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1. Yavin
The rain has learned the shape of this place.
It knows how to come down in sheets that make the canvas shudder, how to thread itself through the seams until everything smells like damp fibre and wet earth. It knows how to turn the clearing into a slick, black mirror that reflects lanternlight in fractured shards. It knows how to keep a person—annoyingly—awake.
Kleya sits upright on the cot with her boots still on, because lying down feels too close to giving in. The bruise around her ribs aches when she breathes too deeply; the stitched cut at her hairline pulls when she frowns. There’s a dull throb behind one eye that never quite goes away. Concussion, they told her. Rest, they told her. As if she can afford to be still when the fate of the galaxy hangs in the balance.
And yet, she’s forced to. Years of her and Luthen’s hard work now passed into the Rebel Alliance’s dithering hands. Incompetent idiots.
The thought makes her scoff as she stares at the mug on the crate beside her. The tea in it has gone cold twice. She hasn’t drunk it. Her hands keep hovering near it, then stopping, as if even warmth is something she can’t bear now.
Outside, the base hums with muffled life: distant voices, a generator’s low vibration, boots on mud. The kind of ordinary noise that should mean safety, if she were built for safety, that is.
She hears footsteps approaching—harder than the patrols, purposeful, angry, too familiar in recent hours—and her spine tightens before the yurt flap even lifts.
Vel appears in the doorway with rain streaming off her jacket and hair plastered to her cheekbones. She looks like she’s been out there, not because she had to be, but because she couldn’t bear to be anywhere else. Her eyes catch the lamp light, bright with barely contained fury.
Kleya doesn’t greet her, and Vel doesn’t offer a greeting either. She kicks the flap shut behind her with the heel of her boot, and the canvas snaps against the frame like a slap. For a moment, the only sound is rain hammering against the roof.
Vel’s gaze flicks over Kleya—boots, posture, the way she’s holding herself too rigidly—and pauses at the half-healed cut along Kleya’s hairline, the faint discolouration blooming across her temple.
Kleya realises, joltingly, that she’s holding her breath at the unwanted appraisal, and lets it out, carefully.
‘You didn’t come to the mess,’ Vel says.
Kleya keeps her eyes on the mug. ‘I wasn’t hungry.’
Vel’s huffed exhale is loud in the stillness. ‘You’ve barely eaten since you arrived, Kleya. You must be hungry.’
‘That’s not your concern,’ Kleya retorts, not bothering to glance up.
Vel takes a step forward towards her. The yurt is small; one step already feels like an intrusion that makes Kleya’s shoulders straighten.
‘Wilmon said you refused your painkillers again.’
Kleya’s fingers curl around the edge of the crate. ‘Wilmon should mind his own business.’
‘And so should I?’ Vel’s voice is quiet, but there’s a blade under it. ‘Is that what you want? Everyone to stop looking at you, stop checking if you’re still breathing?’
Kleya lifts her eyes at last. ‘I’m breathing.’
Vel’s mouth twitches; not a smile, not even close. ‘Barely. You sit here like a ghost, and you think that’s discipline. You think it’s control.’
Kleya’s jaw tightens. ‘Don’t tell me what I think, Vel.’
‘Then tell me.’ Vel’s eyes flash. ‘Say something. Anything. Because you’ve been here for forty-eight hours and you barely speak, and when you do, it’s like you’re reading from a death warrant.’
Kleya lets the silence sit between them like a weapon. It’s easier than answering. Easier than admitting that words feel like traps. That if she opens her mouth, Luthen’s name might fall out with her bile.
Vel’s shoulders rise on a breath and fall again. ‘You know what I keep thinking about?’ she murmurs.
Kleya doesn’t respond, and Vel steps closer until she’s near enough that Kleya can smell wet cloth and metal and the faint bitterness of cheap spirits. She’s been drinking. Not enough to blur her, just enough to sharpen her.
‘The other night,’ Vel continues. ‘The rain. You stumbling around like you didn’t know where you were going.’
Kleya’s throat goes tight. The memory comes in flashes: cold rain on her lashes, the ground tilting, the sick humiliation of being found. Vel’s hands on her arms, too steady. Vel’s voice in her ear, too close.
Kleya says, flatly, ‘You should have left me out there if it was such an inconvenience for you.’
Vel goes still, and for a heartbeat, the air itself seems to stop moving. ‘Is that what you wanted?’ she asks, too softly. ‘For someone to look the other way?’
Kleya’s fingers dig into the crate so hard her nails bite. ‘I want you to mind your business.’
Vel’s laugh is sharp and humourless. ‘You make everything your business. You made my life your business the moment you put me in that network. The moment you decided what I could know, what I could have, and what I was allowed to lose.’
The words land in Kleya’s chest like thrown stones. She feels heat, sudden and unwelcome, rise up her throat.
‘Careful,’ Kleya says.
Vel leans in. ‘Why? You’ll report me? To who? To Luthen?’
Kleya’s vision blurs at the edges for half a second, not from tears—never tears—but from the blow of the name. The pain behind her eye pulses, bright as a star.
‘Don’t say his name like that,’ she snaps before she can stop herself.
Vel’s eyes widen, and something shifts behind them; surprise, then anger, then satisfaction at finally finding a nerve.
‘You think because he died, I don’t get to question you? I don’t get to be angry? You think grief is a badge you wear and no one else can touch it?’
‘I think you’re looking for someone to be angry at, Vel,’ Kleya retorts. ‘And you’ve always found it convenient to point it at me.’
Vel’s hands clench at her sides. ‘You’re right. I am angry. I’m furious. I’m drowning in it. But you—’ Her voice tightens. ‘You don’t even look like you miss anyone. You don’t look like you feel anything at all.’
Kleya pushes off the cot and stands. The motion makes the room tilt; she rides it without showing it. Her ribs protest, and the edges of Vel’s face waver for a moment—light, shadow, fury blurring—before snapping back into focus.
‘Feelings don’t win wars, Vel,’ she says, even as the memory of her family falling to the Empire's cruel flames flashes behind her eyelids.
Vel’s mouth curls. ‘No. But they do tell you that you’re alive.’
Kleya steps towards her, closing the distance deliberately. This is safer than being watched from across the room. Closer means she can read Vel better. Closer means she can control it. Vel doesn’t step back, and the yurt feels smaller around them, the damp air thick, the lamp throwing shadows that flicker like restless hands.
‘You want to talk about being alive?’ Kleya says, voice low. ‘You’re the one who needs an audience for it. You’re the one who needs to be seen suffering, so it counts.’
Vel’s eyes flare. ‘That’s not fair.’
‘Fair?’ Kleya gives a small, sharp exhale. ‘You don’t know the real meaning of the word.’
Vel’s jaw tightens. ‘I know you, though. I know what you do. You stand there, and you make people small until they stop arguing and do what you want.’
Kleya’s smile is thin. ‘And you run headfirst into fire so you can tell yourself you chose the burns.’
Vel’s breath catches as the hit lands clean, and Kleya sees the cutting of it in the way Vel’s throat works, and in the way her eyes harden like sapphire.
‘At least I choose something,’ Vel snarls. ‘At least I’m not…’ She gestures at Kleya, taking in her rigid posture, her stillness like a locked door. ‘…waiting for the next bullet like it’s a relief.’
Kleya’s chest tightens painfully. It’s not the ribs. It’s not the concussion. It’s that Vel’s too close to the truth.
‘You don’t know what I’m waiting for,’ Kleya says.
Vel’s voice drops to a whisper. ‘Don’t I? Cassian said you were ready to die on Coruscant. He said you tried to get him to leave you behind, and when he didn’t, you looked at him like he was stealing something from you.’
Kleya’s hands curl into fists. ‘Cassian talks too much,’ she replies.
Vel steps closer. Now there is no space left. Kleya can feel the warmth coming off Vel’s body, can smell the rain in her hair, the alcohol on her breath. Vel’s eyes are bright and furious and wet—not crying, not yet, but close enough that it tastes like it.
‘Say it,’ Vel demands. Still quiet. Still restrained. But Kleya can tell her resolve is fraying. ‘Say you didn’t want to die.’
Kleya’s teeth grind. ‘Why? So you can all feel heroic about saving me?’
‘Fuck you,’ Vel hisses.
Kleya’s smile flashes, too sharp. ‘Ah, there it is.’
Vel’s hand comes up fast, and for a split second, Kleya thinks she’s going to hit her; thinks this will finally become a fight she can measure in bruises, but instead, Vel grabs her wrist. Hard. The grip is hot through her sleeve, and the pressure makes Kleya’s pulse jump. Her body reacts with a sudden, furious spark that is not fear, and not welcome.
Kleya stares down at Vel’s hand on her wrist, and then back up at Vel’s face. ‘Let go.’
Vel’s voice is still low, but it shakes now. ‘No. Not when you’re like this.’
‘Like what?’ Kleya demands, eyes narrowed angrily.
‘Like you’re already gone.’
Kleya’s breath comes in shallow. The lamp flickers, the rain pounds, and something in her chest twists so violently it feels like it might break. Anger, yes. But under it—something uglier. Something like being seen.
‘You don’t get to stand here and act as if you know me because you saw me concussed in the rain,’ Kleya bristles, and her voice is starting to rise too, despite herself.
Vel’s eyes narrow. ‘I know you because I’ve had you in my ear for years. Because you’ve been there, always, pulling strings and cutting people loose when they didn’t fit your plan.’
Kleya yanks her wrist once, but Vel doesn’t release it.
‘You want to call it strings,’ Kleya says. ‘I call it keeping people alive.’
Vel’s laugh is bitter. ‘Keeping them alive? Or keeping them useful?’
Kleya’s control slips; she hears it in her own voice when she answers. ‘If you think we had the luxury of sentiment, you were never paying attention.’
Vel’s head snaps up, and her voice rises with it. ‘Don’t talk to me like I’m some naive child. I watched you send people into the dark and call it necessary.’
Kleya’s pulse pounds. The yurt feels too warm all at once, the damp turning claustrophobic. ‘And I watched you insist on bringing your feelings into operational decisions and call it moral.’
Vel’s grip tightens. ‘You mean Cinta.’
Kleya’s mouth goes dry. ‘I mean you.’
Vel’s breath stutters—just once, too quick—and Kleya feels the tremor run through Vel’s arm before Vel clenches her jaw and steels it away.
The words come out louder now, breaking past restraint. ‘You and Luthen never wanted me to have anything that made me human. You wanted me sharp and obedient and alone.’
Kleya’s temper flares, and she steps in so close their bodies nearly touch; so close that she can feel Vel’s breath on her mouth.
‘And you wanted to be special,’ Kleya says, voice rising too. ‘You wanted to be the one who could keep love and still be a soldier. You wanted it to prove you were better than the rest of us. But the truth is you’re just selfish.’
Vel’s face reddens, not with embarrassment but with rage. ‘Say it again,’ she snaps. ‘Say I’m selfish.’
Kleya’s voice sharpens to match. ‘You are selfish.’
Vel shoves her. Not hard enough to knock her down, but hard enough that Kleya’s shoulder hits the support beam, and a flash of pain shoots through her ribs. For a heartbeat, she sees stars as her breath hisses out between her teeth.
Vel’s chest rises and falls rapidly. ‘You don’t get to call me selfish when you—’ Her voice cracks, then becomes a shout. ‘When you don’t even want to live! When you look at death like it's the only thing you’ve failed at yet!’
The shout echoes off canvas, off wood, off the smallness of the space. It feels like being slapped. Kleya’s vision swims, and she forces it steady as anger surges up, hot and white. What she hates most isn’t the accusation itself, it’s the flicker underneath it—the treacherous jolt at the idea of anyone caring whether she lives at all. It hits a place she boarded up years ago, and the movement there feels more dangerous than any insult.
‘I did what had to be done. Every day. For years,’ she spits, loud now, the restraint gone. ‘I buried myself alive and called it purpose. I watched people die and didn’t flinch because if I flinched, the whole thing would collapse. And you—’ She points at Vel, hand shaking. ‘You come in here drenched in righteousness and tell me I should want to live because it would make you feel better?’
Vel’s eyes shine. ‘It wouldn’t make me feel better,’ she shouts back. ‘It would make me feel like at least it was all worth it… that maybe it would make me feel something other than empty!’
The words hang in the air, raw and exposed.
Kleya’s chest heaves, and she hates the sound of it. She hates that her body is betraying her again, reacting, responding, alive. A treacherous thought flickers through her, then—smash this to ruins now, before it can turn into something she can’t control—and while Vel’s hand is still around her wrist, Kleya moves first. She twists her arm, not to break free, but to pull Vel closer, using Vel’s grip like a tether.
Vel stumbles in a half-step, startled, and Kleya slams their mouths together. It’s not a kiss so much as a collision; teeth and breath and anger. It’s a way to stop the words before they cut deeper. Vel makes a sound into her mouth—half shock, half fury—and then she bites back, kissing like she’s trying to win.
Kleya’s fingers fist in Vel’s wet hair, yanking, and Vel’s breath breaks. Their bodies crash together, Vel’s front pressed to Kleya’s, the beam at Kleya’s back a hard line she can’t retreat past. Vel drags her free hand down Kleya’s side, fingers digging into the fabric at her waist like she wants to tear it off.
‘This isn’t—’ Vel starts, breath ragged.
‘Don’t talk,’ Kleya growls, and kisses her again harder because this is easier than talking. Easier than letting the argument finish its work.
Vel doesn’t contend, and that’s the point. This is the only truce they know how to make.
Her hands yank at Kleya’s jacket, shoving it off her shoulders. The cold air hits Kleya’s skin, then Vel’s body heat follows, pinning her in place. Vel’s mouth drops to Kleya’s throat, biting—not gentle, not careful—right over the pulse, and Kleya’s gasp turns into a low sound she hates hearing from herself; needy and involuntary.
Vel hears it, though, and her mouth curls against Kleya’s skin, smug. Kleya scrapes her nails down Vel’s back under her damp shirt in response, and Vel shudders hard.
‘Fuck,’ Vel mutters, voice hoarse. ‘You’re—’
Kleya pushes her face away by the jaw, not kindly. ‘Don’t.’
Vel’s eyes flash up, dark. ‘Don’t what?’
‘Don’t make it sound like anything,’ Kleya snaps.
Vel’s laugh is breathless. ‘As if you get to control that.’
Kleya’s temper sparks again, and it comes out as action, because she can’t stand the idea of losing ground. She grabs Vel’s belt, yanks her closer, and grinds her knee up between Vel’s thighs.
Vel’s breath stutters, and her hand clamps on Kleya’s hip, grip bruising.
‘There,’ Kleya says, voice low and rough. ‘That’s what you want, isn’t it? To feel something.’
Vel’s eyes burn. ‘Don’t psychoanalyse me while you’re doing this.’
Kleya bares her teeth in something like a smile. ‘Then stop thinking and use your hands.’
Vel’s response is immediate, furious, as she shoves her hand down between them, fingers slipping under the waistband of Kleya’s trousers. The touch is cold at first—rain-chilled fingers—then hot as they press in, searching.
Kleya’s breath catches, and she hates how fast her body answers as Vel’s fingers find her through the thin fabric of her underwear and rub, hard, not teasing. Her hips jerk into it, betraying her, and Kleya bites down on the sound that rises like a torrent in her throat.
Vel’s gaze snaps to her face, triumphant and wrecked. ‘Still want to pretend you’re above this?’
Kleya grabs Vel’s wrist and pins it harder against her, making the pressure sharper. ‘Shut up.’
Vel’s mouth drops open on a rough laugh. ‘Make me.’
Kleya does—by kissing her hard. Their tongues clash. It’s sloppy. Angry. Hungry. Kleya can taste the alcohol on Vel’s breath, and can feel the tremor in Vel’s hands as if the rage is trying to turn into something else and doesn’t know how.
Vel’s fingers slide under Kleya’s underwear. The first stroke against bare skin makes Kleya’s knees threaten to fold, and she digs her nails into Vel’s shoulders and holds herself upright out of spite.
Vel’s voice breaks into a harsh whisper. ‘You’re soaking.’
Kleya’s cheeks heat. ‘Shut up—’
‘Why?’ Vel interrupts, breath ragged, fingers circling with ruthless precision. ‘Because acknowledging it means you want it?’
Kleya’s head tips back involuntarily as Vel presses harder. The lamp throws light across the inside of her eyelids in shifting orange. The rain becomes background thunder. All that exists is the pressure, the wet heat, and the way Vel’s palm fits between her thighs like it belongs there.
Kleya hates it.
She yanks Vel’s shirt up and over her head, half-tearing it. Vel doesn’t stop her, she just leans in and bites Kleya’s collarbone, teeth leaving a mark that stings and then blooms warm.
Kleya makes a sound—sharp, broken—and Vel takes the opportunity to slide her fingers inside her. Kleya’s back arches so hard she feels the beam dig into her shoulder blades, and the concussion-lingering dizziness flares for a second, but pleasure cuts through it, clean and brutal.
‘Fuck,’ Kleya breathes.
Vel’s blue eyes have turned so dark now they’re almost black, and when Kleya moans again, she thrusts her fingers again, not gently. ‘That’s it.’
Kleya’s hand fists again in Vel’s hair, pulling her head back so she has to meet Kleya’s gaze.
‘Look at me,’ Kleya demands, voice hoarse.
Vel’s lips part, and she looks furious and flushed and alive in the worst way possible. ‘Why?’
‘Because you yearn to be seen,’ Kleya spits, and then kisses her again as if she’s punishing her for it.
Vel’s fingers work faster in response, and Kleya’s breath turns uneven, loud, humiliating. Her control frays in real time, stripped away by the relentless drag of Vel’s hand, by the wet sounds between them, by the heat pooling low in her belly.
A second later, Vel presses her thumb against the right spot, and Kleya’s entire body jolts.
‘Fuck, you feel so—’ Vel starts, voice cracking, like she’s about to say something too honest.
Kleya shoves her mouth against Vel’s again, silencing her, swallowing the words, refusing to let anything real into this.
Vel’s free hand grips Kleya’s throat—not choking, just holding, claiming the line of her jaw and the vulnerable pulse beneath. The possessiveness of it makes Kleya’s heat spike, makes anger and arousal twist together until she can’t tell them apart.
‘You’re shaking,’ Vel breathes into her mouth, and it sounds like an accusation.
Kleya snarls, ‘I’m not.’
‘Liar,’ Vel retorts as she curls her fingers inside her.
Kleya comes with a harsh, broken sound, thighs trembling, and her nails digging crescents into Vel’s shoulders. It hits fast and hard, like something ripped loose, and for a moment, she can’t breathe. Her vision whites out at the edges, and the beam holds her up when her legs threaten to give.
Vel holds her there, too, hand still between her legs, not stopping until the last shiver passes.
Kleya forces her eyes open, and when the haziness leaves her, she finds Vel watching her like she’s memorising damage. Like she wants to hate what she’s seeing and can’t.
Kleya swallows hard against the dryness in her throat. ‘Don’t look at me like that.’
Vel’s voice is a rasp. ‘Like what?’
‘Like you think you’ve won.’
Vel’s mouth twists. ‘You think this is about winning?’
Kleya laughs once, bitterly. ‘Isn’t everything with you?’
Vel’s reply is action. She pulls her hand away from Kleya and shoves it down her own trousers, eyes never leaving Kleya’s face. The sight hits Kleya low and immediate: Vel’s fingers disappearing, Vel’s breath hitching, her head tipping back for half a second as she rubs herself with angry urgency.
Kleya’s body flares again, still sensitive, still too alive.
‘You wanted me to feel something,’ Vel says, voice breaking on the words. ‘Fine. Watch.’
