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The grassy plains of Bogano are fields of darkened canvas as Mara initiates the landing sequence, taking care to avoid touching down on a marshy area or cliff. The Outer-Rim planet is a forgotten, largely unexplored world, completely unremarkable except for a rumoured vault containing holocrons from the fallen Jedi Order.
And, of course, it’s currently the site of Luke Skywalker’s captivity.
Perhaps captivity is too harsh a word. Misnomer, yes. Overdramatic…definitely.
Mara has a pretty good idea how Luke ended up in this particular quandary – in his search for ancient relics and treasures, he encountered a band of bounty hunters, who, upon discovering his connection to the New Republic, decided to hostage him for a ludicrous sum of credits.
The problem, naturally, is that his captors didn’t even bother dampening Luke’s Force abilities in any meaningful way. Sure, his exact location had become difficult to pinpoint, and Mara had been suitably worried when Leia Organa Solo personally contacted her to extract him, but as soon as she entered the Bogano system, she felt his immense solar presence immediately.
So, with a limited amount of intel at her disposal but knowing Luke as well as she does, Mara figures one of two things: either he befriended some thugs on his way to this vault, or he deliberately let himself get captured, just to test his own escape skills.
Mara rolls her eyes. It’s just like Luke to get into trouble, and just like Mara to bail him out.
Regardless, her mood is strangely buoyant as the ship powers down. Karrde keeps several small-scale, unregistered shuttles for situations like this that require withdrawal, evasion, and disappearing without a trace. The inconspicuous model she’s piloting is sleek and featherlight, and she emerges from its maw dressed in her go-to tactical outfit with weapons at the ready – including the lightsaber gifted to her on that hazy Coruscant rooftop a year ago.
The Bogano night is peaceful. There are no metropolises with skyscrapers and neon lights, just a handful of secluded settlements on the flat terrain, nestled in between ravines, wetlands, and water-filled caves. No distant traffic or aircraft sounds can be heard; only the chirping of nocturnal insects breaks the stillness. Hundreds of stars sparkle above, and Mara glances up as she trudges along. The planet has a romantic quality to it…not that she cares for that sort of thing.
A minute or two into her march and the shed containing Luke appears, like a charcoal drawing stamped onto the landscape, its edges not quite filled in. Mara stares at it for a moment as her eyes adjust, memorizing its shape and features, the placement of the windows. She pictures Luke inside. Two guards hover near the front entrance, completely oblivious to her presence. A rush charges through her as she dispatches them with ruthless efficiency.
She tries the lock, jiggles it in her palm a few times, then pulls a blaster from her holster and fires a bullseye. Sparks are still sizzling as the door creaks open into an empty anteroom. A couple of glowlamps illuminate the space somewhat; there’s nothing much to see, except for another closed door with light spilling from the bottom clearance and two round aluminum tables perched to the side. She senses Luke in that other room, groggy and drugged, but otherwise healthy and in one piece. Mara will get to him in a bit; she spots some items on the table she needs to investigate first.
She walks over, meticulously avoiding the splintering cracks on the wooden planks under her combat boots. A syringe and bottle grab her attention first, and she peers down to squint at the messy, hand-written label: BR6. A cursory glance at the cloudy amber liquid has Mara choking on an urge to snort. Bravo Six? A street derivative of Yarrock? She’s seen a designer version used on smugglers who needed to be kept docile but alive; however, Mara can bet that whatever cheap knockoff is currently coursing through Luke’s veins contains more fillers in it than typical black-market spice. Not to mention, the antidote is in her medkit, just like it would be in any decently stocked medcentre.
She is losing respect for this criminal braintrust by the second.
A partially unzipped duffel bag rests at her feet, and Mara notices Luke’s lightsaber and two holocrons as she rifles through it, the latter glowing a subdued golden yellow. A satisfied smile tugs at her mouth; she does enjoy being right.
