Me: I'll Stay Silent So They Don't Know I'm Judging The Face I'm Silent With:

Ghosts of the Game

Rex x Bounty Hunter!Reader

Timeline: Post-Order 66

⸻

You loved Rex.

That was the problem.

Loving someone like Rex—someone who bled loyalty, who carried honor like a burden on his back—it meant every lie had weight. Every omission chipped a little deeper.

And you’d made a lot of omissions.

Like the fact that the long supply runs and offworld errands you took were less “freelance logistics” and more “tracking people with credits on their heads.”

Or that the blaster you kept in the back of your locker wasn’t for show.

Or that your work boots weren’t scuffed from cargo bays—they were scuffed from being ankle-deep in the Outer Rim’s worst places, chasing scum worse than you.

Rex didn’t know.

And you weren’t ready for him to.

Not because you didn’t trust him, but because you knew him. Knew how he’d look at you if he found out. Not with disgust, but disappointment.

You couldn’t take that. So, you didn’t give him the chance.

He thought you were away for work. You let him believe it.

He let you come home when you could. No questions asked.

And every time he greeted you with that quiet smile, that warm hand at your waist, the trust in his eyes made something in your chest twist sharp and guilty.

⸻

“Target’s down there,” Hunter said, pointing toward the jagged canyon mouth. “Five mercs guarding him. We take them quiet, get in, get out.”

The squad nodded. You crouched beside Rex, hidden behind a crumbling rock wall. Your rifle was primed, your eyes scanning the dust-blown valley below.

From your position, you could see them—mercs, alright. Sloppy formation. No discipline. One of them had their helmet on backwards. You’d seen cleaner work from drunk Rodians.

Wrecker shifted beside you. “Bet I could take ‘em all with just my fists.”

“Only if they die from secondhand embarrassment,” you muttered.

One of the mercs—tall, broad, self-important—stood by the fire and began what could only be described as a speech.

“I’m done being a pawn in someone else’s game!” he bellowed, pacing like he was auditioning for a holodrama. “Time we made our own rules!”

The others grunted. One clapped. Another belched.

You groaned. “Oh, stars. That one again?”

Rex raised a brow. “Again?”

You waved vaguely toward the group. “Every washed-up gun for hire says that eventually. It’s like a rite of passage. They pretend they’re the main character when really, they’re just some rent-a-pawn with delusions of depth.”

Wrecker laughed. “You really don’t like mercs.”

You snorted. “I don’t like hypocrites.”

Rex studied you, something quiet behind his eyes. “You’ve been around this kind of crew before?”

You hesitated just long enough for it to matter. Then: “Yeah. Once or twice. Cargo jobs. Protection gigs. Nothing worth writing home about.”

He nodded, but he didn’t look away right away.

He was starting to ask questions.

Not out loud. Not yet.

But they were there—building behind his eyes, behind every careful glance. You could feel it.

You had to keep it together. Had to keep the story straight.

Because Rex trusted you.

And if he ever found out that while he was building something real with you, you were still out there playing a very different game—hunting, lying, hiding—you didn’t know what that would do.

To him.

To both of you.

⸻

The plan was clean. Simple.

Split the group. Neutralize the mercs. Grab the ex-Imperial and get the hell out.

Of course, it stopped being simple the moment you dropped down from the ridge and landed three meters away from someone who kinda used to know your face.

He was grizzled, thick-skulled, and reeked of old spice and bad choices.

And unfortunately, he was staring right at you.

“Wait a damn second,” he growled, squinting through the dust. “I know you.”

You didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. “You don’t.”

“No—nah, I do. You’re that ghost-runner from—” His eyes lit up. “Lortha 7. The docks. You dropped a guy with a blade to the eye and vanished before the payout even—”

A hard CRACK echoed as the butt of your blaster met the side of his head. He dropped like a sack of nerf shit.

Wrecker whistled. “Kark. Remind me not to piss you off.”

Echo stepped over the merc, nudging his unconscious body. “Well, that was subtle.”

You brushed dust off your jacket like nothing happened. “Guy was clearly hallucinating.”

Rex’s voice cut in low behind you. “Lortha 7?”

You didn’t look at him. “You want to talk geography now?”

“No. I want to talk about why a bottom-tier merc from the Outer Rim thinks he’s worked with you.”

Hunter called out from ahead. “We’ve got the target. Let’s move.”

Bless you, Hunter.

You swept ahead of the group, boots kicking up dirt, but you could feel Rex’s gaze on your back. Curious. Calculating. Not angry—yet—but you knew that look. You’d seen him stare down traitors with softer eyes.

Beside you, Omega jogged to keep up, wide-eyed and beaming. “You were amazing! That guy looked like he was gonna cry before you even hit him!”

You gave her a half-grin. “Good. That means I’m losing my touch. Usually they cry after.”

Omega laughed like it was the best thing she’d heard all week.

Rex—not so much.

⸻

The fire crackled low. Everyone was scattered—Wrecker snoring, Tech nose-deep in a datapad, Howzer half-dozing upright. Hunter was on watch. Omega was curled up beside Gonky.

You were cleaning your blaster.

Rex watched you for a long time before speaking.

“That’s a Relby-K23,” he said. “Not common outside Mandalore or… bounty hunters.”

You didn’t look up. “Got it from a friend.”

“Friend with a bounty license?”

Your fingers paused on the slide. Just for a second.

He caught it.

You kept your voice steady. “What are you getting at, Rex?”

He stepped closer, crouched beside you. His voice was quiet. “You knew how those mercs would move. What they’d say. You called the leader’s bluff before he even opened his mouth.”

“I’ve worked dirty jobs. Doesn’t make me a merc.”

“No,” he agreed. “But then there’s your weapon. The vibroblade in your boot. The way you never flinch at high-value ops. The fact that you never tell me where you’re going when you ‘travel for work’.”

You finally looked at him.

And gods, the way he was looking at you—soft, but betrayed. Like he already knew the truth, but didn’t want to hear it.

You hated that look more than anything.

“I’m not the enemy, Rex.”

“I didn’t say you were.” He nodded slowly. “But I think there’s a part of you I don’t know.”

There it was. No accusation. Just quiet heartbreak.

You exhaled. “I didn’t want to lie. But… I didn’t want to lose what we had either.”

“You still working?” he asked, not harsh, just real.

You didn’t answer.

Which was its own kind of answer.

From the firelight, Omega stirred. “Rex?”

He looked over, gave her a quiet “go back to sleep,” and she did.

When he looked back at you, he was still the man you loved. But there was distance now.

Not anger. Just space.

And you weren’t sure how to cross it yet.

Hi! I love your works! I was wondering if you could write a fic about the 501st who is in love with their female Jedi general?

“Hearts of the 501st”

501st x Reader

Felucia was vibrant and lethal in equal measure—towering mushrooms filtering alien sunlight, thick air buzzing with unfamiliar insects, and a dense undergrowth that clung to your boots like molasses. You pushed aside a broad-leafed plant and stepped into a small clearing where the 501st had already begun establishing a temporary perimeter.

“General on deck,” Jesse called, half out of breath, tossing a lazy salute.

You waved him off with a faint grin. “At ease. Just scouting ahead.”

“Thought we told you we’d handle that,” Rex said as he approached, already brushing bits of foliage off your shoulder with practiced familiarity.

You smiled faintly at the gesture. “You did, and I ignored you. As usual.”

“Yeah, we’re used to that,” Fives muttered to Tup under his breath. “Still doesn’t stop us from trying to keep her alive.”

“She thinks it’s loyalty,” Jesse murmured with a chuckle. “Adorable, isn’t it?”

Hardcase, lugging a heavy case of thermal charges, barked a laugh. “More like tragic. This whole squad’s gone soft.”

“Speak for yourself,” Dogma grunted. “I’m focused.”

“Focused on what? Her ass?” Kix quipped without looking up from his medical kit.

You, of course, had no idea what they were whispering about. The clones had always been close with you—professional, dedicated, respectful. If you noticed the way conversations halted whenever you walked into the room, or how they always seemed to compete for your attention in subtle, strangely personal ways, you chalked it up to a particularly tight-knit unit. One bonded through battle. Through trust.

After all, you shared the front lines. You slept in the dirt beside them. Bled with them. Saved them—and been saved by them more times than you could count.

“General,” Tup said quietly, stepping up beside you, his cheeks dusted pink despite the heat. “Hydration. You haven’t taken a break in hours.”

You took the canteen with a grateful nod. “Thanks, Tup. You’re always looking out for me.”

He looked like he’d been knighted.

⸻

That evening, near the field base You sat cross-legged in the command tent, analyzing the terrain projections while the familiar hum of clone chatter drifted in from the campfire outside. Anakin and Ahsoka lingered near the entrance, arms crossed, watching you work.

“She really doesn’t know,” Ahsoka said quietly, shaking her head.

Anakin followed your movements with an amused glance. “Nope. Not a clue. I don’t think she even realizes she could have the entire 501st building her a temple if she asked.”

“She did ask Fives to carry her backpack last week and he nearly cried.”

“I remember. Jesse said it was ‘the most spiritual moment of his life.’”

They both stifled their laughs as you looked up. “Something funny?”

“Nope,” they said in unison.

“Just, uh…” Anakin motioned vaguely toward your datapad. “Hope that’s got better answers than the last one.”

You raised a brow, but let it go. “We’ll hit the eastern ridge at dawn. I’ll lead the recon.”

“Of course you will,” Ahsoka said, grinning.

The fire crackled low in the center of the camp. Most of the men had finished maintenance checks and settled into their usual banter.

“I swear she said my name differently today,” Jesse said, eyes half-lidded like he was remembering a song. “Like, softer.”

“She says everyone’s name soft,” Kix argued. “It’s called being kind.”

“No, she looked at me,” Jesse insisted.

“She handed me her lightsaber to inspect,” Fives cut in. “Do you hand your saber to someone you don’t trust with your life?”

“She asked me if I was sleeping enough,” Dogma added with a hint of reverence.

“Pretty sure she just worries about your death wish, brother,” Hardcase quipped.

“You lot are pathetic,” Rex muttered, but there was no bite to it. He was staring into the fire, silent for a moment. “She trusts us. That’s enough.”

But even Rex didn’t believe that—not really. Not when you laughed that easy laugh after a mission went right. Not when your shoulder brushed his during strategy briefings and his thoughts short-circuited for a full five seconds. Not when you called him by name, soft and sure, like it meant something more.

⸻

You lay awake in your tent, the soft drone of Felucia’s wild night barely louder than the murmured clone banter outside. You smiled faintly, listening to the comfort of their voices, and whispered to yourself:

“Best unit in the galaxy.”

You really had no idea.

⸻

The jungle had closed in tighter the deeper you went. Trees loomed like ancient sentinels, their bioluminescent vines casting blue and green hues across the mist. Your boots squelched through thick moss as you signaled the squad to halt, raising two fingers to point toward a cluster of Separatist patrol droids sweeping the ridge ahead.

“Fives, Jesse, flank left. I want eyes from that outcrop,” you whispered. “Dogma, with me. Kix, hang back with the heavy—just in case this gets loud.”

They all moved in sync. Always so responsive. Always so ready.

What you didn’t notice was the flicker in Jesse’s eyes when you called Fives’ name first. Or the way Dogma’s jaw tensed when you brushed close to him as you moved up the ridge. Or how Kix lingered a beat too long, watching your retreating form before shaking his head and muttering something under his breath.

The skirmish was over in minutes—clean, quiet, surgical. A dozen droids scattered in pieces across the clearing.

