Switching Between These Every Day

Well… I thought it was obvious.

kind of actually soooo fucking funny that my man jung was like “I’m toast anyway they know what I’m up to” and then the ISB was like “we lost a great man and dedra meero is a rebel spy”

Hi! I was wondering if you could do a Bad Batch x Fem!Reader where they haven’t realized how much they like her and having her apart of the team because they didn’t want to get attached but then they see her with other clones having fun and being tactical and huggy with them. I’m a sucker for jealous tropes and the “she’s ours” stuff! Thank you! Xx

“Ours”

The Bad Batch x Fem!Reader

Featuring: Commander Wolffe, Boost, Sinker (104th)

⸻

The Bad Batch didn’t realize how much they liked having you around—until you weren’t just around them anymore.

You’d been reassigned temporarily to assist the 104th Battalion for a joint operation, something about terrain recon and hostile base infiltration. The job was meant to be routine. Easy. Quick. But it had stretched to three weeks, and that was three weeks too long for Clone Force 99.

“She’s fine,” Tech said for the third time that day, eyes on his datapad but noticeably less focused than usual.

“Of course she’s fine,” Crosshair muttered. “She’s annoying. Won’t shut up. Talks too much. Laughs at stupid jokes.”

“She does make the barracks less quiet,” Echo added, but his words sounded more like a confession than a complaint.

Hunter remained quiet, brooding in the corner, arms crossed. Wrecker finally broke the silence.

“I miss her.”

No one argued.

⸻

When they finally returned to Anaxes to regroup, they weren’t expecting to find you on the tarmac—leaning against a gunship, laughing with Commander Wolffe and his men.

You had your arm slung around Sinker’s shoulder, mid-sparring banter, sweat-slicked and flushed from training. Boost was tossing a ration bar at you like it was a long-running inside joke, and Wolffe—stoic, grumpy Wolffe—was standing beside you with the faintest upward tug at the corner of his mouth.

You laughed and said something that made the entire squad snort.

Wrecker stopped dead in his tracks. “Wait—are they hugging her?”

Crosshair’s scowl darkened. “Why the hell is she touching Sinker?”

“She’s laughing,” Echo muttered. “At his joke.”

Hunter’s jaw ticked. “Let’s go.”

⸻

You saw them before they could storm up and cause a scene—which, let’s be real, was already inevitable.

“Hey!” you called out cheerfully, waving them over. “Look who finally decided to show up. I was beginning to think you all forgot about me.”

“We didn’t,” Hunter said. The rest of them were staring daggers past you at the Wolfpack.

Wolffe raised a brow and drawled, “We took real good care of her. Didn’t we, boys?”

“Too good,” Sinker smirked. “She’s basically one of us now.”

“She is one of us,” Boost added, throwing his arm around your shoulders with obnoxious ease. “Got the bite to match.”

You didn’t see it, but every member of the Bad Batch visibly twitched.

“She’s not a stray,” Crosshair hissed, stepping forward.

“Could’ve fooled us,” Wolffe shot back, “considering how quick you were to let her slip away.”

“Wasn’t our choice,” Tech said stiffly.

“You sure?” Sinker smirked. “Didn’t seem like you were fighting too hard to keep her.”

You raised your eyebrows. “Okay, woah, no testosterone fights on the landing pad, please.”

Wrecker pointed dramatically. “You hugged him!”

You blinked. “You’ve hugged me!”

“Yeah but that’s different!” he whined.

“Why?” you challenged.

Silence.

Hunter stepped forward, voice lower now. “Because you’re ours.”

Your breath caught.

Wolffe’s grin turned downright wolfish. “Took ‘em long enough.”

You looked between both squads, caught between amusement and surprise. “So let me get this straight… the 104th is adopting me, the Bad Batch is reclaiming me, and I didn’t even get a say?”

“You always get a say,” Hunter said, quieter now. “But we want you to know how we feel.”

“And how’s that?”

Wrecker was first. “I missed you.”

“I hated not having you around,” Echo added.

“Everything was quiet,” Tech admitted.

“You’re mine,” Crosshair said, almost growled. “Ours.”

Your eyes flicked to Wolffe and his boys.

Wolffe shrugged. “Guess we’ll let you go this time.”

Sinker grinned. “But if they mess up, you know where to find us.”

You snorted. “What is this, the clone version of a custody battle?”

Boost winked. “Only if it means you come back for visitation rights.”

You laughed. “Alright, alright. I’ll go home. But I am visiting the 104th again. You guys are a riot.”

Hunter stepped closer, head tilting. “As long as you come back to us.”

You smiled, softening. “Always.”

The air between you and the Batch shifted—less tension, more heat, more home. Hunter didn’t touch you, not yet, but his presence lingered close, electric.

You turned back toward Wolffe and the others, grinning. “Thanks for everything, boys.”

Sinker gave you a two-finger salute. “Don’t be a stranger.”

“Yeah,” Boost chimed in, winking. “Just remember which pack took you in first.”

You rolled your eyes, walking backward toward your original squad. “You’re all insufferable.”

“And you love it,” Wolffe called after you.

echoed behind you.

Then, low—too low for most ears, but not for Hunter’s enhanced senses—Wolffe muttered to his boys, voice almost casual:

“She’s still got a bit of wolf in her now. Let’s hope they can keep up.”

Hunter stopped walking.

His head tilted just enough to catch the last of the words. Not angry. Not threatened. Just… cold.

Possessive.

His jaw flexed.

Crosshair noticed first. “Problem?”

Hunter didn’t answer right away. His gaze flicked to your back—laughing with Wrecker about something stupid—and then back to the 104th retreating into the barracks.

“No,” he said finally. “No problem.”

But when he looked forward again, his voice was steel-wrapped velvet.

“They can howl all they want.”

He caught up to you in two strides.

“We’re the ones she’s running with.”

me rereading a scene: omg why is she acting like that who wrote this? i wrote this.

“Red and Loyal” pt.2

Commander Fox x Senator Reader

The ship had gone still.

Most of the squad was asleep or at their rotating stations, the buzz of activity finally reduced to soft footsteps and quiet system hums. You couldn’t sleep. Your mind was too full. Of war. Of your people. Of him.

You stepped into the small mess area, wrapped in a light shawl, datapad abandoned for now. The stars shimmered through the viewports—quiet reminders that home was still a jump away.

Fox stood near the corner of the room, arms folded, armor still on, posture straight as a blaster barrel. He didn’t sleep either, apparently.

“Commander,” you said softly.

He looked up. “Senator.”

