“The Lesser Of Two Wars” Pt.3

Hi! I have a request for Wolffe x fem!reader. They have a established relationship but Wolffe has been a little distant since order 66 happened... one night when he's sleeping in the readers coruscant apartment, she decides to ask him about it. Wolffe sort of pushes her away, thinking he's too broken and has already done too much bad, but she stays no matter what. She soothes him with some love and cuddles?

“Still Yours”

Commander Wolffe x Fem!Reader

⸻

The city lights of Coruscant cast a soft glow through the wide windows of your apartment, dancing across Wolffe’s armor where it lay discarded on the floor.

He lay on your bed now, back turned, shirt half-pulled on, one arm slung under his head like a shield.

You watched him breathe.

Even in sleep, it wasn’t easy. His breaths were shallow, uneven. Like he never really relaxed anymore. Like his body didn’t know how.

Since the end of the war—and the day everything changed—he’d been distant. Still present. Still Wolffe. But quieter. Withdrawn. Touch-starved but pulling away when you tried.

You couldn’t take it anymore.

You slid into bed beside him, soft and careful.

“Wolffe,” you whispered.

He didn’t open his eye.

“Are you awake?”

A beat of silence.

Then, “Yeah.”

You reached out, brushing your fingers across the back of his shoulder. “You’ve been… far away lately.”

He tensed under your touch. “I’ve just been tired.”

“No. You’re not tired. You’re hurting.” You sat up beside him, pulling the sheets with you. “You barely look at me anymore. You flinch when I say your name. You hold me like I’m something you’re about to lose.”

Wolffe turned over slowly, sitting up and running a hand down his face.

“Mesh’la, don’t do this right now.”

“I have to,” you said. “You think I don’t notice how hard you’ve been trying to pretend you’re fine? You sleep in my bed like a ghost.”

His jaw clenched. “What do you want me to say? That I followed orders that led to Jedi dying? That I don’t know what was real and what was the chip? That I still see it—them—when I close my eye?”

He stood, taking a few steps away like he could outrun it.

“I’m not who I used to be. I’m not your Wolffe anymore. I’m just—what’s left.”

You stood, quietly wrapping the sheet around yourself as you crossed the room to him.

“I don’t need the man you used to be. I love the man you are. Even when he’s broken. Even when he’s hurting.”

He shook his head. “You’re a senator. You’re out there fighting for clone rights beside Chuchi, risking your damn career. You still believe we’re worth saving. That I’m worth saving.”

“I do.”

“You’re wrong.”

You stepped in front of him, tilting his chin up until he had no choice but to look at you.

“I’m never wrong about you.”

Wolffe’s breath hitched, his hands trembling faintly at his sides.

“I let them die,” he said, voice breaking. “I didn’t even try to stop it. I just—followed orders like I always do. Like a good little soldier.”

“You didn’t have a choice.”

“Does that matter?” he rasped. “They’re still gone. I still pulled the trigger.”

You wrapped your arms around him, burying your face in his chest, speaking against his skin.

“You’re not a weapon, Wolffe. You’re a man. One who has done everything he could to survive. And I know you. I know the way you fought for your brothers. I know how much you loved them. I know how hard it’s been for you to stay.”

His arms slowly, reluctantly, came around you. Tight. Desperate.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he said quietly. “But I don’t know how to keep you either. I’m not what you deserve.”

You pulled back just enough to kiss the scar at the edge of his temple, then rested your forehead against his.

“Then let me decide what I deserve. And I choose you.”

He let out a shaky breath, pressing his face into your neck like he was finally letting himself feel.

You guided him back to bed, pulling the covers over the both of you, holding him close—his arms around your waist this time.

You whispered, “I’m still here, Wolffe. And I’m not going anywhere.”

And for the first time in weeks, he slept without flinching.

⸻

THIS

stop talking about the USA. I have heard enough about that wretched place

the self-indulgent fanfiction will continue until morale improves

"it's all in your head" correct! unfortunately I am also in there

“My Boys, My Warriors” pt.2

Clone Commanders x Reader (Platonic/Motherly)

⸻

The lights didn’t feel as warm.

Maybe they never had been.

But after she left, the halls of Tipoca City felt hollow in a different way. Like the soul had been scraped out of them. Like they were just walls and water and cold metal now.

Jango Fett resumed full-time oversight of their training. And if the Kaminoans had wanted detachment, they got it in him.

No singing. No softness.

No one tucked in their blankets when they were feverish or whispered old Mandalorian stories when they had nightmares about being expendable.

They still trained hard. But now the bruises were deeper. The reprimands sharper. There was no one to tell the Kaminoans no.

No one to put a gentle hand on a trembling shoulder and say, “You’re not just a copy. You’re mine.”

Jango didn’t speak much during drills. His corrections came in clipped Mando’a, and his disapproval was silent, sharp, and heavy.

He wasn’t cruel. But he was hard.

Cody adjusted first. He always did. He kept his head down, corrected the younger ones, mirrored Jango’s movements until they were perfect.

Rex stopped smiling as much.

Fox picked more fights—quick, aggressive scraps in the barracks or the showers. He never started them. But he finished them.

Wolffe snapped at the medics when they didn’t move fast enough for Bacara’s healing leg. He’d never snapped at anyone before.

Bacara, for his part, tried to push through the pain, even when his knee buckled mid-sprint. He’d learned from you that strength wasn’t silence—it was persistence. But without you, his quiet stubbornness started to look more like self-destruction.

Neyo went the other direction. Withdrawn. Robotic. Like if he just became what the Kaminoans wanted, they’d leave him alone.

Only Bly still held onto that spark—but even he was getting quieter at night.

The nights were the worst.

No singing. No soft leather footsteps. No warm hand brushing their hair back when they thought no one noticed they were crying.

Fox tried to hum one of your lullabies once. It broke halfway through, cracked like a bad transmitter.

He punched the wall until Rex pulled him back.

“She wouldn’t have let them treat us like this.”

That was what Bly said one night, sitting up in his bunk with his legs swinging. His armor was off. His face was raw with exhaustion and anger.

“She’d be fighting them,” Rex agreed. “Hell, she’d be knocking skulls together.”

“She never would’ve let that training droid keep hitting Bacara while he was down,” Neyo muttered, staring at the ceiling.

Fox was pacing. “They made her leave. Like she didn’t matter.”

“She mattered,” Wolffe growled. “She was everything.”

“She said we were hers,” Cody whispered. He hadn’t spoken in a while.