Hushed voices travel from behind the second door, but they fall silent when she kicks her way inside with theatrical flair. In the centre of the windowless room is Luke’s semi-conscious form, hunched over in what looks like a raggedy, fold-up chair. Shock emanates from the four bounty hunters surrounding him, but they barely have time to register her presence before they fall unconscious on the dusty, mud-tracked floor.
Pfft.
Low-level amateurs, believing they can pilfer an outrageous amount of credits from what they presume is a high-ranking core-world official. If they only knew who they were dealing with. It’s not her concern, though – New Republic law enforcement is on their way, and what they do with these thugs is none of her business.
She crouches by Luke’s side, surveying the damage through the Force. Even like this, with dry blood caking to his bottom lip and nostrils, and his forehead and neck shiny with perspiration, he’s infuriatingly handsome. His hair is shorter and blonder than the last time she saw him, as if he’s growing out a military cut, and she suppresses the urge to run her hand through the mess and tame it. His clothes – a sleeveless blue tunic and loose cargo pants – are stained with dirt and sweat splotches but otherwise look fine. Nothing that a tumble in a laundry machine can’t fix.
Refocusing, Mara digs out a vibroblade from her belt pouch and smoothly cleaves through the shackles at his wrists and ankles. His Force presence, unrestrained, instantly flows into her like an invigorating ocean wave, his gratitude unmistakable. She fights the temptation to float on it – they still need to leave this place, after all. But she drifts on the current for a heartbeat longer than necessary. It’s not like he’ll ever let her drown.
He blinks up at her, slow and syrupy, and recognition dawns in his dilated blue eyes.
“Mara Jade,” he says roughly, his lips dry and cracked, though his trademark farmboy grin lights up his face. “You’re here to rescue me.”
“Yeah, sure.”
With a grunt, she hauls his left arm over her shoulders. Despite Luke’s drugged state, he stands up with understanding, leaning on her as they inch gingerly out of the shed. She grabs the duffel bag with her free hand, causing them both to nearly trip over from the act. Luke barks out a laugh, seeing far more humour in the situation than she does, and rests his head atop her crown. He must’ve upped his training regimen – he’s heavier than she remembers. And, despite the grime, he still smells so clean, like sun-warmed skin and that herbaceous minty soap he favours.
Maddening.
“Mara…” he repeats, but she shakes her head.
“Not now, Skywalker. You’re drugged. Nothing serious, but I’ll treat you once we’re in the air.”
“Where are we going?” he asks as they emerge into the nighttime. A welcome breeze wafts through the clearing, the cool respite like a balm on her overheated skin.
“One of Karrde’s safehouses. It’s on a neighbouring planet, so not too far from here. Just take it easy, okay? No heroics.”
As she leads them into the shuttle, Luke stops without warning and turns to face her. His expression is inscrutable, though he teeters on his feet. She tightens her hold on him and bites back a sigh. It’s on the tip of her tongue to admonish and scold him about taking it easy while under the influence of an illegal substance, but then he reaches up and runs a fingertip along her braid.
“Your hair…it’s glowing.”
Mara levels him with a glare. “Get inside the ship, farmboy.”
“Copy that, Captain Jade.” His salute is an awkward, fumbling gesture, and a dopey smile returns to his face as Mara maneuvers him into the co-pilot’s seat and secures the buckles. There’s not a ton of space, and she nearly topples into his lap a few times. Luke spreads his legs to accommodate her, but she scowls at him. Bravo Six has a number of side effects, she recalls – disorientation and memory gaps are the main ones, but lowered inhibitions, impaired judgement, and mild hallucinations are also co-present. She wonders how large of a dose Luke received, and how much of the antidote he requires.
“Don’t get used to this,” she mutters, bracing a hand against his lower thigh and the annoyingly solid muscle there. Whatever. It’s not like he’ll remember any of this tomorrow.
“You’re beautiful, even when you’re making that face.”
