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By the time the first storm alarms chirp through the base—wind speed exceeding safe limits, surface patrols grounded, external access sealed—Hoth has folded in on itself. White swallowing white. Horizon erased. The world suddenly reduced to nothing but cold and pressure, the kind that doesn’t scream but insists, pressing inward until movement itself feels theoretical.
Kleya listens to the gusts claw at the outer bulkheads and catalogues it automatically: intensity, rhythm, duration. A storm like this doesn’t pass quickly, she knows, it settles, and claims territory. Vel watches the status lights flip from amber to red and exhales, long and unbothered in a way Kleya knows is only half real.
‘Well,’ she says, tugging her gloves free and shaking snow from her sleeves. ‘Looks like it’s just you and me versus the weather.’
Kleya hums in acknowledgement, already moving. Enforced stillness has always felt like a threat if left unmanaged, but she shrugs out of her coat, hangs it precisely where it will dry fastest, and crosses to the kitchenette carved into the corner of their shared quarters, determined to keep busy. The space is small but functional, utilitarian durasteel softened by the inevitable sprawl of Vel’s presence: an extra mug, a folded scarf, a datapad abandoned mid-charge.
‘If we’re trapped,’ Kleya says, opening the storage drawer and assessing supplies, ‘we might as well eat.’
Vel grins, bright and immediate. ‘Music to my ears.’
They fall into rhythm without discussing it. Vel claims the counter with practised ease, sleeves rolled up, knife flashing in a steady cadence. At the same time, Kleya handles the stove, coaxing warmth from stubborn machinery, tasting and adjusting with the meticulous care she applies to everything worth doing. The pot begins to simmer—root vegetables, preserved greens, and dried herbs that Vel swears make everything better if given enough time. Steam swiftly curls upward, fogging the narrow viewport that looks out onto nothing but storm, and Kleya finds it grounding. The ordinary mechanics of survival. Heat. Food. Presence.
She doesn’t realise what’s changed until the room fills with something that isn’t the wind or the hum of the base.
Vel is humming.
Not loudly. Not consciously. Just under her breath, a low, unguarded tune that weaves through the air like warmth finding a crack. Kleya stills as the notes begin to register, her spoon resting against the rim of the pot.
‘I recognise that,’ she says before she can stop herself.
Vel looks over her shoulder, a few strands of hair escaping their tie, and cheeks faintly flushed from the heat of the stove and the work. ‘You do?’
Kleya nods, faint colour rising unbidden to her cheeks, and the memory comes with it, uninvited: low lights, a cramped Coruscant venue, a woman’s voice rich and aching, wrapping itself around the room—a night where she’d allowed herself—briefly—to be someone else.
‘I saw it performed live once on Coruscant,’ she murmurs.
Vel’s eyes light up, curious. ‘When?’
Kleya stirs the soup a little too deliberately. ‘Before Aldhani. Before… everything.’ She hesitates, then adds, ‘I was— I was on a date.’
Vel stills, not shocked, just attentive, like she always is when something real surfaces. ‘You’ve never talked about dating before.’
‘There wasn’t much to say.’ Kleya stirs the soup again, slower than necessary. ‘I liked her. That was all it was ever allowed to be.’
Axis hangs between them, unspoken but unmistakable. The shape of a life where closeness was always a liability, and where affection was something you rationed carefully or didn’t touch at all.
Vel hums again, softer now. ‘I hope you at least got a dance.’
Kleya almost laughs. Almost. ‘No.’
Vel blinks. ‘No?’
‘I’ve never danced with anyone,’ Kleya admits, and the words land heavier than expected, like something she’s been carrying without naming. ‘It never seemed… practical.’
Vel sets the knife down, wipes her hands on a towel, and turns. She steps into Kleya’s space with an assurance that isn’t forceful, just certain.
‘Then,’ Vel says gently, holding out her hand, ‘will you dance with me?’
The storm continues howling, and the soup keeps bubbling as Kleya looks down at Vel’s hand for a heartbeat—open, steady, patient—before slowly taking it.
