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Din powers down the N-1’s engines and sits for a moment in the cockpit, fingers resting on the controls. The engines whine down.
Something prompts him to hold his breath and listen as he opens the canopy. He clenches his hands into fists, gloves creaking from the strain. And the first thing Din notices is the quiet.
Ossus usually hums.
Not loud, not like a city. It’s a soft kind of noise: wind moving through the verdant forest and fluted, lush fields, buzzing insects, croaks around the pond from the amphibian population that Grogu continues to terrorize. It’s nature, through and through. Movement, however subtle. Sound, however muted.
But today, the air feels…muffled.
Too still.
An uneasy, hollow feeling settles in his gut, the one that usually means a hunt is about to go sideways. Except this is home, or as close as he has to one now.
He hoists himself out of the cockpit, and he begins his climb down the ladder after grabbing his small satchel, slinging it over one shoulder. From this distance, the small Jedi temple looks peaceful, yet shows no signs of life or activity. Not even smoke from the main building’s stack.
Din approaches the door, only for it to rip open and reveal Grogu with a hand outstretched. The kid barrels into him, little claws clutching at his leg, then prepares to Force jump. Din barely gets an arm free to catch him, but then Grogu is in his embrace, tugging at him and babbling, clacking his claws against beskar.
“Whoa,” Din rumbles, shifting him to his hip. “Easy, ad’ika. Missed you, too.”
Grogu pats the sides of Din’s helmet with both hands, then turns his big eyes toward the temple entrance, ears down.
Worried.
Din’s stomach drops again.
“What’s wrong?” he asks quietly.
Grogu looks back up at him, then toward the building again—like he’s trying to say everything at once, and none of the words exist in Basic.
“Is Luke here?”
Grogu makes an affirmative noise, but his ears stay pinned.
Yeah. Something’s off.
Din walks into the temple’s main building and veers off to his assigned guest quarters to drop his bag. Grogu settles more fully onto his hip, urging him along with coos. The temple has been expanded since the first time he landed here. Scaffolding clings to some of the outer walls, but the roofing is more solid, and more huts are intact surrounding the main building.
The hallways are warmer. Lived-in. But too quiet. Grogu is still Luke’s only student, and he doesn’t even stay there full-time. Din leaves him for a few weeks or a month at a time while he takes on more dangerous missions from Teva. Departing his quarters, Din ambles into the kitchen and main living area.
Empty. No fire. No stew gently bubbling. No music softly playing.
Uneasy, Din turns and heads toward Luke’s private quarters. R2-D2 is waiting, or perhaps standing guard, in front of the door.
The droid rolls forward in a flurry of anxious whistles and furious beeps, dome spinning fast enough that Din half-expects it to pop off.
“Hey, droid,” Din says. “Where’s Luke?”
Artoo ignores the greeting and rams gently into his shin.
“Stop that.” Din grunts. “You know I don’t understand binary.”
More beeping. Insistent, pitched high, annoyed.
Grogu chimes in—a sharp, scolding little chirp.
Din glances between them, exasperation rising. “You’re both going to have to slow down if you want me to understand anything.”
Artoo wheels backward and pivots toward Luke’s door. Trilling, whistling, imploring.
“Is he hurt?” Din asks.
Grogu whines softly, while Artoo lets out a mournful warble that makes the answer clear: Luke needs help.
Din clenches his jaw. “Open the door.”
Artoo whirs and moves forward, nudging the slightly ajar door wide open. Din follows with quiet strides, Grogu clutching the front of his cuirass.
Entering the room, the air feels stagnant—like the kriffing Force is out of balance, even if Din can’t sense it properly. But Grogu can. The kid presses closer to Din’s chest, tiny fingers gripping. He lets out a soft sound, almost a whimper.
“It’s alright,” Din murmurs. “I’m here now.”
Peering around the dim room, the light feebly filters through stone slats. A low bed sits against the far wall, a plain wooden table beside it. Stacks of books and scrolls litter a small desk beside the doorway. Robes hang on pegs. His helmet’s night vision kicks on, scanning for life.
A trace of body heat on… the floor? On the other side of the bed, a shrouded figure sits on the floor. “Luke?”
No answer.
Din tries again. “Luke.”
No response or movement is forthcoming.
His bounty hunter instinct flashes sharp and bright, prompting him to step further inside. Din slowly rounds the bed, his boots muffled on the thick rug. He stretches forward to catch a glimpse of the slumped shadow’s face, hidden by a hood.
