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“I don’t need a bodyguard.”
Your father scoffs, crossing his arms as he gestures out the window of your large home’s main hall. “You don’t know what’s out there,” he insists. “There’s a war. I can’t risk—.”
“I can take care of myself,” you cut him off, looking down and suddenly missing the thigh holster you’ve practiced strapping to your leg so many times.
“I said, there’s war,” your father snaps, his hand reaching out to grab your chin and make you face him directly. There’s a coldness in his eyes you don’t like, one you’ve seen appear over time as the Empire tightened their grip on the galaxy more and more. With the pressure of the Rebellion, you see it now more than ever, frightening you to your core. “War that you’re not fit for. I can’t have them using you against me.”
You bite back a retort about being nothing but an asset to him, instead providing your silent compliance as he finally lets his hand fall from your face. It’s hard to hide your snarl. If you didn’t have the promise you made to your late mother fresh on your mind, you would’ve let it show. You would be doing a lot of things differently.
“He doesn’t speak much, so you’re in luck,” your father continues. “He’ll be joining us for dinner tonight.”
For some reason, the idea of that makes you feel slightly grateful. Your dinners usually consist of an awkward and extended silence between you and your father—at least, when he isn’t sitting with the most despicable people in the galaxy. Having another person there will hopefully make it more bearable. “All right,” you finally remark with a light sigh. “Am I dismissed until then?”
Your father nods. “Dinner’s at the usual time.”
You don’t bother to nod in acknowledgement as you turn to leave, feeling your father’s icy stare pierce into your back as you begin to walk up the stairs. Immediately, you head to your room, sighing as you shut the door and secure it.
This is your only safe space. And now, it’s at risk of being under yet another part of your father’s clutches.
You release a groan and make your way across the large, circular room, heading towards your closet. With a single arm, you push any of the hanging clothing to the side, revealing the small cabinet that sits behind it. You open the cabinet and instantly get a view of the few weapons you’ve been able to smuggle inside: your blaster, a backup, and your knife. It’s not much, but you know it’ll all be valuable someday. When, you don’t know. But you know you can’t stay here forever.
You spend your time cleaning the weapons and practicing with them until the dinner hour arrives. In a rebellious type of effort, you don’t make yourself any more decent as your father is likely expecting, instead simply heading downstairs to the dining room where you both always eat at a table much too large for two people.
You stop as soon as you see the glare coming off the armor, your blood turning to ice in your veins as you see him. There’s a Mandalorian sitting at the dining table, almost directly at your father’s right side. Both your father and the Mandalorian rise as you walk in.
“This is Mando,” your father introduces the armored warrior. He gestures with his hands towards the man, but the man himself says and does nothing. You think he might as well be a statue, a shell without a man inside of it. “He’ll be protecting you.”
“Thanks,” you murmur, flicking your gaze towards Mando’s visor. You see him dip his helmet in the slightest of nods. You remain silent as you take your usual seat, aware of your father’s disapproving stare. After your chair screeches against the marble floor, your father speaks.
“Aren’t you going to introduce yourself?” your father questions formally—but you can hear the venom behind his words.
You tell him your name, watching his visor and hoping there’s actually a gaze behind it. Just like before he gives you a small nod across the table, remaining respectful and quiet as your father’s staff provides the meal.
The Mandalorian doesn’t eat. You know he can’t. Your mother used to tell you stories of all the different kinds of people, places, and cultures in the galaxy, and the Mandalorians had been a favorite focus of yours. In fact, you can’t help thinking it’s rather cruel that your father’s even made him sit down at this table with you, having to sit in front of a plate of food that’ll only get cold.
After many minutes of your usual shared silence, your father looks up, wrinkling his brow as he realizes Mando hasn’t touched his food. “Is something wrong with the meal, Mando?” your father asks him, causing you to stop what you’re doing as you feel yourself tense up.
You can’t imagine how Mando must feel. You swear you see his shoulders tighten, but still, he says nothing. You speak for him. “Mandalorians can’t take off their helmets in front of others, father,” you inform him, watching your father’s gaze land back on you. “He can’t eat.”
“Oh, my apologies,” your father says, now turning back to Mando as he waves a hand at a worker who quickly takes the plate from Mando’s place. “I didn’t realize.”
“It’s all right.” The Mandalorian finally speaks, his raspy voice sending a shiver down your spine. Whether it’s one of intimidation or of pleasure, you can’t quite identify. All you know is that you can hear it echoing in your mind for the rest of the quiet dinner, making the sounds of scraping silverware disappear almost completely as you solely focus on what you’ve just heard.
Before you know it, you’re being dismissed, but this time with Mando close at your side. You can feel him close to you as you leave the dining room, trailing just a small step behind you. You’ve found that you’re utterly curious as to who this man is and why he’d ever accept a job like this, so you dare to speak, not trying to cross that boundary just yet. “I’m really sorry about my father,” you say, keeping your voice soft as you lead the way up the stairs.
You’re met with silence for a moment. Then, a hesitant breath, and an answer. “It’s all right.”
You chuckle to yourself as you take a quick look back at him, watching him tilt his helmet at you. “Do you ever say anything else, or did they wire you like that?”
Mando huffs, sounding like something between a grunt and a chuckle, and for some reason it makes you smile to yourself. “Yes, I do.”
“Well, that’s good to know. It’d be pretty awkward if we just… never spoke.” You force a laugh through your words, clearing your throat when Mando doesn’t reciprocate the amused gesture. You lead him down the hallway towards your room as you dare to speak again. “Don’t worry about dinner, though. That’s just how we usually eat.”
You stop at your door, turning to see Mando tilting his helmet at you again. “In silence?”
You nod. “We don’t have a lot to talk about.”
Mando nods back, his gloved hands resting casually on his belt as he stands there. You open the sliding door to your room, looking around as you draw in a breath. “I—you can, uh, come in, if you want.” You gesture with your hand inside the room.
The Mandalorian shakes his head. “Thank you, but I’m not sure if that’d be… appropriate.”
“Oh! Yeah. Uh, I’m sorry.” You’re suddenly flustered, looking at your feet as you start to enter the room. You start to close the door but stop it with just enough room to poke your head around it, facing Mando with a furrowed brow. “Are you gonna be okay out here, or do you need water or something?”
“I’ll be okay. Thank you.”
You nod, smiling a bit at his politeness as you finish closing the door. You weren’t expecting Mando to be so… human. The stories you were told of the Mandalorians almost made them seem like war machines, so serious and ready to snap at the first sign of danger. This Mandalorian appears to be genuine, almost soft and careful with his words, eager to follow orders and stick to them.