She dismisses the flutter in her heart and prepares the shuttle for takeoff. In her peripheral vision, Luke closes his eyes, his body relaxing into the leather. Even in this state, with his hands clasped loosely over his abdomen and head lolling back against the headrest, he remains formidable, danger lurking just beneath the loopy facade. It’s almost hard to believe that such a powerful man can be overcome by a street drug and slide back into fresh-off-the-farm overearnestness so easily.
No matter. She’ll feed him her whole stash just to prevent any more poetic overtures. A medkit sits on the highest shelf in the galley – she retrieves the appropriate hypospray patch and slaps the adhesive strip onto the inside of his wrist, harder than she intends to. Or not. The medicine will gradually absorb into his bloodstream by the time they reach the safehouse, and Mara ignores the twinge in her chest as she imagines Luke walking away from her the next morning, cool and calm Jedi veneer reinstated.
Her comm flashes with missed messages as she plops down on the surprisingly comfortable passenger seating just behind the cockpit. She keys in the encrypted channel and Leia answers on the first ring. The conversation is pleasant enough – Leia’s relief is palpable, and she promises that the New Republic will duly compensate her for her efforts.
Though she may not admit it, Mara enjoys her status as a semi-legitimate figure – trusted by the influential members of the highest echelons of government, without all the baggage of the former empire sullying her reputation. Sometimes Mara thinks her past exists only in fragments and memories now. Her acceptance of a certain Jedi complicating her life is proof enough that Mara has matured into a woman with a moral compass, a far cry from the indoctrinated, eager-to-please imperial she used to be.
That’s a good thing too, because that version of her would probably stun the Jedi right now for his background blabbering.
“I love your voice.”
“Are we flying? I feel like we’re flying. Wait…are you flying? You’re amazing.”
“Do you think the Force is a straight line or twirly like a sandstorm?”
“Mara, if I fall asleep, don’t let the stars steal me from you.”
Luckily, his voice is muted and dreamy enough that it doesn’t interfere with her discussion with Leia, or Karrde whom she comms after. But when she returns to the pilot’s seat a short time later, Luke regards her with curious eyes.
“Did you talk to Lei-lei about me?”
Mara grimaces like she just bit into a chunk of raw bantha meat. She faces him, not quite believing what she just heard.
“Lei-lei? You call your sister Lei-lei?” It doesn’t surprise her that Luke has a playful pet name for his twin. That’s what siblings do, she supposes. Mara lacks first-hand experience in this area, but Luke, undeterred, plows on.
“Yeah. You should have a nickname too.”
She tightens her jaw as she angles the shuttle towards the safehouse looming in front of them. “No.”
“Yes.”
Luke asserts that one word with the stubborn confidence of a man who has never once lost an argument in his own head, while Mara mutters a curse under her breath as the shuttle touches down on the landing pad with a lurch.
“We’re here, farmboy,” she announces, but Luke continues to stare intently at her.
“Red.”
She sighs with a healthy amount of disgust. An older suitor from the imperial court had called her that once, and only once, because Mara had decked him right there in the middle of the dance floor. “No.”
“Emerald.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Blossom?”
“Skywalker, I swear – ”
Luke pauses, eyes lighting up with the kind of foolish inspiration that only emerges with help from narcotics. And Mara’s been around enough addicts to know exactly what a ridiculous, drug-induced brainwave looks like.
“Marsh-fruit.”
“Are you kidding? That’s what rabbits eat!” Mara’s jaw drops open. The sad-looking, bulbous, squishy, misshapen gourd that tastes like swamp and has the texture of wet bread? No one in their right mind would compare a person to it. She’s not offended so much as annoyed, and maybe even a little put out by the lack of creativity. Farmboy is downright charitable in comparison – a nickname that impeccably describes the individual in question, and yes, also carries an affectionate lilt depending on one’s point of view.
The Jedi has completely lost his mind, and they’re not even at the safehouse yet.
“It suits you,” he insists. “Sweet and crunchy. A little tart.”
He unbuckles his belt without Mara’s help but wobbles the moment he stands. Mara catches him before he slides back down into the seat and briefly lets her thoughts flash to her savings account swelling with New Republic credits. She’s absolutely earned every last one tonight.