You crossed over to the small counter, pouring two glasses of the modest liquor you’d brought from home—a deep, rich amber spirit your father once called “liquid courage.” You turned and held out a glass to him.

“A peace offering,” you said. “Or a truce. Or a bribe. I haven’t decided yet.”

His eyes flicked from the drink to your face. “I’m on duty.”

“I figured,” you murmured. “But I thought I’d try anyway.”

He didn’t take it. You didn’t seem surprised.

Instead, you set it beside him and leaned back against the opposite wall, cradling your own drink between your fingers. “Do you ever turn it off?”

Fox was quiet for a moment. “The job?”

You nodded.

“No.” He said it without hesitation. “If I do, people get hurt.”

You watched him carefully. “That’s a heavy way to live.”

He gave a small shrug. “It’s the only way I know how.”

Another beat of silence.

“Why did you do it?” you asked. “Come on this mission. Really.”

Fox’s jaw tightened slightly. “It’s my job.”

You raised an eyebrow. “So you personally assign yourself to every Senator in distress?”

He hesitated. For once, his gaze flicked away.

“I’ve seen how the Senate works,” he said. “Most of them wouldn’t even look at a trooper if we were bleeding out in front of them. But you… you stayed after the session. You fought for people who can’t fight for themselves. You saw us.”

Your throat tightened unexpectedly.

“And I didn’t want you to walk into danger alone.”

You stared at him for a long moment, glass forgotten in your hand. “That doesn’t sound like just your job, Commander.”

His eyes finally met yours again—steadier now. More open. And, stars help you, so full of weight he didn’t know how to express out loud.

“No,” he said finally. “It doesn’t.”

The silence between you changed—no longer empty, but thick with understanding. The kind you didn’t speak of because it was too real.

You stepped forward slowly, picking up the untouched glass you’d offered him earlier.

“Still on duty?” you asked softly, brushing your fingers against his as you took the drink back in your other hand.

Fox didn’t answer.

But he didn’t pull away, either.

You finally excused yourself, your steps quiet as you retreated toward your quarters with a whispered “Goodnight, Commander.”

Fox didn’t respond. Couldn’t.

His gaze lingered where you’d just stood, your scent still in the air—soft, warm, like something grounding amidst all the cold metal and chaos.

The untouched glass in your hands, the brush of your fingers on his glove, the way you looked at him like you saw him—not just the armor, not just the title.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, jaw clenched so hard it ached.

He didn’t do feelings. Not on duty. Not ever.

And yet.

“Thought I smelled something burning.”

Fox didn’t need to look to know it was Hound. Grizzer padded quietly beside him, tongue lolling lazily, clearly amused.

Fox muttered, “Shouldn’t you be asleep?”

“Could say the same about you.” Hound stepped into the light, arms folded over his chest, eyebrow raised. “So. You gonna talk about it?”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Uh-huh.” Hound’s tone was flat, unimpressed. “You stood there like a statue for five minutes after she left. You’re not even blinking. Pretty sure even Grizzer picked up on it.”

The strill let out a low chuff, like it agreed.

Fox turned his face away. “Drop it.”

“I would,” Hound said casually, “but it’s hard to ignore the fact that our famously emotionless commander suddenly cares very much about one specific Senator.”

“She’s… different.”

“Ohhh, so we are talking about it now?” Hound smirked.

Fox didn’t answer.

Hound stepped closer, lowering his voice—not mocking now, just honest. “Look, vod… We’ve all seen how they treat us. The senators. The brass. Most of them wouldn’t notice if we vanished tomorrow. But she sees you.”

Fox’s jaw flexed again, the ache behind his eyes growing sharper.

“She sees you, Fox,” Hound repeated gently. “And I think that scares the hell out of you.”

A long silence stretched between them.

Then, quietly, Fox murmured, “I can’t afford to feel anything. Not right now. Not while she’s in danger.”

Hound studied him for a moment, then nodded slowly. “Yeah. I get that.” He turned to leave. “But when it’s all over, and you still can’t breathe unless you’re near her? Don’t act surprised.”

Fox didn’t move.

Didn’t respond.

Didn’t deny it.

⸻

The ship touched down just outside the capital’s perimeter, the soft hiss of the landing gear punctuated by the high-pitched whine of distant warning sirens—testing protocols, for now. Not real.

Not yet.

The skies were overcast, a thick grey ceiling hanging low over the city like a held breath. Your home was still standing, still calm, but tension clung to the air like static.

Fox stood at the bottom of the ramp, visor angled outward, scanning the buildings and courtyards that framed the landing pad. Thire, Stone, and Hound fanned out without instruction. The city guard was present—under-trained, under-equipped, but trying.

You stepped off the ramp and immediately straightened your posture as a familiar man approached—Governor Dalen, flanked by two aides and a pale-faced city official clutching a datapad like a lifeline.

“Senator,” Dalen said, his voice tight but relieved. “You came back.”

You offered a small smile, but your eyes were already on the buildings, the people, the quiet way citizens walked just a little too quickly, too aware.

“Of course I came,” you said. “I told you I would.”

“I didn’t think they’d let you,” he admitted.

“They didn’t,” you said plainly. “But I wasn’t asking.”

Fox’s eyes shifted slightly, his stance tensing at the edge of your voice. That edge had returned—sharp, determined, the voice of someone who belonged here, in the dirt with her people.

You took a breath. “We stood before the Senate. I made our case. I begged.”

Dalen didn’t speak.

You shook your head. “But they’re stretched thin. We’re not a priority. They said they’d ‘review the situation’ once the Outer Rim sieges ease.”

Dalen’s face hardened. “So they’ll help us when there’s nothing left to save.”

“That’s the game,” you said bitterly. “Politics.”

Behind you, Fox’s shoulders shifted—just barely—but enough that you knew he heard. Knew he understood.

“But,” you added, lifting your chin, “we’re not alone. Commander Fox and his squad have been assigned to protect the capital until reinforcements can be spared.”

The governor’s gaze flicked past you, eyeing the bright red armor, the silent, imposing soldiers who looked more like war machines than men.

“They’re few in number,” you said, “but I’d trust one of them over a hundred guardsmen.”

Fox stepped forward then, speaking for the first time. “We’ll secure the palace perimeter and establish fallback zones in the city. If the Separatists make a move, we’ll hold them as long as needed.”

You didn’t miss the subtle weight behind his words: We’ll hold them off long enough for you to survive.

And somehow, even in all that steel and stoicism, it made your heart ache.

The governor gave a hesitant nod, but the weariness in his posture didn’t fade. “We’ll do what we can to prepare, but if they attack…”

“We hold,” you said simply.

Fox turned his head slightly, just enough to look at you. “And we protect.”

