Boss Republic Commando - Blog Posts

“Duty Calls, Desire Waits”

Boss x Reader

The door to your quarters hissed open, and before you even turned around, you felt him. That familiar presence—silent, commanding, unwavering. Boss was back.

You didn’t need words. The way his heavy boots hit the floor, slow and steady, told you everything. The weight of the mission still hung in his posture, but beneath it, something softer—a need. For you.

He finally looked up, eyes dark behind that helmet’s visor, and you caught a flicker of relief. You stepped forward, your hand reaching for his arm, fingers curling around the reinforced armor. The tension in his shoulders eased, just a fraction.

No words were spoken, none needed.

Your fingers traced the edge of his visor, then slid down to his neck plate, where the cold metal met bare skin. Boss’s hand found your waist, pulling you closer—no space left between you now.

The heat built slowly, burning through the quiet. His grip tightened, and you tilted your head up, brushing your lips lightly over the rim of his helmet as if to remind him you were here. That this was home.

A low, almost inaudible sound vibrated from his chest—a promise, a confession. You smiled, heart racing.

Then, the world faded until it was only you and Boss, the steady beat of two hearts finding their rhythm again.

He finally took off his helmet to reveal his eyes—intense, dark, tired. The kind of tired that comes from seeing too much but still standing tall.

“You’re here,” his voice was low, rough around the edges like gravel, but steady.

You reached up, fingertips brushing over his cheeks. “I’m not going anywhere.”

A shadow of a smile touched his lips. “Every time I leave, I wonder if I’ll come back.”

Your hand slid from his neck to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath the armor. “You always do.”

His other hand cupped your cheek gently, thumb stroking as if trying to memorize your face. “You’re my anchor. The only thing keeping me grounded when everything else is chaos.”

You leaned into his touch. “Then stay grounded. Stay with me.”

For a moment, all the walls around him seemed to crumble, and he looked vulnerable—the soldier behind the mask.

“I want to,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “More than anything.”

You closed the small distance between you, resting your forehead against his. “Then show me. Stay.”

The tension between you was electric, but it wasn’t just desire—it was relief, connection, and the unspoken promise that no matter how dark the mission, you were both each other’s light.

He pulled you closer, the strength in his embrace both protective and tender.

And in that quiet space, with nothing but the sound of your breathing and his steady heartbeat, you both knew this was home.

Boss’s hands slid lower, tracing the curve of your waist, pulling you tighter against him. The heat between you grew, the space shrinking until the world outside ceased to exist.

His voice was a low growl near your ear. “I’ve waited too long for this.”

You whispered back, “Me too.”

Just as his lips brushed yours, soft and promising, the sudden buzz of the comms cracked through the silence.

Boss pulled back slightly, annoyed but alert.

“—Scorch here. Uh… I might’ve accidentally blown up the supply depot. Again,” came the familiar voice, a mix of sheepish and panicked.

Sev’s harsh reply followed, “You’re gonna pay for that, Demo. I’m coming for you.”

Boss shook his head, a smirk tugging at his lips despite himself. “So much for a demolition expert.”

You laughed softly, the moment broken but the warmth lingering as Boss reached for his helmet.

“Duty calls,” he muttered, eyes meeting yours one last time. “But I’ll be back.”

You nodded, voice steady. “I’ll be here.”

With that, he was gone, leaving you both wanting more — and counting down until the next time.

“Caf Break”

Fixer (RC-1140) x Reader

Your caf shop wasn’t fancy.

One countertop. Four chipped booths. A sputtering holosign that read “CAF & CRUNCH – OPEN” with a flicker that hadn’t been fixed in years.

You didn’t get many clones here.

Too far out. Too quiet. The garrison was small, the rotations fast. They didn’t stay long enough to know your name.

Except one.

Helmet always on. Barely spoke. Green armor with white detailing, scuffed and battle-worn. He ordered the same thing every time: strong black caf, no sweetener, no conversation.

You didn’t know his name.

