TWENTY SIX.
an unbreachable void!
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The galaxy is laced with ice and fire. Worlds collide and explode into ribbons of gold, and they have no one to save them, no one to hear their cries, spiraling out into oblivion. Not even the gods pity their creations, sat aloft in their thrones forged of iron and bloodshed. They don't despair for soldiers fallen in the war, children slaughtered by detached, cruel empires. They watch, and they wait, and they remind their descendants of how far they have fallen from grandeur.

            The gods do not care of love between mortals. Love between anyone other than themselves. It pales in comparison to the magnitude of their beings, this fragile thing humans call love, love that's made of delicate shards of glass tumbling down a rocky mountainside and trying to remain intact.

            They do not care of perishable love: how it ends, how it grows, how it dies, and much less how it begins.

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Din pulls away from Zoya, setting down the metal cannister and trying not to notice how the fluorescent lights reflect like glinting stars in her pupils. "How does that feel?"

            Her hand lifts to the back of her head, grazing along the wound. They'd left the child dozing in his makeshift seat and gone down to the belly of the ship, where Din had sprayed on some sort of medication after cleaning the dried blood from her hair. It's formed a thin seal across the swollen cut inflicted by the hilt of Toro's blaster—both keeping infection at bay and helping dull the pain with an additional numbing agent mixed in.

            "Without all that damn blood sticking my hair to my head, it's a lot better, if you can imagine that," she says, uncrossing her legs and swinging them down over the edge of the crate she sits atop. He stands in front of her, hips almost slotted between her knees, but he's just far enough back that the possibility of accidentally making contact is eliminated. Zoya's eyes flick up to lock onto his visor. "Thanks, Din."

            He looks down at her and smiles. Though he knows she cannot see it, when the corners of her lips lift up almost in answer, Din wonders if perhaps she can sense his expression, wonders if she knows that she—alongside the child—is one of the only sources of his happiness.

            "Anytime," he says.

            "Really?" Zoya's brows lift teasingly.

            "Of course."

            "For free?" she presses.

            He snorts. "Why wouldn't it be free?"

            Zoya shrugs. "Nothing seems to be free these days."

            "Well, it's only free if you're staying on the ship. I'm not gonna pay for fuel to jet around the galaxy whenever you need something patched up. Knowing you, it would be frequently." Din touches the spot on her upper arm where she'd been grazed by the blaster so long ago. "This isn't the first time I've had to do this for you."

            "True," she admits. "So, free medical treatment whenever I want . . . and the only condition is staying in this rust bucket?" She looks around, pretending to examine the walls of the Razor Crest that are decidedly not rusty. "That sounds like a good deal."

            Din smothers a laugh and turns, placing his collected supplies back into their metal box. "I should clarify: only the first two times are free. Anything after that, and you have to pay. Just like everyone else."

            Zoya's jaw drops open, and she gapes, mock-offended. "Are you kidding me?"

            "Those are the rules," Din says, glancing back at her, unable to keep from grinning while they settle into their easy banter.

            "That's a shit deal. Let me off this gods-damned ship."

            She tries to hop off the box and pretend to march away, but Din steps back in front of her, pushing her back with his fingers touching her hips. It's intended to be in tune with their joking mood, but an unintentional, flustered breath tumbles from her mouth at the contact, and Zoya looks directly up at him, lips slightly parted and cheeks flushed, pink as fresh rose blossoms.

            Within an instant, the lighthearted atmosphere has evaporated and been turned on its head, all at once. In its place, tension rises to caress the incline of her back, the slope of her waist, to pull at her lips as she gazes up at him, unsure and hesitant. His name falls from her tongue, breathy and turned up at the end, an unspoken question.

            "Din?"

            His fingers rise, tentatively, gloved but trembling as they brush along the curve of her jaw. Din's heart pounds against his chest, but he doesn't run. He moves forward, closer, until her thighs frame his hips and she's close, almost as close as she was when he'd covered her with his body in the sand, waiting for the next sniper bolt to strike him in the head.

            Slowly, his hand trails down the curve of her neck until Zoya's collarbone is underneath his fingers and his thumb rests in the small hollow at the base of her throat. Her heart pounds so quickly that he can feel it beating, even through his glove.

            "Your heart," he says quietly. "It's beating so fast."

            Zoya forces a laugh, but it comes out more a sigh than anything else. "Is it?"

            His helmet dips. "Why?"

            "Why do you think?" She doesn't mean to say it, but it's the truth. The sudden reality of Din's closeness has triggered something within Zoya's mind, and it's there, spelled out as clearly as it always has been; this time, she sees it.

            I care for him.

            "I don't know," Din murmurs, and his other hand still rests on her hip, still presses into her body, much like how he'd touched her when he'd taught her how to shoot his rifle, back when they fought alongside the Sorgan farmers, back when everything was simpler. His voice quiets when Zoya doesn't respond, something hesitant and full of self-loathing threading dark fingers through his tone. "Are you scared of me?"

