Chapter Text
You had only come to know a handful of quiet evenings with the Mandalorian.
They came rarely in the years you've spent traveling together—when your floating home finally descended from the vast depths of the galaxy and settled onto some far-off planet, temporarily nestled a few miles from whatever sand-dusted town revealed itself through the viewport of the Crest. The silence these towns greeted you with was never kind—but you had come to know it closely, the way it settled like a cold breath over the streets in a slow, inching hush, drifting across the steeled gazes of the locals who lingered too long at the man in beskar.
The air grew heavy the moment you stepped into the town, thick with a quiet so unnerving it felt as though the world itself had paused mid-conversation, listening—waiting—for its next uncertain moment—the one you both knew would come, the one the Mandalorian would undoubtedly bring whether he intended to or not. And yet, standing at his side, close enough to feel the quiet gravity of his footsteps moving in the rhythm of yours, you found that the stares did not unsettle you the way they once had, because somewhere along the endless stretch of stars and dust, the danger he carried had become inseparable from something far more dangerous—the slow, unspoken pull of something that felt, against all odds, like belonging.
You had become his Clan, his partner in an endless galaxy, and with him came a title even more extraordinary—mom. The child pressed a steady warmth against your back, his small body nestled securely in his carrier as his soft breaths ghosted through the worn fabric of your cloak. Your hood stayed drawn despite the way time had riddled it with holes, because even now you knew better than to be seen too clearly, even as the light slipped through those tears in thin, fractured beams, scattering rays of gold and amber across your shadowed face in quiet defiance of the life you led.
From the edge of your vision, the broad outline of Din's helmet moved in a slow sweep, scanning the street with a precision that made your fingers twitch instinctively against the sleeves of your tunic. In the years you had been together, you had learned to read him not through expressions, but through motion—the subtle shift of his posture, the careful angle of his head, the way he seemed to map every exit, every threat, every possible outcome before it could unfold. Mid-sweep, the polished curve of beskar caught the fractured sunlight and cast it back into the dust-heavy air in brief, blinding flashes of silver—sharp enough to draw the eye, yet impossible to hold for long—and you found yourself thinking of what lay beneath it, of the face you had only seen in quiet moments meant for no one else but you.
You could almost picture his face—every edge carved by a life that had never allowed softness, lines that seemed to deepen whenever the weight of what he carried settled in—and yet, you knew that traveling with you did not soften him in the way it should have. If anything, it made him far more threatening than anyone realized, because now he knew exactly what he had to protect... and exactly what he stood to lose. He hadn't wanted to stop here—not on a planet he didn't know, not in a place that felt wrong the moment his boots touched the ground—but the quiet, insistent rumble of the child's hunger had been enough to sway him, because there were some things even the Mandalorian could not ignore. And you had come to understand that for all his vigilance, for all his refusal to trust what he could not control, the child—his child—had always been his one exception.
"I still have a bad feeling about this," he said, his voice low, roughened by the familiar crackle of the vocoder—a sound that to anyone else might have seemed flat, mechanical, stripped of warmth or inflection, but to you it carried something raw beneath the distortion. Because you knew what he sounded like without it. You knew the way his voice settled when it wasn't filtered through steel, and you could hear the tension threaded through his words even now—the warning coiled tight in his chest before the armor reshaped it into more controlled baritone. "Let's get what we need," he added, softer this time, as if the town itself might be listening, as if speaking too loudly might draw the kind of attention neither of you could afford, "and leave."
"Oh, come on, riduur." The word slipped from your lips in a soft, breath-warmed whisper, its shape still new against your tongue—still touched with the quiet thrill of a marriage only a few months old. It felt like a secret, something precious you carried between the two of you, a fragile warmth in a galaxy that rarely made room for such things. The sound of it tugged a sheepish smile onto your face, one you knew would be mirrored in the lines hidden beneath his helmet. "There's nothing here but the usual staring," you said gently, your voice light in a way that tried, and failed, to smooth the tension coiled between his shoulders. "It's a small town. It probably doesn't get many visitors."
From a distance, the planet had looked peaceful enough. They almost always did from orbit—worlds softened by distance, their edges blurred into something almost kind, their towns and cities rising like quiet sanctuaries of light above the endless darkness. From that far away, the glow of civilization scattered across the surface like fallen stars, like promises whispered into the void, untouched by the reality that waited below. It was easy, then, to imagine safety. Easy to believe in gentle kindness.
But distance had always been a liar.
Because for the Mandalorian standing beside you, the silence that settled over the market square the moment he stepped into view carried the same uneasy beauty as the quiet hum of strings before an orchestra erupted—something delicate and lovely from afar, but unbearable when you stand close enough to feel the tension tremble against the strings. Conversations faltered, then died. Boots slowed against the dirt-packed street. The low murmur of trade—the clatter of metal, the shuffle of goods, the rise and fall of bartered voices—faded until even the wind seemed to hesitate as it whistled between the buildings. Eyes lingered then flickered away, as if pretending not to see him might make him less real.