Kleya’s pride snaps, and she swiftly grabs Vel by the wrist and hauls her closer, spinning them so Vel’s back hits the beam this time. Vel’s breath punches out, and her eyes widen, then narrow with heat.
‘You’re not the only one who can make demands, Captain,’ Kleya spits.
Vel’s smile is all teeth. ‘Prove it.’
Kleya drops to her knees, a wave of satisfaction scorching through her as Vel’s eyes widen a in surprise. The floor is cold through her trousers, packed earth damp at the edges, but she ignores it as she yanks Vel’s trousers down just enough—impatient, rough—and Vel makes a startled sound that turns into a moan when Kleya’s mouth finds her.
She doesn’t take her time. She doesn’t do gentle. She licks with purpose, with anger, like she’s trying to erase the argument by force.
Vel’s hands fly to Kleya’s hair, gripping hard. ‘Kleya—’
Kleya hums against her, refusing to let Vel form words. She slides her tongue lower, then up again, then sucks at her clit, and Vel’s hips jerk forward into her mouth.
Vel’s breath turns ragged, and her thighs tremble as Kleya’s mouth works her relentlessly, the taste of her sharp and intimate, the wet heat of her filling Kleya’s senses until there’s nothing else—no rain, no war, no dead names.
Vel’s voice cracks above her. ‘Fuck— don’t—’
Kleya pulls back just enough to speak, lips wet. ‘Don’t what?’
Vel’s eyes are bright, furious. ‘Don’t be good at this.’
Kleya’s smile is vicious. ‘Too late.’
She goes back in, harder, using her hand now too—sliding one up between Vel’s legs, fingers pressing inside with quick, brutal strokes while her mouth stays on Vel’s clit. Vel’s back bows, her head hits the beam, and her hands yank Kleya’s hair hard enough to sting.
Kleya welcomes it.
Vel’s moans get louder, slipping past whatever restraint she meant to keep. The yurt holds the sound, the rain covering some of it, but not all.
‘Kleya—’ Vel’s voice breaks into a near shout. ‘I’m—’
Kleya doesn’t let her finish. She increases the pace, mouth and fingers working together, until Vel’s whole body locks and then shudders violently.
Vel comes with a strangled sound, hips bucking, thighs clenching around Kleya’s hand, and her fingers tightening in Kleya’s hair like she might not survive letting go. Kleya holds her through it, not tender, just relentless.
When Vel finally slackens, breathing hard, Kleya stands slowly. The movement makes her head swim, and she steadies herself on Vel’s hip for half a second, resenting her body for needing it.
Vel’s eyes are glassy, and she looks like she’s been dragged through fire and likes the burn. Kleya makes a point of wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, sharp, dismissive, but even so she can still taste Vel on her tongue.
Vel swallows hard. ‘You happy now?’
Kleya’s laugh is small. ‘Are you?’
Vel’s gaze flicks over Kleya’s face, over the cut at her hairline, over the tightness around her mouth. Something in her expression wavers—almost concern, almost something else—Kleya sees it and feels panic flare behind her ribs, hot and immediate.
She steps back. Creates distance. And Vel’s face hardens in response, as if she’s glad for the retreat; as if perhaps she needs it too.
The silence returns, thick and heavy as Vel pulls her trousers up with jerky movements, hands not quite steady. She drags her wet hair back from her face, smearing rainwater across her cheek.
Kleya adjusts her own clothes with brisk efficiency, as if she’s resetting armour, and purposefully doesn't look at Vel while she does it. It’s easier not to. Looking would make it real, and real is more dangerous than pain.
Vel clears her throat, and her voice comes out rougher, quieter. ‘So that’s what we’re doing now, then?’ she says, shrugging back into her shirt.
Kleya doesn’t answer at first. The rain fills the gap, and her ribs ache when she breathes too deeply. ‘It doesn’t mean anything,’ she says finally.
Vel’s laugh is thin. ‘Of course it doesn’t.’
‘It’s… efficient.’
‘Sure.’ Vel’s eyes flick up, sharply. ‘Efficient. Like everything you touch.’
Kleya’s temper twitches, but she swallows it down. If she snaps now, they’ll start again. And part of her—some stupid, treacherous part—wants to start again.
Vel moves towards the door, but halfway there, she pauses, back still to Kleya. ‘You know,’ she says, voice low, ‘I came here ready to scream at you until my throat bled.’
Kleya’s hands clench at her sides. ‘You did scream.’
Vel’s shoulders lift on her next breath. ‘Not enough.’
The words are too close to honest. Too close to I needed you. It makes Kleya’s skin prickle.
Vel turns her head just enough that Kleya can see the line of her jaw in profile. ‘You’re not allowed to die, Kleya,’ Vel says, quiet now, no shout left. ‘Not on purpose.’
Kleya’s chest tightens again, and she hates the command in it; hates the care hiding underneath.
‘Go,’ she orders, harsher than she means.
Vel’s mouth tightens, like she’s bracing for being cut. ‘Fine.’
She opens the flap and cold air rushes in as the rain swells, but before she steps out, Vel glances back—just once. Her eyes meet Kleya’s and hold for a heartbeat too long, and then Vel leaves. The flap drops shut. And Kleya stands alone in the damp warmth of the yurt, heart still hammering, body still humming with unpleasant life. She presses her palm to the beam behind her, grounding herself against the wood’s rough texture. Her other hand trembles, and Kleya looks down at it like it belongs to someone else.
The rain keeps falling as if nothing has changed. As if people don’t break and patch themselves with sex and call it survival.
Kleya exhales, slow and uneven, and the sound feels louder than it should.
‘Efficient,’ she mutters to the empty room, like the word might become true if she repeats it.
The mug of tea sits untouched on the crate, cold and dark. Kleya doesn’t drink it. Instead, she sits back on the edge of the cot with her boots still on, because lying down feels too close to staying, and she waits—rigid, listening—for footsteps in the rain.
Not because she wants Vel to return.
Because wanting is a liability.
Because wanting is what gets you killed.
But her body, traitorous and alive, keeps remembering the weight of Vel’s hands like it’s the only language left to her.
—————
2. Home One
Home One never sleeps.
Even in the hours they call night, the ship hums with a living, mechanical vigilance—bulkheads breathing faintly, conduits singing underfoot, distant voices clipped and formal in corridors that smell of disinfectant and recycled air. The lighting never quite dims enough to trick the body into rest. It just shifts to a softer severity, like a hand easing on your throat without letting you go.
Kleya has learned the ship by sound. The pitch of the ventilation at her door. The thud of boots on the deck plating two turns away. The rasp of a trolley wheel in the corridor outside command. It’s a map she holds in her bones because maps help you survive.
She sits at the narrow desk welded into her quarters, shoulders square, posture still as a held breath. A datapad glows under her hand, full of lists and routes and names that need to be cleaned, confirmed, erased. The Axis network didn’t die cleanly—it left tendrils, loose ends, and ghosts that could still get people killed if she isn’t careful.
Her head aches, low and constant. The healing cut along her hairline itches under the adhesive strips, and her ribs still complain when she twists.
Kleya ignores all of it.
She is halfway through a coded transmission from a dead drop on Kalarba when she hears it: a soft, deliberate knock. It’s not the brisk tap of a runner or a medic. Not the authoritative directness from command. It’s one knock. A pause. Another, sharper. Then nothing.
Kleya doesn’t move. She waits, counting her own heartbeat, listening for retreat. The knock comes again—three this time, impatient, like the hand on the other side is trying not to pound.
Kleya exhales through her nose, and her fingers still on her datapad. ‘Go away.’
Silence greets her for a heartbeat and then, Vel’s voice, low and rough through the door. ‘Open it.’
Kleya closes her eyes for half a second, and feels the old instinct rise—shut it down, shut it out, keep the door closed because doors are boundaries and boundaries keep you intact. But she also feels something else: a quiet anticipation that makes her skin prickle with irritation.
She stands, smooth, controlled, and opens the door.
Vel fills the frame like she’s been built to block exits. Her hair is damp—whether from a recent shower or exertion, Kleya can’t tell—and she’s in a plain dark shirt without insignia, sleeves shoved up her forearms. In one hand she holds a small flask, and in the other, nothing—empty, like she intends to use it. Her eyes flick over Kleya’s face, pausing irritatingly on the strips at her hairline.
‘You should be asleep,’ Vel says.
Kleya’s gaze drops to the flask. ‘You should be sober.’
Vel’s mouth tightens. ‘I’m not drunk.’
‘You’re here.’ Kleya steps back, letting Vel in, because refusing would turn into a stand-off in the corridor, and she won’t give the crew of Home One an audience to their show of mutual animosity.
Vel enters without hesitation, and the door seals behind her with a soft hiss.
The quarters are small. A cot. A desk. A storage locker. Everything utilitarian, everything designed for function over comfort. There’s nowhere in the room to be far away from anyone else.
Vel looks around as if she’s judging the space, then looks back at Kleya. ‘You’ve got that same look you had on Yavin.’
Kleya turns towards the desk, keeping her movements unhurried. ‘What look?’
‘Like you’re trying to outlast your own body,’ Vel answers, gesturing towards her.
Kleya’s fingers rest on the edge of the desk. ‘You didn’t come here to offer observations, Vel. What do you want?’
Vel lifts the flask slightly. ‘I came here to offer this.’
Kleya’s fingers twitch, almost reaching before she catches herself and stills the impulse with mechanical precision. ‘I don’t need it.’
Vel’s eyes narrow. ‘You didn’t need anything on Yavin either, but you still—’
‘Don’t.’ Kleya cuts her off without turning. ‘Don’t start with that.’
Vel’s voice roughens. ‘With what? With the fact that you were ready to die?’
Kleya’s jaw tightens, and she hates the way the words follow her across planets, across ships, across the thin membranes of her own composure.
She turns, slowly. ‘If you’re here to argue, do it quietly. There are officers on this deck.’
Vel’s gaze flashes. ‘Always thinking about optics.’
‘Always thinking about the Rebellion’s survival,’ Kleya corrects.
Vel takes a step closer, and the room shrinks. Kleya can smell the alcohol now, sharp and cheap, threaded with the clean scent of ship soap and something underneath—Vel’s skin, warmed by friction, by movement.
‘You know what’s funny?’ Vel says.
‘No,’ Kleya retorts without missing a beat.
‘You think you’re the only one who can do what’s necessary.’ Vel’s voice is low, but it carries heat. ‘You think you invented sacrifice.’
Kleya’s mouth curls. ‘You can leave.’
Vel doesn’t. Instead, she moves closer still, until she’s a few inches away, close enough that Kleya can see the fine fatigue lines at the corners of her eyes, the faint shadow of bruising under her cheekbone that wasn’t there yesterday. Someone—training? sparring?—must have caught her, and Vel didn’t report it, because Vel never reports pain unless it’s dramatic enough to make a statement.
‘You heard what they said in the briefing,’ Vel murmurs. ‘About the ‘Axis remnants’. About ‘asset contamination’. They talk about you like you’re a weapon they picked up off a battlefield and aren’t sure it's safe to handle.’
Kleya’s throat tightens, but she keeps her face blank. ‘Let them talk.’
Vel’s eyes sharpen. ‘You don’t care.’
‘I care about the work.’
‘That’s not an answer.’
Kleya doesn’t look away. ‘It’s the only answer that matters.’
Vel’s hand with the flask shifts, a subtle movement, the metal catching the light. ‘You sit in here at night like you’re waiting for someone to come arrest you.’
Kleya’s pulse jumps, and it’s infuriating how Vel can read her when no one else bothers to try. It’s infuriating that Vel might be right. Worse is that Vel’s hand tightens on the flask—just once, knuckles whitening—as if the thought of coming to find Kleya gone sends a flicker of something colder through her anger.
‘You’re projecting,’ Kleya says.
Vel laughs once, very quietly. ‘Am I? Or are you just used to being the one who names other people’s motives?’
Kleya’s fingers curl against the desk. ‘If you want to drink, drink. If you want to fight, pick a reason. Otherwise, get out.’
Vel’s gaze drops to Kleya’s mouth for a heartbeat too long. ‘Fine,’ she says, and her voice is almost soft. ‘Let’s fight.’
Kleya feels the shift in her body immediately—shoulders tightening, chin lifting, a familiar readiness that is not fear and not calm but something in between: the posture of someone used to impact. Vel unscrews the flask cap with her teeth and takes a swallow, eyes never leaving Kleya’s. The movement makes her throat flex, and the sight is irritatingly intimate.
Then, Vel holds the flask out, and this time, Kleya takes it because refusing would be a concession. She takes a small swallow, and the alcohol burns hot down her throat and sits there like an unwelcome warmth.
Vel watches her intently. ‘See? You do need things.’
Kleya hands it back. ‘Don’t get sentimental.’
Vel’s mouth twists. ‘Sentimental. That’s what you call it when someone cares whether you eat, sleep, breathe.’
Kleya’s temper twitches. ‘You don’t care, Vel. You want to be useful. You want to be the one who ‘got through’ to me. It’s heroism; obnoxious vanity.’
Vel’s eyes flare, the words landing clean and cutting, and Kleya sees the hit and feels a sharp, mean satisfaction.
‘Merles, you really are a cunt,’ Vel breathes.
Kleya’s smile is thin. ‘And as we’ve established before, you always do need to play the hero.’
Vel takes another step, and Kleya’s spine responds like a wire pulled taut.
‘You think you’re so above it,’ Vel says, voice still controlled, still quiet enough not to carry through the bulkhead. ‘You think because you don’t cry in public, because you don’t talk about your feelings, you’re stronger than everyone else.’
‘We’ve been over this.’ Kleya tilts her head. ‘I think feelings are irrelevant to victory.’
Vel’s laugh is bitter. ‘Victory.’ Her voice drops lower, almost a hiss. ‘Tell me what victory looks like to you, Kleya? Because all I see is you surviving like it’s a punishment.’
Kleya’s pulse punches once, hard and unsettling, and she works to keep her voice even. ‘You’re looking for an argument where there isn’t one, Vel.’
‘Isn’t there?’ Vel’s eyes shine with anger now, bright and hard. ‘You sit like a machine, you speak like a report, and you act like anyone who wants you to be human is asking too much.’
Kleya’s nails dig into her palm. ‘Humanity is a liability.’
‘No.’ Vel’s voice sharpens. ‘You’re a liability. Because you don’t care if you live, and that makes you dangerous to everyone around you.’
Kleya’s breath catches, and the room seems to tilt a fraction from the cruelty of recognition.
‘You don’t know what I care about,’ Kleya says, and the calm in her voice is a lie she can taste.
Vel leans in. ‘I know you cared about Luthen.’
The name hits like a fist Kleya feels directly in her ribs, but she doesn’t move. She doesn’t react. She point-blank refuses to flinch.
Vel keeps going anyway, relentless. ‘And now he’s gone, and you’ve got nothing to anchor you, so you’re just… floating.’
Kleya’s jaw tightens so hard it aches. ‘Stop.’
Vel’s eyes narrow. ‘Why? Because it hurts? Good. Maybe you should feel it.’
Kleya’s temper spikes, and she steps forward, invading Vel’s space with a deliberate precision that makes Vel’s breath hitch.
‘You think pain is proof of life,’ Kleya says, voice low and dangerous. ‘You think if you hurt enough, you’ve earned something. You think you can grieve loud enough to make the universe give you Cinta back.’
Vel’s face goes white with fury. ‘Don’t you fucking—’ Vel starts, and her volume rises before she catches it, the words scraping sharp against the controlled quiet of the ship.
Kleya holds her gaze, unblinking. ‘The truth bothers you, Vel. It always has.’
Vel’s hand with the flask clenches, and the metal creaks faintly. ‘You don’t get to talk about grief,’ she says, and her voice is shaking now, the quiet restraint cracking at the edges. ‘You don’t get to talk about love like it’s some… indulgence other people fail with. You never wanted me to have her. You never wanted me to have anything.’
Kleya’s mouth curls. ‘Maker above, you always make it about you, Vel.’
Vel steps closer. ‘And you always make it about control.’ Kleya’s pulse thuds, and Vel’s eyes drop to Kleya’s hands, then back to her face. ‘You hate that I’m here because you can’t control what I see. You can’t control that I know that all of this is a shitty illusion of false strength, but beneath the facade, you’re just a frightened little girl who’s more than ready to die.’
Kleya’s voice stays low, but the edge in it sharpens. ‘If I wanted to die, I’d be dead already.’
Vel’s laugh is sharp and ugly. ‘That’s the problem, isn’t it? You didn’t even finish it. You can’t even commit to that.’
Kleya’s composure fractures, and her anger rises, hot and immediate, and she hears her voice lift despite herself. ‘Don’t fucking speak to me like you understand anything about commitment.’
Vel’s eyes flash, and her voice rises too, quick and harsh. ‘Then explain it. Explain why you keep treating your own body like it’s something disposable.’
Kleya takes a step, closing the distance until Vel’s back is almost to the door. ‘Because it is.’
Vel’s breath catches. ‘No.’
‘Yes.’ Kleya’s voice is a low snarl now. ‘Bodies are tools. You use them until they break. You don’t—’
Vel shoves her again, just like back on Yavin. It’s not full force, but it’s enough to rock Kleya back a step, enough that she feels the jolt in her ribs. Pain flashes bright, and her vision sparks as her mouth opens on a sharp, stunned inhale.
Vel is breathing hard, eyes burning. ‘Stop talking like that.’
Kleya laughs, one harsh sound. ‘Or what? You’ll hit me for real?’
Vel’s hands curl into fists at her sides, and her shoulders rise like she might. Like she wants to.
Kleya steps forward again, because she doesn’t know how to back down without feeling like she’s betraying all she’s lived for; all she’s done in the name of revenge.
Vel’s voice breaks into a sharper volume, not quite a shout but close. ‘You think you’re so brave because you can stand there and pretend you don’t want anything. You think you’re invincible because you don’t let anyone touch you.’ Kleya’s pulse stutters as Vel daringly leans in, voice rising as her words spill out. ‘But you do want things. You just hate that you do. You hate that you’re still alive and that means you still have to—’
Kleya grabs her. Not by the shoulders. Not gently. By the throat—thumb under Vel’s jaw, fingers around the side of her neck, not choking, just holding. Stopping. Vel freezes, breath caught, eyes widening.
Kleya’s voice drops back into quiet, dangerously controlled. ‘Don’t push me, Vel.’
Vel’s throat works around Kleya’s grip, and her eyes flick down to Kleya’s hand and back up, defiant and hot.
‘Or what?’ Vel whispers.
Kleya feels the words in her gut like a hook. Then, she closes the last inch and kisses Vel. It’s not soft. It’s not seeking. It’s an impact meant to silence, meant to devour the argument before it becomes something they can’t take back. Vel’s mouth opens immediately, biting back like she’s been waiting for this moment since Yavin, since the first time they learned the only reconciliation they could tolerate was physical.
Vel’s hand grabs Kleya’s wrist, not to remove it, but to hold it there, intensifying the pressure. The agreement is unspoken and absolute: yes, like this; harder; don’t stop.
Kleya presses Vel into the door, metal cold under Vel’s back. The ship vibrates faintly through the bulkhead, and Vel’s breath breaks into a sound Kleya refuses to interpret. Her other hand fists in Vel’s hair, yanking her head back enough to break the kiss. Vel’s lips are wet and swollen when they gasp apart, her eyes dark, furious, bright.
‘You want to feel alive,’ Kleya murmurs. ‘Fine. Let’s do this then.’
Vel’s hands drag down Kleya’s sides, under her shirt, palms flat against her skin like she’s claiming territory. The touch is too intimate, and yet Kleya’s body responds with a flare of heat she hates. Vel’s mouth is back on hers before she can finish processing the thought—rough, insistent, teeth scraping—and Kleya bites Vel’s bottom lip hard enough to taste blood. Vel moans into her mouth like it’s a victory.