So you called him Greenie in your head.

And Greenie had come back five times in two weeks.

Fixer was not… sure why he kept returning.

He told himself it was logistical.

The caf was strong. No risk of contamination. The shop was unassuming—good line of sight to both entrances, windows provided 180-degree visibility, and the booths weren’t bolted down, making them usable as cover in case of attack.

It made tactical sense.

But when he sat there—helmet on, fingers curled loosely around the mug—he found himself… pausing.

Observing.

You always had a smudge of caf dust on your apron. You were quick with a smile, not pushy. Efficient. Clean workspace. Minimal chatter unless engaged first. He liked that.

And once, when he’d stood up too fast and knocked a napkin holder onto the floor, you’d just picked it up, smiled, and said, “Even commandos have off days, huh?”

He’d stared at you for three seconds too long. An eternity in commando time.

The next day, he came back.

And the next.

And today, too.

You slid the mug in front of him with a soft clink.

“Double strength, no frills. You’re predictable.”

He paused.

“…Efficient,” he corrected, voice metallic through the helmet.

You leaned against the counter. “So’s a vending droid. At least you tip better.”

He almost smiled.

Almost.

It became routine.

You worked mornings. Fixer showed up during early rotation hours. You made the caf before he even ordered it. He never told you anything—not his name, not his rank, not his mission—but he watched you like he was memorizing your movements. Not in a creepy way. More like… cataloging. Like he was trying to understand something he didn’t have the words for.

Like you were the tactical puzzle he couldn’t solve.

Once, during a light rain, you asked, “Ever thought of taking the bucket off?”

He tilted his head. “No.”

You laughed. “Figures.”

Fixer didn’t feel like he was capable of anything outside the mission.

That’s what being a commando meant. That’s what Skirata had hammered into them. That’s what the Kaminoans designed them for: purpose. Obedience. Kill and move. Survive and follow orders.

He didn’t know what to do with the warmth in his chest when he saw you slide him that caf with a smile.

He didn’t understand why he had memorized the way you tucked your hair behind your ear when you were annoyed. Or the way you sang—quietly, under your breath—when you thought the shop was empty.

He didn’t understand why your voice filtered into his mind even when he was on missions. Why he thought about what your laugh might sound like without the helmet filtering it.

So he stayed quiet.

He came back.

Again.

And again.

And again.

It wasn’t until the sixth visit that you reached over the counter with a datapad.

“Can I at least know what to call you? Something better than ‘Greenie’? Because that’s what I call you in my head and I’m not proud of it.”

He blinked under the helmet. “That’s… not mission-critical information.”

“You’re not on a mission right now.”

“I’m always on a mission.”

You leaned closer, arms crossed, smile playful but firm. “Even when you’re drinking caf?”

He hesitated.

“…Fixer.”

You raised a brow. “That your name or your function?”

“…Yes.”

You laughed, not unkindly. “Alright, Fixer. I’ll remember that.”

He nodded.

He didn’t say it, but he’d already memorized your name from the receipt tucked under the register. He knew your schedule. Your preferred blend. The way you wrote cursive Y’s when you took orders by hand.

He knew too much. But not enough.

⸻

A few days later, the war came closer.

There was an explosion not far from the marketplace. Distant but sharp. You flinched when it hit, spilling caf across the counter. Patrons ducked. One of the booths cracked.

And he was there—immediately.

Fixer pushed through the front entrance before the echoes even died out, blaster raised, visor scanning the room. He found you kneeling behind the counter, heart racing, but unhurt.

You looked up.

“…Fixer?”

He crossed to you fast, like the space between you was an obstacle to eliminate.

“Status?”

“I’m fine.”

He didn’t answer. He just knelt in front of you, one gloved hand gently resting on your shoulder, scanning you for wounds like you were a member of his squad.

You put your hand over his. “I told you I’m okay.”

There was silence. Then—very slowly—he retracted his hand.

“I’m glad.”

You smiled, a little breathless. “You’re not supposed to get attached to civilians, you know.”

