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Chapter Text

By your own (inexpert) reckoning, you must be about halfway to the river when the storm catches up with you.

Its arrival is first signified by louder and more frequent rumbles of thunder booming through the forest, sending creatures scampering and fluttering for safety.

Then, as the sky darkens, the rumbles evolve in both volume and length, and the lightning begins without warning. The charcoal sky strobes with intent to blind, dazzlingly bright when reflected in Din’s helmet and backplate. With nowhere to look that doesn’t hurt your eyes, you clamp them shut and start counting seconds, awaiting the almighty crack of thunder to follow. Perhaps if you can determine a pattern, you can predict when it’s safe to look.

Your Mandalorian slows the speeder. “Can’t see my HUD when it flashes. Slower is safer,” he explains, his caution a welcome comfort against your nerves. You figured he’d have tech to compensate, but it seems he’s cursing the lightning just as much as you are.

He guides the bike ahead at about twice walking speed now. The slow pace allows for the risk of obstacles blown in your path by the gusting wind and any short-term blindness from the lightning. Your adrenaline keeps you focused, a second pair of eyes checking for danger between the dazzling flashes.

“Will you attract lightning in all this metal?” You raise your voice against the gale and speak close to his helmet’s audio sensors.

“No,” he calls back, his modulated reply faint and almost whipped away by the wind, barely audible. “Beskar has high electrical resistivity and low thermal conductivity to prevent absorbing energy weapons fire. It directs it away from me – saved me from dying a few times. I get hammered by the electrostatic force, but I’m protected from the other effects. The speeder might attract it, though – it’s basic durasteel. Let’s hope the river isn’t much farther.”

When the rain begins, it’s a sudden and brutal deluge. Fat splashes of water hammer down as if the sky is punishing the land. Despite Endor’s lighter-than-normal gravity, the downpour beats fiercely against you, and Din reduces the bike’s speed even further to walking pace.

You have to almost shout to make yourself heard over the storm. “Should we shelter?”

“At the river,” he yells. The heavens rumble again, and you only catch a few words from the rest of his response. It’s something about lightning taking the fastest route to the ground, the giant redwoods, and the river basin’s elevation. Whatever he said, you trust him.

You’ve dealt with rain on Endor before, but never a storm of this magnitude. This is something else. You’ve always been safe in the compound when these monsters have descended. Growing up on Onderon, there were frequent downpours – it’s a planet of rainforests, after all. But they were seasonal, predictable, and didn’t come with high winds and dangerous lightning. You can cope with rain, but the related perils teased by this sinister squall put you on high alert. These are hazards you’ve never had to handle, and they fry your nerves.

After two near misses from flying branches, the tempest demonstrates its dominion over the landscape to a frightening degree. With a horrendous crack, lightning strikes a tree just ahead of you, rending a bough at the top and sending it crashing into your path. Your pilot slams hard on the brakes, and the heavy branch misses you by mere metres.

Shit, that was fucking close!

Din leaps off the bike, darting behind you, and confusion joins your anxiety… until you feel his large hands slide beneath your ass. The storm’s howl eclipses your squeal as his gloved fingers press into your backside and shift you forward on the seat. It’s the very definition of manhandling. But you understand his intent as soon as he climbs on behind you and wraps his body around yours.

“My HUD is useless at this speed,” he calls, as close to your ear as possible with the beskar between you. “But I can shield you from branches.”

You acknowledge with a nod and power the bike past the fallen branch, pressing ahead at the same walking pace. Your anxiety over the dangerous conditions utterly eclipses any enjoyment from having this hunter grab your ass and manhandle you to where he wants you. Instead, you clear space in your mind and lock away the memory of his fingers on your flesh, intending to savour it later.

It’s a further twenty minutes before the trees start to shrink in height. The undergrowth here is just as dense, but since the canopy is lower, it shields you more from the gusting wind. You flinch with every cacophonous clap of thunder, but the supportive arms surrounding you tighten each time.

Pressing ahead for more tense minutes, you’re starting to wonder where the kriff the river is. This is maddening; surely you should’ve reached it by now. But wait. There! At last, you glimpse it through the washed-out trees up ahead.

Deferring to your partner’s eminent hunting expertise, you halt the speeder and point out the glinting expanse.

Din acknowledges what you’ve spotted by calling clear instructions beside your ear. “The storm covers the sound of the speeder, so we’re safe. Go slow and stop just before the tree line. I gotta get a look at the area.”

As ordered, you cruise the bike carefully to the tree line, where you both dismount and crouch at the edge of the undergrowth. Peering through the torrential downpour while the sky cracks and rends above you, you try to assess your situation.

The river is vastly swollen from the excessive rainfall, and the velocity of the gushing water unnerves you as it roars past like a monstrous silver snake. Peering through the veil of rain, you can just about see to the other side, and… kark. It’s already broken its banks in a few places on the far shore where the parallel path alongside runs lowest. If the storm continues all day, this location could become dangerous for anyone trapped here. Luckily, the banks are somewhat steeper on this side, at least in this stretch of the river. Who knows what you’ll find up ahead.

The toxic torment of anxiety begins to work its way up from your stomach. The idea that you’re now totally unprepared for the bounty’s next move causes mild nausea and dizziness to overcome you. The vicious storm has directly interfered with a plan you’ve already had to adjust once today – it’s not kriffing fair!

Turning away from the torrent, you retreat to the other side of the speeder and huddle down on your haunches on the muddy ground. Dejected and discouraged, you stare at the sheets of water from the heavens as they blur the trees into obscure outlines.

Din’s large hand on your shoulder startles you, and you refocus on him as he steps around and crouches in front of you. He leans forward until his helmet is near enough to shield you somewhat, the raindrops beating down on the beskar and streaming along his back.

“There’s nothing to suggest he’s got transport. Not here, at least,” he announces loudly, full of confidence. Then he seems to sense something is amiss from your lack of response and squeezes your shoulder. “Are you okay?”

What you wouldn’t give to see your Mandalorian’s eyes right now. The hood and goggles you wear add an extra barrier between you, already kept so far removed by his darkened visor. What you want – what you need – is a warm-blooded assurance that you’re safe and that there’s still a plan. The rapid and chaotic descent of the weather into this nightmarish cataclysm has engulfed and buried your positivity from mere hours ago. Just this morning, this man made you feel more connected to life than ever. Now you feel adrift, battered and blown by the vicious wind, rattled by every clap of thunder, fearful of surrounding danger.

“I don’t like this!” you all but shriek, pushing up your goggles with no regard for the rain. “Check the fob.”

He obliges your request instantly, either because it’s a wise move or because he wants to calm you down. Probably both. The pulse of the tracker isn’t audible against the storm, but the light on the front flashes at the fastest speed you’ve seen.

Nantoogen is closer than ever. Your heart hammers harder, and your uneven breathing falters further.

Din sees your terror despite the downpour, and he stashes the fob and takes your cloaked head in his hands, hovering even closer. “Look at me,” he commands, and when you do, he continues, “Great, now listen to me. Remember the criminal detector in my helmet? I scanned for heat signatures, and all I got were animals. He’s not close enough to know we’re here – the fob confirms that. Trust me, I’ve been reading them for years. He’s at least ten minutes from here on foot. He is not gonna ambush us. Now breathe.”

Okay, that helps. Your companion reaches for your hand, carefully pressing his gloved thumb into the centre of your palm, knowing now that it calms the body. Then he picks up your other hand and presses it to his beskar chest, exaggerating his slow breathing to help you pace yours. You follow the rise and fall of his cuirass, matching the speed until your gulping breaths slow and you’ve regained some semblance of composure again.

