Private Zinflix and Chill

[Varin Mortifer]

He let the silence linger for a good long quiet moment as the hearth hummed and the holodrama continued in the background. Inside he was feeling what she described, he had felt it before, even now he still felt it at times. He looked down at the table before he quietly breathed deep and exhaled.

“Bravery is not the absence of fear, it is the act to confront that fear and follow through.”

He looked back at her.

“That is why I would call it bravery.”

His voice had grown quiet and deep. His hand slowly slid across the table wrapping his fingers around hers and gently gave a squeeze.

“No, it was not brave according to other people's imagination, but it was still bravery. People confuse bravery with stupidity or foolishness.”

He paused for a moment.

“You did not act until you knew for certain it was time. You had the evidence, and you followed through with what you had to do regardless of fear. That is not foolishness nor stupidity. Foolishness and stupidity would act before thought and calculation.”

He ran his thumb over her hand.

“You left because you chose to, and felt it was the right direction. I was forced out, yet that same fear houses itself within the both of us at the time.”

He laughed quietly, like a quick breath escaped him.

“You are far braver than I am, Seren.”

It was not him putting himself down, he was analyzing the differences and seeing the facts in his mind.

“Perhaps, if I were put in your shoes at the time, I may not have left the only sense of familiarity I had. Hell I would have stayed home if I had the chance.”

His grip fell loose around her hand.

“What if I return home, and I don’t succeed as a ruler? What if my home is better off with the…Jedi ruling over it?”

His voice faltered slightly as he finally voiced his long term fears he had been holding in since he witnessed the fall of his parents.

Seren Gwyn​

 

[Seren Gwyn]

Seren had been listening to him with the kind of stillness that came only when she was fully present, when every word he spoke was being taken in, weighed, and quietly understood. Her gaze had not left his as he spoke of fear, of doubt, of the possibility that his home might one day be better without him. There was no judgment in her expression, no instinctive rebuttal. Only thought.

It was in the pause that followed his last question, in the fragile space where he had finally allowed the uncertainty to surface, that something else tugged at the edge of her awareness.

Not emotional. Practical.

The faint, forgotten scent of heat. Her eyes shifted, just slightly, past him, toward the small cooking space behind them. Toward the pan. Toward the unattended breakfast. For half a heartbeat, she froze. Then her brows drew together. "Oh," she murmured quietly, more to herself than to him, the realization arriving all at once.

She rose from her chair in one smooth motion, careful not to disrupt the space between them more than necessary, moving quickly across the room toward the stove. The hearth still hummed softly, the holopanel still whispered its distant dialogue, but her attention had narrowed to one thing alone.

She reached the pan and lifted it from the heat, steam rising as she stirred with quick, practiced motions, inspecting the food with an intensity that suggested this was not the first time she had nearly lost track of something while listening too closely.

For several seconds, she said nothing, focused entirely on rescuing what remained. Finally, her shoulders eased. A quiet breath escaped her. "Still edible," she concluded softly, with faint relief.

She lowered the heat, set the pan safely aside, and adjusted the dish before turning back toward him. When she did, there was a trace of rueful amusement in her expression, the kind that came from recognizing her own habits.

She carried the pan back to the counter, finished what she had been doing with quick, efficient movements, then returned to the table and resumed her seat across from him.

Only then did she look at him fully again.

"I am sorry," she said gently, her voice low and even. "I tend to forget the rest of the world when you start talking about things that matter."

Her gaze softened, lingering on his face.

"You were asking something important," she continued says calmly. "About returning home. About whether you will be enough. About whether your people might someday decide they do not need you."

She paused, letting the weight of his question settle again between them.

"And no," Seren added quietly, "I do not think your home would be better without you. I think it would simply be quieter. Emptier. Easier for others to shape."

Her fingers rested lightly against the edge of her plate as she spoke.

"Doubt does not mean you are unfit to lead," she said. "It means you understand what is at stake. People who should not rule rarely worry about failing. They assume they cannot."

She looked at him steadily now.

"You are afraid because you care," Seren finished. "And that is not weakness. That is responsibility."

The quiet returned, gentle and unforced, filled only by the low hum of the hearth, the distant holodrama, and the simple warmth of sharing a meal that had been made with care.