You want to know more.
Earlier, you thought for sure you’d want nothing to do with this second pair of watchful eyes. But now, the need to get to know him is absolutely gnawing at you, as if his presence outside your door has a gravitational pull that’s bringing you towards him. As soon as you finish getting ready for bed, you find yourself making your way over to your door, leaning your back against it as you squeeze your eyes shut and will yourself to say something.
“Still doing all right out there?” you force the words out through the door, wrapping your hands around your arms as you await an answer.
“Yes.” Mando’s answer is short and to-the-point, but you don’t miss the hint of gratitude that laces his modulated tone.
You furrow your brow as more questions come to mind, your boldness overtaking you as you dare to ask them. “Did my father give you a room?”
A pause. And then, “Yes.”
“So, how long do you have to stand here?”
Another pause. “Until I’m sure it’s secure.”
“Will you eat?”
“I’ll manage.”
You frown at the less-than-satisfactory answer. “No, Mando, you don’t have to ‘manage.’ I can ask one of my father’s staff to get you something.”
He waits a beat. “That’s not necessary, really. I’ll be fine.”
“When was the last time you ate?”
Mando sighs. You can’t tell if it’s one of annoyance or one of confliction. “This morning,” he finally informs you.
You raise your eyebrows, despite the fact you know he can’t see you. “You’ve gone all day without eating?”
“I said, I’ll manage.”
“You don’t have to, Mando. I swear. I mean, I—I could probably get you something. If you wanted.”
You get another sound that might be a chuckle from Mando at your insistence. “That’s very kind of you.”
You smile at his words, hurrying away for a second to retrieve your datapad from your desk before returning to the door. You sit against it with your knees pulled up close to your chest, resting the datapad against your thighs as you prepare to make notes. “What kinds of things do you like?”
“Anything.”
You roll your eyes playfully to yourself and laugh. “That’s not helpful, Mando.” When he remains silent, you let out a sigh, biting your lip as you think of something. “What about something high in protein? I feel like you’d like that.”
He pauses. “Sure.”
You nod, making a note of it on the datapad. “Okay, and do you usually eat three meals a day?”
“No.”
You twist your lips at that, but you don’t comment on it. “Would you like to?”
Silence.
“All right, then I’ll make sure you get three meals a day. Is it okay if I leave them in your room, so you can have your privacy?”
“That’s… great.” You swear you hear a catch in Mando’s modulator before he goes on.
“It’s the least I could do. Which room is yours?”
You hear fabric shift, and you assume Mando’s pointing with his finger—even though you can’t see him. “Right down the hall.” You nod and make a note of that. As you do so, Mando speaks again. “Thank you. You don’t have to.”
“I know I don’t have to. But if my father’s going to make you do all this for me, I might as well pay you back somehow.”
Mando doesn’t mention the fact that he’s already being paid for it. Yet, it still comes to mind for you, and you frown a bit as you set your datapad aside slowly.
“Speaking of payment… how much is my father paying you for this?” When Mando remains silent, you add onto your words quickly. “I just want to know how much I’m worth to him, you know?” There’s still no response, and now you’re thoroughly embarrassed, desperately trying to cover your tracks. “I’m sorry, that was inappropriate. I didn’t mean to—.”
“Your worth goes beyond credits.” Mando’s modulated voice is quieter than before, yet somehow even heavier with meaning. It causes your cheeks to heat up. “My presence and payment doesn’t change that. I’m sorry if it makes you feel otherwise.”
“No, it’s not your fault. Please don’t apologize.” You’re starting to panic now, afraid you’ve ruined some kind of connection you were just starting to make by crossing a boundary. “I shouldn’t have said anything about that. I… I should actually get some rest.”
You scramble to get up, taking your datapad with you as you prepare to step away from the door. You only stop when you hear his modulated voice speak to you again. “Rest well.”
Biting back a smile, you respond. “You too.”
That night, your dreams are plagued by the mysterious face of your new bodyguard, making you feel strange as you wake up the next morning and remember that you’ll have to face him again today. You prepare yourself for the day and peek out of the door of your room, pleased to see that Mando’s not standing there just yet. You manage to make your way to the kitchen of the house, requesting a plate of whatever’s for breakfast and bringing it back up to where you’ve just come from. Continuing further down the hall, you soon stop at the door you assume Mando had been talking about, lifting one of your hands and knocking a few times. “Come in,” his modulated voice calls to you gently.
You open the door and take a single step inside, immediately observing how much smaller the room is than your own. It makes you frown a bit, though you’re quickly distracted by Mando as he simply stands with a tilted helmet by the foot of the bed. You set down the plate and glass of water onto a dresser that you assume is going rather unused, turning to face Mando again with a bashful smile. “There’s some breakfast for you. If you need anything else, let me know.”
“This is plenty.” Mando takes a careful step towards you, as if he’s afraid he’ll frighten you by coming any closer. “Thank you very much, truly.”
You nod. “Of course, Mando. Just don’t rush, okay? I can handle myself if something happens to go wrong in the next hour or so.” Mando snorts at that, the sound crackling through his modulator as he takes another step towards you. You take that as your cue to leave, heading towards the door as you see yourself out.
When you arrive at the dining room for breakfast, you’re surprised to realize that your father is absent. You sit through your meal alone, preferring this silence to the one you usually face during meals with your father, and only speak once you’re about to leave the dining room. A member of your father’s staff takes your plate and you call to them gently, catching their attention as you raise an eyebrow at them.
“Do you know where he is?” you ask the worker. “My father?”
They wrinkle their brow. “He’s gone to the city,” they inform you. “He told us he’d be there for a month.”
“Oh.” You nod at them, even though your blood begins to boil. He didn’t even say goodbye. The thought shouldn’t bother you as much as it does; you don’t care much for your father anymore. Still, part of the harsh reality of your father not caring stings. At least in your younger years, you had your mother.
Often, you wonder if your father cared for her just as much as he cares for you: not at all.
“Well, thank you,” you finally speak up again to the worker, watching them nod back at you before they disappear with your plate. You let out a breath and feel your shoulders get heavier as you trudge your way back up to your room. As you walk towards your room, you can see Mando approaching from the other direction. You let your gaze fall to your shuffling feet as you quicken your pace, determined not to let the Mandalorian see how dejected you feel as you slip into your room. The door closes and you lean your back against it, closing your eyes as you try to think about anything other than the coldness and dejection your father has left in your heart.