And through it all, Din moved forward as he always did—steady, unflinching, each step measured with the quiet certainty of someone who had already weighed every possible outcome and chosen his path anyway. His helmet remained fixed forward, unreadable to anyone else, but you knew him too well for that illusion to hold; you knew where his attention rested, where his gaze lingered beneath the steel, drawn not to the shifting crowd or the narrow alleyways ahead, but to the small, quiet space just behind your shoulder—where, if anyone looked closely enough, two little green ears peeked out from the folds of your hood, twitching faintly with curiosity at a world that had yet to prove itself safe.
"He's fine," you murmured softly, your voice meant only for him, a quiet thread stretched between you that never seemed to break no matter how crowded the space around you became. You didn't need to turn to know how close he walked—close enough that the warmth of him lingered just at your side, close enough that distance had long since stopped being something he allowed. "He's just curious," you added gently, a small smile touching your lips despite everything. "After ten days in space, I can't say I blame him."
"I know, cyar'ika," he answered, the endearment settling warmly, even as his helmet continued its slow, constant motion—checking, rechecking, never still for long. Every figure that drifted too close seemed to earn a fraction of his attention, every movement weighed and measured before it could become something more. "I just don't know this place," he added, quieter now, the words edged with something sharper than caution. "It could be dangerous."
The first response that rose to your tongue faded just as quickly as it came. You swallowed it down, letting it dissolve into emotions unspoken, because the truth of it pressed too close to the surface—too real to be softened into something comforting. You had learned that lesson long ago. It didn't matter the planet, the people, the quiet promise of safety wrapped in warm lights and open doors. It didn't matter how peaceful a place appeared from a distance, or how still the air felt when you first stepped into it.
Anywhere the child existed... was dangerous.
"Then I suggest we divide and conquer," you said, your voice touched with the faintest hint of a smile—one that didn't quite reach your eyes, because you already knew how this would land.
The moment the words left your lips, you felt the shift in him without even looking—that quiet tightening of every muscle in his body that always came when distance was suggested, when the fragile thread that kept you within his reach threatened to stretch too far. Dividing meant splitting up, and splitting up meant his eyes could no longer track your every movement, could no longer settle on you with that constant awareness he carried as closely as his beskar. But if he wanted to leave quickly—if he wanted to minimize time in a place that already set his instincts on edge—this was the best way.
"You grab what we need to restock the med kit," you continued gently, softening the edges of the plan as you spoke, as if that might make it easier for him to accept. "We passed a stall a few paces back with supplies. I'll stay here and find something for dinner."
Your gaze flickered toward him then, searching the stillness of his helmet for a reaction you knew wouldn't come, not in any way most people would understand.
"Sound like a plan?" you asked lightly, the question soft but edged with quiet resolve, because you already knew this would be the moment he hesitated—the moment you'd have to push just a little harder. A small smile tugged at your lips again as you glanced at him, warmth threading through your voice despite the tension. "We'll be fine," you laughed, almost teasing now. "I managed to survive worser planets before I met you... I think I can handle ten minutes alone here."
You were met only with the familiar cold plate of beskar staring back at you—a faceless expression that would have intimidated anyone else, that silent mask carrying a sharp weight of unreadability—but you knew him too well for it to remain that way. Beneath it, you could almost see the strain in his features, the faint pull at the corner of his mouth, the way his face would wrinkle just slightly as he fought the urge to give in and laugh, to let something softer slip through the discipline he held so tightly. The silence stretched for a moment, warm in a way that had nothing to do with the sun overhead, until a low sigh finally broke it.
"Ten minutes," he said at last, the words bristled with reluctant acceptance, even as his stance remained firm. "We meet right back here."
"Yes, sir," you replied, a soft giggle slipping free.
The child answered in his own way, a small, curious coo brushing against your ear as if echoing your agreement, and the sound only deepened the smile that lingered on your lips. For a fleeting second, you let yourself imagine him—Din, without the helmet—the way his beautiful brown eyes would roll at the both of you, equal parts exasperation and something far gentler, something he never quite let himself show for long.
He stepped back, creating space between you, every movement slow even in something as simple as parting ways. His presence lingered even as the distance grew, a quiet gravity you could still feel pulling at you as he turned and moved in the opposite direction, his figure cutting steadily through the crowd while your own steps carried you elsewhere—both of you tethered still, despite the space, by a bond neither distance nor danger had ever quite been able to break.
When the glint of his silver helmet finally disappeared into the shifting crowd, you let your attention drift back to the task at hand. Dinner. The thought alone pulled the faintest crease at the corner of your eyes because it was a question that rarely had an easy answer in the life you shared with the Mandalorian. Most nights, you lived at the mercy of whatever Din decided to bring back after a hunt—a meal that almost always consisted of some form of meat from some creature he had tracked, caught, and carried home. After only a few weeks of living with him, you had been thoroughly convinced the man had never seen a vegetable in his life—let alone willingly chosen one—and though you had learned to adapt, to laugh at it, there were still moments like this where the simplicity of choice felt almost indulgent.
The past ten days had been nothing but rations and ready-made meals—flavor dulled by repetition, sustenance without joy—but now, standing at the edge of a small farmer's stall tucked into the heart of this quiet, watchful town, you found yourself momentarily overwhelmed in the best way. Color bloomed before you—vivid, alive, and unapologetically bright. Deep greens spilled from bunches of collards and spinach that hung from the makeshift canopy overhead, their leaves catching the light as they swayed gently in the breeze. Beneath them, crates overflowed with root vegetables—carrots still dusted with earth, pale parsnips, rough-skinned potatoes stacked in piles that spoke of something freshly gathered rather than processed and stored. And at your feet, woven baskets brimmed with ground ginger, garlic, and a scattering of spices, their rich, earthy scents rising into the air and wrapping around you in fragrance that felt almost... domestic.