“Marsh-fruit is none of those things.”
“Sure it is!” he says, completely genuine. He gestures clumsily with the hand not wrapped around Mara’s waist, nearly smacking himself in the face. “It’s cute and misunderstood! Crisp and nutritious, too.”
Mara refuses to dignify Luke’s imaginative deficit with a response and instead grabs the duffel bag as the ramp lowers. Once again, Luke leans on her for support as they depart the ship and amble towards the front door of the safehouse.
At least she can count on the reliability and function of Karrde’s hideouts. Strewn across the galaxy in isolated, off-grid locations, the dwellings are lived-in but not personal, well-stocked but not cozy. The squat, rectangular structure is half-buried on a hillside, its weathered durasteel siding rugged and sturdy. Darkness is a shroud around them, but they make it inside the entryway after Mara punches in the door code. The automatic lights flicker on, which means the generator’s working and by extension, the water heater’s cycling, too. Excellent – Karrde’s people have done their job.
A lingering odor of must and stale caf wafts into her nose, and Luke must smell it too, because he groans into the side of her neck. When did he get so close to her? She shifts just enough to break the contact between them.
“Skywalker…,” she says, dropping the duffel bag onto the pullout lounger in the tiny space that doubles as the living area. “We’re here. You’ll be fine in the morning – you just have to sleep it off.”
Luke’s head bumps her shoulder in something resembling a nod. When they reach the bedroom – containing nothing more than a twin-sized cot with a pillow and a couple of thin blankets, a three-drawer dresser holding standard‑issue clothing and basics in universal sizes, and a single window framed by blackout shutters – Mara lets go of Luke and he rolls unceremoniously onto the mattress.
She smothers a snort-chuckle as Luke lays there, staring up at the ceiling, eyes blinking rapidly in dazed astonishment. Without a word, she removes his boots and socks and unfolds both blankets.
“Did you know you’re my favourite person in the whole galaxy, Mara Jade? Because you are,” he says, and for the first time tonight, his words are slower, more effortful. “Thank you for rescuing me.”
A traitorous warmth crawls up Mara’s spine. “It’s nothing,” she says with a half-shrug, aiming for casual. “The antidote’s working, Luke. You’ll be brand new in no time.”
“I…,” he starts, then yawns as Mara drapes the blankets over him. Luke is clearly losing the fight to lethargy; his eyelids droop and his breathing evens. She watches him for a moment, then heads into the compact refresher. Bacta spray and a stack of assorted towels are in the first cabinet she opens, so she soaks one of the smaller hand towels with warm water and a few spritzes of the healing substance. Carefully, she settles on the edge of the bed and wipes the dried blood from his face.
He looks younger like this, she thinks. His facial scars are less prominent in a state of relaxation, the lines around the corners of his eyes and lips smoothing out. She traces a long-healed indentation on his philtrum with the tip of her finger. The result of a wampa attack, he told her once.
No one ever sees him in this state – unguarded, boyish, exposed. She imagines a nineteen-year-old moisture farmer from a tenth-rate desert planet in the Outer Rim, thrust into a war he never asked for, the rebel pilot who blew up the emperor’s prized superweapon before he was old enough to legally drink on half the planets in the galaxy. The young man who learned the truth about his father and didn’t break. Who lost friends and mentors and still kept going. Who now has the impossible task of rebuilding the extinct Jedi Order out of nothing more than secret holocrons and slivers of ancient scrolls.
A lesser man would have collapsed under the weight of grief and expectation. But Luke Skywalker has never been ordinary.
He appears seconds from conking out when he abruptly shakes his head. The smile he gives her is overflowing with so much tenderness that Mara instinctively stands up and takes a step back. “You’re incredible. I trust you more than anyone.”
“Look…” Mara’s composure wavers. Her words soften against her own volition, and she senses the mood in the tiny safehouse tip into something irrevocable.
