Archive of Our Own ^beta

Din doesn’t know how he got here.

Well, he does know—Boba had dragged him to a party after a week filled with studying, claiming that he needed to ‘wind down’ and that he was acting like he ‘had a rifle shoved up your goddamn ass’. They had walked there from their shared apartment close to midnight, only to find the music and drinking in full swing.

“Alright,” Boba had said, clasping Din on the shoulder. “Get a drink. Text me if you leave early.” And then he had disappeared into the crowd, leaving Din stranded in his leather jacket in the middle of the goddamn frat, and now here he is.

Din doesn’t know why he’s here. Normally, he’s a bit classier with his drinks—he likes whiskey and he’ll crack open a bottle of wine when he cooks for his friends—so this is far from his usual scene. He’ll drink a beer every now and then, but the party appears to be leaning towards White Claws and Bud Light, as well as the occasional bottle of cheap vodka.

Din doesn’t like vodka. Din dislikes dancing and crowds and anything frat-party-related, but he doesn’t mind music and drinking. So the best he can do is snatch up two cans of unopened beers that aren’t Bud Light and chug one down as fast as possible.

Bud Light or not, it’s still horrible. He grimaces and crushes the can in his fist, leaning against the wall. Plenty of people here are still freshmen, he can tell, and a few of them cast him a wary eye as they pass him. Unconsciously, he curls his shoulders in and presses his back against the wall.

If a party like this is Boba’s idea of ‘winding down’, then he’s not sure how he became friends with Boba.

He’s busy pondering over his life choices when someone shoves their way out of the dancing crowd and makes their way to the makeshift bar. He’s only half-paying attention to them—most of his attention is keeping an eye out for anyone he knows, friendly or otherwise. They grab a bottle of something and start making their way across the room.

Of course, navigating a dark frat is never an easy task. Three guys—whom Din vaguely recognizes from the baseball team—dash past the person, and they stumble as they’re shoved right into Din.

Din starts, his arm darting out to grab their elbow before they trip and fall. Instinctually, they grab onto his forearm.

They let out a breath. “Shit, I’m so sorry,” they gasp.

Din steadies them with his free arm. “You alright?” 

Yeah, I’m alright! Sorry, didn’t mean to bump into you,” they say cheerfully, releasing Din’s arm. They reach out and brush off Din’s shoulders as if he’s been gathering dust against the wall. “I’m a whole mess today, it seems.”

Din shakes his head. “No worries,” he says, staring down at them. They’re an average-sized man, maybe a little bit on the short side, but he holds himself proudly. He’s got bright blue eyes, light blond hair, and a dazzling smile that would make anyone swoon.

Din is very weak to nice smiles. “I’m Din Djarin,” he finds himself saying.

Blondie grins up at him. “Hi, Din,” he says. “I’m Luke.”

“Luke. You go to school here?”

“I’m a freshman, yeah. You?”

“Junior.”

Luke smiles, passing him his unopened beer and leaning against the wall. “Where are you from, Din?”

Din twists the beer open. “Detroit.”

“Detroit,” Luke says. “I’ve never been. It’s cold, isn’t it? I just love snow. What’s your major?”

“Mechanical Engineering,” Din says. “You’re very pretty.”

The words slip out of his mouth easily, but from the way Luke flushes, he can’t bring himself to regret it. In fact, he’s rather pleased with himself. He sets the beer down on a nearby table, suddenly not in the mood for more drinking.

Luke takes a moment to take in his words, his gaze dropping down to the table for a moment before he looks back up into Din’s eyes. “Thank you,” he says. “You’re—you’re not too bad yourself.”

Din huffs out a laugh. “I don’t hear that very often.”

“Really?” Luke sets down his beer as well. His cheeks are still adorably pink. “I find that hard to believe.”

“Most people find me a bit unsettling.” It’s the truth—Din’s pretty tall, considering. It doesn’t help that he has the tendency to ‘loom’—in Paz’s words—and his awkwardness comes off as more intimidating when he’s with new people.

“Far from it,” Luke insists. “You’re—you’re classically handsome.”

“Handsome?”

“It’s true. Just my type, actually. Tall, dark, and handsome, you know, and the stubble is really quite charming—I think you’d be quite good with a mustache, to be honest. I don’t know if you’ve considered that.”

Din feels his face turning red with a bashful sort of pride. “You’re just my type, too,” he finds himself saying.

“I’m very glad for that, then,” Luke says, and smiles.

Din could probably look at that smile for the next thousand years. “Do you want to go somewhere quieter?” he says. “Just to talk.”

“You? With me?”

“No,” Din says. “I meant the guy over there shotgunning Budweiser. Yes, you.”

“Oh! Yeah, that’d be nice—I know a place.”

Luke leads him back into a further corner of the house—“My friend used to live in this frat,” he explains bashfully, as they enter a small room. There’s a couch and an old TV in the corner, and the pounding music is still in earshot. Luke sits down, and Din follows.

“So,” Luke says, once they’ve settled down. “Detroit, huh?”

“Yes. I was born in New York.”