Kleya’s hand slides down Vel’s body, fingers hooking into the waistband of her trousers. She yanks them down just enough to get access, impatience sharpening every movement. Vel gasps as the cool air brushes against her skin, hips bucking forward.
‘Quiet,’ Kleya snaps, though her own breath is already ragged.
Vel’s laugh is broken. ‘You’re the one who started it.’
Kleya shoves two fingers under Vel’s underwear and finds her unbelievably wet, already slick with need. The realisation hits like a spark in Kleya’s chest—anger turning into something darker, more possessive.
‘You came here like this,’ Kleya mutters.
Vel’s eyes flash. ‘I came here angry.’
‘Same thing,’ Kleya says, and pushes her fingers inside.
Vel’s head hits the door with a dull thud, and she bites down on a sound of relief, shoulders tensing. Kleya watches her face closely—not out of care, she tells herself, but out of control. Out of management. She thrusts her fingers with a steady, brutal rhythm, feeling Vel’s body respond in involuntary waves.
Vel’s hand clamps around Kleya’s hip hard enough to bruise. ‘Fuck—’
Kleya leans in, voice low in Vel’s ear. ‘Say you don’t need this. Say you didn’t come here for this.’
Vel’s breath breaks. ‘I don’t—’ Kleya’s fingers curl. Vel’s body jerks. Vel’s voice turns into a ragged sound. ‘I don’t—’
Kleya bites Vel’s throat, not gently. ‘Now who’s the liar?’
Vel’s hand slides between Kleya’s legs, fumbling for the waistband of her trousers, and Kleya’s irritation flares at the lack of precision—until Vel’s fingers find her through the fabric and rub hard, impatient, like Vel is trying to tear the need out of her.
Kleya’s breath catches, and she hates the quick response, the wetness that betrays her, the way her thighs tense.
Vel’s eyes meet hers, triumphant and wrecked, and Kleya growls before kissing her again, eagerly suffocating her infuriating smugness.
The corridor outside is quiet. Too quiet. The awareness of proximity—anyone could walk past—tightens the sensation and makes every sound sharper, every breath more dangerous.
Kleya pulls away from the door abruptly, dragging Vel with her towards the cot. Vel stumbles, catches herself, and then shoves Kleya onto the mattress with enough force that Kleya bounces, ribs protesting.
Her temper spikes, and she grabs Vel’s wrist, flipping their positions with a sharp twist until she’s pinning Vel down instead.
Vel’s eyes flare. ‘You’re a brat.’
Kleya’s mouth curls. ‘You like it.’
Vel spits, ‘I can’t stand you,’ but her hips lift towards Kleya’s hand like a confession.
Kleya yanks Vel’s trousers down fully now, stripping her of the last barrier, and Vel kicks them off, impatient, then grips Kleya’s shoulders and drags her down into another kiss.
She breaks it, breath harsh. ‘No talking.’
Vel laughs breathlessly. ‘No talking. Right.’
Kleya slides down Vel’s body, mouth trailing over her stomach, feeling Vel shudder, and Vel’s hands fist in her hair immediately, grip tight, as if she can’t stop herself. Kleya pauses just above where Vel wants her, looking up.
Vel’s eyes are bright and furious and pleading in the same breath. When she finally takes Vel into her mouth, Vel’s breath punches out, loud enough that Kleya hears it echo faintly off the bulkhead. Vel bites down on her own knuckles to stifle the next sound, and Kleya’s irritation flickers, then turns into satisfaction.
Kleya uses her tongue with deliberate cruelty, slow enough to make Vel squirm, then fast enough to make her jolt. She hears Vel’s breath turn ragged; she feels Vel’s thighs tense around her head.
Vel’s hands tug hard in Kleya’s hair, not quite painful, but insistent, and Kleya welcomes the pressure. It keeps this from becoming tender. It keeps it sharp.
Kleya adds two fingers, thrusting inside Vel in a rhythm that matches the ship’s faint vibration, and Vel’s hips lift off the cot, desperately chasing friction.
Vel’s voice cracks. ‘Kleya—’
Kleya hums against her, refusing to let the name become anything but sound, and immediately increases her pace, relentless in her endeavour.
Vel’s breath breaks into a near sob—anger, release, pleasure tangled together—and she comes hard, body locking and then shuddering in waves, thighs clenching around Kleya’s hand.
Kleya holds her through it, mouth still on her, refusing to stop until Vel’s tremors fade. And when Kleya finally lifts her head, Vel is staring at the ceiling, chest heaving, hair fanned messily on the pillow. Her face is flushed, eyes glassy with the aftermath.
She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, brisk, dismissive, as if she can erase the intimacy of taste.
Vel’s gaze snaps down to her, suddenly sharp again. ‘Your turn.’
Kleya’s body flares with a reluctant hunger, and she hates that she wants it. She hates that Vel saying it like an order makes it easier to accept.
Vel pushes herself up, grabbing Kleya by the collar and hauling her into a kiss that’s almost angry enough to bruise. Vel’s hands yank at Kleya’s trousers, fingers impatient, and Kleya lets her—because letting Vel do something feels like control if Kleya frames it right.
Her hand slides between Kleya’s legs and finds her wet, already ridiculously slick, and Vel makes a low sound in her throat that is too close to satisfaction.
‘So wet for me,’ Vel murmurs.
Kleya bites her lip hard, a warning. ‘Don’t.’
Vel’s eyes flick up, dark. ‘Don’t what? Tell the truth?’
Kleya grabs Vel’s wrist and pins it harder against her, forcing the pressure exactly where she needs it. Vel’s breath stutters, then breaks.
‘Fuck,’ Vel whispers. ‘Fine. No truth. Just this.’
Vel promptly slides two fingers inside her, and Kleya’s head tips back, involuntarily. Kleya’s fingers dig into the cot frame, knuckles whitening as pleasure roars through her. All the while, Vel annoyingly watches her face with a kind of fierce attention that feels like being dissected. Kleya hates that too.
‘Look at you,’ Vel murmurs.
Kleya’s eyes snap down. ‘Stop.’
Vel’s fingers keep curling and nudging perfectly against the right spot deep inside her, and Kleya’s protest dies in her throat.
‘You can’t stand being seen,’ Vel husks, mouth at Kleya’s ear, voice low and rough.
Kleya’s body clenches around Vel’s fingers, and her breath turns uneven, humiliatingly loud in the small quarters.
Vel’s other hand grips Kleya’s thigh, anchoring her in place. The touch is firm, not gentle, and that’s the only reason Kleya doesn’t flinch away.
Kleya’s hand fists in Vel’s hair and yanks hard enough to make Vel gasp. ‘Gods, you’re so insufferable. Just shut up and fuck me.’
She drags Vel into another hard kiss, then, rough and punishing, and thankfully, Vel keeps fucking her through it, fingers relentless. Kleya’s hips rock helplessly into Vel’s hand, and she hates the helplessness of it; hates how good it feels.
Vel breaks the kiss briefly, breath ragged. ‘You’re close.’
Kleya snarls, ‘Don’t—’ but it’s too late, the pleasure has already gathered, hot and urgent, pulsing low in her belly.
Vel’s fingers curl, thumb pressing harder against her throbbing clit and Kleya’s whole body jolts. She comes with a sharp, bitten-off sound, thighs trembling, nails digging into Vel’s shoulders.
It hits harder than before, like something ripped loose from a place she works tirelessly to keep locked, and for a moment, she can’t breathe.
Vel keeps her hand there, holding her through the tremors, and not stopping her thrusts until Kleya’s shaking eases.
Kleya blinks the afterimage of heat out of her eyes and finds Vel watching her. Not smug. Not triumphant. Still. Intent in a way that makes Kleya’s skin go cold, because it isn’t appraisal and it isn’t strategy; it’s the kind of attention that doesn’t ask permission before it takes inventory. Vel’s hand remains where it is—between her thighs—holding the last tremor as if stopping would be a kind of cruelty. As if stopping would mean admitting this was only ever a transaction.
Kleya’s throat works once. She hates that she can feel the steadiness in Vel’s grip. Hates that it isn’t possessive. Hates that, for a breath, it feels like something that might count as care if either of them were foolish enough to name it.
Vel’s mouth parts, something raw rising—something that isn’t anger, isn’t lust, something Kleya has no shield for—so Kleya moves first. She shoves Vel back—not hard, but decisive, creating distance with the same efficiency she uses to reset armour before Vel can turn the moment into language. The motion is sharp enough to make the cot creak, sharp enough to make Vel’s hand finally leave her.
Vel’s expression hardens instantly, relief and irritation braided together as if she’d been waiting for the cut.
‘Right,’ Vel says, voice hoarse. ‘Rules,’ she drawls.
Kleya sits up and drags her clothes into place with brisk, practised motions. Her fingers don’t quite stop trembling until she gives them a job to do. ‘Yes.’
Vel swings her legs off the cot. She stands, pulls her trousers up, and drags her hair back from her face. For a second, she looks as though she might still say whatever had risen to her lips—something raw, something that would make this worse.
Instead, she swallows it.
And that—Kleya realises, too late—lands harder than the shove.
Kleya keeps her eyes on the seams of her sleeve while Vel picks up the flask, screws the cap on with an annoyed twist, and makes noise out of metal because noise is safer than what almost happened in the space between them.
‘This is stupid,’ Vel says.
Kleya’s voice is flat, but it takes effort to keep it there. ‘Then stop coming.’
Vel’s gaze flicks to her—brief, sharp, almost gentle in its precision—and then away again, like she regrets the reflex. ‘And let you rot in here alone?’
Kleya’s temper flares, quick and sharp. ‘I’m not rotting.’
Vel steps closer—only one step, not enough to touch—and drops her voice to something quiet enough to be private. ‘You’re right. You’re not rotting.’ A pause. ‘You’re punishing yourself. There’s a difference.’
Kleya forces her face blank. Her pulse kicks against the inside of her wrist, betraying her.
‘Leave, Vel.’
Vel’s jaw flexes. For a moment, it looks like she might argue, might restart the cycle—fight, collide, silence. Instead, she nods once, sharp, as if agreement is the only way she can keep her hands to herself.
She reaches for the door, but like on Yavin, her hand pauses on the latch. ‘If you rot away in here, purposefully alone,’ Vel says, ‘I’m going to be angry about it.’
Kleya hates the line. Hates that it isn’t tender. Hates that it isn’t romantic. Hates that it is, somehow, the truest thing Vel has offered her.
She answers with the only weapon she trusts. ‘That sounds like your problem.’
Vel’s shoulders rise and fall on a breath that sounds too controlled. ‘Yeah,’ she mutters. ‘It always is.’
Then she slips out into the corridor and the door seals behind her with a soft hiss.
The ship’s hum fills the space she leaves.
Kleya stays standing for a beat too long, skin still buzzing, ribs aching, mouth tasting faintly of Vel’s sweat and the cheap alcohol they both pretended was the point. She looks down at her hands like they belong to someone else. They’re steady now, and that, more than anything, makes her furious.
Vel works better than the ship’s liquor or the pills in the medbay, and Kleya loathes that her nervous system has apparently decided Vel Sartha is the most reliable way to stop the shaking.
She goes to the small sink and turns on the water. It runs cold at first, then lukewarm, never truly hot. She scrubs her hands with ship soap until the skin reddens. Once. Twice. Three times. As if she can wash off the fact that she wanted her. As if she can erase the memory of Vel’s eyes on her face when she came.
Kleya dries her hands on a rough cloth and stands very still, listening. A trolley wheel passes in the corridor. Voices murmur two doors down. The ship remains awake.
She returns to the desk and sits. The datapad still glows with the unfinished transmission, lines of code waiting for her to decide what lives and what dies.
Her body keeps remembering Vel anyway.
Kleya’s jaw tightens. ‘Efficient,’ she tells herself under her breath, and forces her fingers back to work.
Outside her door, the corridor is empty again.
For now.
—————
3. Hoth
By Hoth, the arguments don’t start like blazes fuelled by gasoline. They begin like an established ritual.
Kleya can hear Vel coming long before she reaches the door—boots on packed ice, a faint scrape where the corridor narrows, the soft clink of something carried in a pocket that shouldn’t clink at all on a military base. The sound has become… familiar. Not comforting. Comfort implies permission. But familiar in the way a bruise becomes part of the body: always there, always waiting to be pressed.
The work bay they’ve given her is barely a room. A short metal corridor branches off like an afterthought, and someone has bolted a narrow desk to the wall and labelled it ‘intel support’. A heater wheezes in the corner, barely competent, its warmth swallowed by the cold that lives in Echo Base’s seams. Everything smells of coolant and old fabric that never dries. And every breath comes out visible, a pale fog that curls and disappears in the harsh strip lights.
Kleya sits with a datapad angled against her knee, stylus between gloved fingers. The glove leather is stiff from the cold, and the stylus feels like it belongs to someone else.
She finishes the last line of a cipher set, eyes flicking over it for errors, and then she pauses—not because there’s nothing to do, but because the ache in her hands has turned into something sharper, a bright insistence that’s starting to feel like a warning. She flexes her fingers inside the gloves, trying to coax blood back into them. It helps for half a second, and then the numbness returns.
The curse rising in her throat is interrupted by the knock that raps against the door—two taps, then a third like an afterthought.
Kleya doesn’t look up. ‘It’s locked.’
‘It isn’t,’ Vel says, and the door opens anyway.
Cold air pushes in, sharper than the bay’s stagnant chill as Vel steps through it carrying the weather with her—snow clinging to the seams of her boots, cheeks flushed raw, auburn hair tucked back under a cap she immediately pulls off and shoves into her pocket.
In one hand, she holds a ration heater packet. Steam leaks from the edge in a thin, stubborn line. In the other, she holds… gloves. A second pair, thicker and better than the ones Kleya currently owns.
Kleya stares at them for a beat too long before she forces her face back into neutrality. She tries valiantly to ignore the feeling of something small and sharp twist under her ribs—not gratitude, not yet, but the unease of being known too closely.
Vel shuts the door with her hip and leans against it, as if she’s sealing them in on purpose. Her eyes sweep over Kleya’s posture, the set of her shoulders, the way her fingers keep flexing like they’re fighting their own stiffness.
‘You’re going to freeze out of spite,’ Vel says.
Kleya lets her gaze drop to the heater packet. ‘You’re going to bleed out of self-imposed nobility.’
Vel’s mouth twitches, not quite a smile, something worse—something that suggests she’s beginning to enjoy this.
‘You’d miss me,’ Vel says mildly.
‘Don’t flatter yourself,’ Kleya replies, and makes herself look back down at the datapad as if Vel is background noise.
Vel doesn’t move for a moment, and Kleya can feel her attention anyway, like pressure against skin. Then, Vel pushes off the door and walks closer, boots quiet on the rubber matting. She tosses the gloves onto the desk as if she’s delivering contraband, and the heater packet lands beside them with a soft hiss of steam.
‘Put those on,’ Vel says.
Kleya’s stylus pauses midair. ‘No.’
Vel’s eyebrow lifts. ‘No?’
‘I already have gloves.’
Vel looks pointedly at Kleya’s hands. ‘Those are decorative.’
Kleya’s jaw tightens. ‘What do you want, Vel?’
Vel’s eyes flick to the datapad, then back to Kleya’s face. ‘Rieekan asked for a status update on the convoy routes.’
Kleya holds her gaze. ‘He did not.’
Vel’s mouth curves. ‘No, he didn’t.’
Kleya exhales, and her cloud of breath fogs and disappears. ‘Then we have nothing left to discuss.’
Vel steps closer again, until she’s on the other side of the desk. The space between them shrinks. The bay’s weak heater hums. Somewhere deeper in the base, an alarm chirps once and then falls silent.
Kleya’s gaze flicks to the door as if measuring the distance—an escape route she won’t take. The old instinct rises, sharp and familiar: leave before it becomes something you can’t undo. She doesn’t move. And Vel sees it.
Something in her tightens before she softens her stance, deliberately. ‘You haven’t slept,’ Vel says.
Kleya’s stylus taps the screen once, too hard. ‘I sleep.’
‘When?’
‘When necessary.’
Vel’s eyes narrow. ‘You say that like you’re proud of it.’
Kleya’s lips press together. She refuses to rise to it. She refuses to give Vel the satisfaction of an argument that feels like it matters.
Vel reaches for the heater packet and turns it in her hands, and the steam curls around her fingers. ‘Give me your hands,’ she says.
Kleya’s head lifts sharply. ‘No.’
‘Kleya,’ Vel’s tone stays maddeningly calm.
The use of her name like that—plain, steady—lands too close to intimacy. Kleya’s pulse jumps, and she hates that it does.
‘If you’re here to fuck,’ Kleya says, voice low and edged, ‘don’t dress it up as charity.’
Vel’s eyes flash. ‘Is that what you think this is?’
Kleya leans back slightly in the chair, the movement deliberate. ‘It’s what it looks like.’
Vel’s expression tightens, but she doesn’t snap. Not yet. She looks down at Kleya’s hands again—at the minute tremor Kleya is failing to suppress.
‘Take the gloves off,’ Vel says softly.
Kleya’s laugh is quiet and sharp. ‘Absolutely not.’
Vel’s mouth twists. ‘Fine.’
She reaches out anyway, but Kleya’s reflex is immediate. She catches Vel’s wrist before Vel can touch her, fingers clamping hard enough to stop the motion. Vel’s skin is cold under Kleya’s glove, and her pulse flutters against Kleya’s grip.
Vel’s eyes lift to meet hers, dark and steady. ‘Still doing that?’
Kleya’s voice drops. ‘Doing what?’
‘Treating any help like it’s a threat.’
Kleya’s fingers tighten around Vel’s wrist. ‘Because it is.’
Vel doesn’t pull away; she just holds the stare, unblinking, like she’s decided she has time to outlast Kleya’s instincts.
‘Your hands are numb,’ Vel says. ‘You can barely hold the stylus.’
Kleya’s jaw clenches. ‘I’m managing.’
‘You always manage.’ Vel’s voice softens by half a degree, not in tenderness but in something like frustration. ‘That’s the problem.’
Kleya releases Vel’s wrist abruptly, as if she’s burned herself. ‘Stop doing this,’ Kleya says.
Vel’s eyebrows lift. ‘Stop doing what?’
‘Stop—’ Kleya’s throat tightens. She hates that she can’t find the exact word. ‘Stop looking at me like I’m… salvageable.’
Something shifts in Vel’s face. It’s quick—guardedness breaking, then re-forming.
‘You’re cold,’ Vel says simply, and reaches for Kleya’s hands again, but slower this time, giving her every opportunity to refuse.
Kleya doesn’t, and she tells herself it’s because she’s tired. Not because the warmth feels like relief as Vel’s fingers close around her gloved hands, firm and warm despite the cold. She presses the heater packet between their palms and folds Kleya’s hands around it like she’s forcing a shape.
Heat blooms. Immediate. Sharp. It hurts for half a second as feeling returns, and then it becomes relief so intense it makes Kleya’s vision stutter. Vel watches her face closely, as if she can see the relief and is trying not to smile warmly at it.
It makes Kleya’s chest tighten with irritation and panic.
Warmth had been the last thing she felt before her world was torn open—the heat of her mother’s arms, her father’s coat, the fire that carved itself into her skin. Warmth always came before loss; her body learned that young. Even now, decades later, heat feels like a warning flare rather than a comfort.
She yanks her hands back and, in the same motion, she stands, crowds Vel, and uses the sudden proximity like a weapon.
‘There,’ Kleya says, voice low and rough. ‘Satisfied? You’ve done your good deed.’
