“Red Lines” Pt.2

Commander Fox x Singer/PA Reader pt. 2

There was an unspoken tradition at the Coruscant Guard offices: the moment you showed up, coffee cups paused mid-air, datapads lowered, and someone inevitably muttered, "Oh look, she's still alive."

You strolled in two weeks late, absolutely glowing.

"Didn't know we were giving out extended vacations now," Trina said, her words clipped like a blaster bolt. "Maybe I should fake a spiritual awakening and disappear too."

You peeled off your sunglasses and smiled sweetly. "You should. Maybe they'll find your personality out there."

Snickers echoed through the hall.

Trina's eyes narrowed into twin black holes of corporate rage. "Commander Fox has been asking where you were."

That gave you the slightest pause. "Oh? Worried I was dead?"

She shrugged. "Or hoping."

You shot her a wink and breezed past, fully aware your hair looked too perfect for someone who just "found herself in nature."

---

Fox found you twenty minutes later, posted up at your desk with your boots on said desk, sipping caf and flipping through a holo-mag like someone who was not, in fact, two weeks behind on reports.

He stood silently at your side until you acknowledged him.

"Commander," you said brightly. "Miss me?"

"You disappeared. Again."

You looked up at him with the most innocent expression in the galaxy. "Went on a spiritual retreat."

He raised an eyebrow. "To where?"

"Kashyyyk. Hung out with some Wookiees. Meditated. Learned how to nap in trees."

Fox stared. You kept sipping your caf.

"They're big on inner peace," you added, deadpan. "Also, apparently I snore."

He didn't smile. But he also didn't press. Just that slow blink of his, the way his gaze lingered a little too long like he was cataloguing bruises or new scars.

"You weren't hurt?" he asked.

You softened. Just a little. "No, Commander. I wasn't hurt."

He nodded once and walked away.

*He cared.*

He'd never say it. But it was there.

---

Later that week, you returned from your mandatory ethics seminar—snoozefest—only to find your desk had been mysteriously moved... into the hallway.

Trina passed by with a smug little strut. "You missed a lot of meetings. We needed the space."

You leaned back in your new spot. "You know, if this is your way of flirting, I'm flattered."

"I'd rather kiss a Hutt."

You gasped. "Don't tempt me with a good time."

---

That night, you sang again at 79's. A slower set this time. Sadder. You weren't sure why—maybe something about Fox's voice that day still stuck with you.

And just like always... he was there.

Helmet off. Silent in the corner.

You sang to him without saying it. And when you left the club through the back again, this time you didn't get far before his voice stopped you.

"Wait."

You turned. "Following me again?"

He stepped closer. Not quite in your space. But close enough that you could see the faint tension in his jaw.

"I thought something happened," he said quietly.

You swallowed. "Fox—"

"Next time, just tell someone."

You blinked. "Why?"

A long pause.

"Because if something *did* happen," he said, "I'd want to know."

And then, like he couldn't bear to say more, he turned and walked into the night.

You watched him go, heart tight, a laugh threatening to rise in your throat just to cover the way your chest ached.

Aurra Sing had said you were valuable.

Fox... made you feel seen.

And somewhere in the distance, under the glow of Coruscant's neon skyline, a shadow watched.

Waiting.

---

The next morning, your desk was still in the hallway.

Trina had redecorated the spot where it used to be with a potted plant and a framed motivational poster that read "Discipline Defines You." You were considering setting it on fire.

"Morning, Sunshine," you chirped as you walked past her with your caf. "How's the tyrannical dictatorship going?"

Trina didn't even flinch. "At least I show up for work."

"Oh, please. If you were a droid, you'd overheat from micromanaging."

And there it was—that smirk from the other assistant.

Kess.

She leaned over her desk like she was watching a drama unfold in real time. "Okay, okay, play nice, girls. It's not even second caf yet."

Trina rolled her eyes. "Pick a side, Kess."

Kess grinned. "I like the view from the middle."

You narrowed your eyes. "You said Trina once threatened to replace your shampoo with grease trap water."

"She was joking," Kess said quickly.

"I was not," Trina snapped.

"I mean... still better than your perfume," you added under your breath.

Kess audibly choked on her tea.

---

Later that day, Commander Fox called you into his office.

The tension in the room dropped the moment you stepped inside, replaced by something electric and quiet. He didn't say anything at first, just stared at you like he was trying to decide if you were a puzzle or a headache.

"You vanished for two weeks," he finally said. "Now your overdue reports are two months overdue."

"I'll get to them," you said lightly, flopping into the chair opposite him. "Eventually."

Fox pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Also," you added, "Trina moved my desk into the hallway. Which I'm 80% sure is illegal."

"I'll talk to her."

You blinked. "You will?"

"She's not your superior."

A strange warmth bloomed in your chest. You masked it with sarcasm. "So chivalrous, Commander."

He gave you a look, one corner of his mouth twitching. "Just don't give me a reason to regret it."

---

That night at 79's the lights were low and your voice was velvet as you sang something slow and sultry. The bar was busy, but you spotted him—Fox, helmet off again, watching like he always did. Quiet. Unmoving. Yours, just for the length of a song.

You left through the back after your set, wrapping your coat tighter around yourself as the cool Coruscant air bit at your skin.

You didn't hear the footsteps until it was too late.

A hand slammed against the wall near your head, and a sharp voice coiled around you like a whip.

"Well, well. Songbirds off duty again."

Aurra Sing.

Her chalk-white skin shimmered in the streetlight, that deadly antenna gleaming above her forehead. She smiled without warmth.

"I've been watching you," she said. "You've got... potential."

You stepped back, heart hammering. "I'm not interested."

"No?" She clicked her tongue. "You work with the Guard. You're close with the Marshal Commander. You wander the galaxy without ever leaving a trace. I could use someone like that."

"I'm not a bounty hunter."

She leaned in closer, voice dropping. "Yet."

Your fingers twitched near your concealed weapon. Aurra's eyes flicked down and back, amused.

"Relax. I'm not here to kill you," she said. "Just... reminding you that people are watching. And not just me."

She melted back into the shadows before you could respond.

You stood alone in the alley, breath shaky, heart pounding.

You weren't scared.

But you were very, very awake.

---

The next morning, Trina took one look at you dragging yourself into work late with dark circles under your eyes and said, "Did the retreat monks kick you out for being annoying?"

Kess tried to stifle her laugh and failed.

You just smirked. "If you must know, I was nearly murdered by a galactic legend last night. What did *you* do, Trina? Color-code the caf pods again?"

Fox passed by just as you said it, pausing only to glance at you—an unreadable look in his eyes.

You gave him a half-smile.

He didn't return it.

But his hand twitched near his blaster.

He'd heard. And that meant he knew something was off.

You were starting to wonder if you were the one being watched… or the one being protected.

---

“The Lesser of Two Wars” pt.12

Commander Fox x Reader X Commander Thorn

Vos had eventually dozed off on the couch after recounting his entire day in painstaking detail, mid-rant about Kenobi’s latest sarcastic remark. GH-9 had draped a throw blanket over him like a passive-aggressive truce, muttering about “freeloading Force-wielders,” while R7 beeped threats softly from across the room.

The senator stood by the kitchen sink, sipping water and staring out into the hazy city night. The lights of Coruscant stretched infinitely, a galaxy unto itself—one that never paused, even when she desperately needed to.