“Really? City or State?”

“City. Queens.”

“Queens!” Luke appears delighted by this, sitting forward on the couch. “I was born in Manhattan! When did you move to Detroit?”

“When I was nine.” As soon as he says it, Din is suddenly struck by the need to share more—there is something in Luke’s open, honest face that feels impossible to keep secrets from. “My parents passed away when I was eight, in a workplace accident.”

A shadow crosses Luke’s face. “I’m so sorry,” he says, and it’s unlike any other condolence that Din has ever been given—Luke’s tone is so soft and regretful. Like he knows Din’s parents were some wonderful people that he was hoping to someday meet. “That must’ve been so awful, losing your parents at such a young age.”

“‘Not gone’,” Din quotes, “‘merely marching far away’.” At Luke’s questioning head tilt, he rushes to clarify—“That’s what my adoptive mother said to me. She took me with her to Michigan and raised me there.”

“That’s a lovely saying.”

Din chuckles. “My mother says things like that quite often, actually. She’s often rather cryptic.”

“Are you close with her?” Luke blanches. “Sorry—that was rather rude.”

“Don’t worry about being rude,” Din says. “I’d much rather speak honestly with you.”

“Alright—if you do the same with me.”

“Of course. And my mother—we weren’t close in the way that most would expect. She was far from affectionate, but she raised me well—and my siblings, too. She taught me a great many things.”

“She sounds like a strong woman.”

“She is. In both body and mind. And your family?”

“My mother passed away in childbirth,” Luke says. “But I’m told she was intelligent, and a strong leader. I have a twin sister, but we were raised separately. My father—he was young, and not very mentally sound once my mother died, so I was sent to live with my uncle. In Arizona.”

Arizona. No wonder he loves snow. “Are you close with your sister?” 

“Oh, absolutely! I was friends with her before I knew she was my twin—personality-wise, you’d never think we were related. I’m a bit softer around the edges, but my sister’s a born leader, just like my mother. She’s got my father’s stubbornness, though—at least, that’s what my uncle says.”

“So you’re in touch with your father, then.”

Luke gives Din a half-smile. “Yes,” he says. “My sister isn’t as much, though—we didn’t find out we were related until our sixteenth birthday. But my father has always felt guilty for what he did, so he’s doing his best to make up for it now.”

“Have you forgiven him?”

Luke hums. “Yes,” he says. “Isn’t it strange? But he was young, unprepared for my mother’s death and even less so for being a father alone. I don’t blame him for being scared. But I’m told I forgive too easily.”

“An asset, not a fault,” Din says. “I hold grudges, and they get the better of me.”

“My sister is the same way, really. And I’d trust her with my life.”

“Family is most important. Blood or otherwise.” Din chuckles. “I’m quoting my mother again. I don’t think I’ve had this long a conversation in years.”

“The alcohol helps,” Luke says. “Or they would, if they didn’t have such crappy drinks.”

Din snorts. “You can say that again.”

Luke grins. “Oh, lemme guess. You’re a brandy sort of guy.”

“Whiskey. You?”

“Anything but Truly.”

“How much did you drink today, then?” Din asks.

Luke frowns. “Maybe a can or two of beer,” he says. “You?”

“Hardly anything. I don’t really like drinking at parties.”

“Me too,” Luke says, then laughs. “I just like the dancing. I love dancing. Isn’t it stupid? I only go to parties to dance.”

“It’s far from stupid,” Din insists. “You’re not dancing now, though.”

Luke nods. His eyes are so, very bright. “I like dancing,” he says. “But I like this more.”

Warmth spreads from Din’s chest, and with it comes contentment, soft and fuzzy. “I think the same.”

“Why do you ask, though? Do I seem drunk?”

Din shakes his head. “I just wanted to make sure. Before I start asking something stupid.”

“We’ve been talking for quite a while now, Din, and I think you’re far from stupid.”

“Agree to disagree.”

“Fine, then. What’s the so-called stupid thing you’re going to ask me?”

Din smiles. “Could I kiss you?”

Luke blinks, then laughs. Perhaps Din is more drunk than he realizes—for a moment, he thinks Luke’s laugh could possibly be the most wonderful thing he’s ever heard. Or maybe he’s drunk off of the sound of it. It’s certainly intoxicating enough.

“That,” Luke says, still smiling. “is far from a stupid question. I think it’s the first time someone’s ever asked me that, though.”

“Really? How come, if I could ask?”

“You’re so polite,” Luke sighs. “Well, the people that did want to kiss me never asked beforehand. And those people were never very high in number.”

“I can’t imagine why.”

Luke hums, a faint smile playing on his lips. “Sure.”

“Really,” Din insists. “But I still don’t have an answer.”

“Absolutely. Please kiss me, actually. If you don’t, I might have to just crawl under the coffee table in shame, but you know, that could be easily remedied—”

Din kisses him now. It’s a little less gentle than intended, but Luke presses back just as insistently. His lips are warm and slightly chapped, but Din’s too distracted by his hands weaving into his hair. Din presses him against the couch, his arms caged around Luke.