Luke sits cross-legged with his cloak wrapped tightly around him, eyes closed, hands resting loosely on his knees.
Meditating.
At a glance, he almost looks the same as always—dark Jedi cloak draped over his shoulders, hair a bit too long and shaggy, posture loose but centered.
Then Din looks closer.
Luke’s skin is pale, almost washed-out in the muted light. There’s a faint sheen of sweat at his temples. Dark shadows smudge the skin beneath his eyes. His breathing is a bit too fast, and every few seconds, his throat constricts, as if he's swallowing something down.
Luke is…sick? Din didn’t think all-powerful Jedi could get sick.
Places Grogu on the bed, Din then reaches out to grab Luke’s shoulder. “Why didn’t you comm me?”
That comes out harsh enough that Luke’s eyes snap open. For half a second, they’re unfocused, hazy—then they lock on Din.
A smile tugs at his mouth. “Mando. You’re back.”
Din tries not to feel ridiculous relief at that. “I said I was coming.”
“Not today.” Luke’s smile widens a fraction. “You said ‘soon.’”
“Soon is today.”
“Yes, well, it’s easy to lose track of time here.”
He sounds almost normal—casual, warm, teasing. But up close, Din can hear the thickness in his voice, see the way his shoulders tremble slightly under the cloak.
Grogu babbles and lifts his arms to be picked up. Luke raises his arms to welcome Grogu into his embrace, settling him in his lap.
Luke’s hand finds Grogu’s back automatically, fingers smoothing down tiny ridges. “Hey, little one.”
Grogu pats Luke’s chest, then his forehead, then his cheek, making a series of worried little noises.
“I’m okay,” Luke murmurs. “Just tired.”
Artoo lets out a rude, disbelieving blip.
Luke lifts his head. “Traitor.”
Din snorts, then immediately fixes Luke with a flat stare. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m fine.” As if attempting to prove his point of just how fine he is, Luke pushes up to stand, only to wobble and fall onto the bed, Grogu still cradled in his arms.
“You’re not fine,” Din says flatly. “You look like you crashed a speeder.”
“A small speeder,” Luke counters. “At a slow speed.”
Grogu tugs at Luke’s cloak and squeaks something accusatory. Artoo seems to beep in accord.
“I am being ganged up on,” Luke observes, faintly offended. He tries to sit up from bed, his posture going stubbornly firm. “It’s just a cold. Jedi get colds too, you know.”
“That so?” Din places his hands on his hips. “You got a healer to look at you?”
“I have the Force.”
“Despite what you and the kid here may think, Force osik is not a cure-all.”
Luke lifts his cleft chin, which Din has learned is his version of digging his heels. “I said I’m fine and I meant it.”
“You’re sweating,” Din points out. “And pale. And your voice sounds like you swallowed Tatooine sand.”
“Flattering,” Luke mutters.
“You been eating?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Sleeping?”
“I’ve been meditating.”
“So no.”
Luke gives him a withering look. “Meditation helps the body heal.”
Stepping closer, Din looms enough that Luke has to tip his head back to look at him. “When was the last time you actually slept?”
Luke’s gaze flicks away for a fraction of a second.
Got him.
“Yeah. That’s what I thought.” Din exhales slowly.
“It’s nothing,” Luke insists. “I didn’t want to worry anyone. I’ve got so much work left on the temple, and I didn’t want to slow down on Grogu’s training cycle and—”
He’s interrupted by a harsh, chest-deep cough that doubles him over. Grogu flails, clinging to his tunic, ears pinning.
Din’s stomach lurches.
“Stars,” Luke wheezes, hand pressed to his sternum. “Okay. Maybe… a little something.”
Artoo issues a vindicated series of tones that Din doesn’t need translated to know it’s basically: “I told you so.’
Feeling hurt, Din’s voice comes out rougher than he intends. “Why didn’t you send a message?”
“You were on a hunt. You didn’t need—” Luke tries to reason.
“Didn’t need what?” Din snaps. “To know you were sick? Needed help?”
Luke’s jaw works. “I’ve handled worse,” he says eventually. “I’m okay.”
“You’re not.”
“I will be.” Luke says it with that same stubborn certainty he uses when talking about rebuilding an entire ancient order from scratch.
“You know what’s easier than meditating an illness away?” Din pushes Luke back onto the bed.
