Chapter Text
They tumbled into the cavern, the impact knocking the air from both of them. Thyne landed hard on his back. The stormtrooper scrambled onto him, still heaving, armored hands closing around his throat.
He punched at the trooper’s stomach, but his fists thudded uselessly against plastoid. The grip tightened. His vision dimmed. In desperation, he jammed a knee up between the trooper’s legs and struck the crotch with a meaty thwack.
The trooper yelped, legs snapping shut as they rolled off him with a strangled whimper. Thyne didn’t waste the opening. He rolled on top, lungs burning, and drove heavy blows into the trooper’s helmet.
No punches were pulled. The fight was brutal and strangely intimate, as if the rest of the galaxy had fallen away. The trooper raised an arm to shield their head and swung blindly. A gloved fist slammed into Thyne’s unprotected chest, knocking the air from him for the second time since the fall.
He powered through it. His fist smashed into one of the helmet lenses, cracking it.
Up close, Thyne still couldn’t tell the trooper’s gender. The armor erased all distinguishing features, the modulator flattening the voice — though the grunts and whimpers carried a faintly female edge. A second punch shattered the lens entirely, revealing a wide, pale blue eye beneath.
Thyne hesitated.
That pause cost him.
A gloved hand tangled in his brown hair and yanked hard, tearing a handful free. Pain flared, but he stayed on top. The trooper clawed for his neck again. Thyne bent the arm back at an unnatural angle, pinning it against the trooper’s chest.
The scream that tore from the helmet confirmed his suspicion.
He spotted his knife lying beside the trooper — shaken loose in the struggle — and snatched it up. The trooper saw it too, panic surging as they grabbed at his arm, trying to stop the strike.
Thyne punched them in the throat.
They recoiled instantly, hands flying up to protect the neck. The bait worked. He slid the knife between the armor plates at the chest and waist and drove it into the soft flesh beneath.
The trooper screamed again. Blood pulsed out around the blade as they fumbled for a blaster within reach. Thyne shoved the knife deeper.
A single shot rang out.
The bolt hit Thyne in the stomach. He collapsed beside the trooper, the knife still buried in their chest.
They lay there together, gasping, neither able to finish the other. Thyne’s abdomen burned with crippling intensity, a low, broken sound slipping from his throat. The trooper’s chest rose and fell in ragged jerks as they gripped the knife handle and tried to pull it free.
It shifted a fraction and they moaned.
The trooper tried to shift, slow and careful, but the movement sent a spike of pain through them and they stilled. Thyne noticed it was whispering something — a low, garbled mumble barely audible over their ragged breathing.
His own wound burned like hell. Hate simmered in him.
With a shaking, blood-slick hand, the trooper reached toward him, whimpering through the damaged modulator.
“C-can’t… br-reathe—”
The modulator crackled, then died. The voice that came through was unmistakably female, thin and terrified.
“H-help. Helmet… brok-en.”
She tried to scoot closer. Too fast. The knife wound made her scream again — higher this time, edged with panic. Thyne realized then what he’d done. He’d crushed the helmet’s breathing apparatus. One arm was dislocated. The other was locked around the knife, terrified that pulling it free would make her bleed out.
She was trapped.
Thyne looked at the soldier who had tried to kill him moments earlier. With a groan, he forced himself upright, body aching, stomach aflame. He scooted closer and clamped his hand around the helmet’s seal, yanking it free.
The woman sucked in air in desperate, shuddering gulps.
Up close, she looked painfully ordinary. Pale skin. Wide blue eyes. High cheekbones. Shaggy, short, grain-colored hair. Early twenties — his age. Blood leaked from her nostrils, streaking down her face.
Thyne recoiled — not in disgust, but surprise.
She looked like someone you’d pass on a university campus. Someone you’d see behind a diner counter. Not… this.
Hate still lingered — she had shot him — but it felt unstable now. Brittle.
“Thanks,” she muttered, staring up at the cavern ceiling.
