Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Padawan Tholme darted through Brentaal IV’s crowded streets, clutching a flimsi sheet containing intel that could either save the mission or ruin his life—whichever came first. He didn't slow down to consider which was more likely, instead his boots slapped against the pavement as he pushed through the early morning crowd, dodging merchants and droids with the agility of someone used to being chased.

Then, finally, he reached the gated courtyard of the outpost—an ugly, joyless building of aging durasteel that looked like it had last been renovated when Yoda was a padawan. The Jedi were supposed to embody balance, serenity, and harmony, but apparently, aesthetics hadn't made the list.

With a snort, Tholme launched himself over the gate with a precise push from the Force, landing silently enough that even his Master, Torwyn, wouldn’t be able to complain.

Still, his stealthy arrival died a swift, undignified death as he slammed the entry code into the keypad with enough force to mark his fingertips. The keypad gave a cheerful beep before the door hissed open, and just like that, the stale air rushed out to greet him like a sarcastic welcome back.

Deep underground, the base was already alive with movement. Holocharts flickered across the walls, casting ghostly light on tired-eyed knights and tacticians, clearly functioning only by the grace of caf and stubbornness. It was the kind of frenetic, barely-contained chaos Tholme knew all too well—the kind that would inevitably become his problem.

Still, no one seemed to acknowledge the fact he was at least thirty standard minutes late, and he crossed his arms as he stood at the back of the room, his civilian clothes haphazardly hanging from his form as though he had dressed in a hurry. Which he had, in his defence.

He had barely settled when a voice—silken, smooth, and laced with something sharper—cut through the air.

"Where have you been, little shadow?" Torwyn’s voice was velvet—soft, almost indulgent, but his fingers pressed into Tholme’s arm, tightening with every word. "Lurking where you shouldn’t again, hm? You have five seconds to tell me why I shouldn’t break your fucking legs."

Then Torwyn was on him again, close enough that his breath ghosted against Tholme’s ear. The space between them was a lie—one Torwyn would shatter the second he felt like it.

Just like he always did.

“I found something,” Tholme muttered, lifting the flimsi in his hand like it might serve as a shield. His grip was too tight, his fingers white-knuckled, but he didn’t loosen them. He kept his voice light, even, practiced, like he wasn’t hyper-aware of the way Torwyn’s grip tightened—of the bruises that were already beneath his tunic.

But he could feel Torwyn watching him. Waiting. The longer the silence stretched, the worse it would be. His stomach churned. His fingers twitched. But he didn’t break. Couldn’t.

Because flinching was worse.

Torwyn only smiled when you flinched.

Then, just like that, his lips curled—not a smirk, not really. It was a quiet, creeping thing, a twist of satisfaction that made Tholme’s stomach drop.

“Oh, Padawan,” he sighed, shaking his head like a disappointed teacher.

His hand lifted, slow and deliberate—not to strike, but to smooth down the front of Tholme’s tunic as he started fixing the creases. Like he was putting a toy back where it belonged.

“Do you enjoy making things harder for yourself?” he murmured, his fingers grazing Tholme’s throat before dropping away. “Or do you just enjoy my attention?”

Before Tholme could respond, Master Poli Dapatian’s calm voice cut through the tension. “Is everything alright, Master Torwyn? Padawan Tholme?”

Torwyn exhaled sharply through his nose, his fingers flexing once at his sides before he finally turned to face Dapatian. “Perfectly fine,” he replied, his voice tight. “Right, Tholme?”

A beat.

Tholme could feel Torwyn’s gaze on him, a quiet demand coiled beneath the surface. The message was clear: Agree. Lie. Fall in line.

For one fleeting, choking moment, Torwyn probably expected him to do the opposite—to stammer, to break, to say Master Dapatian, he—

But Tholme had long since learned there was no salvation in honesty.

So, he steadied his breath, forced a loose shrug, and made himself sound light—too light. Casual, unconcerned, like none of this mattered.

“Uh, well, not really, Master Dapatian,” he said, like he wasn’t picking at the frayed edges of a bomb. “I think we’ve got the wrong target. I overheard our Senator on a comm this morning—and trust me when I say he’s not calling the shots.”

The words had barely left Tholme’s mouth when Torwyn’s head snapped back toward him. The shift was instant. The warmth in his expression—fake as it was—vanished, and his eyes went dark, empty, like a starless void.

“And how exactly,” Torwyn murmured, “did you come by this intel?”

Tholme’s throat felt tight. He scratched the back of his neck, forcing out the words. “I was—” He cleared his throat, too fast. “In his house.”

A muscle twitched in Torwyn’s jaw. Silence. Not the kind that came before yelling. The kind that came before pain. The kind Tholme had grown too familiar with.

“Details.” The word slithered out, slow and sharp, coiled tight with something that made the air feel thinner. “I want every last fucking detail, little shadow.”

“I wasn’t creeping around, Master,” Tholme muttered, shifting uncomfortably. “I was at a cantina last night, and I met this Pantoran girl, and…”

Right then, he made the mistake of looking up, seeing that the entire room was staring. Waiting.

“Look, I— it wasn’t part of the mission. It was a—” His voice stalled, knowing there was no good way to say this. “It’s exactly what it sounds like.”

“Pantoran?” newly knighted Cin Drallig repeated, cocking his head from a few tables away. “Huh.” He flicked a glance at Tholme, giving him a quick once-over, eyes narrowing slightly. “Funny, our suspect’s wife is—"

And just like that, his eyebrows shot up. He stopped, lips parting slightly in realisation, and then his head tilted ever so slightly to the side, expression shifting from curiosity to something dangerously close to amused horror. “Oh,” he mumbled. “Tholme. Tell me you didn’t.”

Tholme exhaled slowly, resisting the urge to close his eyes and pretend he wasn’t here. He could feel Torwyn’s presence beside him, could feel the way the weight in the air had changed. The entire room had gone silent, expectant, and somehow that was even worse than the outright judgment that was inevitably coming.

He forced his hands to stay loose at his sides, ignoring the way his fingers twitched, then finally muttered, “No, Drallig, not his wife.”

That should have been the end of it. That should have been enough to shut this conversation down, but Cin didn’t move, didn’t blink, didn’t let it go. If anything, his interest only sharpened, the gears in his mind turning at a pace that made Tholme’s stomach sink.

“Oh?” Drallig repeated, drawing the word out slightly, then, “Kriff—you fucked his daughter.”

For a moment, there was no response. No outburst, no immediate reprimand—just a suffocating kind of silence that made the air in the room feel thinner. He could practically hear the mental calculations happening around him, could sense the moment each Jedi present connected the dots and came to the same horrifying conclusion.

And just like that, everyone collectively decided not to acknowledge what, exactly, Tholme had been doing all night.

At least, everyone except Torwyn, that is.

After the meeting ended, Tholme lingered in the room, waiting until the other Jedi had filed out. He didn’t particularly want to face the barrage of questions waiting for him in the corridor, but as soon as he stepped into the hallway, he felt a firm hand seize his collar, yanking him into a shadowed corner.

His back hit the wall, not hard enough to bruise, but hard enough that the warning was clear.

Torwyn didn’t let go. His grip twisted, tightening until the fabric of Tholme’s tunic bit into his throat. Not choking. Not quite.

“Tell me, little shadow,” Torwyn murmured, his voice too soft, too calm. “Did you enjoy making a spectacle of yourself?”

Tholme forced himself to breathe evenly. “I—”

“Not an excuse,” Torwyn said, almost thoughtfully. “An answer. I want you to tell me she was worth it.”

Tholme hesitated, just a second too long. His throat felt tight, his mind working too fast, trying to find a way to talk himself out of this—to redirect, to stall, to make Torwyn focus on anything else.

“Master—” he started, voice low.

Torwyn’s fingers twitched against his collar. Not quite tightening—just reminding him they could.

“Say her name.”

At that, Tholme's throat closed up, a strange ache spreading beneath his ribs. He could still picture her—the curve of her jaw, the cool scent of perfume, the warmth of her laughter—but her name?

Gone.

“I don’t see how that’s important,” he murmured.

Torwyn huffed out something too sharp to be amusement. “Oh, I do.”

His fingers twisted, just slightly, just enough to dig the fabric into his throat again.

“Tell me, was it worth it?” he murmured, his tone almost curious. “The drinks, the laughter, the way she made you feel wanted for just a few hours?”

Tholme clenched his jaw, forcing himself not to react.

“And yet, you can’t even remember her name.” Torwyn leaned in, voice dropping. “Not the first time, is it?”

The words punched through him, cutting deeper than any strike could, and then Torwyn’s grip loosened—just slightly, just enough to make Tholme think he was done.

Expect, he shoved him back against the wall, hard enough that the back of his head thudded against duracrete.

“Pathetic,” Torwyn muttered, almost to himself.  “Did it make you feel like a man? Lying there, letting her use you—was that all it took?  Or did you just use her to fuck the weakness out of you and call it something else?”

Then, Torwyn took a measured step back, adjusting his tunic, looking at Tholme like something filthy. Something beneath him.

And Tholme? He didn’t move, didn’t blink. But his body remembered.

The weight of Torwyn’s hand, the shape of his grip, the lingering press of words that would rot beneath his skin long after this moment ended.

He should have let it roll off him. Should have shrugged it away like he always did.

Instead, Torwyn exhaled sharply, already turning away. Already forgetting him.

“Just… get out of my sight,” he muttered. “And try not to humiliate yourself tomorrow. Master Saa will be watching.”

Torwyn’s glare lingered for a moment longer before he turned sharply on his heel, storming down the corridor without another word.

Tholme stayed where he was, flexing his fingers at his sides before exhaling, trying to shake the tension from his shoulders. He ran a hand through his already-messy hair, smoothing down the front of his tunic, adjusting the collar where Torwyn’s grip had twisted it.

Master Saa will be watching.

He swallowed. Exhaled again. Forced his feet to move.

Then, with quieter footsteps, he started down the hall, as though walking softly would keep things from getting worse. As though he could slip past whatever came next.

He didn’t make it far before he heard someone approaching.

“Tholme?” Cin Drallig spoke, catching up. “What happened?”

“Oh, it’s nothing new,” Tholme said, adjusting his collar again, like that could shake the feeling of fingers still pressed against his skin. “Torwyn’s still a bastard. And I’m still something he has to put up with. You know how it is.”

“Come on, you know that isn’t true,” Drallig said. “You shouldn’t have to keep dealing with this. If you asked, the Council would listen.” He paused, then, “They’d get you out.”

“I don’t need to be gotten out,” Tholme muttered, voice sharper than he intended. “Besides, I’m only a few months away from my trials. No one is going to want to take me at this point, and he knows it.”

“I’d take you,” Drallig said in a playful tone, but something in the Force whispered he was serious.

Tholme raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “I mean this with the utmost respect, but I’ve seen you do body shots off a Twi’lek and then puke in your cloak hood. I know too much.”

“That was pre-trials,” Drallig protested, crossing his arms. “You’ll notice that I am a Jedi Knight now.”

“Yeah, well,” Tholme shot back, pulling a face, “it was also last week.”

Drallig groaned, rubbing his temples like Tholme was personally giving him a headache. But his usual easy smirk was slower to return this time. They had been partners in crime since their creche days, always egging each other on to break one rule too many. Whether it was sneaking into restricted archives or pulling harmless pranks on their fellow younglings, they’d been inseparable.

But Drallig wasn’t dumb. He might pretend not to notice things—might act like he didn’t see the cracks forming—but for a split second, there was something in his gaze. Concern? Worry? Maybe even recognition.

Because this wasn’t new.

Still, as Drallig turned to head the other way, he paused, glancing back when he realised Tholme wasn’t following. “You’re standing there like you just got assigned to the archives for life. Are you coming or not?”

Tholme lingered, staring down the dim hallway. For a moment, it seemed like he might not answer at all. But then, with a quiet sigh, he pushed a hand through his hair, shaking off the tension clinging to his shoulders, because there was one other thing bothering him too. “Have you ever heard of Master Saa?”

“Master Saa?” Drallig repeated, his brow furrowing. The realisation must have hit him that Tholme had missed that part of the meeting, because his face quickly crinkled, as if debating how much to tell him. “She’s… old. Neti. Some say she’s been around longer than most Jedi histories, and from what I hear, she holds a grudge just as long.”

Tholme frowned. “Sounds delightful.”

“Oh, I’m sure you two will be the best of friends,” Drallig said dryly. “She’s been sent to oversee the next phase of this mission, which means if you’re not careful, you’re going to have to answer to her.”

Tholme tilted his head, his mind instantly conjuring an image of a green, gnarled Neti with sharp fingers and an even sharper tongue.

Shit.

Tholme exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down his face. “I can’t wait to have my entire existence dissected by a centuries-old Jedi Master with nothing else to do.”

But Drallig didn’t answer immediately. Instead, his gaze lingered on Tholme, his smirk sharpening just enough to show he wasn’t buying the front.

Then, ever so slowly, his expression shifted—head tilting, lips curving into that familiar, mischievous Loth-cat grin that always meant trouble.

Tholme groaned. “What now?”

“You realise,” Drallig drawled, folding his arms, “that Master Saa will be the one reviewing your report in detail, don’t you? Every decision. Every action. Every… entry point.”

Tholme hesitated, his stomach twisted. “Yes, and?”

“And I wasn’t going to bring this up while you looked so fucking miserable, but honestly, I have to wonder—did the Force put you in that girls bed, or was that all your inclination for being in the wrong place.”

“Inclination.” The word dragged him back to Torwyn’s voice. “Did it make you feel like a man? Lying there, letting her use you—was that all it took? Or did you just use her to fuck the weakness out of you and call it something else?”

Drallig’s grin faltered slightly as he saw Tholme’s face shift. But Tholme was already looking away, fingers curling into his belt. His thumb brushed against the edge, tracing over a seam he hadn’t noticed before.

But the hollow feeling didn’t budge.

Torwyn had been right. He couldn’t even remember her name.

He hated that Drallig’s teasing, light as it was, only echoed what Torwyn had already said—only now it didn’t feel like a joke.

Tholme exhaled sharply, his voice clipped when he spoke. “It isn’t my fault the Force works in mysterious ways.”

Drallig let out a dramatic groan, as though he was already regretting bringing this up. “Just make sure your next report doesn’t require a discretion seal. Got it?”

Then, with a brief nod, he turned and strode down the corridor. Tholme stayed where he was, jaw tight, breath held. He ran a hand over his face, through his hair, then turned sharply on his heel, his boots striking harder against the floor than they needed to.

**

The evening air was crisp, tinged with the faint metallic scent of the city, but the warmth of the rooftop still clung to the stone beneath him. Tholme leaned against the railing, rolling his last cigarette between his fingers, the others—burned-out husks—lined up neatly on the ledge. The orange ember flared briefly as he took a slow drag, the glow illuminating the sharp edges of his face before disappearing into the dusk.

He exhaled through his nose, watching the smoke spiral into nothing. The city below flickered to life, the endless hum of speeders and distant voices rising like static, but his thoughts were far from Brentaal.

He wasn’t sure what he had been hoping to find up here. Clarity? Solitude? A moment where his mind wasn’t clawing at itself?

Because Torwyn had always been calculating, cold. Never cruel, not exactly.

Tholme still remembered the day Torwyn had caught him slipping beneath a temple balcony, a half-feral child too clever for his own good. The creche Masters had scolded him endlessly, but Torwyn had only studied him for a long moment before saying, ‘You’re quiet when you move, like a little shadow. I could use that.’ Tholme had nodded eagerly, too young to recognise what he truly meant.

Three years later, Torwyn had taken him as his Padawan.

And now? Now he didn’t know what to think.

Growing more frustrated by the minute, he sucked in another breath, the ember at the tip of his cigarette flaring like a dying star. Then, the door behind him creaked open.

Tholme spun on instinct, cigarette nearly tumbling from his fingers. His muscles relaxed—only slightly—when he saw the figure step into the fading light.

A human girl, a few years older—so probably somewhere around twenty—stepped out onto the roof, pausing as she caught sight of him.

“Oh,” she said softly, smiling as she tucked a strand of her dark brown hair behind her ear. “This door is usually locked.”

She was beautiful—green eyes, soft features, dark hair brushing her shoulders. Her cloak hung loose, as if she’d forgotten it was there, and she carried herself with a quiet, unshaken confidence.

Suddenly he was too aware of his own slouch, the cigarette between his fingers, and the way his thoughts had grown utterly lewd in under three seconds. Which—he needed to shut down immediately.

He cleared his throat, willing himself to focus on something—anything—else. Except his gaze lingered just a second too long, and suddenly, he realised, far too late, that he was staring.

He smirked slightly, flicking his eyes back to the city. “Do you mean this was your secret hideaway before it was mine?”

She chuckled. “I don’t think it’s possible to have secrets as a Jedi,” she replied, moving toward the edge of the roof. She rested her hands on the railing and gazed out at the sunset. “Especially not on Brentaal.”

“I don’t know,” he managed. “It’s better than Coruscant. The walls there are too thin, the refreshers are always busy, and there isn’t a rooftop like this.”

Her gaze flicked to the cigarette, her eyebrow arching ever so slightly. It wasn’t a judgmental look—more one of mild curiosity. “Not exactly standard Jedi self discipline, is it?” she remarked. “Or is this your way of rebelling?”

Tholme exhaled slowly, watching the smoke curl into the air before glancing at her with a lopsided smirk. “If I were rebelling, I’d be doing something a hell of a lot more fun than this.” He tapped the ash off the end of his cigarette. “This is just a bad habit.”

The brown-haired Jedi hummed, tilting her head slightly as she studied him. “Bad habits usually have a reason.” Her gaze flicked briefly to the row of burned-out cigarettes balanced on the railing. “I have to wonder if yours is boredom or something else.”

“Oh, it’s purely strategic. Helps me blend in with all the other brooding loners lurking on rooftops. I wouldn’t want to break the aesthetic,” he said, crushing the cigarette against the wall. But just like that, his smile began to fade. “Or maybe I’ve just had one of those days.”

The other Jedi leaned against the railing, her gaze flicking back to him with an amused glint. “One of those days?” she repeated, taking in his jet-black hair that was tussled and askew, as though he had spent the last hour trying to pull it out. “The kind that requires brooding under the stars and the faint aroma of charred regrets?”

“Something like that,” he admitted. “More specifically, the kind of day where you piss off your Master so thoroughly that you start wondering if self-imposed exile might be a reasonable career change.”

She made a curious noise, her gaze drifting toward the horizon. “Anger is a fire—hungry, relentless. You can smother it, you can feed it, but the real lesson isn’t in putting it out. It’s in learning how to stand in the heat without letting it burn you.”

Tholme blinked, momentarily thrown by the sudden shift in tone. He studied her, head tilting slightly, before letting a slow smirk tug at the corner of his lips. “You talk like you’ve been around long enough to see a thousand Padawans make the same mistakes.”

Her lips curled into something amused, something knowing as she exhaled softly through her nose. "And yet, you insist on making them yourself.”

Tholme’s smirk turned lazier, the kind that had gotten him into trouble more than once. “Now that’s a hell of a first impression.”

“Really, Tholme?” she said smoothly. “Do you always find wisdom so intimidating?”

Tholme’s smirk faltered for just a moment, replaced by a flicker of surprise. “It seems you’ve got me at a disadvantage. I don’t know your name.”

“Oh, you don’t think I would just stand on a rooftop with a stranger without knowing who he is, do you?” she asked. “You’d be surprised by the marks Padawans leave.”

Tholme let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head as he gave her an appraising look. “Well, that’s either very flattering or deeply concerning,” he mumbled. “Should I be proud, or should I be worried?”

Her smile widened ever so slightly, though she didn’t answer right away. “That depends,” she said, “on whether or not you’re about to light another cigarette.”

Tholme huffed a quiet laugh. “I was considering it.”

But instead of reaching for another, he gave the tin in his hand a thoughtful shake before slipping it back into his belt pocket.

“So, my Master would probably remove my fingers and feed them to me if he found out,” he admitted. “Technically, I’m an adult in most systems, fully capable of making my own decisions—but, well…”

As he trailed off, her forehead creased slightly, but before he could read into it, the soft scent of lilies wafted toward him as the breeze picked up her hair. “Not a word,” she promised gently, gripping the edge of the railing. “I was a Padawan once. We all have our vices. Some of us still do.”

“Once?” Tholme asked, laughing lightly. “What, did you pass your trials yesterday?”

Her lips curled into a small, knowing smile. “Something like that,” she replied. “Time’s not as linear as we like to think. It tends to stretch and bend, depending on the perspective."

Tholme hesitated as her gaze shifted back to him, her green eyes sharp yet kind. For a moment, she studied him, as though deciding whether or not to indulge in any more conversation. Finally, she gave a small, graceful nod, the corner of her lips lifting in a soft smile.

“I’m T’ra,” she said simply.

 “T’ra,” he repeated, the name feeling heavier on his tongue than it should have. There was something oddly familiar about her presence, like he should know her—but he couldn’t place why—all he knew was that he liked it. He liked her.

Tholme exhaled through his nose, forcing himself to focus on anything but the way she looked at him. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around before.”

“There are a great many Jedi,” she replied. “You can’t possibly know all of us.”

Tholme smirked. “Maybe not. But I’d remember you.”

To his satisfaction, a faint flush coloured her cheeks—not much, but enough for him to notice. For just a second, she looked almost caught off guard, her lips parting like she wanted to respond but hadn’t quite decided how.

And then, just as quickly, she schooled her expression back into something calm, composed.

Before he could decide if he’d pushed too far, he cleared his throat, shifting gears. “So, Brentaal,” he said, resting his arms against the railing. “Just passing through, or are you here for something exciting?”

“A little of both,” she said. “I won’t be here long.”

Tholme hummed. “You picked a good time to visit. Everyone’s on edge waiting for some ancient Neti to show up—Master Saa, apparently.”

And just like that, T’ra laughed, catching Tholme off guard by the sudden sound. It wasn’t a polite laugh; it was warm, genuine, and—if he didn’t know better—amused at his expense.

“Saa?” she echoed, her green eyes sparkling.

 “Apparently. Master Torwyn’s been complaining about her all day. Honestly, you’d think she could cut a man down with a glance the way he’s been going on.”

T’ra’s lips twitched. “Torwyn, mm? Somehow, I am not surprised.”

“I mean, I don’t know much about Neti, but if she’s anything like they’re saying, she’s probably got roots tangling out of her sleeves and wrinkles deep enough to hide a whole fucking star chart,” Tholme muttered.

T’ra turned her head slightly, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. “Wrinkles and roots, you say? How spooky.”

Tholme raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Well, if she starts growing roots, I’m definitely staying out of range. Last thing I need is a lecture with a side of tree sap.”

T’ra laughed again, her green eyes sparkling as she leaned slightly closer. “You’re very sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

“Confident, not sure,” Tholme corrected. Then, with a smirk, he quickly deflected, “But if you want real confidence, you should read one of those smutty Jedi romance novels. They’re something.”

She shook her head, as though she hadn’t a clue how she’d walked into this conversation. “And you read those?”

“I read a lot of things. Not just smut, mind you. I’m well-rounded. But if I had to pick a favourite…”

T’ra tilted her head, her green eyes glinting with curiosity. 

“There is this one about this Jedi Knight who falls for a diplomat while he’s undercover. There’s a lot of sneaking around, stolen moments in moonlit gardens, and, of course, the most unrealistic sex scene I’ve ever read.”

“A Jedi’s Belt,” T’ra muttered, much to Tholme’s surprise.

He blinked. “You’ve read it?”

T’ra’s lips quirked into a small, almost mischievous smile, though she didn’t look at him directly. “I’ve read… a lot of things, I’m well rounded, you see,” she parroted his own words back, her tone light but deliberately vague.

Tholme huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Now that sounds like a me deflection.”

“Does it?” she mused, but before he could press further, the distant hum of repulsorlifts filled the air.

A transport shuttle descended into the courtyard below, its engines rumbling softly as it settled, the sound cutting through the easy quiet between them. Tholme exhaled through his nose, watching it land before glancing sideways at T’ra. “I’m guessing that’s Master Saa.”

T’ra smiled knowingly. “Don’t be so quick to jump to conclusions, Tholme.”

“Too late,” he quipped. “I’ve already jumped—and stuck the landing.” He glanced down at his rumpled tunic that had several holes in the tabards, frowning. “I’m going to have to find something clean to wear. My Master will lose it if I meet Saa like this.”

“Find something green,” T’ra said, as she reached out and fingered the fabric of his tunic, as though she hadn’t realised that she’d done it. “I think it would match your eyes.”

Tholme’s breath caught at her touch. “That sounds like pride to me”

“Pride? Hardly,” she said with a smile. “Don’t shape yourself to someone else’s expectations, Tholme. The strongest Jedi understand who they are—and stand firmly by it.”

Tholme nodded his head, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “So, what you’re saying is I should walk into that meeting in green—just to make a point?”

T’ra sighed softly, her fingers slipping away from his tunic as she leaned back against the railing. “I’m saying you should walk into that meeting as yourself, whether that’s in green, blue, or covered in speeder grease. The Force doesn’t care about appearances.”

“Maybe not,” Tholme replied. “But my Master? He definitely does. I’m pretty sure if I showed up in green, he’d think I was trying to stage a coup.”

“Either your Master has a flair for the dramatic, or you’ve caused enough trouble for him to believe anything is possible.” T’ra stepped away from the edge, giving him a final look. “Have a good evening, Tholme. And don’t let this Master Saa intimidate you too much.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, watching her as she moved toward the door. Suddenly he felt a strange pull, an almost desperate need to keep her here just a little longer. “Uh, T’ra?”

She paused, turning slightly, her hair catching the last rays of sunlight like a halo. “Yes?”

“Maybe I’ll see you around before you leave?”  

“If the Force wills it. But I am quite sure you will.”

He smiled faintly, unsure how to respond. She tilted her head slightly, her eyes holding his for a moment longer before she turned and disappeared through the door.

As the door clicked shut, Tholme let out a long breath, running a hand through his hair. His mind kept replaying the conversation—her laugh, her sharp wit, the brief touch of her hand on his tunic.

He stared at the horizon, trying to shove the thoughts aside, but they lingered. She wasn’t just beautiful. Something about her calm, commanding presence made him feel like she knew more about him than he knew about himself. The idea should’ve been unsettling, but instead, it was oddly comforting.

And with that, he turned and headed back inside, the faint scent of lilies lingering in the air as if she’d never left.

Chapter Text

Although he knew it was wrong of him, T’ra occupied Tholme’s thoughts that night. He couldn’t shake her coy smile, the way her green eyes sparkled, or her wicked laugh that had seemed to echo in his mind long after they parted ways.

Still, by the time morning rolled around, Tholme found himself hoping he’d run into her during breakfast, though he didn’t know what he’d say if he did—and when she didn’t appear? He felt an irrational wave of disappointment. What had he expected? A conversation? Maybe something more? He had enough problems to deal with without adding the complication of lusting after a twenty-something-year-old Jedi Knight with pretty eyes and a smile that made him forget what he was even brooding about in the first place.

So, shaking it off, he did something unprecedented: he made it to the meeting room on time.

As he stepped inside, he nodded a brief acknowledgment toward the gathered Jedi. His Master, Torwyn, immediately descended upon him, casting a disapproving glance at his green tunic. “You’re pushing your luck, Padawan,” Torwyn hissed. “You look like you’re trying to make a fashion statement.”

Tholme barely registered the reprimand. His attention had already locked on a figure across the room—T’ra. She stood with her back to him, speaking softly with a few senior Jedi. The sunlight streaming through the high windows caught in her hair, and for a moment, Tholme forgot how to breathe.

She turned then, her gaze sweeping the room as if searching for someone, and against all odds, her eyes landed directly on him. A knowing smile curved her lips, and Tholme watched, somewhat mesmerised, as she made her way toward him. He barely even noticed the subtle shifts in the posture of the other Jedi—or the small bows of respect that seemed to follow her.

It struck him as a little odd, but he barely had time to dwell on it before she stopped in front of him, her knowing smile still firmly in place.

“It’s good to see you, T’ra,” he managed, his voice warmer than it probably should have been.

“And you,” she replied. Her eyes flicked briefly over his tunic, and her smile widened into something half-amused, half-knowing—like she’d already figured out the end of a joke he hadn’t even realised he was telling. “I see you took my advice.”

He opened his mouth to respond, but before he could say a word, a human Jedi brushed past, bowing his head slightly as he passed her. “It’s a pleasure to have you back, Master Saa,” he said politely before continuing on.

The words hit Tholme like a blaster bolt to the chest.

He blinked. Surely he must’ve misheard.

Then, like watching a speeder crash in slow motion, he noticed the other Jedi—all of them—acknowledging her with subtle bows of respect. Even the ones who had ignored him nodded in deference as they passed.

No.

His stomach dropped to his boots. His fingers twitched like he’d touched a live wire.

His mind reeled, scrambling, malfunctioning, replaying every single word he’d said to her on the rooftop.

The flirting. The smirking. The smutty Jedi romance novels. The kriffing tunic.

Oh, Fuck off.

T’ra—no, Master Saa—tilted her head slightly, her expression unchanged, though her eyes sparkled with something that looked suspiciously like amusement. “Is there something wrong, Tholme?”

He blinked rapidly, scrambling to keep up. “Uh—yeah. No. I mean—yes.” He cleared his throat, willing the heat creeping up his neck to settle. “I just… wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

“Where else would I be?” she asked lightly.

Before he could reply, his Master appeared by her side, his tone unusually tense. “Master Saa, it’s an honour to have you join us.”

Tholme glanced at Torwyn and was immediately startled to see the older Jedi bowing, his usual sharp arrogance replaced with admiration. Tholme had never seen his Master act this way toward anyone. It only made the situation worse.

“Thank you, Master Torwyn.” T’ra—no, Master Saa, the ancient Jedi Master he shamelessly flirted with—tilted her head slightly, her expression unchanged, though her eyes sparkled with something dangerously close to mischief. “We were just discussing first impressions, weren’t we?”

Tholme’s throat went dry. “Uh, yes, Master.”

“Mm,” she said, her voice carrying a lightness that somehow didn’t ease his nerves. “I’m looking forward to hearing more of your thoughts.”

He wasn’t sure if she was teasing him, testing him, or both, but he nodded stiffly. “Of course.”

As she moved to take her place at the head of the room, Torwyn’s head whipped toward Tholme. His expression twisted into something unreadable—equal parts rage, confusion, and the slow realisation that his Padawan had somehow, as always, made things worse.

He leaned in, voice deadly quiet. “What did you do?”

Tholme swallowed. “Nothing!”

Torwyn looked between him and Master Saa, his jaw tightening. His hands flexed at his sides like he was debating whether to strangle Tholme now or later.

Then, his voice dropped even lower. "Then why does she look amused?"

Tholme stood frozen, his brain still trying to process his catastrophic lack of awareness.

She was Master Saa?

Torwyn grabbed his arm, shoving him back to reality. "Pull yourself together before you embarrass yourself any further."

Tholme blinked at him, still reeling. "...I don't think that's possible."

**

After the meeting had ended, Tholme caught sight of T’ra—no, Master Saa—just as she was slipping into the corridor, her pace steady, unhurried—like someone who had never once embarrassed herself in front a Jedi Master and was living to pay the price.

His heart lurched—traitorous, frustrating, and downright insubordinate—before a wave of humiliated fury rose to strangle it. He had so many questions crashing against the inside of his skull, rattling louder than a faulty speeder engine. About her. About last night. About how she had just stood there, watching him prattle on like a kriffing idiot without so much as a raised brow to correct him. Was it mercy? Was it amusement? Was it a calculated test?

He wasn’t sure which answer he preferred.

Still, he hesitated for a split second, torn between letting her go and the sudden rush of indignation that bubbled up in his chest.

Ultimately, his curiosity—and frustration—won out. "Master Saa!" he called, jogging a few steps to catch up with her.

She paused, turning slowly to face him. “Hello again,” she said cheerfully.

Tholme fell into step beside her before he could think better of it. He huffed out a breath, rubbing a hand over his face before glancing at her with a look caught somewhere between incredulity and exasperation.

“So, just to clarify—” his begun, “at no point last night, while I was running my mouth like a damn fool, did you think to stop me?”

T’ra’s lips quirked into that small, knowing smile he half loved, and half loathed. “You had some frustrations you wished to get off your chest. It wasn’t a burden. In fact…” She paused, tilting her head slightly. “You were refreshing.”

“Refreshing?” Tholme repeated, his voice a little too incredulous. He raised a brow, half-expecting her to laugh and tell him it was all some joke. “See, I thought you were just another Jedi. Turns out, the ancient, legendary, possibly mythical Jedi I decided to bitch about. I think I’ve managed to cram more disrespect into ten standard minutes than anyone has in your entire billion fucking year lifespan. Congratulations to me.”

T’ra laughed softly, the sound unbothered and warm as though she was enjoying this. “I’m only a few centuries old, two in fact, in Neti years that makes me just a little older than you,” she replied with a small, almost dismissive shrug.

Tholme blinked, his brain catching up a second too late. “Right. But that doesn’t change the fact I spent a solid five minutes talking shit about you, Master Saa. I think you have the right to be a little mad, don’t you?”

T’ra tilted her head, amusement flickering in her green eyes. “Would it have made a difference if you had known my name?”

Tholme opened his mouth, then hesitated, because—kriff. Would it?

T’ra continued, “Your earlier frustrations would have still loomed, no doubt. Perhaps you’d have even decided you had more to be concerned about. Such as roots, and tree sap.”

Before he could answer—or join the Force—she continued, her tone shifting slightly. “Truly, I enjoyed our conversation, Tholme. You have a rare gift for speaking with honesty, conviction—and the ability to trip over your own mouth faster than anyone I’ve met in the last two centuries. It’s quite impressive.”

Tholme stood there, stunned. His mouth opened and closed uselessly as he processed her words. He hadn’t expected this kind of understanding, especially not from a Jedi Master—especially not from someone like her. So, he finally let out a groan, raking a hand through his messy hair. “Glad to be of service.”

“You felt safe enough to share your trials,” she said with a nod. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Tholme just shook his head, a bemused expression crossing his face.

Then, T’ra gave him one last, lingering look before turning away. “May the Force be with you, Tholme,” she spoke.

And that’s when Tholme realised, whatever Master Saa was, she was definitely not what he had expected. He wasn’t sure if that made things better—or a thousand times worse. Because it wasn’t just curiosity gnawing at him. It wasn’t just humiliation. It was the lingering weight of her words, of the way she looked at him, like she already knew every thought in his head before he could think them.

But one thing was certain: she’d left him with more questions than answers, and no amount of meditation was going to fix that.

**

The canteen of the base was dimly lit, a hum of soft conversation and the occasional clink of utensils filling the quiet. Tholme sat at one of the long tables, his plate of food barely touched, and his fork idly pushed a piece of roasted root vegetable around, his focus somewhere on the outer rim.

Across the room, seated at a table with two senior Jedi and Master Dapatian, was T’ra—Master Saa, he reminded himself, though the words still felt surreal. She was calm, composed, and entirely engrossed in the conversation. Occasionally, her lips would curve into a faint smile, a gesture so effortless, and just like that, Tholme felt like a nerf caught in the glare of a speeder’s headlights.

“Keep poking that vegetable,” Drallig’s voice interrupted, “and it’s reporting you to the Council.”

Tholme paused slightly, realising his fork was mid-motion. “What?”

Drallig smirked, leaning back in his chair. “You have been sitting here for ten minutes, staring at Master Saa as though she’s about to ascend out of her chair and smite you. Do you care to explain, or do we collectively hate her now?”

“I’m not staring,” Tholme said defensively, though he could feel the heat creeping up his neck.

“Oh, I’m sure you’re not,” Drallig replied, the smirk growing. He popped a piece of food into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “It’s not as though you’re attempting to bore a hole through her tunic with your gaze. What’s troubling you? Did she find out about the Pantoran and order your castration?”

Tholme whipped his head around to glare at him.

Drallig was too busy grinning to care, ready to fire back another teasing remark, but then he paused. His eyes narrowed slightly as he leaned closer, studying Tholme’s expression with a sudden, sharper focus. Slowly, the grin faded into something more thoughtful—and then, just as quickly, morphed into wide-eyed amusement.

“Oh,” Drallig said, dragging the word out as realisation dawned on him. “You’re not mad at her. You like her.”

Tholme rolled his eyes.  “That’s a stretch, Cin.”

“Not it isn’t,” Drallig replied. “Everything makes sense now—the lingering glances, the fidgeting.”

“Fuck off,” Tholme muttered, turning back to his plate.

“Mm,” Drallig said, leaning forward with a gleam in his eye. “And Master Saa, of all people. Force, Tholme, what’s next, Yaddle?”

“I mean, I’ve heard Yaddle appreciates a man who can handle a staff.” Tholme mumbled, shoving in a mouthful of bread.  “We’re good with our hands.”

Drallig snorted, nearly choking on his drink. “You’re revolting,” he managed, though his shoulders shook with amusement.  

After a beat, Drallig tilted his head, setting his drink down as his smirk shifted into something more curious. “Why Saa, Tholme? What’s prompted this sudden infatuation, you’ve barely even had one conversation with her.”

Tholme frowned. “I’m not infatuated,” he said defensively, though the heat rising to his cheeks suggested otherwise. “She’s just different.”

“Different? How?” Drallig pressed, his tone less teasing now and more genuinely curious.

“She’s smart,” he spoke guardedly, “She listens. She’s… I don’t know, brilliant.”

Drallig stared at him for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, finally, he leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful look crossing his face. “So, it’s not merely the fact that she’s undeniably attractive, and you’re actually employing some semblance of rational thought for once. Truly, miracles do occur.”

Tholme rolled his eyes, though he couldn’t suppress the small smile tugging at his lips. “Don’t make me regret being honest with you.”

“Oh, no regrets,” Drallig said quickly. “I’m just still trying to process that you are actually thinking with something other than your dick. Call the Council, this might be an omen.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Tholme muttered, though his grin betrayed his exasperation.  “I’ve got layers. You just don’t appreciate them.”

“Layers?” Drallig repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Sure. Like a half-burnt datapad.”

Tholme shot him a glare, but Drallig was already pressing on, a sly grin spreading across his face. “Because unless one of those layers is a miraculous age-gap eliminator, I’m pretty sure she’s two centuries old while you’re, what, eighteen?”

“She’s basically twenty,” Tholme countered quickly, crossing his arms defensively.

Drallig froze mid-bite, staring at him with mock astonishment. “Kriff me, Tholme, you’re out here rewriting the galactic calendar just to justify mooning over her, aren’t you?”

“I don’t need to rewrite anything, Drallig. It’s simple maths.”

Drallig let out a bark of laughter, setting his utensil down and shaking his head. “Simple maths? Is that what we’re calling it now? Just because you passed temple arithmetic five years before the rest of us dummies caught up, it doesn’t mean you can suddenly become an academic and galactic expert in Neti aging just to convince yourself this isn’t completely insane.”

Tholme shrugged, unbothered. “I prefer to think of it as being… open-minded.”

Drallig rolled his eyes, pointing his fork at him. “Open-minded or delusional? Because, Tholme, if you think for one second that Master Saa is sitting somewhere doing your maths, you’re a bigger fool than I thought.”

Tholme scowled, rubbing a hand over his face. Force, he hated that Drallig wasn’t wrong. He wasn’t supposed to be thinking about this at all, let alone justifying it, though he couldn’t stop his gaze from drifting back toward T’ra. She still hadn’t so much as glanced in his direction, her focus entirely on the Jedi at her table.

Drallig followed Tholme's gaze, his expression shifting from amused to exasperated. “Force, you’re hopeless,” he muttered, setting his fork down with a soft clink. “She’s centuries older, completely out of your league, and way too smart to fall for whatever it is you think you’re offering. What’s the plan here, Tholme? You’re going to impress her with your maths skills?”

Tholme didn’t bother responding, though he risked one last glance toward T’ra. She still hadn’t looked at him, her focus entirely on her companions. For all her beauty, for all her poise, Drallig was right—she might as well have been an unreachable star in the sky. And yet, Tholme couldn’t seem to stop reaching.

Chapter Text

The following morning, Tholme decided the best way to stop thinking about T’ra—fuck, Master Saa, he reminded himself for what felt like the hundredth time—was to keep busy. He would throw himself into his work, drown his thoughts in focus, and above all else, avoid anything remotely connected to her. It was a foolproof plan.

It lasted all of thirty seconds.

Tholme found himself in the archive room, hunched over a stack of datapads. He’d been tasked with cross-referencing local crime reports for anything that might support their investigation, and his plan was simple. Focus so hard on gang activity and illegal spice shipments that there wouldn’t be room in his mind for her pretty eyes or the way her smile tilted ever so slightly when she teased him.

He’d made it through exactly one datapad before his thoughts betrayed him.

Why had she smiled like that? Was it genuine amusement? Or had she been laughing at him, knowing all along that he had no clue who she really was? And why, why, couldn’t he stop picturing the way the sunset had caught in her hair?

He groaned, slumping forward onto the table with a loud thud. A passing Jedi Knight gave him a questioning look but wisely said nothing.

Distractions. That’s all this was. A fleeting, inappropriate, entirely irrational attraction to someone completely out of reach. He wasn’t even sure why he was so drawn to her. Sure, she was beautiful—stunning, actually—but it wasn’t just that. She was fascinating. Infuriating.

And completely, utterly forbidden.

Tholme shook his head violently, as if he could physically dislodge the thoughts from his brain. He stood abruptly, shoving the datapad away and earning another odd look from the nearby Jedi. Ignoring it, he strode out of the archive room, muttering under his breath.

**

Training was supposed to be his refuge. The moment he ignited his saber, the weight of the galaxy usually dulled into muscle memory—the sharp clarity of movement overtaking everything else. No mission briefings, no Jedi politics, no Master Saa. Just the hum of plasma, and the rhythmic shift of stance to stance.

Except today, his thoughts refused to quiet. His footwork was sharp, his form precise, but his mind? Sabotage.

And that’s how Tholme swung his lightsaber a little too hard, the blade sparking against the training droid he hadn’t even realised he’d activated. The droid beeped indignantly before retreating to a corner of the room, and Tholme could only sigh, deactivating his saber and running a hand through his hair.

“Sorry, my little friend,” he muttered. “I didn’t mean to do that.”

“Clearly,” a voice said from the doorway.

Tholme turned sharply, his stomach dropping as he saw Drallig leaning casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, and a knowing grin plastered across his face.

“For fucks sake, Drallig, don’t sneak up on me like that,” Tholme grumbled, clipping his saber to his belt.

“Oh, I wasn’t sneaking,” Drallig replied, sauntering into the room. “I’ve been standing here for a full five minutes watching you try to decapitate an innocent training droid. Care to tell me what it did to deserve your wrath?”

Tholme groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I’m not in the mood.”

“You? Not in the mood for my charm and wit?” Drallig replied, though his tone was softer than usual. He studied Tholme for a moment before adding, “What’s going on? You’ve been off all day.”

“It’s nothing,” Tholme said.

Drallig crossed his arms. “Tholme, I know you better than that.”

Tholme hesitated, his jaw tightening as he tried to sort through the knot of emotions tangled in his chest. “It’s complicated.”

At that, Drallig raised an eyebrow, his tone carefully measured. “Complicated how? Jedi complicated or… feelings complicated?”

With a sigh Tholme let gravity do the work, and he slumped against the wall until he was sitting on the floor. He rested his elbows on his knees, running a hand through his black hair before glancing up at Drallig. “It’s nothing.”

Drallig studied him for a moment, trying to decide he was buying into his banthashit, but then, he nodded. Without hesitation, he offered a hand to Tholme. “Come on. Let’s spar.”

Tholme frowned but took the offered hand, letting Drallig pull him up. “You just want an excuse to knock me around.”

“I’d say I’m being a good friend,” Drallig countered, tossing him a training saber. “Oh, and if you care for a distraction, you’ll never guess who I had lunch with the other day.”

Tholme raised an eyebrow, activating his saber as he rolled his shoulders. “Who?”

Drallig adjusted his stance. “The Twi’lek girl who works at the speeder shop near the southern market.”

Tholme blinked, momentarily distracted before snapping his saber up into a guard position. “The one with the bright orange lekku?”

“Bright orange,” Drallig confirmed with a nod, lunging in with a quick opening strike. Tholme quickly deflected. “She wanted to see my lightsaber.”

Tholme snorted, sidestepping a second attack. “Was she impressed?”

Drallig sighed, feigning a thoughtful expression as he went on the defensive. “She said it was… functional.”

Tholme barked out a laugh, twisting to avoid a high slash. “Functional? Did she at least follow it up with a ‘but it gets the job done’?”

Before Drallig could reply, the sound of footsteps echoed from the doorway. Both paused mid-swing, glancing over just as Master Dapatian stepped into the training room.

The older Jedi, tall and broad-shouldered, observed them for a moment, his sharp gaze flicking between the two. He gave a slight, approving nod as he took in their sparring form.

“Are you two always this... spirited?” Master Dapatian asked, though a glimmer of amusement lingered in his eyes.

Tholme and Drallig exchanged a quick look before Tholme wiped the grin off his face, his training saber still in his hand. “I need spirit to keep up with Drallig, Master Dapatian. It’s my only defence.”

Master Dapatian raised an approving eyebrow, his gaze shifting to Drallig before returning to Tholme with a slight smile. “I see. Well, Drallig’s form does have a certain... finesse to it,” he remarked, his tone both approving and slightly amused. “Impressive, considering he’s usually more interested in conversation than combat.”

Drallig shot a glance at Dapatian. “Flattery won’t get you a discount on my lightsaber maintenance, Master,” he quipped.

Master Dapatian chuckled softly, shaking his head, as if weighing something in his mind. He straightened, his gaze moving between Tholme and Drallig as he asked, “As you both may be aware I am due to depart back to the core worlds tomorrow. How do you two feel about Master Saa joining you for the duration of my absence?”

Tholme’s brain short-circuited. His spine went rigid, his muscles locking into place like a faulty droid. For a brief, glorious moment, he was sure he’d misheard.

Then Drallig made a choked sound that was absolutely a suppressed laugh, and Tholme knew.

He was so kriffing doomed.

“Oh, I’m sure Tholme will be absolutely delighted,” he said, his tone light but with just enough mischief to make Tholme scowl. “Right, Tholme? You said yourself you were quite the fan.”

Tholme shot Drallig a withering look, but Drallig’s grin only widened, clearly enjoying the situation more than he should.

Still, before Dapatian could catch the real meaning behind his jocularity, Cin gave a resounding nod. “I’m sure we’ll all adapt quite well, Master,” he said, smoothly.

Tholme frowned, trying to shake off the unease creeping into his chest. “Why hasn’t Master Torwyn mentioned anything about this change? This is... news to me.”

Master Dapatian’s eyes flicked to Tholme, his expression unreadable for a moment, but the Force around them quickly flooded with empathy. “I imagine your Master has his reasons for not discussing it with you, whatever they may be,” he said quietly.  “Master Torwyn will be in charge of the operation during my absence, and Master Saa, on the other hand, will remain here as my eyes and ears. She’s tasked with ensuring things stay on course until I return. It’s a temporary arrangement, nothing more.”

Tholme’s brow furrowed. “For how long?”

Master Dapatian studied him for a beat. “As long as necessary,” he replied. Then, after a brief pause, he added with a slightly raised eyebrow, “Unless, of course, this arrangement presents some sort of... difficulty for you, Tholme?”

Before Tholme could respond, Drallig stepped in, sensing the shift in his mood. “Ah, Master Dapatian, I’m sure Tholme is just surprised,” Drallig said, though his eyes darted to Tholme in a way that suggested he shut the kriff up immediately.

Master Dapatian gave a brief nod to both of them, his demeanour calming as he spoke, “I’ll leave you to it, then. May the Force be with you.”

And with that, he turned and strode out of the room, leaving Tholme and Drallig standing there in the silence that followed.

The moment Dapatian was out of earshot, Drallig shot Tholme a knowing glance, his expression softening. "Are you well, Tholme?"

Tholme opened his mouth, closed it again, then sighed, running a hand over his face. “Torwyn can’t keep a leash on himself, let alone run a kriffing operation.”

Drallig raised an eyebrow. “And this has nothing to do with Master Saa being reassigned here indefinitely?”

Tholme rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. “It isn’t like that.”

Drallig gave him a knowing smile, his voice light but his eyes scanning Tholme’s face for the cracks in his facade. “Come on, Tholme. You’ve got a crush. And just when you thought you’d get rid of her, the Force has laughed in your face.”

Tholme’s neck flushed slightly, but he quickly masked it with a smirk, turning away. “Don’t make it weird, Cin.”

Drallig laughed softly, stepping closer, his tone shifting to something more serious, though his smile remained. “Sure. Come on, let’s go and bother Torwyn before you melt into a puddle of self-pity.”

Tholme hesitated before he nodded. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” Drallig said, grinning. “Seriously. Don’t. Ever.”

Tholme rolled his eyes but followed him out of the room, shaking his head. No matter how much of a headache he could be, he was always there—steadfast, unshakable. And for that, Tholme knew that no matter what, he could always rely on him.

**

Tholme clutched the stack of datapads as he and Drallig made their way to the conference room where his Master, Torwyn, was waiting. The air between them was tense—not because of Drallig, who had spent most of the walk cracking jokes about lightsabers and Twi’leks, but because Tholme knew exactly how this was going to go. Torwyn would find fault with his work. He always did.

As they entered the room, Torwyn was already seated at the head of the table, his stern gaze fixed on the datapads in Tholme’s arms like they were an affront to the galaxy itself.

“You’re late,” Torwyn immediately barked, his tone as sharp as ever.

Tholme blinked, glancing at the chrono on the wall. “I’m five minutes early, Master.”

“Early isn’t early enough,” Torwyn corrected, waving a hand dismissively. “Sit down, and let’s see if you’ve managed to produce anything remotely useful this time.”

Drallig raised an eyebrow but said nothing, surreptitiously slipping into a chair near the corner to watch the exchange. Tholme, meanwhile, did as he was told, placing the datapads on the table and carefully sliding one toward his Master.

“I cross-referenced the local crime reports with our suspect’s known associates,” Tholme began. “There’s a pattern. Several shipments of spice have gone missing in the same areas where our suspect was last seen—”

“Sloppy,” Torwyn interrupted, cutting him off. He didn’t even look at the datapad. “You should have focused on the financial records instead. Spice shipments are a distraction.”

Tholme had already done that, of course, but he knew better than to point it out. Instead, he slid another datapad forward, this time with a little more force.

“I also cross-referenced the financial records,” he said. “There are discrepancies in the accounts tied to—”

“Messy,” Torwyn interrupted again, his voice dripping with disdain. “You didn’t format it properly. How am I supposed to read this? It’s a waste of my time.”

There it was. The familiar, razor-sharp criticism, slicing through him before he had the chance to breathe.

The numbers were all there. The logic was sound. He knew it was sound. He’d been running figures since he was ten, and by this point, he could do them in his sleep. And yet—Torwyn made it sound like a child’s mistake.

Tholme’s hands clenched under the table, his patience wearing thin. “Master, the information is all there. If you just—”

“Excuses,” Torwyn snapped, his tone cold. “I don’t want your excuses, Tholme. I want results. Do you understand me, or do I need to spell it out for you?”

Drallig shifted slightly in his seat, his eyes narrowing. He looked like he was about to say something, but before he could, a soft voice interrupted from the doorway.

“Master Torwyn,” T’ra—no, Master Saa—spoke, her tone carrying an unmistakable edge.

All heads in the room turned toward her, her serene expression betraying nothing, but her green eyes sharp. Her gaze lingered on Torwyn for a moment before flicking to Tholme, her lips curving ever so slightly in acknowledgment.

“Master Saa,” Torwyn said, standing abruptly, his usual arrogance faltering as he dipped into a shallow bow. “I didn’t realise you were passing through.”

“Clearly,” T’ra replied, stepping into the room with a grace that made Tholme feel even smaller in his chair. She moved closer, her eyes scanning the datapads on the table. “I couldn’t help but overhear. It seems you’re reviewing your Padawan’s work?”

“Yes, Master Saa,” Torwyn said. “I was just pointing out the areas where he needs to improve.”

T’ra tilted her head, her gaze steady. “Interesting. From where I stood, it sounded more like you were dismissing his efforts. Perspective is an amusing thing, isn’t it?”

Torwyn’s face reddened slightly, but he quickly recovered. “I hold my Padawan to high standards. It’s necessary to ensure his growth.”

“Of course,” T’ra said. “But growth requires constructive guidance. Dismissal without explanation rarely achieves the desired results.”

Drallig coughed loudly, though it sounded suspiciously like he was trying to hide a laugh.

Torwyn cleared his throat. “Naturally, Master Saa. I was merely—”

“Let’s have a look, shall we?” T’ra interrupted, reaching for one of the datapads before he could finish. She glanced through it briefly. “Impressive,” she said, before turning to Tholme. “This connection between the spice shipments and the financial records is worth pursuing.”

Tholme nodded. “Thank you, Master.”

Torwyn’s jaw clenched so tightly Tholme swore he heard his teeth grind. But when he spoke, his tone was clipped, controlled. “I… was just about to commend him on that,” he said stiffly.

“Mm. Of course you were,” T’ra said with a small smile, handing the datapad back to Tholme. “Your work is impressive.”

Tholme blinked. “What?”

T’ra’s lips quirked slightly, as though she found his confusion amusing. “Numbers have never been my specialty,” she admitted, “but even I can see the pattern you found here is… well.” Her green eyes met his. “It’s the kind of connection only someone with an exceptional mind could make.”

Tholme felt his stomach drop—because what the fuck was he supposed to do with that?

People didn’t say things like that. Not to him.

Compliments, when they came, were always backhanded—You're sharp, but you’re careless. You’re quick, but you lack discipline. You have potential, but you waste it.

But this wasn’t that.

She hadn’t added a ‘but.’ Hadn’t qualified it. Just stated it like it was a fact, like she expected him to already know.

Torwyn’s expression flickered—just for a second—before he forced his face back into something unreadable.

T’ra straightened, her usual poise returning as she glanced back at Torwyn. “I trust you’ll provide him with the support he needs to refine his findings further?”

Torwyn hesitated—Tholme could feel the irritation radiating off him like heat from a sun—but he had no choice but to nod. “Yes, of course.”

T’ra gave a slight, knowing smile. “Good. I’ll be interested to see what Tholme comes up with tomorrow.”

With that, she gave a small nod and turned, gliding out of the room. The moment she was gone, the room fell into a tense silence.

Of course, Torwyn quickly turned his wrathful eyes onto Tholme. “Don’t think this means you’re off the hook,” he hissed. “You still have a lot of work to do.”

“Yes, Master,” Tholme said, his voice steady despite the small flicker of satisfaction in his chest. For once, someone else had seen through Torwyn’s bluster—and it felt damn good.

As they left the room, Drallig nudged him with a grin. “Looks like you’ve got yourself an ally, Tholme.”

Tholme smirked, glancing down the corridor where T’ra had disappeared. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I guess I have.”

Chapter Text

That night, Tholme lay on his back in his bunk, staring up at the dim ceiling of the sleeping quarters. The room was quiet, save for the rhythmic hum of the ventilation system.

Well, almost quiet.

The loud, unrelenting snores of Drallig in the bunk next to him cut through the relative silence like a speeder’s engine backfiring. Tholme let out an aggravated sigh, turning onto his side to glare at his best friend’s blissfully unaware face.

“How do you sleep like that?” Tholme muttered under his breath, though, of course, Drallig didn’t so much as stir.

Tholme rolled onto his back again, throwing his pillow over his head. But even without Drallig’s snores, sleep wouldn’t come. His mind refused to quiet, racing with the day’s events.

Torwyn’s words curled around his brain, clinging like the burn of a cauterised wound.

With a groan of frustration, Tholme pushed himself upright. His blankets fell into a heap around his legs as he sat on the edge of his bunk, his hands running through his messy hair. Sleep wasn’t going to happen. Not with his thoughts tying him in knots.

So, Tholme rolled out of bed with the enthusiasm of a man facing execution. His bare feet met the cold floor, and for a second, he briefly debated fumbling with his tunics. That thought lasted all of five seconds. Sleep shirt and shorts would do—it wasn’t like he was about to bump into a Jedi Master or anything. So, moving as silently as he could, he padded toward the door, glancing once at Drallig, who was still snoring like a bantha in fucking hibernation.

Once out in the dim corridor, Tholme made his way toward the roof, although he didn’t know that was where he was going until he got there. The quiet of the hallways helped ease some of the tension in his chest, but still his thoughts continued to circle. He needed to clear his head. The rooftop, with its open sky and crisp air, had become his escape—his space to breathe.

As he reached the final stairwell, he hesitated. The door to the roof was slightly ajar, a faint breeze slipping through the gap. His brow furrowed. He wasn’t expecting anyone else to be up here, especially at this ungodly hour. So quietly, he pushed the door open, stepping into the cool night air.

The sight that greeted him stole the breath from his lungs.

T’ra stood at the rooftop’s edge, a silhouette draped in starlight, her dark hair caught in the night breeze. For a split second, Tholme forgot what he was doing—why he was even here. Then reality crashed back in, and he hesitated, debating whether or not to turn around before she noticed him, and before he could think better of it, he stepped closer.

“You’re up late,” he said softly, his voice carrying just enough to reach her without startling her.

T’ra turned slightly, giving him a brief once over. “And so are you.”

Tholme crossed his arms, suddenly all too aware of his sleep shirt and shorts. “Yeah. Turns out, sleep’s overrated.”

She nodded once, turning her gaze back to the city lights below. “The roof is good for restless minds,” she said.

Tholme stepped closer, leaning his arms on the cold railing beside her. For a moment, he simply stood there, letting the silence between them stretch. The air brushed against his skin, and the city’s faint hum filled the space around them.

“What about you?” he asked finally, glancing at her. “Couldn’t you sleep either?”

“No,” she admitted, her gaze still fixed on the horizon. “There’s something about Brentaal. The energy here is… restless. It seeps into everything.”

Tholme shifted slightly, leaning more comfortably against the railing. The faint hum of the city below filled the silence between them, but his thoughts were louder than ever. “You know, you aren’t what I expected, Master Saa.”

Her eyes sparkled. “Oh? Is it the lack of tree sap?”

Tholme groaned to himself, mortification creeping up his spine like a slow, merciless predator. “That’s not entirely what I meant. It’s the way you are. The way you look.”

T’ra laughed, the sound light and unbothered. Then, almost absently, her fingers tightened around the railing. “Can I share a secret with you, Tholme?”

“Yes,” he said, just a little too quickly.

A small, almost mischievous smile flickered across her lips before she lifted a hand to her head, threading her fingers through her thick, dark locks. “I prefer to stay in my human form because I like the sensation of having hair.”

She ruffled it, almost experimentally, as though rediscovering the texture with each pass of her fingers. The movement was absentminded, yet reverent—like a child marvelling at a simple joy. The glow of Brentaal’s cityscape cast faint golden highlights through the strands, and for a brief moment, she looked so young.

“It’s soft,” she murmured, her voice quieter now, her smile widening into something open, unguarded.

Tholme bit back a grin of his own, something warm curling in his chest at the sight.

And then, just as suddenly, her fingers stilled. Her expression shifted, like the moment had caught her off guard—like she’d allowed herself to slip too far into it. A faint flush crept up her cheeks as she let her hand drop away.

“Anyway,” she added briskly, smoothing her tunic, “this is my human form. I may have lived double, maybe even triple the lifetimes of those who seek my guidance, but this”—she gestured vaguely at herself—“reminds me that I’m still young. Inexperienced. Humble.”

Tholme, sensing the shift, wasted no time in dragging the moment back into safer waters. “And it’s just a bonus that the hair on your head is thick enough to assert dominance over a Wookie.”

T’ra huffed out a startled laugh, shaking her head as if exasperated with him, but he knew better.

The silence that followed was easy, but after a moment, Tholme exhaled and cleared his throat, his voice softer than before.

“I wanted to thank you,” he murmured. “For earlier. You didn’t have to step in like that.”

T’ra turned her head toward him, her green eyes catching the faint starlight. There was only warmth in her gaze. “You don’t need to thank me, Tholme,” she said gently. “I only spoke the truth.”

Tholme laughed softly, though it was more self-deprecating than anything else. He rubbed the back of his neck, glancing out over the city below. “I mean, I probably deserve some of it,” he admitted. “I didn’t exactly get the intel the… proper way. He has the right not to trust me.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw T’ra’s lips twitch, a faint snicker escaping her as she turned to look at him. “Ah, yes,” she said lightly, her tone teasing, “The Pantoran girl.”

Tholme froze. For a moment, his thoughts screeched to a halt, and he could only stare at her, his brain scrambling for a response. “You already know about that?”

T’ra’s laugh was soft, damn near musical, and somehow, it both eased and amplified his suffering. “Of course I know. It was mentioned in the briefing.” She paused, amusement twinkling in her gaze. “I must say, Tholme, your report was... creative. Poetic, really.”

Tholme groaned, leaning forward to rest his head in his hands. “Force, I was hoping that would get buried. Or burned.”

“You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of, Tholme,” she said, still amused. “It’s not the first time a Jedi has found themselves in a… less-than-conventional situation.”

“That’s not the point,” Tholme muttered, crossing his arms.

She raised an eyebrow. “No?”

Tholme shifted uncomfortably, feeling the heat rise in his face. It wasn’t the situation itself—it was the fact that he cared what she thought about it, and that realisation made his stomach twist. It was stupid, really. It was just sex, nothing more—so what if she knew? T’ra was two centuries old, he doubted this kind of a thing came as a surprise to her. But it mattered to him, and that was the scary part.

Thankfully, though, T’ra didn’t press him further. Instead, she turned her gaze back to the horizon, her tone light again, “We all have moments that make us question ourselves. What matters is how we move forward from them.”

Tholme watched her for a moment, her serene gaze fixed on the distant city lights. The way she carried herself—calm, steady, and unshakeably composed—was something he couldn’t help but admire.

After a moment he muttered, “Your friends are lucky to have you.”

There was a pause. A frightening long one.

Then she murmured, “I don’t have any friends.”

Her words caught him off guard, and he couldn’t help but frown. “How could you not have friends?”

T’ra tilted her head, the corner of her lips twitching in a faint smile. “It’s not that complicated. It’s just…” She trailed off, her gaze turning distant as her expression grew more thoughtful. “I know my lifetime will be much longer than most. I’d rather not grow too fond of people, knowing that one day I’ll outlive them. I’ve seen too many join the Force already. It’s… easier this way.”

Tholme’s brow furrowed. Something about the way she said it—so matter-of-fact, so resigned—made his stomach twist. “That’s…” He hesitated. “That’s really kriffing sad.”

T’ra gave him a small, bittersweet smile. “Perhaps. But it’s practical. When I was a youngling and was accepted into an apprenticeship, the friends I’d made in the creche were already becoming Knights—or even joining the Council. My first experiences always felt decades behind theirs. I learned quickly that I rarely have anything in common with others.”

Her words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of years he couldn’t begin to imagine. Tholme stared at her, unsure of what to say. For all her calm and grace, there was something deeply vulnerable in the air.

Then, almost abruptly, T’ra straightened, her serene expression returning as she glanced toward the horizon. “It’s just the nature of life. There is little point on dwelling on things we cannot change.”

Tholme scoffed. “There isn’t anything wrong with having feelings.”

T’ra’s smile returned, softer now, though her eyes carried a trace of something more guarded. “You’re kind, Tholme,” she said gently. “But I don’t wish to burden you with old stories.”

“It’s hardly a burden,” he said, meeting her gaze. “I just think it’s lonely. To live like that.”

Her smile faltered, just for a moment, but she recovered quickly, nodding once. “Loneliness can be a choice. And sometimes, it’s a necessary one.”

Tholme wanted to argue, to tell her that no one should have to carry that kind of loneliness. But the words caught in his throat, and instead, he simply stood beside her, letting the quiet stretch between them.

For a moment, Tholme thought she might say something else. Instead, she exhaled quietly, almost as if releasing some unseen weight.

“I should retire,” she said finally, although she hesitated for a fraction of a second—so quick, he almost missed it. Then she nodded, that unreadable expression back in place.

“Goodnight, Tholme.”

Her voice was softer now, something almost fragile threading through it.

Tholme swallowed. “Goodnight, T’ra.”

And just like that, she was gone.

He stood there for a moment, watching the empty doorway before turning his gaze back to the horizon. The night felt quieter now, the stars above steady and bright. As much as she confused him, frustrated him, and made his heart race in ways he didn’t entirely understand, there was something grounding about T’ra’s presence. Something he couldn’t quite explain.

Still, sleep still felt a long way off, but for the first time all day, his thoughts didn’t seem so heavy.

**

The training hall pulsed with the raw heat of bodies in motion, sweat and scorched durasteel thick in the air. The scent of burned ozone clung to the chalky mats, the rhythmic clash of training sabers ringing like a war drum, filling the space with its steady violence.

Tholme rolled his shoulders, the ache settling deep in his muscles as he deactivated his training saber. Sweat traced a slow path down his spine, cooling too fast under the artificial chill. His pulse was still hammering in his ears, the ghost of the fight lingering in his limbs—until a voice sliced clean through it, sharp and teasing.

"You held back."

Mavra Zane was already watching him, smirk lazy, golden-brown eyes gleaming with something shrill. She spun her training saber once, a careless flick of the wrist before deactivating it, her stance loose, easy. Dangerous.

Tholme snorted, stretching out the stiffness in his shoulders. “It’s five in the morning, Mavra. If you’re looking for perfection, try later.”

"I expect you to fight like you mean it," she mused, stepping closer, her padawan braid flicking over her shoulder. Her smirk didn’t widen—it sharpened. "What’s wrong, Tholme—afraid you might hurt me?"

Tholme exhaled, shaking out his arms—more for effect than anything else. “I like to give my opponents hope before crushing them completely. Drallig taught me that.”

Mavra’s laughter spilled over, low and indulgent. Then she moved—just a step, just enough for heat to gather in the space between them.

Close enough that he could feel warmth radiating off her skin, close enough for the scent of sweat and something spicy to curl into his senses.

"Is that what this is?" she mused, her voice dipping, taking on a quieter edge—like an invitation wrapped in amusement.

Her fingers ghosted along his wrist, feather-light, but not hesitant. There was no caution in her touch, only certainty. She knew what she was doing.

It was in the way she smiled, the way she leaned in, like he was already caught in whatever game she was playing. The way the air between them shifted into something charged, something on the cusp of snapping, teasing the promise of something he shouldn't want but desperately did.

Then, her voice dipped, curling like a silk ribbon slipping through his fingers. "You could let me win next time, you know?" The smirk remained, edged with promise. "I’d owe you one."

**

The communal refresher was grim, the glow of old fixtures casting flickering halos along the damp tiled walls, and mould growing in the sealant. The scent of steam and cleanser lingered, clinging to the air, but it wasn’t enough to drown out the weight of everything else—salt, sweat, and something far, far sweeter.

Mavra’s fingers twisted in his tunic, pulling him closer, pressing into him as they crashed against the stall divider. The kiss was deep, hurried, the kind of desperate urgency that made it feel like life or death.

And for a moment—just a moment—he let himself believe this was what he needed.

The rush, the heat, the sheer force of it—like drowning in something deep, something consuming. It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t calculated. It was pure momentum, raw instinct, nothing but the want to feel something other than the inside of his own head.

And right there, nothing else mattered. Nothing except the heat of her skin beneath his hands, the way she arched into him like she knew exactly what she was doing, like she knew exactly what he wanted. But she was there—grounding, solid, real in a way nothing else had been for days. His fingers traced the curve of her back, her breath hitching against his mouth as he caught her lower lip between his teeth, a quiet sound vibrating softly in her throat.

Suddenly he was on her neck, not hard, not enough to leave a mark, not unless she asked him to, and she moaned into his ear, a soft, beautiful sound.

“Turn around,” he mumbled, and of course she did.

He was on her again in a heartbeat, hands fumbling before settling into something thoughtless, something instinctive. Then—she shuddered, exhaling hard through her nose, slow and shaking, like her body had only just caught up with what had happened.

She braced a hand against the stall divider, sighing, slow and satisfied.  “Come on then, or have you finished already?”

Tholme let out a low scoff, rolling his eyes, already pushing down his waistband, fingers skimming the skin beneath—because obviously he wasn’t done.

His lips found the curve of T’ra’s neck again, and suddenly everything felt warm, familiar, and—oh shit, yes, yes—perfect—until it didn’t. Reality slammed into him like a blade between the ribs.

T’ra?

His hands froze. His breath hitched.

What the fuck was that?

His stomach instantly twisted, the warmth in his blood turning to ice, flickering, stuttering, snuffed out in an instant.

Mavra let out a quiet, impatient huff. "Stars, Tholme, what are you doing over there?"

She pushed back against him, but something had shifted. The memory of the pressure of her hands, the weight, the way she curled her fingers against his skin—it wasn’t the same anymore. But Mavra, oblivious, rolled her hips, a wordless demand, expecting him to follow her lead. When nothing happened, she stilled for a fraction of a second, then threw a curious glance over her shoulder.

The warmth in his hands had vanished like a switch had been flipped. His fingers twitched, recoiling before he even realised that he was pulling back. His chest went tight, his pulse slowing to something heavy, something sickening.

Mavra shifted, waiting for him to pick up where they left off. When he didn’t, her body went still. Confusion flickered in her expression, brows drawing together, lips slightly parted as she moved to face him, resting her hands on his stomach.

"You good? You look like you just got hit by a stun bolt."

Tholme let out a breathy, humourless chuckle, tilting his head back against the stall divider like he was searching for answers in the durasteel ceiling. His lips curled into something that almost resembled a smirk, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

"Just… hold on a second,” he mumbled.

She let out a short breath, mistaking his hesitation for something else entirely. “Look, you’re a Jedi I trust your reflexes enough to pull—”

She cut herself off, suddenly noticing what should have been obvious from the moment she turned around. The tension in his shoulders. The way his hands had gone still. The way he was looking at her—like he’d just been yanked out of his own body, like he wasn’t here at all.

Her smirk faltered, just slightly. “…Tholme?”

Tholme forced a breath through his nose, willing himself to snap back into the moment, to smirk, to do something—but his body wouldn’t move.

His hands still rested against her waist, but they felt like they belonged to someone else. His skin prickled, heat draining from his limbs as his stomach twisted into something ugly, something heavy.

Mavra’s eyes flicked over him, searching, her amusement thinning into something more like concern. “You with me?” she asked.

Tholme swallowed hard, his throat dry. His jaw worked around words he should say—Yeah, fine. Of course. Let’s keep going.

Instead, what came out was barely above a whisper.

“…I think I’m done.”

Mavra blinked. “What?”

Her hands, still resting lightly against his stomach, tensed—like she was waiting for the punchline.

Tholme exhaled sharply, shaking his head as if that would somehow reset his brain. “I—just—” He let out a breathless chuckle, dragging a hand down his face. “I’m good. You’re good. I just—can’t.”

Mavra stared at him, brows drawing together, her head tilting just slightly. “…You can’t?”

Then, her gaze flickered downward, just for a second—just long enough for the realisation to hit her like a crashing speeder. For a brief, humiliating second, his breath stuttered, heat crawling up the back of his neck as she reached down and touched him.

Because nothing happened.

Absolutely nothing.

No physical response. No spark. No heat curling low in his gut like it should have been doing.

She could feel it. Or lack of it, as it were.

And oh, Force, as she removed her hands, she knew.

Tholme wanted to say something—anything—but his throat felt tight, his jaw locked. He could hear his own pulse pounding in his ears, drowning out whatever rational thought he might’ve clung to.

Mavra studied him, head tilting slightly, expression unreadable. Then, with no small amount of hesitation, she asked, “You are into this, right?”

“I was.”

Mavra’s brow furrowed, the confusion flickering into something sharper. “Then what’s—” She stopped herself, exhaling through her nose. Then, with an almost exaggerated patience, she clarified, “So, this isn’t about me?”

Tholme’s stomach twisted. “No. It’s—” He cut himself off, shaking his head.

Suddenly the refresher walls pressed in, too close, too warm, the scent of steam and her still thick in his skull. His pulse pounded against his ribs—slow, dragging, humiliating.

This wasn’t about Mavra. It had never been about Mavra. Mavra was pretty, she was feisty, she was fun. But she wasn’t a two-hundred-year-old brunette with a wicked grin, dainty little hands and eyes that had the ability to see into his very soul.

It wasn’t just that she was Mavra. It was that she wasn’t T’ra.

And oh, this was awkward.

The kind of awkward that felt like it was stretching out forever, filling the tiny space between them with a silence so thick it made Tholme’s skin crawl.

Mavra wasn’t stupid. She was standing there, arms loose at her sides, face blank in that way people got when their brains were working too fast. And fuck, she was thinking.

Tholme needed to stop that.

He let out a sharp breath, running a hand through his hair before yanking his tunic from where it had pooled on the floor. “It’s not you,” he muttered, voice hoarse, raw. He pulled the fabric over his head, needing to do something, needing to move.

Mavra, to her credit, didn’t look offended—just baffled. “Yeah, no shit it’s not me.” She exhaled, shaking her head. “I know it’s not me. But, uh…” she gestured vaguely toward him, toward the fact that this had happened—or rather, hadn’t happened.

She wasn’t mad, but she was clearly working through it, trying to figure out how this situation had gone from fun to whatever the hell this was in record time.

Tholme tugged his trousers back into place, fingers tightening around the waistband as if that alone could keep him together. “It’s… can we just forget this happened?”

Mavra had only just tugged clothes on, fingers working the fastenings, when a smile cracked across her face. “Tholme, you know, I am very good at what I do, and I feel kind of bad. Are you sure I can’t help you out a little, even the score?”

Tholme let out a breath that was more of a laugh—short, humourless, self-deprecating. Then, with a wry, bitter smirk, he muttered, “You did tell me to let you win.”

Mavra snorted, shaking her head as she pushed open the refresher door. “Yeah, not exactly what I had in mind,” she shot back, stepping over to the sinks. She turned on the faucet, letting the water run cool before splashing some on her face. “Drallig was wrong about you.”

Tholme exhaled sharply, dragging his hands through his hair, as if trying to regain some of his dignity. “Drallig talks too much.”

Mavra smirked at him through the mirror, grabbing a towel and dabbing at the water dripping from her chin. “Apparently not enough.”

Mavra smirked, eyes flicking over him one last time, not with disappointment, not with pity—just understanding.

The worse of all the looks.

“If it’s any consolation, you did get me there pretty fast.” She glanced back over her shoulder, smirking. “But I’ve had to fake it before, and you might want to give it a shot—it’s easier than this.”

And then she was gone.

Leaving him standing there, half dressed, half mortified, and very much aware that he was going to be thinking about this for the rest of his kriffing life.

Chapter Text

Tholme felt restless as he strode into the dining hall later that morning. The usual buzz of Jedi going about their routines was no louder than usual, and the scent of spiced caf and roasted grains filling the air as sunlight streamed through the high windows. But the refresher incident sat heavy in his chest, tangled somewhere between humiliation and something he didn’t dare name. His thoughts were tangled, replaying moments with Mavra and worst still, the night before.

So, with a sigh, he rubbed a hand over his face as he grabbed a tray and slid into his usual seat across from Drallig, who was halfway through his breakfast.

Drallig, as always, noticed immediately. “You look like kriffing hell.”

Tholme exhaled sharply, shoving his fork into a piece of roasted root vegetable. “Good morning to you too.”

Drallig smirked, but his gaze was sharp. “What, no snarky comeback? No complaints about the slop? Are you sick?”

Tholme grunted, shoving food into his mouth just to avoid answering.

But, alas, Drallig wasn’t buying it. He leaned forward, propping his elbows on the table. “Alright, let’s see. Either—you’ve got another earful from Torwyn, which, let’s be honest, wouldn’t even register anymore. Or…” His smirk widened; eyes gleaming with amusement. “You were up all-night thinking about sweet Master Saa.”

Tholme froze mid-bite at the name, shooting him a glare. For a moment he allowed himself to wonder bitterly if Master Saa ever had days like this—though somehow, he doubted the galaxy’s most serene Jedi Master had ever found herself exposed in a refresher stall, failing at casual sex, because she was lusting over her superior.

Drallig, blissfully unaware—or just pretending to be—snickered into his breakfast. “Face it, Tholme. She’s in your head. You’ve got to purge her before this gets out of hand—or before you find yourself in trouble.”

If only he fucking knew.

Tholme hesitated, then resumed stabbing his food like it had personally wronged him. “How…?”

Drallig raised an eyebrow, swallowing before responding. “Alright, listen. You’ve got two choices—call the Pantoran girl again, or you’re coming with me tonight to find someone to make you forget T’ra even exists. You need to get her out of your head, Tholme. If you keep brooding over this, it’s just going to get worse. You know that I’m right.”  

“What if I…can’t?” he asked honestly, hoping Drallig didn’t pick up the subtext.

Drallig only blinked. “Then you’re further gone than I thought.”

Tholme hesitated, feeling foolish for even entertaining the conversation. But Drallig wasn’t just teasing anymore—there was genuine concern in his eyes as he gave him a long look, as if weighing his words. Eventually, he mumbled, “She’s a Jedi Master, Tholme.”

“I’m aware.”

“And you’re a Padawan.”

“Also, aware.” Tholme let out a short, humourless laugh. “I get it. Getting her out of my head would be the smart thing to do.”

Drallig took another bite, chewing thoughtfully before shrugging. “Yeah. But since when have you ever been smart? Book smart, sure. But life smart? You’re lucky you’re still alive.”

Tholme snorted despite himself. "Look, can we not? I am begging you, Drallig. Just let this one die a quiet, unmarked death."

Drallig have him a look, returning to his food. And in that moment Tholme, thought he might get a second of peace—just a second to not think about T’ra, or refresher stalls, or Drallig’s insufferable smugness—a tray clattered onto the table beside him.

Not just any tray. A stacked tray, full of an obscene amount of food.

Stewed grains, roasted root vegetables, fruit slices, a whole bread roll, a second plate stacked high with protein cubes, and what looked like an extra-large mug of caf that was definitely too strong for a child.

And preparing to massacre it, was Eeth Koth.

All thirteen years of him, barely fitting into his robes, his posture caught somewhere between I’m definitely a grown-up and I still have to ask permission to leave my quarters after sundown.

Eeth, unfazed, grabbed his spoon and attacked his food with the single-minded focus of a man facing starvation.

Drallig, ever the first to react to nonsense, leaned forward. “So, uh… planning on feeding a second person, or is that all for you?”

Eeth, mouth already half-full, grunted something incomprehensible.

Tholme squinted. “What?”

Eeth swallowed, took an obnoxiously large sip of caf, and exhaled like an old man on his third tax cycle. “My Master said that I’m growing, it’s not my fault.”

Tholme was still rubbing his temples, wondering if maybe he should just go back to bed and restart the day from scratch, when Eeth looked between them, chewing thoughtfully.

And then, completely unprompted, he said, "Are you and Mavra entangled in a way that requires meditation?"

Drallig paused mid-bite, his fork hovering just above his plate. Then, slowly, with the careful precision of a man diffusing a thermal detonator, he tilted his head, resting his elbows on the table. “Oh?”

Eeth, completely unbothered, shoved in another mouthful, considering his words. “Well, Master Yoda says attachments lead to emotional compromise, and emotional compromise leads to impulsive action, and impulsive action leads to the dark side. I just thought if Tholme and Mavra were… entangled in a way that required meditation, then maybe you should talk to a Master.”

Tholme placed his fork down. "Koth, I want you to take whatever thought process got you here and never use it again."

Drallig, ever the menace, turned to Tholme, voice dripping with mock innocence. “Mavra, huh, Tholme? Is that why you look like you’ve been ran over by a speeder? That makes sense.”

Tholme sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Drallig—”

Eeth swallowed another mouthful. “Well, from what I saw this morning in the training hall, by 05:34, Mavra had Tholme on his back—”

“Yeah, alright, I’m stopping you there,” Tholme interrupted.

Eeth, still entirely too composed for this hour, took another sip of his caf and blinked at them both. “Okay, but then why did you disappear into the refresher together?”

Tholme could only stare, and Drallig went still—then turned, his grin widening at a truly alarming rate.

“Oh?” Drallig drawled, eyes practically gleaming. “Do tell, Tholme. Did you need some privacy to check her form?”

Eeth rolled his eyes. “You don’t have to act like that. I’m old enough, you know. I know what you were doing in there.”

Tholme arched a brow, leaning forward slightly. “Oh? Then by all means, Koth. Enlighten us.”

Eeth’s mouth opened. Then closed.

His eyes flickered to Drallig, then back to Tholme. Eeth’s mouth opened. Then closed. His eyes flickered to Drallig, then back to Tholme—growing wider by the second. The realisation slammed into him like a malfunctioning speeder, and his face turned a shade of red that could probably be seen from orbit.

“I—I know,” he stammered, looking anywhere but at them. “I mean, it’s—it’s obvious.”

Drallig, barely containing his grin, pointed at Tholme. “We are absolutely talking about this later.”

Tholme resisted the urge to shove his entire tray onto him. Instead, he turned back to Eeth, who was still staring very intently at his caf cup, as if he could will himself out of this conversation.

Eeth cleared his throat, shifting slightly. “I just—uh—” His ears were still burning. “You know what? I need more food.”

Drallig watched Eeth flee, amusement flickering into something dangerously close to fondness. He swirled his caf absentmindedly, shaking his head.

"Poor kid," he mused, smirking slightly. "Did you really have to embarrass him like that? He’s probably only just figured out girls exist, and now he thinks they come with paperwork and moral consequences."

Tholme tilted his head just enough to squint at him. "You like him."

Drallig rolled his eyes. "No, I tolerate him. He’s tolerable. And also, possibly the only person who respects me around here."

Tholme snorted. "He just hasn’t realised he’s allowed to start talking back yet."

Drallig’s eyes sparkled, looking far too delighted at Tholme’s misery, but his voice quickly lost its usual teasing edge. “Alright, the chrono tells me you’ve got a real fight waiting for you.”

Tholme frowned, checking the time on his comm. “What?”

“Torwyn,” Drallig said simply. “And unfortunately, he’s not in a good mood.”

“When is he ever?” Tholme muttered darkly, his stomach sinking at the thought. Torwyn would sense his distraction immediately—and probably use it as another reason to rip him apart.

As they made their way towards the door, he shook his head, pushing his morning aside. He had enough to worry about without adding humiliation the mix.

The day had barely started, and already, it was pressing down on him like a durasteel slab.