Begrudgingly, Luke sits and raises an eyebrow. “Listening to your body and resting?”
“Letting someone bring you water,” Din grumbles. “And food. And medicine. And making sure you don’t pass out and crack your head on the floor.”
Luke’s mouth twitches. “I don’t need a nursemaid.”
“You’re an idiot,” Din says.
Luke laughs, then coughs raggedly, and it does terrible things to Din’s heart. “Kriff, you sound like Leia.”
“That’s because she’s the twin with sense,” Din says.
“I promise, I’ve been keeping it in check. Using the Force helps keep the worst at bay.”
“Like holding a door shut when something’s ramming it from the other side,” Din mutters. “You let go, you’re gonna get flattened.”
Luke opens his mouth, then thinks better of it for once.
Grogu turns in Luke’s arms and pats his cheeks—a soft glow ripples under the tiny hand—healing, small, and instinctive.
The Jedi Master catches Grogu’s wrist gently. “No, no. Don’t waste your energy on me. I’m alright, I just need—”
He sways.
It’s small—just a faint tilt, a tiny drift sideways. But Din is close enough to see his pupils blow wide, to hear the catch in his breath.
Din takes Grogu from him, closing his hand around Luke’s arm, hot through the fabric.
“Okay,” he finally concedes. Luke blinks, disoriented. “You win. A short rest.”
Din grunts. “You’re going to bed.”
“I am in bed.”
“Properly.”
“There’s a difference?”
“Yes.”
Luke looks up at him, blue eyes hazy but mouth set mulishly. “Din, I can handle—”
“You’ve saved the galaxy dozens of times,” Din says, quietly this time. “Let me handle this.”
That lands somewhere deeper than his words before. Luke’s expression flickers—surprise, then resistance, then something like reluctant gratitude.
“…Fine,” he says, sounding put-upon in a way that would be hilarious if Din weren’t worried sick. “But I’m only agreeing because Grogu is giving me the disappointed face.”
Grogu absolutely is.
Din lets go of his arm slowly. “Lie down,” he orders. “I’ll get water. And something from the kitchen.”
Sighing dramatically, Luke flops back onto the bed entirely. “Yes, Mando. Whatever you say, Mando.”
Artoo throws in a smug chirp.
Grogu climbs into the crook of his arm and curls there, as if physically pinning him in place.
It’s a good start.
---
Luke gets worse overnight.
Din knew he would. That’s how these things go. You hold the line as long as you can, and then everything buckles.
He spends the evening fetching tea and broth, scrounging up basic meds from the temple’s meagre supplies, bullying Luke into sipping water, and coaxing him to remove some layers.
And Luke protests every step of the way.
“I don’t need this much fuss.”
“You’re fussing, I’m working, there’s a difference.”
“Mando, really, I can sit up. You don’t have to—”
“You survived a rancor pit; you can survive lying down for six hours.”
Grogu helps, in his way—every time Luke tries to get up, the kid plants himself on Luke’s chest like a tiny, immovable weight. Artoo rolls in and out of the room like an angry nurse droid, beeping disapprovingly whenever Luke does something Artoo considers “self-sabotaging.”
By midnight, Luke’s sarcasm has burned off, leaving only the illness.
His forehead grows hotter under Din’s gloved palm. His breathing stays quick and shallow even when he’s not coughing. Now and then, he slips into a meditative trance—only to twitch awake when his body pulls him back, like a rubber band stretched too far.
Din sits in a chair pulled up beside the bed, posture hunched, helmet tipped down. The lamps are low. Grogu sleeps curled on Luke’s chest, rising and falling gently with each breath.
Luke sleeps fitfully.
Din watches.
A soft, pained sound leaves Luke’s throat as he shifts, fingers spasming faintly against the blankets. Din sees the moment his sleep turns restless; the Force no longer soothes the pain but swirls around it.
“Hey,” Din says quietly. “Stay with me.”
Luke’s eyes open halfway, unfocused. “Mhm. ’M here.”
“You need anything?”
“Less gravity,” Luke mutters. “My head is heavy.”
“I can’t help with that.”
“Use the Force, Mando,” Luke mumbles, attempting a smile.
Din huffs. “Sleep.”
He reaches out, almost without thinking, and brushes a hand through Luke’s hair.
Luke stills.