Thyne groaned and reached for the blaster, leveling it at her head.
“Please don’t shoot me,” she whispered, fear threading every word.
Hot anger surged at the plea. He kept the barrel steady.
“You tried to kill me. You shot me.”
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly, shaking her head. “I wasn’t going to kill you. I was scared — I didn’t mean to shoot—”
Her babbling struck him as pathetic.
“You wrapped your hands around my throat,” Thyne snapped. “You yanked my hair out and tried to strangle me. Don’t sell me that I was scared bullshit. I hate liars. And you’re a liar.”
“You kneed me in the crotch and beat the shit out of me,” she shot back, voice hardening with the familiar Imperial edge. “I was scared.”
Thyne winced. Her armored legs were still locked together, unmoving. When he’d done it, he’d thought she was a man.
A sudden, sour discomfort crept in — like he’d crossed some unseen line.
She’s guilting you. It was a fight for your life, a quiet part of his mind whispered.
“Shut up and let me think,” Thyne snapped.
Her eyes dropped to the stone floor. He felt a small, ugly satisfaction at commanding a stormtrooper into silence.
Rubbing his temple with his free hand, Thyne stared at the blaster and weighed the decision in front of him.
Whether to let her live.
He noticed the tear streaking down her cheek and growled, “Knock it off, schutta. You’re a damn stormtrooper — not some heartbroken teenager. Don’t act like you’re some innocent girl. You just tried to kill me.”
He lowered the blaster.
If she’d still been wearing the helmet, he would’ve pulled the trigger without hesitation, sent a bolt straight through her skull. But she wasn’t. He could see the fear now — real, naked, and unfiltered — staring back at him through wide blue eyes. She looked too human.
Some buried remnant of the chivalrous code his father had drilled into him screamed in protest at what he’d done to her.
Thyne sighed and holstered the blaster, narrowing his eyes on her. A small, unwelcome part of him found her attractive. He crushed the thought instantly. She was the enemy — a visually appealing one, nothing more.
He stumbled closer and knelt, unsteady. The blaster wound in his stomach wasn’t bleeding; the bolt had cauterized it clean. It burned like hell, but it wasn’t immediately lethal. Hers was.
The knife was still buried in her abdomen, wedged between the utility belt and the bottom edge of her chestplate. Dark blood had soaked the bodyglove beneath and crusted across the armor. She was rigid with tension — one arm dislocated and pinned awkwardly against her chest, legs locked together even tighter as he approached.
“Take your hand off the knife,” Thyne ordered. A flicker of satisfaction ran through him at commanding an Imperial.
She bit her lip, then slowly withdrew her trembling hand. Thyne wrapped his fingers around the knife’s grip.
“This is going to hurt,” he said.
She nodded faintly and reached out with her free hand to grip his arm, bracing herself.
He slapped it away. “Don’t touch me. We aren’t friends. We aren’t family. We aren’t lovers. You’re an Imperial. I’m a Rebel. We’re enemies.”
Her eyes squeezed shut at the rebuke, but when she spoke again, the familiar authoritative edge had crept back into her voice. “Then why, rebel, are you helping m—”
He yanked the knife free.
Her words dissolved into a scream that ricocheted through the cavern. Blood spilled immediately. Thyne swore under his breath and grabbed a gauze pad from his utility jacket, trying to pack it into the wound. The angle of the chestplate made it impossible, drawing a low, broken moan from her instead.
“I have to take your armor off,” he said quietly.
Her eyes flashed with alarm — then understanding. She nodded.
Thyne unclasped the chestplate and tossed it aside. He hesitated only a second before carefully slicing into the bodyglove. His eyes flicked up to her face. The cut was low — intimate territory, just below the navel.
She met his gaze.
Another nod.
He finished cutting and peeled the fabric away. Her skin was pale and soft beneath, already slick with dark blood. He packed the gauze in firmly. Her body went rigid, but she didn’t make a sound this time.
