Chapter Text
The lava plains of Nevarro stretched out like a scarred canvas under the twin suns, their heat shimmering off the black rock in waves that distorted the horizon.
Din Djarin sat alone in the cockpit of the sleek N-1 starfighter he'd pieced together with Peli Motto's help on Tatooine, but it felt as empty as the void of space. The controls hummed softly under his gloved hands, but there was no cooing from the passenger seat, no tiny green claws reaching for the silver ball atop the shifter.
Grogu was gone.
The thought hit him like a vibroblade to the chest, every time. It had been months since that fateful day on the light cruiser, when Luke Skywalker had appeared like a ghost from the old stories, his lightsaber cutting through the dark troopers like they were nothing. Din could still see it all in his mind's eye, the way Grogu had looked up at him, those big ears twitching, his dark eyes wide with a mix of fear and curiosity.
The bridge was a chaos of smoke and sparks, the air thick with the scent of ozone and blaster fire. Din picked up the child, his helmet inches from Grogu's face. For the first time, he'd removed it, letting the kid see him, the real him.
Rough stubble, weary brown eyes, lines etched from years under the beskar. He pressed his forehead to Grogu's tiny one in a keldabe kiss. The child had cooed softly, a small hand patting Din's cheek, before turning toward the Jedi.
Skywalker had nodded solemnly, his cloak swirling as he lifted Grogu into his arms. "He'll be safe with me," the Jedi promised. And then they were gone, vanishing into the stars, leaving Din with an ache that no amount of bounty hunting could fill.
Din leaned against the cockpit canopy, his helmet resting on the dash. The absence was a physical thing, a hollow in his chest where touch had once been. Mandalorians weren't raised for affection; the Creed demanded solitude, strength in isolation. But Grogu had changed that. The kid's hugs, his playful Force tugs on Din's cape. They'd awakened something starved in him, a need for connection he'd buried under layers of armor. Now, without it, the loneliness gnawed like a mythosaur in the dark.
He needed a distraction. Anything. Pushing himself up, Din strode into the bustling streets of Nevarro's rebuilt city. The place had transformed under Greef Karga's watchful eye, once a hive of scum and villainy, now a thriving hub with clean cantinas and merchants hawking wares from across the galaxy. Din made his way to Karga's office, the high magistrate's domain overlooking the main square.
Karga was behind his desk, feet propped up, a goblet of spotchka in hand. "Mando! Come in, come in. You look like you've seen a wampa." His booming laugh filled the room as he poured a second drink. "Sit. Drink. Tell me what's eating at you."
Din accepted the goblet but didn't remove his helmet. He never did in public. "It's quiet," he said simply, his voice modulator flattening the emotion.
Karga's eyebrows shot up. "Quiet? You mean without the little green menace causing havoc?" He chuckled, but his eyes softened. "Ah, the kid. Yeah, I miss the rascal too. But he's off becoming a Jedi wizard or whatever. You'll see him again."
Din stared into his drink, the amber liquid swirling. "It's not just that. I... I don't know what to do now." The words felt foreign, vulnerable. Mandalorians didn't confess weakness.
But the dreams had started, vivid, haunting visions of a family, a riduur at his side, children laughing under a Mandalorian sun. Prophecies whispered in the Armorer's forge: The one who wields the Darksaber shall unite the clans, but only with a destined mate at their side. Fate, or folly? He couldn't tell anymore.
Karga leaned forward, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Well, if you're feeling adrift, maybe it's time to... branch out. You're not just any Mandalorian anymore, you're the guy with the fancy laser sword. Eligible bachelor of the galaxy!" He slapped the desk, laughing. "There's this new service, Galactic Matches. High-end, discreet. For folks like you who need a companion without the drama. Warriors, scholars, you name it. Hell, with your status, you'd have 'em lining up."
Din tilted his helmet. "A dating service?" The idea was absurd. Mandalorians courted through deeds, not holoscreens. But the loneliness pressed harder. "I'm not looking for a warrior."