“ThankyouI’msorry.” Gratitude and apologies tumble out together, less shrill than before but still loud enough to carry above the storm. “I just… I hate that the plan’s gone to shit, and we have no karking idea what’s coming. It’s making me nervous.”

He allows your hand to fall from his cuirass but keeps his thumb in your palm. His glove and your hand are so wet that it’s a poor and distinctly soggy version of the gesture, but you’re thankful nonetheless. He still has to raise his voice against the noise of the torrential downpour, even hovering so close to you.

“The plan is the same: locate, observe, adjust, then track. We reached the river without injury, and I didn’t expect him to be sitting on the shore waiting for us. The fob gives us his direction, and the storm gives us cover, so we have an extra advantage now. Once we’ve located him and confirmed how and where he’s waiting this out, we can do the same. We’ll move when he moves. I know it’s not ideal, but we can handle it, okay?”

Din’s supportive comments cause confidence and gratitude to bubble up inside you in defiance of the downward pounding rain. In your mind, you rebel against the very idea of Endor’s wayward weather. How dare it interfere with your hunt! Once again, you’re filled with an indignant drive to catch the motherkarking quarry and escape this moon, steeling you against the inclement conditions.

The hunter sees the change in your eyes and removes his thumb from your palm. “Good girl,” he praises loudly, giving your upper arm a firm squeeze, and now you have something else to bank in your brain for later. Something much nicer…

He yelled those two words casually, yet your brain decides to revive you from your recent doldrums by imagining him whispering them to you in bed. Stars. But with a sly smile, you curb that thought and store it safely, turning your focus to the current situation. “What’s next?”

“We conceal the bike, then recon on foot, heading north. Stay low. The trees make for taller lightning rods than us and should dissipate any hits, but you can’t predict the path of lightning. We don’t wanna be obvious options. Don’t pass too close to trees, and don’t reach out for anything taller than you unless it’s me. Follow my route exactly and stay about a metre behind me.” He concludes his instructions with another squeeze of your arm, helping you to your feet when you acknowledge.

Once he’s donned his jetpack, you drag foliage across the speeder and set off, remaining low as planned.

Trekking through the dense undergrowth in a rainstorm is challenging, to say the least. Din picks a path that takes you between vegetation of a similar height to himself, avoiding the tallest trees. He makes skilful use of his vibroblade on the thick foliage where required, carving a discreet path. You activate your vamblade to assist but manage to weave through it without cutting much more. Your parents taught you about tracking, though that part of your schooling didn’t start until you’d left the Highlands, so it was all theoretical. Nonetheless, you recall you should be as subtle as possible in creating a path from your origin point and your supplies on the speeder.

Finally, he stops and crouches, and you mimic the movement in his wake, unable to see what he’s seeing. The notion that you’re so close to your attacker again makes your heart pound. Your partner taps some commands on his vambrace, then extracts a small scope with which he focuses on a specific area of interest. After a few moments, he stows the scope and turns.

Creeping closer so you’re hunkered down with heads bowed together again, you can just about hear his clearly spoken report through the howling storm. “I’ve got what I need; let’s head south. I’ll fill you in when we find shelter.”

You turn and move in the direction you just came from, picking up your own trail. The return trek is quicker with fewer bushes to cut, and you relish how accomplished you feel simply by taking the lead and not getting lost once.

When you arrive, Din recovers your supply bag from the speeder but leaves the lyaer’tsa where it is, replacing the thick foliage over the bike. He then beckons you to follow, darting across to the south side of the main path you followed to the river. You’re happy to note he’s putting more space between yourselves and Nantoogen while keeping a safe distance from the aggressive flow of the river itself.

It’s a further ten minutes of pressing through thick foliage and flinching at the cracks of thunder, and your nerves are getting frazzled. But soon, the space between the trees increases, and the vegetation begins to thin out, making you feel less trapped. As tangled roots make way for a slippery carpet of leaves, your companion leads you to the base of a steep ridge. Several sharp rocks and boulders protrude from it at odd angles, and a few almost overhang, creating shallow yet vital sources of possible shelter. However, the ground below them is a quagmire of mud and leaves, and you’re not keen to sit in it.

He soon finds a suitable location: a shallow outcropping at a right angle with a vertical face, forming a corner alcove. The planes of the rock are oddly smooth and look almost carved.

“Stay back; gonna use my flamethrowers,” he warns.

Once you’re crouched a few metres away, grasping the backpack he just shoved into your arms, you discover the purpose of his pyrotechnics. He angles both vambraces at the spot beneath the rocky overhang, and twin jets of fire incinerate the damp leaves, baking the mud into a hardened seal. Smoke billows off the ground as the rain cools the superheated earth, and when he’s deemed it safe, he beckons you closer.

There isn’t room for both of you under the jutting rock. In fact, there’s barely space for you on your own without a broad man in beskar. Plus, it doesn’t protrude far enough to keep either of you completely dry. But Din seems to have a plan, and you value his survival skills even more.

“Crouch down there and give me your cloak. I need your vibro-shiv too,” he instructs, speaking directly toward your ear. The sky flashes bright with lightning again, making you close your eyes against the reflection in his armour. Between peals of thunder, he urges, “Now.”

You duck under the low, shallow overhang and follow the instructions as fast as possible. Squatting on the baked clay-like spot, you bemoan the loss of your waterproof covering until you realise what he’s doing with it.

He jams his vibroblade through the blanket’s corner into a fissure just above you, then pulls it across and secures the other corner using your vibro-shiv. It’s low enough to connect to the ground with plenty of excess, and from inside your narrow refuge, you watch him pull it outward a little. Then the fabric goes taut, and you surmise he’s heaved some smaller boulders onto the lower edge to prevent it from whipping about in the wind.

You’re now veiled from the elements by a vertical stone wall on your left, plus an inclined rock roof/wall behind and above you. The waterproof blanket creates a mirrored sloping fabric roof/wall at a narrow angle from the lip of the outcropping to the ground in front. A small opening remains at the end for lookout purposes, downwind so the gusts won’t blow inside.

Using only two blades and a blanket, he’s constructed a tiny mixed material cave-tent. And he’s done it with such nonchalance – as if keeping you both safe and dry amidst a monster storm isn’t an outstanding display of skill.

There’s barely room for you on your own in here, so you’re unsure how you’ll both utilise the shelter. Even when Din speaks again, you’re none the wiser.

“This’ll be tight, but we can manage,” he calls from the opening on your right, detaching his jetpack and passing it to you. “But we gotta behave, okay?”

You have no idea what he means, but you’ll agree to anything. “Yes, fine. Just get in here.” You tuck his jetpack next to your bag in the narrow space where the fabric meets the ground, leaving as much room as possible closer to the smooth rock.

As you debate whether you can fold yourselves in here side by side, he clarifies, “You gotta come out first, just for a few seconds.”

You hurriedly swap places with him and grimace in the downpour, but his prediction of a few seconds was accurate. The moment you’re clear, the hunter grabs your waist from behind and spins you both. Then he ducks down and falls backward into the shelter, landing on his ass and pulling you down messily with him… straight into his lap.

His arms stay locked around your waist, holding you securely against him as he shuffles as far inside as possible. When he can go no further, he finds the best position with his back against the vertical section and his legs outstretched. But he doesn’t relax. Neither of you comments on how firmly your bodies press together. You sit in skittish silence for a few minutes, listening to the storm raging outside, pinned against cold beskar, albeit not painfully.

Din’s thigh cuisses are smooth to sit atop, and you’ve leaned against his chest plate before, so this isn’t half bad. Wriggling atop him until you’ve found the least awkward angle, you distribute your weight evenly and readjust your shock baton along your outstretched leg so it doesn’t dig in.