He can’t get enough of it. Luke tastes like stale beer, but he smells faintly of lavender and his hands are so, so soft. The kiss is hungry, but it isn’t rushed, and Din thinks of how much he wants to take Luke apart slowly, cherishing him as if he is made of priceless treasure. Luke hums into his mouth, low, and tangles his fingers into his hair a little deeper.

Luke pulls back slowly. He’s a little out of breath, and his cheeks are still flushed that wonderful shade of pink. “You,” he says, “you’re really something.”

“A good thing?” Din presses open-mouthed kisses to the line of Luke’s jawline. “Or a bad one?”

“Very good. But perhaps bad for me. And my sanity.”

Din hums. “I’ll take that,” he murmurs, and he nips at Luke’s neck.

Luke inhales, a short gasp. The sound fills Din with a warm sort of pleasure—he’s far from inexperienced when it comes to these sorts of things, but he wants this to be good. Nothing less than perfect feels good enough. He’s two seconds away from suggesting that Luke come back to his apartment when a phone begins to ring.

Luke curses—Din ignores it in favor of gently sucking the skin along Luke’s collarbone—and tugs his phone out of his pocket. He declines it and digs his hand back into Din’s hair, but within seconds it’s ringing again. “Fuck,” he hisses, declining it again.

At that, Din leans back to see his face. He allows himself a moment to admire the line of darkening pink marks that line Luke’s collarbone, but tears his eyes away. “Is everything alright?”

The phone starts buzzing again, and this time, Luke only gives it a mournful look. “My sister,” he says. “I should—I’m so sorry, Din.”

“No, no.” Din kisses him once more, short and sweet. “Pick up. I’ll wait for you.”

Luke knits his brows, but after a moment of deliberation, he gives Din’s arm a gentle squeeze and picks up the phone. “Leia?” he says. “I’m a little bit busy—”

He listens intently for a moment, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. Din pulls back more, but he keeps his hands on Luke, rubbing his thumb back and forth in a way that he hopes is soothing. Luke nods and responds with short, one-word answers.

The conversation is over quickly enough, but Luke’s worried expression doesn’t fade. “I’m so sorry,” he says, his cheeks still pink. “I hate to leave you, but my friend’s in trouble—”

Din cuts him off with another kiss—he’s almost addicted to it now—forcing himself to pull away after a too-short moment. Luke chases his lips, but Din cups his face in his palms to stop him. “Don’t worry,” he tells him. “Go help your sister. I know she’s important to you. I’ll walk you out if you like.”

“Please,” Luke says.

And once again, Luke is leading him out the door and through the crowd—now, Din keeps a steady hand clasping one of Luke’s. They make their way through the house—past dancing feet and the heavy thump of bass, before they’re outside at last.

The air is colder than when Din had first arrived—for a moment, he wonders just how long he and Luke were talking, tucked in the corner of the house. “My sister called a car,” Luke says. “She said it’s be here any minute.”

“Alright.” Din squeezes his hand.

“I’m so sorry about this.” Luke shivers, and he wraps his arms around himself—his t-shirt isn’t really doing much for him in the chill, Din notes.

“Don’t apologize.” Din tugs off his jacket and drapes it over Luke’s shoulders. “And keep that on, too. I don’t want to hear another sorry from you.”

“Din—”

Din tugs the jacket a little tighter around his shoulders—it’s big for Din, so Luke’s practically drowning in it. “I mean it.”

Luke is silent for a moment. “I really want to see you again,” he says. “Din—I really like you, and I know it’s only been a few hours—”

“I like you a lot, too. And we’ll see each other again.” Din kisses him just one more time, just as a mysterious black car pulls up into the street. “Take the jacket, too. It’s cold.”

Luke reaches out and presses their heads together. “Thank you,” he says, reverent, and then he’s slipping out of Din’s reach. He slips into the back of the car, and the door shuts behind him, the car peeling out of the driveway just as fast as it came.

Din cranes his neck to watch him leave, but he’s gone too quickly. He leans back against the wall and runs his hands through his hair, looking around at his surroundings without quite seeing. The warmth of Luke under his hands feels like a mirage now—something his mind conjured up out of loneliness. The memory feels like it’s been woven into every nerve in his body, pressed into his soul, but it still feels fleeting.

Then it hits him.

He didn’t ask for his damn number.

“Fuck,” he says aloud. “Fuck.”

* * *

“I can’t believe you fell halfway in love with a guy you hooked up with at a party.”

Cobb Vanth is currently draped over Din and Boba’s couch in their apartment, scrolling through his phone. His leather black boots are propped up on one of the armrests, and Boba knocks them back on the floor as he passes by, a mugful of coffee balanced in each hand.

Cobb immediately props his feet back up, accepting the cup of coffee from Boba’s hands. “Who would’ve thought that the great Din Djarin would be swayed by some blond bimbo in a choker and cargo pants?” he continues. “I would’ve never taken you for a simp. When I introduced you to that guy last year and you turned him down, I thought you just weren’t interested in anyone.”