The room feels different suddenly—quieter, somehow. Din’s fingers move in slow, careful strokes through damp hair, combing it away from Luke’s forehead.
Eyes slipping shut again, Luke’s lashes fan over flushed cheeks. He exhales, tension draining from his face. “That… helps,” he whispers.
“Good,” Din says gruffly.
“Don’t stop.”
He doesn’t.
He stays there through the long hours, rubbing soothing circles on Luke’s shoulder, replacing cool cloths on his forehead, listening to each ragged breath. Eventually, Din moves Grogu to his own room to rest, then returns to keep watch over Luke. He falls into a light sleep during his vigil.
Sometime deep in the night, or really, early hours of the morning, Luke tries to get up.
Din startles awake to the creak of the mattress. Luke is halfway upright, face pale and recalcitrant, one leg swinging over the side of the bed.
“What are you doing?” Din whispers furiously.
“Going to start chores,” Luke answers, as if this is obvious. His eyes are unfocused, and his limbs not quite responding appropriately. “There’s too much to do. The sun will be up soon and I—”
His legs give out when he tries to stand. Din is on his feet in a second, catching him with a curse. Luke sways into him, grabbing a pauldron.
“Force,” Luke breathes. “Head rush.”
“You think?” Din growls.
He hauls Luke back onto the bed, not bothering to be gentle this time. Luke lands in a sprawl.
“Luke,” Din says, low and dangerous. “Stay. Down.”
“You’re not my father,” Luke mutters, but he doesn’t try to get up again.
“And you’re not invincible,” Din fires back. “Quit acting like it.”
Luke glares at him weakly. “You’re very bossy for someone without a lightsaber.”
“Yeah? Well, I used to have one. Maybe the attitude stayed.”
That almost gets a smile. Almost.
Luke slumps back, coughing once, then rubbing at his chest. “I hate this.”
“Being sick?”
“Being useless.”
“You’re not useless.” Din grabs the blanket and yanks it up over his shoulders. “You just can’t do everything all the time.”
“That’s my job,” Luke mumbles.
“No,” Din says quietly. “It’s not.”
“Then what is?” Luke looks at him through half-lidded eyes.
Din’s throat works around words he’s not ready to say out loud. He settles for: “Being alive. Jedi or not, galaxy savior or not—you’re just a man, Luke.”
Luke stares at him for a long moment—so long Din starts to wonder if he’s said too much, if he’s overstepped, if he—
Then Luke whispers, very quietly, “You care too much.”
“Someone has to,” Din mutters.
Luke smiles. It’s small, tired, and a little bit sad. He tries to roll onto his side. The movement is clumsy, weak. Din is there before he can twist too far, steadying him.
A black gloved hand closes around Din’s wrist.
“Don’t go,” Luke says, voice suddenly fragile in a way Din has never heard from him. “Please.”
Din’s heart flutters. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m just going to pull back up the chair.”
Luke’s fingers tighten. His eyes are wide and vulnerable—not entirely lucid. “Stay. Here.”
The words land like a stone dropped into still water. Here.
Not just on Ossus. Not just in the room. Here. With him.
He hesitates, then Din pushes the chair out of the way.
“Fine,” he mutters. He sits on the edge of the bed instead.
Luke’s hand doesn’t let go. If anything, he holds on tighter.
“You’re impossible,” Din says, more softly than before.
“Worse than Grogu?” Luke murmurs.
Din thinks of his mischievous kid, snoring softly a few rooms away. “Much worse,” he decides.
“Good,” Luke whispers. “I’d hate to be ordinary.”
After that, talking becomes too much for him. His breaths roughen, his fever spikes higher. He tosses under Din’s hands, sometimes muttering half-formed words about Tatooine and friends long gone, sometimes going too still for Din’s liking.
At one point, Luke tries to sit up again as the sun’s rays brighten the room.
Din has had enough.
He huffs out a breath, mutters a curse, and swings his legs up onto the bed.
“Alright,” he grinds out. “If you won’t stay put, we’re doing it the hard way.”
“Mando, what—” Luke blinks at him blearily.
Din lies down behind him, slides an arm firmly around his waist, and pulls him back against his chest.
A small, startled sound emits from Luke’s throat.
“This is undignified,” Luke mumbles.
“Good,” Din says into his hair. “Maybe you’ll stop trying to climb out of bed.”
His arm tightens when Luke shifts. The Jedi is too weak to fight it properly—he squirms half-heartedly, more out of habit than actual resistance. After a few seconds, the fight drains out of him.