And then—three knocks.

Soft, deliberate. From the main door this time.

She glanced at the droids. R7, without being asked, wheeled over to peek at the hallway cam.

The screen lit up.

Fox.

Alone. No helmet. No men.

She didn’t hesitate.

She opened the door, and for a moment, neither of them said anything. His eyes were tired, rimmed with something unreadable. Not quite regret. Not quite resolve.

His eyes shifted over her shoulder, likely clocking Vos asleep on the couch.

“I won’t stay long.”

“You can,” she said quietly, stepping aside.

Fox entered like a man walking into enemy territory—not with fear, but with precision. Everything about him was still: his breath, his hands, the way his gaze lingered on her before dropping to the floor.

“I wasn’t sure if I should come,” he said. “After everything.”

“You always think too much before doing what you want.”

He gave a dry, soft laugh. “Maybe.”

The room was dim, her empty wineglass still on the table, the half-eaten leftovers now covered by GH’s impeccable sense of order. R7 retreated into the shadows. GH quietly powered down in the corner, muttering, “If I hear one bedspring creak, I’m deleting myself.”

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” she said, voice low.

Fox’s jaw twitched.

He crossed the space between them in two quiet steps. Her hands found his shoulders—tension in the muscle, coiled like a spring. His forehead pressed to hers, his breath warm.

“Tell me to leave,” he said hoarsely. “And I will.”

“I don’t want you to.”

She kissed him.

It wasn’t hurried or desperate—it was slow, sure, deliberate. The kind of kiss that came after months of missteps, guarded words, and chances nearly lost. His hands cupped her jaw as if anchoring himself. Her fingers found the hem of his blacks, tugging him gently forward.

They stumbled toward the bedroom, the city behind them still humming.

Clothes were shed without rush—just the gradual unveiling of want. Of unspoken truths. Of the weight they both carried and the tiny moment they let themselves set it down.

He was careful. Reverent. She was unapologetically sure of him.

And when it was over, when they were curled together in the dark, his hand found hers beneath the covers. A breath passed. A wordless promise lingered in the space between heartbeats.

For once, neither of them said a thing.

There was no need.

⸻

Soft morning light filtered through the sheer curtains, painting long golden stripes across the bed and the bodies tangled beneath the sheets.

Fox stirred first—slow, careful. His arm was wrapped around her waist, her face tucked into the crook of his neck, breathing even and warm against his skin. For a man who was always half-tense, half-suspicious, he had let himself fully relax—for once.

He looked down at her, brushed a strand of hair from her forehead, and exhaled quietly.

Safe.

Here, in this impossible little pocket of stillness, he felt safe.

She shifted slightly, nuzzling into him, and he tightened his hold instinctively.

“You’re still here,” she murmured, voice hoarse with sleep.

“Didn’t want to leave,” he replied, just above a whisper. “Didn’t want this to be just once.”

“It won’t be,” she said, fingers tracing a lazy line across his chest. “Unless you snore. That’s a dealbreaker.”

He smirked. “You snore.”

“Lies.”

There was a loud clatter from the main living area, followed by GH-9’s distinctly judgmental voice.

“He stayed the whole night. I must say, I didn’t expect the Commander to be the clingy one. And here I was rooting for Thorn’s rebound arc.”

“GH,” the senator groaned, pressing her face into Fox’s chest. “Why did I give you a voice box again?”

“Because without him, you’d have no one to judge your choices properly.”

More noise. A loud thump. R7’s panicked, angry beeping echoed into the bedroom.

Fox lifted his head. “Is someone—?”

“Vos,” she sighed.

A pause. “Of course.”

R7 let out a sharp screech followed by the sound of something sparking.

From the living room, Vos yelled “You psychotic bin of bolts! That nearly hit my hair!”

More angry beeps.

“You can’t just light me on fire!”

Fox sat up as GH-9 came into the bedroom and calmly announced, “Vos has been warned. R7 has logged multiple offenses. Honestly, I’m surprised he hasn’t been tased already.”

Fox gave her a look. “Do I want to know what R7’s made of?”

“No,” she said immediately.

Outside the bedroom door, Quinlan’s voice carried “I just came to say good morning! And maybe… ask how many rounds you two—OKAY I’M GOING.”

A snap of static and the sound of flailing robes later, Vos presumably ran for his life, with R7 in hot pursuit.

Fox laid back down slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Why is your life like this?”

She grinned into the pillow. “Keeps me young.”

He glanced at her. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

“Don’t tempt me,” she whispered, leaning over to kiss his jaw. “Now. Lie back down, Commander. We’re pretending the galaxy doesn’t exist for five more minutes.”

Outside, GH’s voice rang again.

“I’ll make caf. And breakfast. For two.”

⸻

“Alright,” Stone said, setting down his tray in the mess with a heavy clunk, “am I the only one who noticed Fox didn’t come back to the barracks last night?”

Thire raised a brow and sat beside him. “You’re not. His bunk hasn’t been touched. Hound, anything on your end?”

Hound glanced up from feeding Grizzer bits of smoked meat under the table. “He left with us last night, remember? Said he was heading home. Then poof. No helmet, no comms. Nothing.”

Stone leaned in, frowning. “That man is never late. And definitely never unaccounted for.”

“Unless…” Thire started, a sly grin growing. “He wasn’t alone.”

All three went silent for a second.

Then:

“Oh no.”

“Oh stars.”

“Oh hells.”

Their synchronized realisation was only made worse when Thorn walked by, paused mid-step, and slowly turned back to face them.

“What are you lot whispering about?” he asked, tone suspiciously flat.

Thire cleared his throat. “Just… wondering where Fox was last night.”

“Why?”

“Because no one’s seen him. Didn’t report in. Didn’t come home.”

Stone added carefully, “You wouldn’t happen to know where he was, would you?”

Thorn didn’t answer. He stared. And then, very slowly, that seed of doubt began to unfurl in his chest like a poison bloom.

He hadn’t seen her since the senator came back from her homeworld. And Fox had been… twitchy. Avoidant.

His jaw tightened. “You don’t think he was with—?”

“Morning, gentlemen!”

Quinlan Vos breezed in, still half-draped in his robe, hair tousled like he hadn’t slept a minute—and somehow smug as ever.

He dropped into a seat, reached for a mug of caf, and grinned. “You are not going to believe what I heard last night.”

Thire narrowed his eyes. “From where?”

Vos took a long sip of caf, then tapped his temple. “Senator’s couch. You’d be surprised how little soundproofing those walls have.”

There was a long, awful pause.

“You slept on her couch?” Stone asked, appalled.

Vos wiggled his fingers. “Slept is a strong word. Meditated with dramatic flair, more like. Anyway—Fox dropped by around midnight. Stayed the night. Definitely didn’t leave until early morning. I heard… things.” He waggled his brows.

Thorn’s blood went cold.

“You’re saying they—?”

“I’m saying,” Vos interrupted with a smirk, “there was some very rhythmic furniture movement, and I was not going to interrupt round two. Or was it three?”

Hound groaned. “Oh maker.”

Thire blinked. “I’m gonna throw up.”

Grizzer barked once, unhelpfully.

And Thorn—he just stood there. Stiff. Quiet. Jaw clenched so hard it ached.