“I know.”

“You’re doing it anyway.”

“I know that, too.”

And this time, you reached for his hand. Not as a test. As an answer.

“Good,” you said softly.

He didn’t respond. Not verbally.

But he didn’t let go.

The warmth of your hand lingered in his glove longer than it should have.

Fixer didn’t move at first. Your fingers were still resting gently against his, your eyes steady on his visor, like you could see the man under the armor. Maybe you could.

But then—

“Fixer, move! We’ve got heat east side, half klick. Now!”

Boss.

Fixer’s helmet comm crackled with urgency. Nothing friendly. All business.

He stood abruptly, the shift from human to commando so clean it almost hurt.

You blinked. “Fixer—?”

But he was already backing away, rifle primed.

“Stay inside,” he said shortly. “Secure the back door. Bolt it.”

He paused just before turning to leave—like he wanted to say something else—but then Delta Squad’s comms lit up again.

“Scorch, get your shebs on the west flank. Sev, overwatch from the north tower. We’re drawing them in.”

Fixer was gone.

⸻

Outside, the air was sharp with smoke and ozone.

A low-flying transport had been taken out above the market square—probably a Republic one—and the Separatist droids were crawling from alleyways and downed cargo haulers like insects swarming a carcass. Civilians screamed in the distance. Blaster fire echoed in tight bursts. Close.

Fixer moved with precision, slipping into cover beside Boss, who was already giving orders like the leader he was.

“Sev’s in position. Scorch is making a mess—”

“Hey! Controlled chaos!” Scorch’s voice chirped over comms, followed immediately by a thunderous explosion and a cheer. “They loved that one.”

Boss didn’t flinch. “Fixer, tighten the east corridor. Thermal count says another squad’s flanking through the maintenance tunnels.”

Fixer nodded. “On it.”

“Wait, you came from the caf shop, right?” Scorch broke in again, teasing. “See your girlfriend?”

Fixer didn’t respond.

Sev’s dry voice cut in from the high perch. “Confirmed: Fixer’s still pretending he doesn’t care. Target rich environment out here, by the way.”

Boss sighed. “Focus.”

“I am focused,” Scorch muttered. “Focused on how Fixer only starts calling for backup after he’s finished checking on his civilian crush.”

“Mission protocol prioritizes non-combatant safety,” Fixer replied flatly, already sweeping a corner with his DC-17m.

“Oh sure,” Scorch drawled, “real tactical of you to hold her hand first.”

There was a brief silence on comms. Boss might’ve smirked behind his visor. Sev definitely did.

Fixer didn’t dignify it with a response. Instead, he tapped a few commands into his HUD, redirected two proximity mines, and crouched behind a stack of durasteel crates near the alley entrance.

“Contact,” he said coolly.

The moment the droids stepped into range, his trap triggered—concise, brutal, clean.

Three droids dropped. One limped, firing blindly. Fixer silenced it with a single shot.

“Boring as ever,” Sev muttered from above, “but effective.”

“Hey,” Scorch chimed in again, still grinning. “You think if we all survive this, Fixer will ask her out? Or will he file a formal requisition request for feelings first?”

Fixer adjusted his grip on the rifle. “I’m removing your access to my armor diagnostics.”

“You’d have to admit you have emotions to do that, Fixer.”

“Scorch. Focus.” Boss’s voice was flat, but even he sounded amused now.

Delta moved like a single organism—tight communication, seamless roles. Boss pushed forward through the square, marking targets. Scorch covered left, laughing and setting a charge with a little too much enthusiasm. Sev picked enemies off from above with clinical detachment. And Fixer—silent, efficient—was always one step ahead, rerouting their tech, coordinating their intel, watching every back but never speaking unless necessary.

But even as he moved through the field, his mind flickered once—briefly—to the warmth of your hand. Your voice. The way you’d looked at him like he wasn’t just another armored shadow walking into fire.

It made him hesitate, just for half a heartbeat.