**

The operations room buzzed with activity, Jedi and intelligence agents moving with purpose as holocharts flickered with updates on Brentaal IV’s volatile situation. The tension in the air was thick—covert missions, shifting alliances, the kind of unstable mess that had the Masters pacing and sighing at everyone within earshot.

Tholme, arms crossed, stood near the back, scowling at nothing in particular. He didn’t want to be here—especially this late at night. More than that, he didn’t want to deal with his Master, who was circling the room like a carrion bird.

He should have known that, sooner or later, Torwyn would turn his attention toward him.

“Tholme.”

The single growl of his name cut through the noise like a vibroblade.

He exhaled through his nose and stepped forward, already bracing for whatever was coming. He’d been in this situation enough times to know it didn’t matter what he said or did—Torwyn would find something to complain about.

His Master gave him a once-over, his expression immediately souring. “What, in the name of the Force, are you wearing?”

Tholme frowned, glancing down at himself. His robes were the same as they had been for a week—green, practical, slightly rumpled from travel, but no worse for wear. He had thrown on his outer cloak before entering the ops room, so unless Torwyn had suddenly developed a vendetta against brown fabric, he wasn’t sure what the issue was.

Tholme’s throat tightened slightly, but he forced his voice steady, neutral. “My usual attire, Master,” he said carefully, aware he was already walking a dangerous line.

Torwyn scoffed, stepping closer, as if inspecting something particularly distasteful. “You look like you slept in a back alley. But I suppose that's fitting, isn't it?"

Tholme clenched his jaw, inhaling slowly through his nose.

“And you reek.” Torwyn’s lip curled slightly, and he took a deliberate step back. “Of smoke.”

Ah. There it was.

Tholme swallowed, forcing himself to hold Torwyn’s gaze. "I don't know what you mean, Master," he said lightly, though his pulse quickened sharply—because he knew exactly what Torwyn meant, and precisely how furious he'd be.

Torwyn’s eyes narrowed dangerously, lip curling in quiet disgust. “Spare me your pathetic attempts at lying, Padawan. You smell like you crawled out of the cheapest, most desperate cantina on the entire kriffing planet.”

Tholme inhaled slowly. "I was just clearing my head, Master. That's all."

Torwyn’s eyes narrowed, his voice dropping into a familiar, dangerous calm. “Careful, Padawan. One day, your lies will catch up with you—and when they do, even I won’t be able to save you from yourself.”

Tholme bit the inside of his cheek so hard he tasted copper.

“You’re weak,” Torwyn continued, voice deceptively soft. “You’re arrogant, reckless, and utterly incapable of focus. You’re a stain on this Order’s reputation. The Council tolerates you because they pity you—though Force knows why they bother. Tell me, Tholme, how does it feel knowing you’re only still here because the Jedi prefer charity to admitting they made a mistake?”

Tholme inhaled sharply, his jaw locking tight as Torwyn’s words sliced through every defence he had. His mind went blank, a thousand smart retorts dying instantly in his throat. He felt exposed, vulnerable—small.

And yet, somehow, he managed to force a smirk onto his lips, brittle as glass but stubbornly defiant.

“Probably because I’m charming,” he drawled, though his voice shook just enough to betray the sting. “Or maybe they just enjoy watching you suffer.”

But even as the words left his mouth, Tholme knew he’d already lost this battle.

Torwyn’s expression darkened, his hands clasping tightly behind his back. “Do you know what I see when I look at you, Padawan?”

Tholme already knew the answer. He had known it for years.

“A waste of potential,” Torwyn said, voice sharp as durasteel. “A child too stubborn to understand that the only thing holding him back is himself.”

Tholme felt something crack inside his chest, but outwardly, he remained still. A blank mask, a steady gaze. He had long since learned not to show when the words hit home.

Tholme’s jaw tightened, his voice carefully steady despite the tightness in his chest. “You never seemed to mind my vices when they were useful to you, Master.”

Torwyn’s eyes darkened, his voice dropping to a low, venomous hiss. “I’ve tolerated your petty distractions, Tholme, because even a broken tool has its uses. But do you really think I don’t see where this ends? Late nights, spice dens, cheap thrills in back alleys—how long before you drag the Order down with you?” He leaned closer, voice turning colder, sharper. “Every vice you cling to makes you weaker, more pathetic. And at this rate, soon enough, you won’t even be worth tolerating.”

Tholme already knew what was coming. He braced for it.

“You’re always the one peeling himself from filthy beds, stinking of sweat, cigarettes, and whoever was desperate enough to fuck you, child. You crawl back here, reeking of smoke and shame, like some cheap Coruscanti whore begging for credits after a long night. Is that really all you’re good for, Tholme? Trading yourself for favours, dragging our reputation through the dirt with every pathetic mistake?”

The words hit like a strike to the ribs—sharp, familiar, and meant to leave bruises.

Tholme swallowed, the bitterness thick enough to choke him. “I wasn’t—” he started, voice cracking despite his best attempt to sound unaffected. “I didn’t mean—”

His words faltered, died, replaced by silence as humiliation clawed hotly up the back of his neck. He hated how small he sounded, how defensive, how utterly weak. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to meet Torwyn’s gaze even as his pulse hammered painfully against his ribs.

Torwyn's eyes flashed with satisfaction, his voice dangerously soft. “Save your excuses, Tholme. I don’t care for them.”

Tholme’s jaw tightened, fists clenching tightly at his sides, nails biting painfully into his palms. He hated that Torwyn could do this—strip away every shred of confidence he had, reducing him to nothing with just a few sharp words. He opened his mouth, trying to summon some defiance, some strength, something—

But nothing came.

Instead, his shoulders dropped, the fight slipping out of him, leaving only hollow resignation behind.

“Yes, Master,” he finally muttered, his voice barely audible.

Torwyn leaned closer, voice lowering until it was barely more than a whisper—quiet enough that every word sliced straight through Tholme’s carefully constructed defences. “Is it rebellion?” he murmured. “Or do you chase those strangers because, for one fleeting, ridiculous moment, they pretend you matter? Is that what draws you back to the lower levels again and again, Tholme? Because even the cheapest attention is better than facing what we both know you truly are.”

Tholme flinched, the words landing like physical blows. His jaw tightened, teeth grinding together as he struggled to keep his expression neutral. But his breath shook, just slightly, betraying how deeply Torwyn’s words had cut.

"Maybe," he said quietly, voice tight, eyes locked somewhere near Torwyn’s boots. "Or maybe I just like disappointing you."

It was weak. Defiant, but hollow. Because no matter how much bravado he forced into his tone, the words had landed exactly where Torwyn intended—and they both knew it.

Torwyn leaned in closer, voice dropping to a harsh, dangerous whisper. “I know you, Tholme. You pretend nothing touches you, but the truth is you're easy to read. You act indifferent, untouchable, but you're desperate—starving for affection like some neglected stray begging for scraps. So desperate for validation that you'd follow any pretty face, just so someone might tell you you're worth something. You chase approval like a spice addict chases a high—except spice addicts have dignity enough not to beg.” His voice lowered further, disgust curling every word. “All because you’ll never get any validation from me.”

Tholme stood utterly still, breath trapped painfully in his chest. The weight of every cruel word pressed against him, heavy, suffocating. His fingers curled tightly at his sides, trembling slightly—not from anger, but from something far worse: humiliation.

His throat was tight when he finally spoke, voice softer than he wanted, rough at the edges.

"Is that all, Master?"

It wasn't defiant. It wasn't defensive.

It was barely even a whisper, stripped of all his usual bravado. Just quiet acceptance—raw, wounded, utterly defeated.

Because, deep down, Tholme wondered if every word was true.

Torwyn’s expression darkened, whatever thin veil of patience he had left snapping in an instant. “Give them to me,” he ordered.

Tholme hesitated, a flicker of fear briefly surfacing before he masked it behind a guarded expression. "Master, I don't—I don't have anything," he said quietly, hating the faint tremble that crept into his voice.

Torwyn’s jaw tightened, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl. “Don't insult me by playing dumb, Padawan. The cigarettes. Now.”

Tholme swallowed thickly, his voice quieter now, edged with exhaustion rather than defiance. “I don’t have them, Master.”

A dangerous silence stretched between them.

Then, without warning, Torwyn stepped forward and shoved him—hard—against the wall.

The impact was sharp, jarring, but Tholme barely flinched, pressing his palms flat against the wall behind him as Torwyn’s hand clamped down on his shoulder, pinning him in place. The older Jedi’s expression was blank, controlled, but his grip was unyielding, a silent warning that would no doubt leave a bruise tomorrow.

Tholme’s pulse spiked sharply, fear flickering in his eyes before he could hide it. His voice came out softer than he intended, almost pleading. “They’re not there, Master.”

Torwyn ignored him, his free hand swiftly patting down Tholme’s tunics, searching with clinical efficiency. He went for the obvious places first—the belt, the inner folds of his robes—before pressing his palm firmly against Tholme’s side, feeling for anything hidden.

Tholme hesitated, swallowing hard against the dryness in his throat. “Do you really think I’d be stupid enough to keep them on me?”

Torwyn’s eyes narrowed dangerously, his voice dipping to a chilling murmur. “Yes.”

Tholme inhaled through his nose, tightening his jaw as Torwyn’s fingers pressed against his sleeves, his waist, checking for any telltale signs. It wasn’t exactly the first time someone had searched him—security, law enforcement, even the occasional bouncer when he pushed the limits too far—but there was something uniquely humiliating about it being Torwyn.

His Master stepped back slightly, eyes narrowing as he came up empty-handed.

“You will hand them over,” he murmured. “Or you won’t like what I’ll do next.”

Tholme held his gaze, unflinching. He had spent years enduring Torwyn’s lessons, his punishments, his cold, cutting words—but this? This was something new.

And for the first time, he felt something dangerously close to fear.

He kept his movements measured, his expression carefully blank as he slipped his fingers into the inner fold of his boot and pulled out the small, battered tin.

The cigarettes.

He held them up between two fingers, his grip loose, casual, as if this were nothing more than a harmless exchange.

Torwyn’s gaze flicked down to the tin, then back up to Tholme’s face. His hand shot out, snatching the cigarettes from his grasp with sharp, practiced efficiency.

Still, all Tholme could do was lean back against the wall, watching as his Master inspected them with a look of pure disdain.

“I should burn these,” Torwyn muttered, turning the container over in his hands.

Then, Torwyn’s fingers curled around Tholme’s collar before he could react, yanking him forward with enough force to pull him off balance.

“We’re going outside,” Torwyn said, his voice quiet, controlled—too controlled.

Tholme barely had time to straighten his footing before he was being dragged through the doorway, stumbling slightly as Torwyn all but shoved him into the open air. The night was still, humid, the distant city lights barely cutting through the darkness.

Torwyn turned, his silhouette sharp against the glow of the outpost’s lamps. Without a word, he tossed the cigarette tin back at Tholme, the metal container hitting his chest before he reflexively caught it.

“You’re going to stand there,” Torwyn said, voice eerily calm. “And you’re going to smoke every single one.”

Tholme let out a dry, humourless laugh, though it caught painfully in his throat. “Is that supposed to scare me? You'll have to do better than that.”

Torwyn’s expression didn’t shift. “Light one.”

Tholme rolled his shoulders, shaking off the lingering ache from where he’d been yanked around, and flicked open the tin. Fine. If this was how Torwyn wanted to play, then he’d play. He pulled out a cigarette, placed it between his lips, and lit it with steady hands.

The first inhale was familiar—sharp, acrid, but grounding. The second, easy. The third, just another routine breath.

Torwyn watched, arms folded, waiting.

Tholme pulled out another, then another. He smoked through them with casual defiance, ignoring the way the acrid taste began to thicken in the back of his throat, how his lungs felt a little heavier with each pull.

By the fourth cigarette, his hands were shaking. Not enough to be obvious—he had enough control for that—but enough that he could feel the unnatural tremor in his fingertips. His tongue felt coated in ash, his mouth dry, despite the humidity pressing down on him.

The fifth was worse. His throat burned with every inhale, the smoky taste clinging to the back of his tongue, and he had to swallow hard to keep the bile from rising. His stomach twisted. Every breath felt heavier.

And Torwyn just watched.

Then, his stomach twisted. A sharp, sudden nausea clawed up his throat, catching him completely off guard. His breath hitched, the next inhale lodging itself in his chest, and—

Shit.

His head spun, the humid air suddenly too thick, too heavy, pressing in from all sides. Tholme’s throat convulsed, his body betraying him before he even realised what was happening. He gagged, his breath shuddering as a wave of nausea crashed over him. The taste of smoke clung to his tongue, thick and suffocating.

But before he could spit the cigarette out, before he could give in, Torwyn’s voice cut through the night air, cold and sharp as a blade.

“Oh no,” Torwyn murmured, voice dripping with contemptuous amusement. “You’re not done until I say you are.”

Tholme swallowed hard, bile rising in his throat all over again. His fingers twitched as he brought the cigarette back to his lips, forcing himself to take another drag, even as his body recoiled at the very thought.

Torwyn watched, arms crossed, his stance relaxed. “Finish it.”

Tholme exhaled shakily, the burn crawling down his throat like poison. His stomach churned violently, his vision tilting at the edges. Every inhale felt heavier, thick with the weight of his own stubborn defiance.

He could do this. He could outlast it.

But then his lungs seized, his body rejecting the smoke outright. He staggered slightly, blinking hard against the sickening dizziness creeping through him. His lungs felt tight, constricted, every breath shallow and unsatisfying.

He swallowed, trying to push down the rising nausea, but it was useless. His body was betraying him, and Torwyn knew it.

Because he was smiling.

Not a smirk, not a sneer—just a slow, satisfied smile.

“Something wrong, Padawan?” he asked, his tone almost mockingly polite.

Tholme didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His hands trembled slightly as he pressed a palm against his mouth, swallowing again, his throat thick with smoke and sickness. The bile rising in his gut was relentless, and his legs felt unsteady, like he might collapse if he took the wrong step.

Torwyn merely stood there, watching.

Enjoying every single second.

Tholme clenched his jaw, his teeth grinding together as his stomach twisted again. He swayed, barely catching himself before he doubled over, but the fight was already lost.

The nausea hit him like a freight hauler, and the next thing he knew, he was on his knees, retching violently onto the dirt.

The world spun around him, his ears ringing, his body convulsing with each wave of sickness. His breaths came in short, wheezing gasps, his fingers digging into the ground as he fought to stay upright. Every inhale burned, every exhale tasted like ash and vomit.

And still, Torwyn watched.

He didn’t kneel, didn’t offer any words of comfort or reprimand. He didn’t need to. His victory was already carved into the air between them.

Tholme spat the last of the vomit onto the dirt, his hands shaking as he wiped his mouth. His breath came in slow, wheezing gasps, the acrid taste still thick on his tongue. His stomach twisted again—whether from sickness or sheer humiliation, he wasn’t sure. And Torwyn? Torwyn just watched

For a moment, neither of them moved. The humid night air clung to his skin, thick with the stench of smoke and sickness. His chest heaved. His breath still tasted like poison.

Torwyn crouched beside him, resting an elbow on his knee. He didn’t touch him—he didn’t have to. His voice was soft. Pleased.

“See?” He murmured.  His gaze lingered on Tholme, savouring the brokenness in his eyes like a fine drink. “I always win, little shadow.”

Then he stood, stepping over him without another word, leaving Tholme on his knees, lungs still burning, stomach still twisting.

And Tholme, still choking on smoke, realised something else.

Torwyn had never looked so satisfied.

**

Tholme stumbled into the barracks, boots dragging against the cold durasteel, each step heavier than the last. His entire body felt wrung out, heavy with exhaustion and something far worse curling in his stomach. His fingers clenched around the rim of a waste bin, knuckles white, the taste of bile still thick at the back of his throat.

It was late—far past the usual curfew—but the dim glow of a single overhead light flickered near his assigned bunk. Tholme barely registered the presence of another figure stirring from the bed across from his own.

“Force, Tholme,” Drallig muttered, voice dulled by sleep as he sat up, blinking blearily at him. “You look like death. Where have you been?”

Tholme exhaled sharply through his nose, too tired to even smirk at the statement. He sank onto his bunk with a graceless thud, leaning back against the wall. His head felt like it was stuffed with smoke, his skin clammy, the distant ache of something vicious curling at the base of his skull.

Drallig was watching him now, fully awake. “Tholme? What happened?” His voice had lost its drowsiness, replaced with something sharper, more alert.

Tholme closed his eyes for a long moment, willing the nausea away. It didn’t work. “Long night.”

Drallig snorted. “No shit.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, surveying him with an expression that was far too perceptive for Tholme’s liking. “Are you going to tell me why you look like you lost a fight with a spice den?”

Tholme swallowed against the sour taste in his throat. He didn’t want to talk. He wanted to collapse, to let unconsciousness take him, to sleep off the night’s events and pretend—at least for a few hours—that none of it had happened.

But Drallig was still looking at him. Waiting.

And despite everything, despite the misery curling inside him, there was a small, bitter part of Tholme that wanted to see how the words would sound aloud.

He let his head roll against the wall, cracking one eye open to meet Drallig’s stare. His voice came out hoarse, dry as the desert sands, “Torwyn.”

For a moment, Drallig didn’t react. His face remained impassive, his body still. But Tholme knew him too well—could see the way his fingers curled slightly where they rested on his knees, the way his feet started to tap.

Then, slowly, Drallig exhaled through his nose. “What did he do?”

Tholme swallowed, his throat raw, his stomach twisting again as the memory of thick smoke and Torwyn’s cold, expectant stare resurfaced. He didn’t want to relive it. He didn’t want to say it aloud.

But the scent of nicotine still clung to his clothes, to his skin, and there was no ignoring it.

“He found my cigarettes,” Tholme muttered, voice rough. He shifted, gripping the waste bin tighter. “Dragged me outside. It was my fault.”

Drallig’s eyes darkened, but he said nothing, waiting.

Tholme let out a low, humourless chuckle, tipping his head back against the cool durasteel wall. “I managed five—I set a new personal record, are you proud?”

Drallig didn’t react—not immediately. His expression didn’t shift, his body didn’t tense, but Tholme saw the change anyway. The way his eyes narrowed. The way his jaw locked just slightly, a subtle but unmistakable tell.

Drallig had heard a lot of things over the years. He had seen Tholme walk into their room covered in bruises, knuckles bloodied from training. But this? This was different.

Drallig’s voice, when it finally came, was quiet. Controlled. But cold.

“He made you?”

Tholme huffed a breath, closing his eyes. “He didn’t hold me down, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“But he stood there,” Drallig pressed, his voice gaining an edge. “He made sure you did it.”

Tholme shrugged, suddenly too exhausted to dance around the truth. “He never loses.”

Tholme barely had time to process the weight of his own words before he was forced to swallow against the thick taste in his throat. His body felt off—his stomach twisted, his head felt like it was stuffed with cotton, and there was a growing pressure behind his eyes that made everything feel too sharp and too slow all at once.

He exhaled carefully, shifting his grip on the waste bin, trying to steady himself. The air in the room felt thick, cloying, like the lingering scent of smoke had embedded itself into his skin. His breath came shorter now, shallower.

Drallig sat forward, his gaze sharpening. “Tholme—”

Tholme barely managed to shake his head before his stomach lurched violently. The walls tilted around him, heat rushing up his spine like a fever breaking, and—

His throat constricted, and he knew—Force, he knew—what was about to happen.

Drallig saw it too.

“Shit—”

Before Tholme could so much as shift, Drallig moved. Quick, precise—years of training kicking in, though it wasn’t exactly the kind of crisis Jedi training prepared them for. He yanked the waste bin forward just as Tholme doubled over.

His ribs ached, his throat burned, and his stomach twisted even further as another wave of nausea crashed over him. His hands gripped the edges of the bin, white-knuckled, as his entire body shuddered through the aftershocks of the night’s ordeal.

Drallig crouched beside him, one hand steadying the bin, the other hovering awkwardly between clapping him on the back or just staying out of the way entirely.

“Well,” Drallig muttered, wincing as Tholme heaved again. “This is grim.”

Tholme let out a miserable groan, his entire body trembling from the exertion.

Drallig sighed through his nose, rubbing the bridge of his nose before resigning himself to the inevitable. He grabbed a water flask from the bedside table and pressed it into Tholme’s shaky grip.

“Drink,” he ordered.

Tholme barely managed a glare before bringing the flask to his lips. He took a few careful sips, rinsed his mouth, then slumped back against the wall.

Drallig was no stranger to dealing with Tholme’s post-mission injuries, bad decisions, or general misadventures. But this? This was new.

He wasn’t sure if it was the sheer pitiful sight of him, slumped and miserable, or the acidic tang of cigarette smoke still clinging to his tunic, but something about it made Drallig hurt in a way he wasn’t used to.

With a sigh, he grabbed Tholme by the arm, hoisting him up with a firm grip. “Alright, come with me. You need a shower.”

Tholme groaned, resisting half-heartedly. “I need to be left to die.”

Drallig didn’t bother arguing, just hauled him to his feet and all but dragged him toward the refresher. Tholme’s legs barely cooperated, his body still sluggish with nausea, and the moment they crossed the threshold, he leaned heavily against the sink, gripping its edge like the room might spin out from under him.

Drallig reached for the fastenings of Tholme’s tunic, but the moment he started peeling it away from his sweat-damp skin, Tholme swatted weakly at his hands.

“I can undress myself,” he muttered, voice rough.

Drallig arched a brow. “Can you? Because at the rate you’re moving, we’ll both be old men before you manage it.”

Tholme shot him a weak glare but gave up arguing, letting his head tip forward as Drallig helped strip off the rank-smelling tunic. The stench of nicotine and vomit was overpowering, and as soon as the fabric was pulled away, Tholme gagged again, gripping the sink as his body lurched.

Drallig grabbed him by the shoulders, steadying him before he could collapse. “Breathe.”

“Trying,” Tholme rasped, swallowing hard.

Drallig huffed, stepping away just long enough to start the shower. The fresher was small and dimly lit, steam already curling around them as hot water pounded against the durasteel floor.

Tholme, however, hadn’t moved. He stood, hollow-eyed, staring at the drain like it held the answers to every problem he couldn’t solve.

Drallig nudged him. “Get in.”

Nothing.

He sighed, tilting his head. “C’mon, Tholme. You smell worse than a Hut, and frankly, I’m offended.”

Still, nothing.

Drallig’s usual sarcastic amusement faded. He watched in silence, taking in the way Tholme’s shoulders curled inward, the way his fingers dug into the sink like he might disappear into it. The shower kept running, steam curling around them, but Tholme hadn’t moved an inch.

“…Tholme?”

Tholme exhaled shakily, his voice barely above a whisper. “I fucked up. You shouldn’t be kind to me when it’s my fault.”

Drallig’s stomach twisted. He reached for the cup sitting on the counter, filled it with fresh water, and pressed it into Tholme’s hands.

“Here,” he said, softer than before. “Rinse, then shower.”

Tholme obeyed, mechanically swishing the water in his mouth before spitting it down the drain. He did it again. And again, the sour taste not once dissipating. And when he set the cup down, his hands lingered on the counter, fingers curling slightly.

“I shouldn’t have pushed him,” Tholme muttered, almost to himself. His voice was hoarse, small—barely more than a whisper.

Drallig froze. His grip on the water flask tightened slightly, his nails pressing into the metal hard enough that, for a second, Tholme thought he might crush it.

Then he let out a slow, controlled breath. “You shouldn’t have—? Tholme, are you hearing yourself right now?”

Tholme blinked, sluggishly turning his head toward him.

“You didn’t push him. He dragged you outside and made you poison yourself.” His voice was too even, the kind of forced calm that barely hid the fury simmering underneath. “That’s not you pushing him, that’s him being a fucking bastard.”

Tholme swallowed, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

“This isn’t all on you,” Drallig told him. “You’re an adult, you can make your own choices.”

Tholme let out a quiet, humourless laugh. “But there’s always a choice. I seem to always make the wrong one.”

A beat of silence stretched between them, the hum of the shower filling the space. Drallig didn’t push, didn’t say anything else—just reached out, giving Tholme’s arm a firm squeeze before stepping back.

“Get in,” he said simply.

Tholme reluctantly nodded, peeling off the rest of his clothes until he was bare, before stepping under the hot spray. As the water washed over him, his body sagged to the floor, the weight of exhaustion settling in.

Drallig sat on the counter, arms crossed, keeping an eye on him—just in case.

Because for all his defiance, for all his recklessness, Tholme looked small right now. Tired. Worn down in a way that made Drallig’s stomach churn.

And if Torwyn thought this was discipline, then Drallig had half a mind to break the bastard’s nose.

Chapter Text

The lower level training hall was a modest space, outfitted with the essentials—sparring mats, dummies for lightsaber drills, and a quiet corner reserved for meditation. It was the only place where Tholme could work out his frustrations without anyone breathing down his neck. Or so he thought.

It had been a week since the cigarette incident, and Tholme was running out of places to exist.

The training hall was neutral territory. No sharp glances, no pitying looks, no questions. Just movement, repetition, focus.

Except focus was the last thing he had.

He tried meditation—but lasted about five minutes before his thoughts turned to the echo of Torwyn’s voice and the sharp taste of smoke in his throat. He tried reading, but the words blurred together, his mind unable to sit still long enough to make sense of them.

So, he came here, because hitting something was easier than thinking.

Finally, the bruising coughs had faded, the nausea had dulled, but the weight in his chest remained. A thick, suffocating feeling that sat between his ribs, pressing in from all angles, and something in him felt different. Dark. Devoid of colour.

So, he did the only other thing he could do—he trained.

Hard.

He threw himself into sparring, his lightsaber a blur of green—each strike sharper, harder, but carried a weight of something unspoken—something he couldn’t quite name.

And yet, despite his efforts, it didn’t make the feeling go away.

Didn’t make the words disappear.

You’re weak.

He clenched his jaw, spinning on his heel and delivering a sharp, calculated strike that sent the last training dummy crashing to the mat.

The hum of his saber filled the silence.

Until—

“Impressive,” a familiar voice cut through the air.

Tholme froze mid-swing, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. He turned sharply, his heart giving an unsteady jolt as T’ra—Master Saa, he reminded himself again, though the title never quite fit in his head—stood at the entrance of the training hall.

She was watching him with that maddening calm, arms folded, her lips curved just slightly.

“Master Saa,” he said quickly, shutting off his saber and stepping back, suddenly aware of how much he was perspiring—how bad he probably smelled. Maybe it was all in his head, but right now, all he could smell sweat. But the moment he showered, that awful, sickening stench of the cigarettes would return, as though it had seeped into his skin.

Taking her name as the invitation, T’ra stepped inside, hands clasped lightly in front of her as she fiddled with her fingers. “I thought I’d find some quiet,” she said, her tone teasingly dry. “But it seems you’ve already claimed this space. That seems to be a pattern for us.”

“I can leave if—”

“No, don’t,” she insisted, a flicker of self-consciousness gleaming in her eyes. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Tholme hesitated, shifting his weight. He didn’t quite know what to do with himself, so he adjusted the hilt of his saber, avoiding her gaze. “I was just practicing.”

T’ra’s head tilted slightly. “Looked more like you were venting.”

“Perhaps a little,” he admitted, exhaling sharply.

T’ra stepped closer, the scent of something faintly floral lingering around her—lilies, like always. “Frustration can be a powerful motivator,” she said. “But it can also cloud your focus if you let it.”

Tholme rolled his shoulders, trying not to bristle. He wasn’t a child. He knew how to manage himself. …Most of the time. “I just needed to clear my head, that’s all. It’s nothing.”

“Mm.” She glanced at the training dummy. “May I?”

Tholme stepped aside, curious despite himself. He had never actually seen her train. He’d heard about it, of course. The stories about her skill, her control. But she was a Master, and Masters didn’t usually waste time showing off for Padawans.

But still she pulled off her outer cloak and draped it over the nearest bench, and Force help him, he wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but it wasn’t this.

She moved like the Force itself.

Tholme should have looked away, should have focused on his own training, but something about the way she fought held him there. Effortless, fluid. As if she had never once struggled with the things that left him drowning.

He couldn’t stop his fingers curling around his saber hilt, a sudden, sharp frustration coiling under his ribs. He wanted to say something, anything, but what? That it wasn’t fair? That she made it look too easy?

Instead, he just watched as she deactivated her saber and turned back to him, completely composed, not even slightly out of breath.

“The Force flows more freely when you’re calm,” she said, as if that explained everything. “Anger and frustration have their place, but they can’t guide you.”

Tholme snorted bitterly before he could stop himself. “It’s that easy, huh?”

T’ra’s smile faltered. “I never said it was easy.”

 “You make it look like it is.” Tholme exhaled, dragging a hand down his face, his annoyance finally dispersing.

Her smile grew again, but there was something thoughtful behind it, something introspective. “It wasn’t always. It took time, perhaps I was, well, nineteen in your human years, so really, I am quite inexperienced,” she joked, clipping her saber back onto her belt. “But it took practice. Much like everything else.”

“So, I should have mastered it within the next one hundred and fifty years,” he joked weakly.

Sensing the unusual strain in his voice, T’ra tilted her head slightly, studying him with quiet scrutiny. “Forgive me for my curiosity, but I haven’t seen you all week.”

Tholme let out a short, humourless chuckle, running a hand through his hair. “That’s because the only place I’ve been is in bed and the inside of the refresher.”

Her brow furrowed, concern flickering across her face—there, then gone, like a ripple in still water. “Are you unwell?”

There was something gentle in the way she asked—no accusation, no demand, just a simple question.

It made something tighten in his chest, which in turn caused him to hesitate for a second too long.

He could have brushed it off, he could have made some sarcastic remark about stress, or training too hard, or just getting tired of people. But none of that would have been true.

And she would have known it.

So instead, he made a low noise, shifting his weight as he focused his attention onto a small, dented panel on the wall. “Not sick,” he admitted eventually. “Just… not great.”

T’ra’s gaze sharpened, the quiet understanding in her eyes giving way to something more pointed. More concerned.

“Not great,” she repeated. “That’s not exactly reassuring, Tholme.”

He shifted, suddenly wishing he had chosen a more convincing excuse. He was tired—tired of being scrutinised, tired of feeling like every conversation had become a careful balancing act between what he wanted to say and what he should say.

But her expression didn’t change. She simply studied him, waiting. And waiting. And waiting.

The silence stretched long enough that it became unbearable.

Tholme rolled his shoulders, his voice turning flippant. “I promise, it’s nothing serious. Just a little introspective self-destruction. You know how it is.”

T’ra’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Tholme.”

The way she said his name—it wasn’t just concern. It was insistence.

He swallowed, the weight of the question settling in his chest.

Because he didn’t want to say it.

Because part of him—some bitter, angry part—knew she would look at him differently.

Because deep down, he wasn’t sure he could take it if she did.

So he just sighed, long and slow, pressing his fingers against his temple as if he could push away the pounding ache forming behind his eyes.

Finally, he let his hand drop and looked at her, something tired and resigned in his gaze. “I don’t need your wisdom, or anything else, alright? My bad choices just finally caught up with me, T’ra. That’s all.”

T’ra studied him for a moment, not speaking. Then, quietly, “Which ones?”

Tholme scoffed, shaking his head. “Wow, really. Take your pick.” He gestured vaguely, his annoyance growing all over again. “Cigarettes, late nights, alcohol, bad company. I’ve got a few, you know.”

Her expression didn’t waver. “It was Torwyn.”

Tholme tensed at the name, despite himself. He wanted to deny it, to deflect, but the truth had already settled in the air between them. Heavy. Unshakable.

T’ra’s voice was careful, measured. “What did he do?”

Tholme let out a sharp, humourless laugh. “What hasn’t he done?”

“Tholme.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, looking at the ceiling like this was all some grand inconvenience. “It’s nothing, T’ra. Just—” He gestured vaguely. “A shitty lesson. He wanted to make a point.”

Her expression didn’t change. Didn’t waver. Didn’t even blink.

The silence stretched, and stretched, until his chest ached under it.

And that’s when he realised—she wasn’t going to let it go.

At that, Tholme clenched his jaw, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. He had spent the past week trying to push it down, to convince himself it didn’t matter. But here she was, standing in front of him, asking him to lay it bare.

And for some reason—maybe because it was her, maybe because he was too exhausted to keep holding it in—he found himself telling her, and with every word, part of him expected to see her draw back. To look at him like a child. To tell him his disgusted her and he was a waste to the Order and the Force.

But instead, T’ra’s gaze darkened, her hands curling slightly at her sides. Not in shock. Not in disbelief.

In fury.

“That’s not discipline,” she said, her voice low and controlled. “That’s cruelty.”

Tholme let out a bitter breath, tilting his head back against the wall. “Yeah, well. I learned my lesson, so…”

T’ra’s fingers twitched like she wanted to reach for him but stopped herself. Instead, she chewed the inside of her cheek. “You didn’t deserve that. You’re an adult. He has no right to dictate what you do.”

He let out a dry chuckle, closing his eyes. “That’s up for debate.”

T’ra inhaled sharply, and when he opened his eyes again, her expression was unreadable.

Then, after a long moment, she said, “Come with me.”

Tholme blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“You shouldn’t be cooped up in a gym, especially not one that smells of old socks and Master Mundi’s boot cupboard.” T’ra lifted her chin, unwavering. “You need some air.”

He let out a slow exhale, shaking his head. “I just told you what happened the last time I got air.”

“Yes, well, this time will be different,” she said simply. “I promise.”

There was no room for argument in her tone. And, against all reason, he found himself following her—mostly because he had nothing to lose.

As Tholme trailed slowly behind T’ra, his curiosity piqued despite himself. The quiet corridors of the safe house felt different at this hour—less formal, less suffocating. He didn’t know where she was leading him, but there was something about her steady pace, the way she didn’t look back, that made him trust her more than he probably should have.

Then, they reached her quarters, and for a brief second, Tholme hesitated at the threshold. Stepping into another Jedi’s personal space wasn’t something he did lightly, but T’ra didn’t even pause. She keyed the door open and gestured him inside with a casual flick of her wrist, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Inside, her quarters were exactly what he expected—minimalist, neat, but with small, unexpected touches. A plant perched on the windowsill. A small, worn datapad on the table, probably filled with texts far too advanced for his interest. But it was the balcony that drew his attention.

She crossed the room in a few strides and slid open the door, stepping out into the cool air. The balcony was small, but the view was impressive—overlooking the city. It felt worlds away from the suffocating weight of the training rooms.

Tholme followed her out, leaning against the railing, letting the night breeze wash over him. For the first time in days, he felt like he could breathe. As though he was free.

T’ra glanced at him, her gaze sharp but not unkind. “Have you eaten?”

Tholme snorted softly, shaking his head. “I’m not hungry.”

She hummed thoughtfully, disappearing back inside for a moment. When she returned, she held out a small, crinkled bag with a faintly amused expression. “They’re cheesy and fried, but they’re good.”

Tholme blinked at the offering, caught completely off guard. “You’re joking, right?”

Her lips twitched into something dangerously close to a smile. “Do I look like I’m joking?”

He eyed the bag, then her, then back to the bag. “This is your solution to my existential crisis? Artificial cheese?”

T’ra shrugged, unbothered. “You’d be surprised how effective they are.”

Against his better judgment, Tholme took the bag, tearing it open with a resigned sigh. He popped one into his mouth, grimacing at the taste but finding, to his annoyance, that it wasn’t entirely awful. So much so, one became two, two before four, and four became at least a quarter of the bag.

And as he ate, he leaned against the railing, chewing thoughtfully, the sharp, artificial tang of the snack lingering on his tongue. The silence stretched between them—not uncomfortable, but not entirely easy either. The soft hum of Brentaal IV’s cityscape buzzed in the distance, a stark contrast to the quiet tension hanging in the air.

T’ra glanced sideways at him, her arms crossed loosely over her chest. “You know,” she said, “for someone who claims to have no appetite, you’re making quick work of them.”

Tholme snorted, popping another cheesy snack into his mouth with exaggerated defiance. “I’m just trying to be polite,” he deadpanned, but the faint curve of his lips betrayed him. He wasn’t going to admit how long it had been since he last ate—but the way he kept reaching into the bag, the way his stomach twisted with something almost like relief, said enough.

T’ra hummed, a small, knowing sound. “You’ve been hiding.”

It wasn’t a question. When was it ever?

Tholme stiffened slightly, his hand pausing halfway to the bag. He stared out at the flickering lights of the city, his jaw tightening before he finally spoke. “Not hiding,” he muttered. “Just… avoiding.”

T’ra didn’t press, didn’t fill the space with unnecessary words. She just waited, patient and steady, as if giving him the room to figure out whether he wanted to say more.

And just like that, he did.

“I’m tired, T’ra.” His voice was quieter now, rough around the edges. “Tired of trying to prove something to someone who’s already decided I’m a failure. I’m tired of training. Tired of this life. I…I don’t know what to do.”

Her gaze softened, but she didn’t offer him empty reassurances. That wasn’t her way.

“Stop trying to prove you’re yourself to him,” she said simply. “Prove it to yourself.”

Tholme let out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “That sounds like something a wise Jedi would say.”

She arched a brow, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “And you’re surprised? Am I not a wise Jedi?”

He chuckled despite himself, the tension in his chest easing just a fraction. The air was cool against his skin, grounding him in a way he hadn’t realised he needed.  

He tossed another snack into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully before shooting T’ra a sidelong glance. “So,” he said, his tone light but laced with curiosity, “This really is your vice, then? Artificial flavourings and cheesy dust?”

T’ra arched a brow, her lips curling into an amused smile. “Yes,” she said without hesitation. “I may have a little bit of a weakness for them. Don’t tell anyone.”

“Acknowledgement is key, I hear,” he jested.

With a laugh, she leaned casually against the railing, her gaze flicking out over the city lights. “Worse still, I usually travel with several bags and throw out an essential or two to fit them in,” she added, “You never know when they’ll come in handy.”

Tholme snorted, shaking his head in disbelief. “You’re telling me the great Master T’ra Saa, model Jedi Knight, is secretly a snack smuggler?”

She glanced at him, the faintest hint of a smirk playing at the corners of her mouth. “I prefer to think of it as being prepared.”

Tholme was mid-laugh, the cheesy snack halfway to his mouth, when something caught his eye in the courtyard below. The humour drained from his face in an instant, his body tensing as his gaze locked onto a familiar figure.

Torwyn.

Tholme didn’t even think. His stomach clenched, his pulse jumped, and before his mind could catch up, he was already moving—back flattening against the wall, breath held tight in his throat.

His pulse roared in his ears. The city blurred, the balcony vanished—there was only the man below

And for one, horrible second, he was sure Torwyn had looked up. But Torwyn just kept walking. Like Tholme wasn’t even there.

T’ra noticed immediately.

Her brow furrowed, the playful light in her eyes dimming as she stepped closer to the railing, her gaze following Tholme’s line of sight. She didn’t duck. She didn’t need to. Instead, she observed Torwyn for a brief moment before shifting her attention back to Tholme, her expression unreadable.

“Tholme,” she said quietly, her voice low but steady. “He can’t sense you from here.”

Tholme exhaled sharply through his nose, but he didn’t move from his spot against the wall. “I’m not taking any chances,” he muttered, his tone dry but lacking its usual edge of sarcasm.

T’ra studied him, the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenched tight enough to ache. She didn’t push, didn’t press him with questions. But the weight of her gaze said enough.

After a long moment, she finally spoke, her voice softer now. “You don’t have to hide from him.”

Tholme let out a bitter huff, eyes fixed on the floor. “Force, I wish that were fucking true. I’ve been summoned to his offices and I just…I don’t want to go.”

T’ra didn’t hesitate. She reached out, her hand resting gently on Tholme’s forearm, grounding him with the simple, steady weight of her touch. It wasn’t forceful, wasn’t demanding—but it was there. Solid. Real.

Tholme flinched, just slightly, as if the contact startled him more than the sight of Torwyn had. His eyes flicked to where her fingers curled lightly against his sleeve, the warmth of her hand bleeding through the thin fabric.

“You don’t have to hide,” she repeated, her voice softer now, but with an undeniable strength beneath it. “I’m here.”

Tholme swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. For a moment, he didn’t say anything, didn’t move. The tension coiled so tightly inside him felt like it might snap.

But her hand didn’t waver.

He let out a slow breath, feeling the knot in his chest loosen just enough to pull himself off the wall. He didn’t straighten fully, didn’t move away from her touch, but the act of shifting—even slightly—felt like a small rebellion.

“He always wins,” Tholme murmured. “It doesn’t matter what I do.”

T’ra’s gaze didn’t soften with pity. She wasn’t looking at him like he was broken or weak. She simply met his eyes, unwavering and steady, her fingers giving the faintest squeeze against his arm.

“Then it’s time you stop playing his game,” she said quietly. “You matter Tholme. Don’t ever forget that.”

T’ra’s hand lingered for a moment longer before she spoke, her tone even but threaded with something that felt almost… protective.

“Do you want me to come with you?”

Tholme’s gaze flicked to hers, searching her face for something—he wasn’t even sure what. But what he found there wasn’t pity. It wasn’t even concern in the way he’d grown used to from others. It was just T’ra. Steady. Unshaken.

And maybe that’s why he managed a small, tight smile.

“No,” he said, his voice firmer than he expected. “I’ll go myself.”

There was a brief pause, her eyes studying him, as if gauging whether to push further. But she didn’t. T’ra knew when to give space, when to trust someone to take their own steps forward.

She nodded slowly, letting her hand drop from his arm. “Alright.”

Tholme exhaled, the absence of her touch leaving behind something colder than the night air. But still—he straightened. And for the first time in days, the weight in his chest didn’t press quite so hard.

**

The operations room hummed with low conversations and the quiet buzz of holoprojectors displaying tactical maps and intelligence reports. The dim lighting cast long shadows against the walls, the tension in the room as thick as the smoke that had once filled Tholme’s lungs.

He stepped inside, his posture steady, though every muscle in his body braced for impact, prepared to fight or run at a second’s notice. The air felt heavier, denser, as if the very space warped under the weight of unseen pressure.

Torwyn was here. Watching. Waiting.

It had been a week since their last encounter—a week since Torwyn forced him to stand in the courtyard and smoke until his vision blurred and his knees buckled. A week since the taste of ash had lingered in his mouth long after the nausea had passed.

Torwyn hadn’t seen him since. But Tholme felt the moment he did.

It wasn’t just a look. It was a presence—heavy and deliberate, wrapping around Tholme like a cold iron chain.

Tholme felt the weight of his Master’s gaze almost immediately, sharp and assessing from across the room. Torwyn’s arms were crossed over his chest, his expression cool and unreadable, but there was a familiar glint in his eye—the kind that made Tholme’s jaw clench.

It was nothing short of predatory. 

“Well,” Torwyn drawled, his voice cutting through the room, loud enough for those nearby to hear. “Look who finally decided to rejoin the living at last.”

A few heads turned, though most quickly looked away again, unwilling to be caught in the crossfire of whatever this was about to become.

But Tholme didn’t flinch. He couldn’t give Torwyn the satisfaction.

Instead, he approached with the slow, deliberate steps of someone who already knew they were walking into a trap. He could already feel the tension in his jaw, the weight pressing against the back of his skull. “I wasn’t aware my absence was such a burden.”

Torwyn let out a quiet, humourless chuckle, pushing off the table he’d been leaning against. “Burden?” He shook his head slowly, as if the very idea amused him. “You’re not important enough to be a burden, Tholme.”

The words slid under Tholme’s skin like barbed wire, but he kept his face impassive, his hands relaxed at his sides.

“I see your charming disposition hasn’t improved in my absence,” Tholme replied coolly.

Torwyn’s eyes narrowed, the faintest flicker of annoyance crossing his features. “Careful, Padawan. You’re still walking a very thin line.”

Tholme’s jaw tightened at the word Padawan—a deliberate slight, a reminder of the control Torwyn still wielded over him, no matter how close he was to Knighthood.

Tholme exhaled quietly through his nose, forcing his shoulders to stay relaxed as he moved toward the pile of datapads stacked neatly on the operations table. The flickering blue glow of the holoprojectors reflected off the smooth surfaces, casting an eerie light across the room. He picked up the first datapad, his fingers steady despite the simmering irritation coiling in his chest.

Focus. Just focus.

He began reviewing the intelligence reports—supply routes, intercepted communications, the usual—but the sound of Torwyn’s boots clicking against the floor drew closer, each step deliberate, measured. Tholme didn’t look up. He didn’t need to. He could feel his Master’s presence looming behind him, oppressive as ever.

“You missed a cross-reference,” Torwyn’s voice murmured, low and condescending, just above his ear. The older man leaned over him, one finger tapping the screen with unnecessary force. “This sector. Still sloppy.”

Tholme’s jaw clenched so tightly he thought his teeth might crack. He adjusted the data input without a word, his movements sharp and precise, though it felt more like a battle of wills than a simple correction.

Torwyn didn’t back off.

Instead, he hovered, his breath a faint, irritating presence at the edge of Tholme’s awareness, reeking of caf. “And here,” he added, tapping another section. “You’re missing an entire fleet movement. Honestly, Tholme, you’d think after all this time, you’d have learned some attention to detail.”

Tholme’s grip tightened on the datapad, his knuckles whitening. Don’t react. Don’t give him the satisfaction.

But Torwyn wasn’t finished.

He shifted, stepping in just slightly closer—enough that Tholme felt the brush of fabric against his sleeve, the invasive press of presence just at his side.

His voice dipped, smooth and barbed, laced with faux curiosity. “Tell me, do you have any big plans for the evening? Another night sulking in your bunk, perhaps?”

The words landed like a slap, but Tholme didn’t flinch. He simply placed the datapad down with controlled precision, turning his head just enough to meet Torwyn’s gaze.

His voice was quiet, dangerously even. “I hadn’t decided yet, Master. But thank you for your concern.”

Torwyn's faint smile twisted into something sharper, more vindictive. Without warning, he snatched the datapad from Tholme’s hands, the sudden movement earning a few glances from nearby Jedi, though none dared intervene. He flipped through the report with exaggerated scrutiny, as if searching for more mistakes to exploit.

The room felt suffocatingly silent, every flick of Torwyn’s finger against the datapad loud in Tholme’s ears.

Then, just as Tholme thought the older man might finally walk away, Torwyn’s nose wrinkled ever so slightly, and he leaned in again, his voice low but biting.

“And what is that smell?” he sneered, his eyes narrowing in mock disgust. “Is that… cheese I detect?” He arched a brow, his tone dripping with disdain. “Force help me, Tholme. You’ve gone from smelling like a smokehouse to reeking of processed foods. What’s next?”

A flicker of fury flared in Tholme’s chest, unbidden and unwelcome. He clenched his jaw tighter, refusing to give Torwyn the satisfaction of seeing him squirm. But the heat creeping up his neck betrayed him, even if just a little.

Torwyn chuckled softly, shaking his head. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. You’ve always lacked discipline—whether it’s your vices, your habits, or your work.” He tossed the datapad back onto the table with a sharp clack, the sound echoing like a gavel in the quiet room.

Tholme didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But the muscles in his jaw ached from how tightly he was holding himself together.

And then, as if this were nothing, as if Tholme were nothing—

Torwyn reached out, adjusting his green collar with lazy precision, a condescending little tug like he was fixing something broken.

"Do try to stay present, Tholme," he murmured, voice mockingly polite. "Even your silence is sloppy."

Then, without another word, Torwyn straightened and brushed past him, his presence leaving the room colder than before. Like the moment had never even mattered to him at all.

Tholme stood there for a long moment, staring at the datapad on the table, the ghost of Torwyn’s words lingering.

But this time… this time, it didn’t feel like suffocation.

It felt like fuel. And Force help him—he wanted to see what would burn to the ground.

*

The sleeping quarters were dim, save for the soft glow of the city filtering through the window slats.

Drallig sat on his bed, stretching out his legs and rolling his shoulders as he unfastened his boots. “I’m just saying, you could do with a distraction.”

Tholme, standing near the refresher, pulled off his tunic and tossed it over the back of a chair. “I don’t need a distraction.”

Drallig scoffed. “You absolutely need a distraction. And lucky for you, I happen to know of a very friendly Twi’lek in the district who—”

“No.” Tholme cut him off flatly, grabbing a fresh tunic from the footlocker and pulling it over his head.

Drallig sighed dramatically, flopping back onto his bed. “See, this is the problem with you. You’re brooding, restless, and frustratingly loyal to a woman who’s about as attainable as a seat on the Council.” He propped himself up on his elbows, smirking. “You need a good night out, Tholme. One wild, irresponsibly bad decision to get this whole Master Saa and Towyn thing out of your system. All you really need is a good fu—”

“I said no.” Tholme sat down on the edge of his bunk, shaking his head.

Drallig groaned, sitting up and spreading his arms wide as if presenting the most obvious solution in the galaxy. “Alright, then explain it to me—what’s the worst that could happen? Other than what happened with Mavra, obviously.”

Tholme shot him a look. “You mean, aside from the part where I get caught sneaking out? Or the part where my Master finds out I’ve been drinking instead of meditating like a good little Padawan?” He leaned back against the wall, folding his arms. “Or maybe you mean the part in the morning where I wake up regretting everything because it wasn’t really what I wanted in the first place.”

Drallig narrowed his eyes, smirking. “Please—what regrets?”

Tholme opened his mouth, ready to fire back with some sharp retort, but hesitated. He frowned slightly, eyes flickering to the side as if searching for an answer.

Drallig caught the pause instantly. “Ah-ha,” he said, pointing at him. “That hesitation? That means no. Which means my Twi’lek plan still holds merit.”

Tholme rolled his eyes, exhaling heavily. “That hesitation means I was debating whether or not to hit you.”

With that, Tholme reached into the footlocker, pulling out his holo-novel and flipping it on. The soft blue light reflected against his face as he adjusted the screen brightness.

Drallig squinted at the novel in disbelief. “Oh, for kriff’s sake.”

“What?”

“You’re actually going to read?” Drallig asked. “Now?”

“Yes, now,” he repeated, shooting him a look as if to say, ‘what is your point?’.

Drallig groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Unbelievable. A romance novel, of all things?”

Tholme smirked without looking up. “I prefer literary masterpiece.”

Drallig only snorted. “Tell me it’s not A Jedi’s Belt again.”

Tholme turned a page, trying not to portray his amusement. “Maybe.”

Drallig let out yet another groan of defeat, rubbing his temples. “Tholme, I swear, you are single-handedly ruining the image of Shadows everywhere. You sneak into high-security buildings, outmanoeuvre bounty hunters, people literally write novels about you—and here you are reading them.”

Tholme shrugged. “It’s research. Think about it, halfway through they kriff in the council chambers, maybe I’m wondering if I can sneak your Twi’lek friend in there.”

“Oh, please,” Drallig shot back. “That’s a lie.”

Tholme laughed but didn’t argue.

Still, Drallig groaned dramatically, flopping onto his back like the weight of Tholme’s existence was simply too much to bear. “You’re actually hopeless.”

Tholme didn’t look up from his holo-novel. “So you keep saying.”

“I mean it this time,” Drallig pressed, gesturing wildly. “Look at you, you’re curled up in bed reading A Jedi’s Belt for the ninth time.”

Tholme turned a page with deliberate calm. “Tenth, actually.”

“Even worse,” Drallig sung. "You know, most people deal with an existential crisis by getting laid. Not by reading about fictional people doing it."

He turned another page, unimpressed. “Yeah, well, I tried the first option. Didn’t really go as planned.”

"So, let me get this straight. You took off, engines primed, everything looking good… and then halfway through hyperspace, you just cut the power?"

Tholme let out a slow breath through his nose, dragging a hand down his face. “Yeah, well, better that than slamming straight into a star.”

“Oh no, you didn’t slam into anything.”  Drallig snorted, shaking his head. “See. That right there. That is the saddest thing I’ve ever said.”

Tholme finally set the holo down, giving Drallig an unimpressed look. “You’re acting like I don’t have options.”

Drallig scoffed. “Oh, you’ve got options. You’ve just decided now is a good time to ignore all of them.”

Tholme grabbed his pillow and chucked it across the room. Drallig caught it easily, tossing it back without missing a beat.

“Maybe I’m tired of it,” Tholme continued. “One reckless night, a few drinks, a stranger I’ll never see again: Think about it, how many times have we done that?”

 “Enough times that you should be better at it by now.”

Tholme rolled his eyes. “That’s exactly my point. I’m fed up with a half-empty bottle and a name I won’t remember in the morning. It isn’t what I want anymore.”

Drallig blinked, clearly unsure whether to be amused or concerned. “Alright… but why are you saying it like that? Like affection is supposed to mean something to people like us?”

Tholme didn’t answer right away, just stared at the ceiling as if the right words were hidden somewhere between the cracks. “Yeah, well, maybe it is. Maybe the Jedi don’t have all the answers after all.”

Drallig let out an awkward chuckle, rubbing his face. "Right. Sure. Yeah. Let’s just question the entire foundation of our lives before bed, why not?" His voice was light, but his expression flickered—just for a second. “What’s next? Do you want breakfast with them too?”

Tholme smirked. “Maybe I’ll learn the art of romance and leave her at the door instead, then I can ask for a second date.”

“Now you’re just scaring me.”

Neither of them said anything else after that. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable, but it wasn’t easy either. Drallig, usually quick to make a joke, just rolled onto his side and pulled the blanket over his head.

And Tholme? He stared up at the ceiling, knowing sleep wouldn’t come easily.

Chapter Text

The water was perfect—scalding hot, steam curling against the tile, swallowing the mirror whole.

It was Tholme who stood beneath the spray, letting it beat against his shoulders, washing away the ache in his muscles.

For the first time in days, the weight on his chest eased—just a little.

Then—the betrayal struck.

His fingers reached instinctively, expecting to feel the familiar shampoo bottle.

Nothing.

His brow furrowed. He turned, eyes scanning the shelf.

Nothing.

He checked the ledge. Then the floor. Then twisted fully, yanking back the thin curtain like the culprit might be lurking behind it.

Still nothing.

His shampoo was gone.

Not just any shampoo. His shampoo. The one superficial indulgence he allowed himself, the only thing he spent actual credits on, shipped in from halfway across the galaxy because, as vain as it was, the Jedi-provided cleanser did nothing for his hair.

Tholme froze, water still beating down against his shoulders, steam still curling thick around his body. That didn’t make sense. He had just gotten a new shipment. Special order. Direct delivery. Still sealed when he tucked it away on the shelf two days ago.

And now—gone.

His fingers twitched at his side. His gaze flicked around the refresher again, slower this time, searching for something—anything—that would make this make sense.

Because things didn’t just disappear. Not unless someone wanted them to.

As he looked around one last time, a sharp knock shattered the silence, cutting through the steam like a gunshot.

Tholme startled, his pulse spiking, fingers tightening against the slick tiles before he caught himself. His breath came shallow, too fast—too on edge for something so simple.

Just a knock. Just—

“Tholme,” Drallig’s voice drawled from the other side, entirely unconcerned. “What the kriff are you doing in there?”

Tholme closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, then exhaled through his nose. “I’m contemplating murder,” he called back, voice flat.

There was a short pause, and then—Drallig laughed. A short, sharp bark of amusement, rough around the edges, like he wasn’t even trying to hold it back.

"Force, Tholme, if you’re that desperate, maybe just take Mavra up on her offer and save the water."

Tholme’s grip tightened around the edge of the shower shelf.

He could feel the migraine forming. The headache, the exhaustion, the sheer fucking inevitability of Cin Drallig running his mouth at every possible opportunity.

But, with a sigh that gave the impression he had all the patience in the universe, he shook the water from hair. “Relax, Drallig. There’s room for two in here if you’re offering to put me out of my misery. Unless you’re scared?”

"Tholme," he crooned, voice edged with growing impatience. "As fun as the verbal sparring is, I have to pee, and unless you want me to use one of your half empty fizz bottles, you’re going to have to let me come in."

Tholme exhaled slowly through his nose, tilting his head back under the steaming water. For the love of the Force.

There wasn’t a moment’s peace in this damn place.

Without opening his eyes, he dragged a hand down his face. “You sure you don’t just want to crawl in here with me, Drallig? Save yourself the trip? You can kill two tookas with one stone.”

There was a beat of silence. A pause that felt almost calculated.

Then—Drallig’s smirk practically dripped through the door. “Aw, don’t tempt me.”

Tholme groaned, reaching blindly for the soap just so he had something to throw if Drallig actually tried it. “Use the communal refresher down the hall.”

“Absolutely not. You know how many people use that thing? I’d rather piss out the window.”

"This is the exact reason why people think we’re weird. You realise that, right?" He ran his hands through his wet hair, then snapped his head back to the door. "...Wait. Did you just say you’d rather piss out the window?"

Drallig snorted, unfazed. “Look, people think we’re weird because we are weird, Tholme. Now let me in.”

Before Tholme could object, the door slid open.

Steam rolled over Drallig as he stepped inside, the heat clinging to his clothes as his face twisted into a look of pure despair. "Are you bathing or trying to terraform the damn place?" he mumbled.

Tholme pinched the bridge of his nose, standing under the showerhead, decidedly naked and thoroughly unimpressed. “Drallig, I swear—”

With the level of casual arrogance that made Tholme want to throw a soap bottle at his head, Drallig lifted the toilet seat, utterly unrepentant. “Relax, it’s nothing neither of us haven’t seen before.”

Drallig didn’t look at him when he said it, just went about his business like this was any other morning, like barging into Tholme’s space while he was still in the shower was completely normal behaviour.

And Tholme, still standing under the pounding water, was watching him with something between irritation and resignation, arms braced against the tile as droplets trailed down his back.

He sighed, tilting his head toward the ceiling. “Drallig.”

“Tholme.”

“Did you take my shampoo?”

Drallig froze for half a second, then scoffed, not even looking up. “What?”

Tholme narrowed his eyes, and that was when he felt it—the shift.

The confusion seeped into the Force, subtle but undeniable. It wasn’t feigned. It wasn’t the teasing, smug, shit-eating amusement Drallig usually carried when caught in a lie. This was genuine.

Drallig wasn’t messing with him.

“My shampoo,” Tholme repeated, although there wasn’t much of a point. “The one I have imported because the Jedi standard issue turns my hair into a brittle nightmare. You know the one.”

Drallig scoffed, moving over to the sink to wash his hands. “Why would I touch your fancy, overpriced, allegedly life-changing shampoo?”

A prickle of unease settled under Tholme’s skin. Another thing vanishing. Another thing out of place. Last week, it was his datapad mysteriously shifting from his desk to the floor. The week before, it was the holoprojector in his quarters flickering to life in the middle of the night, despite being powered down.

Small things. Insignificant things. Things he could explain away if he really tried.

But now—his shampoo?

The prickle of unease sharpened into something heavier, something colder.

Because who the kriff would steal that?

“You probably just used the last of it,” Drallig dismissed, already turning for the door. Then, as if physically incapable of leaving without being insufferable, he flicked water off his fingers—directly at Tholme’s face.

Tholme scowled, but before he could snap back, Drallig smirked. “Or maybe it was Eeth.”

Tholme blinked. “Eeth showers once a year—at best. And that isn’t going to change until his hormones tell him it’s time to attract a mate.”

Drallig shrugged. “Yeah, but maybe he just wishes he had your precious hair. You ever think about that?”

As Drallig shut the door, a strange feeling prickled over Tholme’s skin. He hadn’t run out, he knew it—he had just gotten a new shipment in.

And now it was gone.

He reached for a towel, wrapping it around his mid-section as he stepped out from under the stream.

And tried his very best not to think about it.

**

Really, Tholme should have seen it coming, but for some reason he was still surprised when Torwyn grew more relentless in the days that followed their last encounter. His usual criticisms had sharpened into outright hostility, his words designed to wound in places no one else could see. He didn’t just demand more from Tholme, he demanded the impossible, pushing him to the edge of his limits and then sneering when he inevitably failed to meet them.

The training sessions had grown longer, the expectations higher, and the reprimands more public. It was a slow, methodical effort to wear him down, to carve away the last of his resistance and leave nothing behind but compliance in its wake. Tholme knew it, felt it in the way his body ached long past the point of exhaustion, in the way his mind buzzed with restless energy, teetering between rage and resignation.

And then, Torwyn decided to escalate things even further.

The announcement came suddenly, issued in a clipped, commanding tone that left no room for argument. A mandatory sparring session in the training quad, open for all to observe. No sabers. No Force enhancements. Just raw combat.

It wasn’t a lesson—it was a spectacle.

A public display, designed to humiliate and leave him bleeding in the name of education. Torwyn had done this before, choosing moments when he knew Tholme was at his weakest, ensuring the match would be nothing short of brutal. But this time, it felt different. There was something in Torwyn’s eyes when he made the challenge—something colder, more calculating.

By the time Tholme had stepped onto the mat, Jedi had already started gathering at the edges. Some pretended not to watch. Others were openly intrigued. But no one ever stepped in. Not against Torwyn.

No one dared.

Especially not when Torwyn started to circle like a predator, his stance loose, relaxed. He knew Tholme wouldn’t start this fight. That wasn’t his way.

Tholme had never hit his Master before. Not once.  Because part of him knew that if he did—if he let himself cross that line—he wouldn’t want to stop.

“Come now, Padawan,” Torwyn drawled, his voice carrying just enough for everyone to hear. “You look stiff.” A smirk tugged at his lips. “I was hoping for more of a challenge.”

Tholme ignored the bait, forcing his body to stay loose, his fists hovering in a neutral guard designed to defend, not to attack.

Torwyn chuckled before he shifted forward, feinting a jab—just a test, one that Tholme dodged with ease.

Then, Torwyn lowered his voice. A whisper. Just for him. “I wonder if Master Saa will be impressed when she sees you hit the fucking floor.”

Tholme's breath caught in his chest, his body reacting before his mind could stop it. His guard tightened—a fraction too soon, a fraction too obvious—and Torwyn saw.

Tholme knew he did the moment his Master grinned, throwing a sharp, surgical strike—straight to his kidney, precise as a vibroblade. It wasn’t meant to knock him down. It was meant to linger.

Then Torwyn leaned in, gripping the front of Tholme’s tunic just enough to yank him forward, their faces inches apart. His voice, quiet but razor-sharp, cut straight through the haze of pain.

“Tell me, Padawan. Do you listen to Master Saa because you respect her? Or because you’re waiting for the moment she stops seeing you as a lost cause and starts seeing you as something to touch?”

The words slithered under Tholme’s skin, cold and venomous, cutting deeper than any strike ever could. It hit something raw, something Torwyn had been prying at for years, waiting for the moment it would split open.

And in that moment, Tholme didn’t think. He didn’t hesitate.

His fist snapped forward—pure instinct, pure rage. The crack of bone on bone thundered through the quad. Torwyn's head snapped to the side, blood spraying across his lip, sharp and sudden, dripping down his chin like ink seeping into cloth.

No one moved. No one breathed. The only sound was Torwyn's sharp inhale as he wiped his bleeding lip with the back of his hand.

“There he is,” Torwyn murmured, voice thick with something that almost sounded like approval.

Tholme wasn’t thinking anymore. His knuckles throbbed, the impact still buzzing through his bones, but it wasn’t enough. He lunged again, his movements sharper, faster—driven by something far deeper than anger.

Torwyn barely managed to block the next strike, his form sloppier now, thrown off by the sheer force behind Tholme’s blows. He lashed out, driving a knee into Tholme’s gut, but the impact was weak—desperate. Tholme barely felt it. He staggered back for only a second before surging forward again, and this time, Torwyn wasn’t fast enough.

Tholme struck, his fist connecting hard with Torwyn’s ribs, forcing a sharp exhale from his Master as he stumbled.

The Jedi gathered around the quad didn’t move. Some averted their eyes, unwilling to witness what was happening, while others exchanged uneasy glances, murmuring amongst themselves. But no one—no one—stepped forward.

They were afraid.

Afraid of Torwyn. Afraid of what this fight had become. Afraid of what it meant if they acknowledged it.

And then, T’ra was there.

She didn’t shout, didn’t ignite her saber, didn’t use the Force to separate them. She didn’t need to. She simply stepped onto the mat, placing herself between them, and in that instant, the fight was over.

"Enough."

Not shouted. Not sharp. But the moment it left her lips, it stopped the world. A single, unwavering command—soft as steel, quiet as a blade sliding into its sheath.

Tholme’s breath came in ragged gasps, his chest rising and falling. His vision had tunnelled, narrowed to the single focus of Torwyn, the blood rushing so loudly in his ears that it drowned out everything else.

This was what Torwyn had always wanted. This moment. This loss of control. This breaking point.

But then T’ra was looking at him. Not with shock. Not with disappointment or pity. With understanding.

The weight of it made him falter, his breath catching in his throat. He swayed slightly where he stood, the adrenaline surging through him and refusing to settle. His hands wouldn’t unclench, the rage still pulsing beneath his skin, demanding an outlet.

T’ra took a step closer, slow and measured, careful not to startle him, not to push him further over the edge.

And then, softly, she said, “Look at me, Tholme.”

And it wasn’t an order. It was a request.

Something in the way she spoke, the steady certainty in her voice, broke through the haze clouding his mind. His eyes flicked to hers—deep, steady pools of beautiful green.

Torwyn let out a slow, measured breath, tilting his head, appraising. And then, lips curling, voice dripping with something just shy of satisfaction, he huffed out, “Pathetic.”

T’ra didn’t acknowledge him. She didn’t turn or react, as if Torwyn wasn’t worth the effort. She only looked at Tholme. Steady. Unwavering. Present.

Torwyn barely had time to savour his victory before Tholme’s breath evened just enough to spit out the only thing that came to mind, “Fuck you.”

And just like that, Tholme turned, blood still thrumming in his veins, and he stalked away, ignoring the eyes on him, the whispers. He knew he had crossed a line. He knew he had let himself snap, let the rage boil over into something real, something violent.

And yet—

It felt good.

Too good.

A shudder ran through him as he forced himself to keep moving, his pace quick, each step carrying him further away from the crowd, from the mat, from the fucking satisfaction lingering on Torwyn’s face.

Somewhere in the distance, T’ra called his name, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. If he hesitated, if he slowed down for even a second, the weight of what had just happened would crash down on him, and he wasn’t sure he could bear it. He needed to move, needed to put distance between himself and the mat, the crowd…

Before he did something much worse and proved Torwyn right.

Because that’s what this was, wasn’t it? Torwyn had been saying it for years—chipping away at him, testing him, waiting for the day he would snap. That he was reckless. That he was weak. That all it would take was one bad day to send him over the edge.

And today—today had been that day.

But it didn’t matter, right? None of it mattered.

Not the whispers trailing behind him. Not the way his knuckles burned, split and raw from the impact of his punches. Not the ache in his ribs, or the lingering sting where Torwyn had landed his own blows.

The only thing that mattered was that he didn’t stop until he reached his barracks.

The door slammed shut behind him, the echo of it ringing in his ears.

And then—silence.

His hands still trembled. He clenched them into fists, forced them open, clenched them again, but the shaking wouldn’t stop. His lungs felt too small, his breath coming too fast, too shallow. His heart was still in his throat, hammering, pounding, like it refused to settle.

His vision swam, his pulse thrumming so loud it was the only thing he could hear. He needed something—anything.

His fingers moved before his mind did, scraping against the inside of his footlocker, grasping for something before he even realised what it was. The tin. It was always the tin. The cigarettes rattled inside, bent from how many times he'd shoved them away, convinced he was done with them.

Apparently, he wasn’t.

Suddenly Tholme stiffened, his shoulders rigid as he heard the door click shut behind him. He hadn't even noticed someone enter.

T'ra stood just inside the doorway, leaving only a quiet steadiness in the charged air between them. He didn’t turn to face her—couldn’t. His breath was still uneven, his pulse hammering in his ears. His body ached, but not from the fight. The pain sat deeper than that, raw and pressing, curled tight beneath his ribs.

She took a step forward, her movements slow and deliberate, as though approaching a wounded animal.

“Tholme,” she said.

She was closer now, close enough that he could feel the shift in the air between them. He squeezed his eyes shut, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. But all he could feel was the heat of the anger still simmering under his skin. The satisfaction of finally, finally hitting back.

And the crushing awareness of how good it had felt.

It clawed at his insides, hot and insidious, curling around his ribs, seeping into his bones. It had been so easy. Too easy. And that terrified him more than the fight itself.

“I’m fine,” he managed, but his voice was flat, hollow—empty in a way that should have convinced her, but didn’t.

T’ra didn’t move, didn’t look away. “Tholme—”

“I said I’m fine.”

He turned away, reaching for his boots with unsteady hands, fingers fumbling against the worn leather. He didn’t know where he was going—not yet—but he knew he had to get out. He couldn’t stay here. He couldn’t stand the way she was looking at him.

Like she saw it. That he had reached out, let his anger take hold, let it burn through him unchecked. That he had touched something dangerous. And worst of all, that he had liked it.

T’ra exhaled, her voice gentle but laced with something uncertain beneath it. “Where are you going?”

He didn’t answer.

The walls felt too close, the air too thick. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, his thoughts fraying apart at the edges. He yanked his clean tunic over his head, fastened his cloak around his shoulders with trembling fingers, and strode for the door.

His body still hummed with energy, not from adrenaline but from something darker, something that coiled tight in his chest and whispered that it hadn’t been enough. That he needed to end it once and for all.

His breath shuddered, like his body was rejecting the very thought. No. He wouldn’t think about it. He wouldn’t let it settle, wouldn’t let it sink its claws into him. If he did, if he gave it even a moment to root itself, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to pull away.

Except, his fingers curled around the doorframe as he hesitated for the briefest of moments, his pulse a frantic, caged thing beneath his skin.

And for a fleeting moment—a brief, desperate second—he wished T’ra would stop him. That she would reach out, touch him, pull him back from whatever edge he was teetering on.

But she didn’t.

Because she understood. Because she saw it—the thing he was trying to ignore, the thing curling like smoke beneath his skin.

And somehow, that was worse than walking away.

***

The alley behind the barracks was dark, secluded. The distant echoes of the city barely reached him, the flicker of neon lights from the main streets failing to cut through the heavy shadows. He crouched against the cold stone wall, his breath unsteady, his body still humming with leftover rage.

His fingers fumbled for the tin. It was cold against his palm, the metal battered, warped at the edges—but still there. Still waiting for him. Just like always.

With a flick of his wrist, the lighter sparked to life, its flame unsteady in the cool night air. For a fleeting second, he hesitated, his fingers twitching against the cigarette. He could stop. He could crush it beneath his boot and walk away.

But then—Torwyn’s voice slithered through his mind, coiling around his heart like a vice.

You’ll never be more than this.

So Tholme inhaled.

The smoke burned as it hit his lungs, raw and acrid, searing its way down his throat. His body recoiled, instinctively rejecting the sensation, but he forced himself to endure it. The taste was worse than he remembered—bitter, stale, clinging to the back of his mouth like rot. His stomach twisted, nausea curling deep in his gut as he tried to fight again the vomit rising in his throat—but he took another drag anyway, deeper this time, letting the burn settle under his skin.

It made him feel so sick.

But at least he was feeling something other than anger.

His ribs ached from the fight, every breath tight and sharp, his knuckles still stung from the impact against Torwyn’s jaw. The weight pressing against his skull was unbearable, his body caught somewhere between exhaustion and restless energy. It should’ve been grounding. It should’ve helped.

But it didn’t.

Still, he ignored it. Just like he ignored the way his hands trembled, the heaviness in his chest, the deep, crawling unease in the back of his mind.

Because this was what Torwyn wanted, wasn’t it?

To break him. To grind him down until there was nothing left. To prove that he was exactly what he had always been accused of being.

Reckless. Undisciplined. Weak.

So why the kriff shouldn’t he lean into it?

Tholme exhaled, watching the smoke unfurl into the night air, curling and twisting before vanishing into nothing. His fingers twitched around the cigarette, unsteady, betraying him. He curled them into a fist, pressing his knuckles against his thigh as if that might stop the shaking.

But the weight in his chest didn’t ease. The anger didn’t settle. The sick churn in his stomach didn’t fade.

And then—he felt it again.

That soft shift in the air.

T’ra didn’t speak right away. She stepped into the alley, moving with quiet intent, stopping just a few feet away. Close enough to see. Close enough to understand.

As if trying to ignore her, Tholme kept his gaze fixed on the ground, the cigarette still burning between his fingers. He didn’t need to look at her to know what she was thinking. In fact, he braced himself for it—the reprimand, the disappointment, the quiet judgment that always followed moments like these.

But it never came.

Instead, she lowered herself to the ground. Not beside him, not at his side where she could be ignored, but directly in front of him as if giving him no other choice than to face her—no other choice than to remove the cigarette from his lips just so she wouldn’t have to endure the acrid stench of charred regrets.

His jaw tightened as he took another slow drag before he pushed it away from her. The smoke was heavy in his body, but it was nothing compared to the exhaustion weighing down his soul. And yet still, he didn’t look at her, didn’t need to—he could feel her presence just…waiting.

“Don’t,” he muttered. “Just don’t.”

T’ra tilted her head slightly. “Don’t what?”

His fingers twitched, his grip tightening around the cigarette as though it were the only thing keeping him sane. “Whatever it is you’re about to say.”

She studied him, long enough that he braced himself for the inevitable lecture, the quiet judgment. But it still didn’t come. Instead—slowly, deliberately—she reached out. Not to take. Not to correct. Just to touch. Just to let him know she was there.

The contact was light, barely there.

And yet, he flinched.

Sharp. Involuntary. The reaction of someone who expected pain and got something else instead. Not irritation. Not anger. Something colder. Something worse. Fear.

Her fingers didn’t move, didn’t tighten, didn’t demand anything from him. They remained exactly where they were, warm against his own.

“You don’t have to do this to yourself,” she whispered, her voice quiet and certain. “Not for this reason.”

His throat tightened, the words catching before they could leave his lips. “Yes, I do.”

She didn’t react, didn’t scold, didn’t push. Instead, she simply whispered, “Why?”

The question hung between them, and Tholme said nothing.

Because if he answered, she would hear the truth. That he was doing this because Torwyn was right. Because he didn’t know any other way to quiet his thoughts. Because it already hurt, and part of him wanted it to hurt more.

But still T’ra didn’t move, didn’t demand a response. She just waited.

And after a long, shuddering breath, Tholme exhaled.

His fingers loosened, and the cigarette slipped from his grasp, falling soundlessly to the ground. He watched as the ember dimmed beneath his boot as he ground it into the dirt until there was nothing left but a faint wisp of smoke curling into the cool night air.

T’ra’s hand remained on his, her touch neither forceful nor hesitant. She wasn’t pulling him toward her, wasn’t urging him to move, to speak, to stop. She simply stayed.

He should have been used to it by now—this weight in his chest, this unbearable tightness in his ribs—but with her here, it felt different. More pressing. More dangerous.

And Force, he wanted to say something.

He wanted to snap at her, to tear himself free from the moment before she saw too much, before she understood something he wasn’t ready to admit. Because if she kept looking at him like that—with patience, with kindness, with understanding…

His breath shuddered as he exhaled, dragging his free hand down his face as if he could wipe away the tension settling into his bones. When he did finally speak, his voice was quiet, hoarse, almost unrecognisable to his own ears.

"I hate him."

T’ra didn’t react immediately. She didn’t flinch or pull away, didn’t chastise him or remind him of the Code. She didn’t even look surprised. Because she understood what that word meant.

Jedi don’t hate.

They aren’t supposed to.

But Tholme did.

He hated Torwyn—the way he mocked, the way he punished, the way he twisted the knife just enough to hurt but never enough to leave a mark. He hated the way Torwyn always won, the way no one ever stopped him, the way the rest of the Order turned a blind eye.

Except—T’ra saw.

And just like that, her grip on his hand tightened, just slightly. A quiet, steady acknowledgment. "I know."

Two words. Simple. Unshaken.

His breath hitched, his fingers twitching beneath hers. His whole body trembled, but now it wasn’t just from the fight. He wasn’t sure what he felt anymore—anger, frustration, guilt, relief, all tangled together so tightly he couldn’t separate them.

Because he had said it. Finally.

He didn’t just resent Torwyn. Didn’t just fear him.

He hated him.

And it went against everything he had ever been taught.

Jedi were supposed to forgive. To let go. To move past their anger without giving it room to take root. But this—this wasn’t something he could let go of.

And the worst part?

T’ra didn’t judge him for it.

She didn’t tell him to release his anger, didn’t tell him to meditate on it like a Master should. She just stayed.

Tholme pulled his hand from hers too fast, too abruptly, as if her touch had burned him. He shot to his feet, raking a trembling hand through his hair, pacing like an animal backed into a corner.

His voice came quieter this time, rough and unsteady, barely more than a whisper. “I want him dead, T’ra. I don’t just hate him. I want him to suffer.”

The moment the words left him, his stomach turned. It was the ugliest truth he had ever spoken. And it sickened him.

T’ra finally moved, slow and deliberate, as if approaching something fragile, something on the verge of breaking entirely, but inside, her mind was spinning. She knew that this was dangerous too—and certainly wasn’t something Jedi said.

But Tholme wasn’t just a Jedi. He was Tholme. And she couldn’t leave him here. Not like this.

So, as she spoke, her voice was quiet, careful, guarded, “You don’t mean that.”

Tholme let out a short, hollow laugh. “Don’t I?”

His hands pressed against his face, dragging down over his mouth as his breathing quickened again. He felt like he was standing at the edge of something he couldn’t step back from, something that, if he leaned into it, would consume him entirely.

His fingers dug into his temples, his eyes squeezing shut, as if he could force it all back down—this rage, this loss of control, this thing inside him that he didn’t recognise anymore. His voice barely held together when he spoke.

“I— I can't—”

He didn’t know what he needed, only that his body felt too tight, his skin wrong, his chest caving in. He needed something, but he didn’t know what.

And then T’ra moved.

Not abruptly. Not hesitantly. But with quiet certainty, closing the space between them. Not like a Jedi. Not like a superior. Not like someone trying to guide him back to the light.

Like a friend.

Like something more.

Before he had time to react, to shrink away, to steel himself against whatever words she might offer, she was just there. Close enough that he could feel the warmth of her presence.

And then—she pulled him in.

Her arms came around him, firm yet careful, and Tholme couldn’t help but freeze. His breath caught in his chest, his body locked so tightly that, for a moment, he wasn’t sure he could move at all. Every instinct screamed at him to recoil, to pull away before this could become something unbearable, something he couldn’t control.

No one touched him like this. Not without expectations of something else. Not without consequences.

For one sharp, terrible second, the urge to shove her away nearly overcame him. This was too much, too close, too intimate. It wasn’t how Jedi behaved, wasn’t something he should allow, wasn’t something he deserved.

But T’ra didn’t let go.

She didn’t grip him harder, didn’t force him into the embrace, didn’t try to smother him in comfort he hadn’t asked for. She simply held him, offering rather than demanding. Steady. Patient. Real.

And something inside him caved under the weight of it.

Not a small crack. Not a hairline fracture. A complete, catastrophic collapse.

His body sagged against her before he even realised it was happening, his forehead pressing against her hair, his arms still hanging uselessly at his sides. His breathing was still uneven, still sharp, but there was something else there now—something breaking apart in slow motion.

T’ra said nothing. She didn’t have to.

Her hands rested lightly against his back, her presence solid. There was no urgency, no pressure, no unspoken demand that he needed to meet her halfway. She wasn’t trying to force comfort upon him or insist that he find control in the moment. She simply stayed.

Because she knew.

She knew he didn’t trust this, didn’t know how to accept it, that some part of him was still waiting for her to pull away, to make this feel like a mistake. But she didn’t. She remained exactly where she was, letting him figure out what to do with something that shouldn’t be terrifying but somehow was.

As the seconds ticked by, his throat tightened, his hands twitching at his sides, uncertain, hesitant, as though his body didn’t know how to respond. Then, slowly, with a stiffness born of reluctance rather than rejection, he lifted his arms, wrapping them around her waist. The movement was awkward, his posture rigid, as if unsure whether he was doing it right, whether he was allowed to do this at all.

But T’ra didn’t move. She didn’t adjust, didn’t try to guide him, didn’t attempt to make it easier. She let him figure it out on his own, let him take whatever time he needed, allowed him the space to decide for himself if this was something he could accept.

And just like that, his fingers curled into the back of her tunic, testing the reality of her presence, searching for proof that she was truly there, that this wasn’t some fleeting illusion.

And he couldn’t hold himself together anymore.

This wasn’t just holding on.

This was clinging.

Like a drowning man grasping for something solid. Like someone who had been lost for too long, finally finding something steady beneath his feet.

Without thinking, he pressed his face against her shoulder—not because he wanted to, not because he had made a conscious choice, but because he couldn’t bear to let her see what was happening to him.

Because if she did—if she really saw—he didn’t know what he’d do.

But she already knew. She had seen it from the moment she stepped into the alley, had recognised the way he was unravelling before he even realised it himself. And despite that, she didn’t let go. She didn’t move away. She simply remained as though nothing he could do, nothing he could admit, would change anything.

And for the first time in a long time—maybe for the first time ever—he felt completely safe.

Chapter Text

Tholme had no intention of leaving his room.

He’d spent the morning stretched across his bunk, half-buried under the covers, staring at the ceiling, and just waiting.

For what, exactly? A summons? A verdict? Exile? There had been whispers. Looks. Muted conversations that stopped the second he entered the room. It was only a matter of time before someone called him in, laid down his fate like a sentence passed before he even had the chance to defend himself.

It wasn’t fear—not exactly. He wasn’t afraid of exile, wasn’t afraid of being cast out. What unsettled him was the silence. The waiting. The uncertainty of it all.

His body ached—not from bruises, but from something deeper. Something he refused to name, because naming it meant facing it. He wasn’t sulking—definitely not—but something inside him felt raw, like a wound that hadn’t been cleaned properly.

And he wasn’t ready to face it.

Which was precisely when Drallig kicked the door open.

"Rise and shine, my beautiful disaster."

Tholme groaned, rolling onto his stomach, pulling the pillow over his head as if that might somehow make Drallig disappear. Of course, it didn’t.

"Nope. Not happening," Drallig said, already moving around the room, rifling through the mess of tunics Tholme had left scattered over his chair. "We are free. No training, no missions, no soul-crushing bureaucracy. Just a full day of making questionable decisions. Now get up."

Tholme groaned louder this time, shoving his face deeper into the pillow as if he could physically escape the conversation. “I’ll pass.”

“That wasn’t a request. I traded two weeks’ worth of my favourite ration packs to spring you from the roster today, so we’re not wasting a second.”

The bed suddenly felt colder as Drallig yanked the blankets away, exposing him to the unreasonably brisk air. Tholme made a half-hearted grab for them, but Drallig, the bastard, threw them onto the floor.

