Material Lists 🩵

Directive Breach

Boss (Delta Squad) x Reader

Warnings: injuries, suggestive content,l

⸻

The jungle was thick with steam and smoke, the scent of burning metal and charred flesh choking the air. Delta Squad’s evac had been shot down. You were the only survivor from your recon team. Boss had taken command of the op—naturally.

“Stick close,” he ordered, his voice rasping through the modulator, sharp like durasteel dragged across stone.

You rolled your eyes, already moving. “I didn’t survive a crashing gunship to get babysat by a buckethead.”

He turned just enough to look at you, that T-shaped visor catching the fading light. “I don’t babysit. I lead.”

“And I slice,” you shot back, shouldering your pack. “Let me do my job.”

“We already have a slicer” he respond, before he turned forward again. But you could feel him watching you—tracking your movements with that eerie commando focus. It had been two days of this now: evading patrols, patching up your leg, sleeping back-to-back under foliage so thick you couldn’t see the stars.

Tonight, it rained. Not the cooling kind—this rain was warm, heavy, pressing the jungle into silence. You sat in a hollowed-out tree, tuning your equipment while Boss kept watch. When he finally returned to your makeshift camp, you didn’t look up.

“How bad’s your leg?”

“Fine.”

“You’re limping harder than yesterday.”

“You’re observant. I’m touched.”

“Stop being stubborn,” he muttered, kneeling in front of you. His gauntlet brushed your knee as he examined the torn fabric and swelling underneath. “You need rest.”

“You need to stop looking at me like that,” you whispered.

Silence stretched. You met his gaze, even if you couldn’t see his eyes behind the visor. Something heavy passed between you. Maybe it was the danger. Maybe it was the exhaustion. Or maybe it was the way he’d hauled you out of that wreckage, swearing he’d get you home.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said finally, voice lower. “You’re not one of us.”

“No. I’m not. But I’m here now.” You leaned closer, your voice daring. “And so are you.”

His breath caught, almost imperceptible beneath the rain. Then—he reached up and disengaged the seal on his helmet. The hiss of depressurization was drowned out by your heartbeat.

And when he took it off, you saw him—finally. Tanned skin streaked with grime and blood. Jaw tight. Eyes locked on yours like they were burning through you.

“Tell me to stop,” he said.

You didn’t. You leaned in.

He kissed you hard—like everything he’d been holding back had snapped. His gloves were rough on your skin, tugging you closer, anchoring you to him like he was afraid you’d disappear. You curled your fingers into the collar of his armor and pulled until you could feel the heat of his body beneath the plastoid.

“I’ve got one night,” he murmured against your throat. “One night before I’m a soldier again.”

“Then make it count,” you whispered.

And he did.

⸻

The war would keep going. The Republic would keep taking. But in a jungle no one would remember, under a rain no one would care about, Boss let himself be something other than a number—and you let yourself fall for a soldier who wasn’t supposed to love.

⸻

I don't understand how people just Do things without daydreaming. like how are you not off in a silly little fantasy world rn

Palpatine: Sneezes

Fox, hiding in his vents, aiming a sniper through the slats: Bless you.

Palpatine, looking up: God?

Fox, cocking the sniper: You won't be seeing him where your going.

We interrupt your regularly scheduled political tragedy to bring you SPACE PIGEONS.

i’m sorry i said my character was morally gray. i was trying to sound normal. he’s actually a feral prophet who speaks in riddles and collects teeth.

“Red and Loyal” pt.2

Commander Fox x Senator Reader

The ship had gone still.

Most of the squad was asleep or at their rotating stations, the buzz of activity finally reduced to soft footsteps and quiet system hums. You couldn’t sleep. Your mind was too full. Of war. Of your people. Of him.

You stepped into the small mess area, wrapped in a light shawl, datapad abandoned for now. The stars shimmered through the viewports—quiet reminders that home was still a jump away.

Fox stood near the corner of the room, arms folded, armor still on, posture straight as a blaster barrel. He didn’t sleep either, apparently.

“Commander,” you said softly.

He looked up. “Senator.”

You crossed over to the small counter, pouring two glasses of the modest liquor you’d brought from home—a deep, rich amber spirit your father once called “liquid courage.” You turned and held out a glass to him.

“A peace offering,” you said. “Or a truce. Or a bribe. I haven’t decided yet.”

His eyes flicked from the drink to your face. “I’m on duty.”

“I figured,” you murmured. “But I thought I’d try anyway.”

He didn’t take it. You didn’t seem surprised.

Instead, you set it beside him and leaned back against the opposite wall, cradling your own drink between your fingers. “Do you ever turn it off?”

Fox was quiet for a moment. “The job?”

You nodded.

“No.” He said it without hesitation. “If I do, people get hurt.”

You watched him carefully. “That’s a heavy way to live.”

He gave a small shrug. “It’s the only way I know how.”

Another beat of silence.

“Why did you do it?” you asked. “Come on this mission. Really.”

Fox’s jaw tightened slightly. “It’s my job.”

You raised an eyebrow. “So you personally assign yourself to every Senator in distress?”

He hesitated. For once, his gaze flicked away.

“I’ve seen how the Senate works,” he said. “Most of them wouldn’t even look at a trooper if we were bleeding out in front of them. But you… you stayed after the session. You fought for people who can’t fight for themselves. You saw us.”

Your throat tightened unexpectedly.

“And I didn’t want you to walk into danger alone.”

You stared at him for a long moment, glass forgotten in your hand. “That doesn’t sound like just your job, Commander.”

His eyes finally met yours again—steadier now. More open. And, stars help you, so full of weight he didn’t know how to express out loud.

“No,” he said finally. “It doesn’t.”

The silence between you changed—no longer empty, but thick with understanding. The kind you didn’t speak of because it was too real.

You stepped forward slowly, picking up the untouched glass you’d offered him earlier.

“Still on duty?” you asked softly, brushing your fingers against his as you took the drink back in your other hand.

Fox didn’t answer.

But he didn’t pull away, either.

You finally excused yourself, your steps quiet as you retreated toward your quarters with a whispered “Goodnight, Commander.”

Fox didn’t respond. Couldn’t.

His gaze lingered where you’d just stood, your scent still in the air—soft, warm, like something grounding amidst all the cold metal and chaos.

The untouched glass in your hands, the brush of your fingers on his glove, the way you looked at him like you saw him—not just the armor, not just the title.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, jaw clenched so hard it ached.

He didn’t do feelings. Not on duty. Not ever.

And yet.

“Thought I smelled something burning.”

Fox didn’t need to look to know it was Hound. Grizzer padded quietly beside him, tongue lolling lazily, clearly amused.

Fox muttered, “Shouldn’t you be asleep?”

“Could say the same about you.” Hound stepped into the light, arms folded over his chest, eyebrow raised. “So. You gonna talk about it?”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Uh-huh.” Hound’s tone was flat, unimpressed. “You stood there like a statue for five minutes after she left. You’re not even blinking. Pretty sure even Grizzer picked up on it.”

The strill let out a low chuff, like it agreed.

Fox turned his face away. “Drop it.”

“I would,” Hound said casually, “but it’s hard to ignore the fact that our famously emotionless commander suddenly cares very much about one specific Senator.”

“She’s… different.”

“Ohhh, so we are talking about it now?” Hound smirked.

Fox didn’t answer.

Hound stepped closer, lowering his voice—not mocking now, just honest. “Look, vod… We’ve all seen how they treat us. The senators. The brass. Most of them wouldn’t notice if we vanished tomorrow. But she sees you.”

Fox’s jaw flexed again, the ache behind his eyes growing sharper.

“She sees you, Fox,” Hound repeated gently. “And I think that scares the hell out of you.”

A long silence stretched between them.

Then, quietly, Fox murmured, “I can’t afford to feel anything. Not right now. Not while she’s in danger.”

Hound studied him for a moment, then nodded slowly. “Yeah. I get that.” He turned to leave. “But when it’s all over, and you still can’t breathe unless you’re near her? Don’t act surprised.”

Fox didn’t move.

Didn’t respond.

Didn’t deny it.

⸻

The ship touched down just outside the capital’s perimeter, the soft hiss of the landing gear punctuated by the high-pitched whine of distant warning sirens—testing protocols, for now. Not real.

Not yet.

The skies were overcast, a thick grey ceiling hanging low over the city like a held breath. Your home was still standing, still calm, but tension clung to the air like static.

Fox stood at the bottom of the ramp, visor angled outward, scanning the buildings and courtyards that framed the landing pad. Thire, Stone, and Hound fanned out without instruction. The city guard was present—under-trained, under-equipped, but trying.

You stepped off the ramp and immediately straightened your posture as a familiar man approached—Governor Dalen, flanked by two aides and a pale-faced city official clutching a datapad like a lifeline.

“Senator,” Dalen said, his voice tight but relieved. “You came back.”

You offered a small smile, but your eyes were already on the buildings, the people, the quiet way citizens walked just a little too quickly, too aware.

“Of course I came,” you said. “I told you I would.”

“I didn’t think they’d let you,” he admitted.

“They didn’t,” you said plainly. “But I wasn’t asking.”

Fox’s eyes shifted slightly, his stance tensing at the edge of your voice. That edge had returned—sharp, determined, the voice of someone who belonged here, in the dirt with her people.

You took a breath. “We stood before the Senate. I made our case. I begged.”

Dalen didn’t speak.

You shook your head. “But they’re stretched thin. We’re not a priority. They said they’d ‘review the situation’ once the Outer Rim sieges ease.”