You gave him a small, fierce smile. “I know you will.”

⸻

The market square was quieter than you remembered.

Stalls were still open, vendors selling fruit and fabric and hot bread, but the usual bustle was muted. People spoke in hushed voices, glancing nervously at the skies every few minutes as if expecting Separatist ships to appear at any second.

You didn’t take a speeder. You walked.

You wanted them to see you—not as some distant official behind Senate walls, but as someone who came home. Someone who stayed.

“Senator,” an older woman called, her hands tight around a child’s shoulders. “Is it true? That the Republic isn’t coming?”

You crouched to the child’s eye level, your expression gentle. “They are coming,” you said carefully. “Just not yet. But we’re not alone. We have soldiers here. Good ones.”

Behind you, Fox lingered in the shadow of a nearby wall, helmet on, arms folded. Watching. Always.

A young man stepped forward, anger shining in his eyes. “We heard rumors. That they think we’re not worth the effort.”

“They’re wrong,” you said, rising to face him. “You are worth the effort. I went to the Senate myself. I fought for this place. And I will keep fighting until we get what we need. But until then… we hold the line.”

Murmurs spread through the crowd. A few people clapped, quietly. Some didn’t. But they listened.

And they saw you.

After several more conversations—reassurances, promises, words you hoped you could keep—you stepped into the alley behind the square for a breath of quiet. The pressure was starting to catch up with you, sharp and cold in your lungs.

Fox was already there, leaning against the wall, helmet off, his expression unreadable.

“You shouldn’t have come out without a perimeter,” he said.

You tilted your head. “You were the perimeter.”

“That’s not the point,” he muttered, stepping closer. “If they attack, the capital will be first. The square could be turned to ash in minutes. You can’t be in the middle of a crowd when it happens.”

“They needed to see me.”

“I need you alive.”

The words came out harsher than he intended—too fast, too sharp—and he immediately looked away like he wished he could take them back.

You stared at him, heart catching in your throat.

His jaw clenched. “Your death won’t inspire anyone.”

Silence.

“You’re worried about me,” you said quietly, stepping forward.

“I’m responsible for you,” he corrected, but there was no strength behind it.

You reached out, fingers brushing the gauntlet on his arm. “You don’t have to lie, Fox. Not to me.”

He looked down at your hand on his armor, at the softness in your voice that disarmed him more than any weapon ever could.

“This is going to get worse before it gets better,” he said. “And if you keep walking into the fire…”

You smiled sadly. “You’ll follow me in?”

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t have to.

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

in fanfiction we must sometimes ask ourselves not if he would do that but under what conditions would he would do that

I think the key to a happy life as an adult woman is to channel your inner weird little girl and make her happy

“Armor for the Skin”

501st x Reader

The overhead lumens slam on like artillery. Groans ripple through the barracks, but you roll out of your bunk already gathering your contraband caddy—a slim duraplast kit labeled “Mk‑III MedPatch”

Fives, half‑dressed and wholly curious, nods at the kit. “Alright, mystery box—you packing bacta or blasters in there?”

You flick the latch. Bottles, tubes, and sachets unfold like a miniature armory—just shinier and pastel‑colored.

“Moisturizer,” you say, dotting cream onto your cheeks. “SPF 50. Sun in space still finds a way.”

Fives blinks. “You’re lotion‑plating your face before breakfast?”

You smile. “Armor for the skin.”

As you pat the sunscreen in, Fives watches, fascinated. “How long does all that take? We get, like, sixty seconds to hit the refresher.”

“Practice,” you reply, capping the tube. “And a bit of multitasking.”

Across the aisle, Jesse mutters, “She’s waxing her cheeks?”—which earns him a smack from Kix.

The medic tilts his head, curious. “Actually, hydrating the epidermis reduces micro‑tears that form when helmets chafe. Fewer micro‑tears, fewer infections.”

Fives groans. “Kix, not you too!”

Tup perks up. “Will it stop my forehead from peeling on desert drops?”

“Only if you commit,” you reply, tossing him a travel‑size tube.

Tup bobbles it. “Commit to… face goop?”

“Commit to self‑care, shiny,” Jesse teases, but he secretly dabs a fingertip of cream on the scar running over his temple when he thinks no one’s watching.

Hardcase flips down from the top bunk, dangling upside‑down. “What about night routine? Can we weaponize it?”

You laugh. “Weaponize hydration?”

You begin to rattle off the list for your routines while shoving items back into the caddy.

Jesse whistles. “That’s more steps than disassembling a DC‑17.”

“It’s upkeep,” you say, snapping the kit shut. “Blasters, armor, skin. Treat them right and they won’t fail mid‑mission.”

Kix, ever the medic, hums thoughtfully. “Prevention over cure—sound protocol.”

Rex marches past the doorway, barking for PT. He notices the cluster around your bunk, eyes the lotions, then decides he’s not paid enough to investigate at 0500. “Five minutes to muster. Whatever you’re doing—do it faster.”

The squad scrambles. You close your caddy with a click, satisfied. Step one: curiosity planted.

As you pass Fives he murmurs, “Armor for the skin, huh?”

“Exactly, vod,” you grin, tapping his chest plate. “And just like yours—it’s personal issue.”

He barks a laugh, then jogs after the others—already plotting how to requisition micellar water under “optical clarity supplies.”

Curiosity piqued, routine revealed. Now the real fun begins.

⸻

An hour later, after PT and standard mess rations, the 501st files toward the strategy room. You’re meant to present local intel, but you duck into the refresher first to rinse sweat and slap on a leave‑in hair mask.

Inside, Tup stares at his reflection, damp curls drooping. “How tight is the towel supposed to be?”

“Snug, not suffocating.” You demonstrate the twist‑and‑tuck, shaping his towel into a tidy turban. He looks like a spa holo‑ad—if spa ads featured wide‑eyed clone troopers in duty blacks.

Rex storms in mid‑lesson. The captain’s expression cycles through confusion, exasperation, acceptance in under a second. “Explain.”

“Deep‑conditioning,” you answer. “Helmet hair’s a war crime.”

Dogma, arms folded behind Rex, scowls. “Regulation headgear only.”

You pat the towel. “Technically, still a head covering.”

Hardcase bursts from a stall, face covered in neon‑green clay. “I CAN’T MOVE MY MOUTH! THIS STUFF SETS LIKE DURASTEEL!”

Kix swoops in with a damp cloth. “That’s the detox mask, vod. Rinse at four minutes, not forty.”

Fives leans in the doorway, filming everything. “Historical documentation, Rex. Posterity.”