After many moments of silence spent focusing on your breathing, you hear a hesitant voice through the door. “You seem… distressed.”
You reopen your eyes. You know Mando means well—you can tell just by the hesitance in his voice, as if he doesn’t want to push too far over a certain boundary. There’s a hint of concern in his tone that makes you long for more and yearn for the feeling of actually being of value to someone. “It’s all right.”
“You sound like me.” Mando gets a chuckle out of you at that, already making your heavy shoulders feel lighter.
“It’s just my father,” you confess, unsure as to why you’re unloading such information to a practical stranger. You figure it’s because you’re curious to also learn more about him, and because there’s something about his aura that’s oddly comforting. “He left for the city without saying goodbye. I didn’t even know he was going.”
“You didn’t?” Mando doesn’t hide his disbelief, and despite the fact he can’t see you, you nod to confirm his words. “That’s why I was hired.”
“To spy on me in his absence,” you scoff. Your gaze drifts to the ceiling as you force yourself to take a deep breath. “All he told me was that I needed protection from the ‘war’ that’s apparently raging somewhere in the galaxy. He thinks I can’t handle myself.”
Mando remains silent behind the door. You realize that you’ve probably said too much—in fact, you’ve probably made him feel like a fool, someone being used by an Imperial senator as some kind of watchdog. You shake your head at yourself as you speak again.
“I’m sorry, I just…” you trail off, unsure of what to say. You push your back off the door and add one last thing. “I hope your breakfast was okay.”
You step away from the door before Mando responds, hoping that he realizes you’ve left. You feel embarrassed as ever, now, hoping that you haven’t shattered this relationship with the Mandalorian just like you did with your father. But the latter wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t save a relationship when he had devoted himself completely to something else—especially something you can never support.
These thoughts haunt you more and more until you’re feeling suffocated inside your room. You peer out of one of your windows to see the gardens that surround the back part of the house, releasing a soft sigh as you decide to head there. When you open the door to your room, Mando instantly becomes more alert, his shoulders straightening out as he looks over at you. “I’d like to go outside,” you tell him, your voice quieter than before. “I assume you have to come with me.”
Mando nods. You turn and begin to lead him downstairs, hearing the spurs of his boots move almost in perfect time with your own shoes as you head towards the gardens. After pushing through a door at the back of the house, you make your way into the vast gardens—the only thing of your mother’s that your father bothered to uphold. You assume it’s just because of his status symbol and pride.
Eager to distract yourself from the thoughts of your father, you dare to start speaking to Mando again, hoping he’ll at least try to entertain your attempts at conversation. “How old are you, Mando?” you ask, hoping the easy question will further break the ice between the two of you.
He hesitates before telling you his age. You lift your brow in surprise, for some reason expecting him to be much older.
“Ah. You’re three cycles wiser than me.”
Mando’s fallen in step with you now, walking alongside you rather than behind you. You can see him tilt his helmet at you from your peripherals as you wander through the well-kept paths of the gardens. “Only three?”
“Only three.” You scoff as you cross your arms. “But my father still thinks that I need ‘protection.’”
Mando stays silent for a moment. When he speaks, his words are careful and calculated. “Maybe having additional protection isn’t such a bad thing in a galaxy like this.”
You turn your head to look at him, wanting to feel angry at Mando’s words but remembering that he doesn’t know any better when it comes to your father. “Maybe. But my father doesn’t care about protecting me.” You can see Mando’s helmet turn to you again as you continue. “I’m just an asset to him, now. He’s afraid the Rebellion might use me as leverage or something. Though, I can’t imagine why he’s so worried. I’m sure he’d let me die to keep the Empire alive.”
Mando looks straight ahead again, although you don’t miss the way his gloved hands curl into fists at his sides. “You and your father don’t get along, I assume.”
You shake your head. “Not since his loyalties to the Empire surpassed his loyalties to his family.” You pause, looking over at Mando and immediately noticing the tension that’s built within him. Somehow, you know it’s directed towards your father and not you. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s responsible for my mother’s death.”
Mando turns his helmet quickly towards you this time. You decide to return his look, watching as his helmet tilts at you. “What happened?” His rasp is low and almost fearful. Mando then shakes his head, as if he’s chastising himself. “I apologize. I shouldn’t have—.”
“It’s okay, Mando.” Your reassurance causes him to look back at you. You give him a small smile. “I opened the door for that. I don’t mind telling you.” Mando relaxes a bit beside you, so you go on, taking a deep breath as your gaze settles back on the paths of the garden in front of you. “My mother was very healthy all her life. We were very close. But then, about ten cycles ago, she got sick—very sick. Within days, she just… slipped away.”
“I’m very sorry for your loss.”
You shake your head at Mando. “It’s all right. Like I said, it’s been ten cycles.” You let out a sigh, your fingers beginning to play with each other. “It just came out of the blue—at too convenient of a time. It was a few years after the Empire began their reign, and my mother was openly displeased with the role my father took in it all. She considered herself a rebel. My father knew this.”
“Do you think he did something to silence her?” Mando’s tone is full of interest, as if he’s hanging on your every word. You immediately pity him. He’s likely thinking over the fact that he may be accepting payment from someone as cold-blooded as your father.
You shrug. “I don’t know what to think. But, it’s surely convenient that my mother went when she did, before the Rebellion had a chance to grow.” You stop when you reach one of the plants, picking at the buds that bloom a deep red and orange. “And that we have ephrow flowers in our gardens.” When Mando stops with you and tilts his head at the beautiful bloom between your fingers, you look at him with a raised brow. “Ephrows contain some of the deadliest poison in the galaxy.” At those words, Mando instantly reaches out to grab your wrist, intent upon getting you far away from the poisonous planet. You can’t help smiling as you lay your free hand over his on your wrist, trying to relax him. “When consumed.”
Mando nods slowly in understanding, his hand releasing your wrist as you pull both your hands back towards your chest. “I see.” His visor looks back to the plant. One of his gloved hands reaches out to touch a stem that’s shriveled up and dead.
“Once you pluck an ephrow bloom, it dies—and it never grows back.”
Mando’s gloved hand falls slowly from the stem. “And you only pick it if you intend on using it.”
You nod, your gaze meeting Mando’s visor as you share a look of understanding. He clearly sees your point, now, and you think he might even believe you. Yet, you now want to leave the topic behind, so you continue walking ahead again. Mando follows along with you. You decide to ask him more questions. “What about your parents, Mando? Are you close with them?”
You can hear the breath that hitches in Mando’s throat, and instantly, you realize you must’ve struck a chord with your question. You’re about to insist that he doesn’t have to answer you when he actually does. “My parents died when I was young.”