Dalen’s face hardened. “So they’ll help us when there’s nothing left to save.”

“That’s the game,” you said bitterly. “Politics.”

Behind you, Fox’s shoulders shifted—just barely—but enough that you knew he heard. Knew he understood.

“But,” you added, lifting your chin, “we’re not alone. Commander Fox and his squad have been assigned to protect the capital until reinforcements can be spared.”

The governor’s gaze flicked past you, eyeing the bright red armor, the silent, imposing soldiers who looked more like war machines than men.

“They’re few in number,” you said, “but I’d trust one of them over a hundred guardsmen.”

Fox stepped forward then, speaking for the first time. “We’ll secure the palace perimeter and establish fallback zones in the city. If the Separatists make a move, we’ll hold them as long as needed.”

You didn’t miss the subtle weight behind his words: We’ll hold them off long enough for you to survive.

And somehow, even in all that steel and stoicism, it made your heart ache.

The governor gave a hesitant nod, but the weariness in his posture didn’t fade. “We’ll do what we can to prepare, but if they attack…”

“We hold,” you said simply.

Fox turned his head slightly, just enough to look at you. “And we protect.”

You gave him a small, fierce smile. “I know you will.”

⸻

The market square was quieter than you remembered.

Stalls were still open, vendors selling fruit and fabric and hot bread, but the usual bustle was muted. People spoke in hushed voices, glancing nervously at the skies every few minutes as if expecting Separatist ships to appear at any second.

You didn’t take a speeder. You walked.

You wanted them to see you—not as some distant official behind Senate walls, but as someone who came home. Someone who stayed.

“Senator,” an older woman called, her hands tight around a child’s shoulders. “Is it true? That the Republic isn’t coming?”

You crouched to the child’s eye level, your expression gentle. “They are coming,” you said carefully. “Just not yet. But we’re not alone. We have soldiers here. Good ones.”

Behind you, Fox lingered in the shadow of a nearby wall, helmet on, arms folded. Watching. Always.

A young man stepped forward, anger shining in his eyes. “We heard rumors. That they think we’re not worth the effort.”

“They’re wrong,” you said, rising to face him. “You are worth the effort. I went to the Senate myself. I fought for this place. And I will keep fighting until we get what we need. But until then… we hold the line.”

Murmurs spread through the crowd. A few people clapped, quietly. Some didn’t. But they listened.

And they saw you.

After several more conversations—reassurances, promises, words you hoped you could keep—you stepped into the alley behind the square for a breath of quiet. The pressure was starting to catch up with you, sharp and cold in your lungs.

Fox was already there, leaning against the wall, helmet off, his expression unreadable.

“You shouldn’t have come out without a perimeter,” he said.

You tilted your head. “You were the perimeter.”

“That’s not the point,” he muttered, stepping closer. “If they attack, the capital will be first. The square could be turned to ash in minutes. You can’t be in the middle of a crowd when it happens.”

“They needed to see me.”

“I need you alive.”

The words came out harsher than he intended—too fast, too sharp—and he immediately looked away like he wished he could take them back.

You stared at him, heart catching in your throat.

His jaw clenched. “Your death won’t inspire anyone.”

Silence.

“You’re worried about me,” you said quietly, stepping forward.

“I’m responsible for you,” he corrected, but there was no strength behind it.

You reached out, fingers brushing the gauntlet on his arm. “You don’t have to lie, Fox. Not to me.”

He looked down at your hand on his armor, at the softness in your voice that disarmed him more than any weapon ever could.

“This is going to get worse before it gets better,” he said. “And if you keep walking into the fire…”

You smiled sadly. “You’ll follow me in?”

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t have to.

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

“Collateral Morals” pt.1

Commander Thorn x Senator!Reader

The Senate chamber was a palace of marble and double-speak.

Your voice cut through it like a vibroblade.

“I will not stay silent while the Republic condemns slavery in the same breath it sends engineered men to die nameless in another system’s dust!”

Murmurs rippled. Eyes narrowed. A few senators visibly flinched.

“I will not—cannot—stand by while the Republic claps itself on the back for dismantling slavery on one hand and sends the clone army to their deaths with the other.”

You continued, stepping away from the podium, unshaken despite the weight of every eye trained on you.

“We decry the Zygerians, the Hutts, the slavers of the outer rim—but we justify the manufacturing of a living, breathing people because they wear our uniform and die for our cause.”

There was a stillness in the room now. Even the usual side-chatter had ceased.

You weren’t drunk. Not now. Not here.

You were righteous. Unapologetic. You were chaos in silk, fire behind a senator’s seal.

“They are not tools. They are not assets. They are men. We claim moral superiority while deploying an engineered slave force across the galaxy. We praise the courage of the clones while denying them names, futures, choices.”

A few senators whispered among themselves. Bail Organa looked grim. Mon Mothma’s hands were clasped in silent support. But others—the loyalists, the corporate-backed, the status quo—were already sharpening their rebuttals.

You stared them down.

“The clones are not our property. And if we continue to treat them as such, the Republic is not the democracy we pretend it is.”

You bowed your head. “That’s all.”

And you walked off the podium to the thunderous silence of a room unsure whether to cheer or crucify you.

⸻

You returned to your apartment, dimly lit, your shoes discarded at the door, and your shoulder already aching from tension and too many political threats disguised as advice.

You poured a drink—nothing fancy—and leaned against your balcony rail, staring at the neon jungle below.

“You did good,” you murmured to yourself. “Or at least, you told the truth.”

You raised your glass. “To inconvenient truths.”

That’s when the glass shattered.

You froze. A second bolt followed, scorching the edge of your balcony railing.

Sniper.

You dropped to the floor just as a third bolt zipped over your head, and crawled behind the couch, heart hammering. Your comm was somewhere in your bag across the room. The lights flickered. You could hear movement. Someone was in the apartment.

A shadow shifted across the floor.

Then—crash.

A body slammed through the window behind you, and you screamed, scrabbling backward as the intruder raised a blaster.

But before he could fire—Three red bolts tore through the assassin’s chest.

You blinked, stunned, as the armored figure that followed stepped over the body and into your apartment like the chaos meant nothing.

Crimson armor. Sharp as a blade. Helmet marked with authority.

Commander Thorn.

He scanned the room once, then motioned to his men.

“Clear.”

Two more red-armored Coruscant Guards entered, rifles up, fanning out.

“Senator,” Thorn said, voice clipped. “You’re being placed under full security protection by order of the Chancellor.”

You were still catching your breath. “Nice to meet you too.”

Thorn’s helmet didn’t move. “You were targeted by a professional. It wasn’t random.”

“No kidding,” you muttered, pulling yourself up. “Didn’t think a critic of the military complex would be popular.”

His head tilted slightly. “You’ll be assigned two guards at all times. Myself included.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You? You’re—what, my babysitter now?”

“I’m your shield,” he said coolly. “Whether you like it or not.”

There was steel in his posture, in his voice, but also something else—something unreadable beneath the weight of his duty.

You scoffed, brushing glass off your skirt. “Hope you’re not allergic to disaster, Commander. I tend to attract it.”

“You attract assassins,” he said. “Disaster is just the symptom.”

You paused.

“…You’re kind of intense.”

He stared.

“You’re kind of loud,” he replied.

You blinked—then grinned. “This is going to be so much fun.”

⸻

You woke up to three missed calls, two blistering news headlines, and one very annoyed clone standing guard inside your kitchen.

Thorn hadn’t moved from his post since 0400.

You stumbled in wearing a shirt that definitely wasn’t clean and cradling your hangover like an old lover.

He didn’t even blink at your state.

“Your 0900 meeting with the Chancellor has been moved up,” he said without looking at you. “You’re expected in twenty minutes.”

You opened the fridge. Empty. “Does that meeting come with caf?”

“No.”

“You’re a real charmer, Thorn.”

No answer.

You slapped together something vaguely edible, tossed on the cleanest outfit from the pile on your couch, and let Thorn escort you through the durasteel halls of 500 Republica like a dignified mess being smuggled into a formal event.

Outside your building, the press was already gathered. Dozens of them, hollering questions, waving holorecorders. Most were shouting about your speech. Others were speculating on the assassination attempt.

You lowered your sunglasses, jaw tight.

Thorn’s voice was calm in your ear. “Keep walking. Don’t engage.”

You didn’t.

But you did flash a grin at the cameras.

“Can’t kill the truth, folks!” you shouted over the noise. “Especially not with bad aim!”

Thorn muttered something under his breath, possibly a curse, definitely not a compliment.

⸻

“She’s here?” Palpatine said, glancing toward the door. “Well, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Punctuality was never her strength.”

You walked in like you owned the building. “She can hear you, Sheev.”

Thorn stayed just inside the doorway, silent as ever, arms folded across his chest.

Palpatine gave you a smile that was mostly teeth. “Senator. I trust you’re recovering?”

“I’m not dead,” you said, collapsing into a chair without being asked. “Which is more than I expected, considering how many people are pissed at me right now.”

He folded his hands. “You courted controversy.”

You raised a brow. “I told the truth.”

“A dangerous thing to do in wartime,” he replied smoothly.

You ignored that, leaning forward. “How’d you know, Sheev?”

Palpatine tilted his head. “Know what?”

“That I was in danger. The Guards were in my apartment before my assassin finished climbing in. You reassigned one of the Republic’s best commanders to me. That wasn’t a panic decision. That was preparation.”

He smiled again. “I have… many sources. Intelligence moves quickly.”

“Cut the bantha,” you said, eyes narrowing. “You know something you’re not saying.”