“What the hell—” Tholme squinted up at him, voice muffled as he burrowed into the pillow like a stubborn child.

Drallig, arms crossed, took one look at him and let out a slow, exaggerated sigh. "Force preserve me, must you always sulk half-naked? Have some dignity, man."

"I share a room with you." Tholme gestured vaguely. "My dignity is already at an all-time low. Now give me the kriffing blanket."

Drallig kicked it under the bed instead. "Not a chance. You, my friend, have spent enough time wallowing. We have the entire day to ourselves, and I’ll be damned if I let you waste it brooding in your underwear."

"I’m resting," Tholme muttered, voice dry. “Perhaps you ought to try it sometime.”

"You’re stewing," Drallig corrected. "And frankly, I don’t have the patience to let you spiral today. You need fresh air. You need food. You need the ever-reliable chaos of a Brentaal IV cantina. Get dressed."

"I don’t need any of that," Tholme said, still unmoving.

"Fine. Then do it for me," Drallig countered, pulling a clean tunic from the chair and tossing it onto Tholme’s chest. “I know why you’re hiding, but here’s the thing—if you sit in this room for one more minute, you’re going to start monologuing in the mirror, and I refuse to be friends with someone that dramatic.”

Tholme sighed, long and slow, knowing full well there was no way out of this. Drallig wasn’t the kind of person you argued with successfully. So, with all the enthusiasm of a man heading toward his own execution, he sat up, dragged a hand through his hair, and finally—finally—got dressed.

**

Brentaal IV’s main square was noisy, a mess of vendors, street food stalls, and off-duty travellers weaving through the crowds. The air smelled of spice and roasting meat, the kind of scent that settled thick on the tongue.

Tholme tugged his cloak lower over his face, still wishing he was cooped up in his bed and frankly anywhere but here.

"Alright," Drallig said, already steering Tholme toward a stall. "First order of business: food. Because you, my friend, eat like a man trying to see how long he can last on bad decisions and sheer spite."

"I eat," Tholme muttered.

"No, you survive on coffee and guilt, and occasionally a shot of whisky from the bottle you hide under your bunk," Drallig shot back, unimpressed.

Before Tholme could argue, Drallig handed him something fried and unhealthy, pressing the wrapped food into his hands with a pointed look. "Please. If you collapse, I’ll be forced to explain to everyone that my brooding, self-destructive companion finally wasted away out of sheer stubbornness. It’ll be humiliating for both of us."

Tholme rolled his eyes but took a bite anyway, expecting nothing more than an obligation.

The first bite was sharp with spice, crisp with fried batter, and—Force, he hated how good it was. The warm, greasy flavour hit his tongue, and his body—traitor that it was—immediately reacted with a sharp pang of hunger.

Drallig smirked, catching the way Tholme took another, less reluctant bite. Then another. Then another. "There it is. You act like I don’t know what’s best for you."

"Shut up," Tholme said around a mouthful, but the tension in his chest had loosened just a little.

Once Tholme had finished eating, they drifted deeper into the market, the energy around them shifting into something lighter, less suffocating. The streets bustled with movement—vendors calling out their wares, off-duty soldiers enjoying their respite, locals weaving between stalls stacked high with silks, spices, and carved trinkets. The air smelled of fried food, spiced tea, and something floral that reminded Tholme vaguely of temple gardens. For the first time in days, the weight in his chest loosened.

But Drallig, ever the extrovert, slipped seamlessly into conversation with anyone who so much as glanced his way. He flirted effortlessly—complimenting a vendor’s craftsmanship, charming a group of off-duty officers with a sharp-witted remark, and leaving behind a trail of entertained smiles and amused laughter. Tholme, walking beside him with his hands in his belt pockets, half-listened to the exchanges, the corners of his mouth twitching as Drallig coaxed a woman selling fruit into giving them an extra portion, just because she "admired a man with such refined taste."

Then they wandered toward a quieter section of the market, where merchants sold small carved trinkets, polished jewellery, and delicate glass figurines that caught the sunlight in fractured beams of colour. It was quieter here, the hum of the crowd softer, the conversations murmured rather than shouted.

Tholme ran his fingers over a piece of polished stonework, absentmindedly tracing the ridges, and the tension in his shoulders eased a fraction more. The weight in his chest—tight and sharp since the fight—eased, just a little more.

Then—just as quickly—it soured.

His grip on the trinket tightened. His pulse stuttered, sharp and uneasy, as something shifted in his chest. A voice in his mind—not quite Torwyn’s, not quite his own—murmured, you don’t deserve this.

His fingers twitched as he set the stone down—like if he held onto it too long, it might start to burn

Drallig noticed. He always did. But instead of saying anything, he clapped a hand on Tholme’s shoulder, the weight grounding and unyielding.

“We need drinks,” Drallig declared, already steering them away from the market.

Tholme shot him a flat look. “We just ate.”

“Exactly,” Drallig said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Prime drinking conditions.”

Tholme exhaled through his nose, half a sigh, half an exasperated huff. He could argue, but they both knew it wouldn’t matter. Drallig had already set their course, weaving them effortlessly through the thinning crowds.

Tholme glanced once over his shoulder, as if debating one last escape, but resigned himself as Drallig took hold of his arm, guiding them toward a dimly lit cantina tucked between two looming stone buildings.

“Come on,” Drallig said. “You can sulk into a drink like an adult, instead of haunting our bunkroom like a sad ghost. Consider it a change of scenery.”

Tholme muttered something under his breath, but he didn’t resist. He wasn’t sure he even wanted to, but that gnawing, restless feeling was back, curling under his ribs, hollow and wanting.

Wanting something he knew he shouldn’t have.

But it was one drink. He could handle that.

Right?

**

The cantina door swung open before them, spilling noise and heat into the cool night air. Inside, it was chaos—mismatched chairs, dim lighting, voices overlapping in a blur of laughter, arguments, and slurred conversation.

Tholme didn’t mean to hesitate. He was already moving, already letting Drallig herd him forward, already choosing to let this play out—but still, for half a second, his step faltered.

He could leave. He could make some excuse, push past Drallig, slip back into the streets and disappear into the night.

And then what?

He exhaled sharply through his nose. Nothing. That was the problem. He’d just go back to his bunk, stare at the ceiling, probably unscrew the flask under bed, and wait for the next inevitable fight.

So instead, he stepped inside.

The cantina was alive with movement and noise, thick with the scent of cheap alcohol and the unmistakable tang of spice smoke curling through the air. The dim lights flickered over the mismatched furniture and scuffed floors, casting long shadows against the walls. Laughter and shouted conversations clashed against the low thrum of music from a crackling speaker, creating a chaotic harmony that filled every inch of the space.

A mix of off-duty soldiers, weary traders, and locals looking for an easy night filled the room, crowding around tables littered with half-empty bottles and discarded playing cards. The atmosphere was comfortable in its disorder—loud, but not hostile. The kind of place where people drank to forget, to celebrate, or to pretend they weren’t avoiding responsibilities at home.

Drallig grinned the second they stepped towards the bar, already reading the room with the sharp ease of someone who knew exactly where to find trouble and how to enjoy it without getting stabbed. “Now this,” he declared, slapping Tholme’s shoulder, “is what we needed.”

Tholme arched a brow, unimpressed. “Loud, overcrowded, and vaguely smells like someone set a spice shipment on fire and then shit on it?”

Drallig smirked. “That’s the spirit.”

Tholme huffed, but his lips twitched despite himself. It had been too long since he had let himself relax—since any of this had felt normal. Maybe a drink wouldn’t be the worst idea.

Drallig wasted no time dragging Tholme toward the barstools, weaving through the crowd with the confidence of a man who belonged anywhere with alcohol and half-decent company. He flagged the bartender down, ordered two drinks without bothering to ask what Tholme wanted, then turned back with an unmistakable glint in his eye.

“Alright,” he said, leaning in with a smirk. “Tell me you enjoyed punching Torwyn, and I’ll personally cover everything tonight.”

Tholme exhaled through his nose, rubbing his temple. “I don’t need you to pay.”

Drallig’s smirk widened. “Oh, so you did.” He lifted his drink in mock toast. “Good. I’m proud of you.”

Tholme shot him a look. “You shouldn’t be.”

“No, no, I absolutely should be,” Drallig countered, taking a long sip of his drink. “Frankly, you should have done it years ago. He is a bastard Tholme. One day, I’ll become a Master of the lightsaber techniques, and I’ll personally use him for all my demonstrations. I promise you.”

Tholme snorted, shaking his head as he took a slow sip of his own drink, letting the burn settle in his chest. The cantina was its usual brand of chaos—but it was a good distraction, even if only temporary.

Drallig, however, wasn’t done. “Everyone’s talking about it, you know,” he said after a beat, his voice shifting into something quieter, more measured.

“Fantastic.” Tholme sighed, downing the rest of his drink in one, before holding his hand up for another.

“Yes, well, there’s only so much you can keep quiet in a place like this,” Drallig continued, his tone less teasing now. “But no one’s blaming you. No one worth listening to, anyway.” He swirled the drink in his hand, watching Tholme closely. “Plenty of Jedi aren’t blind to what he is.”

Tholme didn’t answer right away, his fingers tightening around his second glass. He knew that. He did. But knowing it didn’t make the weight in his chest any lighter.

Then—Drallig got that look.

He leaned back against the bar, scanning the room in a way that made Tholme immediately suspicious. “Do you know what you need?”

“No,” Tholme said flatly, already knowing he wouldn’t like the answer.

Drallig grinned. “A distraction.”

Tholme took a slow sip of his drink. “Absolutely not.”

“Too late,” he sung.

Before Tholme could stop him, Drallig was already on the move, making a beeline for a group of women in the far corner. His confidence was effortless, his approach practiced, sliding into their space as he waited for that collective invite.

Tholme exhaled, shaking his head as he leaned back in his chair. He had half a mind to make himself scarce before Drallig inevitably roped him into whatever nonsense he was brewing, when the seat beside him was suddenly occupied. A glass clinked against the bar. The scent of something strong—but not too strong, just a hint of spice—cut through the haze of alcohol and fried food.

He turned, finding a redheaded woman already watching him—amused, like she’d decided he was interesting before he even spoke.

“I was going to ask if your friend was always that bold,” she mused, sipping her drink, “but I think I already know the answer.”

Tholme arched a brow. “You’re assuming I associate with him willingly.”

She smirked, tipping her glass toward where Drallig was now effortlessly entertaining his audience. “Seems like a hard thing to do unwillingly.”

Tholme huffed a quiet laugh, swirling the remnants of his drink. “You’d be surprised. He’s persistent. Wears people down through sheer force of will.”

The woman leaned her elbow against the bar, chin resting in her palm as she studied him. “And yet, you’re still here.”

Tholme shrugged, half-smiling. “Maybe I just wanted a quiet drink.”

She lifted a brow. “That’s a terrible fucking excuse. This is possibly the loudest cantina in the district.”

He snickered, conceding the point, but he knew deep down Drallig wasn’t going to let this go. And maybe, in a way, he had a point.

He could buy her drink, ask if she wanted to leave with him, lose himself in the night, let her hands erase the thoughts he didn’t want to face.

He knew how to do this. Knew how to slip into the warmth of a stranger’s arms, how to take what was offered, how to let lips on his skin erase the things he didn’t want to think about. How to fill the hollow space inside him with the press of someone else’s body—long enough to forget who he was, long enough to believe it didn’t matter.

It was supposed to be simple. No names. No expectations. No meaning. Just hands, just heat, tangled bed sheets and a brief, sharp moment where nothing else existed.

And yet—

He wasn’t moving.

The option was there. It always was in places like that—if not with her, someone else. The world would always keep spinning. The night would pass like it always did. He would wake up in another bed, in another room, the scent of someone else on his skin, the echoes of last night’s laughter already fading. And then, when the morning came, he would do what he had always done—dress quickly, leave quietly, and pretend the weight in his chest was just exhaustion.

It should have been that easy.

But it wasn’t.

Because it wasn’t the Code that stopped him. It wasn’t guilt, or some higher sense of morality. It wasn’t even a conscious choice.

It T’ra. Always T’ra.

It was the way she looked at him—not with expectation, not with pity, but with understanding. The way she knew him, in a way no one else ever had. It was the way her voice cut through the worst parts of him, quiet but unshakable, grounding him in ways he didn’t deserve.

It was the unbearable truth that no matter who he left with tonight, it wouldn’t be her.

And if it wasn’t her, it didn’t kriffing matter.

So, with a sigh, he picked up his drink, leaning back slightly, debating how best to phrase what was—admittedly—a strange request.

“This is going to sound odd,” he began, tipping back the last of his drink before glancing at the red head again, his tone half-amused, half-serious. “But my friend over there—” he nodded toward Drallig, still deep in conversation at the other end of the cantina, “—has been pushing me into coming here for weeks, convinced I need a ‘distraction.’ If I leave alone, I’ll never hear the end of it. If I go with you, however…”

Her brows lifted slightly, curiosity flickering across her face.

“…he’ll think he won.”

The woman smirked, setting her drink down. “And what exactly are you asking me for? Because I’ll admit, this is the strangest way anyone has ever tried to get into my slacks.”

Tholme tilted his head, smirking slightly. “All I ask is a few hours of borrowed time, just long enough to make my life easier. Nothing expected, no ulterior motives, just a convenient excuse to disappear for the night.” His smirk turned wry. “Though I understand if you’d rather find better company. The kind that isn’t going to spend the evening reading a holo novel in the dark.”

She laughed at that, studying him for a moment before leaning forward, eyes glinting with amusement. “So let me get this straight—you want me to help you trick your friend into thinking you left with me, when really, you’re just going to sit in a dark room and read?”

Tholme lifted a shoulder in an easy shrug. “More or less.”

She tapped a finger against the side of her glass, considering. “And you swear you’re not just playing some long con?”

He held up a hand in mock defence. “On my honour.”

She hummed, then reached for her drink, taking a slow sip before setting it down with a decisive nod. “Alright. You’ve got yourself an alibi.”

Tholme blinked, then huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “I didn’t think you’d actually agree.”

“Well, I’m intrigued. I get to pretend I seduced a Jedi and avoid some drunk creep trying to dance with me later.” She stood, grabbing her jacket. “Come on. Let’s send your friend crazy.”

Tholme snickered as he stood from his seat, already feeling the tension of the evening start to loosen. “You’re doing a great service tonight, you know.”

She smirked. “Oh, I know.”

As Tholme pushed back from the bar with a snort, he cast a glance toward Drallig, who was still deep in conversation with the women. For a moment, he considered just slipping out unnoticed, but he knew that would only make things worse later. If he didn’t say anything, Drallig would assume the worst, track him down, and make a whole damn ordeal of it.

So, with a sigh, he made his way over.

Drallig noticed him immediately, his brows raising in curiosity as Tholme leaned in slightly. “I’m heading out—and no, not alone,” Tholme said, keeping his voice low enough to avoid the eavesdropping ears around them.

Drallig blinked, looking momentarily stunned before his expression split into a wide, incredulous grin. “No,” he said, shaking his head as if he hadn’t heard correctly. “No. You’re not.”

Tholme smirked, tilting his head towards the redhead behind him. “I’ll see you in a few hours. I’ll meet you back in the square.”

Drallig laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. “I cannot believe I won,” he said, genuinely delighted.

Tholme huffed, amused but unwilling to engage. “Try not to gloat too hard,” he muttered, turning away.

“I take full credit for this!” Drallig called after him, but Tholme was already slipping toward the door, ignoring the way his friend looked like he had just witnessed a miracle.

And just like that, he didn’t look back.

**

The studio apartment was small but well-kept, nestled in a quiet—and very expensive—sector just a few streets from the cantina. It smelled faintly of incense and old books—the kind of scent that clung to well-worn corners. Lived-in. Familiar. A home, not just another set of walls.

Tholme stood near the doorway for a moment, taking in the space with a careful glance. A couch with a few rumpled blankets tossed over the back, a low table cluttered with datapads and half-burned candles, a window cracked open to let in the cool night air. It was comfortable. Lived in. A stark contrast to the sterile, impersonal quarters at the outpost.

And then—something small and fast launched itself at his ankle.

Tholme barely had time to register the blur of fur before a sharp, irritated chittering sound filled the air. He hissed, stumbling back, only to find a pair of glowing yellow eyes glaring up at him from the floor.

“Ah, right.” The girl—Marah, as she had introduced herself—was evidently amused as she stepped past him, shrugging off her outer coat. “I forgot to warn you about Gremlin.”

Gremlin. Of course.

Tholme looked down at the creature—some kind of street-bred mix between a tooka and something far more chaotic. Its fur was an unkempt mix of brown and black, its ears large and twitching, its tail flicking aggressively like it was deciding whether to attack again. Its tiny claws flexed against the floor, sharp and ready.

He lifted a brow. “This is a fucking pet?”

Marah hummed, dropping onto the couch as if her tiny beast hadn’t just tried to maul him. “More of a roommate. He just lets me stay here and demands food as tax.”

Gremlin chittered something that felt like an insult, flicked his tail, and knocked over a datapad for good measure before vanishing beneath the table

Tholme exhaled. “Fantastic.”

Marah smirked. “Aw, but he likes you.”

Tholme gave her a flat look. “That was liking me?”

“I mean,” she paused for a second, as if looking for a silver lining, “he didn’t bite hard.”

“Yet.”

Marah leaned back, propping her feet on the table. “Just don’t make any sudden movements and you’ll be fine.”

Tholme eyed the shadows beneath the table, where he was certain Gremlin was still lurking, watching. Waiting. He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck before stepping carefully further into the apartment.

He’d dealt with assassins, smugglers, and pirates. But Marah’s tiny, demonic pet might actually be the first thing to make him hesitate.

Top of Form

 “Do you want something to drink?” Marah asked over her shoulder as made her way over to the small fridge.

Tholme shook his head, already sinking down onto the couch. “I’m good,” he said, leaning back, exhaling as he ran a hand through his hair.

She nodded, pouring herself a glass of something strong before she padded over again, dropping onto the opposite end of the couch with an amused glance in his direction. “So,” she said, tucking one leg beneath her. “You’re really just here to avoid your friend, huh?”

Tholme smirked, tilting his head slightly. “That obvious?”

Marah laughed, taking a sip of her drink. “Only a little. You don’t have the look of a man with plans to stay the night.”

Tholme huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he leaned back in his seat. “It’s not because of you,” he said, lifting a brow, making sure his tone didn’t leave room for insult.

Marah gave him a look—sharp, considering. Then, just as casually, she asked, “So… who are they?”

Tholme blinked. “What?”

Marah shrugged, swirling her drink. “You heard me.”

“There’s no ‘they.’” His response was automatic, flat. Too flat to be believable.

“Uh-huh.” She tilted her head, watching him in that way that made it clear she didn’t need to know him long to read him.

Tholme gave her a bored look in return, but she just grinned, kicking her feet up on the table like she had all the time in the world.

Finally, he sighed, letting his head tip back against the chair. “I’m a Jedi.”

“Yeah, the lightsaber gave it away.” Marah nodded slowly, like she had expected that answer. “But how does that stop you from wanting things?”

Tholme swallowed. “It’s supposed to.”

She made a thoughtful sound, swirling the last of her drink. “Well. That’s tragic for you.”

Gremlin, still lurking under the couch, like some disgruntled little goblin, let out another grumbling chitter—this one suspiciously directed at Tholme. Then, with a sudden burst of determination, the creature climbed up onto the arm of the chair, staring at him with large, unblinking eyes.

Tholme barely had time to react before Gremlin promptly made himself comfortable, hopping down into his lap and settling there like he belonged.

Marah blinked in confusion. “Huh.”

Tholme glanced down at the little menace curled against him, then back up at Marah. “That surprising?”

Marah folded her arms, studying the scene with clear scepticism. “Gremlin doesn’t like people.”

Tholme lifted a brow. “Yeah, clearly.”

“No, really,” Marah insisted, tilting her head as she eyed the animal with what could only be described as betrayal. “I’ve had friends over, I’ve had partners over, I’ve had people literally bribe him with food, and he just glares at them from the shadows like some kind of vengeful spirit.”

Tholme smirked, resting his elbow on the arm of the chair. “Well, I am a Jedi.”

Marah rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Space wizard, mystic connection, all that nonsense.” She waved a hand vaguely in his direction before leaning forward, propping her chin on one hand. “You know, whoever they are, they’re lucky.”

Tholme blinked. “What?”

Marah smirked, undeterred. “And if they’re the reason you’re hiding at a stranger’s house with a holonovel instead of, I don’t know, dealing with whatever kriffed-up feelings you’ve got going on—” she gestured at him with her glass “—then they’re probably unlucky, too.”

Tholme exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “That’s quite the assumption.”

Marah raised a brow. “Is it?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t really need to.

Instead, Marah just grinned, sipping her drink. “I thought so.”

For a while, they sat in silence, the kind that wasn’t awkward, just… easy. She seemed content to enjoy her drink, watching the city lights flicker outside the window, while Tholme leaned forward, pulling a small holonovel from the inside pocket of his cloak.

And with that, the room settled into quiet, the kind that didn’t ask for anything, didn’t expect anything. Just the soft hum of city sounds outside, and the quiet company of a stranger who didn’t ask for anything, didn’t expect anything—just let him be.

**

A few hours later, Tholme stretched his arms over his head as he stood by the door, rolling out his shoulders before reaching for his cloak. The air outside had cooled since earlier, the warmth of the day settling into a quiet, crisp stillness.

Marah watched him with a smirk, still lounging on the couch, her drink resting against her knee. “So, heading out to meet your friend?”

He nodded, fastening his boots. “He’ll be waiting. Impatiently, knowing Drallig.”

She arched a brow. “And you’re really going to let him think you—”

Tholme huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he pulled the laces tight. “In his head, I came back here for one reason.” He glanced up at her, smirking. “Not much I can do to change that.”

Marah’s expression didn’t shift, but there was something strange in her gaze.

He sobered slightly, rolling his shoulders. “But if you’d rather he think that we just sat here drinking tea, I’ll correct him. It doesn’t matter to me.”

Marah snorted, taking another sip of her drink. “Oh, please. Let him believe whatever he wants. Makes me sound more interesting. In fact, maybe I’ll tell everyone you were a patient, attentive lover. The best I’ve ever had.”

Tholme gave her a deadpan look, fastening the last clasp on his belt. “I’d prefer ‘adequate but respectful.’ More realistic.”

As Marah laughed, he stepped forward toward the small mirror mounted by the door. He quickly raked his fingers through his hair, deliberately mussing it up. As he caught her confused expression, he gestured toward his entirely intact clothing. “Drallig prides himself on his ability to read people, but he also likes a good story more than the truth. If I walk back looking too put-together, he’ll start asking questions.”

Marah set her glass down and swung her legs off the couch, standing with an exaggerated sigh. “Alright, let’s make this convincing.”

Tholme snorted but didn’t protest as she stepped closer, reaching up to run her fingers through his hair, mussing it just enough to make it look tousled, the movement easy, casual. More teasing than intimate. But for a fraction of a second—too quick, too sudden to stop—Tholme’s gaze flickered down.

The curve of her mouth. The sharp line of her collarbone. The way the dim light of the apartment caught in her red hair, making it look like fire in the dark.

He should just do it, right?

He should just lean in. Close that small space between them, let her kiss him, let himself fall into something simple, something comfortable, something human. He should let her pull him down onto that couch, let himself be touched, let himself be wanted—

Maybe Drallig was right. Maybe this was the fix.

Maybe if he let himself drown in someone else, even just for a few hours, it would quiet everything in his head.

…But who was he kidding?

It still wouldn’t be her.

His stomach twisted, and suddenly, his own skin felt too tight. He clenched his jaw, shaking his head like he could force the thought away. "Alright," he muttered, stepping back half a step—just enough space to break whatever that moment almost was. "That’s enough."

Marah paused, tilting her head slightly like she was about to say something, like she’d seen something, but then she smirked, easy as ever. “Suit yourself, Jedi.”

He exhaled through his nose, ignoring the way his pulse still thrummed too sharp, too uneven, that his body was almost willing to betray him with the kind of heat that always got him into trouble. Instead, he grabbed his cloak, as he caught his reflection in the window and huffed a laugh. “Subtle.”

“You want subtle, or do you want to win?”

He tilted his head in consideration. “Fair point.”

She tugged his collar slightly, wrinkling the fabric, then gave him a once-over with an appraising look before stepping back, hands on her hips. “That should do it. You look just the right amount of screwed.”

Tholme finished fixing his belt, running his finger over that loose seam, before glancing at Marah with a smirk. ‘Alright. Before I let Drallig ruin my life with speculation—what’s our official story?”

Marah arched a brow, clearly amused. “Oh? You want the full alibi now?”

He gestured vaguely at his tousled hair and wrinkled tunic. “Figure I should at least know what I’m guilty of before I get interrogated.”

She clicked her tongue, stepping back to admire her handiwork. “Let’s see… how about you were utterly powerless against my charm? You barely made it through the door before I grabbed you—passion, desperation, all-consuming desire.” She raised a brow. “We kriffed against the wall three times—and things got very messy.”

“Wait.” Tholme laughed aloud, shaking his head. “Wow, were you reading my holo novel over my shoulder?”

Marah shrugged. “I may have. A Jedi’s Belt is not what I expected, okay? I was thinking training manual, not filth. Chapter eighteen was…I can’t believe you read that with a straight face.”

He eyed her playfully.

She grinned. “Fine, fine. So we won’t use the novel. We can keep it simple. You sat down, we drank, we talked, and you, being the absolute gentleman, decided to let me down gently. I, being the picture of grace, accepted it with dignity, and then we stayed up too late reading trashy romance novels instead before mocking your taste in literature.”

Tholme gave her a considering look. “That…sounds like the truth.”

Marah spread her hands. “Exactly. Your choice, Lover Boy.”

Tholme snorted, running a hand through his already-messy hair. “Alright, then. Consider it a successfully chaotic night. We drank, things got a little dramatic, and I was, of course, devastatingly irresistible, hence the clothing.” He turned toward the door, then glanced back at her. “I appreciate the cover, by the way.”

Marah smirked, waving a hand. “Anytime. We’re partners in crime now.”

Tholme grinned. “My thanks.”

As Tholme turned toward the door, a sudden weight landed on his boot.

He froze for a second before he looked down.

Gremlin was latched onto his foot, yellow eyes glowing in the dim light, tail twitching like he was passing judgment.

Oh, for kriff’s sake.

"Really?" Tholme muttered, lifting his foot slightly, trying to shake the creature loose. Gremlin clung stubbornly, emitting a low, disapproving chitter before finally releasing his hold and darting back under the couch.

Tholme huffed, shaking his head. "Your tooka is insane."

Marah smirked, nudging him toward the door. But before he could step away, her expression softened slightly, the teasing edge slipping just a fraction. “You know,” she said, folding her arms, “if you ever need an escape again—not for anything except a quiet place to read a holo novel and drink caf—you know where to find me.”

Something about the offer made his chest feel lighter. He studied her for a moment, taking in the sincerity beneath the smirk, then inclined his head slightly. “I might take you up on that.”

“Good,” she said easily, flashing a grin. “Just be warned, next time, I’m picking the book.”

Tholme chuckled. “Noted.”

Marah waved him off with a mock-stern look. “Now go. You have a best friend to thoroughly deceive.”

With a small nod, he stepped out into the cool night air, giving her a casual wave as he disappeared down the street.

**

Drallig was waiting in the square, arms crossed as he leaned against a low wall, watching the quiet bustle of the late-night city. He glanced up at the sound of footsteps, and when he saw Tholme approaching, his expression immediately shifted into something far too smug.

“Ah,” he said, straightening. “So, how was she?”

Tholme arched a brow. “You don’t waste any time, do you?”

Drallig clapped a hand on his shoulder, and Tholme tensed slightly under the weight, but didn’t shake him off. “Not when it comes to matters of great intrigue. So, was she as perceptive as she seemed, or was conversation not the focus of the night?"

Tholme exhaled through his nose, shaking his head as he pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders. “You’re reading too much into things.”

Drallig scoffed, stepping back to drink in the sight of him, like a detective piecing together an obvious mystery. “Please. Your hair alone tells me everything I need to know."

Tholme hummed, brushing a hand through it absently. “Maybe she just has a very comfortable couch and a feral tooka that professed his undying love.”

Drallig let out an incredulous laugh, shaking his head. “You know, you’re a terrible liar when you try to be subtle.”

Tholme smirked faintly but said nothing, which, to Drallig, was as good as a confession.

“You needed this. Admit it. For the last three years, any time you’ve been down you’ve had three fixes: alcohol, sex, or cheese sauce.”

Tholme sighed internally. Here it was.

Drallig glanced at him sideways, expression somewhere between satisfied and proud. “Getting out, having a little fun? You finally did what I’ve been telling you to do.” He nudged Tholme’s arm with his elbow. “And look at you—still standing. Maybe later we can pick up those cheese fries you love too—as a treat.”

Tholme grumbled, tipping his head in faux consideration. “Mmm. Maybe you’re right. Maybe this was the fix.”

Let him have this, Tholme thought. Let him feel like a mentor. Let him believe he was right.

Besides, it wasn’t technically a lie. He had spent the night with a redhead.

Just… reading.

Drallig thought this was about some grand revelation. That Tholme had finally listened to him, finally taken his advice and let go of whatever had been weighing him down. He was wrong.

But Tholme wasn’t going to correct him.

Because what would be the point?

Drallig had already decided—like he always did—that he knew what was best. That Tholme just needed a few bad decisions, a few nights out, a few distractions, and everything would smooth itself out.

Maybe once, that had worked. But now, it was just hollow. Just forced.

But still, Tholme let him talk as they wandered through the dimly lit streets, Drallig still smirking, still convinced he had figured everything out. And Tholme?

Tholme wasn’t going to correct him.

Chapter Text

Tholme had been awake for a while, though he wasn’t sure why. He lay on his bunk, staring up at the ceiling, listening to the distant hum of the city filtering through the barracks window. The early morning light cut through the gaps in the blinds, washing the room in muted gold.

Across their quarters, Drallig was still asleep, sprawled across his bunk in a mess of tangled white sheets, one arm hanging off the edge and brushing against the sterile floor. In a way, Tholme envied him. Sleep had never come that easily to him, even as a child. He’d always been restless, lying awake long after the Temple lights had dimmed, his mind running in circles, unable to quiet itself. Even when exhaustion weighed him down, it rarely dragged him under the way it seemed to do with others.

So, with a quiet sigh, he sat up, scrubbing a hand over his face before standing.

He knew where he needed to go.

As he reached the roof top, the familiar sight of the city stretched before him, hazy in the early morning light. It was quieter than usual, the streets still waking, a slow, steady rumble beneath the surface. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of distant rain and starship fuel.

And T’ra was already there.

She stood at the ledge, hands resting lightly on the railing, her gaze cast over the horizon. She hadn’t acknowledged him yet, but he knew she had sensed him the moment he stepped into the open.

She always did.

Still, Tholme exhaled, shaking his head with a quiet laugh. “Do you ever actually sleep, Master Saa?”

T’ra glanced at him, her expression unreadable as usual, though he thought he caught the faintest flicker of amusement in her eyes. “I sleep as often as you do, it seems.”

He stepped beside her, mirroring her stance.  Then, after a long moment, T’ra spoke, “Drallig seemed pleased with himself last night.”

Tholme sighed, rubbing his temple. “What’s new?”

She turned to face him more fully, the early light catching in her eyes, her expression searching.

And just like that, he knew exactly what she was talking about.

There was a split second—a moment where he could have let her believe whatever conclusion she had already drawn, keeping his and Marah’s cover story intact. But the thought of it? The thought of her believing it?

For some reason it burned.

Because suddenly, the idea of her picturing him like that—just another stupid, careless night, that didn’t matter—made something cold settle under his ribs that that he didn’t dare analyse.

So instead of opting for one of his usual subtle deflections, he exhaled, offering a small, lopsided smile. “He’s gloating because I took his advice, and I spent the night in a girl’s house.”

T’ra didn’t move.

No flicker of surprise, no change in her expression—but he felt something shift in the air between them, something subtle, something only the Force could detect.

He let out a breath, dragging a hand through his hair. “But not like that,” he clarified. “She let me hide out while Drallig spent the night celebrating his victory over me.” His smirk was faint. “Which, for the record, was not an actual victory. He just thinks he saved me."

T’ra’s fingers twitched where they rested against the railing.

It was quick, barely there, but he caught it. A flicker of reaction. And suddenly, he hated himself for looking for it.  Like he wanted it to mean something.

Like he wanted her to mean something.

Then, she tilted her head slightly, her voice softer now, “You sought refuge.”

“I suppose you could call it that.” His fingers pressed into the rough stone, tracing its uneven surface—something solid, something real. He needed that. Needed something to hold onto before the memory took over.

Because he could feel it coming.

‘Seeking refuge in others is a weakness’, that was what Torwyn always said.

Caring for others, seeking comfort, wanting anything for yourself— that was dangerous. That made you vulnerable. And Tholme had been stupid enough to prove him right.

He had been fifteen. Barely old enough to understand what he was doing. Too young to think it mattered.

But Torwyn had found out. And Torwyn had made sure he learned.

Tholme still remembered the sharp yank of the covers being ripped away, the rough pull of his wrist as he was dragged out of bed, the quiet weight of the temple halls in the dead of night.

He had barely woken up before Torwyn hauled him into the dojo, pushed a saber into his hands, and locked the doors.

He hadn’t spoken. Not yet. Just switched the blaster in his hands to its second highest setting—just shy of kill.

"Deflect, or you’ll bleed."

That was all he said before the first shot fired.

Tholme had tried. Force, he had tried. But he had been half-asleep, his stance was sloppy, his reactions slower than they should have been.

The first shot hit his ribs. The second, his thigh. By the third, he knew he wasn’t fast enough. But Torwyn didn’t stop.

Shot after shot, searing heat, forcing him to move, to react, to keep up, to keep going. His body screamed at him to stop, but he couldn’t.

Because this wasn’t training. Training had rules. Training had instruction. Training had a purpose. This was something else. Something colder.

And Tholme had never been able to figure out why.

Why this had pushed Torwyn past that breaking point. Why it had mattered so much to him. Why the memory still sat in the back of his mind, waiting.

It had been sex. Not the dark side. Not some grand betrayal of everything he was supposed to stand for. Just… a moment. A choice.

A mistake, apparently.

Because he had bled for it.

Still, the memory settled something inside of him as Tholme let out a slow breath, rubbing his temples as a sickening realisation seeped into his skin. “You know who’s really not going to like Drallig’s version of events when he hears it?”

T’ra didn’t look at him immediately, but he caught the way her expression shifted, a flicker of something knowing beneath the calm. “Torwyn.”

“He doesn’t need the truth to hurt me. He just needs a version of it. Now, thanks to Drallig, he’ll get to hear about how I spent the night ‘celebrating’ after punching him in the face,” he muttered. “Great.”

T’ra didn’t comment right away, but he could feel the weight of her consideration as she gripped the railing just a little tighter. When she finally spoke, her voice was level. “Would it be untrue to say you deserved a night of reprieve? Even if it wasn’t quite the story Drallig is insisting it was.”

Tholme scoffed. “I don’t think that’s how Torwyn will see it.” He exhaled sharply, rubbing his hands over his face. “He’ll take it as proof that I don’t take things seriously. That I’m reckless. That I think I can just… do whatever I want without consequences.”

T’ra didn’t correct him. She didn’t argue. But she also didn’t look like she entirely agreed. Instead, she studied him with that same quiet patience that always unsettled him more than outright disapproval ever could.

He sighed. “All I’m saying is, I should probably prepare for another beating disguised as a lesson.”

T’ra’s gaze darkened, her fingers pressing just a little tighter against the railing. For a fraction of a second, she looked as if she might say something—might finally voice the thing she’d been holding back.

But then, she inhaled and looked away instead. “So how do you feel about Drallig making so many assumptions?”

Tholme swallowed, forcing himself to smirk. “It’s not really an assumption,” he muttered. “Drallig’s seen enough, and he knows enough about me. He even brought me cheese fries, as per tradition.”

T’ra’s brow arched, but she chose not to comment on it.

Instead, something sharp flickered through her expression—not quite disapproval, but not agreement either. "That doesn’t make him right."

Tholme hesitated. Because wasn’t Drallig right? Hadn’t he earned this assumption? Hadn’t he been reckless enough for this to make sense?

Hadn’t he spent years pretending that it didn’t matter who touched him? That it didn’t matter who held him, kissed him, wanted him?

As long as someone did.

Eventually, he muttered, “Drallig knows what’s good for me.”

The second the words left his mouth, T’ra turned to him, sharp and steady. Too steady. Like she was waiting for him to hear himself—waiting for the moment it would sink in.

And it did.

The weight of it pressed into his ribs, heavy and unbearable, and he had to look away.

“Does he?” she asked. “He believes you spent the night… otherwise occupied. You believe he knows, yet you didn’t correct him once.”

Tholme hesitated, shifting his weight against the ledge. He could have denied it, brushed it off with something easy, something careless—but it wouldn’t have been the truth.

Because the truth was: he had lied to his best friend.

So instead, he sighed, letting his head tip back as he stared up at the morning sky. “We’ve been close since our days in the creche. He does it with good intentions.”

T’ra didn’t respond right away. She didn’t need to. The silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable—just heavy.

Then, after a long moment, she gave a small nod. “That, I do not doubt.”

And somehow, that felt more like an answer than anything else she could have said.

**

The dining hall bustled with its usual chaos—Padawans hunched over trays, Knights laughing through bites of bread, the occasional Master gliding past like they had somewhere more important to be. It all felt almost normal. Almost.

Tholme sat alone, nursing a cup of something vaguely resembling caf, letting the noise blur into the background. It wasn’t avoiding Drallig, not exactly. But he also wasn’t racing to sit across from him and endure the dramatised retelling of A Jedi’s Belt, now apparently featuring Tholme as its leading man. He had known exactly what was happening across the room before he had even turned his head.

Drallig was holding court, his usual confident grin firmly in place as he lounged back, surrounded by a table of Jedi their age. They were all people they had grown up with, trained beside, some of them still barely out of their Padawan years. He couldn’t hear the conversation word for word, but he didn’t need to. The occasional glance cast in his direction, the knowing smirks, the way Drallig was gesturing animatedly with his hands—it didn’t take a Jedi to piece together the topic of discussion.

He took a slow sip, pretending their laughter wasn’t aimed like a dart at his back. He caught snippets here and there—Drallig’s unmistakable voice carrying just enough for him to pick up fragments.

One of the younger Knights, Roth-Del Masona, leaned in, shaking his head with a dramatic sigh. “So what you’re saying is, there is only one person on this entire planet who is willing to take your advice?”

Drallig smirked, lifting his cup in a mock toast.

Tholme rolled his eyes and resisted the urge to throw something. He should have seen this coming. All he could do was get up and put an end to this, or let Drallig continue to spin whatever story he wanted and suffer the consequences later.

Before he could make a decision, movement caught his eye as a tray was set down across from him.

A heavy silence followed.

Tholme didn’t have to look up to know who it was.

But he did anyway.

Torwyn sat with the quiet certainty of someone who already owned the conversation—and him. His smirk was slow, careful—cutting just deep enough to sting.

"Well," his Master said, voice deceptively light, but there was that look in his eyes. The one that always came before pain. He grinned. "I do hope your evening was worth it."

Tholme didn’t flinch, didn’t let the tension coil too tight in his shoulders. He had spent years perfecting the art of appearing unbothered, and he wasn’t about to let Torwyn undo that now. Not here.

He reached for his own cup, taking a slow sip before responding, just another mechanism to stop his mouth from drying out. "I suppose that depends on what you think I was doing."

Torwyn gave a slow, amused tilt of his head. "Oh, I’m sure Drallig has already done the work of filling in those blanks for me."

Tholme exhaled through his nose, setting his cup down with deliberate care. "Drallig enjoys a good story."

Torwyn exhaled slowly, watching Tholme over the rim of his cup. "Truthfully I was expecting something a little more… refined."

Tholme frowned slightly. "Excuse me?"

Torwyn’s smirk widened, just a fraction. "If I have to hear of your fondness for walls one more time, I’ll purposely reassign Drallig myself.”

Tholme’s grip tightened around his cup.

It wasn’t a guess. It was a statement. A confirmation wrapped in casual cruelty. The kind of remark designed to slide under his skin like a blade.

Yep. Torwyn already knew everything.

The older man took a slow sip of his drink. Then, as if remembering something, he clicked his tongue, shaking his head in mock disappointment.

“Not very gentlemanly of you. I thought I taught you better. Then again, maybe I taught you too well.”

Tholme exhaled through his nose. He tilted his head, feigning curiosity. "And since when have you cared about my manners?"

Torwyn smirked. "Since you seem to lack even the most basic ones." He leaned forward slightly, dropping his voice just enough that only Tholme could hear. "You could have at least made an effort to impress the poor girl before leaving her with nothing but a wasted evening."

Oh. So, that was the game.

Torwyn wasn’t just suggesting Tholme had been out all night—he was dismantling the illusion. If it had happened, it hadn’t been impressive. It hadn’t been enough. Tholme hadn’t been enough

Tholme took another slow sip of his drink, dragging it out longer than necessary, giving himself a moment to force down the unease curling in his stomach. His throat felt tight, but he kept his tone dry, just the right level of unimpressed.

"I see you are keeping track of my private life, Master?"

Torwyn chuckled softly, shaking his head as he lifted his own cup again. "Oh, Tholme." He took a sip. "You have no idea."

And then, just as expected, Torwyn placed his cup down and regarded Tholme with something almost thoughtful. “You’ll be accompanying me later,” he said, smooth, casual, like it had already been decided. “I’ve arranged a meeting with some unimportant figures within the city—officials who may provide insight into the unrest. It would be useful for you to observe.”

Tholme resisted the urge to narrow his eyes. Torwyn wasn’t the kind of Master who invited his Padawan along for diplomatic meetings unless it served a purpose beyond the obvious. But it was the second part of what he said that gave him pause.

“And afterward,” Torwyn continued, “we’ll discuss the findings in my quarters. It’s been a long time since we’ve done that, hasn’t it?”

It was said with the same ease as everything else, but Tholme wasn’t fooled. There was an edge to it, an underlying test he couldn’t quite place.

He almost scoffed. His quarters.

Tholme hadn’t set foot in Torwyn’s quarters since he was fifteen—since before the lines between discipline and punishment started to blur. Before things went… wrong. Before then, it had been expected, routine, the way Masters and Padawans worked. He had spent countless hours there, reviewing tactics, discussing missions, sitting through lectures designed to mould him into something more obedient. But then—he had changed. Or maybe Torwyn had finally realised he wouldn’t fall in line the way he was supposed to. Either way, the invitations had stopped.

And now, out of nowhere, it was being offered again.

Tholme leaned back in his seat, fingers tapping idly against his cup, masking his unease. He could feel the weight of Torwyn’s gaze, waiting for a reaction.

Something wasn’t right.

But he wouldn’t give Torwyn the satisfaction of seeing his hesitation.

Instead, he met his gaze. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

A flicker of something passed through Torwyn’s eyes. A small, satisfied tilt of his head—like he’d just confirmed a suspicion. He nodded once, standing, lifting his tray. “I’ll expect you ready within the hour.”

And just like that, he was gone.

Tholme exhaled slowly, watching as Torwyn disappeared through the hall’s entrance, the tension lingering long after he was out of sight.

This wasn’t about the meeting.

This was something else.

Something he wasn’t sure he wanted to find out.

Chapter Text

Brentaal’s governing chambers were all polished stone and looming pillars, designed to do nothing but impress. The Jedi had been granted access to one of the council’s private rooms, a space meant for delicate negotiations away from the public eye. It was quieter than Tholme expected, save for the occasional murmur of conversation as Senators filtered in, each dressed in the layered finery of the Core’s political class.

Unimportant people Torywn had said. And yet, that couldn’t have been further from the truth.

Still, Torwyn walked a step ahead of him, posture straight, smiling as though this arena was his. It was the same act he always played in these settings—the diplomacy, the careful balance of control and concession. Even without looking, Tholme could feel it: the way his Master carried himself like a man who had already won the conversation before it had begun.

Of course. That’s what kriffing Torwyn did.

Suddenly a group of figures entered the chamber, draped in the understated wealth of Brentaal’s elite. Among them, Tholme spotted a human male with pale eyes and sharp features. Something about him felt familiar.

And then— recognition hit.

The senator—the Pantoran girl—the one he had slept with—that was her father.

No, no, no. He kept his face neutral, but tension coiled in his chest like a drawn wire. The memory surfaced too easily—the girl’s warm laughter, the sharp clarity of realising he had no idea where he was, the quiet scramble to leave before awkward explanations became necessary. He had slipped out before introductions, before he could learn the names of the people in that house, before anyone could tell him he was somewhere he shouldn’t have been. He had left it behind without a second thought.

And yet, standing here now, facing the man who had unknowingly housed him for a night, he felt that misstep creeping back, threatening to make itself known.

Still, the senator hesitated, as though trying to place something, but the moment passed. He moved on, shifting his attention to Torwyn instead.

Tholme could feel the amusement radiating from his Master before he even turned to look at him.

Torwyn wasn’t smiling, not outwardly, but there was something too pleased about the way he settled into his seat, fingers tapping lightly against the polished wood of the table.

Tholme leaned back slightly in his chair, arms crossing loosely over his chest as he cast Torwyn a sidelong glance.

Torwyn didn’t look up. He simply stirred his drink once, slowly, the metal spoon clinking against the porcelain before he set it aside. A second longer than necessary.

"I think he recognises me," Tholme murmured, but the words felt heavier now, like he was saying them into a room where someone already knew the answer. "And if he’s brought his daughter along, they’re going to know where our intel came from. We’ll be screwed.”

Torwyn’s fingers paused their rhythmic tapping for the briefest moment before resuming; his expression smooth, unreadable. “I highly doubt you made that much of an impression with her,” he replied, tone light, almost amused. “You never do. I imagine you were one of many distractions in her oh-so-troubled life. Besides, maybe then you will finally remember her name, hm?”

Before Tholme could bite back a retort, Torwyn straightened, all casual amusement vanishing as a figure approached. Without missing a beat, he inclined his head in greeting, his voice shifting effortlessly into something calm and diplomatic.

“Senator Harn,” he said smoothly. “I appreciate you meeting with us on such short notice.”

Harn returned the nod, still frowning slightly. “Of course, Master Jedi.”

The discussion unfolded in a rhythm that was both heated and strategic. Torwyn handled it easily, weaving the Jedi into the conversation as a necessary authority while maintaining the illusion of compromise. He let the Senators feel like their input mattered while steering them exactly where he wanted.

Tholme had seen him do it before. Dozens of times. But today, he was watching with new eyes, catching the subtleties he had once ignored—the way Torwyn rephrased concerns to redirect them, how he reassured with one hand while taking something away with the other. It was a lesson in power, masked beneath the careful veneer of diplomacy.

Tholme listened in silence, offering only nods where expected. This wasn’t his place to speak, not yet. His role here was to observe, to absorb, to serve as a quiet reminder of the Jedi’s presence.

And the longer he sat there, the more the unease began to creep in.

After a while, Tholme stepped away from the table as the discussion reached a natural lull, stretching his legs and making his way toward the refreshments laid out along the side of the meeting room. The air was thick with the scent of brewed caf and freshly pressed fruit juice, and for a moment, he focused on the simple action of pouring himself a glass, letting the cool liquid settle in his grip.

It was a momentary reprieve—until a voice spoke from just behind him.

“You know,” Representative Harn mused, his tone light, conversational. “I could swear I’ve seen you before. You’re not a friend of Lihhy’s, are you?” 

Lihhy. His daughter.

Tholme stilled, masking his immediate reaction with a slow sip of his drink before turning to face the senator. Harn wasn’t watching him with suspicion, but with the faintly narrowed eyes of someone genuinely trying to place a memory.

“Jedi travel often,” Tholme replied smoothly, keeping his tone neutral. “It’s possible we’ve crossed paths before.”

Harn made a thoughtful sound, his brow furrowing. “Perhaps… though I don’t believe it was in an official capacity.” For a moment, the senator’s gaze lingered—just a second too long. Then, like a fleeting shadow, the thought passed, slipping away as easily as it had come. “Ah, maybe I’m mistaken. It happens when you meet as many people as I do.”

Tholme offered a polite, easy smile, lifting his glass slightly in acknowledgment. “Understandable.”

Harn returned the gesture, then moved past him toward the other officials, seemingly dismissing the thought.

Tholme exhaled slowly, forcing his face to remain steady as he turned back to his drink. Harn hadn’t recognised him—yet. But the feeling of being known, of being nearly placed, curled sharp and cold beneath his ribs.

He had no doubt that when he returned to the table, Torwyn would be watching. And knowing him, he would find this entire exchange stupidly amusing.

Well. At least now he knew Lihhy’s name. Too bad it wouldn’t matter.

**

By the time they left the council chambers, the sun was already low over Brentaal’s skyline. The city had quieted from the afternoon’s bustle, the glow of repulsor streetlights flickering to life against the cobblestones.

Torwyn walked at an easy pace, his hands folded behind his back. Tholme followed a step behind, waiting.

For a long moment, Torwyn said nothing. Then, as they turned a corner, he finally spoke.

“A Jedi,” he mused, “must understand the importance of perception.”

Tholme exhaled through his nose, already knowing where this was going.

“Brentaal’s leadership is predictable. They crave control. They assume they have influence over those who hold true power,” Torwyn continued, keeping his tone light, as though he were merely making conversation.

Tholme arched a brow. “So, we’re just another piece on their board?”

Torwyn gave the smallest smirk, barely more than a flicker of amusement. “To them, perhaps. But we know better, don’t we?”

Tholme didn’t answer. Because what could he say?

Then, abruptly, Torwyn stopped beside a small vendor’s stall, where an older woman was selling wrapped packages of freshly ground caf beans.

Tholme watched in mild confusion as his Master handed over a few credits, accepting a small, cloth-wrapped bundle in return.

Torwyn turned back to him, extending the package. “Here.”

Tholme blinked, momentarily thrown off balance. The small package of caf beans sat neatly in Torwyn’s outstretched hand, the deep aroma already wafting through the air. For a long moment, he simply stared, his fingers hesitating before reaching for it.

It wasn’t just the gesture itself that unsettled him—it was the specificity of it. This wasn’t some impersonal offering, something chosen at random from the nearest vendor. No, Torwyn had selected the exact blend Tholme preferred, the one he had been drinking since he was old enough to care about such things.

A slow, wary tension crept up his spine.

Torwyn’s smirk didn’t waver. “A token of appreciation. You always did favour this one, didn’t you?”

And yet, he didn’t pull his hand away. Didn’t press the package forward. Just… held it there. Like he was waiting to see if Tholme would take it on his own.

Tholme hesitated before reaching out. The heat from the freshly roasted beans seeped through the cloth, sweet and familiar—except nothing about this moment felt familiar. Not in the way it should.

His fingers brushed the edge of the package. Not Torwyn’s hand, but close.

He ignored the way his stomach twisted, the way something cold curled beneath his ribs.

And he took it anyway.

Torwyn had never given him anything before—not without a purpose, not without expectation. There was always a reason, always an angle, always a lesson lurking beneath even the smallest gestures. And Tholme didn’t trust it.

But still, he took it.

“Good,” Torwyn murmured, watching Tholme’s fingers linger on the package. “You’re learning.” Then, almost as an afterthought, he added coldly, "Maybe you just have to accept that you don’t have many secrets left, Little Shadow."

***

Torwyn’s quarters carried an eerie, suffocating familiarity—the kind that made Tholme’s skin itch.

The furniture was arranged with the same precise order as it had been at the temple, every surface meticulously neat, untouched by time or sentiment. It was a space built on control, where nothing was ever out of place.

And Tholme hated it.

Torywn gestured for Tholme to sit, moving with the same air of mystery he had carried through the city. The conversation began easily enough—a standard debriefing of the meeting, discussing Brentaal’s position, the political undercurrents. But then, the shift came.

“You handled yourself well today,” Torwyn remarked, reclining slightly in his chair. “It reminded me of our past missions together. You always had a sharp eye for details.”

No. This wasn’t casual conversation. This was calculated.

Torwyn spoke as though nothing had changed between them—like he hadn’t spent years tearing Tholme down, only to act as though the ruins had never been there at all. He was wearing a different mask now, adjusting his strategy, playing the part of the patient, guiding Master.

And Tholme wasn’t sure which version of him was worse.

“You’ve been working hard,” Torwyn continued, voice breezy. “I think it’s fair to say you’ve earned some time to yourself. The next few days, you’re free to do as you please.”

Tholme tugged his belt into place out of habit, fingers brushing the seam. He paused.

There was a stitch there that hadn’t always been—just a thread out of place, slightly tighter than the rest.

Probably nothing.

He let his thumb rest there anyway, pressing into it like it might ground him, like picking at it might anchor something solid beneath the rising storm in his chest. Something to do with his hands while the rest of him tried not to unravel.

This was wrong.

Torwyn was giving him space. Offering him freedom. Speaking to him as though he still belonged here, as though he hadn’t spent years pushing him away, withholding everything until Tholme had stopped wanting it altogether.

But had he?

He could sit here and tell himself he didn’t care. That he had long since outgrown the need for his Master’s approval, for his recognition, for any semblance of warmth. But deep down, there was something hollow inside him, something that twisted uncomfortably at the careful kindness in Torwyn’s voice.

He had wanted this once. Desperately. The way a suffocating man wants air.

The way a child wants their father to look at them and see something worth keeping.

He had spent years chasing it, burning himself down trying to prove he was worthy, only to be left with nothing but cold reprimands and a sense of never being enough.

And now, suddenly, things were different?

He didn’t trust it.

Didn’t trust the sudden ease, the soft-edged words, the casual way Torwyn sat across from him, pretending like they had always been like this.

And yet, against his better judgment, against everything he knew—he wanted to believe it.

Because what if?

What if, after everything, this was real? What if Torwyn had finally decided he was worth something more than punishment? What if, after all these years, this was what it had taken?

He hated that the thought even crossed his mind. And yet…it lingered.

Tholme exhaled slowly, keeping his expression carefully neutral. His throat felt tight when he finally spoke. “Master, what do you want me to do?”

Torwyn’s gaze flickered with something unreadable.

Then, slowly, he smiled. "What do I want you to do?" he echoed, as if amused by the question. "That’s the wrong way to look at it, Tholme. I’m not here to dictate your every move. You’re not a child anymore."

For a moment, Tholme almost laughed.

Wasn’t that the worst part?

He wasn’t a child. He hadn’t been for a long time. And yet—some part of him still felt like one.

Torwyn exhaled through his nose, shifting slightly, as if settling into something more relaxed. “What does an eighteen-year-old Jedi do with unexpected free time?”

Tholme knew better than to react, but his fingers twitched slightly in his lap.

Torwyn took the pause as an invitation to continue. “I had an old friend at your age. We were stationed in the Outer Rim, on some backwater dustball. There was this cantina—a real hole in the ground. But the drinks were strong, the music was loud, and the company, well…” He trailed off, chuckling under his breath, as if lost in a memory. “Let’s just say, Jedi robes weren’t always a deterrent. Oh Tholme—those were the days.”

Tholme blinked. He had never heard Torwyn speak like this. Like they were equals. Like they were the same.

And that was when Tholme realised—that was exactly the point.

Torwyn gave him a knowing look. “You’d be surprised how often people are drawn to mystery. You spend enough time in a place like that, and someone will try to undo a few knots on your tunic.” He leaned back, tilting his head slightly. “You already know how that goes. Too well, if you ask me.”

Tholme exhaled sharply through his nose, fingers curling just slightly against his knee.

He wasn’t going to take that.

"Funny," Tholme murmured, his voice deceptively light. "For a man who just spent five minutes reminiscing about his glory-hole era, you sound awfully judgmental."

Torwyn smirked, tilting his head as if he were considering something. "Ah, but you see, Tholme—" his voice dipped lower, silky-smooth, "—the difference between us is that I always knew when to stop. The point is, there’s more to life than training mats and mission reports. You might find that if you actually allowed yourself to enjoy something—really enjoy it—you’d have less reason to want to ruin your career.”

Torwyn smiled again. “I’m giving you the week. Do with it what you want. Drink. Fight. Find someone to warm your bed. Indulge, Tholme. Get it out of your system. But by the end of it, I expect you to have cleared your head.”

Tholme almost laughed—almost. Instead, he just stared at his Master, waiting for the punchline that never came.

 So what was this, then? A reward? A warning? An invitation? Torwyn had spent years drilling into him that indulgence was weakness, that pleasure was a distraction, that wanting anything outside of duty was a flaw to be stripped away.

And now?

Now he was prescribing pleasure like it was medicine. Telling him to fuck his way through clarity.

The hypocrisy was dizzying.

Still, Torwyn only took a slow sip of his tea, watching Tholme carefully over the rim of the cup. “Unless, of course, you’d rather spend the time sulking over my supposed cruelty.”

At that, Tholme’s throat felt even tighter. His mind was racing, trying to parse out what this was. A genuine gesture? A test? Another game?

Torwyn was watching him, waiting.

His posture was relaxed, his tone even—not the cold detachment Tholme had come to expect, nor the sharp-edged authority that usually accompanied their conversations. There was something almost… calculated about it. Controlled, yes, but not in a way that felt like a trap. For the first time in a long time, Torwyn seemed almost approachable. Almost reasonable.

And despite everything, despite the years of pain, despite knowing better—there was a small, treacherous part of Tholme that wanted—needed—to believe him.

Chapter Text

Tholme hadn’t moved in hours.

He wasn’t even sure what day it was anymore—not that it mattered. His bunk was warm, the sheets tangled loosely around his waist, his limbs heavy with the kind of sluggishness that came from too much sleep but not enough rest. He stretched an arm behind his head, fingers brushing the wall, the dim glow of the holo screen flickering against his closed eyelids.

The air in the room was thick with the smell of fried food, a direct consequence of his steadily dwindling stash of contraband snacks, tucked haphazardly under his bed. He had no real regrets about it, even as a stray wrapper tragically crinkled beneath him when he shifted.

Drallig had come and gone throughout the days, making his usual smart remarks before realising Tholme was far too committed to whatever self-imposed hibernation this was. He’d given up after his third attempt to drag him out, muttering something about wasted breath before heading off on his own.

Tholme had planned to be productive today. He really had.

But instead, he was here—half-asleep, watching some awful holo serial with no real investment in the plot, eating processed foods, and revelling in the fact that, for once, no one was making him do anything.

It was, honestly, kind of nice.

Tholme groaned as he shifted, the movement disturbing the nest of blankets he’d cocooned himself in. His stomach felt full in the worst way—not from actual food, but from the sheer number of fizzy drinks he’d mindlessly consumed. It had seemed like a good idea at the time—cold, sweet, and easy—but now, his bladder had other opinions.

With a reluctant sigh, he peeled himself away from his bunk, feeling heavier than he should after so much inactivity. His bare feet hit the cool floor, and he winced, rubbing the sleep from his face.

For half a second— before his last two brain cells staged an intervention — he considered stooping to Drallig’s level and just using the empty fizz bottle that was sitting within reach. He knew for a fact that Drallig had done worse with less shame. Much, much worse.

But no. He wasn’t a heathen. He wasn’t Drallig. He still had some dignity left.

…Probably.

So, with another groan, he forced himself upright, accepting his fate like a man preparing for battle.

Then—his foot caught something.

The telltale rattle of a bottle rolling.

Kriff.

The half-full can of fizz wobbled for a fraction of a second before toppling, spilling its sticky contents in a slow, syrupy mess across the floor. Tholme stared at it, unmoving, his brain too sluggish to register anything beyond mild regret.

"Great," he muttered, running a hand through his already messy hair before crouching down with an exhausted sigh. “Should’ve just used the bottle.”

He scanned the room for something to mop it up with, and of course, the only thing within reach was his discarded training tunic—one that was already overdue for a wash. With another sigh, he snatched it up, pressing the fabric against the growing puddle, soaking up as much of the mess as he could before it became a problem.

Once the worst of it was gone, he reached under his bunk, fingers feeling around until they hit the small stash of flimsi wipes. He grabbed a handful, rubbing over the floor again to clear the lingering stickiness before straightening.

Without thinking, he tossed the used wipes onto his bedside table, too careless to notice how they crumpled into an untidy pile beside his neglected datapad.

Whatever. He’d deal with it later.

Right now, he had more urgent matters—namely, getting to the refresher before his bladder decided to punish him, or before he reached for that damn bottle and was forced to admit that Drallig had a point. And that? That was worse.

Still, Tholme didn’t bother turning on a light. The room was dim, the only glow coming from the holo projection, where a dramatic argument was unfolding between two characters he had long since stopped paying attention to, so the Force would have to be his guide today. For half a second, he considered shutting the holo off, but figured he’d be back in bed soon enough.

Priorities.

So, he relieved himself quickly, already eager to reclaim his spot under the covers. Maybe he’d even do something useful later. Get some real food. Open an actual datapad instead of letting a ridiculous series fry his brain.

Or maybe not.

Yawning, he shuffled back toward his bed, already reaching for the edge of his blanket—

And then the door chime rang.

Tholme groaned, already annoyed before he even opened the door.

If it was Drallig, he was going to throw a pillow at his face and go back to sleep. If it was an official visitor, they could deal with him in whatever state they found him.

He pressed the door controls, barely looking up. “If this is about my reports, they’re not done, and if it’s about—”

Then he actually registered who was standing there.

Oh, for kriff’s sake. Of course.

Of all the people who could have shown up at his door, of course it had to be her. Not Drallig, who would have immediately mocked him. Not a Knight on official business. No. It was Master Saa.

Tholme exhaled sharply, crossing his arms loosely, shifting his weight. "T’ra," he drawled, voice still thick with sleep. "I didn’t peg you for the type to do surprise inspections."

Her gaze flickered downward. Brief. Assessing. Then back up. Unfazed.

A beat of silence stretched between them, and then—Force help him—her lips twitched. It was barely there, the smallest, most fleeting movement, but he caught it. And that was enough.

Oh, no.

She was amused.

“Hello Tholme,” she spoke, her voice as steady and composed as always, but he swore there was the faintest edge of something else beneath it.

Tholme just barely resisted the urge to sigh. Not the worst situation he’d been caught in, but still not great.

He propped a shoulder against the doorway, arms crossing lazily over his chest, pretending he wasn’t registering the fact that he was answering the door in his underwear.

T’ra blinked at him, expression steady, though now he could tell—he could tell—she was holding back a smirk.

"I was looking for you," she said simply.

His mouth opened slightly, a response forming—but whatever words he had died before they could make it out.

Tholme stared at the room behind him, exhaled through his nose, and accepted his fate.

This looked bad.

Really bad. He hadn’t exactly been around the past few days. Had barely set foot in the outpost, had spent most of his time holed up at Marah’s place whilst she was off world, sleeping on her couch, reading, feeding her very angry fluffy animal. And now, when he finally decided to show his face, T’ra found him like this—dishevelled, lazy, unshaven, clearly having spent the day doing absolutely nothing of value.

He closed his eyes for a brief moment, inhaling like he was trying to summon patience. Then he shrugged. “Well,” he muttered, scratching the back of his neck. “You found me.”

Tholme shifted awkwardly, forcing himself to not react to the way she was still watching him. She wasn’t judging—T’ra never judged, exactly—but kriff, she was seeing far too much.

Tholme cleared his throat again, pushing down the ridiculous wave of self-consciousness that was making his skin itch. There was no graceful way to recover from this. The best he could do was pretend this was fine.

He stepped back just enough to let her through, nodding toward the room. “Well, you’re already here. Might as well come in.”

T’ra arched a brow, but she didn’t say anything. Just took another glance at him, then at the room behind him, as if silently taking stock of the situation.

He had no doubt she’d already noticed everything—the empty food containers stacked on the desk, the half-finished bottle of fizz still balanced precariously on the nightstand, the dim glow of the paused holo still flickering against the wall.

Her gaze flicked back to his. There was the faintest tilt to her lips. “Are you sure this is a good time?”

Tholme huffed, crossing his arms as casually as he could manage—which wasn’t much, given the circumstances—before shrugging. “I wouldn’t want to waste the trip.”

T’ra did smirk this time—just a little, just enough that he noticed, before she finally stepped past him, moving into the room.

And then—just as he thought he might recover some semblance of control—her gaze flicked to the nightstand.

To the pile of crumpled, sticky flimsi wipes.

She paused.

Before he could even begin to explain, her eyes shifted to the holo screen still paused in the background. The once-irrelevant comedy had, of course, chosen this exact moment to feature the two lead characters mid-kiss, framed in dramatic lighting, half naked, laying in a bed.

Oh, for kriff’s sake.

The universe was conspiring against him. That was the only explanation.

His entire body went still, but not in the way it usually did when he sensed danger. No, this was worse. Because T’ra was looking at him. At the holo. At the damning pile of wipes. And—kriffing hell—she wasn’t saying anything.

Not a word. Not a single lifted brow, not a flicker of judgment. Nothing.

If she had said something, he could have denied it. Could have made a joke, spun the narrative, deflected like a champ. But she didn’t have to say anything—because the silence was saying everything.

This was bad.

This was so incredibly bad.

Tholme scoffed. “Not—” His voice cracked. Shit. He cleared his throat, dragging a hand down his face before forcing out a laugh that sounded far too close to hysteria. “It’s—” he gestured vaguely at the wipes, at the holo, at the entire crime scene stacked against him. “—a fizz spill.”

T’ra blinked, head tilting just slightly. “Hmm.”

Stars, that single sound carried more judgment than an entire Council session.

“It is,” he insisted, far too quickly, far too screwed, as if sheer force of will could make it look less suspicious, his heart pounding in a way that was entirely unjustified given that he was, for once, telling the truth. “The bottle slipped. Went everywhere. Hence the wipes.”

T’ra still didn’t say anything. Just looked at him.

He was a Jedi, a trained combatant, an intelligent man who had survived warzones and battlefields, but none of that mattered now. Because T’ra thought—

Nope. Not thinking about that.

He exhaled sharply, crossing his arms. “I can feel you judging me.”

T’ra—who had absolutely been judging him—tilted her chin just slightly, her face the picture of serenity. “Jedi do not judge.”

Tholme scowled. “Bantha shit.”

That—finally—earned him a smile. Small. Barely there. But real.

He let out a slow breath, clapping his hands together once. “…Do you want a drink?” he asked, mostly to shift the conversation into literally anything else.

T’ra’s smirk didn’t fade. “Do you have anything that isn’t full of sugar and questionable chemicals?”

Tholme pretended to think it over, then reached under his bed and grabbed another fizzy bottle. He held it up between them, deadpan.

T’ra sighed through her nose, clearly unimpressed—but to his surprise, she took it anyway as Tholme leaned against his bunk, arms crossed, watching as she inspected it like it might reveal something about his character. All the things he’d done, all the places he’d been, and somehow, this was where life had led him—standing half-dressed in front of T’ra Saa while she silently judged his beverage choices.

He needed to salvage something here—if not his dignity, then at least the illusion of it.

With a small, deliberate cough, he muttered, “I’m putting on trousers.”

T’ra, predictably, looked entirely unaffected.

She simply nodded, took a slow sip of her drink, and turned her attention back to the holoscreen—completely at ease, like she hadn’t just walked in on what very much looked like the most compromising moment of his entire existence.

Tholme exhaled sharply, turned on his heel, and grabbed the nearest pair of trousers from his trunk with far too much efficiency to be casual. He yanked them on, raked a hand through his hair—like that would somehow reset the entire situation—and let out another slow breath before turning back around.

“So,” he said, dragging out the final syllable. “Did I miss anything while I was…on sabbatical?”

T’ra finally glanced at him again, one brow lifting slightly as she sipped her drink. “Sabbatical,” she repeated, voice so neutral it was impossible to tell whether she found that amusing or just sad.

Tholme lifted his chin slightly. “Yes. A deep and meaningful retreat into self-reflection.”

Her lips twitched, just barely. “On Marah’s couch?”

“It is a very comfortable couch, alright.”

T’ra hummed, setting her drink aside, her expression shifting into something more thoughtful, more careful. “So Drallig likes to say.”

Tholme rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, Drallig also believes the Council is hiding an entire untapped collection of aged Corellian whiskey somewhere in the archives, so I’m surprised anyone listens to him anymore.”

T’ra gave a slow, knowing nod, a small but noticeable sound of amusement. Then, after a beat, she answered his original question.

“You haven’t missed much,” she said quietly. “Torwyn has kept to himself since your… break.”

That caught Tholme’s attention. His brows furrowed slightly. “No dramatic summons?”

T’ra shook her head. “Not yet.”

That was surprising. Torwyn wasn’t exactly the type to let things lie. If anything, Tholme had expected some kind of pointed lesson in discipline the second he stepped foot back into the outpost.

Maybe Torwyn really had decided to leave him alone.

Or maybe he was just waiting.

Tholme studied her for a moment, fingers tapping idly against the buckle of his belt and that damn annoying loose thread as he considered his next words. She didn’t seem like she was here on some formal errand—if she was, she would have led with it. But she had sought him out. She had come looking for him.

He shifted his weight, arms folding loosely across his chest, watching her like she was a puzzle he hadn’t quite decided if he wanted to solve. “Come on, T’ra,” he drawled, tilting his head. “You didn’t hike all the way over here just to critique my week’s choices. What’s the real reason?”

She didn’t answer immediately, instead reaching for her drink again, taking a slow sip before setting it back down. That same calm, unreadable patience lingered in her expression, but there was something else there too—something he couldn’t quite put a name to.

But didn’t answer immediately, and for a moment, he thought she might sidestep the question. But then she uttered, “I was curious,” she said simply.

He arched a brow. “About?”

T’ra’s gaze flicked over him again, as if he was the puzzle in this situation. “You’ve been absent.”

Tholme scoffed lightly. “I was following orders. Taking time for myself. Very Jedi of me, don’t you think?”

She hummed, unconvinced. “That a strange way to describe avoidance.”

Tholme sighed, rubbing a hand over his face before gesturing vaguely to the room around them. “Does this look like the lair of someone avoiding anything? I’ve been thriving, T’ra.”

Her eyes swept across the scattered snack wrappers, the untouched datapad at the foot of his bunk, the holo still running in the background with zero indication that he’d been paying attention to the plot.

Then she looked back at him.

He hated that look.

The kind that made him feel seen in a way he wasn’t sure he liked.

He exhaled, tipping his head back against the wall with a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Alright, fine. Maybe I’ve been scarce. Maybe I’ve been busy. Maybe I just enjoy a little peace and quiet away from Drallig’s voice first thing in the morning. Take your pick.”

T’ra tilted her head slightly, that sharp, assessing gaze cutting straight through him like she was mapping out every inch of his thoughts. Normally, he’d be able to brush it off—shrug, smirk, throw back some half-clever remark—but this time, something about it lodged under his skin—too familiar, too kind. It settled like guilt. Or worse—hope.

Still, she didn’t say anything at first, just let the silence settle. And for some reason—some deeply inconvenient, frustrating reason—he couldn’t hold her gaze.

That was new.

Because now, when he looked at her, his brain wasn’t just registering sharp intellect and Jedi discipline. No, now it was catching on the way the dim light softened the edges of her face, how the steady weight of her attention felt a little too heavy, a little too pointed. And worse—he wasn’t sure if it was just her usual patience, or if she already knew exactly why he had to look away.

So instead, he turned, reaching for a stray wrapper on his bunk, crumpling it between his fingers just to have something to do with his hands. “I’m fine,” he said, too casually, tossing it toward the waste bin. He missed.

T’ra didn’t even blink. “You always say that when you aren’t.”

He huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “Did you come here just to analyse me again?” He shot her a lopsided grin, defaulting to charm, to the easy deflections that had worked for every other woman in his life.

But she wasn’t every other woman.

T’ra just watched him, unmoved by his act, and that was the worst part. Because it meant she saw through it.

Tholme had been coasting on muscle memory—easy charm, quick wit, the same flirtation that had carried him through far too many nights in places he barely remembered. But this—her—was different.

Because T’ra didn’t look away.

She sat there, perfectly at ease, like she belonged in his space, like she had every right to take up his air, his attention, his focus. And the worst part? He couldn’t even argue with it. Because she did belong here. She belonged everywhere.

And Tholme—half-dressed, half-awake, and hanging on by a thread—was realising just how thoroughly, stupid he was.

His skin felt too hot, his tunic too thin, his thoughts too damn loud. He hadn’t been around anyone in days, let alone her, and now she was sitting there, watching him with that same warm gaze. And his brain—traitorous, miserable thing that it was—decided now was the perfect time to remind him that every single fleeting, unwanted, inadvisable thought he’d been shoving down for weeks hadn’t actually gone anywhere.

He needed to focus. Needed to get it together before he did something deeply regrettable, like let his gaze flicker to the curve of her collarbone, or the shape of her mouth, or—kriffing hell—the fact that she was sitting on his bed.

Yeah, too late.

He shifted slightly where he stood, suddenly aware of just how small this room was—how close she was—how her presence pressed against the edges of his awareness, settling beneath his ribs like a slow, insistent weight. Every detail sharpened—the steady rise and fall of her breath, the way her fingers curled loosely around her drink, the soft rustle of fabric as she moved.

And then she shifted—just a fraction, just enough for the air between them to feel different. A tilt of her chin, a slow drag of her fingers against his bedsheets as she adjusted her seat—casual, thoughtless. But he felt it everywhere.

A sharp, burning awareness licked up his spine, curled low in his stomach, coiled too tight between his ribs.

Kriff.

He had been alone too long. That had to be it. That was the only explanation for this. He was detoxing from indulgence, running on empty, his body mistaking proximity for interest, familiarity for temptation.

It had to be that.

Really. It had to be, because—

“I came to check on you,” T’ra eventually admitted, setting her drink aside as she cut through his thoughts. “You vanished for days. And when I find you again, you’re…” She gestured faintly to the mess around him.

Tholme smirked, trying to force levity back into his voice. “Relaxed?”

T’ra arched a brow. “Debatable.”

Tholme swallowed, dragging a hand down his face before forcing himself to lean back against his bunk, trying to create even the illusion of distance. “Alright,” he said, shaking his head. “You’ve checked. I’m alive. Mission accomplished.”

T’ra didn’t move, instead she just smiled.

Suddenly his heartbeat kicked against his ribs, but not from nerves. Not from fear. This was something heavier, something hotter, something that wrapped around him and refused to let go.

He knew tension. Thrived in it. On battlefields, in fights, in those razor-thin moments between life and death. That kind of tension, he could handle.

But this?

This wasn’t the crackling edge of a duel or the slow, inevitable pull of anger. This was different.

He licked his lips, looking at his feet, voice rough when he finally spoke. “You’re staring.”

T’ra’s lips quirked. Her gaze didn’t waver, didn’t drop in embarrassment, didn’t shift away like she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t.

Instead, she tilted her head. “Observing,” she corrected smoothly.

Tholme let out a slow breath, shaking his head, trying—failing—to ignore the heat curling under his skin. “Right. And what exactly are you observing, Master Saa?”

Her eyes flickered with something—amusement, challenge, something he didn’t have the patience to decipher right now.

“You.”

Right. Of course.

His stomach tightened as he ran a hand through his hair, trying to keep his expression level. “Should I be concerned?”

T’ra hummed, thoughtful. “Perhaps.”

Tholme narrowed his eyes slightly, watching her carefully, but T’ra’s expression remained perfectly composed. Too composed. Like she knew exactly what she was doing—except she wasn’t doing anything.

Or maybe she was.

And that was the problem.

His brain felt like it was playing catch-up, trying to decide if there was something in her tone, in the deliberate way she had said perhaps, or if he was just losing his mind. He was used to reading people, used to picking apart intentions, and yet, when it came to her, he had nothing.

Nothing except the unsettling, relentless awareness of how close she was.

T’ra reached for her drink, long fingers curling around the bottle, and Tholme should not have been watching the way her lips touched the rim. But stars help him, he was.

She took a slow sip—so slow it felt intentional, the movement smooth, unrushed. Her lips parted just enough to catch against the glass, the tilt of the bottle steady, the soft shift of liquid barely audible over the blood pounding in his ears.

And then—then—her tongue flicked out, just briefly, just instinctively, chasing a stray drop of fizz before it could escape.

Heat slammed through him, sharp and immediate. He was suddenly too aware of everything—the way her throat moved as she swallowed, the flex of her fingers around the glass, the flicker of her gaze beneath her lashes—quick, fleeting, but kriffing hell, it was enough.

Something low in his stomach twisted, tight and hot, damning in a way he didn’t have the presence of mind to suppress. He willed himself to look away—too late.

The damage was done.

Oblivious to whatever was going on inside of Tholme’s mind, T’ra exhaled, snapping him back into the moment. “I can’t say I expected to find you like this,” she said, her voice as even as ever, but there was something there, something he couldn’t pin down. “I had assumed you’d be spending your time off more… productively.”

“What could possibly be more productive than the deep contemplation of terrible holo series and pet sitting?”

Her lips twitched again, but the look in her eyes—that—was what caught him off guard. The warmth of it. The ease. Like she was entertained by him, but also pleased. And suddenly, he didn’t know if she was teasing him or indulging him. Or both.

He forced himself to smirk, to sit down in a way he hoped looked casual. “What’s wrong, T’ra? Did you miss me?”

The words were meant to be light-hearted, a play off her earlier jab, but the second they left his mouth, he regretted them. Because instead of rolling her eyes or throwing back some dry remark, T’ra just… looked at him.

Her eyes traced over him in a way that felt too deliberate, too focused, lingering just long enough to make his pulse quicken.

Then her lips parted slightly, like she was about to answer, and for a moment—a single, excruciating moment—he thought she would.

Instead, she hesitated.

Then exhaled softly, reaching for the bottle again, her fingers curling around the glass. “I’ve been spending too much time with you,” she murmured, tilting the bottle just enough to take a slow sip.

And Tholme—Jedi, warrior, man who had survived years under Torwyn, man who should know better—felt something in his chest clench.

Because he couldn’t tell if that was a compliment or a complaint. He even wasn’t sure which one he wanted it to be.

With that the door slid open without so much as a knock, and Drallig stepped inside like he owned the place—because, technically, he did. His gaze swept the room, taking in the scene before him—the dim lighting, the still-running holo, T’ra comfortably settled with a drink in hand, and Tholme looking vaguely like he was debating throwing himself out the nearest window.

“Well. This is unexpected.”

Tholme sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “What do you want now?”

Drallig snorted, making his way toward his own bunk, stretching his arms above his head. “I don’t know, you look suspiciously alive for someone who spent the last week playing dead.” He glanced around, taking in the dim lighting, the still-running holo, and the general mess. His gaze landed on the nightstand.

On the pile of crumpled wipes.

And that was when the grin started forming.

Tholme saw it too late.

“Oh,” Drallig said, crossing his arms. “I see you’ve been keeping yourself very busy in my absence.”

“It was from a—”

“Wow,” Drallig said, letting out a low whistle. “That bad, huh?” His eyes flicked back to Tholme, gleaming with far too much satisfaction. “Didn’t think solitude would hit you quite this hard.”

“—it was from a fizz bottle.”

But Drallig wasn’t done. No, he was having too much fun. He turned to T’ra, the absolute audacity in his expression. “Master Saa, I have to say—you’re a better Jedi than me.” He gestured broadly to the mess. “Because I would’ve turned around and left.”

“Cin—”

“Oh, no, please,” Drallig continued, barely containing his glee. “Don’t let me interrupt whatever emotional crisis led to this level of…” he glanced back at the tissues, then at Tholme, eyes glinting. “...sticky self-reflection.”

Tholme was going to kill him. Right here. Right now. Jedi Code be damned.

But before he could sputter out another defence, before he could end this, T’ra—calm, composed, unreadable as ever—spoke. “I don’t understand.”

Her voice was the picture of serene curiosity, her gaze turning to Drallig with polite expectation, as if genuinely awaiting enlightenment.

Silence.

Drallig, mid-smirk, suddenly faltered. His mouth opened, then shut.

Tholme almost pitied him. Almost.

Drallig’s eyes darted between them, suspicion flickering in his expression. “I mean… obviously, I was referring to—” He gestured vaguely at the wipes, but the words stumbled over themselves before fully forming. “You know. That.”

T’ra blinked once. Slowly. “I don’t.”

Drallig shifted his weight, suddenly looking far less sure of himself. “You’re—wait, you really don’t?”

T’ra tilted her head, brows knitting together in what could only be described as delicate, perfectly measured confusion. “Should I?”

Drallig’s mouth opened. Then closed.

Then opened again.

And Tholme? He just watched it all unfold, because Drallig never struggled for words. Never hesitated. And yet, here he was, visibly floundering beneath T’ra’s calm, inquisitive, absolutely unforgiving gaze.

And then it hit him.

She was playing him.

She knew exactly what Drallig meant, and she was dragging it out on purpose.

Tholme had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

Drallig rubbed a hand over his face, reevaluating everything before muttering, “You know what? Never mind.”

T’ra gave the smallest, most imperceptible nod of acknowledgment before returning her gaze to Tholme as if nothing had happened. “As I was saying,” she continued smoothly, “you’ve been absent.”

Tholme could not believe what had just happened.

Drallig, still visibly thrown, muttered something about getting a drink and practically fled the room.

And as the door slid shut behind him, Tholme turned to T’ra, narrowing his eyes slightly. “…You did that on purpose.”

T’ra didn’t even blink. “Did what?”

Tholme held her stare, something coiling tight in his chest. Her expression was perfectly neutral—calm, unreadable. But he knew better. Knew her better. And if there was one thing he’d learned over the last month, it was that T’ra Saa didn’t do anything by accident.

“So that’s how it is,” he murmured.

T’ra merely blinked at him, expression the picture of innocence. “How what is?”

Tholme exhaled, shaking his head with a mix of amusement and resignation.  T’ra didn’t flinch, didn’t so much as react. But then—just barely—her lips twitched.

And that—that tiny, fleeting movement—was victory enough.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Tholme stepped into the refresher, exhausted. His body ached, old bruises still blooming across his ribs, his arms—some from sparring, some from… other things. Training accidents. That’s what he called them. That’s what he had to call them. Although he had spent the week away from Torwyn, he still had the reminders of him plastered to his body that struggled to fade.

He exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders as he peeled off his tunic. The bruises pulled, sore and stiff. He tried not to look at them too long. They weren’t worth thinking about.

And then, behind him, the refresher door creaked open.

“Oh, kriff—” Eeth Koth froze mid-step, staring at him like he’d just walked in on a crime scene. His eyes widened. “What the hell happened to you?”

