ix. nothing has changed.

──────⊹⊱✫⊰⊹──────

Once when they were children, Ayaan threw a rock at Zoya's head for refusing to share a special desert Akiv Vitaan had left out the night before when he'd returned home. It struck, anguish and blood spraying. It struck, damaging the bond they'd wound tightly since Zoya was born. It struck, and Zoya was shown the fallibility of trust for the first time—and it would not be the last.

            The scar lies hidden against her upper forehead for years; keeping bangs cut long, she hides it like a spot of weakness, a spot that if touched, her bones would crumble into structureless ash. Her parents never find out; Ayaan apologizes profusely and nearly falls over himself trying to make it up to her. He cleans and presses a bandage against it, and her first bangs are cut before Vésma wakes.

            "Don't tell," he whispers when they go to bed. It is innocent enough, but the press of his fingers into her wrist tells a different story, one that she cannot ignore, and so Zoya agrees silently.

            The unspoken oath persists over years of separation and tears fallen crystal light against throats until Ayaan wounds her once more.

            Caught in Nevarro's dusty halo, wreathed in confusion and pain, Zoya fires a shot that kills both her brother and the scarred-over promises she's kept within her heart for years. His shot renders her left leg unusable and damaged, and her promise has finally been fulfilled.

            Don't tell.

            Ayaan takes their secret to his grave.

            When her hair grows again, Zoya does not cut it.

──────⊹⊱✫⊰⊹──────

The desert is eerily still; nothing moves save the grains of sand the speeder bike stirs up as it rockets over the softly swelling dunes and valleys of glittering gold. It's the end of a lullaby: peaceful, soft, quiet, it nearly lulls Zoya to sleep as she rests her cheek against Din's back, fingers curling into each other hooked across his abdomen. For a while, nothing else exists, but him, and she dreams, just for a few minutes, of staying in this moment for eternity, of ignoring the rest of the world and the unknown force building within her chest, of staying in soft auroras of sunlight with Din and the child for the remainder of her days.

            But when the speeder catapults up vertically, sending Din, Zoya, the child, and all their supplies somersaulting through the air, it's clear that this illusion will never come to be.

            Din partially catches himself with his jetpack, staggering to a halt, but Zoya and the child smash into the sands. Her heart and dreams ripped asunder, she rolls to a halt, struggling to draw in a breath through lungs crushed in an iron fist. For a moment, it seems she will die of oxygen deprivation, but she rolls over and coughs violently, sucking in air.

            "Are you okay?" he says, out of breath.

            "Yeah," she wheezes. "Just dying, is all."

            "Just—" Before Din can finish, a bolt catches him in the head. The shot pings off his helmet, harmless save for the way it makes him stumble, but their ambushers continue to fire.

            "Mando!" she cries.

            "Get the child!" one of the raiders yells.

            "Zoya!" Din shouts, as another shot slams into his back. Another attacker emerges from behind the rocks, coming up behind him.

            Trusting that he can handle himself, Zoya springs to her feet and runs towards where the child lies, a small, defenseless bundle against the sand. Din shoots the creature that's approaching him, but the blaster is smacked out of his hand. Zoya urges her protesting legs faster, but a heavy weight slams into her back, knocking her to the ground. Her elbow cuts back into something soft, and is rewarded with a grunt of pain. The attacker's weight shifts, and Zoya shoves herself away from the ground and twists out from under him; her hand immediately goes to one of the knives sheathed at her waist. Spinning into a crouch, she dives forward to knock over the Kajain'sa'Nikto, shoving the blade to his throat and putting all her weight on his chest.

            "Bad move," Zoya snarls.

            "Wait!" Din yells, before she can dye the sand with the Kajain'sa'Nikto's blood. The knife stalls, blade hungry and gleaming, and Zoya looks up. One of the aliens has the child clutched against its chest, a blade of its own near his face, and suddenly all she can see is the terror in the child's eyes, the trembling of his tiny green fingers, the flattening of his ears as he looks between her and Din, gurgling in fear, asking for help. "Don't hurt the child. If you put one mark on him, there's no place you will be able to hide from me. We can strike a bargain—there's a lot of value in this wreckage. Take your pick. But leave the child."

            The nonhuman shrills something in a language unfamiliar to Zoya's ears; he jabs the knife at Din, who keeps his hands raised.

            "Okay," he says slowly, reaching back to his jetpack.

            The Kajain'sa'Nikto shifts beneath Zoya, and she levies her weight upon her forearm, pressing it against his throat. Her lip curls. It is enough, and he stills, scarred face slackening as breath fails to reach his lungs. Though he does not struggle, Zoya waits to remove the pressure until his eyes have rolled up into his head.