Vel’s gaze instinctively flicks down to Kleya’s mouth, and Kleya leans in and kisses her hard. It’s the familiar move—the conversion. The reframe. If it becomes sex, it becomes safe. If it becomes rough, it becomes meaningless.
Vel’s mouth parts in surprise, then responds instinctively, kissing back with that same hunger that’s become routine between them. Kleya bites, hard enough to sting, and Vel makes a sound into her mouth and grips her waist.
Kleya pushes Vel back against the desk, the metal edge pressing into Vel’s hips. Her hands slide up Vel’s arms, searching for leverage, for control.
Vel lets her for a heartbeat, and then catches Kleya’s wrists. Not yanking them away. Not fighting. Just holding them still. Kleya freezes.
Vel’s eyes hold hers. ‘No.’
Kleya’s breath comes out sharp. ‘What?’
Vel doesn’t answer immediately. She waits until Kleya’s breathing stutters, until the moment stretches thin enough to break, and then continues.
‘Not like that,’ she replies, and her voice is steady and almost infuriatingly gentle.
Kleya’s temper flares, immediate and bright. ‘You don’t get to change the rules.’
Vel doesn’t release her wrists. Her thumb presses once, warm, against the inside of Kleya’s wrist, right over the pulse. It’s a grounding touch disguised as restraint.
‘We don’t have rules,’ Vel says.
Kleya’s laugh is harsh. ‘We have nothing but rules.’
Vel leans in, close enough that her breath fogs between them. ‘Then add one,’ she murmurs. ‘No hurting each other tonight.’
Kleya’s mouth dries, the request landing like a threat. ‘Why?’ she snaps. ‘Afraid I’ll leave a mark that people will gossip about?’
Vel’s jaw tightens, and for the first time, she looks like she might bite back. Instead, she says, quiet and calm, ‘It doesn’t have to mean anything different just because we’re not hurting each other, Kleya.’
The lie is so carefully spoken that Kleya can do nothing but stare at her, anger sparking, and fear bubbling underneath it. She hates that Vel can say ‘tonight’ like there will be other nights. Like this is a future, not a transaction.
Kleya jerks her wrists, testing the hold. Vel doesn’t tighten. She just doesn’t let go.
‘You’re soft,’ Kleya spits.
Vel’s eyes flash. ‘And you’re exhausted.’
Kleya’s breath catches, and Vel releases her wrists slowly, but doesn’t step away. Instead, she cups Kleya’s jaw with one hand—not grabbing, not claiming—just holding. Kleya’s skin prickles where Vel’s palm touches her.
‘If you want me,’ Vel says, voice low, ‘take me. But don’t turn it into punishment.’
Kleya’s pulse hammers. Her body reacts first, traitorous, leaning into Vel’s hand by the smallest fraction. The movement feels like surrender, and it makes Kleya want to tear something to shreds. Vel sees it anyway, and her fingers tighten slightly at Kleya’s jaw, steady rather than possessive.
‘You can stop,’ Vel adds. ‘Any time.’
Kleya’s mouth twists. ‘I’m not the one who needs reassurance,’ she retorts, and her voice wavers despite herself.
Vel’s gaze doesn’t flicker. ‘I’m not giving it to you because you need it. I’m giving it because I’m not interested in guessing.’
Kleya hates that. Hates how adult it is. How kind.
She kisses Vel again, but this time the kiss is different—not softer, not exactly, but less violent. Less like a muzzle. Vel answers it and deepens it slowly, like she’s taking her time on purpose.
Kleya’s hands slide to Vel’s waist, gripping hard enough to anchor herself, but Vel doesn’t flinch; she simply guides Kleya backwards, step by step, away from the desk.
‘Bed,’ Vel murmurs against her mouth.
‘It’s too small to be a bed; it’s a standard-issue cot,’ Kleya corrects automatically.
Vel huffs a short laugh. ‘Fine. Cot.’
They move together in the cramped space, boots scuffing the rubber mat. Vel’s hands stay on Kleya, firm on her hips, then up her ribs, careful around the old burn tissue Kleya pretends isn’t there. The carefulness makes Kleya’s throat close.
Kleya grabs Vel’s shirt and yanks it up and over her head with impatient hands. Vel lets her, hair mussing, cheeks flushed. Under the harsh strip light, she looks raw and real, and that reality is dangerous.
Vel’s fingers catch the hem of Kleya’s own shirt and tug, and Kleya lifts her arms and allows it, because refusing would mean acknowledging that she wants to refuse.
Cold air hits her skin, and Vel’s hands follow immediately, warm and soothing, and Kleya’s body shivers. Vel’s mouth drops to Kleya’s throat. She kisses, open-mouthed, then pauses where Kleya’s pulse jumps under her lips.
Kleya’s teeth scrape her own lower lip. ‘Don’t be gentle.’
Vel’s breath ghosts her skin. ‘I’m not being gentle.’ A pause. ‘I’m being careful.’
The distinction is humiliating, and Kleya tugs Vel’s hair back, exposing her throat. ‘Careful is affectionate.’
Vel meets her eyes, steady. ‘Careful is intelligent.’
Kleya’s breath catches. She hates how that lands. Hates that it sounds like something Luthen would’ve said—minus the warmth. Minus the hands.
Vel pushes Kleya down onto the cot with measured firmness. Not a shove. Not a slam. Not ownership. Not dominance. Intention. And Kleya hits the thin mattress and bounces slightly, startled by the lack of violence. Vel kneels over her, one knee on either side of Kleya’s hips, and the posture is familiar, but the energy isn’t. Vel’s gaze holds hers, unhurried.
Kleya’s pulse hammers in response, and her body is already awake, heat pooling low, the cold of the room making every touch sharper as Vel leans down and kisses her again, slow enough that it feels like an accusation.
Kleya’s fingers dig into Vel’s shoulders. ‘If you’re trying to make this… nice, stop.’
Vel’s mouth curves against her. ‘I’m not trying to make it nice.’
‘What are you doing, then?’
Vel’s eyes flicker, something vulnerable trying to surface, she swallows it down, and answers with pragmatism that almost convinces.
‘Keeping you warm,’ Vel says.
Kleya snorts. ‘Liar.’
Vel’s smile is small and infuriating. ‘Maybe.’
Then Vel slides a hand down between Kleya’s thighs, not rushing, fingers brushing over fabric first, mapping. Kleya’s breath hitches, and she spreads her legs without meaning to; her body betraying her before her mind can intervene. And then Vel waits, long enough that Kleya feels it—feels the choice sitting there between them, and then slowly, as their eyes meet, Vel slips her fingers under the waistband of Kleya’s trousers and underwear, finding her already wet and aching.
Vel makes a low sound in her throat—satisfaction, recognition—something that feels too personal, and want crashes through Kleya so abruptly she almost chokes on it. A thought forms, then, before she can stop it—don’t stop, don’t leave me—and Kleya smothers it instantly, furious that she even thought it.
‘Don’t…’ Kleya starts, her hand tightening in Vel’s hair, and she hates how much it sounds like asking.
Vel’s gaze lifts. ‘Don’t what?’
‘Don’t act like you’ve earned something,’ Kleya answers, redirecting.
Vel’s eyes darken. ‘I didn’t earn it. You’re just not as dead inside as you pretend.’
Kleya’s temper flares, and she tries to twist, to flip them, to regain the old dynamic, but Vel anticipates it—shifts her weight, pins Kleya’s hip with her thigh, and keeps her hand exactly where it is. Not rough. Just immovable. Kleya freezes, startled by being handled without roughness.
Vel leans down, mouth at Kleya’s ear. ‘Stay,’ she murmurs. Not as a plea. As instruction.
Kleya’s breath shakes. ‘Don’t tell me what to do.’
Vel’s fingers stroke her, slow circles that build heat rather than tearing it free. ‘Then do what you want,’ Vel says. ‘But do it here. With me.’
Kleya’s throat tightens around something she refuses to name as Vel slides two fingers inside her, careful of the angle, pressing deep with a steady rhythm that makes Kleya’s stomach clench. Her head tips back automatically, and a sound slips out of her, low and broken.
Vel’s mouth grazes her jaw. ‘Good girl.’
Kleya grabs Vel’s wrist. ‘Faster.’
Vel pauses, eyes on her face. ‘Is that what you want? Or is that what you do when it starts to feel like something?’
Kleya’s pulse spikes with anger. ‘Vel—’
Vel’s fingers move again, but not faster—deeper, more deliberate—and the refusal is maddening. The denial stretches the moment until it aches; until Kleya’s breath stutters and she can’t tell where want ends and need begins.
Kleya’s hips lift, chasing friction. ‘You’re insufferable.’
Vel’s laugh is quiet. ‘I learned from you.’
Kleya bites back a snarl as Vel’s thumb presses against the right spot—firm, precise—and pleasure sparks bright enough to make Kleya’s vision blur at the edges.
She grips Vel’s shoulders hard. ‘Stop staring at me.’
Vel does anyway. ‘You can’t stand it, can you?’ she murmurs, voice roughening with her own need. ‘You can take my mouth, my hands, my body, but the second I look at you like you matter, you start clawing for an exit.’
Kleya’s breath catches. She tries to speak, but the words won’t form. Vel’s fingers curl inside her, and Kleya’s whole body arches. Vel leans in and kisses her, swallowing the sound as it breaks. The kiss is hungry, but it isn’t punishing. It’s… wanting. And that’s worse.
Kleya’s hand slides down Vel’s back, fingers finding Vel’s waistband. She hooks and tugs, dragging Vel closer until she can feel the heat between their bodies.
Vel makes a low, involuntary sound, and Kleya seizes on it like a weapon. ‘You’re not immune either,’ she mutters.
Vel’s breath ghosts her mouth. ‘No.’
The admission is too honest. It sends a pulse of heat through Kleya’s gut, and she shifts her hips, grinding down, eagerly seeking more friction.
Vel’s fingers don’t stop; they adjust, meeting the movement, and Kleya kisses her again, open-mouthed, messy, as Vel’s fingers work her harder now—finally faster, finally giving Kleya what she demanded without turning it into harm.
Pleasure builds fast, hot and sharp, and Kleya’s thighs tremble. She tries to turn away, tries to bury her face in Vel’s shoulder so Vel can’t see her, but Vel catches her jaw gently and forces her to face her.
Kleya’s eyes flash with anger. ‘I said—’
‘I know,’ Vel murmurs. ‘But I'm not doing it to punish you.’ She presses a kiss to Kleya’s mouth, brief and firm. ‘I’m doing it because I want to see you come. And that’s my problem. Not yours.’
Kleya’s chest tightens painfully as Vel’s thumb circles perfectly again, and Kleya’s body locks, then shudders as her climax rips through her in waves. The sound she makes is small and broken, and she loathes it more than anything. Vel holds her through it—hand steady, mouth at her throat, not biting, just breathing her in.
Vel doesn’t stop immediately; she eases Kleya down through the tremors like she’s guiding her back into her body. And when Kleya’s shaking finally fades, she lies there gasping, sweat cooling fast in the cold air, heart hammering like she’s run miles.
Vel pulls her hand away slowly and brings it to her own mouth, licking her fingers once, eyes on Kleya’s face, and the sight sends a fresh flare of heat through Kleya, sharp and humiliating. She instantly grabs Vel’s hips and rolls them, trying to flip the positions, trying to regain the familiar violence of control.
And Vel lets herself be rolled, but she doesn’t let it become a fight. She lands on her back on the cot with a soft grunt, then reaches up and cups Kleya’s face with both hands.
Kleya immediately freezes at the touch.
Vel’s eyes are dark, wide, unguarded. ‘No biting me hard enough to bleed,’ Vel says quietly. ‘No marks you’ll stare at later and hate yourself for wanting.’
Kleya’s throat tightens. ‘You don’t get to—’
Vel’s thumbs press gently at Kleya’s jaw, grounding. ‘Kleya. I’m not taking anything from you. I’m asking.’
The word lands like a shock. Asking. Kleya’s breath stutters. Her instinct screams to sabotage, to spit something cruel, to make Vel regret it.
Being used, she understands. Being needed, she can weaponise. But being asked—being given the dignity of decision—that is far more dangerous. It implies she has value beyond utility, a premise she has spent years dismantling inside herself.
But Vel is looking at her like this decision won’t wreck her; it will fortify her. Kleya manages the smallest possible nod, as if it costs her less that way, and Vel exhales, relief flickering across her face before she hides it.
‘Good,’ Vel murmurs, and reaches down between her legs, fingers slick, rubbing herself with urgency that she can no longer pretend is purely physical. Kleya watches it, heat pooling again despite exhaustion, and Vel’s eyes flick up. ‘Don’t just stare. Touch me. Make me come.’
Kleya’s mouth twitches. ‘You’re very demanding for someone preaching restraint.’
Vel huffs a fond laugh. ‘Shut up and help.’
Kleya shifts down, mouth finding Vel, and this time she doesn’t do it like a punishment. She does it like she wants it.
Vel’s gasp is immediate and sharp. Her hands slide into Kleya’s hair, grip firm but not yanking, and Vel’s thighs tense around Kleya’s shoulders, and the warmth there feels like shelter in a place built of ice.
Kleya’s tongue works her slowly at first, tasting, building, and Vel’s breath breaks into fractured sounds she tries and fails to keep quiet.
‘Fuck,’ Vel whispers. ‘Kleya—’
Kleya hums against her, and Vel shudders so hard that she doesn’t even waste a single second more before sliding two fingers inside Vel, careful, matching the rhythm of her mouth.
Vel’s hips lift, chasing deeper pressure, and her hand tightens in Kleya’s hair. ‘Don’t stop. You feel so damn good.’
Kleya doesn’t, and Vel comes with a sharp, strangled sound, whole body tensing and then shaking. Her thighs clamp around Kleya’s head, not painful but desperate, and her fingers grip Kleya’s hair like she might fall apart if she lets go.
Kleya holds her through it, mouth still on her until Vel’s trembling eases, and when Kleya finally lifts her head, Vel is staring at the ceiling, chest heaving, but eyes bright.
She sits back on her heels and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. The room is too cold now; sweat is turning into chill on her skin. Vel pushes herself up slowly and sits, hair mussed, lips swollen, and she looks at Kleya for a long moment without speaking. Kleya’s chest tightens. She’s waiting for the old script: a cutting remark, a retreat, Vel leaving like it means nothing. But Vel doesn’t do any of it.
Instead, Vel reaches behind her and grabs the thin blanket folded at the foot of the cot. She shakes it out once and drapes it over Kleya’s legs—only her legs, like she’s respecting some invisible boundary.
The gesture is so small it’s almost nothing.
That’s what makes it unbearable.
Kleya’s voice comes out harsher than she intends. ‘Don’t start.’
Vel meets her eyes. ‘I’m not starting anything.’
‘Yes, you are,’ Kleya swallows, throat tight. ‘This is how it starts, Vel.’
Vel’s mouth twists, tired. ‘No,’ she says quietly. ‘This is just… honest.’
Kleya’s hands clench the blanket automatically, the heat of Vel’s touch lingers in the fabric like an imprint, but she says nothing.
Vel stands, tugging her shirt back on. She pulls her trousers up, movements slower now, the urgency bled out. She looks almost reluctant to put armour back on.
Kleya hates that she notices.
Vel reaches for the heater packet on the desk and sets it closer to the cot, steam thinning but still warm. Then, like always, she pauses by the door.
For a moment, it looks like she might say something real. Something that would ruin everything. Something that would turn this into a choice instead of a habit.
Vel’s hand rests on the latch. ‘Your hands are important,’ she says instead, voice low. ‘Use the gloves.’
Kleya’s mouth tightens. ‘I don’t take orders.’
Vel glances back, eyes steady. ‘Fine. Don’t. But if you get frostbite because you were too proud to accept a pair of gloves, I’ll laugh at you when you can’t work the comms.’
Kleya’s lips twitch despite herself, a ghost of amusement she refuses to let become warmth.
Vel’s expression softens at the sight of it—just for a heartbeat. Then she masks it. ‘Goodnight, Kleya,’ she says.
Kleya doesn’t answer; she can’t risk the sound of it.
Vel leaves, and the bay is quiet again, filled with the wheeze of the heater and the distant groan of the base shifting in ice.
Kleya sits very still on the cot with the blanket over her legs, the heater packet steaming near her knee, and Vel’s better gloves lying on the desk like a dare. Her body hums with the aftermath, heat fading, and cold creeping back in fast. She can still feel Vel’s hands on her, not hurting, not punishing. Just… there.
She stares at her own fingers where they clutch the blanket, and tells herself, as firmly as she can, that it meant nothing. That Vel refusing to hurt her was just practicality. That the blanket was just temperature control. That ‘goodnight’ was just a word.
But her pulse won’t settle. Her throat stays tight. And the warmth Vel left behind feels like a problem that has begun to grow teeth.
Outside the thin metal walls, Hoth howls softly through the vents, and Kleya pulls the blanket closer around her legs—once—and then stops, as if she’s caught herself doing something too human.
She sits up straighter, reaches for the datapad again, and forces her fingers back into the work.
And when her hands shake, she hates that she reaches for Vel’s stupid—warmer—gloves.
It frightens her more than the cold ever did.
—————
4. Endor
Endor begins in Kleya’s ear.
Not the jungle—though she can smell it even through the scrubbed rebreather filter: wet leaf-mould, churned mud, smoke that clings to the back of the throat like a warning. Not the heat either, thick and crawling, making the straps of her kit bite into sweat-slick skin. It begins as a thin, sharp hiss in the commlink, the kind of static that means the plan has slipped its leash.
‘—Blue Two, say again—’ someone barks, clipped.
Kleya’s fingers tighten around the handset until the plastic creaks. She’s wedged beneath a half-collapsed canopy of camo netting, a portable relay unit humming at her knee, indicator lights blinking out of sequence. The air is close and damp; every inhale tastes of crushed greenery and burnt metal. Somewhere to the left, blaster fire stutters and then cuts off too abruptly, leaving a pocket of silence that doesn’t feel like mercy; it feels like an aftermath.
She adjusts the dial, chasing a clearer band. The relay spits a brief burst of voice—fragmented, drowned in interference.
‘—Captain—’ comes through, broken up, too faint to be certain.
Her stomach drops hard enough that it feels like a physical blow.
Kleya doesn’t move. Moving is how you make mistakes. Moving is how you become seen. She keeps her posture still, rigid, as if the discipline can keep the universe from shifting under her.
‘Blue Five,’ she says into the mic, voice even, precise. ‘Repeat your last.’
Static. A low pop. Then the channel opens just long enough to let a breath through—ragged, close to the mic—and a clipped syllable that might be her name, or might be nothing but her mind clawing for patterns.
Kleya’s thumb hovers over the transmit toggle, and her pulse thuds once, loud in her skull. She takes a deep breath and tries to tell herself, calmly, that it’s irrelevant who it is. A unit is a unit. A voice is a voice. She tells herself that survival is maths, not sentiment. But her hand has already tightened again, knuckles aching, as she listens to the static like it might confess whether Vel Sartha is still alive.
The relay unit hums at her knee, heat bleeding through the casing into her trouser leg. Indicator lights blink in a pattern that says the signal is degrading—terrain, jamming, damage, or all three. Endor doesn’t give clean lines to anyone.
‘Blue Five,’ she repeats, slower, each word clipped to the edge of discipline. ‘Transmit your position.’
Static answers again, and then a shiver of sound… half a syllable, breath dragged too close to the mic.
‘—Sartha—’ someone says, distorted.
Kleya’s stomach turns over, and she forces her breathing to stay even. A calm breath in. Hold. Release. The jungle air clings, wet and smoky, as if it’s trying to crawl inside her lungs and live there.
She flips to a secondary band, fingers moving on instinct, and the channel opens with a burst of chatter, overlapping voices, panic held just barely in check.