The rain slides right off the metal of his armour, making it a drier seat than his soggy flight suit underneath. The blanket kept your own clothes mostly dry, so you don’t want to wick up the wetness from him any more than from the ground. Given your position, though, there’s no avoiding it in the armourless areas… in fact, your ass is already a little damp. Nonetheless, it’s the best option – physically, at least.

The atmosphere, however, is a different story. The silence isn’t awkward, but it’s far less relaxed than usual, and you’re not quite sure why. This isn’t the first time you’ve found yourselves in a small space pressed up close together. You spent several hours in such a position less than half a rotation ago.

After a while, it becomes alarmingly clear that you need to address the issue. The enclosure of blanket and rock means the turbulent storm no longer whips away your words, so at least you don’t have to shout anymore. Small mercies, you suppose.

“So… I realise this kicks the whole concept of keeping each other at arm’s length in the metaphorical ass, but this doesn’t have to be weird, Din. I slept in your arms last night; why are you so tense?”

When he exhales, it sounds (and feels) as if he’s been holding his breath since you sat down. “It’s just… I gotta focus so it doesn’t get weird. Last night, you weren’t… pressed against anything I needed to control. That was easier than this.” Despite his hesitant response, he doesn’t sound embarrassed. Instead, it’s more like he hopes referring to the likelihood of an erection might somehow keep it from occurring.

“Oh,” you offer sheepishly when he reveals the issue, making a valiant attempt to keep your hips and ass completely still against him. “Am I… should I move? Or is moving bad? Yeah, moving’s gonna be worse. Okay, I’m channelling stillness.” You begin chanting in a slow monotone. “I am one with the weirdly smooth rocks around us, enduring and stable. I am beskar, strong and—”

Your companion’s laugh cuts you off, quaking below you, and you replace your chanting with a grin. The instant the tension dissipates, you forget about staying still and fully relax against him, which in turn reduces the urge to fidget.

“That helped,” he chuckles. “Thanks.”

“Thank you for making a shelter,” you respond. “And for keeping me off the ground – beskar is better than mud, even baked mud.”

His laughter fades into a low hum to acknowledge your gratitude.

It’s dim in here but not dark, and the fabric is thin enough that the space fully lights up whenever the sky flashes. Studying your surroundings further, you reach out to stroke the pinkish-grey wall. “This rock is strange. It looks carved.”

“It’s quartzite,” he explains. “It forms naturally like this. Means there was volcanic activity here before the forests grew.”

You start to smile at Din’s impressive knowledge of the natural world, clearly a boon in bounty hunting. But you’re facing away from him, so your smile goes unnoticed, and he completes his lesson unaware of your wordless esteem.

“The mineral has high resistivity and low conductivity, like my armour. This is the safest place we could be in this kind of storm.”

You pat a smooth section of his vambrace. “Thanks, Professor Djarin,” you jibe, making him chuckle again. Using his mirth as a distraction, you seamlessly switch to interrogation mode and declare, “So, I have questions.”

His levity morphs into a melodramatic groan. “When don’t you?”

“Mission-related questions,” you pout. Stars, he’s so weirdly fussy about when he is and isn’t happy to answer you. Adopting a commanding tone, you announce, “I’m debriefing you, soldier. What did you learn from our recon?”

The casual way you play-act at military speak sets him at ease, and he answers you honestly. “There’s good news and bad news.” He hesitates, then ventures, “Don’t get upset, okay? This is nothing we can’t handle.” At your nod, he continues. “Bad news is he has a boat – he’s using it as shelter. Good news is it’s small, and as far as I can tell, it’s unpowered. So we can still outrun him on the speeder.”

The sky cracks with another lightning bolt, but it doesn’t perturb you as you consider Din’s report. You’re becoming as accustomed to the fearsome booms of the thunder as you are to the unwelcome hiccups in the plan. Plus, the strong arms wrapped around you and his earlier words of support help keep you calm.

Instead, a meagre grunt of frustration escapes you. You flatly surmise, “If Nantoogen has a boat conveniently stashed where he needs one, he must have planned this.”

“Scrapping the speeder was probably planned, yes. Fake a crash and scuff around to make it seem like he’s taken the forest path, then divert to the river. It’s a smart move on his part and would’ve worked on many other hunters. His contact at the compound must’ve put an escape route in place for him. But the storm will have inconvenienced him just as much as it has us. Nobody wants to sit in the mud with only an upturned rowboat for shelter.”

Over your shoulder, his helmet gently nudges the side of your head – a little Keldabe kiss of support.

“The plan is mostly unchanged,” he continues. “We’ve reached the river, and we’ve located him. He’ll stay put until the weather calms down, or taking that boat out won’t be safe. When he moves, we’ll track him from a safe distance and take him down when we’re closer to his ship. The only change is that there’s more waiting, which often happens on hunts. Timing is critical.”

A frustrated sigh escapes you, except it’s not about the plan. Sitting in your Mandalorian’s lap just reminds you of what you can’t yet have, and any delay in reaching it is a hindrance you could do without. “I’m getting used to waiting, I guess.”

“Mm-hmm,” he agrees, fidgeting slightly beneath you.

More minutes pass, during which Din continues to squirm subtly, and you try not to think of what he’s struggling to control. Instead, you focus on how the rolls of thunder echo through the valley carved by the river like a rampaging herd of banthas.

It soon becomes clear that he’s having trouble subduing his physical reaction to having your weight pressed against him. Not that you’re coping much better. It’s crossed your mind, so it must have crossed his too: you could have some mind-blowing sex in this position. The way he’s got you trapped against him… kriff, you can feel him half hard beneath you. All you can think about is rolling your hips and pressing against his stiffening cock, and your muscles twitch with the effort to stay chaste. The idea of getting off like this makes you wet in a way that has nothing to do with the rainstorm, only adding to the dampness between you.

No, this is wrong. You’d better stop thinking these things before you go too f—

“Ask me something,” he suddenly croaks through a shuddering breath.

“Oh, so now you’re inviting my questions?” You bark a cynical laugh, focusing on the role switch to distract from the sexual tension. “Just now, you suggested my urge to constantly ask you things is annoying.”

Against the flutter of the blanket above you, he negates your assumption. “Other people asking me about myself is an annoyance. I resist answering out of habit. But I told you, your questions help me focus… and I really need some of that right now. I’m— dank farrik… I’m having trouble here.”

“I’m not exactly immune either, Din,” you advise. “This is hard for me too, no pun intended. It’s taking every scrap of willpower to stop myself from moving against you how I really want to.”

He groans and then swallows audibly. “Please.” His low voice sounds strained, almost begging, which doesn’t improve your focus. Logic tells you he’s repeating his appeal for you to question him, but you can’t help thinking he’s secretly pleading for you to grind down against him.

“Ah, okay, um….” You rack your brain, trying to formulate something not related to the filthy images searing themselves into your mind’s eye, but you come up short. Maybe you can just compel him to offer something of his own accord? “What’s the next big thing you need to tell me about?”

His groan is a fusion of lust and frustration. “Fuck, woman, way to be general about it.” You recognise that he’s cursing, complaining, and using such an impersonal label because it’s safer than giving in to his desire. The tension in the arms wrapped around you is palpable; he’s locked his muscles to avoid sliding his hands to places that are within easy reach.

You need to get your companion talking, but given his reluctance to speak about his past, you’ll have to persuade him once again. Do you really have to convince him to trust you every time? Then again, he’s given you such tireless support regarding your own areas of weakness that you can’t deny him the same when he finds something difficult. The instant you grasp this fact, you relent easily.

“Alright, look at it this way: I don’t know what I should be asking, so we’ve got two options here. We can dance around the things you want to tell me and let the sexual tension take over. Or, we can use this time to get some of the important stuff out in the open and refocus ourselves. We’re stuck here for who knows how long, and I’m facing away from you, so you won’t have me staring at you when you talk. And if you need support or comfort, you’ve got me in your arms.” You illustrate by squeezing his elbow.