Varin Mortifer

 

[Varin Mortifer]

Varin saw the realization in her eyes as she processed what he was telling her, in a smooth motion she stood from the table to take care of the extra food that was still cooking on the stove, taking care of it and repositioning the pan before setting back down. Unhurried, calm, collected and sharpened. Even when the threat of burning food lingered, she was still sharp enough to be rational and calculating.

He noticed that detail easily and it rang with him.

But her next phrase left him stunned, an unexpected admission from her own lips.

It never fails, she keeps on surprising him. She genuinely listened to him to the point she lost track of cooking.

She spoke further, not opening wounds with words, but opening truths. In Varin’s eye, a leader has to care for their people. Progress demands it. Progress without care just pushes your own agenda, and festers the people from within.

“I fear that my concern will bring doubt and hesitation. I fear that I’m not ready, because I know I’m not. But sometimes, life throws something at you before you are ready.”

His fingers gently rubbed over the table.

“I don’t want to be the one to fail my people. But if I don’t take up the mantle and take charge…”

He took a deep shaky breath.

“Then I fail them no matter what.”

A small tear ran down his cheek but he did not notice it as he turned his head to the wall to try to compose himself.

“I don’t think I’m brave. At least not like you were when you separated to live on your own.”

He paused as he took another deep breath, his gaze falling to the floor.

“I have dreams sometimes, that I’m happy things went the way they did for my family. It took the burden off my shoulders to lead. And I am ashamed of that…”

Seren Gwyn​

 

[Seren Gwyn]

Seren had been watching him quietly as he spoke, not with the detached composure she often carried in public, but with something softer and more intent. Every shift in his posture, every pause in his voice, every place where his words faltered instead of flowing, she noticed. When he turned his head away, when the tear slipped free without him realizing it, she did not look away.

She let him finish. She always did. Only when his last words faded into the low hum of the hearth did she move.

She did not reach for him immediately. She did not interrupt the fragile space he had created by finally admitting something he had clearly carried alone for far too long. Instead, she rose slowly from her chair and stepped around the table, her movements unhurried, deliberate, as if she were approaching something sacred rather than simply crossing a room.

When she stopped beside him, she knelt slightly so that she was closer to his level, close enough that he could feel her presence without her forcing him to look.

Her voice, when she spoke, was quiet. Not fragile. Not uncertain. Steady in the way only someone who had lived through doubt could be.

"Varin," she said softly. She waited until his attention shifted, even if only a fraction. "You are not ashamed because you wanted the burden gone," Seren continued. "You are ashamed because you believe that wanting relief makes you selfish."

Her gaze remained gentle, unwavering. "It does not." She straightened slightly and rested one hand lightly against the edge of the table near him, grounding herself there.

"Every person who carries responsibility dreams, at some point, of not having to carry it anymore," she said. "Of waking up and discovering that someone else has taken it away. That they can just… exist for a while." A faint, sad smile touched her lips. "That does not mean they do not love their people," she added. "It means they are tired."

She shifted closer now, close enough that her shoulder nearly brushed his.

"You are afraid of failing," Seren went on quietly. "You are afraid of hurting them. You are afraid of making the wrong choice."

Her eyes met his. "That is why you are ready." She let the words settle before continuing.

"The people who are not ready are the ones who are certain," she said. "Certain that they are right. Certain that their will matters more than anyone else's. Certain that mistakes will never touch them."

Her voice softened further. "You doubt because you listen. You hesitate because you think. You fear because you care."

She reached up then, gently, brushing her thumb across his cheek where the tear had fallen, wiping it away without comment.

"And about me," Seren added quietly. "Leaving was not bravery. It was survival. I stayed as long as I could. I left when staying would have broken me."

She looked at him fully now. "You are not less brave than I am," she said. "You are standing in front of something enormous and still choosing to walk toward it."

A small pause. "Even when part of you wishes you did not have to." Her hand lingered lightly at his jaw, not possessive, not demanding, simply there. "That is courage," Seren finished.

Varin Mortifer

 

[Varin Mortifer]

When she said his name, that was when he noticed she had moved closer. His eye slowly trailed back to her as she spoke, the burning sensation in his eye still fresh from the tear fall. He took another deep breath as she spoke, as she drew nearer.

His gaze fell on her when her hand met his cheek, the feeling of wetness was wiped clean and replaced with a sensation of warmth from her touch. His hand gently met hers, held loosely in his grasp.