Vel’s fingers close around hers, warm and sure, and she draws Kleya closer with an ease that makes something unclench low in her chest. One hand settles at Kleya’s waist, not possessive—asking, always asking—and Kleya lets herself lean in.
Vel starts humming again.
Up close, the sound feels different; richer, wrapped in breath and closeness. They sway, barely moving, just enough to count as dancing, really. And Kleya becomes acutely aware of everything: the heat of Vel’s palm through fabric, the subtle pressure of her hip, and the quiet creak of the floor beneath their boots.
Somehow, they end up temple to temple without deciding to, and Kleya’s eyes flutter shut on reflex. This close, Vel smells like soap and wool and the faint metallic tang of the base, and her breath ghosts intoxicatingly across Kleya’s cheek. The world seems to narrow until it feels—dangerously—good. Too good. Like something she should catalogue and set aside before it compromises her.
‘I’m doing this wrong,’ Kleya murmurs as Vel’s thumb traces a small, absent-minded arc at the small of her back.
Vel smiles, her forehead brushing closer. ‘There’s no wrong way, Kleya, you’re doing just fine. I promise.’
The song ends and Vel keeps humming anyway, improvising now, carrying them forward on nothing but breath and intention. Kleya feels something loosen inside her… something she hadn’t realised she’d been holding so tightly.
‘Did she kiss you?’ Vel asks, voice low, close enough to feel.
Kleya swallows, heart thundering. ‘No.’
There’s a pause, not awkward, just careful, and then Vel nudges their noses together, light and tentative, a question shaped like a touch.
‘May I?’ she asks, breath dancing against Kleya’s lips.
Kleya opens her eyes, and Vel is right there—open, earnest, waiting—no assumption, no pressure, just a glimmer of hope.
‘Yes,’ Kleya exhales, and Vel closes the gap and kisses her slowly, like she’s mapping something fragile.
It's soft and unhurried, lips warm and careful, and Kleya exhales into it, hands finding Vel’s jacket, fingers curling as if to anchor herself to the moment. The storm seems to fade, the soup forgotten, until there’s only this: Vel’s mouth, Vel’s warmth, and the way being held doesn’t feel like a negotiation. When they part, Vel rests her forehead against Kleya’s, breathing her in.
‘You alright?’ Vel asks quietly.
Kleya nods, surprised by the truth of it. ‘I am.’
The soup bubbles on behind them, patient and forgiving, as if it understands it will be returned to eventually. Steam beads against the walls and slides down in slow, wandering paths. Outside, the storm continues its furious argument with the base, wind screaming across ice and steel, but it sounds distant now, muted and irrelevant.
Vel keeps humming, low and steady, her breath warm where it brushes Kleya’s temple. The sound isn’t precise anymore; it drifts, reshapes itself, follows the rhythm of their bodies instead of the original melody. Kleya lets her forehead rest more fully against Vel’s, lets her weight settle in a way she rarely allows. The floor beneath them is cold. Vel’s hands are not.
Kleya knows this isn't strategy, or preparation. Nor is it something that Kleya can fold neatly into a report or lock away for later. It’s simply presence—Vel’s warmth, Vel’s patience, Vel’s quiet insistence that nothing else is required of her right now—and Kleya feels the truth of it sink slowly into her bones, a heat that has nothing to do with the stove or the sealed quarters.
She realises, distantly, that this is what she has been denying herself. Not romance, not softness in the abstract, but the unremarkable grace of being held without expectation. Of being close without consequence. Of letting someone stay.
Vel doesn’t press. She doesn’t ask for more. She just keeps humming, arms secure and easy around Kleya’s waist, as if this small pocket of warmth carved out of a frozen world is enough for now. And for once, Kleya lets it be.
She knows the storm will pass, the war will resume, and they will both return to their roles, their sharp edges, their necessary distances. But this moment will remain—carried quietly, faithfully—proof that even in the coldest places, something human can survive.
Something offered; something chosen.
And when peace is finally theirs, Kleya knows—without doubt—she’ll choose it again.