He didn’t deny it. “Perhaps. But for now, consider this a favor from an old friend.”

“Friend,” you scoffed. “You just like having me close where you can monitor the damage.”

He laughed—light, calculated. “That too.”

You stood. “You owe me answers.”

“I owe you safety,” he corrected. “And you owe the Republic your discretion.”

Thorn shifted behind you, a silent shadow.

“Come on, Commander,” you muttered. “Let’s go before I commit a diplomatic incident.”

⸻

The day hadn’t gotten better.

You’d dodged three interviews, gotten a drink thrown at you by a rival senator’s aide, and broken your datapad in half slamming it on a desk during a debate about clone rights.

You flopped onto your couch, exhausted, mascara smudged, shoes kicked off, hair a mess.

Thorn stood by the window like a living sculpture, arms behind his back.

“You don’t say much,” you mumbled.

“Not required.”

“You don’t flinch either.”

“No point.”

You cracked one eye open. “You ever… relax?”

Silence.

You laughed. “Of course not. You’re like a walking bunker.”

More silence.

You looked over at him. “Do you hate me?”

“No.”

“Then why do you look at me like I’m a mess waiting to happen?”

He finally turned his head toward you. “Because you are.”

You blinked—then smiled.

“For a guy who’s made of rules and laser bolts, you’re kinda boring.”

“I’m not here to be fun.”

You sat up, facing him. “Why are you here then, really? Is it just duty? Or did someone decide I was too much trouble to leave unmonitored?”

He didn’t answer.

But he didn’t leave either.

You leaned closer, voice quieter now. “Do you think I’m wrong about the clones?”

“No.”

You blinked.

“But I follow orders,” he said. “You question them. That makes us different.”

You smiled faintly. “Or it makes us the same. You follow orders to protect lives. I break them for the same reason.”

His visor tilted just slightly. “We’ll see.”

And for a moment, the tension between you wasn’t about politics, or rules, or ideology.

It was the electric kind.

The kind that promised more.

⸻

The club was called The Silver Spire, and it was upscale enough for senators to pretend they weren’t slumming it, but scandalous enough that holonet gossipers would have a field day by morning.

You stepped out of the transport wearing a dress that didn’t scream “senator” so much as it whispered come ruin your reputation with me.

Thorn, behind you, said nothing.

Padmé was already waiting at the front with a small group—Senator Chuchi, Bail Organa (reluctantly), and Mon Mothma, who had her hair up and her tolerance down.

Three red-armored Coruscant Guards flanked the entrance, scanning the street. Thorn spoke into his comm lowly as you joined the others.

“Extra security is in place. Interior sweep complete. Rooftop clear.”

Padmé greeted you with a grin. “Tried to get here early so we could actually enjoy ourselves before the whispers start.”

“I’m already hearing whispers,” you said, nudging her. “Mostly from the commander behind me.”

“I don’t whisper,” Thorn said flatly.

Padmé bit a smile. “Clearly.”

Just then, a new figure approached—dark robes, loose tunic, that signature brow of broody disapproval.

“Senator,” Anakin Skywalker said to Padmé, too formally. “Council approved my presence tonight—just as added protection.”

Padmé raised a brow. “Did they?”

“They did,” he said. “Too many of you gathered in one place after a recent assassination attempt… it’s a risk.”

“Right,” you said, sipping your cocktail from a flask you hadn’t told Thorn you’d brought. “And I’m sure it has nothing to do with the fact that Padmé’s here.”

Anakin ignored that. Barely.

Thorn, beside you, was watching the crowd, the rooftops, the angles of the building like he was mapping out a warzone.

You turned slightly toward him. “Do you ever stop scanning?”

“Only when you stop being a walking target.”

You laughed. “So never?”

“Exactly.”

Inside, the music was low and tasteful, the lights golden. You were seated in a semi-private booth, guarded at all angles. The senators tried to act casual—like they weren’t all wearing panic buttons and sipping around holonet spies.

You watched Padmé and Anakin from across the table. They didn’t touch. They didn’t flirt.

But their eyes never really left each other.

You leaned toward Thorn, who stood behind you like a silent monolith.

“Are all Jedi that obvious when they’re trying not to be obvious?”

Thorn didn’t blink. “No.”

You smiled. “So it’s just Skywalker.”

Thorn didn’t answer—but you were almost sure his mouth twitched.

You sat back, swirling your drink. “You ever go out, Commander? When you’re off duty?”

“I’m never off duty.”

“Do you have a bed?”

“Yes.”

“Do you use it or does it stand in the corner like a decoration?”

Thorn finally looked down at you. “Do you ever stop talking?”

“Do you ever start?”

That almost-smile again.

And just like that, the press of people, the chatter, the pretense—it all seemed distant.

Just you and Thorn and the buzz of something quietly building between bulletproof walls.

“Y’know,” you murmured, “you should really enjoy this moment.”

Thorn’s gaze flicked down. “Why?”

You tilted your head. “Because it’s the closest you’ll ever be to letting your guard down.”

For a second, just a second, his eyes lingered.

Not as a soldier. Not as your shield.

As a man.

Then—

“Senator—movement on the south entrance.”

His voice was clipped, all business again. The moment gone.

You stood, heartbeat ticking faster, not because of the threat—but because you hadn’t realized how close you’d gotten to crossing a line neither of you acknowledged.

The commotion turned out to be nothing.

A waiter with nerves and a tray full of champagne had slipped near the side entrance, knocking over a heat lamp and sending sparks into the ornamental drapes.

No fire. No attack.

Just a very excitable Skywalker igniting his saber in the middle of the dance floor like a drama king with no sense of subtlety.

“Code Red!” he shouted. “Everyone get down!”

“Anakin, stand down!” Padmé hissed, yanking his arm. “It’s a spilled drink and a curtain, not a coup.”

You leaned sideways in your booth, already two cocktails and one shot past rational thinking. “Didn’t know Jedi training included interpretive panic.”

Commander Thorn muttered something into his comm as his men de-escalated the scene. His voice was sharp, focused, firm.

Yours was not.

“Commander,” you slurred, tipping your glass slightly in his direction. “You ever seen a lightsaber waved around that fast outside of a bedroom?”

Chuchi nearly snorted her drink. Padmé covered her mouth to hide her laugh.

Mon Mothma gave a long-suffering sigh. “I knew letting her have wine was a mistake.”

You grinned at her, shameless. “Mistakes are just… educational chaos.”

“Stars,” Bail said dryly, “you’re drunker than a Republic budget.”

You slapped the table proudly. “Drunk, but alive! Which is better than last night, thank you very much.”

Thorn exhaled, long and quiet. “You’re done drinking.”

You blinked up at him, all wide eyes and mischief. “You can’t tell me what to do.”

He stared down at you. “You’re under protection detail.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m under you,” you whispered.

Dead silence.

Padmé choked.

Mon Mothma turned very interested in the far wall.

Thorn blinked once, slowly, before turning to the other senators. “Evening’s over. Time to go.”

⸻

You were a pile of glitter, political scandal, and heels. And you refused to walk.

“You’re heavy for someone who doesn’t eat real food,” Thorn grunted, carrying you in full armor up four flights of stairs after you refused the lift, citing, “The lights are judging me.”

You giggled against his shoulder. “You’re comfy. Like a walking shield.”

“That’s literally my job,” he deadpanned.

“I like your voice,” you slurred. “You always sound like you’re disappointed in me.”

“I am.”

You laughed so hard you nearly slid out of his arms.

He adjusted his grip with practiced ease. “You’re going to be hurting in the morning.”

“I already hurt,” you mumbled. “But, like, in a sexy tragic way.”

He snorted. Actually snorted.

You grinned. “Was that a laugh, Commander?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

He deposited you onto your couch with surprising gentleness, removing your heels and placing them neatly aside.

You flopped dramatically. “You missed your calling. Should’ve been a nurse.”

“I don’t have the patience.”

You curled up, eyes closing. “You’re not what I expected.”

He stood over you, helmet off now, expression unreadable. “Neither are you.”

“Is that a compliment?” you asked through a yawn.

He watched you quietly, the chaotic senator turned half-conscious mess under his protection.

“It might be.”

You were half-curled on the couch now, dress hiked slightly, makeup smudged, dignity somewhere on the floor with your shoes. Thorn hadn’t left—not even after you’d settled. He stood a few paces away, helmet off, arms crossed over his broad chest.

Watching. Waiting. Guarding.

“I’m not always like this,” you muttered into the throw pillow. “The drinking. The… dramatics.”

“You don’t need to explain.”

“I do.” You shifted slightly, blinking blearily at him. “I’m supposed to be a leader. I give speeches about justice, fight for ethics, talk about ending the war, and then I come home and pour whiskey over my own hypocrisy.”

His expression didn’t change. But something in his stance eased.

“You’re not a hypocrite,” he said quietly.

You looked up, surprised.

“I’ve seen hypocrites,” he added. “They talk about morality while funding the war. You talk about morality and get shot for it.”

You laughed—low and bitter. “So what does that make me?”

He hesitated. “It makes you dangerous… and honest.”

You sat up slowly, legs tucked beneath you, your eyes catching his in the low apartment light.

“You really think I’m dangerous?” you asked, voice dipping softer.

His jaw ticked. “Not in the way they do.”

That made you smile.

He didn’t move as you stood, slowly, stepping closer. The room felt smaller. Or maybe just warmer. It could’ve been the wine. Or maybe just him—that presence, that gravity. Commander Thorn wasn’t the type of man women flirted with lightly. He didn’t bend. He didn’t soften.