When he stays silent, you carry on your persuasion, wondering if you’re getting anywhere. You try to infuse extra softness into your tone, as if you’re coaxing a bearded jax out of its den.

“Din, I promise you there’s nothing you can say that’ll make me like you less. I don’t care if it’s about your beliefs, your creed, bad things you’ve done in the past, or crazy things you want in the future. I’ve accepted everything else you’ve told me, so why should this be any different?”

His helmet lowers onto your shoulder, and he performs a vague imitation of nuzzling you there if there wasn’t beskar between you. You get the impression he’s trying to reassure himself rather than come on to you, though. At least you’ve managed to distract him, or you’re pretty sure you have since the bulge beneath you is already far less evident.

You wait patiently for him to figure out where to start, but when he still hasn’t spoken after a further minute, you prompt him again. “Whatever it is, try reducing it to the smallest possible statement and then just say it. I don’t care how shocking it sounds. Then you can explain it at your own pace, and I’ll just listen. Okay?”

After a few seconds, you feel the helmet shake against your shoulder. Then he explains, “This is… a lot of big stuff, and you need context, or you’ll get mad. I can’t just… say it.”

“Well, then maybe….” You flounder a little, casting about for ways to help him. “Are there… events you can tell me about chronologically? Will that work?”

Once again, you detect the response on your shoulder; this time, it’s a nod. Finally. Din inhales audibly through the vocoder, and you steel yourself for whatever his disclosure is.

He doesn’t lift his head, but he rolls the helmet sideways on your shoulder so he’s speaking close to your ear, his voice hesitant. “I… I had a foundling. A child. I rescued him from an Imperial remnant, and he travelled with me for a while. I took care of him. The Imps sent bounty hunters after us, so we were… fugitives for a while. Then, after I’d dealt with them and cleared my name, my tribe’s Armourer tasked me with bringing him to his own kind.”

It’s another startling confession, but you take it in your stride again. The knowledge that he protected and provided for a child only makes you more sure of your feelings for this incredible man. Suddenly, his caring instincts make sense.

It also gives you more context regarding his character. You’ve already determined this hunter has morals, and now you’ve learned he knows how it feels to be quarry too. He can truly empathise with those he hunts, and that must make his job profoundly challenging.

Beyond that, however, you’re intensely curious to learn about the child he cared for. You utilise his pause to prompt him gently, “His own kind?”

He continues, still sounding uncertain. “I’d never seen one of his species before, but then I discovered he was a Jedi with… powers. It meant I couldn’t train him – I had to find him a Jedi. But while I was tracking them down, we became… close. It felt like he was my kid. And then a Jedi found us, and… he took him away.”

You’ve heard of the Jedi. Your parents told you stories about their role in the Clone Wars and how they were all wiped out by the Empire when the conflict ended. Then there are the tall tales your Ewok friends told you about a magical Jedi in the Battle of Endor. But those were campfire stories for the Woklings, nothing more. Your brain suddenly connects those stories with Din’s laser sword, though you can’t possibly ask him about that while he’s busy sharing his past. And it can’t be the same thing, anyway – his weapon isn’t bright like lightsabers supposedly were.

As the heavens continue to rumble outside your shelter, you ignore your sceptical thoughts and focus on the anguish in his voice. You lace your fingers with his damp gloves and give a supportive squeeze, and he returns it in gratitude.

After a moment, he needs no prompting to continue, now sounding dejected. “I told you that Mandalorians adopt foundlings, how it’s part of our creed to raise our children as warriors. I failed with mine. I couldn’t adopt him as my own, and I couldn’t raise him as Mandalorian.”

Guilt rolls off him, but you’re sure he hasn’t finished because he’s said nothing remotely maddening yet. And he seemed so sure you’d get mad about something. You’d rather not interrupt him with verbal sympathy, so you soothe his gloved hand with your thumb, awaiting his confession.

“I was… upset when he went. He made me a better man, but I had to give him up. It made me angry, sad, selfish… I don’t know why I did it, but… please don’t be mad….” Din takes a deep breath, and his subsequent words smoulder in shame and regret. “I broke the Creed and removed my helmet to say goodbye.”

Oh, kriff. That’s what’s got him so worried. He’s already taken it off for someone, yet he’s not sure if he can ever do the same for you, even in darkness. And he let this kid see his face. On purpose.

But this isn’t about you. Managing to contain your shock, you recover within seconds, knowing he needs your support without judgment or jealousy.

When he doesn’t speak for a moment, you stroke his gloved hand again and softly murmur, “I’m not mad… that would be a very selfish reaction. You had a valid reason to do it. He was your child, even if only for a short time. If that’s what he needed when you had to say goodbye, you were just being a good father. Less than a minute ago, you told me that part of your creed is raising children. The way I see it, you had to break one part to fulfil another for the sake of a child you cared for. I would say that’s a noble sacrifice.”

He inhales raggedly and squeezes your hand – a thank you for your words of support.

You wonder why he was so sure you’d be mad about this, but then you recall how he froze in response to your earlier query about kissing. Ah. You should clarify things.

“Din, I need you to know: I will never expect you to break your creed for me. He was your family; I’m not. I want to kiss you, but only if we can do it without risking your creed. I’ll only be comfortable trying it if you are too, and we go at whatever pace suits you. When I asked about loopholes earlier, I didn’t mean to suggest that you should risk or sacrifice anything for me. That’s the last thing I want. I should’ve clarified that; I’m sorry.”

Your Mandalorian tightens his arms around you and lets out a shuddering exhale through the modulator. Then he breathes your name, and since he seldom uses it, it signifies that what he’s about to say will be sincere and impactful. “I didn’t want to keep it a secret from you that I had a kid. But I didn’t want you to be jealous or assume I could remove my helmet again because I’ve broken my creed before. I couldn’t tell you one without the other – it would’ve felt like lying. The guilt has been… weighing on me. Because I removed it before and because I can’t do the same for you… as much as I want to.” He nuzzles his visor against your shoulder again. “I’m sorry that I can’t. Thank you for accepting that, cyar’ika.”

Three of his words glow like embers in the small space, hanging over you and burning themselves into your brain. Perhaps it’s wrong to ask, but you can’t help yourself. “You want to? Remove it for me?”

Din is silent again. Karking hell, he’s just as frustrating as a dokma: all cute and cautiously affectionate until he’s startled and darts back inside his shell.

Mere minutes ago, you assured him you’d never condone him breaking his creed for you, so he should understand you haven’t revised that opinion. Nonetheless, you reassure him of your respect for his customs. “I know you can’t, and you shouldn’t. As you said, I’ve accepted it. I’m not asking; I’m just surprised to hear you say you want to.”

He makes a muted noise of frustration, although it’s clearly directed at himself. “Part of me does. Very much. There’s a voice inside me saying, what the hell – it’s come off before, so it’s no big deal to do it again. And I’m already pushing the boundaries by lifting it to eat and drink in your presence. But other parts of me are saying no way: my loyalty to the Creed, my need to atone. And I gotta listen to my faith and guilt because right now, they shout louder than… my feelings for you. But it’s only been five days… that could change. I think if… I-I think—” He cuts himself off as words fail him, then gathers his strength. “Fuck it… it’s… it’s already starting to change.”

Holy stars. The weight of Din’s statement lies heavily on your chest like a fallen bantha.

It’s true, it’s only been five days. Five short Endor days. And whatever you feel for one another, no matter how serious it’s rapidly becoming, it doesn’t justify him giving in to temptation. But those feelings are evolving fast for you both, and the idea that they could become the loudest voice guiding his actions is both wonderful and worrying.