Ah. Right. That.

Tholme blinked once, glancing down. Ok, maybe the did look bad. The deep purples had gone sickly yellow at the edges, like ink bleeding through skin. Some of them stretched too far across his ribs, lining up in ways that didn’t quite match normal sparring injuries.

He forced a smirk, reaching for a fresh tunic. “Training accident.”

Eeth squinted. "Did the training accident have a name?"

"Not one you’d know,” he replied, throwing a look that he hoped was reassuring over his shoulder.

Eeth crossed his arms, unconvinced, but before he could say anything else—the shower stall behind them opened.

Mavra stepped out, dark hair damp, skin still dewy from the steam, entirely unmoved by the fact that Tholme was in the process of getting changed. It was almost as though she’d seen it all before.

Yeah, no. Tholme wasn’t going to think about that. That memory was buried in the mental equivalent of a triple-locked box, sunk to the bottom of a very deep lake. And he wasn’t about to go fishing.

As though she was also remembering that horrifying sequence of events, she smirked as she passed, slinging her towel over her shoulder, her dark eyes flicking up—slowly, the kind of gaze that promised trouble and knew it. Her smirk deepened, a quiet, private thing meant just for him, lingering a fraction too long—lazy, playful, flirty in a way that meant everything once, but nothing now.

"Nice work today, Tholme," she mused. "You looked good out there."

"Yeah, I get that a lot," Tholme said automatically, shooting her an easy smirk as he finally glanced up from his bag. His eyes flicked over her too—quick, instinctive, a habit more than anything—before returning to his search, like he hadn't just casually thrown out a line meant to land.

Mavra chuckled, a soft, throaty sound. It wasn’t flirty, not really—just easy, familiar, the kind of laugh that left things unfinished on purpose. And as she disappeared through the doorway, Tholme turned back to Eeth, opening his mouth to say something—probably a warning, probably a joke— only to stop short.

Eeth hadn’t moved.

The kid was still standing there, stock-still, eyes locked on the spot where Mavra had just been, staring like he’d just glimpsed the face of the Force itself. His expression was a mixture of awe, confusion, and something perilously close to revelation.

His cheeks? Bright red.

Eeth swallowed, still staring at the doorway like sheer willpower alone could manifest Mavra back into existence. Then, with the careful deliberation of someone processing a life-altering event, he finally turned to Tholme. “…Do you think she would spar with me?”

Tholme snorted, shaking his head. "If you want to get your ass handed to you? Be my guest."

Eeth nodded furiously. "Okay, cool, yeah, okay, that’s what I thought."

There was another beat of silence.

Then—Eeth’s ears flared an even deeper shade of red.

His fingers twitched against the edge of his tunic, gripping the fabric like it was the only thing keeping him tethered. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, shoulders squaring, then second-guessing, then squaring again.

Finally—he looked up, like he was trying to convince himself that whatever he was about to say was a perfectly rational, mature thought, “I know you… sometimes… do things with her. That must be… uh, fun.”

Tholme stared at him. Not in shock. Not in judgment. Just... processing.

Because he knew exactly what this was.

The awkward shifting, the stammering, the too-long pause between thought and speech. The wide-eyed reverence, the misplaced awe.

He had seen this before—had felt this before.

And Force help him, he knew where it led.

Little Koth, the poor, unfortunate child, was about to embark on the single most embarrassing period of his young life.

Tholme pulled his tunic on as he shook his head, exhaling through his nose, before finally glancing back at Eeth, expression caught somewhere between pity and amusement.

"Eeth, I say this as someone who cares—don’t do this to yourself."

Eeth’s frown deepened. His arms crossed, his jaw set, clearly bracing himself for whatever wisdom he thought Tholme was about to drop. "You don’t even know what I was going to say."

Tholme clicked his tongue, zipping his pack shut with an air of finality. "Yeah. I do."

Eeth grumbled, one hand rubbing the back of his head, the other fidgeting at his side like his own thoughts were too much to handle. "Look, I just—I mean, it’s normal, right? To… think about things?" His fingers twitched, his voice dropping like he was confessing to a crime. "Because I know you do it—"

Tholme turned slowly, like he was already regretting entertaining this conversation. "I’m going to give you one piece of wisdom, alright?" He tilted his head slightly. "Whatever you’re thinking about right now? Don’t let Drallig hear you say it."

Eeth, still visibly dying of embarrassment, muttered under his breath, “I mean, if you think she’s pretty, then she must be, right?”

"You think she’s pretty, and now you’re looking to me for validation. This is a dark road, Eeth, and I won’t be responsible for leading you down it,” Tholme replied, heading over to the sink to wet his hair.

Eeth was right behind him, rubbing his face like the weight of the galaxy rested squarely on his tiny, barely-pubescent shoulders. “Tholme,” he whined, exasperated, “I have no one else to talk to. You’ve got to have some mercy on me. My Master never talks about things, and Drallig—Drallig just keeps laughing at me.”

Tholme exhaled slowly, but not unkindly.

He could handle assassins. He could handle diplomacy. He could even handle Torwyn, most of the time.

But this? This was a nightmare.

Tholme dragged both hands down his face, as if physically trying to wipe this conversation from existence. "Okay," he muttered, voice flat. "First of all, never use the words ‘have mercy on me’ in a conversation like this ever again."

Eeth groaned, throwing his hands up like this was somehow Tholme’s fault. "Come on."

"Second of all," Tholme continued, "why, in the name of the Force, would you come to me for this? I still have one more day of my sabbatical. My brain has been left in my quarters. I’m running on air."

Eeth huffed, clearly trying to gather his pride back into one piece. He scratched at his arm, staring at the floor like it might give him the courage to say what he was thinking. “…Mavra’s pretty.”

Tholme didn’t even blink. “Yeah, I know.”

Eeth perked up slightly, but before he could get another word in, Tholme turned off the tap. "But Mavra isn’t just pretty," he continued, levelling him with a look. "Mavra is great. She’s a good friend, a damn good fighter, and—" he exhaled, shaking his head. "We’re Jedi, Eeth. She’s the kind of girl you get addicted to.”

Eeth frowned. “That… doesn’t sound like a bad thing?”

“Oh, but it is.” Tholme clapped a hand on his shoulder. "She’ll smile at you, play with your hair, convince you to sneak out in the middle of the night just to see if you can steal a speeder. And before you know it, you’re standing in front of Master Yoda, covered in oil and regret, trying to explain why."

Eeth blinked. “That sounds oddly specific.”

Tholme sighed. "Yeah. Because it is. I’ve done it. Because of her."

For a second, Eeth looked like he was actually considering that outcome. Like the image of Mavra dragging him into complete disaster was something he wasn’t completely opposed to.

Tholme gave him a firm shake. “You’re thirteen. She’s seventeen.” He lowered his voice slightly, keeping it gentle but firmly crushing whatever daydream Eeth was spiralling into. “It’s never going to happen.”

Eeth slumped. Visibly.

"But—"

"Nope. You’ll thank me in a few years when your frontal lobe fully develops."

Eeth, clearly unimpressed with Tholme’s wisdom, grumbled something about Jedi repression and emotional wisdom.

Tholme only snorted, because thirteen and seventeen would never happen.

But eighteen and—

Tholme shoved the thought down violently, like it was an enemy he could take out with sheer willpower.

T’ra is a Neti, he reminded himself. It’s different. It’s not the same.

And yet—his stomach twisted.

It should be different. That’s what he told himself. That’s what made it reasonable. Not strange. Not inappropriate. Not something that made his skin prickle with a guilt he couldn’t place.

But if it was different, if it didn’t matter—why the hell was he suddenly overthinking the number twenty like it was a goddamn death sentence?

And worse still, Eeth was still talking.

Somewhere, through the static in his head, he caught fragments. His name. Something about age. The vague, insistent hum of a question that Tholme was absolutely not listening to.

He blinked. Right. Eeth was still here. Still looking at him. Still expecting an answer.

Focus, idiot.

Tholme shook himself, dragging himself out of his thoughts just in time to hear—

“You’re the only one who doesn’t treat me like a kid,” Eeth grumbled dramatically. “And also, you—you know things.”

Tholme squinted. “That’s… vaguely accusatory.”

“I mean—you do, right?” Shit. And now Eeth was looking at him like he’d personally cracked open the Jedi archives and absorbed all of its hidden knowledge. “You’ve—you’ve, you know.”

A long, painful silence ensued, and Tholme stared. Waited.

Eeth stared back. Then, all at once, his face darkened several shades of red. He suddenly seemed deeply, profoundly unprepared to finish this conversation.

“You’ve really thought this through, huh?”

Eeth floundered. “I just—I mean, you’re you. Everyone knows you—” He cut himself off so fast it was like he’d slammed into a durasteel wall.

Tholme arched a slow, amused brow. “Everyone knows I what, Eeth?”

Eeth visibly panicked. “Nothing. Forget it.” He waved his hands frantically, like he could physically erase his own words from existence. “This was a bad idea, I should’ve asked someone else—”

Tholme sighed, relenting just a little. “Alright, no. Just stop, breath. What do you actually want to know, and I’ll decide if I want to answer it. How about that?”

Eeth inhaled. His shoulders squared. He nodded to himself, clearly psyching himself up for something big.

Then, in a single breath, he blurted, “How old were you when you first kissed someone? Like, properly kissed. Not just... forehead duty-of-care Jedi crap.”

His brain stalled, trying to process the sheer audacity of the question.

Eeth, now visibly sweating, barrelled forward anyway, probably before he could register his own shame. “I just—look, I don’t know any girls. I mean, I know girls, obviously, I train with them, but I don’t know them, and—and what if I’m already behind?”

Tholme just stared.

And Eeth? Oh, he just forged ahead, utterly doomed. “Like, when did you kiss a girl? How old were you? Because Drallig—” He cut himself off, looking pained, before dragging a hand through his hair. “I mean, I asked him, and he just laughed at me and told me he came out of the womb with experience, which is not helpful by the way, and I—I need data, Tholme. I need a baseline.”

Yeah, that took some processing.

And for a moment? Well. Tholme had nothing to say.

Then, he sighed. “Right, Eeth, first of all, never listen to Drallig,” Tholme said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “That man was born overconfident and underqualified. He’s been with exactly one girl, and she did it out of pity.”

Eeth’s face twisted in horror. “What? No, he—”

Tholme lifted a brow. “Eeth. I was there. Worst night of my life. Ear plugs did nothing to salvage my sanity. Trust me.”

Eeth shut his mouth so fast it was a miracle he didn’t bite his own tongue.

“And second—why are you acting like there’s some kind of deadline? You’re fine.”

Eeth huffed, frowning at the floor. “You say that, but what if I die in battle before I even get to kiss a girl?”

Tholme opened his mouth. Then frowned.

Because wow. That got existential fast.

“Look,” he said, voice dry but mostly patient, “if it’s meant to happen, it’ll happen. Will of the Force and all that.”

Eeth squinted. “That’s it? That’s your wisdom?”

Tholme shrugged. “You wanted Jedi advice, that’s Jedi advice.”

Tholme patted his shoulder again, the same way one might pat a traumatised tooka after the post was delivered unexpectedly. “If it still doesn’t make sense tomorrow, do some push-ups. If it really doesn’t make sense, do some more.” He turned, making his way toward the door. “And if it still doesn’t make sense after that—”

Eeth perked up. “Yeah?”

Tholme glanced back. “We’ll talk about it when you grow a beard.”

"Tholme! I’m a Zabrak! That could take decades!"

Tholme grinned. “Fine. Find me on Centaxday.”

With that, he stepped out of the room—and crashed directly into Master T’ra Saa.

He barely had time to react before he felt the solid, steady presence of her standing in front of him, completely unmoved. The impact wasn’t hard—just a brush of movement, the press of fabric, the brief, grounding scent of lilies and something faintly green, like sun-warmed leaves.

Tholme blinked, head snapping up—T’ra was already watching him.

Not just watching—waiting.

Her gaze was soft, the weight of it settling over him like she had heard everything and had decided, in her infinite wisdom, to let him wither under the crushing force of his own embarrassment.

Then, with a slow tilt of her head, she raised a single, elegant brow. And smiled. She studied him, gaze steady, searching, like she was looking at him and seeing something new. Something she hadn’t quite considered before.

Then, finally—quietly—she spoke. “…You care about him.”

Not a question. A statement. A simple truth laid bare.

Tholme huffed, running a hand through his still-damp hair. “I feel like I just put off a conversation that’s definitely going to get worse later.”

T’ra’s expression didn’t change. “He looks up to you.”

Tholme exhaled sharply, already shaking his head, already gearing up to deny it.

But she didn’t stop. “The way he mirrors your stance? The way he watches your hands when you talk? He listens to you, Tholme—more than you think. More than you want to believe.”

Something twisted in his chest. A dull, sinking feeling. He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “That’s not a good thing. I’m not really a role model.”

Her gaze softened, but there was a weight behind it—one he didn’t like, because it meant she was about to make a point he couldn’t argue with. “You’ve just decided you can never be one,” she said simply.

He gritted his teeth. “I—”

She tilted her chin, voice as calm as ever. “Role models aren’t perfect, Tholme.”

Then, after a beat—so soft it almost sounded like an afterthought—she added, “Even a broken compass still points north.”

Tholme blinked. His first instinct was to scoff, to roll his eyes, to push back with something sharp and deflective. But the words stuck. Hung in the air like a lesson he didn’t ask for.

And damn her, she knew it.

But Eeth?

The kid deserved better.

And for a while, Tholme was too busy being an idiot to notice the shift.

His brain, the traitorous bastard that it was, decided to focus on all the wrong things. The steady rhythm of her steps beside his own. The way the dim corridor lights cast long shadows against the smooth lines of her robes. The way she moved—like she belonged to the space she occupied, like nothing in the world could make her waver.

It was stupid. He was stupid.

He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair, forcing his gaze forward, willing himself to think about literally anything else.

And that was when he finally noticed the silence.

Not the normal kind—the easy quiet of dawn, the hush of a temple at rest. No, this was different.

Not empty. Just… wrong.

It was a kind of quiet that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up, that slithered into his ribs and made them feel tight. It was the kind of quiet that made him suddenly, viscerally aware of how alone they were in this hallway.

His fingers twitched at his sides. The air felt too still. His breath slowed, coiled tight in his ribs, like the universe had just held its breath too.

What the hell was this?

And maybe it was just him. Maybe it was the exhaustion curling deep in his ribs, pressing against his lungs, knowing tomorrow he would be back with Torwyn. Maybe it was the lingering tension from his conversation with Eeth, from the fact that T’ra, with her unwavering patience and quiet understanding, had seen right through him—in his underwear—and he had spent the evening standing in a shower that was so cold, Drallig had asked him if he was putting in a transfer to Hoth.

Maybe it was just another long day. But the hair on the back of his neck stood on end, telling him that wasn’t the case.

He resisted the urge to glance over his shoulder.

Don’t be ridiculous.

T’ra, as always, noticed.

She didn’t stop walking, didn’t stiffen or tense—she just tilted her head slightly. “Something’s wrong.”

Tholme exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face, like he could scrub away whatever the hell had just crawled under his skin. His pulse was too fast. His ribs too tight. His fingers flexed at his sides, restless energy prickling in his hands like they didn’t know what to do with themselves.

Her voice wasn’t sharp, wasn’t prying—but it left no room for avoidance. It landed softly, like the weight of her gaze alone was already stripping him bare. “Are you alright?”

Tholme clenched his jaw, forcing out a slow breath. What was he supposed to say? That his own damn shadow was following him? That for a split second, he had felt something in the air, like a ghost curling cold fingers around his ribs? That he wasn’t sure if he was imagining it—or if that would be worse?

His hand twitched at his side, fingers curling slightly into a loose fist. Breathe.

He forced himself to roll his shoulders, to shake out the tension in his fingers—too deliberate, too forced—before finally answering, his voice quieter than it should have been.

“No.” He inhaled, steadier this time. A lie. “Just—we’re fine.”

Then—a shift.

A flicker of movement.

Tholme’s body went rigid.

He barely saw it—just a shape, a flicker of motion at the edge of his vision, a shadow shifting in the dim light just around the next turn.

His fingers twitched at his side. His breath hitched.

He knew that kind of movement. Knew that kind of presence.

Except, by the time he had blinked—it was gone.

Nothing but the empty hallway ahead.

“Tholme?”

T’ra’s voice was even, but there was something beneath it. Concern, because he realised then that he had stopped walking.

He forced himself to exhale. Forced his fingers to relax. Forced himself to move.

“I thought I saw something,” he muttered.

T’ra glanced down the hall, as calm as ever. “There’s nothing there.”

But there had been. He knew there had. What was he supposed to say?

So instead, he just forced a smirk, rolling his shoulders. “I think I’m losing my mind.”

T’ra gave him a long, steady look. Then, to his absolute horror, she smiled. “Not yet,” she said. “Not if you’re still asking the question.”

That should have been comforting. It wasn’t. Because he wasn’t asking the question. He already knew the answer.

And yet, as they stepped into the glow of the canteen, as the weight of normalcy settled over them, the feeling didn’t leave.

The shadow was still there.

Even if he couldn’t see it.

**

Tholme didn’t sleep right away.

He’d gone back to his quarters, dropped onto the floor with the vague intention of doing something—pushups, sit-ups, a kata run, anything to keep his brain from slipping down the same old drain. The room was quiet except for the soft thud of his palms hitting the mat, his breath loud in the silence.

Eventually, he reached for his water bottle—and it was empty.

His breath caught. Chest rising once, then again, sharper than before.

It wasn’t a big deal. The refresher was right there. A fresh bottle sat on the desk, maybe three meters away.

But his throat was already dry. His skin felt too tight. His hands were suddenly cold.

No shade. Just the desert. Just the heat. Just him. And one bottle.

He’d been fifteen. Still growing into his limbs. Still desperate to prove himself.

The mission had gone sideways—ambush, blaster fire, too many bodies, not enough cover. Torwyn had gone down hard, shoulder hit, pinned beneath wreckage and fire. And Tholme—without thinking, without planning—had run straight into it. Dragged him out. Shielded him with his own body. Saved his life.

And Torwyn had looked at him like he’d committed a war crime.

He didn’t yell. Didn’t hit him. Didn’t even speak on the flight back. He just left him, in the middle of a desert. Two suns. One bottle of water. No coordinates. No comm. No time frame.

“You should’ve let me die,” Torwyn said quietly. “If you want to act like him, you’d better learn how that story ends.”

Then he was gone.

Tholme had waited. One day. Two. Three. Long enough to drink the last of the water even though he had tried so hard to ration it.

And eventually, a family had found him. Traders, maybe. Locals. All he could remember was the half-broken speeder and too many kids. The woman handed him a flask and didn’t ask questions. She just hauled him aboard and told him to sit, right after he’d desperately guzzled the water and puked like he had the liquid to spare.

They took him to a settlement—stone houses, sand-scoured walls, heat clinging to every breath. Someone gave him scraps of food. Someone else gave him a place to sleep.

And for a few days, he stayed. He didn’t meditate. Didn’t reach out to the Force. He just existed. He helped to fix a vaporator, played doctors with a carved toy and child who didn’t even know what a Jedi was.

And for a while, he let himself wonder what it would be like to stay.

But on the fourth morning, Torwyn returned.

He said nothing, just stood at the edge of the village, waiting.

And of course, Tholme climbed into the speeder, and didn’t speak a word the whole way back.

He never reached for the last bottle again.

Which was why he was still staring at the liquid across the room, pulse hammering like it was a hundred miles away.

And then—because the Force had a terrible sense of humour—Drallig walked in.

“Okay,” he announced, already fuming. “What the hell did you say to Eeth?”

Tholme didn’t move.

Drallig halted in the doorway, momentum stuttering just slightly. “Because he just spent twenty minutes trying to comfort me in the sparring hall. Called me ‘brave for trying.’ Like I survived a war.”

Still nothing.

Drallig blinked. Something shifted. The frown deepened. “Tholme.”

At that, Tholme inhaled—shaky, shallow—and blinked like he’d just remembered how.

Drallig’s eyes narrowed, his concern shifting through the Force. “Are you okay?”

There was a pause. Then Tholme, without looking up, muttered, “No.”

It wasn’t loud. Wasn’t dramatic. Just tired. Quiet. Honest in a way that felt unfamiliar in his own mouth.

And shit, he shouldn’t have said that.

Drallig froze for a second too long. “Is this about—”

Tholme looked up—too fast, like it burned—and his voice, when it came, was bone-dry. “Hey, quick question.”

Drallig blinked. “...what?”

“Do you remember five months ago? Late night. One Jedi Knight. Very impressed by your... technique?”

Drallig, the cocky bastard, only smirked.  “I’ve impressed a lot of Jedi in my time—especially with my lightsaber.”

Tholme snorted. “Yeah? Well, not me.”

It took a second, but Drallig stared, processing—then immediately blanched. “Wait—late night—you were awake?”

“Oh, fully,” Tholme said, the grin blooming, slow and mean. “It was a spiritual experienc. I reached a higher plane of discomfort.”

Drallig didn’t miss a beat. “You’re welcome. Enlightenment often has a cost.”

“You gave her a bow, Drallig. You don’t get to talk about enlightenment.”

 “She said I was graceful.” Drallig scoffed.

“She said you were competent,” Tholme corrected, going back to his pushups. “That’s not the same thing.”

Drallig flopped onto the bed dramatically, the bed springs groaning. “Is that why Eeth laughed at me today?”

“I didn’t tell him anything specific,” Tholme said, all fake innocence. “I just told him some things are best learned through failure.”

Drallig groaned. “He asked me if celibacy makes lightsaber forms cleaner.” He paused. Then, without missing a beat, he added, “Which makes sense. Explains why yours are shit.”

Tholme let out a harsh laugh. “Please. You panicked when she touched your braid and said ‘I need a second.’ That second? Was all you had.”

Drallig just stared at him. Open-mouthed. Speechless.

Tholme looked up, expression mild. “Exactly.”

“This the part where you act superior?” Drallig mused. “Or do we wait for Marah to bring you lunch again?”

He scoffed. “It was a good lunch.”

There was a beat. The smug curled just a little too hard at the edges. Then his gaze drifted—past Drallig, past the bunk, back to the bottle across the room.

Still full. Still out of reach.

His throat tightened. He hadn’t moved. Nor would he.

And just like that, the joke was over.

Chapter Text

Tholme’s first day back felt… wrong.

Not in a way he could name. Not in a way anyone else seemed to notice. The temple was the same as ever—quiet steps in quiet hallways, the low murmur of conversation, the distant hum of sparring sabers. Nothing had changed exactly.

But the moment he stepped inside, something coiled tight in his chest. A presence. A weight pressing against the back of his skull.

Not real, he told himself. Not real.

But he knew better.

He had spent the last few days doing nothing, and yet somehow, walking back through these doors, he felt heavier. Like something had settled over him, something he couldn’t shake, no matter how much he told himself this was fine. That everything was fine.

He had taken Torwyn’s advice, hadn’t he? Had done exactly as he was told. Taken time for himself. And yet, as he moved through the halls, watching Jedi nodding in polite acknowledgment, he could feel it. The quiet eyes, the subtle shifts in posture when he passed.

They were still talking about him.

Tholme should have expected it. After everything, how could he not?

He let out a slow breath, raking a hand through his hair before stepping into the briefing room.

And there he was, the bastard himself.

Torwyn sat at the far end of the long table, relaxed in his chair, fingers tapping idly against the polished wood. His gaze flicked up the moment Tholme entered, and for a brief, unsettling second, his expression gave away nothing.

Then, a stomach curdling smile—as though he was happy to see him. “You’re looking well-rested, Tholme.”

Something cold slithered into his chest, but he forced his expression into neutrality, taking the chair opposite as though this was just another duel. "That was the idea, Master."

Torwyn hummed, nodding as if deeply satisfied. “You look like someone who got what they wanted. Or at least what they needed.”

There was nothing outwardly wrong with his tone. No bite, no edge. Just... friendly. Casual. Too casual.

Tholme didn’t react, just reached for the datapad in front of him, pretending to scan its contents. “What exactly do you think I needed, Master?”

“A lie. One to appease your fantasises. One to assure that you will always come back,” he spoke. Quiet. Sincere. Like a father praising loyalty. “Because what she offers? It’s just nails down your back. Or a hand around your throat.”

His smile tilted, slow and fond and cruel. “I hope she knows not to speak when you flinch after.”

Tholme didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

The words hit like a blaster bolt to the chest—no warning, no sound, just the searing realisation of contact.

How the kriff did he know that?

It wasn’t general. It wasn’t one of those vague “oh, everyone likes a bit of rough” assumptions you could brush off. This wasn’t guesswork. This was recorded. Memorised. Played back with surgical precision.

And worst of all?

It was right. But how would he know unless—

…there was that one night.

A laugh, a breath, skin still buzzing from someone else’s hands. She’d left the room for a second—refreshers, or drinks, he couldn’t remember—and he’d stood by the window. Shirtless. Smirking at his own reflection. Half-draped in the curtain, like an idiot in a romance holodrama.

And he’d flipped someone off.

He didn’t know why. Just instinct—some flicker of tension, the sense of being watched. A shadow, maybe. A glint across the way. Just a joke. One of those “haha, spy on this” moments when you’re seventeen and think you’re the smartest bastard alive.

He’d even laughed.

The next morning, Torwyn kicked his door in.

Said nothing. Just dragged him out by the wrist. Half-dressed. Still asleep.

He’d never made the connection. Not really. Not until now.

Not even when Torwyn had repeated something back to him—word for word—something she had whispered against his neck that night. Something no one else had heard.

Something like "You like it when I bite.”

Tholme’s pulse kicked hard, a sick thud beneath his skin. His throat worked around a breath that tasted wrong.

Then, evenly—too evenly, he uttered, "I spent the week at a friend’s place.”

"A friend," Torwyn repeated, drawing out the word just enough to make it sound like something else entirely. "Must have been a very accommodating friend. You barely left."

The air in the room shifted.

Tholme’s stomach curled tight.

Not a question. Not an accusation. Just another statement.

His fingers curled slightly against the table. Torwyn couldn’t know anything. He couldn’t.

But how had he phrased that? You barely left.

His pulse gave a single, sharp thud.

Was it a guess? A test? Did Torwyn know where he had been, or was he just finally losing his kriffing mind—

No, the smile on Torwyn’s face was easy. Almost affectionate.

"You know," he continued smoothly, reaching for the cup of tea beside him, “At your age,” he said, casually lifting his tea, “a little indulgence is practically expected. We Masters have to learn when to turn a blind eye—after all, we were once your age.” He took a sip, pausing just long enough to let the words settle. "But I trust you kept yourself reasonably discreet? You do have… a particular fondness for the daughters of public figures."

Tholme exhaled sharply, tilting his head just enough to give Torwyn a flat look. "Is that a question, or are you just hoping for details?"

Torwyn’s smirk widened just slightly, the picture of amusement. He tapped a finger idly against the tabletop, voice smooth as ever. "Now, Tholme, if I wanted details, I’d hardly need to ask."

There was a pause—brief, careful. Then, as if it were nothing, as if it were casual conversation, he added, "I already have a rather good idea of where you spent your time."

Tholme’s grip on the datapad tightened, the sharp edge pressing against his palm. His voice was low, clipped as he exhaled through his nose. “Then maybe you should enlighten me, Master, I’d love to hear what you think you know.”

Torwyn chuckled, shaking his head. "Ah, to be young." He sighed, stretching back slightly. "You should enjoy yourself—while you can."

The words were light. Almost playful. But Tholme felt them like a weight settling against his ribs.

While you can.

"And yet," Torwyn mused, voice softer now, thoughtful, "you seem awfully tense for someone who had such a relaxing week."

Fuck, Tholme hated him.

Every word, every glance, every pause—it was deliberate. Torwyn was always five steps ahead, always knowing. And maybe—maybe Tholme was imagining things, coming off a week of solitude, wound too tight and seeing ghosts where there were none.

Except the way Torwyn looked at him wasn’t curiosity. It was certainty.

Like he was waiting.

Tholme’s chest tightened. He exhaled, forcing the tension out of his jaw. No. He wasn’t insane. He wasn’t.

But for the first time in years, he wasn’t sure.

Instead, he let out a slow breath, shaking his head with just the right amount of exasperated amusement. "I wasn’t exactly running wild, Master."

Torwyn exhaled, as if coming to some great decision, and slid a datapad across the table. "Well, since you’ve had time to clear your head, I expect your focus to be sharper than ever."

The datapad landed in front of him with a soft slide, coming to a stop just before his fingers. The movement was too precise. Not thrown. Not carelessly placed. Offered. An invitation wrapped in inevitability.

Tholme hesitated. His skin prickled. His gut told him not to look.

But he looked, anyway. And there on the screen he saw: Rokan Vey, Former Padawan of Master Torwyn.

…what?

The question barely formed before something else settled in his ribs. The name meant nothing. But the Force flinched.

Like it remembered something he didn’t.

The mission—classified. No details, no context. Just a single, undisputed truth.

KIA.

A neatly packaged ending, clinical in its efficiency, yet the Force stirred uneasily beneath his skin. He shifted, fingers flexing against the edge of the datapad as if the weight of it alone might reveal something more. But there was nothing. No attachment, no connection—only that quiet, whispering wrongness.

And then—Torwyn exhaled.

Not a word. Just a pause. As if testing something, as if waiting to see if Tholme would feel it too.

His spine prickled.

He didn’t look up. He didn’t give Torwyn the satisfaction. But his fingers curled just slightly, just enough that he could ground himself in the reality of the moment, because whatever this was—he wasn’t imagining it.

Something didn’t add up.

“I didn’t know you had any other Padawans,” he said carefully, testing the words in his mouth. “Just me.”

Torwyn hummed, a quiet, thoughtful sound. “You were always so singular in your thinking.” He exhaled, like a man reminiscing over something long buried. “No, Tholme, you were not the first.”

A pit yawned open in his stomach.

The datapad sat heavy in his hands.

He had never heard Rokan’s name before. No whispers, no records, nothing in the temple halls. It was like he had never existed.

A quiet chill settled over him. “What happened to him?”

Torwyn stilled. Just for a moment.

Not a real pause. Not hesitation. A calculation.

His fingers tapped against the table once—twice—three times in slow succession.

“He had promise,” Torwyn said, the words almost too gentle—like a eulogy rehearsed too often. “He was brilliant, even. I had such high hopes for him.”

That should have been reassuring. It wasn’t.

Tholme’s jaw tightened. “And?”

Torwyn finally looked at him.

And there it was.

That slow, sinking feeling, the one that told him he was walking straight into something he wouldn’t be able to crawl back out of.

Then he uttered, “Ah. Now that’s the question, isn’t it?”

Tholme’s grip on the datapad turned white-knuckled. “You said he was killed in action,” he managed.

Torwyn’s lips quirked, but there was nothing kind about it. Then, softly, smoothly, he asked, “Did I?”

Cold washed over him.

This wasn’t a conversation. This was a warning.

Tholme had the sickening realisation that this was not for his benefit. Torwyn was watching him now, studying him, measuring the weight of his reaction.

The silence stretched.

Torwyn leaned back, exhaling like he was recalling something pleasant, something distant. “You remind me of him, you know.”

Tholme didn’t want to ask what he meant. He didn’t want to know. But the words clawed their way up his throat regardless. “What exactly do you mean by that?”

Torwyn smiled. Slow. Satisfied. Almost fond. Too fond.  And then—his expression shifted.

Just barely. Just enough for something dark to flicker behind his eyes, something sharp and greedy and wrong. His gaze dragged over Tholme like he was seeing past him, through him, beyond him—like he was searching for something he shouldn’t be looking for.

Like he had just seen a ghost.

There was a slow inhale. A narrowing of the eyes. Then, recognition.

Oh.

Tholme’s pulse kicked against his ribs.

Torwyn tilted his head, the movement deliberate, and something in his expression shifted again—not fondness. Not satisfaction. Something worse.

Possession.

“You remind me of him, in so many ways.”

The words landed with weight, sinking into the space between them like a hand pressing down on his chest.

Had Rokan died in battle? Or had he simply… stopped being useful? Had he been pushed too far, backed into a corner he couldn’t escape?

Had he seen this same smile before the end?

Tholme smoothed his face into something blank, something neutral, something that hid the sick twist of realisation in his gut.

He blinked once, then shifted his attention back to the table. Calm. Unbothered. He reached for the next datapad, fingers steady, skimming the text like his mind wasn’t reeling.

“Well. Thank you for the materials, Master,” he said, his voice measured, smooth. “I’ll get this work finished.”

Torwyn didn’t respond at first. He simply reached beneath the table—slowly—and set something down beside the datapad with a quiet click.

A small cage. Sleek. Secure. Inside, something scuttled—narrow frame, twitching nose, mottled fur and too-intelligent eyes. A street rodent, native to the lower districts. Skittish. Sharp. Mean when cornered.

Tholme stared.

“Consider it… responsibility,” Torwyn said mildly, folding his hands in front of him. “You’ve been entrusted with quite a lot lately. This shouldn’t be difficult.”

“You want me to—?”

“Feed it. Watch it. Learn something from it.” There was a beat. Then, “He was fond of things like this. Rokan.”

The name landed like a dropped weight, and Tholme’s stomach turned.

“He kept one?” he asked carefully.

Torwyn’s smile didn’t move. “No. He killed his.”

Tholme merely nodded, picking up the cage, before he turned towards the door.

Torwyn didn’t stop him. He didn’t call him back. But Tholme felt it—the weight of his gaze, pressing against his spine, following every step he took toward the door.

Like a hand hovering just above his shoulder.

Like breath at the back of his neck.

But as he stepped into the hallway, the air felt heavier.

And he knew—Torwyn was still watching.

**

Tholme walked fast, like he could outrun the poison coiling tight in his chest. Like he could outrun the weight settling into his ribs.

His belt suddenly felt too tight. His robes, suffocating. His hand twitched toward his belt, thumb brushing the seam. That thread again. Still out of place. Still annoying. He placed the cage in his room, clenched his hands, resisting the urge to press his knuckles into his sternum, to dig his nails into his palms, to—

His comlink beeped.

A sharp, distracting sound.

He snatched it up without thinking, barely glancing at the frequency. “Tholme.”

There was a beat. Then—Marah’s voice, light, casual. Too casual. "Hey, sweetie, are you busy?"

Tholme blinked.

Sweetie?

The word hit wrong, like a step missed on familiar ground. Marah didn’t call him that. She called him a menace, a disaster—a bastard when he deserved it. Sweetie wasn’t part of their dynamic.

His stomach twisted, the wrongness settling in his gut like a lead weight.

He exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. “Uh. That depends—how drunk are you?”

"Well," she started, still aiming for light-hearted but missing the mark entirely, "I’m at a cantina, and I just really missed you."

Then—a shift. Background noise dampened. Music faded. A lower voice. She was stepping away from someone. Pulling distance.

"Look, some idiots won’t leave me alone, and I—"

His body moved before his brain did. His muscles tensed, breath sharpening, feet already pivoting toward the exit.

“I’m on my way, Marah.”

**

The cantina was too loud, too warm, too alive. As Tholme stepped inside, he did what he always did—scanned. The habit was too deep to break. A flick of his gaze over the tables, the bar, the exits.

And then—a man at the corner of the bar turned too quickly. Like he’d just been looking at him. Tholme didn’t react—just kept walking, let the crowd swallow him. But the weight of unseen eyes pressed against the back of his neck. It didn’t leave.

Tholme ignored it. Just another drunk, another shadow among a dozen.

Still, he was easy to forget when the air smelled like spiced liquor and overcooked meat, and a cloying mix of perfume and sweat clinging to the humid press of bodies. The music was louder than it needed to be, a deep, steady thrum reverberating through the walls, crawling under his skin.

Tholme spotted Marah instantly.

She was leaning against the bar, her posture deceptively relaxed, but he saw the tension in her shoulders. The controlled grip around her glass. The flick of her gaze toward the two men lingering too close.

He didn’t hesitate.

Tholme slid into the seat beside her, smooth, easy, his arm draping over the back of her chair like it had always belonged there. The warmth of her skin was immediate, but he didn’t let himself think about it. Not now. Instead, he leaned in, lowering his voice just enough for her ears only.

"Hey, beautiful," he drawled, his lips brushing her temple—just the barest ghost of warmth. Just enough to make it believable.

Marah’s fingers found his knee, squeezing lightly before dragging up along his thigh—too slow to be necessary, too quick to mean anything. Her lips curved—effortless, familiar—and her fingers ghosted over his knee like they had muscle memory he didn’t remember teaching her.

"Took you long enough," she murmured, tilting her chin up, her breath warm against his jaw.

The men hesitated. Assessed him, and Tholme just stared back, unimpressed.

"Is there a problem here?" he asked, his voice the wrong kind of casual as he eyed them slowly, a subtle warning for them to back off.

One of them grunted, muttered something about not knowing she was taken, and slinked away. The other lingered just a fraction too long, mouth pressed in a thin, irritated line—before turning sharply on his heel, disappearing toward the back of the room.

Marah exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “Kriffing Core World men.”

Tholme smirked, lifting a brow. “Charming.”

She rolled her eyes, lifting her drink toward him in a lazy toast. “Not you. You don’t count.”

He scoffed. “I’m from Coruscant.”

She rolled her eyes, lifting her glass toward him. “Sure, but you’re also a Jedi.”

Tholme smirked. “Oh, right. Jedi. Practically a different species, aren’t we?”

Marah huffed a laugh, shaking her head. “Exactly. You all brood too much, sleep too little, and act like emotions are some kind of rare disease—am I wrong?”

Tholme arched a brow. “And you’ve met the whole Order, have you?”

She smirked, taking a slow sip. “Please, I grew up on your precious planet. Expensive schools, the Senate districts, fancy parties filled with people who talk in circles. I know your kind.”

That caught him off guard. His brows lifted slightly. “I didn’t peg you for a Core World girl.”

She shrugged, swirling the last of her drink. “Most people don’t. I don’t exactly advertise it.” Then, shooting him a pointed look, “But, buy me another round, and who knows? Maybe I’ll spill a few secrets.”

Tholme let out a short laugh, shaking his head as he lifted a hand to signal the bartender. “Alright, alright—if a drink is all it takes to learn your deep, dark past, who am I to deny you?”

But before he could even open his mouth to order, Marah cut in smoothly, turning toward the bartender with an easy flick of her wrist. “Put it on my tab, Eli. You know where to send the bill.”

Tholme hesitated, his hand still half-raised. He gave her a slow, sceptical look. “Your tab?”

Marah just smirked, settling back against the bar. “What?”

He huffed, leaning his elbow against the counter. “I just assumed you’d be running on the same ‘mysteriously broke but somehow surviving’ lifestyle I am.”

She lifted her glass, her grin widening. “I might live in a shoebox, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have resources.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. There it was again—that small flicker of something that didn’t quite add up. She didn’t dress rich, didn’t live rich, didn’t act like someone who had credits to throw around. And yet, she had a tab here in the most expensive cantina on the planet? He was pretty sure you needed a downpayment of…well, more credits than he had to even get on the waiting list.

As he settled into his seat, the bartender slid two glasses toward them, the liquid inside dark and smooth, carrying the sharp, unmistakable scent of something affluent. Tholme glanced down at it, exhaling through his nose. Of course she ordered the good stuff. Not the watered-down cantina swill he usually resigned himself to, but something aged, something that burned in the right way.

His fingers hovered over the glass for a moment, a flicker of hesitation tightening in his chest. Drinking with Marah was easy. Too easy. And maybe that was the problem. Because easy meant letting his guard down. And he already felt... off today. Something unsettled, something crawling beneath his skin that he hadn’t been able to shake since leaving Torwyn’s office.

He told himself he wasn’t avoiding the drink, but the fact that he hadn’t picked it up yet told him otherwise.

Then, across from him, Marah grabbed her own glass without hesitation, tipping it back in one smooth motion. She didn’t flinch at the burn, just licked her lips and set it down with a quiet clink, her eyes meeting his like a challenge.

Tholme let out a slow breath. His fingers curled around the glass, rolling the base between his fingertips.

He had two options.

He could sit here, let his thoughts keep circling like a starving rancor, let Torwyn’s words replay in his head over and over until he started seeing things that weren’t there.

Or—he could say kriff it, drink the damn thing, and accept that the worst-case scenario was waking up tomorrow with a headache while vomiting into Drallig’s boots.

Yeah. He could live with that.

Tholme smirked, lifting the glass in mock salute before tilting it back, the liquid burning down his throat in a way that almost felt grounding. Almost.

Then, he let his shoulders relax slightly, the tension from the day finally easing into something manageable. After a second, he leaned back against the bar, his arm still slung lazily behind Marah as he tilted his head toward her. “Are you alright?”

Marah hummed. “I’m fine. They were persistent but not stupid. If you hadn’t shown up, I would’ve handled it.”

“I know—probably with a bottle over the head, too.” Tholme exhaled through his nose, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I just didn’t feel like giving them the chance to experience it.”

Marah smirked. “Aw—what a gentleman.”

“Don’t get used to it. We both know I’m an asshole, really.”

She huffed a laugh, shaking her head. “At least you’re self-aware. But, you know, I can’t afford to be arrested. News travels fast around this galaxy—so thank you.”

Then, before he could allow himself to feel too comfortable, Marah tilted her head, eyeing him like she was assessing a mark at a sabacc table. “Alright,” she mused, resting her elbow against the bar, “you look like someone who’s either had an incredibly boring day or an incredibly shitty one. Which is it?”

Tholme scoffed lightly. “Why not both?”

Marah clicked her tongue, then gestured to the bartender, holding up two fingers before Tholme could so much as blink. “That bad, huh?”

He watched as the bartender nodded, moving off to prepare the drinks before anyone else’s, and only then did he lift a brow at her. “Didn’t realise I was drinking under someone else’s tab.”

Marah smirked, unconcerned. “Consider it an investment in our friendship. We’re bonding.”

The bartender slid another round in front of them. Tholme picked his up, rolling the glass between his fingers. “Torwyn’s been testing me,” he admitted, voice lighter than it should’ve been.

“Torwyn tests everyone.”

His gaze flicked to her. “You’ve met him?”

Marah made a face. “Not personally. Just heard the horror stories.” Then, her lips curled. “I’m a Core World girl, remember? The senators’ circles love to gossip.”

Huh. That was interesting. She didn’t elaborate, but there was something pointed in the way she said it. Something knowing.

Instead of pressing, he just exhaled, shaking his head. “Right. Guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”

Marah grinned, nudging his drink toward him. “Come on, Jedi. Drink up. You look like you need it.”

This time, he didn’t hesitate.

A few drinks down, and the cantina’s noise became a distant whine, the laughter and chatter blending into the steady pulse of the music. The dim lighting turned richer, softer, the glow of hanging fixtures casting everything in amber. Glasses clinked. The bartender slid another round across the bar without being asked. Marah accepted it with a lazy smirk, her fingers tapping against the rim before she pushed Tholme’s next drink toward him.

At some point, they had shifted closer. The press of bodies in the cantina grew thicker, and the casual space between them shrank to something comfortable. She leaned in once, murmuring something that had him chuckling into his glass. He gestured vaguely at the room, some remark lost to the air, and Marah’s eyes gleamed with amusement as she lifted her drink in mock agreement. They wound up on the dance floor, just so Tholme could prove, he did, in fact, have rhythm. For a moment, he felt something—a strange shift in the room that seemed to be meant for only him. But soon enough Marah was laughing into his shoulder again—something to do with a guy she was hooking up with yesterday that Gremlin dug his claws into—so he pushed the paranoia away.

Then, another round.

He wasn’t sure when he stopped—counting drinks, watching exits, noticing shadows. Somewhere between the second glass and her laugh against his shoulder, he just… let go.

The warmth had settled deep in his limbs, his body loose, his mind pleasantly light. This—this—was nice. Easy. The kind of night he didn’t need to think too much about, where time stretched in golden slivers between sips of rich liquor and sharp-edged conversation.

Another drink.

His lips twitched upward.

Then another.

And then—

A slow, creeping warmth unfurled in his chest. A little heavier than before. A little too much.

Tholme lifted his glass again, but his fingers fumbled at the base. Just a fraction of a second. Just enough to make him blink.

Weird.

He rolled his shoulders, shaking off the heavy warmth crawling up his spine. Maybe it was just the cantina—too hot, too loud, pressing against his skin like humidity after rain.

Marah was watching him now, her smirk still there—but her fingers tightened slightly against her glass. "You good?"

Tholme opened his mouth, closed it again. The world tilted. No—just for a second. Just—

His fingers flexed against the bartop as he gestured vaguely, his movements slower than they should have been. And that feeling. The feeling of being watched. “I… weird.”

Marah frowned, setting her glass down. “Weird?”

He tried to pinpoint it, but his brain was just a little too slow—like his thoughts were moving through syrup or slipping between his fingers before he could hold onto them. His ribs tightened. His pulse stuttered. His hands felt too far away. A slow grin crept onto his face before he could stop it. “Good.”

Too good.

Marah sat up straighter, her hand bracing lightly against his arm. “Tholme, how many drinks have you had?”

That was a good question. He tried to count, but the timeline of the night had turned loose, the progression of drinks blurring together. It wasn’t like him—he usually knew exactly how much he could handle, knew when to stop, when to slow down.

His tongue felt thick in his mouth. “Two?”

Marah gave him a flat look. “Try again.”

He swallowed. Right. No, it had been more than that. He knew that. But it wasn’t this many. Not enough to feel like this.

And why did he feel so kriffing watched?

Marah’s frown deepened. “Come on, you’re not that much of a lightweight.”

“No,” he agreed, shifting against the bar. His limbs felt heavy. His head, light. Like he’d been drinking for days, not hours.

Like—

Like something was wrong.

The thought crawled through the haze in his skull, sluggish but insistent. His fingers curled against the wood, a steady anchor against the sudden tilt of the room. It wasn’t dramatic, not a lurch or a sudden loss of control, but a creeping, insidious thing—like the world had been shifted half a degree off-centre, just enough to unsettle him.

"Marah, I think something’s—" His tongue felt heavy. His breath shuddered.

And then—the floor vanished beneath him.

**

He woke up alone.

For a moment, there was nothing but warmth—the soft sheets tangled around his legs, the heavy press of exhaustion keeping him still, his body sinking deep into the mattress like it wasn’t ready to let go of sleep. His head ached—dull, thick, the kind of pressure that made his skull feel too small, his thoughts sluggish, muffled, like sound trapped underwater. His body felt heavy, unresponsive, like it belonged to someone else.

There was something off about it. Not the sharp-edged regret of drinking too much, not the hazy, sluggish aftermath of bad decisions and late nights. This was different. Deeper. Like his body was still catching up to something his mind hadn’t fully grasped yet.

Then—clarity struck like a lightning bolt.

This wasn’t his room.

His stomach lurched. The ceiling wasn’t his. The walls weren’t his. The sheets weren’t his.

He turned his head too fast, and the whole room tilted, his vision swaying violently. A wave of nausea rolled through him, thick and sharp and immediate, his throat tightening as he clenched his jaw, forcing himself to breathe through it.

His pulse slammed against his ribs, a rapid, panicked beat that rattled through him like a drum. His eyes darted across the room, frantic, searching, trying to piece together something—anything—that would make this make sense.

Marah’s place.

His breath hitched.

Marah’s bed.

And—kriff.

His stomach twisted violently as the sheets slipped lower against his skin, bare skin, because—oh, no.

His hands moved on instinct, dragging the fabric up over his waist.

He was completely naked.

The realisation slammed into him all at once, too much, too fast, too loud. His chest tightened, his mind clawing for purchase, for memory, for something solid in the hazy mess of his thoughts. But there was nothing.

Just fragments. Blurred laughter. The burn of alcohol sliding down his throat. The warm haze of it spreading through his limbs too fast. The glint of Marah’s smirk over the rim of her glass.

And then—a void. A blank, gaping hole where hours should be. Nothing.

His pulse stuttered, a cold sweat prickling at his spine as his gaze snapped around the room, desperate for anything—anything—that would anchor him, that would make him feel like this wasn’t some sick nightmare. But the more he looked, the worse it got.

His belt was slung haphazardly over the back of a chair, one boot knocked onto its side. His shirt was crumpled in the far corner, like it had been tossed aside, careless, rushed.

And—kriff.

Marah’s underwear—red, lacy, yeah, definitely hers—dangling off a plant like some obscene battle trophy.

A curse caught in his throat.

What the kriff had he done?

This was bad. This was so, so bad.

Think. Think. What do you remember?

But nothing came.

Just warmth and static and the creeping, crawling feeling of losing control. Of slipping. Of not knowing.

Had he—? Had they—? No. No kriffing way. His stomach twisted so violently he thought he might throw up.

Because T’ra. Steady. Certain. Better than him. T’ra.

And here he was. Naked. In another woman’s bed. A blank space where the night should be.

A sudden, awful thought sliced through his panic, jagged and cruel.

Did he even deserve to feel sick about this? It wasn’t as though she even saw him that way. She didn’t have a claim on him, the same way he had no claim to her. She could do whatever she pleased and so could he.

Still, his stomach twisted, a deep, sick thing that felt bone-deep, like something inside him was curling inward, folding in on itself, breaking apart piece by piece.

They were friends nothing more, and if they had—

Well, if they had, he’d fucked his friendship with Marah, that was for sure.

He shoved the sheets away and stood. The sudden motion sent the room into a violent tilt, his vision swimming as his stomach lurched in protest. He caught himself against the back of the chair, his fingers curling tight around the wood, grounding himself against the sheer wrongness of everything.

He needed answers.

He needed his clothes.

He needed—

The sound of the door opening sent a bolt of ice through his veins.

His head snapped toward the entrance just in time to see Marah walk in, shouldering the door shut, a bag of something tucked under her arm. She was dressed for the day, which meant she had been gone.

For how long?

He paused as with absolute, horrifying clarity—he remembered he was naked.

So, of course, he lunged for the first thing within reach: the sheet, the kriffing sheet—grab the damn sheet—yanking it up around his waist just as Marah glanced over.

She didn’t even blink. Didn’t startle, didn’t avert her eyes, didn’t even acknowledge the absolute catastrophe happening in his brain. She just took one look at him—barely holding his dignity together, knuckles white around the fabric—and snorted.

Fuck, that meant she’d seen it all before.

“Good morning to you,” she said dryly, tossing her bag onto the counter, completely unmoved. “I’m glad you didn’t die. I was worried you were going to choke on your own vomit or something.”

Tholme just stared. His pulse was hammering so hard he could feel it in his teeth.

Marah sighed, shaking her head as she crossed the room. “You look like you got hit by a speeder. Sit down before you pass the kriff out.”

She slid a glass across the table toward him, giving him a look that was far too unimpressed.

He took it—mechanically, carefully, like the movement alone might snap him back into reality. The cool water against his palm was grounding, but it did nothing to slow the static buzzing in his head.

Tholme swallowed hard, trying to wet his throat. “How—” His voice cracked. He cleared it, gripping the glass tighter. “How long was I out?”

Marah didn’t even look at him as she peeled open a flimsi wrapper, biting off half a protein bar like this was any other morning.

“I don’t know,” she said around her mouthful. “I left a couple hours ago. You were still out cold. I figured you’d sleep longer, honestly.”

Hours.

Tholme’s grip tightened around the glass. Hours. He had lost hours.

Marah shot him a glance, finally clocking his silence. She frowned, tilting her head slightly. “You good?”

He should just say yes. Just nod, drink the water, put his clothes on, and move on with his life. But he couldn’t.

The weight of the unknown was pressing against his skull, suffocating, crushing, gnawing at the frayed edges of his sanity.

And Marah’s underwear was still hanging off the kriffing plant.

His belt was still across the room.

His shirt—why the fuck was it in the corner—

He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember anything. And more than that, he didn’t trust himself.

Pretty girl. Alcohol. Sex. That was the pattern, right?

Why would this time be different?

As if sensing his growing dread, Marah’s frown deepened. She leaned forward slightly, elbows on her knees, studying him now. Really studying him.

And then it clicked.

Her eyes widened. “Oh—” She stopped mid-breath, then—horrified amusement flashed across her face. “Oh my gods,” she said, voice flat. “You think we—?” She gestured vaguely between them.

Tholme raised a brow, as if to say, ‘yeah?’.

Marah sighed dramatically, leaning against the chair with a shit-eating grin.

“Oh, don’t look like that,” she said. “You stumbled in, declared you were ‘too hot to live,’ then stripped like I wasn’t right there. Honestly? Should’ve recorded it.” She tilted her head, mock thoughtful. “Oh, actually—maybe I should’ve done that when you started going on and on about T’ra.”

Tholme’s entire body locked up.

“Oh, yeah,” Marah said, grinning far too wide. “Real poetic stuff, too. Something about her ‘perfect face’ and her ‘Force-damned lips,’—which, by the way, you have got to get a grip because that was some horny shit, man.”

Tholme groaned, scrubbing both hands over his face.

She snickered, completely undeterred. “I’m just saying, for someone who’s supposedly all about discipline and self-control, you had a whole lot to say about your Jedi girlfriend. Honestly, you’re a loyal man, Tholme, I admire that.”

“Yeah, well, she’s not—”

Marah made a vague dismissive motion. “Tell that to the impassioned speech you gave last night about how she ‘deserves better than someone like you.’”

Tholme immediately reached for the nearest pillow and threw it at her.

Marah snorted, dodging it with minimal effort, but the sharpness in Tholme’s expression stopped her short. His usual irritation wasn’t there—something else had taken its place.

His grip tightened around the sheet, knuckles white. “Did you—” He hesitated, jaw clenching before forcing the words out. “Did you see anything? Or anyone… different?”

Marah blinked. The shift was instant. The teasing fell away. Her posture straightened. “What do you mean?”

Tholme exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. “I don’t—I don’t remember half the night. One second, I was fine, and the next, everything just—” He paused. “Gone. It wasn’t just the drinks, Marah.”

Her brows pulled together, expression going sharp. “You think someone—? Like those guys who were hitting on me…?”

“I don’t know.” His voice was tight, controlled. “But I didn’t drink enough for it to be that bad.”

Marah’s brows furrowed. “Who the kriff would drug a Jedi?”

Tholme opened his mouth—then froze.

Because in all the tension, the paranoia, the slow creeping dread crawling under his skin, he had somehow managed to forget the most pressing problem of the moment.

He was still naked, and the sheets were far too thin.

And he had been stitting there, having the worst existential crisis of his life, while wearing absolutely nothing.

Marah seemed to realise it at the exact same moment.

Immediately, Tholme grabbed the next nearest pillow and yanked it in front of himself.

Arms crossed, Marah smirked. “So. Where exactly are the rest of your clothes, Lover Boy? Because now this is getting kind of weird, even for me.”

“Uh…”

One brow lifted, she was clearly enjoying this. “You don’t know, do you?”

Scowling, he shot a glance around the room, as if his tunic and dignity would suddenly materialise out of sheer desperation. “They’re here. Somewhere.”

A thoughtful hum left her. “You’re awfully confident for someone who woke up naked in my bed with no memory of how he got there.”

Furious, he dragged a hand through his hair, muttering a very violent Huttese curse under his breath.

Biting back laughter, Marah grinned. “Relax. Your clothes are in the refresher, I decided to wash them after you drooled on your sleeve—disgusting by the way. You’re welcome to go and grab them?”

His expression flatlined.

“Well?” she prompted, waving a hand toward the refresher door. “Go on. I won’t stop you.”

Tholme glared. Because she knew—she kriffing knew—he couldn’t. Not unless he wanted to traumatise them both.

Instead, he inhaled sharply, dragging a very exhausted hand down his face. “Marah.”

Her smirk widened. “Tholme.”

There was a beat.

Then, with a very smug sigh, she finally pushed off the chair and strolled toward the refresher, taking her time. “You’re lucky I have the heart of a saint,” she tossed over her shoulder.

Tholme scoffed. “Yeah, real charitable.”

Then, she disappeared inside, leaving him alone—but only for a second. Because that was when Gremlin jumped onto the bed.

The small, rage-fuelled menace of a creature launched onto the bed with all the force of a tiny, determined missile. Gremlin paused, surveying his kingdom for exactly two seconds before he shoved his way under the sheets with singular purpose: Body heat.

Tholme barely had time to react before a warm, furry body squirmed against his very bare thigh.

His entire soul rebelled. “Shit, shit, shit!”

Gremlin, the tiny, furry harbinger of doom, gave a self-satisfied huff and promptly burrowed deeper, pressing his warm, treacherous little body far, far too close to Tholme’s very vulnerable anatomy.

Tholme’s instincts screamed. His hands hovered uselessly over the sheets, visions of a brutal and untimely castration flashing through his mind.

“If you bite me,” he warned, voice tight with genuine, bone-deep terror, “I swear on the Force itself, I will launch you into the next star system.”

Gremlin, utterly unfazed, stretched, kneading his tiny, murder-paws against the sheets before settling in even deeper.

His tail gave one final, lazy flick against Tholme’s ribs.

Marah chuckled from the doorway, shaking her head as she dropped his clothes unceremoniously onto the nearest chair.

"How sweet," she mused, clearly entertained as she made her way into the kitchen, rummaging through a cabinet for a mug.

Tholme shot her a glare, shifting just enough to dislodge Gremlin, who gave a deeply affronted chirp before slinking back under the covers with a pointedly betrayed flick of his tail.

Marah snorted but didn’t comment, instead grabbing a tin from the shelf and flipping it open. The scent of caf filled the air as she moved toward the counter, reaching for her cup—

The envelope hit the floor with a soft thud.

She barely noticed, continuing her one-woman mission to re-caffeinate, but Tholme’s gaze caught the movement immediately. His brow furrowed as he leaned forward, spotting the crest stamped onto the thick paper.

Alderaan. House of Organa.

Addressed to Marah—Coruscant apartment?

She followed his gaze, and for a fraction of a second, something flickered across her face—too quick to catch, too practiced to mean nothing. Then, with a casual wave, she dismissed it. “Oh, that? My mother is looking for me. Ignore it.”

It was too forced. The kind of deflection that came from years of habit.

Tholme’s chest tightened. That reaction told him more than her words ever could.

“Your mother?” His voice was even, but he knew she’d hear the edge beneath it.

Marah poured her caf with a little too much focus, not looking at him. “Yeah.” She paused. Then, she offered a half-hearted smirk, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “We’re not close. I figured she’d let me live my life as she has my niece, Breha to focus on, but…”

Her fingers curled around the cup, her shoulders going stiff—too stiff. The silence stretched, thick with something unspoken, something heavier than a simple family quarrel. She wasn’t joking. Not really.

Tholme felt something slow and heavy settle in his ribs. A creeping, sinking feeling that pulled tight, like a vice.

Breha. Breha Organa?

No. No, no, no.

There was no fucking way, there couldn’t be, she—

“You’re Princess Marah Organa,” he spoke, as if saying the words aloud would somehow make her tell him this was all some horrible joke.

Except, she didn’t.

And just like that, Torwyn’s voice echoed in his head.

You do have… a particular fondness for the daughters of public figures.

His pulse kicked up, sharp and immediate. It was a coincidence. It had to be.

There were thousands of rulers across the galaxy. Millions of children born into political families—and he’d really only slept with two of them…knowingly, anyway. It wasn’t a pattern—was it? It certainly wasn’t a type. It didn’t mean anything. It didn’t.

And yet his stomach churned. The same weight pressing down on his chest, the same twisting sensation in his gut that had never led him wrong before. It wasn’t logic—it was instinct, and instinct had kept him alive long enough to know when something was off.

He swallowed hard, dragging a hand through his hair, forcing his thoughts into something less…unhinged.

Marah was watching him, brows slightly drawn, her usual easy smirk tempered with something quieter.  She set a second mug on the counter beside him. “Caf? Princesses’ orders.”

His fingers curled around it before he had even processed the motion, the warmth grounding him just enough.

Marah leaned against the counter, sipping her own. “I’ll drive you back to the outpost when you’re ready.”

Tholme exhaled slowly, forcing himself to nod, to act normal. “Yeah. Thanks.”

He took a sip of caf, but the strange feeling didn’t go away. Didn’t settle.

If anything, it only got worse.

Chapter Text

Thome’s quarters were—mercifully—dimly lit, the only light coming from the faint glow of the holo screen, its muted display flickering idly in the background. Drallig was sprawled across his bunk, one arm tucked behind his head, absently flipping through a datapad. He wasn’t reading, not really—Tholme could tell by the way he kept scrolling too fast, like he was waiting for something more interesting to happen. Like Eeth with a crisis. Or a Sith Lord.

Tholme, on the other hand, was sitting cross-legged on his own bunk, a datapad resting in his lap, full of the translations Torwyn had assigned him. He wasn’t reading, either. He was staring at the same sentence he had been for the past ten minutes, his mind drifting, thoughts unfocused.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he could still see the name Rokan Vey. Still feel the aftereffects of that drink—

He clenched his jaw, shifting his position. No. Not thinking about that.

Especially not with Drallig awake on the other side of the room,  completely unaware of the minor crisis unfolding in Tholme’s head. But that didn’t mean he was safe. Drallig had an irritating habit of picking up on things, of prodding when Tholme least wanted it, and the last thing he needed right now was Drallig’s commentary.

He dragged a hand down his face, exhaling slowly. He needed to get a grip. It was nothing. It had been nothing.

Except his body apparently hadn’t gotten the message, because his skin still felt too warm, his pulse annoyingly unsteady, and Force help him, if he didn’t stop thinking about this, he was going to drive himself insane.

Alas, it seemed he was too late, as without looking up, Drallig spoke. “You’re thinking too hard over there. Has that hangover not gone away yet?”

Tholme didn’t respond at first, just blinked at the datapad in front of him. “I don’t have a hangover.”

Drallig snorted, shaking his head like he had already diagnosed the issue before Tholme had even spoken. “No? That’s not why the hot redhead had to drive you home?”

“Her name is Marah.” Tholme exhaled through his nose, rubbing at his temple. “And it was a better idea than walking.”

Drallig gave him a look, sceptical but not unkind. “So, what is it then? Because it’s not the first time I’ve seen that look. You let things fester, you spiral, then you do something stupid. So what are we stressing about today?”

There was no accusation, no harshness—it was just the simple fact of someone who thought he knew Tholme better than Tholme knew himself.

Which, of course, was complete bantha shit.

So, Tholme gave him a flat look. “Thanks for the diagnosis, Doctor Cinnamin Drallig.”

“First of all—its Cin, call me Cinnamin again and I will personally throw you through a wall like we were back at the creche.  And second…” Drallig smirked, tossing the datapad onto his chest with a sigh. With that that same sigh he always gave when he thought he had Tholme figured out. And for years—years—Tholme had let him. Had trusted that he understood. But Drallig wasn’t listening. Not really.

Proven true by five simple words, “Don’t thank me, fix it.”

Tholme rolled his eyes, flopping onto his back.

And that was the moment Tholme realised—really realised—that Drallig didn’t actually believe in him. Not in the way he had always assumed.

It wasn’t that Drallig thought he was weak, or incapable. It was worse than that. Drallig thought he was predictable.

Like this was just another cycle, another moment of brooding that would pass once Tholme found the right outlet—like he wasn’t actually dealing with something real.

And just like that, Tholme’s stomach twisted. Because if he thought he was just laying here brooding over something irrelevant and dumb—how could he tell him about Rokan Vey? About the conversation he had with Torwyn? How could he tell him it wasn’t a simple hangover, that he knew it was something so much worse, that someone had drugged him.

He’d always thought that if there was one person who knew him, who understood him beyond the surface, it was Drallig. They had grown up together, had fought together, had survived together. But sitting here, staring at his best friend’s infuriatingly self-assured expression, something in him shifted.

Drallig wasn’t really listening—at least, not in the way Tholme needed him to. He was managing, steering the conversation as though he had already decided what the problem was and exactly how to fix it.

And the worst part? The part that twisted something deep in his chest, that made it impossible to be truly angry.

Drallig meant well. He always had.

And maybe that was why it hurt so much.

He swallowed against the lump in his throat, forcing himself to exhale, pushing the tension from his shoulders, because there was no point in arguing. No point in telling Drallig that this wasn’t some fleeting struggle. That he wasn’t fine.

Because Drallig had already made up his mind.

And if there was one thing Tholme knew about his best friend, it was that once Drallig thought he understood something, he never questioned it.

So Tholme sighed, rubbing a hand over his face, exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with training, nothing to do with sleepless nights, or anything else going on in his life. “I don’t need to be fixed,” he muttered, more to himself than anything.

Drallig snorted. “You always need fixing.”

Tholme didn’t react, not outwardly, but something inside him twisted, an uncomfortable knot settling deep in his chest. Not because it was cruel, not because Drallig meant it as an insult—because he didn’t. Drallig truly believed it.

And maybe—maybe—Tholme deserved that. Not in a self-pitying way, not in a way that sought comfort or reassurance. Just in the simple, undeniable truth that history had a way of repeating itself, and his history? It had a pattern. He had a pattern.

Because the worst part? Drallig wasn’t wrong.

It had been Drallig who had handed him his first cigarette, telling him to relax. It had been Drallig who had taken him to the bar the first time they had a free night on Coruscant, pressing a drink into his hand with a knowing smirk, watching as Tholme downed it like it might fix something broken inside him. And back when they were fifteen, still Padawans stuck at the temple between assignments, it had been Drallig who steered him towards a girl—who had leaned in with that easy confidence and told him that if he couldn’t stop thinking, at least he could distract himself with someone who wanted his attention.

And Tholme had listened.

Because it worked. It always worked.

And yet… Drallig rarely indulged in any of it himself. Not the way Tholme did.

He introduced the habits, nudged Tholme toward them, and then stepped back, watching from the sidelines. Always watching. Always knowing exactly when to pull Tholme out, when to remind him—quietly, firmly—that it was time to stop.

That was the part that stung the most. Because it meant that Drallig didn’t see Tholme as his equal. Not really. He wasn’t just another Jedi with his own vices, his own ways of coping—he was something to be handled, something to be kept in check.

And Tholme had let him.

He exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face, pressing his fingers hard against his temples—like he could physically scrub this realisation from his skull. He had spent years trusting that Drallig understood him better than anyone else. And maybe he did. But that didn’t mean he believed in him. Not in the way Tholme had always assumed.

And the realisation sat in his chest, heavier than he wanted to admit.

**

Tholme had barely managed to shake off the week’s events when the weight of another heavy presence settled over the outpost.

He wasn’t sure what it was at first—just an energy shift, a tightening of the air. Then the voices carried down the corridor, clipped and precise, and he didn’t need to turn around to know who had arrived.

Master Dooku.

And, by extension, Qui-Gon Kriffing Jinn.

Tholme barely suppressed a sigh.

They were not friends. Not enemies, either. Just… different.

They had grown up together in the creche, trained alongside each other for years, but where Tholme had leaned into mischief and defiance, Qui-Gon had leaned into education, into reflection, into the kind of contemplation that made Tholme impatient. They had always existed in parallel, never truly clashing, never truly aligning.

So, naturally, he had no idea why the Force had decided to shove them together today.

He straightened slightly as Dooku entered the room, his presence demanding attention without needing to ask for it. Everything about him was polished, controlled—his robes perfectly arranged, his every step determined. He was a Jedi Master who carried himself like a noble.

And, unsurprisingly, he had no warmth for Torwyn.

“Master Torwyn,” Dooku greeted, his tone as crisp as ever, with only the faintest hint of politeness. “Still on Brentaal, I see.”

Tholme didn’t miss the slight stiffness in Torwyn’s posture at that. He saw the way Torwyn’s fingers tightened where they rested on the table, how his gaze flickered—just briefly—to Dooku, and then to him.

There was a moment of recalibration, then, just like that, the tension was gone.

“Master Dooku,” Torwyn returned, carefully neutral. “I wasn’t aware you’d be joining us.”

“Only briefly. The Council requested my oversight in negotiations with Brentaal’s representatives.” He turned his gaze onto Tholme then, sharp and assessing, and he barely fought the urge to straighten like a scolded initiate. “I trust you’ve been keeping yourself occupied, Padawan Tholme?”

Tholme nodded, meeting Dooku’s gaze steadily. “Yes, Master.”

Dooku hummed. “Good.” Then, without preamble, he turned slightly toward his Padawan. “Qui-Gon, you will be spending the day assisting Tholme in his assigned work.”

Tholme blinked.

So did Qui-Gon.

But if he was surprised, he didn’t show it—only dipping his head in acknowledgment. “Yes, Master.”

Torwyn’s expression tightened just slightly, but he said nothing.

Tholme, meanwhile, was still trying to process the fact that Dooku had just dumped his Padawan onto him with no explanation.

Dooku, as always, did not offer one.

“I expect you to conduct yourselves properly,” he said, turning as if the matter was already settled. “Qui-Gon, I will retrieve you when negotiations conclude.”

With that, he was gone, his cloak sweeping behind him as he disappeared down the corridor, leaving behind an awkward silence, and taking a very pissed off looking Torwyn with him in the process.

With that out the way, Tholme exhaled, shifting to face Qui-Gon properly for the first time.

“Well,” he muttered, before turning toward the stack of datapads on his table. “I guess we better get started.”

Qui-Gon followed without a word, his expression as neutral as ever. If he had any particular feelings about being assigned Tholme’s work for the day, he wasn’t showing them. Typical.

So, Tholme pulled out a chair and sat down, shuffling through the datapads. Trade route logs, diplomatic reports, intelligence summaries—dry, tedious work that made his brain itch. He wasn’t exactly looking forward to starting, but still he slid one toward Qui-Gon anyway.

Of course, Qui-Gon took the datapad without comment, but instead of immediately scanning through it, he glanced up at Tholme with that frustratingly blank look he always had.

“This work doesn’t interest you,” Qui-Gon observed.

 “Yeah?” Tholme mumbled. “What gave it away?”

Qui-Gon didn’t smile. He simply smirked, the smug fucking bastard. “Your energy is restless.”

“Well, sitting in one place for hours translating bureaucratic bantha shit isn’t exactly thrilling.” He lifted the datapad. “Not much to get excited about, unless you have a passion for trade negotiations.”

Qui-Gon looked at him for a long moment, then set the datapad down, leaning forward slightly. “You spend so much time trying to barge your way through things, Tholme. You don’t listen. Not to the Force. Not to yourself.”

Tholme narrowed his sharp, green eyes. “My ears work just fine, thank you. They’re just not accessories, contrary to popular belief.”

“Then it is your senses, then. You don’t listen to the Force,” Qui-Gon corrected.

Tholme rolled his eyes. “Oh, here we go.”

It wasn’t a secret that Qui-Gon was deeply attuned to the Living Force. He had been that way even as a child—always following his instincts, always letting the moment guide him. Meanwhile, Tholme had never had much patience for that way of thinking. The Force was a tool, something to be shaped and used, something to sharpen his instincts.

But just like that, he had given the invitation for a discussion.

“You’re too caught up in the future,” Qui-Gon continued, completely unfazed by Tholme’s exasperation. “Too worried about what’s coming, about what could happen.” He tapped the datapad lightly. “That’s why you hate this. You can’t see its purpose. But the Force is here, too. In this work. In everything.”

Tholme exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple. “Thanks, but I really don’t want a lecture.”

“It’s not a lecture,” Qui-Gon said simply. “It’s an observation.”

Tholme levelled a flat look at him. “Well, here’s an observation for you, Master Jinn, if we don’t finish these reports, Torwyn is going to make my life fucking miserable. And now, thanks to Master Dooku, you’re involved too.”

Qui-Gon inclined his head, acknowledging the point. “Then we should begin.”

Tholme let out another sigh, muttering under his breath as he picked up his datapad. Qui-Gon followed suit, scanning through the data with the same quiet he applied to everything else in life.

For a while, they worked in silence.

But as the minutes stretched on, Tholme couldn’t help but glance at Qui-Gon out of the corner of his eye.

Despite their differences, there was something oddly grounding about the other Padawan’s presence. He didn’t fidget, didn’t radiate impatience. He was simply there, present in a way that was so at odds with the way Tholme’s mind constantly ran in circles.

And maybe—just maybe—that was what irritated him the most.

Still, he didn’t want to dwell and prove Qui-Gon right, Force forbid, so Tholme flipped to the next report, barely reading the words before his brain supplied a far more interesting thought.

Jinn was boring, he decided. Too calm. Too controlled.

Tholme didn’t believe in inner peace. And if Qui-Gon had it, well—that was a solvable problem.

“So,” Tholme said casually, leaning back in his chair. “How’s our girl, Tahl?”

Qui-Gon didn’t even blink. “She’s well.”

Tholme hummed, tilting his head slightly. “I haven’t seen her in a while. I’d ask if she’s keeping out of trouble, but we both know that’s never going to happen, right?”

There. Right there. A shift—so fast most people would’ve missed it, but Tholme had been studying Qui-Gon’s stupidly unreadable face for years. That was a crack. A hairline fracture in all that Jedi composure. And yeah, he would absolutely be unbearably smug about it for the next twelve hours.

“She’s… occupied with her own duties,” Qui-Gon replied evenly, setting his datapad down. “We’ve been assigned to different sectors, so I haven’t seen her for a few standard months.”

"That’s devotion, Qui-Gon. You sure you’re just ‘assigned to different sectors’ and not avoiding your feelings for her?"

Qui-Gon gave him a look—flat, unimpressed, vaguely sanctimonious—but Tholme knew better. That look was covering something. Because of course it was. Tholme had known Tahl since they were barely tall enough to hold training sabers. He’d seen her start fistfights in philosophy class and bluff a sabacc table into surrender with a broken hand. And Qui-Gon? He followed her around like he was afraid she might vanish if he blinked too long. ‘Just friends’ his ass. If they hadn’t already slept together—then he was losing his edge. And Tholme did not lose his edge.

Jinn let out a sigh. “If you’re playing a game, I have patience, Tholme. I don’t think you can say the same."

“What?” Tholme smirked. “I mean, I get it. She’s hard to ignore. Smart, funny, great with a lightsaber—” he paused, then added, “pretty.”

Qui-Gon exhaled through his nose, the datapad settling onto the table like it weighed a hundred kilos. His shoulders didn’t move, but something in the air did—like the Force itself had tightened, just a fraction.

Oh yeah. Tholme had touched something he wasn’t supposed to.

Excellent.

“If you have a point,” Qui-Gon began, “I suggest you get to it.”

Tholme raised his hands in mock surrender. “I’m just making conversation.”

Qui-Gon regarded him for a moment, clearly debating whether or not to dignify this with a response. Eventually, he shook his head, reaching for his datapad again. “Your attempts at needling are transparent.”

“If I were being subtle you wouldn’t know about it,” Tholme fired back.

Qui-Gon, to his credit, didn’t let the conversation end there. He returned to his datapad, scanning through another tedious passage of trade agreements. “So,” he said, voice maddeningly casual, matching Tholme’s pervious attempt at a jibe. “How are you enjoying Brentaal?”

Tholme exhaled through his nose. “It’s fine.”

“Just fine?” Qui-Gon mused, flipping a page on his datapad with exaggerated care. “That’s surprising. I would have thought you’d find it… dull.”

Tholme arched a brow. “And why is that?”

Qui-Gon made a thoughtful sound, as though considering his next words carefully. “Oh, no reason. The place is alive with the Living Force. Hardly your area of focus.”

Tholme narrowed his eyes. Oh. So that’s how we’re playing this.

Qui-Gon didn’t look at him, but the corner of his mouth twitched—just barely. Just enough to confirm he was enjoying this. Nudging. Testing. Treading carefully into Tholme’s lane like he didn’t know whose damn name was carved into the door.

Tholme tilted his head, letting the smirk pull wide and slow. “I wasn’t aware you kept such close tabs on me.”

Then, with that razor-edged sweetness he only pulled out when he felt like drawing blood, he added, “But the Living Force on Brentaal is a mess. Corrupted by legacy infrastructure, choked by generational debt, and barely breathing beneath centuries of market manipulation. But I’m sure it whispered something profound to you while you were walking past a shipping manifest.”

He paused just long enough to let that hit.

“I mean, I get it. The Living Force is beautiful. Fluid. Wild. But if you’re going to bring it to Brentaal of all places, you might want to brush up on your economic history—because the Force doesn’t breathe well through monopolies and trade embargoes.” He tilted his datapad just slightly, flipping the page like he hadn’t just committed rhetorical murder. “But hey—maybe it skipped the lecture on planetary economics.”

Qui-Gon didn’t flinch. Just met his eyes with a slow smirk. “Intellect suits you,” Qui-Gon said, voice cool. “Strange you try so hard to hide it.”

“Yeah, well, smart gets you noticed.” He met Qui-Gon’s eyes. “Sometimes staying stupid keeps you breathing.”

There was a beat of silence.

Qui-Gon’s mouth parted, just slightly—like he was about to respond, or maybe like he hadn’t expected that to come from Tholme at all. The Force shifted between them, just a little. A weight. A question. Something that didn’t quite have a name.

And then—the door slid open.

He felt her before he saw her—of course he did. That familiar, steady pulse in the Force, the kind of presence that told you the floor wouldn’t fall out beneath you. He felt it first in his ribs, then his throat, then the twist of something sharper in his chest.

T’ra stepped in like she always did—soft-footed, quiet—but the second she caught sight of him, her expression slipped. Just a flicker. A flash of something real—fond irritation, maybe, or the kind of warmth that lived between two people who had long since stopped pretending they weren’t looking at each other.

Tholme straightened instantly, mouth twitching up into a smirk like he hadn’t just said something ugly two seconds ago. “Hey,” he spoke, easy as anything.

T’ra’s gaze caught on Tholme first, her mouth parting—just slightly. There was something in her eyes, the start of a smile curling at the edge of her lips, like she was about to say something—something only he would’ve understood, something sharp or fond or dangerous in the way only she could get away with.

But then her eyes flicked past him.

Saw Qui-Gon.

And just like that, the moment vanished.

Her shoulders pulled back. Her spine straightened. Her voice smoothed into something polite, but not before Tholme saw the second of hesitation—the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth where the joke had almost escaped. “I hope I’m not interrupting,” she said, voice perfectly even.

“Not at all,” Tholme said, maybe a fraction too quickly. He ignored the way Qui-Gon’s head tilted slightly at his tone.

Of course he noticed. Of course he did. Tholme said too much, let it slip too raw, and Jinn caught it like it was a clue worth filing away.

Should’ve kept it lighter. Should’ve smiled. Should’ve lied.

But it was too late, and now there was a data point hanging in the air with his name on it.

T’ra’s gaze slid to Qui-Gon, curiosity flickering in her eyes. “So you’re Qui-Gon Jinn,” she said, not cold, not formal—just lightly interested, like she’d been waiting to put a face to the file.

Qui-Gon stood, all smooth lines and formality, bowing like he’d just stepped off the front of a Temple propaganda scroll. Tholme rolled his eyes internally—of course he stood. Who stands in the middle of a paperwork session—

Oh. Right. She was a Master.

He probably should’ve stood too. Especially since the next words out of Qui-Gon’s mouth were, “Master Saa. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Tholme didn’t look up from his datapad. “Encourage him and he’ll start quoting Force theory like it’s poetry. No one wins.”

“And would that be such a bad thing?” T’ra’s voice was light, but her brow lifted in that way it always did when she was one breath away from kicking him under the table. “Not everyone finds depth so offensive, Tholme.”

“And here I thought I was your favourite headache,” he said, smirking without thinking—just a little too soft, a little too easy, like the words had slipped out of a place meant to stay quiet.

But T’ra wasn’t looking at him—she was watching Qui-Gon, all open curiosity and approval, like she actually wanted to hear what he had to say. And Tholme? He shifted in his seat, something cold and sour coiling in his chest. Not jealousy—he wasn’t that pathetic. Just… awareness. Sharp, unwanted, and ugly. He didn’t like it. He didn’t like any of this.

“I’ve heard you see the Force a little differently than most,” she said, voice easy, curious. “I’d be interested to hear more.”

Tholme didn’t even have to glance over to know Qui-Gon had straightened slightly, shoulders pulling back, attention sharpened like someone had finally given him permission to deliver one of his precious Force sermons. Most Masters barely tolerated his speeches—endured them like polite but exhausted parents weathering an initiate’s first philosophy lecture. But T’ra? T’ra sounded like she actually gave a shit.

And somehow, that hurt.

He knew it didn’t matter. It was stupid—irrational. And yet it still settled in his chest, twisting sourly as he caught how her body shifted, just slightly angled toward Qui-Gon. She was watching him now—eyes focused, open, the look that had dragged Tholme through conversations he had no business caring about.

He forced himself not to scowl, looking down at the datapad he’d long stopped paying attention to.

Good for Qui-Gon. Really. Good for him. Good for him and his stupidly profound connection to the Living Force, and good for T’ra for finally finding someone whose opinions weren’t constantly getting him written up on disciplinary reports.

He was happy for them.

He was.

Now if only Qui-Gon would fuck off to another planet entirely, Tholme could go back to pretending he wasn’t losing his Forcedamn mind.

But then—just to really kick him right in his damn balls—he felt Qui-Gon’s gaze flick toward him. Just briefly. Just enough.

Tholme exhaled sharply through his nose, teeth grinding together.

Of course the smug bastard noticed. Because why wouldn’t Qui-Gon Kriffing Jinn pick up on the Force equivalent of Tholme setting himself on fire? Fantastic.

Yeah, if he didn’t redirect this conversation now, he was going to start levitating the table through sheer Force-based spite

“Careful, T’ra,” Tholme said lightly, tipping his head toward Qui-Gon with a smirk sharp enough to draw blood. “One more minute of his philosophy, and you’ll be abandoning Council meetings to meditate in traffic because the Force whispered to you about the greater good.”

“I did that once,” Qui-Gon said mildly, like it was a perfectly rational decision. “And it worked.”

T’ra smiled, completely unbothered, as if she knew exactly where he was trying to steer the conversation. “You know I find all perspectives valuable,” she said lightly, tilting her head in that way she did when she was about to land a gentle blow. “Even yours, Tholme.”

Tholme’s mouth opened slightly—before he shut it again.

No. He didn’t lose this round. He just didn’t play it fast enough

**

Tholme wasn’t in a hurry. Really.

The canteen wasn’t far, and after a long day of staring at endless trade disputes, he had earned a decent meal. The halls were quieter at this hour, most Jedi and officers preoccupied with their own routines, leaving him to his own thoughts. Which was precisely how he liked it.

Unfortunately, it didn’t last.

Footsteps echoed behind him—quiet, quick, and irritatingly persistent.

He didn’t have to turn to know who it was—especially as he was trying to outrun him.

