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Din Djarin had stared down rancors.
He had escaped Imperial prisons.
He had defeated assassins, bounty hunters, pirates, mercenaries, and more stormtroopers than
he cared to count.
None of that—
Absolutely none of it—
Had prepared him for seven ten-year-old boys.
_____
He should have seen it coming.
After the nightmare rotation of sleepovers Grogu had been to several months previous...
He should have known he wouldn't get off as the only parent to not take one for the team.
It had started, as most of Din's problems did, with Grogu's eyes.
"Dad..."
"No."
"I didn't even ask."
"You were about to."
"I was..."
Grogu folded his ears sadly.
"...gonna ask if my friends could sleep over."
"No."
"...Please?"
"No."
"But everyone else has hosted! It's my turn!"
"I missed the part where you were hosting. Last I checked, this is my house."
The ears drooped farther.
"...Pleeeease?"
"No."
Then the eyes happened.
Big.
Round.
Hopeful.
Weaponized.
Din resisted for almost twelve whole seconds.
"...How many?"
Grogu brightened instantly.
"Seven."
Din blinked.
"...Including you?"
"...Yes?"
He pinched the bridge of his nose beneath the helmet.
Somewhere, somehow, he'd gone from feared bounty hunter...
...to discussing guest limits for a children's sleepover.
The invasion began at six.
Parents dropped children off with overnight bags almost as large as they were.
"Thanks, Din!"
"We owe you one!"
"They're really easy!"
"They'll be asleep by nine!"
Liars.
Every single one of them.
The front door hadn't even closed before someone yelled—
"CAN WE PLAY HIDE AND SEEK?"
"Can we have snacks?"
"Can we build a fort?"
"Can we touch your ship?"
"Mr. Djarin, how many people have you punched?"
"Have you ever fought a rancor?"
"Can Mandalorians eat lava?"
Din opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
"...One question at a time."
They did not ask one question at a time.
Within fifteen minutes...
One child had discovered the emergency flashlight.
Another had somehow gotten stuck inside a blanket.
Two were sword fighting with couch cushions.
Grogu was proudly giving everyone a tour of the house.
"And this is Dad's room."
Din appeared instantly.
"No, it isn't."
Seven guilty faces turned toward him.
"We were just looking."
"Out."
"But—"
"Out."
Tiny feet shuffled obediently away.
Dinner should have been simple.
Pizza.
Everyone liked pizza.
Except...
"I don't eat mushrooms."
"I wanted extra cheese."
"He got more pepperoni than me!"
"Can I have yours?"
"He touched my slice!"
"Mr. Djarin, Grogu says you burned down a pirate base."
Grogu grinned.
"I didn't say burned down."
"You implied it."
Then came the fort.
It started with two blankets.
By the end...
Half the living room had disappeared beneath an architectural masterpiece held together
entirely by chairs, cushions, and determination.
Din stood in the doorway.
"...Should I ask?"
"No."
"Probably not."
"It has structural integrity."
"It absolutely does not."
"It does!"
The entire thing collapsed.
Children disappeared beneath blankets.
Peals of laughter erupted.
Nobody was hurt.
Din silently thanked every deity anyone had ever mentioned.
Then someone asked the question.
"Mr. Djarin?"
"...Yes?"
"Can we see your armor room?"
"No."
"Please?"
"No."
"The weapons?"
"...Definitely no."
"But they're cool."
"They're dangerous."
"We'll be careful."
Din had just turned to refill the popcorn.
He looked back.
Silence.
Too much silence.
His instincts screamed.
He rounded the corner.
Seven boys stood directly in front of the weapons cabinet.
One curious hand was already reaching toward the control panel.
Din's soul left his body.
"Boys."
Every head whipped around.
His voice wasn't loud.
It didn't need to be.
It carried the unmistakable weight of a father whose patience had reached the edge of a cliff.
"Back."
They backed away immediately.
"Now."
Seven pairs of feet shuffled backward.
Nobody spoke.
Din crossed the room.
Entered the security code.
Double-checked every lock.
Then looked back at them.
"Those are not toys."
Seven solemn nods.
"They can kill people."
More nodding.
"If anyone touches that cabinet again..."
He folded his arms.
"...the sleepover ends."
Collective gasps.
"We're sorry!"
"We didn't know!"
"We won't!"
Grogu looked especially guilty.
"Sorry, Dad."
Din's expression softened almost immediately.
"I know."
He crouched so they were eye level.
"It's my job to keep everyone here safe."