‘—troopers in the treeline—’
‘—Need evac at—’
‘—We’re pinned—’
Kleya listens for Vel like a sickness.
She tells herself she’s listening because Vel is an asset. A known variable. A command contact. She tells herself the maths makes sense. Then, a sharp crack of blaster fire echoes closer than it should, the canopy above her shakes with falling leaves, and the relay spits one clean line into her ear:
‘Kle…ya—’
Vel’s voice. Stripped of irony. Stripped of banter. Raw, breathless, and close to pain.
Kleya’s whole body locks. She hates the hesitation; hates that she recognises Vel in a smear of static the way you recognise a knife in the dark by the shape of its threat; hates that her body has decided this matters before her mind can file it into the correct category.
‘Where are you?’ Kleya says, too fast, and hates the way it comes out, too much like a demand.
The answer fractures under interference, but she catches pieces of it: ‘—south—’ and ‘—smoke—’, and then another blast and the channel fills with harsh breathing.
Kleya’s fingers dig into the handset. ‘Vel,’ she snaps. ‘Slow down. Give me markers. Trees. Slope. Anything.’
A beat of static and then Vel again, voice strained and furious, like she’s running while she speaks. ‘I don’t— I can’t see— There’s—’
The line cuts off with a sharp pop, and Kleya stares at the relay as if glaring at it might force the signal back into existence. The indicator lights blink uselessly as the hum continues, and somewhere beyond the netting, the forest roars with life and death and movement she can’t see.
She should stay. This is the relay point. This is where she is useful.
She should not leave a functioning comms relay in the middle of a battle.
Kleya doesn’t move. She counts to three. To five. The channel stays dead.
She swears under her breath, low and vicious, and rips the handset free of its cradle. She adjusts the dial again and again, chasing Vel’s frequency like a thread she refuses to lose.
Nothing.
Her pulse beats too loud in her ears, and she can feel it at her throat like a finger pressing there.
‘Fine,’ she mutters to herself. ‘Fine.’
She unclips the handset and shoves it into her vest. She checks her sidearm by feel, checks her pack’s straps, and moves through the motions the way she always has: methodical, controlled, as if control can change the outcome. Then she stands and slips out from under the camo netting.
The jungle hits her immediately; heat like a hand, smoke like a mouth. Mud sucks at her boots. Leaves slap wet against her sleeves. The sounds are layered and chaotic: blaster fire, distant explosions, something like shouting, then a sudden silence punched through by the crack of branches.
Kleya moves low and fast, using the trees as cover, cutting along the side of a shallow slope. She’s not a front-line fighter, but she’s not helpless either. She knows how to disappear. She knows how to move without being seen.
She hates that she’s doing this. Every rational part of her screams that this is a risk. That this is indulgence. That this is Vel’s problem, Vel’s choice, Vel’s sector, Vel’s—
A sound cuts through the haze—a grunt, a sharp curse—and Kleya freezes behind a broad trunk slick with moss with her breath held. Another sound follows—boots sliding in mud, someone running hard and stumbling before catching themselves.
Then Vel breaks through the undergrowth twenty metres ahead, half-sliding down the slope, blaster in hand, face streaked with soot and sweat. Her hair has come loose from her messy bun and sticks to her forehead, and her eyes are wide, scanning, hunting.
Behind her, movement swiftly follows—two white-armoured figures ghosting through smoke—and Vel fires, sharp and controlled, then ducks behind a fallen log. Her breath is ragged. She’s limping, favouring one leg, just slightly, but enough that Kleya’s mind marks it.
Kleya’s own body moves before she can think straight. She takes aim and fires once, twice, clean shots that crack through the air. One trooper drops immediately, and the other stumbles back into the smoke.
Vel’s head snaps towards Kleya’s position, and for a heartbeat, they stare at each other through leaves and drifting haze like they’ve found something impossible. Then Vel pushes off the log and runs straight at her.
Kleya braces instinctively, expecting collision, expecting a shove, a barked command, something that fits their usual script. But when Vel reaches her, she grabs her by the front of her vest with both hands, hauling her close so hard Kleya’s teeth click.
‘Where on all of Dathomir were you?’ Vel demands, voice raw with open worry.
Kleya’s throat tightens, and she works hard to keep her face blank. ‘Working the comms, exactly as I was meant to.’
Vel’s eyes flick over her—fast, ruthless, checking for blood, for wounds—while her hands stay clenched on Kleya’s vest like she’s afraid if she lets go, Kleya will vanish.
‘You weren’t answering,’ Vel says, concern lacing every syllable.
Kleya swallows down the urge to reach up and cup her cheek in reassurance. Instead, her temper flares at the accusation threaded through it. ‘You were the one who cut off.’
Vel’s grip tightens. ‘I got pinned down. They ambushed my team. I got chased. I had two troopers on my back, and the comms went dead and I—’ Her voice cracks upward, furious. ‘I thought you were dead, Kleya.’
The warmth in Vel’s voice hits her like heat on frostbite; too much, too fast, the kind of relief her body has learned to fear. Vel’s eyes are too open, too incandescent and endlessly blue. Too soft, too full of worry and care, and affection they shouldn’t be full of, that they make Kleya feel like she’s drowning.
‘Don’t be dramatic,’ Kleya says, forcing herself into detachment like armour.
‘Dramatic?’ Vel splutters.
‘You’re alive,’ Kleya says, voice clipped. ‘I’m alive. The forest is full of people dying. Keep perspective.’
Vel stares at her in utter disbelief, and Kleya thinks she would almost prefer it if they were trading actual physical blows or biting kisses because pain would be easier to deal with than this.
Vel’s hands shift from Kleya’s vest to her shoulders, grip hard, shaking. ‘You’re unbelievable.’
Kleya’s jaw tightens. ‘Let go of me.’
‘No.’ Vel’s voice drops, dangerous. ‘No, I don’t think I will.’
Another explosion shudders through the ground, leaves raining down, smoke thickening like fog around a wound, and Vel follows as Kleya tries to step back, pinning her in place with sheer proximity.
And then it happens—a slip in the armour—Vel’s breath catches on a thin, involuntary sound, almost nothing, almost swallowed. Kleya almost convinces herself she imagined it, but then she feels the grip on her tighten like Vel is checking she isn’t holding smoke, checking she hasn’t imagined finding her alive in the chaos.
‘Don’t—’ Vel starts, too quiet for the battlefield, too raw. She cuts herself off immediately, jaw snapping shut around whatever word almost followed. Not don’t die, not don’t leave me—but the shape of both flickers in her eyes before anger floods back in. ‘You disappeared,’ she says, voice sharp with fear wearing its teeth. ‘You went silent, and I couldn’t hear you, and I thought—’
‘Stop it,’ Kleya snaps.
Vel’s eyes shine. ‘Why? Because my care makes you feel something?’
Kleya’s mouth dries. ‘Because it’s irrelevant.’
Vel’s laugh is bitter. ‘Irrelevant. Right. Everything is irrelevant to you unless it’s a report.’
Kleya’s temper flares hot and immediate. ‘You want to talk about reports? You went off-frequency. You left your team behind and ran blind through smoke. Do you know how many people died because you—’
Vel’s face hardens. ‘Don’t you dare.’
Kleya steps forward, invading Vel’s space deliberately until she can feel Vel’s breath on her mouth.
‘Don’t I dare what?’ Kleya says, voice low. ‘Point out that your recklessness gets people killed? That your feelings—’
Vel’s hands clamp on her arms, bruising. ‘My feelings kept me alive.’
Fear surges up, sharp enough to mimic anger, and Kleya does what she’s always done—reach for the sharpest weapon—strike first, scorch the ground, make it uninhabitable.
Kleya’s eyes flash. ‘Your feelings got Cinta killed.’
The words are out before she can stop them.
Silence drops between them like a blade, and Vel goes still. So still it’s terrifying. And Kleya feels the regret flare instantly, sharp and useless. She loathes herself for it; loathes herself more for caring that she said it. Loathes herself beyond reason for the hurt now carved brutally into Vel’s features.
It isn’t even a truth she believes; if she really thought Cinta died because Vel loved her, she’d never have trusted Vel with a blade or a mission again. It’s a weapon, not a belief, and that somehow makes the cruelty of it worse.
Vel’s throat works, and when she speaks, her voice is quiet enough to cut. ‘Say it again,’ Vel whispers. ‘If you truly believe it, Kleya—say it again.’
Kleya’s mouth tightens around the apology she wants to give. But her stubbornness doesn’t allow her to apologise. It doesn’t allow her to soften because softening is surrender, and Kleya has been taught to endure pain and torture and death before ever giving an inch of defeat.
‘You don’t get to use her like a weapon,’ Vel exhales, eyes gleaming with hurt.
Kleya’s breath comes shallow. ‘Then stop using me like one.’
Vel’s hands shake on her arms. ‘I’m not using you,’ Vel snaps, volume rising. ‘I’m trying to keep you here. I’m trying to—’
Kleya flinches at the phrase ‘keep you’ like it’s a trigger. ‘You can’t keep me,’ she says, and the words come out louder than she intends, harsher. ‘I don’t belong to you, Vel.’
Vel’s eyes widen and her mouth parts, and for a cruel heartbeat, she looks genuinely stunned, as if the truth of what she wants has been dragged into daylight and she doesn’t know what to do with it.
Then she recovers with anger like a shield. ‘Fine,’ Vel spits. ‘Don’t belong to me. Don’t belong to anyone. Just vanish whenever you feel like it and call it strategy.’
Kleya’s pulse thuds. ‘This is war, Vel.’
‘I know,’ Vel barks. ‘I know. That’s why I can’t—’ She stops, jaw clenching, as if the rest of the sentence would expose too much.
Kleya’s throat tightens, and the jungle noise swells again: distant cries, a blaster crack, the roar of something burning. Vel steps closer, close enough that their bodies almost touch, and Kleya smells sweat on her. Smoke in her hair. The metallic tang of blood—Vel’s or someone else’s.
‘You came for me,’ Vel says, and her voice is low now, dangerous not with anger but with revelation. ‘You left your relay, and you came for me, Kleya.’
Kleya’s chest tightens. ‘I came because your comms were compromised.’
Vel’s mouth twists. ‘Liar.’
Kleya’s temper spikes. ‘Stop trying to make it mean something.’
Vel’s gaze locks on hers, fierce and exhausted. ‘It already does.’
The words land in Kleya’s gut like a punch, and her defensive instinct is immediate: Sabotage. Cut. Run. Anything but stand in the open with that truth.
Instead, her body betrays her, and she grabs Vel’s jacket and yanks her in. The kiss is brutal at first—teeth, breath, collision—it’s the old language: shut up, stop talking, stop making it real.
Vel gasps into her mouth, then kisses back hard, fingers fisting in Kleya’s vest, holding on as if the ground might fall away. Their bodies slam together like the other part of the puzzle they’ve designed, and Kleya feels Vel’s heat through layers, feels Vel’s tremor. Vel is shaking. Kleya’s own hands shake too.
Vel breaks the kiss for half a second, breath ragged, forehead almost touching Kleya’s. ‘We can’t—’
‘We can,’ Kleya says, voice rough. ‘We can do whatever we want. We’re probably dead by morning anyway.’
Vel’s eyes flash at the fatalism. ‘Don’t say that.’
Kleya’s mouth curls, bitter. ‘Why? Afraid the universe will hear me?’
Vel’s jaw tightens, and she grabs Kleya’s hand and drags her sideways, deeper into cover, moving fast and purposefully. Kleya follows without thinking, boots slipping in mud. They duck into a half-collapsed supply shelter—canvas stretched over a frame, the inside dim and stinking of damp crates and fuel. It’s barely protection, but it’s hidden enough that the jungle noise becomes muffled.
Vel shoves the flap down behind them, letting darkness wrap close, and for a moment, they stand there breathing hard, bodies too close, the air thick with smoke and sweat. The sounds outside are distant now, war reduced to rumour.
Vel’s hands are on Kleya’s shoulders, grip firm, as if she’s confirming to herself that Kleya is solid, and Kleya hates how much she wants that grip.
‘You shouldn’t have come,’ Vel whispers.
Kleya’s voice is flat. ‘You were going to die.’
Vel’s breath catches. ‘You could have too.’
Kleya swallows, and the tightness in her throat becomes something dangerous. ‘Stop talking, Vel,’ she says, and kisses her again.
This time, Vel doesn’t bite back like it’s a fight. Vel kisses her like she’s starving. The shift is immediate, terrifying. Vel’s mouth is warm and open, tongue sliding against Kleya’s with a hunger that feels like confession. Vel’s hands move up into Kleya’s hair, fingers spreading, cradling the back of her skull as if she’s protecting her.
Kleya’s chest constricts hard enough that it feels like her heart is being choked. It hurts.
She tries to make it rough instead. She bites Vel’s lip, not hard enough to bleed but sharp, and Vel makes a sound—half a moan, half a shudder—and then she pulls back, eyes dark, breath shaking.
‘No,’ Vel murmurs as her hand cups her jaw, steady and soft. ‘Not like that.’
The phrase again, the stupid new rule from Hoth following them into the jungle like a ghost.
Kleya’s pulse hammers. ‘This isn’t the time for your conscience.’
Vel’s mouth twists. ‘This isn’t conscience.’ A beat. ‘This is… I told you I don’t want to hurt you anymore.’
The words land like a knife, and Kleya’s mouth goes dry. She stares at Vel in the dim light, at the outline of her face, the shine in her eyes.
‘Don’t keep saying that,’ Kleya pleads, and she doesn’t know what she means—don’t be kind, don’t make promises, don’t make it mean something.
Vel’s voice drops. ‘I keep saying it because if I say what I actually believe, you’ll run.’
Kleya freezes, and the truth hits her like cold water. Vel’s hand is still on her jaw. Warm. Steady. Too human. Kleya’s instinct screams: get out. Instead, she shoves Vel back against a stack of crates and kisses her again, because kissing is easier than hearing herself breathe around that sentence.
Vel’s hands slide down Kleya’s sides, fingers fumbling at her belt, urgent now, desperate. The edge of control is gone. Vel is shaking with adrenaline and relief and something else she refuses to name.
Kleya helps her, fingers quick, unsteady, as they drag at buckles and fabric in the dark, clumsy with haste. The heat between them becomes immediate, raw, as clothes shift and skin meets skin.
Vel presses her mouth to Kleya’s throat, kissing hard, then moving lower, leaving a trail of wet heat that makes Kleya’s knees threaten to buckle. She grabs Vel’s shoulders and pushes her down to her knees in front of her, not gently, just needing to reclaim something familiar.
Vel goes willingly. No resistance. No fight. And Kleya’s breath catches at the sight—Vel kneeling in the dim, looking up at her with eyes that are too open.
She can only grab Vel’s hair and guide her mouth where she wants it—where she needs it—because this is the only way to make the fear quiet. Vel’s lips close around her, warm and eager, and Kleya’s head tips back, a sound tearing out of her before she can stop it. The shelter seems to shrink around them, full of Vel’s breath, Vel’s mouth, the distant thunder of battle.
Vel works her with a hunger that isn’t performance. It’s real. It’s desperate. And her hands grip Kleya’s thighs like anchoring points. Kleya’s fingers tighten in Vel’s hair in response, not to hurt, just to hold on.
Her pleasure rises fast, hot and sharp, amplified by adrenaline, and Kleya’s body is already on edge from the overwhelming fear coursing through her veins that it doesn’t take much to push her close to the edge.
Vel pulls back for a second, breath ragged, and murmurs against her skin, ‘You’re here.’
The words are so simple that they make Kleya’s throat close, and she yanks Vel back in roughly, trying to erase the softness, and Vel obeys so reverently that her obedience suddenly feels like another kind of intimacy Kleya can’t control.
She comes hard, biting down on her own knuckles to keep the sound from carrying. Her thighs tremble, her vision whites at the edges, and for a moment, she feels nothing but release—clean, brutal, uncomplicated.
Vel stays close, mouth on her, peppering her with gentle kisses and strong hands, steadying Kleya until the tremors fade.
Kleya drags in a shaky breath as her peak lulls back to lapping waves, and Vel stands, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, eyes still locked on Kleya’s face.
‘Touch me,’ Vel begs, voice hoarse, as she stares at Kleya like she’s the only divinity she’ll ever fully devote herself to.
Kleya sinks to her knees, unable to resist her plea, hands pulling Vel’s trousers down just far enough for Vel to step out of them with impatient haste, and then she braces one hand on the crate stack behind her as Kleya’s mouth finds her.
Vel makes a sharp sound—half pain, half relief—and Kleya doesn’t take her time. Not tonight. Tonight, the world is too close to ending. She licks and sucks and works Vel with ruthless focus, fingers sliding inside her, matching Vel’s rhythm, building the pressure until Vel’s hand on the crate shakes, until Vel’s breath turns into helpless, fractured sounds.
She grabs Kleya’s hair, not yanking, just holding, and Kleya feels the tremor in her fingers.
‘Oh, Kleya—’ Vel breathes, and then the name breaks apart into something raw, and Kleya hates how much the sound affects her; hates how much she wants to hear it again and again like it’s the only noise she’ll ever need to know.
Vel comes with a sharp, strangled gasp, hips jerking forward, whole body tensing and then shuddering, and her hand clamps in Kleya’s hair like she might fall apart if she lets go.
Kleya holds her through it all, and when Vel’s trembling eases, Kleya sits back on her heels and looks up at her, breath uneven, mouth tasting of salt and smoke and Vel. Vel stands there for a moment, eyes closed, forehead tipped down as if she’s holding herself together by force. Kleya watches her, unwillingly attentive—she’s so strong, so beautiful—and Kleya has never wanted something more.
When Vel opens her eyes and looks at her, something in Vel’s gaze shifts. The edge is gone. The banter is gone. The armour is gone. Vel reaches down and cups Kleya’s cheek with one hand, her touch so gentle that Kleya’s whole body goes rigid.
Vel’s thumb strokes once, warm against Kleya’s skin. ‘You’re shaking,’ she whispers.
Kleya jerks her face away. ‘It’s adrenaline.’
Vel’s hand follows, stubborn. ‘It’s fear.’
Kleya’s throat tightens. ‘Vel.’
Vel steps closer, lowering herself so they’re level, knees in the mud, and her hands come to Kleya’s shoulders, not gripping, just holding her there in the dim like she’s something worth steadying.
‘Listen to me,’ Vel says, and her voice shakes. ‘I can’t— I can’t lose you too.’
The sentence cracks something irreversibly open, and Kleya’s chest constricts violently. She feels panic surge up like bile.
‘Don’t say that,’ Kleya gasps.
Vel flinches—just slightly—then holds her ground. ‘Why not?’
‘Because it’s stupid,’ Kleya says, vicious with fear. ‘Because this—’ She gestures between them, the cramped shelter, the sweat-cold air, the taste still on her tongue. ‘—this is— this is nothing. This is adrenaline. This is—’
Vel’s eyes shine. ‘Stop, Kleya. Just stop.’
The words land like an order and a plea all at once, and Kleya’s pulse hammers. Vel’s hands slide up to her face again, framing her jaw.
‘Stay,’ Vel whispers, eyes imploring. ‘Be here with me.’
A word forms in Kleya’s chest like a bruise, a word she refuses to shape—yes—and she freezes. The request is the most dangerous thing Vel has ever said to her. More dangerous than any plan. More dangerous than any blaster.
Stay means tomorrow. Stay means after. Stay means I want you alive on purpose.
Kleya’s body reacts before she can stop it; leaning in, hungry for the warmth, for the anchor. But her mind screams at her to move. Kleya shoves Vel’s hands away and stands abruptly, turning her back so Vel can’t see her face.