You turned to Fives, heart still beating fast. “That was textbook work. Great movement on the flank.”

He beamed. “Just following your lead, General.”

But something about the way he said it made your stomach flutter. That grin was too… warm. Too personal.

You blinked, trying to shake it off. He’s just proud. That’s normal. Right?

⸻

You sat by a small portable lamp in the command tent, jotting down notes from the recon while the jungle buzzed around you. The flap rustled and Jesse ducked inside, holding a steaming cup.

“Thought you might want some caf,” he said, offering it with a smile—less playful than usual. Quieter.

“Thanks.” You took it, letting your fingers brush his without meaning to. “You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to,” he said simply.

You paused. The heat from the mug had nothing on the warmth spreading up your neck.

He stayed, quiet, hands tucked behind his back like a soldier at parade rest. But he didn’t leave, and you didn’t tell him to.

Not until Fives walked in.

“General,” Fives said, a little too loudly. “Just checking if you’ve eaten. You’ve got a nasty habit of forgetting.”

Jesse straightened slightly. “She’s fine. I brought her caf.”

Fives’ smile faltered. “Right. Well… I made stew. Her favorite.”

You glanced between them. “You two okay?”

“Peachy,” Jesse muttered, stepping out of the tent without another word.

Fives watched him go, lips thinning. Then he turned to you and said, “Don’t let him guilt-trip you. He gets weird about stuff.”

You looked at him sideways. “Stuff like me?”

Fives blinked, like he hadn’t expected the question to come so directly.

“I didn’t mean—nevermind. I’ll just eat later. Thanks for the stew.” You stood, grabbing your datapad and pushing past him, mind whirling.

Something was shifting. You weren’t sure what, but you weren’t imagining it anymore.

The fire was lower now, casting shadows over their faces as the clones gathered close. You sat among them, quiet, watching the way they moved. Noticing things you hadn’t before.

Jesse sat closer than usual, shoulders brushing yours. Fives kept shooting glances your way whenever you laughed at one of Kix’s jokes. Dogma didn’t say much—but his eyes barely left you the entire night. And when you stood up to grab your bedroll, Rex was already there, unfolding it with a softness that caught in your throat.

“Thanks, Rex,” you said.

He hesitated, eyes searching yours. “Of course, General.”

And that—that was what did it.

Something in his voice. The way he said your title like it hurt. Not because it was formal, but because it wasn’t enough.

You barely slept that night.

⸻

The next morning you stood at the front of the squad, explaining the route to a newly discovered Separatist supply outpost when you noticed them: Jesse, Fives, and Dogma—all standing just slightly apart. Not fighting. Not even speaking to each other. But the air between them was tense.

Kix noticed too. He leaned in as the others filed out. “You might want to watch that triangle you’ve unknowingly wandered into, Commander.”

You blinked. “Triangle?”

He gave you a long, knowing look. “More like a pentagon, if we’re being honest.”

You stared after him as he left, that fluttering in your chest blooming into something a little heavier. A little realer.

You thought you understood them. Thought they were just loyal. Just dedicated.

But maybe…

Maybe there was more to this than you let yourself see.

And now, you weren’t sure what to do about it.

⸻

Felucia hadn’t gotten any cooler overnight. The muggy heat clung to your skin like armor, but it wasn’t just the weather that had you feeling unsteady lately.

The clones had always been devoted—but now, their focus on you felt sharper. Their glances lingered longer. Their voices dropped when they spoke your name.

You weren’t imagining it anymore.

And that… scared you more than it should have.

⸻

You crouched over a portable console with Rex, fingers brushing as you both reached for the same wire.

He paused. Just a second too long.

You looked up. “You okay, Captain?”

“Fine,” Rex said. But he didn’t move. Not right away.

“I’m not fragile, you know,” you said gently, trying to smile.

“I know,” he said, voice low. “That’s… kind of the problem.”

Before you could ask what he meant, Hardcase stomped up, practically glowing with pride and holding two ration bars.

“Brought the last of the chocolate ones! And look who I’m giving it to,” he said with a wink, tossing you one.

“You’re too good to me, Hardcase,” you laughed, catching it.

“I try,” he said, puffing out his chest before flicking his gaze toward Rex. “Captain looked like he needed one too, but I figured you deserved it more.”

“Subtle,” Rex muttered.

Hardcase just grinned wider.

⸻

Later that night you paid a visit to the medical tent. Your wrist was bruised. Not bad—just a scuffle with a tangle of thornvine—but the medics insisted on a check-up.

“I told you not to block a shot with your arm,” Kix muttered, gently applying salve as you sat on the edge of a cot.

“I didn’t block it. I intercepted it creatively.”

He snorted, soft. “You know you scare the hell out of us sometimes?”

You looked up. “Us?”

“All of us,” he admitted, quieter now. “Rex won’t say it, but he barely sleeps when you’re on mission. Fives gets twitchy if he can’t see you in his line of sight. Jesse doesn’t even pretend to hide it anymore.”

You blinked at him.

“You too?” you asked before you could stop yourself.

Kix held your gaze. “Would it really surprise you?”

You didn’t answer. Because it did. And it didn’t. And that was… confusing.

Before he could say more, Coric stepped into the tent.

“Everything good?” he asked, glancing between the two of you.

“Fine,” Kix said shortly. “She’s taken care of.”

Coric raised a brow but said nothing, just gave you a faint smile and left.

The silence afterward buzzed like static.

⸻

The morning started off normally enough.

Warm-up sparring. Partner rotations. But when you paired off with Rex, things shifted.

He was precise, careful, calculated. He always had been. But when your saber skimmed a little too close, and he reached out to stop your momentum—

His hand settled at your waist. Not for balance. Not for combat.

You froze.

So did he.

“…Sorry,” he said, voice hoarse, withdrawing quickly.

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t. Because your heart was pounding.

And then came Hardcase, throwing himself between you two, laughing as he tossed you a training staff. “Mind if I cut in?”

Rex stepped back without a word.

You sparred with Hardcase next, but the smile you gave him didn’t quite reach your eyes. Not anymore.

Next chapter

“Crimson Huntress” pt.1

Summary: Togruta bounty hunter Sha’rali Jurok takes a solo job to retrieve a rogue clone on Felucia. With her two deadly droids—an aggressive astromech and a lethal butler unit—she walks into a Separatist trap and uncovers a mission far more dangerous than advertised.

OC Main Character list:

Sha’rali Jurok – Togruta bounty hunter; cold, calculating, highly skilled.

R9 – Aggressive and foul-tempered Purple and gold plated astromech droid with a flair for destruction and sarcasm.

K4-VN7 – Polished, eloquent, and terrifyingly efficient combat butler droid. Built from scratch to kill with elegance.

CT-4023 – An ARC trooper deserter from Umbara, traumatized and hiding dark secrets.

⸻

No one ever looked up in places like this.

Too many shadows. Too many reasons to keep your head down. The air inside the station’s lower ring was a stew of recycled carbon, rotgut fumes, and quiet desperation. Pipes wept steam like open wounds. Light was an afterthought.

But high above the foot traffic, perched on a rusted catwalk like a vulture watching prey, stood a silhouette draped in black.

Sha’rali Jurok didn’t move.

Six-foot-three of poised muscle and scarred armor, she waited with the stillness of a born predator. The dim lights kissed the edges of her obsidian chestplate, brushed against the bronze trim curling over her pauldrons like war glyphs. Her montrals swept high and long, twin spires framed in shadow. Her coral-pink skin peeked through weathered gaps in her gear, etched with fierce white markings.

She didn’t flinch when the blasterfire echoed from three decks below.

She was waiting.

A sharp series of binary chirps cut through the noise in her helmet feed.

“Target acquired. Location pinging now.”

The message came from a rolling menace of purple and gold—a heavily customized astromech droid barreling down a side corridor at breakneck speed. It screeched in fury as a pair of thugs tried to intercept it, deployed a shock arm, and lit one of them up with a jolt strong enough to drop a Wookiee. The second man turned to run. The droid revved louder, popped out a sawblade, and chased after him with a gleeful wail.

Sha’rali sighed. “Subtlety’s dead, then.”

The third figure, K4-VN7, stepped up beside her like a ghost in polished rose gold. Humanoid in build, tall and slim, the droid moved with the elegant posture of a high-born noble—only he wasn’t meant to serve tea. His chassis was streamlined, his hands too steady, his frame too balanced. Every inch of him suggested killing disguised as courtesy.

“Your astromech appears to be under the impression this is a battlefield,” the rose-gold droid observed in a smooth, accented voice. “Not a scouting operation.”

“R9 thinks everything is a battlefield,” she replied flatly.

“A charming trait,” he said. “If you’re in the habit of raising buildings to the ground.”

Sha’rali glanced sideways. “Remind me which one of you decapitated a Pyke courier because he insulted your coat?”

“I didn’t decapitate him,” the droid said with casual precision. “I surgically separated his head from his spine. And I had asked him nicely.”

She allowed herself half a smirk. It was gone as quickly as it came.

They dropped together into the industrial underlevels. The station below stank of synthspice, oil, and urine. Slave collars glinted from shadowed alleyways. Scum and suffering layered the walls like rust.

Her boots hit the metal with a clang.

R9 zoomed around the corner, screeching wildly, the smoldering remains of something twitching in its wake. The droid rotated its dome toward Sha’rali, deployed a data-spike, and slammed it into a nearby console with the enthusiasm of a child stabbing a fork into cake.

A holomap flickered to life.

Target marked.

“Well,” the K4-VN7 said, brushing invisible dust from his long coat. “Shall we go commit some light murder?”

Sha’rali drew her rifle from her back and cocked the charging pin.

“No,” she said, voice low and edged. “We commit justice. Murder’s just the payment method.”

⸻

The corridor reeked of ammonia and blood.

They moved in silence now—no more banter. Sha’rali’s boots made no sound on the grated floor, her movements honed by years of tracking quarry through worse places than this. Her armor blended with the shadows, matte black plates drinking in the station’s flickering emergency light.

Ahead, a red blinking dot pulsed on her HUD. The target. Traced by R9’s slicing from a local maintenance hub.

The man she was hunting had once been muscle for the Black Sun. Not subtle, not smart—but sadistic. He’d skipped out on a deal with Jabba the Hutt, and when a Hutt calls for blood, you don’t ask questions. You just bring it.

She raised her left hand—a silent signal.

Behind her, the rose-gold butler droid stilled instantly. It tilted its head, listening to the faint echo of movement up ahead. The sound of heavy boots, a muttered curse, a weapon being checked. Then two. Maybe three others with him.

R9, crouched low and dirty beside a leaky pipe, emitted a shrill string of chirps that could only be described as vulgar enthusiasm.

Sha’rali nodded once.

Go.

The astromech shot forward like a hyperspace dart, wheels squealing and shock arms primed. He launched a small probe into the ceiling vent with a clink, and seconds later, every overhead light in the corridor surged, flared—

—and died.

Darkness swallowed the hallway.

Screams echoed before the first shot was even fired.

Sha’rali dropped into a roll, came up with her rifle raised, and shot a Nikto thug clean through the chest. The impact lit up the corridor in a flash of orange and smoke. She advanced without hesitation, slapping a stun grenade onto a bulkhead and spinning off the wall as it blew.

A Klatooinian charged her with a vibro-axe. She ducked under the swing and drove her elbow into his throat, then leveled her blaster and dropped him at point-blank range.

Behind her, K4-VN7 moved like death on a dancefloor.