They all looked at him.

“She meant it.” His voice cracked. “Didn’t she?”

“Of course she did,” Bacara rasped from his bunk. “That’s why they got rid of her.”

There was silence for a long time.

Then Rex stood up and walked to the comm wall. Quietly, carefully, he rewired the input and accessed the hidden channel she’d taught them—one she said to only use when they really needed her.

He didn’t send a message.

He just played the recording.

A static-tinged echo of her voice filled the barracks. Singing. The old lullaby—Altamaha-ha—crackling like it was underwater, like it had traveled galaxies to reach them.

The boys sat. Still. Silent.

Listening.

⸻

The rain on Kamino hadn’t changed in all these years. Same grey wash across the transparisteel windows. Same endless waves pounding the sea like war drums.

But inside the hangars—inside the ready bays—everything had changed.

Your boys weren’t boys anymore.

They were men now. Soldiers. Commanders. Helmets under their arms, armor polished, their unit numbers etched into the plastoid like banners. The Republic had come, and the war had begun.

The Battle of Geonosis was just hours away.

Rex adjusted the strap on his shoulder plate, glancing sideways at Bly.

“You ready for this?” he asked.

“As I’ll ever be,” Bly said, but his grin was tight.

Bacara checked his weapon, pausing briefly when the scar on his knee twinged. He never spoke of that injury anymore. But Cody still remembered.

Fox said nothing, helmet already locked in place.

Wolffe kept fidgeting with his gauntlet, the way he did when he was angry but didn’t want to talk about it.

Neyo leaned silently against the wall, eyes distant, barely blinking.

They were leaving. And she wasn’t here.

Cody stood apart from them, watching the gunships being prepped for launch. He wasn’t on the deployment list for Geonosis. His unit was to remain on Kamino. He told himself he wasn’t bitter. But he was.

He wanted to go. To fight beside them. To see what all this training was truly for.

And to make her proud.

But maybe this was his final lesson—to be the one who stayed behind, to remember.

⸻

Cody blinked, eyes snapping back to the hangar.

Rex was helping Bacara up the ramp of one of the LAAT gunships. Bly and Fox followed, barking orders to their squads. Wolffe paused and glanced back at Cody. Just once.

They didn’t say goodbye.

But they nodded. Like brothers. Like sons.

Cody stood alone as the gunships roared to life, lifting off in waves. The lights dimmed as they rose into the storm, swallowed by the clouds, by war, by the future.

And then they were gone.

She wasn’t there to see them off.

Wasn’t there to adjust their pauldrons, or whisper a quiet prayer to whatever gods had ever watched Mandalorians bleed.

Wasn’t there to call them her boys.

But they carried her with them anyway.

In the way they moved. The way they protected each other. The way they looked fear in the eye and didn’t flinch.

They were ready.

She’d made sure of that.

⸻

The stars had always looked sharper from Mandalore’s moon. Colder. Brighter. Less filtered through the atmosphere of diplomacy and pacifism.

She stood at the edge of the cliffs, cloak billowing behind her, hand resting on the hilt of her beskad. Her home was carved into the rock behind her—simple, hidden, lonely. She liked it that way.

Or… she used to.

Now, the silence grated.

The galaxy was changing again.

And this time, she wasn’t in it.

Not yet.

The sound of approaching engines echoed across the canyon long before the ship touched down. Sleek, dark, familiar.

She didn’t move. Just watched as the vessel landed and the ramp lowered.

He came alone.

Pre Vizsla.

Always so sure of himself. Always dressed like a shadow wearing Mandalorian iron.

“You’re hard to find,” he said, stepping toward her.

“You weren’t invited,” she replied, voice cool.

He smiled. “I come bearing opportunity.”

She didn’t return the smile. “You’ve come trying to recruit me again.”

“I’ve come with timing,” he corrected. “War has returned to the galaxy. The Jedi are distracted. And Satine—your beloved Duchess—still preaches peace while Mandalore rots from the inside out.”

She said nothing.

“I saw what you did with the clones,” he added, tone shifting. “You made them warriors. Not just soldiers. You made them believe they were worth something.”

“They are worth something.”

Vizsla tilted his head. “Then come and fight for your own.”

She turned, eyes burning. “Don’t mistake my silence for agreement, Pre.”

“Mistake your inaction for cowardice, then?”

He was testing her. Like he always did. And damn him, it was working.

⸻

She sat in her home, beskar laid out before her. She hadn’t worn full armor in years. Just enough to train, to spar. Not to fight.

Not since they’d made her leave Kamino.

Not since her boys.

The comm receiver sat in the corner. Quiet. Dead.

No messages. No voices. No lullabies.

She lit a flame in the hearth and sat with her old weapons. Blades, rifles, her battered vambraces. Things that had seen more blood than most soldiers ever would.

Her fingers brushed the edge of her helmet.

Was Mandalore dying?

Was she wrong to have left?

She remembered standing before the boys—tiny, stubborn, brilliant. Shouting orders in the training halls. Singing when they couldn’t sleep. Watching them grow. Watching them become.

She wasn’t there to protect them now. To protect anyone.

Satine’s voice echoed in her memory—“The cycle of violence must end.”

But Satine didn’t raise a thousand sons who were bred for war.

At dawn, she returned to the cliffs.

Vizsla was still there. Camped nearby. Waiting.

She stood beside his ship, helmet under one arm, braid coiled tight behind her.

“Don’t think I believe in your cause,” she said.

“You’re still here,” he replied.

“I’m here for Mandalore.”

“Then we want the same thing.”

“No,” she said, stepping onto the ramp. “We don’t. But I’ll fight. I’ll watch. If Mandalore can be saved, I’ll make sure it is. And if you try to burn it down—”

“You’ll kill me?”

“I’ll bury you.”

⸻

Unbeknownst to her, far across the galaxy, in a Republic base camp on Geonosis, Rex opened his comm receiver.

A soft blinking light glowed.

Encrypted channel. The one she’d taught them.

A message was sent.

No words. Just a ping. A heartbeat.

She would know what it meant.

They were alive.

They were fighting.

And somewhere in her gut, on that cold moon, she felt it.

⸻

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 |

just learned people associate em dashes with chat gpt. Girl fuck you. You can pry em dashes from my cold dead hands. One of us is gonna have to stop using em— and it’s not gonna be me!

“Crimson Huntress” pt.5

Summary: A rogue ARC trooper and a ruthless Togruta bounty hunter form an uneasy alliance, dodging Jedi, Death Watch, and their pasts as war rages across the galaxy.