She drags her shirt back down and fumbles for her belt with unsteady hands. The cold air bites sweat on her skin, making her shiver.
Vel stands too, slower. ‘Kleya—’
‘We’re needed,’ Kleya says, latching onto the first blade she can find. ‘The battle isn’t done.’
Vel’s voice is hoarse. ‘So we go back together.’
Kleya’s jaw tightens. ‘No.’
Vel’s breath catches. ‘No?’
Kleya forces her voice into flatness. ‘You’re confusing fear with attachment, Vel. You’re confusing sex with—’
Vel’s laugh is pained. ‘With what? Say it.’
Kleya’s throat burns. ‘With meaning.’
Vel’s eyes are bright, furious now. ‘It does mean something, Kleya. It’s meant something for months now, and you know it. You’re just scared.’
Kleya’s stomach twists, and she turns, meeting Vel’s gaze in the dim. She sees the wreckage there—fear, want, grief, hope. The unbearable human heart that Vel keeps dragging into places it doesn’t belong.
Kleya can’t survive that. So she does the only thing she knows—she makes herself cruel.
‘You’re making it up,’ Kleya says, voice cold. ‘Because you can’t stand the silence after. Because you need something to hold onto. I’m not that.’
Vel goes pale. ‘You don’t get to decide what I need.’
‘I do,’ Kleya says, and feels something inside her fracture as she says it. ‘Because I know you. And I know this will kill you if you let it.’
Vel’s mouth opens, and no words come out for a second, and then softly, she says, ‘So you’ll kill it first.’
The quiet understanding in the sentence is worse than anger, and it makes Kleya’s hands shake. She hides them by clipping her belt tight, movements precise.
‘I’m leaving,’ Kleya says.
‘Don’t.’ Vel steps forward again. ‘Stay.’
Kleya’s breath comes shallow, the panic rises like an unstoppable storm churning with the promise of destruction in her chest.
‘Don’t— don’t follow me,’ Kleya says, and her voice cracks just slightly, betraying the truth under the command: I won’t survive if you do.
Vel’s eyes fill with something that looks too much like hurt. ‘Fine,’ she whispers. ‘Run. That’s what you do best.’
Kleya flinches as if struck, and she turns abruptly and pushes through the shelter flap into the jungle. The night air hits her like water. Smoke clings. The forest is alive with distant noise again—blasters, shouts, the crackle of burning. She moves fast, not looking back. She tells herself she’s going to another relay point. She tells herself she’s returning to function. She tells herself this is a strategy.
Behind her, she hears Vel call her name once—sharp, breaking—but Kleya doesn’t stop. She runs until the sounds of battle swallow everything, until she can’t hear her own pulse as clearly, until the panic has somewhere to spread out.
She finds a low dip in the terrain and crouches behind a fallen trunk slick with moss, breathing hard through her teeth. Her hands shake violently now, exposed without Vel’s heat, without Vel’s grip, without Vel’s stubborn steadiness.
Her mouth tastes like Vel, and her skin remembers Vel’s hands not hurting her, not punishing her… just holding. Kleya presses her forehead to the wet bark and closes her eyes. Her palms remember the shape of Vel’s grip, steady and human in the jungle chaos—too close to a promise she can’t afford. And for an agonising moment, she vividly sees Vel’s face etched on the back of her eyelids; eyes wide, saying stay like it was possible.
Kleya’s throat tightens so hard it hurts, and she swallows it down like poison. ‘Stupid,’ she whispers into the bark, voice barely there.
But the word doesn’t erase anything.
When the sky begins to lighten hours later—grey bleeding into the treeline—Kleya is already moving again, slipping through smoke and shadow back towards comms, back towards function. Back towards anywhere Vel is not.
And behind her, somewhere in the wreckage of victory, Vel will wake with mud under her nails and Kleya’s warmth gone, and for the first time, the rule isn’t just ‘no cuddling’. It’s absence. It’s the shape of a door shutting. It’s the realisation that the war can end and still take something from you.
Kleya keeps walking.
She doesn’t look back.
She can’t afford to.
—————
5. Peace
Peace is not quiet.
Peace is paperwork that never ends. It’s clean corridors and new insignia and people smiling too hard because they think they’re supposed to. It’s ceremonies that smell like polished metal and fresh cloth, speeches that make grief sound like a noble expense, and the constant, grinding insistence that everyone should be relieved.
Kleya has never trusted relief.
On Chandrila’s outer administrative ring—temporary offices built into an old freight depot because Hanna city is overflowing with committees and commissions and reconstruction boards—she sits at another bolted-down desk and learns the new enemy: time.
It stretches. It opens up. It gives you room to think.
The first week after Endor, she tells herself she’s only staying busy because there’s work to do. The Empire didn’t disappear with the Emperor. Cells are still active. Records still need cleaning. Prison lists need verifying. People need to be found, accounted for, moved, resettled. The Axis network may be ash, but its habits are still in her bones: catalogue, decode, anticipate.
A war doesn’t end. It just changes its shape.
But the second week, the work begins to feel less like a necessity and more like avoidance, and that’s when the quiet gets its teeth in.
She’s careful about where she sleeps. Careful about who knows. Careful about doors, windows, and exits. In the small lodging assigned to her—one room, one narrow cot, a sink, a locking panel that sometimes sticks—she leaves her boots by the cot, lace ends tucked in. Her sidearm stays within reach. Old reflexes. Muscle memory. The kind of order that keeps the world from sliding.
Her fingers brush the grip one night and pause there, suspended in the dark. She considers—actually considers—leaving it on the floor. As if the war might truly be ending. As if she might allow herself to believe it. The thought hits her like a misstep in combat: sharp, nauseating. She snatches the weapon back under the pillow with mechanical precision, ashamed of the hesitation, ashamed of the wanting underneath it.
On nights when the air is too still, she sits upright against the headboard and stares at the wall until dawn. Not because she’s afraid someone will come, but because she’s afraid no one will. And Kleya hates how even the stillness has started to feel too much like waiting now, and waiting feels too much like hope.
The first time she dreams of Endor, it isn’t the battle. It’s the shelter. Vel’s hands on her face. Vel’s voice saying stay.
Kleya wakes with her throat tight and her skin damp with sweat, heart pounding like she’s running. The room is silent except for the faint hum of the building’s ventilation. There are no alarms, no distant blaster fire, no urgent comms. Just her own breathing, too loud and ragged.
She sits on the edge of the cot and presses her palm to her sternum as if she can physically restrain the panic. The memory sits in her mouth like smoke. Vel’s taste. Vel’s warmth. Vel not letting her turn it rough.
Kleya forces herself to stand. She washes her face in cold water until her skin reddens. She dresses in the dark without turning on the light. And when she finally steps outside, the hallway smells like new paint and detergent. A neighbour’s door opens, and a woman with a tidy plait and bright eyes says ‘Morning!’ in a tone that makes it sound like a blessing. Kleya nods once and walks on, telling herself that she’s made the right choice. On Endor, the line was crossed. Vel’s voice was too honest. The plea be here with me was a hook, and Kleya would rather bleed than be hooked.
The logic is clean.
The problem is that her body doesn’t care about logic.
In the third week, she gets a message from a New Republic liaison—one of the new ones, too young to remember the old ways of speaking. The message is bright, celebratory. Congratulations on your service. Your skillset is being reviewed for potential long-term placement.
Reviewed. Placement. As if she’s a crate to be inventoried. She deletes it and goes back to the list of missing persons, and spends the day hunting down names instead of thinking about what it means to be alive when no one is actively trying to kill her.
At night, she walks.
Chandrila’s streets are softer than Coruscant’s. The air is cleaner. There are trees. Real trees, not decorative ones. The lamps are warm, not harsh. People laugh in doorways. Someone plays music in a small square, a stringed instrument that sounds like a memory.
Kleya hates all of it. Not because it’s bad. Because it’s possible. Because it suggests that survival can lead somewhere other than more survival.
She finds a bar in the freight district that doesn’t ask questions. It’s dim, smells of citrus oil and old spirits, and the stools are worn smooth by bodies that have sat there for years trying not to feel.
Kleya chooses a corner seat where she can see the door. The first drink she orders burns. The second dulls the edge. The third makes her body loosen in a way that feels both relieving and dangerous. She tells herself she’s drinking because she can. Because she doesn’t have to be sharp all the time now. Because she’s earned it. But the truth is simpler—When she’s sober, she remembers Vel’s voice too clearly.
She’s halfway through a fourth drink when she realises she’s been watching the door for hours. Not for danger, but for Vel. The thought hits her like humiliation, and Kleya drains the glass as if it will wash it away.
A man sits two seats down from her—mid-thirties, clean jacket, polite smile. He glances at her once, then again, and then says something like, ‘Long day?’ Kleya doesn’t answer, but he keeps going anyway, because men like that always do. ‘You look like you could use some company.’ Kleya turns her head slowly and looks at him, letting the stillness in her face do the work. He falters. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean—’
‘Yes,’ Kleya says flatly.
He blinks. ‘Yes?’
‘Company,’ she repeats. Her voice is even, and her eyes are calm. ‘You can buy me another drink, and then you can come back to my room if that’s what you want. If it isn’t, leave.’
The man’s smile returns, uncertain, flattered by the directness, misreading it as an invitation rather than a transaction. ‘That’s… direct.’
‘It’s efficient,’ Kleya replies, trying not to let the word reverberate around her head too loudly.
He laughs, a little nervous. ‘Alright.’
Kleya watches him signal the bartender. Watches his hand move. Watches the way his knee bounces on the frame of the stool, excited. She feels nothing, and that’s the point.
They walk back to her lodging through clean streets that smell of flowers and hot bread from a late-open bakery. The man tries to make conversation, but Kleya gives him short answers. He calls her mysterious with a little chuckle, and Kleya fights not to roll her eyes. She thinks—unwelcomingly—of Endor mud under her nails.
In her room, she locks the door out of habit. The man doesn’t notice, he’s too busy already reaching for her and trying to kiss her like this is the beginning of something.
Kleya turns her face away.
He pauses, confused. ‘Are you—?’
‘Don’t,’ Kleya says.
‘Don’t kiss you?’ he asks slowly, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.
‘Don’t kiss me. Don’t talk,’ she corrects. ‘Don’t ask questions. Don’t make it… anything.’
His mouth opens again, but he closes it. He nods, as if he understands, but Kleya knows he doesn’t; he just likes the idea of being wanted in a way that looks like dominance.
Kleya lets him pull her shirt off; lets him touch her skin. His hands are warm and clumsy, and his mouth finds her throat and kisses too softly, too lingering. Kleya’s body tenses, the reflex immediate. Not because she doesn’t want sex, but because she doesn’t want tender. Tenderness has a shape, and it belongs to someone else.
Kleya squeezes her eyes shut and tries to forget as she pushes him back onto the cot, harder than necessary. He laughs, breathless. ‘Okay,’ he says, as if this is a game.
She climbs over him, straddling his hips, and takes control the way she always does: by making it mechanical. By making it about friction and breath and release, not gaze, not care. It works, briefly. His hands grip her thighs, his breath turns ragged, and he makes sounds she doesn’t bother to interpret.
Kleya closes her eyes and tries to feel something other than emptiness. Vel’s face appears anyway—endless blue eyes, stubborn mouth, the way she looked at Kleya like she could see through bone. It makes her stomach twist achingly.
The man notices her distance and tries to touch her face, tries to guide her into a kiss, tries to make it intimate because men like him can’t understand sex that isn’t about possession. Kleya grabs his wrist and pins it to the mattress, not gently, and squeezes hard until his breath catches.
‘You’re intense,’ he murmurs, impressed.
Kleya stares at him, and the room feels too bright, too clean, too full of air that doesn’t taste like smoke. The backs of her eyelids burn a shade of blue that refuses to stop haunting her, and she realises that her body isn’t numb—it’s loyal. It knows the difference between heat and warmth, between friction and the way Vel said stay.
‘No,’ she says, and the word comes out as a verdict.
He frowns. ‘No?’
Kleya slides off him and stands. Her skin prickles with cold where sweat has begun to form, and she pulls her shirt back on with quick, efficient movements.
The man sits up, confused, naked, and suddenly vulnerable in a way he didn’t anticipate. ‘Did I do something—?’
‘Leave,’ Kleya says.
He blinks. ‘What?’
Kleya’s voice stays calm. ‘Leave.’
His mouth opens as if to argue, then he sees her face properly. The lack of warmth in it. The stillness. The fact that she is not embarrassed.
He dresses quickly, and without looking at her again, and when the door shuts behind him, Kleya stands for a moment in the middle of the room, fists clenched at her sides, breathing hard as if she’s been running.
She didn’t even get the relief. She didn’t even get numbness. All she got was the confirmation that the problem has a name, and it is Vel kriffing Sartha.
Kleya sits on the edge of the cot and presses the heels of her hands into her eyes until she sees stars. Not crying. Not allowed. Just pressure. Just containment.
Her commlink buzzes softly on the bedside table—a message indicator—and she stares at it for a long moment before she picks it up. The message is from a records office. A list of names transferred to a new department. A request for confirmation. Vel’s name isn’t on it. Kleya’s throat tightens anyway, and she deletes the message hastily.
Afterwards, she washes her hands in cold water until her fingers sting. Then, she returns to the desk and works until dawn, because work is the only thing that doesn’t ask her to admit what—who—she wants.
Days pass.
Weeks.
The New Republic starts putting banners up in the streets—celebrations, memorials, calls to unity. Kleya walks past them with her head down. People are talking about demobilisation. About going home. About rebuilding families. About children.
Kleya doesn’t have a home. She doesn’t have a family. She doesn’t have a future she can picture.
All she has is the echo of Vel’s voice saying stay like it was a possibility.
One evening, a couple of weeks later, when she’s leaving the freight depot, she sees a familiar figure across the corridor: Wilmon, older now, shoulders broader, eyes haunted in a quieter way. He’s in a new uniform that still doesn’t sit quite right on him.
He spots her and stops dead in his tracks, and for a moment, neither of them moves. Then he walks over, expression careful.
‘Kleya.’
‘Wilmon,’ she says. Her voice is neutral, but her body tightens. Wilmon carries Luthen in his bones the way she does. He is not fully part of this bright new world either.
He studies her face. ‘You look… tired.’
‘I’m working,’ she says.
He nods, as if that explains everything. ‘Yeah. Of course you are.’ He hesitates, then says, ‘Have you heard from her?’
Kleya’s pulse spikes so hard she’s grateful he can’t see her throat. She keeps her face blank. ‘From who?’
Wilmon’s mouth tightens. ‘Vel.’
The name lands like a bomb, and Kleya forces her breathing to stay even in the wreckage. ‘No.’
Wilmon watches her too closely. ‘She asks about you.’
Kleya’s fingers curl around the strap of her satchel. ‘Why?’’
Wilmon’s expression shifts, pity threatening, then restraint. ‘Because she’s Vel.’
Kleya hates the softness in his tone. Hates the implication that Vel’s care is an inevitability, not a choice.
‘She shouldn’t,’ Kleya says.
Wilmon’s brows knit. ‘Kleya—’
‘She shouldn’t,’ Kleya repeats, sharper.
Wilmon holds her gaze for a moment, then exhales quietly. ‘She’s not… doing great.’ Kleya’s throat tightens. Wilmon continues, carefully, like he’s navigating a minefield. ‘She’s still with Mon sometimes. Still helping. But she’s… restless. Angry. She acts like everything is fine, and then she disappears for days. And when she comes back, she looks like she hasn’t slept.’
Kleya hears herself ask, before she can stop it, ‘Where is she?’
Wilmon’s eyes sharpen as he catches the slip, the crack in the armour. ‘Last I heard? Rotating between Coruscant and Hosnian Prime. Some training outposts. She’s—’ He pauses. ‘She’s looking for something to do that doesn’t feel like it’s over.’
Kleya’s jaw clenches. The phrase hits too close to the truth. Over. Finished. Nothing left to fight against. To fight for.
Wilmon watches her, then says quietly, ‘She misses you, Kleya.’
Kleya’s pulse hammers painfully. ‘That’s impossible,’ she says, cold.
Wilmon’s eyes soften. ‘We both know it’s not.’
Kleya steps back, as if physical distance could keep the sentence from embedding itself under her skin. ‘I don’t have time for this.’
Wilmon’s expression hardens slightly. ‘You never have time for anything that might make you human.’ Kleya’s eyes flash, but Wilmon doesn’t back down. He holds her gaze for a beat, then softens again, like he regrets the blow. ‘I’m not trying to hurt you. I’m just—’ He exhales. ‘I don’t want you to vanish. Not now. Not after all of it.’
Kleya’s throat burns, and the words are too similar to Vel’s. To Endor. To the shelter. Her chest tightens with that roaring panic again.
She turns abruptly. ‘Goodnight, Wilmon.’
‘Kleya—’ he starts, but she’s already walking away, boots echoing in the corridor, shoulders rigid.
She doesn’t run; she never runs in public, but the urge in her body is like a scream that won’t end.
That night, she returns to her room and sits in the dark without turning on the light. She stares at the door and thinks of Vel’s hands warming hers on Hoth. Of Vel refusing to let her turn it into punishment. Of Vel’s face on Endor, eyes bright, voice breaking around, I can’t lose you, too.
Kleya’s jaw tightens until it aches.
She stands and begins packing. Not methodically, not calmly. Fast. Efficient. A go-bag prepped the way she’s always built them, just like the way Luthen taught her: spare clothes, credits, comm unit, a vibroblade she doesn’t need but wants. She moves like she’s back on Coruscant, dismantling the safehouse, like she’s erasing evidence of her existence.
Running feels familiar, almost comforting. It’s the one thing she’s never had to relearn.
The New Republic has files. Committees. Placements.
Vel has questions.
Kleya cannot afford either.
By dawn, she’s gone.
She leaves no note. No forwarding. No signal. She slips out of the depot district and onto a freight transport headed for an outer system that will never make the news. She chooses a place that smells like oil and salt, a place where people don’t ask about your past if you pay your tab and keep your head down.
In the new place—an outpost on a dull grey moon with a thin atmosphere and a small port that services scavengers and traders—she rents a room above a repair shop. The air tastes of metal. The walls are thin. The cot is narrow and hard. And the air is cold in the wrong way—not Hoth’s biting clarity, not Yavin’s soft rain—just empty.
It’s perfect.
She takes work under a different name. Data cleaning. Shipping routes. Quiet tasks that don’t require introductions.
At night, she drinks alone. The alcohol here is harsher. It burns. It makes her head foggy.
It doesn’t help.
Some nights, she thinks she hears boots on stairs outside her door, and she sits upright in her cot, heart pounding, and waits. But no one ever knocks.
It should be a relief.
It isn’t.
It’s the slow, gnawing realisation that she has achieved what she thought she wanted: distance, safety, silence.
And the silence has Vel’s shape in it anyway.
One evening, months later, she stands on the narrow balcony outside her rented room and watches ships come and go like indifferent insects. The sky is colourless, and the air is cold enough to sting her lungs.
Below, the repair shop owner argues with a customer about fuel lines. Someone laughs, too loudly, and somewhere, a droid beeps irritably. Life continues.
Kleya grips the railing until her knuckles whiten, and she tells herself—one more time—that leaving was necessary. That Vel would have turned it into something she isn’t capable of. That something would have been a vulnerability. That vulnerability would have killed them both eventually, one way or another.
Her logic is immaculate, but her body and heart don’t seem to care; they ache. She closes her eyes, and in the dark behind her eyelids, she sees Endor’s shelter again—Vel’s hands on her face, and the words be here with me.
Kleya’s throat tightens, and she swallows the memory down hard.
‘Stupid,’ she whispers, but the word has no power here.
