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“Gimme like, 20 minutes, Hunter,” you call across the room. Rolling onto your back, you blink blearily up at the ceiling; you’re not quite ready for the luxury of sleeping in an actual bed to end.
Through the door to your room at the inn, an impatient voice replies dryly:
“Guess again.”
Your treacherous heart skips a beat.
Rising to your feet, you stretch your arms above your head before pulling a sweater over your tight-fitting sleep clothes.
“Hm, let’s see,” you respond mischievously. “Who could possibly be so sour on such a beautiful morning?”
With the press of a switch, the door to your room slides open to reveal Crosshair’s distinctive frown. You’re about to tease him further, but when you notice the two to-go cups of caf in his hand, you break into a shameless grin.
The pivot of your expression elicits a wry smirk from the soldier.
“Hello to you, too,” he drawls, passing you a cup as he strolls his way into the room behind you.
“Oh, of course you can come in, Crosshair. Please, make yourself comfortable,” you say with an exaggerated flourish of your hand.
You watch in amusement as he does just that: taking a seat in the armchair tucked into one corner of your modest accommodations. Leaning back, he props one ankle up on his knee, looking as lithe and relaxed as a lothcat.
“What’s wrong, eagle-eyes?” You smile, taking your own place on the edge of your bed. “Sharing a room with Tech and Wrecker isn’t the picture of tranquility?”
Cross merely glares at you from over the rim of his caf, and it surprises a trill of laughter out of you.
This little excursion with the Batch was never meant to be a luxury vacation, after all. After delivering a resupply to a rebel outpost had proved more complicated than Tech initially proposed, the journey back to the Havoc Marauder became a two-day walk; thus, you, Omega, and the boys found yourselves paying for a few rooms at a backwater inn near the halfway point.
You had volunteered to bunk with Omega, and the two of you admittedly have had a bit too much fun with the whole experience. Last night, you kept the kid up late with all sorts of scary stories you remember from the camping trips of your childhood.
While youthful energy had Omega up bright and early and off to rendezvous with Hunter, though, you had been determined to sleep in as much as the sergeant might allow.
Judging by the grouchiness of the clone seated across from you, it would seem that Crosshair had similar intentions—but, ah, the best laid plans…
You can only smile sympathetically. Reaching for your datapad, you begin checking the weather forecast on the inn’s sluggish wireless connection as your mind continues the process of waking up.
Seeming perfectly content in the comfortable silence, Crosshair turns his face toward the window, letting the peachy hues of dawn warm his face, lids hooded. Like his brothers, the sharpshooter is ruggedly handsome… But there’s something especially captivating about seeing his severe features finding a rare moment of rest.
You can’t help but steal a prolonged glance.
Since joining the Bad Batch’s crew, the clones aboard the Marauder have become your family, an unexpected development for which you are endlessly grateful. With Crosshair, though, it’s been… Different.
In the rest of the Batchers, you’ve found comradery—in him , you’ve found a kindred spirit.
Many peaceful evenings have been spent in the dim light of the cargo hold, telling him about your home planet as he cleans and reassembles his rifle. For a while, you thought your voice was merely white noise to him—until the first time he pointed out some trees on a foreign moon, asking if they were similar to ones you’d described to him days prior.
Whenever your crew leaves the ship on missions and everyone naturally falls into step, it’s always you and the sniper at the back of the procession, keeping watch as you find quiet comfort at each other’s side.
Now, as your datapad struggles to pull up the requested information, you can’t hide your appreciative smile. Crosshair’s presence is a soothing balm for the anticipation of the hectic day that undoubtedly lies ahead, and you’re grateful that he’s gone out of his way to share a peaceful caf break with you—even if the surly man would never admit such intentions.
“Oh, great,” you murmur, gazing down at the faintly glowing tablet at last. “It’s gonna be hotter than the Dune Sea out there today.”
Cross winces before gesturing to himself with a sigh.
“Be grateful you don’t have to make the journey in plates of plastoid.”