“Farmboy, you don’t have to say anything else,” she states, fully aiming to put an end to any further revelations so they can both just go to sleep and forget everything. “I was happy to help you, okay? You save me, I save you more. It’s fine. Let’s just call it even.”
“Mara, I’m in love with you,” he blurts out, and this is exactly what she doesn’t want to hear. Not now, not ever. Panic spikes through her, and she crosses her arms over her chest defensively.
“You’re delusional, Skywalker! You don’t even know what you’re saying. In the morning, you won’t remember any of the ridiculous shavit you’ve blathered about tonight.”
“Not true, Mara.” He extends his hand out to her, but it swings wildly by the bedside, completely missing the mark. Mara has no inclination to close their distance. “I’ve known since Wayland. I fell in love with you before that. But Mount Tantiss is when I knew. You told me you hated me, and you were so angry. But you still trusted me and kept me alive…you kept us alive. You faced off against C’baoth and all I could think was, ‘Force, she’s perfect.’”
It’s as though a bomb just went off, and all that’s left in the aftermath is the suffocating silence. It presses in, and Mara searches for a safe spot to focus on – the half-closed pocket door, the moonlight streaking in a slanted line across the dresser, a random groove on the floor. Anything to avoid looking at Luke’s contented smile and the gleam in his blue eyes.
She admires Luke. They’re allies…friends, even. His father’s lightsaber hangs from her belt, for Force’s sake.
But Mara isn’t who Luke thinks she is or wants her to be. She is not and has never been a feelings kind of girl. A brief surge of anger flares up at him for dumping this on her – especially because he will conveniently forget all about this in the morning – but it fades just as quickly, leaving behind a hollow ache she can’t even begin to articulate.
“Skywalker…” she says, uncertain. She swallows hard as the walls she’d painstakingly spent years building around herself crumble like dust. “Thank you for your honesty.” And that’s a dumb thing to say, but how else is she supposed to fill the overwhelming quiet?
“I’m not a relationship person,” Mara continues, already concluding that she regrets rescuing Luke and regrets what she’s about to say next even more. Her gaze drops to her boots, and she nudges an invisible smidgen of dirt with her toe. “But…if you’re open to an exclusive, clandestine arrangement, I wouldn’t object.”
Her eyes lift to find Luke staring at her, utterly expressionless. The moment lasts for maybe one or two seconds, but it’s long enough to skirt on uncomfortable. Has she said something wrong? Is Luke upset by her offer? Does he abide by some rigid moral code that forbids anything short of marriage?
She should’ve kept her big mouth shut. What in the galaxy possessed her to be honest with him? Mara mentally kicks herself until the goofiest grin she’s ever seen splits Luke’s face.
“You love me.”
Her shoulders slump, all the tension draining out of her. “That’s not what I said.”
“You love me!” he singsongs, delighted with himself.
Mara glares at him, but her heart isn’t in it. The truth has always lurked in the back of her mind, like a shadow she refused to look at directly. Maybe there will be a time when she’ll feel relief that Luke dragged it out into the open – even if he did it accidentally, half-drugged and half-conscious, with all the subtlety of a stampeding herd of bordoks.
Not tonight, though. The hour is late, the safehouse is too cramped, and they both need to rest.
She exhales slowly and stoops over Luke’s supine form, tucking the blankets more snugly around him. A stray lock of silky hair has fallen across his forehead; before she can stop herself, she brushes it aside with a simple intimacy she has never shown anyone before.
“You’re going to forget about this in the morning.”
“Never,” he murmurs. “I’ll never forget you.”
Her stomach flips. “Goodnight, Luke.”
“Love you too, marsh-fruit.”
A retort dies on Mara’s tongue as Luke finally succumbs to a deep, relaxing sleep. She tiptoes around the bed – not that it matters, given that Luke’s gentle snoring indicates he won’t be awakening anytime soon – and retrieves two sets of clothing from the dresser. She takes one for herself and settles onto the pullout to spend the rest of the night.