Karga waved a hand. "Then don't! Put what you want. Sweet, family-oriented, whatever. Can't hurt to try, right?"
That night, in the dim glow of his ship's quarters, Din sat before a datapad. The service's interface was sleek, promising connections across the stars.
His profile was sparse: a silhouette of his armored form, no face, no name beyond "Mandalorian Warrior." The bio? He typed slowly, gloved fingers hesitant: Mandalorian seeking sweet companion who accepts my Creed, loves children, values family. Simple. Honest. He hit submit, a quiet hope flickering amid the dread.
Days blurred into a string of messages. The first matches came quickly, too quickly. A Twi'lek bounty hunter who talked only of kills. A Zabrak merchant eyeing his beskar for profit. Disasters, each one. But Karga's words echoed, and the dreams persisted.
Tonight was another attempt: a date on Nevarro with some off-worlder the service had paired him with. As he polished his armor, the beskar gleaming under the lights, Din whispered a Mando'a prayer:
"Ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum."
I'm still alive, but you are dead. I remember you, so you are eternal.
Not for the dead, but for the life he craved. Dread twisted with hope as he strapped on the Darksaber, stepping into the unknown.
Meanwhile, on a remote Outer Rim world called Eriadu Minor, a speck of green amid the starry void, you wiped flour from your hands, the scent of fresh-baked sweetbreads filling your adopted grandmother's cozy cantina.
The place was a haven, tucked into the hills away from the galaxy's roar, with wooden beams and flickering lanterns that cast warm shadows. Nana, as you called her, hummed an old tune while stirring a pot of stew, her wrinkled hands steady despite her years.
At 22, you should have been out there, exploring the stars like the holodramas promised. But life had clipped your wings early. Parents gone in a freighter accident when you were just a child, whispers of piracy, but no one ever confirmed.
Nana had taken you in, sheltering you in this quiet life of baking and serving locals. It was safe, but stifling. You dreamed of more: love, a family of your own, someone to hold you through the nights when the loneliness crept in. Trauma had left you naive, fearful of the wider galaxy's dangers, but your heart yearned for escape.
"Daydreaming again, Y/N?" Nana teased, her eyes twinkling as she handed you a tray of pastries. "That far-off look means you're thinking of princes and adventures."
You blushed, setting the tray on the counter. "Maybe. Just... wondering if there's someone out there for me." The words slipped out, laced with hope.
The galaxy spun on, indifferent to the quiet storm brewing beneath Din Djarin's beskar. Weeks had passed since he'd submitted that sparse profile, and the Galactic Matches service had responded with enthusiasm, too much enthusiasm.
A parade of potential matches, each one more mismatched than the last. Din endured them with the same stoic patience he brought to a bounty hunt, but each failure carved deeper into the hollow where Grogu's absence still ached.
First came the warrior from Clan Vizsla.
They met on Concordia, Mandalore's moon, in a secluded sparring ground ringed by jagged cliffs. She arrived in heavy infantry armor, green and white plates gleaming, a vibroblade already drawn.
Din recognized the markings immediately, Clan Vizsla, proud and unyielding. A holovid endorsement from Paz Vizsla himself had popped up in her profile: “A true daughter of the clan. She fights like beskar, loves like fire. Worthy of the one who holds the Darksaber.” The endorsement had made Din's jaw tighten. Paz and he had history, clashes over the blade, grudging respect earned in battle. This felt like a test.
“So you're the Mand'alor,” she sneered, voice thick with mockery. “The one who carries the Darksaber but won't fight for it properly. Soft. Too soft for a riduur.”
Din stood motionless, arms at his sides. “I don't seek a warrior.”
She laughed, harsh and echoing off the rocks. “Then what do you seek? A nursemaid? Someone to polish your armor while you play house?” She lunged, blade whistling. Din sidestepped easily, not drawing his own weapon. She pressed, strikes fast and furious, but he refused to engage. “Fight me!” she demanded.