“Are you following me now, Qui?” Tholme drawled without breaking stride.

Qui-Gon and his obnoxiously long legs caught up effortlessly, falling into step beside him. "The Force moves in mysterious ways. Who am I to question where it leads?"

"That’s convenient," Tholme muttered dryly. “Let me guess—the Force whispered I needed surveillance? Tell Dooku his spy work’s slipping.”

Qui-Gon ignored his tone, though a slight crease formed between his brows—like Tholme’s paranoia was something to file away for later. “Would you believe me if I denied it?”

“What do you think?” he huffed.

Qui-Gon hummed thoughtfully, like he was gently turning over a new question in his head—though Tholme knew he’d planned this whole thing out from the start. “Perhaps Master Saa would be an easier topic. She certainly seems curious about you—though I'm beginning to wonder if that's mutual.”

Tholme tensed before he could stop himself. He kept walking, expression neutral, but it didn’t matter. His feelings were already spilling into the Force, loud and clear.

Qui-Gon’s voice was mild, innocent enough to make Tholme instantly suspicious. “If I didn’t misunderstand, Master Saa seemed genuinely interested in the Living Force. Perhaps I should forward her some reading—do you think she'd appreciate that?” There was a slight pause. “You would know better, wouldn’t you?”

Tholme exhaled sharply, forcing himself not to clench his jaw. “Yeah, she loves a good nap.” He threw Qui-Gon a flat look. “Make sure you send the long version—you know, the one that doubles as a sleep aid.”

He then gritted his teeth and rolled his shoulders as if trying to shake Qui-Gon off physically. “Force, do you ever take a break?”

Qui-Gon tilted his head slightly, amused. “Would you prefer if I did?”

Tholme stopped walking, turning to face him fully now, arms crossing over his chest. “Is there a reason you’re haunting me, or is this just recreational?”

Qui-Gon clasped his hands behind his back, expression infuriatingly serene. “No, I’m well—but are you?”

Tholme inhaled slowly, jaw tight, counting to three—then exhaled, before turning back toward the canteen without a word.

Qui-Gon chuckled as he fell into step behind him. “Don’t worry—I won’t say a word,” he added with a wry grin. “I’m sure you’ll manage to torment yourself just fine on your own.”

Chapter Text

Tholme stormed down the hallway, muttering curses under his breath, his boots hitting the floor a little harder than necessary. He was seething. Not just irritated, not just mildly inconvenienced—no, this was a full-blown, why-the-kriff-did-he-have-to-be-like-that kind of anger.

Qui-Gon kriffing Jinn.

Tholme had met a lot of insufferable people in his life—lived with some of them, even. But there was something particularly grating about Qui-Gon’s calm, amused, all-knowing demeanour. Like he had figured out some great universal joke and was just waiting for everyone else to catch up.

Tholme scowled deeper, his fingers clenching into fists as he reached his quarters. He wasn’t even thinking—just swung the door open and strode inside.

“If I have to hear one more word out of that smug bastard Jinn—”

He stopped.

Drallig was not alone.

Khaat Quiyn was in his bunk, comfortably tangled with him, her tunic slightly rumpled and her fingers still curled into the front of his robes, like they’d only just pulled apart. One of her legs was draped over his, their bodies still angled toward each other, too close for it to have been anything innocent.

For a brief moment, nobody moved.

Drallig, naturally, looked completely unbothered—lounging like he was in a holodrama, not mid-debauchery. He didn’t scramble to hide, didn’t even flinch. Just exhaled slowly through his nose, like Tholme had interrupted him rearranging datapads and not getting actively mauled by Khaat Quiyn.

Khaat blinked at him. Once. Twice. Her brow furrowed in slow-motion irritation, like she was trying to remember if she’d set a perimeter alarm or if Tholme had simply willed himself into existence out of pure spite.

The tension in the room? Absolutely thick enough to chew through. And all of it aimed directly at him, the unwelcome guest at the world’s slowest strip show.

Khaat blinked, wide-eyed, her hair slightly mussed. “Cin—I thought you said we weren’t going to be interrupted?”

Drallig, to his credit—or complete lack of shame—didn’t even flinch.

His head tipped back against the pillow, robes halfway to disgrace, and finally he fixed him with a flat, irritated stare—the kind that said you ruined everything louder than words ever could. “You’re early.”

Tholme, mildly aware that they had been doing… something, gave the scene a glance like he was being asked to grade a performance. One brow lifted. The robe situation was suspicious. The leg situation was worse. Drallig’s hand—he couldn’t locate that; he didn’t want to try.

He waved vaguely at the bed. “Oh. Right. You’re doing that.”

Khaat, who had just about tolerated the interruption up until this point, turned a slow, incredulous stare on him. “Excuse me?”

Drallig only smirked. He reached for her again, fingers curling lazily around the front of her tunic as he tugged her back toward him. “Ignore him,” he drawled. “From what I just heard he’s mad because Qui-Gon turned his brain into Bantha fodder.”

Khaat hesitated, her narrowed gaze flicking between the two of them before settling on Tholme, her lips quirking with intrigue. “Qui-Gon Jinn?” she asked. “Tall, broody, good hair? That Qui-Gon?”

Drallig hummed. “The very one.”

“Good hair?” Tholme repeated as he flopped face-first onto his bunk with a muffled groan. “He looks like a fucking sheep dog. But hairier.”

Khaat propped her chin onto Drallig’s shoulder, her eyes flicking between the two of them. “So… do we need to take this back to my quarters, or?”

Drallig hummed. “Let’s see how far gone he is first.” He shot Tholme a lazy smirk. “He’s clearly in need of an intervention.”

With a low groan, Tholme dragged a hand down his face. “I need Qui-Gon Jinn to fall in a nest of Gundarks, not an intervention.”

 “Oh, that far gone, huh?” Drallig arched a brow.

Khaat sighed, stretching out slightly against Drallig. “Right. Because from where I’m sitting, it seems like someone is deeply rattled.”

 “I am not rattled.” Tholme scoffed, before he reached for the rodent treats and poked one into the bars. Cinnabon—as he named him, just to piss off Drallig—scuttled over, taking it from his fingers, before giving him a small appreciate lick.

Drallig could only sigh, like he was appraising a suspect caught in a lie. “Oh? Then why did you storm in here like a kicked tooka and completely ignore the fact that I was clearly busy?”

“Sorry, I assumed you’d be done by now—given your track record.”

Drallig exhaled sharply, giving Tholme a flat look, like a tired instructor dealing with a particularly stubborn student. “Alright, no. We’re not doing this.”

 “Doing what?” Tholme blinked, thrown off.

Drallig sat up slightly, shifting just enough so Khaat could still comfortably lean against him without fully detaching herself.  “You walked in here like the Force itself had personally wronged you. And I swear to every Council member, living and dead, if this is about Master Saa, I will personally drown you in the nearest refresher.”

Tholme rolled onto his back with a sigh. “You need to get laid, Drallig. You’re in a terrible mood. It’s been what, five months now?”

Khaat made a choking sound—half-laugh, half-scandalised disbelief— Drallig just stared at him, like he’d somehow managed to insult his entire Jedi lineage, past, present, and future.

“I am trying to,” Drallig snapped, his exasperation finally tipping into outright frustration. He gestured sharply at Khaat, who arched a brow but didn’t bother moving away. "You barged in while I was actively fixing that particular issue—with great success, by the way—and yet, somehow, your problems are the priority?"

Tholme exhaled, dragging a hand down his face before shooting Drallig an easy, lopsided smirk. “Alright, alright, point taken.”

Drallig narrowed his eyes, unimpressed.

And yet? Tholme wasn’t done.

“Would you be mad if I just put in earplugs and read my holonovel?” Tholme drawled, already digging through his pack like this wasn’t the third-most cursed moment of his week. “Not the first time we’ve done that, let’s be honest.”

Drallig stared at him, scandalised. Khaat let out a quiet snort against his shoulder.

“You swore we’d never talk about that again,” Drallig hissed.

Tholme shrugged. “You swore a lot of things that night. Including ‘I think I need to meditate first.’”

Khaat’s hand slapped over her mouth to muffle the laugh, but it was too late. Drallig looked like he was about to spontaneously combust.

Tholme, smug and unrepentant, sighed. “Force bless those earplugs. May they rest in pieces.”

“I hate you,” Drallig muttered.

“You love me, Cinnamon,” Tholme corrected, already grabbing his datapad as he pretended to consider it.

Drallig let out a long-suffering sigh and flopped back onto his bunk, rubbing his hands down his face. “Khaat, please tell him to leave before I decide to launch him out of the window.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I’m kind of invested now.” She nudged Drallig’s jaw with her nose. “I say let him stay. This is the most flustered I’ve ever seen you.”

 “Please, Khaat. He doesn’t need more power.” Drallig groaned.

Tholme sighed, stretching out lazily across his own bunk. “Don’t worry, I’ll be very quiet. You won’t even know I’m here. Besides, are you really going to fuck in fromt Cinnabon? He’s a defenceless mammal.”

Drallig turned his head to glare at him. “Tholme.”

Tholme didn’t look up from his datapad. “Drallig.”

Khaat leaned in and murmured something into Drallig’s ear, low and amused, and whatever it was, it had an immediate effect—Drallig’s expression flickered, somewhere between irritation and reluctant amusement, before he sighed deeply and let his head fall back against the pillow again.

Except, Tholme wasn’t playing the game anymore, because something was wrong.

His datapad was already on.

Not just on—open.

And not just open, but sitting on a file he hadn’t touched in a long time.

His mission reports.

He stared at the screen, his entire body stilling, the banter between Drallig and Khaat fading into background noise.

He knew his habits. He never left his files open. And this one? This one should have been buried.

He clicked into it, scanning the contents—mission log, witness reports, he barely even remembered writing it. Still, nothing seemed out of place—no alterations, no edits. But that didn’t make sense. Someone had opened it.

And just like that, his stomach twisted.

It had to be Drallig. Right? Who else would even touch his stuff?

Slowly, he lifted his gaze, watching the way Drallig and Khaat were utterly absorbed in each other, Drallig grinning like a bastard, Khaat laughing softly at something filthy he’d murmured in her ear.

Tholme frowned. Then, voice casual—too casual—he said, “Drallig.”

Drallig hummed, still not looking at him, fingers idly tracing circles along Khaat’s spine. “What?”

Tholme’s grip on the datapad tightened. “Have you been using my datapad?”

His eyes finally flicked toward him, utterly, entirely unimpressed. “Tholme.” His voice was flat. Deadpan. Like he was already exhausted by this conversation. “I am currently preoccupied. As much as I enjoy rifling through your shit I promise you, I have much better things to do with my time.”

It sounded like the truth, but Tholme didn’t relax. Didn’t let go of the creeping unease curling in his gut.

Because he was an asshole, but he wasn’t lying.

Still, here it was, wide open. Waiting. Like someone had wanted him to see it.

Drallig sighed, like this was personally inconveniencing him. “Look, I get it. The idea of me hacking into your precious files is probably the most thrilling thing that’s happened to you all week—”

“Drallig—”

“—but unless you’ve been logging details about me in there, I genuinely could not care less.” He smirked, lazily smug. “And if I was using your datapad, trust me, I’d leave something behind. A little calling card. A signature. Maybe a very tasteful artistic rendering of your tragic demise.”

Tholme exhaled sharply through his nose, not amused.

Drallig smirked wider. “Oh, maybe I’d write a heartfelt letter to your lover girl. Really pour my soul into it. Something poetic. ‘my love, every moment without you is agony—’”

Tholme snapped his datapad shut and launched his pillow at Drallig’s face.

Drallig dodged effortlessly, still grinning like a bastard. “See?” He tilted his head at Khaat, who was biting back laughter. “That’s how I know it wasn’t me. Maybe it was your precious Cinnabon.”

Tholme exhaled through his nose, putting the data pad down.

No proof.

No evidence.

Just a feeling.

And Tholme had learned, long ago, to trust those.

He shoved the datapad into his pack and stood, while Drallig, still lazily sprawled across the bunk, barely glanced at him. “Oh, are we doing the dramatic exit? Because if you want me to care, you’ll have to be more theatrical about it.”

Tholme rolled his eyes, shouldering his bag. “As fun as this has been, I’d rather not third-wheel your tragic romance.”

Drallig, trying to look entirely unbothered, brushed a stray lock of Khaat’s hair behind her ear, all whilst subtly flipping him off. “Jealousy is an ugly thing, Tholme.”

Tholme rolled his eyes.

But Drallig didn’t even pause—just went for it, like he’d seen a kiss described once in a trashy holonovel and thought “yeah, that’s me.” He grabbed Khaat like he was performing for a very small, very dumb audience, fingers tangling in her hair with the confidence of someone who’d watched one romance holo and declared himself a connoisseur.

It was sloppy. Earnest. Borderline enthusiastic.

Tholme paused in the doorway, watching with the same kind of dismay one reserves for witnessing a toddler sprint toward a stairwell. One hand still on the panel. His gaze flicked to the bed.

Drallig’s hand missed her waist entirely, landed somewhere vaguely in the vicinity of her ribs, and stayed there like he wasn’t quite sure what came next.

He exhaled dramatically, shaking his head with mock seriousness because he was absolutely not leaving this room without getting one last retort in.

“You know,” he mused, voice far too solemn, “if you’re planning on continuing this little romantic tragedy, you might want to check my locker.”

Drallig barely cracked an eye open, still grinning against Khaat’s skin. “Why?”

“Because that’s where I keep the emergency contraceptives,” Tholme said, voice dry enough to sand metal. “You know—galactic population control.”

He didn’t even glance up from his datapad. Just kept scrolling like this wasn’t the verbal equivalent of launching a grenade into the bunk. “And no, I’m not doing another midnight pharmacy run because your idea of protection is hope and the Force will provide.”

And just like that, the entire mood shattered.

Khaat went rigid.

Drallig’s expression flickered—one glorious second of absolute horror—before it twisted into something sharp.

Tholme smirked, taking a slow, satisfied step back, already bracing for impact. He had won this round. He could feel it in the way Drallig’s eye twitched. So, he turned to Khaat, giving her a mockingly solemn nod, like he was imparting some kind of great wisdom.

"Oh, and if he suddenly starts quoting poems about your beauty, he’s just hoping you won’t notice he’s already finished."

Drallig grabbed the closest object—a boot, maybe, Tholme didn’t bother checking—and hurled it at his head.

Tholme ducked. The boot slammed against the doorframe just as he slapped the panel, sealing the door shut behind him.

As he took off down the corridor, he exhaled sharply, shaking his head with a reluctant smirk.

Somewhere in the mess of everything, he realised he’d completely forgotten to be mad at Qui-Gon.

Force help him, that might have been Drallig’s plan all along.

**

Tholme hadn’t meant to end up in the archives.

Not really.

And yet, here he was—seated at one of the long, polished tables, an old datapad open before him, filled with words that refused to hold his attention. He’d been staring at the same passage for fifteen minutes now—eyes glazed, brain fogged—trying and failing to care about Brentaal’s latest round of bureaucratic backstabbing. The knowledge refused to stick. His mind had been restless for days now, thoughts twisting in loops that never quite settled, coiling around themselves like tightly wound wire.

He exhaled slowly, rubbing his temple with two fingers, debating whether to give up the pretence entirely.

Then heard it.

“If your goal is to feign productivity,” came a voice—cool, clipped, insufferably precise—“at least pretend to be entertained.”

Tholme stilled.

He hadn’t sensed anyone approach—not even the familiar shift in the Force that should’ve warned him someone was near. A flicker of unease twisted in his chest, sharp and sudden, his fingers gripping the edge of the datapad before he forced himself to look up.

Master Dooku sat a few tables away, poised with a cup of steaming tea resting beside him, and a datapad balanced in one hand. The soft glow from the screen cast sharp shadows across the aristocratic planes of his face, accentuating the sharp, assessing quality of his gaze. He had not looked up, had not even moved beyond that single interruption, as if speaking to Tholme had required no real effort at all.

Tholme sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “I should’ve known you’d be lurking here, Master.”

Dooku finally lifted his gaze, one brow arching slightly. “The archives are hardly a place for… lurking.”

Tholme leaned back in his chair, arms folding loosely over his chest. “You tell me. You look like you’ve been here longer than I have.”

Dooku made a soft, unimpressed noise. “The difference is that I accomplish something.”

His lips quirked—just barely. The closest thing to amusement he ever allowed.

“And here I thought you were just here to pass judgment.”

Dooku took a measured sip of his tea before setting it down with a soft clink. “It is not judgment,” he said. “Merely observation.”

Tholme gave him a flat look. “Right. And what, exactly, have you observed, Master?”

Dooku tilted his head slightly, studying him in that way that always made Tholme feel as though he were being examined, weighed against some invisible standard that only Dooku understood.

“I have observed,” Dooku said at last, “that you are distracting yourself. And that tonight, your attitude is somewhat… strained. I hope this has nothing to do with my Padawan’s influence. I am aware he can be…testing, to some minds.”

Tholme’s jaw tightened, his fingers pressing just a little harder against the table’s smooth surface. “Never, Master,” he lied, because he had learned his lesson the damn hard way: do not bitch about master’s to their face. And extend that rule to their Padawan’s when necessary.

Still, Dooku’s lips quirked, the closest thing to amusement he ever displayed. “If that is a lie, you are doing a rather poor job of it.”

Tholme exhaled sharply, shaking his head.

The silence stretched, the hum of the archives thick as fog, pressing into every corner of the space between them. Dooku was not pushing, was not pressing—but he was waiting. And somehow, that was the worst thing he could have done.

Tholme dragged a hand through his hair, debating how much he actually wanted to say. It wasn’t that he distrusted Dooku. In fact, if there was anyone in the Order who had ever looked at him without expectation, without pre-emptively deciding what he was, it was him. But that did not mean Tholme was eager to unravel himself for him, to lay bare the unease that had been sinking into his bones for days now.

But something about the way Dooku sat, quiet and patient, made it impossible to ignore.

After a long moment, Tholme sighed again. “Have you ever had a day where nothing is wrong, but everything feels… off?”

Dooku regarded him with quiet consideration. “Of course.”

Tholme arched a brow. “Really?”

Dooku exhaled slowly, gaze flicking back to his datapad. “I may not indulge in theatrics the way some of you do, but I am still human, Tholme.”

Tholme smirked despite himself. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Dooku ignored the remark entirely, his voice smooth as ever. “But the true question is not whether one experiences such days, but rather how one addresses them.”

Tholme gave him a sidelong look. “And how do you address them, Master Dooku?”

Dooku picked up his tea, swirling it slightly before taking a measured sip. “By doing what needs to be done regardless of how I feel about it.”

Tholme rolled his eyes. “How very profound.”

Dooku’s lips twitched. “You asked.”

Tholme sighed, tapping his fingers against the datapad. The tension in his shoulders had not eased, the weight of the last few weeks still pressing down on him, tightening around his ribs like a vice. Torwyn. T’ra. Drallig. Qui-Gon. Everything was spiralling, slipping from his grasp, and for all his efforts to hold it together, he could feel himself losing control.

The Jedi Master set his tea down, watching him again, quieter this time. More considering.

“You are troubled,” Dooku said at last.

He snorted—more reflex than humour. “That your expert Jedi analysis?”

Dooku didn’t so much as blink. “That was merely my second observation.”

Tholme hesitated, drumming his fingers against the table. “It’s nothing.”

Dooku hummed, but his expression did not shift. “It rarely is.”

There was something oddly disarming about him, something about the way he spoke, the way he never rushed a conversation, never demanded answers.

“Do you ever feel like you’re not the one in control?” Tholme asked, his voice low, like the words had snuck out before he could stop them.

Dooku’s fingers stilled on his teacup. Not hesitation—consideration. “No,” he said after a beat. “It is the Force that decides our path, nothing else.”

Tholme huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “That’s not what I meant.”

Dooku merely continued. “Is there something you wish to report, Tholme? Something…troubling you?”

The words sent a cold shiver down his spine. Because yes.

Tholme looked down, fumbling with his hands before he managed a shaky exhale, the weight of them settling heavy in his chest. “I…uh, no.”

The air in the archive felt suddenly colder. Not a shift in temperature—something else. Something deeper. Dooku was watching him, waiting, the weight of his silence almost heavier than his words.

Then he uttered quietly. “Be careful, Tholme.”

Something about his tone made Tholme pause, fingers tightening at his sides. Slowly, he glanced back. “Of what?”

Dooku held his gaze, expression carefully neutral.

His fingers traced absently over the rim of his tea cup, slow, deliberate, before he finally answered. “Of whom is listening.”

**

After the weird conversation with Master Dooku, Tholme let his feet walk him to the training rooms. What he wanted was to get into bed with his holo novel, eat a bag of those cheesy fried snacks T’ra lived by, feed Cinnabon, take a long shower, and sleep until noon tomorrow.

But no. That wasn’t going to happen.

Because going back to his quarters meant dealing with Drallig and Khaat, and that was an experience he could do without. He could already hear the inevitable conversation—Drallig would be lying in wait, grinning like a kriffing idiot, already rehearsed and ready to turn Tholme’s own smugness against him.

And that? That was a fate worse than death.

No. He was avoiding them at all costs.

So instead, he was here, running through his staff drills.

The steady whirl and snap of wood cutting through air filled the space, a rhythm he knew well, his body moving through the patterns without thought. The repetition was grounding, the burn in his muscles a welcome distraction.

Then, a quiet shift appeared at the doorway.

“I thought I’d find you here.”

Tholme’s grip on the staff tightened—because of course it did. It wasn’t like he could tell the difference between tension, irritation, or the vague, unsettled feeling clawing up his spine. Fight or flight? Annoyance? Something else entirely? Who fucking knew.

Still, T’ra crossed the space without hesitation, dropping onto the mat with a smile that was almost unfair.

And Tholme? Well. He had absolutely not spent the last fifteen minutes beating the ever-loving shit out of this training staff to avoid thinking about Drallig getting laid.

Because he did not care.

Did not care that Drallig had finally found a moment to crawl out of Tholme’s business and into someone else’s. Did not care that Drallig was getting laid and he—the only one in this Force-forsaken outpost who probably needed it more—was not.

And it wasn’t like he couldn’t. There were people he could call. He had numbers. If he wanted to bury himself in another person and finish faster than Gremlin humping his damn boot—he could.

At least, if he wanted to. If he let himself.

But he didn’t.

Because T’ra.

Because she was here, settling onto the mat beside him, her tunic shifting just slightly across her ribs with the motion. Because her shoulders rolled back, loose, easy, like she had just let go of something heavy. Like she had settled into this, near him, without hesitation.

And Force help him, he wanted—

No. No, he did not want. Wanting was a dangerous thing, a reckless thing, a thing that made Torwyn shoot him with a blaster or leave him locked in a shuttle with no hint as to when he would be back. It was a thing that made his throat tight and his hands clench a little too hard on his staff.

Because wanting meant acknowledging the heat curling low in his stomach, the sharp, traitorous flicker of desire he’d worked so hard to bury, and the sharp flicker of awareness when her gaze flicked up to meet his—amused, knowing, like she had already decided what he was thinking before he even had a chance to think it.

And Tholme refused to be that predictable.

So he exhaled sharply, tightening his grip on the staff again, like it could keep his brain from doing something reckless. Like admitting the obvious.

Something that sounded like please, T’ra, I am but a humble fool, ruin my life.

Nope. None of that.

Instead, he looked away, smirking just enough to make it look like he had the upper hand. “Well,” he drawled, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“The Force is full of mysteries,” she murmured, tilting her head as if listening to something only she could hear. “I was meditating. But then it whispered—move. And I found you.”

Tholme blinked, his fingers flexing against the staff again, grasping for the casual indifference that usually came so easily to him.

He forced a smirk, giving the staff a lazy twirl. “Sounds like the Force needs better hobbies.”

She let out a quiet breath, leaning back onto her hands, stretching her legs out as she surveyed the room, all whilst Tholme cleared his throat, shoving the tension down deep where it couldn’t hurt him.

“Anyway,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Speaking of people with an unfortunate talent for getting under my skin—Drallig finally got Khaat alone tonight.”

T’ra hummed, leaning back onto her hands, letting the shift in conversation settle over them. “Finally?”

Tholme huffed, seizing the change in conversation like a man clinging to the edge of a crumbling cliff. “Oh yeah. Drallig’s been waiting for this moment like a Jedi Youngling waiting for a lightsaber. Poor bastard, it’s been months.”

She smiled—small, mild, like the words barely registered. Like she was simply observing. Like she wasn’t quietly trying to piece together something she had no frame of reference for. “And months…” she said finally, carefully, evenly. “That’s a while, by your standards?”

Tholme paused. It was subtle, but he heard it—the uncertainty. Not the kind that came from doubt, but something quieter, something more human.

And for a moment, he saw her. Not just the Master. Not just the Jedi. But the girl beneath it all who was still young. Still learning. Still figuring it out.

His toes curled in his boots. He should answer—acknowledge whatever it was he’d just glimpsed. But that felt… dangerous. So he scoffed, leaning into the easy out. “Were you not the one to teach me time isn’t so linear, Master Saa?”

She let out a quiet breath—one that was too careful. Then, without missing a beat, her lips curved into something wry. “In that case, should I assume you’ve planned a full parade for him?”

Tholme tilted his head, watching her a little too closely—mostly because he was an idiot. “No parade. Just a commemorative plaque.”

She sighed faintly, but there was a measured quality to her voice, like she was circling something without touching it directly. “And does every Jedi get one? Or is Drallig just… lucky?”

He made a noise, rolling the staff absently between his fingers, but something about the way she asked made him hesitate—like she wasn’t really talking about Drallig at all.

Still, he kept it casual, kept it easy. “Drallig has never done anything quietly in his entire life. If he could register his sex life as an official Order event, he’d have banners hanging in the main hall by now.”

T’ra tilted her head slightly, but she wasn’t laughing. Not even close.

Shit, why did he suddenly feel like he’d said the wrong thing?

Oh. Right.

Because he was sitting here, running his mouth about Drallig’s sex life—to a Jedi Master. A respected, composed, impossible-to-read Jedi Master.

Yeah. He was a fucking idiot.

Before Tholme could backtrack, T’ra let out a quiet hum, tapping a thoughtful finger against her knee. “It’s funny,” she mused. “The way people talk about desire. Like it’s something to be conquered. Or collected.”

Tholme huffed, glancing away. “That almost sounds like judgment.”

She blinked, watching him in a way that made his skin prickle. Like she already knew something he didn’t.

“You tell me,” she said smoothly. “You talk as though you understand it. Like you’ve felt it. Have you?”

Tholme couldn’t help it, he hesitated.

There was something off about her tone. Not teasing. Not casual. Something… heavier.

“Okay,” he said slowly. “Either you’re messing with me, or I’ve just walked into a trap.”

T’ra leaned forward, elbows on her knees, her voice dropping to something softer, yet sharper. “Have you ever wanted someone, Tholme?”

Wanted.

Not flirted with. Not slept with. Wanted. In a way that reached inside and didn’t let go.

His fingers flexed against his staff, forcing a smirk into place. “Funny,” he said, voice quieter now. “I could ask you the same thing.”

T’ra didn’t blink. Didn’t shift. Just… watched him.

And then—she tilted her chin up slightly, her voice steady. “Would it scare you if I had?”

His pulse kicked up.

That was not fair.

That was not fair.

Tholme scoffed, shifting, trying—failing—to shake the feeling crawling up his spine. “Hilarious. Next thing I know, you’ll be giving me dating advice. Actually—no. That sounds like something Drallig would do, and I refuse to live in that reality.”

T’ra arched a delicate brow, a gesture so effortless it could have been mistaken for boredom—if not for the way her fingers curled just slightly where they rested on her knee.

“Dating advice?” she mused, her voice light, almost dismissive, but not quite. “And who, exactly, would you be applying it to?”

Tholme blinked, then scoffed—too quick, too sharp. Shit.

“Mm, there’s no one,” he said, waving a hand like he was swatting the whole idea out of the air.

He exhaled through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck as he tried to stop the verbal diarrhoea leaving his lips. “But if you’re that curious, I’m sure Drallig’s compiled a full kriffing holocron on my love life. Complete with footnotes, commentary, and—Force forbid—a dramatic reenactment.”

He smirked, but there was something a little too practiced about it. Too easy. Like if he said it the right way, she wouldn’t ask why.

So, he snickered, twirling the staff again. “I didn’t realise I was on trial. I thought we were discussing Drallig finally getting fucked.”

“You’re right,” she sighed. “Far be it from me to derail an important discussion about Drallig’s romantic conquests. Please, continue.”

Tholme laughed to himself, relieved for the out. But was it an out?

He twirled the staff again, keeping his hands busy, keeping his thoughts somewhere they should be. “You’re doing that thing where you’re judging without actually saying anything.”

T’ra hummed, her gaze trailing his hands, like she was looking for something there. “I feel that you two have a… very specific dynamic.”

Tholme arched a brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She didn’t answer right away. Just watched him, steady, unhurried, like she was giving him the chance to answer his own question before she did.

Then she uttered, “Both you and Drallig seem to spend a lot of time pretending not to care about things you clearly do.”

“Oh, is that right? You’re analysing me now?”

T’ra’s gaze flicked up. “I don’t have to. You make it obvious.”

That wasn’t the answer he wanted.

“Please.” He exhaled, forcing his tone back into something easy. “If I was obvious, Drallig wouldn’t have spent three weeks telling people I hooked up with Marah.” He twirled the staff, giving her a look. “You’d think he’d have gotten bored by now.”

T’ra made a quiet sound—something between amusement and exasperation. “You let him think that. You keep going back and every time he assumes, you let him.”

Tholme’s fingers twitched, the staff halting for half a second before he kept it moving. “Yeah, well. Better that than dealing with the real conversation.”

T’ra tilted her head, just slightly.

“You do that a lot,” she mused, voice softer now. Not accusing. Just… seeing him.

Tholme blinked. “Do what?”

“You let people believe things because it’s safer than telling them the truth.”

His smirk faltered—just slightly, just enough.

Because that? That hit something.

He didn’t like that.

That felt far too close to something real.

So, naturally, he deflected again. “Right. And I assume you have some grand Jedi wisdom to offer on the matter?”

“Not particularly. Just an observation.”

Tholme exhaled, rolling his shoulders. “Well, here’s an observation for you: Drallig finally got Khaat alone. Which means, statistically speaking, I am going to suffer immensely for the next several days.”

T’ra hummed in response as she reached for a half-empty bottle of fizz near the sparring rack—one of his. Her fingers absently brushed against it, before knocking it onto its side.

And it spun.

Slow. Lazy. Turning between them.

Tholme barely registered the motion—until it stopped.

On him.

His breath hitched before he could stop it.

But T’ra didn’t react. Didn’t acknowledge it at all. Just reached out, flicked the bottle again, setting it spinning once more.

Tholme exhaled slowly, forcing himself to lean back, forcing himself to be unbothered. It was nothing. A coincidence. A stupid childhood game, but a tight, strangled feeling coiled in his chest, something deep and stupid and irrationally alert.

T’ra tilted her head, finally flicking a glance up at him. “What?”

Tholme snickered, casual, easy—too easy. “Oh, nothing,” he said.

But it wasn’t nothing, because suddenly, Tholme was twelve again, back at the Temple.

Sitting in a different training room, late at night, when they weren’t really supposed to be there.

Hushed voices. Suppressed laughter. The bottle spinning between them, before eventually landing on him.

The nervous anticipation, the fleeting hesitation—before Mavra leaned forward, and suddenly, he was having his first kiss in the dim glow of an empty training hall, surrounded by eyes.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet. It was fast, aggressive, a little too confident—like she’d practiced in the mirror and wanted everyone to know it. Her hand caught the front of his tunic like she was staking a claim, her lips awkward and too firm, pressed against his like a dare instead of a question.

Someone wolf-whistled. Someone else laughed. Tholme just froze—wide-eyed, off-balance, and hyper-aware of every single person watching them.

He blinked, shaking himself free of the memory, rolling the staff between his fingers, trying to shake off the odd sense of déjà vu. “It’s the game,” he said eventually, nodding toward the floor. “Spin the bottle.”

T’ra blinked at him, utterly lost. Genuinely lost.

“What is that?” she asked.

For a moment, he waited. For the grin, for the sarcastic, Very funny or Come on, I wasn’t born yesterday—for anything that meant she was messing with him.

But it never came. She genuinely didn’t know.

Tholme quirked a brow, giving her a mock-offended look. “You’re joking.”

T’ra’s expression remained neutral. “No.”

“You really don’t know?”

Her eyes narrowed just slightly, something dry creeping into her voice. “Would I be asking if I did?”

Tholme huffed, dragging a hand through his hair. “It’s… a game. It’s stupid.”

“That much was clear.”

He sighed, picking at a loose thread on his sleeve, suddenly feeling a little ridiculous for choosing to explain this. “You spin the bottle. Whoever it lands on, you have to kiss them.”

T’ra stared at him. Then stared at the bottle. Then back at him.

“…That’s it?” she asked, like she genuinely couldn’t believe that was the whole game.

Tholme gave her a look. “You were expecting something more philosophical?”

T’ra didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she flicked the bottle with a single finger, watching as it spun half-heartedly before stopping.

Again, on him.

She tilted her head. “And people enjoy this?”

Tholme barely flicked his gaze to the bottle. “Well, that depends on who the bottle lands on.”

T’ra’s lips pressed together in a thoughtful line, her brow creasing slightly before she finally gave him a look. “And you willingly put yourself at the mercy of chance like that?"

Tholme laughed. “I’m assuming this was not a common pastime in your youth?”

She exhaled through her nose, shaking her head with something like fond disbelief. “If it was, I wouldn’t have been invited.”

Tholme paused. She said it like a joke, but—no. That wasn’t a joke, was it?

The Temple had raised them both. But for her? Everyone around her had either outpaced her in age—or never caught up. No padawan dares. No late-night games. No soft touches in the hallway just to feel something.

Of course no one had invited her. Of course no one had ever thought to.

They’d looked at her and seen something ancient. Not someone who wanted to kiss and be kissed. Just someone… other.

But Tholme didn’t see her like that. He never had.

He tilted his head slightly, his smirk shifting just enough to be teasing, but careful. “That’s a shame. You missed out on a lot of dramatic adolescent heartbreak.”

T’ra hummed, trailing a lazy finger along the edge of the bottle, rolling it slightly back and forth. “So what I’m hearing is that this was an important developmental experience. One that I, tragically, overlooked.”

“Do I detect a hint of regret, Master Saa?”

“Oh, absolutely,” she counted. “My entire growth as a person has suffered immensely.” T’ra spun the bottle again, absently watching it turn. “So. How does it work?”

“You’re actually asking?”

She tilted her head slightly, the barest flicker of challenge in her expression. “You were so eager to share your wisdom a moment ago. Now you’re hesitating?”

Tholme exhaled, shaking his head, leaning forward just slightly. “You’re messing with me.”

“I might be.” Her gaze flickered, watching for his reaction.

Something shifted in the air between them—just for a second. A flicker of something lingering just beneath the surface.

Tholme huffed a quiet laugh, dragging a hand through his hair. “Well, then I refuse to participate.”

T’ra smiled, watching him like she was weighing something in her mind. Then, as if deciding, she leaned forward just slightly—elbows on her knees, gaze unreadable. Lips grinning. “Coward.” 

And Tholme smirked—because if she only knew.

Chapter Text

Tholme was sprawled across his bed, datapad in hand, Cinnabon in his hood, pretending to read. His mind was elsewhere—still tangled in whatever mess he was in. His hearing was being muffled by wiggly, brown fur, and he was pretty sure there were rodent snacks in his sheets.

Eeth was already halfway through the door before he spoke, barely waiting for permission to enter—as if that was ever something he’d considered necessary. He still had the lingering sweat of training on his brow, his tunic slightly askew, and his boots were untied, like he’d gotten distracted halfway through pulling himself together.

He paused in the doorway, rocking back on his heels, before his eyes flicked toward Tholme looking every bit like a man who wanted to be left alone with his emotional support mammal.

Not that it ever stopped Eeth.

“Tholme, can I borrow your datapad?” he asked, tone far too casual to be anything but suspicious.

Tholme didn’t look up. He just exhaled through his nose, flipping a page of his holo novel with the slow energy of a man clinging to the last shred of his patience.

“One day, you’re going to walk in and see something you don’t want to, and it will haunt you,” he said, voice dry, utterly unimpressed. “Is that what it’s going to take to learn how to kriffing knock?”

“Look, knowledge is knowledge,” he said, completely serious. “Isn’t that what the Order teaches us?”

“You need to stop spending time with Drallig, because you’re starting to sound like him and it’s not okay.” Tholme flipped another page. Then he uttered, “It’s in my locker. Top shelf.”

Eeth moved across the room, throwing a look at Tholme, before he came to an abrupt halt, his eyes wide with a kind of horror usually reserved for Hutt cuisine. “Wait—you have your own refresher?” he asked. “How do I get one of those.”

“One of the few perks to being Torwyn’s Padawan,” Tholme replied. “I can shower in peace.”

I can shower where no one can see the bruises.  

He didn’t say that aloud though, and thankfully Eeth didn’t bother lingering on the comment either. Instead, he kneeled in front of Tholme’s locker and made a noise somewhere between intrigue and mild disgust as he shifted through the contents. “Huh. You know, for a guy who complains about Drallig being messy, this is—oh, wow, what is this?”

Tholme finally looked up from his datapad, raising a brow, because on second thoughts, there were probably a few things in there he didn’t need the kid seeing. Like alcohol. Cigarettes. His precious shampoo.

And that…

That being an old ration pack that Eeth was holding up, squinting at the faded label. “Um, this expired three years ago.”

Tholme rolled his eyes. “It’s non-perishable.”

 “I’m pretty sure that doesn’t apply when the edges are green.” Eeth turned it over in his hands.

Undeterred, he kept digging, pulling out an empty flask. “Why do you even have this? You don’t drink—do you?”

Tholme smirked, because at least this meant he had a few secrets from this little Zabrak. “Maybe it’s symbolic.”

Eeth snorted, tossing it back in before pulling out a crumpled tunic. He unfolded it, inspecting the fabric with a critical eye. “This one’s got a hole in it.”

“Battle damage,” Tholme muttered.

Still unfortunately undiscouraged, Eeth continued, pulling out what looked like an old training manual.

Tholme exhaled slowly. “Are you actually looking for the datapad, or are you just here to judge?”

Eeth grinned, unrepentant. “Can’t it be both?”

“No,” Tholme muttered, gently prying Cinnabon off his shoulder and depositing him into his enclosure like a weary single parent with a clingy toddler.

Then he caught Eeth staring at the contraceptives like they might explode.

Tholme didn’t even blink. “Don’t get weird about it, Eeth. I’m emotionally flawed, not irresponsible.”

Eeth made a noise—somewhere between a cough and a nervous laugh. “Uh. Yeah. Sure. Of course. That’s—uh, practical.”

And then—he froze.

Something soft, something fabric, something very much not a tunic was wedged in the corner of the locker.

His brow furrowed as he pulled it free, holding it up.

And then, very slowly, he turned to Tholme, expression utterly unreadable.

“…Why,” Eeth asked, voice cautious, confused, and maybe a little too amused, “do you have a towel in here? And it smells nice. Oh…wow, really nice.”

He blinked at it, confused. It was not standard Jedi-issued fabric. It was softer, plusher, expensive.

Eeth squinted at the fabric, turning it over like he was expecting to find some great, terrible truth stitched into the seams. “Did… did you steal this from the civilian girl Drallig keeps talking about?”

“What? No.” Tholme’s face twisted.

Eeth hummed, unconvinced, sniffing the towel again. “I mean, if you’re keeping it because it smells nice, that’s kind of weird, but I won’t judge. People do that, right? Keep stuff that smells like someone they… like?”

Tholme stared at him, lips parting slightly, then pressing into a thin, thin line.

“Come on, are you sure you didn’t take it home from someone’s quarters?” Koth wiggled his brows. “You know. After a ‘meeting’?”

“Eeth,” he said, slow, patient, the kind of patience one uses to explain to a youngling why they shouldn’t lick a power coupling, “why in the kriff would I keep someone’s towel because it smells nice?”

Eeth, completely unfazed, shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s a thing people do. Drallig says Jedi are repressed as hell. Maybe this is your way of acting out.”

Tholme exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down his face. “I did not steal a towel to sniff in my spare time.”

“Well,” Eeth said, peering at him, “it’s definitely not yours, you don’t smell like this, and you definitely do have it.” And then he added, tone just a little too innocent, “So, whose is it?”

Tholme stood, a little too fast—snatching the fabric from Eeth’s hands before he could make this any worse. He held it up. His brow furrowed.

The scent hit him first. Fresh, clean, familiar.  Not standard issue. Not his. Not Drallig’s.

His breath hitched. The scent was clean, crisp—faintly floral. He’d smelled it before. On the training mats. When she leaned too close. When she handed him a flask after drills, fingers brushing his.

T’ra.

A flicker of something sharp and electric shot through his chest—not memory, not a thought, just sensation. This wasn’t possible.

Eeth was still watching him, the smirk fading into a frown, concern crinkling the edges of his brow.

“Uh.” His gaze flickered between Tholme’s face and the towel. “Are you, uh, are you alright?”

Tholme swallowed hard, forcing his grip to loosen before Eeth noticed the tension. “Maybe it’s Drallig’s.” The lie came too fast, too sharp, too brittle. His fingers curled around the fabric before he forced himself to shove it back into Eeth’s hands.  “Fuck knows what he keeps under his bed.”

Eeth blinked, not moving. “I… don’t think Drallig has a secret floral-scented towel collection.”

“And I do?” He looked away. “Put it back.”

“What?”

“Put it back where you found it.” His voice was too sharp, too thin, too immediate. “Don’t ask questions. Just do it.”

Eeth frowned, hesitating for half a second before shrugging, stuffing the towel back into the locker. “I still think this is weird, by the way. And I’m not kink shaming, I respect you, but this is not what I expected to find today.”

Tholme ignored him. Because his brain was already running too fast, twisting around the problem, forcing himself to retrace his own steps.

He didn’t take this. He didn’t borrow this. He didn’t even know it existed until right now.

So how…a cold weight pressed into his stomach. Sinking. Twisting.

Because there was only one person who would do something like this.

A voice curled at the back of his mind, soft and amused. "You don’t have many secrets left, Little Shadow."

Tholme inhaled sharply, too fast. The sound cut through the air like a warning.

Eeth looked up at him immediately, brows pulling together. “What?”

Tholme didn’t answer, he couldn’t—because he knew.

Torwyn had put it there. Not by accident. Not to hide it. But to be found

**

The night air bit at his skin, sharp and cool and exactly what he needed after a day that had left him sweaty, sore, and vaguely murderous. He sat on the edge of the rooftop like he belonged there—one boot planted against the stone, the other swinging off the side like a threat or a dare.

Below him, the city sprawled in every direction, loud and bright and infuriatingly alive. It buzzed with the kind of energy he couldn’t touch tonight—the kind that meant people were out, moving, doing things that made them feel something.

Beside him, Drallig exhaled a slow stream of smoke, the faint ember of his cigarette glowing in the dim light. He held it lazily between his fingers, more as an accessory than a habit. Unlike Tholme, Drallig didn’t need it. He indulged when the mood struck, when the moment called for it. But it wasn’t a crutch.

For Tholme, it was.

The small weight of the cigarette in his own hand was familiar, like a vice he refused to let go of. He rolled it between his fingers before bringing it to his lips, inhaling deeply, letting the burn settle in his chest before exhaling into the night.

And he tried not to think of the towel. Of Torwyn. Of T’ra.

Meanwhile, beside him, Drallig took another slow drag from his cigarette, exhaling like a man who’d just solved the galaxy’s greatest mystery and would now be accepting applause. He stretched out his legs, rolled his shoulders, and settled into the rooftop like it was a chaise lounge—utterly pleased with himself and radiating the smug contentment of someone who had absolutely no idea he was two steps away from meditating himself into the next century.

Then, just loud enough to be heard over the breeze, the lucky bastard sighed. “Yeah,” he mused, “I think that was a personal best.”

Tholme blinked once, but Drallig, naturally, did not elaborate. He just let the words hang there. Smug, loaded and really fucking infuriating.

Tholme dragged a hand down his face. He didn’t want to ask—but of course, curiosity always won. “What was your personal best?”

Drallig smirked, exhaling smoke like he was in a damn holodrama. “Let’s just say, Khaat is probably questioning everything she’s ever believed about the Force.”

Tholme exhaled sharply, flicking the ash from his cigarette. “See, you say that, but I’m picturing a lot of fumbling and at least one deeply apologetic ‘Wait, let me try that again.’”

Drallig snorted, shaking his head. “You act like I committed a crime, Tholme. You’re supposed to be happy for me.” He let the words settle, then flicked him a look. “You are happy for me, right?”

Something in his tone made Tholme pause.

Drallig was still smirking, still easy, still loose-limbed against the ledge—but his blue eyes were too sharp. Watching too closely. Like he wasn’t just talking to talk. Like he was waiting for something.

Tholme forced a smirk, rolling his shoulders like the conversation was nothing. “Conceptually.” He took a slow drag, exhaling smoke. “Just not in graphic detail.”

Drallig hummed, nodding along, then tilted his head slightly. “Is that why you look like you’ve been forcefully abstaining for so long that even the Force is concerned?”

Tholme, unfortunately, still had a functioning mouth, hence why he scoffed. “Right. And I suppose you think the solution is to follow your lead and start enlightening people about the mysteries of the Force in ways the Council would strongly disapprove of?”

Drallig grinned like a man who had just sniffed out the juiciest bit of gossip on the whole damn planet. “Oh, Tholme,” he sighed, devastatingly smug, “you are jealous.”

He took a long, slow inhale, then looked Drallig dead in the eye. “The only thing I envy about you is your ability to be this kriffing shameless.”

Drallig leaned back, arms crossing, absolutely delighted. “You know, it’s starting to make sense now. The mood swings. The sharp little comments. The bitter exhale every time someone flirts in your general vicinity.” He smirked. “Kriff, Tholme. You might as well wear a sign that says, ‘It’s been too long and I’m pissed about it’.”

“Bold of you,” Tholme muttered, “considering you were whining about your dry spell last week. What do you want me to say? That I’m horny and miserable? I thought you, of all people, might have a little empathy.”

Drallig hummed, exhaling slowly through his nose. “Yeah. empathy.” His eyes flicked over Tholme, thoughtfully, like he was working through something in his mind.

Tholme tensed. Just barely. But Drallig caught it.

And just like that, his eyes narrowed.

“Wait.” He tilted his head, watching Tholme’s expression like a man piecing together a puzzle he didn’t realise was missing pieces. “You were with Marah last week.” Drallig straightened slightly, his smirk flickering into something sharper, more focused. “So why the kriff do you sound like a man who hasn’t been laid in years?”

Even though every alarm bell was ringing in the back of his head to abort this conversation before Drallig discovered the truth, Tholme didn’t so much as flinch. He scoffed, shaking his head. “I wasn’t counting the ceiling tiles, Cinnamon.”

Drallig hummed, narrowing his eyes slightly. “Alright, alright. You had your fun, you had your drink, you had Marah.”

“Yeah, I did.” Tholme smirked, taking a long drag from his cigarette before exhaling through his nose. “You want the kriffing play-by-play?” His voice was easy, too easy. Like this wasn’t sitting like a stone in his chest. “Alright—bed, desk, shower. No complaints, five stars, would do it again.” He shrugged, forcing his lips into something cocky, something convincing. “Happy?”

Tholme took another drag, staring out over the skyline, watching the distant sprawl of lights, the slow, steady hum of a city that didn’t give a damn about the mess in his head. He could feel it pressing down, creeping under his skin—the weight of the lie.

Because it was a lie. A stupid, petty, unnecessary lie, but it was a lie.

And kriff, it wasn’t even about Marah.

Drallig would have been fine with the truth. Would have laughed, made some dumb comment, let it go. But no—Tholme had dug himself deeper. Lied straight to his best friend’s face just to keep him off his back.

And it worked—it should have felt like relief.

But it didn’t. Because for the first time in a long time, lying to Drallig didn’t feel like self-preservation. It felt like betrayal.

And Drallig might not have figured it out yet—but he smelled blood in the water.

A fact he knew all too well as his smirk widened, lazy, amused—in a way that only made Tholme feel guiltier. “You’re hiding something.”

Tholme forced himself to meet Drallig’s gaze, willing the guilt down. “Alright, fine. I’ll admit it—I didn’t tell you every detail.” He spread his hands in mock defeat, but his stomach twisted. The truth wasn’t in the details. It was in the fact that he was tired of Drallig thinking he could be fixed so damn easily. As though sex, cigarettes or cheesy fucking fries were going to fix his every problem. 

Drallig’s smirk deepened, but his eyes were too sharp now, too focused, and Tholme hated it. Hated the way his best friend could pick him apart without even trying.

“See,” Drallig drawled, flicking his cigarette over the edge of the rooftop, “that’s the thing, Tholme. I don’t need every detail—I just need one.” He leaned in slightly, voice dropping. “Why the kriff do you still look like you lost, instead of won?”

Tholme exhaled slowly, rolling the cigarette between his fingers, letting the ember burn low before flicking it away. His jaw tightened, but when he spoke, his voice was steady—too steady, like he was forcing himself into something calmer, something Jedi-like, something that didn’t sound like guilt.

“It’s not about winning, Drallig,” he said finally, quiet but firm. “She’s not a prize. Not something to tally up and throw around for bragging rights.” His fingers curled into his palms. “If that’s all this is to you, maybe you’re the one who’s lost.”

And just like that, the mood shifted.

Drallig’s smirk flickered—just barely, just for a second—but it was enough. Enough for Tholme to see the crack beneath it, the brief pause where something unreadable flashed in his eyes. He didn’t like that. Didn’t like being put on the back foot.

“You love her,” he said sharply.

Tholme exhaled, dragging a hand down his face. “Drallig. Just because I’m not an asshole doesn’t mean I’m in love with her.”

Drallig let the silence stretch. So, without a word, Tholme reached into his pocket, pulling out another cigarette and lighting it with the precision of a man who needed something—anything—to do with his hands.

Drallig tracked the movement with the kind of stare that burned, his arms still crossed, his jaw tight. He wasn’t smirking anymore. He wasn’t needling. He was pissed.

Not annoyed. Not irritated. Pissed.

Tholme exhaled, watching the smoke curl between them before finally answering, voice easy. “I appreciate the concern, really. But you’re wrong.”

 “Am I?”

Tholme took another drag, letting it settle in his lungs before answering. “Yeah,” he muttered. “You are.”

Because he didn’t love Marah, at least, not like that. He respected her. He cared for her.  He loved her like a particularly vexatious older sibling.

And Drallig, in all his infinite, infuriating wisdom, had it all wrong.

Tholme almost wanted to laugh at how much worse the truth actually was.

Because if Drallig knew—if he really knew—if he found out that every stupid deflection, every cigarette, every sharp, easy smirk was covering up something else entirely? That all of this was to keep himself from thinking about someone else?

Stars, Tholme didn’t even want to imagine it. Didn’t want to imagine the way Drallig’s anger would shift, how he’d go from irritated to something else entirely. How the teasing would evaporate, how the accusations would change. Because if there was one thing in the galaxy that Drallig would never, ever forgive him for, it was lying to him.

And Tholme had just done exactly that.

So instead, he forced a smirk, tilting his head slightly as he crushed the ember under his thumb.

The words came effortlessly—too effortlessly.

“She’s just... easy,” he said, too flat, too tired. “Marah knows what I like. Doesn’t expect much. Doesn’t make it complicated.” He took another drag. “And frankly, I’m too kriffing busy to break in someone new. She has to do for now.”

The moment the words left his mouth, they curdled.

Drallig went still.

Not a flinch. Not a wince. But a slow, sharp stillness that made Tholme feel like he’d just said something really fucking awful. Because he had.

He felt it sink like a stone in his gut. He’d reduced Marah—Marah, who didn’t deserve that—to a convenience. An afterthought. Something to use because it was easier than facing the things he didn’t want to name.

And he hated himself for it.

And Drallig may have too.

“Say that again,” Drallig said, low and deadly calm. “But this time, without sounding like a complete piece of shit.”

It wasn’t a demand. It wasn’t even an invitation for an argument. It was a warning.

Tholme exhaled sharply through his nose, tipping his head back as if the stars above could somehow justify what he’d just said. They didn’t.

“Don’t look at me like that.” His voice came out lower than he meant, rough around the edges, like he was trying to scrape off the guilt before it could stick. “You’re acting like I did something wrong.”

Drallig didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just kept staring at him, like he was seeing something in Tholme that Tholme didn’t have the stomach to acknowledge.

“Oh, you didn’t?” Drallig’s voice was so level it made Tholme’s skin crawl. “Because I just watched you talk about Marah like she was a sparring dummy.”

And fuck, that hurt.

Because Drallig didn’t just sound mad. He sounded disappointed.

Tholme clenched his jaw, exhaling smoke through his nose, trying to push down the guilt curling in his chest. He knew Drallig. He knew that, of all things, this would piss him off the most. Because Drallig flirted. But he never treated people like they were disposable. That was the line—and Tholme had crossed it.

He swallowed hard, tucking one of his legs up closer to his chest.  Then, quietly, he said, “Yeah. I shouldn’t have said that.”

Drallig’s voice was eerily calm, but his hands had curled into fists. “Tell me, did it feel good? Did it feel good to say it first? To be the one who got to call yourself a useless, selfish piece of shit before anyone else could?” His lip curled. “Guess you really are Torwyn’s little shadow.”

Tholme exhaled another stream of smoke, ignoring the way something cold twisted in his chest.

Drallig opened his mouth to say something else, but before he could get a word out, footsteps echoed from behind them.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, already bracing himself for whatever fresh hell the universe had decided to drop on him next.

And then—fresh hell appeared in the form of Qui-Gon Jinn.

Standing at the edge of the rooftop, arms folded, watching them with that infuriatingly unreadable expression of his that screamed ‘I do whatever I want—because the Force told me it was okay’.

Drallig snorted, shaking his head. “You know what, Jinn? Fine. Take a seat. I’d love to hear your philosophical input on how to deal with a best friend who’s turned into a complete and utter bastard.”

Tholme’s breath was shaky as he ran a hand down his face. “You’re right,” he muttered. “I’m a bastard.” But that wasn’t what he wanted to say. What he wanted to say was, You were the last person I ever wanted to hurt.

Qui-Gon stopped just short of the ledge, his hands clasped loosely behind his back, gaze flicking from Drallig to Tholme before landing on the cigarettes in their hands. “I have seen many reckless choices in my time, but I have to say—this one lacks creativity.”

Drallig let out a snort. “Are you here to join us?”

“I wasn’t,” he said evenly. Before jesting, “But the cantina is closed, and my Master has dismissed me for the night. I didn’t have much else to do.”

“Well, at least you’re honest about it. Usually people try to pretend they actually want to be here.” Drallig let out a sharp, humourless laugh.

Tholme inhaled deeply, letting the smoke curl in his chest before speaking. “If it makes you feel better, I don’t want to be here either.”

Jinn didn’t look away from Tholme. “That is the funny thing about rooftops—people don’t end up on them when they’re at peace.”

Tholme took a slow drag from his cigarette, exhaling through his nose like that might somehow push the guilt out with it. “Yeah, well,” he muttered, “peace is overrated.”

It should have sounded sharp. Dismissive. But it didn’t.

Because even he could hear it—the weight in his voice, the edge of something fraying beneath it. The exhaustion. The regret. The fact that Tholme didn’t have a single excuse left that didn’t sound like a lie.

“What’s the plan here, huh?” Drallig blurted sharply, turning toward Tholme fully now. “Are you going to keep throwing yourself at Marah until you actually believe it’s what you want? Or until she realises it isn’t?”

"Oh, so now you care?" His voice was flat, biting. “Now that you don’t like my coping mechanism, it’s suddenly a problem?”

Jinn closed his eyes for a moment, as if regretting stepping out on the roof at all. “Not to interrupt, but I’ve found that the things we call ‘coping mechanisms’ are rarely what we actually need.”

Drallig turned to Qui-Gon, eyes gleaming with new potential. “You know what, Jinn? I like you. You should stick around. Help me beat some sense into him.”

Qui-Gon crossed his arms. “I think you two have far more experience arguing with each other than I do. I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

Tholme gave Qui-Gon a flat look. “I’m begging you—don’t let him think you’re actually interested. He’ll be unbearable for the rest of the night.”

Drallig tapped his cigarette against the ledge, watching the embers flicker. “You sure this is about me being unbearable, or are you just not used to someone else getting my attention?”

Qui-Gon’s gaze flicked between them. He hadn’t been particularly invested in the conversation—at least, not beyond mild amusement—but something in Drallig’s tone made him pause. His posture didn’t change, his expression barely shifted, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes.

Not interest. Not curiosity.

Recognition.

He tilted his head slightly, watching the way Drallig’s smirk lingered just a second too long, the way Tholme’s shoulders tensed, just barely. It was subtle, but there. A dynamic laid bare for anyone who knew how to look.

And Qui-Gon? He knew how to look.

Qui-Gon shook his head, watching the embers glow. “And here I thought the worst thing in the air tonight was the smell of tobacco.”

Drallig let out a slow exhale, tapping his cigarette once more against the ledge. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter. “Yeah, well. Turns out some things stick in the air longer than smoke.”

His gaze flicked toward Tholme, just briefly—like he wasn’t sure if he was still supposed to be mad, or if he was too tired to keep holding onto it. Then, after a beat, he forced a smirk, lighter this time. “But hey, at least the tobacco doesn’t talk back, right?”

Tholme exhaled a slow stream of smoke, rolling it between his fingers before sighing. “Didn’t think you’d be the type to linger, Jinn,” he murmured, voice quieter now, less biting. He flicked the ash away, glancing up at him. “You sure you want to spend your night on a rooftop listening to me and Drallig go at it? Thought you had better things to do.”

Qui-Gon exhaled through his nose, watching Tholme carefully. “If I only went where I wanted to be, I’d never learn anything.”

Drallig scoffed, shaking his head. “Alright, Jinn. You win. I’ll bite. What life-changing epiphany have you gained from sitting here with us?”

“Far be it from me to question your priorities,” Qui-Gon began, expression amused, “from what I heard on my way up here, you have left a woman in your bed for rooftop dramatics. I’m not sure you want to hear my epiphany.” 

Tholme glanced at Drallig, voice dry. “Don’t let me stop your noble cause.”

Drallig only rolled his eyes. Then—before Tholme even had time to react—he clapped a hand on his shoulder. Hard. Not enough to hurt, but enough to mean something.

“Alright, that’s enough for you,” he declared, like he’d made the decision for him. “You should head back. Get some sleep. And drink some water.”

Tholme froze for half a second.

Not because Drallig had touched him. Not because of the words themselves. But because of the way they settled. Like a weight across his chest.

Like an order.

He gave Drallig a flat look. “I’m fine.”

Drallig ignored him. “No, you’re not.”

Tholme clenched his jaw. He wasn’t in the mood for this. Not now.

But Drallig was already moving, stretching his arms behind his head, looking perfectly at ease. “See you later, Tholme. Jinn.” He gave Qui-Gon a lazy salute before heading off, leaving no room for argument.

Tholme didn’t move—he didn’t even look away from the skyline until Drallig was fully gone. Only then did he exhale, slow, sharp, pressing a thumb into his temple like it could push away the building ache behind his eyes.

There was a beat of silence, then, “Does he always do that?”

Tholme blinked once, slowly, before turning to look at Qui-Gon.

Jinn wasn’t watching the skyline. He was watching him.

Tholme inhaled slowly. “You mean act like my jealous keeper? Yes.”

Qui-Gon hummed, gaze flickering toward the empty space where Drallig had been. “And you let him?”

Something in Tholme’s gut twisted.

Let him?

The way Qui-Gon asked it—like it was a choice. Like he had control over it. Like this was something he could just shut down.

Tholme’s fingers curled into the fabric of his sleeve before he forced them to relax. “It’s easier than fighting him on it.” He exhaled slowly. “And I pissed him off, so now I owe him one. That’s just how it works.”

Qui-Gon arched a brow, gaze flicking between them with quiet curiosity. “And what exactly did you say to warrant a debt?” He tilted his head slightly, voice maddeningly even. “Because from where I’m sitting, Drallig’s not the type to keep score—unless you hit a nerve.”

Tholme exhaled slowly, watching the faint glow of his cigarette as he tapped the ash away. “I said something I shouldn’t have,” he admitted, voice quieter now, like the weight of it was finally catching up to him. “I just wanted him to…”

He inhaled deeply, smoke curling in his lungs before he let it out. “I owe him for this one.” He tilted his head slightly, rolling his shoulders. “Not that I expect him to collect anytime soon. Drallig’s got a talent for making me stew in my own shit before he decides whether or not to forgive me.” He smirked, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Guess I’ll just have to wait and see how much he makes me suffer for it.”

Qui-Gon hummed, studying Tholme with that infuriatingly calm look of his. “So, you have regrets.” It wasn’t a question—just an observation, spoken like a fact.

Tholme let out a short, humourless breath. “I just said I owe him, didn’t I?”

Qui-Gon tilted his head slightly. “Owing someone and regretting something aren’t always the same thing.”

He let the silence stretch for a beat before continuing, voice quieter now. “If you’re waiting for him to make you suffer, you might be missing the point.”

Tholme flicked his cigarette, watching the embers scatter over the ledge. “Yeah? And what’s the point, Jinn?”

Qui-Gon didn’t hesitate. “That if you really meant what you said, you wouldn’t be sitting here feeling like this.”

 “Alright, tell me something.” Tholme looked away, “Have you ever lied to your best friend about sleeping with someone just to shut him up?”

Qui-Gon didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he blinked once, slowly, as if he were actually considering it.

Tholme rolled his eyes, dragging a hand down his face. “Oh, come on. Don’t pretend to be all contemplative about it. We both know you can’t relate. You’re screwing your best friend meanwhile I’m lying to mine.”

Qui-Gon’s brows lifted a fraction, amusement flickering behind his eyes. “That’s quite an assumption.”

Tholme gave him a flat look. “Look. Drallig smells weakness like a damn tooka, and I—” He stopped himself just before saying too much. Just before admitting anything. Instead, he waved a hand. “Never mind. Forget I said anything.”

Qui-Gon studied him for a long moment, the faintest crease forming between his brows. Then, with the kind of patience that made Tholme want to throw himself off the roof, he said, “You know, lying to Drallig isn’t going to make you believe it any more than he does.”

Tholme’s jaw twitched, but he forced himself to take another slow drag from his cigarette. “Yeah? And what’s your great wisdom, Jinn? Just tell the truth?”

Qui-Gon didn’t answer right away. He tilted his head slightly, as if considering whether Tholme was actually ready to hear it. Then, his voice even, he said, “I think you’re fighting awfully hard to sell something you don’t even believe yourself.”

Tholme exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head. “You sound like a kriffing holocron.”

A flicker of amusement crossed Qui-Gon’s face. “Then you should listen. We tend to be right.”

Tholme hesitated—just for a fraction of a second—but Qui-Gon caught it. And then, quieter, sharper, he added, “Drallig already knows. You’re not hiding it from him. So tell me, Tholme—how long before he figures out that you’ve already chosen her?”

Tholme didn’t answer. He just stared at the skyline, cigarette burning low between his fingers.

And for the first time all night, he didn’t have anything left to say.

Chapter Text

The canteen was loud.

Not chaotic—Jedi didn’t do chaos before noon—but loud in that special way reserved for post-training mornings: The scrape of trays, the low murmur of Padawans comparing bruises, the hum of caffeine-fuelled Masters pretending not to hear them.

Tholme sat at the end of a long table, scowling mildly into a bowl of what might have been porridge. Eeth sat across from him, bright-eyed and far too awake, legs swinging under the bench like someone who had never once experienced shame—or understood the concept.

Next to Tholme, Drallig lounged with all the smug self-satisfaction of a man who a) was, against all odds, getting laid regularly and b) had eaten an entire stack of spiced flat cakes without suffering from heartburn.

“—so then he tried to block it with his face,” Eeth said, beaming. “I mean, he’s fine, mostly. His eyebrows are probably not coming back, but…”

Tholme stabbed into his fruit. “On the bright side, he’ll never have to worry about symmetry again.”

Drallig snored. “I’d be more concerned if he lost the eyebrow on purpose. You know—like last time.”

The moment hung for half a second—and then Tholme’s comm beeped.

A sharp, chirping sound, loud enough to cut through the hum of the canteen.

Without thinking, he plucked it from his belt and dropped it onto the table beside his tray, thumbing it open.

It lit up.

Mara: If you’ve lost your cloak, you left it here. P.S. I dry cleaned my sheets after your naked ass was in them. You owe me dinner. Centaxday—cheesy fries? You know the ones.

There was a beat of total silence.

And then he realised what he’d done.

His smile vanished.

He looked up slowly, and of course, both Eeth and Drallig were already staring at him.

Eeth blinked. “Wait. You’re having dinner with her?”

Tholme stabbed a piece of fruit, pursing his lips. “Yes. Because friends eat dinner. Friends have dinner. Like we’re doing right now.” He gestured vaguely with his fork.

Eeth blinked again, clearly unconvinced. “Do all your friends see you naked?”

“Sure, ask Cinnamon. He’s seen me naked more times than he’s seen the inside of the archives,” Tholme retorted, glancing up at where Drallig sat, expecting a huff at the nickname that never failed to get under his skin.

Except, Drallig wasn’t smiling anymore.

Tholme’s smirk faltered.

Because Drallig didn’t huff. Didn’t roll his eyes. Didn’t rise to the bait like he always did. He just… stared. Not angry. Not amused. Just that flat, quiet look he gave people when they’d said something deeply stupid, and he was weighing whether it was worth the effort to respond.

The kind of look that meant he hadn’t forgotten.

The kind that meant Tholme was still in the kriffing doghouse.

Tholme’s fingers tightened slightly around his fork.

“Drallig,” he said, tone lighter than he felt, “that’s usually your cue to call me emotionally stunted and tell Eeth I have boundary issues.”

Still nothing. Just a slow blink, a long sip of his drink, and then—without looking at him, he uttered, “I need more juice.”

There was a beat, and all Tholme could do was frown. “You’ve got juice.”

“I could use more,” Drallig said evenly. “Call it penance. I’m feeling very… parched.”

Tholme gave him a flat look. “You’re kidding.”

“No,” Drallig said. Then—almost lazily, almost like it didn’t matter at all—he added, “But I understand if it’s too complicated. Maybe I should’ve asked someone… easier.”

The words landed like a slap.

Not loud. Not harsh. But coated in quiet venom.

Tholme froze mid-protest, mouth half-open.

Eeth, oblivious and painfully sincere, blinked between them. “Wait—who’s easier?”

Tholme didn’t move. Didn’t look at him.

Drallig didn’t answer.

The silence stretched, taut and brittle, until Tholme finally reached out, snatched the half-empty glass from the table, and stood.

“I’ll get your kriffing juice,” he muttered.

Then he turned and walked off, the hem of his robes flaring like punctuation muttering something about the fucking Jedi Code and personal responsibility the whole walk to the dispensers.

And that was when he saw her.

T’ra was seated by the long windows at the edge of the canteen, datapad resting on her lap, one hand toying absently with her mug of caf. Her boots were off—neatly tucked beside the bench. Her outer tunic was folded beside her, and her hair, usually pinned and perfect, had slipped free around her shoulders.

She rubbed at her eyes with the heel of her hand, like someone who hadn’t slept properly in days, who wasn’t quite sure if she was awake now. Whatever she was reading had her brows drawn tight—something about planetary trade routes, maybe, or a fiscal mess from the Mid Rim.

And despite all of that, despite the tired lines under her eyes and the way her shoulders sagged just slightly forward—she still looked like peace.

He hesitated.

Then—because he was stupid—he went.

She didn’t look up as he slid into the windowsill beside her, setting the juice down gently on the ledge between them. Her datapad stayed balanced on her knee, fingers still curled around her caf mug.

He glanced over at her—boots off, hair down, too tired to fake it—but there was still the faintest pull at his mouth. A small, tired smile. The kind he only wore around her.

Without looking, she murmured, “You don’t like pineapple.”

Tholme blinked, then looked down at the cup like he’d just remembered it was there.

There was a pause. Just long enough for something to settle.

She remembered.

It was a stupid detail, nothing important, but she’d remembered.

Something warm flickered in his chest before he could stop it—then just as quickly, he smothered it. It didn’t mean anything. She was a Jedi. They were trained to notice little things like that.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “It’s for Drallig.”

He huffed a laugh, almost despite himself.

T’ra didn’t say anything—just tilted her datapad toward him, as if sensing he needed something else to focus on.

“Do you know what this is?” she asked, tapping the screen. “It’s a financial audit from Brentaal’s regional council. I’ve been staring at these numbers for hours and still can’t tell if they’re hiding embezzlement or just bad at maths.”

Tholme glanced at the columns—just a glance, a few seconds at most.

“They’re rerouting budget lines through a shell account,” he said, tapping a few numbers in for her. “The education funds are being funnelled into security contracts. That shift in column D doesn’t track unless someone’s laundering it.”

T’ra blinked at him. “…I’ve been working on that since midnight.”

Tholme smirked, just a little. “Well. You’re the one who chose the exciting life of economics.”

T’ra hummed, still staring at the screen. Then, like it was just a passing thought—not a compliment, not a revelation, just something true—she murmured, “You’re good at this. Numbers aren’t my strength. But this—this is you. You’re brilliant.”

He swallowed once, mouth twitching like he couldn’t decide if he was flattered or trying very hard not to be.

“Yeah, well,” he muttered, reaching for the juice again, “I had to be good at something.”

“You know,” she said, “If you keep solving problems like that, I might start bringing you along to Senate briefings.”

“Please don’t,” he muttered. “I’ll launch myself out the nearest window.”

She smiled—actually smiled.

Tholme glanced over, but she wasn’t looking at him. Her gaze had drifted back out the window, toward the hazy skyline where ships blinked between lanes of traffic and light.

“Have you thought about where you’d like to go?” she asked. “When it’s up to you?”

He hesitated. She meant after his trials—which he knew were closer than he could even fathom. But the thought of being out there—alone—and free, hit him with a weird feeling.

Then, voice low, almost automatic, he said, “It’s not really my choice. Shadows go where they’re sent.”

T’ra didn’t argue. Just nodded once, quiet and thoughtful.

He exhaled through his nose, gaze flicking to the skyline.

“…But,” he added, after a beat, like the words slipped past his control, “there’s talk about Kiffu needing a liaison. Border instability. Trade disputes. They might want a Shadow posted there.”

That was all he said.

But the way he said it—soft, uncertain, like a man trying not to admit that he hoped—it lingered in the air between them.

And T’ra, watching him, didn’t press. Didn’t tease. She just murmured, “That wouldn’t be the worst place to land.”

“No,” he said. And this time, the word carried weight. “It wouldn’t.”

T’ra hummed, a quiet sound of consideration. Then, without looking away from the datapad, she said, “I’ve met a Kiffar or two.”

Tholme glanced at her, brow arched. “Oh?”

She tilted her head. “Let’s just say… it was a cultural exchange.” There was a beat, and a rush of air left her nose. “I spent the first conversation trying to figure out if he was flirting or threatening to deport me.”

Tholme snorted, despite himself. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”

T’ra gave him a sidelong glance, her mouth twitching. “The Force will take you there, if it wants to.”

He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, knowing my luck I’ll be assigned to deal with petty family politics whilst babysitting some overly dramatic clan heir.”

T’ra didn’t even blink. “Well, you’ve certainly had enough practice at that to fit right in with the Vos’.”

Tholme let out a laugh—quiet, caught off guard, real. It scraped the edge of something he hadn’t let himself feel in days. He shook his head, still smiling faintly, and reached for the juice.

“Thanks,” he said. “For letting me sit here. For the economics lesson.”

T’ra looked at him, something softer settling into her expression. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “For the solution.”

He blinked once, a little caught off guard. But then he shrugged, casually but sincere. “Any time.”

She tipped her head. “I’ve got three other datapads with the same problem, so don’t say ‘any time’ unless you really mean it.”

“I’m around this afternoon,” he said before he could stop himself.

T’ra looked at him. Really looked at him. And then—her smile bloomed. Not the quiet, knowing one she wore like armour. No, this one was lighter. Freer. Young. A glimmer of twenty, not two hundred.

It knocked the wind out of him—just a little.

“Okay,” she said.

He nodded once—sharp, reflexive, like he needed to hold onto that moment before it slipped—and turned back toward the table. The juice still in his hand. But the weight in his chest?

Lighter than it had been all morning.

Chapter Text

The morning air was crisp—the kind of cool that signalled Brentaal was slipping into a new season. Tholme stood near the landing pad, arms crossed loosely over his chest, his cloak hood drawn low, shielding more than just his face. The sleek Jedi shuttle sat on the platform, its ramp lowered like an open jaw, waiting for the next quiet goodbye. Nearby, Dooku and Torwyn exchanged words—polite words, but anyone paying attention could feel the undercurrent of barely restrained distaste beneath them.

“I trust the Council will be receiving a favourable report,” Torwyn said smoothly, inclining his head ever so slightly. “I hope your time here has proven… enlightening.”

Dooku’s lips quirked—amusement or disdain. Hard to tell. “Enlightening, indeed,” he mused. “I always find it fascinating to witness the varied interpretations of Jedi discipline across the Order.”

Tholme suppressed a smirk. That was not a compliment.

Torwyn didn’t bristle. He just smiled—that same careful, diplomatic mask he wore like second skin. “We all have our methods, Master Dooku.”

 “Yes. So I have observed.”

Qui-Gon, standing off to the side, looked like he had been subjected to this kind of passive-aggressive exchange far too many times before. He met Tholme’s gaze briefly, raising an eyebrow in silent exasperation. Tholme huffed a quiet laugh under his breath.

Before he could say anything though, Dooku turned to his Padawan. “We are due at the Temple within the cycle. It’s time.”

Qui-Gon nodded once, then cast one last glance at Tholme. “Try not to let yourself be managed too much,” Qui-Gon said lightly, like it was just a parting joke. But there was something behind it—just a flicker of concern. “And when you do choose her, do remember to listen to the Force. Master Saa will thank you for it.”  

Tholme held his gaze. “Is that what it told you about Tahl?”

Qui-Gon smirked slightly, and without another word, he turned and followed his Master up the shuttle ramp.

Except, Dooku paused, hands clasped neatly behind his back. His gaze swept the landing pad once more—not hurried, not searching. Just… assessing.

And landed on Tholme. Like pressure on the back of his neck.

His gaze lingered. Just for a moment. Not long enough to be strange—but long enough for Tholme to notice. And then, as if it never happened, he turned and disappeared inside.

Tholme exhaled slowly, fingers tightening against the fabric of his sleeve. He hadn’t realised he’d been holding his breath.

Torwyn hummed beside him, the sound far too pleased. “Well,” he mused, folding his arms behind his back, “that was a long visit. Too fucking long.”

Tholme didn’t miss the undertone in his voice. Torwyn had wanted them gone.

Tholme wasn’t sure why that bothered him. Except—he was. Because Torwyn had been playing diplomat for days. And now? Now he wasn’t even pretending to be anything but relieved. Because if Tholme had learned anything, it was this: Dooku and Qui-Gon had seen something Torwyn didn’t want noticed.

And that meant something. Because Torwyn had been smiling this whole time—but now? Now, for the first time in days… it was real.

**

The departure of Dooku and Qui-Gon should have felt like the end of something. Instead, it left an odd weight in Tholme’s chest. But he didn’t have time to dwell on it, because apparently, Torwyn needed him.

The moment they stepped inside the outpost, his Master gestured for him to follow, leading him down the corridor without a word. There was no need to ask where they were going. He already knew.

Torwyn’s quarters.

That alone put him on edge. The last time he’d been summoned here, it had been after the mission in the city—when Torwyn had been uncharacteristically… kind.

And Tholme still didn’t trust that—so why should he now?

The door slid shut behind him with a quiet hiss, sealing them inside. For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, his Master exhaled slowly, folding his hands behind his back as he turned to face him. “You’ve been quiet,” he observed.

Tholme tilted his head. “I wasn’t aware you preferred me talkative, Master.”

The older Jedi’s lips twitched. Not quite a smile. But not not one, either.

“I prefer you focused,” he said smoothly. “And lately, something’s been… off.”

Tholme’s stomach turned, but he didn’t show it. His expression stayed light, unreadable, arms folding loosely across his chest. “If this is about the work you gave me, I assure you—Brentaal’s archives are every bit as thrilling as advertised.”

Torwyn chuckled softly, a deep, ugly sound. “No. I don’t think your distractions are linguistic.”

There it was.

Tholme didn’t blink. “Then maybe you should enlighten me, Master.”

Cold eyes studied him, sharp and assessing, weighing something unseen. Then, at last, he spoke. “Dooku was... disruptive.”

Tholme didn’t move—but he felt it. The shift.

This wasn’t just conversation. This was a test.

“He had opinions,” Tholme said carefully.

Torwyn inclined his head slightly. “As he always does.” He paused. Then, as if casually adding an afterthought, he said, “You spent time with his Padawan.”

Tholme smirked slightly, he couldn’t help it. “Master Dooku did assign him to help me.”

“And?”

Ah. So this was it. He was fishing—for influence, for doubt, for any seed that hadn’t come from Torwyn himself.

But Tholme wasn’t about to give him that.

He shrugged, voice kept deliberately indifferent. “He’s competent. More serious than Drallig. Less arrogant. We mostly worked in silence.”

Torwyn’s gaze lingered. Just long enough to sting. Then he nodded. “Good.”

But something about it felt off. Too easy.

Torwyn turned to the cabinet, retrieved two glasses, and a bottle Tholme didn’t recognise. He poured—smooth, amber—and held one out.

Tholme eyed it warily.

“It’s not poison, Little Shadow,” he crooned.

Yeah. That wasn’t what worried him.

Still, after a beat of hesitation, he accepted the glass. He didn’t drink immediately, just held it, waiting, as though there was something coming.

Torwyn took a slow sip of his own before speaking again. “You know,” he mused, “I think Qui-Gon Jinn is a good Jedi.”

“Careful,” Tholme said dryly. “You almost sound impressed.”

Torwyn huffed a quiet laugh. “Not impressed. Merely… amused. He reminds me of Dooku—idealistic, rigid in his beliefs. But not unskilled. I imagine he’ll do well for himself.”

Tholme wasn’t sure where this was going. “And yet, you’re glad to see him leave.”

With a flick of his wrist, Torwyn swirled the liquid in his glass. “Because I prefer not to waste time dealing with self-righteous little shits.” He glanced at Tholme. “I have to wonder—did he try to enlighten you?”

Tholme scoffed lightly. “Qui-Gon isn’t much for conversation.”

At that, Torwyn smirked again, shaking his head. “No, I imagine not.” He took another sip. Then, in that same easy, deliberate tone, he said, “You’ve always had a habit of attracting the wrong influences. Forgive me for checking.”

And just like that, the air pressed in—thicker. Heavier.

Tholme lifted the glass to his lips. The liquid burned—but he barely noticed.

“I trust,” Torwyn said quietly, “that you know better than to take their views to heart.”

Tholme exhaled through his nose. “I know better.”

A sharp gaze studied him for a moment longer, then Torwyn nodded, satisfied. “Good.”

The silence stretched. Long enough to be uncomfortable.

Then—without warning—Torwyn knocked back the rest of his drink and gestured to Tholme.
“Take off your cloak.”

Tholme hesitated. Confusion flickered across his face before he caught it.

Why? Why did Torwyn want that?

There was no logic to it—no precedent, no code to decipher. This wasn’t one of Torwyn’s usual lessons. This wasn’t about control. Not the Jedi kind, anyway.

His fingers stalled at the clasp. Uncertain.

“Now.”

Torwyn’s voice landed like a wall. No room for argument. No room for thought.

Tholme’s fingers tightened—but only for a second. Then he let go. He let the heavy material slip from his shoulders, felt the cold air hit his skin in a way that made the moment feel far too exposed as the cloak pooled at his feet, soundless.

Torwyn’s mouth twitched. Not a smirk. Not really. Something worse.

He didn’t move. Just let the silence stretch—drawn out like a blade. His fingers traced the rim of his glass, gaze lingering on Tholme.

Then, without a word, he turned, moving toward the far corner of the room.

That’s when he saw it.

A cage. Small, steel bars reflecting the low light of the room. And inside…Cinnabon.

He knew that animal. Even though he’d been caring for him, he was still too thin, fur patchy in places, tail curled tight around himself. His small frame trembled, breath coming in shallow little gasps, dark eyes darting wildly between the bars. His ears were pressed flat against his skull, muscles tense, his whole body curled inward as if he could make itself disappear.

Tholme felt his stomach twist.

It started slow. A crawling unease. Settling behind his ribs, beneath his lungs. But as the seconds dragged, it became heavier, something thick and suffocating pressing into his chest. A slow, sinking dread, the kind that came when the brain understood something before the body did. Before he did.

And he already knew—he wasn’t going to like the answer.

“What is this?” Tholme asked, his voice sharper than he intended.

Torwyn took the glass from Tholme’s hand and allowed himself a slow sip, exhaling like this was nothing, like they were simply discussing philosophy over drinks. He hummed, an infuriatingly patient sound, as if savouring the weight of the moment before finally offering, “You know what this is.”

No.

He knew that tone.

It was the same one Torwyn had used the night he first pulled Tholme’s world apart, the same tone that came when the rug was ripped from beneath his feet and he hit the ground before realising he had even fallen. The same tone he had heard when Torwyn had taken everything Tholme thought he knew—about himself, about what it meant to be a Jedi, about right and wrong—and twisted it into something unrecognisable.

It was the tone of inevitability. Of certainty.

The kind that meant this was already decided.

Tholme barely had time to process it before Torwyn’s voice sliced through the air again. “You’re going to kill it.”

The words landed like a punch.

Tholme’s throat went dry, his pulse kicking against his ribs. “What?” His own voice felt distant, hoarse, like it wasn’t his. “Why?”

Torwyn smiled.

And it was all wrong.

Not amused, not cruel, not anything as simple as pleasure.

It was cold. Detached. Something that didn’t belong on anyone’s face.

“You need to learn what it means to be a real man, Tholme.”

The words curled around him like a noose.

He swallowed hard. It didn’t help. The coil around his throat stayed tight. His heartbeat was too loud, a pounding drum against his ribs, thick and sluggish with something suffocating.

He looked down.

Cinnabon—small, fragile, trembling. He knew.

And Force help him—he could feel it.