"What about a nice vegetable stew for dinner?" you murmured softly into the shelter of your hood, your voice warm and quiet as if the moment itself might break if spoken too loudly.
You waited, listening, until the child's gentle murmur brushed against your ear—a small, familiar sound that you had come to recognize, a soft sigh of excitement that always followed the promise of food. It tugged tenderly at your chest, that quiet, growing bond that needed no words, only the steady rhythm of shared understanding. A faint warmth spread across your cheeks as you felt his tiny body shift, his stomach rumbling once more against your back, echoing the dull, insistent ache in your own, the kind that came not just from hunger, but from the longing for a homemade meal.
"And maybe," you said, your voice dipping just slightly with a hint of playful conspiracy, "on the way back, we can convince your father to stop at a fruit stand for dessert." The thought lingered there for a moment, soft and sweet, wrapped in the image of it—the three of you returning home together, something that felt almost ordinary in a life that had never quite allowed for such moments.
Your fingers moved instinctively, brushing along the inside of your pocket until they found the familiar weight of credits, the cool metal grounding in your palm as your gaze drifted over the table before you. Color and texture blurred together until your attention settled on the woman behind the stall. Her eyes were already on you. There was something in the way she looked at you that felt achingly familiar, a quiet sharpness that hovered somewhere between unfriendly and annoyed, the kind of gaze you had grown used to the moment people realized who you walked beside, who stood at your shoulder even when he wasn't there.
It no longer infuriated you—not in the way it once had. Time had softened that anger, worn it down into something steadier, something you could carry without flinching. And you had long since stopped blaming them for the prejudice they held, because you understood it in a way most didn't realize. You knew what it meant to fear a man hidden behind a mask, to imagine the worst of what you could not see, to fill the silence behind steel with stories of violence and cruelty.
It had taken time—patience, trust, emotions and actions deeper than either—for Din to show you what lay beneath the armor. To show you that not everything hidden was something to be terrified of. That some things, some people, were worth the risk of believing in.
"How much for potatoes, carrots, and a bundle of spinach?" you asked softly, your voice gentle despite the weight in the air, your attention briefly dipping back to the table as your fingers brushed over the edge of a basket filled with spices, considering which might warm the stew just right.
The woman's lips curled slowly, her expression twisting.
"I don't sell to sympathizers."
The words settled between you like dust—quiet, weightless at first, and then suddenly irritating. Your chin tilted, almost unconsciously, in the way it always did when you were trying to understand something, when confusion softened your features into a searching expression. You had never noticed the habit yourself—not until Din had pointed it out one night in the quiet hush of the Crest, his voice low and almost amused as he told you it was the cutest thing he had ever seen. You had laughed then, brushing it off, reminding him that you both knew the title belonged to Grogu—but that hadn't stopped him. If anything, it had only encouraged him, leading him to linger a little longer in his combat lessons, to repeat words you didn't know in his language just to watch you tilt your head again, to see that small piece of you surface without you even realizing it.
"Sympathizers?" you echoed, the word foreign on your tongue as a word in Mando'a.
"You're with the armored fellow, are you not?" the woman replied, her tone edged with something honed rougher than curiosity, something that felt practiced, worn into her over time.
"He is my husband," you answered, and despite everything, a small smile found its way to your lips, as if the word itself carried a quiet kind of pride you hadn't yet grown used to saying aloud. "How does that make me a sympathizer?"
"You're clearly not from around here," she said with a sigh, the sound heavy with a kind of tired irritation, as though your ignorance was more offensive than anything else you had said. Her gaze flicked upward, those glassy green eyes catching beneath the canopy overhead as she noted the sun's slow descent toward the horizon, its light dimming. "You'll see soon enough."
The warning lingered, unspoken things woven tightly between her words, but you didn't press. Instead, you drew in a slow breath, your gaze drifting away from her and settling on a small boy playing in the dirt just beyond the stall. He sat cross-legged, entirely absorbed in his own world, fingers tracing careless patterns into the dust as if nothing else existed beyond it. There was something relaxing in the sight of him—something simple and untouched—and for a moment, you let yourself rest there, caught between the quiet innocence of a child and the weight of a warning you were only just beginning to understand.
Then, as if he could feel the pull of your attention, he looked up. Those same green eyes met yours—but where the woman's had been hardened, dulled by time, his were lit with a kind of wonder that still belonged to the galaxy instead of fearing it. They held curiosity, not judgment. Light, not suspicion. And for a fleeting second, something in your chest softened at the sight of it, at the quiet reminder of what the world looked like before it taught you to be afraid.
You turned your gaze back to the woman, who had already busied herself with rearranging her display—as if order could steady whatever had spooked her. The vegetables shifted beneath her hands, roots turned, leaves straightened, baskets nudged into place with practiced movement that felt less like care and more like avoidance. You watched her for a moment, taking in the tension threaded through her posture, the way her shoulders held just a little too tight.