            Din detaches the jetpack and steps forward, easing it carefully to the sand. "Here," he says. "It's yours. Take it." The nonhuman jabs the knife at Din, and he backs away, keeping his hands raised. "It's okay." Before moving forward, it turns to look at Zoya, where she crouches with her knife to its companion's throat. Her thigh burns, but she stares back unflinchingly, her dark irises carved from black ice. "Zoya," Din says. "Let him go."

            "But—"

            "Trust me," he says softly, nearly pleading.

            She rises.

            The alien moves forward and carefully sets the child on the ground, exchanging it for the jetpack. He snaps a few more words at Din before he turns and runs, forgoing his other companions along with the Kajain'sa'Nikto, who lies, limp and unconscious, at Zoya's feet.

            Both the child and Zoya move for Din simultaneously. As he scoops the child up into his chest, Din catches her with his other arm, holding both close. Zoya's hand finds the back of the child's head, and she releases a pent-up, strangely trembling breath. Unbidden, tears prick at her eyes, and she orders them away, slightly furious at herself for the swell of emotion.

            Come on, she rebukes herself, he's fine.

            "You okay?" Din asks the child.

            He gives a small coo of assent, and the Mandalorian carefully removes his other arm from around Zoya's shoulders. His hand finds her face; one thumb brushes over the paper-thin ivory scar upon her forehead. Something within her bones lightens at the touch, exhaling a long pent-up breath.

            "The jetpack—" she begins.

            Din says, sounding slightly smug, "Watch this." He presses something on the controls of his wrist gauntlet, and far ahead, the jetpack activates, propelling the alien straight towards the sky, flailing hundreds of feet up into the air. It takes a few seconds for the creature to slam into the ground, and when it does, a ring of sand puffs up around its unmoving body.

            Zoya feels as if she can hear its bones crack, and winces. "Little fucking beast earned it."

            Silently, Din merely shrugs and calls the jetpack back with his gauntlet's controls, but the set of his shoulders says clearly that he is more than satisfied with this particular outcome. "Let's get moving," he says.

──────⊹⊱✫⊰⊹──────

The dunes are infinite.

            On foot with her old wound radiating its endless, broiling anger, the distance seems incomprehensible. The small pack slung from her shoulder thumps against her hip, and with every step, the haze of Mos Eisley on the horizon seems to grow further away. At least the power caged by her brittle ribs lies dormant for now, a sleeping tiger with claws sharpened and sheathed until its waking moment.

            "You should give some more to me to carry," Zoya says, boots slipping in the glimmering sand.

            "No."  His voice is snow-battered mountains, immovable and impervious through the blackest of nights, and so she does not fight him on it again—for the next hour. But his arms and his willpower begin to tire soon enough, and Din lets her take one more pack as they near Mos Eisley's outskirts.

            "Close," she says, voice more a wheeze.

            "Close," he repeats.

            The sky has darkened by the time they arrive within the city. Bone-weary and exhausted, Zoya stumbles after Din as he enters the cantina. Her eyes focus and unfocus routinely: an ever-sharpening ache in her leg and fatigue from crossing the desert on foot makes her vision swim. He pauses once inside, waiting for her to catch up, and notes the haze of her eyes.

            "Are you okay?" Din asks.

            She blinks once. Twice. Some of the fog clears. "Yeah. Just need. Sit. I think."

            He swears underneath his breath. "Your fucking leg."

            "No." Zoya waves a hand, or tries to: occupied with holding the straps of one of the packs, all she manages is a slight jerk, which looks something like a spasm, further solidifying Din's concern.

            He steers her towards an empty table. "Sit," he says. "Wait with the child. Peli's over there; I'll be back."

            By nature, Zoya opens her mouth to protest, but Din drops one hand from the bar across his shoulders to push her down gently into the seat. "Sit," he repeats, firmly, and carefully lowers the child onto her lap. "I'll be right over there."

            Her eyes close almost immediately, one arm hooked protectively around the child. "Just for a moment," she whispers, as much to herself as it is to him.

            "Give it to me!"

            A boundless, bubbling sound. A child's laughter. "No! Mine!"

            Footsteps pound on hard terrain. Dry summer suns glitter dangerously like a god's eyes, watching reproachfully from the sky. "I'll tell Dad!"

            "Gonna eat it first!" More laughter. Sugar melts on the tongue. A breeze picks up, the darkened color of foreboding.

            Anger, ripening, bitter and saturated on the breeze. A stone flies.

            "Zoya?"

            The dream sews seeds of unrestrainable panic through her chest. They have already begun to sprout, and Zoya jolts forward, nearly spilling herself and the child from the chair.

            "Easy," Din murmurs. "Can you walk?"

            Mind an incomprehensible blur, she nods.