Rex pinches the bridge of his nose. “You have two minutes to look like soldiers before General Skywalker arrives.”

Tup whispers, “Uh… do I rinse or…?”

You yank the towel free with a flourish; his curls bounce, glossy. “Ready for battle,” you declare.

Rex sighs. “One minute forty‑five.”

⸻

The 501st rolls in after an endless maintenance drill, expecting lights‑out. Instead, you’ve transformed the common room into a makeshift spa: footlockers draped in clean towels, maintenance lamps angled like vanity lights, and rows of mysterious packets labeled hydrating, brightening, volcanic detox…

Rex stops dead in the doorway, helmet under his arm.

“Vod, why does it smell like a med‑bay and a flower‑shop had a firefight?”

You beam. “Team‑building. Captain’s orders.”

Rex narrows his eyes—he definitely did not give those orders—but one look at the exhausted squad convinces him to play along. You pass out microfiber headbands—Tup’s bun peeks through adorably—then cue soft lo‑fi on a datapad.

⸻

The 501st rolls in after an endless maintenance drill, expecting lights‑out. Instead, you’ve transformed the common room into a makeshift spa: footlockers draped in clean towels, maintenance lamps angled like vanity lights, and rows of mysterious packets labeled hydrating, brightening, volcanic detox…

Rex stops dead in the doorway, helmet under his arm.

“Vod, why does it smell like a med‑bay and a flower‑shop had a firefight?”

You beam. “Team‑building. Captain’s orders.”

Rex narrows his eyes—he definitely did not give those orders—but one look at the exhausted squad convinces him to play along.

You pass out microfiber headbands—Tup’s bun peeks through adorably—then cue soft lo‑fi on a datapad.

Fives foams cleanser like he’s icing a ration cake, flicks bubbles at Jesse.

Hardcase grabs an industrial solvent bottle. You snatch it away. “Wrong kind of chemical peel, blaster‑brain.”

Kix demonstrates gentle circular motions; the squad copies, mumbling mock mantras.

Faces disappear beneath colors and cartoons.

Fives foams cleanser like he’s icing a ration cake, flicks bubbles at Jesse.

Hardcase grabs an industrial solvent bottle. You snatch it away. “Wrong kind of chemical peel, blaster‑brain.”

Kix demonstrates gentle circular motions; the squad copies, mumbling mock mantras.

Faces disappear beneath colors and cartoons.

Jesse paints Dogma’s clay mask into perfect camo stripes; Dogma tries to protest, fails, secretly loves it.

Rex sighs as you smooth the sheet onto his face. “If this vid leaks, I’m demoting everyone.”

Tup giggles when the nerf‑printed mask squeaks. Fives records the sound bite for future memes.

Everyone reclines on mesh webbing strung between crates.

The timer pings. Masks come off—revealing eight glowing, ridiculously refreshed faces.

Hardcase flexes. “Feel like I could head‑butt a super tactical droid and leave an imprint.”

Fives snaps a holo of Rex’s newfound radiance. “Captain, you’re shining.”

Rex grumbles, but his skin does glow under the fluorescents. “Get some rack time, troopers. 0600 briefing. And… keep the extra packets. Field supply, understood?”

A chorus of cheerful “Yes, sir!”

You watch them file out, each tucking a sheet‑mask packet into utility belts like contraband. Mission accomplished: the 501st is combat‑ready—and complexion‑ready—for whatever tomorrow throws at them.

⸻

Obi‑Wan strolls through the hangar, robe billowing. He pauses mid‑conversation with Cody, eyes widening at the radiant 501st lined up for deployment.

“My word, gentlemen, you’re positively effulgent.”

Jesse grins—dazzling. “Training and discipline, General.”

Cody side‑eyes Rex. “Whatever you’re doing, send the regimen to the 212th.”

Anakin trots up, spying a stash of leftover masks tucked behind Rex’s pauldron. He plucks one. “Charcoal detox? Padmé swears by these.” He pockets it with a conspiratorial wink.

Rex mutters, “Necessary field supplies, General.”

You walk by, sling a go‑cup of caf into Rex’s free hand. “Don’t forget SPF,” you remind, tapping his helmet.

Rex looked over to Cody, Deadpan “Non‑negotiable, apparently.”

⸻

Blaster fire and powdered sand fill the air. Jesse dives behind a ridge. “Double‑cleanse tonight—this dust is murder on my pores!”

Fives snorts through the comms. “Copy, gorgeous. Bring the aloe.”

Hardcase detonates a bunker, cheers, then yelps, “Mask first, explosions later—got it!”

Rex stands, sand sifting off armor, skin protected under a sheer layer of sunscreen that miraculously survived the firefight. He shakes his head but can’t hide the small smile.

“Alright, 501st,” he calls. “Let’s finish this op—tonight we rehydrate, tomorrow we conquer.”

You chuckle, loading a fresh power‑cell. The war may rage on, but for this legion, victory now comes with a healthy glow.

⸻

A/N

This was a request, however I accidentally deleted the request in my inbox.

“Collateral Morals” pt.1

Commander Thorn x Senator!Reader

The Senate chamber was a palace of marble and double-speak.

Your voice cut through it like a vibroblade.

“I will not stay silent while the Republic condemns slavery in the same breath it sends engineered men to die nameless in another system’s dust!”

Murmurs rippled. Eyes narrowed. A few senators visibly flinched.

“I will not—cannot—stand by while the Republic claps itself on the back for dismantling slavery on one hand and sends the clone army to their deaths with the other.”

You continued, stepping away from the podium, unshaken despite the weight of every eye trained on you.

“We decry the Zygerians, the Hutts, the slavers of the outer rim—but we justify the manufacturing of a living, breathing people because they wear our uniform and die for our cause.”

There was a stillness in the room now. Even the usual side-chatter had ceased.

You weren’t drunk. Not now. Not here.

You were righteous. Unapologetic. You were chaos in silk, fire behind a senator’s seal.

“They are not tools. They are not assets. They are men. We claim moral superiority while deploying an engineered slave force across the galaxy. We praise the courage of the clones while denying them names, futures, choices.”

A few senators whispered among themselves. Bail Organa looked grim. Mon Mothma’s hands were clasped in silent support. But others—the loyalists, the corporate-backed, the status quo—were already sharpening their rebuttals.

You stared them down.

“The clones are not our property. And if we continue to treat them as such, the Republic is not the democracy we pretend it is.”

You bowed your head. “That’s all.”

And you walked off the podium to the thunderous silence of a room unsure whether to cheer or crucify you.

⸻

You returned to your apartment, dimly lit, your shoes discarded at the door, and your shoulder already aching from tension and too many political threats disguised as advice.