And still… you reached out, fingers brushing his forearm.

“You ever wish you weren’t born for war?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper. “That you could just… be?”

Something flickered in his eyes. Not pain. Not quite. But something quiet. Something unspoken.

“I don’t know what I’d be if I wasn’t a soldier.”

You stepped even closer now, your chest nearly brushing his, head tilted up, eyes locked. “Maybe something softer.”

“I don’t do soft,” he said.

“I noticed.”

And for a heartbeat—just one—you leaned in. Close enough to kiss him. Close enough to feel the heat between you tighten, coil, burn.

But you stopped.

Just short.

Your breath hitched. You stepped back quickly, blinking it all away.

“I should sleep,” you said, a little too quickly.

Thorn didn’t stop you. Didn’t move. But he watched you turn and disappear toward your bedroom, silent and unreadable.

You paused in the doorway. Just once. Just to check.

He was still standing there.

Still watching.

Still unreadable.

⸻

Morning crept in too early.

You cracked one eye open, instantly regretting it.

Head pounding. Mouth dry. Memory foggy. Your brain felt like a poorly written senate proposal—messy, circular, and somehow your fault.

The last thing you remembered clearly was Thorn’s voice. Then his arms. Then…

Stars.

You sat up too fast and nearly fell right back down.

“Water. Water, water, water,” you croaked to the empty room.

A glass appeared on the side table beside you.

You blinked up.

Commander Thorn.

Helmet on now. Fully armored. Exactly how he should look. Except—

He was standing just a bit too close.

“Appreciate it,” you muttered, taking the water. “You didn’t have to stay.”

“I did,” he said simply.

Right. Assigned protection detail. Not a choice. Orders.

Still—something about the way he looked at you felt like choice.

You downed the water and stood slowly, stretching. “So, uh… rough night?”

He didn’t answer.

You didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. The memory of how close you’d gotten—how close you’d almost—

No. You shook it off.

Professionalism. That’s what today needed. That’s what he was good at.

You, less so.

“Thanks for not letting me fall face-first into the street, by the way,” you said lightly, walking past him toward the kitchenette.

His arm brushed yours. Light. Barely a graze. But enough.

Your breath caught.

“Would’ve been an unfortunate headline,” he said. Still steady. Still unreadable.

“Senator turns into pavement garnish?” you replied, trying for a laugh. “Would’ve matched my mood lately.”

He didn’t laugh. But he looked at you. Really looked.

“I meant what I said last night.”

You blinked. “Which part?”

“You’re not a hypocrite.”

You busied yourself making caf, hands a little too shaky, smile a little too bright. “Well, that’s nice of you, Commander.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t fill the silence.

But you could feel it. The tension in the room like a tripwire.

“About last night…” you started, not even knowing where the sentence would end.

“It didn’t happen,” he said smoothly. “You were drunk. I was on duty.”

Right. Of course. Clean line. No moment.

You turned around with your cup. “You’re very good at this.”

“At what?”

“Being a soldier. Not breaking character.”

His eyes met yours behind that visor. “It’s not a character.”

You stepped around him—again too close, again intentional—and he didn’t move. Just let your shoulder skim his chestplate.

“You should eat something,” he said quietly. “Briefing at 0900.”

You nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”

But as you passed, you felt it again—his hand brushed your lower back. Light. Careful. Not an accident.

He didn’t speak again. He didn’t need to.

He wanted you.

And he wouldn’t act on it.

Because that’s what made him him

⸻

The Chancellor’s private dining room was lavish, but you’d long stopped noticing the gold trim and absurd chandeliers. You lounged in your chair, a flute of something far too expensive in hand, pretending you weren’t hungover and avoiding Thorn’s gaze like it was a live thermal detonator.

Across from you, the Supreme Chancellor smiled—too pleasantly, too knowingly.

“Well, if it isn’t the Republic’s most unpredictable idealist,” Palpatine drawled, pouring his own glass. “You’re in the news again.”

You groaned into your drink. “Don’t pretend you don’t love it, Sheev.”

Fox twitched behind the Chancellor, eyes flicking between you and Thorn with that razor-sharp gaze of his. Thorn stood two steps behind your chair—silent, steady, a red-and-white wall of unreadable authority. But Fox saw the difference. The slight tilt of Thorn’s stance. The angle of his chin. The way his eyes never really left you.

It was subtle. Surgical.

But not subtle enough for Fox.

He stepped beside Thorn under the guise of adjusting his vambrace. “You good, Commander?”

Thorn didn’t look at him. “I’m fine.”

“Mm,” Fox murmured. “Right.”

You and the Chancellor kept chatting—well, arguing more than anything. You never could sit through a lunch with Sheev without poking holes in something.

“So,” you said, slicing into your overpriced meal, “how did you know to send guards for me before the assassination attempt? I never requested security.”

The Chancellor’s eyes glinted. “I make it my business to know when my senators are in danger.”

“Your timing was suspiciously perfect.”

“Are you accusing me of conspiracy?” he asked with an arched brow, too amused.

“I’m accusing you of being five moves ahead of everyone, as usual,” you replied dryly.

Behind you, Thorn shifted ever so slightly. Fox noticed that too.

Fox leaned closer, voice low enough only Thorn could hear. “You’ve got a thing for her.”

Thorn said nothing.

“You don’t even flinch when she says the Chancellor’s first name. That’s love or lunacy, vod.”

Still, no reply. Just the twitch of a jaw.

Fox chuckled under his breath, then stepped back to his position, but the damage was done.

You looked back at Thorn over your shoulder, sensing the change. “Everything alright back there, Commander?”

“Yes, Senator,” he said smoothly, though his voice was a little rougher than usual.

You raised a brow. “You seem… tenser than usual. Something in the wine?”

“Possibly,” Fox muttered from across the room.

You narrowed your eyes but let it go. You turned back to the Chancellor, who was watching the exchange with mild curiosity and a hint of amusement, like he was reading a play he already knew the ending to.

“Oh, I like this,” he murmured, smiling into his glass.

You leaned in toward him conspiratorially. “Don’t get clever, Sheev. You’re not writing my love life.”

His smile only widened.

But behind you, Thorn stood stiff as stone—closer than ever.

And Fox, watching it all unfold, didn’t say another word.

But he knew.

⸻

The meeting had ended. Senators filtered out. The Chancellor had retreated to his private chamber. And you? You were gone with a flick of your hand and a half-hearted “Don’t let them kill each other, Commander.”

Now, the room was quieter. Almost peaceful. Almost.

Fox found Thorn where he knew he’d be—by the far window, helmet tucked under one arm, eyes still tracking your last known direction. His posture was perfect, as always. Controlled. Still.

Too still.

Fox stepped up beside him, arms crossed over red plastoid. “You got it bad.”

Thorn’s gaze didn’t shift. “Not the time, Marshal.”

Fox exhaled, slow and deliberate. “Look, I’m not trying to be a di’kut. But you need to hear this—from someone who actually gives a damn about you.”

Thorn’s silence stretched long enough to feel like permission.

“She’s not just another senator. She’s not just your senator.” Fox’s voice dropped low. “She’s his.”

At that, Thorn’s jaw ticked. Just barely. But Fox saw it.

“The Chancellor’s had her back for years. Don’t know why, don’t care. Maybe it’s her mouth, maybe it’s the trouble she causes, maybe it’s guilt—but she’s got more power than half that rotunda and she knows it.”

“I know who she is,” Thorn said quietly.

“Do you?” Fox leaned in, voice tight. “Do you know what he’s capable of when it comes to protecting her?”

Thorn met his eyes then, sharp as a blade.

“I’ve seen what he’s capable of.”

Fox gave a bitter smile. “Then don’t be stupid. Because if something happens—if you’re the reason she gets hurt, distracted, reckless—he won’t just end your career, Thorn. He’ll end you.”

Thorn looked away. “She’s already reckless.”

“But you keep her steady,” Fox snapped. “You’re already involved. I see it. I see the way you track her movements like a sniper. The way your whole body shifts when she’s near.”

He paused, voice softening just a hair.

“I get it. I really do. She’s electric. She makes everyone feel like they’re on fire. Even the Chancellor lets her talk to him like an old friend.”

A beat passed.

“She calls him Sheev, Thorn. That alone should terrify you.”

Thorn didn’t laugh. But something like it ghosted behind his eyes.

Fox straightened. “Just… be careful. Keep your walls up. Because she doesn’t need a guard who forgets who he is. And you don’t need to be another ghost in her story.”

They stood in silence a moment longer—two commanders, scarred and stubborn, still brothers beneath it all.

Then Thorn spoke, low and steady.

“I know what I’m doing.”

Fox shook his head, muttered, “No, you don’t,” and walked away.

Next Chapter

“The Lesser of Two Wars” pt.4

Commander Fox x Reader X Commander Thorn

Thorn didn’t storm. That wasn’t his style. He walked with purpose, armor humming low with motion, cape swaying behind him like a whisper of discipline.

But Hound noticed.

He was lounging against a supply crate near the barracks entrance, tossing a ration bar to Grizzer, who promptly ignored it in favor of chewing on a ruined training boot.

“Evening, Commander,” Hound said, biting back a grin. “You walk like someone just voted to cut rations for clones with sense.”

Thorn didn’t answer. He brushed past, stopped, and then turned around so sharply Hound blinked.

“Why the hell does she smile like that?” Thorn muttered.

Hound blinked again. “…Pardon?”