Enough for a B2 to round the corner and raise its arm.

The blaster charge lit up red.

Fixer ducked—too slow.

The bolt clipped his shoulder plate, sending him sprawling behind cover.

“Fixer, report!” Boss barked.

“Still operational,” Fixer said through gritted teeth, locking down the pain response. “Hit left pauldron. Armor held.”

“You good?” Scorch piped up.

“Focus on the droids,” Fixer snapped.

But he wasn’t angry.

Not really.

He was… rattled. Not by the injury. By the distraction.

You.

⸻

Back inside the caf shop, the attack faded into muffled blasts and distant fire.

You stayed behind the counter, just like he said, listening. Waiting.

And worrying.

He had said he was always on a mission.

But now, you were his distraction.

And whether that was a danger or something more… you weren’t sure.

Not yet.

But you planned to find out.

The front bell above the caf shop door gave a soft ding as it opened, and you were already halfway around the counter before you even saw who it was.

Fixer stepped in, pauldron scorched, boots heavy with ash and grime, but otherwise unscathed. Your eyes immediately snapped to the dark blast mark burned into the green-painted armor at his shoulder.

“You’re hit,” you blurted, crossing to him fast. “Are you—?”

“It didn’t breach,” Fixer said flatly, already raising a gloved hand as if to calm you. “Armor held.”

You frowned. “Then why is it black?”

“Because that’s what happens when you’re shot,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Smartass,” you muttered under your breath, then caught yourself and looked up at him. “You scared me.”

He hesitated.

The visor tilted slightly—just enough for the gesture to feel human.

“…Didn’t mean to,” he said.

You exhaled and reached toward the damaged armor before pausing. “May I?”

He nodded once.

Your fingers ghosted over the edge of the charred plate. “I don’t see any cracks. Must’ve been a glancing shot.”

“It was close.” A beat. “Got distracted.”

You looked up. “By what?”

He paused.

“…By nothing,” Fixer said quickly, though even he knew it wasn’t convincing.

The moment stretched—almost something there between you, something unspoken—until the door slammed open again behind him.

Ding!

“Oh, look who’s still alive,” Scorch called, already marching in and tracking mud across the floor like it was a personal hobby. Sev followed, glowering at the bell above the door like it had offended him.

Scorch spun toward you with a grin. “Hope you’re not charging for emotional trauma because this one’s racked up a tab.”

You stifled a laugh as Fixer’s shoulders stiffened.

“Don’t you have ordinance to prep?” he said, still facing you but clearly addressing the clowns behind him.

“We did that already,” Sev said dryly. “Between Scorch’s interpretive dance through the war zone and your heroic trip back here.”

“Very heroic,” Scorch added, sauntering toward a table in the corner and dropping heavily into a chair. “He braved fire for caf and companionship. That’s love.”

Fixer didn’t even look at them. “I will incapacitate you both.”

“That’s the most romantic thing he’s ever said to us,” Scorch said, placing a hand on his heart. “He cares, Sev.”

“Threats of violence are usually how I express affection,” Sev stated, sitting across from his brother and immediately flipping over the sugar jar to poke at it with a spoon.

You tried very, very hard not to laugh.

Fixer finally turned, slowly, helmet tilting in their direction. “If either of you speaks again before I walk out of this shop, I’m initiating lockdown protocol in your armor suits.”

“Oh no,” Scorch gasped, hands in mock horror. “You wouldn’t dare run a diagnostic loop on my HUD in the middle of a firefight!”

“Or reroute his targeting overlay to display motivational quotes,” Sev added blandly. “‘You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take.’”

“‘Live, laugh, lob a thermal.’”

You couldn’t hold it in anymore. A laugh escaped, bright and warm.

Fixer turned back to you, somehow looking both flustered and resigned despite the expressionless helmet.

“Sorry about them,” he said simply.

“I kind of love them,” you said. “In a ‘please don’t ever leave them unsupervised with anything explosive’ way.”