“I…”

He started at first, hesitating for a moment. There was a burning sensation dull and deep within his chest. Torn from wanting to believe her but only seeing what it was that he felt.

“I don't know if I can see it that way, but I can try.”

Her presence kept him here, kept him from spiraling down the dark tunnel of fear and doubt. He knew her words rang with a semblance of truth, he could feel it.

He gently kissed her hand then his gaze fell to their fingers, held together as he sat in quiet for a moment.

“Apologies…”

He started again, before cutting himself off.

“No. The apology was stated for little to no reason.”

He looked at her fully again.

“I know in time, those words will ring true completely, in time. I know that one day I will stand with my people and I know that I will eventually make the wrong decisions. That's part of leadership.”

He rubbed his thumb over her hand.

“Thank you…for listening to me. I don't mean to dump all of this on you, but yet you stay.”

His eyes searched hers.

“Why?”

The question finally escaped him. Not because he was questioning her judgement, but because so many more would have just left it and told him to deal with it. Yet she actively tried to give him answers he never had.

It puzzled him.

Seren Gwyn​

 

[Seren Gwyn]

Seren did not pull her hand away. Her fingers remained wrapped lightly around his, steady and warm, as though the contact itself grounded her more than she had expected it to. She listened without interrupting, her expression thoughtful rather than dramatic, her eyes soft but focused entirely on him, taking in not just his words but the hesitation and vulnerability beneath them. When he finally asked why, she did not answer immediately. She let the question settle between them for a moment, not because she lacked an answer, but because she wanted to choose her words with care, to offer something honest rather than something easy.

"Because you are real with me," she said at last, her voice quiet but certain.

Her thumb traced a slow, absent line across his knuckles, a small gesture that carried more reassurance than she seemed aware of.

"You do not pretend you have everything figured out," she continued, her tone gentle, almost reflective, as if she were speaking from a place of long familiarity with people who did.

She shifted slightly closer, not enough to crowd him, but enough that he could feel the steady presence of her body beside his, a quiet reminder that she was choosing to stay.

"Most of the people I trained under… they were certain," she said, her voice softening with memory. "Certain of their path. Certain of their choices. Certain they were right."

A faint smile touched her lips, one that held both affection and caution.

"That certainty was comforting," she admitted, "and it was dangerous."

Her gaze lifted to meet his again, steady and unflinching.

"You do not have that," she said, and the words carried no judgment at all.

It was not an insult. It was an observation, offered with the same care she used when handling something fragile.

"You question yourself," she said, her voice low and sincere. "You worry about who you might become. You are afraid of hurting the people you care about."

She squeezed his hand gently, her fingers tightening just enough to make sure he felt it.

"That tells me you are trying," she said, and there was a quiet conviction in her tone that left no room for doubt.

She drew in a slow breath, one that seemed to steady her before she continued.

"I have not had all the answers either," she admitted, her voice carrying the weight of old choices. "I left because I thought it was right. Some days I still wonder."

She looked away for half a second, her gaze drifting toward the ground as if acknowledging a truth she rarely spoke aloud, then she returned her attention to him with renewed clarity.

"But talking to you…being here…it reminds me that doubt is not failure," she said, her voice softening even further. "It means you care."

She met his eyes fully now, her expression open in a way she did not offer to many.

"So I stay," she said simply, as though the decision had been made long before he asked.

A small, sincere smile curved her lips.

"Because I want to see who you become," she said, the words warm and steady. "And because…I care about you."

Varin Mortifer

 

[Varin Mortifer]

Varin sat in silence as she spoke, the tightening of her fingers around his hand did not go unnoticed as she spoke true to him, almost like the promise of the night before were still evident.

No walls.

The thought echoed in his head and a smile came to his lips as she spoke. He let her speak, let her confess all that she was willing to confess. He held no judgement over her, and knowing that she trusted him enough to tell him how she felt for him, it was eye opening for him. His voice was quiet and soft, meant only for her and the walls around them.

“Seren…”

He began to speak after she finished, his hand gently resting on her lower jaw, a gentle stroke of his thumb ran over her cheekbone as his other hand stayed wrapped in hers. He closed his eyes, listening to his heartbeat for a moment. Slow, steady and strong. He knew at that time, he had to say what he was feeling. There was no nervousness behind it, just the drive to tell her.