“No,” Boba says. He sets the second mug of coffee down on the table in front of Din, who’s studying at the kitchen table with his reading glasses perched on his nose. “When Din falls, he falls first and he falls hard.”

Din looks up from his computer and glares. “Get off of my couch, Vanth.”

“You gotta tell me about this guy first.”

“That is private.”

Cobb groans and looks up from his phone to Boba, who has slid into the seat next to Din. “Boba,” he says. “You picked him up at the party, didn’t you? Did he tell you anything about this guy?”

“His name’s Luke,” Boba supplies. Din shoots him a glare.

“Luke,” Cobb repeats, disgusted. “God, Din, that’s the most boring name you could pick. And he’s blond, too?”

“Cobb.”

“Do you know his major? His dorm? Anything other than that?”

Din stubbornly remains silent. On the contrary, he remembers everything from his shared conversation with Luke, but none of it seems worthy enough to share with Cobb. He wants to cherish it, tucked in his thoughts, memorizing the light way that the words had fallen off of Luke’s tongue.

“—oi. Oi. Oh, goddamn it, he’s got that stupid look on his face—knock it off, will you? You look like some sort of constipated puppy. God, it’s disgusting.”

“I don’t have any look on my face,” Din says automatically.

Cobb gags, an exaggerated retching noise. “Yes, you do. Make him stop, Boba.”

“Stop looking at his face, then.”

“Boba.”

“Cobb,” Din says. “With all necessary politeness, I need you to shut up.”

“Without any politeness,” Boba says. “I’ll make you shut up.”

* * *

“Tell me more about this Luke guy,” Cara Dune says, a week later.

“No,” Din says, automatically.

She huffs. “Why not?”

It’s an early afternoon, and Din and Cara just finished lunch in the cafeteria on campus. It’s a rare occasion that they eat in the dining halls—most people who live off campus, like them, find other sources of sustenance. The cafeteria especially is mostly reserved for shiny-faced freshmen.

But it was cold out by the time the two of them got out of their morning class, and Cara had started whining about going out to eat, and the cafeteria food is cheap. So they’d settled into the dining hall with plates of food.

“I don’t trust you,” Din says, flatly. “You’re gonna spill everything to Cobb the second I turn my back.”

“I’m far more trustworthy than Cobb.”

“Are you?”

She ponders the question for a moment. “Maybe not, actually.”

Din snorts.

“Tell me anyway,” she says, leaning forward insistently. “I’ll find out anyway, you know that.”

“The only person I talked to at all is Boba,” Din says. “And he’s not gonna tell you anything.”

“You never know. Someone could’ve seen you at the party for all you know.”

“It’s far from a big deal.”

“It is a big deal! You’ve hardly dated at all in the past two years, and all of sudden two months into the year you’re falling for this random guy? No offense, but I was considering setting you up with some of the guys from the wrestling team.”

Din makes a face.

“Don’t make that face at me—I was worried you’d be alone and sad for the rest of your life. I can totally see you as one of those old gay hermits who live in the middle of the desert all on their own.

“There’s gay hermits who live in the desert?”

She waves him off. “Tell me about this guy.”

He sighs. “It’s not a big deal. He bumped into me, we talked, and then he got a call and needed to leave.”

“You talked?”

He scowls at her. “I’m capable of talking to men, Dune.”

She snorts. “Sure. But that’s not what I meant—all you did was talk?”

He stays silent.

She gasps dramatically, then bursts into laughter. “Holy shit, Djarin. Don’t tell me you actually got your dick wet with this guy?”

“I didn’t—”

“No, you don’t have to explain it to me. Now I get why you’ve been so tight-lipped about this with Cobb.”

“I—”

She grins at him. “Who knew that you actually pulled people? And in one evening, too. Should’ve taken you for a guy to fall for a hookup.”

He sighs, very heavily. “I need to drop by the apartment,” he tells her. His plate has been scraped clean, but Cara is still eating, halfway through her second plate. He shoulders his bag as he stands, pushing his chair in. “Are you coming for dinner tonight?”

She glances up at him, in the midst of shoveling a mouthful of mashed potatoes in her mouth. “Where else am I going to eat?”

“You could cook dinner yourself.”

She pretends to consider it, tipping her chair onto its back legs. “Nah.”

He rolls his eyes and heads toward the door, lifting his hand in farewell. There’s a thunk behind him as Cara leans forward in her seat. “Oi, Din,” she calls after him. “You left your textbook here, dumbass.”

He turns back around to retort that he didn’t bring his textbook, but stops. Cara’s lifting it up to show it to him, and—yeah, that’s not his.

“I don’t take Calculus,” he says shortly, stepping toward her and yanking it out of her hands. He flips it to the front cover, but there’s no name written there. “Do you know if there’s a lost and found in this building?”

“I’m not sure if there’s even a lost and found on campus.”

He flicks at her forehead—she swats his hand away, scowling—and snaps the textbook closed again. “I’ll figure it out.”

“Or, you could just leave it here and wait for the owner to come back.”

“Someone could just steal it.”

She shrugs. “Not my problem.”