He goes still.
Not rigid—just… still.
“Mando,” Luke breathes after a long moment. “What are you doing?”
“Holding you down,” Din replies gruffly.
“Y-You’re… holding me.”
Din’s chest tightens. “Yeah. That too.”
Luke makes another noise then—small, broken, something Din can’t name. His shoulders shake once, violently.
Din’s grip loosens immediately. “Hey. Too tight?”
“No,” Luke whispers. “No, it’s— I just—”
His breath stutters. For a terrifying second, Din thinks he’s about to have a seizure or pass out.
He doesn’t.
He chokes on something else instead.
“I—I just can’t remember the last time,” Luke says quietly, words trembling, “someone just… held me.”
Throat closing, Din feels helpless. He doesn’t have an answer. He suspects Luke doesn’t either.
“You don’t have to be strong right now,” Din says, voice rough. “You don’t have to hold everything together.”
“If I don’t—”
“I’m here,” Din interrupts. “I’ll hold it. For a while.”
There’s silence—sharp, bright, fragile.
Then Luke breaks.
Not loud. Not like a battlefield scream. It’s a quiet thing—a shaky inhale that turns into a ragged exhale, a tightness in his chest finally slipping. His fingers curl around Din’s vambrace, not to pull him away but to anchor himself.
Din holds on.
Holds him through the small tremors that run through his body, through the tiny sounds he can’t quite swallow. Through the whispered apologies, Luke tries to make up for his own weakness.
“Stop,” Din says when Luke starts. “Don’t apologize.”
“I shouldn’t—”
“You should,” Din says directly into his hair. “You should let someone do this for you. Let me do this.”
After a while, the shaking slows. Luke’s whimpers subside, and his breathing evens, still rough but less frantic. He sags backward, fully resting his weight against Din.
It feels like trust settling into place—heavy and warm.
“You’re going to get sick,” Luke mutters eventually, voice hoarse but steadier.
Din huffs against the back of his neck. “The helmet is better than any mask.”
Luke actually laughs, a brief, broken sound. “Nerfherder.”
“Takes one to know one.”
They stay like that until Luke stops fighting sleep and finally falls into it—real sleep, not the thin meditation trance he’s been clinging to. His fever is still high, but something in his face has loosened.
Din stays awake longer than he should. Watches the rise and fall of Luke’s chest. Counts each breath. Memorizes the feel of Luke’s back against his front, the soft weight of his hand around Din’s wrist.
At some point, when Luke shifts and murmurs in fever-sleep, Din’s resolve slips.
“Luke,” he whispers into the dark. “You drive me insane.”
Luke doesn’t stir.
Din exhales, slow and shaky. “You build temples out of ruins and wave swords made of light around like it’s nothing. You push yourself until you’re half-dead and then try to tell everyone you’re fine.”
His fingers flex where they rest on Luke’s stomach. “You… smile at me like I’m more than a bounty hunter. Like I’m… someone you trust. Someone worthy. Someone you like having around.”
The words catch, but he forces them out of his vocoder anyway.
“I like being around you,” Din says. “Too much.”
Luke’s breathing stutters once—so small Din thinks he imagines it.
“I thought it would fade.” Din’s voice drops to a raw whisper. “But every time I come back to this place, it’s worse. I see you with Grogu, or gardening, or sitting in the sun meditating, and I—”
He swallows.
“I don’t know how to not want you in my life.”
The confession hangs in the air between them.
Din closes his eyes behind the helmet. “You’re going to get better, and I’m going to go back out there and pretend this never happened. Pretend I didn’t say any of this. Because you’ve got an Order to rebuild, and I’m just some guy who brings in people for credits.”
His arms tighten involuntarily. “But I needed you to know. Even if you never hear it.”
Luke doesn’t answer.
Din stays awake long enough to be sure the Jedi’s breathing stays steady.
Then he lets himself drift as it gets dark again, still holding Luke, still keeping him pinned to the bed—not like a prison, but like an anchor. All through another night.
When morning light spills through the stone slats, Luke’s fever breaks.
---
Luke recovers.
Not all at once. It takes a few days of rest, actual rest, peppered with Din’s gruff hovering, Grogu’s gleeful Force-enhanced nagging, and Artoo’s relentless scolding.
By the second day, Luke’s temperature drops. The cough quiets. His eyes lose that glassy quality.
