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"You know, you can be a real scoundrel sometimes," you grunt, frustratedly trying to repair the Razor Crest's cooling unit.
In your peripheral vision you can see Din's helmet tip to the side. "A scoundrel?" he questions with amusement.
"Yes, a scoundrel. If you hadn't pissed off those Jawas we wouldn't be in this mess. And a rather hot mess at that."
The heat from Tatooine's twin suns seeps into the Crest, and it's not long before it's almost too hot to bear. Even with the top half of your jumpsuit twisted at your waist leaving you in the tank top beneath, you were sweating. It was hard to imagine how Din could stand it under all that armor. A part of you couldn't help but wish to see his own skin glistening in the sunlight.
"It's my ship!" Din protests, stepping closer to you. "Besides, I thought you liked scoundrels."
The statement catches you off guard, causing you to meet his beskar gaze. Though his face isn't visible, you swear you feel the cocky grin from under his helmet. The temperature must be getting to him, acting like this now, and it was driving you mad.
"Sometimes," you say, attempting to sound aloof. "When they don't cause me trouble."
"You could always use a little trouble in your life.”
He was leaning in closer now, voice lower and more teasing than before. The heat, the lack of personal space, his hypnotic tone, is all so intoxicating. Now you can barely remember the task at hand.
"What I need is to get back to work," you mumble, trying to turn back to the unit.
Before you can, Din is slipping off his gloves, taking your chin in his now exposed hand so you face him. Eyes wide and lips parted in surprise you don't object, mesmerized in the moment.
"Maybe it's the heat talking, cyar'ika," he breathes through the modulator. "Or maybe it's just the 'scoundrel' in me, but I need to do something and I need to do it now."
With that he gently presses a hand over your eyes, and removes his helmet with the other.
"Keep them closed for me," he commands tenderly.
You nod as his hand moves to your neck, pulling you close, and he kisses you. It starts so hesitantly, then grows hungry, heated, desperate. As if he's afraid of you slipping away. Din's hands firmly grip your neck and hip, his raw strength keeping you steady. If he hadn’t, there’s no doubt you would’ve fallen to your knees.
Your own hands find their way to his hair, pulling at it ever so slightly making Din grab you tighter. His tongue slides across your lips begging to deepen the moment further, and a satisfied sigh escapes you. Bodies buzzing and hot with sweat, the fire burning between you could scorch the suns.
Moments later when you finally part, it's as if all the air in the room has been sucked away. Din presses one last soft kiss to your swollen lips before putting his helmet back on. His fingers linger on them as you’re now able to stare at him in awe.
"Not bad for a scoundrel, huh?" he asks teasingly.
"No," you say, breathless. "Not bad at all.