“This is the Way,” Din said quietly. “But not like this.”
She froze, chest heaving. “Coward.” The word landed like a slap. She stormed off, cape snapping, muttering about weak bloodlines and unworthy bearers. Din watched her jetpack flare into the sky, the silence that followed heavier than any blow. He wanted someone gentle, someone who would soften the edges of his life, not sharpen them further.
Next: Coruscant.
The glittering spires of the Core world made him uneasy, too many eyes, too much noise. She met him in a high-end lounge overlooking the traffic lanes, draped in silks that shimmered like credits. Beautiful, in a polished, artificial way. Her eyes lit up at the sight of his armor, lingering on the Darksaber hilt.
“Mandalorian,” she purred, sliding into the booth opposite him. “The galaxy's most eligible bachelor. Tell me, how does it feel to hold the symbol of Mandalore?”
Din shifted. “It's a weapon. Not a trophy.”
She laughed, light and tinkling. “Oh, come now. With that fame, we could have everything. Palaces, parties, influence.” Her hand reached across the table, fingers brushing his gauntlet. “And in private... well, traditions are meant to be bent, aren't they?”
Din pulled back. “My Creed is absolute. No intimacy before vows.”
Her smile faltered, then turned cold. “You're joking. A man like you, untouched? How quaint.” She leaned in, voice dropping. “I don't do waiting games. Especially not for someone who clings to outdated rules.”
She left before the drinks arrived, heels clicking away into the crowd. Din sat alone, staring at the city lights. The possessiveness stirred in him again, a fierce, unbidden need to claim someone soft, untouched by the galaxy's cynicism. Someone who would look at him and see more than the armor, more than the blade.
The third was worse.
An arrogant Imperial sympathizer on Nar Shaddaa, her profile boasting of “order and discipline.” They met in a dimly lit cantina, the air thick with smoke and spice. She wore crisp lines, echoes of old Imperial tailoring, and spoke with clipped precision.
“Mandalorians,” she said, sipping something blue and glowing. “Always so... primitive. Your little Creed, your endless wars. The Empire brought structure. You could have learned from it.”
Din's hand tightened on his blaster. “The Empire slaughtered my people. Burned our world.”
She waved a dismissive hand. “Collateral. Progress requires sacrifice.”
Something protective flared in him, fierce, almost feral. Not just for Mandalore's memory, but for the gentle life he craved, one free of such poison. He stood without a word, leaving her mid-sentence. Outside, in the neon rain, he leaned against a wall, breathing hard. I need someone who honors what I am, he thought. Someone sweet. Safe.
The fourth disaster waited on Tatooine.
Peli Motto greeted him at Hangar 3-5 with her usual chaos, tools flying, droids scurrying, her curly hair escaping its tie. “Mando! Back already? Ship looks fine. What's the emergency this time, heartbreak?”
Din grunted. “A date. Service set it up here.”
Peli's eyes widened. “Oh no. Not her.” She jerked a thumb toward the cantina across the way. “Spice runner. Shady as a Hutt's smile. She's got a crew waiting to pitch you a heist, big score, they say. Involves your fancy sword, I bet.”
Din sighed. “Figures.”
The woman was all sharp smiles and sharper promises, leaning against a table littered with empty glasses. “Mandalorian. Heard you're the best. Join us, one job, big payout. Then you can retire, play house with whoever.”
Din didn't sit. “Not interested.”
She laughed. “Come on. Everyone's got a price.”
Peli appeared at his shoulder, arms crossed. “Told ya. Walk away, Mando. She's trouble wrapped in credits.”
He did. Back in the hangar, Peli patted his pauldron awkwardly. “You'll find someone, tin can. Someone who doesn't want your wallet or your weapon. Just... you.”