Thyne sealed the bandage and pressed it into place, then pulled back, breathing hard.
“Thank you. I… appreciate it,” the woman said, shifting carefully onto her back.
Thyne ignored her and scanned the cavern. It was damp and slick, the stone walls sweating moisture. The only light filtered down through the jagged hole in the ceiling they’d fallen through. The sun was sinking — he could tell by the angle — and irritation flared that his squad still hadn’t found him.
Movement.
He swung around with a pained grunt, blaster snapping up on reflex.
One of her utility pouches was open. She froze, a glow-stick clutched in her hand, staring straight down the barrel. She swallowed.
“It’s getting dark soon,” she said quietly. “I was just going to… use these.”
Thyne lowered the blaster again. She cracked the stick, and green light spilled across the cavern, softening the shadows.
“Does your wound hurt?” she asked.
His jaw tightened. “Yes. Now shut up.”
“I have bacta salve in my belt,” the stormtrooper said simply, reaching toward a pouch near her injured arm. Her hand fell short. “I can’t reach it. My arm’s broken.”
Thyne sighed and stepped closer, crouching beside her. “I didn’t break it. I dislocated it.” He took her arm in a firm grip. “Sit still. I’ll fix it.”
Before she could respond, he snapped it back into place.
She gave a sharp, involuntary groan and turned her head away, then tested the arm cautiously, rolling it in small circles. When she looked back at him, their gazes locked — lingering a second too long.
Thyne’s eyes betrayed him, tracing her strong jawline and high cheekbones. Her pale skin looked soft in the glow-stick’s light. Strands of shaggy, straw-colored hair fell into her blue eyes, and she blew them away with an irritated puff of breath.
Adorable.
The thought hit him like a slap. He crushed it instantly.
He reached into her utility belt, retrieved the bacta salve, and nodded once in reluctant thanks before stepping away. After a moment, he glanced back at her.
“What’s your name… buckethead?” he asked — not friendly, but not openly hostile either.
Her eyes narrowed. She dropped her gaze to the stone floor. “Kira.”
He nodded. “Thyne.”
Kira was furious with herself.
She’d tackled him. Dragged them both into the fall. Lost the fight. Now her body screamed at her from every angle — her crotch still throbbed with a deep, humiliating ache, her neck burned where he’d struck her, and the stab wound radiated a sharp, nauseating pain that made every breath deliberate.
She watched him across the cavern as he applied the bacta salve to his own wound — a blackened scorch marring the tan skin of his stomach. Her eyes tracked his movements despite herself.
He noticed.
Thyne scowled and looked back down, deliberately turning away. The rejection stung more than she expected.
Kira hated that her life had been in his hands — hated how close she’d come to dying. Earlier, she’d tried to play him, to soften him with fear and weakness. He’d seen through it immediately.
And then, for a moment, the act had cracked.
Real fear. Real pain. Real uncertainty.
He’d seen that too.
And somehow, that was what had saved her.
Kira rolled onto her side, her head resting against the damp stone. She said nothing to Thyne and tried to sleep.
She was cold.
Her blood-soaked bodyglove leeched heat from her skin, the chill creeping deeper with every shallow breath. She ached for her helmet — for the comfort of sealing herself inside it, tucking her head into armor and disappearing for a few hours. Without her chestplate she felt exposed, peeled open, every movement a reminder of how vulnerable she was.
Kira closed her eyes and prayed — not to anything specific, just to something — that she would survive the night. Whether from the cold, or from Thyne deciding she’d finally become too much trouble.
She wanted to live.
She wanted to finish her tour, get out, find a steady job somewhere quiet. Maybe fall in love. Something normal. All of that felt impossibly fragile now — especially with the added complication that she found the enemy attractive.
Tan skin. Jet-black hair. Hard, watchful eyes that missed nothing.
