?"

 

[Shade]

Shade didn't answer him immediately.

She kept her attention on the pan, stirring with slow, deliberate movements, as though anchoring herself in the rhythm of the task. But Cassian's words—You always know how to say what I need to hear—lingered in the warm air of the kitchen, settling over her more deeply than she had expected. It wasn't the compliment that unsettled her. It was the quiet sincerity behind it, the kind that carried weight without volume.

She felt him watching her. Felt the heat of his gaze as surely as she'd felt the heat of his breath against her cheek only moments earlier.

Her body remembered the touch even now. That controlled, involuntary tremor she hated giving up—traitorous, instinctive, impossible to hide from him—still lingered at the base of her spine. Shade drew in a controlled breath, steadying her hands as she slipped the wooden spoon beneath the simmering vegetables.

But when he asked what she thought, she finally looked up at him. Not abruptly. Not dramatically. Just a smooth, unbroken lift of her gaze, crimson eyes meeting his with a clarity that stripped away the last remnants of distance between them.

"I think…"

She paused—not because she didn't have an answer, but because she chose her words with the precision she used for everything that mattered.

Her hand lifted, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, the motion subtle enough to be incidental to anyone else but purposeful beneath her controlled facade. She let her gaze drift briefly to the steaming pan, then back to him.

"…that you are still close enough to distract me."

Not cold. Not teasing. A simple truth, spoken with quiet candor.

Shade stepped around him to reach for a spice container, her fingers brushing his forearm in passing—light, deliberate contact, a mirror of the moment he had offered her earlier. It was barely a touch at all, but the intention behind it was unmistakable.

She poured the seasoning into her palm, precise in measurement even without looking. Cassian didn't need her to turn her head for him to know she was still acutely aware of how near he was.

"And the food smells right because you followed directions."

A pause—soft, almost imperceptibly amused. A Shade-kind of amusement, the kind that touched her eyes before it touched her mouth.

"For once."

She stayed close as she sprinkled the spice into the pan, letting the scent rise between them. Her shoulder brushed his again as she shifted to stir, and this time she didn't move away. She let the silence between them fill with warmth rather than tension—something rarer for her than the most delicate of emotions.

When she spoke again, her voice dipped lower, carrying that intimate steadiness she used only with him.

"It smells right," she murmured, eyes lowering to the pan, "because you are here."

Not poetic. Not flowery. Just truth. Precise as a blade. Soft as breath against skin. And meant for him alone.

Cassian Abrantes

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Shade​

Cassian couldn't help the quiet smirk that curved at the corner of his mouth as she spoke, her tone precise as ever, laced with that faint thread of amusement that only surfaced when she let her guard down. 'For once.' The words lingered between them, sharp and soft all at once, and he felt the pull of it, of her, like gravity.

"I shouldn't go anywhere then, should I?"

He chuckled under his breath, the sound low and unrestrained in a way that surprised even him. It wasn't the kind of laugh that came from humor; it came from warmth, from the rare ease she drew out of him without even trying. He didn't know why he was acting like this, light, playful, utterly disarmed, but somewhere deep down, he did. It was her. Always her.

The tension in the air wasn't heavy anymore; it was charged, alive, humming quietly between them like static caught in the dim kitchen light. She had said he'd followed directions, but right now, he had no intention of following anything except instinct.

Cassian shifted closer, sliding a half step to stand behind her. The space between them disappeared, and he reached out, his hands finding her waist with the ease of someone who had wanted to do this for longer than he would ever admit. His fingers traced the curve of her hips lightly before moving around to rest against the flat of her stomach. He didn't pull, he didn't need to. The contact alone was enough to bridge every unspoken thing between them.

He felt her inhale beneath his touch, the rise of her breath against his palms. The soft glow of the stove washed over them both, catching the edge of her hair, the faint sheen of blue on her skin. Cassian leaned down, his lips brushing her shoulder in a slow, deliberate kiss, gentle, affectionate, grounding.

When he spoke, his voice came out low and warm, threaded with quiet mischief and something far deeper. His breath ghosted just above her ear as he whispered, "Are your hands still steady?"

The words carried that teasing edge, but the tone beneath it was softer, intimate, sincere. His hold on her didn't tighten, but his presence surrounded her completely, steady and sure. He stayed like that for a moment longer, breathing in the scent of spice and warmth and her,

And with that, he let the silence fall back into place, comfortable, charged, and full of everything neither of them needed to say.

