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Coruscant is still celebrating when Riyo’s transport enters the Senate approach lane.
The lower levels have turned captured battle-droid heads into lanterns. Music bleeds upward through ventilation shafts. Someone has projected General Grievous getting kicked by an enormous red boot across the side of a financial tower, and the Guard has officially failed to identify the responsible party.
Fox knows it was Fours.
He also knows Fours submitted a permit reading I CAN DO WHAT I WANT, which Thire rejected only because Grievous’s image technically violated municipal advertising dimensions.
Fox would ordinarily deal with that.
Today, he does not care.
Riyo is back on Coruscant.
Her transport settles among a procession of senatorial craft arriving ahead of the Clone Rights Amendment vote. The ballot is still several days away, but delegations are pouring into the capital early. Every landing platform around the Senate is packed with reporters, security officers, political aides, and senators desperate to be photographed looking historically significant.
Fox has been forced into dress blacks for the occasion.
He stands at the top of the ceremonial steps with three Guard-red command ropes across one shoulder, his medals arranged precisely, and the stylized vulptex of the Office of the Chief of Defense fastened at his collar. Its crystalline tail curls around the Republic star, all sharp ears and sharper angles.
Thorn had personally inspected him before they left Headquarters.
Then Scalper had corrected Thorn’s work.
Then Rook had removed a piece of lint nobody else could see.
Fox has endured artillery barrages with less supervision.
“Chief,” Mira murmurs beside him, “you’re glaring at the diplomatic transports.”
“I’m observing them.”
“You’ve observed the same one for forty-three seconds.”
“It hasn't finished unloading.”
“It contains Senator Chuchi.”
Fox looks at her.
Mira’s expression remains professionally blank.
“You may wish to make the staring less obvious,” she says.
“I’m responsible for security.”
“Of course.”
The transport ramp lowers.
Two Pantoran aides emerge first. Then a member of the Assembly delegation. Then Riyo steps into the sunlight.
Fox forgets every reporter on the plaza.
She wears deep blue travel robes edged in silver, formal enough for the Senate but softer than the severe gowns the Pantoran Assembly prefers. Her lilac hair is pinned high, leaving the gold marriage arches across her nose visible.
His own arches are concealed beneath the edge of his cap.
Riyo looks toward the ceremonial platform.
She finds him immediately.
Her expression changes.
Only slightly. A small curve of her mouth, warmth settling into her eyes. It is nothing a reporter could identify from this distance.
Fox feels it like sunrise after a year underground.
He has not seen her in twelve days.
Twelve days of Assembly sessions, encrypted calls cut short by emergencies, and intelligence chatter about fleet movements that never became specific enough to justify dragging her home early. Then Grievous brought the largest invasion fleet in recorded history directly to Coruscant.
Riyo had been off-world when the first shots were fired.
Fox knew she was safe.
He checked anyway.
Repeatedly.
“Chief,” Thorn says from his other side, “you are scheduled to greet the Malastare delegation next.”
Fox watches Riyo descend the ramp.
“Delay them.”
“They’re already climbing the stairs.”
“Redirect them.”
“To where?”
“Somewhere else.”
Thorn follows his gaze.
Understanding arrives.
“So... this is an operational emergency?”
“Yes.”
Mira glances between them. “Should I classify it?”
“Do not.”
“Personal threat to command readiness?”
Fox leaves before she can continue.
He descends the rear side of the platform, away from the main press line. Reporters can see only the official entrance and the top half of the ceremonial steps. The transports themselves block the service corridor below.
Several senators notice him.
Fox ignores them.
Riyo has barely finished greeting the Senate liaison when Fox reaches her.
“Commander,” the liaison begins.
“Leave.”
The liaison leaves.
Riyo blinks at him.
“Subtle.”
“You’re late.”
“My transport landed precisely on schedule.”
“You were gone twelve days.”
“I was scheduled to be gone fourteen.”
“That was excessive.”
Her smile widens.
Fox checks the gaps between transports. No cameras. No press. Only three senators, five aides, two startled Assembly representatives, and a Guard escort who abruptly finds the opposite wall fascinating.
Good enough.
He catches Riyo around the waist and pulls her against him.
She laughs once, surprised, before wrapping both arms around his neck.
Fox kisses his wife.
Not Senator Chuchi.
Not the Pantoran representative whose political arrival he is meant to acknowledge with a formal bow and a carefully neutral sentence.
Riyo.
Warm, alive, and finally within reach.
She kisses him back without hesitation, fingers sliding into the short hair beneath the edge of his cap. Fox has enough awareness left to angle them farther behind the transport, though not enough to care when one of the senators makes an audible choking noise.
When they separate, Riyo keeps her forehead against his.
“Well,” she murmurs. “That’s one way to welcome a delegation.”
“I considered a handshake.”
“Briefly?”
“No.”
Her thumb brushes the gold arch hidden near his cheek.
“You’re supposed to be greeting senators.”
“I’ve greeted enough senators.”
“You haven’t greeted me.”
“You’re my wife.”
“I’m also a senator.”
“Unfortunate.”
Riyo laughs again.
The sound loosens something buried beneath twelve days of distance, one invasion, and intelligence reports still warning that Grievous’s assault may not have been the Confederacy’s final move.
Fox holds her tighter.
“You’re safe?”
“I’m safe.”
“Your transport had a shield fluctuation entering the system.”
“It lasted two seconds.”
“1.8.”
“You were tracking me?”
“I track all senatorial transports.”
Riyo raises an eyebrow.
“Some more closely than others,” Fox admits.
Behind them, Thorn clears his throat.
Fox does not release her.
“The Malastare delegation has now been redirected three times,” Thorn says. “They believe the ceremonial entrance is moving.”
“Keep redirecting them.”
“I’m running out of corridors.”
Riyo looks past Fox. “Hello, Thorn.”
“Senator. Welcome home.”
“Thank you. Has he slept?”
“Define slept.”
Fox turns his head. “Go away.”
Thorn salutes and withdraws, taking the curious aides with him.
Riyo looks back at Fox.
“The press will notice you disappeared.”
“They can't see us.”
“The senators can.”
Fox glances at the small cluster pretending not to stare.
One turns away so quickly that his cape catches on a luggage cart.
“Who cares what senators think?”
“That may be the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“I've said more romantic things.”
“You once compared my eyes to Pantoran defense lasers.”
“They're the same color.”
Riyo kisses him again, softer this time.
The celebration continues far below them. Music rises between the towers. Republic fighters pass overhead in victory formation, their shadows sweeping across the Senate plaza and the stylized vulptex banners hanging from the ceremonial platform.
In a few days, the Senate will decide whether Fox and every sibling he has are people.
There are intelligence reports waiting aboard the Sentinel. Reconstruction schedules. Fleet losses. Unconfirmed threats. A war that refuses to end neatly.
For this moment, none of it reaches him.
Riyo’s hands settle against his chest, directly over his heart.
“Come home with me tonight,” she whispers.
Fox looks down at her.
“I have a security briefing.”
“When?”
“Eventually.”
“That doesn’t sound scheduled.”
“It can be rescheduled.”
Her smile turns slow and private.
Fox understands the invitation.
For once, he does not think about protocol.
“Thorn can handle the senators,” he says.
From somewhere beyond the transport, Thorn calls, “I heard that.”
Riyo takes Fox’s hand.
He lets her lead him away.