The hum of the nav systems filled the cockpit like a second heartbeat. Sha’rali lounged in the pilot’s chair, legs kicked up on the console, a bitter half-smile ghosting her lips as she twirled a datachip between her clawed fingers. K4 was seated at his usual post, arms neatly folded, optics quietly calculating a dozen hypotheticals per second. CT-4023, cloaked in the black-and-gold silhouette of his stolen Death Watch armor, leaned against the doorway—silent, watching, always thinking.

R9 beeped irritably behind them, displeased with the turbulence in their hyperspace jump.

“We’ve got a message,” Sha’rali announced finally, holding the chip up. “Cid wants to cash in a favor.”

K4 didn’t look away from the dash. “Has she ever not wanted to cash in a favor?”

“What’s the job?” 4023 asked, stepping forward. His voice was filtered through a soft modulator, a new addition he’d insisted on since they crossed paths with the Jedi.

Sha’rali hesitated. “Extraction. A high-value target hiding out near the Pyke mining sector on Oba Diah. Bring him in alive. No questions.”

Silence stretched.

“Absolutely not,” K4 said immediately.

“The last time we dealt with the Pykes, I beheaded and gutted their entire envoy.”

Sha’rali’s smile was hollow. “Yeah. I remember.”

She stared at the chip, lekku twitching in thought. “But this… smells off. Cid says it’s clean, but she never says who the bounty actually goes to. She just wants us to bring them to a contact near the mining ridges. High pay, low profile. Too good to be real.”

R9 chirped something pessimistic.

“See? Even the murder-bucket agrees,” K4 muttered.

4023 folded his arms. “Could be a trap.”

“Of course it’s a trap,” Sha’rali said, tossing the chip onto the dash. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t spring it our way.”

She stood, voice sharp. “We’ve done worse. We go in smart, fast, and prepared. I’m not walking away from that kind of payout unless we’re bleeding for it.”

⸻

The descent into Oba Diah was storm-torn, the planet’s perpetual haze wrapping around the ship like greasy smoke. They broke through cloud cover to reveal jagged mountains of crumbling rock and a sprawling field of collapsed spice tunnels and rusted outposts, choked with vines and half-sunken in mud.

“I’ve got visuals on the coordinates,” 4023 reported, peering through the scopes. “Looks like a freight depot—long abandoned. No obvious defenses.”

“That means the defenses are under it,” K4 muttered, powering up the ship’s turrets just in case.

They landed on a flat ridge about half a klick from the depot. The wind howled. R9 rolled out first, sensors scanning, chirping warnings as they moved toward the structure.

No sign of the bounty.

Sha’rali stopped, raising a hand. “Wait—something’s wrong.”

Blaster fire ripped through the fog before she finished the sentence. Three, maybe four snipers opened up from higher ground, forcing them to scatter. From below, shadows moved—masked Pyke enforcers emerging from the tunnels.

“It’s a karking ambush!” 4023 snapped, taking cover behind a crumbling support strut and returning fire with expert precision.

“Cid set us up!” Sha’rali growled, drawing her blade and igniting her carbine in the same motion. “Or the Pykes want revenge for last time.”

K4 was already in the thick of it, carving a brutal path through the encroaching attackers. R9 let out a warble and overloaded a Pyke’s rifle with a sneaky spike of electricity before zipping away.

“We’re flanked!” 4023 shouted. “We need to fall back to the ship!”

Sha’rali was already running to cover them, moving like a phantom across the mud-slicked ground. A blast clipped her shoulder, spinning her, but she stayed upright—barely.

They made it halfway up the slope toward the ridge when the ground gave way beneath her.

The slide was sudden—violent. Sha’rali screamed as the ledge crumbled beneath her boots, her body tumbling down a steep incline of slick stone and wet earth. She slammed hard into the wall of a ravine, her world blinking white for a moment.

Mud filled her mouth and nose. Her limbs ached. The world tilted, then faded entirely.

She woke to darkness, the taste of iron in her mouth.

The rain had stopped, replaced by the cold fog of early night. She was half-submerged in muck, one arm twisted beneath her, the other reaching weakly for a blaster that was no longer there.

A low growl reached her ears—followed by footsteps. She tried to sit up.

ZZZT! A blue stun bolt hit her chest and locked her muscles.

Her head rolled back. Shadows loomed overhead—tall, spindly shapes with cruel eyes and weapons drawn. Zygerrians.

“Well, well,” one of them sneered. “Look what the mud dragged in.”

“Didn’t think we’d find anything this far out,” said one.

“Togruta,” said another, examining her lekku. “The boss pays double for rare ones. Especially the exotic warriors.”

“She armed?”

“Not anymore.”

They roughly pulled her upright, manacles clicking around her wrists. A sack was drawn over her head.

“Let’s not waste time,” said their leader. “She’ll fetch a good price, and the rain’ll hide our tracks.”

Sha’rali, numb and helpless, listened as her captors dragged her through the mud, away from the ridge where her crew still fought to survive.

The last thing she heard before unconsciousness returned was the sound of manacles clicking shut and the hiss of a slaver ship’s ramp.

Sha’rali came to with a jolt, every nerve alight with sharp, biting pain.

The collar around her neck sizzled again, just enough to warn her: move wrong, and it would do worse. Her vision swam. Her body ached. She lay curled in the cold corner of a small durasteel cage, no larger than a weapons locker. Her head throbbed and her arms had been chained to the floor beneath her knees.

She blinked and realized, with an instant spike of fury, that she was wearing something else. Something not hers.

A sheer cloth top barely held together with golden clasps, hanging loose over her chest. A belt of jangling beads and threadbare silk wrapped low on her hips, a mockery of Togrutan ceremonial wraps—cut, tattered, revealing far more than concealing. Gold bangles adorned her wrists and ankles like leashes waiting for a pull.

Worse than all of it was the humiliation.

Her gear—gone. Her weapons, stripped. Her battle-worn leathers replaced with something insulting.

She let out a low growl, a primal sound, the only power she had left.

The sound of a collar shocking someone else brought her head up sharply.

Across the dim hold of the Zygerrian ship, other cages lined the walls. There were a few other slaves—no one she recognized.

From across the dimly lit slave hold, a small voice whispered, “Don’t move too much. The collar goes off again.”

Sha’rali turned her head with effort, spotting a tiny Twi’lek girl—barely into adolescence. Her bright lavender skin had been bruised and scuffed, and she wore a nearly identical outfit. Her expression was hollow.