“Please remain still,” he said, grabbing a screaming Devaronian by the shoulders and driving him into the floor hard enough to dent the plating. The droid flicked a vibro-blade from his wrist and plunged it through the back of the man’s neck. “Thank you for your cooperation.”

R9 let out a triumphant screech and blew a hole in the bulkhead, exposing a rusted hatch beyond. Sparks rained down.

Sha’rali stepped over the corpses, her rifle trained forward. Her lekku shifted behind her as she approached the hatch.

“He’s in there,” she said.

The butler droid dusted blood from his chassis. “Shall I knock?”

Sha’rali didn’t answer.

She kicked the hatch in.

The room beyond was small, low-lit, hot. A half-stripped power core hummed in the corner. The Black Sun lieutenant crouched behind a stack of crates, wide-eyed and sweating, a heavy blaster in his shaking hands.

“Y-you don’t have to do this,” he stammered, as Sha’rali stepped inside, calm and slow. “I can pay. I can outbid Jabba—whatever he’s offering you, I’ll double—triple it.”

She didn’t blink. “He’s not paying me to talk.”

His finger twitched on the trigger.

She shot first.

A single bolt punched through his wrist, sending the blaster spinning. He howled in pain, collapsing backward against the wall, blood running over his fingers.

R9 rolled in and deployed a small, brutal-looking saw. He revved it threateningly, beeping what might’ve been the astromech equivalent of “I dare you to move.”

The Black Sun enforcer whimpered.

Sha’rali crouched in front of him, face calm, voice like a vibroblade sheathed in silk.

“Jabba wanted you alive.” A beat. “But he didn’t say how much.”

She lifted her comlink. “Target secured. Prep the binders. We’re delivering to Tattoine.”

K4-VN7 tilted his head. “Shall I extract a souvenir for Lord Jabba? Perhaps an ear?”

R9 cheered.

Sha’rali stood. “Keep him breathing. For now.”

⸻

The suns were cruel today.

Tatooine’s twin stars hung like molten coins above the dune sea, turning armor into ovens and sweat into salt crust. Even with a heat-absorption cloak draped over her shoulders, Sha’rali could feel her lekku ache from the sunburn beneath.

R9 screeched in protest as its treads kicked up dust. The astromech, slathered in a new layer of carbon scoring and dried blood, had refused to ride in the hold. He rolled beside her like a tiny war-god on wheels, his purple and gold frame gleaming in the sunlight like a dare to the galaxy.

Behind them, K4-VN7 hauled a repulsor-gurney with their prisoner strapped to it—still barely conscious, mouth gagged, one arm missing. It was wrapped, of course. This was still business.

The gates to Jabba’s palace loomed ahead, cracked open just wide enough for her to smell roasted meat and hear the bassline of a Hutt’s indulgent soundtrack: booming drums, offbeat strings, alien instruments that sounded like violence in slow motion.

They didn’t knock.

The guards knew who she was.

Two Weequays parted with wary expressions. One muttered into a wrist comm. Another took one look at R9’s spinning buzzsaw attachment and immediately backed up.

“Nice to be remembered,” she muttered.

Inside the palace the heat didn’t leave. It just changed form—from desert furnace to thick, sour, flesh-heated humidity. The great hall was alive with noise, low-slung thugs, enforcers, offworld dancers, a few droids rigged with restraining bolts and serving trays.

Sha’rali strode through the rot like she belonged.

Because she did.

Then she heard it—a voice that made her jaw clench.

“Well, well. Didn’t think they let ghosts back in here.”

She turned slowly.

Leaning against one of the archways was a woman she’d shot once—in the shoulder, on Ord Mantell.

This was Latts Razzi, wrapped in black silks and armor pieces, her electro-whip coiled lazily at her hip.

“What do you want, Razzi?” Sha’rali asked.

Latts grinned. “Word was you were dead. Or retired. Or retired and dead. But here you are, dragging in meat for the slug.”

“Better than selling spice to backwater Rodians.”

Another voice joined in—deep, accented, amused. Embo.

His wide-brimmed hat cast a shadow over his eyes, but the tilt of his head suggested approval. His pet anooba growled low at R9, who spun his dome in a slow circle of warning.

“Charming crowd,” the rose-gold droid intoned behind her. “Do let me know when I should start breaking limbs.”

Jabba’s booming laugh saved them from escalation. He sat atop his throne now, drool wetting the furs beneath him, jowls rippling with joy as he saw the prisoner wheeled forward.

“Sha’rali Jurok,” the Hutt oozed in Huttese. “My red ghost returns.”

She inclined her head slightly. “I brought what you asked for.”

K4-VN7 gave the prisoner a casual shove, causing the body to slide and thud into the steps of the throne. The guards flinched. Jabba’s tail twitched, delighted.

The Nikto handler stepped up, scanned the target’s biochip, and gave a nod.

Jabba chuckled. “You always deliver. Perhaps next time, I send you after someone worth your skill.”

Sha’rali said nothing.

Latts leaned in again. “You know Jabba’s got a job coming up on Felucia, right? Clone deserter. Former ARC. Very high-value. Heard Bossk wants it.”

Sha’rali arched a brow. “Let Bossk try. I finish what others choke on.”

A low chuckle from Embo. Respect.

“Will there be refreshments?” the rose-gold droid asked politely. “My photoreceptors are fogging.”

Jabba bellowed again, more amused than ever.

“Take what you will. The palace is open tonight…”

Sha’rali turned away from the Hutt’s throne, credits heavy in her pouch, enemies and allies alike at her back. The Clone Wars raged on far beyond these walls, but here in Jabba’s court, loyalty was a negotiation and violence a language everyone spoke.

She felt the next hunt coming.

She always did.

⸻

Bossk had laughed. Loudly. Cruelly.

“You’re taking that Felucia job alone?” he snarled, all fangs and thick claws. “Hah! You’ll end up part of the jungle. Buried in some sarlacc-wannabe’s gullet.”

Sha’rali hadn’t blinked. “I don’t split paychecks.”

“Good way to get killed,” Bossk growled.

Boba Fett, barely Twelve and still wearing armor too big for him, added, “Maybe she likes dying slow. Heard those Felucian beasts like to drag it out.”

She hadn’t dignified that with an answer. Just turned on her heel and left.

Let them scoff.

They weren’t getting paid.

⸻

Felucia stank of wet rot and death.

Every breath of air was thick with spores. Giant fungal towers loomed above the jungle floor, sweating bioluminescence and feeding on the decay below. Vines hung like nooses. The sun filtered in weak and green.

Sha’rali moved like she belonged to the planet—low, quiet, sharp-eyed. Her armor had already taken on a fine film of blue pollen, but she didn’t bother wiping it. It would just come back. The whole world felt alive, like it was watching her from every direction.

Which it was.

She adjusted the satchel on her back and muttered, “Still no signal?”

R9, rolling carefully over a tangle of oversized roots, let out a grumpy bloop and extended a scanner dish. Static. The astromech pulsed red. Interference from deep-energy Separatist tech. Something big was here.

K4 walking a step behind her with perfect posture, scanned the treeline. “I believe something is tracking us,” he said pleasantly. “And I don’t mean the bugs.”

Sha’rali didn’t slow her pace. “Let them. I’m not the one bleeding.”

The clone deserter she was tracking had reportedly gone rogue after an OP on Umbara. CT-4023, vanished into the jungle months ago. Word was, he’d lost his whole squad in one night. No bodycams. No comm logs. Just silence and redacted reports.

That meant trauma. That meant instability. And unstable soldiers were dangerous, especially to people like Jabba who had loose investments in black-market clone tech.

R9 let out a shrill alarm—motion detected, thirty meters ahead.

Sha’rali dropped into cover.

“Scouting droid,” the butler droid confirmed a moment later, eyes glowing faint blue. “Separatist make. Old model, but still deadly if it screams.”

She whispered, “Disable it. Quietly.”

The droid drew a slim, needle-like dart from his sleeve and flicked his wrist. Pssst-thunk.

The droid overhead twitched once—then crashed to the ground in silence.

“Nicely done,” she murmured.

“I do enjoy precision.”

An hour later, they found the outpost.

Half-hidden under a ridge of bioluminescent mushrooms, the Separatist bunker hummed with unnatural energy. Camouflaged tanks sat idle. Patrols of B1 battle droids marched in lazy loops. But there were heavier units too—spindly, gleaming super battle droids and a tactical droid barking orders in binary to something inside.

Sha’rali narrowed her eyes.

The deserter wasn’t just hiding from bounty hunters.

He was protected.

Or… captured.

“Options?” the rose-gold droid asked.

“Go in loud,” R9 offered via a cheery, escalating sequence of beeps, spinning a small grenade launcher from his chassis.

“Tempting,” Sha’rali replied. “But I want eyes on him first.”

She drew a pair of electrobinoculars and scoped the inner compound.

There—cellblock nine. A humanoid figure, tall, scarred, seated on the floor with a head in his hands. Tatty clone armor. Partial ARC insignia. No helmet.

Her quarry.

Still alive.

That’s when the sniper droid fired.

The bolt kissed her pauldron—scraping past with a hiss of melted metal. She dove, rolled, fired twice—striking the sniper’s perch and causing a detonation that set a quarter of the jungle ablaze.

The Separatist camp lit up like a kicked hornet’s nest.

Alarms blared.

“Stealth,” the rose-gold droid sighed. “A fleeting dream.”

R9 screamed in binary, launched a wrist-rocket, and blasted a pair of B1s to pieces.

Sha’rali slapped a charge to her rifle and broke into a sprint. “We’re going in loud after all.”

The jungle screamed.

Plasma bolts cracked through the air like lightning in a storm. Trees burst into flame. The blue-green foliage glowed eerily under blaster light, casting jagged shadows across the uneven ground.

Sha’rali moved like water—fast, silent, deadly.

She dropped low behind a bulbous root, ripped a flash-charge from her belt, and lobbed it underhand. It bounced twice, then burst with a thunderclap of white.

The line of B1s went down screeching in scrambled code, sensors fried.

“R9, left!” she barked.

The astromech shrieked in challenge and surged forward, a buzzsaw whirling from one compartment while its flame nozzle hissed out the other. It hit a squad of advancing droids like a demon-possessed cannonball, slicing through one’s leg and immolating another’s head with a casual fwoosh.

The jungle screamed.

Plasma bolts cracked through the air like lightning in a storm. Trees burst into flame. The blue-green foliage glowed eerily under blaster light, casting jagged shadows across the uneven ground.

Sha’rali moved like water—fast, silent, deadly.

She dropped low behind a bulbous root, ripped a flash-charge from her belt, and lobbed it underhand. It bounced twice, then burst with a thunderclap of white.

The line of B1s went down screeching in scrambled code, sensors fried.

“R9, left!” she barked.

The astromech shrieked in challenge and surged forward, a buzzsaw whirling from one compartment while its flame nozzle hissed out the other. It hit a squad of advancing droids like a demon-possessed cannonball, slicing through one’s leg and immolating another’s head with a casual fwoosh.

Behind her, K4-VN7 moved with the grace of a blade dancer.

The droid’s rose-gold frame glinted with controlled menace, fingers twitching as his internal targeting locked onto the super battle droid rounding the ridge.

“Permission to escalate?” K4 asked smoothly.

“Granted,” Sha’rali said.

A micro-rocket fired from his wrist. The impact threw the super battle droid into the fungal wall with such force it split the caps open, oozing bright green pus onto its burning carcass.

Still, they kept coming.