            "No," she replies immediately. "It's not that. It's never been that."

            "What is it?" Beneath the helmet, his eyes search hers, trying to find an answer within her hazel irises that responds to the question lingering in his.

            Almost unconsciously, Zoya lifts her hands, sliding them up over the Beskar on his chest, curling her fingers over the curves of his broad frame, holding on to him through the fabric that covers the space between the line of his neck and the ridge of the shoulder plates. He makes a low sound from the back of his throat, so softly that she almost doesn't hear it. Almost.

            Desire claws at her throat, and her fingers scrape along the lower rim of his helmet, desperate and longing for something she knows she can never have.

            "Zoya—"

            Though she has no intention of removing the helmet for him, though there's no one around to interrupt, to make them scramble apart, as her hands curve around either side of the Beskar, Din jerks back, jumping away from her. Before she can say a word, he's climbing up the ladder, mumbling something about piloting the Razor Crest the rest of the way to the space station.

            Zoya lets her face fall into her hands, cheeks flushed scarlet—both from their proximity and the embarrassment that now floods through her body like a burning tidal wave. A jumble of curses falls from her lips to shatter on the floor.

            "What the hell was I thinking?" she mutters to herself, pushing off the crate. "You fucking idiot, never ever do that again."

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Din pilots the Razor Crest into the space station, landing it as smoothly as ever. When he arrives at the ship's exit, Zoya appears at his side, and though they haven't spoken since whatever happened between them in the depths of the ship transpired, they remain united: a strong, silent pair as they move down the ramp and through the station, garnering stares as they go.

            Before they've gotten too far, a voice proclaims, "Mando." Zoya turns to see a man with bushy, graying hair fading into silvery white at the ends, both in his full beard and his head, approaching them. "Is that you under that bucket?"

            "Ran." Din shakes his hand.

            "I didn't really know if I'd ever see you in these parts again," Ran says, holding the handshake for a beat too long. "Good to see you." His eyes snag on Zoya, standing slightly behind the Mandalorian. "And who might this be? New lady friend?"

            "Zoya Vitaan," she interrupts swiftly, reaching out for a handshake as she sidesteps around Din.

            There's a stilted pause where it's clear the man expects her to elaborate, but she doesn't say another word. Nonplussed, he turns back to Din. "You know, to be honest, I was a little surprised when you reached out to me. You know, cause I . . . I hear things."

            "Don't we all," Zoya says, following at their heels.

            "Like," Ran continues, ignoring her, "maybe things between you and the Guild aren't working out."

            Din merely says flatly, "I'll be fine."

            "Okay," Ran says, nodding. "Well, you know the policy. No questions. And you, you're welcome back here anytime."

            "Thank you," Din replies.

            It seems to be the end of Ran's attempt at prying for answers, and they continue to walk through the station. Sparks fly on occasion, lighting up random corners of the port as metal hisses against metal. Other races are visible slipping in between ships, but no one else stops to talk to them or to see who the newcomers are.

            As they continue across a bridge that spans over one of the landing areas, Din puts a voice to one of the thoughts churning through Zoya's head. "So, what's the job?"

            "One of our associates ran afoul of some competitors and got himself caught. So, I'm puttin' together a crew to spring him. It's a five person job. I got four. All I need is the ride, and you brought it."

            Five person.

            "You're gonna have to make that six," Zoya says.

            Ran glances at her. "You a hunter, like Mando?"

            "No," she admits. "But I do have experience breaking out of prisons, so I'm pretty invaluable in this situation."

            "So you are the convict," he muses. "I wasn't sure."

            Zoya blinks, surprised, but Din cuts in before she can say anything else. "We've got a problem with the job. The ship wasn't part of the deal."

            "Well, the Crest is the only reason I let you back in here," Ran says. Din's head tilts in a distinctively predatory way as he turns to stare at the older man. "What's the look?" He steps closer. "Is that gratitude? Uh-huh. I think it is." As Ran continues walking, his laugh echoes back over his shoulder.

            Before Din can turn to follow him, Zoya grabs his arm, pulling him back to face her. "What the fuck are we getting ourselves into here?" she says under her breath. "I don't trust a goddamned thing about the look he has on his face."

            Din's head shakes marginally. "I know. You're tense; try and keep it under wraps. If they know you're nervous, they'll give you a reason to be."

            Zoya's jaw clicks. "I'm not nervous. Just suspicious."

            "Whatever it is, keep it hidden," he says. "Stay alert. I trust your instincts."

            "There's that, at least," Zoya grumbles, stepping after Din as he strides after Ran, boots nearly soundless on the metal floors.

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it's 3 a.m.!!! i'm gonna hate myself in the morning. sorry future me.