You wrinkle your brow, holding back a wince at the way his modulated voice has lowered. “I’m so sorry.”
“It was a long time ago.” Mando almost sounds like he’s trying to reassure himself, not you. “But, yes, the three of us were very close.”
You smile a bit at that. You want to ask him what happened, but you’re afraid you’ll push him too far, so you push that thought away. “And they were Mandalorians?”
Mando shakes his head. “No. I only became a Mandalorian after they died. The Mandalorians took me in after my parents were killed. They raised me in the Fighting Corps and when I came of age, I swore their Creed.”
“I’m glad the Mandalorians were there for you.”
Mando’s silent for a few steps and you look over to see his visor staring out at the gardens with a strange type of focus. When he speaks, his modulated voice is slightly strained. “So am I.”
You remain in silence as you head back to the house, heading back up to your room. Before you slip inside, you turn to face Mando, who’s been trailing along with you as always. “Thank you, Mando, for talking with me. It was… nice.” Your words are genuine as you smile at him.
He nods at you. “That’s why I’m here.”
His words make your smile falter a bit. Right. He’s only here because he’s being paid to. You can tell Mando’s noted this shift in you, as his helmet tilts down at you as you open your door. “Yes, it is,” you remark quietly, stepping inside your room and closing the door. You stay far away from the door that day, staying quiet throughout the rest of the afternoon and evening. You can tell Mando’s unsettled by this, but his words from before have made a pit in your stomach, one that’s keeping you from saying anything even if you wanted to. Still, you don’t forget to leave Mando’s meals in his room, wanting to make sure he’s cared for in the way he deserves.
The next morning, you bring Mando breakfast in his room, making sure all is clear before you step inside. You leave the plate on his dresser as usual, yet before you have the chance to leave, you suddenly feel a gloved hand gently reaching for your arm. “Wait,” Mando nearly begs, instantly causing you to turn and look at him. He drops your arm quickly, tilting his helmet in a sincere way as he looks at you. “I… didn’t use the best words yesterday, after we talked. I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Mando, you don’t have to—,” you try to say.
“What I meant was, you’re not alone anymore.” Mando gets the words out before you can say yours. They shock you greatly, leaving you to stand there with your mouth slightly open. He continues. “I know what it’s like to be alone after losing people close to you. I may be your bodyguard, but I want you to know that you can talk to me.”
His words are unexpectedly sweet and you can feel your chest warm upon hearing them, causing you to bite back a smile as you nod at him. “Well, thank you. That means a lot.” You hope you’re holding a gaze with him as you look into his visor. “You can talk to me, too—even through the door.” Mando nods to acknowledge your words. “For now, it’s just important that you eat your breakfast. When you’re done, I’d like to go for a walk in the gardens again.”
“Sure.” You smile at Mando before you turn to leave, feeling his burning gaze on you the entire way as you head back to your room.
You spend the next two weeks running a routine quite like that: bringing Mando a meal in the morning, walking with him in the gardens until lunch, having some time to yourself in the afternoon—usually consisting of you trying to be quiet with your personal training—, having dinner while Mando has his, and then spending the rest of the night either talking through the door with Mando or watching the night sky through your window. It’s peaceful, and for the first time since your mother passed away, you don’t feel so alone.
Your conversations with Mando often consist of a variety of easy topics. You tell him about your life with your mother and then after, and in exchange, he tells you a bit about his life after swearing the Creed. You hear about his adventures with mercenaries and experiences with bounty hunting while he hears about your eagerness for stories of the galaxy and the forming Rebellion. You can tell you’re both enjoying each other’s presence, often finding yourself wishing for more time spent with the Mandalorian. You can sense he feels the same way.
It’s after those weeks that you finally see Mando jump into his complete role as your bodyguard.
You don’t know what hour of the night it is, but you know it’s very late. Your eyes snap open when you see a shadow flicker across your ceiling, resembling that of a human figure. There’s a draft coming from your window, and when you move your head slowly to the side, you realize it’s slightly open—even though you’d closed it well before you went to sleep.
There’s someone in your room.
You try your best not to panic right away. If your weapons were close by, you’d take care of the situation yourself, but they’re locked away in your closet and you can’t risk trying to go get them. So, you reach your hand slowly and slyly towards your bedside table, grabbing the pager that Mando supplied you with and signaling for his help. Then, you stay still, keeping your breathing steady as you wait for him.
It only takes a few moments before you suddenly hear the door sliding open.
Instantly, there’s a moment of controlled chaos. You can see the shadowed person in your room standing up from one of the sides of your bed, looking as if they’re trying to head back to the window. Instead, they’re seized by Mando’s grappling hook, pulled back into the darkness of your room where you can see his silhouette standing. You sit up in bed quickly, watching with awe as Mando easily disarms them and hooks an arm around their neck, a vibroblade catching the light of the moon as he holds it to their jugular.
“Who are you?” Mando sneers in a voice you’ve had yet to hear from him. It sends a chill down your spine. “What’s your business here?”
“I’m—I-I’m—,” the perpetrator struggles to speak through Mando’s hold on their neck, “—I’m with the R-Rebellion!”
Your eyes widen for a moment, thinking about the side you actually support coming after you—thanks to the association with your cold-blooded father. Yet, you can’t fully believe it, knowing the Rebellion wouldn’t be likely to sneak into Imperial senators’ homes and do their friends and family harm. So, you dare to rise from your bed, your small nightgown giving you a chill as the open window continues to blow a breeze in. You hold your arms for warmth as you approach where they’re standing. “Stay back,” Mando warns you in a tone much different than the one he’d used with the supposed Rebellion aggressor.
“It’s all right,” you assure him, stopping quite a few feet away from the intruder as you raise an eyebrow at him. “You’re with the Rebellion?” The perpetrator nods, leaving you to scoff as you look to Mando’s visor. “Mando, would you mind checking their right wrist for me?”
Mando doesn’t move for a moment, evidently confused by your request but still complying with it. He switches his vibroblade to his left hand as his right one reaches for their wrist, pulling down the fabric of their shirt that’s hiding it. Mando observes it closely before he looks back up at you. “It’s an Imperial signet.” You hum at his words, looking back to the intruder as Mando does the same. He tightens his grip on them, bringing his vibroblade dangerously close to their neck. “Who hired you?”
“I-I told you, it was the Rebel—,” they try to say.