“You may never get that answer. The answer of if you should have stayed. But you do have this.”

He looks around her, at everything she has. Not pointing out what she has in material value, but the work behind it.

“You gave yourself another answer. The answer to a question usually asked by nature itself of Can you survive? Are you strong enough to keep it up?”

He slowly placed her hand over his chest, gently pressing her palm over his breast bone.

“People tend to get stuck reliving memories that they forget to look at the road they paved to get to where they are now. They focus on the what if? over What is?”

His heart beat under her palm like a steady thunderous drum, there was no anomalous beat, there was no change in tempo. It was just slow and steady.

“What I am to become, I don’t know yet. But I want you there when it happens.”

He looked her in the eyes.

“I care for you more than I have cared for anyone else. Whenever I travel back to my temple or back to the Covenant I feel…Hollow. I think about you a lot.”

He took a deep breath, and exhaled deeply.

“I care for you so much, to the point that if you went missing, or someone had harmed you, I would rip the galaxy apart. Force have mercy on them when they pass…because I would not.”

His hand gently tightened over hers.

Silent. He had no more words to say after spilling his own guts before her, giving her all he had, all he knew to say and how to say it. His hand loosened over hers from his chest and his other hand slowly cradled the back of her head.

Seren Gwyn​

 

[Seren Gwyn]

Seren did not pull away when his hand cradled the back of her head. Instead, she went very still, the kind of stillness that came not from fear but from the need to steady herself, as though the weight of what he had just said had settled somewhere deep in her chest and she needed a quiet moment to understand it before she dared to touch it.

Her breath left her slowly, not shaky or panicked, but measured and deliberate, the kind of exhale that came from someone trying to keep her balance in the presence of something unexpectedly tender.


When she lifted her gaze to his again, there was something different in her eyes now, not distance, not fear exactly, but a vulnerability she rarely allowed anyone to see, a softness that felt both fragile and fiercely honest.

Her free hand rose, hesitant at first, and came to rest against his wrist, her thumb brushing lightly across his skin as if testing the reality of the moment.

"Varin…" she said softly, his name carrying a quiet tremor of emotion she did not try to hide.

She paused again, searching for the right words, refusing to rush herself into naming something she was still learning how to hold.

"You do not say things lightly," she continued, her voice quiet but steady, shaped by certainty rather than bravado. "I know that. You never have."

Her eyes held his, open and unguarded, as if almost startling in their sincerity.

"So I believe you," she admitted, the words landing with the weight of a truth she had not expected to speak. "About how you feel. About what I mean to you."

That admission alone seemed to take something out of her. She drew in another slow breath, steadying herself.

"And…that scares me," she said honestly, the confession offered without accusation or rejection, simply as truth.

"Not because of you," she added quickly, her fingers tightening slightly around his wrist as if to anchor the distinction. "Because of what it asks of me."

Her grip remained gentle but firm, grounding herself in the warmth of his skin.

"I spent a long time learning how not to need anyone," she said, her voice low and steady. "How to stand alone. How to leave when I had to. How to survive without leaning too hard on something that could disappear."

Her gaze softened, the edges of her expression easing into something almost wistful.

"And then you walked into my life," she murmured, a faint note of disbelief threading through her tone, "and somehow made all of that feel…unnecessary."

She leaned forward until her forehead rested lightly against his, the contact small but deliberate, a quiet acknowledgment of the space they were choosing to share.

"I care about you," she said, quietly but without hesitation, the words shaped with a kind of gentle certainty. "More than I meant to. More than I planned."

Her thumb brushed along his wrist in a slow, grounding motion, as if the touch itself helped her speak.

"I think about you too," she admitted. "When you are gone. When things are quiet. When I am supposed to be focused on anything else."

A small, almost self-conscious breath of a laugh escaped her, soft and unguarded.

"And I do not know what to call that yet," she said, her voice warm with honesty. "I am not ready to pretend I do."

She met his eyes again, steady and sincere, the kind of look that held both truth and promise.

"But I know this," she said, letting the words settle between them.

"I am not walking away."

"I am here. I am choosing this. I am choosing you."

She lifted her hand to his cheek, mirroring his earlier touch with a gentleness that carried both care and caution.

