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You’d been travelling with Din Djarin for five months.
Five months of hyperspace jumps, carbonite chambers, low whispers on bounty comms, and silent watches by starlight. Five months of close quarters on the Razor Crest, meals shared while Grogu babbled happily between you, and your shoulder brushing his as you handed him tools during repairs. Five months of hearing “don’t touch anything” in that modulated voice, only for him to quietly let you touch everything.
You didn’t plan to end up on his ship. A bounty gone sideways, a mutual enemy, and your own strange sense of loyalty had welded you to him like durasteel. The Child had taken to you immediately. Din had not.
But it didn’t take long for the silence to turn into understanding.
Now, you understood the way he moved—how he always took the left side when you entered buildings together, how he shifted slightly forward when you walked through a crowd, his instincts to shield you. He’d never say it. But he did it.
And you, Maker, help you—started to crave that silence.
It was in the way he said your name when he handed you a blaster clip. The way his voice caught ever so slightly when you got hurt. The way he watched you when you didn’t notice. Or pretended not to.
There had always been tension. But lately, it simmered.
And tonight… it boiled.
It started with a bounty on a rainy moon. You were both soaked to the bone, water sliding down your armour, hair sticking to your forehead. The skirmish had been quick, but brutal. Din had taken a vibroblade across the chestplate. You’d disarmed the mark with a shot to the knee and a clean punch to the jaw, but not before slipping in the mud and landing hard.
Back on the Crest, the rain still hammering down outside, you peeled off your soaked gear in the corner while Din did the same across the hold.
You didn’t look at each other. Not really.
“Good work,” he said finally, setting his rifle aside.
You glanced over your shoulder, tugging off the last of your gloves. “You too.”
Grogu was asleep in his hammock, swaddled and oblivious to the unresolved energy crackling in the hull. You wiped your brow and turned, only to find Din watching you.
Your breath caught.
His helmet was still on, of course. Always on. Always there. And yet… somehow more intimate than a bare face could ever be.
“You’re bleeding,” he said.
You glanced at your bicep. A thin scratch. “Not badly.”
“I’ll get the medkit.”
You didn’t argue.
He came back moments later, kneeling in front of you with precise hands, undoing the fastenings of your undersuit just enough to expose the wound. His fingers never touched your skin—gloved and steady—but his proximity made your heart pound.
You could feel his breath through the modulator. That deep, low hum of his voice when he said, “This might sting.”
It did. But not as much as the way he lingered after pressing the patch to your skin.
Silence again. Thick and loud.
You looked at him. And this time, he didn’t look away.
“Din,” you said, his name soft on your lips, rarely spoken aloud.
He flinched. Just barely.
“I’ve never asked,” you continued, voice low. “But why do you keep letting me stay?”
He froze. For a beat. Then, voice like gravel soaked in heat: “Because I want you to.”
There it was. The crack. The fissure.
Your breath caught in your throat, and your chest suddenly tightened.
He stood up quickly. Too quickly. As if he’d said too much.
You followed, heart racing.
“Is that the only reason?”
He turned away, staring at the console. Rain still thundered against the hull.
You stepped closer, voice barely above a whisper. “Din…”
And then you tripped.
Literally.
A crate, nudged earlier during Grogu’s antics, had been left in the centre of the walkway. You stumbled forward, catching yourself against the wall—but not before colliding with Din.
Hard.
Your forehead hit his helmet with a muted clang, and the reverberation rattled your teeth.
For a moment, you didn’t move.
He was right there, body tense. Gloved hands catch your arms on instinct. You could feel his breath quicken behind the beskar. So close you could see your reflection in the dome of his helmet. Eyes wide, lips parted.
Your face was mere centimetres from the T-visor.
“I didn’t mean—” you started.
But he didn’t let go.
Your hands were on his chestplate. Warm from his body heat. You stared into the visor like it was a mirror, and for once, you weren’t afraid of what you saw.
Your own desire. Your own longing. Reflected back.
“I shouldn’t…” he murmured.
“But you haven’t moved,” you whispered.
And then it happened.
You kissed his helmet.
Not as a joke. Not a teasing peck.
You leaned in and pressed your lips to the curve of beskar between the visor and the lower plate. The smooth, cold metal met your warmth, and your breath fogged against it.
Din inhaled sharply.
You pulled back an inch. “Sorry,” you said quickly, heart in your throat. “I wasn’t thinking—”
His hands tightened on your arms.
“You were,” he said.
“What?”
“You were thinking. I could feel it. Every time you looked at me.”
Your heart stuttered. “You never said anything.”
“I can’t. I’m not supposed to—” He broke off, jaw clenching beneath the helmet. “But I’ve wanted to.”
You swallowed. “Even now?”
“Yes.”
The word was heavy. Honest.
“I know you can’t take it off,” you said, voice trembling. “But I don’t need you to. I just… I wanted you to know.”
Din was still. The weight of his silence pressed against your skin.
Then, he moved.
He leaned forward, forehead pressing lightly to yours. The cool beskar nestled against your skin, grounding you. His hands slipped from your arms to your waist, slow and deliberate.
“This is all I can give you,” he murmured.
You exhaled shakily. “Then I’ll take it.”
And so you stood there, the two of you wrapped in something more powerful than touch—intention. Emotion. Permission.
When his helmet shifted against your brow, angling just enough to press into your cheek, you realised—this was his kiss.
You lifted your hand and cupped the side of his helmet, thumb brushing the cold metal as if it were his skin.
“Din…” you whispered again.
His grip on your waist tensed.
And then, impossibly, he did more.
He tilted his head, just slightly, and the curve of his helmet pressed into your lips once more. Like before. But slower this time. Intentional.
You kissed the steel—a proper kiss. Eyes closed, hand still on the side of his head.
And he let you.
That night, neither of you said a word about what had happened.
But everything changed.
You noticed it in the way he passed you your mug of caf in the morning. The way his fingers lingered for a beat longer than before. The way his voice lowered when he said your name. The way Grogu watched you both with knowing eyes and a mischievous coo.
The next bounty was clean. Efficient. Din stayed close. Always close. And when you patched him up again afterwards, your hands trembled just a little more than before.
That night, he stood behind you in the cockpit, the stars stretching out before you, his hands clasped behind his back, his helmet turned ever so slightly toward you.
“I meant it,” he said, breaking the silence.
You turned, heart in your throat. “Meant what?”
“What I said. That I wanted you to stay.”
“I know.”
“I still do.”
You smiled. Softly. “I still want to.”
He nodded once. And though you couldn’t see his face, you could feel the way his body relaxed.
When you brushed your fingers against his gauntlet, he didn’t pull away.
This—whatever it was—wasn’t passion in the usual sense. It wasn’t frantic or wild. It was quiet. Steady. Strong like the armour he wore, and just as complex.
And somewhere, in that silence, you realised:
You didn’t need to see his face to know he was yours.
Because you already were his.