"Would you sell to a mother?" you asked softly.
The question settled in a way nothing else had, and it was enough to still her. Her hands paused mid-motion, fingers resting against the edge of a crate, her entire body going still as if the words had caught somewhere deep. For a moment, she said nothing. She didn't look at you—not right away—but you could see it in the slight shift of her breathing, in the way her shoulders lowered just enough to betray the weight of whatever she was considering.
"My family has been traveling for ten days," you continued gently, your voice soft but steady, carrying something more human than the tension that had filled the space before. "My son is tired... and hungry. And all I want is to make him a warm meal. Something that feels like home." As you spoke, your hand slipped into your pocket again, drawing out the credits and holding them forward—not as a transaction, but as an offer. The metal caught the fading light between you, glinting softly as it rested in your palm. "Would twenty be enough?"
This time, your gaze didn't waver. Not from her. Not from the moment. Because somewhere beneath the caution, beneath the distance and the fear, you both understood something simple—something that didn't belong to war or armor or the weight of names people chose to carry.
Some things... were the same everywhere.
And motherhood was one of them.
"Look," she huffed, her gaze flickering somewhere between you and the little boy, never quite settling, as though even looking at you for too long carried its own kind of risk. "It's nothing personal. If I sell to you, I'll be blacklisted from the rest of the market. There are rules here—too many to explain now. If I were you, I'd suggest you find your husband and leave as soon as—"
The words never finished. A sound came over them—a low, distant tremor that rolled through the square like the beginning of a storm, subtle at first, almost easy to mistake for the shifting of carts or the hum of voices carried too far. But it didn't fade. It grew and bellowed like the mighty roar of awakening creature.
Marching.
It pressed into the ground beneath your feet, a rhythm bleeding into the earth, rising through the soles of your boots and rattling your bones, climbing your spine until it settled somewhere deep in your ribs, tightening there, stealing the breath from your lungs before your thoughts could catch up. Around you, the air seemed to deflate, the warmth of the market thickening, as though the world itself had drawn in a heavy breath and forgotten how to let it go.
The woman's voice fell silent mid-sentence, the warning dissolving on her tongue as her expression changed—sharp, and then gone all at once, like a door closing behind her eyes. When she looked at you again, it was different. Not unkind. Not even dismissive.
Just... vacant.
Two fingers slipped into her mouth, and she let out a piercing whistle—the cutting sound threading through the market with an authority that did not need to be questioned. Three distinct dips shaped the rhythm, each one placed with deliberate purpose, each one landing deep enough to make your blood turn to ice. You knew that sound. You hadn't heard it in years—not since a life that felt impossibly far away now—but your body remembered it before your thoughts had the chance, before reason could soften its meaning.
Three clicks away.
A warning.
But with the way the marching grew louder—closer—you knew she was being generous.
The reaction was immediate—faster even than when you had first stepped into the market beside Din, faster than fear should have been able to travel. Merchants moved all at once, hands flying with a speed that could only come from repetition, from survival carved so deeply into muscle memory it no longer required thought. Stalls folded in on themselves, cloths ripped down and bundled with urgency, goods swept away without care for order or loss. Trinkets vanished. Baskets overturned. Entire livelihoods collapsed into something small enough to carry, something light enough to abandon at a moment's notice.
Fear lived here.
And you knew exactly why.
"Imperials..." you breathed, the word slipping from you in a low, strained whisper, your voice barely your own as it caught in your throat, broken in a way you hadn't allowed it to be in years. Your fingers tightened instinctively against the worn fabric of your cloak, grounding yourself in something tangible—the faint, lingering scent of leather clinging to the fibers, warm and steady, unmistakably his. It wrapped around you in that quiet, unspoken way he always did, tethering you even in his absence. "There are still Imperials here?"
The woman hands were already moving again—gathering, hiding, preparing for something only the darkest places in your mind could imagine. Vegetables disappeared into sacks, plants were tied tight, crates pulled close to her feet as if proximity alone could keep them safe. And for the first time since you had approached her stall, there was something else in her expression—not just fear, not just irritation or guarded distance.
But pain.
"They never left," she said at last, her voice stripped of everything but truth as she shoved the last of the carrots into a sack and pulled it tight, the rough fabric biting into her knuckles. "The Empire still exists in these parts."
"But..." you started, your head shaking faintly as if the idea itself resisted being understood, as if it could be undone simply by refusing to accept it. "That's not—that's not possible. The New Republic—"
"You believe in fairytales," the women croaked, a dirty laugh hollowed by true amusement. "The Empire rules these parts. You'll see—they like new blood."
Imperial patrols were rare this far out in the Outer Rim—rarer still in a time when the galaxy liked to pretend it had finally learned how to breathe without war, when people clung to the brittle illusion that peace had taken root in the places it had once been torn apart by darkness. But the Empire was like a festering wound that refused to heal—infecting everything it had once broken. Even fractured, even after its banners had fallen from the great worlds of the Core, its presence still clung to places like this—small planets forgotten by the Senate, overlooked by the New Republic's delicate, easily broken promises.
It reminded you of your home world.