Din tries not to sigh at her. She grins at him. “Sure you don’t want to tell me more about this Luke guy?”

“I’m sure.”

“Alright then. I’ll find out anyway.”

“Goodbye, Dune.”

* * *

“So this is the textbook Dune was telling me about,” Fennec says, a couple of days later.

It’s Saturday morning, and Din and Fennec are having their weekly sparring session together. A more accurate statement would be that Din is getting thrown on his ass four times out of five, but he likes to think that the 20% of the times he actually wins is counting for something.

It’s been a tradition since early their sophomore year, and he enjoys it. It leaves him with more bruises than he can count, but he likes Fennec and he likes sparring with her and she’s taught him a lot about fighting in general.

They’re on a break now, panting and sweaty. Din had tugged the textbook out of his bag and shown it to her, in hopes of a clue to its owner.

“Is this your way of avoiding the conversation about that Luke guy?” she asks, tugging the textbook into her lap. “Because we’re still gonna have that conversation.”

“There will be no conversation.”

She smiles—there will definitely be a conversation, Din knows, but for now, he just lets her leaf through the book. “Well, whoever this is,” she says. “They take pretty good notes. They’ve written stuff all over the margins.”

“Yeah.” Din’s already leafed through it, albeit briefly. “No name, though.”

“Weird. You’d think that they would if they wrote all over it like this.”

He hums, unscrewing the cap to his water bottle.

“They’re only about a third of the way through the textbook,” she says, after a moment. “Which makes sense, if they only lost it just recently.” She flips to the back of the book, flipping through the last few pages. “Oh, look.”

Din leans over her shoulder. She’s on the third-to-last page, pointing to a scrawl in the bottom corner. “Odd place to write a name,” she says. “But it’s not the same handwriting as the rest of the book.”

Din squints at the name. Leia Solo, it says, scribbled in quite possibly the worst handwriting he’s ever seen.

Fennec peers at it. “Hey,” she says. “I know a Solo.”

“Not exactly a common name.”

“No, it’s not. There’s a Solo that works at the mechanic’s shop nearby. He fixed up my bike, once. He works on weekends—I can text you the address.”

“That’d be great.” Din closes the textbook. “I’ll drop it off tomorrow. Thanks.”

“Anytime,” she says. “Wanna talk about the Luke guy, then?”

“I didn’t fuck him, contrary to Dune’s beliefs.”

“No,” she says. “You’re far too much of a gentleman. I can always appreciate that, though.”

“I’m far from a gentleman.”

“This Luke guy seems to disagree. Boba says you were talking for a while.”

“He was just easy to talk to.”

“Hm.” She tilts her head at him. “All you did was talk?”

Din shifts, uncomfortable under her unending stare. “Not really.”

She snorts. “So you did hook up with him.”

“Just a little.”

“Sure.” She tips her head at him, seeming to take in his discomfort. “I think that’s enough of a break, don’t you think?”

Din tries not to groan, but Fennec’s already springing to her feet. “It’s either this or we talk about more about the Luke guy.”

“Do all of our friends want to have a therapy session about this or something?”

“Yeah, probably. Sparring or the Luke guy?”

Din fights the urge to groan. “Sparring.”

“Attaboy.” She offers a hand to him and drags him to his feet. He sets his water bottle down on the ground and slowly makes his way over to the mat.

“Sparring builds character,” Fennec tells him, as she drops into her stance on the other end of the mat. “You of all people should know that, Mando.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He settles into his stance. “Let’s get this over with.”

* * *

Fennec declines Din’s offer of accompanying him to the address in the textbook, but she does point him in the right direction. He sets off after a quick shower, the book tucked under his arm.

The mechanic’s place turns out to be little more than a rundown garage. There are several beat-up cars parked against the wall, as well as a few motorcycles. Din eyes one of them as he enters—it’s an old Razor Crest like his own, but it looks like it’s a ride away from falling apart.

There’s a teenager sitting on a stool not far from where he’s standing—they look up as he approaches, his shadow falling over him. “Hey,” they say. “Peli’s out right now—she’ll be back around two-thirty.”

“I’m looking for a Solo.”

“Did he steal your bike or something?”

“No.”

They squint at him. “Steal anything of yours?”

“No.” Din’s starting to see what kind of person he’s dealing with.

“Really? You don’t wanna kill him or anything?”

Din sighs. “Can you just tell me where he is?”

They point with a pinkie finger at a gray Aston Martin in the corner. “Chewie’s not here either if you want him.”

“I’m good. Thanks.”

He approaches the car—now, he can see someone working under it, wearing jeans and thick leather boots. “Leia Solo?”

There’s a clank, and then a muffled curse. The man slides out from under the car—he’s a couple of years older than Din, by the looks of it, with touseled brown hair and a dark vest. “It’s Han,” he says. “Han Solo. Not Leia.”

“I’m not too particular about your first name,” Din says.

“Alright.” He gets to his feet, looking at Din warily. “What do you want?”

Din pulls the textbook out from under his arm. “This yours?”

Solo looks him up and down. “How’d you get that?”