Din nodded, but the despair settled deeper. Each failure amplified the yearning, for touch that wasn't violent, for a voice soft instead of demanding, for a partner who would stand beside him without trying to change him or use him.
Meanwhile, light-years away on Eriadu Minor, the cozy cantina smelled of cinnamon and baked dough. Nana, a wiry Twi'lek elder with lekku streaked in silver, scrolled through her datapad behind the counter, her sharp eyes narrowing at a familiar profile.
“Mandalorian seeking sweet companion...” she murmured, a sly smile spreading. “Honorable. Traditional. Lonely as a bantha in the dunes.” She glanced at you, Y/N, humming softly as you kneaded dough, flour dusting your cheeks like stars.
“Girl's got a heart bigger than the Outer Rim,” Nana said to herself. “Sheltered, yes. Scared, maybe. But pure. And this one... he feels right. Destined, even.”
She tapped a message into the service, anonymous for now: My granddaughter is everything your profile seeks. Gentle. Loves family. Accepts honor. Send a holo if you're serious.
Nana leaned back, watching you laugh at a customer's joke. “Time to escape that quiet life, little one,” she whispered. “The stars are calling, and they've got beskar.”
The hyperspace jump to Eriadu Minor was short, almost an afterthought. Din had told himself it was curiosity, nothing more. The anonymous message from the service had been brief, almost cryptic. Coordinates attached. No profile picture, no demands. Just an invitation that tugged at the same quiet hope the previous disasters had tried to snuff out.
He landed the N-1 in a dusty clearing behind a cluster of low hills, the ship's engines cooling with soft hisses. The cantina sat nestled against the slope, its wooden sign swaying gently. Smoke curled from the chimney, carrying scents of cinnamon, butter, and something warm and yeasty that made Din's stomach tighten with unfamiliar longing. He adjusted his cape, checked the Darksaber at his hip out of habit, and stepped inside.
The door creaked open to reveal a cozy interior bathed in lantern light. Wooden beams arched overhead, shelves lined with jars of preserves and dried herbs. A few locals nursed mugs at scattered tables, their conversation low and easy. Behind the long counter stood an elderly Twi'lek woman, lekku silver-streaked, eyes sharp and knowing. She looked up from polishing a glass and smiled like she'd been expecting him for years.
"Welcome, traveler," she called, voice warm as the hearth. "Take a seat. The special's fresh from the oven."
Din nodded once, moving toward a corner table where the shadows felt safest. But before he could sit, movement caught his eye.
You, Y/N, emerged from the back kitchen, balancing a large tray laden with golden pastries, sweet rolls dusted in powdered sugar, and small fruit tarts still steaming. Your apron was dusted with flour, a streak of it across one cheek like war paint from a gentler battle. Hair tied back loosely, a few strands escaping to frame your face. You were humming softly, lost in the rhythm of the task, until you turned and saw him.
The Mandalorian.
Full beskar gleaming under the warm lights, helmet impassive, stance broad and unyielding. The sheer presence of him filled the small room like a storm cloud rolling in over calm fields. Your eyes widened, pupils dilating in shock, and the tray tilted dangerously.
"Oh, stars!" you gasped. The tray wobbled. A few pastries slid toward the edge.
Din moved without thinking. One gauntleted hand shot out, steadying the tray mid-fall. The other caught your elbow, gentle, impossibly gentle for armored fingers, keeping you upright. Pastries settled back into place with only minor casualties: one tart tumbling to the floor in a puff of sugar.
You froze, breath catching. Heat flooded your face as you stared up at him, up, and up. He towered over you, solid and silent, the modulator of his voice box humming faintly as if he were deciding whether to speak.
"I'm so sorry," you blurted, voice trembling. "I didn't, I mean, I wasn't looking, please, let me..."
Din stared.
Through the visor, he saw everything: the fragility in your wide eyes, the softness of your features untouched by war or cynicism, the way your hands shook slightly as you clutched the tray like a shield.