“Who hired you?” You can see Mando’s free hand tighten into a deadly grip around the signet on their wrist, causing them to howl with pain as they twist in his arms. You feel a pit grow in your stomach. “Was it a senator?”
“Y-Yes, it was!”
“Which senator?”
“I can’t—they’ll kill me!”
“And so will I.” Mando presses the blade against their flesh, now, causing the vibrations of it to irritate their skin. They cry out in pain again, causing your stomach to feel even more sick. “Which senator?”
“Mando, stop!” you finally beg, catching Mando’s attention as his visor looks to you. You have an idea of what’s going on—and you can’t bear to see this person suffer anymore. Walking closer to them, you can sense the tension rolling off Mando in waves, yet you continue on. You face the intruder, evidently afraid, with a sympathetic expression. “How much did he pay you?”
Their eyes widen, as if they sense you’re putting them in some kind of trap. “W-What do you mean?”
“How much did the senator pay you?” They freeze up before telling you the amount of credits. You look to Mando next. “How much is my father paying you?”
He answers with the same amount.
You huff. “Let them go, Mando. It’s all right.”
Mando’s hesitant to do so as you walk over to your desk, taking a key from a hiding place underneath a panel on your floor and unlocking a drawer. You take a pouch of credits and turn back to Mando and the intruder, offering the pouch of credits to them.
“I want you to take these credits and get as far away from the Empire as possible,” you instruct them, placing the pouch in their hand and closing their fingers around it. They look at you in awe, as does Mando with his helmet tilted incredulously at you. “Promise me you won’t affiliate yourself with them anymore.”
“I… I promise,” they say, and you nod at Mando as he finally begins to loosen his hold on them. “This is very generous, ma’am—thank you.”
“Free yourself,” you say with a bittersweet smile, gesturing towards the window. “I assume you can climb your way back out.”
They nod, managing to even slightly return your smile as they head back out the way they came in. You close the window behind them, and almost immediately after, Mando’s questioning you. “Why did you do that?” he asks, not sounding as angry as he does curious.
“I thought it was obvious, Mando.” You sigh before you turn around to face him again, holding your arms with your hands as your gaze falls to the space between you. “My father hired them to kill me.”
Mando freezes where he is, his gloved hands clenching into fists at his sides as he stares at you. After a long moment of silence, he speaks. “Why?”
“To silence me, just like my mother.”
Mando tilts his helmet at you, looking unconvinced. “Then, why did he hire me?”
“Because, he didn’t want me or anyone else to be suspicious of it.” Mando continues to remain frozen where he is, yet you can no longer bear to stand, instead moving to sit on the edge of your bed. “My own father wants me dead.”
Upon hearing your words, Mando finally moves, shuffling closer to where you are and standing hesitantly beside your place on the bed. You give him a nod, knowing what he wants, and Mando eases himself down next to you. He’s silent and contemplative for a few moments before he speaks. “You handled that well back there. Better than I would’ve.”
You smile a bit at Mando’s efforts to make you feel better. “Thank you,” you say, your voice just above a whisper. You don’t say anything more for a while, instead looking out the window from where you sit as you try to come to terms with what’s happening. Unable to process it, you begin to wonder aloud to Mando. “What now? How am I supposed to live here knowing my father is trying to kill me?”
Mando sighs lightly from beside you, his close presence comforting as you look over at him. His visor’s already been focused on you. “He won’t succeed.” He places a gloved hand gently upon your shoulder. “I’ll continue to protect you.”
He manages to make you smile again, your chest warming up—especially at his touch. “You don’t have to.”
Mando tilts his helmet at you. “I know.”
You share a gaze that lasts longer than it should—but a thought of yours interrupts it. You find yourself clearing your throat, causing Mando’s hand to fall from your shoulder as you move to stand up. “Mando, if I may ask something of you?” Mando nods. You make your way over to your closet, pushing the clothing aside and unlocking the cabinet and taking the weapons from inside it. You carry them back over to where Mando still sits on your bed, placing them beside him. He looks from the weapons to you with a quick glance, as if he’s in disbelief. “I need help training with these. I’ve been trying to do it on my own, but… I trust your guidance. And I need to be ready to protect myself.”
Mando hesitates for a moment, but then he nods, looking back to the weapons. “I’ll teach you.”
You smile at that. “Thank you so much, Mando—really. For all of this.”
Mando just looks back at you, staring at you in a way that makes your knees slightly weak, regardless of the fact he has a helmet shielding his eyes from you. “You’re the only person I’ve met who’s truly treated me like a human being ever since I swore the Creed. For that, I’m forever indebted to you.”
You give him a look of sympathy, nodding at him with a wrinkled brow. “I just give you what you deserve, Mando.”
Mando’s helmet falls at your words, and for a moment you’re concerned that you said something wrong—until he speaks up in a voice so low and strained you nearly miss it. “You may call me Din.”
Your heart leaps into your throat as your mouth falls open. “Din?” you echo in a soft voice, awaiting confirmation.
Din nods, looking back up to meet your gaze again. “Din Djarin. That’s my name.”
“Din Djarin.” You like the way the name rolls off your tongue, and judging by the way you watch Din heave a breath, you assume he does, too. “What a wonderful name.”
Din looks down again, most likely because of his embarrassment. “Thank you.” You nod, picking the weapons back up and setting them on your bedside table. As you do so, Din continues with his words. “It’s still late. You should get more rest.”
“As should you,” you retort, your tone gentle as you look at him over your shoulder.
Din tilts his helmet at you. For some reason, this becomes the moment where you’re suddenly aware of the fact you’ve been wearing your small nightgown all along, the silky fabric riding up higher on your thighs than anything else you own. Your cheeks burn hot as you turn back to your bedside table. Din’s words manage to break through your thoughts. “Will you be all right on your own?”
You nod, turning back around to face him. “I’ll be okay. But, thank you, Din. Really. For everything.”
Din stands from his place on your bed, taking a step towards you as he nods. “I’ll do whatever you need, cyar’ika.”
Your stomach fills with butterflies at the new nickname, although you have no idea what it means. You give him a grateful smile, watching as he turns and begins to walk back out of your room. With your blasters and knife close by your side, you’re able to go back to sleep rather easily, especially with the knowledge that the Mandalorian—now known to you as Din—will protect you, no matter what.
When you wake the next morning, you start to run your usual routine of getting breakfast for Din, just to find him sitting against the wall outside your door, his helmet slumped forward as if he’s asleep. You bite back a smile as you realize he’d stayed outside your door all along. You wake him up gently and urge him to head to his room while you get his breakfast, bringing it up to him shortly thereafter. The rest of your day is spent training.