Sha’rali softened, even through the pain. “Name?”

“Romi,” the girl said, eyes flicking to the guards stationed down the corridor. “They picked me up on Serennno. You?”

Sha’rali didn’t answer immediately. Her identity was armor, teeth, pride. Here, stripped of all that, she was raw. Exposed.

“I’m Sha’rali,” she said eventually, voice husky.

Romi shifted forward in her cage, chains clinking. “They said we’re being taken to Kadavo. The market.”

Sha’rali tensed. Kadavo. The Zygerrian slave capital. A place of chains and cruelty, known throughout the galaxy.

More cages filled the edges of the hold. One of them held a half-unconscious Weequay. Another, a silent Bothan who hadn’t spoken once since she’d woken. But one cage—reinforced and locked with magnetic bindings—held more movement than the rest.

Sha’rali turned slightly, squinting through the flickering lights.

Clones.

Four of them, huddled in a cell large enough to barely contain them. No armor, no gear, just dark underlayers and grim expressions. They didn’t look at her. They didn’t speak to her. But she could tell they were military—how they sat, how they breathed. Watchful.

One had a cybernetic eye and a scar down his face.

He sat perfectly still, arms crossed over his knees. Beside him were two others who looked like they were meant to work as a pair—one smaller, wiry, the other more broad. And one sat farther in the back, staring down at the floor with a blank expression.

Captured days ago, she guessed. Brought in from somewhere else. Probably a different hunt altogether.

They didn’t know her. She didn’t know them. That was fine.

Her jaw clenched as she tried again to shift, and the collar lit her nerves like firecrackers.

“Don’t,” Romi whispered. “They enjoy it when we scream.”

Sha’rali didn’t scream. She refused. But stars, she saw the edges of her vision blur.

“How long have we been in space?” she asked through gritted teeth.

“A day maybe?” Romi shrugged, small shoulders trembling.

There was a soft voice, raspy with age, from the cell beside her.

“Another Togruta… it’s been a long time since I’ve seen one so wild-eyed.”

Sha’rali turned slowly. An elder Togruta woman sat quietly in the cage next to hers. Wrinkled face, faded markings. One lekku shortened by a blade.

“I’m not wild,” Sha’rali muttered.

“You were when they dragged you in,” the elder replied. “You bit one, didn’t you?”

“Maybe.”

The woman gave a weary smile. “Keep your fire. But don’t waste it. Zygerrians like to break the ones who burn brightest.”

“I’m not going to break.”

“I hope not,” the woman said softly. “Not all of us made it.”

Sha’rali fell into silence, watching the floor. One breath. Then another.

She tried to calculate. Figure out how far they were from Vanqor. Whether CT-4023 was alive. Whether K4 had escaped. Whether R9 was tracking her.

R9 will come, she told herself again. He always comes.

There was a sudden rattle. Movement. The clones stirred in their cell, but didn’t rise.

From the corridor came bootsteps—Zygerrian guards, sneering as they inspected their ‘merchandise.’ One paused at Sha’rali’s cage, scanning her through the bars.

The sneer widened. “Pretty little thing. You’ll sell high.”

She didn’t say anything. Just stared him down, even as her chains bit in.

The guard shocked her again anyway, just for fun.

Sha’rali grit her teeth, her whole body seizing—but she still didn’t scream.

As her vision dimmed around the edges, she whispered, “You better come soon, 4023… before I kill someone with my bare hands.”

And somewhere, beyond metal hulls and dark space, her partner was already hunting.

They would find her.

Or they would burn half the galaxy trying.

⸻

The hiss of pressurized air released the docking clamps.

The slave ship shuddered as it touched down on the rust-colored landing pad of Zygerria’s capital city, the skyline stained by dusk and industry. Somewhere beyond the bulkhead, the smell of ash and spice wafted in through the filters. The chains on Sha’rali’s wrists bit tighter with each shift of the ship’s descent.

She crouched low, silent. The young Twi’lek beside her trembled with every movement. Romi hadn’t spoken since the collar shocked her last—she stared at the floor, lips moving in prayer to gods Sha’rali didn’t know.

They were about to be marched into a nightmare.

But fate, as it often did, changed the game.

Footsteps echoed down the metal ramp—heavier than Zygerrian boots, sharper. Cleaner. The guards suddenly went rigid. No whip-cracks. No laughter.

One of them hissed. “He’s here.”

The cell bay door opened, and silence fell.

Count Dooku stepped aboard the slave barge with the self-assured stillness of a man who owned the galaxy. His cloak barely brushed the filthy floors, his expression unchanged by the scent of sweat and blood in the air. Two MagnaGuards flanked him, pikes gleaming with precision.

Sha’rali’s jaw clenched.

No karking way.

She stayed quiet, head bowed. But her eyes tracked his every step.

Dooku passed by the cages one by one, as if inspecting exotic animals at market. His sharp gaze barely flickered across the weaker slaves—until he reached the reinforced cell.

The clones.

He paused, the corners of his mouth curling faintly with distaste. “Four clones, captured far from the front lines. Republic property, now reclaimed.” His hand lifted and he gestured. “Take them. They’ll be of use.”

The MagnaGuards activated the containment field, marched in, and extracted the four troopers one by one—silent, grim, defeated but not broken. The one with the cybernetic eye locked eyes with Sha’rali as he passed. There was no recognition. No trust. But something primal passed between them: a shared need to survive.

Then Dooku stopped in front of her cage.

Sha’rali didn’t look away.

His gaze swept over her, from the cracked collar to the flimsy silks that failed to hide the bruises. And then—recognition.

“Ah. Now that is a surprise.” Dooku’s voice was velvet and venom. “The bounty hunter who infiltrated my Saleucami facility and escaped with my asset.”

Sha’rali said nothing, but the muscles in her jaw flexed.

“You’re lucky to be alive,” Dooku mused. “But fortune, I see, has a cruel sense of humor.”

He gestured once more. “Take her. I have… great plans.”

⸻

Dooku’s ship jumped through hyperspace. Crossed to a new Outer Rim world far beyond the standard slave routes.

A planet called Garvoth.

She saw it as they broke atmosphere—dusty terrain split by massive black structures, an arena the size of a city nestled in the heart of its capital. A gladiator world. One built for bloodsport and spectacle. One of Dooku’s quiet experiments in influence and economic power.

And it would be her prison.