A fragile bloom in a barren desert, he thought, the image striking him so hard it stole his breath behind the helmet. Too young, perhaps, for a man who'd seen forty-eight winters under beskar. Yet the pull was immediate, visceral. Fate, the old prophecies whispered in his blood. Destined riduur.
He released your elbow slowly, as if afraid you'd shatter. "No harm done," he said, voice low, steady. "Your baking... it survived."
You managed a shaky laugh, wiping at your cheek and only smearing the flour worse. "Barely. Thank you, for catching it. And me." You glanced down at the fallen tart, then back up at him, shy curiosity breaking through the embarrassment. "You're... Mandalorian."
"Yes."
"I've never met one before. Not in person." Your gaze flicked over the armor, lingering on the mudhorn signet, the cape, the quiet menace that somehow felt protective rather than threatening. "Would you... like something? The nerf rolls are still warm. Or the honey cakes. Nana says they're impossible to resist."
Din hesitated. The age gap loomed in his mind like a warning beacon, decades between you, his life carved in blood and beskar, yours sheltered in dough and quiet hills. But her grandmother watched from behind the counter, arms crossed, a knowing smirk playing on her lips. And the pull... it refused to be ignored.
"I will try the honey cakes," he said finally.
Your face lit up, small and radiant. "Coming right up!"
You hurried behind the counter, setting the tray down with exaggerated care. Nana leaned close, whispering something that made you blush even deeper. Then you returned, sliding a small plate toward him, three golden cakes drizzled in honey, still warm enough that steam curled upward.
Din lifted his helmet just enough to eat, careful to keep his face shadowed. The first bite was revelation: sweet, tender, a burst of flavor that spoke of care, of home. He chewed slowly, savoring.
"Gar darasuum," he murmured, almost to himself. Eternal sweetness.
You tilted your head. "What does that mean?"
He paused, surprised he'd spoken aloud. "Your baking. It's... eternal. In a good way."
Your cheeks flamed anew. "Oh. Thank you. That's... that's really nice." You fidgeted with the edge of your apron. "I make them every day. Dreaming, I guess. Of... having people to share them with. A family. Someone who stays."
The words hung between you, simple and unguarded. Din felt something crack inside his chest, a wall he'd built long ago.
Nana appeared at your side then, wiping her hands on a towel. "She's got a heart big enough for a whole Mandalorian clan, this one," she said cheerfully, though her eyes were fixed on Din. "Always talking about love and belonging. Never found the right soul to give it to. Yet."
"Nana!" you hissed, mortified.
The old Twi'lek just chuckled. "What? The man's traveled far. Might appreciate honesty."
Din set the empty plate down. The silence stretched, charged. He studied you, really studied, the way your eyes darted away when nervous, the gentle curve of your smile, the innocence that made him want to shield you from every sharp edge the galaxy still held.
He rose slowly. "I should go."
Your face fell, just a fraction. "Already?"
"I... have duties." But he didn't move. Instead, he reached into a pouch at his belt and withdrew a small, polished stone, black with veins of silver. A fragment of beskar, smoothed by years of carrying. He placed it on the counter between you.
"A token," he said quietly. "If you wish... I will return."
Your fingers brushed his gauntlet as you took it, trembling. "I'd like that."
Nana's smile widened into something triumphant.
Din stepped outside into the cooling evening air, heart pounding beneath the armor. Possessive thoughts rose unbidden, fierce and primal: Mine. My riduur. To protect. To claim. To build a home with. The age, the differences, they mattered less now. Fate had spoken, soft as honey, sweet as her cakes.
He would court her properly. The Mandalorian way. The only way he knew.
And when the time came, he would make her his, forever.
The trouble arrived quietly, the way most old debts do.