From the ridge above, a tactical droid gave new orders in harsh binary. More fire rained down—precision bolts, cutting through trees and laying suppression zones around the cell block where the deserter was kept.

“CT-4023,” Sha’rali said aloud, ducking low and sliding beneath a crumbling log. “Still alive, still locked up.”

“You intend to extract him mid-firefight?” K4 asked, stepping over her and calmly shattering a B1’s neck with one open palm. “That seems… optimistic.”

“Not extract,” she grunted, firing two shots over her shoulder. “Drag.”

The final push came fast and hard.

K4 ripped open the bunker’s rear access panel. R9 hacked into the door seal with a spray of sparks and shrill swearing in binary. Inside, the cell block was dark, flickering, full of dead power conduits.

And there he was.

CT-4023.

Slumped in the corner of a containment cell, armor half gone, arm in a crude sling made from trooper plating and bloody cloth. Eyes sunken. Jaw bristled with patchy stubble. A long scar curved under one eye, old and raw like a failed surgery.

He looked up at them as the door opened, gaze unfocused. Not afraid. Not confused. Just… tired.

Sha’rali stepped forward, weapon lowered.

“CT-4023. You’re coming with us.”

He didn’t move. Just said, flatly, “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“Neither are you,” she replied.

They didn’t make it far.

It was the seismic charge that did it—one of the new models, the ones that didn’t boom so much as erase. The ground behind them warped with sudden light, the shockwave launching Sha’rali and K4 into a tangle of pulsing vines.

R9 screeched in horror as his dome sparked.

Before she could rise, something heavy struck her temple—metal, hard, fast.

She hit the dirt.

⸻

She woke cuffed in a holding cell aboard a Separatist prison barge. The air smelled like oil and chloroform. Her head throbbed with a low, punishing ache.

R9 was in a stasis lock across from her, magnetized to the floor.

K4 sat beside her, unpowered but intact. For now.

CT-4023 was hunched against the far wall, silent, his eyes closed like he’d already accepted this as fate.

A pair of B2s clanked past the cell’s viewplate.

Overhead, the ship’s engines roared to life—course set, coordinates locked.

They were being taken off-world.

And whatever the original job had been… this had just become something much bigger.

⸻

The hum of the Separatist prison barge was constant and low, like a predator breathing just out of sight.

Sha’rali sat cross-legged in the middle of the cell, arms resting casually on her knees, even though her wrists were still bound with mag-cuffs. She’d already tried dislocating her thumb—twice. The cuffs just re-tightened with every move.

R9 was still magnetized to the wall across from her, only his central eye active, pulsing red like an irritated wound. K4-VN7 sat beside him, rebooting slowly—his internal systems taxed from damage during the firefight.

The only other occupant, slouched in the back corner, hadn’t spoken since the ship lifted off.

CT-4023.

His armor was a battered mix of Phase I and II, scraped and dulled. No insignia. Just a partial ARC tattoo on one bicep and the dull glint of his CT number, etched into the plastoid by hand. His eyes were half-lidded, watching the floor like it might open up and swallow him.

She studied him openly now.

Broad shoulders. Tension in the jaw. A man used to holding the line. But the hollowness in his expression said he’d lost everything that mattered.

“Pretty quiet for someone with a bounty on his head,” she said.

Nothing.

She leaned back slightly. “You gonna tell me why you were holed up on Felucia in a Separatist bunker?”

Still no answer.

She sighed. “Alright, fine. I’ll go first.”

Her voice lowered. “Job came from Jabba. He’s got an interest in clone deserters lately—especially ones with ARC credentials. Seems he thinks there’s something valuable in that pretty little head of yours. Codes. Maps. Maybe just memories he can sell to the highest bidder. Who knows.”

That got a flicker.

CT-4023 raised his gaze, slow and sharp. “You work for the Hutts?”

Sha’rali smiled without humor. “I work for credits. Hutts pay well for ghosts like you.”

“You came alone?”

“Wasn’t planning to share your bounty.”

He gave a soft, bitter laugh. It died in his throat almost instantly.

A long silence passed before she asked, quieter now, “What do I call you?”

He looked away.

“Your name,” she prompted.

“Doesn’t matter.”

Her brow furrowed.

He added, flatly, “Everyone who knew it’s dead now.”

The words landed heavy, like the click of a sealed coffin.

She didn’t respond immediately. Just stared at him. Not in pity—but in understanding. Loss had a shape, and it wore the same tired expression across species, planets, and wars.

“CT-4023, then,” she said. “Not much of a name, but it’ll do.”

He leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes again. “Don’t get comfortable with it.”

Sha’rali leaned forward slightly, her voice lower, more curious than confrontational. “You weren’t hiding from the war.”

He didn’t answer.

“You were hiding from your past.”

Still nothing.

She exhaled slowly and leaned her head back against the cold durasteel wall. “Yeah,” she murmured. “Aren’t we all.”

Outside the cell, the lights flickered red.

The intercom crackled in Binary. K4’s eyes reactivated in a flash of sapphire light.

“We’re coming out of hyperspace,” he said calmly, voice newly rebooted. “Judging by the vector… I believe we’re approaching Saleucami.”

Sha’rali blinked.

Saleucami wasn’t a Separatist stronghold.

It was a staging world.

Something was wrong.

CT-4023’s eyes opened again—fully, alert now. His voice dropped to a whisper.

“They’re not taking us to a prison.”

⸻

The air in the Saleucami compound was thick with recycled heat and chemical burn.

A Separatist facility, buried deep beneath the arid surface—off-grid, quiet, designed not for prisoners of war, but for assets. There were no prison cells. Just sterile rooms, surgical lights, and soundproof walls.

CT-4023 was dragged from the transport first.

He didn’t fight. Didn’t flinch.

Only his eyes moved—watching, cataloging, waiting.

They strapped him into a durasteel chair bolted to the floor. Arms pinned wide. Legs secured. Cables snaked down from the ceiling and tapped into the restraint frame, powering the table with an ominous, pulsing hum.

The technician droid’s voice was emotionless. “You are in possession of Republic intelligence. Please verify encryption key.”

The clone didn’t speak.

“CT-4023, verify encryption key.”

Nothing.

The voltage hit his spine in white-hot arcs, burning through his nervous system like wildfire.

He didn’t scream. His jaw clenched tight. Every muscle in his body seized. The smell of scorched skin filled the room.

Still—no words.

Again. And again. The machine changed tactics: neural pulses. Flash-cranial scans. Biofeedback loop interrogation.

He didn’t give them a name. Not a number. Not a lie. Nothing.

By the fourth hour, he was bleeding from the mouth, both eyes bloodshot, breathing shallow. But still alive. Still silent.

When they pulled him out, the technicians were muttering.

“He wants to die.”

Sha’rali watched him slump to the floor of the holding chamber.

She was already cuffed to the interrogation slab, reclining like it was a lounge chair instead of a torture frame. Her expression didn’t flinch.

“Take notes,” she said flatly. “He’s not gonna break. He’s past that.”

A B1 clanked forward. “State your mission. Why did you extract CT-4023 from the bunker?”

She raised one brow lazily. “You think that’s extraction?”

“Answer the question.”

Sha’rali yawned.

A taller, insectoid Neimoidian stepped in now—robed in black, clearly the one in charge. His voice was rasping, with oily menace. “You work for the Republic?”

She laughed. “Oh stars, no.”

“Then for whom?”

“Someone who values what’s in his head,” she replied. “A client with… flexible morals and deep pockets.”

The Neimoidian frowned. “What intelligence does CT-4023 possess?”

Sha’rali smirked. “You tried four hours and a spinal voltage rack to find out. I’m just the delivery service, remember?”

A pause. Then the interrogator leaned closer. “You will tell us your employer. And your mission.”

She studied him for a beat, then tilted her head—expression cool, unreadable.

“Let me tell you something about torture,” she began, voice eerily calm. “It’s not about the truth. It never is. It’s about control. Dominance. Breaking people until they’ll say anything just to make it stop.”

The B1 made a confused beep. She ignored it.

“You want answers, but you’re using the wrong method. Torture’s messy. Inconsistent. You think you’re getting gold but most of the time it’s just blood-soaked garbage. Want to know how I know?”

She leaned forward against her restraints, her voice dropping into something darker.

“Because I do it for fun.”

The interrogator stiffened.

“I’ve peeled lies out of the toughest mercs on Nar Shaddaa. Pried secrets out of smugglers, spies, even Jedi. You know what most people confess to under duress?” Her eyes narrowed. “That they believe the moon’s made of cheese. That they’re married to droids. That they can hear worms sing.”

Silence.

“Torture’s not reliable,” she finished coolly. “But it is entertaining.”

The room went cold.

The Neimoidian slowly stepped back.

Sha’rali sat back, smiling with something halfway between pride and threat.

“Go on then. Shock me. Burn me. Cut me open. I’ll tell you the same thing your droid could’ve: I’m here for the credits. No flag, no cause. Just the thrill of the hunt.”

The lights dimmed. The hum of the room paused.

The interrogator turned and gestured to the droids. “Return her to holding. Increase surveillance. She’s not bluffing.”

⸻

Back in the holding room, CT-4023 hadn’t moved.

Sha’rali was thrown in with a hiss of hydraulics. She rolled onto her knees, sore but intact.

They sat in silence for a while. The hum of distant machinery echoed like a heartbeat.

“You didn’t break,” she said eventually.

He didn’t look at her. “Didn’t need to.”

“You want to die?”

His jaw twitched. Still no answer.

She leaned her head back against the wall again, voice lower now. Less sharp. “You think whatever’s in your head isn’t worth protecting. But someone else thinks it is.”

Finally, finally, he looked at her.

His voice was hoarse. “Why’d you talk like that in there?”

She smiled faintly. “To waste their time.”

A pause.

“…thanks,” he muttered, almost too quiet to hear.

Sha’rali tilted her head toward him. “Don’t get comfortable with it.”

⸻

Coruscant. Jedi Temple.

Rain slid down the outer transparisteel panes of the High Council chamber, streaking the glass like tears. The mood inside was colder.

Master Plo Koon leaned forward, his voice gravel-soft. “The confirmation comes directly from our intelligence outpost on Felucia. CT-4023 has been taken alive by Separatist forces.”

Across from him, Mace Windu folded his hands. “That clone was listed as KIA on Umbara.”

“Apparently,” Ki-Adi-Mundi said, “he survived. Went dark.”

“And the bounty hunter?” asked Master Saesee Tiin.

Plo’s voice dropped. “Identified as a Togruta named Sha’rali Jurok. Wanted in five systems. Independent. Dangerous. Not affiliated with the Republic or Separatists, but… she retrieved CT-4023 before they were both captured in the firefight.”

“A complication,” Mace muttered.

“She’s irrelevant,” said Master Windu. “CT-4023 is the priority. An ARC with classified field data, possibly firsthand intel from Umbara’s black ops campaign? If that information is extracted, the Separatists could exploit it system-wide.”

Yoda nodded slowly, fingers laced. “Retrieve him… we must.”

“And what of the bounty hunter?” Obi-Wan’s voice was softer, curious rather than concerned.

“She’s not our problem,” Mace replied. “If she gets in the way—Delta Squad will handle it.”

⸻

The lights dimmed as a hologram of Saleucami rotated slowly above the table. Delta Squad stood at attention—Scorch cracking his knuckles, Sev adjusting his rifle strap, Fixer dead silent, and Boss straight-backed with his helmet under one arm.