Vos finally noticed. “Oh. Thorn. You okay, buddy?”

The commander turned and left without a word.

Vos blinked. “Was it something I said?”

Stone and Thire glared.

Hound just muttered, “You’re the worst, Vos.”

Vos grinned. “I try.”

Thorn didn’t remember much of the walk out of the mess hall.

His boots hit the corridor floor harder than necessary, hands clenched into fists at his sides. It felt like pressure was building in his chest—hot, dense, and impossible to ignore. Every step echoed like a heartbeat in his ears, and not a single one of those karking words from Vos would stop replaying.

Rhythmic furniture movement.

Round two. Or was it three?

He stopped in the hallway outside the barracks and pressed both hands against the durasteel wall, breathing hard through his nose.

It shouldn’t matter.

She wasn’t his.

But he’d had her. At least for a night. One goddamn night where he’d seen her smile against the morning sun, tangled in the sheets with him. Where it felt like something peaceful and warm was possible.

And Fox—

Fox always took everything in stride. Cold, quiet, controlled Fox. Until suddenly, he didn’t. Until he showed up where he wasn’t expected and stayed the night.

Thorn’s hand slammed into the wall with a metallic clang. A few clones walking past glanced at him but didn’t dare speak. Not with the look on his face.

He hadn’t thought he’d be jealous of Fox. Not him. Not the cold, haunted commander who held himself so far back from everyone that even his own brothers walked on eggshells around him. But now, all Thorn could picture was her mouth on Fox’s, her body against his, those sharp eyes going soft the way they had only once before—when she looked at Thorn.

He pressed the heel of his palm to his eye socket, trying to force the thoughts away.

Maybe it was just physical. A mistake. A moment. Maybe Fox wouldn’t even mention it again.

But deep down, Thorn knew.

Fox didn’t do casual. Fox didn’t indulge unless he meant something by it. And the way he’d been looking at her lately… the way he’d softened.

Thorn turned abruptly and headed toward the training wing. He needed to hit something. Sparring droids, punching bags, stone walls—anything.

He couldn’t walk this off. Not this time.

He couldn’t stand the idea of losing her.

Not to him.

⸻

The sun had begun to dip below the skyline, casting the Senate District in a soft golden glow. It was quiet—eerily so, for Coruscant—and for once, she welcomed the stillness.

She was sitting on her balcony, a cup of tea long forgotten beside her. R7 beeped quietly from the corner, then rolled back inside, sensing her need to be alone.

The knock came anyway.

She didn’t even look. “Door’s open.”

It hissed open a second later, and Thorn stood there in full red armor, helmet under one arm, his hair mussed, his expression unreadable.

She looked up at him slowly. “I figured you’d be storming through the training halls.”

“I did.” His voice was lower than usual. “Didn’t help.”

She gave him a soft, bitter smile. “Then I suppose I’ll be your next attempt at relief.”

“That’s not why I’m here.”

There was a beat of silence. The tension between them felt like it had a pulse of its own.

She stood, arms folding across her chest. “I never lied to you, Thorn.”

“I know.”

“I told you I couldn’t choose. That I cared about you both.” Her voice cracked a little at the edges, raw with the weight of it. “That hasn’t changed.”

“I didn’t come here to demand anything,” he said quietly. “I just… I needed to see you. I needed to know if it meant something. What happened between us. Or if I was just—”

“You weren’t just anything.” Her eyes locked with his. “Don’t do that to yourself. Don’t do that to me.”

He took a step closer. “Then what am I?”

She hesitated. “You’re someone I care about. Someone I trusted with more than I’ve trusted anyone in a long time. But that doesn’t mean I don’t care for him, too. This isn’t… easy.”

He closed the last bit of distance, standing just inches away now. “I’m not asking for easy. I never wanted perfect. Just something real.”

Her lips parted, a shaky breath escaping her. “Thorn…”

And then his lips were on hers.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t patient. It was desperate, almost painful—like if he didn’t kiss her now, if he didn’t feel her, he’d fall apart entirely.

She let him.

For a few suspended seconds, she let herself fall into the gravity of him—the anger, the confusion, the ache of not being enough and wanting too much. Her fingers curled into his armor, his hands gripping her waist like she was the last solid thing in the galaxy.

But she pulled back first.

His forehead pressed against hers, breath uneven.

“I can’t promise you anything,” she whispered, barely able to speak past the emotion in her throat.

“I’m not asking for a promise,” he murmured. “Just don’t shut me out.”

She nodded, slowly. “I won’t.”

Neither of them moved for a while. The city buzzed far beneath them, but up here, they were just two people—trying to make sense of a storm neither had control over.

⸻

The room was quiet, save for the faint hum of the Coruscant skyline outside and the soft rustling of sheets as Thorn shifted beside her. She was curled against him, her fingers tracing the edge of his armor, the weight of his body warm and familiar next to hers.

For the moment, the chaos of the galaxy seemed miles away. The Senate, the battles, the confusion with Fox, it all felt distant. All that remained was the steady rhythm of Thorn’s breath and the warmth of his presence.

She sighed, not wanting to break the silence. But she had to.

“Where will you go?” Her voice was barely above a whisper, the words fragile as they left her lips.

Thorn’s hand found hers, gently squeezing. “Padmé’s mission. There’s a squad of us assigned to protect her, make sure nothing goes wrong while she’s there.” His voice was casual, like this was just another assignment, another day in the life of a soldier.

But she could hear the edge in his tone, the unspoken weight of what it meant. She couldn’t help but feel a tightness in her chest.

“You’re going with her?” Her voice trembled slightly.

He nodded. “I’ll be with her, watching over her and the others. No one will get through me.”

But she knew the truth. The reality of war was far darker than the comfort of his words.

A quiet moment passed between them, the distance between their hearts widening with the inevitable separation.

She turned her face to the side to look at him, her fingers grazing his jaw. “Be careful.”

“I always am,” he said, but there was a sadness behind his smile, a knowing that neither of them could ignore.

Her stomach churned. She didn’t want him to leave. She didn’t want to watch him walk away, knowing how fragile life was in the galaxy they lived in.

“I wish I could go with you,” she murmured. “Not as a senator… just as me. I want to be by your side, Thorn.”

His fingers brushed her cheek, a tenderness in his touch that betrayed the soldier he was. “I know. I wish you could, too. But I can’t ask you to leave your duties.”

There it was—the line between them. The weight of who she was and what she had to do, and the soldier who had nothing but his duty to give.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” he promised, though the doubt lingered in his eyes. There was something in his gaze—a flicker of fear, of uncertainty—that unsettled her.

He was trying to reassure her, but she could feel it in her gut. She didn’t want to let him go. Not like this. Not with war still raging, not knowing what the future would hold.

But what could she do? She couldn’t keep him with her. And as much as she hated to admit it, she knew she couldn’t stand in the way of his duty either.

She nodded, her lips trembling as she kissed him again, softer this time. “Come back to me, Thorn. Promise me.”

He kissed her back, deeply, holding her close as if trying to make the moment last forever.

“I promise. I’ll come back to you. I’ll always come back.”

You lay there for a while longer, not speaking, just holding onto each other as the time ticked away. The feeling of his heartbeat beneath her fingers, the warmth of his body next to hers, was the only thing that anchored her to this fleeting moment of peace.