──────⊹⊱✫⊰⊹──────

The scent of roasting meat curls through the air, rich and mouthwatering. It sizzles against Zoya's skin, wreathing her in its aroma. Despite the fact that she knows it comes from the same dragon that spit acidic bile onto dozens of Raiders and Mos Pelgo citizens alike, she cannot help but feel her stomach growl.

            She sits with one leg tucked close and the other stretched out, attempting to alleviate some of the pain that grips her thigh in a vise. Din stands close behind, close enough that when he'd first appeared there, silent as a shadow, she'd been severely tempted to lean back against his legs to rest. Eventually, waiting for Peli Motto, exhaustion had won out, and it had no longer been temptation, but relief that led her to ease back against his solid form. His hands, gloved yet warm, brush against the crown of her head every few seconds.

            It seems like she's only rested for a millisecond when Peli herself barges into the hanger, shouting, "Hey, don't overcook it, Treadwell! I like it medium rare! I'm not some Rodian, for crying out loud." As she makes her way over, Zoya pulls away from Din and stretches up a hand. Quietly, he takes it, helping her to her feet, though it's clear from his silence that he wishes she would stay resting. "All right," Peli says, "here's the deal. A Mandalorian covert is close. It's in this sector, one system trailing."

            "Are they the ones that left Nevarro?" Din doesn't release her hand, not immediately. Zoya finds that she doesn't mind.

            "Don't know," Peli replies with a shrug. "All I know is that the contact will lead you to them."

            "How much will it cost?"

            "Well, that's the great news. It's free—"

            "Nothing's ever free," Zoya mutters pessimistically.

            "—Aside from a finder's fee, of course," Peli finishes.

            Din's fingers slide from hers, only to find the small of her back. Out of sight of Peli, he rubs soothing shapes into her tense muscles. "What's the not-great news?" he asks, sounding resigned.

            "Nothing. It's all great."

            "Okay," he says with a sort of finality, and turns to look at Zoya; his hand slides to her waist, and it seems as if he's going to ask her something.

            But before he can speak again, Peli draws out, "However."

            Zoya restrains a snort, and shifts her boots in the sand, trying to relieve her left leg of some of the pressure. "Here we go."

            "There is one small skank in the scud pie," the older woman says, holding out her fingers pinched close together.

            "Which is?" Din asks flatly.

            "The contact wants passage to the system."

            "Do you vouch for them?"

            "On my life."

            He sighs. "Fine."

            Zoya casually leans closer to Din to get some of the weight off her left leg. He accepts her nearness without a word, allowing her to lean against his side. She nestles her shoulder into his chest and feels his hand rise to rest against her waist. "That's not so bad," she says. "Passage isn't asking much."

            Peli winces. "And . . . no hyperdrive."

            She feels him tense, and he shakes his head immediately. "You want me to travel sublight? Deal's off."

            "It's one sector over."

            "Moving fast is the only thing keeping us safe," he snaps.

            Zoya glances up at him, feeling a pit gape wide in the middle of her stomach. It's colored with something like guilt, and she considers, for the first time, how hard it has been for him to keep the child safe alone.

            "These are mitigating circumstances," Peli tells him, widening her eyes in emphasis.

            "What do you mean 'mitigating'?"

            A being approaches from the entrance of the hangar. It's an amphibian, frog-like species that Zoya doesn't recognize, doe-eyed and innocent-looking, though Din seems suspicious enough that it may as well have ten-foot-long claws and seven daggers sheathed at its waist. A large container filled with small, floating orbs glows upon its back, straps hooked around its shoulders.

            "I'm not a taxi service," Din mutters, keeping his voice low.

            "I know, I know, I hear you. But I can vouch for her."

            The Frog-Lady approaches, hands clutching the tank that's slung across her back. She speaks quickly in her language, eyes glowing with anticipation and the light of the fire slowly roasting the dragon meat.

            Din isn't impressed. "What's the cargo?"

            Briefly, the frog species says something in her garbled tongue.

            Moments later, Peli translates, eyes serious, "It's her spawn. She needs her eggs fertilized by the equinox or her line will end. If you jump into hyperspace, they'll die. She said her husband has settled on the estuary moon of Trask in the system of the gas giant Kol Iben."

            "She said all that?" Din stares towards the Frog-Lady.

            Peli shrugs. "I paraphrased."

            Clearly displeased, he stares towards the nonhuman species, body still wound tighter than a spring. It seems as if the metal of his beskar is infused within his veins instead of set upon his shoulders. "Is she sure there are Mandalorians there?"

            As Peli holds up a finger and turns to the Frog-Lady to ask, Zoya's fingers find Din's hand on the slope of her waist. "Hey," she says softly, "if you want me to move just say, because—"

            "Don't move," he replies, an inaudible please strung at the end of his request.

            "Okay," Zoya whispers.

            Short moments later, Peli turns back to them and relays, "She said her husband has seen them."