The pain. The dread curling in its tiny body. The terror that sank its claws into its mind and would not let go.

He shuddered violently, shrinking back as far as the cage would allow, and something deep in Tholme’s chest cracked.

This wasn’t just an animal. This wasn’t just a test.

This was wrong.

His hands curled into fists, and then—Torwyn moved.

A slow step forward.  He came up behind him, his presence a weighted thing pressing against Tholme’s back, his voice low, too close, too steady, too controlled.

“You hesitate too much.”

Tholme’s breath hitched.

Torwyn leaned in, his words wrapping around him like a vice, tightening, his whisky breath against his neck. “You let weakness crawl under your skin, and it sickens me, Little Shadow. Have I taught you nothing? Attachment does not serve you.”

Tholme clenched his jaw, muscles locking, refusing to flinch, refusing to react.

And then—just like that—Torwyn changed tactics.

He didn’t move. Didn’t step back. Didn’t give Tholme even an inch.

He just tilted his head slightly, exhaled, and let his voice drop into something smooth. Soft. Almost amused. ““I wonder…” he whispered. “At night, when you touch yourself—do you think about her?”

Tholme stilled.

His stomach lurched, his brain scrambling to keep up, to make sense of the words, the shift, the sudden, deliberate turn of the knife.

Torwyn chuckled—low and pleased. “You do, don’t you?”

Tholme’s hands twitched. Something white-hot bloomed beneath his skin.

“Tell me, Tholme. When you reach for yourself... is it her you’re reaching for?”

The words landed like a gut punch, sharp and heavy and wrong.

A slow, creeping nausea climbed up his throat, thick and cloying, leaving behind something rancid and festering. His skin crawled, his stomach twisted, his body recoiled. His breath staggered, his whole body locking up in rigid, horrible awareness.

Because he knew. He knew who Torwyn meant.

It hit like a gut punch. A cold, crashing weight. His pulse dropped into freefall his limbs turning to stone. His chest felt tight, constricted, suffocated. His hands twitched at his sides, curling in on themselves, nails digging into his palms, trying to ground himself—trying to breathe.

He put the towel in my locker. It was him.

Torwyn leaned in even closer. The faintest shift of movement, just close enough that Tholme could feel him. Feel the deliberate, mocking brush of his presence, coiling like smoke at his shoulder.

Then, a whisper. "T’ra Saa."

Tholme’s stomach heaved.

"She’s beautiful, isn’t she? Oh, that voice—low, smooth, just a little too soft, a little too playful. And that slim, elegant shape—" His tone darkened. Dipped lower, "she’s too perfect for you. Too pure."

Tholme’s eyes dropped to the floor as a thick, festering, rotting taste clawed its way up his throat, leaving behind something so bitter he thought he might choke on it. Filth. That’s what this was. Something invasive, crawling beneath his skin, pressing in, sticking to his ribs. His breath came too fast, uneven, sharp. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t breathe it out.

Because this was worse than anything Torwyn had ever done to him.

This wasn’t a shove in the dirt.

This wasn’t a cruel lesson in failure.

This wasn’t even a beating.

This was invasive.

His eyes flickered over Tholme, watching the way his shoulders had locked tight, the way his jaw clenched. And then, smoothly, almost as if indulging in the thought—

"I wonder, does she know when you’re watching?"

Tholme’s stomach twisted violently.

"Or is it better that she doesn’t? When she’s just existing, oblivious, while you’re there—" his voice dropped lower, syrupy, sickening, cruel, "Gripping your sheets, thinking about what it’d be like if, just once, she let you have the thing you’re too much of a coward to take."

His hands curled into fists, nails biting into his palms so hard it hurt. “She’s not something to take.” The words were a snarl, but there was something else under them. Something afraid. “She’s not—” His voice faltered; his breath shallow. “She’s not—”

Torwyn chuckled, tipping his glass. “You’re shaking.”

Tholme’s jaw locked, his hands fisting so tightly his fingers ached.

But of course—Torwyn wasn’t done.

His voice dropped again—darker now. Edged with amusement. Like this was pleasant for him.

"Did you watch those pretty pink lips when she speaks?" he taunted. "Do you imagine what it’d be like if she opened them up… and used them on you?"

Something inside Tholme snapped.

Revulsion. A flood of heat and bile rushing through his body all at once.

His breath hitched, his vision tunnelling, his chest lurching with the unbearable, fucking disgusting weight of it all. His stomach clenched violently, his muscles locking so tight he thought he might actually vomit.

Torwyn was dragging filth across something he had no right to touch. And, fuck, he was enjoying it.

Torwyn tilted his head, watching him carefully, studying him. Waiting for the cracks to split open.

Then—he twisted the knife.

"You think she doesn’t crave? Please, boy. You think she’s some untouchable thing? That she doesn’t have moments—" Torwyn chuckled, shaking his head, almost pitying. "—where she’s desperate for warmth? For hands? For something real to sink into? She’s alive, Tholme. She’s young. She’s impulsive. She hides it well—but I see it. She’s a fragile thing really. A fragile emotional girl that just wants someone to see her as a thing to hold—not a thing to be listened to."

His smile sharpened.

"And yet, even at her weakest—" he took a step closer, his breath a whisper at Tholme’s ear—"she still wouldn’t turn to you."

Tholme’s pulse roared in his ears. His face felt hot, his breath uneven, his hands shaking. His heart pounded, heavy and sick.

And Torwyn just stood there.

A long silence passed. Then he laughed, a horrible, grating sound.  “Pick it up.”

Tholme hesitated, frozen on the spot.

Torwyn’s voice sharpened. “Pick. It. Up.”

His hands were cold. Trembling. Not his anymore.

Cinnabon whimpered, but still Tholme’s fingers curled around him, too light, too careful, as though he was the most precious thing in the universe.

Then his voice came again. "Kill it."

Tholme’s breath caught in his throat. His fingers curled instinctively around the trembling thing in his hands, cradling him without thinking, without meaning to—because some part of him, some deep, instinctual part, already knew.

He could feel it. The way his tiny ribs rose and fell in frantic, shallow gasps. The way his pulse beat against his skin, too fast, too weak. It wasn’t just fear—it was awareness. The way its chest rose in frantic, uneven gasps. The way he had pressed itself so hard against the bars that his ribs bowed inward, trying to disappear. He wasn’t just afraid.

He knew.

"You know what happens if you don’t," Torwyn murmured, sipping his drink as though this was just another evening, another conversation. "I will. And I doubt I’ll be as gentle as you.”

Something inside Tholme sank.

It wasn’t the threat itself—it was the certainty in Torwyn’s voice, the ease with which he said it. There was no room for doubt. No hesitation.

The air in the room thickened, pressing against his ribs, squeezing the breath from his lungs. The back of his neck burned.

This wasn’t a test of skill. It wasn’t discipline. It wasn’t even control.

This was something else. Something uglier. Because Torwyn wouldn’t do it quickly. He wouldn’t do it cleanly. He would make Cinnabon suffer.

That was the lesson.

And the worst part? Tholme already understood. He could suffer all the pain in the world. He couldn’t let anyone—anything—suffer because of him.

His grip faltered, his hands trembling so badly Cinnabon let out a weak, pitiful sound, too small to be a cry, too soft to be a plea. He was just breathing. Just existing.

And he was holding him in his hands like a thing already dead.

"You’re not a coward, are you? Not still some meek, pathetic child?"

Tholme’s jaw tightened.

He wasn’t weak. He wasn’t that child anymore. He had fought. He had bled. He had killed. He had learned to bury things deep enough that they couldn’t touch him anymore.

Except—

Except Torwyn was still inside his head. And Tholme was still holding something alive in his hands, waiting to break it.

He almost put Cinnabon down.

Almost.

But his fingers were already moving.

He hadn’t made a decision. His body had.

No, no, no. The knife was already in his hands. His grip was already tightening. His arms were already tensing. His breath locked in his throat. His mind screamed at him to stop—but his body had already chosen.

And then—

It happened.

A single motion. A sharp, decisive.

And the light left his body.

The weight changed. Still. Empty. Gone. Something had left. Something that had once been warm, frantic, alive. Now? Just silence. A breath that never finished. A heartbeat that never came again.

And then—

Shit, blood.

Hot, slick, and fucking everywhere.

It hit his cheek first, warm against the cool air. It clung to his skin, a slow, sticky trail that settled against the curve of his jaw, slipping down toward his collar. His fingers felt wet.

The body was still. The room was still. The world was still.

But Tholme was not.

His chest heaved. His pulse crashed against his ribs. He felt—wrong, off, as though something fundamental inside of him had cracked open, exposing something ugly, something rotten, something that Torwyn had been waiting to find.

Torwyn exhaled, a pleased, indulgent sound, low and quiet as he set his empty glass down with a soft clink against the table.

Then—he laughed.

Soft at first. Pleased. Sick.

And Tholme wanted to be sick.

But his body wouldn’t let him. He just stood there, hands stained, the dead weight of something pure that had mattered once slipping from his fingers.

He curled his hand around the fragile shape, fingers brushing against the matted fur. His breath hitched. His throat burned. His palm pressed flat against his side, as if that could somehow will his chest to rise again.

It didn’t.

He swallowed, a thick, useless thing. Then, slowly, carefully—like some pathetic attempt at penance—he closed Cinnabon’s eyes.

And, just as Tholme felt something inside himself rot, Torwyn tipped his chin ever so slightly and murmured, "Now that… was a real man’s decision." He shook his head, eyeing the animal still in Tholme’s hand. "I hope you know that I was planning to let you keep him. Shame you wasted all that work on nursing it to health."

The words landed slowly. Deliberately. Like he was giving Tholme time to process them, to feel them, to let them settle beneath his skin and rot.

Torwyn reached for his glass again, twirling it absently between his fingers before offering a slow, satisfied smile.

"But this was much better. Much, much better."

Tholme’s stomach twisted violently.

The blood on his hands had begun to cool.

But it was still there.

It was sinking in. Settling. Crawling. Between his knuckles. Beneath his nails. Into the creases of his skin, into the places soap and water could never reach.

It wasn’t coming off. He had known what Torwyn was.

But now?

Now, Torwyn knew what he was.

And Tholme…Tholme didn’t know what he was anymore.

**

Tholme scrubbed until the skin stung raw—until the water ran pink, then clear, then pink again, like it couldn’t decide whether to damn him or let him go. His hands were raw, his knuckles scraped open, but it didn’t matter. It wasn’t enough. It was still there, soaked into the cracks of his fingers, embedded beneath his nails, staining him in a way no amount of water could fix.

The refresher steamed up the mirror, fogged and streaked, but he could still make out the shape of himself. A blurred, warped figure in the glass, distorted by condensation and guilt. He stared at it, at the dull gleam of his own reflection, searching for something—anything—he could still claim as his own.

But there was nothing.

Just a stranger in his skin. A shadow with his shape.

His grip tightened on the sink, fingers curling against the cold metal, his arms locking as if anchoring him in place. His breathing was shallow, too controlled, like if he let it slip, everything else would spiral with it.

Then—movement. A shift in the air against his back, before footsteps even reached his ears.

It was Drallig, standing in the doorway, watching.

Tholme could see him in the mirror, the way his arms crossed, the way his expression remained impassive. But it was in his eyes—the way they flickered down to his green collar, catching on something small, something red. A smear. Barely noticeable, but enough.

Tholme exhaled slowly. His jaw locked. His fingers tightened against the sink until his knuckles burned white.

Drallig shifted slightly, inhaling like he might say something, but Tholme beat him to it. "Don’t."

His voice was low, rough, edged with something frayed and final.

Drallig sighed, his gaze flicking to the hollow corner where Cinnabon’s enclosure had been—like the absence itself was louder than anything either of them could say. Then something shifted in his eyes. “Did my namesake—”

“Fuck off, Drallig.”

Drallig hesitated. His mouth parted, like he wanted to say something—but then, he saw it. Whatever he saw, whatever it meant, it flickered across his face in a flash of something raw. Something he wasn’t supposed to see.

Tholme didn’t watch him go. He couldn’t.

He just stood there, listening to the door slide shut behind him, feeling the silence press down against his ribs. And then, with a breath, he looked over to the sink. The blooded cloth still sat on the sink—holding the last quiet thing he’d failed to protect.

He didn’t know how long he stood like that—long enough for the heat of the refresher to sting his skin, long enough for the mirror to clear just enough to reveal his face.

Then, he left.

**

The night air hit him like a bucket of ice, cold and damp against the sweat still clinging to his skin. The streets of Brentaal IV were slick with old rain, neon lights reflecting off the pavement in fractured, garish colours. The city thrummed around him—too loud. Too crowded. Too much.

But that was what he needed.

He pulled his hood low, hands stuffed deep in the folds of his robe, walking fast, moving without direction, without thought. He felt restless and hollow, like something was crawling beneath his skin, something he couldn’t rip free.

He needed to breathe. He needed to stop thinking. He needed— something. Fuck he didn’t know what he needed. But he knew where to find it.

There were places in Brentaal where a Jedi could disappear. Where no one asked questions. Where no one cared.

And he had found one.

The vendor barely looked up as Tholme approached, didn’t even hesitate when he slid the stick across the counter. Just a nod, a wordless exchange. It was easy. Too easy.

Because this was nothing.

The death stick sat in his palm, still warm from the vendor’s touch. He turned it over between his fingers, watching the way the glow pulsed softly, slow and rhythmic, like a heartbeat.

His heartbeat.

Something in his chest clenched—sharp and sudden, like a warning—and for one fragile second, he considered walking away.

But he didn’t—because what was one more bad decision? He’d done this before. He could do it again.

His fingers twitched—then steadied. The first inhale burned, sharp and electric, spreading through his lungs like something igniting. His pulse kicked, too fast, too frantic. His ribs felt tight. Too tight. His stomach churned, twisting, rejecting it—like even his body knew he wasn’t supposed to be doing this.

And then—then it settled.

For the first time since the knife. Since the blood. Maybe even since Torwyn.

He felt nothing.

And just like that, he was free. Finally.

After all these years, he was free.

The exhale came slow, curling in the cold air like smoke. He stepped back, stumbled slightly, letting his body sink down against the damp alley wall, letting himself fold into the grime like he belonged there.

Above him, the sky was drowned in city haze, the stars swallowed whole—like even the universe couldn’t bear to look at him. Lights flickered, neon buzzed—sharp, jagged, pressing against his skull. The city throbbed around him. Too loud. Too much. Until the warmth in his veins took over, and everything went blissfully, wonderfully dull.

He knew he should go back. He should get up. He should do something other than allow himself to rot.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he lifted the stick again, and the weight in his chest loosened. The pressure behind his eyes eased. His thoughts slowed, softened, slipping further away.

His head tipped back, resting against cold metal. The death stick dangled loose between his fingers. The world blurred. His pulse slowed. The neon lights above him bled into static.

Somewhere, deep in the haze, a thought surfaced—one last, fleeting flicker before the darkness swallowed it whole.

T’ra.

Her name came soft, unbidden, curling at the edge of his mind.

And then—nothing.

If he was lucky, maybe this was it.

Maybe he’d close his eyes and that would be enough.

No more Temple. No more blood. No more voice in his head telling him he should’ve saved it.

If he was lucky, maybe he wouldn’t wake up.

Chapter Text

Something yanked Tholme from the depths like a hook to the gut—sudden, sharp, and merciless. The force of it sent a violent shudder through his body, leaving his limbs recoiling before his mind even caught up. A dull, throbbing pain pulsed behind his eyes, thick and oppressive, like his skull was too small to contain the sheer weight of whatever he’d done to himself.

Then—the pavement.

Cold. Wet. Unyielding beneath his cheek, the texture rough against his skin, the dampness seeping into his bones like something rotten.

The smell.

A rank, festering stench of rot and filth, of stale water mixed with something worse—something acrid, pungent, clinging to the inside of his lungs as he sucked in a shallow breath.

And the nausea.

The nausea curled deep, tight beneath his ribs—then surged, fast and violent. His body lurched, throat locking up as his stomach heaved.

He barely had time to roll to the side before he was retching.

It tore through him in waves—hot, sour, relentless. His limbs shook, his muscles spasmed, his lungs burned. He felt weak, wrung out, stripped of everything except the sheer, humiliating physicality of it.

By the time the retching eased into dry, shuddering gasps, he was left hunched over on his hands and knees, shaking, sweat cold against his spine. He spat, his mouth thick with the bitter aftertaste of bile, his hands pressing against the grime-covered duracrete like they might stop the world from tilting beneath him.

Slowly—achingly—he forced his breathing into something rhythmic, dragging in each inhale like it might ground him, like it might make this all make sense. But there was no sense to be found. Just the wreckage of himself, sprawled in some back-end slum.

He didn’t remember how he got here, and the thought alone sent a fresh wave of unease rippling through him.

A Jedi doesn’t wake up in the gutter.

And yet—here he was.

He swallowed against the raw burn in his throat, his fingers dragging weakly against the filth-covered street, searching, patting down the ground with a creeping panic.

Then—cold metal.

His lightsaber.

Still there. Still attached to his belt. Still his.

A relieved breath shuddered through him, his grip locking around the hilt like it was the only thing tethering him to reality.

If it was still there, then maybe—maybe—it wasn’t as bad as it felt.

And yet—he didn’t remember getting here. Not the walk. Not the fall. Not the alley.

His robes were wrong. Twisted. Damp. Streaked with something dark that wasn’t blood, but still stuck. Like someone had dragged him.

His breath caught. A chill cut under his skin.

No. No, not again.

Maybe he was overreacting. Maybe—

A shape loomed at the alley’s mouth. Still. Unmoving. Just, watching.

His blood ran cold.

The presence wasn’t close enough to touch but was too close to ignore, a silent weight pressing against the edges of his perception. Waiting.

His stomach twisted sharply, a different kind of nausea coiling in his gut, sick and sour he associated with one, single horrible presence.

Torwyn.

His fingers tightened around his saber, the motion sluggish, his limbs still thick.

Slowly, trying not to let the movement send another jolt of vertigo crashing through him, he lifted his head.

A figure stood at the alley’s entrance. They hadn’t made a sound.

His pulse pounded, his brain still thick with fog, struggling to catch up. His mouth felt like it had been stuffed with cotton, his throat raw, dry. He swallowed, forcing the words out.

“Who—” The sound cracked in his throat. He swallowed again, harder this time. “What do you want?”

No answer.

The figure tipped its head, slowly—like it was deciding something. Like they were considering him.

Like they already knew the answer.

Then—impact.

A hard shove from the side, someone else knocking into him as they passed. His already unsteady balance shattered, his boots scraping against the damp pavement as he stumbled, barely catching himself before he went down.

“Watch it,” someone muttered, their voice distant, irritated, already disappearing into the crowd.

Tholme’s whole body swayed. His stomach lurched. His hands caught the wall beside him, the duracrete rough and cold beneath his fingers, the pressure of his own touch barely registering past the haze clinging to him.

He forced himself to look up—but the alley was empty.

No flicker of movement. No shift of shadow. Just gone, like they were never there.

But they were. He could feel it.

The air still held the weight of something watching. Not in front of him. Behind his ribs.

He clenched his jaw, pushing the thought aside. He had bigger problems.

Like the fact that he needed to get the kriff out of here.

He dragged a shaking hand down his face, exhaling sharply as he staggered forward, scanning the street for something—anything—useful.

There was a shop, a few doors down, and as he approached, he caught his reflection in the grimy window. Except, it didn’t look like him.

Hood low, face shadowed, but the eyes—not a Jedi’s. Not anymore.

The saber on his belt said one thing. The vomit-stained sleeves said another.

He forced himself to look away and instead approach a woman who was sat outside nearby, peeling fruit with a rusted blade. Her eyes flickered up as he staggered, her gaze sweeping over him in one slow, unimpressed pass.

“What?” she drawled, slicing off a piece of the fruit and popping it into her mouth.

Tholme straightened as best he could. His voice was hoarse when he finally spoke. “Do you know the way to the nearest refresher?”

The woman blinked at him. Then, very deliberately, she turned her head and gestured down the street.

He followed her gaze.

A man—filthy, swaying, half-dressed in something that barely passed as clothing—stood a few doors down, pissing directly onto the duracrete.

The stream hit the pavement with an echoing splatter.

Tholme winced. Hard. Yeah, he wasn’t doing that.

His jaw locked, his stomach giving a weak, uneasy churn as he turned away from the sight.

He needed to think. He needed a plan. He needed—fuck what did he even need?

He exhaled through his nose, pressing his palm against his forehead as a sharp, pulsing headache cracked through his skull.

No. He wasn’t figuring this out alone.

Not today.

His fingers fumbled for the comlink, the small device feeling heavier than it should, colder against his palm. He pressed the button, trying to ignore the tremor in his hands.

Static crackled in his ear. “Marah here.”

He exhaled in relief, gripping the bridge of his nose. “Marah—”

“Tholme, what the—”

He closed his eyes, letting his head rest against the cool metal behind him. “Marah, I need you to come get me.”

Marah was silent for a second, then she let out a long breath. "Am I going to regret asking where you are?"

He dragged a hand down his face, exhausted. "Probably. But I’ll buy you lunch if you don’t ask questions."

Marah snorted. “Oh man, I have so many kriffing questions, it’s going to be a banquet by the time I am done.”

The sound of her voice settled something deep in his chest. A crack in the weight pressing against his ribs. Not much. But enough.

Then came a long, slow exhale. "Are you hurt?"

For a second, he wanted to tell her the truth.

But what the hell would he say?

His throat felt tight. He forced the smirk back into his voice. “Only my pride.”

"Kriffing hell." She let out a sharp breath. “Alright. Drop your location. And try not to get mugged."

He scowled. "I’m not—”

"—Stay there."

He groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face as the call disconnected.

Now all he had to do was survive.

**

Tholme groaned, rubbing a hand down his face. His skin felt too tight, too raw, like someone had scraped him out from the inside with broken glass.

He pulled himself upright, and his stomach lurched in protest, a fresh wave of nausea clawing up his throat.

The pavement tilted. His vision went sharp and too bright, like everything was edged in static. Then, a speeder slowed to a stop at the curb, the quiet hum of its engine settling into a steady idle. Marah propped an elbow against the open window, her fingers tapping lazily against the frame as she let out a low whistle.

"Oh, wow.” Marah sighed as she gave him a slow, deliberate once-over—like he was some half-dead thing she’d found under her speeder. “You look like bantha shit. But worse.”

Tholme pulled himself upright, every muscle screaming in protest, and reached for the speeder’s door handle. “Just drive, Your Highness.”

“Uh-huh.” Marah didn’t move. She just kept watching him, eyes sharp despite her lazy posture. “Before you get in, answer me one thing.”

He shut his eyes, already feeling the headache pulse in warning behind them. “What?”

"Did you kill a guy?"

Tholme’s stomach twisted. His head snapped up so fast his vision swam. “Today, or?”

“Yeah—today.” She held up both hands, palms outward, expression entirely too casual for the weight of her accusation. “I mean, I’m not saying you’d be bad at it—Jedi and all—but you did just call me from the kriffing trenches.”

Tholme gritted his teeth, bracing his hand against the speeder’s door frame to steady himself. “Just drive.”

She smirked, clearly enjoying herself. "No dead bodies to hide? Final answer?"

“Marah.”

"Alright, alright. Get in."

He collapsed into the passenger seat with all the grace of a corpse being dumped off a cargo skiff. But the moment his body hit the upholstery, yet another wave of nausea surged up from the pit of his stomach.

Marah clicked her tongue. “If you vomit in my speeder, I will actually throw you out.”

Tholme groaned, squeezing his eyes shut as the vehicle rocked slightly when Marah shifted gears. “You may have to pull over once or twice.”

She hummed, flicking on the autopilot with one hand and, with the other, reaching into the console to pull out a bottle of water. Without looking, she tossed it onto his lap, as well as a couple of pain killers.

“Drink. You look like you’re about to pass out.”

His fingers fumbled slightly as he twisted the cap off, his grip unsteady. The water was too cold against his skin. It stung.

His throat locked, something too thick settling behind it. He took a slow sip. Held it in his mouth. Swallowed.

Bad idea.

It hit fast—too fast. A sick, rolling wave of nausea crashing through his ribs, coiling hot and thick in the back of his throat.

He barely had time to move before he was gagging.

"Here we go," Marah muttered, shifting gears so fast the speeder jerked to the side.

It hurt. Everything hurt.

And Marah—she didn’t say another word. She just reached over, pulled the door open, and let him empty his fucking guts onto the street.

It was awful. His whole-body shook, tremors rolling through his limbs like aftershocks, sweat slick against his spine.

As his stomach gave a low gurgle, his mouth thick with the sour taste of bile, his forehead pressing against his arm—he tried to breathe.

"You done?" Marah asked, voice light. Too light. Like she wasn’t letting herself sound concerned.

He nodded, swallowing past the burn in his throat.

Marah exhaled sharply, then—without a word—she closed the door.

The speeder eased silently back onto the road.

"Shit, Tholme," Marah muttered, shifting gears without missing a beat. "If you wanted to get out of lunch, you could’ve just said so."

She didn’t look at him. Didn’t say anything else.

Just reached into the centre console, pulled out a napkin, and shoved it toward him without turning her head. Like this was nothing. Like she hadn’t just watched him lose every last ounce of dignity he had left.

The air vents clicked on a second later, a rush of cool air hitting his face, sharp against the lingering heat on his skin.

Then, a subtle shift in the speeder—a barely-there change in speed, in trajectory, in weight.

Marah didn’t slow down, didn’t let it be obvious, but he could feel it. The ride was smoother now. Less jarring. Like she was keeping him from jostling too much. Like she was trying to make it easier on him.

Tholme swallowed against the raw burn in his throat, wiping his mouth with the napkin, his fingers shaking too much to fold it properly.

“Are you going to ask?” he muttered, his voice barely above a rasp.

“Ask what?”

“What happened.”

There wasn’t an answer. Instead, the city blurred past them, the tall buildings bleeding into streaks of neon and glass, the white noise of traffic filling the space between them. The absence of her voice was more present than any sound could be.

Then, finally, Marah exhaled through her nose. “I figure if you wanted to tell me, you already would have.”

That shut him up. The answer wasn’t dismissive. It wasn’t kind, either. It just was. It shouldn’t have made his throat tighten. But it did.

A moment later, the speeder carried them through Brentaal’s shifting districts—through the cleaner streets of the upper sectors, where people walked with purpose and buildings gleamed under artificial daylight, then further down, where the city’s wealth thinned out and the air turned heavier with the scent of rain-dampened duracrete and street vendors cooking over open burners.

The roads narrowed, the towering glass structures shrinking into lower, older buildings, their edges softened with rust and age. They were close now.

Marah shifted slightly in her seat, resting her wrist against the steering controls, a comfortable ease to her movements.

Tholme huffed a breath, rubbing a hand down his face. His skin felt too dry, too raw, like he’d been scraped out from the inside.

She flicked a glance toward him again. “Can I ask you one thing?”

“Mm?” Tholme mumbled, shutting his eyes.

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Was this a suicide attempt?”

The words echoed in his brain, or maybe he just didn’t know how to process the question. And for once, he had nothing smart to say. So instead he uttered, “I don’t know.”

Marah gave him a sad smile. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He hesitated. Did he?

The words clawed at the inside of his throat, desperate to be let out. The memories burned—the blood. The knife. Torwyn laughing.

No. No, he didn’t.

So, he shook his head. “…Not really.”

Marah didn’t look surprised. Instead, she nodded once, turning her eyes back to the road. “Alright.”

No lecture. No passive judgment. No ‘you should talk to someone’ bullshit. Just alright.

They pulled up outside her building a few minutes later. The speeder eased to a halt against the curb, and the moment the engine cut, a heavy stillness settled in the cabin.

Marah unbuckled her belt but didn’t move to get out just yet. She leaned back against the headrest with a sigh, stretching her arms over her head before slumping lazily against the seat.

“Well. That was miserable.”

Tholme let out a breath that was almost—almost—a laugh.

Marah side-eyed him. “You look like a man who needs a shower and a life plan. Because you smell. Like drugs and vomit and—” She sniffed the air, then made a face. “—someone’s piss. I hope isn’t yours.”

“Not guilty,” he muttered, already reaching for the door handle. “But I’ll settle for the shower.”

Marah tossed him a keycard without looking. “Go clean up. Try not to drown yourself. I’ll be up in a minute.”

He caught it, blinking at her. “Where are you going?”

She cracked her neck, rolling her shoulders. “Grabbing caf.”

“You already have caf in your apartment.”

“I know.” She grinned, entirely too smug, and it was obvious it wasn’t real. “But if I leave you alone for five minutes, I bet you’ll start thinking too hard and spiral into an existential crisis. I want to see how bad it gets.”

Tholme scowled. “You are actually the worst.”

Marah just patted his shoulder, more gently than he’d ever felt. “Go. Shower. Try to remember what dignity feels like. Or fake it. I won’t know the difference.”

Tholme exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face. His body felt like lead, every movement thick and sluggish, but he forced himself upright.

Then he sighed. And stepped out of the speeder.

**

The water was too hot. Scalding. A biting, relentless heat that turned his skin red—but it wasn’t enough. He pressed his palms against the tile, watching the way the water ran in rivulets over his fingers, tracing the lines of his hands.

Burning.

But not burning enough to erase the memory of blood pooling in his palms. He didn’t know if there was anything left to wash away—if the blood was still there, or if it was just in his head.

Probably just in his head. It didn’t matter, though. He scrubbed harder.

Somewhere along the way, his eyes began to sting.

He didn’t notice at first—too focused on the heat, on the ache, on the way his breath scraped at the back of his throat. But as the steam thickened and the water scalded, he felt something different track down his cheeks.

Not sweat. Not water.

Just tears.

Quiet. Slow. Forgotten almost as soon as they fell.

He didn’t stop. He didn’t even blink. They just kept coming.

By the time he finally stepped out, steam had thickened the air, curling against the mirror in dense clouds. He raked a towel through his dripping hair, shaking off the excess water as condensation clung to his reflection.

When it finally cleared enough to see—he barely recognised himself for the third time in the last rotation.

His eyes looked hollow. Dark-rimmed and distant, like the soul behind them had stepped back, watching him from somewhere unreachable. His skin felt tight, stretched over something that no longer fit. Like he had shifted out of place and couldn’t quite settle back in.

He inhaled slowly, dragging on a fresh pair of sweats and a loose shirt Marah had told him to find in her closest earlier. He had no idea who it originally belonged to—nor did he care. They were soft. They didn’t smell like blood. Or drugs. Or vomit.

They would do.

When Marah finally got back, Tholme was slouched on the chair, one hand buried in Gremlin’s fur. The tooka didn’t mind. Just purred, loud and steady, like he knew exactly what Tholme needed.

So much so he was sprawled across his lap, shamelessly luxuriating in the attention, purring so loudly it was vibrating through Tholme’s ribs.

Warm. Breathing. Alive.

Something curled tight in his chest, and he pressed his fingers deeper into the fur—just to feel Gremlin move.

Then Marah stopped in the doorway.

She took in the damp hair, the borrowed shirt, the way he was slouched—one arm limp over the back of the couch, the other buried in Gremlin’s fur, his eyes locked on nothing.

Then she grinned, even if it was just to hide the relief. “Well, that’s adorable. I should take a picture.”

Tholme didn’t dignify her with a response.

Marah snorted, kicking the door shut behind her as she set a bag of caf and food on the table. “Alright. You want to tell me why you look like you just had a near-death experience and adopted nihilism as a coping mechanism?”

Tholme’s hand didn’t stop playing with Gremlin’s fur.

He exhaled slowly, voice heavy. “Long night.”

Marah dropped onto the couch beside him, the leather sighing beneath her weight. “Yeah, I gathered that when I had to peel you off the pavement.”

When Tholme didn’t answer, Gremlin yawned dramatically, stretching out his tiny body before curling tighter against his stomach, tail flicking against his wrist.

Marah propped her feet up on the table, lazily grabbing a cup of caf from the bag. “So, what’s the plan?”

Tholme blinked, still not fully back in his body. “Plan?”

She gestured vaguely in the air. “You know. For recovering from your absolute, catastrophic life choices. Is this a drug problem? I can do an intervention if you want. We can invite Drallig and just spend an hour teasing him if it makes you feel better.”

Tholme finally turned his head to look at her. Flat. Tired. “I don’t know.”

Marah took a slow sip of caf, humming thoughtfully. “Well, you could start by talking about it.”

Tholme’s fingers twitched slightly in Gremlin’s fur. His jaw clenched, his breath shallowing just enough for her to notice.

The image of Cinnabon’s still body flickered behind his eyes—unwelcome, insistent. He pressed his fingers deeper into Gremlin’s fur.

But she didn’t push.

Instead, she just leaned back, stretching lazily against the cushions. “Or, you could just sit here and keep stroking my keeper like a tragic widow in an opera. Your choice.”

Tholme sighed, rubbing at his temple, but still—his hand never left the fur.

Marah didn’t say anything else.

She just sat there, sipping her caf, existing beside him.

For once, there was no teasing, no smug remark, no sideways glance waiting to dissect him with words. Just the quiet hum of Gremlin’s purring, the occasional scrape of her cup as she took slow sips.

And that meant more than she could ever know. Because Jedi didn’t get this. They got duty. They got discipline. They got ‘centre yourself, Padawan’ and ‘meditate on your emotions’—but they didn’t get this. Didn’t get someone sitting beside them, silent, steady, and just letting them feel like shit for a while without trying to fix it.

And Marah—she was a lot of good things. But right now, she was just here.

Chapter Text

The speeder ride was quiet.

Not tense. Not awkward. Just... quiet.

The kind of silence that settled deep in the bones, heavier than words, pressing against the inside of Tholme’s skull like a weight he couldn’t shake. The whine of the engine buzzed beneath his fingertips where they rested against his knee—steady, low, and distant, like it belonged to another world entirely.

Outside, the city blurred past in streaks of neon and duracrete, the late-evening bustle of Brentaal moving too fast for the way he felt inside. Everything was too sharp—too bright. The skyline carved jagged shadows across the sky, the sun glinting off metal in a way that sent dull pulses of pain straight through his already aching skull.

He felt like someone had peeled his skin back and forgotten to put it back on—like his nerves had been scraped raw and left out in the open.

And Marah? She didn’t push, she just drove.

One hand loose on the controls, the other flicking idly at the frayed edge of her jacket, her fingers moving in an unconscious rhythm that made sense to only her. The city lights passed over her face in flashes, shifting between shadows and colour, but she didn’t seem to notice. She just kept her eyes on the road.

He appreciated her. Not for the story they gave Drallig, but for being decent enough to mean it when no one else did. That was the problem.

Then, the looming silhouette of the Jedi outpost began to take shape in the distance, and just like that, Tholme’s stomach twisted.

The closer they got, the more the facade cracked—the inevitability of walking through those doors, of stepping back into the role he was supposed to fill, of facing whatever came next when he didn’t even know if he was ready.

Marah pulled up near one of the side entrances, slowing the speeder to a gentle stop. The repulsors gave a low whirl as they powered down, the hover stabilising just inches above the duracrete. She didn’t shut it off, because of course, this was where this ended.

Tholme swallowed, fingers unconsciously tightening around the borrowed coat draped over his lap.

“Well,” Marah finally said. “That was a great night out. We should do it again sometime.”

He huffed out a short, humourless laugh, pressing the heel of his palm against his eye before dragging his hand down his face. His skin felt dry, tight from dehydration and exhaustion. “Yeah. Let me just find another back alley to black out in, really make a tradition out of it. It could be fun.”

Marah smirked, but there was something else beneath it. Something quieter. Something that wasn’t a joke.

She didn’t say it, but it hung between them like a knife laid gently on the table—visible, threatening, and unmistakably there.

Don’t let this happen again.

It sat there between them. Not a demand. Not a lecture. Just a fact.

Tholme exhaled sharply, nodding once, the movement small, almost imperceptible. “Thanks,” he said, too quietly. “For all of it.”

Marah just lifted two fingers in a lazy salute, her gaze flicking briefly to the entrance of the temple. “Get inside before someone sees me dropping off a stray Jedi. I don’t really want anyone to catch me here.”

He gave her a sideways glance. “Why? Are you secretly on the run?”

Marah’s smirk twitched, something flickering behind her eyes. “Something like that.”

Tholme snorted, but the humour was fleeting, already fading by the time he reached for the door.

Then, he hesitated.

For half a second, he almost—almost—said something. Something honest. Something real.

But then—what was there to say?

She’d already done more than enough—he didn’t need to start spouting undying gratitude or pledging eternal friendship like some sentimental sap.

So instead, he shook his head, muttered a half-formed goodbye, and stepped out before he could change his mind.

Marah didn’t wait.

The speeder pulled away before the door even shut behind him, the whine of the repulsors fading into the morning traffic before he could second-guess the whole thing.

And just like that—he was back.

Back to reality. Back to the weight of everything he had spent the last twelve hours trying to outrun.

**

The air inside the outpost was too clean. Too sterile. Too… wrong.

After a night buried in gutter rot and city sweat, the scent of sterilised halls made his skin crawl. It smelled like order. Like control. Like a place he no longer wanted to stand in.

Tholme walked fast, shoulders hunched, head low, the hood of his borrowed jacket still up. His body felt heavy, sluggish, like the chemicals hadn’t fully left his system. His stomach churned, a dull reminder that he hadn’t eaten. His mouth still tasted like cigarettes, vomit, and regret.

He just needed to reach his room. Five minutes—that was all. Just five kriffing minutes to pull himself together before he had to face anyone who actually mattered. Before Drallig caught wind of his scent, took one look at the state he was in, and started asking the kind of questions Tholme couldn’t deflect with sarcasm.

Because he would ask.

Drallig always noticed too much—when Tholme was too quiet, skipped meals, came back with bruises that didn’t belong to missions. And Tholme had no idea what he’d say when Drallig took one sniff and realised he smelled like drugs and someone else’s shirt.

The thought made his stomach churn, the guilt curling tighter behind his ribs, just in time for the universe to double down on its punishment and give him someone a whole lot worse.

A smaller figure turned the corner ahead, and Tholme’s breath caught in his throat.

Eeth. Of course it was.

His eyes found him in an instant. And in that same instant—his usual sharp grin, his too-big confidence, the careless ease of someone who still wholeheartedly believed in the people around him—was gone.

Tholme watched it fall from his face like a mask dropped too fast to catch.

Eeth Koth—thirteen, stubborn, reckless, too brave for his own good—froze mid-step.

His expression twisted—tight, brittle, like it hurt just to look. It wasn’t shock. It wasn’t fear. It was something simpler. Something worse.

Disappointment.

Tholme stiffened. He had seconds.

Then—Eeth’s nose wrinkled. “Tholme…you smell like smoke.”

Tholme gritted his teeth. Of course he did. He and Marah had shared a cigarette outside her building before the ride back, her idea keeping an eye on him and his pathetic attempt at feeling normal again. The taste was still clinging to the back of his throat, bitter and familiar. He hadn’t even realised it had sunk into his clothes. Of all the things Eeth could’ve picked up on—of course it was that.

Because this kid, right here, didn’t miss a thing. And Tholme had never wanted to be seen less.

 “Good evening to you too, Koth,” he mumbled dryly. “Pleasant day, I assume?”

Eeth squinted. “Why are you talking like that?”

Koth scanned him—top to bottom. Silent. Surgical. Not the way a friend looks at you. Or a Padawan. This was the kind of stare you got on the battlefield—right before someone made a call you couldn’t take back.

Tholme could feel it—that sharp little mind clicking through everything he didn’t want catalogued, one betrayal at a time. The red-rimmed eyes. The sag in his shoulders. The stiffness in his posture that said he hadn’t slept—and didn’t plan to.

Then the kid’s nose wrinkled again, quicker this time. Not confusion. Not surprise. Just clarity. Zabrak senses were sharp. Everyone knew that. And Eeth? He looked like he’d caught a whiff of something that didn’t belong.

Not Temple laundry powder. Not the soap Tholme always used. No—this was something sweeter. Warmer. Familiar.

Perfume. Marah.

And just like that, Tholme saw it. The click behind Eeth’s eyes as he slotted together every piece of the puzzle Tholme had been trying to hide.

Eeth’s jaw tensed, and when he spoke again, his voice had dropped—quieter now, edged with something raw. “Where were you?”

“Out,” he said, keeping his voice even. “That’s all you need to know.”

“You were with her,” Eeth muttered, but it wasn’t just anger—it was desperation. Like if he could say it enough, make it true, then Tholme wouldn’t be the one disappointing him.

His mouth opened but no words came at first. “Who?”

His voice wasn’t defensive—just tired. Like he already knew what was coming and didn’t want to hear it.

“That civilian,” Eeth snapped.

“Marah? I wasn’t—”

He stopped. Because he had been with her.

And in trying to keep Drallig from looking too close, he’d painted her like a convenience. A comfort. A possession.

Now that lie was echoing in Eeth’s voice—jagged, desperate. And kriff, it hurt.

“You smell like her.” His nose wrinkled hard, expression twisting. “Like—her. Like she was all over you or—” he made a face, like the idea alone made him sick. “Ew.”

Tholme exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. “Can we not do this right now? It’s just a shirt.”

“And I’m supposed to think that’s better? You wearing her clothes? What, were you two—” He let out a frustrated sound, somewhere between a groan and a scoff, like he couldn’t even say it out loud. “Mavra was at least a Jedi. She understood the Code. But Marah?”

A headache bloomed behind Tholme’s eyes. “Koth, please just go and steal Drallig’s towel whilst he showers or something. Just—not this. Not today.”

Eeth’s brow furrowed. “Why not today?”

He stared harder now—really stared. The too-glassy eyes. The unfocused blink. The way Tholme swayed, just slightly, like the floor wasn’t steady under his feet.

Then Eeth stepped back, expression dropping like a stone. “Oh,” he said, voice flat. Cold.
“Because you’re high. You took death sticks.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a verdict.

Eeth wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t naïve. He knew what that meant. He knew what death sticks were and how bad they could be.

That they were pretty damn illegal, too.

Tholme looked down.

“I know, he said. “That’s why not now.”

“Are you serious?” Eeth’s voice cracked around the edges. “You’re actually admitting it? Just—just like that?”

“Yes—because I haven’t slept, my brain’s on fire, and I’m five seconds from throwing up my soul. You want honesty? That’s all I’ve got left,” he snapped, sharper than he meant to be, the words hitting the air like a slammed door.

There was a beat of silence. Just long enough for the weight of it to land.

Then Eeth’s voice came, smaller than before. “You were supposed to be better than this.”

Tholme exhaled sharply. His hands curled into fists. He had to end it—he couldn’t bear that look in the kid’s eyes a second longer.

“Go to bed Koth. For your own sake. Please.”

And just like that—he felt it. The moment something snapped between them. A thread pulled too tight. A bridge burned before he could turn around and stop it.

He didn’t mean it like that. He didn’t mean to push him away. But there was too much inside him—too much rot and bile and blood on his hands—and Eeth didn’t deserve to see it.

No one did.

So Tholme stood there, fists clenched, breathing shallow, staring at the wall like it might hold him up. And waited for Eeth to go.

And waited—for the door, the silence, the shame. All of it.

Eeth’s jaw tightened, but his voice—when it came—barely made it past his throat. “Tholme…” It sounded like a plea. Like a last grasp at something slipping out of his hands.

Tholme’s eyes closed. Just for a second. Just long enough to breathe through the burn in his chest.

Then, quietly—too quietly—he said, “Please don’t look at me like that. Just go, Eeth.”

There was another beat. One that stretched too long so sharper, because the softness was breaking him—he uttered, “Go.”

And just like that, Eeth turned. “Yeah, well, I hope having sex was worth it,” he said—low, bitter. But the phrasing, the tone, the contempt—it wasn’t just his.

That was Drallig’s voice wearing Eeth’s face. And Tholme felt it like a slap.

The kid walked, fast, like he couldn’t get away quick enough. Like he’d rather run than see what Tholme had become.

The hallway fell silent—too fast, too sharp. Like the sound had been ripped away before he could catch it.

He stood there, alone, fists still clenched at his sides, jaw locked so tight it ached. The air felt heavy, the walls too close. The guilt writhed behind his ribs, alive and feral, like it was trying to claw its way free.

And for a single, stupid second—he almost went after him. Almost. But what would he even say?

There was no version of this where he didn’t lose.

So instead, he turned in the opposite direction and walked away. Fast. Like he could outrun the look in Eeth’s eyes.

Chapter Text

The door slid shut behind him, cutting off the temple’s too-clean air, sealing him inside the dim, suffocating quiet of his quarters. Tholme just stood there, swaying slightly, his balance still not quite right, his stomach curling like it was still deciding whether to forgive him. His pulse thudded sluggishly against his skull, his veins still thick with the remnants of last night’s mistakes as his fingers twitched at his side. Still shaking.

Force, get a grip.

He scrubbed a hand down his face, but it didn’t help.

Crossing the room, he shrugged off Marah’s clothes and climbed into fresh robes, ignoring the empty spot on the locker where Cinnabon’s enclosure once sat. His hand was already reaching for the bedside drawer, half-intending to shove his belt inside when he paused.

The drawer was open.

Not much. Just barely. A sliver. The kind of small gap that wouldn’t have meant anything to anyone else.

But Tholme never left it like that.

A slow, creeping unease twisted low in his gut. His fingers hesitated just over the handle—half a second, barely noticeable—before he yanked the drawer open.

Everything inside was where he had left it—his spare tunics, a few old ration bars, a set of clean gloves he barely used. But something was off.

It took him a second to realise what.

The flimsi magazine.

A fairly harmless thing, at a glance—just something risqué enough that Drallig would never think to touch it. Which was exactly why Tholme kept it there. Because hidden between the pages, tucked so neatly that no one would think to look, were his poems.

He had picked it up from a market stall on Corellia—some seedy little corner of the city where vendors didn’t ask questions and the buyers sure as hell didn’t offer explanations. It had been a split-second decision, spurred by a wave of irritation when Drallig had once again snatched a stray page of his writing and read it out loud.

So, in all his infinite wisdom, Tholme had hidden the most fragile part of himself inside something designed to be laughed at. A shield of grainy ink and sleaze, a decoy to keep prying hands away from the things that could actually hurt him.

Because Force forbid someone find his poems, read through his carefully written, maddeningly honest words—no, that would be unbearable. But if someone found this? A cheap, glossy collection of naked Twi’lek models, pages worn just enough to suggest he might have actually used it for its intended purpose?

That, somehow, was easier to stomach.

At least then, he’d just be another guy with a dirty magazine that spent his free time flipping through cheap, low-grade smut. Totally fine. Almost true, considering his chose in literature. But it saved him from being someone who had once spent an entire mission writing terrible sonnets about sunsets, feelings and loneliness.

And yet, the flimsi—his flimsi, the one wrapped around every fragile piece of himself—had been moved.

He ran his fingers along the edge of the pages, flipping through them quickly.

They were all there. Untouched.

But someone had been here. Had looked.

Suddenly a knock at the door snapped him from his thoughts. He jerked upright, inhaling sharply. His fingers twitched toward his belt, but the paranoia in his head wasn’t stronger than his instincts. Instead, he let out a slow breath, shook off the tension, and called out.

“Yeah?”

Tholme barely had time to shove the magazine back in the drawer before the door slid open.

T’ra stood in the doorway, backlit by the dim glow of the corridor, dressed for one of her late-night meditations. No formal robes, no unnecessary layers. Just a fitted tunic and her hair half-up, loose strands falling in a way that looked too careless to be intentional—but it always was.

And for some reason, she hesitated—just for a fraction of a second—before stepping forward, eyes flicking over him slowly. She was taking in the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers hovered just a little too long over the drawer, the way he stood like a man already bracing for impact.

Then her gaze dropped—to the flimsi still clutched in his hand.

“Oh,” she said, stopping short. “Am I…” she tilted her head, lips twitching just slightly, “interrupting something?”

Tholme sighed, flipping the magazine open, barely looking at it as he turned it toward her. “Yeah, if by something you mean my extremely scandalous collection of poetry, then congratulations, T’ra, you caught me.”

She blinked. Looked at the flimsi. Looked at him. Then, finally, back down at the pages—past the grainy, half-faded risqué images to where, tucked carefully in the crease of the binding, were pages of his own. Folded notes, the edges slightly worn, as if they had been smoothed over again and again.

T’ra reached out, fingers ghosting over the top page, but she didn’t pull it free. Her expression softened—just a flicker.

"I'm surprised," she murmured. "Not at the poetry, of course. But at the fact that you're letting me see it."

Her voice was quiet, careful—not teasing, not prying. Just... intrigued.

Tholme didn’t let himself react to that. Just closed the magazine again and tossed it onto his cot.

“Well,” he muttered, scratching the back of his neck, “I didn’t want you walking in and thinking I was, you know…”

T’ra raised a brow. “Self-soothing?”

Tholme blinked at her. “I was going to say ‘working through my feelings’ but sure, let’s go with that.”

He leaned back slightly, giving her a faint smirk, but the tightness in his chest didn’t ease. Because suddenly, he heard it.

Do you watch those pretty pink slips when she speaks? Do you imagine what it’d be like if she opened them up… and used them on you?

He snapped his eyes to the floor as T’ra studied him for a moment longer, tilting her head just slightly. Because of course, she already knew something was wrong. “Are you alright?”

His expression faded.

Because no—it wasn’t about the flimsi. It wasn’t about the sonnets stuffed between the pages. It wasn’t about Torwyn’s voice repeating those damn, vulgar things.

He let out a short laugh, running a hand through his hair. “Do I look alright?”

T’ra shook her head, studying him. “You look…” She paused, her gaze flicking over his pale complexion, the unsteady way he stood, the faint tremor in his hands. Then she exhaled, her voice softer. “You look like you’ve been through hell. And clearly, it’s of your own doing.”

T’ra’s observation lingered between them as Tholme’s hand twitched at his side, his throat dry as he wrestled with the words. Finally, before he could talk himself out of it, he asked the one question that had been bugging him since he woke up and realised someone had dragged him out of the alley, “You didn’t see Torwyn around early this morning, did you?”

T’ra’s brow furrowed slightly. “I don’t think so. I believe he said he was attending to personal business. Why?”

Tholme shook his head. “Never mind.”

She didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t push. Instead, she stepped further inside, watching him carefully. “Something’s bothering you.”

Tholme stopped just short, the words catching in his throat. For all his missteps, for all the shit he’d been through, admitting this felt like crossing a line he wasn’t ready to face.

Because it sounded insane, didn’t it? That Torwyn had been watching him all along, that this wasn’t just paranoia—it was all too much.

But then again, maybe it had always been too much.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, dragging a hand down his face before glancing at her. “Did you ever hear anything about Torwyn’s former Padawan?”

And the second he said it, he realised—this wasn’t just paranoia anymore. It was a question that needed an answer.

T’ra blinked once. Then again. Her brow furrowed, head tilting just slightly—not in scepticism, but something closer to genuine confusion. “Torwyn had another Padawan?”

Her posture shifted just slightly—barely noticeable, but enough for him to catch it. That hint of hesitation, of something new crossing her mind. Tholme felt a hollow sort of smirk tug at his lips, but it carried no warmth. “Exactly.”

She looked at him for a beat longer, but the way her fingers shifted, just barely—like she’d been about to fold her arms and stopped herself—gave her away. For T’ra, it was enough of a tell to make his stomach twist. But she didn’t ask. Didn’t demand an explanation. She just waited.

“…You’ve got clearance for more records than I do,” he said, trying for casual. “Could you check it out?”

T’ra’s eyebrows lifted just a touch, but she didn’t say anything immediately. She just watched him, like she was turning it over in her mind.

Tholme let out a sharp sigh, raking his hand through his hair. “Never mind,” he muttered. “Don’t worry about it.”

T’ra stayed where she was, and after a moment, she nodded slightly and said, “I’ll check.”

Her tone was easy, but there was something in her eyes—something sharp, thoughtful, like she was already putting pieces together in her mind.

“I’ll take a look,” she repeated. “Tholme… is there something I should know?”

He exhaled, running his hand along the edge of the desk. “It’s just a feeling,” he admitted quietly.

Still, Tholme hesitated, shifting his weight. He almost didn’t say it—almost let it sit there, unspoken. But the thought had already lodged itself too deep, festering and insistent. He rubbed the back of his neck, his voice low and rough. “This is going to sound batshit crazy T’ra, but I think he’s been watching me. Not just once or twice. For years. And not in the way a Master should.”

“So, watching you how?” she asked.

He took a breath, the words sticking for a moment before he finally got them out.

Tholme rubbed a hand over his face, tipping his head back, exhaling. He hadn’t meant to start spilling all the little moments, hadn’t planned to think about them all at once.

His mind was running through every time over the past eight years Torwyn had somehow known what he shouldn’t have. Nights out. His first kiss with Mavra. People he had spoken to. Meals he’d eaten. The first time he’d ever spent the night with someone. Quarters he’d been in. Holo Novel’s he’d downloaded.

And as the words spilled out, he breathed quicker, his pulse drumming a little harder than it should have been. He’d spent years brushing it off—coincidence, intuition, just his Master being too perceptive for his own good. But now? Sitting here, listing every moment, every detail?

He wasn’t sure he believed that anymore.

T’ra was still watching him, but something had changed. Like she had already decided what came next.

T’ra’s voice dropped lower. “You don’t want to believe it.”

Tholme hesitated. ‘I don’t want to know what happens if I do.’

And yet, the thought was there now—spreading, unravelling, making it impossible to stop the spiral once it had started.

Her expression didn’t shift, though her words cut straight to the point. “Do you think he’s been tracking you?”

The question hit hard, leaving the air between them uncomfortably thick.

Tholme stared at her, something sick curling in his gut. “That’s a little dramatic.”

“Strip.”

He blinked. “...Come again?”

“Your belt, Tholme. Your boots. Your clothes. Prove it.”

His gaze flicked down to her hands, then back to her face. “That’s a little forward, but alright.”

T’ra exhaled softly, shifting her stance. “Not like that. Just do it.”

He swallowed like a fool. Because the way she stood—arms crossed, sharp-eyed—was doing something bad to him. The authority in her stance, the casual way she demanded he strip like it was nothing, hit him harder than any blade. He should have been thinking about the bigger issue, about what they were trying to uncover, but the heat of her gaze and the precision of her presence pressed against his thoughts like a hand at his chest.

And she was close—closer than necessary. The faint, subtle scent of her, the rhythm of her steady breathing—every detail was more distracting than it had any right to be. He should have been furious about the situation, indignant, but instead, his pulse picked up, a low thrum of tension he couldn’t quite shake.

Damn it, he hated himself for letting it get to him. For half a second, he could barely think of anything else.

But this wasn’t the time.

This wasn’t the place. And yet…

She’s beautiful, isn’t she? That slim, elegant shape…

Tholme forced the unease—and Torwyn’s voice—out of his mind. He grasped the hem of his tunic, his fingers steady despite the tangle of tension in his chest. One smooth motion, and it was off, the cool air hitting his skin as he tried not to notice the way her gaze flickered, briefly, down his torso.

Her eyes caught on the ink first.

A delicate scrawl of symbols wound across his ribs, half-faded with time, barely visible beneath the dip of his collarbone. Not decorative—personal. Quiet. Like something he hadn’t meant for anyone to see.

T’ra tilted her head slightly, voice softer than before. “…You have tattoos?”

Tholme arched an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You sound surprised. I’m full of bad decisions.”

She didn’t look away. “And yet somehow, this one actually suits you.”

If she hesitated, it was barely perceptible—a pause so subtle that he wasn’t sure if it was real or just his imagination. But when her eyes returned to his, her expression was different.

“Keep going.”

Her voice was steady, but the way her eyes stayed fixed on him set every nerve in his body alight. He was already breathing harder than he should have been, the air between them feeling more charged than it had any right to. He bit back the noise rising in his throat, grounding himself with movement. Socks first, then the belt—just routine. Get through it. Focus.

His fingers dipped into the waistband of his trousers, checking quickly—just in case, just routine—

And that was exactly when he looked up. T’ra was already watching him.

Their eyes met.

She didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. But her posture changed—too still, her shoulders just a little too tense.

Tholme cleared his throat, dragging one hand back through his hair. “Just checking I’m actually wearing underwear,” he muttered.

T’ra’s cheeks went crimson. Not pink. Not flushed. Crimson.

She turned away, the movement brisk—almost clinical. “If I knew you were going to strip this thoroughly, I’d have brought a drink. Or a chaperone.”

A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “If I start charging admission, will that cover emotional damages?”

T’ra opened her mouth—then closed it. Looked down. Not at him—anywhere but him. “Just keep going.”

Tholme kept his smirk to himself. She’d never looked away before. Not when he was bloody, not when he was bruised, not when his soul was half-flayed and his hands still shaking.

So why now?

Still, he watched her carefully—half willing it to mean something more—for a beat longer, then hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his trousers and stepped out of them. The fabric dropped to the floor with a quiet rustle.

And for a second, he just stood there—barefoot, bare-chested, and clad in fitted black briefs that were very clearly not Temple regulation. Soft-knit, low-rise, a little too well-tailored for someone supposedly above vanity. The kind that suggested a man who cared about comfort, sure—but also a man who knew exactly what looked good on him.

They hugged the sharp lines of his hips just a little too well.

T’ra didn’t look up. Not at first. But she didn’t look away convincingly, either. Her jaw was tight. Her ears had gone a deep, unmistakable shade of red.

Tholme resisted the urge to laugh. Barely. Because shit, she was cute. He tilted his head. “Want to check the seams or should I model the waistband too?”

Still no glance. Still no comment. But her hand twitched ever so slightly at her side. And she absolutely did not answer that.

Instead, she let out a breath. “You’re not the only one who finds regulation briefs uninspiring.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And here I thought I was the degenerate.”

The laugh that slipped out was too sharp, too fast—closer to a bark than a chuckle. He ran a hand through his hair, still grinning like he could style the tension into submission.

“Not that I think Torwyn’s deranged enough to hide a holo recorder in my underwear, but—” he gestured vaguely down at himself, “if he has, I hope he enjoys the view. Honestly. At this point, he’s earned it.”

He winced the moment it left his mouth. Even T’ra made a noise that didn’t quite sound like her.  

He scoffed at himself. “Look, I’m a little traumatised, mildly dehydrated, and half naked—can we pretend I’m not responsible for anything I say in this state?”

“Tholme, if I started reacting to everything you said, neither of us would survive the night,” she announced.

Then—her gaze flicked down. Just for a second.

And Tholme saw it.

The way her eyes caught on the line of his collarbone, the bare stretch of skin, the very obvious absence of anything but low-slung underwear—and the faint flush already on her cheeks darkened.

“I’ll take those.” She gestured vaguely toward the floor, then added, “For the inspection.”

Tholme raised an eyebrow at her phrasing, but didn’t comment. He bent to pick up the trousers, then he straightened, offering the folded fabric out with both hands like some absurd peace offering.

“And my dignity,” he added dryly. “Please return it when you’re done.”

He hesitated a beat longer, then grabbed his belt from the cot and held that out as well, the leather coiled loosely in his palm.

“Just in case he went for the overachiever route.”

T’ra took them both, her fingers brushing his without meaning to. The moment her hand closed around the belt, though—something in her posture shifted. Her brow furrowed slightly, eyes narrowing, thumb skimming over the underside of the clasp. Not casually. Not anymore.

Tholme saw it immediately. That change. That Jedi switch.

“What is it?” he asked, voice quiet.

He watched the way her brow furrowed slightly, her grip tightening as her fingers brushed that small, nearly invisible bump along the edge. Her breath hitched—barely—as she dug in her own belt for a pocketknife. Once she’d undone the seams, she slowly rotated the belt again, revealing it. A silver device no bigger than a credit chip. Nearly invisible.

A tracker.

His breath stuck, the room suddenly too quiet.

For a long moment, she said nothing. Her gaze stayed locked on the device, her jaw tight, her grip around the belt just shy of white-knuckled. He could almost feel the shift in her mood, that intensity curling in the space between them. It had always been easy to admire her calm, but this—this was different. Her silence was charged, heavy with something he couldn’t quite name.

And then she scoffed. "What a kriffing bastard of a man."

Tholme blinked, his brain struggling to process what she had just said. Not the tracker, not the implications—but the fact that T’ra Saa had cursed.

She never cursed. Not once. Not in all the months he’d known her—not even when he deserved it.

That single, sharp slip—that was what made his pulse spike, what sent something cold slithering down his spine even before his own rage could fully catch up.

And then it did.

Tholme’s fists clenched at his sides, his heartbeat hammering in his ears. His breath came slower, deeper—like he was holding something back, like if he didn’t control it, it was going to spill over into something ugly.

“Are you—” His voice dropped into something low, something sharp. “How long has that been there?”

T’ra didn’t answer immediately. Her fingers tightened around the belt, the fabric straining under her grip. When she finally spoke, her voice was even—but there was a tautness behind it pressing against every word. “I don’t know.”

Not good enough.

His jaw clenched. “Guess.”

Her gaze lifted then, meeting his, and—kriff, it was worse than anything she could have said. Because the look on her face, the tension in her shoulders, the faint flicker in her eyes—they told him what he didn’t want to admit.

This wasn’t new.

This wasn’t something recent. Not a one-time breach, not some fresh betrayal. No. This had been there. For years.

And that meant—shit. He dragged in a slow, shaky breath, his entire body humming with fury that threatened to boil over. His hand shot up, running roughly through his hair before curling into a fist at his side.

T’ra watched him closely, a stillness in her posture that felt more intentional than calm. She was holding her ground, but there was a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes now. Like she was bracing for him to snap.

“No, see, this—” He exhaled sharply. “This is insane. This is—what the fuck is wrong with him?”

T’ra didn’t answer. Because what could she say?

His Master had tracked him. Like a wayward mission. Like an asset. Like something that belonged to him.

His breathing was too fast. His mind was spinning, thoughts colliding in ways he couldn’t process.

T’ra reached out, setting a firm hand on his arm. “Tholme.”

He barely heard her.

His thoughts were spiralling. This wasn’t just control—this wasn’t just his Master shaping him, monitoring him like he had always feared. This was something else, something worse. How long had it been there? Since he was fifteen? Since before then? Since the first time Torwyn had punished him for something he shouldn’t have even known about?

Was he even his anymore? Had he ever been?

“Tholme.”

T’ra’s voice was sharper this time, cutting through the fog, slicing clean through his panic like a blade. He inhaled sharply, blinking up at her.

She held his gaze, steady and serious, her fingers pressing just tightly enough around his arm to ground him. “We’ll destroy this. And then once we do, you can’t sleep here tonight.”

Tholme let out a sharp, bitter laugh. "I have Drallig—"

“No.”

His stomach dropped, something hot curling low in his spine before he could kill the reaction, before he could shove it down where it belonged.

He swallowed, but his throat felt dry. “T’ra—”

“Tell Drallig to spend the night with his very good friend Khaat. Make it a direct order form me if he refuses, no doubt that will make his entire rotation.” She looked up. “Stay with me. Stay where I won’t be worrying about you.”

Yeah, that was not helping. At all. His pulse spiked. He clenched his jaw, shifting his weight, forcing his body into stillness because the alternative was… worse.

Did she really not hear how that sounded? Did she really not realise what she was saying?

A night with T’ra, in her space, where it was just them. No Drallig. No distractions. No excuse to bury himself in work, no reason to leave.

And worst of all—no reason for her to even think twice about it.

Because why would she?

His voice came out slightly strained. “T’ra, I really—what if someone sees—”

“I don’t care,” she repeated, firmer this time.

She didn’t care. Not in the way that mattered. To her, this wasn’t some deeply unwise, borderline-torturous situation where he had to be alone with her, pretending not to want something he could never have. To her, this was nothing. Just practicality. Just precaution. Just T’ra being T’ra—peaceful, unshaken, utterly unbothered by the thought of sharing space with him because why would she be?

He had spent months building walls around this thing, keeping his distance, playing his part, making sure she never caught on—never saw the soft way he looked at her, never realised that every time she stood too close, he had to recalibrate his entire existence just to keep from giving himself away.

And now? Now he had to sit there, suffer in silence, and pretend like this wasn’t the worst thing that had ever happened to him.

His breath came too slow, too forced, but he nodded once, voice barely steady. “Fine.”

Then quieter, he uttered, “So. Is this what you tell all the emotionally compromised half-naked Jedi you drag home?”

T’ra didn’t even blink. “No. You’re the first. Should I be flattered you’re setting the standard?”

He snorted softly. “I hope not. Pretty low bar.”

T’ra only nodded, stepping back, but her eyes never left his. “Get your clothes.”

He should have fought her on this. Should have refused, made up some excuse, cracked a joke, done anything to keep himself at a safe distance. But for the first time in his life, Tholme didn’t feel like arguing.

He was too tired. Too drained. Too lost.

Because Torwyn had won.

And the worst part? It wasn’t just about the tracker. Or the power Torwyn still had over him, the fact that even now, after all this, he still couldn’t shake the feeling that there were eyes on him in the dark.

It was the fact that he was standing in front of the only person he trusted. The only person who had ever looked at him like he was something other than a weapon, or a project, or a problem to fix—

And he still couldn’t tell her the truth.

Not all of it. Not the worst of it. Not the things that kept him awake at night, the things that made his stomach turn when she looked at him like she still thought he was redeemable.

Because if she knew—if she really knew—how he truly felt about her?

…she wouldn’t be standing here now.

Chapter Text

Tholme stepped inside, already feeling like he had made a terrible, terrible mistake.

He’d been in T’ra’s quarters before—briefly, with purpose, but never like this.

Still, the room was the same as before—neat, with that peaceful presence that followed her everywhere. And yet, in this moment, it felt entirely different. Maybe it was the knowledge that he was staying here overnight. Maybe it was the way the space suddenly felt too intimate, like he was stepping over some invisible boundary neither of them had acknowledged before.

Or maybe it was the bed.

Not a shock, not really. Jedi didn’t live lavishly, and T’ra was practical to the bone. She wasn’t the type to keep unnecessary furniture just for the sake of it.

One bed. Not exactly a surprise. But still.

Tholme exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders like that might help shake the awareness from his system. It wasn’t a problem. Not really. He had been in tighter quarters before—shared bunks, slept on ships, curled up in places that barely counted as beds at all.

But this was different.

Not because of the bed itself. But because it was T’ra’s.

And she, of course, was entirely unaffected. She stepped inside, set something on the table, already moving through the motions of her evening without a second glance. Then, as if catching some hesitation in the Force, she glanced at him over her shoulder.

“The bed is large enough,” she said simply. “We are not children, Tholme.”

Right. Sure. Logical. Completely reasonable.

But something about the way she said it—so confidently—sent something crawling beneath his skin.

Tholme didn’t argue. Didn’t protest. He just nodded once, like this was nothing at all.

Still, he tried to focus on anything else—the books on her shelves, the sparring staff leaning against the wall, the faint shimmer of the stars outside the window. But none of it worked.

The awareness lingered at the edge of his mind, steady, insistent. Not panic, exactly. Just… recognition. Because no matter how much he looked elsewhere, one fact remained: He was sleeping in T’ra Saa’s bed.

Tholme inhaled slowly, pressing his fingers against his temple before letting his hand drop back to his side. He wasn’t going to overthink this. He refused.

Instead, he settled on the easiest escape route—words.

So he glanced at her, smirking. “Alright, ground rules. If you snore, I reserve the right to steal your pillow.”

T’ra didn’t even look up from unfastening the high collar of her tunic. “I don’t snore.”

Tholme arched a brow. “Everyone says that.”

She tilted her head, gaze flicking to him with the kind of composed patience that made it very clear she wasn’t entertaining his banthashit. “Neti do not snore.”

He squinted. “Are you telling me you’ve never made an embarrassing sound in your sleep?”

T’ra exhaled, the barest hint of amusement at the edges of her lips. “Not that I am aware of.”

“That’s what all the worst offenders say.”

This time, glanced at him—unimpressed—and clearly offended by the accusation. “And you? Should I be preparing for a night of restless tossing and turning? Do you snore?”

Tholme smirked. “No one’s ever mentioned it.”

T’ra just looked at him. Then, shook her head.

Tholme huffed out a slow breath, dragging a hand down his face. Yeah. This night was going to be long.

Still, T’ra moved without ceremony, crossing the room toward the small set of drawers near her bedside. With the same easiness she did everything else, she pulled the top one open, rifled through its contents, and—without looking—began tossing garments onto the chair beside it.

Tholme noted every piece. A loose tunic. Lightweight leggings. Something soft and dark. Non-regulation green, lacy underwear.

Ah.

He kept his attention on the shelves. The sparring staff. The way the window caught the city lights.

And then—because the Force apparently had a cruel sense of humour—she let out a small noise.

“You can use the refresher whilst I change,” she offered easily, motioning toward the door. “There’s a spare towel, if you wish to shower.”

Right. The refresher. Perfect. A place to regroup.

Tholme muttered something resembling gratitude and stepped inside, shutting the door behind him with a little more force than necessary.

Then he dared to look up.

As expected, the space was minimal. A few basic toiletries, a folded towel—the same colour as the one he found in his locker—a small bottle of something herbal-scented sitting by the basin. Something light. Earthy. Unmistakably her.

His fingers hesitated over his toothbrush for half a second, but he quickly shook himself out of it, scowling at his own thoughts, and brushed his teeth with far more determination than necessary.

The water ran as he scrubbed his face, dragging his palms over his skin like he could wipe the last few hours off completely. It didn’t help.

He sighed, rolling out his shoulders. Alright. Five minutes. Get it together.

And, because he really didn’t want to stumble around in the dark later, he took care of his basic needs now and relieved himself. Like a rational adult.

Except— why did it feel weird?

He’d spent his entire life in shared spaces. Communal refreshers. Cramped quarters. This should not feel different. It was a basic necessity, not an invasion.

But this was her space.

Her things, neatly arranged. Her scent in the air. Her presence woven into every corner of the room. And for some stupid, infuriating reason—he was hyper-aware of all of it.

So, like a perfectly normal person, he turned on the tap to cover the sound.

Kriffing tragic.

By the time he reemerged, still convincing himself that this was fine, T’ra was already doing up the fastenings of her sleep tunic.

His gaze caught on the slow roll of her shoulders, the way she pulled at the high collar, exhaling softly.

Tholme looked away.

Not fast. Not jerky. Just deliberate. A quiet shift of control.

His eyes found the shelves. The window. The floor. The wall was neutral. The wall didn’t make him think.

“You may want to remove your boots,” T’ra said. “Unless you plan on sleeping in them.”

Tholme exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his hair as he bent to unlace them.

Except—his fingers weren’t as steady as they should have been.

T’ra had already moved on, folding her clothes neatly over the chair. She wasn’t paying him any mind. She wasn’t thinking about this the way he was.

And that, more than anything, was why he needed to pull himself together.

He yanked off his first boot, maybe a little too sharply, tossing it aside as casually as he could manage. Then the second. His tunic next. Undershirt after that, before throwing on something softer for sleep. The air wasn’t colder than usual, but it felt like it. Like he had too much skin all of a sudden.

He focused on the small movements—the flex of his fingers, the pull of the fabric, the grounding press of his feet against the floor.

T’ra stretched, rolling out her shoulders.

Tholme didn’t look.

Instead, he cleared his throat, reaching for the first words he could think of—something to fill the silence before it became too much.

"Just so you know, my feet get cold in the night.”

She gave him an exaggeratedly slow once-over. “Let me guess—you also steal blankets?”

He sighed dramatically. “T’ra, if I was truly a blanket thief, do you think Drallig would have let me live this long?”

T’ra gave him an exaggeratedly slow nod. “Ah, yes. The well-documented patience of Drallig. That must be it.”

Then she dropped onto the edge of the bed and reached for the brush, before she dragged it through her hair in long, steady pulls. And just like that, Tholme suddenly had a new appreciation for the power of sound. The brush whispered through her hair—slow, smooth, obscenely intimate.

It shouldn’t have been distracting, but even now, in soft lamplight and barely-wrinkled sleepwear, she looked like she'd just wandered out of a holovid about peace and balance—except she had better posture and worse timing.

He kept his eyes on his tunic, folding it, but then came the sigh. Soft. Irritated. The sound of someone personally offended by a knot.

Tholme stood before he even thought about it, and his body just... agreed.

“I swear,” he muttered, already moving behind her, “if you’ve been ripping your hair out with this glorified boot scraper, we’re having a serious conversation about product maintenance.”

T’ra didn’t look at him, but she held out the brush without comment.

He took it, turning it over in his hands with a frown. “This thing’s a disaster. You’re using hard bristles on fine texture—no slip, no sectioning, no moisture—what even is this?”

“A standard grooming brush from the Temple requisitions office,” she replied, arching a brow. “It… seemed sufficient.”

“Well, it’s not,” Tholme muttered, crouching slightly behind her. “Tomorrow, I’m going to get you a new one. Hold still.”

T’ra did.

Still. Calm. But not relaxed. Her posture was too rigid, too poised. Not from pain. Not from discomfort. Just… hesitance. Because he knew how much her hair meant to her.

He worked slowly, fingers gentle as he separated the knot.

“You know,” he said, voice quieter now, “when I was twelve, I used to hide in the archive stacks just to read product labels. Conditioner blends. Scalp oils. Couldn’t get my hair to stop breaking. Some may call it vanity. But you know, I will do whatever it takes to avoid becoming bald by the time I am thirty.”

T’ra tilted her head, just slightly. He caught the edge of her profile—curious, but unreadable. “And how is that going?”

“I own two bottles of shampoo that cost more than my boots” he muttered, easing the knot free with a slow tug. “It may come as a surprise, but I know what I’m doing.”

Something in her shoulders eased—fractionally.

And she let him keep going.

He eased out the last knot and let the strands fall through his fingers—soft, weightless, like something that didn’t belong in the same galaxy as war and Jedi politics and surveillance devices in belt seams. Then, he glanced towards her nightstand, looking for something to tie it up with.

“Unless your pillows are secretly silk, you’re going to wake up with another tangle if you leave it down,” he murmured, voice almost too low to hear.

T’ra didn’t respond immediately. Just sat there, hands folded neatly in her lap as her cheeks reddened before she softly admitted, “I usually do.”

And without another word, he began to plait it—slowly, carefully, the way you would if you’d learned the hard way how hair breaks. His fingers moved one by one, weaving each soft strand into place, never pulling too hard. The silence between them wasn’t awkward—it was reverent. Focused. Like the room itself was holding its breath.

When he finished, his hands lingered for a second too long before he let the braid fall gently down her back.

T’ra didn’t move.

Then—quietly, not looking at him—she said, “Thank you.”

Not formal. Not stiff. Not the way Jedi thanked each other after a mission.

Soft. Real.

And Tholme, who had spent so long pretending he didn’t need to be needed, just nodded once.

“…Anytime.”

Then, after a second—although maybe it was longer—T’ra crawled over the bed, pulling back the covers. Tholme barely noticed. Because as she stretched, shifting her weight, something changed.

She changed.

Her limbs elongated, her form stretching taller, more fluid, more—other. It wasn’t unnatural, wasn’t alien, wasn’t anything his mind had conjured up to expect. It was just—her.

T’ra Saa, exactly as she had always been. Rooted. Timeless. Something older than him, older than anything he could name, woven into the Force itself.

For a moment, he just watched.

She stretched—long, cautious, green skinned, a quiet unfurling that spoke of something deeply instinctual. Like she was breathing through her bones. Her presence in the Force deepened, expanded outward, a ripple settling into still water. Then—seamlessly—she folded herself back into a shape the galaxy approved of.

Smaller. Tiny, even. Human-shaped again.

Not because it was easier. But because it was younger. Palatable. A reminder—mostly for herself—that she was still twenty, not two hundred.

She let out a slow breath, as if shedding tension he hadn’t realised she’d been holding. Then, without hesitation, she slid under the covers, adjusting like this was nothing more than routine.

And Tholme—Tholme needed a second.

He had seen her fight. He had seen her focus, seen her push her body to its limits. But this? This was different. He wasn’t sure why it fazed him—except, maybe, that he hadn’t expected to find it beautiful.

And that was a problem.

He shouldn’t be thinking like that. But he was

Hence why Tholme sat carefully on the edge of the bed, his posture too careful, hands resting on his knees like he was bracing for something.

T’ra shifted beside him, nothing more than a quiet movement, and the mattress dipped—just barely. A reminder that she was there. That this was real. That, in a few moments, he was supposed to just—lie down. Next to her.

He inhaled again. Focus. He had done much harder things than this.

Then, her voice came—dry, mildly amused. “You do realise staring at the bed isn’t the same as using it? I’d like to turn off the light soon.”

Tholme exhaled sharply through his nose, dragging a hand down his face. “Yeah, I’m coming.”

T’ra hummed, unconvinced. Then, as if it were the simplest thing in the world, she moved—further toward the wall. When she finally spoke again, her voice was softer. “There’s space,” she said simply.

It wasn’t an invitation. Not really. Just a statement. A fact.

Still, something in it settled deep in his chest, lingering in a way that brought him peace.

Tholme shifted, pressing his palms into the mattress, but before he could settle, he felt it—the lightest brush of fingers against his wrist. Not hesitation. Not an accident. A check.

He forced himself not to move. Not to react. But something in him coiled.

She didn’t say anything, didn’t even look at him directly. Just rested the pads of her fingers lightly against his pulse, a soft, precise touch—barely a few seconds. Barely a few breaths.

She already knew.

His heartbeat was still off. He was running too warm. His balance still not quite where it should be. The death sticks had burned out hours ago, but the weight of it—the sluggishness in his limbs, the faint, lingering fog in his mind—it wasn’t gone.

He barely felt it when her thumb brushed over the inside of his wrist, once, just briefly. And then she disappeared.

“Are your ears still ringing?” T’ra asked.

Tholme’s fingers curled slightly into the sheets before he forced them to relax. That was the problem with her. She didn’t just notice things. She read them. Because now that she said it, he could feel it—that faint, distant hum at the edge of his hearing, the way his head felt too full, like a room with bad acoustics.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, rubbing a hand over his face before muttering, "It’s fine."

T’ra didn’t react. Then—softer, like she already knew the answer before he did, "Headache?"

Tholme let out a short, humourless breath. "T’ra, if I say no, are you actually going to believe me?"

"Probably not," she admitted. Then, finally, she shifted back. Settled herself into the blankets.

And then, just like that, the room was thrown into darkness.

Brentaal’s cityscape cast faint streaks of light through the window, painting the walls in shifting patterns of gold and blue. The glow wasn’t enough to keep him awake, but it wasn’t quite enough to let him sleep, either. It just… existed, filling the space between shadow and silence.

Tholme lay on his back, one arm resting loosely over his ribs, staring at the ceiling. Sleep should have come easily. His body was heavy with exhaustion, his muscles aching with the weight of the past twenty-four hours. And yet—his mind wouldn’t follow.

Beside him, T’ra was still. At ease. Not asleep—he could tell by the even cadence of her breath, by the way her presence in the Force remained steady, quiet, watchful in a way only she could be.

Neither of them spoke.

And for once, that silence didn’t feel like something he needed to fill.

Then—softly, her voice barely above a whisper, she uttered, "Are you ever going to tell me what’s really on your mind?"

Tholme exhaled through his nose, his fingers flexing against the sheets. He should have expected this. The darkness, the quiet—it had a way of pulling things out of people. Things they would never say in the daylight.

He let the silence stretch for a moment longer, before uttering, "I think Torwyn owns me."

The words slipped out before he could think better of it. They hung there, solid and unshakable, settling into the quiet like they had always been waiting to be said.

And for a second, all he could see was the smear of blood on duracrete. The weight of Cinnabon limp in his hands. The flicker of betrayal before the end.

T’ra shifted slightly, but she didn’t speak right away. When she did, her voice was quieter. More careful. "You don’t really mean that."

Tholme let out a soft, bitter chuckle. "Don’t I?"

She didn’t reply immediately.

Instead, he felt the bed shift ever so slightly as she turned, angling toward him, her warmth suddenly closer.

"You don’t," she said again, firmer this time. "You’re your own person, Tholme."

Tholme let out a slow breath, rubbing his palm over his face before dropping his arm back onto the mattress. "Then why?"

T'ra didn't move. "Why what?"

Tholme turned toward her, green eyes catching slivers of window light. His chest felt tight. His voice dropped even lower, almost like he didn’t want to say it at all. "Why go to all this trouble?"

T’ra inhaled softly, the faintest shift of fabric accompanying the movement, but she didn’t speak.

Tholme swallowed. "He doesn’t need to. He’s already won. He trained me, shaped me. If he wanted me to be a certain kind of Jedi, he’s already made sure I became it. He has control. So why?"

T'ra didn’t answer immediately.

Because there wasn’t an easy answer.

Tholme let out a bitter chuckle, shaking his head. "He could’ve let me go. I would’ve gone. I would’ve walked out of here with my knighthood and never looked back. I wouldn’t have questioned him. I would’ve called it training, or some harsh but necessary lesson, and I would’ve just—moved on."

He stopped, exhaling sharply through his nose.

T’ra shifted closer, just slightly, until her voice was low and even in the space between them. "He never wanted to teach you. He wanted to shape you into something you’re not."

The word settled over him like a weight. "Then he wasted his time."

T’ra didn’t respond to that.

Because they both knew it wasn’t true.

Still, there was something about the dark, about the silence that made things feel heavier. More real. He was always good at deflecting, at dodging, at burying things beneath layers of sarcasm and indifference, but here, like this, it felt different. Like none of that would work. Like she could see through him too easily.

Tholme smirked faintly. “You’re a wise Jedi, Master Saa.”

T’ra rolled her eyes. “Don’t call me that.”

He grinned. “What, ‘Master Saa’?”

“Yes.”

“Why not?” he asked.

T’ra sighed, and then, just above a whisper, “Because I’m not your superior. I’m your friend.”

Friend. The women with no friends—and he was her only one.

He stayed quiet as her fingers traced idly over the sheets. It was such a simple thing—absent, thoughtless—but Tholme found himself watching, caught in the slow, rhythmic movement. There was something strangely intimate about it. The way her touch was so light, the way the silence wrapped around them like a cocoon, the way the darkness made the room feel smaller, like they were the only two people in the galaxy.

“You always do that,” he said quietly, almost without thinking.

T’ra glanced at him. “Do what?”

“That thing with your hands.” He nodded toward the way her fingers drifted across the fabric, the absent way she moved, like she was tracing something unseen.

T’ra blinked, looking down at her own hands, then back at him. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Tholme smirked, shifting onto his back again.

Silence settled again, but it wasn’t heavy. It was something else. Something… comfortable.

“You should sleep,” she murmured.

Tholme huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah, that’s not happening.”