The ship landed inside the holding bay beneath the arena. The clones were taken to confinement cells with reinforced durasteel. Sha’rali, however, was dragged toward another chamber—spacious, decorated in cold stone and banners. A viewing box for the Count.

Dooku waited for her.

“This world respects only strength,” he said as the guards shackled her to the wall. “And so will you.”

“You want me to fight for you?” she sneered.

He raised a brow. “I want you to bleed for me.”

He turned away, surveying the arena through the window. “You’ll earn me coin, of course. The crowd will adore you. A rare Togruta—violent, cunning, exotic. But more importantly, you will learn discipline. You will suffer humiliation. And through that, understand your place.”

“I won’t wear this,” she growled, yanking against the chains. “I want my armor.”

Dooku didn’t even turn to her. “You will wear what I allow. That slave garb suits you. Let it be a reminder of your failure.”

“You’re making a mistake,” she spat.

Finally, Dooku turned. And this time, his voice was edged with steel.

“No. You did, when you thought you could steal from me and vanish into the stars. Now you’ll fight in my arena for the amusement of others, and when the time comes, you will kneel. Or you will die screaming.”

Sha’rali stared him down, her teeth bared. But the cold in her chest sank deeper than defiance.

She’d survived a lot. She would survive this.

But when they dragged her into the gladiator pits—clad in silk and chains, forced to stand before a roaring crowd—she realized that survival might no longer be enough.

Not this time.

⸻

The ring of chains and the roar of bloodthirsty crowds still echoed in her ears long after the arena closed for the night.

Sha’rali stood against the stone wall of the shared cell, blood drying on her collarbone. The faint shimmer of lights cast tall shadows from the barred ceiling overhead. Her pulse had steadied hours ago. The fresh bruises—earned in a match against a Trandoshan dual-wielder—were still blooming. But she’d won. Again.

Of course she had.

Winning meant survival.

Losing meant becoming the crowd’s next “bonus attraction.”

She wasn’t interested in the latter.

Across the cell, the four clones sat—silent as they always were after the torture sessions. Each one bore signs of interrogation: bruises around neural ports, cracked lips, blood-caked brows. They were tough—made to withstand this. But even the strongest men could only take so much.

Commander Wolffe leaned back against the wall, his one remaining eye watching her like a predator unsure if it recognized another of its kind. Boost and Sinker had become background noise, withdrawn into a shared misery. But Comet—he looked different tonight.

He was staring at her. Hard.

“You knew him.”

Sha’rali turned her head slightly, not bothering to ask who.

“That clone deserter. CT-4023.”

Her breath caught, just for a second. Just long enough for Comet to notice.

She shrugged lazily. “Did. Once.”

“What happened to him?”

The question hung in the air, heavy and quiet.

Wolffe’s eye twitched. Boost glanced up.

Sha’rali lowered herself onto the stone floor, one leg stretched out, her arm draped over her knee. “I killed him.”

Comet blinked. “What?”

“He was wounded. Couldn’t go on. Didn’t want to be captured. Didn’t want to be brought back to the Republic like some karking piece of malfunctioning tech. Said it was better to go out free.” She let out a cold, humorless laugh. “So I put a blaster to the back of his head and gave him what he asked for.”

She didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. Delivered it like truth.

Silence.

A low exhale from Wolffe.

“That was still a brother,” he said. Quiet. Even.

Sha’rali tilted her head. “Was he?”

Wolffe’s stare darkened. “I didn’t agree with him. Didn’t respect what he did. But he made a choice. Same as any of us.”

Sha’rali’s expression hardened. “That’s where you’re wrong.”

Now she stood again, the weariness leaving her limbs, something sharper stirring underneath.

“You think people make choices? That when they hit the crossroads, they look both ways and decide where they go?”

She stepped toward them. Not aggressive—just close. Just enough to make the words bite.

“We don’t steer our lives. We follow roads already paved. Decisions made for us. And we walk them because someone else put us there.”

Comet frowned. “He chose to leave. That was his road.”

“No,” she snapped. “That wasn’t his road. That was the ditch he fell into after someone else put a wall in his way.”

Now they were all looking at her. Even Sinker.

She gestured to each of them. “You were born in tanks, raised for war. Never got to choose your name. Never got to choose your purpose. You were pointed like weapons and told to fight for peace. And if you said no? If you broke formation?” She stepped back. “Suddenly you weren’t worth saving.”

Boost’s mouth opened, but Wolffe’s voice cut through first.

“Not every path is made for us. Some we build.”

She looked at him. Really looked.

And for a moment, Sha’rali’s fire dimmed—just a flicker.

“Maybe,” she said softly. “But some of us don’t have bricks. Just dust and bones.”

No one replied.

Later, when the lights dimmed and the cell returned to silence, Comet turned his face toward the wall, thoughtful.

“She didn’t kill him,” he muttered to no one in particular.

Wolffe didn’t answer. But the faintest movement in his jaw suggested he was thinking the same thing.

Somewhere in the arena halls, cheers erupted for the next match.

Sha’rali stared at the ceiling, chains rattling softly with every breath.

And somewhere deep in her chest, guilt gnawed like a parasite.

The scent of sweat, metal, and blood clung to the air like a second skin.

Sha’rali sat cross-legged on the cold durasteel floor of the holding cell beneath the arena, her back pressed against the wall, chin tilted upward as she listened to the muffled screams of the crowd above. The cell was wide and shared with others—warriors of every species, scarred and broken, pacing like caged beasts awaiting their turn in the pit.

To her left, a Nikto sharpened a serrated blade on a stone with slow, deliberate strokes. To her right, a horned Weequay chanted something in his native tongue, smearing blood across his chest like a ritual. They didn’t look at her. No one did.

Except the Mirialan in the far corner.

Sha’rali had fought her two matches ago and broken her arm in three places. The Mirialan hadn’t looked away from her since.

She didn’t care.

She was tired. Tired of collars and cages. Tired of being a spectacle.

You’re not broken. Not yet.

The thought was weak, but it held her together.

The clang of the outer doors yanked her from her thoughts.

Two guards entered, clad in dark red plating. They didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.

The other warriors moved aside, murmuring low in their respective languages. Sha’rali didn’t bother to move.

But the man who entered behind the guards made her rise to her feet.

Dark armor, blue and grey, the familiar marking of the Death Watch sigil on the shoulder plate. His T-visored helmet gleamed under the flickering lights.

“Hello, darling,” the voice behind the modulator sneered.

She didn’t flinch.

“Didn’t expect to see one of you again,” she said evenly.