You poured a drink—nothing fancy—and leaned against your balcony rail, staring at the neon jungle below.

“You did good,” you murmured to yourself. “Or at least, you told the truth.”

You raised your glass. “To inconvenient truths.”

That’s when the glass shattered.

You froze. A second bolt followed, scorching the edge of your balcony railing.

Sniper.

You dropped to the floor just as a third bolt zipped over your head, and crawled behind the couch, heart hammering. Your comm was somewhere in your bag across the room. The lights flickered. You could hear movement. Someone was in the apartment.

A shadow shifted across the floor.

Then—crash.

A body slammed through the window behind you, and you screamed, scrabbling backward as the intruder raised a blaster.

But before he could fire—Three red bolts tore through the assassin’s chest.

You blinked, stunned, as the armored figure that followed stepped over the body and into your apartment like the chaos meant nothing.

Crimson armor. Sharp as a blade. Helmet marked with authority.

Commander Thorn.

He scanned the room once, then motioned to his men.

“Clear.”

Two more red-armored Coruscant Guards entered, rifles up, fanning out.

“Senator,” Thorn said, voice clipped. “You’re being placed under full security protection by order of the Chancellor.”

You were still catching your breath. “Nice to meet you too.”

Thorn’s helmet didn’t move. “You were targeted by a professional. It wasn’t random.”

“No kidding,” you muttered, pulling yourself up. “Didn’t think a critic of the military complex would be popular.”

His head tilted slightly. “You’ll be assigned two guards at all times. Myself included.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You? You’re—what, my babysitter now?”

“I’m your shield,” he said coolly. “Whether you like it or not.”

There was steel in his posture, in his voice, but also something else—something unreadable beneath the weight of his duty.

You scoffed, brushing glass off your skirt. “Hope you’re not allergic to disaster, Commander. I tend to attract it.”

“You attract assassins,” he said. “Disaster is just the symptom.”

You paused.

“…You’re kind of intense.”

He stared.

“You’re kind of loud,” he replied.

You blinked—then grinned. “This is going to be so much fun.”

⸻

You woke up to three missed calls, two blistering news headlines, and one very annoyed clone standing guard inside your kitchen.

Thorn hadn’t moved from his post since 0400.

You stumbled in wearing a shirt that definitely wasn’t clean and cradling your hangover like an old lover.

He didn’t even blink at your state.

“Your 0900 meeting with the Chancellor has been moved up,” he said without looking at you. “You’re expected in twenty minutes.”

You opened the fridge. Empty. “Does that meeting come with caf?”

“No.”

“You’re a real charmer, Thorn.”

No answer.

You slapped together something vaguely edible, tossed on the cleanest outfit from the pile on your couch, and let Thorn escort you through the durasteel halls of 500 Republica like a dignified mess being smuggled into a formal event.

Outside your building, the press was already gathered. Dozens of them, hollering questions, waving holorecorders. Most were shouting about your speech. Others were speculating on the assassination attempt.

You lowered your sunglasses, jaw tight.

Thorn’s voice was calm in your ear. “Keep walking. Don’t engage.”

You didn’t.

But you did flash a grin at the cameras.

“Can’t kill the truth, folks!” you shouted over the noise. “Especially not with bad aim!”

Thorn muttered something under his breath, possibly a curse, definitely not a compliment.

⸻

“She’s here?” Palpatine said, glancing toward the door. “Well, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Punctuality was never her strength.”

You walked in like you owned the building. “She can hear you, Sheev.”

Thorn stayed just inside the doorway, silent as ever, arms folded across his chest.

Palpatine gave you a smile that was mostly teeth. “Senator. I trust you’re recovering?”

“I’m not dead,” you said, collapsing into a chair without being asked. “Which is more than I expected, considering how many people are pissed at me right now.”

He folded his hands. “You courted controversy.”

You raised a brow. “I told the truth.”

“A dangerous thing to do in wartime,” he replied smoothly.

You ignored that, leaning forward. “How’d you know, Sheev?”

Palpatine tilted his head. “Know what?”

“That I was in danger. The Guards were in my apartment before my assassin finished climbing in. You reassigned one of the Republic’s best commanders to me. That wasn’t a panic decision. That was preparation.”

He smiled again. “I have… many sources. Intelligence moves quickly.”

“Cut the bantha,” you said, eyes narrowing. “You know something you’re not saying.”

He didn’t deny it. “Perhaps. But for now, consider this a favor from an old friend.”

“Friend,” you scoffed. “You just like having me close where you can monitor the damage.”

He laughed—light, calculated. “That too.”

You stood. “You owe me answers.”

“I owe you safety,” he corrected. “And you owe the Republic your discretion.”

Thorn shifted behind you, a silent shadow.

“Come on, Commander,” you muttered. “Let’s go before I commit a diplomatic incident.”

⸻

The day hadn’t gotten better.

You’d dodged three interviews, gotten a drink thrown at you by a rival senator’s aide, and broken your datapad in half slamming it on a desk during a debate about clone rights.

You flopped onto your couch, exhausted, mascara smudged, shoes kicked off, hair a mess.

Thorn stood by the window like a living sculpture, arms behind his back.

“You don’t say much,” you mumbled.

“Not required.”

“You don’t flinch either.”

“No point.”

You cracked one eye open. “You ever… relax?”

Silence.

You laughed. “Of course not. You’re like a walking bunker.”

More silence.

You looked over at him. “Do you hate me?”

“No.”

“Then why do you look at me like I’m a mess waiting to happen?”

He finally turned his head toward you. “Because you are.”

You blinked—then smiled.

“For a guy who’s made of rules and laser bolts, you’re kinda boring.”

“I’m not here to be fun.”

You sat up, facing him. “Why are you here then, really? Is it just duty? Or did someone decide I was too much trouble to leave unmonitored?”

He didn’t answer.

But he didn’t leave either.

You leaned closer, voice quieter now. “Do you think I’m wrong about the clones?”

“No.”

You blinked.

“But I follow orders,” he said. “You question them. That makes us different.”

You smiled faintly. “Or it makes us the same. You follow orders to protect lives. I break them for the same reason.”

His visor tilted just slightly. “We’ll see.”

And for a moment, the tension between you wasn’t about politics, or rules, or ideology.

It was the electric kind.

The kind that promised more.

⸻

The club was called The Silver Spire, and it was upscale enough for senators to pretend they weren’t slumming it, but scandalous enough that holonet gossipers would have a field day by morning.

You stepped out of the transport wearing a dress that didn’t scream “senator” so much as it whispered come ruin your reputation with me.