"Not because I am fearless," she whispered, her thumb brushing lightly beneath his eye, "but because you are worth being afraid for."

Her voice softened even further as she finished.

"So…if you are willing to take this slowly," she said, "to let it grow without forcing it into a name…"

A faint, sincere smile touched her lips, small but unmistakably real.

"I want to be there too. When you become whoever you are meant to be."

She stayed close, not retreating, not rushing forward either, simply present, steady, and choosing him with every quiet breath.

Varin Mortifer

 

[Varin Mortifer]

He let her speak. He listened to her uncertainty, her fears; but he also caught her feelings of certainty in the mix.

The feeling not only scared her, but it scared him as well. Her hand tightened around his wrist and his fingers gently massaged the back of her neck as she leaned her forehead on his.

Varin sat for a moment in silence, processing all she said and the feeling of genuineness not only in her eyes but the faltering of her voice.

That also caught his attention. Her voice was never one to soften like that. Not since he had known her. He pulled back from her head for a moment, his other hand slowly placed just on the nape of her neck. His eye looking into hers once again.

“We don't have to name it right now.”

He mirrored what she had told him before.

“The space is not demanding anything from us, not right now.”

He paused for a moment, his eye looking through her, into her.

“This feeling…frightens me too. But I know that being with someone, even if they are just as scared as you, can ease the journey.”

He gently pulled her towards him, his lips meeting hers as he held her in a soft embrace. The kiss deepened in a way of true affection, not demanding anything of her, but requesting she stay here with him. He breathed slowly as he stayed in the moment.

He spoke quietly.

“I believe that having the skill of independence is a blessing. No you may not need another person, but having someone with you can still make everything easier.”

His forehead leaned back on hers.

“We both learned how to be independent. I believe that makes us stronger in the end.”

He gently kissed her forehead.

“I…I'm choosing you as well.”

He held her close, the sounds of the living space circled around them both, their breathing, the hearth, the holopanel. Even the silent air seemed to cling to the both of them.

“I'm not going anywhere.”

He spoke softly to her.

Seren Gwyn​

 

[Seren Gwyn]

Seren did not pull away when he held her; if anything, she leaned into the contact with a subtle, yielding grace, as though his words had finally loosened a knot she had been holding tightly inside herself for far too long. For a long, suspended moment, she simply stayed there with her forehead resting against his, breathing in slow, even rhythms and letting the steady, solid presence of him ground her against the rising tide of her own thoughts.

When she finally spoke, her voice was softer than usual, stripped of its typical scholarly precision and the guarded control she usually wore like armor.

"You always say things with such a striking simplicity," she murmured, the movement of her thumb brushing lightly along the ridge of his collarbone. "You speak as though these truths are not…utterly terrifying to confront."

A faint, breathy laugh escaped her then, a sound that was far more honest than it was amused, born from the sheer relief of being understood.

"And yet, somehow, the way you say them makes the impossible feel like something I might actually achieve."

She lifted her head just enough to look at him properly, her amber gaze searching the lines of his face with a quiet intensity, as if she were committing every detail to memory in the stillness of this moment.

"I have spent the better part of my life preparing for the inevitability of loss," she admitted, her voice barely a whisper in the space between them. "I have trained myself to expect departures and to find comfort only in the finality of endings."

Her fingers curled slightly into the fabric at his side, not gripping him with desperation, but simply holding on, anchoring herself to the present.

"It is much easier to survive the galaxy when you never allow yourself to believe that something or someone will actually stay."

She exhaled slowly, the breath hitching slightly in her throat.

"You are making it feel significantly harder to keep that distance."

It wasn't intended as an accusation, but rather a raw, unvarnished confession of how he had shifted her world. Her gaze softened, the light in her eyes turning warm and reflective.

"But you are also making it feel like it is finally worth the risk."

She rested her forehead against his again, her eyes closing briefly as she let the warmth of the moment wash over her.

"I am still afraid," she said, the honesty of the statement hanging heavy in the air. "I am afraid of what it means to depend on someone, of wanting too much from the world, and most of all, I am afraid of losing you."

Her voice wavered just slightly on that last word, a rare crack in her composed veneer.

"But I have realized that I do not want to live my life in the shadows anymore, pretending that I do not feel exactly what I feel."

She lifted her hand to his cheek, her touch gentle and deliberate, her palm warm against his skin.