“Mission is simple,” said the admiral at the head of the table. “CT-4023 is alive and being held underground at a Separatist facility. Deep scan picked up irregular ion shielding—it’s well-hidden, but not impenetrable.”

“Target status?” asked Boss.

“Unknown physical condition, but signs of recent neural interference suggest they’re attempting to extract intel. You are to enter, retrieve the clone, and exfil. Silent if possible. Loud if necessary.”

“What about the bounty hunter?” Fixer asked dryly.

“Non-priority. You are authorized to eliminate if she poses a threat to recovery.”

“Copy that,” said Boss.

The admiral continued. “Delta, you will not be alone. Jedi support is being deployed to reinforce your extraction window—but do not rely on them for the initial op.”

“Who are the Jedi?” Sev asked.

The doors behind them hissed open.

Two Jedi entered. The first, a tall, lean Zabrak with a rigid posture and calculating gaze—Master Eeth Koth. The other, a calm, composed Nautolan with piercing blue eyes and lightsaber scars along his arms—Kit Fisto.

“We’ll intercept any reinforcements from orbit or planetary staging areas,” Kit said warmly, but with weight behind the smile. “If they’re moving the prisoner off-world, we’ll stop it.”

“We’re not here to babysit,” Eeth Koth added. “Delta leads the infiltration. We’ll clean up what follows.”

Boss gave a tight nod. “Copy that.”

The admiral gestured to the map again. “You insert at 0200. Stealth first. If that fails… don’t leave any survivors. Not with what’s in that clone’s head.”

⸻

In the dim light of the cell, CT-4023 leaned back against the wall, wrists bruised, jaw clenched, his eyes locked on nothing.

Sha’rali Jurok sat cross-legged on the floor, idly carving something into the wall with a chipped scrap of durasteel.

“They’re not done with us,” she said idly.

“I know,” CT-4023 muttered.

“You think someone’s coming for you?”

He didn’t respond right away. A long silence. Then, “Maybe.”

She scoffed. “Guess you’re lucky. They don’t come for people like me.”

More silence.

Outside the holding cell, a B2 battle droid stomped into position. A red light blinked above the cell door.

Something was shifting.

High above the planet, far beyond the clouds and smog, a stealth transport emerged from hyperspace—black against the stars.

Delta Squad was coming.

And only one of them mattered to the Republic.

⸻

Next Part

“War on Two Fronts” pt.6

Captain Rex x Reader x Commander Bacara

⸻

The Coruscant skyline blurred outside the high-rise window, but she wasn’t really looking at it.

Lights moved. Ships passed. Life carried on.

And yet, she sat still—perched on the edge of the cot in the temporary quarters she’d been granted for this brief return. Her armor was half-off, discarded in pieces across the room. Her saber lay untouched on the table beside her. Fingers twisted the edge of her undersleeve, tugging it, letting go, tugging again.

Her breathing had finally steadied.

But the storm inside hadn’t.

That training room scene played again and again behind her eyes—the shouting, the aggression, the way they’d both stood there like she was some sort of prize. Like her heart was something to be won, not understood.

And for a moment, she hated them both.

Not just for what they did.

But for making her feel small.

For making her doubt herself.

She closed her eyes, leaning forward to rest her arms on her knees. Stars, how had it come to this? She’d survived battles. Held diplomatic ground under fire. She’d stood toe-to-toe with Council members. And yet the moment her heart became involved—she unraveled.

She thought of Bacara first. Of the kiss. The rawness of it. How he touched her like he didn’t know if he’d ever get the chance again.

And yet—he barely said anything. He kept her at a distance until the moment emotion exploded out of him like blaster fire.

Then Rex. Steady. Soft. Listening. But no less possessive when pushed. He was a better man, she thought. A better soldier. But still… a soldier. Still bound by something that meant she’d always be second to the cause.

Were either of them truly what she wanted?

Or had she been so starved for something that felt real in the chaos of war, that she clung to anything that looked like affection?

She stood and crossed the room, pacing, trying to shake the ache out of her bones. Her hand brushed the window frame.

And quietly, bitterly, she whispered to herself—

“Maybe I don’t want either of them.”

Maybe she wanted peace.

Maybe she wanted clarity.

Maybe she wanted herself back.

A knock startled her—sharp and fast.

But she didn’t move.

Not yet.

The knock came again—measured, firm, but not forceful.

She sighed, rolling her eyes with a groan. “If either of you came back to apologize, you’ve got ten seconds before I throw something heavy.”

“No need for theatrics,” came the unmistakable voice from the other side. “It’s just me.”

Her spine straightened like a snapped cord. “Master?”

“I’m coming in,” he said plainly.

The door hissed open before she could answer. Mace Windu stepped in, his presence as steady as the Force itself, robes still crisp despite the lateness of the hour, a subtle frown pressing between his brows as he regarded her. There was no lecture, no judgment, not yet. Only concern veiled beneath the usual stone exterior.

“You don’t look like someone who’s meditating,” he observed.

“I wasn’t,” she replied dryly, arms folded.

“I figured.” He stepped farther inside, his eyes scanning the scattered armor pieces, the half-torn undersleeve she hadn’t realized she was still tugging at. “You look like someone unraveling.”

“I’m not.” Her voice was too quick.

He said nothing.

She sighed, letting the breath shudder out of her as she dropped heavily back onto the edge of the cot.

“I didn’t call for advice,” she muttered.

“I didn’t say you did,” Mace replied simply. He stepped over to the small chair across from her and sat, folding his arms into the sleeves of his robe. “But I heard enough to know something’s shifted.”

Her jaw clenched. “I’m sure you’ve heard plenty by now.”

“I’m not here as a Council member.” His tone was different now—quieter, gentler. “I’m here because you’re my Padawan. No title changes that.”

Something in her broke at that. Just a crack.

“I don’t know what I’m doing, Master.”

“I think you do. I just think you’re afraid to do it.”

She looked at him, eyes sharp. “You think I’m afraid to choose?”

“No,” he said, and it was immediate. “I think you’re afraid to not choose. To walk away. To be alone.”

That struck something deep.

She stared at the floor.

“I don’t want them fighting over me. Like I’m some kind of… prize. And I definitely don’t want to be part of some toxic love triangle during a war.”

“You’ve always led with your heart,” Mace said. “And your heart’s always been too big for the battlefield.”

She blinked, stunned by the softness of it. Mace Windu, the most unshakeable Jedi on the Council, calling her heart too big.

“Doesn’t feel like a strength right now.”

“It is. Even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts.” He leaned forward, elbows on knees. “You’ll figure this out. But don’t let them decide who you are. And don’t let anyone take your peace—not even someone who loves you.”

Her eyes burned now, but she blinked fast to keep them dry.

“Thanks… Master”

He smiled then. A small one. Barely a twitch of his lips—but she saw it.

“I’ll be in the Temple tomorrow. If you need to talk again—just talk—you know where to find me.”

He stood, gave her one last look, then left as quietly as he’d come.

And this time, the silence in the room felt a little less loud.

⸻

The city outside her window glowed in shifting hues of speeders and skyline, lights tracing invisible lines like veins in durasteel. She hadn’t moved much since Mace left—too exhausted to think, too unsettled to sleep. Her mind was loud. Still hurt. Still confused. Still… waiting.

And then came the knock.

Not sharp. Not gentle. Just… steady.

She didn’t answer. She didn’t have the strength to.

The door opened anyway. The audacity made her want to hurl something again—but when she looked up, it wasn’t who she expected.

Bacara stepped inside, helmet tucked under one arm, armor scuffed from some earlier skirmish. His expression was unreadable as always—eyes too sharp, jaw too tense—but there was something in his stance. Hesitation.

She scoffed and turned back toward the window. “You know, I figured you’d be the last one to come knocking.”

He didn’t respond at first. Just stood there, watching her like she was a particularly complex tactical situation. Finally, he set his helmet down on the small table and crossed the room with slow, deliberate steps.

“You didn’t deserve what happened earlier.”

The silence that followed was thick.

“You mean the shouting? The posturing? The way you and Rex acted like I was some kind of prize to be won in a sparring match?” Her voice was calm now, but it carried an edge. “You both embarrassed yourselves. And me.”

“I know,” he said plainly. “That’s why I’m here.”

She turned to face him, arms crossed.

“You don’t do apologies, Bacara.”

“No,” he agreed. “But I can try.”

That stunned her into stillness. He wasn’t joking. Not hiding behind orders or ranks or deflections. There was no sharp military snap to his tone, no bark. Just gravel and honesty.

“I’ve spent most of my life cutting off emotions that slow a man down,” he said. “Guilt. Regret. Affection. All of it. I had to. Mundi—he doesn’t train his men to be… soft.”

“No, he doesn’t,” she muttered. “He trains them to be machines.”

Bacara looked away. “I followed that lead for a long time. It made me strong. It made me efficient. But it also made me a stranger to myself.”

She tilted her head, eyes narrowing. “And what am I in this equation?”

“The reminder that I’m still human.” His voice was quieter now. “That I feel more around you than I’ve felt since Kamino.”

That cracked something in her. Something she’d been gripping tight since the moment things started spiraling.

She swallowed. “You were horrible to me. Not just today. Since the beginning.”

“I know,” he said again. “But I never hated you.”

Her breath hitched.

“I was listening, that night with Windu. I heard everything.” He met her eyes now. “I didn’t come here to beg. And I didn’t come here to fight. I just needed you to know—I don’t want to be the man who makes you doubt your worth. I don’t want to be that Commander. Not with you.”

Her heart was thudding against her ribs. She hated how much he still had that effect on her. Hated that his voice, his damn sincerity, could crack through months of cold.

“I don’t know if I can trust you,” she said softly. “Not yet.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to,” he replied. “But I’m still here.”

He stepped closer—slow, careful—and brushed his hand against hers. His fingers were cold from the night air. She didn’t pull away.

“You kissed me,” she whispered.

“I’d do it again.”

Her eyes flicked up to meet his, something defiant and fragile behind them. “Then do it right this time.”

He did.

This one wasn’t reckless. It wasn’t bitter or angry or desperate. It was slow. It was deliberate. It was raw in a way that hurt and healed at the same time.

When they pulled apart, they didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.

He didn’t stay the night. That wasn’t who they were yet. But when the door closed behind him, the quiet left behind felt different.

Hopeful.

⸻

He knew before she said anything.

He could feel it the second he stepped into her quarters—before the door hissed closed behind him, before she turned to face him, before her eyes even lifted from the floor.

It was in the air. That stillness. The kind of silence that follows a storm and leaves nothing untouched.

Rex stood there a moment, helmet cradled under his arm, expression unreadable. “You’ve made a choice.”

She nodded. Her mouth opened, closed, then finally managed, “I didn’t mean for it to get like this.”

He gave a small, sad smile. “I know.”

“I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“You didn’t.” He said it quickly—too quickly.

Her brow creased, but he held her gaze with that steady calm she’d always admired. “You were never mine to keep,” he said gently. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“But I love you.” The words escaped like breath, hoarse and aching. “You need to know that.”

He exhaled through his nose. Looked away for just a second, then met her eyes again.

“I know that too.”

She took a step closer, but stopped herself. “I didn’t want to string you along. I couldn’t keep doing this to you—this back and forth. I chose Bacara. But that doesn’t mean what we had wasn’t real.”

Rex nodded once, slowly. His throat worked. “He’s not better than me.”

“I know.”

“But you’re better with him?”

She blinked hard. “I don’t know what I am with him. I just know… I don’t want to live in limbo anymore.”