Din had returned to Eriadu Minor three times in as many weeks, each visit longer than the last. He told himself it was caution, reconnaissance, making sure the matchmaker’s gambit wasn’t a trap. In truth, he couldn’t stay away. Every time he landed the N-1 behind Nana’s cantina, the scent of warm dough pulled him inside like a tether. Every time you smiled at him, shy, bright, unguarded, something possessive coiled tighter in his chest.
This visit was different.
He arrived just after dusk. The cantina was half-full, locals laughing over mugs of ale. You were behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, braiding sweet loaves for tomorrow’s rush. Nana watched him enter with that same knowing smirk, but her eyes flicked toward the door a second later, nervous.
Two men lingered near the back wall. Rough coats, patched blasters, the kind of quiet menace that screamed collection agents. One of them kept glancing your way.
Din moved before he thought. He crossed the room in three strides, placing himself between you and their line of sight. His voice came low through the modulator. “Problem?”
The taller one sneered. “Just business, tin can. Old family debt. Girl’s parents owed credits. Interest compounds.”
You froze mid-braid, color draining from your face. The loaf slipped from your fingers.
Nana stepped forward, lekku twitching. “They’ve been hounding her for years. She was a child when it happened. Leave her be.”
“Law’s law,” the shorter one said. “We’ve got papers. She pays, or we take what we can.”
Din’s hand rested on his blaster, casual, but unmistakable. “She’s under my protection now.”
The words fell like beskar hitting stone. The men exchanged looks. They knew Mandalorians. They knew what “protection” meant when spoken by a man wearing the mythosaur.
The taller one spat on the floor. “This ain’t over.”
“It is,” Din said. “Leave. Don’t come back.”
They hesitated, then backed toward the door, muttering threats that dissolved into the night air.
Silence settled, thick and trembling.
You looked up at him, eyes glassy. “You didn’t have to...”
“I did.” He turned fully to you. “Pack what you need. You’re not safe here anymore.”
Nana nodded slowly. “He’s right, sweetheart. Go. See the stars. Find what you’ve been dreaming of.”
You swallowed hard. “But the cantina...”
“I’ll manage,” Nana said, pressing a small bundle into your hands, your favorite apron, a jar of honey, a few recipes scrawled on flimsi. “Go live, Y/N.”
Din waited outside while you said goodbye. When you emerged, carrying only a small satchel, he offered his hand, gauntleted, steady.
“Come.”
The new ship waited in the clearing, a replacement Razor Crest, rebuilt from salvage and purchased with bounty credits after Grogu left. Larger than the first, but familiar in layout: cockpit, common area, cramped quarters, a hold still smelling faintly of engine grease and new durasteel.
You hesitated at the ramp.
“I’ve never left Eriadu Minor,” you admitted. “Not really.”
Din paused. “You don’t have to be afraid.”
“I’m not,” you lied, then softer: “I’m terrified.”
He extended his hand again. This time you took it.
Inside, the ship felt alive, lights flickering on as he powered systems, the low hum of the hyperdrive warming. You sat in the co-pilot’s seat, fingers gripping the armrests. Din settled beside you, going through pre-flight with practiced ease.
“First time in hyperspace?” he asked.
You nodded, eyes wide as the stars began to streak.
When the jump hit, blue-white tunnels swallowed the black. Your breath caught, sharp, overwhelmed. The colors danced across your face, reflecting in your pupils. Sensory overload crashed in: the roar of engines, the press of acceleration, the sheer vastness outside the canopy.
You pressed your palms to your ears without thinking.
Din noticed immediately.
He unbuckled, moved behind your seat. Slowly, so slowly, he rested his helmeted forehead against the crown of your head. Not quite a keldabe, but close. The cool beskar pressed gently, grounding.
“Breathe,” he murmured. “In through your nose. Out through your mouth. I’m here.”
You exhaled shakily. His presence, solid, armored, unyielding, became an anchor. The panic ebbed.
After a long moment, you whispered, “Thank you.”
He didn’t move away yet. “You’re safe.”