⸻

The next morning, the air felt heavy. Thorn, dressed in his full armor, stood by the door. His helmet sat at his side, and for once, the mask didn’t seem like a symbol of his strength. It seemed like a weight.

“I’ll be back soon,” he said quietly, looking at her one last time before the mission.

The time they had spent together—intimate, raw, fleeting—had been enough to make him hesitate. He wanted to hold her longer. To delay the mission, to stay here in the quiet with her for just a few more hours. But he couldn’t. Duty called, as it always did.

She nodded, standing in the doorway with her arms crossed over her chest.

She could feel her heart beating erratically. There was a bitter taste in her mouth, the unspoken fear gnawing at her insides.

She watched him walk down the hallway, her heart heavy with a sense of dread that she couldn’t shake. And as the door closed behind him, she tried to push the worry aside. She had to. For his sake.

The sound of the door sealing shut behind him echoed through the apartment. It was the sound of finality.

And as Thorn left her behind, she had no idea that this goodbye might be the last time she’d see him alive.

⸻

The mission was supposed to be routine. Thorn and his squad were assigned to protect Padmé, but as they soon discovered, nothing in the War ever went according to plan.

In the chaos, Thorn found himself surrounded, his blaster raised, a fierce determination in his eyes. But even the most skilled of soldiers could only hold out for so long.

⸻

Back on Coruscant, the days dragged on. The Senate halls were filled with the usual bustle, but the senator couldn’t shake the feeling of something missing. Thorn’s absence weighed on her.

She was in her office, sorting through reports and data pads that had piled up during her absence. The windows were open, letting in the soft glow of Coruscant’s afternoon sun, though it offered little warmth.

R7 chirped as he rolled past, dragging a half-toppled stack of flimsiplast behind him like a stubborn child refusing to clean up. GH-9 muttered something sarcastic in binary about the senator’s inability to delegate.

She was halfway through dictating a speech when the door chimed.

“Come in,” she called without looking up.

The door opened. She didn’t expect to look up and see Fox standing there.

The moment she saw his face, she knew.

He wasn’t in full armor. No helmet, no blaster. Just the weight of something unspeakable dragging his shoulders low. His eyes—those always-sharp, unreadable eyes—were glassy.

“Senator,” he said softly, almost like he wished he didn’t have to speak at all.

Her heart dropped.

“What is it?” she asked, the datapad slipping from her hands, forgotten on the desk.

Fox stepped inside and the door closed behind him with a quiet hiss.

“It’s Thorn.”

The words struck like a punch to the chest. She froze. Her stomach twisted.

“No.”

“He was escorting Senator Amidala They were ambushed. He held the line.” Fox’s voice was steady, trained. But beneath it, something trembled. “He fought like hell.”

Her knees buckled, and she sat down hard in her chair, as if the air had been knocked out of her.

“He didn’t—he didn’t make it,” Fox finished, the words hanging in the air like smoke after an explosion.

Silence.

R7 rolled up beside her, quietly for once, and GH-9 hovered in the background, hands twitching nervously.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t cry. Just sat there with her hands clenched in her lap, her nails biting into her palms. She stared at the wall, eyes unfocused.

“I shouldn’t have let him go alone.”

Fox took a step closer, voice low. “There’s nothing you could’ve done.”

She looked up at him sharply, and for a brief moment, he saw all of it—the love, the guilt, the devastation.

“You don’t know that.”

“No,” he said gently. “But I know he wouldn’t want you blaming yourself.”

Her jaw trembled. “He promised me. He said he’d come back.”

Fox moved then, silent but certain. He knelt beside her chair, placing one gloved hand over hers. It was the first time she’d seen him like this—unguarded, vulnerable.

“I didn’t want to be the one to tell you,” he admitted. “But I knew… it had to be me.”

She looked at him, truly looked. And something in her cracked.

Tears welled up and finally fell. Not loud, not dramatic. Just quiet, helpless grief.

Fox stayed where he was, grounding her with his hand, offering nothing but his presence and the unspoken ache of his own loss. Thorn had been one of them—his brother, his friend. And now, just another ghost in the long line behind them.

“I loved him,” she said hoarsely, the words torn from her chest. “And I never got to tell him.”

Fox nodded, his thumb brushing gently over her fingers. “He knew.”

They sat there like that for a long time. No titles, no ranks, no roles—just two people mourning a man who had mattered more than words could ever say.

⸻

It was late.

The city outside her window was alive with light, but her apartment was dark, save for the soft hum of R7 recharging in the corner and the occasional flicker of Coruscant speeders casting pale shadows across the room.

She stood at the balcony, robe drawn tight around her, fingers curled around a mug of untouched caf long since gone cold. The wind carried faint echoes of the night—traffic, laughter, the mechanical heartbeat of a world that never paused.

Behind her, she heard the soft hiss of her door sliding open.

She didn’t turn.

“I didn’t lock it, did I?” she murmured, her voice distant.

“No.” Fox’s voice was quiet, steady as ever, but softer somehow. “Didn’t think you’d want to be alone.”

She didn’t answer right away. Just stood there, watching nothing, letting the silence stretch between them like a fragile thread.

“I told you I couldn’t choose,” she said at last, her voice breaking around the edges. “Between you and him. I—I cared too much for you both.”

Fox stepped closer, but didn’t touch her.

“I know.”

Her throat tightened, and she finally turned to face him. His helmet was tucked under one arm, and without it, he looked tired. Hollowed out. But there was a warmth in his gaze, something real—something she wasn’t sure how to accept right now.

“The galaxy chose for me,” she whispered, bitterness thick on her tongue. “And it was cruel.”

Fox nodded once, eyes lowering. “It always is.”

They stood there in silence again. The wind picked up, brushing her hair into her face. She closed her eyes.

“He died protecting someone else,” she said. “Of course he did.”

“That’s who he was.”

“I didn’t get to say goodbye.”

Neither did Fox.

But Fox didn’t say it. He only looked at her with a quiet pain that mirrored her own.

After a while, she moved, just enough to stand beside him instead of across from him. Their shoulders nearly touched. And for the first time since the news had broken her in two, she let herself lean—just slightly—against him.

Fox didn’t move. Didn’t startle. He simply stayed.

The two of them stood there, side by side, in a moment that felt suspended in time. No war. No orders. No decisions to make.

Just grief. Just memory. Just a little peace, wrapped in shared silence and what could have been.

In the days that followed Thorn’s death, something shifted between her and Fox—but it wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t loud. It was in the small things.

He didn’t knock anymore.

She didn’t ask him to leave.

He never asked if he could stay, and she never told him no. When she broke into tears mid-sentence in a meeting with Bail and Mon, she felt Fox’s gloved hand rest lightly on her back—quiet, grounding, unspoken. When she returned to her apartment after long hours in the Senate, he was often already there, helmet on the table, sitting silently with R7 humming nearby and GH-9 making snide remarks about his choice in boots.

Their intimacy wasn’t the same as it once was. It wasn’t born of flirtation, or the tension of forbidden glances. It was quiet. Fragile. Real.

She didn’t laugh as much anymore, and Fox didn’t try to make her. But when she smiled—those rare, slow, exhausted smiles—he was always looking.