Because this isn’t just any action you’re discussing. It’s whether his feelings for you could become so deep that he’d willingly break the creed he’s lived by for the past twenty-five years. And he’s just confirmed not only that his feelings could become that strong, but that they’re already evolving in that direction. The implications of that are huge and fucking scary.

“I don’t… it’s…” You scramble helplessly for the right words, taking a deep breath. Now that those as yet unlabelled feelings have become the main topic, you thank the stars you’re not facing him for this discussion. “I want to be… honest,” you begin. And you do, but it’s hard, despite the momentous thing he just admitted to.

Can you name it? Will it scare him? Somewhere deep inside, you already know the answer to that. Once he’d conquered his initial nerves, Din made his admission with confidence. If he’s willing to face it head-on, so are you.

So you persevere. “The truth is, I’m feeling some… intense stuff here. About you. Toward you. This thing between us is becoming much more… serious than I expected. We both know it. We’ve alluded to it. But we haven’t said it.”

“Because it’s only been five days,” he asserts. “It sounds crazy out loud.”

Well, that confirms it. Your thoughts align on this concept. It gives you confidence.

“I agree, and we’re not… kriff, look, if we’re both thinking the same crazy thing about where this is going, then I’m just gonna say it.” You hear him inhale expectantly, and you draw in the energy from the storm and close your eyes. “This isn’t love, but—”

“—but it’s heading that way,” he finishes for you, low and assured.

Huddled in the tiny shelter, the wind and rain beating on the blanket, your warrior’s warm body beneath you and his strong arms around you, the act of finally giving your confusing feelings a potential label infuses you with both terror and joy. You inhale a shuddering breath, out of your depth yet so sure of the truth, able to do nothing except nod your emphatic agreement.

And now you know precisely what to tell him.

“I need you to understand, Din… if that happens, I still won’t accept it as a reason for you to remove your helmet. Not on its own. If that voice gets louder, it doesn’t mean the other voices disappear. I won’t let you abandon your faith or your need to atone just because I’ve distracted you with something new and exciting. If you feel okay lifting it around me to eat and drink and someday kiss, that’s your decision. But I don’t want you to compromise anything else for me.”

He squeezes you tight again and nuzzles your shoulder, then simply breathes, “Fuck….”

Two swears from your companion in the space of two minutes. Your words have hit home.

“Yeah, that about covers it,” you agree.

You sit quietly for a while, the sky outside rippling with lightning that strobes dimly through the fabric and brighter through the downwind opening at your feet. And here you remain, safely ensconced in a bubble of blossoming emotions for one another, reflecting on what was just said. Admitted.

It’s several contented minutes before Din speaks again. “Saying those things to me… making promises like that… it’s only making that voice louder for me.”

“Well, I guess when we can finally stop talking in euphemisms, we’ll know we’re there,” you smirk, lightening the discussion’s weight with humour.

It works, and he chuckles in agreement. Then he offers a sudden (though unsurprising) admission. “I’ve never been in love before.”

“Me neither,” you agree, a smile turning up the corners of your mouth at hearing that word from his lips. “But I don’t think this is how normal people do it.”

He snorts through the vocoder. “Discussing it first like we’re planning a hunt.”

“Uh-huh,” you laugh, pausing to try and work out how to put words to your thoughts. “This is all new and… scary – for both of us. But yesterday, I told you we should just see what works for us, and I meant that. I was always scared to tell others how I felt in the past, but with you, it’s different. I’m not scared of telling you; I’m scared of what it means. But it seems like… the more we admit out loud what we’re feeling, the easier it is to deal with. Like we’re figuring it out together. And I think that makes the feelings – and what they mean – seem a little less scary.”

“It does,” Din agrees warmly, and you’re pleased your thought came out somewhat coherently.

“I’m also pretty sure all this ‘sharing’ is increasing our feelings. We’re spending so much time getting to know one another that it’s no wonder this is happening so fast. And even though waiting for sex is difficult, I like the idea that when we finally get there, it’ll have more… emotional weight. I’ve never had that. It makes the waiting easier to bear, and it’s… kind of exciting.”

“Mm-hmm,” he agrees, and you detect a ripple of desire running through his body beneath you. “Maybe too exciting… I wanna talk about it, but it’s not a good idea when we’re sitting in this position. Too tempting. Ask me something else.”

You’re briefly speechless at learning he wants to actually talk about the two of you having sex. Then again, assuming he can tamp down his urges, you have a hunch that he finds it easier to discuss the physical than the emotional. Although he managed to do a fine job just now. You’re proud of you both for being so honest.

But you should avoid risky topics while you’re pressed so close together. “I’d love to hear more about your foundling if it’s not a difficult subject for you. Will you tell me about him?”

His tense muscles instantly relax beneath you, proving it was a wise direction to steer the discussion. You hear relief and affection in his tone as he begins to describe the child who brought softness to the life of a beskar-clad warrior. “His name’s Grogu….”

And for the next hour or so, Din regales you with stories about the fifty-year-old green baby he rescued and cared for. He radiates warm pride as he tells you of the child’s quirks and foibles and his surprising (and frankly impossible) powers. He candidly reveals his own struggles with unplanned parenthood, and how the kid’s mere presence evolved and adjusted his worldview.

He becomes sad when he recounts the kidnapping by the dark troopers, and you entwine your fingers with his again. His anger seethes as he bitterly describes the ex-ISB officer who wanted the child for fiendish research, and you stroke calm support along his arms. Your heart breaks when he details the destruction of his ship – his first home away from his tribe, one he’d had since leaving them at eighteen. But you share his joy at Grogu’s rescue and their reunion, along with the defeat of the Imperial scourge. Then almost instantly, you’re engulfed by the pain he felt at having to say goodbye to his child, possibly forever.

To claim he’s had a turbulent few years is an understatement. While you’ve been feeling nothing here on Endor, he’s been feeling every emotion possible to an insane degree.

He doesn’t explain why he took the child under his protection in the first place. Nor does he talk about who made up the team he assembled for the rescue mission after the kidnapping. His sentences become clipped as he rushes ahead with some new detail, and you begin to realise he’s glossing over some parts of the story. You don’t question what he’s skipping, however, assuming they’re topics for when he has the strength of mind to dwell on them. He’ll bring up his omissions when he’s good and ready.

All the new insights tuck themselves securely inside the file of data you hold in your heart about your Mandalorian, swelling your understanding of who he is. Every detail you hear just makes you love him more. Because that’s what this is, you realise. You might not be in love with him yet, but you do feel such a strong affection for him that it must be some form of love. Friends, definitely. Lovers, inevitably. And so the word fits. Not quite perfectly; it’s still a little like trying to plug a scomp link into the wrong size jack. But its burgeoning existence is finally something you can acknowledge, even if it hasn’t fully crystallised into the certainty required for a formal pledge.

You let Din talk without interruption for as long as he needs to, save for offering supportive touches and nods. The details flood out of him as if a dam has broken, coming as thick and fast as the rain above. When you first met him, you couldn’t imagine him speaking at such length with such a range of feelings. Yet now you’ve discovered that underneath the hard armour is a man with an infinite capacity for softness and passion alongside the resolute strength of a warrior.

They say still waters run deep, and he embodies that adage.

When he’s finally all out of words, you rest your head on his shoulder and turn it toward him. “Thank you for sharing all of this with me,” you whisper, tapping your forehead against the side of his helmet.

Your companion hums a response, and his mood feels more buoyant than ever. “I really wanted to tell you, I just… I was afraid of your reaction to me breaking my creed.”