When she opens her eyes again, the port lights blur for a heartbeat, and Kleya tells herself it’s the wind; she tells herself it’s just the alcohol. She refuses to name it grief.
She goes back inside, locks the door, and sits on the edge of the cot in the dark, listening to the thin walls breathe. Nothing is trying to kill her. And yet her pulse still runs like it’s being chased, because the only thing more terrifying than war is what comes after, when survival stops being a mission and becomes a choice.
And somewhere out there, Vel Sartha is still moving through the galaxy with her big, stubborn heart, refusing to let go.
Kleya pulls her knees up, arms wrapped around them like restraint, and stares at the door as if it might open.
Not for danger. But for the one thing she can’t file, can’t decode, can’t erase.
For the knock that would mean she’s been found.
—————
6. +1 After
The knock is wrong.
It doesn’t belong to the repair shop owner downstairs—his is a heavy, impatient thud that comes with the expectation of noise back. It doesn’t belong to a customer—customers rattle the latch like it owes them something. It doesn’t belong to the neighbour two doors down—she taps lightly, apologetic, like she’s afraid of taking up space.
This knock is measured. Two taps. A pause. A third, softer, like a hand reconsidering its own force.
Kleya sits up on the narrow cot before she realises she’s moved, spine straight, breath held. It’s late. The port outside has thinned to a dull pulse of light and engine hum. Her room smells of machine oil and stale spirits. The thin walls carry the murmur of voices from the stairwell and the intermittent, irritated beep of a droid somewhere down the corridor.
Her sidearm is under the mattress, and her knife is on the crate beside the cot. Her commlink is off. She doesn’t reach for any of them because her body has already decided what her mind refuses to allow: this is not dangerous; this is—
The knock comes again, the same pattern. Two. Pause. One.
Her body recognises it before her mind does, like a code she never admitted she memorised.
Kleya swings her feet to the floor and stands, careful not to make noise. The floorboards are cold through her socks. The air is colder. She hasn’t bothered with the heater because the hum irritates her, because she has learnt to sleep with discomfort the way other people sleep with lullabies.
She crosses to the door and stops with her hand hovering an inch from the latch. Her pulse thuds in her throat as she pauses to listen.
Breathing, on the other side. Quiet. Controlled. Familiar.
A third knock lands softer, almost testing the metal. And then—quiet. Too quiet.
On the other side of the door, a heartbeat later, a breath stutters—a tiny hitch, barely there, as if its owner is bracing for silence. For being wrong. For not being wanted. Kleya hears nothing of that, only the hum of the corridor, and the way her own pulse lifts in her throat as she reaches for the latch.
The door opens with a quiet hiss, and Vel is there, closer than Kleya expected; too close after months of silence. Before she can control the impulse, Kleya’s hand lifts, fingers catching in the fabric of Vel’s coat. A brief, bewildered anchor—contact before consent, need before thought.
She realises it a second too late and snatches her hand back, heat scraping under her skin like she’s been caught stealing something vital. Her fingers throb with the ghost of the contact—her betrayal of herself still pulsing warm against the cold air.
Vel doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. Just looks at her with that unbearable steadiness that Kleya can’t outrun.
She is dressed plainly in dark trousers, a coat too thin for this moon’s cold, and with hair pulled back without ornament. There’s no insignia. No swagger. No flask in hand. Her cheeks are wind-blushed, and her eyes look older than they did on Endor. They stay locked on Kleya and don’t move away, and for a heartbeat, neither of them speaks.
Vel’s throat works on a swallow. ‘Hi.’
The word is so ordinary it feels obscene.
Kleya’s mouth is dry, but she forces her voice into flatness. ‘You shouldn’t be here.’
Vel exhales as if she expected the line. ‘I know.’
Kleya’s fingers tighten on the door. ‘How did you find me?’
Vel’s gaze flicks over Kleya’s face—quick and ruthless, like she’s checking for damage—and then it settles again, steady and stubborn.
‘I looked,’ Vel says, shrugging as if it’s that simple.
Kleya hates—viscerally—that it is, and her jaw tightens. ‘That’s not an answer.’
Vel’s mouth twitches, not into a smile, but into something tired. ‘It is. You think you can vanish and no one will follow because you’re used to being a ghost. But I—’ She stops, breath catching. ‘I know you. I know what work you’d take. What systems you’d avoid. How far you’d go to be anonymous without being helpless.’
Kleya feels the words land like fingerprints on her skin. She shouldn’t have been findable. She chose this place because it was nothing. Because nothing is impossible to trace.
Vel shifts her weight slightly, hands loose at her sides, her posture open, no weapon displayed. Kleya can tell she is trying, deliberately, not to look like a threat. And Kleya hates that she notices the effort. Hates that it unspools something vital in her chest.
‘You’re going to draw attention,’ Kleya says. ‘You can’t just show up here.’
‘I didn’t bring anyone,’ Vel replies immediately. ‘No Mon. No security. No—’ Her voice tightens, then steadies. ‘It’s just… me, Kleya.’
Kleya’s pulse jumps again.
Just me.
The corridor feels too narrow. The air too thin. The distance between them too small.
Kleya forces her shoulders back, making herself hard. ‘Why?’
Vel’s eyes don’t flicker. ‘Because I’m done.’
Kleya’s brow furrows in confusion. ‘Done with what?’
Vel’s breath comes out slowly. ‘Done pretending that what we did was nothing. Done pretending that you leaving didn’t tear something out of me. Done letting you decide that you get to disappear and call it protection.’
Kleya’s temper flares, immediate and hot. ‘I didn’t ask you to follow me.’
Vel’s gaze sharpens. ‘No. You just vanished and assumed I’d understand. You assumed I’d accept it like everything else.’
Kleya’s voice rises despite herself. ‘You should have. That was the arrangement, Vel.’
Vel’s jaw flexes. ‘There was no arrangement, Kleya. There was only you refusing to look at what you were doing and me letting you because I thought it was the only way I’d get to keep you anywhere near me.’
The words slam into the narrow space like a thrown weight, and Kleya’s throat tightens hard as if her lungs have been stomped on. Vel takes one careful step closer, still in the corridor light, and her voice drops, quieter, more dangerous in its steadiness.
‘I’m not here to fight you,’ Vel says. ‘Not like we used to.’
Kleya’s answering exhale is shaky. ‘Then why are you here?’
Vel holds her gaze. ‘Because I love you, you idiot.’
The sentence lands like a shot, and Kleya’s body reacts first—an involuntary flinch, as if the word love is a death sentence. Her fingers tighten on the door so hard the metal bites her skin, and she feels as though she can’t breathe properly. Her mind scrambles for a blade to hide behind, but the words have already carved through every defence.
Vel doesn’t rush. She doesn’t crowd. She just stands there, eyes open, letting the truth sit between them like something alive.
Kleya forces air into her lungs. ‘That’s…’
‘Don’t make it small,’ Vel says, and her voice shakes at the edge. ‘Don’t call it adrenaline or grief or loneliness. Don’t take the only honest thing I’ve managed to say in years and turn it into something you can file away.’
Kleya’s pulse hammers, her skin prickles, and she tries to marshal her cruelty. She tries to find the blade in her mouth that usually protects her, but it doesn't come. Instead, what comes is a small, involuntary sound that might be a laugh if it weren’t so close to breaking.
‘You’re insane,’ Kleya whispers.
Vel’s eyes soften a fraction. ‘Probably.’
Kleya stares at her. The corridor hums. Somewhere below, a door slams. A voice laughs. Life goes on, indifferent. Her mouth is dry. ‘You don’t know what you’re saying.’
Vel’s gaze sharpens again, fierce. ‘I know exactly what I’m saying.’
Kleya’s throat burns. ‘You can’t love someone like me, Vel.’
Vel’s answer is immediate. ‘Too late.’
Kleya’s breath catches at the conviction of Vel’s reply, and the room tilts slightly, not from dizziness but from the sensation of the ground shifting under a belief she has built her entire life on.
Vel’s eyes flick down to Kleya’s hand on the door, white-knuckled, and then back up. ‘Let me in,’ she says.
The request is quiet, not an order, but it’s the most dangerous thing Vel could ask, because it makes this a choice.
Kleya’s instinct screams: shut the door, don’t let this in. But her body does the opposite; her hand loosens helplessly, the door opens wider, and Vel steps inside, relief flashing in her eyes like a prayer finally answered.
The room immediately feels too small for the both of them as Vel fills it with heat and breath and presence, and Kleya watches as she closes the door behind her gently, like she’s afraid of startling an animal.
They stop at the same moment—Vel’s breath caught, Kleya’s jaw tight—two bodies suddenly aware of gravity. Not reluctance. Recognition. Of how close this is to breaking them apart in ways they will never recover from.
Kleya stands rigid, back to the wall, watching Vel like she’s evaluating a threat. Vel doesn’t move closer right away. She takes in the room: the narrow cot, the crate desk, the half-empty bottle on the windowsill, the bag packed by the door like Kleya is always half-ready to flee. And then her gaze returns to Kleya, and her eyes flicker with something like sorrow.
‘You’re still surviving like it’s self-harm, I see.’ Kleya flinches at the assessment, and Vel’s lips curl into a soft, knowing smile. ‘Kleya…’
The way Vel says her name—plain, steady—hits her harder than the confession did. It isn’t angry. It isn’t banter. It isn’t foreplay. It’s… care. Kleya’s chest tightens with that inevitable panic, and she fumbles with the overpowering need to regain control. She needs, desperately, to turn this into something she understands.
She steps forward and kisses Vel. Hard. Immediate. An attempt at conversion—the old habit: if it becomes sex, it becomes manageable. If it becomes rough, it becomes nothing.
Vel’s mouth opens in surprise for half a beat, then she kisses back, and the familiarity is a shock in itself. Vel tastes of cold air and nothing else, no alcohol, no smoke, just clean; too honest. Kleya bites Vel’s lower lip, sharp enough to sting, and Vel makes a small sound and then pulls back, hands coming up to catch Kleya’s wrists. Not yanking. Not fighting. Holding.
‘No,’ Vel’s voice stays steady, but there’s steel in it now. ‘I’m not taking anything from you, remember? I’m just refusing to let you use my mouth as a muzzle.’
Kleya’s breath stumbles because the truth of it lands too cleanly. Vel’s hands are still on her wrists, warm, anchoring, and Kleya can feel her own pulse under Vel’s thumbs.
Vel steps closer, just enough that their bodies brush. The contact is soft, unavoidable. ‘If you want to fuck because you’re scared,’ she murmurs, ‘fine. If you want to fuck because you’re angry, fine. But you’re not going to hide behind roughness anymore to prove it means nothing.’
Kleya’s throat tightens. ‘You’re making demands.’
Vel’s mouth curves faintly. ‘Yes.’
Kleya hates the steadiness. Hates the calm. Hates how it leaves her with no obvious target. Vel’s gaze flicks over Kleya’s face, lingering at the tightness around her mouth.
‘Tell me you want me to leave, Kleya,’ Vel says quietly. ‘And I will. But stop telling me how to touch you.’
Kleya’s breath catches. There it is. An exit offered. An escape hatch. The chance to keep the world unchanged. Her mouth falls open in protest, but no sound comes out, because the truth is simple and ugly: she doesn’t want Vel to leave.
That realisation hits like vertigo.
Vel watches the struggle in her face and doesn’t press. Instead, she releases Kleya’s wrists and lifts her hand to Kleya’s jaw again—gentle, careful, infuriating—and Kleya’s skin prickles where Vel touches her.
‘Come here,’ Vel whispers.
Kleya doesn’t move, and Vel doesn’t pull her; she just steps closer, closing the distance until Kleya is backed against the wall and Vel is right there, warm and solid and real. Kleya’s knees threaten to give, not from desire, but from being wanted without conditions.
Vel lets her forehead rest briefly against hers, a contact so intimate it makes Kleya’s breath catch. ‘You can run again,’ Vel murmurs. ‘I won’t stop you. But I will follow you. Every time. Because I’m not doing this half-life with you anymore.’
Kleya’s eyes burn. ‘You don’t know what you’re promising,’ she whispers.
Vel’s mouth brushes her cheekbone like a vow. ‘I know exactly, Kleya. I’m promising you that you don’t get to be alone just because you think you deserve it.’
The sentence is a knife splitting Kleya open until her innards are spilling messily onto the floor between them. Her composure fractures when Vel doesn’t look away at the horror of it, and she feels the break physically—the way her throat tightens, the way her eyes sting, the way her breath goes uneven.
She hates it. She tries weakly to shove Vel away, but Vel catches her with hands on her upper arms, firm, steady. Not restraining. Holding.
‘Kleya,’ Vel says, and her voice cracks slightly. ‘Look at me.’ Kleya shakes her head once, sharply, and Vel’s hands tighten a fraction. ‘Please.’
The please is quiet, raw, and it breaks something open. Kleya lifts her eyes, and Vel is looking at her like she’s not just a weapon. Not just a problem. Not just an asset. But like she’s a person worthy of being seen.
Kleya’s breath shudders, and Vel’s thumb strokes once at the hinge of Kleya’s jaw. ‘There you are.’
Kleya’s mouth twists. ‘Don’t, Vel.’
Vel’s gaze stays steady. ‘I love you.’
Kleya swallows hard. ‘Why?’ she asks, her voice small and brittle.
Vel’s expression softens with something like exhaustion. ‘Because you’re you, Kleya. Because you kept people alive. Because you did terrible things to keep us moving, and you carried it all by yourself. Because you don’t know how to ask for help, and you still show up. Because you let me touch you in the middle of a war and you never once asked me to be gentle—’ Vel’s breath catches. ‘—and then you started letting me anyway.’
Kleya’s eyes burn, and she blinks hard, angry at the sensation. Vel leans in and kisses her again, this time slow and encompassing. Kleya’s hands rise to Vel’s shoulders, gripping hard, not sure what else to do other than cling on.
Vel’s fingers slide under the hem of Kleya’s shirt, palms warm against her skin, and Kleya shivers at the caress she’s missed more than anything.
She kisses the corner of Kleya’s mouth. ‘Can I take you to bed?’
Kleya’s throat tightens. ‘It’s not—’
‘A bed, I know,’ Vel finishes, with a faint smile. ‘It’s cot. Let me anyway.’
Kleya hates that the joke lands. Hates that she almost smiles back. Vel guides her gently—hand at her waist, not pushing—until the back of Kleya’s knees hits the mattress.
She sits, breathing unevenly, while Vel kneels in front of her and begins undoing her shirt buttons slowly, like she’s giving Kleya time to stop her. Like she’s proving that consent isn’t a battlefield. Kleya watches her hands, the carefulness, the lack of hurry.
Kleya’s voice is tight. ‘You’re not supposed to be like this with me.’
Vel glances up. ‘Like what?’
‘Patient.’ Vel’s mouth curves faintly, and Kleya’s chest tightens.
Vel’s gaze steadies. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’
Kleya’s throat burns again as Vel slips her shirt off her shoulders and lets it fall. Cold air touches Kleya’s skin, and Vel’s hands follow immediately, warm, spreading over the old burn scar tissue on her ribs with careful pressure.
Kleya’s breath catches at the implicit knowledge. ‘Don’t be careful,’ she whispers.
Vel’s eyes lift. ‘Why not?’
‘Because it…’ Kleya’s voice falters. ‘…because I don’t deserve it.’
‘Oh, Kleya,’ Vel’s expression softens. ‘Of course you do.’
As if to prove her point, Vel leans in and kisses her sternum, right over her heartbeat, and the touch is so intimate Kleya’s pulse jumps into Vel’s mouth like a confession she didn’t give permission for.
‘It doesn’t have to be terrifying just because it’s soft and real,’ Vel murmurs against her skin. ‘It can just be… us.’
Kleya closes her eyes, and her body is already reacting; heat pooling low, breath hitching. But it’s different from before. It isn’t numbness chased into release. It isn’t anger turned into friction. It feels an awful lot like want. Like—
Kleya opens her eyes again. ‘If we do this,’ she says, voice rough, ‘don’t—’
Vel’s gaze holds hers. ‘Don’t what?’
Kleya swallows. ‘Don’t… treat me like I’m fragile.’
Vel’s mouth curves, dark and fond. ‘You could never be fragile.’
The line hits like a balm, and Vel stands and pulls her own coat off, then her shirt, folding them with unnecessary care onto the crate as if she’s trying not to spook Kleya with mess. The sight of Vel’s bare skin in this cramped room—warm in the dim light, marked faintly by old bruises and muscle—makes Kleya’s breath hitch.
Vel climbs onto the cot and straddles Kleya’s thighs, settling her weight slowly, letting Kleya feel it. Kleya’s hands lift instinctively to Vel’s hips, gripping hard, as if anchoring herself, and then Vel leans down and kisses Kleya again, slow and deep, and Kleya’s body responds with a sharp flare as she opens to it despite herself.
Vel’s mouth moves to Kleya’s throat, kissing, then to the hollow of her collarbone. She doesn’t bite. She leaves no marks, deliberately refusing the old script.
Kleya’s impatience sparks. ‘Vel—’ She lifts her head, and Kleya’s jaw tightens. ‘Stop teasing.’
Vel’s eyes darken. ‘I’m not teasing. I’m just taking my time.’
Kleya’s breath shakes. ‘Why?’
Vel’s mouth brushes hers. ‘Because you’re worth time.’
The sentence detonates something in Kleya’s chest, and her eyes sting again. She blinks hard but feels tears gathering in the corners despite her efforts.
Vel kisses her softly, once, twice. ‘You can cry, baby, it’s okay,’ Vel murmurs. ‘I’m right here. I’ve got you.’
Kleya squeezes her eyes tightly shut as Vel’s hands slide down her sides, then between her thighs, over fabric, and Kleya’s hips jerk involuntarily when Vel’s knuckles graze over her aching clit, her body recognising this pace—slow, deliberate—the way it once recognised a heater’s warmth or a gloved hand offering steadiness.
Vel pauses. ‘Tell me what you want.’
Kleya’s throat tightens, and the question feels obscene in its simplicity. There’s so much she could ask for, but only one answer feels true.
‘You,’ she manages, the word rough.
Vel’s mouth curves, satisfied. ‘Where?’
Kleya’s hands tighten on Vel’s hips. ‘Don’t make me—’
Vel’s voice stays gentle. ‘Kleya.’
Kleya inhales, shuddering. ‘Touch me. Gods, Vel, please touch me.’
Vel obeys, and her hand slips effortlessly under Kleya’s waistband, fingers finding her already achingly wet. Kleya’s breath breaks and her head tips back as Vel’s fingertips stroke slowly, building heat.
Kleya’s body trembles, overwhelmed, and Vel leans in and kisses her, swallowing the broken sounds Kleya makes. Kleya clings to her—hands on Vel’s back, nails digging lightly. It’s startling, the clinging. She doesn’t do this. But Vel carefully manoeuvres them, stripping them both quickly of the remainder of their clothes, and then slides her fingers inside her, careful and deep. Kleya’s whole body tenses and then opens with a shuddering exhale, and her fingers grip Vel to her tighter as if she’s terrified Vel might stop.
Vel’s mouth breaks from hers. ‘Good?’ Kleya’s mouth opens around a moan, and Vel’s voice roughens with her own need.
Kleya’s throat tightens. ‘Don’t stop.’
Vel nods once, satisfied, and moves her fingers with slow precision, making Kleya feel everything—the stretch, the heat, the wet sound in the quiet room that makes Kleya’s cheeks burn.
Kleya’s hips rock, and she tries to push for the faster, harder, familiar intensity she’s used to, but Vel catches her with a hand at her hip, steadying her pace back to its slow torment.
‘Not yet.’
Kleya moans. ‘You’re unbearable.’