One night, weeks later, she woke to find herself tangled in her sheets, her heart racing from a dream she couldn’t remember. The bed beside her was empty, but she heard the sound of movement from the other room. When she padded out, she found him on the balcony, just like she had been that night.

He didn’t notice her at first. He was staring out at the city, the lights reflected in the faint lines beneath his eyes.

“I keep thinking about what he’d say if he saw us now,” she said quietly.

Fox didn’t flinch. “He’d be pissed.”

That got a breath of a laugh from her. “Yeah. He would.”

She stepped beside him, this time without hesitation. He looked at her—not with guilt or doubt, but something gentler.

“I’m not trying to take his place,” Fox said. “I wouldn’t do that. I couldn’t.”

“I know.”

“But I’m here. And I care about you.”

She nodded, voice soft. “And I care about you.”

The silence between them wasn’t heavy anymore. It was something else now. Shared understanding. Mutual grief. A kind of bond forged not through heat or fire, but through the slow, enduring ache of loss.

She reached for his hand, and this time, he took it.

⸻

It had been months—long, heavy months since the galaxy fell into silence.

The war had ended, but the peace that followed felt like a lie whispered in a storm. The Republic was no more. The Jedi were gone. The Senate now served an Emperor.

And Fox… was still hers.

Somehow, in the ruins of everything, they had survived—together. Their love had grown not with grand gestures or declarations, but in quiet mornings and guarded nights. The droids still bickered. The city still roared. But in their home, they found a rhythm.

She had feared he’d be swept away by the tides of this new Empire. Feared that one day he wouldn’t come back. And that fear… never quite left her.

It settled in her bones like frost.

That morning, she sat on the edge of their bed, dressing in silence. Fox stood near the window, fastening his chest plate, his helmet cradled beneath his arm. The early Coruscant light bathed them both in a pale hue, sterile and cold.

He was going to the Jedi Temple.

“Why you?” she asked softly, not for the first time.

“Because the Emperor trusts me,” he said. It wasn’t pride—it was resignation. “And because I follow orders.”

She swallowed. “You followed orders during the war too. And look where we are now.”

He turned to face her, his expression unreadable, as always. But then he stepped forward, kneeling slightly in front of her. He took her hands in his, calloused fingers brushing against hers.

“I’ll come back to you,” he said quietly. “I always come back.”

“That’s not what I’m afraid of,” she whispered. “I’m afraid of what’s left of you when you do.”

He didn’t answer—not right away. Instead, he leaned in, pressing his forehead to hers, the silence stretching between them like a wire ready to snap.

“You saved what was left of me once,” he murmured. “Whatever happens in that temple… I’ll still be him. I’ll still be yours.”

She nodded, eyes burning. “You’d better be.”

He kissed her, slow and deep, and for a moment the galaxy outside didn’t exist. No Empire. No purge. Just them. Just love, worn but unyielding.

Then, without another word, he picked up his helmet, straightened, and walked out the door.

She stood alone, the echo of his footsteps retreating down the hall.

And for the first time in weeks, the senator who had survived the war—who had outlived Thorn, Padmé, and a thousand dreams—sat in silence and prayed.

⸻

The senator sat in the same chair by the window, her fingers wrapped around a cup of now-cold tea.

The sun had long risen. She hadn’t moved.

It had been hours since Fox left for the Jedi Temple. She had done this before—waited for him to come home, waited for news, waited for the sound of armored boots in the hallway followed by that quiet, familiar knock.

But this time, it never came.

Instead, a Senate aide delivered the news. Cold. Efficient. Detached.

Commander Fox is dead.

Her world stopped spinning.

She hadn’t cried. Not at first. Just sat there. Staring. Breathing through the tremor that clawed its way up her throat. She waited for someone to say it was a mistake. That the report had been wrong. That he’d walk through the door like he always did, maybe with a bruise or a weary joke.

But he didn’t.

GH-9 paced the floor, helpless for once. R7 sat by the door, unmoving, eerily quiet—no beeps, no complaints. Just stillness.

“He forgot,” she whispered at last, her voice dry and cracking.

GH-9 paused, turning his photoreceptors to her. “Pardon, senator?”

“He forgot to tell them… about Vader. He didn’t warn his men. He walked in blind, trusting too much. He…” She laughed, a dry, heartbroken sound. “Fox. He followed the rules. Right to the end.”

She folded in on herself, pressing her forehead to her knees. Her voice came out muffled, trembling. “He left me too.”

No one tried to tell her it would be okay. Not this time. Even the droids stayed silent.

She had lost Thorn to the war. Padmé to politics and truth. The Jedi to treason and betrayal.

And now Fox.

The man who had once been all steel and restraint, who had learned to laugh again in her arms, who held her when the galaxy grew too loud, who said he’d come back… and meant it.

He meant it.

But even Fox couldn’t survive this new galaxy.

Hours passed.

She lay down on the bed, curling into the spot where he used to sleep. The sheets still smelled like him—warm leather, dust, and something sharp and clean like the wind before rain.

Her hand found his pillow and clutched it to her chest.

And finally—finally—she cried.

⸻

News of Fox’s death reached her like an echo—distant, half-believed, but devastating all the same. He was just gone. No funeral. No body. No honors. Only silence.

She tried to go back to her life. Attending hollow Senate sessions filled with sycophants and fear. Sitting in on Imperial briefings delivered with too much steel and too little soul. Every corridor she walked felt colder. Every face around her wore a mask.

He had died protecting that machine. And now, it turned as if he’d never existed.

She grieved in private. She didn’t scream. She didn’t fall apart. She simply… withdrew. Fox had once told her that the Empire’s greatest weapon wasn’t force—it was apathy. It made people stop feeling. She remembered that.

But she wouldn’t stop feeling.

So when survivors of distant systems quietly sought her out… she listened.

When a child refugee from Garel slipped her a hand-drawn map of a new labor camp… she didn’t throw it away.

When a clone deserter arrived at her estate with wounds on his back and no name, she gave him food. And a place to rest.

It was only help, she told herself.

But helping turned into organizing. Organizing turned into funding. Funding turned into sabotage. Quietly. Carefully. No grand speeches. No banners. No cause, not officially. Just steps. One after another.

She still spoke in the Senate, but her voice was quieter now. Calculated. She didn’t argue. She watched. Noticed who kept their heads down and who looked over their shoulders. Who clenched their fists beneath the table.

And then she began connecting them.

They weren’t a rebellion. Not yet.

They were just people who remembered.

⸻

*time skip*

The banners were gone.

Where once the towering buildings of Coruscant bore the stark emblem of the Empire, now they flew the soft golds and blues of the New Republic. It had taken years. Blood, betrayal, sacrifice. But the machine had been broken.

She stood on a balcony overlooking the Senate Plaza, the same one where she’d once greeted Padmé, where she’d once stood beside Thorn, where Fox had kissed her in the early light of a safer time.

Everything was quieter now.

Not because there wasn’t work to do—there was always work—but because the fear had lifted. People laughed in the streets again.

Her hair was streaked with grey now, skin lined with years that had not always been kind. But her eyes… they were still sharp, still tired, still watching.

She didn’t hold a seat in the new Senate. She had turned it down. She said she’d done her time, spoken enough, lost too much. The new leaders were young, hopeful, idealistic. She didn’t want to shape them. She just wanted them to do better.

Some called her a war hero. Others, a relic. A few, a ghost.