“Yeah, I understand that. But you need to start believing me when I promise I won’t judge you or use anything you tell me against you. Someone I apprenticed for years ago used to call me ‘logically inclined’ and took it upon himself to teach me logical debate. He said I can see other people’s points of view, and from that, I can determine exactly what I can and can’t convince them of. That lets me win the arguments I choose to engage in. And I can see your creed is not up for debate, Din. Getting you to describe yourself and remove your glove was fair game because you confirmed those things weren’t forbidden. But I would never try and convince you to remove your helmet when it’s clear how traumatic it was to do it once before. I would never disrespect you in that way. I’m not one of those women who try to nag their partners into changing things for their own selfish gain.”

“You’re not like anyone else I’ve ever met,” he agrees, stroking your arm gently.

A peaceful interlude descends between you, and you refocus your thoughts on your surroundings, listening to the beat of the raindrops on the blanket. With your attention no longer on the man beneath you, you register how cramped your muscles are becoming from the static position you’re maintaining. No doubt his are just as bad from having your body pin him in place for what must be hours by now. You can’t help shifting in his lap, drawing a slight yelp from him.

“Sorry,” you lament. “I’m starting to ache. I mean my muscles, not… other places.”

“Should I sit in your lap instead?” he jokes, making you giggle. When you sober, he continues, “If you let me out, I’ll go do a sweep of the area. I gotta stretch my legs too.”

Pouting, you paw at his flight suit sleeve and grumble, “You’ve only just dried out.”

“Aching muscles or a damp partner, you choose.” Din taps your arm, prompting the second option. But for a moment, you’re stuck on wondering whether he meant ‘hunting partner’ or ‘romantic partner’. You’ve been using the former in your mind since you left your quarters, but you suddenly realise you just said it aloud in the context of the latter. Is that why he used it to refer to himself? He’s your partner now? Well, it’s better than ‘boyfriend’.

“Fine,” you grouse. “How do we do this?”

“Just… crawl off me, carefully. As soon as I’m out, you can come back inside.”

It’s a tricky manoeuvre involving extensive shuffling, but you’re only crouched in the rain for a few seconds as he quits the hideout. You scurry inside again, lamenting the latest discomfort of baked mud beneath your ass, before calling out to him as he huddles by the entrance. “Check the fob. Any movement?”

The hunter follows your command and calls out his findings. “No change. Sit tight; I’ll be a few minutes.” Then he moves out of view of the small gap at the far end of the shelter, and you’re alone with your thoughts.

Strangely, though, you’re not scared, which is surprising. You’re alone in the middle of the forest, at the mercy of a turbulent tempest, and there’s a dangerous criminal not twenty minutes northward. Yet, when you think about the bond you and Din have developed over the past few days, it infuses you with a fortitude you’ve never felt before. You’re pretty sure it’s that ‘right type of focus’ he spoke of. Your reason for fighting. For existing. It sits glowing in your chest, soothing and strengthening you better than anything else has ever managed.

The rain continues to hammer down, but the wind has lessened, and the skies no longer flash with lightning. You hadn’t noticed the absence of rumbling thunder until now, but thinking about it, you can’t recall the last booming peal you heard. It’s a promising sign, and with any luck, it means you’re at the tail end of the storm.

True to his word, your companion returns after only a few minutes, crouching at the entrance to the shelter. His wet armour glistens as he confirms your suspicions. “I can see the edge of the cloud bank from the ridge. It’ll pass soon. We should be ready to move when it does.”

“Okay.” You shift forward and begin to gather your pack from where it sits by your legs.

Then all hell breaks loose.

You see Din jerk as something hits him, though the downpour covers the sound. Then sparks of blaster fire ricochet off his beskar, and he instantly draws his own weapon and returns fire at the unseen assailant. Instinct makes you cringe backward against the rock behind you in acute alarm.

A shot suddenly tears through the blanket where your head was seconds before, and he yells, “Get out and find cover!” Then he’s off, sprinting toward the danger as only a warrior would, showing himself as the prominent target so you can make good your escape.

With your heart in your throat, you abandon the pack and throw yourself through the gap, scrambling to your feet against the damp forest floor. You tear up the ridge as fast as you can on the slippery leaves, heading for the cover of the jutting rocks higher up. Zigzagging as you move, another bolt of plasma screams past you just as you reach a large rock and dive behind it. For several seconds, you’re frozen there, gasping from the mad dash and the adrenaline that flooded your body the instant the attack began.

It can’t be Nantoogen. Only a few minutes ago, the fob showed he hadn’t moved from where you left him… didn’t it?

Peeking over the jagged rock, you try to assess the situation. Din is engaging in a firefight with someone concealed by a large tree some distance away, exchanging shots before ducking behind a smaller tree of his own. When the attacker next dodges out from the trunk to fire, you note the slim waist and prominent breasts, which suggest it’s a woman. You can’t tell her species from this distance. You can only make out greyish wrinkled skin and a lack of hair besides two long braids that whip about as she moves.

Who the fuck is that? If it’s the bounty’s accomplice from the compound, she must have access to an off-the-books vehicle to have travelled such a distance just as fast as you.

Although your knowledge of firearms is minimal, the elongated barrel of her pistol looks modified to increase its range. Her shots easily strike Din’s tree while his bolts barely reach hers. As she levels off a couple more volleys and retreats again, the hunter darts forward, taking up position behind a closer tree. He does this twice more until his shots reach her easily, although she still has a more powerful weapon.

But he has better armour.

Fear for his safety surges from your stomach to your throat as you watch him abandon his cover and stand out in the open. Now confident his shots can reach her, he lines up his sights and waits for her to take her turn.

The rain beats down on you, soaking your mud-stained clothes, but you couldn’t care less. Focusing every scrap of your attention on your Mandalorian, you can’t stop fretting about the gaps between his beskar plates. You hold your breath.

The instant the woman peeks out, he fires, but she ducks back, and the bolt grazes the tree exactly where her head was a second before. Damn, he’s a fucking expert shot. He really wasn’t just trying to impress you when he mentioned his blaster skills – he spoke the truth. But it just so happens that this target is quick and agile too.

Now that she knows he has the proximity and skill to take her out the moment she shows herself, the shooting stops. You assume she’s weighing her options, and Din gives her one. “Drop your blaster, and I won’t kill you,” he yells, loud enough for you to just barely hear it over the hiss of the downpour.

There’s no reply from his opponent, although you’re not sure you’d hear it from this distance unless she yelled it too.

You’re just wondering where this stalemate is going when there’s a shot from the tree’s opposite side. Even before it’s ricocheted off his armour, the hunter has adjusted his angle and returned fire. His quick reaction seems to land him a hit of his own this time, if the gruff scream that rings out is any proof. Your respect for his skills grows even more.

Once again, the falling rain and swaying conifers are the only movements, with the woman hiding and your partner poised and waiting. You recognise what she’s doing, though. She wants him to assume she’s too injured to fight, and when he steps around her tree, she’ll fire at him. It’s an amateur move, one this seasoned warrior is well-acquainted with, judging by the pissed-off shake of his helmet. But thankfully, he has other tactics and weapons he can employ.

Din moves his blaster into his left hand and carefully creeps forward. You watch as he raises his right vambrace, and you’re a little unnerved at the idea of him using his flamethrower on her. That just seems macabre. But when he nears the tree, he doesn’t step around it as the woman hopes he will. Instead, he launches a whipcord from his vambrace and jerks his arm to the left, sending it sideways to encircle both tree and target. The trunk’s substantial girth means it wraps around only twice and isn’t tight enough to properly pin her. But it gives him the extra seconds he needs to cover the last few metres and dart around the tree with his blaster poised to fire.

Two shots scream from two barrels.