“Senator,” Thorn said curtly. “The senator. She smiles like she doesn’t care that we’re built for war. Like we’re not walking weapons. Like she’s not afraid of what we are.”

Grizzer let out a soft woof.

Hound tilted his head. “So… what’s the problem?”

“The problem,” Thorn said, pacing now, his helmet under one arm, “is that I find myself caring about her smile. Noticing it. Waiting for it. The nerve of her—walking between two commanders like it’s nothing. Like we’re not trained to see everything as a threat. Like she’s not a threat.”

“To what? Your assignment?” Hound asked, amused. “Or your emotional stability?”

Thorn glared. Grizzer whined, wandered over, and bumped his head into Thorn’s shin. He reached down and idly scratched behind the mastiff’s ears.

“She got under your skin,” Hound said, chewing on the stem of a stim-pop. “Happens to the best of us. She’s clever. Looks good in those robes. Has a backbone of beskar. What’s not to notice?”

“I don’t want to notice.”

“Ah, but you do.”

Thorn didn’t reply.

He sat down heavily on the bench beside Hound, setting his helmet down beside him.

“I shouldn’t even be thinking about this. About her.”

“She flirt with you?”

Thorn hesitated. “Not… obviously.”

“But enough to make Fox irritated.”

Thorn raised a brow. “You noticed that too.”

“Please. Fox’s expression didn’t change, but the man started walking closer to her like she was carrying his damn tracking chip.” Hound chuckled. “Bet he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.”

They sat in silence for a minute.

Grizzer dropped the training boot in front of Thorn and wagged his tail.

Thorn stared at the mangled leather. “That’s about how my brain feels.”

Hound laughed. “Commander, you need sleep.”

“I need a reassignment.”

“You need to admit she’s under your skin and figure out how not to let it compromise your professionalism.”

Thorn exhaled slowly.

“Can’t let it show.”

“Good,” Hound nodded. “Now come inside before Grizzer starts thinking you’ve become a chew toy too.”

Thorn stood, gave the mastiff a final scratch behind the ears, and retrieved his helmet.

He didn’t say another word—but the weight in his steps had shifted. Just a little.

Not lighter. Not heavier.

Just more aware.

⸻

The city was unusually quiet that evening. The hum of speeders far below faded beneath the hush of twilight. The Coruscant skyline glowed, glass and durasteel kissed by soft reds and purples.

Fox didn’t linger in beautiful places.

He was there on duty, posted near the upper balcony where the senator had stepped out “just for a breath.” He hadn’t planned to engage, only observe, protect, return.

But she hadn’t gone back inside.

She leaned against the railing, alone, hair pinned up loosely, a datapad forgotten beside her, as if the very idea of responsibility repulsed her in that moment.

He waited a respectful distance. Still. Silent. Like always.

Then she spoke.

“You ever wonder if all this”—she gestured to the skyline—“is actually worth protecting?”

He said nothing. He was trained for silence. Expected to maintain it.

But her voice was quieter this time. “Sorry. I know that’s dark. I just—feel like I’m holding up a wall no one else wants to fix.”

Fox found himself responding before he thought better of it. “That’s the job.”

She turned slightly, surprised.

He added, “Holding up the wall.”

The senator gave him a faint, exhausted smile. “Do you ever feel like it’s crumbling under your feet anyway?”

He didn’t answer. Not with words.

He took a step closer instead.

A small thing. Measured. Not enough to draw attention.

But enough for her to notice.

Her gaze lowered to the space now between them. “Commander,” she said gently, teasingly, “if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were getting comfortable.”

“I’m not,” he said flatly.

She tilted her head. “Shame. It’s a lovely view.”

He said nothing, but his eyes didn’t move from her.

And then—

She turned away. Not dramatically. Just slowly, thoughtfully, brushing a finger along the rail’s edge.

“It’s funny,” she said, voice soft again. “I think I trust you more than I trust half the Senate.”

“You shouldn’t,” he replied, too quickly.

She looked over her shoulder. “Why not?”

He didn’t answer.

Because the truth was—

He didn’t know.

He looked away first.

You stared.

Fox was composed, always. The kind of man who spoke with fewer words than most used in a breath. You’d watched him through Senate hearings, committee debriefings, and those long silences standing at your side. He was built for control—stone-set and unshakable.

Which is why this moment felt like seeing a fault line in a mountain.

You stepped toward him.

Just slightly.

“I asked why not,” you repeated, your voice lower now. Not coy. Not teasing. Just… honest.

Fox’s helmet was clipped to his belt, his posture precise. But his jaw had locked. His brow was tight—not angry, not annoyed.

Guarded.

“You don’t know me,” he finally said, eyes fixed on the horizon like it might offer him cover.

“I know enough,” you replied, softer.

He didn’t move.

You tried again.

“You think I trust people easily?” A dry laugh left you. “I sit beside men who sell planets and call it compromise. I’ve had allies vote against my own bills while smiling at me from across the chamber. But you—when you walk into a room, everything sharpens.”

That got his attention. A flicker of his gaze, brief but direct.

You stepped closer.

“You don’t talk unless it’s important. You watch everything. And no one gets close, not really. But I see the way your men listen when you speak. I see how you stand between danger and everyone else without asking for anything in return.”

His expression didn’t shift. Not much.

But his hands curled faintly at his sides.

“I trust you, Commander,” you said. “And I don’t think that’s a mistake.”

The wind picked up slightly, rustling the edge of your robe.

Fox was quiet for a long time. And then—

“Don’t.”

One word. Clipped. Too sharp to be cold.

You blinked. “Don’t… what?”

He turned to face you fully now, and there was something there—in his eyes, usually so still. Not anger. Not fear.

A warning.

“Don’t mistake professionalism for something it isn’t.”

You looked up at him for a moment, unmoving. “I’m not.”

His jaw flexed. “Then don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to.”

That hit a nerve. You stood straighter, chest tight.

“You don’t get to blame me for not hearing the things you’re too chicken to say,” you said quietly, your voice clipped but steady.

His breath caught—not visibly, not audibly. But you saw it. In the eyes. In the way his shoulders tightened, like something had landed.

But he didn’t respond.

You watched him another moment, then stepped back, retreating into the cool hallway of the Senate building without another word.

He stayed there.

In the quiet.

And stared after you like the words had hit him somewhere unarmored.

The marble under your boots echoed with each step, but you walked without a sound.

The exchange with Fox still thrummed in your chest. The way he’d looked at you. The way he hadn’t.

The way his silence had said too much.

You pressed a hand to your temple, trying to will the flush in your skin to cool. You hadn’t meant to push that far—but stars, you had been waiting for something. Anything. A sign that the wall wasn’t so impenetrable.

You didn’t expect the next voice you heard.

“My dear senator,” came the smooth, silk-wrapped timbre of Chancellor Palpatine.

You froze.

Not because of fear. But because his voice always had that effect.

You turned and offered the practiced smile you reserved for… certain company.

“Chancellor,” you said, clasping your hands politely in front of you. “I didn’t see you.”

He stepped into the corridor from the far end, draped in red and black, expression benevolent, but sharp beneath the surface.

“I was passing through after a long meeting with the Banking Clan representatives. Tense discussions, I’m afraid. I trust you’re well?”

“Well enough,” you replied smoothly. “Just getting some air.”

“Ah,” he said, folding his hands behind his back as he walked beside you. “We all need moments of reflection. Though I imagine yours are far and few between these days. The Senate rarely allows much rest.”

You gave a short laugh. “No. It certainly doesn’t.”

He glanced at you, unreadable.

“I hear the Guard’s been paying close attention to you lately. Commander Fox himself, no less. It’s good to see such… attentiveness. You must feel very safe.”

Your spine straightened slightly. “They’re dedicated men. I’m grateful for their protection.”

“I’m sure you are,” he said, the warmth in his tone not quite reaching his eyes. “Still… I hope you remember where your true allies lie.”

You offered him the same tight smile. “Of course, Chancellor.”

He regarded you for a moment longer. “You’ve always been a passionate voice, Senator. Young. Decisive. I do hope you’ll continue to support the efforts of the Republic, especially as we move into… more delicate phases of wartime policy.”

You didn’t flinch. “I serve the people of my system. And I believe in the Republic.”

“But belief,” he said, gently, “is only part of the duty. Sometimes we must make difficult choices. Unpopular ones.”

You met his gaze and gave nothing back.

“Then I hope the right people are making them,” you replied.

His smile thinned. “As do I.”

You inclined your head. “If you’ll excuse me, Chancellor, I do have a report to finish.”

He stepped aside, allowing you to pass.

“Of course. Rest well, Senator. You’ll need your strength.”

You didn’t look back.

You didn’t need to.

The shadow of his presence stretched long after his footsteps faded.

⸻

Fox sat in the dark.

Helmet on the table. Armor half-unclasped. Fingers pressed to the bridge of his nose.

He hadn’t even made it to his bunk.

The locker room was silent, most of the Guard long since rotated out or posted elsewhere. The overheads were dimmed. Only the soft mechanical hum of the lockers and the occasional flicker of red light from an indicator broke the stillness.

But his mind wasn’t still.

He’d heard people raise their voices at him before. Angry senators, frustrated generals, clones pushed to the brink. That was easy. Anger rolled off him like rain off plastoid.

This was different.

She hadn’t said it to wound him.

She’d said it like she meant it.

Like she saw him.

And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t know what to do with that.

His hands flexed in his lap, slow and deliberate. He remembered how she looked tonight—standing under the red-gold skyline, eyes bright but tired, speaking softly like they were the only two people left in the galaxy.

It was wrong. Letting it get to him.