For a moment, he looked like he might say something more. But instead, he stepped forward, reached out, and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The gentleness of it unraveled her.

“You were always going to break my heart,” he said softly. “I just hoped I’d be enough to stop it from happening.”

She blinked fast. Tears clung to her lashes.

“Rex…”

He shook his head. “Don’t say you’re sorry. You never led me on. We’re soldiers. We steal what moments we can before the war takes them away. You gave me more than I ever expected.”

And then he leaned forward and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her forehead.

When he stepped back, something in her chest fractured.

“I’ll see you on the next campaign,” he said, voice rough, but steady.

And then he was gone.

She stood there long after the door closed, arms wrapped tight around herself. She didn’t know what she felt more—relief, regret, or the slow, dawning fear that she’d lost something that could never be replaced.

⸻

The halls of the barracks were quiet this late, a kind of peace Rex had never trusted. Silence was just a disguise war wore before it struck again. But this—this wasn’t the battlefield.

This was heartbreak.

He sat on the edge of his bunk, armor half-stripped, chest plate tossed aside, vambraces on the floor. His gloves were clenched in one hand, thumb rubbing worn fabric. Like holding on might keep him from slipping into something dark and stupid.

Jesse passed him once without saying a word. Not because he didn’t care—but because even Jesse knew when something hurt too much for words.

She chose Bacara.

The thought came unbidden, like a knife twisted in his side.

He didn’t hate Bacara. Not really.

But Force, he envied him. Envied the way she softened when she looked at the Commander. Envied the way Bacara could be cold, brutal even, and still… she reached for him. Still found something worth saving in that hard shell of a man.

Rex had bled for her. Laughed with her. Been vulnerable in ways he hadn’t been with anyone else. He’d offered her the part of himself that he didn’t even understand most days.

And she had loved him. She had. That much he didn’t doubt.

But love wasn’t always enough. Not when you’re trying to love two people, and one of them pulls your gravity just a little harder.

He sighed, leaned forward, forearms braced against his knees. Helmet resting between his boots.

“Captain,” a voice said softly from the doorway.

It was Ahsoka.

He didn’t look up. “You shouldn’t be out this late.”

She stepped inside anyway, the door sliding shut behind her.

“I felt it. Through the Force. You’re… not alright.”

He smiled bitterly. “You’re getting better at that.”

Ahsoka folded her arms. “She picked Bacara.”

It wasn’t a question.

“No point in pretending otherwise,” he said. His voice was quiet. Raw.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He lifted his head. His eyes looked older than they should have. “She made a choice. She deserves that. They both do.”

Ahsoka sat on the bunk across from him. “But that doesn’t mean you don’t feel it.”

“No,” Rex said. “It doesn’t.”

There was a long silence between them.

“I always thought you’d end up with someone like her,” Ahsoka said, almost wistfully. “Strong. Sharp. Stubborn.”

He let out a dry chuckle. “Yeah. Me too.”

She leaned forward, her expression gentle but firm. “You didn’t lose her, Rex. You loved her. That counts for something.”

Rex looked at her—this young, impossibly wise Padawan who had seen too much already. “Maybe. But it doesn’t change the fact that I’m alone again.”

“No,” Ahsoka agreed softly. “But it means your heart still works. And that’s something most of us can’t say anymore.”

He looked down at the gloves in his hand. At the callouses on his fingers. At everything he still had to carry.

“I’ll be fine,” he said, mostly to himself.

And maybe, someday, he would be.

But not tonight.

⸻

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

“War on Two Fronts” pt.5

Captain Rex x Reader x Commander Bacara

The Council chamber lights dimmed as the debrief concluded. Bacara and Master Ki-Adi-Mundi exited in synchronized silence, the General’s long strides matching the Commander’s clipped, militant pace. Their boots echoed through the empty corridor.

They didn’t speak until the door to Mundi’s private quarters hissed closed behind them.

“I expected more restraint from her,” Mundi said, lowering his hood and brushing dust from the hem of his robe. “She continues to act with more heart than mind.”

“She held the position,” Bacara answered, standing still, helmet tucked under his arm. “Her plan worked.”

“Despite contradicting my orders. Again.”

Bacara’s brow twitched.

“She isn’t your padawan, Master Jedi.”

Mundi turned, eyes narrowing. “She is not yours either.”

A beat passed between them—tense, unsaid.

Bacara continued evenly. “With all due respect, General, her instincts saved lives. She has a rapport with native systems we lack. That’s why she was sent.”

Mundi stepped closer. “Her defiance encourages division. Among the men. Between us. If she continues to override my command in the field, I will petition for her removal.”

Bacara’s jaw tightened. “Petition it, then.”

A flicker of irritation crossed Mundi’s features—but he said nothing further. The door opened behind them without warning.

“Interesting conversation,” Mace Windu said calmly, stepping into the threshold with arms folded behind his back. “Especially in my temple.”

Mundi straightened. Bacara turned slightly, his posture still.

“Mace,” Mundi said tersely, “I wasn’t aware you were within earshot.”

“You weren’t.” Mace’s gaze was unreadable. “But I am now.”

Bacara shifted subtly as Mundi excused himself with a nod. The door shut behind him, leaving Windu and the Marshal Commander alone.

“I assume that wasn’t the first time he’s said something like that.”

“No, General.”

Mace studied Bacara in silence for a long time.

“She frustrates you.”

“Yes.”

“She challenges you.”

“She challenges everyone.”

Mace didn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth moved. “Good.”

Bacara blinked.

“You were eavesdropping on my conversation with her,”Windu said. “She told me.”

Bacara gave no excuse.

“You took offense.”

Still no reply.

“I’m not asking you to like her, Commander,” Windu continued. “But I trained her. I know every strength and every flaw. And I sent her out there not just to win battles—but to become something more than what the war wants her to be.”

Bacara’s eyes finally lifted to meet his.

“She’ll never become that if everyone keeps expecting her to fit a mold she was never made for.”

Mace turned to leave, then paused.

“She thinks you hate her.”

“I don’t.”

“You should tell her that.”

“I’ll consider it, sir.”

Mace nodded once, sharp and precise. “You’re dismissed, Commander.”

As Bacara stepped into the corridor, he felt the weight of the conversation settle heavier than any armor.

He didn’t hate her. He wasn’t sure what he felt at all.

But he knew something had shifted—and Mace Windu was watching it unfold.

⸻

Coruscant was loud in a way Aleen could never be. Mechanical hums. Shuttles roaring overhead. The ever-present press of voices—clones, officers, droids, senators.

You hated how quickly it swallowed everything you’d just worked for.

The campaign on Aleen had ended with fewer casualties than projected, the native population protected, and General Mundi oddly… complimentary during debriefings. A rare win.

But here, back in the sterile hallways of Republic infrastructure, you felt the shift. The ripple of tension that had nothing to do with the war.

You leaned against the wall outside a conference room, arms crossed, still half in your field gear, watching clone officers file past.

Bacara was across from you, just as silent as ever, helmet clipped to his side.

Not speaking. Not glaring. Not walking away, either.

“I figured you’d vanish again,” you said finally. “Go back to pretending you tolerate me out of obligation.”

He didn’t look over, but his voice was quieter than usual. “I don’t pretend.”

You glanced at him, heart already threatening to betray you by skipping ahead. “No?”

“I told you. I don’t hate you.”

You chuckled softly. “That’s not quite the same as liking me.”

He met your gaze. “No. It’s not.”

Before you could answer, heavy boots rounded the corner—familiar, steady, a presence that always made your chest twist.

Rex.

He paused when he saw you, a half-smile forming. “General.”

“Captain.” You stood straighter, smile automatic.

His eyes flicked briefly to Bacara. The air thickened.

“Didn’t expect you back so soon,” Rex added, his voice just a little too calm.

“Neither did I. Aleen wrapped early. Mundi actually gave me something resembling a compliment.”

“That’s a headline,” Rex joked. But his eyes didn’t leave Bacara.

The other clone commander said nothing. Just stood at your side, unreadable as always.

Ahsoka rounded the corner next, blue-and-white montrals catching the light. She stopped, blinking at the scene—then gave a little nod, as if the Force had just whispered something to her.

“Uh oh,” she said lightly.

You arched a brow. “Uh oh?”

“I think you three need a minute.”

She all but dragged Rex away, glancing back once, her expression somewhere between amusement and concern.

You turned to Bacara, who hadn’t moved.

“Well,” you said, too casually. “That’s going to be awkward later.”

Bacara exhaled slowly. “He’s important to you.”

You frowned. “So are you.”

That made him flinch. Just barely. A breath, a twitch of his jaw.

“I don’t know how to be that,” he said.

“You don’t have to know how. You just have to try.”

He looked at you again—really looked. Then, slowly, he nodded.

“I’m trying.”

You smiled, a bit softer than before. “Good.”

In the distance, you could feel Rex’s presence like a steady pulse. Familiar. Safe.

And beside you, Bacara. Solid. Controlled. Finally cracking open just a little.

Two men. Opposite hearts. And you, suspended in the gravity between them.

⸻

You weren’t sure how long you’d been walking the halls of the base, looking for somewhere quiet. It was one of those nights where sleep hovered but never landed—your thoughts full of too many voices, too many faces.

Rex’s door was open.

He was sitting at the edge of his bunk, still in partial armor, head low, hands loosely clasped. A man built for war—always steady, always composed.

You knocked on the doorframe.

He looked up, unsurprised. “Couldn’t sleep?”

You stepped inside. “I don’t know if I even tried.”

A pause, then a small smile. “Me neither.”

He motioned to the empty bunk across from him. You sat, the air quiet between you. Close, but not too close. Not yet.

“I keep thinking about Aleen,” you said eventually. “And Bacara. And the way I keep orbiting around people I shouldn’t.”

Rex didn’t answer right away. His gaze was locked on the floor.

“I didn’t think you and Bacara were…” he trailed off, then shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.”

“You want it to.”

His eyes met yours—raw, honest. “Yeah. I do.”

It was like oxygen filled the room again.

You rose from the bunk, stepped closer, until there was barely a breath between you. His jaw flexed, but he didn’t back away.

“I don’t know how to do this either,” you whispered. “Not with clones. Not with Jedi codes looming over everything. Not with… you.”

He stood slowly. “I don’t care about codes.”

Your heart beat wildly in your chest as he lifted a hand, thumb brushing lightly over your cheek. You closed your eyes, leaning into his touch.

“Rex,” you breathed. “I—”

The door slid open.

You both jumped apart.

Anakin stood in the doorway, arms crossed, one eyebrow arched.

There was a beat of charged silence before he said, completely deadpan, “Well. Don’t stop on my account.”

You stared, flustered. Rex was already stepping back, straightening like he’d been caught sneaking out of class.

Anakin smirked, stepping into the room. “Relax. I’m not one to judge about… attachments.” The word practically dripped sarcasm.

You glared at him. “How long were you standing there?”

“Long enough to consider knocking. Decided against it.”

Rex cleared his throat. “General—”

Anakin held up a hand. “You’re both adults. You’ve survived more battles than I can count. Just… try not to get caught by someone less forgiving than me.”

You crossed your arms. “Like Master Windu?”

Anakin shrugged, amused. “Exactly.”

And then, his expression softened just a little. “Just be careful, okay? Both of you. This war doesn’t make room for many second chances.”

With that, he turned and left, the door hissing shut behind him.

You and Rex stood in the silence that followed, hearts still racing.

“Next time,” Rex said, voice lower, rougher, “I’m locking the door.”

You smiled—because of course he would.