She was all of them. And none.

On quiet mornings, she would walk the Senate gardens. GH-9 still chattered beside her. R7 wheeled along just ahead, ever feisty, ever suspicious, always scanning for threats that might never come.

Sometimes, she swore she saw a flash of red and white armor in the crowd. Sometimes, she turned too fast, thinking she’d heard a voice she knew.

But no. They were gone. Thorn. Fox. So many others.

And yet, she remained.

When asked if it was worth it, she never gave the same answer twice.

Sometimes she said yes.

Sometimes she said no.

And sometimes, she just looked out over the city and said,

“Ask me again tomorrow.”

Previous part

A/N

I didn’t know how to end this, so I ended it bittersweet/tragic. I absolutely hate this ending ahahaha.

Lyco woke up and chose violence

Do y'all ever read a fic so good that it makes you want to elevate your own craft and also befriend the writer? It's almost like, "Hi! You write so well that you've inspired me to embark on a creative training arc. Also, can I yell about the character in your dms because you get it?"

They’re clones

“Crossfire” pt.5

Commander Cody x Reader x Captain Rex

The glow of neon signs cut jagged shadows into her face as she pushed open the doors to 79’s. The music hit like a punch to the chest—thick, thrumming, alive. She hadn’t meant to end up here.

But when she’d gotten off the transport, alone and empty-handed, with the kid now a ‘Republic asset’ and Palpatine’s cold praise still ringing in her ears, this was the only place her feet knew how to take her.

The clone bar was alive with movement and noise, filled with off-duty troopers trying to forget the war for a few short hours. They laughed, danced, drank like their lives depended on it.

She just wanted to disappear into it all.

The bartender handed her something neon and stupid. She drank it fast, then another. And another. The buzz settled in her limbs like comfort. Like numbness.

He was just a kid. Force-sensitive, and full of light. And I handed him over to Palpatine.

She tried not to think about it. So she drank more.

And then—they walked in.

She saw them before they saw her. Cody, in civvies but still too clean-cut, golden-brown eyes scanning the room like he couldn’t turn off the commander inside him. And Rex, just a few steps behind, his shoulders broad, jaw tight, wearing the weight of command like a second skin.

She blinked slowly, trying to decide if this was real or just the alcohol playing tricks.

It was real.

They saw her. Stopped short. Eyes locked.

And then they came to her—Cody first, Rex just behind.

“You’re alive,” Cody said, voice low, controlled, but his gaze moved across her face like he was checking for wounds.

They were both staring. They weren’t angry—not really. They were trying to hide the storm of questions behind their eyes. She didn’t owe them anything. But that didn’t stop the guilt from slinking down her spine.

“So…” She lifted her drink lazily. “What brings the Republic’s golden boys here tonight? Hoping to find someone to help you forget how screwed everything is?”

“You were gone for months,” Rex said quietly. “And you didn’t answer a single comm.”

Cody added, “You could’ve told us you were alive.”

She glanced between them. “Why? So you two could fight over who gets to scold me first?”

That stung. She saw it in Cody’s jaw, the twitch in Rex’s brow. She hadn’t meant it. Or maybe she had.

The music shifted to something slower, darker. The kind of song that made people sway too close.

Cody surprised her by offering a hand. “Dance with me.”

She laughed, bitter. “Feeling sentimental, Commander?”

He didn’t smile. Just held out his hand again.

She took it.

On the dance floor, Cody kept one hand steady on her hip, the other barely brushing her back. He was tense—like he didn’t trust himself. She moved closer, body brushing his. Just enough to test him.

“You’re trouble,” he murmured, eyes locked on hers.

“You like trouble,” she shot back.

He kissed her.

It wasn’t rough or desperate. It was slow—cautious. Like he’d waited too long and didn’t want to screw it up. She kissed him back, lips brushing his softly, dangerously, until someone bumped into them and she stumbled, heart suddenly pounding.

She pulled away. “I need air.”

She didn’t look back as she weaved through the crowd and pushed out into the alley.

The night air was damp. She pressed her back against the wall, tilted her head up, breathing hard. The buzz in her chest had turned sharp now. Fractured.

“What was that about?” a voice asked behind her.

She turned.

Rex.

Of course.

He stood in the mouth of the alley, arms crossed, eyes dark.

“Jealous?” she asked, half-laughing, half-daring him to admit it.

He stepped closer. “You shouldn’t play with him.”

Her smirk faded. “I’m not playing.”

“You kissed him. After months of silence, you show up drunk and just—”

“What, you mad I didn’t kiss you first?”

He didn’t flinch. “You’re not okay.”

Something cracked in her.

“I’m trying,” she whispered. “I don’t know how to do any of this. The war, the kid, you. I never signed up for this mess.”

They stared at each other in the quiet.

Then Rex crossed the space in three strides and kissed her.

It wasn’t gentle. It was fire. Frustration. Longing. Everything unsaid between them. She clutched his shirt, fingers tangled in the fabric. When he pulled away, his breath was ragged.

“I’ve been thinking about you every damn day,” he said.

Her heart slammed in her chest. “Then why didn’t you come find me?”

“Because I didn’t want to find you dead.”

The words dropped like lead.

She stepped back, swallowed hard. “I didn’t mean to hurt either of you.”

“You still did.”

She nodded. “I know.”

He left her standing there, alone in the alley, unsure which kiss she regretted more—and which one she wanted again.

⸻

“You kissed her?” Cody’s voice cut the dark like a vibroblade.

Rex didn’t even flinch. “You did too.”

Cody let out a bitter laugh. “Yeah. I did. Because I’ve been worrying about her for months. Because I thought she might be dead. Because when I saw her again, I felt like I could finally breathe.”

“She kissed me back.”

“She kissed me back, too,” Cody snapped. “You think this is some kind of pissing contest?”

Rex stepped forward, voice lower now, rawer. “No. I think it’s too late for either of us to play noble.”

There was a pause—long and quiet. Neither of them looked at the other.

“She doesn’t belong to us,” Cody said, jaw clenched.

“No,” Rex agreed. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want her to.”

Cody nodded slowly. “Then we’re both idiots.”

“Yeah,” Rex muttered. “But we’re in it now.”

Silence.

They didn’t say anything else. They couldn’t. There was no answer—no right move. Only damage done and more to come.

⸻

Her head was trying to kill her.

It had to be.

The pounding behind her eyes felt like someone had set off a thermal detonator inside her skull, and her mouth was dry enough to make Tatooine jealous. She rolled over, groaning, pulling the blanket over her face.

And then she noticed it.

Breathing.

Not hers.

She froze.

Lifted the blanket.

And there—laying on top of the covers, one arm behind his head, the other holding a data pad, perfectly at ease—was Kit Fisto.

She bolted upright with a groan, clutching her temples. “Please tell me we didn’t…”

Kit set the datapad aside. “No. You were very vocal about not wanting anyone in your bed unless it was Commander Cody or Captain Rex.” He smirked, just slightly. “You said, and I quote, ‘If I can’t have both, I don’t want either. But I do want both.’”

Kit’s lips pulled into a serene grin. “You passed out the first time halfway through crying about your crops.”

She blinked. “What?”