Not in the way memories sometimes returned soft and golden, warmed by distance and time—but in the way certain ghosts refused to stay buried, in the way they lived just beneath the surface of memories, waiting. The kind that kept your shoulders drawn tight and your breaths pressed, careful not to linger too long in a single moment, for fear that stillness might invite something darker in. For fear that closing your eyes—even for a second—might summon the flashes of something you had spent years trying to outrun, something that still lingered in the quiet spaces of your mind, waiting for the right moment to remind you it had never truly left.
They're just nightmares, Din had once told you, his voice low and steady in the quiet aftermath of another night terror—one that had torn you both from what little peace sleep ever offered. It had become a rhythm you hated to acknowledge, the way those moments found you again and again, no matter how far you traveled, no matter how many stars you put between yourself and the life you had left behind.
And still, he had never blamed you. Not once. Not even after the long hours spent holding you together while you trembled in his arms, your breath uneven, your body caught somewhere between past and present as you relived the same scene over and over again. He would stay with you through it all, his presence a quiet anchor in the dark, as if he could keep you from slipping too away just by refusing to let go.
Sometimes, even now, you could still see it.
The way your father's eyes had widened—just slightly, just enough to notice—before they froze, before the life behind them dimmed into something distant and unreachable. The way he had looked at you in those final seconds, not with fear, but with a devastating sadness. A silent apology. A goodbye he never had the chance to speak. And then he was gone, blinking out of existence in a way that felt too abrupt, too final, his weight collapsing into you before you had time to understand what had already been taken.
You could still feel—the memory of it—how the warmth of him had faded too quickly, how the fabric of your clothes had clung uncomfortably to your skin, heavy with something you had never been meant to carry. His blood had been everywhere, but the place it stayed with you most was where it had splattered against the stark white of trooper armor, a violent contrast you could never quite forget—the last thing you saw standing behind him, blaster still smoking, heat curling faintly in the air as if the moment itself refused to cool. Those small, quiet details, the ones that lingered long after the worst had passed, were the ones that blurred into something dreamlike, something you could almost convince yourself had never truly happened.
Almost.
But here—now—surrounded by the rising tension of the square, by the sharp edge of fear carried in every hurried movement and hushed breath, by the distant echo of marching that grew louder with every passing second, it didn't feel like a memory.
It felt like stepping back into it.
Like the nightmare had simply been waiting for you to return.
"Din."
Your voice stayed quiet, but it wasn't only because you had spoken his name within reach of unfamiliar ears. It was the dread that tightened around your chest and climbed your throat, wrapping itself around his name until it slipped out thinner than you intended. It sounded almost childish, like the girl you once were had reached up through the dark corners of your memory and pressed her voice into yours, reminding you what it felt like to be small, to be powerless, to be seen and still unable to move. Move, she urged, her voice urgent and trembling beneath your own. Get out. The instinct surged through you, quick and overwhelming, but it did not carry you the way it once would have, because beneath it all you felt the warmth of the child pressed against your back reminding you were no longer that girl. You were no longer alone.
You swallowed the fear back down, forcing it past the tightness in your throat, and turned toward the direction Din had disappeared into earlier, your gaze searching instinctively for the familiar outline of him—the glint of beskar, the quiet certainty of his presence, the unspoken promise that he would always be exactly where you needed him to be. But this time, there was nothing. No silver flash. No steady figure cutting through the crowd. Only distance. Only absence. The realization struck hard, carving through you in a way the marching never had, in a way far more terrifying than anything you had heard or seen since stepping into the square. He wasn't there. The warning hadn't reached him yet. And for the first time in a long time, you were standing in a space where he should have been—and wasn't.
Instead, you were met with white.
A wall of it. Pristine white armor that gleamed too brightly beneath the fading light, its surface untouched by dust or hesitation, standing between you and the path your husband had taken, between you and the delicate sense of safety you hadn't realized you depended on so deeply until it was suddenly gone.
"The Empire demands fifty credits today," a stormtrooper declared, his voice flattened and stripped of anything human as it filtered through the helmet, the words carrying across the square with a cold authority that did not need to be raised to be obeyed. The tip of his blaster pressed into the crease of a merchant's back, right where spine met shoulder. He shoved him forward just enough to create distance between them—carefully measured, almost clinical—so that if the man bled, it would not stain his armor. "Pay or—"
"I haven't made enough today," the merchant stammered, his voice trembling beneath the weight of the weapon pressed into him, hands raised in a half-formed plea that already felt too late.
The trooper tilted his helmet slightly, the movement slow, almost thoughtful, as though he were considering the man's words—though you knew there was no consideration to be found there. The blaster pressed deeper into the soft space between the merchant's shoulder blades, the force enough to draw a sharp hiss of pain from him, the sound rising just above the uneasy shuffle of vendors beginning to gather closer, forming a crooked, unwilling line beside the man who had suddenly become the example of the night.
"Not enough customers—" the merchant tried again, his voice thinning with each word.
"Excuses will not be tolerated."
The shot cracked through the air, sharp enough to split the moment in two, tearing a choked gasp from your lungs before you could suppress it. You watched the man fall forward, his body folding in on itself, and the sound of it—of him—rang through you like an echo pulled straight from your memories. The world seemed to tilt with it, the heavy thud of his body hitting the dirt sending a jolt through your feet that rattled your balance, that left your fingers grasping instinctively for someone that was no longer there—someone steady, someone that should have been at your side.