Thorn, behind you, said nothing.

Padmé was already waiting at the front with a small group—Senator Chuchi, Bail Organa (reluctantly), and Mon Mothma, who had her hair up and her tolerance down.

Three red-armored Coruscant Guards flanked the entrance, scanning the street. Thorn spoke into his comm lowly as you joined the others.

“Extra security is in place. Interior sweep complete. Rooftop clear.”

Padmé greeted you with a grin. “Tried to get here early so we could actually enjoy ourselves before the whispers start.”

“I’m already hearing whispers,” you said, nudging her. “Mostly from the commander behind me.”

“I don’t whisper,” Thorn said flatly.

Padmé bit a smile. “Clearly.”

Just then, a new figure approached—dark robes, loose tunic, that signature brow of broody disapproval.

“Senator,” Anakin Skywalker said to Padmé, too formally. “Council approved my presence tonight—just as added protection.”

Padmé raised a brow. “Did they?”

“They did,” he said. “Too many of you gathered in one place after a recent assassination attempt… it’s a risk.”

“Right,” you said, sipping your cocktail from a flask you hadn’t told Thorn you’d brought. “And I’m sure it has nothing to do with the fact that Padmé’s here.”

Anakin ignored that. Barely.

Thorn, beside you, was watching the crowd, the rooftops, the angles of the building like he was mapping out a warzone.

You turned slightly toward him. “Do you ever stop scanning?”

“Only when you stop being a walking target.”

You laughed. “So never?”

“Exactly.”

Inside, the music was low and tasteful, the lights golden. You were seated in a semi-private booth, guarded at all angles. The senators tried to act casual—like they weren’t all wearing panic buttons and sipping around holonet spies.

You watched Padmé and Anakin from across the table. They didn’t touch. They didn’t flirt.

But their eyes never really left each other.

You leaned toward Thorn, who stood behind you like a silent monolith.

“Are all Jedi that obvious when they’re trying not to be obvious?”

Thorn didn’t blink. “No.”

You smiled. “So it’s just Skywalker.”

Thorn didn’t answer—but you were almost sure his mouth twitched.

You sat back, swirling your drink. “You ever go out, Commander? When you’re off duty?”

“I’m never off duty.”

“Do you have a bed?”

“Yes.”

“Do you use it or does it stand in the corner like a decoration?”

Thorn finally looked down at you. “Do you ever stop talking?”

“Do you ever start?”

That almost-smile again.

And just like that, the press of people, the chatter, the pretense—it all seemed distant.

Just you and Thorn and the buzz of something quietly building between bulletproof walls.

“Y’know,” you murmured, “you should really enjoy this moment.”

Thorn’s gaze flicked down. “Why?”

You tilted your head. “Because it’s the closest you’ll ever be to letting your guard down.”

For a second, just a second, his eyes lingered.

Not as a soldier. Not as your shield.

As a man.

Then—

“Senator—movement on the south entrance.”

His voice was clipped, all business again. The moment gone.

You stood, heartbeat ticking faster, not because of the threat—but because you hadn’t realized how close you’d gotten to crossing a line neither of you acknowledged.

The commotion turned out to be nothing.

A waiter with nerves and a tray full of champagne had slipped near the side entrance, knocking over a heat lamp and sending sparks into the ornamental drapes.

No fire. No attack.

Just a very excitable Skywalker igniting his saber in the middle of the dance floor like a drama king with no sense of subtlety.

“Code Red!” he shouted. “Everyone get down!”

“Anakin, stand down!” Padmé hissed, yanking his arm. “It’s a spilled drink and a curtain, not a coup.”

You leaned sideways in your booth, already two cocktails and one shot past rational thinking. “Didn’t know Jedi training included interpretive panic.”

Commander Thorn muttered something into his comm as his men de-escalated the scene. His voice was sharp, focused, firm.

Yours was not.

“Commander,” you slurred, tipping your glass slightly in his direction. “You ever seen a lightsaber waved around that fast outside of a bedroom?”

Chuchi nearly snorted her drink. Padmé covered her mouth to hide her laugh.

Mon Mothma gave a long-suffering sigh. “I knew letting her have wine was a mistake.”

You grinned at her, shameless. “Mistakes are just… educational chaos.”

“Stars,” Bail said dryly, “you’re drunker than a Republic budget.”

You slapped the table proudly. “Drunk, but alive! Which is better than last night, thank you very much.”

Thorn exhaled, long and quiet. “You’re done drinking.”

You blinked up at him, all wide eyes and mischief. “You can’t tell me what to do.”

He stared down at you. “You’re under protection detail.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m under you,” you whispered.

Dead silence.

Padmé choked.

Mon Mothma turned very interested in the far wall.

Thorn blinked once, slowly, before turning to the other senators. “Evening’s over. Time to go.”

⸻

You were a pile of glitter, political scandal, and heels. And you refused to walk.

“You’re heavy for someone who doesn’t eat real food,” Thorn grunted, carrying you in full armor up four flights of stairs after you refused the lift, citing, “The lights are judging me.”

You giggled against his shoulder. “You’re comfy. Like a walking shield.”

“That’s literally my job,” he deadpanned.

“I like your voice,” you slurred. “You always sound like you’re disappointed in me.”

“I am.”

You laughed so hard you nearly slid out of his arms.

He adjusted his grip with practiced ease. “You’re going to be hurting in the morning.”

“I already hurt,” you mumbled. “But, like, in a sexy tragic way.”

He snorted. Actually snorted.

You grinned. “Was that a laugh, Commander?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

He deposited you onto your couch with surprising gentleness, removing your heels and placing them neatly aside.

You flopped dramatically. “You missed your calling. Should’ve been a nurse.”

“I don’t have the patience.”

You curled up, eyes closing. “You’re not what I expected.”

He stood over you, helmet off now, expression unreadable. “Neither are you.”

“Is that a compliment?” you asked through a yawn.

He watched you quietly, the chaotic senator turned half-conscious mess under his protection.

“It might be.”

You were half-curled on the couch now, dress hiked slightly, makeup smudged, dignity somewhere on the floor with your shoes. Thorn hadn’t left—not even after you’d settled. He stood a few paces away, helmet off, arms crossed over his broad chest.

Watching. Waiting. Guarding.

“I’m not always like this,” you muttered into the throw pillow. “The drinking. The… dramatics.”

“You don’t need to explain.”

“I do.” You shifted slightly, blinking blearily at him. “I’m supposed to be a leader. I give speeches about justice, fight for ethics, talk about ending the war, and then I come home and pour whiskey over my own hypocrisy.”