And yet, the moment had shifted. It hadn’t broken… but it had changed.

Still, you took a step closer.

“Next time,” you whispered, “don’t stop.”

⸻

Mace Windu stood at the high window of the Council chamber, watching Coruscant sprawl beneath him in endless lines of light. His hands were folded behind his back, posture rigid, gaze unreadable.

He had been quiet during the last half of the briefing. Even Yoda had glanced his way once or twice, sensing his distraction.

The briefing ended. The chamber emptied. Only Obi-Wan lingered.

“You’re distracted,” Obi-Wan said casually, tone light, but not mocking.

Mace didn’t turn. “She’s hiding something.”

Obi-Wan didn’t need to ask who she was.

“Your former Padawan is a Knight now. Independent. Capable. Perhaps you’re reading too much into it.”

“She’s… different,” Mace said slowly, frowning. “Something’s shifted. Not in battle. Not in duty. But in her presence. The Force around her feels… pulled.”

Obi-Wan’s eyebrows rose slightly. “You think she’s forming attachments?”

“I know she is.”

That earned a quiet sigh from Kenobi. “And this is a problem because…?”

Mace turned then, expression flat. “Because she’s too much like Skywalker.”

Obi-Wan barked a short laugh before he could stop himself. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“She walks the line,” Mace said, voice low. “Emotion, impulse, recklessness. I accepted it as her master. I even respected it. But I didn’t teach her to love—I taught her to survive.”

here was silence for a moment.

“And yet…” Obi-Wan said thoughtfully, “she still smiles when you’re around. Still calls you her family.”

Mace looked away.

“I’m not condemning her,” he said. “I just… I can feel it. The way she holds herself. Like there’s someone else she’s protecting now. Like she’s already chosen someone.”

“You know who?”

“No,” Mace admitted. “Not yet. But I will.”

⸻

You sat alone beneath one of the massive trees, hood pulled up, trying to meditate but failing.

You felt him before you heard him.

“I taught you not to slouch,” Mace said behind you.

You smirked. “I distinctly remember you teaching me how to disarm a Dathomirian assassin at the age of eleven. Posture didn’t come up.”

Mace sat beside you with a long, deep sigh. “You’ve changed.”

You didn’t answer.

“I’m not angry,” he continued, tone unreadable. “But I sense a disturbance around you. Like the Force is being… shared.”

Your stomach dropped. Not because you were guilty—not exactly—but because you knew he’d never bring this up unless he felt it deeply.

“I’m not in danger,” you said quietly.

“That’s not what I asked.”

You looked at him, then away. “I’ve seen so many die, Master. It’s hard to not care. To not feel.”

“You can care,” Mace said. “But if your feelings endanger your clarity, or the mission—”

“They don’t,” you cut in, sharper than intended. “I haven’t broken. I haven’t fallen.”

Mace was quiet for a long moment.

“I’m not asking for names,” he said eventually. “But if it’s a clone… be careful. You already live in a world built to destroy everything you care about. Don’t give the war something else to take from you.”

Your throat tightened.

“I’ll always be your family,” he added, voice softer. “But I can’t protect you from your own heart.”

And with that, he stood and left, the shadows of the Temple stretching long behind him.

⸻

You stood on the edge of the Temple’s landing platform, overlooking the city lights that shimmered like restless stars. The night was thick with soundless wind, your cloak pulled tight around you as the Force stirred in warning—familiar, heavy footsteps approaching.

You didn’t need to turn. “I thought you’d gone back to GAR Command.”

Bacara stopped a few paces behind you. Silence clung to him, like it always did, but this time it pulsed with something unsaid—uneasy, unrelenting.

“I should have,” he said finally. “But I didn’t.”

You turned, arms folded, studying the commander who had never looked more torn—still in his blacks, helmet in hand, jaw tight with restraint. His eyes didn’t meet yours at first.

“Why are you here, Bacara?”

“I overheard Windu talking to Kenobi,” he said, stepping forward, voice strained. “About you. About something changing in you.”

“And you came to see if it was about you?” you asked, more bitter than you meant.

“And you came to see if it was about you?” you asked, more bitter than you meant.

His eyes snapped to yours. “No. I came because… I needed to know.”

The silence stretched.

You exhaled slowly. “Know what?”

He took another step, until you were within arm’s reach. “Why you’re in my head. Why I haven’t slept since we left Aleen. Why the idea of you with him—Rex—makes me want to break protocol, orders, everything.”

You froze.

“I don’t hate you,” Bacara said, the words sounding like they’d been ripped from somewhere deep and long-buried. “I’ve never hated you. You just… get under my skin.”

“I wasn’t trying to,” you whispered.

“I know,” he snapped, and then faltered, jaw working. “You were just being… you. Loud. Impulsive. Always standing up for the men, even when it meant challenging Jedi. Even when it meant challenging me.”

Your heart pounded.

“I didn’t know what to do with someone like you,” he admitted, voice low now. “I still don’t.”

You reached up slowly, fingertips brushing the edge of his vambrace. “Then don’t think. Just feel.”

His eyes searched yours—dark, tormented, warring with everything he was taught to suppress.

And then he moved.

The kiss wasn’t gentle.

It was raw, unfiltered, all heat and tension and fire. His hand curled around the back of your neck, yours gripped his sleeve as your cloaks whipped in the night air. It was a kiss born of war and silence, of frustration and longing, and the impossibility of it all.

When you broke apart, both breathless, he didn’t speak at first.

But his forehead pressed to yours, and for the first time since you met him, Bacara let himself be still in your presence.

“You’ll be the death of me,” he said quietly.

You almost smiled. “Then we’re even.”

⸻

You were restless.

The training droids lay in sparking heaps around you. Sweat clung to your skin, your lightsaber still humming faintly as you tried to outpace the storm brewing in your mind.

Rex’s quiet steadiness.

Bacara’s raw, barely-contained hunger.

The kiss haunted you.

Bacara had torn a piece of himself open for you—just for a moment. And that moment had scorched you.

But Rex? He saw you. Understood you. Listened. Respected you. And you felt safe in his shadow.

But do you want safety? Or something that burns?

You didn’t get to dwell. The door to the training room hissed open.

Rex stood in the threshold, eyes scanning the wreckage, then finding you. He looked tired. Tense. His shoulders tight beneath his armor.

“I figured I’d find you here,” he said.

You deactivated your saber. “Not hiding, just… thinking.”

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I haven’t.”

“You have.”

There was no accusation in his voice, but something underneath it—a quiet, almost desperate undertone.

“I’ve had a lot to think about.”

He stepped closer, stopping just a breath away. “Was it him?”

You met his eyes. “Rex—”

“You don’t owe me an explanation,” he cut in, voice controlled. Too controlled. “But I need to know what I’m walking into.”

Your breath caught.

“He kissed you.”

It wasn’t a question.

You swallowed. “Yes.”

He looked away, jaw working. Then:

“Did you kiss him back?”

The silence between you was louder than any battle you’d fought.

“Yes,” you whispered.

The answer struck him like a blow. His eyes closed, just for a second. “And what does that mean? For us?”

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “I wish I did.”

Before he could speak again, the door hissed open again.

Bacara.

You felt the energy in the room shift—like a lightsaber igniting in a dry field.

His gaze went immediately to Rex. Then to you. The unspoken claim in his stance was unmistakable.

“Captain,” he said coolly.

“Commander,” Rex returned, just as cold.

Neither moved. Neither blinked.

You stepped between them instinctively. “Stop.”

“She can choose for herself, you know,” Rex said, eyes never leaving Bacara’s.

“I don’t recall asking you,” Bacara said sharply, voice low and dangerous.

“I’m not some object you two get to fight over,” you snapped. “I’m a Jedi. Your general. And I deserve better than this.”

Both men quieted.

But the air between them crackled with something toxic. Territorial. Like two wolves circling the same prey.

“I didn’t ask for this,” you said, voice softer now. “I didn’t want any of it to get this messy.”

“You didn’t have to ask,” Rex said. “Some things just… happen.”

“And some things,” Bacara said, stepping forward, voice firm, “are worth fighting for.”

You stared between them, breath shallow.

You had no answers. No clarity. Only chaos.

And two men willing to burn for you.

The silence was oppressive. No one spoke, but the weight of unspoken things pressed against your chest like a closing fist.

You stepped back, eyes moving between the two of them. Their postures were rigid—pride, anger, jealousy… possession. You hadn’t seen it before, not like this. Not so raw.

But now it was ugly.

“Do you two even hear yourselves?” Your voice was sharp—cutting like shattered glass. “You’re acting like I’m a trophy. Like I’m something to win.”

Neither answered.

That was worse.

You could feel it coming off them in waves—territoriality, rivalry, something primal.

“You think I want this? You think I asked for it? You think watching the two of you size each other up like animals is what I dreamed of when I became a Jedi?”

You hated the way your voice cracked. The hurt that leaked through the fury.

Rex’s brows furrowed—his mouth opened slightly, as if to explain, to offer some gentle word to ground the fire—but you didn’t give him the chance.

And Bacara—Bacara just stood there, arms crossed, jaw tight, refusing to retreat, refusing to feel. That wall was back, stronger than ever, and it felt like a slap.

“I’ve fought beside you. I’ve nearly died beside you. Both of you. And still—you can’t see me. Not really. You only see each other. This—” you gestured between them, “—this pissing contest? It’s not love. It’s not loyalty. It’s not even care. It’s ego. And it makes me sick.”

The hurt was hot now, crawling up your throat.

“I thought you were different,” you said softly to Rex.

He flinched. Just barely.

Then your gaze snapped to Bacara. “And you—maybe I wanted to believe there was more under the armor. But if this is what’s beneath it?” Your lip curled. “Maybe I was wrong.”

You pushed past them, the door hissing open at your approach.

Neither followed.

You didn’t want them to.

For the first time in months, you wanted out.

Out of this room.

Out of their war.

Out of whatever twisted, tangled thing was growing between the three of you.

You didn’t even know what you felt anymore.

You just knew this wasn’t what love was supposed to look like.

And right now, the idea of either of them touching you—holding you—felt like ash in your mouth.

The door slammed shut behind her, leaving only the quiet hum of the training room’s systems—and the echo of everything she said.

Rex stood still, breathing hard, fists clenched at his sides. Bacara hadn’t moved either, like he was carved from stone.

The silence didn’t last.

“You gonna throw a punch, or just stand there brooding?” Rex muttered, without looking at him.

Bacara’s jaw twitched. “Wouldn’t be the worst idea.”

“You’re proving her right, you know.”

That got him. Bacara’s head turned sharply, a flicker of fire behind his eyes. “I don’t need a lecture from a clone who couldn’t keep his feelings in check.”

Rex stepped forward, shoulders squared. “And you think you did? You think shutting her out, giving her crumbs of emotion, and then snapping the second someone else showed interest—that’s any better?”

Bacara’s fists curled.

“I don’t talk,” he said flatly. “I act. I protect. I don’t have time for your soft Republic niceties.”

“No,” Rex snapped, “you have time to throw your weight around. You have time to glare and scowl and push people away until it’s too late.”

That hit harder than intended.

For a second, Rex almost backed down—but the look in Bacara’s eyes was enough to push him forward again.

“You think this is about me stealing her from you? She walked out, Commander. On both of us. Because we made her feel like a thing to fight over. Not a person.”

Bacara turned his back, pacing. “You don’t understand.”

“Try me.”

There was a long beat. Bacara’s hands were on his hips now, his head low, voice rough.