The Mandalorian took a step closer. “Didn’t expect to find you like this.” He tilted his head, gaze raking over the slave outfit Dooku still made her wear into every match. “Seems fortune finally found a way to humble you.”

Sha’rali clenched her fists behind her back. “If you’re here to talk about my fashion choices, I’m sure you can find a market vendor somewhere.”

He laughed.

“Came to deliver a message,” he said. “Some of our brothers didn’t take kindly to what you did to a few of ours on Ord Mantell. Word travels.”

“Tell them they should’ve picked a fight with someone their own size,” she spat.

“Funny thing about revenge…” he leaned in, the edges of his armor scraping the bars. “It’s patient. Dooku may have you now, but he’ll sell you eventually. Maybe to the Hutts. Maybe to someone else. Or maybe… to us.”

Sha’rali’s eyes narrowed.

“Don’t bother trying to kill me now,” he added, voice low. “Not in here. Not under Dooku’s nose. But when you’re off the leash…” He clicked his tongue. “We’ll see how many fights that pretty face wins without armor.”

Then he left. No dramatic flourish. No parting threat.

Just silence.

And the smoldering hatred burning in her chest.

Time passed. Maybe hours.

The noise from above never stopped—cheers, screams, roars of victory or defeat.

The holding cell emptied one by one as the matches ticked on. Eventually, only a few remained—Sha’rali among them.

She leaned her head back, closing her eyes just for a moment.

And then—

A flicker of movement at the corner of her vision.

She opened her eyes and blinked once.

A hooded figure had slipped past the perimeter guards, barely more than a shadow in the corridor beyond the cells.

Then a second. Taller, cloaked in brown and grey, masked in a rebreather that made no sound.

Her breath caught.

The first figure moved closer, carefully approaching her cell. The face beneath the hood lifted.

Green skin. Black eyes. Tentacles.

Kit Fisto.

He didn’t speak. Just looked at her.

“You’re bold,” she whispered.

He smiled faintly. “We could say the same of you.”

Her eyes darted to the figure behind him—Plo Koon. She didn’t recognize him, not yet, but she registered his presence as someone important.

“What are you doing here?”

Kit’s voice lowered. “Tracking rumors. Slave trafficking routes. Missing clones.”

That gave her pause.

She took a single step forward, speaking just low enough for only him to hear.

“I know where four of them are. Republic clones. One of them might be someone important. But I want out of here. I get out—they get out.”

Plo Koon approached the bars, gazing at her with quiet intensity.

“You’re not in a position to negotiate,” he said.

“Neither are you,” she shot back. “You’re sneaking around an Outer Rim arena like thieves instead of storming the place like Jedi. That tells me you’re not ready for a full assault. I’m your best lead.”

Kit exhaled slowly. “She’s not wrong.”

Plo nodded reluctantly.

Sha’rali stepped closer still, voice taut. “Just… get me out of here. I’m running out of fights to win.”

Kit’s smile dimmed. “We will. Just not now.”

“Why?”

He glanced toward the corridor again. “Because pulling you now would compromise the mission. Dooku’s still close. And you’ll draw too much attention.”

Sha’rali looked at him like he was handing her a death sentence.

Kit added quietly, “But I give you my word: we will come back. Hold on.”

She stepped back, slowly. Her arms folded.

“I’m good at holding on.”

Then they were gone—slipping away into the shadows as easily as they came.

She sank back down to the cell floor.

Alone again.

But this time, not without hope.

⸻

The cracked walls of the ruin gave little shelter from the heat, but it was quiet—perfect for plotting the kind of infiltration mission the Jedi Council wouldn’t officially sanction.

Kit Fisto leaned against a half-collapsed arch, studying the star map sprawled across the makeshift table. The arena was a fortress in disguise: subterranean barracks, automated defenses, paid mercs, slavers, and now—intel suggested—a cell of captured clone troopers being prepped for transport off-world.

“We’ll need a distraction,” Kit said at last, tendrils twitching thoughtfully.

Plo Koon’s arms folded as he approached. “One loud enough to distract Dooku’s guards and half the arena?”

Kit smiled. “You know who’s in the cell block beneath the arena floor?”

“Sha’rali,” Plo answered without hesitation. “She’s become rather… visible.”

“She’s also angry, armed, and impossible to control. Dooku should’ve known better.”

“She’s dangerous.”

Kit’s grin deepened. “That’s what makes her perfect.”

Plo didn’t answer immediately. He watched Kit carefully, as if looking for something beyond the words.

“You admire her.”

“She’s useful,” Kit said too quickly.

“Careful, old friend,” Plo murmured. “We’ve both seen what attachment can do.”

Kit gave a noncommittal shrug. “I’m not attached. I’m… curious. And I trust she’ll survive.”

Plo’s head tilted slightly. “You don’t want her to just survive. You want her to burn the whole place down.”

Kit’s smile turned sly. “And give us just enough cover to do what we came for.”

⸻

Sha’rali sat alone against the wall, knees tucked, arms resting atop them. Her bare skin shimmered with sweat and grime, the thin silk of her slave outfit clinging to her frame in the damp underground air. Bruises lined her arms, her ribs ached, and her hands were still raw from her last match.

But her eyes… her eyes were still sharp.

A droid voice crackled over the speaker. “Sha’rali. Prepare for combat. Arena Gate C.”

She rose slowly, bones stiff, and cracked her knuckles one at a time. As she followed the guard droids, a whisper caught her ear. She turned—and froze.

A Death Watch warrior leaned against the shadows, helmet off, sneering.

“You were harder to find than expected,” he said coolly. “Dooku’s prize pet. A pity. I preferred you in armor.”

Sha’rali’s jaw clenched. “If you’re here to talk, don’t waste my time.”

“Not talking. Threatening,” he said with a smirk. “You deserve to suffer before we gut you.”

Her stare didn’t flinch. “Try.”

He stepped close. “I will.”

The guard droids called for her again. The Death Watch warrior melted back into the shadows, leaving her with the low growl of the arena gate grinding open.

The roar of the crowd hit her like a wall of heat. Torchlight flickered off rusted metal. The stands were packed—mercs, slavers, offworld nobles, and worse.

And in the pit—waiting—was him.

Death Watch armor. Blade drawn. Familiar.

Her jaw tightened.

Above them, Kit and Plo stood cloaked among the nobles in the upper tiers, watching. Kit’s fingers twitched near his hilt. “If this goes wrong…”

Plo interrupted, “Then we make sure it doesn’t.”