The head trooper moved with efficiency, untouched by the weight of what they had done. Two from the line stepped forward, their movements synchronized, as they hauled the merchant's body up as though it were nothing more than useless debris. His head lolled loosely, limbs slack, lifeless in a way that made your chest ache, and they dragged him toward a hovering cargo wagon idling at the edge of their brigade. He was gone before the blood had time to fully settle into the clay beneath him, before the moment had time to breathe—before you could stop yourself from doing something incredibly stupid, like turning your back, like forgetting, even for a second, the kind of world you were standing in.
You felt it before it happened. The faintest prickle along the back of your neck, the kind that had nothing to do with instinct and everything to do with memory—your body remembering what the mind had not yet allowed itself to accept. And maybe that was why your arms moved before your thoughts, folding beneath your cloak to pull Grogu from his carrier and into your arms, pressing him close to your chest in one smooth motion. The world narrowed to that single point of contact—the small brush of his fingers against your collarbone, the gentle weight of him in your arms—and then—
Cold metal.
The muzzle of a blaster pressed into your back, burying itself just enough to remind you how easily it all could end, how little space existed between where you stood and everything being taken from you all over again. With shaking fingers, you gathered the edges of your cloak and held them closed, shielding him away, even as instinct screamed at you to move, to run, to turn and fight in ways you knew would only make it worse.
A rough hand caught your hood and yanked it back, the motion sharp enough to send a shiver through your body, the fabric slipping away to reveal the thick mane of your hair as it fell loose around your shoulders. The sudden exposure left you feeling bare in a way that had nothing to do with the cool air brushing your skin, a vulnerability that pressed deeper than the weapon at your back—but still, you did not flinch. You forced yourself into stillness, your spine straightening beneath the pressure, your gaze fixed forward with a quiet, stubborn resolve, offering the trooper nothing more than the line of your profile, refusing to turn, refusing to give him the full weight of your fear, the full truth of what trembled behind your eyes.
"Looks like we have a visitor," the trooper said, his voice laced with a kind of misplaced excitement that turned your stomach. "I've never seen you around before. I would have remembered such a pretty mane of hair."
You forced yourself not to flinch as his gloved hand slid into your curls, rough gloved fingers dragging through the strands as if they were something to be claimed. He swept your hair to one side, exposing more of your face to him and the watching silence of the square that seemed to lean in without ever truly moving. The brush of his fingers against the curve of your cheek was almost deliberate in its slowness, as though he were testing you, waiting, tempting you to turn, to meet him.
"What's your name?" he asked, his grip tightening just enough as he pulled you back against him, closing the distance until the cold press of his armor hovered just beyond your back, separated only by the unyielding line of the blaster still buried between you. "And don't lie," he added, his voice dipping lower, more dangerous beneath the false smoothness. "I don't like it when pretty girls lie to me."
Your breath caught, shallow but controlled, your hands tightening subtly around the edges of your cloak as you held, shielding what mattered most, protecting the small, steady warmth pressed against you. You forced the lines of your face to smooth, to settle into something poised—refusing to let even a trace of fear slip through, refusing to give him anything he could use against you. The lie came easily, slipping past your lips with a steadiness you didn't quite feel.
"My name is Ercell," you said, your voice quiet but firm, carrying just enough distance to sound believable. "I'm just passing through. I don't want any trouble."
"Oh, no trouble here," he replied, his tone almost amused, as if the idea itself entertained him. His hand tightened around your upper arm, fingers digging in just enough to promise a bruise by morning—if morning ever came for you at all. The pressure made your breath hitch, but you held steady, held still, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. "We're all friends here. See—"
His grip slipped away without warning. For a fraction of a second, your body betrayed you, drawing in a quick breath of relief, the tension loosening just enough for air to fill your lungs—but it was fleeting, gone as quickly as it came. The sharp clatter of something striking the ground near your boot shattered it completely. A white helmet rolled slightly in the dust, coming to a slow stop at your feet, its empty gaze turned upward at you.
"Turn around," he instructed.
You obeyed, your hands never leaving the edges of your cloak, your grip tightening just slightly as you turned, keeping the fabric closed, keeping him hidden, keeping that small, fragile piece of your world out of sight even as everything else threatened to loosen.
The man before you was... ordinary.
That was the most unsettling part. For a voice that carried so much power, so much quiet cruelty, there was nothing remarkable about him at first glance. He looked like anyone—someone you might pass in a crowded street without a second thought, someone you might brush shoulders with and murmur a quiet apology to before continuing on your way. There was no armor now to separate him from the world, no mask to hide behind—just a man, standing too close, holding too much control.
"Now look at that...she is beautiful," he said, his voice curling with something that made your skin raise in painful dots, his gaze lingering far longer than it should have, drifting slowly over your body as if you were something to be studied in a cage. "What's such a pretty girl doing all alone out here?"
"I'm—"
The word barely left your lips before it happened.
Your cloak shifted.
Not with the soft, natural pull of the breeze, not with anything gentle or accidental—but with a motion that was alive, moving just enough to be noticed. The trooper's blaster snapped back toward you instantly, the movement practiced, his head tilting slightly as if curiosity had sharpened into something far more dangerous.
"What's under your cloak?"
"Nothing—"
But the lie fell apart before it could take hold.