“Too late for that,” Sev said, deadpan. Almost staring into Scorch’s soul.

Scorch waved. “Tell him how much you love him, too! It’ll be great. Cathartic. Might even make his audio receptors short-circuit.”

Fixer sighed audibly through the comm, a long-suffering sound. “I’m going to detonate your ration packs.”

“Bold of you to assume I don’t already eat explosives.”

Sev nodded. “He does. It’s a problem.”

Fixer shook his head and leaned just a little closer to you, as if to reclaim some fraction of normalcy.

“You’re okay?” he asked again, quieter now.

You nodded. “Yeah. Thanks to you.”

He shifted slightly on his feet. “…I’ll check in again before we redeploy.”

“Looking forward to it.”

For a moment, he didn’t move. And then, with the softest rasp of durasteel, he stepped back, already preparing to rejoin the chaos he’d walked away from.

“Don’t worry,” you called after him, grinning as Sev and Scorch stood to follow. “I’ll keep your seat warm.”

Scorch stopped beside you, stage-whispered, “He likes you,” and ducked just in time to avoid a light punch to the helmet from Fixer.

The three of them walked out, side by side, back into the fray.

And you watched them go, heart a little lighter.

“Shadows of Theed”

Boss (RC-1138) x Reader

Theed’s skyline shimmered under the afternoon sun, its golden domes reflecting the light in a display of serene beauty. Yet beneath this tranquil facade, tension simmered. The recent assassination attempts on Queen Jamillia and Senator Padmé Amidala had prompted the Royal Security Forces to request additional protection from the Republic.

You stood at attention in the palace courtyard, your crimson uniform crisp, hand resting on the hilt of your blaster. As a member of the Royal Naboo Guard, your duty was to protect the monarchy and its representatives. Today, that duty extended to welcoming the Republic’s elite clone commando unit: Delta Squad.

The low hum of a Republic gunship grew louder as it descended, kicking up dust and causing your cape to flutter. The ramp lowered, revealing four armored figures stepping out in formation.

Leading them was RC-1138, known as Boss. His orange-striped armor bore the marks of countless battles, and his posture exuded authority.

Behind him, RC-1140, or Fixer, moved with calculated precision. His green-accented armor was immaculate, and his visor scanned the surroundings methodically.

To Fixer’s left was RC-1207, Sev. His armor bore red markings resembling blood splatter, a reflection of his grim sense of humor and reputation as a fierce sniper.

Bringing up the rear was RC-1262, Scorch. His armor was marked with yellow accents, and he carried himself with a relaxed confidence.

As they approached, Boss stepped forward, his helmet concealing his expression.

“Sergeant RC-1138, reporting in,” he stated, his voice modulated through the helmet’s speaker. “Delta Squad is at your service.”

You offered a formal nod. “Welcome to Theed, Sergeant. I’m Lieutenant [Y/N], Royal Naboo Guard. We’ve been briefed on your assignment.”

Boss inclined his head slightly. “Understood. Our primary objective is to ensure the safety of Queen Jamillia and Senator Amidala.”

“Correct,” you affirmed. “We’ll coordinate patrols and share intelligence. Your squad will be integrated into our security protocols.”

Behind Boss, Scorch leaned slightly toward Sev and whispered, “Think they have any good caf here?”

Sev replied dryly, “As long as it doesn’t taste like ration packs, I’ll consider it a luxury.”

Fixer, without looking up from his wrist-mounted datapad, interjected, “Focus, Deltas. We’re here for a mission, not a vacation.”

Boss turned his head slightly. “Maintain discipline. We’re guests here.”

You raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement tugging at your lips. “Your squad has a unique dynamic.”

Boss’s tone remained neutral. “We operate efficiently.”

⸻

Over the next few days, Delta Squad integrated into the palace’s security framework. Joint patrols were established, and you found yourself frequently paired with Boss. His stoic nature made conversation sparse, but his presence was reassuring.

One evening, during a perimeter check, you decided to break the silence.