His expression didn’t change. But something in his stance eased.

“You’re not a hypocrite,” he said quietly.

You looked up, surprised.

“I’ve seen hypocrites,” he added. “They talk about morality while funding the war. You talk about morality and get shot for it.”

You laughed—low and bitter. “So what does that make me?”

He hesitated. “It makes you dangerous… and honest.”

You sat up slowly, legs tucked beneath you, your eyes catching his in the low apartment light.

“You really think I’m dangerous?” you asked, voice dipping softer.

His jaw ticked. “Not in the way they do.”

That made you smile.

He didn’t move as you stood, slowly, stepping closer. The room felt smaller. Or maybe just warmer. It could’ve been the wine. Or maybe just him—that presence, that gravity. Commander Thorn wasn’t the type of man women flirted with lightly. He didn’t bend. He didn’t soften.

And still… you reached out, fingers brushing his forearm.

“You ever wish you weren’t born for war?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper. “That you could just… be?”

Something flickered in his eyes. Not pain. Not quite. But something quiet. Something unspoken.

“I don’t know what I’d be if I wasn’t a soldier.”

You stepped even closer now, your chest nearly brushing his, head tilted up, eyes locked. “Maybe something softer.”

“I don’t do soft,” he said.

“I noticed.”

And for a heartbeat—just one—you leaned in. Close enough to kiss him. Close enough to feel the heat between you tighten, coil, burn.

But you stopped.

Just short.

Your breath hitched. You stepped back quickly, blinking it all away.

“I should sleep,” you said, a little too quickly.

Thorn didn’t stop you. Didn’t move. But he watched you turn and disappear toward your bedroom, silent and unreadable.

You paused in the doorway. Just once. Just to check.

He was still standing there.

Still watching.

Still unreadable.

⸻

Morning crept in too early.

You cracked one eye open, instantly regretting it.

Head pounding. Mouth dry. Memory foggy. Your brain felt like a poorly written senate proposal—messy, circular, and somehow your fault.

The last thing you remembered clearly was Thorn’s voice. Then his arms. Then…

Stars.

You sat up too fast and nearly fell right back down.

“Water. Water, water, water,” you croaked to the empty room.

A glass appeared on the side table beside you.

You blinked up.

Commander Thorn.

Helmet on now. Fully armored. Exactly how he should look. Except—

He was standing just a bit too close.

“Appreciate it,” you muttered, taking the water. “You didn’t have to stay.”

“I did,” he said simply.

Right. Assigned protection detail. Not a choice. Orders.

Still—something about the way he looked at you felt like choice.

You downed the water and stood slowly, stretching. “So, uh… rough night?”

He didn’t answer.

You didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. The memory of how close you’d gotten—how close you’d almost—

No. You shook it off.

Professionalism. That’s what today needed. That’s what he was good at.

You, less so.

“Thanks for not letting me fall face-first into the street, by the way,” you said lightly, walking past him toward the kitchenette.

His arm brushed yours. Light. Barely a graze. But enough.

Your breath caught.

“Would’ve been an unfortunate headline,” he said. Still steady. Still unreadable.

“Senator turns into pavement garnish?” you replied, trying for a laugh. “Would’ve matched my mood lately.”

He didn’t laugh. But he looked at you. Really looked.

“I meant what I said last night.”

You blinked. “Which part?”

“You’re not a hypocrite.”

You busied yourself making caf, hands a little too shaky, smile a little too bright. “Well, that’s nice of you, Commander.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t fill the silence.

But you could feel it. The tension in the room like a tripwire.

“About last night…” you started, not even knowing where the sentence would end.

“It didn’t happen,” he said smoothly. “You were drunk. I was on duty.”

Right. Of course. Clean line. No moment.

You turned around with your cup. “You’re very good at this.”

“At what?”

“Being a soldier. Not breaking character.”

His eyes met yours behind that visor. “It’s not a character.”

You stepped around him—again too close, again intentional—and he didn’t move. Just let your shoulder skim his chestplate.

“You should eat something,” he said quietly. “Briefing at 0900.”

You nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”

But as you passed, you felt it again—his hand brushed your lower back. Light. Careful. Not an accident.

He didn’t speak again. He didn’t need to.

He wanted you.

And he wouldn’t act on it.

Because that’s what made him him

⸻

The Chancellor’s private dining room was lavish, but you’d long stopped noticing the gold trim and absurd chandeliers. You lounged in your chair, a flute of something far too expensive in hand, pretending you weren’t hungover and avoiding Thorn’s gaze like it was a live thermal detonator.

Across from you, the Supreme Chancellor smiled—too pleasantly, too knowingly.

“Well, if it isn’t the Republic’s most unpredictable idealist,” Palpatine drawled, pouring his own glass. “You’re in the news again.”

You groaned into your drink. “Don’t pretend you don’t love it, Sheev.”

Fox twitched behind the Chancellor, eyes flicking between you and Thorn with that razor-sharp gaze of his. Thorn stood two steps behind your chair—silent, steady, a red-and-white wall of unreadable authority. But Fox saw the difference. The slight tilt of Thorn’s stance. The angle of his chin. The way his eyes never really left you.

It was subtle. Surgical.

But not subtle enough for Fox.

He stepped beside Thorn under the guise of adjusting his vambrace. “You good, Commander?”

Thorn didn’t look at him. “I’m fine.”

“Mm,” Fox murmured. “Right.”

You and the Chancellor kept chatting—well, arguing more than anything. You never could sit through a lunch with Sheev without poking holes in something.

“So,” you said, slicing into your overpriced meal, “how did you know to send guards for me before the assassination attempt? I never requested security.”

The Chancellor’s eyes glinted. “I make it my business to know when my senators are in danger.”

“Your timing was suspiciously perfect.”

“Are you accusing me of conspiracy?” he asked with an arched brow, too amused.

“I’m accusing you of being five moves ahead of everyone, as usual,” you replied dryly.

Behind you, Thorn shifted ever so slightly. Fox noticed that too.

Fox leaned closer, voice low enough only Thorn could hear. “You’ve got a thing for her.”

Thorn said nothing.

“You don’t even flinch when she says the Chancellor’s first name. That’s love or lunacy, vod.”

Still, no reply. Just the twitch of a jaw.

Fox chuckled under his breath, then stepped back to his position, but the damage was done.

You looked back at Thorn over your shoulder, sensing the change. “Everything alright back there, Commander?”

“Yes, Senator,” he said smoothly, though his voice was a little rougher than usual.

You raised a brow. “You seem… tenser than usual. Something in the wine?”

“Possibly,” Fox muttered from across the room.