“It was in the dining hall on campus.”

“The dining hall? And you brought it all the way here?”

Din doesn’t respond to that. “Is it yours?”

Solo snorts. “It was. I hate to break it to you, but I dropped out of Calc in my freshman year. Passed the textbook off to a buddy of mine, but I think he sold it to someone.”

Damn. “What’s your friend’s name?”

“You can leave it with me if you want. My buddy’s out of town now, but he’ll be back on Monday.”

Din casts a look over a shop—each surface, including the cars, looks to be covered in a thick layer of grime. The overlight light flickers, swinging slightly. “I’m good.”

“You’re not gonna get a reward or anything. I’m not particularly liquid as if the moment.”

“Don’t want one. What’s your friend’s name?”

“Lando Calrissian—double ‘s’, Lando like the F1 driver. You’re sure you aren’t here for anything else?”

“Yes. Thanks.” The shop’s phone starts to ring, a sharp, antique trill.

Solo picks it up. “See ya,” he says to Din, with a lazy salute, before tucking the phone under his ear. “Peli’s. Hey, kid, what’s up? No, Leia didn’t mention it—I’m kidding. Say—”

Din turns on his heel before he overhears any more of the conversation—he nods to the teenager on his way out, who waves. “Thanks for not arresting him or something,” they say to him. “I’m supposed to stop that from happening, but I don’t really know how to do that.”

“Maybe you should get a different job,” he tells them.

They look like they’re seriously considering it when he leaves.

* * *

“Do you know a Lando Calrissian?” Din asks.

Bo-Katan looks at him, unimpressed. “Why?”

“I’ve got something of his.”

“Did you borrow it from him?”

“No, he must’ve lost it.”

“Things like lost-and-founds exist,” she says. “You know, boxes where you drop off the thing and then leave it for them to find?”

“There wasn’t a lost-and-found where I found it.”

“Are you sure? There’s always a lost-and-found.”

Din resists the urge to sigh. “Do you know a Lando Calrissian?”

Bo-Katan looks even more unimpressed. “Contrary to popular belief, I don’t know everyone, Din Djarin.”

“You know more people than me.”

“I’m an RA, not a people-person,” she says. “Also, what kind of a name is Lando?”

“There’s a Formula 1 driver with the name Lando,” Din supplies helpfully. 

“Do I look like the type to watch car racing?”

“I like car racing.”

“Because you’re a car nerd. I, however, have no interest in cars.”

“I think Lando Norris is cool,” Din says. “And we’re not talking about Formula 1. We’re looking for a Lando.”

Bo-Katan throws her hands into the air. “You brought up the car racing first, Djarin,” she says, exasperated. “And besides. We are not looking for a Lando, you’re looking for a Lando. Besides, I don’t know why you’re asking me of all people—it’s not like some random guy named Lando is going to fall from the sky?”

A man pauses by their table. “You’re looking for a Lando?” he says.

Din glances at Bo-Katan, who is looking very, very tired. “Yeah. Lando Calrissian.”

He raises his brows at him. “Well, you’ve found him,” he says. “What can I do you for?”

Din looks him up and down. The man is dressed in a bright yellow shirt, with the most absurd, outlandish collar and sleeves that he’s ever seen. “You’re Lando Calrissian?”

“The one and only,” the man says, dipping into a mocking bow. Or maybe it’s genuine—Din neither knows nor cares. “What can I help you with?”

Din pulls the textbook from his bag. “Do you know who owns this?”

“This is about the textbook?” Bo-Katan groans. “Can you just drop it? Even Boba’s starting to get concerned.”

“I can help you with that, actually,” Lando says. “Sold it to ol’ Wormie Skywalker, a buddy of mine from back home. He’s a freshman this year.”

A rush of relief floods through Din’s chest. “Great,” he says. “Where can I find him?”

“Dunno. He lives in the dorms. Studies education. Haven’t really talked much this year, to be honest—not since I sold him the book. He’s a funny sort.”

“Do you know which dorm he lives him?’

Lando shrugs. “You can give it to me, I can try and pass it off to him.”

“I’m good.” Din stows the book back in his bag. “Might as well finish the job.”

“You’ve been trying to track him down for two weeks,” Bo-Katan says—she’s giving Din a slightly stern look. “Why can’t you just drop this whole ordeal?”

“Worst comes to worst, I’ll just dig through the education majors.”

“Not a bad idea,” Lando says.

Bo-Katan sighs. “Din,” she says. “This is one of the most famous universities for Education in the nation. There’s gotta be dozens of freshmen in that field.”

“Really?” Lando’s brow is raised. “I had no idea.” 

Bo-Katan casts him a look, and he wisely clams his mouth shut. “Din, the only thing you’ve talked more about than that textbook is that blond guy you were talking to at that party. Not to mention you’ve been lugging it around in your bag for the past two weeks. Frankly, I’m starting to get a bit concerned—what do you want to get out of this?”

“What blond guy?” Lando asks.

Din ignores him. “I just don’t want to leave something I started unfinished,” he says. “That’s the exact opposite of how I was raised.”