You wince as the plasma bolt grazes Din’s upper arm, but he doesn’t so much as flinch. In fact, he doesn’t move at all, frozen and primed for any more trouble. His inaction after firing his weapon only once tells you that he must’ve hit his mark too, and it was probably a kill shot.

When he finally lowers his blaster and looks up at the rocks, you understand the nod he gives you: it’s safe to approach. Carefully, you sidle down the slippery ridge and over to the chaotic scene below.

Mud is partially splattered across your companion’s vambrace and cuisse where he side-skidded down the steep slope, but the rainwater should soon clean it off. He appears calm and impassive, and you’re a little mystified by how he can maintain such composure after getting shot at and taking a life.

You suppose this is just a regular day at work for him.

Rounding the tree, you discover the woman is a Weequay, and you’re shocked to find you recognise her. You’re sure you’ve seen her at the cantina drinking with a crew from one of the compound’s numerous outposts, although you’re unsure of her job.

It’s clear now why he risked going in close range – this species’ skin is somewhat resistant to blasters, so he needed proximity. His kill shot pierced the very centre of her wrinkled forehead, a kriffing masterful display of marksmanship, given he had barely a second to aim with his non-dominant hand. Okay, you’re convinced. Din has magic hands.

The adrenaline is wearing off, but you’re not scared. The dead body lying limp against the trunk doesn’t unnerve you since you saw numerous fallen soldiers in the Partisans’ camp. But you simply can’t decide which question to start with out of the millions that race through your mind. Luckily, the hunter seems happy to provide you with the details he’s already gleaned, saving you from having to ask.

“I’m guessing this was Nantoogen’s contact at the compound. She probably met him at the river with the boat, which explains how she got up here so fast. You knew her?” He must’ve seen the recognition on your face, and you confirm with a nod. He then speaks in a quieter register, and you realise the storm must have eased a fair amount if you can hear anything less than a shout now. “You understand I had to kill her, right? She gave me no choice.”

His urge to check you’re alright with his decision to take a life is sweet but surprising. You thought he knew that you have no issue with his profession. Then again, he wasn’t given a bounty puck to authorise killing this woman, so perhaps he’s testing where you draw your moral lines. Maybe he’s also concerned by your silence.

“I understand,” you respond flatly. You accept it had to go down this way, but you’re not about to sound happy about it. And at least taking out Nantoogen’s smuggling ally means the compound will be safer now. “She would’ve killed us both if you hadn’t shot her first. I know you’re not a monster, Din; please don’t assume I would think that.”

His body relaxes a fraction, but he grunts and mirrors your muted tone. “Don’t assume you know what I’ve been in the past, sweet girl. These hands may be soft with you, but you still don’t know about all the blood on them.”

After your recent sharing session, it appears your partner’s confidence in revealing things he thinks might be difficult for you to hear is increasing. You assume he threw in that endearment to soften what must be another topic he wants to discuss: how much he’s had to kill and how much that might bother you.

Once again, you take it in your stride, confident your trust in him is fully justified and absolute. “You’re not the only one with a violent history. Whoever or whatever you’ve been in the past has made you into who you are now, and that’s the only version of you I care about.” His specific phrasing suggests he wants you to ask about it next time, so you make a mental note and show you’ve understood. “But if you feel up to it, you can tell me about those violent origins later – I’m still not judging.”

As your clothes become steadily soaked, you cross your arms over your chest and peer at his arm. You have more critical issues on your mind, and you manage to change the subject before he can respond.

“She shot you too. How bad is it?”

“The bolt only grazed my arm, just a burn, no blood. I’m fine.” He seems pleased with the change in topic, showing you the rip in his sleeve and the burn beneath. You’d be hopping in pain if it were your arm, but he looks utterly unbothered by it, so you don’t make a fuss. He looks you over carefully in turn. “Are you okay?”

“Not a scratch.” You give him a closed-mouth smile, soothing and earnest, then continue to clarify events. “Why didn’t you see her on your sweep? Didn’t you use your heat vision?”

Din crouches down next to the limp figure and pulls down the collar of her jacket. “She’s wearing a thermoguard body suit. It screws with the sensors. Plus, the rain obscures any prints by cooling the heat residue.”

“Nantoogen doesn’t have one, though?”

“No, I detected him easily. And the fob shows he hasn’t moved.” He pulls it out of his belt to illustrate, passing it to you so the unchanged interval of the pulses can reassure you.

“So, how did she find us?” You return the fob and attempt to wipe some of the droplets from your face, but it’s fruitless with your equally wet hands.

The hunter is silent for a moment, mulling over your question. “The most likely answer is that she was with our guy when we found him, but I couldn’t detect her because of the thermoguard. They waited out the storm, same as we did. When the lightning stopped, he sent her out to recon, and she picked up our trail.”

With a deep breath, you focus on gathering data to help with the mission, fervently ignoring your unease in favour of practical thinking. “So, should we assume she told him we’re hunting him?”

Rummaging in the pockets on the corpse’s belt, Din comes up with a comlink and lifts it to show you. Your jaw aches from grinding your teeth at each new grim surprise.

“Okay, so it’s almost certain she told him, right?” you repeat with more urgency.

“Yes,” he agrees carefully, “Although it’s a fair bet he suspected it anyway, so it doesn’t change our plan. But her locating us might, so we’d better get back to the speeder. If she tracked us here, she must’ve passed it, so my first concern is to check she didn’t tamper with it.”

Shit. That hadn’t even occurred to you.

“Tampered, I can fix; destroyed, I can’t. Let’s get ready to go. I won’t be happy until I’ve found out which it is.” Not waiting for his response, you head toward the small shelter to pack up, an icy ball of nerves sitting in your chest.

How many more problems can you expect before the mission’s end?

You put all your strength into pushing the boulders that pin the blanket, rolling them just enough to extract the fabric. Then you wiggle the knives out of the rock, grimacing at the scrapes along the metal planes. They’ll need sharpening and polishing when you have time.

Once the blanket is free, you can’t help but bemoan the slits made by the blades and the large hole where the Weequay shot through it. You finally fold it and hang it through the backpack’s straps; there’s no way it’s going inside while the outer layer remains rain-soaked.

Speaking of rain-soaked, you embody the very word – another reason you folded the blanket. Every scrap of clothing on you is now drenched, although your mud-caked boots are a snug fit, so your feet and calves remain dry. Thank the stars for quality footwear – it’s a lesson you learned growing up on a rainforest planet. But it’d be pointless to don a sodden cloak again when you’re sopping wet anyway, so you simply endure.

You return down the slope to find your resourceful companion has searched the Weequay for anything else of use. He’s come up with several heavy blaster mods, a smaller pistol with a spare power pack and gas cartridge, and a few hundred credits.

“Hey, now you can afford to refuel your ship,” you joke, trying to make yourself laugh more than him. However, it’s Din’s responsive chuckle that turns up the corner of your mouth as you thrust his heavy jetpack at him.

He sobers as he reattaches the device to his backplate and admits, “Robbing the dead of their credits is dishonourable and something I rarely do. I have no right to take what I haven’t earned, so I’ll only do it if I have no choice. And in this case, you’re correct – I don’t have a lot of fuel left. I let you assume I can chase the bounty to Bakura if he escapes, but… that’s not true. I need credits, and she’s not using them now.” He levels his visor at you. “And you’re not above larceny, it seems. Maybe you could make it as a bounty hunter after all….”

Choosing to ignore his confession of just how broke he really is, you keep up the witty backchat. “Hmm, it sounds like a lot of work. I think I’ll just send you out on my behalf.” You hold out his vibroblade, pleased when he offers a laugh in exchange.

Accepting the weapon, he laces his voice with sarcasm and remarks, “Woman at home, man out earning a living… on some planets, they call that marriage.”