He also starts to remember.
He remembers Din’s arm locked around him, keeping him from getting up. He remembers the strong heartbeat against his back. He remembers the rough voice in the dark, saying things Luke never dared hope to hear.
He doesn’t say anything at first.
He watches.
Watches Din make tea without being asked. Watches him quietly adjust the blankets when Luke kicks them off in his sleep. Watches him fall asleep sitting in the chair at Luke’s bedside, helmet tipped forward, hands slack.
Watches him flinch when Luke so much as mentions going back to training too early.
“Give it one more day,” Din says.
“You sound like my droid,” Luke grumbles.
“Good. He’s smarter than you when it comes to self-preservation.”
Luke pouts—actually pouts. “I don’t like feeling useless.”
“Good thing you’re not,” Din says.
By the fourth day, Luke is back on his feet, moving through the temple like a stronger version of himself. Din allows him to help with small chores around the temple. Grogu alternates between following Luke around like a shadow and sitting planted in Din’s lap as he does minor maintenance on his kit.
Din should be glad.
He is.
Mostly.
He’s also aware that any day now, he’s going to have to leave again. Luke seems content to let the awareness sit between them, warm and unhurried.
Which would be fine—perfect, even—if Din’s body didn’t choose that moment to betray him.
The cough starts small.
Annoying tickle. Roughness in his throat when he’s talking. Easy enough to ignore, given he doesn’t talk much anyway.
Then comes the ache.
The heaviness in his joints when he climbs steep paths outside. The faint pressure behind his eyes.
Grogu notices first.
He taps Din’s chest with a finger, squinting up at him suspiciously.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Din mutters. “I’m fine.”
Holding a one-armed handstand in the courtyard, Luke opens his eyes and glances over from where he’s levitating three stones. “Sound familiar,” he says lightly.
Din scowls behind the helmet. “I’m not you.”
“You should be so lucky,” Luke replies.
That evening, Din lies awake in his small quarters, staring at the ceiling. His head aches. His chest burns a little when he breathes too deeply.
He’s not surprised when the door opens without knocking.
“Privacy is a concept,” he says into the dark.
“So is denial,” Luke’s voice answers. “You and I both struggle with the latter.”
Luke steps inside, the corridor light framing him with a faint glow. He pads across the room and stops beside the bed.
Din doesn’t move.
“How long have you been ignoring it?” Luke sighs.
“A day or two,” Din admits. “It’ll pass.”
“That’s what I said,” Luke points out. “And then you spent four days hauling water and guarding my bedside.”
“Maybe I’m stronger than you.”
“You’re insufferable.” There’s fondness under the exasperation. “Sit up.”
Din pushes himself up on his elbows. “I don’t need—”
He’s cut off by a cough he can’t hold in.
Luke flinches at the sound. “Uh-huh.”
He sits on the edge of the bed without asking permission, his weight dipping the mattress. Then he reaches for Din’s helmet.
Din’s hand shoots up, catching his wrist. “Wait.”
“Din.” Luke stills, eyes meeting the black of the visor. His voice is quiet. Steady. “You took care of me,” Luke says. “Let me take care of you.”
Din’s grip loosens but doesn’t fall. “You… don’t have to.”
“I want to.”
Three simple words. Heavy as planets.
His shoulders slump. “Lights off,” Din says quietly. “Just in case.”
Luke’s eyes warm. “Of course.”
He flicks his fingers, and the lamps dim to nothing. Only faint moonlight spills through the high window now, painting the room in soft silver.
Din lets his hand fall away from the helmet.
Luke’s fingers are gentle as they find the seals. Things are different now. Din’s relationship with his Creed is different. He’s stepped over lines he never thought he would.
This still feels sacred.
The helmet lifts.
Cool air hits sweaty skin. Din squints in the low light, eyes adjusting. Luke is a pale shape in the dark, close enough that Din can see the concern etched in his face.
Luke sets the helmet aside carefully, like it’s something precious.
Then he reaches up and brushes his fingers through Din’s curls.
Din forgets how to breathe.
“Aches?” Luke asks, thumb sweeping lightly along Din’s temple.
“’S fine,” Din mumbles, suddenly very aware of how wrecked his voice sounds without the helmet’s filter. “Just tired.”
“You sound awful,” Luke says, matter-of-factly.
Din huffs a laugh and immediately coughs again.