Bo-Katan’s stern look softens somewhat. “Alright,” she says. “But you don’t even know this guy, Din.”

Din remains silent.

Bo-Katan sighs again—if possible, she sounds even more exhausted than ever. “Fine,” she says. “But if this goes on for more than a month, I’m burning that damn thing.”

* * *

Paz is sick.

This means that Din has to go over to his younger brother’s dorm room and make sure he’s still eating. It is also the second week of November, which means that there’s a goddamn snowstorm and Din has to tromp through two feet of snow to get to his brother’s dorm.

His mother had called him earlier that morning, telling him exactly which cold remedy to buy, which Din very patiently wrote down on his shopping list. He also buys ingredients for chicken noodle soup, because Paz reverts into a whiny toddler whenever he’s sick.

In addition to being a whiny toddler again, Paz also acts like a bratty teenager again.

After picking the lock—Paz doesn’t hear Din’s insistent knocking—Din finds him bundled up in his dorm room bed, scrolling through his phone. “Sit up,” Din orders him, tugging the phone out of his hands. “How much water have you had today?”

“Enough to wash your stupid smelly face out of my room,” Paz says, as petulant as a five-year-old. “Leave me alone.”

Din ignores him and shoves a two-liter bottle into his hands. “Your room is a mess.”

Paz gulps down a quarter of the bottle. “Shut up.”

“You shut up.” Din empties his bag out on Paz’s desk—out drops a large thermos of the soup he’d made earlier, as well as his phone, the bottle of meds, and the textbook. He picks up the meds and shoves them into Paz’s hand—“Take two,” he orders—and unscrews the top of the thermos.

“Don’t boss me around,” Paz complains but obeys nonetheless. “Is that chicken noodle soup?”

“No.” Din pours the soup out into a cup, handing it to Paz. “How do you feel?”

“Like my brother is ordering me around and being really fucking annoying.”

“You’ll survive, I guess. Now eat your damn soup.”

Paz eats the soup. “Say,” he says, with his mouth full. “Is that the textbook Cobb’s been complaining about?”

“Why are you talking to my friends?”

“So it is that textbook, then. How come you keep on dragging it around with you?”

Din flicks his forehead. “I finish what I start.”

Paz snorts. “You sound like our mother,” he says. “Do you know who owns it?”

“Someone named Wormie Skywalker or something. He’s a freshman—do you know him?”

“Wormie? Well, there’s a Skywalker on this floor—room 403. It’s a triple room just down the hall—I know his roommates.”

“Huh. Mind if I check it out?”

“Knock yourself out,” Paz says, spooning another mouthful of soup into his mouth. “And get out of my room.”

Din flips him off, picking up the textbook and shoving it back into his bag.

He makes his way into the hallway—it takes him a minute to find the door that Paz was referring to, but not too long. He stares at it for a second. There’s still snow in his hair—the heaters aren’t quite working in the hallway.

Maybe he really has gotten too invested in this damn textbook.

He knocks on the door.

There’s a mysterious thump, and some brief, low cursing. Din is already regretting his decision to even try knocking on the door—who knows if it’s that Skywalker—but he’s already standing here, so he might as well stay. He rocks back and forth on his heels, wondering if maybe he should just leave the stupid textbook here and bolt.

He’s busy pondering his choices when the door, at last, swings open.

It’s Luke.

Din stares at him, his mouth slightly ajar. Luke blinks back at him. His blond hair is slightly damp, and it looks adorably fluffy and the slightest bit messy. He has that familiar half-smile on his face. “Din,” he says. “It’s you.”

“Yeah,” Din says dumbly, still staring. “I mean. Hi, Luke.”

“Hi, Din.” Luke steps out into the hallway, leaving his door slightly ajar. “I wasn’t expecting you—hi. Din.”

“Hi,” Din says. “I didn’t know you lived in this dorm.”

“I do, yeah.”

Din bobs his head a few times. Luke blinks at him, then breaks into a smile. “Sorry,” he says, after a pause. “I just—how did you find me?”

Ah. Din grimaces. “I’m not stalking you, I swear,” he says. “My brother lives down the hall and she said that I could”—At this, he starts wrestling with the straps of his messenger bag—“Find the owner of this textbook here.”

“A textbook?” Luke asks.

Din manages to unbuckle one of the straps, and he wrestles the textbook the rest of the way out. “Do you happen to know a ‘Skywalker’?”

Luke stares at him for a moment—Din can feel himself wilting under his gaze—until at last, he blinks. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, I do—quite intimately, in fact.”

“Great. Great, yeah, could you return this to them?” Din hands the textbook to him, almost too quickly. He’ll be all too glad to get rid of the cursed thing. “I found it in the dining hall. I’ve been chasing down the damn owner for the past few weeks, you have no idea how much of a pain it’s been.”

“A few weeks, you say?” Luke takes the textbook from him delicately, but he’s looking up at Din with a glint in his eyes. The corner of his mouth is turning up just the tiniest bit. “You know that there’s a lost and found by the dining hall, right?”