“Your squadmates have distinct personalities,” you observed.

Boss glanced at you. “They’re effective.”

“I’ve noticed,” you replied. “Scorch’s humor, Sev’s intensity, Fixer’s precision. And you—you’re the anchor.”

He paused, considering your words. “Leadership requires stability.”

You nodded. “It’s commendable.”

A brief silence settled before he spoke again. “Your team is well-trained.”

“Thank you,” you said. “We take pride in our duty.”

As the patrol continued, a comfortable silence enveloped you both, the foundation of mutual respect beginning to form.

⸻

The days turned into weeks, and the collaboration between your unit and Delta Squad deepened. Shared meals and joint exercises fostered camaraderie. Scorch’s jokes became a familiar background noise, Sev’s rare smirks were victories, and Fixer’s occasional nods signaled approval.

With Boss, the connection grew subtly. Shared glances during briefings, synchronized movements during drills, and the occasional exchange of dry humor.

One night, after a successful operation thwarting an assassination attempt, you found yourselves alone on a balcony overlooking Theed.

“The city’s peaceful tonight,” you remarked.

Boss nodded. “A welcome change.”

You turned to him. “Do you ever think about life beyond the war?”

He was silent for a moment. “Sometimes. But duty comes first.”

You smiled softly. “Always the soldier.”

He looked at you, his gaze intense. “It’s who I am.”

“And yet,” you said, stepping closer, “there’s more to you.”

He didn’t respond verbally, but the way his hand brushed against yours spoke volumes.

The city lights glittered below like the reflection of a thousand quiet thoughts. The silence between you and Boss wasn’t strained—it was gentle, natural. It had become that way over the last few weeks. You stood shoulder to shoulder, close enough to feel the warmth of his armor radiating softly through the Naboo evening chill.

His helmet was still on, the ever-present barrier between his world and yours. But something in his posture shifted, a subtle drop in his shoulders, a small exhale that sounded more like a sigh than static.

Then—quietly—he said, “It’s strange.”

You turned to look at him. “What is?”

“Peace.” A beat. “This planet. The quiet.” He paused, like he was deciding whether to say more. “I’m used to marching into warzones. Places that smell like carbon and blood. Where the air’s thick with ash and tension. But here… it’s almost too quiet. Makes you feel like… something could go wrong any second.”

You studied him for a moment, surprised he was sharing this. “Maybe it’s not that something will go wrong. Maybe it’s just that you’ve never known anything but chaos.”

There was a pause. Then, slowly, his hands came up to his helmet. You heard the hiss of pressure release before he pulled it off and cradled it against his side.

This was the first time you’d seen his face. You had imagined it—many times—but the reality was softer than you’d expected. Strong features, yes, but tired eyes. Eyes that had seen too much, too fast. He looked younger without the helmet, and older all at once.

He didn’t look at you right away. His gaze stayed fixed on the skyline.

“I don’t usually take it off,” he admitted. “Feels… exposed.”

You smiled gently. “You don’t have to explain. But thank you for trusting me.”

His eyes finally met yours then, sharp and searching, but not cold. “You’re different from the officers I’ve worked with before.”

“Good different?” you teased softly.

He didn’t smile, exactly—but something softened around his mouth. “Real different.”

You leaned against the railing beside him, your fingers brushing his. This time, he didn’t move away. He turned his hand slightly until his gloved pinky hooked around yours.

“I don’t know what happens after this assignment,” you said quietly. “But I know I’ll remember this. You.”

He nodded once. “Same.”

The moment stretched—not romantic in the overly dramatic way holodramas would tell it, but intimate in its honesty. The weight of your fingers against each other. The hush of the Naboo breeze. The flickering of torchlight behind you, and the way his gaze lingered on your face like he was memorizing it.

And then, with the kind of quiet confidence that came from someone who rarely acted on impulse, Boss leaned in slightly—slowly, giving you time to stop him if you wanted. His forehead came to rest gently against yours. It was a simple thing. No kiss, no dramatics. Just contact. Shared breath. A moment stolen from the endless march of duty.