The thought made her angry with herself. He hated her. He’d made that clear. Any help he gave her came from some stubborn moral code, not kindness. She tried to hate him back. Managed it for a few minutes when the pain was screaming through her body.
It faded once he’d patched her up.
Kira drew her knees toward her chest, a small groan slipping free as the movement pulled at the stab wound and sent a dull spike of pain through her bruised legs. She lay still again, breathing shallowly.
Footsteps.
Her heart kicked hard as Thyne stood and approached. Her back was to him. She couldn’t see what he was doing — couldn’t see him — and terror bloomed unbidden.
“Put your hands behind your back,” Thyne ordered.
The words hit her like a physical blow.
He’s going to brutalize me.
“Please don’t,” she stammered, panic unraveling her composure. “Please, Thyne—”
He frowned, holding up a short length of survival cord. “This is so you don’t get up while I’m sleeping and stab me.”
His expression shifted when he saw her face — the naked fear there. His eyes softened, just a fraction. “It’s for my safety. That’s all.”
Kira swallowed and nodded. She slowly brought her hands behind her back.
The cord bit into her wrists as he tied it tight. He didn’t linger. He stood, turned, and walked away.
The cold crept in fast after that. She could see her breath now, pale clouds puffing into the dim cavern air. Kira lowered her head to the stone floor, wincing as her cheek met the icy rock.
Thyne settled into the far corner, sliding the blaster under his arm and folding his utility jacket beneath his head. He kept his eyes on Kira’s back as she curled in on herself, bound and shivering, sleep coming in uneasy fragments.
Thin plumes of breath rose from her with each exhale.
Deserved, a bitter part of him thought.
He knew what stormtroopers did. He’d seen the aftermath — burned villages, bodies in the street, entire worlds crushed beneath a white boot. But none of that fit cleanly with the woman curled on the cavern floor.
He could imagine her doing those things with a helmet on. When she’d been trying to choke the life out of him. But now?
No.
She was out of her depth — and still dangerous. Smart. Fast. She’d nearly beaten him in close combat. His jaw tightened as memory flickered uncomfortably to where he’d struck her, to what his father had always told him was a place never to be touched.
Thyne exhaled quietly and watched her shiver.
Sleep didn’t come easily after that.
It didn’t stop.
She kept shifting, tapping her boots against the stone, shivering hard enough that he could hear it. Thyne tried to sleep, but her movement — and the knowledge that she was cold — kept dragging him back to awareness.
He cursed his father.
He loved the man, but he’d built moral walls so high they made rebellion feel like a betrayal of blood. Thyne had known Rebels who would’ve shot Kira in the face without hesitation, helmet off or not.
The thought made his stomach twist.
He didn’t want to imagine a blaster bolt striking her bare skin, burning through her soft features and ending her like that. The image rose unbidden anyway, vivid and wrong. He shuddered and forced it down.
Kira shivered again.
With a heavy sigh, Thyne pushed himself upright, pain flaring hot across his stomach. He crossed the cavern slowly and knelt beside her.
“Trooper,” he said.
Kira looked up, eyes dull with exhaustion.
“I’m doing this for warmth,” he said flatly. “It means nothing. Understand?”
Her brow furrowed, but she nodded.
Thyne folded his utility jacket in half and draped it around her shoulders, then lowered himself so his back was near hers. Close enough to share heat. Not close enough to touch. He pulled the other half around himself and leaned back against the stone.
She was still trembling.
Eventually, her breathing slowed.
She fell asleep before he did.
She was not quiet about it.
She murmured, whimpered softly, shifted again and again. Once, her bound hands brushed his back by accident. Thyne jerked away and shoved her, sharp enough to wake her.
She apologized groggily, then settled again.
Sometime after that, exhaustion finally dragged him under.
Morning light filtered in through the hole above.
Thyne woke to warmth he hadn’t expected — and a face inches from his.
Kira had shifted in her sleep. She was facing him now, eyes closed, expression soft and unguarded. Her breathing was steady. Her nose twitched faintly.