"So…yes," she whispered, the word carrying the weight of a vow. "We do not have to give this a name, and we certainly do not have to promise each other forever."

A small, sincere smile: one that actually reached her eye and touched her lips.

"But I am here, right now, with you. And I am here entirely on purpose."

Her thumb brushed lightly beneath his eye, tracing the curve of his cheek with newfound tenderness.

"And for the record, I am not planning on leaving either."

She leaned in and kissed him again, slower this time and much steadier—a kiss that wasn't fueled by the frantic uncertainty of the storm, but by the quiet power of a conscious choice. When she finally pulled back, she stayed close enough to feel his breath, remaining fully present and entirely unwalled. In the silence of the sub-temple, she was no longer a scholar of shadows or a manipulator of truths; she was simply a woman choosing him.

Varin Mortifer

 

[Varin Mortifer]

He looked into her gaze, the gentle caress of her thumb over his collarbone sent a small shiver down his arm. Not of discomfort but quite the opposite. His skin pricked at the feeling, and slowly his eyes closed as he listened to her.

“It is absolutely terrifying.”

His voice was like a whisper, a breath escaping him as he spoke.

“But we haven’t let fear stop us before.”

His hand gently rested on her wrist, finger lightly wrapping to show she was not alone in this feeling that she was choosing to share. He was here with her, present. And like a pillar that held the very roof of a building, he held her. Kept her stable as she needed, not forcing her in any direction. But holding her foundation.

He kept watch over her as she spoke of distance, and the difficulty it has started to become to maintain. An understanding glance in his eye reflected to her. His gaze softening as her breath hitched. He still remained silent, letting her speak. Letting her unload what she had been holding in. But his hand remained over her wrist, gently running his hand back and forth in a slow rhythm, keeping her present, but also presenting a form of comfort for her to focus on. To show that he was not just a figment of imagination, but that he was real.

He leaned his forehead onto hers as he breathed deep. The crack in her voice caught his attention. He looked at her once again.

Then he saw it. It stunned him. The beauty of her smile that reached his eye tore a smile from him as well. A sharp exhale left his chest. When the kiss broke another exhale left him as he held her close once more. Placing his palm over her back. He gently kissed her temple.

“You…have such a beautiful smile…”

He let out a breathy laugh. Quick and quiet. But inside he felt the most amount of warmth inside he had felt, since he could remember.

He slowly stood up before her and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close to his chest. She would feel the warmth that flowed from the brands and off his flesh, but she would also feel and hear the heavy strong beats of his heart. The pulse slightly elevated, but steady. His hand ran across her back in a slow rhythmic pattern that would resemble circles.

“That’s all I could ever want…”

He whispered into her ear.

Seren Gwyn​

 

[Seren Gwyn]

Seren did not pull away when he wrapped his arms around her. If anything, she softened into the embrace, her forehead resting briefly against his collarbone before she tilted her head just enough to look up at him again.

For a moment, she simply stayed there, listening to his heartbeat, feeling the steady warmth beneath her hands, letting herself believe in the quiet safety of it.

Her fingers curled lightly into the fabric at his back, not gripping, not clinging, just… staying.

When she finally spoke, her voice was low and close, meant only for him.

"You know…" she murmured, a faint, almost shy smile touching her lips, "I don't think anyone has ever made fear feel this…survivable before."

She shifted slightly, enough for her cheek to brush against his chest, her breath warm against his skin.

"Most of the time, when I'm afraid, I deal with it alone," she admitted softly. "I analyze it. I break it apart. I outthink it."

Her thumb traced a slow, absent line along his side.

"With you…I don't have to do that," she continued. "I can just feel it. And let it pass."

She lifted her gaze to his again, her eyes open and unguarded, carrying a quiet intensity.

"That's rare for me," she said honestly. "And it means more than I know how to explain."

Her forehead rested gently against his.

"So…thank you," she whispered. "For staying. For holding me like this. For not asking me to be braver than I am."

A small, genuine smile curved her lips.

"And for seeing me," she added quietly. "Even when I'm scared."

She slid her arms a little more securely around him, settling there, content and present.

"I'm not going anywhere either," she said softly. "Not tonight. Not from this."

And she stayed close, breathing in rhythm with him, letting the moment exist exactly as it was.

Varin Mortifer