“She doesn’t know we’re moving now,” Kit said quietly.

“Let her fight,” Plo replied. “We need that chaos.”

Kit’s eyes narrowed. “She’s going to hate us for this.”

“Perhaps. But hate is not our concern today.”

The clash was brutal. The Mandalorian came in swinging, heavy and arrogant, and Sha’rali danced out of reach, barefoot, using her environment. She slammed his head into the rusted arena wall, reversed his grip on his own blade, and gutted him—but then—

The collar.

Agony flared through her entire body. Her scream was swallowed by the crowd.

From above, Kit’s smile vanished.

Enough.

He reached out through the Force—quiet, quick, like a breath—and twisted.

The collar’s circuits sparked and ruptured. It snapped open and fell.

Sha’rali gasped in sudden relief—and rose like a fury reborn.

One clean stroke of the beskad.

The Mandalorian dropped in a heap.

And four more descended from the stands, armed and livid.

Blaster fire cracked as Sha’rali flipped behind a column, one of her attackers landing face-first in the sand. The crowd screamed as security tried to contain the fight, but Death Watch didn’t care.

Kit and Plo vanished from the stands, cloaks flaring as they dropped into the tunnels.

Guards shouted—then screamed—as blue and yellow sabers ignited.

In the clone cell block, Comet jolted awake at the sound of a lightsaber humming through durasteel.

“Is that…?”

The door blew open. Kit stepped through. “You boys want out?”

Wolffe, bound but alert, gave a dry grunt. “Took you long enough.”

⸻

Sha’rali fought like hell. Her body screamed in protest, but she gave no ground. She flipped one of the Death Watch warriors into the stands, stole his blaster, and fired two shots into another’s knee.

She didn’t look up, but she felt them.

Felt the Jedi move like shadows behind her. Felt the clones disappear through secret tunnels.

She wasn’t the priority.

But she had bought them every second they needed.

And Kit had freed her. If only for now.

The last warrior lunged—Sha’rali caught his arm mid-swing and drove her blade into his neck.

The crowd roared as he dropped.

She stood alone. Bloody. Breathing hard.

She didn’t smile. She just waited for the next battle.

The collar was gone.

The weight of it—the constant pressure at her neck, the memory of electric agony—was finally gone. Her skin bore the blistered outline like a brand, but it no longer hummed against her throat. That tiny mercy meant everything.

But she was still in the arena.

Still a prisoner. Still unarmed. And now, very much a target.

As the last of the Death Watch bodies were dragged away by the chaos of the crowd, Sha’rali slipped through the corridor before the guards regrouped. Blood and sand caked her bare feet as she limped toward the outer gates, ducking behind blast doors and stone columns, every inch of her body aching—but free.

Her thoughts raced. Find a way out. Don’t wait for help. No one’s coming back. Move.

She reached a side hangar—partially open, barely guarded in the confusion. Inside: a pair of light speeders, smoke still curling from one’s engine where its last rider had crash-landed.

Sha’rali didn’t hesitate.

She jumped into the intact speeder, hotwired it with fingers still shaking from adrenaline, and punched the throttle.

The gates burst open with a scream of metal and dust.

The rocky terrain of Garvoth’s volcanic surface stretched before her—red stone, jagged peaks, and pockets of glowing lava carving a dangerous path forward. Wind whipped against her face, the pit silks still clinging uselessly to her skin.

And behind her—they came.

Two MagnaGuards.

Sleek, relentless, and faster than they had any right to be.

Blaster bolts tore past her head as she swerved down into a ravine, hoping the rock formations would slow them. Sparks flew from her speeder’s rear. One glancing hit. The engine coughed.

Her fingers tightened on the controls. “C’mon, not now—”

One MagnaGuard landed beside her with a heavy clang, gripping the side of her speeder like a metal parasite.

Sha’rali screamed and slammed the controls, flipping the speeder into a side barrel roll. The droid tumbled, crashing against the rocks in a spray of sparks.

The second guard launched a grappling hook toward her back—

BOOM.

A blaster cannon lit up the sky. The droid exploded mid-air.

Above her—salvation.

A Republic gunship streaked over the cliffs, sleek and low, with Kit Fisto manning the side cannon, his eyes scanning. Plo Koon piloted with grim precision, the clones—Wolffe, Sinker, Boost, and Comet—visible in the open ramp, all braced for pickup.

Kit saw her, flashed that grin of his, and shouted over comms, “We’ve got her!”

Plo dipped low, opening the bay.

Sha’rali gunned the failing speeder up the final slope, launched it off a ridge, and leapt.

For one moment—nothing.

Then strong arms caught her dragging her in mid-air as the others pulled them both into the open gunship ramp. The MagnaGuard’s severed head followed a moment later, blasted out of the sky by Comet.

They hit the deck hard.

“Welcome aboard,” Wolffe muttered dryly, barely hiding his disdain.

Sha’rali rolled onto her back, panting, bloodied and half-naked, but smiling.

Kit leaned over her, panting too. Their eyes locked, close—too close.

“Get her a damn blanket,” Sinker snapped, tossing a medkit at Comet.

Plo glanced back from the cockpit. “Hold on. This planet’s not going to let us leave without a few last fireworks.”

The ship turned, rising. The volcanic ridge ahead began to crack, tremble—fighters scrambling, sirens wailing behind them.

But inside the gunship, in that brief moment between chaos and freedom—Sha’rali let herself believe she might actually be free.

⸻

The Resolute loomed above Garvoth like a silent judgment—sleek, bristling with weapons, and painted in sharp Republic red. The Jedi’s extraction ship docked at the cruiser’s forward hangar, and for the first time in weeks, Sha’rali Jurok felt the sterile chill of Republic metal beneath her feet instead of ash and blood.

She stood tall despite the exhaustion, battle-worn but alive. Her coral-pink skin still bore the scuffed bruises of the arena, and the humiliating slave silks clung to her body like a mocking second skin. No armor. No boots. No weapons. No dignity.

Not yet.

The Jedi disembarked first—Kit Fisto and Plo Koon exchanging murmured words with the clone troopers as the hangar’s personnel snapped to attention. No one quite knew what to make of Sha’rali, but eyes lingered. Murmurs followed.

Her long, dark montrals and white-marked lekku swung low behind her as she walked, every movement a show of endurance and grace, her head held high despite everything. Her presence was unmistakable—an imposing silhouette of strength and survival wrapped in silks designed to degrade.