The sight hit him harder than any blaster bolt.
She looked peaceful. Whole. Not like someone who had tried to kill him hours earlier.
Something in his chest loosened before he could stop it.
He stared, mind tearing itself apart. She was an oppressor. An Imperial. An enemy soldier who had fought him with everything she had.
And yet she looked like someone you’d pass in a market. Someone you might sit next to on a transport. Someone normal.
Part of him wanted to pull her closer.
Another part wanted to kill her just to end the conflict gnawing at him.
Thyne sat up abruptly.
Kira stirred and blinked awake, eyes crossing slightly before focusing on him. She stared for a second, silent.
“We need to get out of the cave,” he said.
Her brow creased. “We?” she asked. “You’re not leaving me?”
He stood, stretching with a low grunt as pain flared at the wound in his stomach. “You’re my prisoner,” he snapped. “I’m getting you out of here, then turning you over to my superiors.”
Fear flickered across her face.
He hated that part of him took satisfaction in it.
Hated himself more for noticing.
Thyne turned his attention to the ceiling. The opening was narrow — four feet across, six feet up. He started calculating options when he heard her shift behind him.
She pushed herself upright, unsteady. Her face had gone pale, almost gray. One hand clutched the bandage at her stomach. Her legs stayed pressed together as she stood, and guilt pricked at him again, sharp and unwanted.
“My utility belt has a grappling hook,” she said quietly.
Kira lifted her shoulders in a small, helpless gesture, indicating the bindings at her wrists. Thyne caught it immediately, his eyebrow lifting as he stepped closer.
He pointed at an unopened pouch on her belt.
She nodded once.
He moved in carefully and extracted the grappling hook, weighing it in his hand. “I go first,” he said. “Then I pull you up. Understand?”
Kira shook her head. “I’m lighter. And my arm still isn’t right from you dislocating it. I should go first.”
Thyne’s arm snapped up.
His fist stopped an inch from her face.
Kira flinched hard, stumbling back, her shoulders curling inward as she instinctively tried to raise her hands — then froze, remembering they were bound.
“See this?” he growled. “I’m in charge. Not you. And I’m not stupid. You’d run the second you were free.”
Her gaze dropped, but her voice stayed steady. “Then let me shed my armor. It’ll make me lighter.”
He studied her for a long moment. The anger drained out of him.
“…Fine.”
She turned slightly. “Then I need the restraints off.”
“If you try anything,” Thyne said flatly, “I’ll burn a hole through your head.”
She swallowed and nodded.
He undid the bindings. She flexed her fingers, rubbing her wrists once before starting to remove the white segments of stormtrooper armor. He watched without comment, alert rather than curious.
Soon the plates lay scattered at her feet.
She stood in her black bodyglove, utility belt, and boots.
The sight caught him off guard.
The bodyglove fit close, practical and unadorned, outlining an athletic frame built for endurance rather than display. Her bosom and curves weren’t very pronounced. She wasn’t sculpted or exaggerated the way Core World images liked to present women. There was nothing ornamental about her — just strength, function, and a quiet honesty that unsettled him.
Desire flickered anyway. Brief. Unwanted.
He shut it down immediately.
Kira noticed his attention and scowled, a faint blush touching her pale cheeks. Thyne turned away at once, jaw tightening.
Focus.
He stepped beneath the opening and began tossing the grappling hook upward. It clanged uselessly and fell back down. Again. And again. On the ninth throw it finally caught, the line snapping taut.
Behind him, Kira stood with her arms folded, discomfort plain on her face.
“Thyne,” she said.
He turned sharply, eyes dark — not at the name, but at the familiarity of it.
“When you’re up there,” she continued, controlled but tense, “can I have a couple minutes alone down here?”
He snorted. “What are you plotting now?”
She snapped back, irritation flaring. “I need to relieve myself. And this thing’s one piece. I’d prefer to do it without an audience.”