You roll your eyes.
Standing up from the bed, you bend down to begin rifling through your pack for suitable clothing. You managed yesterday’s trek in your flightsuit, but between the garment’s rough-hewn material and the way your generous curves fill it out, you’ll be sweating up a storm if you try to do the same today.
An idea strikes you, but it brings a flush to your cheeks.
Stepping around to the other side of the washroom door for privacy, you begin slipping off your pajamas.
“You know, maybe I should get myself some body armor,” you joke through the ’fresher door as you begin stepping into your flightsuit, an attempt to diffuse some of the nervous tension that might be entirely one-sided.
To your surprise, though, Crosshair doesn’t play along with your usual banter.
“Might not be a bad idea,” he calls matter-of-factly.
As you shrug into your cropped undershirt, your smile falters.
“Really?”
He’s silent for a few seconds.
“You’re one of us,” he responds at last, voice gentler than you’ve ever heard it. “We should be making sure you’re safe.”
You catch sight of yourself in the mirror and swallow down a sigh.
You’ve donned your flightsuit, but only up to waist-height, tying the long sleeves in front of your convex abdomen with a knot. Up top, you’re covered only by your sleeveless dark undershirt—and between the two garments, several centimeters of your curvaceous belly is exposed.
You rub your hands over the soft expanse of your upper arms with a wince, not used to baring this much skin.
“Do they even make armor for people shaped like me?” Grumbling half-heartedly, you continue to analyze the image in the mirror. You’ve always been on the thicker side, which is why you normally opt for the shapeless comfort of flightsuits and tactical gear…
“What the hell does that mean?”
Gone is the soft sentiment in Crosshair’s voice, and you flinch at the sound; you can practically hear him scowling.
With a roll of your eyes, you sheepishly exit the washroom.
He’s still reclined in the worn armchair, caf sitting abandoned on the sunny windowsill. His lean arms are folded tightly in front of his cuirass, and when you meet his gaze, he assesses you with raised brows.
“Look at me,” you scoff, gesturing down to the wide set of your hips.
He uncrosses his legs before rising to his feet.
“Gladly.”
In a few swift strides, Crosshair has closed the distance between you two. Quirking one eyebrow, his dark eyes bore into you with something resembling a challenge as he reaches to grab your hand.
In a languid movement that is briefly lost on you, he lifts your arm to twirl you before him. You can feel his molten gaze upon every inch of your body, and your cheeks feel hotter than stars. When you complete the turn, you find his eyes shamelessly searching your own.
“You look fucking gorgeous.”
His words steal the breath from your lungs.
“I—Crosshair…”
Your own eyes trace the tattoo down his cheek, across the harsh lines of his face… Even when there’s a hint of gentle scolding in his expression, the intensity of the way he looks at you makes your knees go weak.
When your gaze finally falls to his lips, you barely have time to think before you’re leaning in to kiss him.
Through your hooded lids, you register the surprise that colors Cross’s features for the briefest of moments. In no time at all, though, his deft hands have found their way to the swell of your waist, fingers reverently tracing the exposed skin there. You eagerly reach up to lock your arms around his neck, brushing the shaven bristle of his hair tenderly.
Your lips part for his, and he pulls you into a bruising embrace. The gentle groan that rumbles in his chest is full of both hunger and relief, and it sends heat skyrocketing down your spine.
Suddenly, Crosshair pulls away ever so slightly, keeping his forehead pressed to your own as your labored breaths intermingle.
He murmurs your name into the quiet between you; a warning… A question.
A knock sounds at the door.
With a sharp inhale, you take a reluctant step backward.
“...Who is it?”
“It’s Omega! Can I come in to grab my stuff?”
Pulling your top back down where it had begun to ride up, you step over to the door. You throw a glance back at Crosshair with a nervous smile as your hand hovers over the switch.
He’s smirking wolfishly, brows low above dark eyes that threaten to scald you.
As far as he’s concerned, this conversation is definitely not over.