He was already moving, stepping closer with slow intent, the tip of his blaster lifting just enough to tap against your hand—a quiet command, one that did not need to be spoken aloud.
Drop it.
Your breath tightened, but your body obeyed, shifting Grogu carefully to your hip, your arm adjusting around him in a way that felt almost natural, almost casual—protective without drawing too much attention. Your free hand settled against your side, fingers brushing against the familiar hilt of your dagger.
"R1239, we don't have time for this," one of the other troopers muttered from somewhere behind him, the impatience in his voice edged—but the sharp flick of the man's hand silenced him instantly, cutting through the air with a finality that made it clear whose authority held here.
"What do you have hiding under there, pretty girl?" he asked again, his voice lower now, more intent, as he closed the remaining distance between you, close enough now that you could smell the faint, sour heat of his breath, the remnants of whatever he had eaten last lingering unpleasantly in the air between you.
You let him come closer.
Just a little.
Just enough.
Your heart pounded hard against your ribs, but your face remained still, your breath controlled, your body steady in a way that felt almost separate from the rage building beneath your skin. Your fingers curled tighter around the hilt of your dagger, the weight of it familiar, comforting, a quiet piece of certainty in a moment that held none.
And then—
You moved.
The dagger slipped free from its sheath in one smooth motion—one you had practiced with Din over and over, long after the engines of the Crest had gone quiet, long after the stars had settled into their endless watch outside the viewport. It moved now as if guided by memory, by muscle and nerve, something he had placed in your hands not to make you dangerous, but to keep you safe when he could not. You remembered the way he had stood behind you, correcting the angle of your wrist, the quiet patience in his touch, the unspoken prayer in every lesson that you would never have to use it like this.
And yet—
It found its mark before the trooper could react—before his hand could so much as brush the edge of your cloak—sliding cleanly into the soft hollow of his neck with a precision that felt almost inevitable, as though this moment had been waiting for you all along, as though every quiet lesson, every careful movement, had led here.
His breath caught, a broken, strangled sound that never fully formed, and for a single, suspended second, the world just consisted of the two of you. You could feel the heat of him, the sudden falter of his body as it tried to understand what had already been done. His clouded eyes widened—just slightly, just enough to register something that might have been shock—before it dimmed, the light behind it flickering out like a ship engine easily extinguished by a flip of a switch. You twisted the blade, angling it in a way you knew he would not come back from, and then you pulled it free, the motion as controlled as the one that had started it.
In the midst of your adrenaline rush, you had missed it—the pain blooming in your right shoulder, sharp and sudden, the blaster shot tearing through your skin before your mind could finger out what had happened. It came all at once, a searing heat that split through you and ripped a raw scream from your throat as your body stumbled forward, your footing collapsing beneath you. The ground rushed up too quickly, dirt filling your mouth as you hit hard, the impact knocking the breath from your body, the world spinning in a blur of dust and sound.
A trooper's boot slammed into your back, pinning you against the earth. The pressure drove into you, pressing against the wound in your shoulder as it bled freely beneath your clothes, hot at first, then chilling against your skin, each pulse of pain shaper than the last. You couldn't move. Couldn't breathe without feeling it tear through you again.
But the worst thing was that you couldn't feel him.
The realization came like a second blow, deeper than the first. The steady warmth that had been pressed against your hip only moments ago was gone, leaving behind an emptiness that made your stomach drop, that made your heart stutter in your chest. Relief and terror collided—relief that he hadn't been beneath you when you fell, that he hadn't taken the shot meant for you... and terror that he was no longer in your arms, no longer within your reach.
You had lost him. The thought was unbearable. Din would never forgive you.
And worse—
You would never forgive yourself.
Another wave of pain surged through you as the trooper shifted his weight, his boot grinding harder into your shoulder, pressing down against the wound as if he somehow gained pleasure from watching you squirm beneath him. You clenched your jaw, teeth grinding together as you forced the next scream back down, the strain so sharp you were afraid something might break—bone, teeth, something—but still you held it in, refusing to give them that sound, that satisfaction.
"You—you killed him," the trooper above you stammered, his voice unsteady now, disbelief cracking through the command he tried to hold onto. It didn't sound like anger. It didn't even sound like a threat. It sounded like he didn't understand how you were still fighting at all. "You killed—"
You lashed out on instinct, your leg snapping back with what strength you had left, your heel striking the weak point at the back of his knee. The contact was solid—enough. His balance broke, his weight shifting too fast to recover, and he went down hard, his body hitting the dirt with a heavy thud that echoed louder than it should have in the charged stillness of the square. For a fleeting second, hope flickered—wild, fragile, impossible. You ducked your head, bracing yourself for the inevitable crack of blaster fire, for the end you knew would follow something like this.
But it didn't come.
Only silence did.
It stretched thin across the square, held taut by something unspoken, as though every trooper and every merchant alike had paused—stunned and caught between instinct and something darker, something more curious. They were watching. Waiting. As if the outcome of this moment mattered more than the order they were meant to enforce.
Your breath came rough as you scrambled, your fingers clawing through the dirt until they found the familiar hilt of your dagger, the worn grip pressing into your palm like a lifeline.
But you weren't fast enough.