A hand slides to Din’s forehead, palm pressing gently against his skin. Din closes his eyes. The touch is soft, careful, steady in a way that makes his throat feel constricted.
“Fever,” Luke says quietly. “Of course.”
“You’re smug about this.”
“A little.” Luke’s fingers drift up into his hair again, pushing damp curls back from his face. “You really shouldn’t have been sleeping in the same bed with me while I was sick.”
“You asked me to stay.”
“I know.” His thumb pauses, then rubs slow circles against Din’s temple. “I’m glad you did.”
“You… remember that?” Din swallows.
“All of it,” Luke says softly. “Even the part where you admitted you want me in your life.”
Din feels his face heat in a way that has nothing to do with fever. “Thought you were asleep.”
“I was.” Luke’s lips quirk. “The Force wasn’t.”
“So you know.” Din’s heart thumps hard enough he’s sure Luke can feel it through his palm.
“Yes,” Luke affirms.
There’s a long, heavy pause.
Din almost sits up. Almost pulls away. Nearly reaches for his helmet, the safety of beskar between them.
Then Luke shifts closer, knee bumping Din’s. His hand slides from Din’s forehead to his cheek, cupping it gently.
“I’m glad you said it,” he murmurs.
Din forces his eyes open.
Luke is there. Close. Soft. Smiling that small, warm smile that unraveled him ages ago.
“I feel the same,” Luke continues, like he’s talking about the weather. “Just in case that wasn’t obvious.”
“You’ve got terrible timing.” Din lets out a breath that sounds suspiciously like a laugh strangled by disbelief.
“I’m great at timing,” Luke argues. “Did I or did I not arrive just in the nick of time to save all your butts on that star destroyer? You’re just terrible at accepting affection.”
“Not when you’re delirious,” Din mutters.
“Funny,” Luke says, but his gaze is impossibly tender.
He shifts again, scooting onto the bed fully this time, lying on his side facing Din. Before Din can protest, Luke slips an arm around his shoulders and gently eases him back down onto the pillow.
“Luke—”
“Shh.” Luke tugs the blanket up around him. “My turn.”
Din scowls on instinct. “I don’t—”
“You took care of me,” Luke says firmly. “Let me return the favor.”
He opens his mouth to argue. Coughs instead.
Luke makes a quiet, sympathetic sound. His hand is back in Din’s hair, stroking slowly. “Stubborn,” he murmurs. “Both of us.”
“You’re smug again.” Din’s eyes flutter shut despite himself.
“Only because I’m right.”
He shifts closer. Din feels the mattress dip, and then Luke’s forehead presses softly against his.
The contact is gentle and steady, like a promise.
For a moment, Din feels something else move—warmth that isn’t fever, a soothing presence that eases the ache in his skull, the tightness in his chest.
“The Force?” Din whispers.
“Maybe a little,” Luke answers. “But mostly just me.”
Din chuffs out a small breath that could almost be a laugh. “Could get used to this.”
“I intend for you to,” Luke says. He pulls back just enough that their noses brush. Din can feel his breath, slow and calm, against his lips. Luke smiles, and Din feels the curve of it more than sees it.
“Din?”
“Mm.”
“You’re not a burden,” Luke says. “You never will be. Not here. Not with me.”
Something in Din’s chest loosens, sharp and aching. He doesn’t have words for that, not right now, so he lets silence be his answer.
Luke seems to understand. He leans in and presses his lips to Din’s forehead.
It’s a soft kiss—barely there, more warmth than pressure. Din’s breath catches, all the same.
Luke lingers there for a heartbeat, then two, before drawing back again, eyes shining in the dim light.
“There,” he murmurs.
Grogu chooses that moment to waddle in, climb up the side of the bed with a grunt, and flop down between them like a tiny, living barrier of judgment and affection.
Artoo parks himself in the doorway, emits a smug little trill that says, “Finally.”
Luke laughs under his breath.
Din closes his eyes, body heavy but oddly light at the same time. His last coherent thought before sleep drags him under is that Ossus doesn’t feel so quiet anymore.
Not with Luke’s hand in his hair, Grogu’s warmth at his side, Artoo grumbling softly down the hall.
Not with the sound of Luke’s breathing syncing with his own.
Not with the knowledge that, for the first time in a very long time, he’s allowed to rest—and be held—without needing to be anything but exactly who he is.
This is the Way. This is…home.