“I can’t afford to be soft,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “But you make me want to be.”

You closed your eyes, forehead still pressed to his. “Then let this be the place where you can.”

His hand, calloused and heavy, rose to cup the side of your neck for a second before falling away. Not because he didn’t want more—but because he wasn’t ready yet. And maybe you weren’t either. But that was okay. It was enough.

Tonight, it was enough.

Delta Squad Material List🧡❤️💚💛

|❤️ = Romantic | 🌶️= smut or smut implied |🏡= platonic |

Boss

- x reader “directive breach”❤️

- x Reader “Shadows of Theed”❤️

- x Reader “Duty Calls, Desire Waits”❤️

Sev

- x Reader “still just a rat in a cage”❤️

- x Reader “Storm and Starlight”❤️

- x Reader “Vertical Evac”❤️

Scorch

- x reader “Pull the Trigger”❤️

- “Where’s your head at” 🏡/❤️

Fixer

- x Reader “Caf Break” ❤️

Overall Material List

Directive Breach

Boss (Delta Squad) x Reader

Warnings: injuries, suggestive content,l

⸻

The jungle was thick with steam and smoke, the scent of burning metal and charred flesh choking the air. Delta Squad’s evac had been shot down. You were the only survivor from your recon team. Boss had taken command of the op—naturally.

“Stick close,” he ordered, his voice rasping through the modulator, sharp like durasteel dragged across stone.

You rolled your eyes, already moving. “I didn’t survive a crashing gunship to get babysat by a buckethead.”

He turned just enough to look at you, that T-shaped visor catching the fading light. “I don’t babysit. I lead.”

“And I slice,” you shot back, shouldering your pack. “Let me do my job.”

“We already have a slicer” he respond, before he turned forward again. But you could feel him watching you—tracking your movements with that eerie commando focus. It had been two days of this now: evading patrols, patching up your leg, sleeping back-to-back under foliage so thick you couldn’t see the stars.

Tonight, it rained. Not the cooling kind—this rain was warm, heavy, pressing the jungle into silence. You sat in a hollowed-out tree, tuning your equipment while Boss kept watch. When he finally returned to your makeshift camp, you didn’t look up.

“How bad’s your leg?”

“Fine.”

“You’re limping harder than yesterday.”

“You’re observant. I’m touched.”

“Stop being stubborn,” he muttered, kneeling in front of you. His gauntlet brushed your knee as he examined the torn fabric and swelling underneath. “You need rest.”

“You need to stop looking at me like that,” you whispered.

Silence stretched. You met his gaze, even if you couldn’t see his eyes behind the visor. Something heavy passed between you. Maybe it was the danger. Maybe it was the exhaustion. Or maybe it was the way he’d hauled you out of that wreckage, swearing he’d get you home.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said finally, voice lower. “You’re not one of us.”

“No. I’m not. But I’m here now.” You leaned closer, your voice daring. “And so are you.”

His breath caught, almost imperceptible beneath the rain. Then—he reached up and disengaged the seal on his helmet. The hiss of depressurization was drowned out by your heartbeat.

And when he took it off, you saw him—finally. Tanned skin streaked with grime and blood. Jaw tight. Eyes locked on yours like they were burning through you.

“Tell me to stop,” he said.

You didn’t. You leaned in.

He kissed you hard—like everything he’d been holding back had snapped. His gloves were rough on your skin, tugging you closer, anchoring you to him like he was afraid you’d disappear. You curled your fingers into the collar of his armor and pulled until you could feel the heat of his body beneath the plastoid.

“I’ve got one night,” he murmured against your throat. “One night before I’m a soldier again.”

“Then make it count,” you whispered.

And he did.

⸻

The war would keep going. The Republic would keep taking. But in a jungle no one would remember, under a rain no one would care about, Boss let himself be something other than a number—and you let yourself fall for a soldier who wasn’t supposed to love.

⸻