“And why not?”

He exhaled through his nose. “You really have to ask?”

T’ra studied him for a moment, then tilted her head slightly, curiosity flickering behind her sharp, golden eyes. “You’ve been exhausted all night, but now, when you finally have the chance, you’re too restless to close your eyes. Why?”

Tholme flexed his fingers against the sheets. Because my Master has been tracking my every move. Because the moment I shut my eyes, I’ll be alone with my thoughts. Because I’ve never felt like this before and I don’t know what to do with it.

And then, Eeth’s face flickered behind his eyelids—furrowed brows, crossed arms, that awful, awful disappointment.

“You talk too much, you know that?” he muttered instead.

T’ra smirked. “And you deflect too much.”

He let out a quiet breath, staring at the ceiling. “It’s a talent.”

There was another pause. Then—softer now, “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like this.”

Tholme arched a brow, glancing at her. “Like what?”

T’ra hummed. “Uncertain.”

Tholme stiffened slightly. “I’m not uncertain.”

She studied him for a long moment, something unreadable in her gaze. Then—before he could process what was happening—she reached out and lightly flicked his forehead with a giggle that was downright girlish.

Tholme blinked. “Did you just—”

T’ra smiled, shifting onto her side, settling more comfortably into the blankets. “Go to sleep, Tholme.”

Tholme hesitated for a fraction of a second, then—before he could think too hard about it—he mirrored her movement, turning onto his side as well. Not too close. But not far.

She didn’t comment on it. Didn’t pull away.

And just like that, something in him held still. Just for a moment. Just for tonight.

Chapter Text

She didn’t say it like a command. She said it like a truth.

“You’re mine, do you know that?” T’ra whispered, fingers brushing his jaw, her voice a warm exhale against his skin.

He let her touch him. Tilted into it. Leaned back as she climbed into his lap, one leg sliding over his hips. She settled there like she’d done it a hundred times. Like this was hers. Like he was hers.

Her lips dragged across his cheek, slow and reverent. The pad of her thumb swept beneath his eye, then down, lingering at the corner of his mouth.

“Let me take care of you,” she murmured.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. He said nothing. He didn’t need to. His body answered—hips lifting, hands clenching, breath catching like she’d scraped something raw.

She kissed him slowly. Deeply. Like she was memorising the shape of his mouth, the way his breath stuttered, the way he chased the taste of her like it was the only thing anchoring him to the galaxy.

Her fingers slid into his hair, just the way he liked, tugging just enough to make his spine arch. Her lip’s parted against his, coaxing him open, guiding him closer, until he wasn’t sure where her breath ended and his began.

“Let go,” she whispered, breath hot against his mouth. “Just let me.”

And he did.

His hands gripped her waist, pulling her flush to his chest, greedy in the way only someone starving could be. She sighed into him—soft, approving.

“Mine,” she said again. Against his throat this time. A kiss. A claim.

His hand slid up her bare back, fingers tangling in her hair. It had come loose—her braid falling apart in soft waves around her shoulders. She was gorgeous. Bathed in starlight. Nothing between them but heat and breath.

And Force—Force, she was so beautiful.

But—no, something was wrong.

Her hair. It was coarse. Too rough. And her hand on his chest—it was heavier now. Colder.

And the breath on his throat turned sour—like old whisky and cruelty. Like something that shouldn’t belong to tenderness.

“You’re mine, Tholme,” she said again. Same words. But not the same voice.

Not T’ra’s voice. His.

Torwyn.

His whole body stiffened.

He tried to pull away, but he wasn’t in control anymore—his hands wouldn’t move. He looked down.

Shackles.

The mouth was still on his neck. Still moving.

Still kissing him.

“You’ve always been mine.”

**

His eyes snapped open. Dark. Still. Cool air brushing against his skin like nothing had happened.

But something had. Something very unfortunate.

His body was a slow thrum of leftover tension, heat crawling beneath his skin, heart still pounding in a rhythm that didn’t belong to clarity or control. His breath came too fast. Too shallow. Like his lungs didn’t know how to process shame.

He didn’t move. Just blinked at the ceiling.

Did he say her name? Did he say anything at all?

Then, slowly, his eyes drifted to the shape beside him—T’ra. Still asleep. Still perfectly still. Her braid, the one he’d done, was half-tucked over her shoulder, slightly mussed from sleep.

His stomach twisted.

He exhaled carefully through his nose and shifted—just enough to confirm the worst.

Yep. Still hard.

Still horrifically, inexplicably hard in the aftermath of a dream that started like a blessing and ended like a curse.

And now?

Now he was lying next to the one person in the galaxy who made him feel safe, pulsing like a live wire in the Force, vibrating with a shame so loud he was shocked the fire alarms hadn’t gone off.

Spectacular. The Force’s gift to abstinence education.

He shut his eyes, and like any man trained in the Jedi arts of discipline and denial, he reached—desperately—for the one thing that could kill this lingering, traitorous arousal stone dead.

Drallig.

Drallig frowning. Drallig sighing. Drallig…smiling.

Yeah, that did it.

…Mostly.

The heat didn’t vanish—it ebbed. Like a slow tide, dragging itself back out to sea. Agonisingly gradual. Embarrassingly persistent. His skin still buzzed, his pulse still a shade too loud in his throat. His body, ever the traitor, hadn’t caught up to the fact that the dream had turned rancid somewhere between soft moans and a ghost with his Master’s voice

He gritted his teeth and willed his body into Jedi-grade submission, summoning the full weight of Drallig’s ascetic rage to fight biology into retreat. He thought of Drallig at 5am in his ugly sparring tunic, reciting the Jedi Code like it was poetry. Thought of Drallig handing him tea with no sweetener. Thought of Drallig plucking his ear hairs and inspecting each one, the disgusting bastard.

And finally—finally—the heat faded.

Not completely. Not enough to erase the memory of her mouth whispering mine—or the voice that followed.

But enough that he could breathe again.

Almost.

The shame, however? Still there. Vibrating quietly in his bones like an aftershock.

He sat up slowly, careful not to shift the mattress too much, and reached for the glass on the nightstand. His fingers found it by memory, the rim cool against his palm. He didn’t drink—just held it, grounding himself in the weight of something real.

Because the weight in his chest wasn’t going anywhere.

Force, what was wrong with him?

Of all the things to dream about. Of all the people. Of all the ways it could have unfolded. T’ra, warm and soft, whispering mine like it was something sacred—his hands on her skin, her breath on his throat—and then—

He was messed up. He knew he was messed up. But this? This wasn’t just trauma bleeding into dreams—this was his brain turning the only good thing in his life into another trap. Another cage. Another moment he’d have to bury so deep it couldn’t touch him during daylight hours.

Now he was perched on the edge of his own shame spiral like a teenager caught with contraband—except the contraband was lust, trauma, and an unresolved Jedi attachment complex—trying to breathe through the shame and pretend he wasn’t still half-hard in a room that didn’t belong to him, next to a woman who would probably forgive him for anything if she knew—and that somehow made it worse.

Because she deserved peace. Not whatever this was. Not him—shaking, wired, barely breathing in the space she’d made safe.

He shut his eyes again, willing the heat in his face to fade. Not from arousal now. From guilt. And from the sick, sick part of him that kept whispering: If it had stayed her voice… would you have let it keep going?

And then—suddenly, he was startled by voices.

Low, muffled, drifting in from the corridor. Laughter. The soft thud of boots. Someone returning late from an assignment, or maybe just the training halls.

A few lights flicked on under the crack of the doorway—soft gold spilling across the floor in thin lines. It was just a pair of Masters, maybe. Or a Knight and their Padawan. It was nothing. Just outpost life.

But it felt obscene. Loud. Jarring.

And inside this room, Tholme was trying to scrape himself off the floor of his own psyche with a shaking hand and a half-hard reminder that his subconscious was a problem.

Then in the bed beside him, T’ra shifted—just enough to press into the pillow, exhaling softly. He stared at her braid, mussed and perfect and his fault.

And all he could think was: Don’t wake up. Not yet. Please don’t wake up.

The silence barely had time to settle before she stirred. It was small—barely a shift—but enough. A soft intake of breath, the flutter of her lashes catching the low light as her eyes blinked open, hazy with sleep.

Tholme froze.

T’ra didn’t move beyond that. Didn’t speak, didn’t sit up. Just blinked once more and let her gaze drift, unfocused, toward the ceiling.

Tholme’s hand clenched tighter around the glass.

Kriff.

He shifted quickly—just enough to draw one knee up, loose and casual, blocking the worst of it. Or, at least, trying to. He wasn’t sure if it was still noticeable, wasn’t sure if the blanket had shifted, if the sweat on his skin was visible, if the guilt radiating off him could be felt like a heatwave.

T’ra’s eyes barely moved, but he felt it—her awareness brushing against him in the Force like a ripple in water. Tired. Curious.

“…Are you alright?” she murmured, voice still blurred by sleep.

He nodded. Just once. “Yeah,” he rasped. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

She hummed faintly. Not suspicion. Not doubt. Just sleep.

“Mm. ‘S fine.” Her voice drifted off again, already fading back toward unconsciousness.

She didn’t notice.

Or maybe she did—and chose not to say anything.

Which was worse. Because mercy, from her, always felt like trust. And he wasn’t sure he’d earned either.

Still, Tholme stared straight ahead, jaw tight, heart beating far too loudly.

And in the dark, with guilt still coiled low in his gut, her voice echoed—not her voice, not really—still whispering, mine.

Chapter Text

Tholme woke slowly, drifting in the soft haze of early morning, his body heavy with the kind of warmth that made movement feel unnecessary. He exhaled quietly, shifting slightly, and that was when he noticed it.

Something solid. Something warm.

Something that breathed. His brain supplied possibilities. None of them good. And just like that—awareness crept in slowly.

The weight against him, warm and steady. The slow, rhythmic rise and fall of breath beneath his cheek. The faintest scent of something familiar—T’ra.

His fingers twitched. And then—then—his brain caught up.

His legs were tangled with hers, the long, warm weight of them wound around his. His arm—his utterly disloyal arm—was draped across her waist, fingers resting lightly against the dip of her spine. His head—traitorous, pathetic, undeniably comfortable—was nestled against the curve of her neck, breath ghosting over skin he had absolutely no business being near.

He stayed still and let his brain assess the scene like it was a warzone and he was already ten steps too late.

Okay. This wasn’t ideal.

And—ah. She was awake, too.

He could tell now. The pattern of her breathing wasn’t quite deep enough, the weight of her presence subtly different. Just enough for him to know.

Alright. He could work with this.

Except, his body refused to move. He should—he needed to—but every instinct, every part of him that had settled in the night, refused.

She wasn’t moving away. She wasn’t speaking. Was she waiting for him to? Was she expecting him to untangle himself and act like nothing had happened?

He quickly had his answer.

T’ra let out a quiet, amused breath, tinged with amusement. “You move a lot in your sleep.”

Tholme exhaled slowly through his nose, flexing his fingers. Right. Okay.

He shifted back, easy and unhurried, careful to keep the movement natural. Not too quick—didn’t want to make a thing of it. Didn’t want her to think he was flustered. Which he wasn’t. Obviously.

His arm slipped away first, brushing lightly over the fabric of her tunic before resting against his own side. Then his legs—untangling with a quiet stretch, a slow realignment of weight. Nothing awkward. Nothing hesitant. Just motion.

Except—T’ra inhaled, subtle but noticeable, the faintest shift of her shoulders as he adjusted.

His knee skimmed against hers as he pulled away, a slow drag of warmth. He should have ignored it. He almost did. But—his breath hitched for half a second, the sensation landing sharper than it should.

By the time he fully settled onto his back, putting the necessary, responsible inches of space between them, he was composed.

T’ra, for her part, still hadn’t moved. Just watching, gaze unreadable, utterly at ease. “Sleep well?”

He met her eyes, expression carefully neutral. “Not my worst wake-up.”

T’ra hummed, clearly unimpressed. “That’s a concerning metric.”

Tholme huffed out something resembling a laugh, pushing himself up to sit. “Yeah, well. Set the bar low and you’ll never be disappointed. Once, I woke up with a shaved eyebrow."

T’ra raised an eyebrow. “…Drallig?”

“Drallig,” he confirmed.

T’ra let out a soft, amused laugh, shaking her head as she pushed the blankets back and rose from the bed.

“Do you want anything?” she asked casually as she padded toward a small table of juices and breads, stretching her arms above her head.

Tholme barely hesitated. "Whatever’s strongest."

T’ra turned to face him fully, every movement radiating the slow patience of someone accustomed to dealing with absolute fools. "…It’s breakfast."

Tholme met her gaze, unwavering. "I stand by what I said."

There was a long pause, and without a word, T’ra poured him the darkest, thickest tea in her collection before she handed him the cup.

Tholme took a cautious sip, and immediately regretted it.

He swallowed, forcing his expression to remain neutral despite the absolute war happening in his throat. He coughed, nodding once like a man who had not just made a terrible mistake. "Yeah. That’ll do."

With a laugh, T’ra turned her back to unscrew the cap of a small glass bottle and poured out something dark and deeply untrustworthy. It clung to the sides of the glass like engine oil, slow and viscous.

"What is that?" he asked.

T’ra didn’t even glance at him as she lifted the glass and downed the liquid in one smooth motion—no hesitation, no grimace, just straight down.

Tholme stared. Appalled. Horrified. And yep, still very into her. He wrinkled his nose. “That was horrifying."

T’ra exhaled, setting the glass down with a clink. "It’s a vitamin supplement."

"No, that is not a vitamin. That is a chemical weapon."

"Do you want to try some? I promise it isn’t as bad as it looks." T’ra, amused, picked up the bottle and held it out to him.

Tholme recoiled so hard he nearly knocked over his own mug. "I like being alive, thanks."

Still, he took it warily, twisting the cap off and giving it a cautious sniff.

Again. Immediate regret.

The stench hit him like a physical blow—rancid, medicinal, with a thick undercurrent of something deeply, violently herbal. It was like someone had brewed wet durasteel shavings, old bacta, and the worst parts of a spice market and then just… let it ferment.

His throat closed up on instinct. His stomach lurched.

He slapped a hand over his mouth, eyes watering, his entire body betraying him as he fought—fought—against the gag reflex trying to take him out on the spot.

"T’ra, what the kriff—" he managed, voice strangled.

He took a sip anyway—just to prove he could—and yeah, it was bad.

His grip faltered. He very nearly dropped the bottle like it was a live explosive. And T’ra? Who had drank it without hesitation, laughed, crossing her arms as she leaned against the counter.

“It could taste better,” she admitted.

"How," he demanded, voice raw with betrayal, "do you not puke every morning?"

T’ra just shrugged. "I don’t have a gag reflex."

There was silence. Somewhere in Tholme’s brain, the emergency lights switched on and someone started running laps.

The words hung there, dangerous. Deadly. His survival instincts screamed at him to not engage, to let it go, to pretend she had never said it—

But his mouth, his treacherous, reckless mouth, uttered, "Helpful."

T’ra blinked at him. Slowly.

Tholme blinked back. A fraction too late, his own words registered. His brain immediately went to war with itself.

Did she mean it medically? Did she mean it literally? Was she flirting? No, of course she wasn’t, she just stating a fact.

And T’ra, who had downed the vile concoction without so much as a twitch, merely raised a brow as Tholme continued to stare at her.

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head as if trying to physically rid himself of the knowledge. Then, with the ease of a man filing away information for strictly non-dangerous, completely rational reasons, he leaned back against the counter, arms folding across his chest.

"Remind me never to challenge you to a drinking contest."

T’ra smirked, tilting her head. "You’d lose."

Tholme clicked his tongue, nodding as if this was simply an irrefutable fact of the universe. "Yeah, I’m starting to see that."

Still T’ra, unaffected—because of course she was—turned back toward the counter, reaching for the kettle. She poured fresh water and fertiliser into another jug, before careful dispensing it across her small collection of saplings by the windowsill.

Tholme barely held back a laugh.

T’ra turned raising a brow. “What is it?”

“I never thought I’d see a houseplant watering a houseplant,” he jested. He paused, offering a smirk. “Respectfully.”

T’ra‘s lips pursed, taken aback. Then a slow grin crept across her cheek, one she clearly couldn’t hide. “I’m more of a house tree, Tholme. Although I would quite like to stand in a pot of soil all day. It would be peaceful.”

“I’d feed and fertilise you,” he uttered without thinking.

Then he stopped. Because wow.

What was that.

T’ra blinked. Once. Then slowly looked back at her plant.

Tholme didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. But inside, a small, important part of him shrivelled up and died.

That… hadn’t landed like a joke. Not even close.

T’ra merely went back to her plant duties.

“Speaking of water. I should take a shower,” she said, like it was the most normal thing in the world. “If you want the refresher first, go ahead.”

Tholme, who had survived battlefields, assassins, and Drallig’s cooking, nodded like a man who still had full control of his faculties. “Right. Yeah. Sure.”

He did not, in fact, have full control of his faculties.

Instead of showing that though, Tholme exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders before making his way toward the refresher, fresh clothes in hand. Not too fast. Not too stiff. Just… normal. Like this was fine.

As the door slid shut behind him, only then did he let out a long breath, bracing himself against the sink. His reflection met him in the small mirror—calm, save for the slight tension still lingering around his eyes. He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face before shaking his head.

Focus. Get it together.

Tholme twisted the controls to the coldest setting, jaw tight. Not a second of hesitation. Just a precise, controlled decision.

The water struck his skin like a blade. His breath stilled, caught between the instinct to recoil and the need to let it burn the rest of her away.

“Kriff—” he hissed, shoving himself forward into the icy spray because this was what he deserved.

The cold hit like a slap, shocking his system, dragging every last thought to a screeching halt. Which—honestly—was the point. Anything was better than the alternative.

Better than the memory of T’ra, standing in the kitchen, completely unbothered, casually saying things that should not have sent his brain into a tailspin.

Better than the dream that had haunted him in the night.

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair, tilting his head back under the icy spray.

He was a Jedi, not some green initiate with no control. There was no reason—no reason—he should be thrown off by the way her voice dropped slightly in the morning or the fact that she—

He pressed a hand against the refresher wall, eyes squeezing shut, forcing the thought out before it could settle.

Alright. That was enough.

With one last inhale, he turned the water off, bracing himself against the sink for a second before pulling a towel around his shoulders. By the time he stepped out, he looked normal. Put together. Controlled.

And T’ra, standing by the table, took one look at him and said nothing. Instead, she just picked up her clothes, stretched slightly, and made her way toward the refresher.

“I won’t take long,” she said simply, stepping inside and letting the door slide shut behind her.

Tholme exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his damp hair. He reached for his tea next, letting the warmth settle against his fingers.

And then—

A sharp inhale. A pause. The quiet, distant sound of water shutting off.

Tholme’s shoulders tensed. A fraction of a second—before his body was already moving.

He spun, instincts already primed for danger, hands half-raised, already reaching for his saber—

“T’ra?!”

He didn’t hesitate. He bolted for the refresher, body moving before his brain had fully caught up, ready to kick the door in if he had to.

He skidded to a stop just inside the doorway—breath sharp, pulse hammering—

And froze.

T’ra stood in the middle of the refresher, utterly soaked and wearing only a small purple towel. Droplets of water were running down the length of her green-textured skin, her entire form unconsciously shifted into her Neti state. Her limbs were elongated, looser, more fluid in a way that suggested she’d reacted on instinct, adapting to the shock before she’d even realised she was doing it.

Her golden-green eyes blinked at him, wide, confused, and—most damning of all—not in any actual distress.

Tholme’s stomach dropped.

The refresher.

The refresher he had just used.

The refresher he had set to freezing.

Oh.

Oh, kriff.

T’ra, still blinking in quiet disbelief, tilted her head and glanced up toward the water. The steam that should have been rising from it? Nonexistent. The so-called danger?

His unsolved sexual frustration.

Her gaze flicked back to him. Calm as a blade being sheathed, she reached out and turned the temperature up.

A single drop of icy water slid from the tip of one of her fingers.

Her voice wasn’t angry. Just… careful. Thoughtful. Watching him in that way that made him want to lie. "Cold showers?"

Tholme groaned, dragging both hands down his face like that might somehow erase the last five minutes from existence. He inhaled deeply, exhaled even slower, and then—because there was no escaping it—admitted, “I forgot to turn it back up.”

T’ra didn’t look mad. Just… baffled.

She shook off the excess water, gaze still locked on him like she was trying to solve a puzzle. “You forgot?”

Tholme grimaced. “I was distracted.”

T’ra, still standing there, still fully Neti, tilted her head. “By what, exactly?”

His mouth opened. His survival instinct dragged it shut again.

Absolutely not. He was not touching that question. Not in this lifetime.

T’ra regarded him for a long, agonising moment. Her voice cut in, “So. You take ice-cold showers when you’re distracted.”

Tholme exhaled sharply through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck. “Apparently.”

T’ra just nodded slowly, like she was filing this information away for future reference. Not mocking. Not amused. Just… noting it.

She exhaled softly and shifted—seamless, effortless—shrinking back into her humanoid form like it was as easy as breathing. She barely paused before reaching for another towel, drying herself off.

Tholme turned away, just… giving her space. Giving himself a moment to breathe. He pressed a thumb into his temple, rolling out some of the tension there, before he exhaled. “I’m making fresh tea.”

T’ra hummed, towelling off her hair. “Good idea.”

He made for the door, forcing his body to shake off whatever the kriff just happened. But just before he stepped out—just before the moment could pass completely—he caught the faintest shift in the Force.

Her attention.

Not prying. Not teasing. Just watching.

And the worst part? He didn’t want her to stop.

**

Tholme sat at T’ra’s table, cradling a cup of tea like it might solve the problem for him. The ceramic was smooth beneath his fingers, faintly tacky with condensation. His thumb rubbed over the rim in slow, absent circles.

The lights were still dim—soft overhead glow, filtered through the morning haze outside the window. Just enough to see by. Not enough to feel awake.

Across the room, T’ra moved quietly, dressing for the day. The rustle of fabric. The quiet click of clasps. Normally, it would have flustered him. Today, he barely noticed, because even after everything, Torwyn was back in his head again.

And he wasn’t leaving.

He needed to confront him. Not for closure. Just to hear the answer.

A breeze shifted the thin curtain by the window, brushing cool air across his ankles. He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.

And across the room, T’ra pulled her belt snug, pausing when she caught sight of him. She tilted her head slightly, her sharp golden-green gaze assessing, noting the way he was gripping the cup too tightly, the way his shoulders had tensed.

“You’re thinking about it again, Tholme.”

His name landed soft, but unmissable.

Tholme exhaled slowly, eyes still fixed on the tea. “Yeah. I know.”

T’ra hummed, padded across the floor, and slid into the seat opposite him. The wood creaked faintly beneath her weight. “And?”

“And…” He dragged a hand through his hair, fingers snagging slightly in the still-damp strands, then let it drop to the table. His knuckles tapped the side of the cup—once, twice, like if he hit the right rhythm, it might spill the answers he didn’t have. “I need to go to him.”

There was no hesitation in T’ra’s response. “That’s a terrible idea.”

He scoffed, but the sound lacked conviction. “Thanks for the support.”

She leaned forward slightly, folding her hands together on the table’s smooth surface. “You’re not prepared for the conversation you think you’re about to have.”

That struck a nerve, though he did his best not to let it show. His jaw twitched. “So what? I just ignore it?”

“No,” she spoke. “But walking in there and demanding answers? That won’t get you what you need.”

Tholme clenched his jaw. The muscles there ached. He hadn’t noticed that either.

Still, T’ra continued. “Torwyn doesn’t just give things away. If he knows you’re looking for something, he’ll turn it back on you before you can blink. You’ll walk in with questions and leave with doubts you didn’t have before.”

Tholme exhaled sharply, fingers drumming against the cup again. She was right. Of course she was right.

But that didn’t change the fact that he needed to do something.

“…What do you suggest?” he asked finally.

T’ra regarded him for a long moment. Then she uttered, “Make him think he still has the upper hand.”

He frowned. The table suddenly felt smaller. The air denser.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. “You’ve spent years letting him dictate how you respond to things. He expects that. You walk into that room tense, angry, looking for answers? He’ll smell it before you speak.” Her gaze sharpened. “You need to let him think you’re still his. Like you’re the same boy he taught to sit still and bleed quietly. That you haven’t learned how to cut the strings.”

The words sat heavy between them, like gravity had just shifted in the room.

Tholme exhaled sharply, tilting his head back, staring at the ceiling. There was a faint flicker in the light above. He watched it blink once. Twice.

He hated this. Every part of it. Hated the idea of walking into that room and acting like nothing was wrong. Hated that she was right.

This was manipulative. It was dishonest. It was exactly the kind of thing Torwyn would do. And maybe that’s why it might work.

So slowly, he nodded. “Alright.”

T’ra studied him for a moment longer, then—seemingly satisfied—sat back in her chair, reaching for her tea. The quiet clink of ceramic met his ears like punctuation.

Tholme tapped his fingers against the table once. Then again. The rhythm settled something in his chest. He let out a slow breath.

“I’m still punching him in the face if I don’t like what he says.”

T’ra smirked. “I expected as much.”

That pulled something faintly alive from him. Not a smile. Not yet. But something close.

Tholme stood, joints stiff, and rolled his shoulders, feeling the tension settle into something steadier. Less fire. More blade.

Then, without another word, he turned toward the door.

And prepared himself for war.

**

The alley behind the training hall was quiet. Too quiet.

Tholme took out a cigarette, rolling it between his fingers before lighting it. The flame flared, sharp and hungry against the dark stone. He inhaled, slow and steady, letting the burn settle in his lungs.

It didn’t help.

The feeling was still there. That itch at the back of his skull, the one that made his instincts go tight and sharp. The one that told him he wasn’t alone.

But he had no time to dwell, because this was the moment. He was going to find Torwyn, walk straight in, and—what? Confront him? Push back? Tholme wasn’t even sure what he wanted out of this, only that he needed something. Needed to see how far he could go before Torwyn realised that he knew.

The ember of his cigarette glowed in the dim light. He took another slow drag, exhaled through his nose.

Then he heard it.

"That’s a bad habit, Tholme."

His entire body locked up.

The voice came from behind him, smooth, unhurried. Familiar. Too familiar.

Tholme forced himself to move, to turn casually, like he wasn’t already bracing for whatever fresh hell was about to be dropped on him.

Torwyn leaned against the stone wall, sleeves rolled, one foot crossed over the other like he’d been there for hours. Like he’d never left.

Tholme exhaled slowly, resisting the urge to shift. And then—aflicker of flame. The sharp scratch of a lighter. And against all odds, Torwyn lifted a cigarette to his lips and took a slow drag.

Tholme had never seen him smoke before. Never even thought about it. And yet, of course, when he did—he was already better at it.

Then, just like that, Torwyn exhaled a perfect ribbon of smoke through his nose before speaking again. "I used to do this. Years ago. Thought it made me look dangerous. Felt good, too."

He glanced at Tholme’s cigarette. "Eventually I decided it was a crutch. A weakness." There was another breath. Another pause. "Funny how it still fits in your hand, though. Like it never left. You made a compelling argument to rediscover the lure.”

Something in his stomach pulled tight.

The cigarette shifted in his fingers, and for a second—just a second—it didn’t feel like his hand anymore. The weight of it. The angle. The way he flicked the ash like it was a tic, not a choice.

And Force help him, he could hear it.  Not Torwyn’s voice. His own. Twenty years from now. Smooth. Detached. Saying “I used to smoke in my youth.” Like it was charming. Like it was history.

Like it wasn’t the first step down a path that ended in blood and silence.

Tholme’s mouth went dry.

He slipped the cigarette back between his lips and took a breath inwards—too fast. It burned. Good.

Better that than the bile crawling up his throat.

He wasn't like him. He wasn’t. He was just… tired. But the tremor in his hand didn’t go away.

Still, Tholme forced his shoulders to stay loose. “Glad to be of service.”

Torwyn hummed, stepping closer.

“Come on. Let’s see it, then.”

Before Tholme could process the shift, Torwyn reached out and plucked the cigarette cleanly from his hand.

Tholme didn’t react, even as Torwyn turned it between his fingers, inspecting it like it was some rare and impressive specimen.

Then, just as quickly, he stepped toward the wall, crushed it against the stone, and handed it back.

"Try again."

Tholme stared at him for half a beat before exhaling slowly, rolling his shoulders. Fine. Two could play at that game.

He pulled out another cigarette, lit it. Torwyn just watched. Let him.

Then, with the same easy movement as before, he reached out and took it again.

Tholme tensed slightly, expecting him to crush it like last time.

But he didn’t.

Tholme didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.

But he should have because then—without warning—the ember touched his skin

The pain hit sharp and immediate, searing through his nerves like wildfire. He felt his breath catch—just for a fraction of a second—before he forced it down, jaw locking so tight his teeth ached.

He didn’t make a sound. He wouldn’t.

Torwyn only held it there for a second—just long enough for the pain to sink in, to take root—before flicking the cigarette away like it was nothing.

Like Tholme was nothing.

"You need to be more aware of your surroundings, Tholme."

His voice was smooth. Unbothered.

Like he hadn’t just burned him.

Tholme exhaled slowly through his nose, forcing his breath to stay steady as he flexed his fingers, the sting settling deep into his skin. He didn’t look down. Didn’t give Torwyn the satisfaction of seeing his pain.

Instead, he just turned to leave.

But Torwyn moved.

Not aggressively, not obviously—but just enough to step into his space.

He wasn’t touching him. He wasn’t physically holding him there.

But he was in the way.

A small, subtle, quiet block.

"I can always tell when something is distracting you," Torwyn mused, tilting his head slightly. “And today? Oh, you seem very distracted.”

Tholme forced himself to breathe. “Yeah?” he muttered, keeping his voice level. “Maybe I’m just tired.”

"Mm," Torwyn murmured, like he didn’t believe him at all.

Then—his eyes flicked downward.

To Tholme’s waist.

Tholme tensed.

The pause lasted less than a second. A flicker of a glance, nothing more. But Tholme felt it—
The shift. The calculation. The knowledge.

And Torwyn moved.

His hand reached out—not fast. Not rough. Just confident. And with two fingers, he slid one behind the edge of the belt.

Right into the space between leather and skin.

His touch pressed inward—not hard. Not enough to bruise. Just enough to remind Tholme exactly how much he still knew. Exactly how close he could get.

"That’s not your usual belt," Torwyn murmured, his thumb brushing the seam as if he were checking for wear. Or weakness.

Then the smirk. Slow. Pleased.

“Fancy a change, did we?”

The words landed like a dropped vibroblade, and Torwyn just smiled, lifting his cigarette.

Tholme’s stomach twisted. The spot where those fingers had pressed—just below the ribs—still burned like they hadn’t left. Not painful. Not sharp. Just wrong. Like a bruise forming beneath the skin of something much older than flesh.

He swallowed, forcing the smirk onto his face. It felt like wearing the wrong size—tight in all the wrong places.

"Style’s subjective," he muttered. "But I hear invasive tailoring is in this season."

There was a pause as Torwyn exhaled smoke. “Mm you always did need someone to dress you properly.”

Tholme didn’t flinch. Not outwardly. But the weight of that comment slotted in beside the fingers at his waist, like they’d never really left.

Then, like nothing had happened, Torwyn stepped aside and let him go.

Chapter Text

Tholme sat on the edge of the small kitchen counter, rolling up his sleeve with his teeth as he fumbled for the bacta patch in the medkit. The burn throbbed like a second heartbeat, raw and hot, radiating out through the tendons of his hand. He didn’t look at it. Not directly. Just peeled the backing off the patch and pressed it down with a hiss.

The apartment was quiet, the usual low rumblings of traffic muffled through the walls. Marah had mentioned she’d be off-world for a few days, and breaking in was hardly an issue when you knew exactly where someone kept their spare key.

It wasn’t like this was the first time he’d patched himself up in her place. He knew the layout, knew exactly where she kept the medkit, knew the way the floor dipped slightly by the counter. He also knew she wasn’t supposed to be here.

Which was why, when he heard the quiet click of a door unlatching, followed by the soft pad of approaching footsteps, his fingers stilled over the bandage.

Then—the refresher door swung open, and Marah stepped out. With a man.

Tholme’s spine went tight, instincts flaring before his brain caught up. Not a threat—just a mistake. A comedy, not an ambush.

The guy—shorter than him, vaguely familiar in the way most disposable men were—froze mid-step, tunic loose over his shoulders, towel-drying his hair like he hadn’t just walked into a scenario he was absolutely unprepared for. His eyes darted between them, his entire body radiating the slow, dawning horror of someone realising they might die before breakfast.

Tholme, still perched on the counter, still holding a bacta patch, raised a slow brow.

And Marah—ever the actress—gasped. “Oh no,” she breathed. “My boyfriend. He caught us.”

The poor bastard went rigid, his entire life flashing before his eyes. His fingers twitched around the towel still slung around his neck, posture going stiff. His gaze flicked to Tholme, then to Marah, then back to Tholme—the slow, dawning horror of a man who had just put together exactly what kind of mistake he’d made. His shoulders squared slightly, like he was about to offer an apology or a defence—before he clearly thought better of it.

Still, Marah pressed on. “I—shit, Tholme—I never wanted you to find out this way.”

The guy paled, face flickering rapidly as if his brain had just short-circuited. His gaze darted between them, as though he just realised that he was sleeping with a Jedi’s ‘girlfriend’.

“I—” He swallowed, visibly recalibrating every choice that had led him to this moment. “Oh. Oh, kriff.”

Tholme, still perched lazily on the counter, didn’t move. He just blinked slowly, as if trying to work out whether he wanted to lean into this situation or stay out of it entirely.

But Tholme, because he had had a stressful week, and also, because he was an asshole, simply tilted his head and flexed his fingers.

“Oh?” he mused. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?”

The guy panicked. He stepped back, holding up his hands in a useless gesture of surrender. “Listen, I didn’t know—”

Marah waved a dismissive hand. “Yeah, maybe you should go. I think we need to talk.”

The unfortunate idiot nearly tripped over himself getting to the door, his tunic still half-unbuttoned as he fled like the room was on fire.

Then, the door shut behind him.

Silence lingered, buzzing faintly with the shape he left behind. And—slowly, deliberately—Marah turned back toward Tholme, her expression shifting from faux-remorse to something far more satisfied.

A smirk curled at the edges of her lips, smug and entirely unrepentant. She exhaled through her nose, shaking her head like she couldn’t believe her own genius.

Then, finally, she sighed. “You are so useful.”

Tholme huffed out a laugh, shaking his head as he slid off the counter. “One day, this is going to backfire spectacularly, and I am going to be there, front-row seat, popcorn in hand.” He pointed at the door. “That poor bastard is probably halfway to fleeing the planet, and you—” he gestured vaguely at her, “—are standing here like you just pulled off the greatest heist in the galaxy. Your flags are so red I’m surprised a Sith hasn’t tried to date you.”

Marah laughed. “And yet, here you are, still enabling me. What does that say about you?”

“That I should have left the second I heard the refresher door open,” he mumbled.

She crossed the space with a skip, her attention flicking briefly to the counter, before her gaze landed on his hand.

And just like that, the grin vanished.

"Tholme.”

No teasing. No dramatics. Just his name, clipped and sharp, like she was already preparing for whatever excuse he was about to give her.

He exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders like that might somehow brace him for impact, but she was already stepping closer—already reaching, catching his wrist before he could tuck his hand away.

“Did you do this to yourself?”

Tholme didn’t answer.

Marah’s eyes flicked over the raw skin beneath the bacta patch, fingers tightening slightly. “Tholme, seriously?”

Tholme arched a brow. “No, Drallig poured acid on me for fun.”

Marah wasn’t amused.

She turned his hand over, eyes sharp, touch deceptively gentle. “Fresh,” she murmured, grip unyielding. “And not an accident.”

Tholme sighed. “Marah—”

She looked up at him. “What happened? And don’t try bantashitting me, Jedi. Are you in trouble?”

Tholme exhaled slowly, tilting his head just enough to make it clear he wasn’t taking the bait. “Yeah, no. We’ll get to that.” His voice was easy, almost lazy—too casual. A deliberate stall. He nodded toward the door, flicking a hand like he was brushing the whole conversation aside. “First, let’s talk about you. Specifically, why I just had to play the jealous lover. Because, from where I was sitting, he seemed perfectly nice.”

Marah exhaled sharply, the smallest flicker of irritation flashing across her face—not at him, but at the fact that he wasn’t going to let her just brush this off. She knew that look. Knew that he’d let her dodge plenty of things before, but not this time.

So, fine. Whatever. She’d explain.

She released his wrist with a sharp shake of her head, already pivoting toward the cabinet like she was bored of the whole conversation. “Nice?” she echoed, grabbing a glass. “Nice isn’t the same as smart.”

She filled it with water, took a sip, then finally turned back to face him—fully resigned now, no escape in sight. “He was already getting clingy. I figured a dramatic exit would soften the blow.”

Tholme watched her for a beat, gaze lingering just long enough to let her know he wasn’t completely buying it. Not that she expected him to.

Then, with a slow exhale, he tilted his head. “Ah, yes,” he said, voice low, almost thoughtful. “The classic ‘oh no, my very real boyfriend is here’ approach.” He let the smirk creep in now. “Works every time.”

Marah pointed at him. “And you love it.”

“Love is a strong word.”

Marah rolled her eyes before her gaze inevitably flickered back to his hand, her amusement dimming slightly. “Nice deflection,” she murmured. “Now tell me what happened because I start to worry about you.”

Tholme sighed, running a hand through his hair. “It’s nothing.”

Marah arched a brow. “That’s a fucking lie.”

He flexed his fingers. The burn pulled tight, a raw reminder pressed into his skin. Torwyn’s voice. The weight of his hand. Still there.

Tholme looked down, rolling his wrist as if considering his own terms, but there was no real negotiation here. They both knew that.

“Alright, fine,” he murmured, voice softer now. He tilted his head toward her, something steadier in his gaze. Less deflection. More you’re the only person I trust with this. “It was Torwyn. Not me.”

Marah’s brows knit together. “That’s it? Just Torwyn?”

 “What more do you want?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Marah mused, folding her arms. “Maybe a little detail? A how and a why? You don’t just walk away with burns for nothing.”

Tholme glanced at her. “Don’t I?”

Marah frowned, and for the first time, her teasing demeanour cracked, something sharper creeping into her voice. “Tholme.”

He exhaled slowly. “It was nothing new.” He shrugged, as if that was enough to explain it. “Just a lesson. A reminder.”

Marah’s lips pressed into a thin line. “A reminder of what?”

 “That I need to be more aware of my surroundings.”

Marah’s eyes darkened. “That’s dumb.”

Tholme smirked humourlessly. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

Marah inhaled slowly, like she was trying to measure her response, trying to figure out if pushing would get her anywhere. Then, finally, she exhaled sharply through her nose, shaking her head. “You’re an idiot.”

“Again,” Tholme grinned, “that’s not new information.”

Marah rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, she leaned against the counter, tilting her head.

Tholme of course, needed to deflect—and quickly. “So why was ‘nice but not smart’ worth that kind of an exit?”

Marah sighed, dragging a hand through her hair like this conversation was already exhausting her. “He liked me. Too much.”

Tholme raised a brow, already sensing the bullshit. “You didn’t like him?”

Marah shrugged, grabbing her glass again, but the movement was too easy. “I did. For a while.”

Tholme hummed, tipping his head in faux understanding. “Ah.” He leaned back, the picture of mock sympathy. “You’re not a fan of commitment.”

Marah shot him a flat look over the rim of her glass.

Tholme smirked, stretching his legs out like he had all the time in the world. “Or—” he drawled, grinning because he already knew he was right “—you’re just terrified of committing.”

Marah didn’t immediately throw her glass at him. But she looked like she thought about it.

Instead, she placed it down far too carefully, then met his gaze with the patience of someone dealing with a complete idiot.

 “I keep things clean. No attachments. No ‘what are we’ conversations. And definitely no morning-after emotional unpacking.” She gestured vaguely. “So, a little theatrics, a little manufactured heartbreak, and just like that—he walks away thinking I was just a tragic mistake, not something he should try and chase after. I am a princess Tholme. I don’t get to have things my people don’t approve of. I don’t get to keep anything that’s mine. So why bother trying?”

Tholme exhaled, simply because he got it. "Easier solution? Do what I do. Don’t leave a forwarding address. Or any indication you ever planned on sticking around."

"And yet, somehow, I’m the one with more exes still talking to me."

Tholme huffed a laugh. “Jedi don’t have exes. Just people who’d still answer the comm at three a.m.”

Marah rolled her eyes again but didn’t push. Instead, she glanced at his hand once more, her expression shifting. “So. Are we putting more bacta on that, or do I need to threaten someone?”

He snorted. “I wouldn’t recommend that.”

Marah leaned back against the counter, tapping her nails against the rim of her glass. Her gaze flicked over Tholme’s face, assessing something he couldn’t quite place, before she nodded slowly. “I’m leaving soon.”

Tholme blinked. “What?”

Marah shrugged, casual, easy—like she was announcing a change in dinner plans. “I’m heading back to Coruscant. Might be permanent.”

It hit him harder than he expected. Not a punch, not a knife—just a slow, dull pressure in his chest. His thumb twitched slightly where it rested against the rim of the glass, barely enough to ripple the surface.

He tilted his head, studying her, searching for the tell, the joke, the part where she’d roll her eyes.

It didn’t come.

“Since when?”

Marah exhaled through her nose, swirling the last of the water in her glass, like she could just wash the weight of it away. “A few weeks ago.” There was a slight pause. Then, softer, “Figured it was time.”

Time for what? Time to move on? Time to leave him behind?

Tholme didn’t ask. Didn’t let the thought settle.

Instead, he pulled his smirk into place like armour. “Wow,” he mused, tilting his head. “And here I was, thinking you’d at least give me a warning before breaking my heart.”

Marah scoffed, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Please. You don’t have a heart to break.”

They both knew that wasn’t true.

But still, Tholme frowned, studying her. Marah didn’t just up and leave places—she moved on when she wanted to, when it suited her, but never in a way that suggested permanence.

Still, she saw the look and smirked slightly. “What? Worried you’ll miss me?”

Tholme scoffed. “Yes, I am worried I won’t have anyone to fake my tragic love affairs with.”

Marah chuckled. Almost too light. Almost enough to miss the quieter edge beneath it.

She took another sip of water, then set the glass down. “Look,” she said, levelling him with a pointed stare. “You know I don’t do attachments.”

Tholme arched a brow. “You’d make a great Jedi.”

Marah rolled her eyes but didn’t stop. “Yeah, well, you—” She hesitated, just for a second, then huffed as she poked him in the chest. “It sickens me I let it get this far, but you’re the closest thing I have to a friend, Tholme.”

The words landed heavier than he expected, and for once, he didn’t have a quip.

Marah shrugged again, but this time it wasn’t as dismissive. “If you ever end up back on Coruscant and need someone to remind you you’re an idiot, find an Organa. I won’t be far.”

Tholme smirked. “Are you saying I have an open invitation?”

“Don’t get sentimental about it.” Marah rolled her eyes, pushing off the counter. “Now, are we actually dealing with that hand, or are you just going to sit there and pretend it doesn’t hurt?”

Tholme exhaled, shaking his head. “Shit, I’m going to miss this.”

Marah shot him a flat look. “No, you won’t.”

Tholme grinned. “No. But I’ll miss you.”

With that Marah looked down, as though she didn’t expect to hear it.

Tholme merely nudged her with his boot. “So what do I tell Drallig when he corners me in the cafeteria next week and demands to know why my girlfriend dumped me?”

Marah smirked. “Tell him you drove me away with your emotional unavailability.”

Tholme blinked. “So, the truth.”

“Exactly,” she crooned.

Then, as she turned away, the conversation shifted, and the moment passed—he still felt it. That quiet, creeping weight settling somewhere in his ribs, low and dull like a bruise he hadn’t noticed until someone pressed on it.

Marah was leaving.

And honestly? Tholme didn’t have a joke for that.

**

Tholme barely had time to adjust his grip on the training saber before Drallig’s voice cut through the dojo.

“Tell me what’s wrong or I’m assuming a girl just told you she’s late.”

Tholme exhaled sharply through his nose, swinging his lightsaber up just in time to block Drallig’s strike. Their blades clashed, humming between them, but Tholme didn’t break his stance. Instead, he smirked. “I mean, it wouldn’t be the first time.”

Drallig only blinked. Once. Twice.

He tiled his head. “I’m sorry, repeat that—slowly—like I don’t understand a word of Galactic Basic?”

“What?” He flicked his saber sideways. “Don’t look at me like that. There was no good time to bring it up. It was fine. We didn’t add to the population. We’re still friends. Anniversaries on the calendar. Neither of us ever misses it.”

Drallig didn’t answer right away. He just stood there, saber lowered, expression caught in that impossible space between surprised, hurt, and somehow still trying to process the maths.

“Anniversary,” he echoed, too quiet. “You said anniversary.”

"Yeah, Drallig. We light a candle. Say a few words. Reminisce about the day I almost ruined her life." Tholme’s voice caught—too tight, too sharp. His mouth kept moving, but something in him cracked behind the words. "Because nothing says closeness like a shared cover story and medical silence."

Drallig blinked. “Wait—she’s a Jedi? Do I know her?”

Tholme’s laugh was short. Dry. Like a cut that didn’t bleed right away.

“You always do this.” His voice didn’t raise—but it hardened. “You hear something terrible and you look for a name. A face. Someone you can attach it to so you don’t have to feel how close it gets.”

That did it.

Drallig’s saber lowered. He didn’t move for a second. Didn’t speak.

Then he snapped, “Do you have a whole second life I don’t know about? Kriff, do you have a dog, too?”

The silence stretched.

“Fuck, Tholme—how much of your life did I miss?”

His voice didn’t shake. But it fractured. Just a little. Just enough.

Tholme shifted his stance, not defensive—but weary. “You didn’t miss it. I just didn’t tell you.”

Drallig’s jaw flexed. “Same difference.”

And then—quieter. “Was I not supposed to know? Was I not safe enough?”

That stopped Tholme cold.

“I don’t know what scares me more—that it happened, or that you’re numb to it,” Drallig said, shaking his head.

Tholme looked away. “It did matter. That’s the problem.”

“…That’s not a problem, Tholme. That’s what makes you human.”

And there it was. The beginning of the real break—not from anger. From hurt. From the sudden, horrible realisation that Tholme had been pulling away for longer than either of them had admitted.

Drallig scoffed. “Hey, at least you’re consistent. Commitment to secrecy? Impeccable.”

Tholme flexed his hand once beneath the glove, jaw tight. The burn pulsed. A reminder. Of everything.

Another secret. Another wound. Another thing he couldn’t take back.

And then—he looked at Drallig. Really looked.

Not at the posture, not at the stance—but the eyes. And kriff, he saw it. The betrayal. The flicker of it, tucked behind the usual fire. The way Drallig’s hands were clenched like he was bracing for something—like he’d already lost something and hadn’t had time to process what.

He let out a sigh, looking at his feet. "Look, we all have our shit, Drallig.”

Drallig arched a cynical brow and pressed forward, forcing Tholme to take a step back. “I need you to say, out loud, that you understand what consequences are. Just so I can confirm you do actually know.”

Tholme scoffed, pivoting to the side and aiming a sharp feint at Drallig’s left. It didn’t land. Of course it didn’t. Drallig was the better duellist, and he knew it.  "You know, they say sex is supposed to make people happier. Must’ve skipped that step with you."

Drallig hummed, barely batting an eye. “We get it, Tholme—you’re jealous.”

“Yes, Drallig. I’m devastated that I wasn’t the one tangled up in your sweaty sheets.”

Drallig lunged—forceful, precise.

Tholme barely blocked in time.

“Look at that.” Drallig met his eyes, holding them there. “I blink, and suddenly you’ve got secrets and bad footwork. Funny.”

Tholme gritted his teeth, sweat slicking the back of his neck. “I skipped dinner. That’s probably eighty per cent of this.”

And just like that, Drallig struck again. Harder.

Tholme deflected. But his grip was slipping. His muscles burned.

"If I have to drag the truth out of you, I will. You might be a pain in the ass, but you’re still my pain in the ass."

“Do you ever stop?” Tholme demanded, but not unkindly. “Give your jaw a rest, Drallig. You’re going to give yourself an ache.”

“Too late. My temporomandibular joint is in a long-term relationship with Khaat’s thighs,” he retorted with a wink.  “You joke, but I’m pretty sure I walked out of that room glowing. Someone asked if I’d ascended.”

Tholme groaned loudly, stepping back—too fast, too much weight on the wrong leg. His balance wavered. The hilt of Drallig’s lightsaber caught him in the ribs.

The wind left his lungs in a sharp burst.

He cursed, stepping back further, rolling his shoulders as he cut his saber off. “Alright. Alright, you win.”

Drallig twirled his lightsaber once before deactivating it. “Well, yeah. That was obvious five minutes ago.”

Tholme ignored him, rolling his sleeve up to check if the impact had broken skin—and Drallig fell silent.

Shit.

Tholme froze. He didn’t even have to look at him. He felt it—the sharp shift in energy, the immediate stillness that meant Drallig had seen exactly what Tholme didn’t want him to see.

A raw, reddened burn, still healing, stretching across the back of his hand.

Drallig’s voice was quiet. Dangerous. “What the hell is that?”

“Don’t—”

Too late.

Drallig moved.

A sharp, precise grip caught Tholme’s wrist, pinning it between them. Drallig turned his hand over, his thumb pressing lightly against the burn, inspecting it with something dark behind his eyes. “Who did this?”

Tholme didn’t answer.

 “Who—”

“Drallig—”

But he already knew. His grip flexed, just barely, as realisation struck. “Torwyn.”

Tholme yanked his arm back. “It’s fine.”

But Drallig could only laugh. A short, sharp thing with absolutely no humour.

Tholme barely had time to react before he turned on his heel and stormed for the exit.

“Cin—no—”

But he was already shoving the doors open, already heading down the hall.

It took everything Tholme had to catch up, to reach out and grab his shoulder—but Drallig shoved him off.

“I’m going to kill him,” he growled.

“No, you’re not.”

“I am. You can stay here and pretend this is fine, but I’m—”

And that’s when Tholme did the only thing he could do. He tackled him, full force, right into the nearest communal refresher, letting the door slam shut behind them.

Drallig slammed into the tile with a brutal grunt, but Tholme barely had time to brace before Drallig thrashed beneath him like a wild rancor.

“Get the fuck off me—”

“You’re not doing this.” Tholme shifted, digging his knee into Drallig’s ribs for leverage. “What do you think is going to happen if you punch a Jedi Master in broad daylight?”

“I don’t give a shit—”

Drallig bucked beneath him, hard, nearly throwing Tholme off. His arms flexed, muscles taut, but Tholme held him there, using every ounce of weight to keep him pinned.

“I’ll do a lot more than punch him—”

Tholme tightened his grip, shoving him harder into the floor. “I have a plan, Drallig.”

 “Your plan is probably bullshit,” Drallig snarled, eyes blazing.

Tholme’s pulse hammered. He could feel his energy, wild and furious, barely contained beneath his skin.  

“Listen to me,” Tholme hissed. “I know what I’m doing. If you go after him, he wins.”

Drallig’s breathing was uneven, his fists clenched tight against the tile. His voice lowered, rough. “You know this isn’t normal, right?”

“Sure it is.” Tholme forced a smirk. “Just good old-fashioned Master-Padawan bonding.”

Drallig didn’t even blink. “This isn’t a game.”

The words landed sharp, cutting right through whatever bullshit Tholme had been trying to pull. His smirk twitched—just barely—but Drallig saw it. Knew it.

He inhaled sharply. “How long?”

Tholme didn’t answer.

Drallig’s grip flexed. “Tholme.”

Still, nothing.

Drallig swallowed, his anger shifting into something quieter. Something worse. “Why do I feel like you don’t tell me anything anymore?”

Tholme’s throat felt tight, he swallowed hard, but it did nothing to help.

“Do you really think that if you don’t react, if you just keep taking it, he’ll stop?” Drallig let out a bitter laugh. “He’s never going to stop.”

The words landed heavy, pressing into the space between them. And for a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then—Tholme shifted, finally rolling off him, bracing his back against the opposite wall.

Drallig sat up fast, rubbing a hand over his face, exhaling sharply. “I hate this.”

 “Yeah.” Tholme leaned his head back against the tile. “Me too.”

Drallig was still breathing hard, still vibrating. But he didn’t move for the door again.

Tholme let his head thump lightly against the refresher wall, exhaling before cracking one eye open, smirk just barely hanging on. "So, just to be clear—you’re absolutely ruling out the secret offspring theory? Because I feel like that one has more entertainment value."

Drallig snorted, shaking his head. “You’re a fucking idiot.”

The silence stretched between them, not quite comfortable, not quite tense.

Then Drallig rubbed a hand down his face again, muttering, “I’m not leaving your side. Forever, if that is what it takes.”

Tholme glanced at him.

“Until that bastard is gone, I’m not leaving you alone.”

Tholme exhaled, shaking his head, smirk tilting just enough to be dangerous. “So what, you planning on chaperoning me now? Going to hold my hand all the way to Marah’s door tomorrow?” He threw Drallig a look, all teasing and nothing reassuring. “Pretty sure she prefers me solo.”

Drallig’s expression flickered again, just slightly, before narrowing into something sharper. “You’re still going back?”

Tholme shrugged, keeping his posture relaxed, casual, like this wasn’t suddenly shifting into dangerous territory. Again. “If I told you that it wasn’t what you think, would you even believe me?”

Folding his arms tighter, Drallig only scoffed. “If she was just another name on your list, you’d be done by now.”

Tholme went still, just for a second. His voice was light, sure, but the weight behind it was anything but. The implication sat there between them, thick and suffocating.

Tholme exhaled through his nose, dragging a hand down his face before forcing a chuckle. “Drallig, come on. We’re friends.”

“You know I can tell when you’re lying, right?”

“Not everything is—” He gestured vaguely. “She’s—”

He tilted his head, feigning curiosity. “She’s what, Tholme?”

Tholme hesitated for a second too long and that’s when Drallig’s words came out shaper, more accusing. “Since when do you ever get into the same bed twice? Let alone repeatedly?”

“That’s not—”

He didn’t let him finish. "We’re Jedi. Attachments get people killed. So if this isn’t just sex, tell me now. If this is why Torwyn is punishing you—tell me. You can trust me Tholme—let me prove it.”

Every single word hit harder than it should have, and something ugly twisted in his chest.

But Drallig? He exhaled slowly, watching him too closely.

“So. It’s not just sex, is it?” he asked quietly.

Tholme wanted to scoff. Wanted to shake his head, roll his eyes, throw out some careless, biting remark that turned this into a joke instead of what it actually was. He wanted to keep moving, keep talking, keep deflecting—because the second he stopped, the second he let this land, it was over.

His stomach twisted. He could feel the weight of Drallig’s gaze pressing down on him, the silence between them stretching too long, too heavy, too damning.

And for the first time—he had nothing to say.

Drallig didn’t blink. He didn’t move. He just waited—because he already knew the answer.

And Tholme—Force, Tholme knew it too. But he couldn’t tell him the truth. Not that it wasn’t sex. Not that it was worse. Because it was friendship. Real, raw, terrifying attachment.

And at this point? Maybe it was easier to pretend he loved her than admit that he had spent the last month lying to his best friend’s face.

Tholme exhaled sharply, forcing a smirk, forcing something easy, something controlled. “She’s leaving at the end of the week,” he said, voice lighter than it should be. “So really, you have nothing to worry about.”

Drallig arched a brow, smirking now, though there was still a hint of scepticism beneath it. “So what you’re saying is, you’re getting one last round in before she goes?”

Tholme opened his mouth to retort, but suddenly his breath caught for a second as he caught a shift—the unmistakable weight of another presence.

“How is our Marah?”

Tholme’s stomach plummeted.

Torwyn.

He was standing just inside the doorway, arms loose at his sides, expression calm. Unbothered. Like he had been there long enough to hear exactly what he wanted to.

Tholme turned slowly, schooling his face into something neutral, something unreadable, even as his heart pounded.

Torwyn tilted his head slightly, gaze flicking between them before settling on Tholme. “I hear her mother is returning for her.”

Tholme went rigid.

Drallig straightened beside him, arms folding over his chest, his entire posture shifting from amusement to something closer to restrained tension. He didn’t say anything, but Tholme felt the shift immediately—felt the way Drallig’s presence coiled just slightly, like he was preparing to step in.

Torwyn, of course, ignored him completely. His attention remained solely on Tholme. Waiting. Watching.

Tholme exhaled slowly, dragging his smirk back into place like armour. “Master are you keeping tabs on my social life now?”

 “Is it that obvious?” Torwyn smiled—small, unreadable.

Tholme shrugged, forcing an easy tone. “If you want me to start writing you reports, just say the word. I’ll make sure to include all the salacious details.”

Torwyn chuckled, shaking his head like Tholme had just said something mildly amusing. Then, without breaking eye contact, he took a slow step forward.

Tholme didn’t move.

Drallig did.

Not much. Just a shift, a weight redistribution, subtle but unmistakable.

Of course, Torwyn noticed.

His gaze flicked to Drallig for the briefest second—just long enough to acknowledge his presence—before dismissing him entirely.

Then his attention was back on Tholme. “I simply like to stay informed. Especially when certain… distractions arise.”

 “You’re calling Marah a distraction now?” Drallig scoffed.

Torwyn didn’t look at him. “Did I say that?”

“You don’t have to.”

Torwyn let out a quiet hum, tapping two fingers absently against his forearm, his voice still light, still too easy. “Just a passing thought. After all, if Tholme is slipping away so often, it must be for something important.”

Tholme clenched his jaw.

Torwyn’s gaze sharpened. Just slightly. “If she’s as loud in bed as she is when she argues, I almost understand the appeal.”

And that was when Tholme almost lost his damn mind.

“Well.” Torwyn straightened, brushing non-existent dust from his sleeve. “Shall we take this back to the training hall?”

Drallig let out a sharp exhale, shaking his head with mock exasperation. “Oh, of course. Wouldn’t want to deprive you of your favourite pastime.”

And, no, he didn’t even try to hide the bite in his voice.

Torwyn, as always, remained unbothered. If anything, the comment amused him. His smile didn’t waver. “Suffering builds character.”

Drallig scoffed. “Yeah? And what does your suffering look like, Master?”

Torwyn’s expression barely flickered. But for a split second, something in his gaze shifted—something colder, something sharper.

Tholme felt the tension coil between them like a live wire.

Then—just as quickly as it came—Torwyn’s easy demeanour slid back into place. He tilted his head slightly, eyes gleaming. “You wouldn’t survive it.”

Chapter Text

Tholme woke up feeling like he’d been hit by a speeder. A particularly vindictive one.

Everything hurt. His ribs ached like they’d been used as a training dummy, his muscles protested at the mere thought of movement, and his knuckles—kriff, his knuckles—felt raw and bruised.

For a moment, he just lay there, staring at the ceiling of his quarters waiting for his body to feel like his own again.

Then he noticed the silence, which told him one thing: Drallig was gone.

That never happened.

Tholme frowned, blinking blearily as he pushed himself up, his body protesting the movement. He glanced toward Drallig’s bunk—neatly made, empty, cold. He hadn’t just left—he’d been gone for a while.

That was a bad sign.

Tholme groaned, dragging a hand down his face before reaching for his comm. His fingers were stiff, sluggish, but the second the screen flickered to life, his messages lit up.

One from Marah.

You coming today, or did you get yourself killed overnight?

Tholme exhaled sharply, smirking despite himself. He had forgotten about that. He quickly typed back a response.

Yeah, I’ll be there. Might have a tail though. Drallig’s not happy.

The reply came within seconds.

Oh, fantastic. I’ll put on the performance of a lifetime. Bring snacks.

Tholme snickered, shaking his head before tossing the comm onto the mattress. Then, bracing himself, he pushed to his feet.

And it was the second he stepped into the mess hall that he knew something was wrong.

Tholme approached a table slowly, easing himself into the seat across from Drallig. He didn’t acknowledge him immediately, he just kept eating, his posture too stiff, too controlled.

He shoved in a mouthful of bread, titling his head at the mass of blonde fury in front of him. "If you’re going to sit there and glare at your food like that, at least let me in on the drama."

Drallig finally looked at him, blue eyes stupidly unimpressed. “Oh? Like you did me?”

Tholme sighed, grabbing a piece of fruit from the tray and inspecting it before taking a bite. "You’re brooding. That’s my thing. Pick another emotion."

"Great, then brood harder and eat your damn fruit, how about that?" Drallig exhaled through his nose, pushing his food around with his fork. “Besides, there isn’t anything to talk about.”

Which meant there was everything to talk about, and Tholme didn’t have the energy—or the bravery—to force the issue right now.

Tholme could only nod, letting it go for now. He shifted slightly in his seat, but the movement sent a sharp ache through his side. He gritted his teeth, but it wasn’t enough.

Drallig exhaled sharply, shoving his tray forward with a little too much force. “I’m getting more caf,” he muttered, already standing.

Tholme arched a brow. “You hate caf.”

Drallig didn’t reply, just grabbed his cup and walked off, his shoulders stiff, his entire presence radiating something just restrained enough to not be called anger.

As he passed, T’ra lifted her gaze. She didn’t stop him. Didn’t call him out. Just looked.

But something in that look landed.

Drallig didn’t slow, didn’t acknowledge it, but Tholme caught the way his jaw ticked, the way his grip on the cup flexed just slightly before he kept moving.

And then, just as smoothly, T’ra slid into the seat beside him. For a moment, she didn’t speak. Just studied him, gaze flickering over his posture, the way his fingers twitched against the table, the way his breathing purposely slowed.

Then, finally, she came in with the killing blow. “You’re limping.”

“It’s a fashion statement,” he deadpanned.

T’ra didn’t look amused. She reached out, gently brushing his wrist—but even that faint touch sent a searing pain racing up his nerves, forcing him to hiss sharply, yanking away before he could stop himself. T’ra stilled, eyes narrowing dangerously.

She grabbed his hand, flipping it over before he could stop her. The burn stood out angrily against his skin, raw and red where the bacta hadn’t fully settled in.

Her gaze flickered over his hand, missing nothing. When she spoke again, her voice was different—low, edged with something heavier.

“Tholme.”

He inhaled sharply through his nose, already bracing. “It’s fine.”

She didn’t look like she believed him. Not even a little. Her green eyes flickered over his face, assessing, searching, as if she could drag the truth out of him by sheer force of will alone. Then—slowly—she exhaled through her nose, her grip loosening with a kind of restraint that made it clear she was choosing to let him go, not because she believed him, but because pressing further would get her nowhere.

“If you…” She trailed off, shook her head, then tried again, voice softer now. “If you need something, anything, later. You know where to find me.”

Then, quieter—more like an afterthought, more like she was hoping he wouldn’t notice how much she meant it, she added, “Even if it’s nothing. Even if it is everything. I’m all yours.”

He nodded, flexing his fingers, already half-distracted. “I’ll stop by your quarters when I have a chance. I’m helping Marah pack tonight.”

And just like that, the shift was so subtle he almost missed it.

T’ra blinked. Something flickered in her expression—something fleeting, something careful—but before he could place it, it was gone.

She nodded, lips parting like she was about to say something else, but then she just pressed them together instead. “Right.” Then, too light, too casual, “I’m sure she’ll appreciate the help.”

Tholme hummed, already glancing at his tray like the conversation was over. “Yeah, well, someone had to keep the Tooka out of trouble.”

There was a pause as T’ra slowly tilted her head. “And after that? We could, maybe…?”

Tholme, ever the professional idiot, just shrugged. “It depends how long it takes. I’d invite you, but Drallig might get suspicious.”

T’ra exhaled through her nose, barely perceptible, and if he’d been paying attention, he might’ve noticed the way her fingers curled slightly against the table.

But he didn’t.

Because Tholme could flirt with anyone. Could turn anything into a joke, a game, a meaningless back-and-forth.

Except with her.

Because when it was her, the signals went right over his kriffing head.

T’ra arched a brow, exhaling like she was witnessing a tragedy. But instead of pointing it out, instead of saving him from his own idiocy, she just gave a slow, considering nod.

“Right,” she murmured, voice too smooth, too patient. Then, she rose from her seat, smoothing out the folds of her robes.

“Enjoy your packing, I suppose,” she said, and if Tholme had even a single working brain cell left, he might’ve noticed the unmistakable edge of pity in her voice.

But he didn’t.

Because of course he didn’t.

So instead, he just blinked up at her, vaguely confused, as she turned on her heel and walked away—like she’d just watched someone walk past an open door and smash straight into the wall instead.

And then she was gone.

Tholme exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair. His ribs still ached, his knuckles still throbbed, and his mind was running on fumes, but at least he had a distraction now. Marah’s packing. Drallig’s brooding. Something to focus on. Something easy.

Then, across the mess hall, a door slid open.

Drallig returned, a fresh cup of caf in hand, but his attention wasn’t on Tholme. Not immediately. No—his gaze snapped straight to T’ra, who was still standing by her seat, arms folded, lips pressed into a thin, unimpressed line.

Drallig froze.

Then, slowly, he turned back to Tholme, expression caught somewhere between mild concern and absolute offense.

“What the kriff did you do?” Drallig gestured vaguely, his free hand circling in the air. “Why does T’ra look like she’s deciding whether to kill you or kiss you?”

He paused.

“And why do I think she already knows which one she’s choosing?”

Tholme frowned, looking over his shoulder at T’ra—who, now that he was actually paying attention, did look suspiciously exasperated. But before he could even begin to unravel what he’d done this time, she caught his eye and turned away, vanishing into the corridor.

Tholme turned back to Drallig. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Drallig’s face was a whole-ass essay. The disbelief. The judgment. The deep, weary exhale of a man who has had to manage a dumb bastard for far too long.

Then— a ping.

Tholme blinked as he looked down. His datapad lit up with a bright, cheery notification.

Today’s events: Drallig Is Getting Laid

He stared at it like it. Then slowly—very slowly—looked up.

Drallig didn’t even flinch, because why would he. “I warned you I changed the notification settings.”

Tholme dragged a hand down his face. “Really?”

“What?” Drallig shrugged, the picture of false innocence. “In case you need to find me.”

“You hacked my calendar.”

“I prefer to think of it as shared emotional scheduling.” Drallig sipped his caf, unbothered. “It’s a recurring event.”

“That doesn’t make it better.”

Drallig leaned back in his chair like he had all the time in the galaxy. “Look, communication is important in any relationship. I'm just being considerate.”

Tholme stared at him, expression flat. “That’s not responsible. That’s a cry for help.”

Drallig smiled faintly, something sharp flickering behind it. “You’re right. I should keep it all inside until it explodes in a catastrophic display of emotional dysfunction and trauma sex.” He tilted his head, almost thoughtful. “But that position’s taken, isn’t it?”

Tholme didn’t move. Didn’t blink. But something in his jaw clenched, just for a second.

Drallig’s smile didn’t fade. “So. Guess I’ll stick with calendar abuse.”

There was a pause—sharp. Tense. And then Tholme muttered, “You’re not even subtle anymore.”

Drallig didn’t blink. “Of course not. It’s not every day I get to be the one doing better.”

Tholme arched a brow. “You always think you’re doing better.”

“I have to,” he fired back. “Otherwise I’m just the guy people forget about when you walk in.”

All Tholme could do was poke at his food with his fork. Because this felt personal.

Still, Drallig leaned back, voice lower now, like it had weight he didn’t want to admit to. “But hey, let’s recap: I sleep through the night. My footwork’s tight enough to teach with, and someone actually wants to see me naked on purpose. Meanwhile, you’ve got burns, bruises, and a woman who keeps waiting for you to grow up.”

Tholme just stared at him. Then—soft, casual, far too calm, “Are you practicing that speech in the mirror now Cin, or is that just your pillow talk?”

“I’ve spent years watching you fall out of ships and still stick the landing. I think I’m finally seeing where the cracks start.”

Tholme’s brow furrowed. He blinked once, slowly—like he wasn’t sure if he’d just misheard him or if Drallig had finally lost his mind. “…What the hell has gotten into you?”

“What’s gotten into me?” Drallig tilted his head, mock-thoughtful. “I don’t know. Maybe being the only one at this table who’s not touch-starved and emotionally constipated.”

Tholme rolled his eyes. “You’re projecting again. And if you don’t shut up, I’m putting you on my calendar as a recurring emergency.”

Drallig sipped his caf, slow and satisfied. “Oh, don’t bother,” he said smoothly. “I’ve already got a standing appointment.”

He let that hang for a second—just long enough to be smug. Then added with a grin,
“Ten minutes from now, in fact. Might even be late. Can’t rush perfection.”

Tholme opened his mouth. Closed it. For half a second, he looked like he might say something that wasn’t a joke.

But the moment passed. He dragged a hand through his hair instead. “You know what? Good for you. Go forth. Get fucked. Save the galaxy.”

Drallig stood, adjusted his cuffs like the world owed him something, and he mumbled over his shoulder, “I will.”

And Tholme? He just exhaled, dragging a hand down his face. His appetite was long gone.

**

The knock on Eeth’s door was quiet, almost hesitant, and Tholme wasn’t exactly surprised when he didn’t get an answer.

He exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders before leaning back against the doorframe. The corridor was empty, the early morning silence pressing in on all sides. He could walk away. He knew he probably should.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he slid down until he was sitting on the floor, arms resting on his bent knees, head tilted back against the door. He didn’t speak right away, just let the quiet stretch, let the weight of the moment settle in his chest.

Finally, he sighed, tipping his head back. “Yeah. If I were you, I’d be pissed at me too.”

Nothing.

Tholme huffed, running a hand through his hair. "But I’m hoping you’ll talk to me anyway."

He drummed his fingers against his knee, drawing them into his chest. "You know, I’m not great at talking about things that actually matter. Bantering? Easy. Bullshitting? My specialty.” He exhaled sharply. “But this is the part I screw up every time."

The silence stretched—louder than it should have been, filling the narrow corridor until it felt like a wall between them. Tholme tapped his fingers—just to hear something. Just to break the silence.

"The Force is supposed to be some endless, forgiving thing, right? A path you can always walk back to. That’s what they tell us. But let’s be real—some of us take a few wrong turns and never find the road again."

Still nothing. But he could feel it—Eeth listening. Watching. Turning over every word in his head, every breath Tholme took, every pause that lasted too long. Picking apart the spaces between sentences, looking for the cracks.

His fingers curled into a loose fist against his knee. “I’m not proud of it, and I wish I could tell you that was the first time. That I won’t do it again. But I won’t lie to you.” He paused. “Because you—you’re better than this. Be better than this."

There was a beat. Long enough for doubt to creep in, for Tholme to wonder if this was going to be a one-sided conversation. Then—finally—a voice from the other side of the door. Quiet. Frustrated.

"Why?"

Not ‘What the kriff were you thinking?’ Not ‘Are you out of your mind?’

Just why.

Tholme closed his eyes. That was the worst question he could have asked.

Because I don’t know how to stop.

Because it’s easier.

The answers curled in his throat, heavy and sharp, but he didn’t say them. Instead, he dragged a hand down his face, exhaling slow, forcing himself to find something—anything—that sounded like an answer and not just him daring to feel sorry for himself.

So he swallowed hard. "I don't know, Koth."

And Force, he hated how much that felt like the truth.

Tholme let out a rough exhale, dragging a hand down his face. “I don’t have a plan for this,” he muttered, voice low, like maybe saying it quieter would make it less true. “Drallig’s pissed, you’re pissed, apparently T’ra is pissed, everything’s—” His hand gestured vaguely, like the mess was too big to fit into words. “I’m just... handling it.”

He paused. Then, dryly added, "Poorly, apparently."

His voice felt raw, frayed at the edges like something overused, like the exhaustion had finally eroded all the smoothness out of it.

Tholme let out a sharp exhale, fingers curling tight at the roots of his hair. “I meditate, nothing. I train until my body gives out, still nothing. I smoke, I drink, I throw myself into things I shouldn’t—” He scoffed, shaking his head. “At this point, I’m just trying shit for the novelty.”

His jaw tightened. “I keep thinking if I just push hard enough, something will click—but it never does. It’s like trying to fix a broken wire by setting the whole console on fire.” He let out a dry, humourless chuckle. “Spoiler: still doesn’t work.”

His closed his eyes. This was stupid. He didn’t do this. Didn’t sit around baring his soul like some tragic bastard in a bad holodrama. But here he was, talking anyway, and kriff, wasn’t that just pathetic?

He should shut up. Should brush it off, make a joke, something. But the words kept slipping, fraying at the edges before he could pull them back.

“I don’t sleep, Koth,” he muttered, voice flat, like it was just another fact of life. “And when I do? It’s worse. That’s the problem with getting comfortable. You start thinking you can afford to.”

His throat was tight. His breath uneven.

 “You’re smart. Don’t waste it.” His fingers tapped against his knee, restless. “You’ve still got a shot at turning out better than the rest of us. Because I don’t think I’m coming back from this.”

A shift of fabric. A creak of movement.

Eeth didn’t open the door.

But his voice slipped through the thin space between them, quiet. Careful. “The bruises are because of him, aren’t they? Master Torwyn?”

Tholme stilled.

The words landed like a punch—sharp, direct, unavoidable. A dozen responses tangled together in his throat. A lie. An excuse. A laugh to brush it off. But none of them made it out.

Because Eeth wouldn’t have asked if he didn’t already know.

Tholme exhaled, tipping his head back against the door. He stared at the ceiling like it might have an answer. Like it might make this easier.

“Yeah.” His voice came quiet. “Yeah. It’s him.”

Eeth didn’t respond. But Tholme could feel him there, the silence pressing heavier than before.

“Keep this to yourself.” His voice was quiet. Steady. Not a request. Not a plea. Just fact.

Then, before the moment could settle, before either of them could linger on it for too long, he exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. A shift. A deflection. Something to move on to.

“I’m helping Marah move this afternoon,” he muttered. “Drallig and I are boxing up her things. Or I am. Drallig will probably just offer criticisms, you know what he’s like.”

His voice was softer now, but there was something sharper beneath it. “She’s a good friend, you know. Not that you’d believe me, given the shit you threw at her last time.”

The silence continued. But Eeth was listening. He knew it.

“She didn’t drag me down, Koth. She picked me up. And then stayed.” A dry chuckle slipped past his lips, humourless. “Picked up the pieces, really.”

Eeth was quiet for a moment, like he was weighing his words, turning them over before letting them go. Then, softly—tentatively, but genuinely—he murmured, “…I’m glad she was there.” Then, quieter still, like he almost didn’t want to ask, “…Was anyone else?”

Tholme swallowed, nodding to himself. “If by there, you mean waiting around to tell me I’m a kriffing idiot the second I stop moving, then yeah. A few people. I’m lucky to have that.”

 Then, a beat later, the door cracked open.

Eeth stood there, arms crossed, brow furrowed. He looked up at Tholme with something between disappointment and concern, but at least he was looking at him. “You’re a kriffing idiot, Tholme.”

Tholme let out a slow breath, shaking his head with a tired smirk. “Yeah, well. Wouldn’t be me if I wasn’t.”

Tholme looked at him then. Really looked. He saw the way the kid’s fingers clenched against his sleeves, the way his jaw was set just a little too tight, the way his eyes held something that looked too damn much like worry.

Then, against all odds, Eeth turned toward his bed, gesturing vaguely at a small cloth-wrapped bundle resting on the mattress. “I, uh—snuck some cakes in from the canteen.” He glanced up at Tholme, then quickly looked away, rubbing at his arm. “I don’t mind sharing.”

Tholme hesitated in the doorway, flicking a glance past Eeth and into the small, cramped quarters. It was a standard Padawan dorm—two other bunks, neatly made, the space barely big enough for three half-grown Jedi to live in without wanting to kill each other. But Eeth’s corner stood out, marked by the quiet, careful touches of a kid still figuring out how to carve out a space of his own.

A well-worn practice saber leaned against the wall, just within reach of his bed. A folded blanket—probably snuck in from the communal laundry—rested at the foot of his mattress, the kind of soft, heavy fabric the Temple definitely didn’t issue. And on the small shelf above his bunk, tucked between datapads and ration bars, sat a tiny, meticulously arranged stack of carved wooden pieces. Chess. Or something close to it.

Something about it made Tholme’s chest tighten.

He exhaled softly, dragging a hand through his hair before stepping inside. "Alright. If you went through all the trouble of smuggling, I’d hate for it to go to waste.”

Eeth rolled his eyes, but the corners of his lips twitched—just slightly.

Then Koth settled onto his bed, unwrapping a bundle with careful fingers, and Tholme dropped onto the floor beside him, leaning back against the frame.

From this angle, he could see under the bunk—where all the carefully kept order of Eeth’s little corner of the room fell apart. A pair of scuffed boots, still caked with dried mud, were shoved haphazardly beneath the frame, one tipped onto its side. A few rogue socks—one definitely missing its match—were half-stuffed into the gap between his storage trunk and the wall, like he’d made an attempt at cleaning and then given up halfway through. And tucked right up against the far leg of the bed, nearly hidden under the folds of a blanket, was a small stack of flimsi-bound kids cartoon magazines, edges curling from being read too many times.

Tholme snorted, nudging the closest sock with the toe of his boot. “You do realise Force-sensitivity doesn’t get you out of laundry duty, right?”

Eeth didn’t even blink, just kicked a stray boot further under the bed with the heel of his foot, like that somehow made the mess disappear. Tholme huffed, shaking his head, but didn’t bother pressing the point.

Sure, the mess of the past few weeks still lingered, tangled somewhere beneath the surface, but here, it would wait. It could be kicked up the bed just like Eeth’s stinky boot.

For now, it was enough.

Chapter Text

Tholme stepped inside Marah’s apartment, letting the door slide shut behind him. The place was in chaos—half-packed bags, discarded clothes, and a general air of someone who had started packing with good intentions but got distracted along the way. Marah was mid-motion, tossing a pair of boots into her travel case with very little care for organisation, and outside, Drallig was still standing there, because of course he was.

Tholme didn’t have to turn to know he was posted up by the window like some self-righteous gargoyle, arms crossed, watching with the kind of unwavering scrutiny that could make a lesser man confess to crimes he hadn’t committed.

“Is he coming in?” Marah flicked a glance toward the window.

“There may be some trouble in paradise.” Tholme exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “I told him we were hooking up one last time so he’d leave me alone.”

Marah blinked, then snorted. “So, do I need to put on a performance, or did you actually come to help me pack?”

Tholme perched himself on the edge of the table. “Helping implies effort. I’m here for the moral support.”

Marah tossed another shirt into her bag, unimpressed. “Right. And what does ‘moral support’ look like, exactly?”

Tholme gestured vaguely. “Standing here. Occasionally passing judgment.”

Marah snorted, barely looking up. "Speaking of things you’re bad at, then—how’s your real girlfriend?”

Tholme, mid-reach for a snack, hesitated—hand hovering, brow furrowing, like Marah had just asked him to solve a complex riddle instead of a very simple question. “Who?”

He could feel the look before he saw it, the kind that usually meant he was about to hear something he didn’t like. “Tholme.”

 “If this is about T’ra—”

“Oh, it’s about T’ra.” She smirked, shaking her head. “And you just folded so fast I thought you were a senate chair.”

“Marah—”

 “I’m awaiting the update where you finally grew some balls and told her how you feel.”

 “Yeah? Keep waiting.” Tholme scoffed.

Marah snorted, shaking her head as she grabbed a handful of miscellaneous items from the counter and tossed them into her half-packed bag. “Unbelievable,” she muttered, stepping around Tholme.

Then, from the corner of the room, a low, familiar chittering sound broke the air.

Tholme barely had time to react before a small, vaguely menacing blur of fur launched itself from the back of the couch—landing squarely on his lap.

He grunted, nearly spilling his drink. “Gremlin—”

The tooka let out a self-satisfied chirp and immediately began kneading at Tholme’s thigh, sharp claws pressing through fabric in a way that suggested he would not be moving any time soon.

Tholme exhaled, resigned, and scratched the tooka lightly behind the ears. “Yeah, yeah. I love you too.”

Gremlin let out an obnoxiously pleased purr, settling in even further, as if he had just won some kind of battle, and Marah, who had paused mid-fold, slowly turned her head, eyes gleaming.

“You can say it to him,” she said, utterly scandalised. “But not to T’ra?”

Tholme clicked his tongue. “Mm. I think T’ra would be less cute if she shredded my sheets and demanded food at ungodly hours.”

“No, no.” She tossed a shirt into her bag with unnecessary force. “I just think it’s really interesting how my feral baby gets verbal confirmation of your affection, but the woman you are clearly in love with gets the emotional depth of a wet towel.”

Tholme scoffed, leaning back against the counter. “Marah, if I start telling T’ra she’s a ‘good boy’ and scratching behind her ears, we’re going to have bigger problems.”

“Throw her a good girl and you might be onto something.”

“Would you like me to leave?” he grumbled back.

Marah didn’t even look up. Instead, she mumbled, sharp as a whip, “Why? Are you finally planning on spending time with her?”

“Yeah,” Tholme said, utterly nonchalant. “I said I’d see her after we were done.”

Marah froze mid-fold. Very slowly, she turned, clutching a pair of socks like they were evidence. “I’m sorry—then why are you still here?”

Tholme, still casual, still somehow operating on half a functioning neuron, shrugged. “It’s fine. She said if I needed anything, I could find her.”

Marah dropped the socks. “She offered. You turned it down. For packing.”

“It’s not like that.”

“Tholme,” she growled, spinning fully to face him now. “Listen to me—she was considering kriffing you.”

“That’s not—”

“She said anything. You said later. And then you came here to organise my shoe rotation instead of mounting the goddess who offered herself to you like a gift-wrapped dream.” She shook her head like a particularly disappointed sibling. “What is wrong with you?”

Tholme’s voice was quiet. “Come on, it isn’t like that. She was offering to talk. Don’t make it weird.”

Marah stared. And stared. Like she was trying to physically manifest a boot to throw. Her voice dropped low—too calm. The kind of calm that came right before someone flipped a table.

“Well, congratulations. You can talk to her. About how you turned down sex with a woman who radiates divine wrath and moss-scented lust. And then maybe she’ll do you the mercy of never speaking to you again.”

Tholme blinked. “Okay—”

“No, don’t ‘okay’ me.” Marah scoffed. “You would’ve died happy, Tholme. In a pot. Watered daily. And at this point, if you don’t go after her, I will.”

He held up a hand, vaguely helpless. “Even if she was offering—hypothetically—I have blistered knuckles and a pulled rib. I’m not exactly in prime… mounting condition.”