“I found you stumbling through the lower levels, completely smashed,” he said, voice maddeningly calm. “I walked you home. You insisted I stay because the ‘walls were conspiring against you’ and also because you thought I was ‘probably the only Jedi who doesn’t want to vivisect you.’”

“…Sounds about right,” she muttered.

“You also tried to get me to do a dramatic reading of your bounty logs.”

She groaned again. “Kill me.”

“I would’ve, but then you started crying again.”

“Okay!” She threw the blanket off and swung her legs over the bed. “Thank you for your public service, Master Fisto. You may go now.”

Kit rose with Jedi smoothness, unfazed. “You told me you trusted me, last night.”

She paused.

“And you said you didn’t know if you trusted the others anymore. Not even yourself.”

That sat in the room for a beat too long.

She turned to look at him, eyes bloodshot but suddenly sober. “Did I say why?”

He shook his head. “No. You fell asleep on the floor halfway through telling me about a defective hydrospanner.”

She let out a weak laugh.

Kit stepped toward her, not close, but close enough to offer peace.

“I don’t think you’re the enemy,” he said softly. “But I do think you’re lost. And I think you’re trying to keep the war from turning you into something else.”

She stared at him, the noise of last night crashing down like static. Rex. Cody. The kid. Palpatine. The Council.

Kit stood and poured her a glass of water. “You cried. You yelled. You kissed one of the clones on a dance floor and kissed the other in an alley. And then you tried to fight a waitress because she wouldn’t give you more shots.”

Everything was bleeding together.

“Why didn’t you just leave me in the gutter where I belonged?”

“Because, despite my early concerns, I don’t think you belong in a gutter.”

She sipped the water. “I’m sorry.”

He gave her a nod. “I’ll leave you to sleep it off. But… maybe don’t wait too long to talk to the people you care about. This mess? It only gets worse if you let it rot.”

“I should’ve stayed gone,” she whispered.

Kit didn’t argue. He just nodded once and said, “But you didn’t.”

And then he left.

Leaving her alone in the echo of too many choices—and a very, very bad hangover.

⸻

Silence took over the apartment, broken only by the kettle still screaming on the stove. She didn’t move. Just stared at the ceiling. The weight of the night was heavy. The confusion heavier. Every memory came in splinters—Rex’s hand on her waist, Cody’s voice in her ear, the heat of lips, the taste of regret.

A knock at the door pulled her from the spiral.

She froze.

It knocked again. Three times. Familiar.

She crossed to the door and opened it slowly.

Rex stood there, hands in the pockets of his civvies. No armor. No helmet. Just tired eyes and a quiet storm in his chest.

“…Hey,” she rasped, voice still ruined from alcohol and heartbreak.

He gave her a once-over. “You look like hell.”

“Feel worse.” She stepped aside without another word.

He walked in slowly. Glanced around like he was expecting someone else. “You alone?”

“Kit Fisto left an hour ago. He was just being decent.” She watched his jaw twitch. “Nothing happened.”

He didn’t look at her. Just stared at the empty bottle on the counter. “Everyone’s talking.”

“I know.”

He finally turned. “You kissed me.”

She swallowed. “Yeah.”

“Then you kissed Cody.”

“…Yeah.”

He took a breath, like he’d been holding it for too long. “You can’t keep doing this.”

“I didn’t plan to.”

He looked at her then—really looked at her. Like he was searching for something beneath the haze and the jokes and the armor she wore.

“What do you want?” he asked.

She looked down. “I don’t know.”

“You can’t keep hurting us while you figure it out.”

“I’m not trying to,” she whispered.

“Then stop running.”

Silence.

She didn’t know what to say. Not yet.

Rex turned to leave.

But at the door, he paused. “When you figure it out… when you really know—come find me. If it’s not me, I’ll live. But don’t kiss me again unless you’re sure.”

Then he left.

And for the first time in months, she didn’t want to run.

She wanted to stay. And clean the pieces she’d scattered.

⸻

Whispers traveled fast in the Temple.

Faster than transports.

Faster than truth.

By the time Master Kit Fisto stepped into the Council chambers, most of the senior Jedi were already seated—and they were looking at him with measured, expectant expressions.

Even Master Yoda’s ears twitched a little too knowingly.

Mace Windu’s stare was sharp as a lightsaber. “We’ve heard some… interesting accounts of your whereabouts last night.”

Kit didn’t blink. “Then I assume you already know I spent the evening ensuring a very drunk bounty hunter didn’t choke on her own regrets.”

Murmurs among the Masters. Ki-Adi-Mundi’s brow furrowed. “This isn’t the first time she’s been seen involving herself with members of the Republic.”

Luminara’s tone was clipped. “Nor the first time she’s manipulated proximity for influence.”

Obi-Wan folded his arms, but said nothing.

“She didn’t manipulate anything,” Kit said evenly. “She confided in me. The kind of honesty we’ve been demanding from her.”

Mace tilted his head. “And?”

Kit looked at him directly. “She’s in love with both of them—Commander Cody and Captain Rex. But that’s not what concerns her most.”

Now Obi-Wan stirred. “Go on.”

Kit’s voice was low. “She’s terrified of the Chancellor.”

Yoda’s ears perked. “Hmmm. Afraid, she is?”

“She didn’t say it directly. But I could hear it. She’s afraid of what she knows… and what he might do if she doesn’t play along.”

“That doesn’t mean she isn’t dangerous,” Ki-Adi-Mundi warned.

“It means she’s been alone in the middle of a political war, with no clear side to stand on,” Kit replied firmly. “We sent her into the shadows and now condemn her for adapting to them.”

“She took a child from a warzone,” Luminara said. “Lied about how she got him. Hid from the Republic.”

“Because she was ordered to,” Kit said, sharper now. “And when that order changed—to something unthinkable—she defied it. She saved him.”

Silence followed that.

Windu was quiet for a moment, then asked, “Do you believe her loyalty lies with us?”

Kit hesitated. Then nodded. “I believe her loyalty lies with the people she cares about. And right now… that includes two of our most trusted commanders and Captains.”

Obi-Wan finally spoke. “The Chancellor won’t like this.”

“No,” Windu agreed, standing. “But he doesn’t get to dictate how we perceive loyalty. Or love.”

Yoda’s voice, gentle but sure, followed: “The dark side clouds much. But clearer, the truth becomes. Watch her, we will. But trust her, we must begin to consider.”

Kit bowed his head. “Thank you.”

As the Council slowly began to adjourn, Windu approached him quietly.

“You’ve changed your mind about her.”

“I have,” Kit admitted. “Because I stopped looking at her record… and started listening to her heart.”

Windu nodded once. “We’ll see if that heart leads her back to us—or away for good.”

⸻

She had just finished showering off the night—physically, anyway. The emotional fog still clung like smoke in her lungs. Her clothes were clean, the kettle quiet, and the apartment smelled faintly of burned caf.

When the knock came again, softer this time, she already knew who it was.

She opened the door, and there stood Commander Cody. Arms crossed. Still in his armor minus the helmet. His posture was less “soldier on a mission” and more “man at the edge of patience.”

He gave her a once-over. “You look better.”

She gave a tired smile. “You should’ve seen me this morning.”

“I did. In the alley.”

That shut her up.

He stepped inside, letting the door hiss shut behind him. He didn’t bother walking further in—just stood there, facing her like she was on trial. And in a way, she was.