He went quiet.
Then, without looking at her, he reached into his jacket and tossed her a roll of clean gauze before turning his back.
Shame stirred — sharp and unwelcome — and he buried it.
“Boost me,” he said.
She groaned as she lifted his feet, pain tearing through her stomach wound. He grunted as he climbed, the blaster burn flaring hot with every pull.
When he was high enough, she braced and set his boot on her shoulder. He pushed off and hauled himself into the open air above, rolling onto the ground beyond the lip.
He lay there for a second, breathing hard, then turned back toward the hole.
Below him, Kira waited.
Thyne gave her all the time she needed. It turned out to be less than four minutes.
He heard her groan once — sharp, involuntary — and his brow furrowed, but he said nothing.
Eventually, Kira called up, “I’m ready,” her voice pitched higher than usual, almost eager. It struck him as painfully young.
Thyne wrapped the cable twice around a nearby gnarled tree, testing it before bracing himself. “I’m going to pull,” he called down. “It’s going to hurt.”
A grunt of agreement floated up.
He pulled.
Pain tore through his abdomen instantly, his vision flashing white at the edges. He clenched his jaw and hauled again, slow and steady. Below, Kira cried out — a short, sharp sound — but she didn’t let go.
She was lighter than he’d expected. Still heavy enough that every pull felt like it might tear him open.
After half a minute, her gloved hands appeared at the lip of the hole.
“Got you,” he said, voice tight.
He rushed forward and grabbed her arms, muscles screaming as he heaved. Kira screamed as her weight shifted, the wound tearing wider despite the bandage. With one final, brutal pull, Thyne dragged her up and over the edge.
She stumbled forward and collided with him.
They went down together.
For a fraction of a second, she was sprawled across him, breasts colliding with his face — her breath hot against his neck, the smell of sweat and blood sharp in his nose. The sudden intimacy hit him like a shockwave, panic flaring bright and irrational.
He reacted on instinct.
Too fast.
He jerked his leg up defensively, not aiming — just trying to create space — and slammed into her already tender crotch hard enough to knock her sideways.
Kira cried out and rolled away, the sound breaking into a sob as she curled in on herself in the grass.
Reality slammed back into him.
“—Kira—” Thyne scrambled upright, horror flooding his chest. “I didn’t— I’m sorry, I wasn’t—”
She wasn’t listening. She was shaking, breath hitching, pain stealing whatever words she might’ve had.
He dropped to his knees beside her, hands hovering uselessly before he finally, awkwardly, rested one on her arm.
She flinched — then didn’t pull away.
Her crying softened, broken into uneven breaths. She looked up at him, eyes red and glassy. In the daylight, everything was visible now: the bruising along her neck from the fight, the dried blood beneath her nose, the dirt matted into her shaggy golden hair.
She was a wreck.
And Thyne realized, with a quiet shock, that he thought she was beautiful.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, lower this time. Honest.
Her sobs slowed. She swallowed hard. “It’s… okay,” she gasped. “Can I just— just lie here for a minute?”
He nodded immediately. “Yeah. Take your time.”
As she shifted, he noticed it — the darkened patch spreading beneath the bandage. His stomach dropped.
He pressed two fingers gently against it. Sticky. Warm.
She hissed.
“You’re bleeding again,” he said quietly. “I need to change the bandage. When we reach my people, they’ll stitch it.”
Kira lay back, one hand drifting instinctively to cover herself, eyes flicking to him with something bitter. “Good. Maybe they’ll patch me up before executing me.”
He ignored that.
Carefully, he peeled away the pressure bandage. The wound had torn wider — not by much, but enough. He packed the last of his gauze into it, sealing it with a fresh wrap, hands slick with her blood. He wiped them in the grass and looked at her.
“We’ll head west once you can move,” he said. “There’s an outpost. I know it’s there.”
Kira nodded faintly, staring up at the perfect blue sky, breathing through the pain.