In fact, the next two weeks are all spent training.
In lieu of your time spent wandering the gardens and practicing alone in your room, you and Din head to some of the vast fields beyond the gardens, giving yourself plenty of space to train with him. He helps you whip into shape without pushing you too hard, also taking the time to teach you every individual skill: hand-to-hand combat, the best ways to use your knife, and how to shoot and handle your blaster. You’re feeling the physical exertions more and more each day, but over time, they fade as you create muscle memory. You can tell Din’s growing proud of your progress, especially in the moments of sparring when you manage to outsmart him.
But that hasn’t even been the best part of these weeks. What you continue to linger on is the way the tension between the both of you is growing, your dynamic changing the more you spend time together.
You hold each other’s gazes even through his visor for longer than you used to. You catch Din looking your way often, even in moments where he doesn’t have to. You find yourself doing the same thing to him. You’ve even started to invite him into your room rather than leaving him to stand outside of it, having many late-night conversations spent musing about life and the galaxy you’re left to survive in. More and more, you find yourself creating a deeper connection to your bodyguard, perhaps even falling for him as you spend more time with him.
And you can sense the same thing happening to him with you.
It’s a night spent laying out in the gardens that convinces you of this. Din wasn’t so sure at first about doing that—he was afraid that being outside left you too exposed at night—but you assured him that you were well-trained, now, and he was there. This convinced him, and now, you find yourself laying by his side in the grass as you stare up at the stars shining above Coruscant so brightly.
You’ve been musing to yourself, but you decide to finally voice some of your thoughts, yearning to share them with the man you’ve already started tying yourself to. “Din?”
“Yes, cyar’ika?” Din uses his usual nickname for you. You’ve become accustomed to it, still not brave enough to ask him what it means, but delighting at the sound of it.
You’re silent for a moment, trying to piece your thoughts together as you do the same with the stars in your mind. “Do you ever find yourself wishing you could… I don’t know, do more for the people you’ve lost?”
“In what way?”
“I mean…” you trail off with a sigh, sitting up for a moment as you watch Din do the same beside you, “often, I wish there was something I could do for my mother, because she did so much to put me on the right path. I just—I feel like there’s something more I could do for her.”
Din tilts his helmet at you, the moonlight reflecting wondrously off the beskar as he does so. “I understand.” For a moment, his visor looks up to the stars. “I’ve been trying to find a way to give back to my parents ever since the moment I lost them. I thought that… somehow, with the Mandalorians, I’d find that sense of purpose. I didn’t.” He then turns back to you. “But, I have a feeling that now…” he pauses, and you watch with your breath held as a gloved hand reaches out to gently brush a small piece of hair from out of your face, “... I’ve found my purpose in protecting you.”
You beam at that, having to look down for a moment because of the overwhelming intimacy of the moment. When his hand returns back to the ground, you dare to cover it with one of your own, looking back up to Din to see him looking at the sight with what you guess is satisfied disbelief. “I’m very grateful the galaxy brought us together in this way.” Din nods to agree as he looks back up at you. “Yet, I still feel a call to something out there, too.” You look up to the sky again, narrowing your eyes as you follow a pattern—and swearing that you can see an Alliance Starbird there. “I feel that I need to hurt the Empire somehow, at least once, to help the cause my mother died for.”
Din tilts his helmet at you, his grip on your hand tightening as he watches you think. Then, it hits you, and you widen your eyes as you look at him.
“That’s it.” Din’s helmet straightens out with interest as you look to him. “There’s an event that the Senate’s holding by the river later this week, celebrating the announcement of some brand-new weapon. My father warned me about it before he suddenly left.”
“What do you want to do with that?” You can tell Din is wary with your underdeveloped idea at the moment.
“I want to wreak havoc,” you confess, “to show them that not everyone involved in their dangerous web wants to comply with their twisted ways. I want to use some charges and hit them where it hurts: right in their political ring.”
Din nods at you, yet there’s a tension in his shoulders that makes it clear he’s worrying for you. “You do realize that if you do this, cyar’ika, you’ll have to run.”
You nod back at him. “I understand.”
Din lets out a sigh, looking back up to the night sky before he speaks again. “I have a ship. It’s a Razor Crest. It’s at the hangar across the river.” He looks back to you. “I’d like to be the one who takes you away from here.”
You smile warmly at him. “I wanted you to be the one.”
Din gives your hand a gentle squeeze. “Perfect.”
With that, you both ease yourselves down against the ground again—but this time, in the sheer comfort of the moment and the peace you feel within you at your upcoming freedom with Din, you drift off to sleep in the grass. You don’t remember much, though you do stir for a few moments that night when you feel like you’re floating. You’re conscious enough to realize you’re being carried, an arm underneath your knees and supporting your back as your face is nestled in the cloth of their neck. The scent there is familiar and comforting, making you sigh with delight as you suddenly hear a soft voice.
“Shhh, cyar’ika,” it’s Din telling you, “go back to sleep.”
You comply, and the next thing you remember is waking up the next morning—your heart fuller than ever as your memories from the night before return.
You and Din spend the next few days leading up to the event doing some additional training and planning, figuring out what you’re going to pull and how you’re going to make your escape. You’ve decided upon using a few of the charges Din has with him, planting them subtly around the area until you’re safely near an exit by the river. Once they blow, you’ll flee out the exit, taking one of the boats at the dock across the river until you get to the Razor Crest.
It’s absolutely perfect—except for the fact you have to wear a dress the entire time.
You grunt as you slip into the piece that fits nicely to your body that day, still leaving enough room for you to strap on your thigh holster underneath it. You’ve made yourself up enough to make it believable that you’re attending this event for the same reason everyone else is. You prefer your clothes made for fighting, but you deal with what you have to for right now, knowing you can wear what you want whenever you want after the events of tonight.
Once you’re all set, you hear a gentle knock outside your door. You call for them to come in, turning quickly from your mirror to see Din walking in. “Cyar’ika, are you ready to…” Din trails off, freezing in place as he looks at you. You feel your cheeks grow warm as you look down at the floor in a bashful manner, only looking back up once you hear Din starting to walk again. “Wow.” He only stops once he’s in front of you, his visor trailing over you as he takes another look. “You look…”
“Ridiculous?” you joke with a playful scoff.
Din gives his helmet a shake. “Mesh’la.” With the word, he brushes a piece of your hair behind your ear. “Beautiful.”
You beam as you look down again. “Thank you,” you murmur, looking back up at him with a small smile. “You look very good yourself.”