 

[Shade]

For a moment, Shade forgot the stove was even on.

Cassian's hands at her waist had stilled her in ways she hadn't accounted for—warm palms anchoring gently at her stomach, the heat of him pressed along her back, his breath ghosting against her ear with a whisper that landed far too precisely.

Are your hands still steady?

The question curled through her like a pulse of heat, subtle but undeniable. Shade inhaled—quiet, sharp, involuntary—and the breath caught just slightly against the hold he had on her. Her posture didn't break, but something within it shifted, a fractional tremor in the line of her spine that only he would feel.

She didn't answer immediately.

Couldn't.

Not when his lips brushed her shoulder, slow and deliberate, not when the warmth of his mouth lingered against her skin like a mark only she would ever allow, not when his fingers traced a path across her abdomen that made her focus draw tight and narrow around him.

Her hands—steady an hour ago—no longer were.

Shade parted her lips to speak—

—and the pan hissed sharply behind them, the simmering broth foaming at the edge in a sudden spill of steam.

The sound cut through the moment like a blade snapping under pressure.

Shade's eyes shuttered once, a controlled blink, and she pulled in a breath so precise it bordered on a tactical reset. Her fingers closed around the spatula with a deliberate grip, grounding herself in the familiar discipline of movement.

"Dinner is finished."

She stepped forward just enough to turn toward the stove—no sudden retreat, no avoidance, just the measured reclaiming of space a master assassin adopted when remembering where she stood.

But Cassian would feel it—the subtle tremor she'd worked to hide, the faint warmth rising at the edges of her cheekbones, the way her breath had not fully settled since he touched her. He had undone her for a heartbeat. And she knew he knew.

Shade lifted the pan from the flame, her movements steady again, controlled, each gesture restored to its usual precision. Yet the silence between them had changed—thickened, warmed—charged with the echo of his hands on her hips and her body's unmistakable response.

She set the pan on the counter and turned just enough to look at him over her shoulder. There was a glimmer in her eyes—quiet, dangerous, intimate.

"Set the plates."

Her tone was even. Her pulse was not.

Cassian Abrantes

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Shade ​

Cassian didn't move right away. He stood where he was, watching her reclaim the space between them with the same discipline that had first drawn him to her, the control, the sharp composure, the way she could turn emotion into precision with a single breath. And yet, even as she steadied herself, he could still feel the faint echo of her pulse beneath his hands, the trace of warmth she hadn't fully hidden.

He couldn't help the small, knowing curve that touched his mouth. It wasn't victory, he would never see her unravel as a thing to conquer, but something far quieter. Reverence. Awe. That in all her precision, all her restraint, she had let him close enough to feel her tremble.

Her words 'Set the plates' cut through the air with the kind of command that used to make his shoulders straighten on instinct. But now, it only made him smile wider.

"Yes, ma'am," he murmured under his breath, a playful lilt threading through the words.

He stepped past her with a quiet ease, brushing just close enough that his shoulder grazed hers as he reached for the cupboards. The faint clink of porcelain broke the silence, grounding them again in the rhythm of the room. The air still felt charged, though, not the electric tension of before, but something softer, steadier. The kind of current that hummed between two people who had stopped pretending to guard themselves.

Cassian set two plates on the counter, arranging them with his usual methodical care. He caught her reflection in the polished edge of the stovetop, composed again, efficient, but he could see the subtle flush still coloring her cheek, the minute tremor in her exhale as she plated the food.

When he moved to stand beside her again, he let his hand brush against hers just once, light, deliberate, grounding. "You know," he said quietly, his tone threaded with warmth and mischief, "For someone who prides herself on control, you make it awfully difficult for me to keep mine."

He didn't linger on the tease; he didn't need to. The look he gave her, steady, unguarded, full of quiet affection, said everything else.

Cassian picked up the plates and carried them to the table, the soft clatter of utensils and the low hum of the city outside filling the silence that followed. He felt her presence behind him even before she moved, a weight he welcomed.

As he set the last plate down, he looked back at her with that same faint smile, eyes catching the glow of the kitchen light. "Dinner's ready," he said, matching her tone from moments earlier, the words soft but edged with meaning.