But the pocket door separating them stays slightly ajar, just in case.
Mara’s internal chrono wakes her up before sunrise. Sitting up on the lumpy pullout, she stretches the stiff muscles in her shoulders, back, and legs. She lets her head hang for a few moments before shaking off the cobwebs of a poor sleep and forcing herself into motion.
A quick perimeter check confirms nothing has changed overnight. When she peeks into the bedroom, Luke is sprawled on his stomach, his feet sticking out beneath the blankets and both arms flung wide like he’s trying to hug the bed. Mara doesn’t disturb him. She closes the pocket door to its original narrow gap and moves on.
In the refresher, the showerhead sputters before the pump catches up, and then scalding water hits her skin. She stands under it longer than she probably should, letting the heat rinse away the soreness from her body. Mara’s mind stays blank. The safehouse amenities are basic – disposable toothbrushes, generic soap – but they’re ideal for a numb early morning.
She leaves her hair loose and pulls on the shapeless utility wear, then proceeds into the kitchenette to prepare breakfast. Karrde prefers to stockpile his safehouses with bland, non-perishable foodstuffs, and sure enough, that’s exactly what she finds in the cooling supply unit. She turns on the induction cooktop. Between the hum of the appliances, the tap’s reluctant cough as she fills a kettle, and the generator’s low drone beneath the floorboards, the safehouse slowly comes to life around her.
She’s just setting a pan on the cooktop when she hears movement from the bedroom – the subtle shift of blankets, then quiet footsteps. The sounds freeze her in place. And just like that, everything she’d managed not to think about comes crashing back.
“Good morning, Mara,” Luke calls, voice husky with sleep. A second later he shuffles past the tiny hallway connecting the bedroom with the rest of the safehouse, but he disappears into the refresher before she can even turn around.
“Hey,” she mumbles, though she doubts he hears her over the shower. The pump kicks in, and water drums against the tiles.
Mara grips the edge of the counter, staring at the pan without really seeing it. Her pulse is suddenly too loud in her ears. She breathes, keeping her focus on the mundane tasks in front of her – opening the cans, grabbing two forks and two mugs, unsealing a package of caf.
Luke emerges from the refresher just as Mara plates their meal. She glances up at him and almost wishes she hadn’t – gone is the earnest, over-sharing farmboy from last night. In his place is the stout Jedi, the hero of Yavin, the son of Darth Vader. His hair is damp and neatly swept to one side, the ends curling as they dry. He’s cleanshaven and dressed in the same utility wear she is, but on him it looks…intentional. Steelier, maybe – like he could walk into the middle of a combat zone or a senate hearing without missing a beat.
He carries himself with that understated, devastating equanimity she’s seen numerous times in battle and at rest. The room seems smaller with him in it…or maybe it’s just that he’s fully himself again, and Mara isn’t ready for that.
Still, she looks him in the eye and straightens her spine. Although her training in the Force is minimal compared to Luke’s, she feels it vibrating faintly around them, anticipatory and skittish. Luke opens his mouth, but Mara cuts him off before he can get a single word out.
“Here’s your breakfast. Nothing to write home about, farmboy, but it’s got enough fuel to get you started.”
“Smells delicious,” he says, accepting the plate. “I’ll have to personally thank Karrde for his hospitality.”
“Good idea. He’ll be happy to hear from you.”
“Listen, Mara – ”
“After you eat and drink your caf, we’ll be on our way.” She pointedly ignores the cloud of hurt that crosses his face.
“I think we should – ”
“I have an urgent contract to get to,” she says, dropping her eyes to her plate. It’s a cowardly move, but she’s suddenly unable to meet his downcast expression. “I’ll fly you back to Bogano and you can get your X-wing. And then you can go back to Coruscant or hunting Jedi relics or wherever.”
Luke studies her for a moment, and some silent war wages behind his eyes. Finally, he gives a half-hearted shrug. “Fine. I’ll go recheck the perimeter then.”
“Knock yourself out.”