Din chuckles, the sound crackling through his modulator. “I always look like this, cyar’ika.”
“I never said I didn’t like it before.”
Now it’s Din’s turn to be bashful, his helmet looking to the side as you smile wider at him. He turns back to you with a tilt to his helmet. “We’ll have plenty of time for complimenting each other later. For now, we should go.”
You nod to agree, taking one last look around the prison you’ve called a home before you let Din lead the way out. You tell your father’s staff that Din’s simply escorting you to this event, not letting them be suspicious as to why you’re leaving the house. They’re the only reasons why you didn’t leave earlier. You didn’t need your father’s staff telling him of your whereabouts.
You take the public transports to the river, getting off at the station closest to the building on the banks where the event’s taking place. You can feel your nerves beginning to grow as you close the distance towards the building, your hands fidgeting on your middle as you walk. Din looks over and notices, offering his arm for you to take—and you gladly accept. “Are you doing all right, cyar’ika?” he questions you.
You nod, tightening your grip around his arm as he leads you closer. “I’m okay. I just… can’t believe I’m finally going to do this.”
“We’re going to do this.” You look over at Din upon his correction, seeing his helmet tilt down at you. “You’re not doing this alone. You won’t have to.”
You smile at that, wishing you could do so much more to show your appreciation for his words yet restraining yourself as you make it to the door. You supply your identification, successfully making it in as you stay close to Din’s side. You look up at him as he observes the scene, the grand room full of people and noises that make it hard for you to even hear yourself breathe. “Where should we put the charges?” you question lowly, watching as he continues to scan the room.
“We have to be subtle,” Din insists, his modulated voice quiet enough for only you to hear as you walk with him further into the room. “I have three charges. We can put one under that table—,” he gestures with his helmet towards a long table full of refreshments along the east wall, “—one on that sculpture—,” he gently points towards a marble sculpture on the west wall, “—and one right here.” Din finishes as you walk by the display in the center of the room, a model of whatever weapon they’re showing off tonight. It’s a sphere, a small circle within it sunken in as if it’s holding something there. Your stomach turns at the sight of it. “We just have to be very careful about activating them.”
“When should we do it?” Instinctively, you tighten your grip on his arm. Din doesn’t seem to mind.
“Why wait?” The words are almost playful as they fall from Din’s modulator and you find yourself smiling up at him as he looks down at you. “We’ll start at the west wall.”
You make your way over to the sculpture, pretending to observe it as Din lets you place and click and charge somewhere along the side of it. You quickly—without making your rush so obvious—cross the room, heading to the east wall as you walk along the table of refreshments. You place and click the charge underneath there, almost immediately turning and heading towards the center of the room. It’s the focus of many’s eyes, so you have to get close and pretend you’re looking at every detail fondly, allowing your hand to slyly place and click the charge underneath the circular base of the model.
Din becomes the one to tug on your arm as he leads you to the exit you’ll rush out of, close to the dock where two boats await—one of them for you. You exchange a nervous look with Din, who in return laces your fingers with his and gives your hand a squeeze.
“It’s all right, cyar’ika,” he assures you in a low voice. “I’ll tell you when it’s time to—.”
You cut him off when you find yourself making direct eye contact with someone across the room: your father. He knows you’re here, and you know he’ll figure out that you’re the one behind the chaos that’s just about to happen. “Go. It’s time to go.”
You start to tug on Din’s hand but he looks at you with a confused tilt to his helmet. Immediately, he knows something’s off. “What is it?”
You look up at him with fear. “My father. He’s here—and he’s seen us.”
Din curses under his breath, trying to take you with him as subtly as he can out of the exit behind you. His hand remains in yours as you begin to hurry off towards one of the boats, its body large yet its length rather small as Din helps you inside one. As he does so, you suddenly hear the large sounds of explosions from within the building as the charges go off. You and Din face each other with panic.
“We have to go,” you breathe, making your way over to the motor and letting it run. There’s only a stick there for you to steer with, and you assure Din you can do it as you start to take off. Your heart’s about to fly through your chest, but the more the hangar with the sight of the Razor Crest comes into sight, the more relaxed you feel.
Until you hear blaster fire coming from behind you.
You duck as you dare to turn your head, seeing a boat with a few stormtroopers pursuing you. You curse to yourself as you try to get the motor going faster, watching as Din kneels down and takes out his blaster. He shoots at them, but with the unpredictable steering of their boat, it’s almost impossible for him to hit a target.
And he has no idea what he’s kneeling on. You don’t even know until it’s too late.
The grate he’s on suddenly slides to the side and gives way beneath him, causing him to fall into the confined space that’s left there. You gasp in shock, especially as you watch it close back up. You turn your head to see one of the stormtroopers touching something on his wrist—leading you to believe that they had control of the boat and, thus, the grate.
“Din!” you exclaim as you leave your place, hurrying over to where he’d fallen and kneeling down by the grate. He looks up at you through the bars, his hands gripping at some as yours reach for others. You try to pull it up or aside, but it’s stuck in place, unable to give way no matter how much Din pushes and you pull. “We’ll get you a way out,” you assure him, even if you have no idea how you’ll do that.
The boat suddenly rocks hard as something makes an impact along the side of it. You and Din realize with horror that they’ve hit the place where Din’s trapped, beginning to fill it with water.
They’re going to drown him.
“Cyar’ika, listen to me carefully,” Din says with calmness yet urgency. “You need to get to the hangar, get on the Razor Crest, and engage ground security protocol. Once you do that, you need to try your best to take off and get away from here.”
“But, Din—,” you try to say, refusing to go anywhere without him.
“You must,” Din insists, his grip tightening around the grate as you watch the water fill up to his waist. Your vision begins to blur before you at the mere idea of having to lose Din now, on your behalf, before you could even be truly free at his side. “Hurry!”
“I can’t leave you here to die!” you cry out, tugging uselessly again at the grate.
“It’s all right,” Din tries to assure you, his gloved hands moving to cover the places where yours are on the grate’s bars. “You’ll see me again, cyar’ika. But, for now, you must leave me. I told you my purpose was to protect you—so, please, let me do that.”
Your heart has already fallen into your stomach, and you finally give in to his words with trembling hands and blurry eyes as you stand up from where you’ve been kneeling. You turn to head back to your place at the motor, but you realize with horror that the stormtroopers have already caught up, and they’re beginning to jump to your boat. Your anger rises as you suddenly snap, remembering everything you’ve been taught by Din as you reach for your blaster with one hand and your knife with the other.