Marah gasped. “Oh no, not your knuckles. How could you possibly engage in holy bark-based euphoria with a bruise. Tragic.”

Tholme exhaled slowly, the words slipping out before he could stop them. “Please. It’s been so long I’d last sixty seconds and then write her poetry about it for the rest of my life.” Tholme grimaced. “I don’t think she deserves that.”

Marah rolled her eyes, lips parting like she was about to lay into Tholme—before something outside the window made her pause.

Drallig. Still watching. Still brooding. Still assuming things about her love life that were absolutely not his business.

She exhaled sharply, crossing her arms, her fingers drumming against her sleeve, and then she moved.

Not hesitantly, not with some half-baked excuse, but with intention—fingers curling into Tholme’s collar, tugging him just close enough. Not forceful. Not rushed. Just... exactly what was necessary to make a point.

To who? Well. Take a guess.

And Gremlin, the true victim in all of this, let out a sharp, offended chitter before fleeing for his life, vanishing under the couch with a flick of his tail.

Tholme, meanwhile, just stared at her, deadpan. “You know, most people would just close the curtains if they want someone to look away.”

“Yeah, but just picture his face right now. I bet he’s absolutely disgusted.” Marah leaned in slightly, voice dropping. “So if you’re going to do this and make him buy your excuse, at least touch me like you mean it.”

Tholme exhaled sharply, amusement creeping into his voice as he rested his hands on her waist—hesitantly, like he was still deciding if he was actually doing it.

“This is so weird,” he muttered—but he didn’t let go. Not yet. “If you wanted an excuse to put your hands on me, you could’ve just asked."

Marah smirked back. “I’m a vindictive bitch, Tholme. Either you’re in the game, or you’re out.”

Tholme sighed dramatically, rolling his eyes as he slid off the counter, the motion slow, deliberate. His boots hit the floor with an exaggerated thud.

Marah smirked up at him, tilting her head, voice dripping with mock sweetness. “What, you need a running start?”

Tholme exhaled sharply. “Just making sure Drallig is watching.”

Marah hummed, glancing toward the window. “Oh, he’s watching.”

Tholme didn’t check. He didn’t need to. He could feel it—the weight of Drallig’s stare, the simmering frustration undoubtedly radiating from the other side of the glass.

Without hesitation, his hands slid upwards, catching Marah at the waist. She barely had time to react before he hoisted her up in one smooth motion, gripping her like she weighed nothing.

Marah let out a short laugh, looping her legs around his waist instinctively. “If you drop me, I’m taking you down.”

“Come on. Have some faith.”

Then, with a sigh and the grace of a slightly annoyed jungle cat, he dropped her onto the bed.

Marah let out a sharp, surprised laugh as she bounced slightly, her hair fanning out against the sheets. “Oh great. Now apply that enthusiasm to my luggage.”

Tholme planted a knee on the mattress beside her, leaning down slightly, smirk never fading. From the window, it would have looked like he was about to kiss her.

From where Marah was laying, it was a whole other thing.

“Heavy lifting costs extra,” he muttered.

She slid a hand up his chest. “Well, while we’re fake-flirting, put ‘eat my leftovers’ on the to-do list,” she mumbled. “Nothing says fake foreplay like pressed fruit and grains.”

Tholme snorted, but before he could respond, his gaze flickered toward the window—just for a second.

Drallig was still there, watching, and, by the look of it, still not happy.

Tholme exhaled, burying his face into her hair as he repositioned himself on all fours. The bed creaked, rattling the shelves.

“Alright, first of all—whoever broke this bed kudos to them. Second, you’re taking down that death trap of a spice rack before you go, because when the next tenant gets a face full of rogue coriander, I’m not taking the blame.”

Marah smirked but didn’t argue.

“And third—” Tholme waved a vague hand toward the window. “Are we closing the curtains, or are we both just accepting that neither of us is committed enough to take it any further?”

Marah rolled her eyes but didn’t hesitate—her fingers curled around the front of his tunic, yanking him down with a swift, calculated pull.

Tholme barely had time to brace himself before he landed beside her, half-sprawled against the mattress. His smirk faltered for a brief moment as he adjusted, propping himself up on one elbow.

“Happier now?” he muttered, tilting his head toward her.

“Maybe I should wave at him. Let him know we’re thinking of him,” she purred, and before Tholme could react—before he could fully process her tone—Marah grabbed the duvet and yanked it over both of them, cocooning them in a ridiculous, makeshift tent of dramatic implication.

Tholme blinked. Hard.

“…Right, so—” He gestured vaguely at the fabric draped over their heads. “Subtle.”

Marah, already reclining comfortably, smirked. “Well, you did say he was still watching. I figured I’d do him the favour of not vomiting in the planter.”

With a laugh, they lay there in silence for a moment. But after a beat, Marah huffed, tilting her head toward him. “How long do we have before he gets suspicious?”

Tholme smirked, stretching his arms behind his head like he had all the time in the galaxy. “A while. He’s stubborn. He isn’t by the window anymore; I can sense him moving down the stairs.”

“Good. So we won. Do you think he’ll leave for good? Because I’m getting comfortable.”

“Hopefully he’ll lurk long enough for me to blow your mind, and you to dramatically weep over our tragic, forbidden love, at least.”

Marah groaned, draping a hand over her face. “Stars, if I have to act heartbroken, you owe me dinner.”

Tholme snorted. “Please. You’re thriving.”

Marah opened her mouth to retort—then cursed. “Shit—I forgot the snacks.”

Tholme didn’t even hesitate. He shuffled over her, lifted a corner of the blanket and poking out his hand, barely looking as he reached out with the Force—one smooth, lazy motion—and the bag of snacks floated from across the room, landing softly on the mattress beside them.

Marah blinked. “That was hot.”

Tholme popped open the bag and grinned. “I get that a lot.”

Marah rolled her eyes but took the snacks anyway, chewing idly as she exhaled. “You know, I haven’t been back to Coruscant in a while.”

“Yeah?” Tholme glanced at her. “Why now?”

“I don’t know.” She hesitated. Just a flicker of something before she shrugged. “I can only hide here for so long.”

Tholme frowned. "Hide? What do you mean?"

Marah’s fingers tightened slightly around the snack bag, their combined heat filling the space with warmth. Then, quieter, she whispered, “I just thought I was doing well.”

Tholme sat up slightly, head now poking over the duvet. “What?”

She hesitated again.

And then, the creeping realisation flooded in.

She thought she was off the grid. She thought she had bought herself time.

But her mother found her—because someone tipped them off.

Tholme’s stomach twisted. His mouth went dry. "Who else knew where you were?"

Marah didn’t answer right away.

And that silence? It was too long.

Tholme exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his hair. "Marah. Who else?"

Marah shook her head, half to herself. “No one should’ve known. I was careful. I covered my tracks. You are literally my only friend Tholme.”

But someone had found her. Someone had made sure she was found.

And then—because the universe was cruel—one name came to mind.

Torwyn.

The hairs on the back of Tholme’s neck stood on end. His entire body went cold.

Because if—and it was a very big if—Torwyn had a hand in this, it meant Marah wasn’t the only one being watched.

It meant Marah wasn’t the only one in danger.

“I guess your mother has more eyes than you thought,” he muttered, already shifting, already building the mask back over his face.

Marah blinked. “…Yeah,” but she didn’t sound convinced.

And the worst part? Neither did he.

**

The holo flickered out.

Tholme’s eyes cracked open, limbs heavy with sleep.

Shit.

He was still on Marah’s bed.

For a second, his brain lagged, struggling to piece things together. The apartment was dark, the only light coming from the city glow bleeding through the window. The chrono on the table blinked 02:47 AM.

Double shit.

Tholme sat up slowly, his body protesting the movement. Marah was still asleep, curled up on the other side of the bed, one arm tucked under her head.

They hadn’t meant to fall asleep. And worse—Drallig.

Tholme’s stomach dropped.

He pushed himself up, rubbing a hand over his face as he nudged Marah awake. Maybe Drallig had left. Maybe he’d finally realised Tholme wasn’t coming out and had better things to do than sit in an alley like some bitter ex-boyfriend.

But when he stepped outside—Drallig was still there.

Sitting against the low wall, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Still waiting.

The streetlamps cast sharp shadows against his face, highlighting the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers curled against his arms like he was barely holding something in.

Tholme’s stomach twisted.

He hadn’t expected this. Drallig was always quick to anger, quick to tease, quick to demand answers—but this? The silence? The waiting?

Drallig didn’t move as Tholme approached. Didn’t say anything at first. Then he muttered, “So.” His voice was steady. Dangerously steady. “You spent the night with her too?”

Tholme sighed, shaking his head. “Not—”

Drallig cut him off with a sharp wave of his hand. “Don’t. I saw what I needed to see.”

The way he said it—like he had already decided the truth—made something ugly twist in Tholme’s gut.

“You’re making this a habit, Tholme. I don’t care if she’s leaving—you’re playing with things you shouldn’t.”

“It’s Marah. We’re friends. That’s all it is.”

"She’s not the one you want. We both know that. So what the hell are you doing, Tholme?"

Tholme paused, his stomach twisting, some bitter rising in his throat. "At least she’s not looking at me like I’m disappointing her every time I open my mouth."

“Yeah? Well at least T’ra has expectations,” Drallig huffed. “Marah’s just happy to have a warm body in the room."

Anger shot through Tholme’s body like lightning. “Maybe if you spent less time trying to control me, you’d realise neither of them needs your fucking approval.”

“Fine. Run to Marah. Run to T’ra. Run to whoever the kriff you want. Just don’t pretend like you don’t know exactly why you keep ending up back here.”

Tholme exhaled sharply, shaking his head, his voice quieter now but no less tense. “Yeah? And why is that, Drallig? Enlighten me?”

"Because you and her?” He paused, his breathing heavy. “You’re the same. You break things, and you don’t even notice until it’s too late."

That hurt. Tholme inhaled slowly. Then, quiet—too quiet—he said, “You’re worse than Torwyn.”

He hadn’t meant to say it. Not like that. But the damage was already done.

Drallig hesitated. It wasn’t much—just a flicker of stillness, a half-second where his body refused to move, like his brain had finally caught up to the words that had just left his best friend’s mouth.

You’re worse than Torwyn.

Kriff.

Tholme wasn’t looking at him anymore. He wasn’t snapping back, wasn’t throwing something sharp and cutting in return. He wasn’t even slowing down.

He was just… leaving. And Drallig moved before he could think better of it.

His boots hit the floor hard as he shoved forward, catching up to Tholme in a few strides, reaching out without thinking—too firm, too desperate.

He grabbed his arm. “Hey. Wait. I didn’t mean—”

Tholme wrenched his arm free. He didn’t stop walking. He didn’t even look at him. “Drallig, not now.”

Drallig stepped in front of him.

Not aggressive, not trying to start anything—just in his way. Not letting him go.

Tholme exhaled sharply through his nose, jaw tightening. He could have shoved past him. He could have walked away anyway. But something about the way Drallig was standing there—rigid, tense, almost like he was bracing for impact—made him stop.

For a second.

Drallig ran a hand through his hair. When he spoke, his voice was quieter now—gritted, like he hated that he had to say it.

“I’m worried about you, okay? I am really fucking worried.”

Tholme stilled, not completely, and not in an obvious way, but enough to show a shift in his posture, just a small flicker of hesitation.

Of course, Drallig caught it.

Tholme inhaled slowly, then muttered, “Oh, now you’re worried?”

“I didn’t mean—”

Tholme tilted his head. “Didn’t mean what?”

Drallig exhaled, shaking his head. “Kriff, Tholme, I—”

"I don’t need your guilt. I need you to get out of my way."

Drallig exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face like he was trying to physically wipe away whatever the hell just happened. For once, he didn’t fire back. Didn’t push.

Instead, he stepped aside, just enough. Just barely. Not letting him go—but letting him leave.

Then his voice, when it came, was quieter than ever. “I got my orders this morning.”

Tholme stopped walking.

“I’m being assigned back to Coruscant,” Drallig continued, voice even, unreadable. “Lightsaber instruction.”

That hit. Tholme knew what that meant. Knew exactly what that meant.

Drallig had wanted this since they were younglings. Since the first time he’d picked up a training saber and realised that this—this was his future. This was where he excelled.

He was getting everything he had ever wanted. And he’d waited until now to say something?

Tholme’s throat felt tight. He swallowed against it, forced his voice to stay even despite being lobbied with a million emotions he couldn’t even name. “When?”

Drallig’s lips parted, then he swallowed. “The end of the month.”

It was too sharp, too tight. Like his lungs had suddenly forgotten how to take in enough air. Like he’d taken a punch to the ribs from something he hadn’t seen coming. He swallowed against it, forcing his breathing even. Exhaled through his nose. Focused on something, anything, just past Drallig’s shoulder.

His ribs still ached. His hands still burned. But none of it hurt like this.

A few weeks.

That was it. That was all the time they had left. And then Drallig would be gone.

Drallig, who had always been there. Always at his side, always in his space, always pushing him, challenging him, making himself impossible to ignore.

The last of his constants.

And now? Gone.

Tholme’s fingers flexed at his sides, a slow, deliberate inhale passing through his nose. He didn’t say anything. Couldn’t.

Drallig scoffed, shaking his head. “That’s it? No reaction? Nothing?”

Tholme forced a smirk, although it took more effort than he had. “What do you want me to do? Cry?”

Drallig tilted his head, voice quieter. “You don’t have to cry, Tholme. Just say something.”

Tholme swallowed hard, his throat burning like he’d swallowed glass. His fingers curled into fists at his sides, nails pressing into his palms. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely there—thin, raw, stripped of everything he usually used to keep himself together.

“I don’t want you to go.”

It wasn’t an argument. It wasn’t defiant or sarcastic. It wasn’t anything except the simple, awful truth.

And Drallig went still.

For the first time in their entire miserable, tangled-up friendship, Tholme wasn’t throwing something back in his face. He wasn’t deflecting, wasn’t covering it up with a smirk or a cutting remark.

He was just standing there, tired and hurting and completely, utterly honest.

And kriff, he hated himself for saying it. Hated how much it cost him.

Because he knew it didn’t matter.

Drallig was leaving. And nothing he said—nothing he felt—would change that.

Drallig inhaled sharply, like he’d been bracing for impact. Then, softer than Tholme had ever heard from him, “I know.”

The silence after felt endless. Not cold. Not angry. Just… heavy. Like neither of them knew how to say goodbye, and this was the closest they’d ever get.

"I’ll get over it," Tholme added. A lie, of course—neatly wrapped in a smirk."I always do."

There was a pause.

“You’re my best friend, Tholme.”

Then, quieter, “And I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do without you.”

At that, they both looked at their feet.

“Guess you’ll finally get some peace and quiet,” Tholme breathed out.

Drallig exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw. His fingers flexed at his sides, tense, restless—like there was more he wanted to say, more he should say, but he was already at the limit of what he could push.

The silence stretched between them. Not long. Not unbearable. But enough.

Then—finally—Drallig huffed, shaking his head. “Yeah, well. As heartwarming as this little moment is, it’s two in the kriffing morning, and I’m freezing my damn balls off.” He shoved his hands into his sleeves, scowling at the night air. “We’re going back to the outpost before I lose them to frostbite.”

Tholme huffed a quiet laugh, tipping his head back slightly as his breath fogged into the air. “I didn’t realise you were so delicate.”

Drallig sniffed, tucking his hands under his arms with a pitiful shake of his head. “I was hoping to leave this planet with my dignity. And, you know, both testicles.”

“You’re acting like you were using them.” Tholme gave him a slow, pitying pat. “Want me to break it to Khaat, or should I send flowers?”

Drallig didn’t answer. Just picked up the nearest loose object and hurled it at Tholme’s head. Petty. Effective.

Tholme should have had something smart to say. A comeback, a joke, a distraction—something. But for the first time all night, his mind was blank.

Because Drallig was leaving.

And Marah was leaving.

And Tholme?

Tholme wasn’t.

**

By the time they reached their quarters, Tholme was done.

Drallig stepped inside first, kicking off his boots with unnecessary force before flopping down face-first onto his pillow, already scrolling his comm, snacking on dried fruit.

Tholme followed, dragging himself toward his bunk, half-thinking about collapsing into it.

And then he stopped.

A single piece of paper lay on his pillow. Neat. Precise. Not crumpled. Not hastily placed. Just…waiting.

Seven simple words.

You are distracted. I would hate for that to be a problem.

Tholme’s pulse skipped—sharp, fast, wrong.

His hand curled into a fist, the paper crackling. And beneath it: another document.

Not personal. Not friendly. Official. Stamped. From Marah’s homeworld government.

And at the top of the page, staring back at him—Torwyn’s name.

Tholme’s stomach turned.

His grip tightened around the note, heart hammering against his ribs, breath caught somewhere between a sharp inhale and something heavier.

A trap. A warning. A game.

And he had just run out of time.

Chapter Text

Tholme didn’t run to T’ra’s quarters.

But he wanted to.

His head was already pounding when he woke. Dull. Punishing. Like guilt trying to claw its way out. His ribs ached. His hands were stiff. His body was exhausted, but his mind was already moving, already dragging him back through the last forty-eight hours like it was trying to make sure he didn’t miss a single mistake.

And the one that felt like the biggest? Last night, he told T’ra he’d come. And then—he didn’t.

He had every intention of showing up, every intention of dragging himself to her quarters, letting her study him with that sharp stare and maybe, just maybe, telling her something real.

Instead, he fell asleep at Marah’s.

Fought with Drallig.

Found the letter.

And just like that, he forgot.

No excuses. No justification. He just closed his eyes for what felt like a second and now, suddenly, it was morning, and he was standing outside T’ra’s door already bracing for the weight of her disappointment.

And when the door slid open, T’ra, of course, was already awake, already dressed, and—Force help him—already expecting him.

That was never a good sign.

“Hey,” he muttered, shifting his weight. “I’m sorry. Would you believe me if I said things got a little weird yesterday?”

T’ra arched a delicate brow, her expression giving absolutely nothing away. “It’s you, Tholme. I wouldn’t.”

He exhaled through his nose. Fair.

“I didn’t—” He caught himself. He wasn’t sure what he was about to say, but whatever it was, it wasn’t going to be enough.

“It’s alright,” she uttered.

Except, it wasn’t. Not the way she said it. Not the way she stepped aside with too much control, too much patience, allowing him in without argument, without even a sigh of frustration.

He hesitated for half a second before stepping past her, letting the door slide shut behind him.

And…silence.

He had pissed off Masters before. Many, actually. He had pissed off women, too. Possibly more.

But this? This was different.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, forcing his shoulders to stay loose. “How much shit am I in?”

T’ra’s tilted her head. “You tell me.”

He sighed, dragging a hand down his face before shoving the other into his pocket. “No, you tell me.”

At that, T’ra’s gaze flickered over him, sharp and unreadable, and as she met his eyes again, Tholme—because he was a damn idiot—produced the sad, slightly crushed napkin from his belt.

A peace offering. A last-ditch attempt at salvaging whatever was left here.

He raised a single brow as he unwrapped it, revealing what could only barely still be called a pastry. It had clearly seen things. He hadn’t even picked a good one. Just something he’d grabbed on instinct, like a dumb dick who thought edible arrangements were a universal cure-all.

For Masters? It usually worked.

For women? Sometimes. Usually with for some other kind of favour thrown in—like fixing something, running an errand, charming his way back into their good graces, or their beds, or wherever else they allowed him to be.

But T’ra wasn’t just a Master.

And she sure as hell wasn’t just a woman either.

And now here he was, standing in her quarters holding a soggy, sad pastry like it was some kind of grand gesture.

He snorted warily.

“This counts as grovelling,” he said flatly, holding it out like a live grenade.

T’ra inhaled through her nose, the way someone does when they are summoning the patience of a saint. She flicked a glance at the pastry. Then at him. Then—because she was T’ra—she reached out and plucked it from his hand without a word.

And just like that, the tension shifted.

She turned it over in her fingers, inspecting it like it was evidence in a crime scene. “You chose this,” she murmured, unimpressed.

“Listen,” Tholme said, shoving his hands back into his belt. “I panicked.”

T’ra tilted her head, still holding the sad excuse for a pastry between her fingers. “Why? It’s just me.”

Tholme let out a slow exhale. “Yeah. I know.”

That was the problem.

Before he could say anything else, he saw it—the faint blue glow of a holoprojector flickering on the small table beside her desk.

His chest tightened.

T’ra followed his gaze, nodding once. “Ah, yes. I found something.”

Tholme felt his body tense before his mind even caught up. The instinct to deflect kicked in fast, automatic—but for once, he didn’t act on it. He didn’t ask what. He didn’t ask how.

Because he already knew. Whatever it was, it wasn’t good.

He stepped forward, eyes locking onto the small, flickering image hovering in the air.

The first thing that hit him was Torwyn. Younger. Less severe. Still sharp, still intense, but there was something different about him. A shift in his posture, the way he held himself—less rigid, less calculated. Almost at ease. Almost.

Then the second thing.

Another figure.

Rokan?

Tholme’s chest tightened.

The recording was grainy, edges blurred with static, but the voices—kriff, the voices—were clear.

“I’m just saying,” Rokan’s voice carried through the quiet, light, teasing. “If you’d let me win once, just once, I might actually start believing you’re human.”

“You’re not supposed to win, Rokan,” Torwyn responded, his tone steady, but lacking its usual cold edge. “You’re supposed to be better.”

Rokan huffed, brushing back his dark hair. “Kriff’s sake, Master, you could at least pretend I’m improving.”

Torwyn gave him a look.

And then—against all odds—his expression shifted. It wasn’t a smile. Not really. But the edges of his mouth twitched, just barely, something that might have passed for amusement if it had belonged to anyone else.

Tholme’s stomach twisted. That wasn’t right, because that wasn’t Torwyn.  At least… not the one he knew.

“You are improving,” Torwyn said, voice quieter now. “Just not fast enough.”

Rokan groaned, throwing his head back, overdramatic and unbothered in a way only someone who trusted their footing could be. “See, Master, this is why no one likes you.”

There was a pause, and for some reason, Torwyn didn’t correct him. He didn’t snap back. He didn’t remind him that being liked was irrelevant, unnecessary, unimportant. He just let the moment sit.

Then, quieter—too quiet—he said, “It doesn’t matter who likes me. I’m not here to be liked.”

The humour in Rokan’s face faltered, just slightly. A flicker of something heavier in his expression, something more careful in the way he tilted his head. And then—simply, effortlessly, like it was the easiest truth in the world, he blurted, “I love you.”

Tholme’s breath caught.

The words landed like a punch. Not desperate. Not thrown like a weapon. Just there.

And Torwyn?

He almost laughed. Not cruelly. Not mockingly. Just a quiet exhale, barely a sound at all, like the notion itself was absurd. Like it was something naïve. Something foolish. Something fleeting. Like he was waiting for Rokan to take it back. And when he didn’t, when Rokan only met his gaze with that same unwavering steadiness, Torwyn looked away.

“You don’t know what that means.”

Rokan didn’t flinch. “Yes, I do.” His head tilted, studying him. "I love you. And I think, deep down, you hate that you might love me back."

The holo blinked out. The light vanished. But Rokan’s voice lingered—too soft, too clear,
echoing through the silence like it had left something behind.

Tholme didn’t breathe. Didn’t move. His hands curled into fists. His jaw clenched, breath locking in his throat, because he had seen Torwyn cut down opponents without blinking, had seen him stand over bodies and step over blood like it was nothing.

And yet—the man in the holo wasn’t the same one who had taught him to kill the way he had.

Still, Tholme didn’t move. He just stared at the darkened holoprojector, at the empty space where Rokan’s voice had been only moments ago, still lingering in his mind like a blade pressed against his throat. His ribs felt too tight. His skin too small. His thoughts too loud.

He inhaled sharply through his nose. Kriff.

T’ra’s voice was the first to break the silence. “Say something.”

Tholme let out a slow exhale, dragging a hand over his mouth, fingers pressing hard against the sharp line of his jaw.

Say something?

He wanted to say a lot of things. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to swear. He wanted to hurl the holoprojector out the window and pray it took the memory with it.

Instead, he swallowed, and then he muttered, “Well. That’s not what I expected.”

T’ra didn’t react. But he felt it—the shift in the Force. She was waiting. Not for him to speak—no, she already knew what was coming. She was waiting for him to accept it.

Tholme forced himself to look at her, tilting his head slightly. “You already knew, didn’t you?”

It came out sharper than he meant it to—too close to resentment, too close to something bitter.

Because of course she did. Of course she figured it out before he even realised there was something to uncover.

T’ra inhaled through her nose. “From his behavioural pattern, yes. I had my suspicions.”

Tholme huffed out something that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Right.”

And that’s when the slithered beneath his skin, creeping through his veins, cold and insidious, drowning out everything else. His fingers flexed against his thigh, restless, sharp, as if trying to ground himself—but there was nothing to hold onto.

Torwyn’s lessons. Torwyn’s orders. Torwyn’s voice, always there, always twisting, always pushing.

"You need to be better."

"You can’t afford to be weak."

"You’re distracted."

"I would hate for that to be a problem."

A sharp inhale burned through his chest. His throat felt tight. It had never been about him. It had never been about his potential. It had never been about making him into anything other than a reflection of something already lost.

He wasn’t Torwyn’s Padawan. He was his penance.

Chapter Text

Tholme knew the second he stepped into the office that Torwyn was happy to see him— waiting to gloat that Marah was leaving, thanks to his incessant meddling. Probably. Waiting to crow about him and Drallig being split up after eighteen years? Absolutely

He was leaned back against his desk, hands clasped loosely in front of him—watching. He tilted his head slightly. Then he nodded once. Satisfied.

And in three, two, one…

“Marah’s been a distraction, Tholme. I don’t expect you to thank me for this. But one day you may see some damn sense.”

Tholme stilled, swallowing as he stared into his cold, grey eyes.

Still Torwyn continued, unbothered. “Ah, and Cin Drallig as well. Finally you have the chance to be Tholme—and not someone wayward pet.”

“Is that right?” Tholme uttered, his tone low—quiet.

“Yes, finally.” His voice dipped—almost pleased. “You can focus on something more meaningful than drink, girls, and kriff knows what else. We can finally work on that knighthood. Be honest with me Tholme—isn’t that what you’ve always wanted?”

The words came out before Tholme could stop them. “Is that what Rokan wanted?”

The effect was instant. Torwyn’s entire expression changed. Sharp. Immediate. His face barely moved, but his eyes—his eyes burned.

Before Tholme could even register the movement, Torwyn was on him. A hand around his throat. Shoving him back—slamming him into the wall with enough force to rattle his bones.

Tholme let out a sharp grunt, his skull clipped stone. The sound was dull. So was the pain.

Torwyn’s grip was tight. His breath barely shifted, his expression unreadable—but his fury? It was in the weight of his hand, in the pressure against Tholme’s windpipe, in the silence that said you just made a mistake.

And part of him wondered if Torwyn was going to end him right there.

He learned in, whisky breath and all. “You never learned when to shut your mouth, did you?”

“Yeah, well, neither did Rokan,” he choked out, lifting the holo-recorder from his belt pocket.

Torwyn barely had time to process it—before a crackle of static filled the silence—and then, Rokan’s voice, soft, unguarded, echoing like a ghost that never left.

 “I love you. And I think, deep down, you hate that you might love me back.”

That did it. Torwyn staggered back, the grip around Tholme’s throat—gone. The fury? Gone. And something much worse took its place. For the first time ever, Tholme saw him falter. The expression that flickered across Torwyn’s face wasn’t anger. It was pain, like a wound being ripped open after years of healing wrong.

Tholme let the projector clatter onto the sideboard, the holo stuttering, flickering—but not stopping. Rokan’s voice surged again, I love you cutting across the room like a blade.

“Tell me the truth,” he said—quiet. Not a challenge. A plea, and he hated how pitiful it sounded.

But Torwyn didn’t speak. He just stared at the projector—at the words still hanging in the air, the confession that had never been acknowledged, never been answered. His voice, when it came, was hoarse. “I never loved him like that. He was a child. I was his mentor.”

In the background, the holo flickered again. Rokan’s laugh this time—carefree, younger. “See, Master, this is why no one likes you.”

It shouldn’t have hurt. But it did.

Tholme didn’t blink. “Then why—”

Torwyn cut him off. "He was everything a Jedi should be. Everything I could ever ask for in a Padawan. He was just like you—perfect." His voice was sharp. Too sharp. Like he needed to make it clear—to Tholme, to himself, to whoever the fuck was still listening.

There was a pause. A deep inhale. Then he mumbled, “He threw himself in front of a blaster for me. It should’ve been me on the floor, bleeding out. Not him.”

Torwyn blinked. Just once. Just enough to realise what he had said.

And Tholme? He felt his stomach drop. Because so did he.

The words landed like an impact, like something heavy being dropped between them, like the truth had finally been extracted from the thing Torwyn had spent years pretending was his mind and not his prison.

The mission that went wrong. The desert. The empty water bottle. ‘If you want to act like him, you’d better learn how that story ends…’

Tholme just stared at him, it was all he could do. And Torwyn—for the first time in his life—looked small.

“I watched him die for me.” His voice didn’t waver. It didn’t have to.

Because the cracks were already there—he was just too proud to look down.

Torwyn lifted his head, finally meeting Tholme’s eyes, and then, with absolute certainty, he said, “I am not here to be loved. Love kills. Fear shapes. You would never throw yourself in front of a blaster for me, Little Shadow.”

Tholme’s breath caught. The worst part wasn’t that Torwyn said it: It was that he was right.

He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t even hesitate to let it hit.

As if knowing the thoughts swilling in Thome’s head, Torwyn let out a small, humourless laugh.

“See?” he murmured, almost reverent. “I stripped the weakness out of you. I did what he couldn’t.”

He paused. Then, softer, he uttered, “I won.”

And stars, he looked like he’d lost everything.

And Tholme? Tholme felt sick. Because for all of Torwyn’s control, all of his precision, all of his kriffing lessons—this wasn’t power. This wasn’t strength. This was a man who had chosen to become something that could never be hurt again.

But that was the thing, wasn’t it? Torwyn was hurt. He had never stopped hurting.

And Tholme had finally seen it—that maybe Torwyn wasn’t lying. Maybe he had point.

Maybe love, in all forms, killed.

**

No, Tholme hadn’t planned to be in the training hall this late.

Sleep, however, had other ideas. He tried everything—reading, meditation, forcing his mind still—but nothing stuck. His thoughts kept spiralling, slipping toward things he shouldn’t be thinking about.

Torwyn. Rokan. Love.

So here he was—barefoot on the cold mat, chasing katas like they could evict the ghosts squatting in his chest. The motions were supposed to centre him, supposed to bring clarity. But instead of balance, he just felt numb.

Then a voice sounded out.  "From the look on your face, I assume you spoke to him."

Tholme stilled, heart still pounding from exertion, but suddenly, it was no longer just from the fight. He turned his head slowly, pulse hammering as he took in the figure standing at the edge of the mat.

T’ra.

She was dressed for training, her tunic loose, her hair half-tied but already beginning to slip free. It was nothing out of the ordinary. Just T’ra.

And still, his stomach twisted—familiar, guilty, and far too easy to name.

He nodded once. "Yeah. Yeah, I did."

Torwyn’s words immediately replayed in his head. You would never throw yourself in front of a blaster for me.

And the worst part? He was right.

“Torwyn’s not a villain.” His voice was flat—but even he didn’t believe it. “He’s just… fucked up. I know it doesn’t excuse anything but…”

T’ra made a sound that said she disagreed, but for now, she was choosing peace instead.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked.

“No,” he admitted quietly. A scoff quickly followed. “At least, not yet, anyway.”

She didn’t blink. Just watched. Like she was waiting for the version of him that still knew how to be honest. “Alright. Then let’s do the next best thing.”

She stepped onto the mat, flicking her hair over her shoulder with a wicked grin. “Spar with me.”

She raised her arms into a loose guard. “I dare you.”

Considering his mood, he should have said no. But instead, he mirrored her stance—and walked straight into the fire.

**

At first, it was fun—an exchange of movement and momentum, neither of them pushing too far. They knew each other’s rhythms. Knew the exact ways they moved. How to anticipate. How to counter.

But the tension had been there from the beginning—it always was—purring just beneath the surface. And as the minutes stretched on, it started to bleed into the space between them, like the first shift in a storm.

She was faster than him. Stronger. She moved like water—if water had a vendetta and no mercy.

Every time he thought he had her—cornered, timed, accounted for—she ghosted out of reach like she’d read the next three moves in advance. He pressed forward. She slipped through. He adjusted. She spun.

She was toying with him. And worse—she was thriving.

Making him chase. Making him sweat. Making him look like an amateur on his own kriffing mat.

And the best part?

Every time she slipped out of reach, she glanced back over her shoulder.

Not quite a smirk. Not quite innocent. But a look.

Yeah. A look said: Come on, Tholme. I thought you were good at this.

A hot flare of frustration curled low in his gut—sharp and immediate. His breath stuttered in his throat. Oh, she was enjoying this.

Great. Fantastic. Amazing for him, truly.

She was teasing him. Baiting him. Playing keep-away with every scrap of control he had left.

And if she cast him that look one more time, he was going to forget where he was and say something unwise in front of the gods and the training mats.

Then—an opening. A shift in weight, a fraction of hesitation—just enough for him to take.

He barely registered how it happened. One second, she was just out of reach, slipping through his defences, and the next—a sharp shift. A counter too quick to track. His weight pressing forward.

And suddenly, she was beneath him.

The impact wasn’t even rough—barely a thud—but it still sent a jolt through him like he’d touched a live wire.

Everything narrowed. Just breath. Just heat. Just her.

His hands were braced on either side of her head, knees at her hips, body locked in place before his brain had time to catch up. And now? Now all he could feel was her—warm and solid, every breath dragging against his chest like it was hers too.

And when she looked up at him?

Kriff.

Her breath caught—just slightly—but it was enough to make the world tilt.

He shouldn’t be looking at her. He knew that.

Not like this.

Not with the way the shadows played across her cheekbones, soft and sharp all at once. Not with the way her lips were parted and her green-amber eyes locked on his like she knew exactly what she was doing.

And definitely not with the way he didn’t want to move.

He was supposed right? To pull back, and say something snarky, break the tension, laugh it off like he always did. Like he always could.

But his body wasn’t listening, and neither was the part of him that wanted—stupidly, endlessly—to just stay right there.

Just for a second more.

Still, his pulse was a riot in his skull, loud enough to drown out the Force, loud enough to drown out everything.

And then there was her.

That scent—light, sharp, lilies—her. It filled his lungs like spice, like something that burned going down and stayed there.

He didn’t mean to look down. He really didn’t. But his gaze dropped anyway—traitorous and slow—to the glint of sweat along her collarbone. The kind that caught the light just right and made it look like someone had carved her out of heat and nerve endings. A few strands of her hair had slipped loose, clinging to her skin like they wanted to be touched.

Tholme’s fingers curled, his breath tight in his throat. He needed to move. He needed to get up, to put distance between them before he did something reckless, something irreversible, something—

T’ra shifted.

It wasn’t much—just the faintest tilt of her hips, the smallest shift of her weight, but it sent fire straight to his core. His arms nearly buckled.

Her brow lifted, expression unreadable—but her eyes?

They weren’t unreadable at all.

They were waiting.

His breath stuttered, chest tightening as every muscle in his body locked up at once. He could feel everything—every point of contact where his body pressed against hers, the searing heat of her skin through thin fabric, the way her breath ghosted over his collarbone.

It was too much.

And yet—he didn’t move. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Not unless she told him to.

Because he wanted to kiss her—to press his mouth to the curve of her throat and lose himself in the taste of her skin, in the sound of her breath hitching beneath his lips. He wanted to press his tongue to every inch of her until she forgot the name of the Order, until she forgot why they weren’t supposed to want this. He wanted to drag his teeth down every line of her body until she arched like she was trying to tear the stars from the ceiling. To make her forget the Code, forget duty, forget every kriffing rule the Council had ever drilled into their skulls.

No soft words. No declarations. Just fingers gripping the backs of her thighs, and her heel digging into his shoulder when she forgot how to stay quiet.

His toes curled into the mat like he was bracing for impact, but the quake had already started—ripping through him with every breath she took. His weight shifted without thought, gravity dragging him closer, his muscles coiled so tight they ached. And then—T’ra inhaled. Deep. Deliberate.

Her breath ghosted against his jaw. Her legs shifted just slightly beneath his hips.

And every part of him screamed: kiss her.

Every part of him begged: wait.

A muscle in his jaw jumped. His pulse was so loud, and he swore she could feel it.

He had to move.

Now.

The realisation hit like a punch. He tore back too fast, hit the mat harder than he meant to. Breath gone. Control gone. Everything gone.

His hands scrambled for his cloak like it was a lifeline—like maybe fabric and shame could cover what his body had already visibly said out loud.

He didn’t look at her. He couldn’t.

Because if he did, she’d see all of it—the want, the wreckage, the way the Code wasn’t even in the room anymore.

Not because he didn’t want her.

Because he wanted her too much.

And she deserved better.

Better than to be touched like this—in a dimly lit training hall where the dust hadn’t settled, where the ghosts of their discipline still lingered in every breath.

Better than to be pinned to the mat by someone too wound up, too desperate, too far gone to give her anything but sixty seconds and a half-sighed apology.

She deserved warmth. Time. A door that locked and someone who wasn’t terrified of what came next.

She deserved better than him.

And still—T’ra stayed where she’d landed, breath uneven.

Her face was flushed, not from exertion—no, not just that. Her hands were braced behind her like she wasn’t sure if she was supposed to sit up or wait for him to do something. Her braid was falling apart, strands stuck to the line of her jaw. Her lips—still parted. Still soft. Still—

Stars, she looked like she’d forgotten how to breathe.

And she wasn’t unreadable. Not to him. Not now.

She looked confused.

No. Worse. She looked hurt.

Tholme raked a hand through his damp hair, exhaling hard—like maybe if he just breathed deep enough, he could drag himself back from the edge.

“I should—” His voice caught, low and uneven. He swallowed hard, gaze fixed somewhere near her knee, anywhere but her face. “I should get some rest.”

He didn’t wait for a response. He didn’t look at her. He couldn’t.

Because if he did—if he let himself meet her gaze—he knew exactly what he would see.

Her breath. Her mouth. The fucking look on her face.

So he moved. Fast. Too fast. Before she could ask. Before he could answer.

And he didn’t stop moving till he was out of the hall—barefoot, barely dressed, heart kicking hard enough to crack bone.

And even then—he kept walking.

Chapter Text

Tholme sat on the edge of his bed, shirt half-unbuttoned, fingers digging into his temples like pressure might scrub his thoughts clean.

His poem was still in his hand. Crumpled. Useless. Condemning.

She breathes like the Force forgot she’s mortal—
and I—
…I keep forgetting I’m not.

Yeah. That’s where it ended. He’d stared at it so long it started to look like a warning.

He shoved the page back into the magazine. The cover—worn, half-torn, and humiliating in more ways than one—practically winked at him. A pink Twi’lek woman in a half-transparent tunic, arms overhead, lips parted.

Ugh.

He wasn’t into it. Not even close.  

But, as always, his brain, unfortunately, presented him with a wonderfully stupid idea.

Because this was about not thinking. It was about not seeing her eyes every time he closed his. The magazine was crap. But crap with a purpose. A loophole. A distraction. A glitter-covered exit sign.

His skin was hot. His chest tight. His trousers were already halfway undone, and his thoughts wouldn’t stop replaying every second of that sparring match with brutal clarity.

One more deep inhale—tight, useless—and he leaned back onto the mattress with a muttered curse, dragging a forearm over his face like he could smother the heat crawling up his neck.

This was shame. This was guilt. This was… maybe manageable.

If he just…thought about the magazine and not her.

Never her.  

So, his hand slipped down.

And in his head, it wasn’t about T’ra. It wasn’t. It was about regulation. Containment. Emotional recalibration through very responsible, definitely not pitiful, physical release.

Attachment bad. Orgasm good. Sure, that tracks.

He was doing this responsibly. Like a Jedi. Like someone managing symptoms, not caving to them.

So the mattress creaked beneath his hips. His teeth clenched. His pulse thudded in his ears—louder, louder. Like his own heartbeat was trying to drown out the image that wanted to crawl behind his eyes.

His back arched. He buried his nose into his forearm. His breath hitched. Just—just a little more. He could feel it coming, taste it, the burn behind his eyes already tipping him over—so close he could’ve touched it with his teeth—

But Tholme, after living with Drallig for two years, still hadn’t remembered to lock the damn door.

“Tholme, are you—oh, for the love of—”

The Force flatlined. His orgasm evaporated like a ghost.

He flung himself sideways so hard he nearly rolled off the bed. His knee knocked the glass off the nightstand. The magazine hit the floor. And Tholme? He grabbed whatever he could reach—blanket, cloak, dignity—and yanked it over himself like he’d just been caught committing treason.

Drallig froze in the doorway, one boot already over the threshold.

“...Do I need to come back later?” He blinked once, slowly. “Actually, wait. Don’t answer that.”

Tholme, still half-bent over, hands clenched in the blanket like a man trying to physically hold his dignity together, muttered, “Well, you’re here now.”

Drallig flipped on the second lamp.

 “Listen, I support your journey. I do.” He exhaled. “But I think this is a solo quest, and I’m not your emotional spotter.”

Tholme groaned and dragged both hands down his face like he was trying to peel it off. “Yeah, well. The mission was compromised. Thanks for that.”

Drallig saluted him with two fingers. “You’re welcome. I neutralised the threat and saved your sheets.”

“Don’t you kriffing dare,” he muttered. “Don’t make this weird.”

Drallig paused. Then raised an eyebrow. “Would it be weirder if I said I brought you soup?”

Tholme cracked one eye open.

Drallig was holding up a thermos like it was a peace offering. Or a bribe. Or a holy relic capable of exorcising whatever shame had just taken root in this room.

And the glitter-covered magazine lay face-down on the floor like it had just been murdered in a duel.

Fuck.

Tholme didn’t move. The blanket didn’t move. His soul, presumably, had left the building.

And Drallig—Force bless him—stood in the doorway in full judgemental glory, gripping that thermos like it was the only thing keeping him from Force-launching himself out the window.

After a second, Tholme clicked his tongue, as though he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You brought me soup.”

“Real soup,” Drallig said. “Because some of us noticed you weren’t at dinner. Again. So now I’m bringing you food so I don’t have to listen to your stomach complain all night.”

The moment stalled. Neither of them moved.

Then finally, reluctantly, Tholme emerged from his blanket fortress and began putting himself back together—trousers, shirt, belt. Not dignity. That was long gone.

Drallig didn’t comment. He just stood there, awkwardly noble, like a very tired guard dog watching its owner fumble with their leash. And once Tholme was mostly decent, Drallig handed over the thermos with all the ceremony of a disgruntled butler.

Tholme sipped the soup. Chewed on a piece of tofu. Burned his tongue.

Drallig, meanwhile, leaned against the dresser, arms folded like a monument to restraint. Not cruel. Just watching.

“So,” Drallig said finally, “you’re eating. You’re upright. You may suffer with blue balls for the next few days.” He nodded, satisfied. “Yeah. You’re fine.”

“First, blue balls is a lie.” Tholme hummed. “And the soup’s great and all, but you know what really centres a man? Finishing.”

Drallig let the silence hang, and then a grin tugged at the corner of his lips.

“You’re talking, too…I mean, a few days ago you were just making incoherent noises and fake-laughing at my jokes like someone had replaced you with a malfunctioning protocol droid.”

“Next time—” he said around a mouthful of soup, still chewing, “just unplug me and plug me back in. Might’ve saved us both some time.”

Drallig snorted, but his grin began to falter. Because something wasn’t right.

Yeah, Tholme was eating. Yeah, he was dressed. But the tension in his shoulders had barely shifted. And he still hadn’t looked up. Not really.

And the worst part?

This was the most they’d talked in days.

So, as if not believing his own eyes, Drallig studied him in silence for a second longer, then said—too casual, too careful— “I’m still leaving, you know. At the end of the month.”

Tholme’s hand stilled. Just a flicker. Barely there.

“I know,” he said quietly.

Drallig exhaled. Ran a hand through his hair. He hadn’t meant to say it like that. “…Things’ve been weird lately,” he added, softer. “I wasn’t sure if that was about me. Or if it was just… you.”

Tholme finally looked up. Just enough for their eyes to meet.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.

Because Drallig saw it now—the grief. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just… threaded through him like it had been hiding under every joke. Every argument. Every word left unsaid.

“Oh,” Drallig said, blinking. “Kriff. You’re actually not fine.”

Tholme huffed. Not quite a laugh. Not quite denial either.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “No shit.”

They sat in silence for a minute, the kind that didn’t need to be filled. The kind that felt a little too much like saying goodbye even when no one had moved yet.

Then—softly—Tholme said, “Thanks. For the soup.”

Drallig smiled. Then, quieter than before—still light, but not deflecting—he said, “You know I’m still here, right? Even after I leave.”

Tholme nodded. Just once.

Drallig hesitated. Then, he uttered, “I don’t think I’ve been... good at showing that lately.” He shifted his feet.  “But I notice, you know. When you go quiet. When you stop letting me make fun of you.”

Tholme gave a snort that almost turned into a laugh. Didn’t quite make it.

Drallig’s grin flickered. “Anyway. You’re welcome for interrupting your weird, depressing evening.”

Tholme groaned. “You could just say you care about me. Once. Like a functioning adult.”

Drallig looked personally offended. “Absolutely not. I brought soup, didn’t I? You know I love you because I didn’t spit in it.”

Tholme rolled his eyes before he tipped the thermos back and downed the rest of the broth in one go. Too hot. He winced, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, and stood—blanket sliding off in a ripple.

Behind him, Drallig made a noise. “Where are you going?”

Tholme didn’t even slow. “To meditate. With friction.”

There was a pause. Just long enough for him to regret those exact words.

Then, from behind him, he heard, “Moan my name.”

Tholme didn’t look back. Just raised a hand—palm open, vague and threatening. It could’ve meant fuck off. It could’ve meant never speak again.

Then the door to the refresher hissed shut behind him, cutting off the soft light of his quarters, and with it, Drallig’s presence.

Tholme exhaled.

Leaning against the cool tile for a moment, he stared at the sink, letting his heartbeat thud in his ears.

Tholme turned the water on cold.

He stripped fast, letting his clothes hit the floor in a crumpled heap that would absolutely stay there until someone else did his laundry.

And he stepped into the shower like it owed him penance.

He closed his eyes. Her breath was still there, just beneath the sound of the water.

“Attachment bad,” he muttered, head tilted under the spray. “Orgasm good.”

The words hit the tile like a confession. Like a plea.

And just like that, water beat down on the back of his neck, icy and sharp, trying to shock the memory of her out of his bones.

Chapter Text

The room was packed. Jedi, officers, and the usual assortment of overpaid strategists clustered around the holomap like it held the secrets to enlightenment. It didn’t. Just flickering lines, too many variables, and a headache waiting to happen.

Tholme was supposed to be paying attention. Taking notes. Pretending he cared deeply about trade corridors and smuggling interference.

Instead, he was busy trying not to stare at the Jedi sitting two inches to his left.

And failing.

He could feel T’ra without even looking—like gravity, like pressure, like heat just close enough to fry every reasonable thought left in his brain.

It was absurd. They were sitting. Just sitting. Two professionals at a tactical briefing. Nothing to see here.

And yet—he was losing his kriffing mind.

Tholme exhaled slowly, keeping his eyes fixed on the holomap as the conversation continued.

“We’ve confirmed a concentration of hostiles along the primary corridor,” Mundi, who was leading the briefing said, pointing to a highlighted section of the trade route. “They’re targeting shipments heading for the Core, but the attacks appear selective. No confirmed patterns yet, but we suspect local cooperation with smuggling groups.”

T’ra shifted beside him. Not much. Not even enough to be noticed by anyone else. But Tholme felt it.

His grip on the stylus tightened.

“Are the planetary governors responding?” Another Master inquired, her tone sharp with that distinct edge of scepticism only a seasoned diplomat could manage.

“Cautiously,” Mundi admitted. “They don’t want to lose favour with Coruscant, but they’re reluctant to enforce stricter oversight. There’s already significant economic unrest, and cracking down too hard could push the independents toward open defiance.”

Tholme nodded absently. He’d figured out the tactical angle within seconds—the politics, the players, the implications. It was clean in his head. Done. Solved. Filed.

Which left plenty of room for everything else to unravel.

Because Force help him, his thoughts kept slipping.

T’ra was there. And she hadn’t said a word to him all meeting. That should have been a relief.

It wasn’t.

Because the silence wasn’t passive. It was a choice.

And sure enough—just when he thought he might have gotten away with keeping his focus locked onto the briefing, she leaned in ever so slightly. Not touching him. Just close.

And then she whispered, "You left in a hurry last night."

His stomach pulled tight, breath dragging slow and quiet through his nose like it might hold his face together.

“I was tired,” he murmured, tone even—like he hadn’t just been reliving every second of that sparring match in nauseating detail since sunrise.

Then came that tiny, infuriating sound.

"Mm."

He looked back down.

Across the table, someone was outlining a response plan. Someone else was talking negotiations. Another was probably still explaining countermeasures. Tholme should have cared. Really, he wanted to care.

But all he could think about was the way T’ra’s voice had curled behind his ear like it had no business being that soft. "'Are we going to talk about it?' she asked.

He exhaled, fingers pressing lightly against the edge of his datapad. “Maybe not in front of Master Mundi, T’ra. If he catches us, you know he’ll make us share with the whole damn room.”

She swallowed. Loudly. "I…I just wasn’t expecting you to run," she uttered.

And just like that, his fingers stilled.

His mind scrambled for something—anything—to throw back. A quip, a smirk, a brush-off sharp enough to make her drop it. But every comeback tasted like guilt. Every word sounded like surrender.

So he looked at her.

Just a glance. Just a second. Then forced himself to respond, his voice a low murmur. "I didn’t run."

"You did," she countered easily, and there was no accusation in her voice. Just fact.

He clenched his jaw, eyes flicking back to the holomap, desperately trying to will the conversation to end. To move on.

But she wasn’t done.

T’ra didn’t press further, but she didn’t let go of it either. Instead, she let the silence stretch, let the weight of her words settle between them, knowing full well he would feel it.

And he did.

Tholme’s focus on the briefing had all but shattered. He caught pieces of the conversation happening around him—mentions of fleet movements, supply chain disruptions, risk assessments—but none of it fully registered. Because T’ra was still there. Still watching him, even when she wasn’t looking at him directly.

And she was waiting.

That was the worst part.

She was waiting for him to crack first.

He could ignore her. Could pretend that last night hadn’t happened, that the feeling in his chest wasn’t from the way she had felt beneath him, the way her breath had hitched when his fingers had brushed her skin, the way he had torn himself away before he could make a mistake he wasn’t ready to face. He ignored the reality that she was the last good thing left on this Force forsaken planet, and if he went there—if they went there—they would risk losing it all.

But she wasn’t making it easy.

Because there was something else there too. A flicker of something that, had he not been so attuned to her, he might have missed.

Something uncertain.

T’ra wasn’t immune to this either and that realisation made his stomach twist. She wasn’t just challenging him—she was asking for something he hadn’t figured out how to give.

Maybe she didn’t even realise it. Maybe she did.

Either way, Tholme didn’t trust himself to answer her.

The briefing wrapped up moments later. The Masters exchanged final notes, Jedi Knights and Padawans began rising from their seats, the conversation shifting into smaller discussions and exit strategies. The movement should have given him an escape.

But before he could stand, T’ra leaned in again.

Not enough for anyone else to notice. Just enough for him to feel it.

“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable…” She hesitated, just slightly, and that—that—was what finally made him break.

She meant it. And that was the worst part—she thought the damage was hers.

The rejection in her eyes was brief—gone almost as soon as it flickered—but he caught it. A flash of something raw, something too human. Something she hadn’t meant for him to see.

Tholme’s chest tightened. Because she wasn’t trying to guilt him. She was trying to protect him—from herself, from what she thought she’d done, from the idea that maybe she’d pushed too hard, gotten too close.

And that—that—was what undid him.

Because if she was blaming herself for his inability to act like a functioning adult, then he’d already done more damage than he thought.

So his answer came without thinking. “You didn’t, T’ra. I promise.” He paused. His throat worked once. “That was me. That was all me.”

T’ra didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she exhaled through her nose, steadying herself, but he had seen the flicker in her composure. He knew it was there now.

She had meant to say something. Had caught herself before she could. And that hesitation—that vulnerability—had undone him more than anything else she could have said.

Her eyes met his, and for the first time in this conversation, she wasn’t pressing him. She wasn’t playing. She was searching.

He swallowed, his pulse a little too fast in his throat, resisting the urge to shift in his seat.

Finally, she murmured, “I wasn’t trying to push you. I’ll be honest, Tholme, that wasn’t what I was expecting either.”.

He ran a hand over the stubble on his jaw, trying to settle the pressure in his chest, the heat curling in his stomach. His voice, when it finally made it past the lump in his throat, was softer than it had any right to be.

 “I know.”

That wasn’t an answer. Not really. But he could feel her shift beside him, could feel the weight of her hesitation.

And for once, she let it be.

She stood, slow and fluid, gathering her things without looking at him. But before she turned to go, before she disappeared through the doors with the others, she hesitated.

Just for a fraction of a second.

And then, just as she was stepping away, she said, just loud enough for him to hear, “I still wasn’t expecting you to run.”

And just like that—she walked away with the last word. Again

**

The rhythmic hum of training sabers filled the air, punctuated by the sharp crack of strikes.

Tholme moved through his forms: a strike, a pivot, block, counter. Again. Harder. Faster. Sweat rolled down his spine, his breath coming in slow, controlled exhales.

Then—a sharp strike came at his side. He parried smoothly, twisted, and drove forward, forcing his opponent back.

Mavra grinned as she slid to a stop, flipping her saber into a lazy reverse grip. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to impress me.”

She rolled her shoulders, stepping back into stance with a look that was half amusement, half dare.

“You’re going hard today,” she added, voice low with a teasing lilt. “Are you fighting demons or trying to fuck one?”

From the edge of the mats, there was a sharp clatter—Eeth’s training saber slipping from his hands, hitting the floor like a blaster misfire in a quiet room.

“Sorry,” Eeth blurted, scrambling to retrieve it, already going red in the face.

Tholme flicked him a glance. Not angry. Not sharp.

Just—enough. A silent pull yourself together that Eeth understood instantly. He dipped his head and sank a little further into his seat, gripping his saber like it might keep him tethered.

Mavra, of course, didn’t notice. Or maybe she didn’t care.

She started circling again—slow, casual, but with that same gleam in her eye like she thought she had him cornered.

“Round two?” she asked. Her voice dropped—just enough to feel like she thought it meant something. “Unless you’re afraid of losing this time.”

Tholme didn’t look at her. Just exhaled and rolled his neck until something popped.

“I’m here to train,” he said. “Burn off the week. Reset my system. And, apparently”—his eyes flicked to Eeth, still sitting on the edge of the mat, clutching his saber like a flotation device—“remind the kid how to hold one of these without launching it into the ceiling.”

Eeth scowled like he’d been personally insulted. “I do know how,” he snapped, voice cracking slightly on the last word. “I’ve read the entire Form II manual twice you know.”

Mavra let out a quiet snort. “Oh no,” she murmured, mostly to herself. “A dangerous combination—confidence and literacy.”

Eeth bristled, cheeks flushing. “I could’ve blocked that last strike if I wasn’t—if I hadn’t…”

But he never finished.

Because Mavra turned toward him—not cruel, not mocking, just flashing a grin that didn’t know how casually lethal it was. “Hey, you’ve got good form. Better than most at your age.”

Eeth blinked. Once. Twice. Like someone had just handed him a lightsaber made of compliments.

And Tholme didn’t let it go any further.

He moved. No warning. No sound. Just blade up, footwork clean, cutting across the mat like he’d been waiting for this moment all kriffing week.

Mavra barely had time to react—her saber snapped up to meet his at the last second, with enough pressure to jar both their arms.

“Oh?” she grinned, breath catching just slightly. “Jealous?”

Tholme’s expression didn’t shift. “You were distracted,” he said simply. “Thought I’d take advantage.”

And behind him, Eeth—spared from whatever verbal bouquet Mavra had planned—let out a breath like he’d just survived a bombing run.

They clashed again, a flurry of movement, but it wasn’t enough. Not enough to drown out the thoughts, not enough to bury the tension still knotted beneath his ribs.

Mavra grunted as Tholme pressed forward, clearly not expecting the sheer force behind his strikes. And maybe—maybe—he was being a little reckless. He could hear his Masters’ voice in his head, reminding him that strength was nothing without control, that brute force was a sign of imbalance.

But right now?

Right now, balance wasn’t working for him.

And if proving his point, the spar ended. Tholme knocked Mavra’s blade aside, twisted his grip, and disarmed her—fast, efficient, with a sharp finality that left her blinking in shock as her saber clattered to the mat.

A few heads turned.

Tholme inhaled, his heartbeat steady but his muscles taut. Mavra lifted her hands, shaking her head with a breathless laugh.

She looked down at her saber, still on the mat between them. Then back at him, head tilted slightly. “If I go for it, you’re going to watch.” No smirk. No teeth. Just a half-daring, half-hopeful thing tucked behind her eyes, like she was still trying to play it cool.

And oh, that's when he realised, she was wearing that same perfume, the one he hadn't smelt since he was fifteen.

And for a second—just a second—Tholme remembered.

Not the kiss in the training room, not the shoulder she’d dislocated when she beat him in front of half their cohort. But the very first time, for both of them, back on Coruscant. The one that came out of nowhere—messy and fast and done before either of them knew what they’d started.

And right there, he wondered if she wore it on purpose. If she was offering to redo that stupid night. If it would be easier to fall back into the safe zone of someone who wanted him for one thing, and nothing else.

But then from the sidelines, a sharp thunk broke the silence.

Eeth stood frozen, eyes wide, his now-empty flask rolling gently away from where it had fallen. He blinked. “Sorry,” he mumbled, voice about three octaves too high.

Tholme barely acknowledged it. He took a step back, exhaling slowly, trying—really trying—to centre himself. Then, his attention flicked—just briefly—to the wall.

To where T’ra’s quarters were, three floors above.

And whatever fraying thread had nearly snapped? It pulled taut again.

“Good match,” Tholme said, voice low, rough around the edges in a way he didn’t mean but also didn’t stop.

Then, without looking at her again, he turned toward the edge of the mat. “Eeth,” he called, just a bit too sharply. “Can you do me a favour. Grab more water?”

Eeth, who had absolutely not recovered from anything he’d just witnessed, startled. “Uh—yeah! Yes. Absolutely. Water. I can do that.”

He moved too fast. Tried to pivot off the wall and tripped over the strap of his own bag, barely catching himself on the bench with a loud, tragic clatter of limbs and pride.

Tholme didn’t even blink. Just looked skyward for a second like he was praying to anyone.

Eeth scrambled upright, half-dignity, half-puberty, grabbing the bottle like it was the problem here and fleeing the hall with all the elegance of a panicked loth-cat.

And Mavra?

Mavra arched a brow, slow and feline, watching the door slide shut behind the retreating Padawan before turning back to Tholme.

“Hm,” she hummed. “Sending the kid away. Subtle.”

Tholme blinked. “It’s hydration.”

“Sure,” she said, quieter now, taking a step closer. “Or maybe you finally remembered I don’t mind being alone with you.”

Tholme didn’t answer that. He just rolled his eyes, but the motion felt slow, like he was stalling for time. “Yeah. That’s it. You caught me.”

Mavra studied him, her saber hanging loose in one hand. Her voice, when it came again, had lost the usual edge. “Are you ever going to tell me what stopped you last time?”

Oh yeah, predictably, that got him.

Tholme’s jaw tightened, barely perceptible—but she saw it.

Mavra hesitated. Then added, softer, “I know you said it wasn’t, but I kept thinking it was me.”

He didn’t speak. Not at first.

Still, Mavra—maybe for the first time—didn’t fill the silence with a joke. She just stood there, shifting her weight, like she wasn’t sure if she should stay or back off.

And Tholme?

He just stood there too. Watching another woman waiting for him to be better—and already knowing he wasn’t.

His answer, when it finally came, was low. Careful. “It wasn’t.”

Mavra blinked, something flickering in her expression—hope curling in on itself. She didn’t smile. She just stood there, breathing in quiet through her nose like she was bracing for something worse.

But before she could say anything else—Drallig’s voice cut through the hall. “Should I be concerned, or just impressed that neither of you has set something on fire yet?”

Tholme didn’t jump, but it was close. His shoulders tightened just enough to notice. He turned, expression neutral, calm—except for the fact that his pulse had just launched itself into the stratosphere.

Mavra didn’t even blink. Instead, she turned lazily toward the door. “We were bonding. You ruined it.”

Drallig raised an eyebrow, stepping further into the room. “If that’s what you call it, I might have to interrupt more often.”

Mavra just turned back to Drallig, all honeyed charm and dangerous edges. “Well, soon-to-be Master Drallig, if you’re offering to bond sometime—”

“Careful,” he said, tone still light, but his eyes gleaming. “You might find I’m better at it than Tholme.”

Tholme didn’t even flinch. He just reached for his towel, wiped the sweat from his brow, and drawled, “You’re better at a lot of things, Cinnamon. Mostly the ones that don’t involve finesse.”

Drallig tilted his head, smug. “I’ve got finesse where it counts.”

A click of Tholme’s tongue followed. “Ah, yes. The famous Drallig technique: overpromise, underwhelm.”

Without missing a beat, Drallig fired back. “That’s what you said—right before Mavra finished without you.”

And just like that, Mavra snorted.

Even Tholme paused—only briefly, but it was enough. That little flash of offended silence, the stunned moment of realising he had, in fact, just been publicly executed.

Drallig just sipped from his water bottle, utterly unfazed. “Not everyone freezes up mid-mission, Tholme. Some of us follow through.”

“Well. I’m going to go and change,” Mavra said, quieter this time, but not small. There was something in her voice that didn’t quite match the tilt of her head—something that almost sounded like disappointment trying not to show.

She turned on her heel, braid slipping over her shoulder, and this time… she didn’t look back.

And the second she was gone, Tholme let out a breath like he’d just survived something.

Drallig arched a brow. “You good?”

Tholme exhaled, dragging a hand down his face. “You had to bring that up, huh?”

Drallig just smiled, infuriatingly unbothered.

“She still likes you,” he said, more observation than accusation. “I don’t know why considering the refresher incident. But you keep looking at her like she’s a problem, and I don’t think she knows what she did wrong.”

Tholme scoffed—barely. Just enough to say he’d heard it. “She doesn’t like me. Mavra’s like that with everyone.”

Drallig stared at him. Blinked once. Then slowly—very slowly—tilted his head like Tholme in a way that was calm but vaguely murderous. “You slept with her. In a refresher. A few months ago.” There was a beat. “And you think she’s like that with everyone?”

Tholme gave a half-hearted shrug. “That didn’t really count. Let’s be honest. Mid mission freeze up and all.”  

Drallig looked skyward like he was hoping the ceiling would cave in and save him. “You really don’t remember the first time either, do you?”

That made Tholme pause. Just slightly. A flicker in his jaw. But he said nothing.

“She braided her hair like that for six months after you kriffed her in the training hall,” Drallig continued. “But surprise surprise, you were too busy surviving Torwyn’s bullshit to see you meant something to her. Or maybe you didn’t care, either is plausible when it’s you.”

There was another pause.

“So no. She’s not like that with everyone.”

And Tholme? Still silent. Still looking anywhere but at him.

Because there wasn’t a good answer for that.

“…I didn’t know,” he said finally. Voice low. And truly honest.

Drallig didn’t push, he just let the words sit.

Tholme rubbed the back of his neck, the motion restless. “She never said anything.”

“She was fifteen,” Drallig murmured. “She thought if it mattered to her, it would matter to you.”

Tholme exhaled through his nose, head tipping back against the wall with a quiet thud.

And it wasn’t shame, exactly. Not the way it had felt with T’ra. Not the wildfire panic, the crush of restraint. This was different. Smaller. Simpler.

The quieter kind of guilt—the kind where you didn’t mean to hurt someone, but maybe you did anyway.

Drallig gave a small nod, letting up just enough to make room for that honesty.

"For someone so smart, you’re absolutely useless with people," he said, the words dry but not cruel, softened by something too familiar to hurt.

He didn’t wait for a reply—just shot Tholme a look, sharp, tired, already moving past the argument Tholme hadn’t even made yet. “Now—before I ask.”

Tholme sighed, dragging a hand over his face like he could scrape the whole conversation off his skin. “I told you—I’m fine.”

“I mean, you’re not, but whatever you say,” Drallig said, too fast, like he'd been waiting for the lie all week.

Tholme turned back, eyes flashing with a crooked smirk. “Wow, did I miss the part where you became a licensed mind healer? So far you’ve delved into my psyche and unearthed the past. What’s next, Drallig—empathy?”

Drallig narrowed his eyes.  “Don’t look at me like that—you’ve been acting like someone vacuum-sealed your heart and shot it into the Outer Rim. And if it’s not Marah—or Mavra—who the hell else would it be?”

A humourless laugh broke out of Tholme. “Don’t,” he groaned, evidently not in the mood. “You don’t know a thing.”

Drallig didn’t flinch. He just folded his arms across his chest, jaw tightening. “No,” he said quietly, “but I know what it looks like when someone’s running.”

There was a pause. Then he uttered, “And clearly you didn’t just run. You broke the damn sound barrier.”

There was a beat. Still quiet. Still deadly.

“From Marah. From Torwyn. From T’ra. From yourself.” His eyes locked on Tholme’s. “You don’t even know what direction you’re running in anymore.”

Ouch.

The words landed like a strike. Direct. Unflinching.

And Tholme felt them like a punch to the ribs.

His stomach twisted, his hands flexing at his sides, because the worst part?

It wasn’t that Drallig was accusing him of running. It was who that Tholme had heard this before: From T’ra.

He inhaled sharply, shaking his head. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Drallig arched a brow, voice low, firm. “Don’t I?”

Tholme’s jaw was tight, his entire body wound like a wire ready to snap. He hated this. Hated how Drallig always thought he had him figured out, how he always assumed he knew what was best. And maybe he did know sometimes. Maybe he had been right before.

But this—this wasn’t something Drallig understood. Because Drallig had never been turned into someone’s project. Had never been shaped like a weapon, then punished for being sharp.

Tholme exhaled through his nose, his pulse still too fast, but he forced himself to step back. “Forget it,” he muttered, already halfway gone.

Drallig didn’t follow. Didn’t try to stop him this time. He just stood there, arms crossed, watching.

And Force help him, Tholme hated that even now, even after all of that, Drallig still looked like he thought he was right.

That he knew Tholme would come back when he was ready. Like he always did.

And that—that—was what Tholme couldn’t stand.

So he left. And worse of all, it felt like walking away from something much bigger than that.

Something he wasn’t sure he could get back.

Chapter Text

Eeth was talking. Again.

Tholme had tuned him out somewhere between the part about the mess hall food being suspiciously better today and a wild conspiracy theory involving Master Plo and an underground sabaac ring that he was pretty sure he got from Drallig.

“He wears the mask so no one sees his tells. It’s genius. Plus, I’m pretty sure the reason the mess hall food was actually good today is because—”

“He wears the mask so he can breathe, Eeth,” Tholme cut in flatly, not even glancing over. “Not to hustle the High Council at sabacc.”

Eeth, completely undeterred, didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, that’s what he wants you to think.”

He didn’t stop as they turned a corner—but Tholme wasn’t listening anymore because there she was, walking alone down the corridor.

T’ra was heading toward them. Her pace was even, her face unreadable. But when her eyes met Tholme’s, she slowed. Just a fraction. Just long enough to register the moment.

Tholme’s chest tightened,

She didn’t stop, didn’t say anything—but her gaze lingered.

Tholme offered a small, unguarded smile, the kind he didn’t plan, and something shifted in her expression. Not enough to call it a smile, not really. But the distance in her eyes softened, just a little. Just enough to feel like maybe, maybe he hadn’t ruined everything.

Then she was gone, and the Force, in all its infinite amusement, handed him Eeth instead. Still talking. Still bouncing. Still acting like Tholme hadn’t just been emotionally roundhouse kicked right in the emotional nuts.

Still, Tholme hadn’t invited him back to his quarters. But of course, Eeth followed anyway.

Not that he really cared. It was Eeth, after-all.

On the floor above, the corridor was dim, the overhead lights casting a soft, bluish glow that pooled across the durasteel floors in quiet ripples. Their boots echoed, and the walls smelled faintly of industrial cleaner and old power conduits, a scent baked into the bones of every outpost like this one.

Tholme didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. Eeth filled the silence like he was training for a medal in it.

By the time they reached the door to his quarters, Tholme’s shoulders were beginning to relax.

Weirdly though, the lights from inside his quarters were still dimmed, so Tholme paused just outside the door, frowning. He’d expected Drallig would be back by now—probably sprawled on his bunk, boots kicked off, complaining about Initiates and their sloppy forms or half-dozing over a datapad.

Part of him had even wanted that. Not to argue. Not to pick at old wounds. Just to sit. Maybe say something like you were right. I am sorry.

But the silence on the other side of the door didn’t sit right. It wasn’t calm—it was loaded.

“Wait here,” he said to Eeth, gesturing him away from the entrance as he tapped the panel. And just like that, the door slid open.

Warm lamp light spilled out into the corridor. The scent hit first—steam and something floral, like—oh—his expensive fucking shampoo. Then the sound: the unmistakable shuffle of movement, the low thud of someone backing into furniture, and—

A laugh.

Soft. Female.

Tholme’s brain didn’t even have time to process before his eyes caught up.

Drallig was inside. On his knees.

Shirt half-open, boots off, hair damp from a recent shower. Mavra stood in front of him, her ankle on his shoulder in nothing but a loose towel, damp curls dripping against bare shoulders, leaning against his locker. And Drallig—well, his mouth was exactly where Tholme wished it wasn’t.

Tholme had been ready to apologise. Drallig? He’d come to burn the bridge down first.

Tholme didn’t speak.

Didn’t breathe.

And that was probably what made Drallig finally look up.

His hand was still on Mavra’s hip when he saw him. His expression didn’t shift. If anything, it settled into something smug. A little too aware.

Like he’d expected this.

There was no guilt in his eyes. No surprise. Just the same look Drallig wore when he knew the last strike would land.

Something that said: You’re not the only one people want anymore.

And Tholme? He moved faster than he had all day.

One hand shot out, covering Eeth’s face like a shield even though the poor kid hadn’t seen more than a blur. His other hand slammed the panel shut, cutting the room off like it owed him a favour.

Eeth staggered back, wide-eyed behind Tholme’s hand. “I didn’t see anything!” he blurted, too fast. “I swear! I don’t even know what I didn’t see!”

Tholme’s jaw was tight.  “Correct. And if Drallig ever jokes about it in front of you, I’ll knock his teeth out with his own saber.”

Eeth nodded—quick, stunned—but Tholme still caught the flicker of confusion behind it.

Force, he’s serious, Tholme thought grimly.

He clapped a hand on the kid’s shoulder, steering him down the hall like he could physically shield him from the world. And Eeth allowed it, as though he was trying to understand why Tholme was one bad decision away from getting hauled to Coruscant for homicide. “I—I didn’t see anything but—” he stammered. “But was—?”

Tholme dragged a hand down his face. “Okay. Right. Kid—look at me.”

Eeth did. Hesitantly.

“I am going to explain this once,” Tholme said, tone flat, tired, and just a little furious. “I just saved you from seeing two idiots making very loud and very messy decisions in my space. Ignore it.”

“But—”

“No. No buts.” Tholme pointed at him. “You don’t tell anyone anything. Don’t even think about this conversationa again. If you value your sanity, you’ll pretend we accidently touched a Sith holocron and it brought my worst fears to life.”

Eeth blinked. “...So they were—?”

“Eeth.”

“Okay. Sith holocron. Got it.”

Eeth sat down hard on the bench just outside the quarters, arms crossed, scowling at the floor. His posture was all stiff lines and stormcloud silence, and his foot bounced—just once—before he made it stop like he was furious at himself for fidgeting.

Tholme didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at him.

The set jaw. The flushed cheeks. The very determined attempt at not looking wounded.

And then it clicked.

“…You good?” Tholme asked, already knowing the answer.

Eeth huffed. “She’s not an idiot, okay? It’s him. He’s all—smug and loud and—and smirky.”

Tholme blinked. Slowly.

Ah.

He leaned a shoulder against the wall, arms folding loosely across his chest, watching Eeth with the exact look of someone realising a terrible truth and choosing, for now, to simply let it sit and stew.

“She’s not an idiot,” Eeth repeated, more defensively this time, like Tholme had actually said something—which he hadn’t. Yet. “She was nice to me. She said I had good instincts.” His voice dropped, mutinous. “And cool hair.”

Tholme didn’t smile. Not right away. He just nodded once. “You do have cool hair. And good instincts.”

That earned the faintest, reluctant snort from Eeth, who promptly buried it behind a fresh scowl and turned his face away.

Silence stretched for a beat. Then Tholme’s voice softened, just a little.

“Look, Koth. Feelings… they’re like sparring with a faulty saber. You think you’ve got it under control, and then it blows up in your face, you lose an eyebrow and wind up with scar.”

Eeth didn’t look at him, but his jaw twitched as he kicked the floor lightly with the toe of his boot. “I know she’s never going to like me like that. I’m not stupid.”

He scrubbed his sleeve over his mouth, like it might wipe the sting away. “But she never liked him either. She only talks about you.” There was a pause, then quieter, like he was working through the thought, he asked, “Wait, do you think Drallig is doing it—her? Ew—to mess with you?”

 “It’s not about her,” he muttered. “He just wanted to prove he could take something I said I didn’t even want.”

And that was all the opening Eeth needed.

“…So do you like her or?” he asked, suddenly glancing up.

Tholme snorted softly, dragging a hand down his face. “No. I like quiet. I like people who don’t try to kill me with flirtation at five in the morning.”

Eeth was quiet for a moment, swinging his legs where they didn’t quite reach the floor. Then, almost too casually, he uttered, “…Have you ever liked someone like that? Like… really liked them?”

Tholme’s jaw worked slightly, like he was chewing the words before deciding if they were safe to say out loud. His eyes didn’t leave the opposite wall.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low. “Yeah.”

Eeth blinked. “Oh.” Then—because he was thirteen (and a half) and incapable of letting something that juicy slide he added, “What happened?”

“I left her,” he said, voice quieter than Eeth had ever heard it. “Not forever. Just... in a training hall.”

Eeth frowned. “Why?”

Tholme swallowed. “Because it was easier than staying.”

That hung in the air a beat too long.

Then Tholme sat down, glanced sidelong at him, and muttered, “Don’t do that, by the way.”

Eeth blinked again. “What?”

“Run. When something matters. Don’t do it.” He paused. “Or you’ll spend the rest of the week pretending you care about sparring forms more than you actually do. We’re people, not just property of the Order. Sometimes you just have to kriff the council.” He paused. Reconsidered. And of course, hid the honestly behind a joke. “Not literally, though, Mundi isn’t really my type.”

Eeth was quiet for a moment. His foot tapped against the floor. Then, without looking up, he muttered, “So, the person—that you left? You can still go back, right?”

Tholme turned, brow furrowing.

Eeth shrugged, still scowling at the floor. “I mean... you didn’t leave forever. You just... left the room.” He glanced up. “That’s not the same. If love matters that much…maybe the Force wouldn’t have given it to you.”

Tholme paused, mouth parting—just slightly. No quick reply came.

Eeth swung his legs. “Also,” he added, like it was a perfectly reasonable follow-up, “If you want to heal both of our hearts, you could steal a transport. We could leave right now. Get ice cream. I’m not old enough to drive, so…”

Tholme let out a breath—half laugh, half disbelief. “Ice cream?”

Eeth nodded, solemn. “Cures eighty percent of emotional damage. Especially the one with the caramel chunks.”

He added, deadpan, “And considering I’m lactose intolerant, that makes this a high-risk operation.”

Tholme laughed, genuinely considering it, as he looked out toward the horizon through the corridor’s narrow window. The sky was still bruised with the end of twilight, soft oranges fading into deep, endless blue. And his chest… ached. Not sharp. Not new. Just old pain, rearranging itself.

Because the kid was right.

It wasn’t too late. Not really.

Chapter Text

The overhead lights in Torwyn’s office buzzed faintly, like they were just as sick of being here as Tholme was. He sat hunched over a stack of datapads so aggressively dull it felt like punishment, one leg bouncing beneath the desk, fingers tapping a rhythm that might have been an outer rim pop song.

He was halfway through translating a field report that managed to use the phrase “unidentifiable cargo manifest” twelve times when the door hissed open.

He didn’t look up at first. Probably just another Padawan dropping something off. Or Torwyn, here to loom like an academic cryptid and ask why he wasn’t done yet.

But then—he actually looked up.

T’ra stepped inside, and his stomach did the exact thing it wasn’t supposed to.

Of course it was her. Of kriffing course.

She didn’t say anything at first, she just glanced around like she hadn’t already seen exactly what she came here to see.

Tholme blinked once, tried to make his voice sound casual and not like he’d just swallowed his own spine. “Back already?” he said, biting down the edge of something too hopeful. “I’m going to start thinking you’re keeping tabs on me.”

She raised an eyebrow, not quite smiling. “And here I thought I was being subtle.”

He snorted. “Terrible job. You’ve blown your cover.”

T’ra crossed the room, not in a rush, and perched on the edge of the table beside him. “I was going to work through some reports. But it looks like you beat me to the thrilling part of the evening.”

“Yeah,” Tholme muttered, gesturing to the stack beside him. “Top-tier excitement. One guy spelled ‘suspicious’ three different ways—and none of them were close.”

She let out a soft laugh. “Scandalous.”

“You know what—I’m thinking of compiling the worst ones. I’ll publish it under a pseudonym and make my mark on galactic literature.”

“I’d read it,” she said, and the way she said it—quiet, genuine—made his brain stumble a little.

He didn’t answer at first. Just looked down at the datapad in his hand like it might save him from himself.

It didn’t.

And just like that, they lapsed into a silence that wasn’t really quiet—just less talking. The only sound came from the datapads that made that annoying static whine when you turned too many on at once.

Tholme clicked one shut with a little more force than necessary and muttered, “I swear I’ve lost three brain cells in the last hour.”

T’ra huffed something that might’ve been a laugh and picked one up herself. But she barely looked at it before setting it back down.

“You’re good at this,” she said after a beat. Not playful this time. “Making order out of chaos.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Flattering way to describe glorified desk duty.”

“You make it look less painful than it is,” she clarified.

“It’s an illusion.” Tholme leaned back in the chair, hands behind his head, stretching like he wasn’t very much aware she was watching him. “Trust me. I’m dying inside.”

T’ra’s mouth twitched. Almost a smile. Then she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear—nervous, small—and said, “Truthfully I wasn’t sure if you were open to talking about... last night.”

And there it was. The Thing.

Tholme didn’t freeze, exactly. Just stilled. Like a ship coming out of hyperspace into unexpected debris.

He didn’t look at her right away. Instead he let the words hang there, just long enough to pretend he might’ve misheard them. “Uh. We can talk. If you want. But I figured we weren’t.”

“I assumed,” she said softly. “But I think we should.”

He cleared his throat. "If this is the part where you make it clear last night was a lapse in judgment, consider it clear."

“No,” she said, and this time he did look up. “I’m not here for that, Tholme.”

And that hit harder than it should have.

Tholme scratched at the corner of the datapad—just to have something to do with his hands. “Alright,” he said, voice lower now. “So what are you here for? Because I have things to say. Most of them are dumb.”

Her brow lifted just slightly, and for a moment, something almost like amusement flickered in her gaze. “Is that why you ran last night?” she asked lightly.

He huffed. “I left quickly.”

T’ra let out a quiet, knowing laugh—one that somehow took the edge off, that made something in his chest loosen just slightly. “Noted.”

Still, her smile lingered, but she didn’t press, or dig for more—not when it would’ve been so easy to. She just watched him for a moment, then glanced down at the mess of datapads between them.

Then she reached out and nudged one toward herself like she might actually read it—before immediately giving up and blurting, “If you weren’t a Jedi, what would you do?”

Tholme blinked, giving her a look that could only be described as deeply suspicious.

In answer, she grinned and kicked the toe of his boot lightly under the table, a silent don’t make it weird if there ever was one.

“Serious question,” she said, half-laughing now. “Humour me.”

He leaned back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest. “Like, if I’d washed out as a youngling? Or if the Order just collapsed under its own bureaucracy and set us all free?”

“Either,” she said, smiling. “But yes. If you weren’t here, if you didn’t have a lightsaber strapped to your hip or a Master breathing down your neck. What would you do?”

He let out a breath, slowly. “Alright,” he said. “I’d write. Drallig gives me endless crap about it, but I like words. They make sense.”

That caught her off guard—just a little. “You’d write?”

“Yeah. Books. Holo-novels. Trashy ones, probably.” He gave a wry half-smile. “They’d be horny, inconsistent, and scientifically inaccurate, but that’s all I’ve got.”

T’ra laughed—quiet, surprised. But not mocking. “You’re serious.”

“Mostly.” Tholme shrugged. “You’ve thought about this, huh?”

“I’m allowed to have inner worlds,” she said dryly. “Even Neti have hobbies.”

He grinned. “Alright, hit me.”

She looked at him for a beat—then down at her hands, thumb running idly across the inside of her palm. Her voice dropped just a little, a softer register reserved for thoughts she hadn’t said out loud often. “I’d study art. Visual art. I used to draw when I was younger. Sketches, mostly. Terrible anatomy, worse proportions.”

Tholme blinked. “That’s not terrible. That’s just—style.”

T’ra gave him a faint smile. “It felt like control. I could hold a moment still. Pull something beautiful out of something ugly and... keep it. Even if everything else changed.”

She didn’t look at him as she said it, and Tholme didn’t press. He just let the silence settle for a second, not heavy—just full.

Then, gently, he muttered, “Look at us. Two creative souls. I never would’ve guessed.”

“That’s the point,” she said, smiling into her lap. “It’s yours and it’s mine.”

Then, a beat later, he shifted in his chair, leaned his elbow on the table, and offered the most innocent tone he could muster. “…Question. When you say ‘anatomy,’ do you mean like… nude models?”

T’ra didn’t answer right away. She didn’t glare. Didn’t sigh. Didn’t even roll her eyes.

She blushed.