He slips outside, and Mara makes herself finish her breakfast, though every bite is unappealing and tasteless. By the time he returns, she’s drained her equally disappointing caf and set her plate aside. His gaze lands on her immediately, his eyes sharp and purposeful as he scans her features.
“Mara, we can’t leave it like this.”
“Skywalker, whatever it is, you’re overthinking it. Really. Rescuing you was nothing. Please don’t make a big deal out of it.”
“No, that’s not…” Luke shakes his head and steps closer.
She tenses, fists curling by her side. The kitchenette is tiny as it is, and suddenly he’s too near and radiating too much heat. She’s pinned between him and the smooth porcelain of the sink before she even registers her predicament.
Luke notices and rocks back on his heels, giving her much-needed space. “We need to talk about yesterday.”
“No,” she says, adamant. Sunlight streams in through the kitchenette’s window and hits Luke’s face at just the right angle, but Mara won’t get sidetracked. “There’s nothing to discuss anyway, other than the caf tastes like sludge and your breakfast is getting cold.”
“Mara…I remember.”
She freezes in shock, her eyes locked on his. Her pulse quickens as her mind whirlwinds through the events of last night. “Exactly what do you remember?”
“Enough. Enough that I may have said things that made you uncomfortable or wary of me.” Luke’s voice is soft but unshakeable, and Mara has a sinking feeling she’s not getting out of this one way or the other.
“Look, Skywalker, you were a mess last night. Completely out of your mind. Said a lot of nonsense. But it’s fine, I promise. I’m willing to put this behind me, and I recommend you do the same.”
“I meant what I said about you,” he replies, and there it is – that signature farmboy sincerity, a quality that can simultaneously flatten entire armies and leave her weak at the knees. He reaches for her and holds her upper arms, gentle and grounding and strong – and maybe also because he senses Mara is ready to bolt at the earliest opportunity. “I’m sorry that my confession came out the way it did, but I’m not sorry I said it. I do think you’re special and so beautiful – and you know, I’ve been carrying this with me for a long time, and I’m relieved that you finally know how I feel about you.”
“Luke…”
“And…” He swallows, and his cheeks flush a flattering apple red on his tanned skin. “I wouldn’t object to an exclusive, clandestine arrangement either.”
She buries her face in her hands – whether out of embarrassment or relief, she isn’t quite sure. “I can’t believe I said that.” There’s no use in denying it, especially not with Luke looking at her like that. His smile is bright enough to rival the twin suns. It feels good – alarmingly good, actually – being the focus of his undivided attention.
“Why not?” he asks.
“Well, I mean…I don’t peg you as a ‘friends with benefits’ type of guy.”
“I guess…in the rebellion…” He trails off, blushing even harder, and it might be the cutest thing Mara’s ever seen. “I’ll take anything you give me.”
Sensation twists low in her belly – not fear exactly, because Mara isn’t afraid of Luke. But seeking a connection with someone is unfamiliar territory, and entrenched impulses scream at her to retreat. Perhaps it’s a liability to feel like this…but that’s not it, either. The moment brims with potential and possibility, tempered with a little bit of risk, too. But nothing feels wrong – not in her mind, nor in her heart. Luke chose her; maybe she can choose him back.
“Okay.”
His breath catches. “Okay? Does that mean you want to give this a try? Give us a try?”
Mara inches forward, and before she can talk herself out of it, grabs a fistful of his shirt and yanks him down for a kiss. His lips are softer, more assured than she ever dreamed, and his hands grip her hips with a certainty that sends a delicious jolt through her, fingers firm and steady as they glide over her back and tangle in her hair. He draws her closer and Mara loops her arms around his neck, and they fit perfectly there, just like she knew they would. When they break apart, she’s breathless and leaning into him, her forehead touching his, already wanting more.
She can’t wait to kiss him again.
“You’re really good at that, farmboy. But if you ever call me marsh-fruit again…”
Luke just laughs and sweeps her into another breath-stealing kiss.