Instantly, you launch into attack, taking one shot with your blaster at a trooper and causing him to go down as you swipe your knife at another. It scrapes against his arm and leaves him howling in pain, allowing you the distraction to blast him down as well. There’s two more left, but they’re still on the other boat, and you find yourself leaping across the distance as you land in theirs. They try to shoot at you, but they can’t hit you, since you’ve already lunged at them. You let your knife come down into the throat of one of them, holding them up against your body as a shield from the other afterwards. Once you’ve got a clear shot at them, you take it, letting it blast a few times before you realize you’ve gotten them. Then, you take your knife out of the other, letting his form crumple to the bottom of the boat as well.
You can’t even take the time to think about your victorious battle. All you can think about is the fact that Din’s likely drowning already in your boat—something you absolutely refuse to allow. You search the dead stormtroopers’ wrists until you find the one that had controlled the grate, leaping back across the distance to realize it’s one of the ones who made it to your boat. You take his limp wrist and press a few buttons on it, waiting until you see the grate Din’s in—now completely flooded with water—open back up. You take a deep breath as you rush over, preparing to use all your strength as you reach down to his limp form that’s floating around in the puddle of water. Hooking your arms underneath his, you start to pull him up, letting out an exclamation from your effort as you struggle to get him up. It takes a minute before you get him back on the deck, regretful to leave him laying there but having to do so as you navigate the boat to the hangar.
You get there as quickly as you can, refusing to wait another moment as you head back to Din’s limp form and start dragging him towards the Razor Crest. You say silent prayers to the Maker for his safety as you take him there, relieved to see the ship coming into sight as you pant with heavy breaths of struggle. Pressing a few buttons on Din’s waterlogged vambrace, you wait until the ramp of the hatch comes down, taking all your remaining strength to drag him up it. As soon as you get him in the hull, you close the hatch, hurrying to the controls where you assume the ground security protocol will be. Din had tried to describe where it was before, in the event that you’d be the one doing so if he had to take off quickly, and you recall his description as you look for it. You find it in the cockpit, turning it on and immediately heading back down to Din.
He still hasn’t moved. He looks dead to you—but you refuse to believe that.
“Stay with me, Din,” you plead in a soft yet desperate voice, your fingers making their way under the cloth of his neck as you feel for a pulse.
It’s weak. Too weak.
“No, no,” you worry to yourself, trying to think of a way to save him. “Stay with me!”
A horrible realization dawns on you: without taking off his helmet, you cannot save him. And you know you cannot break his Creed.
“Din,” you whimper to yourself, hands resting on his cold cuirass as his image begins to blur before you. “What am I supposed to do? I can’t let you—I can’t…”
That’s when another realization hits you. Without giving it a second thought, you consider your best option, tearing off a piece of his cape as you wring out the strip of fabric and tie it over your eyes. With shaking hands, you reach for the sides of his helmet, hearing it hiss as you take it off and set it aside. You let his head tilt to the side to drain of any water you can before you lay him back down completely, trying to listen for his breathing. There’s nothing.
“Stay with me,” you plead again, beginning to do mouth-to-mouth as you try all you can to bring him back. “Please!”
You listen for his breath and still hear none, cursing under your breath before you repeat what you’ve done.
“You can’t go, Din—not when we’re this close.” Your lip begins to wobble as it settles in, and when you listen for his breath, it still doesn’t come. “I need you.”
You breathe into him again, waiting and prayer to the Maker that you get some kind of a response.
And then, you hear him—a breath and a gurgling choke, and you lay him on his side so he can properly rid of the water in his lungs. You run a trembling hand over his back to ease it out, and you realize he’s taken your other hand tight in one of his. “You’re all right,” you try to assure him in a shaky voice, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. “I’m here.”
Din coughs a few more times, letting out a groan at the feeling of his burning lungs as he lays back down. You hear him struggling to make words as his grip on your hand tightens. “Cyar’ika,” he rasps, his voice broken from the abuse to his lungs and throat. “You… saved me.”
You can’t help laughing a bit in your relief, giving his hand a squeeze as you hold it with both of yours. “Only after you were able to free me.”
There’s a short silence, and for a moment you’re almost afraid that Din’s fallen under again until you feel the touch of his free hand over the fabric on your eyes. “Is that… a blindfold?”
You nod, smiling a bit as you look down at him. “I didn’t want to break your Creed.”
You’re met with more silence. Yet, you can sense that Din wants to say something—you’ve just gotten him at a loss. Then, you feel his hand take one of yours securely in his grasp, guiding it to his cheek. You nearly gasp at the contact, your trembling fingers brushing over his skin as you try to picture it in your mind. “You’re quite possibly the most—,” Din pauses to cough a few more times, “—amazing person I’ve ever known, cyar’ika.”
You beam, running your thumb over his cheek as you smile at him. “I just… I care a lot for you, Din.”
You can feel Din’s smile thanks to your hand on his cheek, which only causes your own smile to grow larger. “I care for you, too. Very much.” He then pauses, his voice softer when he speaks again. “Can you come closer, cyar’ika?”
You nod, bending yourself down towards him until he stops you with his free hand. It touches your shoulder—but you’re not thinking about that. What you’re thinking about is the fact that you can feel Din’s breath on your face, your heart racing as he keeps you close.
“I don’t know what we’ll do from here,” Din confesses in a low murmur, the sound of his natural voice up this close causing a pleasant shiver to run through you. “But I do know that I will not leave your side, cyar’ika, if that’s what you want.”
“That’s what I want,” you assure him in a voice just above a whisper. “I swear to you.”
With a voice that’s nearly teasing, you hear Din speak again, the words floating against the flesh of your lips. “Prove it to me.”
Knowing exactly what he means, you take the initiative, slowly and tenderly letting yourself get closer to him until you feel his soft lips against your own. Your free hand finds its way to his other cheek as you hold him steady, your heart practically bursting at the feeling as you lose yourself in everything you hadn’t even known you truly wanted with him. His hands run over your back as he keeps you close, his lips moving in perfect sync with your own as you revel in the bliss of this moment, this freedom, this care.
You only pull away when Din does, still recovering from the lack of air he’d had before as he breathes heavily against your skin. You smile as you aim to leave a chaste kiss on his cheek, running your thumb over it soon after.
“Does that prove it?” you ask with a giggle.
“Sure,” Din agrees, amusement also laced in his tone. “But I think one more would truly convince me.”
With a smile, you comply with his words, knowing that you’re making the second seal of a promise that you’ll stay by each other’s sides for the rest of your time in this galaxy—having finally found your true purposes in each other.