Vel smiles against her mouth. ‘I know,’ she answers, and her pace remains slow, deliberate, building the pressure like a tide.
Kleya’s breath turns ragged, and her thighs tremble from the delicious building pressure. Vel’s other hand cups Kleya’s face, holding her gaze, and when Kleya tries to look away again, Vel keeps her there, not forcing, just refusing to let her vanish.
Vel’s voice is soft. ‘I want to see you.’
Kleya’s chest constricts, and her throat tightens. ‘Why?’
Vel’s mouth brushes hers. ‘Because you’re beautiful.’
‘Vel…’ Kleya gasps.
Vel kisses her sweetly. ‘Because I love you.’
The words hit again, gentler this time, and Kleya feels something in her loosen—something like the first thread of surrender. Pleasure builds fast now, unstoppable, and Kleya’s body shakes from the intensity of it.
Vel’s thumb rubs faster against her clit. ‘You’re close.’
Kleya’s breath breaks. ‘Vel—’
Vel kisses her like it’s the only lifeline Kleya has left to grasp. ‘Come for me, baby.’
The phrasing is command and devotion all at once, and it makes Kleya’s eyes burn. She comes a second later with a shuddering cry that she can’t stop, body arching, and nails digging desperately into Vel’s back. It hits hard, and it feels like something unspooling inside her that she’s been holding too tight for years, her peak rolling through her in waves that leave her spent and boneless.
Vel holds her through it all, hand steady, mouth at her throat, kissing softly as if she’s anchoring her back into her body. And when the tremors finally ease, Kleya lies there panting, face turned into Vel’s shoulder as if hiding. Vel’s fingers slide out of her gently, and then she kisses Kleya’s hairline gently.
Kleya’s voice is wrecked and small. ‘Don’t.’
Vel’s arms tighten around her. ‘I’m not leaving.’ Kleya inhales shakily, and Vel’s mouth presses to her temple again. ‘You don’t have to say anything. Just be here with me. That’s all you need to do.’
Kleya’s chest tightens, and this time a tear slips free before she can stop it. It’s hot against her skin. Humiliating. Unacceptable.
Vel’s hand slides up her back, firm and steady. ‘Oh, baby,’ Vel murmurs. ‘It’s alright.’
Kleya’s voice cracks. ‘It’s not.’
Vel pulls back just enough to look at her, and her eyes are wet too. The sight is almost too unbearable for Kleya to handle, but Vel refuses to let her run.
‘Kleya,’ Vel whispers. ‘You don’t have to be perfect at this. You just have to stay.’
That word again—stay—this time not in a jungle, not surrounded by smoke and death, but here, in a small room that smells of oil and human life.
Kleya swallows hard. ‘I don’t know how.’
Vel’s mouth curves softly. ‘Then we’ll learn badly.’
Kleya laughs once, broken and incredulous. ‘That sounds like us.’
Vel smiles. ‘Yes.’
And then she shifts, moving off Kleya slightly, and settles beside her on the narrow cot. The mattress dips, and their bodies are close enough that their thighs brush. Vel doesn’t pull Kleya into a cuddle. She doesn’t assume. She simply lies there, breathing, present.
Kleya stares at the ceiling, her heart still racing, and her skin feeling too exposed. Vel’s hand rests near Kleya’s on the blanket, not touching, just waiting.
The gesture is almost worse than touch. It’s an invitation. Kleya’s fingers twitch, hesitant. Then—slowly, like disarming a bomb—she lets her hand slide over until the backs of their fingers brush.
Vel doesn’t pounce. She doesn’t squeeze. She just turns her hand slightly and lets their fingers intertwine. Kleya’s breath catches at the feeling of it. It's the simplest touch, and yet it feels like stepping off a ledge into a freefall. Vel’s voice is quiet when she speaks again.
‘I didn’t come here to fix you, if that’s what you’re thinking.’ Her mouth twitches into an adoring smile. ‘I came here because I want you, Kleya. Because I miss you. Because I’m in love with you.’ A pause. ‘And because you’re right, I'm selfish. Selfish enough to refuse to let you be alone just because you think you deserve punishment.’
Kleya turns her head to look at her, then, and Vel meets her eyes without flinching.
‘You should hate me for how much I’ve hurt you,’ she breathes, voice hoarse.
Vel’s expression softens. ‘I tried.’
Kleya swallows. ‘And?’
Vel’s mouth curves, small and sad. ‘It didn’t work.’
The room is quiet. Outside, the port hum continues, indifferent. Somewhere, another droid beeps, and a distant laugh drifts up the stairwell. Kleya’s chest rises and falls in uneven breaths.
‘On Endor… I didn’t leave because I didn’t want you,’ she confesses quietly.
Vel’s eyes flicker, attentive. ‘I know.’
Kleya’s jaw tightens. ‘No. You don’t, Vel. I left because I did. Because it was—’ Her throat tightens. ‘Because it was too much; because you kept making it real.’
Vel’s thumb strokes the back of Kleya’s hand. ‘Good, I wanted to be real with you.’
Kleya lets out a broken breath. ‘Maker, you’re relentless.’
Vel smiles brightly. ‘Yes.’
Kleya closes her eyes briefly, then opens them, and the words that rise in her throat feel like glass in her mouth.
‘I think…’ she starts, and stops, swallowing hard. Vel doesn’t rush her; her hand simply stays steady and patient, letting Kleya process. ‘I think I love you, too,’ she forces out.
Vel’s breath catches sharply, her eyes shine, and for a second she looks almost stunned—like she had prepared for every battle except this one. Then Vel leans in and kisses her. This kiss is not a weapon. It’s not a muzzle. It’s not an argument turned physical. It’s soft and sure, like a vow.
Kleya’s hands rise to Vel’s face, holding her—actually holding her—fingers spread along her jaw and hairline.
Vel breaks the kiss just enough to rest her forehead against Kleya’s. ‘Thank the gods,’ she whispers. ‘Because I know I love you, and I don’t think I can stop.’
Kleya’s breath shudders, and another tear slips free. This time, she doesn’t move to wipe it away. She can’t. She doesn’t want to.
Vel kisses the tear from her cheek, and Kleya flinches for a split second and then relaxes and lets it happen. Vel’s hand slides down Kleya’s arm and around her waist, drawing her closer in a slow, careful pull. Not a suffocating cuddle. Not trapping. Just contact.
Kleya’s innate instinct is to hold herself rigid and wait it out, but instead she lets her fingers close lightly around Vel’s forearm where it rests against her stomach, a small, deliberate hook that keeps her there. It isn’t a necessity; it’s a choice, and the awareness of that makes her stomach flip. Vel sighs contentedly, and Kleya hesitates only a split second more before letting her head fall against Vel’s shoulder. Her body feels like it’s been carrying weight for years and has suddenly been told it can set some of it down.
Vel’s voice is quiet, half a murmur into Kleya’s hair. ‘You can still be sharp. You can still be angry. You can still be you. Love doesn’t have to change that.’
Kleya’s breath hitches because it sounds less like permission and more like absolution. ‘And if I get scared or overwhelmed?’
Vel’s hand tightens slightly at her waist. ‘Then I’ll follow you to the edges of the galaxy.’
Kleya lets out a shaky exhale, the closest thing to a surrender she’s ever given. ‘That seems awfully unfair to you.’
Vel’s mouth curves against her hair. ‘I’m not interested in fairness. I’m only interested in honesty, Kleya. Don’t you see that now?’
Kleya stays still for a moment, letting the warmth settle, letting the reality exist without being turned into violence or transaction.
It’s terrifying. It’s also—quietly—a massive relief.
‘Yeah,’ Kleya exhales. ‘I think I do.’
Vel’s arms tighten around her in response, urging her closer, and Kleya goes willingly because it feels like she’s suddenly, exactly where she’s meant to be.
The port lights outside pulse on and off like distant stars, and inside their little carved out space of impossible possibility, Vel’s breath slows, and then evens out beautifully, while her arm remains around Kleya’s waist, anchoring.
Kleya doesn’t get up. She doesn’t put her boots back on. She doesn’t reach for her bag by the door.
She stays.
And for the first time since the war ended, the quiet doesn’t feel like teeth. It feels like space. It feels like a future she doesn’t know how to hold yet, but might, if Vel keeps her promise and Kleya keeps hers.
The last thing Kleya hears before her mind lulls peacefully is Vel’s voice, barely audible in the dark, ‘Goodnight, baby.’
It lands with the same gentle pattern as the knock—two beats, a pause, one—and Kleya realises she’s been listening for it her whole life.
And as she slips towards sleep of her own, Kleya answers in the fragile cadence Vel carried to her across every mile of silence—bare, instinctive—as if her heart has finally stopped fighting its own truth.
‘Goodnight, my love.’
—————
7. ∞♡♡∞
Morning doesn’t so much arrive as pool in the corners of the room.
Thin light seeps around the edges of the curtain, turning the dust in the air to slow, drifting specks. Somewhere below their window, a repulsor coughs into life, followed by a shouted curse and the metallic clatter of someone dropping tools. A door slams. A droid chirps in affront. And the building itself creaks like old bones settling.
On the narrow bed, nothing moves.
Kleya wakes in stages. First to the ache in her ribs where she’s slept pressed against another body; then to the blanket pulled high over her shoulder; and finally to the warmth at her back—solid and real and breathing.
Vel’s arm is looped around her middle, a loose band that could be slipped out of easily. Sleep has weighted it so her hand rests against the dip of Kleya’s waist, fingers half-curled, as if they tightened there at some point in the night and forgot to let go.
Kleya watches the pale stripe of light on the ceiling and listens.
Vel’s breath at the back of her neck is slow and quiet. Inhale, exhale, a tiny pause; inhale again. It’s almost the same rhythm as that stupid knock she carried across half the galaxy. The thought makes something in Kleya’s chest pinch, then stretch.
She becomes aware—all at once—of how she’s lying. Not braced an inch away. Not rigid and poised to bolt. Instead, she’s curved towards the heat behind her, like her body decided the answer while she wasn’t looking.
Old instinct jabbers at the edges of her mind. She should ease herself free. Put distance in. Stand up, put her clothes back on, say something dry enough that they can both pretend last night was a temporary lapse in judgement and not a line crossed. But she doesn’t move. Instead, Kleya lets herself feel it. The soft drag of Vel’s breath feathering her hair. The weight of Vel’s thigh tucked loosely behind hers. The sleepy warmth of the hand against her stomach. It doesn’t feel like a trap. That’s the strangest part.
Kleya stares at the crack in the ceiling and thinks, very clearly: I stayed. I meant it.
The thought is terrifying. It’s also… oddly steadying.
Slowly, carefully, she slides her own hand over Vel’s where it rests at her waist. Her skin prickles at the contact, a bright, nervous fizz. For a moment, she just lays her palm there, not quite holding on, not quite letting go, giving herself one last chance to think better of it. She doesn’t take it. Her fingers curl, threading between Vel’s, and she gives the faintest, deliberate squeeze.
There. That’s her, not Vel. Not momentum, not panic, not being dragged. Her.
Behind her, Vel makes a small, soft noise and shifts, stirring up a warmer breath against Kleya’s neck. Her arm tightens instinctively, drawing Kleya closer, and Kleya lets herself be pulled.
She fits her back more firmly to Vel’s chest, tucking into the space like it was always there. It’s clumsy, because the cot is narrow and the blanket tangles around their legs, but it still feels—absurdly—like relief.
‘You’re going to give me ideas if you keep doing that,’ Vel mutters, voice rough with sleep.
Kleya’s mouth curves before she can stop it. ‘You already have ideas,’ she says. ‘You stole a shuttle to get here.’
There’s a low chuckle against her spine. ‘That was for you.’
‘I know,’ she says, quietly, and the admission comes without a fight, sliding into the space between them as if it belongs there.
Vel shifts again, trying to see her, and Kleya rolls over before she can overthink it, turning in the loose circle of Vel’s arm until they’re face to face on the thin mattress, and instantly rejoins their hands. Vel is a mess: hair flattened on one side, sticking up on the other, pillow-crease stamped along her cheek. Her beautiful blue eyes are still sleep-heavy, but they brighten, ridiculously fast, when Kleya’s face comes into focus.
Kleya feels it like a physical thing, that shift. Being the centre of someone’s relief. She used to flinch from it. Now it just makes her chest feel too full.
‘Morning,’ Vel says softly.
‘You look awful,’ Kleya replies automatically, out of habit more than malice. The words come out gentler than they would have yesterday.
Vel grins. ‘Romantic.’
Kleya hums, and her gaze drops to their joined hands between them, her fingers laced through Vel’s, thumb resting against the rise of Vel’s knuckles. She lifts their hands slowly, as though she’s checking again that yes, she did that on purpose.
Then, before she can talk herself out of it, she leans in and presses her mouth to the back of Vel’s hand. The kiss is quick, almost shy, more breath than pressure, and yet it still sends a jolt through her; a hot, fragile thing that makes her feel younger and more exposed than she has in decades.
Vel’s whole body stills. ‘Kleya,’ she murmurs, her voice turning very small around the edges.
Kleya doesn’t pull back far. She keeps their hands close between them, resting them against her own sternum now, feeling the thud of her heart beneath skin and bone and scar tissue.
‘I woke up, and you were still here,’ she says. It sounds ridiculous the moment it leaves her mouth; obvious. But that isn’t the point. ‘I… like that.’
Vel’s eyes shine, the brightness there making her look a little dazed. ‘I told you I wasn’t going anywhere.’
‘I know.’ She swallows, and there’s a knot in her throat she has to push words through. ‘It’s different, hearing it. From… feeling it.’
A faint frown of concentration pulls at Vel’s brow, like she’s translating. ‘Is this you feeling it?’ she asks softly, and gives their joined hands a tiny, careful shake.
Kleya holds her gaze. ‘Yes.’
It lands. She sees it, clear as a detonation in slow motion: the moment Vel understands that this—this reaching, this kissing her hand, this staying—is not something pulled out of Kleya by force or crisis, but something Kleya has chosen while the world is quiet.
‘Okay,’ Vel says, exhaling like she’s been holding her breath since last night. ‘Okay.’
She moves like she might lean in to kiss Kleya, then stops, checking. Waiting.
That hesitation, that fraction of space, does something to Kleya. Once, she’d have used it to take control, turn the whole thing sharp again so she couldn’t get cut. Now, she just… notices that Vel is giving her room.
She doesn’t want the room anymore, and so she bridges it herself, closing the distance with a small, sure kiss.
It’s not urgent. Not the kind that comes with panic snapping at their heels. It’s slow and warm, the sort of kiss that tastes of sleep and unbrushed teeth and all the unimportant things she’s spent years pretending she didn’t want.
Vel makes a soft noise into her mouth and kisses her back just as gently, thumb stroking once over the back of Kleya’s hand as if she can’t quite believe it’s there.
When Kleya pulls away, Vel’s eyes are wide and soft and entirely too much. ‘Stop looking at me like that,’ she mutters fondly.
Vel smiles like she’s seen one of the rare wonders of the galaxy. ‘Like what?’
‘Like I hung the stars you keep crashing ships into.’
Vel laughs, delighted and offended at once. ‘I do not crash ships.’
‘You absolutely do,’ Kleya says. ‘Emotionally, at least.’
Vel’s grin is helpless. ‘That’s fair.’
Their hands are still linked, and Kleya rolls her thumb across Vel’s knuckles again, testing the familiarity of it. It’s a small, repetitive motion, almost absent-minded, except there is nothing absent in her about it.
She realises, with a tiny jolt, that she’s… comfortable. The word feels almost foreign, and Kleya turns it over in her head like an unfamiliar tool.
‘What are you thinking?’ Vel asks. It’s wary, but only a little; mostly it’s curious.
Kleya considers deflecting, then decides she’d rather not hear herself lie.
‘I’m thinking,’ she says slowly, ‘that I spent years making sure no one had a claim on me. And now I’m lying here stroking your hand like some lovesick—’ She breaks off, nose wrinkling. ‘It’s highly undignified.’
‘Oh no,’ Vel breathes, smile spreading in slow, wicked delight. ‘You’re doomed.’
Kleya gives her a flat look that’s ruined by the way her thumb keeps moving. ‘Don’t gloat.’
‘I’m not gloating.’ Vel leans in and kisses the corner of her mouth, quick and fond. ‘I’m savouring.’
The kiss lands like an affectionate jab to the shoulder, familiar, grounding, and Kleya’s chest squeezes so tight she has to swallow around it.
‘You’re allowed to be happy about it, Vel,’ she says, all at once. ‘This. Me. Wanting you.’
Vel goes very still, expression softening into something almost stunned. ‘You—’ She stops, breathes, tries again. ‘I am. I just don’t want to scare you off by… being too much.’
‘You are too much; always,’ Kleya says, but there’s no bite in it. She leans in, brushing her nose against Vel’s in a clumsy little nudge that feels so dangerously tender she almost laughs at herself. ‘Apparently, I like that.’
Vel’s eyes flutter shut for a second, like she’s steadying herself. ‘You realise,’ she murmurs, ‘you’re being disgustingly affectionate right now.’
‘I’m aware,’ Kleya hums. ‘Don’t say anything or I’ll stop.’
‘Noted,’ Vel whispers, though the grin tugging at her mouth gives her away.
They fall quiet again. The port sounds keep happening under the window; a speeder rises with a distant whine; someone argues in a language Kleya doesn’t recognise. None of it feels like a summons.
She shifts closer, tucking one of her legs between Vel’s, fitting their bodies together in a way that’s more cuddle than anything else. The word itself makes her wince, but she can’t argue with its accuracy. Vel makes a pleased hum, low in her chest, and slides her hand up to rest between Kleya’s shoulder blades, holding her there with an easy, protective weight.
Kleya presses her face briefly into the hollow where Vel’s neck meets her shoulder. The skin there tastes of salt and sleep, a little stale, not remotely glamorous, and yet somehow, that makes the intimacy of it all the sharper.
‘You know,’ she says into Vel’s collarbone, voice muffled, ‘you can tell people I reached first. If you want bragging rights.’
Vel’s laugh is startled and bright. ‘Stars, you’re right, I am absolutely telling Mon.’
Kleya groans. ‘Please do not discuss my emotional growth with your cousin.’
‘I’m going to send her a coded report,’ Vel goes on blithely. ‘‘Subject: Kleya Marki voluntarily initiated hand-holding. Situation: critical.’’
Kleya pinches her side; Vel yelps, then laughs again.
‘You’re unbearable,’ Kleya says, fondness leaking all over the words.
‘You’re still here,’ Vel points out.
Kleya goes quiet at that. The truth of it lies between them, simple and undeniable. She is still here.
Kleya lifts her head, meeting Vel’s eyes squarely. ‘I’m not just here, Vel,’ she says. ‘I’m… with you.’ Her hand between them tightens, knuckles pressing against Vel’s. ‘That’s different.’
Vel’s answering expression is all soft astonishment and something that looks dangerously like joy. ‘Yeah,’ she says, voice rough. ‘It is.’
Kleya leans in and kisses her again—quick, certain, like punctuation—and then she settles back down, tucking herself more firmly into Vel’s side, fingers still laced, thumb still moving in that slow, unconscious circle.
Outside, ships come and go, but for once, she doesn’t care which direction they’re pointed. There is nowhere else she is supposed to be. No other call louder than the steady, human warmth pressed against her.
Kleya lets herself have that. Fully. Not as a battlefield concession or a moment of weakness, but as an answer she’s finally decided to stop fighting. Her last thought before the doze steals over her again is absurdly simple, and warmer than anything she’s allowed in years: I like this. I love her. I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.
Her hand tightens around Vel’s as she drifts, and for once, she doesn’t feel like she’s losing ground, instead Kleya feels like she’s found it.