“I don’t know how to… do this,” he admitted, bitter. “I’m trained for war. For tactics. Not…” He shook his head. “Not feelings. Not wanting something I’m not supposed to want.”

“She’s not a mission,” Rex said. “She’s a person. And maybe if we’d both remembered that earlier…”

Bacara turned, face hard again. “You’re still talking like it’s over.”

There was silence.

Then Rex looked away. “Isn’t it?”

The quiet returned—cold, heavy, and full of the ache of something breaking.

Both of them knew they’d pushed her away.

Neither of them knew how to fix it.

But worse—deep down—they weren’t sure they deserved to.

⸻

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𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐎𝐓𝐑 𝐦𝐞𝐧 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐬𝐤 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐫

⤷ gender neutral, ambiguous race, and any size reader. Requests are open, thank you for reading!

a/n: I just wanted to write some fluff!

ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ | ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ ᴵᴵ

𝑨𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒐𝒓𝒏 🗡️

・At first, he tilts his head, lips parting like he might question it. But then he sees your expression; calm, trusting, maybe a little playful, and something in him softens.

“I can try,” he says, voice rough around the edges, but warm. “It’s been… a long time since I’ve braided anyone’s hair.”

・You sit together near the fire. His sword is laid beside him, boots still dusty from the road.

・And yet, he treats the moment like it deserves stillness. Like your request has pulled him out of time.

・His hands are calloused, weather-worn.

・You can feel him being careful not to tug too hard.

・He works in silence, brows furrowed in concentration.

・His fingers move slower than Legolas’, less sure than Faramir’s, but steadier than you’d expect.

・Every now and then, he huffs out a breath that sounds like a quiet laugh.

“You have too much hair for this to go unnoticed,” he murmurs. “The braid will hold, but only just. It may rebel before the day is done.”

・But still, he continues.

・And when he finishes...it’s a bit uneven. Slightly lopsided with a few bits of hair hanging out.

・Yet it was done with love and effort and the kind of care no one taught him

・He rests a hand briefly at the base of your braid, like he’s grounding you. Or himself.

“There. You’re ready.”

・And when he sits back, he doesn’t say anything else.

・But throughout the day he watches you, making sure it holds, and if were to come loose, you can come back to him.

・He'll braid it again. Every time.

𝑳𝒆𝒈𝒐𝒍𝒂𝒔 🌙

・He blinks once, slow and surprised, then tilts his head, curious.

“It would be my honor,” he says, with the kind of sincerity that makes your chest tighten.

・Legolas doesn’t ask why. Doesn’t tease.

・He treats the request with deep, quiet admiration. Almost as if you've asked him to perform an ancient rite...which you kinda have.

・He steps behind you in complete silence.

・With featherlight, gentle hands (you hardly feel them at first), he works. And he does it quite quickly.

・You realise this isn't the first time he's braided hair before.

“Each braid has meaning,” he murmurs. “Length. Type. Tension. In my realm, we braid for protection. For remembrance. For love.”

・You go still. He doesn’t elaborate.

・And then he sings.

・It's soft, in Elvish.

・And not one that you know. But it feels old. Comforting. Like wrapping your arms around a loved one you haven't seen in a while.

・When he finishes, he runs one finger gently along the braid’s edge

・And when you turn to look at him; eyes shining and heart full, he meets your gaze and adds, ever so softly:

“You should ask me again sometime.”

・Because this wasn’t just a braid.

・It was a memory.

・And he plans to make more of them with you.

𝑩𝒐𝒓𝒐𝒎𝒊𝒓 🛡️

・Oh how he melts.

“I’ve never been asked to do something like that...But I'll try.”

・He moves to sit behind you, shuffling so that his legs are around you.

・Boromir's hands are big, definitely too big for this, but he continues anyway.

・As he gathers your hair, gently brushing it out of your face and into his palm, he mutters:

“You’ll have to forgive me if it’s not Elvish-perfect,” he murmurs. “We weren’t taught much about braids in the White Tower.”

・And then he grows quiet, thoughtful. This isn’t just a braid anymore. It’s a way to show you affection...a part of him enjoys it.

・Although he is trying to make it perfect.

・At the end, the braid is a little loose, a little uneven, but strong.

・Woven like a promise.

・He secures it with a small leather tie from his own belongings; nothing special, but something his.

“There. Done.” A pause. “I hope it’s alright.”

・You turn to thank him, but he’s already looking away, trying not to smile.

・Fingers twitching like he wants to touch your hair again but won’t; unless you ask.

“If it ever comes undone,” he adds quietly, “you know where to find me.”

𝑬́𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒓 🏹

・He thinks of it as a challenge...straight away.

“You don’t think I can?”

"Ugh! That's not what I meant?"

"What did you mean?"

"Just wanted someone to braid my hair, you ass."

・You weren't even teasing him, but then it becomes a whole thing.

・He kneels down behind you like a man preparing for war. Cracks his knuckles. Rolls his shoulders. And in turn, you roll your eyes.

・When he actually starts, there's a shift. The bravado eases and he becomes focused.

・His rough fingers, to your surprise, are steady.

・And you can feel the care as well...and feel, a protective energy.

・Like if anyone tried to touch your braid he'd punch them.

・When he’s done? He absolutely beams. And before getting up, he tugs the end playfully, then stands back with his arms crossed.

"There. Just got your hair braided by a Third Marshal...that's got to be worth something."

・If someone compliments it later, he absolutely puffs up with pride (but plays it off like it was no big deal)

“Looks good doesn't it. I did it. She asked me. Only right I made sure it was done proper.”

・And although Eomer doesn’t say it out loud, in his mind he promises something wolfish and loyal:

No one touches what I’ve claimed with my hands.

𝑭𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒎𝒊𝒓 🌾

・At first, he blinks—slow and surprised, like he thinks he misheard you.

“You would trust me with something so personal?”

・He isn't teasing. No, Faramir is genuinely honoured.

・Because he's the kind of man who sees tenderness as something rare and doesn’t take it lightly.

・You sit between his knees, and he treats your hair like something sacred.

・The word 'gentle' repeats in his head over and over.

・His hands are warm as he gathers your hair from your shoulders

・His fingers accidentally touch the bareness of your neck and goosebumps erupt.

・You go red; luckily he can't see your face.

・Faramir barely speaks, only jums softly under his breath; something old, maybe a lullaby he remembers from his mother.

・Every now and then he asks, in a light voice:

“Does this feel alright?” “Too tight?” “Shall I start again?”

・Once he's done, (he took his time on purpose), he wraps the end with a small ribbon.

One you didn't know he'd been keeping. As he ties it, it's as if he's sealing a promise.

・For a moment longer than they need to, his fingers linger.

“There. You’re ready to meet kings and storms alike.”

・And if you could see his face, you would notice a faint flush on his cheeks

・Like he's been given something sacred...and he hopes you'll ask him again tomorrow.

𝑮𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒂𝒍𝒇 🪄

・His first reaction is a slight chuckle, partially amused.

“My dear, it has been centuries since I was asked for that favor.”

・He takes a seat and motions for you to sit in front of him. Your legs are crossed on the floor, and your hands are fidgeting in your lap.

・You can feel his long, elegant fingers begin to pick up hair. A slight shiver runs down your spine at the image of it.

・At first he murmurs, in a language you do not know. But his voice is peaceful, and you can hear the chirping of night bugs.

・He knows exactly what he's doing. You’d expect an old wizard to fumble, but Gandalf’s hands are steady

・It takes a while, but the murmurs turn into little humming and you cannot help but smile.

・The braid is meticulous, elegant, maybe a little too perfect.

・You end up with something that feels sacred, like it should be worn into battle or a coronation.

・After he's done, he gives a small hum of approval. In a wistful voice he says:

“So the wind will not catch your thoughts and carry them away.”

・And then he lights his pipe, looks off toward the horizon, and pretends it was no big deal.

・...But for the rest of the journey, he walks a little closer to you.

“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 |

mon mothma getting wasted and dancing to space pop music because one of her oldest friends is about to get assassinated and she feels guilty while her cousin sits and mopes because she just saw her situationship for the first time in ages and it was only because she's here to carry out said assassination. andor is AWESOME.

Title: Still Just a Rat in a Cage

Sev (Delta Squad) x Reader

He was covered in blood the first time you saw him.

Not his. Probably not even human. You weren’t sure. You were just a bartender on Ord Mantell, working a hole-in-the-wall bar tucked under the crumbling skeleton of an old shipping yard, where the lights flickered and the rain never really stopped.

The kind of place where soldiers came to disappear and drifters stopped pretending to care.

But Sev?

He didn’t disappear.

He stood out.

He ordered without hesitation. “Whiskey. Real if you’ve got it. Synthetic if you want me to break something.”

You gave him the real stuff. Poured it slow, hand steady, even though he looked like he’d just torn his way through a war zone.

“Rough night?” you asked.

Sev stared at the glass. “What night isn’t?”

Then he downed it and left.

That was six months ago.

Since then, Delta Squad had started showing up after ops in the sector. You figured they had something black ops going on nearby—classified runs, deep infiltration, the kind that turned good soldiers into ghosts.

Scorch always laughed too loud. Fixer looked like he’d short-circuit if someone tried to talk to him. Boss barely said a word unless someone needed shutting down.

But Sev?

He watched you.

Always from the shadows. Always with those eyes—like he was cataloguing your movements, weighing them against something dark he couldn’t explain.

Tonight, it was just him.

Rain pounded on the rooftop. Rust leaked down the walls. A dying holosign outside buzzed like it was gasping for breath. Sev sat at the bar, hunched forward, a smear of something red on the side of his gauntlet.

Armor scratched. Helmet off. Blood on his knuckles.

“Was it bad?” you asked.

He didn’t look at you. “They always scream. Doesn’t matter who they are.”

You paused, a bottle in hand. “You okay?”

He let out a dry laugh. “You always ask that like it’s a real question.”

You leaned forward. “And you always answer like you’re not human.”

That got his attention. He looked at you now—eyes sharp, dark. “You think I’m human?”

“I think you bleed like one,” you said. “And drink like one. And come back here like you’re looking for something.”

He stared at you. Hard. Like he was daring you to flinch. You didn’t.

Finally, he said, “I don’t know why I come back here.”

You leaned your arms on the bar. “Maybe you’re tired of being a weapon.”

His jaw flexed. That was too close to the bone.

“I was made to kill,” he muttered.

“But that’s not all you are.”

He shook his head. “You don’t get it. None of you civvies do. You think we’re heroes. Soldiers. Whatever karking fairytale makes you sleep better at night. But out there? We’re rats in a cage. Dying for people who forget our names the second the war ends.”

You didn’t move.

Then softly, you said, “I don’t forget yours.”

Sev blinked. Slow. Like the words caught him off guard and hit something he didn’t realize was still bleeding.

You reached out, resting your hand lightly on his wrist. His arm was tense under the armor, coiled like a trap—but he didn’t pull away.

“You scare me,” you admitted.

He looked down at your hand. “Good. You should be scared of people like me.”

“But I’m not,” you whispered. “Not really.”

Silence.

Then Sev stood. Close. Too close. His breath was hot against your cheek. You could smell the blood, the dust, the war that never seemed to leave his skin.

“Why?” he asked, voice low and frayed. “Why the hell not?”

You met his eyes.

“Because even rats deserve to be free.”

He didn’t kiss you.

He just stared like he didn’t know what to do with the feeling rising in his chest. Like you’d opened a door he thought was welded shut.

Then he leaned in—just enough to rest his forehead against yours, rough and desperate—and for a second, he breathed.