That they understood.
One by one they nodded.
Crisis averted.
Mostly.
Later...
Everyone brushed teeth.
Eventually.
One child forgot where he'd packed his toothbrush.
Another accidentally used someone else's.
Din chose not to ask questions.
Sleeping bags covered the living room floor.
Movie selected.
Lights dimmed.
Fresh popcorn.
Blankets everywhere.
Din stood in the doorway.
Seven boys.
Quiet.
Relaxed.
Maybe...
Maybe this won't be so ba—
Giggle.
Another.
Then another.
Within seconds...
The room exploded.
Someone couldn't stop laughing.
Nobody remembered why.
Which made everyone laugh harder.
Grogu laughed until he rolled off his sleeping bag.
Someone snorted.
That somehow became even funnier.
Din emerged from his bedroom.
"Boys."
Silence.
"...Sorry."
He returned to bed.
Three minutes later—
More laughter.
Din returned.
"If I can hear you..."
Giggles.
"...so can the neighbors."
Five peaceful minutes.
Then—
A pillow flew.
Then another.
Pillow fight.
"Guys!"
Din appeared again.
"No pillows."
"...Sorry."
Back to bed.
Six minutes later.
Someone told ghost stories.
Then everyone wanted the lights on.
Din turned the lights on.
Returned to bed.
Eight minutes.
Someone needed water.
Ten minutes.
Someone needed the bathroom.
Fifteen minutes.
Someone had forgotten their favorite stuffed tooka in the car.
Din stared at the ceiling.
He had survived firefights with fewer casualties.
______
At one point he stood in the doorway and sighed.
"If you don't go to sleep..."
Seven little faces looked up.
"...the New Republic patrol is going to think something terrible has happened over here."
One child whispered,
"...Can they arrest us for laughing?"
"No."
"...Can they arrest me for snoring?"
"No."
"...Can they arrest—"
"Go to sleep."
Finally...
Silence.
Real silence.
Too real.
Din's eyes opened.
His father instincts prickled.
Something's wrong.
He crept down the hallway.
The movie's title screen played on endless repeat.
Blankets covered the floor.
Sleeping bags were abandoned.
Children were...
Everywhere.
One halfway under the coffee table.
Two sharing the same sleeping bag despite owning separate ones.
Another clutching an empty popcorn bowl like treasure.
Ragnar somehow slept upside down.
Grogu lay curled on the couch.
One hand tucked beneath his cheek.
A tiny smile rested peacefully on his face.
Safe.
Happy.
Surrounded by friends.
Din's heart softened.
He quietly gathered stray blankets.
Covered the children one by one.
Straightened a pillow.
Turned the volume down.
Then stood there for a long moment.
Looking.
Listening to soft snores.
Feeling something warm settle in his chest.
He'd done it.
He had hosted a sleepover.
No one had been injured.
Nothing had exploded.
No one had stolen a blaster.
By all reasonable standards...
It had been a success.
He smiled to himself as he headed to bed.
Maybe...
Maybe he really was getting the hang of this fatherhood thing.
The next morning...
A loud metallic CLANG jolted him awake.
Then—
"More flour!"
"I've got eggs!"
"Oops!"
"Catch it!"
"Don't tell Mr. Djarin!"
Din sat bolt upright.
"...Maker."
He hurried into the kitchen.
And stopped.
Flour coated every surface.
Eggshells decorated the counter.
Milk dripped off the cabinets.
One child was standing on a chair attempting to flip a pancake.
Another was stirring batter with what looked suspiciously like a serving spoon.
Grogu looked up brightly.
"Morning, Dad!"
Din slowly surveyed the devastation.
"...What happened?"
"We made breakfast!"
"You..."
He looked around again.
"...made something."
Grogu beamed.
"We wanted to surprise you."
Din sighed.
Long.
Deep.
Then he noticed something.
Seven smiling faces.
Covered in flour.
Waiting hopefully.
One slightly lopsided pancake sat on a plate.
It was burned.
Misshapen.
Possibly still raw in the middle.
Grogu held it out proudly.
"We made the first one for you."
Din looked at the pancake.
Then at his son.
Then at the absolute disaster that had once been his kitchen.
He accepted the plate.
Took one bite.
It was objectively terrible.
"...Needs work," he said.
Seven boys burst into laughter.
Din laughed too.
Life, he decided, was loud.
Messy.
Exhausting.
Frequently sticky.
And somehow...
Wonderfully, unbelievably...
Good.