“You kissed me,” he said flatly.

“I did.”

“You kissed Rex.”

She nodded. “I know.”

He exhaled through his nose. “Do you want us to fight over you?”

“No.” Her voice cracked like old glass. “Never.”

Cody tilted his head. “Then what are you doing?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.” He stepped forward. His tone was low—not angry, not accusing—just tired and honest. “You know exactly what you’re doing. You run when it gets too real. You lie when someone gets too close. You play both sides of everything so no one ever gets close enough to hurt you.”

She looked away.

“I don’t care who you choose,” he said, voice gentler now. “Rex, me, no one. I care that you keep lying. You keep manipulating people. You keep running. You say you care about us, but you treat us like we’re temporary. Like we’ll disappear the second things get hard.”

She stepped back, eyes welling up. “I’m trying, Cody. I didn’t mean for it to get this complicated.”

“Everything gets complicated with you.” He uncrossed his arms. “And I can handle complicated. But I won’t be your second choice. And neither will Rex.”

Silence.

Her throat was raw. “You’re not a second choice. You’re… you’re Cody.”

“Then stop treating me like a backup plan.”

That cut deeper than she expected.

He moved toward the door, then paused.

“For what it’s worth… I don’t regret kissing you. I’ve wanted to for a long time. But if it’s not real—don’t do it again.”

The door opened.

“Cody.”

He stopped.

“I’m scared.”

“I know,” he said softly, not turning around. “So am I. But we don’t get to use that as an excuse forever.”

Then he was gone.

And she stood there, in her too-clean apartment, surrounded by silence and the scent of burned caf, wishing she could burn away the shame just as easily.

Prev part | Next Part

Commander Wolffe x Jedi Reader

The hangar ramp hissed open, and your boots hit the deck like you owned it. Technically, you didn't—but you were Plo Koon's former Padawan, still carrying his signature balance of unshakable calm and cutting sarcasm.

You tugged your hood down and grinned as you spotted two familiar figures on the bridge: Plo Koon, standing with serene patience, and Commander Wolffe beside him, looking like someone had just asked him to smile. Again.

"Master," you greeted with a playful bow. "Commander."

Without turning, Plo said, "You're late... again."

You smirked. "As long as I'm not late to my own funeral. You must know by now I consider this punctual."

Wolffe crossed his arms. "With your timing? It's a miracle you've not already had one."

You gave him a slow once-over. "Still charming as ever, I see. The scowl really brings out the war-torn veteran vibes. Very scarred and emotionally unavailable of you."

Wolffe didn't even flinch. "And you're still running your mouth like we've got time for it."

Before you could reply, Boost and Sinker passed behind him, lugging crates and throwing looks.

"Someone's in love," Boost sang under his breath.

"Poor Commander," Sinker added, "didn't stand a chance."

Wolffe didn't even turn around. "I can still reassign both of you to sewage detail."

You held back a laugh—barely.

"Are all your men like this now?" you asked your old Master.

Plo Koon gave a low hum. "Sassy. Grumpy. Aggressively loyal."

"So you picked them to remind you of me."

"I missed you," he said without missing a beat.

Your heart actually squeezed at that, but you covered it with, "Well, I hope you're ready, because if Commander Growl here is leading the op, I might die from sarcasm before I die from blaster fire."

Wolffe raised an eyebrow. "I don't babysit Jedi."

You stepped closer. "Good. I don't need a babysitter. I need someone who won't cry when I outrank him in sass."

He stared at you, deadpan. "You won't."

You stared back. "You sure?"

Pause.

"Unfortunately."

Plo Koon interrupted before one of you ended up biting the other. "We deploy in two hours. I expect both of you to survive long enough to get along."

You and Wolffe answered at the same time.

"No promises."

---

The landing zone was chaos.

Blaster fire lit the sky, droids rained from drop ships, and the ground was already smoking. You and Wolffe hit dirt side by side, crouched behind the smoldering wreckage of what used to be a tactical transport.

"Well," you said, deflecting a bolt with your saber, "this is cozy."

"You call this cozy?" Wolffe growled, firing a shot so clean it sent a super battle droid straight to the scrap heap.

You smirked. "I've had worse first dates."

He didn't look at you, just reloaded. "You're bleeding."

You glanced at your shoulder. Blaster graze. "A little paint off the speeder. I'm fine."

"You should patch it."

"Are you worried about me, Commander?"

"No. I just don't want to carry your dramatic ass off the battlefield."

"You mean you can't carry me."

"Try me."

Before you could sass him again, Boost's voice crackled through comms.

"Commanderrr, she's making that face again."

"You mean the one that says 'I flirt by mocking your trauma'?"

Sinker's voice joined in, deadpan: > "So... her default face."

"Copy that, shutting off comms now," Wolffe said dryly—and actually turned his comm off.

"Coward," you muttered, slashing through another droid.

But underneath all the banter, you were moving in sync. You ducked when he fired. He stepped when you struck. Like muscle memory. Like old training and shared violence. Like maybe, somehow, this shouldn't feel so... natural.

_ _ _

The op was a win. Barely.

You were bruised, bleeding, and parked on a cold medbay cot with a bandage wrapped around your shoulder. Wolffe was sitting across from you, helmet off, that glorious scar catching the sterile light.

You stared at it. Again.

"I can feel you looking at it," he grumbled, arms crossed.

"Can't help it. It's criminally hot."

He blinked. "It's a war wound."

"Exactly."

He shook his head. "You're weird."

"You're pretty," you shot back—mostly to see him flinch.

And oh, he flinched. Glared like you'd punched him in the stomach.

"I—what—don't—" he sputtered. "You can't just say things like that."

"You mean compliments?"

He looked genuinely appalled. "You take one like it's a threat!"

"Because they usually are! Last guy who called me beautiful tried to shoot me two hours later."

Wolffe rubbed his face. "We are so emotionally damaged."

You grinned. "You like it."

He muttered something about Jedi being a menace, and you stepped closer. Right into his space. Close enough to see the tension in his jaw—and the way he didn't move away.

"Wolffe," you said quietly. "You're allowed to like me. Even if I'm mouthy. Even if I scare you a little."

"You don't scare me."

You leaned in.

"Good."

Then you kissed him. And stars, he kissed you back.

It wasn't sweet. It wasn't gentle. It was the kind of kiss you gave a person when you both knew tomorrow might not come. Hard, real, desperate in that quiet, aching way soldiers kiss—the kind that says I know we're doomed, but just for tonight, pretend we're not.

When you finally pulled back, he was breathing a little heavier.

"...You're exhausting," he whispered.

"You love it."

"...Unfortunately."

From the next room, Boost called, "If you're done making out, the rest of us are bleeding."

Sinker added, "Bleeding and emotionally neglected."

Wolffe let his head thunk against your shoulder.

You just smiled. "Same time tomorrow?"

"Maker help me," he muttered.

But he didn't say no.

leader of the pack

[Image ID: Digital bust illustration of Commander Wolffe from Star Wars: The Clone Wars. He is framed by a blue background. End ID.]

Dominoes fall, but no one ever tells you what happens to the last one. Lyrics from: Wait for Me - Hadestown (2:47-3:11) ...with a little lyric change at the end. Beep beep, emotional damage truck coming through! Also this is the result of my WIP featured on my Last Line Challenge.