She was a senator. He was a soldier.

It wasn’t supposed to matter what her voice did to his chest.

What the scent of her did to his focus.

He wasn’t Thorn. He didn’t lean in. He didn’t get rattled by conversation, didn’t let his mouth run ahead of his orders.

But… she’d gotten under his skin. Somehow.

Fox exhaled slowly and reached for his gloves.

Then paused.

His thumb hovered over the comlink tucked beside his helmet.

He stared at it for a moment. Not to call her. He wouldn’t.

But just knowing she could.

That if she needed him, his name would be the first thing spoken through the channel.

He set his jaw, stood up, and locked his armor back into place.

Duty first.

Always.

But his mind stayed behind, somewhere on a balcony, in the dusk light… with her.

⸻

The door slid open with its usual soft chime. You stepped inside, heels clicking gently against polished stone, and leaned heavily against the wall the moment it shut behind you.

Exhausted didn’t quite cover it.

The encounter with the Chancellor still lingered like static. And Fox—

Stars above, Fox.

You kicked off your shoes, dropped your bag, and made your way into the kitchen. You poured yourself something strong and cold, letting the silence of your private apartment sink in.

And then—

The soft buzz of your datapad.

You blinked.

A message.

Not from the Guard.

Not from your aides.

But…

Commander Thorn: Heard there was a rough hearing. You alive in there, or should I break down the door?

You smiled.

And for a moment, the tension eased.

You didn’t reply to Thorn right away.

You stared at the message, lips curving despite the weight still pressing behind your ribs. A chuckle slipped out—quiet, private. The kind meant only for a screen, not a roomful of senators.

Your fingers hovered over the keys for a second before typing:

You: Alive. Barely. Tempted to fake my death and move to Naboo. You free to help bury the body?

The typing indicator blinked back almost immediately.

Thorn: Only if I get first choice on the alias. I vote “Duchess Trouble.”

You: That’s terrible. But I’m keeping it.

Thorn: Thought you might. Get some rest. You earned it today.

You stared at that last line.

You earned it today.

You weren’t sure why those words hit harder than anything in the hearing. Maybe it was because it came from someone who saw things most senators never would. Maybe because it was real.

You typed back:

You: You too, Commander.

And then you set the datapad down, changed out of your formal wear, and let exhaustion carry you to bed.

You weren’t asleep long.

The shrill tone of your emergency comms broke through your dreams like a blaster shot.

You jerked upright, blinking against the haze of sleep, reaching for the device without hesitation.

“H-hello?” your voice cracked, still hoarse from sleep.

A voice—clipped, familiar, urgent—responded.

Fox.

“Senator. There’s been another incident. We’re en route.”

You were already moving. “Where?”

“Senator Mothma’s estate. Explosive detonation near her security gate. No confirmed injuries, but it’s close enough to send a message.”

You froze for only a heartbeat.

“I’ll be ready in five.”

Fox didn’t waste time on reassurance. “We’ll be outside your building. Don’t go anywhere alone.”

The line cut.

You stood in the dark for a second, pulse racing, mind already shifting into survival mode.

Whatever peace you’d clawed out of tonight had just shattered.

⸻

It was a controlled knock—no panic, no urgency—but hard enough to rattle the stillness of the apartment. You flinched, fumbling with your robe as you darted from your bedroom barefoot, still half-dressed.

“Stars, already?” you muttered, cinching the robe at your waist.

The buzzer chimed again.

You hit the panel to open the door.

And there they were.

Fox. Thorn. Towering in crimson armor, backlit by the corridor lights and the glint of Coruscant’s neon skyline. Visors staring forward. Blasters holstered—but you could feel the tension radiating off them like heat from durasteel.

Neither said anything at first.

Then, in a voice low and composed, Fox spoke:

“Senator. We arrived earlier than anticipated.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” you breathed, pushing a damp strand of hair behind your ear. Your robe was thin—too thin, you realized, as the air from the hallway crept over your skin. You crossed your arms instinctively, but it didn’t hide much.

Fox’s helmet tilted slightly—eyes dragging across your form in a quiet, tactical sweep. Not leering. Just… a longer pause than necessary.

Next to him, Thorn cleared his throat.

You raised an eyebrow at both of them. “Enjoying the view, Commanders?”

They didn’t flinch. Of course they didn’t. Both statues of composure, helmets hiding any flicker of reaction.

Fox spoke again, brisk. “We’ll step inside and secure the apartment. You have five minutes.”

“Yes, sir,” you muttered with mock-formality, brushing past them with bare feet against the floor. As you turned, you caught it—Fox’s head slightly turning to follow your movement. A fraction too long.

And thank the stars for helmets, because if you saw his face, you’d never let him live it down.

They moved through your apartment in practiced rhythm, clearing rooms, scanning corners, locking down windows and possible points of breach. Thorn stayed closer to the door, back to the wall, but his shoulders were taut beneath the red of his armor.

You emerged a few minutes later, dressed properly now—hair pulled back, expression sharpened by the adrenaline still running its course.

Fox glanced your way first. His visor tilted again, more subtle this time.

“All clear,” he said, voice crisp. “You’re to be escorted to the Guard’s secure transport. We’ll be moving now.”

You met his visor with a crooked smile. “You didn’t even compliment my robe.”

Thorn, behind him, let out a breath. It might’ve been a laugh. Or a sigh of please, not now.

Fox said nothing.

But his shoulders stiffened just slightly.

And as you stepped between them, one on each side, the heat of their presence pressed in like a second skin.

Danger waited out there.

But for now, this tension?

This was its own kind of war.

⸻

The hum of the engine filled the silence. City lights flared and blurred past the transparisteel windows as the transport cut through the lower atmosphere. Inside, the dim blue glow from the dash consoles painted all three of you in a cold, unflinching light.

Fox sat across from you, arms folded, helmet still on. Thorn was beside him, angled slightly your way—watching the shadows outside like they might reach in and pull the vehicle apart.

No one spoke at first.

It was you who finally broke the silence.

“This isn’t random, is it?”

Fox’s head turned. Slowly. “No.”

Thorn added, “Three incidents in four days. All different targets, different methods. But same message.”

You nodded, arms tucked around yourself. “The threat’s not just violence—it’s disruption. Fear. Shake up the ones trying to hold the peace together.”

Fox leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. “Senator Organa’s transport was sabotaged. Padmé Amidala intercepted a coded threat embedded in one of her Senate droid updates. And now Mothma’s estate.”

“All prominent senators,” Thorn said. “Known for opposing authoritarian measures, trade blockades, or Separatist sympathies. Whoever this is… they’re strategic.”

“And the Senate’s pretending it’s coincidence.” You exhaled a sharp breath. “Cowards.”

Fox didn’t respond, but you saw it in the turn of his helmet—like he’d heard a truth too sharp to name.

Thorn’s voice cut the quiet next. “You’re on the list too, Senator. Whether they’ve moved or not, you’ve been marked.”

You met his gaze, even through the visor. “That’s not exactly comforting, Commander.”

“You wanted honesty,” he replied quietly.

You blinked, caught off guard—not just by the words, but the tone. Low. Sincere. Laced with something warmer than protocol.

Fox shifted, barely. A turn of his body, a flicker of subtle tension.

“They’ll keep escalating,” he said. “We don’t know how far.”

The transport took a turn, and city lights streamed in again, outlining their armor in a way that made them seem more like war statues than men.

And yet, when you looked at them—Fox silent and braced for anything, Thorn watching you with just the slightest flicker of concern behind the visor—it wasn’t fear that struck you.

It was the creeping awareness that maybe the danger outside wasn’t the only storm building.

⸻

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Commander Fox x Singer/PA Reader pt.4

The base had fallen into chaos. The sharp beeping of alarms echoed through the corridors, sending waves of tension throughout the facility. It was a rare moment of vulnerability for the Republic, and the last thing anyone had expected was Cad Bane, the notorious bounty hunter, to escape from his containment cell.

The guard stationed at his cell had been lax, and the mistake had proven costly. The high-alert klaxon sounded through the base as soon as Bane's cell had been breached, and every clone in the vicinity had scrambled to act. The corridors buzzed with the hurried footsteps of soldiers moving to secure the area, but the fugitive had already disappeared into the shadows.

Fox had been among the first to respond, his focus sharp as ever. His instincts were honed for situations like this—situation after situation where quick thinking was required. He'd immediately ordered a lockdown, sending squads to lock down the base and search every inch of the facility, but Bane had always been a step ahead.

Thorn, ever the stoic and capable commander, had taken charge of the search team. He was methodical, ensuring every room, every vent, every corner of the base was scoured. His calm, commanding presence calmed the other clones as they executed their assignments, and the search continued with the precision only a seasoned commander could bring.

As for you, you were, as usual, observing from the sidelines. The office had cleared out, with most of the staff focused on the lockdown. It wasn't often the facility was on such high alert, and you'd been relegated to helping with the more menial tasks. Even so, you couldn't help but be drawn into the chaos.

Through the halls, you had heard Fox's voice, barking orders into his comm as he led the charge to track Bane's escape route. It was the kind of mission Fox thrived in—the kind that required focus and relentless determination. But as the hours ticked on, you could tell he was growing more frustrated. Bane was slipping through their fingers.

It wasn't until the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the base, that Fox returned. His boots clicked sharply against the floor, his jaw set, his face as hard as stone. He was visibly irritated, his focus laser-sharp, but the frustration was palpable. He had always been able to handle these types of situations, but Bane was something else—slippery, cunning, and relentless.