You narrowed your eyes but let it go. You turned back to the Chancellor, who was watching the exchange with mild curiosity and a hint of amusement, like he was reading a play he already knew the ending to.

“Oh, I like this,” he murmured, smiling into his glass.

You leaned in toward him conspiratorially. “Don’t get clever, Sheev. You’re not writing my love life.”

His smile only widened.

But behind you, Thorn stood stiff as stone—closer than ever.

And Fox, watching it all unfold, didn’t say another word.

But he knew.

⸻

The meeting had ended. Senators filtered out. The Chancellor had retreated to his private chamber. And you? You were gone with a flick of your hand and a half-hearted “Don’t let them kill each other, Commander.”

Now, the room was quieter. Almost peaceful. Almost.

Fox found Thorn where he knew he’d be—by the far window, helmet tucked under one arm, eyes still tracking your last known direction. His posture was perfect, as always. Controlled. Still.

Too still.

Fox stepped up beside him, arms crossed over red plastoid. “You got it bad.”

Thorn’s gaze didn’t shift. “Not the time, Marshal.”

Fox exhaled, slow and deliberate. “Look, I’m not trying to be a di’kut. But you need to hear this—from someone who actually gives a damn about you.”

Thorn’s silence stretched long enough to feel like permission.

“She’s not just another senator. She’s not just your senator.” Fox’s voice dropped low. “She’s his.”

At that, Thorn’s jaw ticked. Just barely. But Fox saw it.

“The Chancellor’s had her back for years. Don’t know why, don’t care. Maybe it’s her mouth, maybe it’s the trouble she causes, maybe it’s guilt—but she’s got more power than half that rotunda and she knows it.”

“I know who she is,” Thorn said quietly.

“Do you?” Fox leaned in, voice tight. “Do you know what he’s capable of when it comes to protecting her?”

Thorn met his eyes then, sharp as a blade.

“I’ve seen what he’s capable of.”

Fox gave a bitter smile. “Then don’t be stupid. Because if something happens—if you’re the reason she gets hurt, distracted, reckless—he won’t just end your career, Thorn. He’ll end you.”

Thorn looked away. “She’s already reckless.”

“But you keep her steady,” Fox snapped. “You’re already involved. I see it. I see the way you track her movements like a sniper. The way your whole body shifts when she’s near.”

He paused, voice softening just a hair.

“I get it. I really do. She’s electric. She makes everyone feel like they’re on fire. Even the Chancellor lets her talk to him like an old friend.”

A beat passed.

“She calls him Sheev, Thorn. That alone should terrify you.”

Thorn didn’t laugh. But something like it ghosted behind his eyes.

Fox straightened. “Just… be careful. Keep your walls up. Because she doesn’t need a guard who forgets who he is. And you don’t need to be another ghost in her story.”

They stood in silence a moment longer—two commanders, scarred and stubborn, still brothers beneath it all.

Then Thorn spoke, low and steady.

“I know what I’m doing.”

Fox shook his head, muttered, “No, you don’t,” and walked away.

Next Chapter

Happy May 4th! Hope you’re having a great weekend!

I was thinking a Bad Batch or 501st, or even 212th x Reader where they’ve been in a relationship (can be platonic) but after some time it’s gone stagnant.

Like how in relationships it takes romance and quality time to keep a relationship alive and in my experience it’s always the guys who forget they have to do more and not just get completely complacent. And the boys need to fight to get her back and keep her. Maybe slip in some jealousy?

Love your writing! 💕

“What We Leave Behind”

The jungle was quiet tonight.

For once, the rain held off. Just the hum of night creatures and distant comm chatter whispered through the dark, while you sat alone beside the supply crates, helmet at your feet and dirt caking your boots.

Cody hadn’t come looking for you.

Again.

He was always somewhere—needed, summoned, occupied—and you understood that. You always had. But lately, it felt like you were something he’d already won. Like he didn’t have to try anymore.

The warmth between you had cooled. No more late-night brushes of fingers or small grins in the mess tent. The distance had grown, and Cody hadn’t fought it. Hadn’t fought for you.

Bly had noticed.

The 327th commander had been respectful, sure—but his gaze lingered longer than it used to. He complimented your marksmanship. Laughed at your dry humor. Today, as you stood beside him surveying troop formations, he’d murmured, “Hard to believe Cody lets you drift so far. If you were mine, I wouldn’t take my eyes off you.”

It was bold. But his tone had been soft, almost regretful. And your smile… well, that had been real.

You hadn’t smiled in days.

Which was exactly when Cody saw.

And said nothing.

Until now.

“There you are.”

His voice rolled low from the shadows. You looked up and found him leaning against a crate, arms crossed, helmet under one arm, jaw tight.

“Yeah?” you said flatly. “If you’re looking for Bly, I think he’s still on comms.”

Cody’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not looking for him.”

“No?” you drawled, standing. “Funny. Seemed like you were staring straight at him when he spoke to me.”

“Because he was staring straight at you.”

You crossed your arms, biting back the bitterness. “Someone had to.”

Cody stepped forward, just enough that the firelight caught the tension in his face. “You think I don’t see you?”

“I think you forgot how to,” you snapped. “I think somewhere along the line, I became part of your routine. Not your choice. Not your fight.”

His brow furrowed. “This is all a fight.”

“Exactly. And you stopped fighting for me.”

He flinched like you’d struck him.

Silence stretched between you—tense, aching, taut as a live wire.

Then, softly, “He doesn’t care about you.”

Your eyes burned. “No. But he noticed me. And I haven’t felt noticed by you in weeks.”

Cody swallowed hard, stepping closer. “I never stopped. I just…” he looked down, then back up with something shattered in his gaze, “I thought I already had you. I didn’t realize I had to keep earning it.”

You were close now—closer than you’d been in days. Your breath hitched as his hand brushed yours.

“I’m not a campaign, Cody. I’m not some territory you claim and forget.”

His touch firmed at your waist, eyes stormy with something between guilt and want. “I didn’t forget. I just—got lost. I’m sorry.”

The kiss came hard—pent-up frustration, regret, longing. You clutched at his armor, grounding yourself in the heat of it. In him.

When you broke apart, gasping against each other in the humid night, you whispered, “Don’t make me feel like I need to be someone else’s, just to remember I’m still worth wanting.”

Cody pressed his forehead to yours. “You’ve always been worth fighting for. I just forgot I needed to keep fighting, even when I thought I’d already won.”

From the tree line, unseen, Bly watched for a moment longer, unreadable behind his visor—before turning away.

Tomorrow, it would rain again. The jungle would close in. The war would keep raging.

But tonight, Cody remembered.