The ship settled into cruise. Din returned to his seat but kept his body angled toward you, protective without crowding.
“Tell me about your Creed,” you said after a while, voice steadier. “The Way. I want to understand.”
He considered. Then he rose, gesturing for you to follow to the small common area.
There, under the dim overhead light, he began.
“This is beskar,” he said, tapping his chestplate. “Forged in the fires of Mandalore. Passed down. Earned. It protects more than the body, it protects the soul. The helmet…” He touched the rim. “Never removed in front of others. This is the Way.”
You listened, rapt. “So you’ve never… shown your face?”
“Not since I was a child. Not to anyone outside my clan.”
You reached out hesitantly, fingertips brushing the edge of his vambrace. “It’s beautiful. Strong.”
Something in his posture softened.
He showed you the mudhorn signet next, how it was earned, what it meant. Then the Darksaber, hilt heavy in his palm. “This is burden as much as honor. I did not seek it.”
You looked at him with quiet awe. “But you carry it anyway.”
“I do.”
A small silence. Then, tentative: “May I… hold it?”
He placed it in your hands. The weight surprised you; the black blade hummed faintly when your fingers closed around it.
“It feels… alive,” you breathed.
“It chooses its wielder,” he said. “But it does not choose lightly.”
You handed it back carefully. When your fingers brushed his, he didn’t pull away.
Later, you insisted on cooking. The galley was tiny, but you found flour, dried fruit, a canister of nerf butter. Soon the ship smelled of honey cakes, his favorite from the cantina.
He watched from the doorway as you worked, sleeves pushed up, humming softly. Domestic. Gentle. Everything the galaxy had tried to take from him.
When the first batch came out, you offered him one on a small plate.
He lifted the helmet just enough. Took a bite. Closed his eyes behind the visor.
“Better than before,” he said.
You beamed.
But shadows lingered.
At the next stop, a backwater refueling station, you went inside together for supplies. A flirty human bartender leaned across the counter, batting lashes at you while you paid for provisions.
“Pretty thing like you shouldn’t be traveling alone,” he drawled. “Need company?”
You laughed nervously. “I’m not alone.”
The man’s gaze flicked to Din, then away, dismissive.
Din stepped forward, looming. Voice flat. “She’s not interested.”
The bartender paled. “Just being friendly, Mando.”
“Be less friendly.”
You glanced up at Din, surprised by the edge in his tone. Jealousy, raw and unfiltered, coiled beneath the beskar.
Back on the ship, you hesitated. “You didn’t have to scare him.”
“I did.” He removed one gauntlet, flexing his bare hand before putting it back on. “You’re under my protection now. No one touches what’s mine to guard.”
The words hung between you, heavy, possessive, intimate.
You swallowed. “Am I… yours?”
A long pause.
“Not yet,” he said quietly. “But I would like you to be.”
Heat bloomed across your cheeks.
That night, ship drifting in the black between stars, you sat together in the common area. You’d curled up on the bench with a blanket. He sat across from you, helmet resting on his knee.
“Tell me about the child,” you said softly.
Din’s shoulders eased. “Grogu. Small. Green. Big ears. He ate everything. Frogs, mostly. He… he liked my voice. Even through the modulator.”
You smiled, eyes shining. “He sounds perfect.”
“He was.” A beat. “I miss him.”
“I understand missing family,” you whispered. “I lost mine young. Nana was all I had left. Until now.”
He looked at you, really looked. “You want a family.”
“More than anything.”
“So do I.”
Silence wrapped around you both, warm and fragile.
Slowly, Din reached out. His gloved hand covered yours, large, careful.
“You’re not alone anymore,” he said.
You turned your palm up, lacing your fingers through his. “Neither are you.”
He leaned forward. Helmeted brow rested gently against your forehead again, this time deliberate. A keldabe without skin, but full of meaning.
“Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum,” he whispered.
You didn’t know the words yet.
But you felt them.