The trooper recovered quicker than you could rise, his boot slamming down onto your wrist, grinding it into the ground beneath you as if it were nothing more than an insect beneath his tread. Pain exploded up your arm, white-hot and blinding, tearing a scream from your throat, the sound raw and broken as your fingers spasmed, the dagger slipping uselessly from your grasp.
You barely had time to breathe before his hand was in your hair. A fistful of it.
He yanked hard, dragging you upward with a force that stole all the fight left in your sole, pulling you onto your knees as your body followed helplessly behind the motion. Your vision blurred, your shoulder screaming in protest, your wrist throbbing where it had been crushed, but still you found yourself upright—forced into it, held there by nothing more than his grip and your refusal to fall apart completely.
"—You're a feisty little one, aren't you," the trooper said, his voice rough, edged with something breathless, something now entertained, as if the struggle itself amused him—as if your pain were something to be savored, stretched out, enjoyed. His grip tightened in your hair, tilting your head back just enough to expose your throat, to force your gaze upward whether you wanted it or not, and then—slowly, he lifted his blaster, the dark barrel aligning with your face. "How are you going to get out of this one?" he laughed, the sound low and jagged, dragging across your nerves as his hold on you shifted just slightly, enough to remind you how little control you had. "Any last words?"
You didn't say the words aloud—but they came anyway, rising through the haze of pain and fear as if they had been waiting for this moment, waiting for the quiet space where everything else fell away. You didn't understand how they found you here, how they formed so clearly when everything else inside you felt fractured—but they did. And they wrapped themselves around the image of him with a kind of aching illusion, shaping him in your mind exactly as he was.
You held onto them.
Held onto him.
To the things you should have said before you let distance stretch between you, before you stepped away with a confidence that now felt painfully misplaced. Had you even told him you loved him? Truly said it, in a way that mattered, in a way that would have stayed with him if this moment became the last thing either of you carried together? Or had you been too caught up in your own certainty, too quick to brush past the tension in his voice, the quiet warning he never forced upon you but always offered anyway? If you had listened—if you had let him stay—would this have unfolded differently? Would you be somewhere warm now, tucked into the soft quiet of the Crest, sharing a meal instead of staring down the end of a blaster?
You would never know.
The thought settled heavily in your chest, pulling your heart into a slow, dangerous rhythm, each beat quieter than the last, as if it, too, was preparing to let go. Your eyes drifted closed—not in surrender, not entirely, but in something softer—as the cold metal of the blaster pressed against your forehead, stealing the last of the warmth from your skin.
I'm sorry. I love you.
The words ghosted across your lips, barely there, carried more in breath than sound—unfinished and meant for someone who was not there to hear them.
The blaster fired, but you did not grow cold. For a moment—just a moment—you waited for it to come, for that hollow stillness you had always imagined death would carry, for the world to slip quietly away from you the way stories always said it would. You held there, suspended between breaths, half-expecting everything to fade into nothing, to soften into some distant quiet where pain could no longer follow. You even wondered, briefly, if this was some cruel trick of your mind—if this was another nightmare, another memory twisted into something harsh, something Din would find you in, would wake you from the way he always did, with steady hands and a voice that grounded you back into something real.
But the pain was still there.
Too real. Too heavy. Too alive.
It clung to you, anchored you, burned through your shoulder and down your arm in waves that refused to let you drift too far, refused to let you slip away. And if this was the end—if this was truly it—then why did it not feel like one?
Why were you still here?
"Y/N!"
His voice reached you before anything else—distant and broken, like it had traveled too far to find you, like it had fought its way through everything standing between you just to be heard. But then came his touch.
Warm.
Firm.
Familiar.
A hand wrapped around your uninjured arm, pulling you back toward something solid. It took everything you had left to respond to it, to gather what little strength remained and force your eyes open, even just a fraction, even just enough to see.
And when you did—you saw him.
The familiar curve of silver hovered above you, the worn, unrelenting gleam of beskar catching the light in a way you knew better than your own reflection. He was closer than he had ever been, his presence filling the space around you, shielding you from everything else, from everything that had tried to take you from him. His helmet tilted down toward you, but there was nothing distant in him now, nothing controlled.
"Y/N! Talk to me, cyar'ika," he urged, his voice breaking through the distortion of the vocoder in a way you had never heard before—desperate, too raw to be contained. "Tell me what hurts. Your shoulder? Your wrist? Please... say something, anything."
You could hear it then. The way his voice splintered around your silence. The way the fear you had felt only moments ago had found its way into him, settling into the spaces he never let anyone see. It reached for you, pulled at you, refused to let you disappear into the dark so easily.
Your tongue dragged slowly across your lips, dry and unsteady, the effort alone enough to make your vision blur again, but you forced yourself to hold on—to him, to the sound of his voice, to the way his hands refused to let go of you.
When you finally spoke, it came out broken, quiet, barely more than a breath.
"Has been ten minutes already?"
The faintest hint of humor threaded through it, meant only for him, meant to ease the fear you could hear unraveling in his voice, even as your own strength slipped further from your grasp.
And then—you let go.
Your body gave in, the tension draining all at once as you collapsed into him, into the steady hold of his arms, the one place you had always been safe even when the galaxy refused to be anything but cruel. The last thing you felt was the warmth of him—solid, grounding, there—before the world finally slipped into darkness...