For a second, you’re thrown by his comment, but his cynical delivery shows he’s just trying to be funny, so you scoff and match his tone. “Yeah, and on some planets, giving someone a knife is a courtship intention. On others, carrying a spouse’s weapons is a shared marital rite. What’s your point?”

Din barks a sharp, modulated laugh at your forthrightness, holding up his gloved hands in surrender. “Five days. I have no point, I swear.”

It’s an amusing reframing of your fast-moving relationship versus more widely accepted customs and traditions amongst humans in the galaxy. You grin sincerely to show you understand and welcome the ability to joke about it. It feels good to be like-minded on the subject, jointly aware of how serious your bond is becoming, yet happy to acknowledge it without any pressure. And content to admit where you’ll end up…

In love.

“As long as you don’t misread me giving you this,” he adds, holding out the small blaster pistol he’s recovered from the woman’s thigh holster.

You accept his offering warily, holding the weapon with care. “I’m not a gun person,” you protest. “These things are unpredictable. With close combat, you can control a strike – you can feel it. But you can’t feel where a blaster bolt will land.”

“But you can shoot.”

It’s delivered as a statement, not a question, and you’re flattered that this warrior would rather overestimate your skill set than show any doubt. “Badly, yes. My parents showed me how, but I’ve never owned a blaster. It’s probably been about a decade since I last fired one.”

“Then keep it just in case. You might not always be close enough to use your primary skill. This is just another option if the situation is less than ideal.” He unwinds the holster from the Weequay’s thigh and holds it out to you with the spare power pack and cartridge.

With a sigh, you relent and begin equipping yourself. Din remains crouched and watches you, and you shake your head at him. “Should you turn away while I do this? I’d rather not distract you.”

He stands up and looms toward you. “It’s weapons-related; it’s not the dangerous kind of distraction. I can appreciate how good you look carrying weapons without it affecting my focus. It’s getting easier to compartmentalise.”

As if to illustrate his claim, he steps in close and drops into another crouch, checking the tightness of the holster around your thigh. Then he moves up along the strap that runs up over your hip and clips onto your belt for added support, checking it’s secure. During his inspection, he grazes your wet pants aplenty but doesn’t seem too distracted. Satisfied, he places his hand on your waist as he stands, gives a quick squeeze, and then steps backward with an approving nod.

Hmm. Suddenly, the urge to clarify something overwhelms you. “So with the gurreck… your reaction after that was just because you hadn’t seen me fight before?”

Your partner pauses before he nods. That’s not quite it, then. You think back over the past few days, focusing on events and discussions related to weapons and combat. Suddenly, you recall how relieved he seemed when you explained the extent of your training to him en route to the mess hall. You can’t prevent the triumphant grin when you realise the truth.

“No, it was because I’d finally proved I could fight, wasn’t it? You thought you’d fallen for someone soft. That my training didn’t equal my ability. But I passed a test, and you let your guard down out of sheer relief.”

Din’s helmet hangs in apparent shame, studying the ground off to his left. He seems embarrassed or perhaps a little distressed that someone can read him this well despite his beskar walls, so you reassure him.

“It’s okay, I get it. I don’t have to know anything about Mandalorians to recognise that your culture probably champions strength in women too, so weakness wouldn’t be attractive.” You recall how many times he’s urged you to acknowledge your strength over the past few days, and it makes total sense now. “I imagine it must be confusing to realise you’re attracted to someone who doesn’t seem to fit your usual type. I’m glad I’ve had a chance to prove I’m not just capable, but also… suitable.”

“It wouldn’t matter to me,” he insists, then clarifies his statement. “If you couldn’t fight, I mean. Or if you prefer not to anymore. I value the skill, I admire it, and it makes me worry less. But it isn’t… a necessary factor for me to feel the way I do. I hoped that was obvious after Nantoogen did what he did to you.” He then rocks his helmet from side to side, conceding your conclusion. “But you’re right about how it affected me in the moment. It was a relief to see you handle the gurreck so well. It’s… cultural. Sorry…”

You dismiss his apology with a shake of your head. “Whether I want to fight or not isn’t relevant. We both know there’s no avoiding it sometimes, and I’ve learned I can’t hide away on this moon anymore. Being with you is helping me see I can find a balance between the beauty and the horror of combat.” You smile and extract your new blaster from its holster to examine it. “Plus, I’m happy I turned out to be more the sort of woman your people might approve of after all.”

Din doesn’t reply to your comment, though his chest visibly swelled with deeper breaths throughout your response. Over recent days, you’ve learned this means he’s so approving of what you’re saying that he’s almost trying to breathe in your sentiments. And you love that you know that about him.

You continue to study your new weapon, and he soon steps in close again, ready to give you any pointers if required.

It’s a model you’ve seen many times, but you’ve only ever heard it referred to as a ‘Mos Eisley special’ by the Partisans. It’s lightweight and easy to handle, although it’s slightly different from the ones you saw your family carry. “No safety?”

“No. BlasTech produced DL-18s as military grade, but they made them easy to mod so they’d be more popular. The Alliance added safeties to theirs, but criminals prefer a quick draw, as do bounty hunters. Mine has no safety either.”

You’re starting to love it when he goes into his lecturer mode. He’d make a great teacher.

“It’ll be fine in the holster,” the hunter reassures. “Just don’t point it at anything unless you wanna shoot it, and don’t touch the trigger until you’re ready to fire.”

“Have I got time to try it?” Your willingness surprises even you. Perhaps his love of firearms is rubbing off on you.

He nods, and you resolve to be quick about this. You turn your back to him and line up a wide tree about ten metres away, adopting the position your parents showed you many years ago. Before you can fire, Din gives you some extra pointers.

“Your stance is good, but this has a reduced spread mod, so use your rangefinder for accuracy.” He points to the long metal shaft along the top that you felt was just getting in the way of lining up your shot.

Instead of squinting down the side of the barrel as you had been, you adjust your gaze along the rangefinder’s length. It feels too high above the barrel to be correct; surely it’ll push your shot low? But your Mandalorian is the expert marksman, and you trust him.

“Good. Keep your arm straight, but don’t lock your elbow, and squeeze slowly to get a feel for the trigger’s biting point. The recoil is minimal since it’s not ballistic, but be ready for it anyway. If you hold true, it shouldn’t change the angle.”

You slot your finger in place and squeeze the trigger slowly as instructed, and you’re happy to find it takes a firm pull to fire the weapon. It’s strangely thrilling when the red bolt of plasma screams from the barrel and hits the tree you were aiming for. Sure, the burn mark is off-centre, but it’s surprisingly accurate, and you’re overjoyed. And there was barely any recoil, just as predicted.

“Thought you said you were a bad shot,” your companion remarks, sounding just as impressed as you feel.

“Last time I fired a blaster, I was!” You can’t keep the grin off your face. For some reason, doing well at something Din is an expert in makes you feel closer to him. “I hope it’s having a better weapon and an excellent teacher rather than just luck.”

“When we have time for a proper lesson, we’ll test that theory,” he suggests approvingly, “But we gotta get back to the speeder. The rain’s getting lighter – Nantoogen will start moving soon, especially when she doesn’t check in.”

He glances at the fob to confirm the target’s location hasn’t changed, then pockets the purse of credits he found on the Weequay along with her comlink. You’ve holstered your blaster by the time he stands again.

Taking a deep breath, you begin moving north toward the bounty. “Let’s go,” you call over your shoulder, and a quick glance behind you shows him frozen in place, just watching you as you walk away. It’s only a few seconds, and then he’s striding after you, catching up swiftly.

You can’t help but feel warmed to your core by seeing his attraction and approval directed so openly toward you. He’s described it to you today, and now he’s showing you.