"You should've seen the way he slipped past us," Fox muttered to Thorn as he strode into the command center, his eyes never leaving the glowing screens in front of him. "He's too good. We're gonna have to rework our entire strategy if we're going to catch him."

Thorn didn't reply immediately, though you could tell he shared the same frustration. "He's still here. We'll find him. No one's getting out of this base."

Fox glanced at him sharply, his eyes betraying a rare vulnerability. "That's not the problem," he said, the words more clipped than usual. "The problem is he's playing us. I'll need to stay focused, Thorn. This won't be over until he's back in his cell."

The tension in the air thickened, the base still on high alert. The clones moved efficiently, conducting their sweep of the area, but Fox's mind was elsewhere. The escape had rattled him in a way that wasn't typical. Maybe it was because Bane had outsmarted them—or maybe because he had already begun thinking of what could come next. Whatever it was, Fox wasn't about to let it distract him from the task at hand.

As the day wore on, the base remained under lockdown, but you knew Fox would need a break. That night, you had something to offer him that he didn't expect.

***

The stage at 79's was dimly lit, the familiar hum of the bar filling the space. The crowd had gathered, and you could feel the pulse of anticipation in the air as you stepped onto the stage. The drinks were flowing, the conversations were louder than usual, and the usual mix of soldiers and off-duty personnel filled the room. But tonight, you weren't just going to be a face in the crowd. You were going to perform, as you always did—letting the music take over and letting the world around you fade.

When you took the stage, the room quieted, and the eyes of those in the bar turned toward you. A guitar hung around your neck, your fingers brushing over the strings as you tuned it just before you began. It was almost like you could feel the weight of Fox's gaze on you, even though you didn't look for him.

You'd spotted him earlier when you entered, standing near the back of the room. His usual stoic presence made him blend into the shadows, but there was no mistaking him. Commander Fox had made his way to 79's, a rare moment of him stepping outside of his usual duties, and you knew exactly why he was there.

He was here to watch you.

You started your set, letting the rhythm of the music flow through you. The crowd was hooked, as they always were, but tonight, there was something different. As the song progressed, you caught his eye—he wasn't just watching anymore. His gaze had softened, and for a moment, he wasn't the hardened commander. He was just Fox—someone who had chosen to be here, to be with you, in this space.

After the final note rang out, the crowd applauded, and you stepped down from the stage. Fox was already at the bar, a drink in hand, though he hadn't touched it. His eyes tracked you as you made your way over, a brief nod to acknowledge his presence before he looked at you directly.

"That was..." Fox began, his voice low, yet genuine. He searched for the right words, his usual confidence slipping as he softened. "I didn't expect that."

You grinned, your heart racing. "What? That I could hold a tune? You doubt me, Fox?"

His lips twitched in what almost resembled a smile. "I didn't doubt you." His eyes lingered on you, a shift in his expression. "You're more than I imagined."

It was the quiet admission you hadn't expected, but it was everything you needed to hear. Fox had always been careful with his words, but tonight, the mask had slipped, just enough to see something raw underneath.

You stepped closer to him, the moment charged with a tension neither of you could ignore. The crowd's noise faded into the background as you stood before him, the space between you almost electrified.

Without thinking, you reached up, fingers brushing lightly against his jaw. He didn't pull away; instead, his eyes darkened, and his hand rested gently on your waist, a silent invitation.

And then, with no more words needed, you kissed him—slow, tentative at first, but deepening as the weight of everything between you came rushing to the surface. Fox's hand moved to your back, pulling you closer, his kiss almost desperate, as though he were trying to make up for lost time. When you finally pulled away, both of you were breathless.

"Fox..." you whispered, your voice soft, yet full of meaning.

"I've always wanted to say this," he murmured, his forehead resting against yours. "I don't know when it happened... but I care about you. More than I should."

You couldn't stop the smile that tugged at your lips. "I care about you too, Fox."

And in that moment, surrounded by the music and the chaos of 79's, nothing else mattered. Not the war, not the Republic, not the danger that always loomed just outside the door. All that mattered was the person standing in front of you—the person who had finally let down their walls and confessed the truth.

The escape had been contained, but you knew this moment—this feeling—wouldn't escape either.

Hello!!! Hopefully I won’t bother you but i loved the 501 x reader where they all are crushing on her!!! Do you think there’s the possibility that we could get a part two? I just want them all to be happy together -but a little angsty moments are great too! Thank you and i love your writing! Best clone scenario page on tumblrrr 🥰🥰🥰

Of course! A part 2 for this fic has been requested nearly 10 times.

I may need to turn this into a series. There will definitely be a part 3 at least 🫶

⸻

“Hearts of the 501st” pt.2

501st x Reader

You were still reeling from the contact.

Rex’s hand, steady at your waist, had felt like it burned through your tunic. Not with heat, but with something more dangerous—something forbidden. And it had lingered just a second too long. Enough for you to realize he wanted to hold you there. Enough for him to realize that he couldn’t.

Now he wouldn’t meet your eyes. Not during the rest of the rotation. Not at the debrief. Not even in the mess later that night.

Hardcase had gone back to his usual boisterous self, none the wiser, but Kix glanced between you and Rex with the subtle awareness of someone too observant for his own good. You tried to brush it off. Smile. Pretend. But it was like breathing around broken glass.

Later that night, you found yourself staring up at the ceiling of your quarters, eyes wide open, body still.

And then the door chimed.

You sat up fast, heart racing. “Come in,” you called, voice steady despite the storm inside.

It was Rex.

He stepped in and the door hissed shut behind him. No armor—just blacks. He looked exhausted. And maybe something else. Haunted, almost.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you said quietly, more to yourself than to him.

“I know.”

Silence stretched between you. And then he finally looked at you.

“I didn’t mean to cross a line,” he said, voice low, gravelly. “Back in the training room.”

“You didn’t,” you lied.

Because the truth was worse. He didn’t cross it—you wanted him to. You still did.

He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “It’s not supposed to happen like this. You’re a Jedi. I’m… I’m a soldier.”

“You’re Rex.”

That made him pause.

You stood up, crossing the small space between you, pulse thundering.

He didn’t touch you. He didn’t move. But the way he looked at you—like you were the last light in the galaxy—that was enough to break you.

“We’re not allowed this,” he said, finally.

“I know.”

But you also both knew something else, something unspoken: if the war didn’t kill you, this would.

⸻

You thought things might settle after that night with Rex. But they didn’t. If anything, the tension only thickened. Because it wasn’t just Rex watching you a little too long anymore.

It was Kix, catching your arm after a mission with fingers that lingered too long on your wrist as he checked for injuries.

“You push yourself too hard,” he murmured, voice low as his eyes searched yours. “Someday, you won’t come back. And I…” He trailed off before finishing, but the weight of what he didn’t say clung to the air between you.

It was Fives, who cracked jokes louder than usual when Rex entered the room, his laugh a little too sharp. When he caught you alone, he dropped the act.

“You know he’s not the only one who cares, right?” he said, eyes dark with something more serious than you were used to seeing in him. “He’s not the only one who notices.”

It was Jesse, who always sat beside you at the mess, quietly pushing your favorite ration pack your way without saying anything. You caught him watching you once, and when you met his gaze, he didn’t look away.

“You deserve better than this,” he said, voice tight. “Better than silence. Better than having to hide.”

Hardcase didn’t hide a damn thing. He wore his affection on his sleeve—laughing too loud, standing too close, finding excuses to spar. “You know I’d follow you anywhere, right?” he asked one evening, sweaty and bruised, grinning. “No questions asked.”

Tup was quieter, but it was there. In the way he always made sure you were covered. In the way he sat across from you during ship travel, stealing glances when he thought you weren’t looking. You caught him once, and he blushed so hard he looked like he might combust.

Then there was Dogma, who clung to rules like they were life rafts—but his devotion to you bent those rules every damn day. He flinched when others got too close. Spoke up when he thought someone pushed you too hard. And when you called him out on it, he just said, “You matter. More than they think.”

They were a unit. Brothers. But when it came to you, that unity was starting to fray.

You could feel it in the silences.

In the way they hesitated to speak freely when Rex was in the room. In the way Jesse squared off subtly when Fives stood too close. In the tension crackling in every quiet corridor.

You were the Jedi they shouldn’t have fallen for. The light they wanted to protect. But you were also one person—and they all knew that.

And maybe the worst part?

You didn’t know who you were falling for.

⸻

The op on Vanqor should’ve been simple: recon the outpost, confirm Separatist movement, exfil. No drama. No losses.

But nothing was simple anymore.

You split the squad in two. Rex led one team, you led the other. Standard formation. Except the tension was anything but standard.

From the start, Fives was running his mouth.

“Oh, so Rex gets to babysit the high ground,” he said as he checked his rifle. “How convenient.”

“Because I’m the Captain,” Rex snapped without looking up. “And because someone needs to stay focused on the mission.”

“Focused?” Jesse muttered under his breath. “That’s rich coming from you.”

You glanced at them all sharply. “Cut the chatter.”

They did—sort of. Kix shot Jesse a look. Jesse shot Fives one back. Even Tup, usually calm, was twitchier than usual. And Dogma was walking like he was seconds away from snapping someone’s neck.

Still, the op moved forward.

You took Hardcase, Tup, and Jesse with you. Rex had the others. Two klicks into the canyon, comms lit up.

Rex: “General, got movement near the ridge. Confirmed clankers. Looks like a patrol.”

You: “Copy. Proceeding to secondary overlook.”