Din makes a mental note to strangle Cara Dune in her sleep. “Ah.”

Luke’s smile grows. “So how’d you figure it out?”

“There’s a, uh”—Din gestures at the book—“the last owner wrote their name. A friend knew them, and told me where to find them, but then they had already graduated—I found them working at one of the tech shops, but they gave it to a friend, who said that a ‘Skywalker’ had bought it off of them. I had just popped by my friend’s dorm, but they said that someone with that name lived here, and so”—he gestures again at himself—“here I am, I guess.”

“Just a stroke of luck, then?” Luke’s positively grinning at him now.

“I’m not a very lucky guy.”

“Really?” Luke says. “I feel rather lucky right now.”

He’s looking far too innocent right now for Din to take him seriously. But he also still has that charming smile and those bright blue eyes. Din wants, very badly, to push him into the wall and kiss him senseless, which is probably the worst idea he’s ever had, so he swallows and forces himself to focus. “Why’s that?” he asks instead.

Luke beams, then sticks out a hand for him to shake. “Hi there,” he says. “I’m Luke Skywalker.”

“I’m Din,” Din says, automatically, then blanches. “Oh. Fuck.”

“That’s right. Isn’t this a coincidence?”

Din’s still reeling. “Small world indeed.”

Luke laughs. “Isn’t it? I’m feeling very lucky right now.”

“Or maybe we wouldn’t have needed luck if you had just written your name and number in the textbook,” Din says. He smiles.

Luke shrugs. “I kind of like this way better.”

“Or maybe you could’ve given me your number at the party. Then we really could’ve avoided this all.”

“Still like this way better,” Luke says. He tucks the textbook under his arm. “Do you have your phone?”

“Yeah, uh,” Din pats his pockets. “No. I don’t.”

“Hm.” Luke gives him that half-smile again, then slips back into his room. He returns without the textbook, but with a blue pen clasped in his hand. “I like this way better, too.”

He reaches out and takes Din’s arm with a soft, warm hand. Din’s own hands are rough and calloused from working in garages since he was eleven. He tries not to think about how it would feel to hold Luke’s hand, but it’s rather difficult to focus on anything else as Luke turns his forearm and writes his number down carefully.

“Put it in your phone as soon as you find it again, alright?” Luke tells him, smiling brightly as he caps the pen. “I don’t want you to have to hunt me down again. I’ve been trying to find you, too.”

“Really?” Din’s still staring somewhat dumbstruck at his arm. 

“Yeah.” Luke holds out his arm, and then Din suddenly notices his leather jacket draped over it. “You lent it to me, remember?”

“I did,” he says, then, struck with the memory of Luke positively swimming in that very jacket, grinning and looking up at him with those sharp blue eyes, makes a decision. “Keep it.”

Luke shakes his head, vehemently. “No way. Leather jackets aren’t cheap, and it’s way too big for me—”

“What do you mean?” Din takes the jacket from him, shaking it out before he drapes it over Luke’s shoulders. The hem reaches Luke’s mid-thigh. “It fits perfectly.”

Luke looks up at him, lifting his brow. “Sure.”

“Believe me.” Din’s grinning—he feels bold, all of a sudden, and the way that Luke’s looking at him makes him feel pleased. “You should keep it.”

“I couldn’t—”

Din shakes his head. “I’m going to turn around,” he says. “You’re going to keep the jacket. I’m going to go and put your number in my phone and then I’m gonna shove soup down my brother’s throat, and then I’ll call you later tonight.”

“Ordering me around, now?”

“Just a suggestion,” Din says, still feeling bold. “You could also slam the door in my face right now and I’ll never bother you again.”

Luke hums, tipping his head in mock thought. “Mm, no thanks.”

“Good. Then I’ll call you tonight.”

Luke nods. Then, he’s darting forward and pressing a chaste kiss to Din’s cheek—the jacket falls to the floor in the process. As he pulls away again, Din wraps an arm around him and gently tugs him closer. “You didn’t ask first,” he says. “How scandalous, Skywalker.”

“It was a spur-of-a-moment thing,” Luke insists. “I’m being romantic, Djarin. That being said, I’d really like to kiss you again, so if you could—”

Din kisses him now—less insistent, something more gentle. He closes his eyes as savors the feeling as Luke sinks into his embrace.

They pull apart, and Luke’s smiling up at him giddily. “Well, Din,” he says. “As much as I’d like to pull you into my room, my roommates are home and I think there’s a brother waiting for his soup.”

Din nods. “You’re right,” he says, although he would also like to be pulled into Luke’s room, roommates be damned.

Luke laughs. “Alright,” he says, pulling away. “Goodnight, Din.”

“Goodnight, Luke.”

And then Luke’s smiling, and he closes the door gently behind him, and Din turns around and heads toward Paz’s room. When he pushes the door open, Paz pops his head out from under his covers and glares at him darkly. “Took you long enough,” he grumbles. “Why are you smiling like that? You look scary.”

“I’m not smiling.”

“Yeah, you are,” Paz says. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” Din says. He glances down at his arm. “Nothing at all.”