The moment she reached the interior hallways of the cruiser, she turned sharply to the nearest clone officer.

“I need access to your long-range comms,” she said with an edge in her voice that brokered no argument. “Now.”

Plo Koon, standing nearby, nodded once. “Grant her full access. She has earned that and more.”

The communications officer left the room after setting her up. The doors hissed shut.

Sha’rali leaned over the console, sharp teeth gritted. She punched in the code sequence from memory, praying the encryption still held.

The holocomm sparked to life.

A crackle—then static—then the familiar voice of K4 rang through the speakers with uncharacteristic relief.

“Thank the black holes of Malastare. You’re alive.”

Sha’rali exhaled. “Good to hear you too, K.”

A rustle behind him. K4’s head turned.

“R9 just blasted a hole in the med bay door. I’ll assume it was celebratory.”

Then, quieter:

“You disappeared, Sha. I thought we lost you. And… your clone’s about to reprogram me and R9 out of pure grief and boredom.”

Sha’rali blinked. “He what?”

“He said he’d turn me into a cooking droid if I didn’t stop trying to slice into Pyke intel files while he was pacing. He’s a menace.”

Another clattering crash, then CT-4023’s voice in the background:

“Tell her to stop dying and I’ll stop trying to teach you to make caf.”

Sha’rali laughed. Actually laughed, full-throated and real.

“Tell him we’re en route. Only tea is permitted on my ship. Try not to break anything else.”

K4 paused.

“…Can’t promise that.”

When she emerged again to prepare for departure, Kit Fisto caught her arm gently at the elbow.

“Are you sure you don’t want something else to wear?” he asked, eyes flicking to the ripped silks still barely hanging from her form.

“I want my ship. My crew. And my armor,” she replied, stepping past him.

But he didn’t move right away.

“I’ll see that your armor is returned to you. But… I hope you understand this war’s getting messier. Even our rescues.”

Sha’rali glanced at him. “You Jedi always think there’s a clean way to bleed. There isn’t.”

Kit’s expression flickered with something—regret? Or something else?

But neither of them said it.

⸻

The ship looked like it had barely survived.

The starboard wing was scorched, one of the landing thrusters had a distinct hole in it, and a trail of carbon scoring marked the underbelly.

Sha’rali stared, then turned slowly toward the ramp where K4 and R9 stood side-by-side like misbehaving children.

K4 pointed to the clone, who was leaning against the hatch in his stolen armor, helmet on, arms crossed—quiet.

“You let him fly it?”

“I was busy dismembering Pyke agents,” K4 deadpanned. “He decided basic flight training could wait.”

CT-4023 finally spoke, voice slightly modulated through the vocoder he still insisted on wearing in Republic space. “You got captured. I had to improvise.”

Sha’rali narrowed her eyes. “You crashed my ship.”

R9 chirped a delighted, vicious sound—likely agreeing.

He shrugged. “We lived.”

But she stepped closer, pausing a mere foot from him. She tilted her head, watching the way he shifted under her gaze, posture rigid.

Even through the helmet, she could feel it.

The bare silks, the sight of her—freed but still wearing the chains of her capture—made something in him twitch. He was trying not to look, but he was also not looking away.

“Got something to say, soldier?” she asked coolly.

CT-4023 cleared his throat. “Just glad you’re back.”

Something in her hardened. “I’m not the same one who left.”

A long silence stretched. Then he said, quiet, “I know.”

Behind them, K4 muttered to R9.

R9’s response was a series of crude, affirming beeps.

⸻

Previous part | Next Part

Title: “Ride”

Hunter x Reader

Warnings: slightly sexually suggestive

⸻

You swore he was doing it on purpose.

That whole “silent and brooding” thing he had going on? Weaponized. His voice, low and gravelly, the way he leaned against walls like they were built just for him, arms crossed and muscles on full display. He moved like he had time to kill and knew exactly how dangerous he looked doing it.

You were not immune. Maker, you were struggling.

It didn’t help that the Hunter Effect seemed to get worse during downtime. No blasterfire, no missions, just a hot planet, a half-broken fan in the corner of the Marauder, and him doing pull-ups in a sweat-soaked tank top like he was in some holodrama made for thirst traps.

You were trying not to stare. Failing miserably.

Hunter dropped from the bar with a soft thud and turned toward you like he’d felt the heat of your gaze. Probably had. Damn enhanced senses.

“You alright over there?” he asked, voice rich with amusement.

“Fine,” you replied, a little too quickly.

He raised a brow as he walked past, close enough to brush your shoulder with his—on purpose, probably. You bit your lip. Hard.

“Y’look a little flushed,” he said, and there was that grin. The knowing one. “Could be the heat. Could be something else.”

“Could be your ego,” you fired back, refusing to look up from your datapad.

He didn’t answer, but you could feel the smirk behind you.

Later that night, the heat stuck around—and so did he. The others were asleep or off doing their own thing, and you ended up side by side with Hunter near the edge of the ship’s loading ramp, sitting in the dark, stars overhead. You were close—closer than you usually allowed yourself to be.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just passed you a flask of something strong and let the silence settle.

Then—

“You know,” he said, voice quiet, “I’ve noticed how you look at me.”

Your breath caught.

“I don’t mind,” he continued, “but I figured I’d give you the chance to stop pretending.”

You turned to face him. He was already looking at you, intense and calm, like he’d been waiting for this moment.

“Pretending?” you asked, trying to play dumb.

He gave a soft chuckle. “You’re not subtle, mesh’la. And I’ve got good instincts.”

Your lips parted, but nothing came out. Because honestly… yeah. He was right. And you were caught.

Hunter shifted closer, gaze dropping to your lips just briefly—enough.

“I’ve been watching you too,” he added, voice low now, like a secret. “Listening to how your heartbeat changes when I get close. I like the way you look at me. Like you’re thinking about what it’d be like.”

Your throat went dry. “To do what?”

He smirked. “To ride.”

You choked on air.

“I meant a speeder,” he said, utterly deadpan.

You shoved his arm. “You’re a menace.”

“You love it.”

You paused.

“Yeah,” you admitted softly. “I really do.”

His smile dropped into something deeper, something real. His hand brushed yours, lingered.

“Then maybe it’s time we stop dancing around it.”

You looked at him—really looked. The man you fought beside, trusted with your life, laughed with, wanted like nothing else.

“Okay,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “Let’s ride.”

He leaned in, lips ghosting yours.

“Hold on tight, sweetheart.”

⸻