Then static. Followed by—

Fives: “We’ve got this, General. Don’t worry, I’ll keep him from throwing himself in front of a blaster for you.”

There was a sharp click before Rex cut him off: “Fives, stay off the channel unless it’s tactical.”

Back with your team, things weren’t much better.

Hardcase was bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Can’t believe I missed the team with the romantic tension. You should’ve seen Rex’s face, Tup—guy’s wound tighter than a wire.”

Jesse barked a laugh. “At least he’s not pretending he’s subtle. Unlike some.”

Tup sighed. “Please don’t start again.”

You stopped in your tracks, glaring at them. “You think this is a game? You want to bicker while droids are swarming a ridge less than a klick away?”

They fell silent, shame flickering in their eyes.

Then came the ambush.

Blasterfire erupted from the cliffs. Shouts, heat, chaos.

Rex’s voice came through the comm again—sharp, controlled. “Engaging hostiles. Kix is hit but stable.”

You snapped orders, leading your squad into flanking position, instincts taking over. You caught sight of Rex across the ridge, laying down cover, Fives behind him—but they were arguing even mid-fire.

“Cover me!” Rex shouted, moving up.

“Could’ve said please,” Fives muttered, though he did as told.

Jesse nearly got clipped trying to keep you shielded. “I said I’ve got you!” he snapped when you tried to redirect him.

After the skirmish, when the smoke cleared and the ridge was secure, the tension boiled over.

“Is this how it’s going to be now?” Rex growled, throwing his helmet down. “We can’t run a clean op because every one of you is too busy acting like kriffing teenagers.”

“Don’t pin this on us,” Jesse snapped. “You’re the one sneaking around with her after lights out.”

“Nothing happened,” Rex shot back.

Kix scoffed. “No, but something wants to.”

Tup looked between them, torn. “This isn’t what we’re supposed to be.”

And Dogma, silent until now, spoke with cold finality: “Feelings don’t belong on the battlefield. You’re all risking her life.”

The silence that followed was heavier than the blasterfire.

You stood there, heart pounding, breath caught somewhere between fury and grief.

This war was pulling you apart from the inside. Not from wounds or droids—but from love, jealousy, and every unspoken word between them.

The silence stretched long after Dogma’s words hit the ground like a blaster bolt.

You could see it—every line in their faces taut, wounded. The guilt. The fear. The ache.

And still, you stood tall.

Composed. Cold, maybe. But you had to be.

“I need every one of you to listen to me,” you said, voice even, sharp like a vibroblade. “And I need you to understand this the first time, because I will not say it again.”

No one spoke. Even Fives went still.

“I am a Jedi,” you continued. “And whether or not that means something to you anymore—it still means something to me. The Code forbids attachment. That isn’t a guideline. It isn’t a suggestion. It is a foundational truth of who I am and what I chose to be.”

Rex looked away. His jaw tightened.

“This war has blurred the lines between soldier and brother, between ally and… more. But that does not change the Code. It does not change the expectations I hold for myself.”

You took a breath, feeling the heat rise behind your ribs—but not letting it show.

“I am not your hope. I am not your escape. I am not something you can cling to in the middle of this chaos. I am your general. I will fight beside you. I will protect you. I care about you. But I will not—I cannot return these… feelings.”

Hardcase looked like you’d slapped him. Kix’s mouth parted, then closed again. Fives had nothing to say.

And then you said the thing none of them wanted to hear:

“If any of you truly respect me—if you truly believe in the Jedi you claim to admire—then let me go. Detach. Redirect whatever it is you feel into something that will not get one of us killed.”

Tup stepped forward, hesitant. “But you do care. We know you do.”

You didn’t deny it. You couldn’t. But you answered with the quiet, unmoving weight of Jedi truth.

“Yes,” you said. “But caring is not the same as holding on.”

Another pause.

“I’m not your way out,” you finished. “I’m the one leading you into the fire. Don’t follow me with your heart. Follow me with your discipline. Or don’t follow me at all.”

And with that, you turned—cloak sweeping, boots hitting durasteel with finality.

You didn’t look back.

Because if you did… you weren’t sure the Jedi in you would win.

⸻

The moment she disappeared into the shadows of the canyon pass, the squad felt gutted. Not wounded—hollowed out.

The silence wasn’t peace. It was pressure. It built between them like a thermal detonator waiting for a trigger.

“She didn’t have to say it like that,” Hardcase muttered first, breaking the quiet. “She made it sound like we’re a liability.”

“She’s not wrong,” Dogma snapped, arms crossed tight over his chest. “We lost focus. We compromised the mission.”

Fives scoffed. “Oh, come off it, Dogma. You’re not exactly guilt-free just because you pout from a distance instead of making a move.”

“Don’t start,” Jesse growled. “We wouldn’t even be in this mess if you hadn’t made a scene during the damn firefight.”

“I wasn’t the one staring at her like a lovesick cadet while blaster bolts were flying!”

“You want to go?” Jesse stepped forward.

Kix shoved himself between them. “Enough. You’re all making this worse.”

“No,” Rex said sharply, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. “I’ll take it from here.”

Everyone turned. Rex’s helmet was still tucked under his arm, his face unreadable—controlled, cold, and deadly calm.

“She’s right,” he said, no hesitation. “Every word. We let our feelings get in the way. We made it personal. That’s not what we were bred for. That’s not what she needs.”

Fives shifted, jaw clenched. “So what—just pretend it doesn’t exist?”

Rex stepped closer, tone steely. “We have to. Because if we don’t, she dies. Or we do. Maybe all of us.”

Tup looked away. Jesse stared at the ground. Even Hardcase, for once, didn’t have a joke.

“You think I don’t feel it?” Rex said, quieter now. “You think I haven’t thought about what it would be like to give in? To tell her how I feel?”

He shook his head. “That’s not what love looks like. Love is discipline. Restraint. We follow her lead. We put her safety above what we want. That’s our job. That’s who we are.”

Nobody argued.

Because they all knew he was right.

⸻

They all handled it differently.

Dogma pulled back first.

He barely spoke during prep. Stood at parade rest with surgical stillness. Didn’t sit with the squad, didn’t meet your eyes. He obeyed, to the letter—but colder now, like retreating behind a regulation shield.

Fives, on the other hand, spiraled.

He picked fights. With Kix, with Jesse, even with Rex. His banter turned sour, jokes laced with venom.

“She doesn’t mean it,” he muttered to Jesse in the hangar. “You don’t just fight beside someone for years and feel nothing. She’s trying to protect us. But that doesn’t mean we stop caring.”

Jesse didn’t answer.

Because Jesse was the one pushing harder.

He wasn’t loud about it—but you noticed. He stayed closer during patrols. Walked you to your quarters even when you didn’t ask. Spoke softer. Asked if you’d eaten. You knew the intent behind it. And it terrified you.

You needed clarity. Solitude.

But the moment you stepped outside the command tent to breathe—Tup was already waiting.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just offered you a ration bar with a small, tentative smile. Like he didn’t expect you to take it, but needed you to know he’d tried.

You sat beside him anyway.

“It’s a lot,” he said after a beat, voice low. “Too much, sometimes.”

You didn’t speak.

He didn’t push.

“I’m not gonna say they’re wrong to feel it,” he added, eyes on the dirt. “But I get why you had to say what you did. It hurts. But I get it.”

You turned your head slowly. “Do you?”

He met your eyes. Soft. Steady. “Yeah. Because when you love someone… really love them… you don’t ask them to break themselves just to make you feel better.”

That quiet truth stuck in your chest like a blade.

Tup didn’t reach for your hand. He didn’t move closer. He just stayed there, beside you, letting you breathe.

And for the first time in days… you felt like maybe someone saw you—not as something to win. But as someone to understand.

You didn’t want to fall apart.

But with Tup sitting next to you, not expecting anything—not even an answer—it was hard to keep everything held together.

The ration bar stayed in your hand, unopened. You stared at it like it held answers you didn’t have the strength to look for.

“You know,” Tup said gently, “you don’t have to be the strong one all the time.”

You gave him a dry look. “That’s rich, coming from a soldier bred to never break.”

He smiled faintly. “Yeah, well. We all crack different. Some of us just do it quieter.”

You laughed—soft and broken. “Is this you trying to cheer me up, Tup?”

“Maybe,” he said with a small shrug. “Maybe I just wanted to sit beside someone who makes the war feel a little less like war.”

You looked away. His words landed somewhere deep, somewhere dangerously tender.

There was a moment—just a moment—when you let your shoulders drop. When you leaned just barely toward him, not enough to cross a line, but enough to feel how close the edge really was.

And Tup’s voice, softer still: “You don’t have to be alone.”

Your breath caught. Eyes burning. Just a blink from letting it slip—just a few more seconds and you might have said something you couldn’t unsay.

But then—

“General?”

You turned sharply, straightening.

Kix.

He looked between the two of you. His gaze landed on Tup’s proximity, on your expression—cracked, vulnerable.

Too late.

“I—” He cleared his throat, eyes guarded now. “I was coming to check on you. Thought maybe you’d want to talk.”

Tup shifted, quietly rising to his feet. “She’s alright. Just needed some quiet.”

You could feel the tension coil between them—one of them arriving first, the other arriving just late enough to lose something that hadn’t even happened.

You stood too. “Thank you, Kix. I’m okay. Just tired.”

He gave a short nod, but the disappointment was unmistakable. He wasn’t angry. But he felt it.

And you knew that by tomorrow, the silence between some of them would stretch even deeper.

Because kindness had turned competitive. And comfort was starting to feel like a battlefield too.

⸻

Previous part