            "Hopefully her husband's word is good," Zoya mutters.

            Eyes glossy and wide, the Frog-Lady moves towards the Razor Crest, clutching the straps of the cannister pressed against her back like it is a lifeline. Zoya watches her walk past Din, wondering how her and her husband were separated.

            As soon as the amphibian is out of earshot, Din leans down and mutters, "Do you know the husband?"

            "No," Peli scoffs. "I just met her ten minutes before you walked in."

            If Din's face were visible, Zoya would bet ten thousand credits that his jaw would hit the ground. She has to settle for picturing it mentally as he says, voice gruff, "I thought you said you vouched for her on your life."

            "What can I say, I'm an excellent judge of character."

            Zoya snorts. "Let's hope so."

            "I like you two, don't I?" Peli says. Then, something begins to glow within her eyes, a lightbulb brightening to its full power as her brain hums to life. "Your ship! That's what I forgot."

            Her brow creases. "What about my ship?"

            "Well," Peli drags out, and her face falls slightly, "the engine blew. And the stabilizers are completely wrecked."

            Bewildered, Zoya can only stare at her for a long moment, trying to comprehend the situation. "What—how?"

            "It was the droids. There was a small crack in one of the stabilizers—and I told them to wait because I don't have the right tools, trust me, I did! But one of them tried to knit it shut and, well . . ." Peli's face is apologetic and lined with apprehension. "Then, the engine—it's just not as reliable as the older models, and something in the explosion with the stabilizers—"

            "Explosion?" she interrupts, voice raising in pitch and volume at once. Din's comforting hand upon her waist becomes a restraint, a reminder that the world has not gone to ruin, not yet.

            "I can fix it, of course," Peli stresses, continuing as if she hasn't spoken, "but it'll take time. A lot of it."

            "Fuck," Zoya says between her teeth, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Fuck. What am I—how will I—" Helplessly, she glances up at Din, searching for an answer within the expressionless, void slash of his visor, a black, empty space, the galaxy stripped of its constellations.

            Peli's brow creases. "I'm sorry, I really am. These stupid droids don't know how to take orders anymore." Her eyes pass between Zoya and Din in the silence, both reading their body language and remembering how they'd arrived separately. "If you need it," she adds slowly, "I have a spare room you can take. If you're going to be staying here in Mos Eisley."

            Unsure, floundering, drowning, a river of uncertainty filling her lungs, Zoya blinks, at a loss for words for once. "Thank you, Peli," she manages finally. "That's very kind of you."

            The woman's gaze darts between the two, and she takes a step back, gray curls electric and wild. "I'll let you think about it, okay? Just know that the offer stands. And that I'm sorry. Very sorry."

            Peli moves away, smoothly giving them space to talk it out—if need be. Zoya realizes this but still does not speak, unsure of her own heart. In the end, she doesn't have to, as his voice rises just as her heart begins to sink, clawing at her ribs to stay afloat but tumbling to the soles of her feet.

            "If you don't want to stay," Din says quietly, "you know you always have a place with me."

            She pulls away from his side, tilting her chin up towards his. Her eyes search the visor of his helmet, waiting for the smallest indication that he could change his mind. "Are you sure?"

            "Zoya." His helmet catches the light of the fire, rimming the gentle lilt of his voice with gold. "Nothing has changed. Not for me."

            There is nothing to say, not really, nothing that can be enough. "Thank you," she whispers.

            Din shrugs, dismissing her gratitude. Somewhere inside, she knows it's because he doesn't want her to grow uncomfortable. The sunlight within her swells, and Zoya watches him for a beat longer, wanting to express it all.

            "I'm not surprised that it went to shit that easily. That's the problem with flashy ships," Din says, and as the tension shatters into billions of glittering pieces, she swears that he sounds smug, "they're unreliable."

            Zoya rolls her eyes. "Yeah, and your rust bucket isn't?"

            "Hey," he objects. "Mine isn't the one that's sitting in the corner of the bay broken down and smoking."

            "You're so annoying," she says, but the smile that crosses her face tells a different story.

            Din folds his arms, beskar clinking. "You could always stay here. I know how much you love sand."

            "There needs to be at least one person with a level head aboard that rusty ship," Zoya says. "Otherwise, you won't last a fucking day."

            "So . . . where do we find a person like that?" Din asks seriously.

            "Me."

            "No."

            "Yes—"

            "I think I can recall a few stupid, reckless choices in your recent history."

            "You wanna talk reckless? Who just jumped into a dragon's mouth, like, yesterday?"

            "That's different," Din says, waving it off. "Let me help you get to the ship; you're absolutely shit at hiding that wince."

            "Am not," Zoya grumbles, but allows him to scoop her up into his arms anyway. Her arm hooks around the back of his neck, and her pointer finger finds her thumb, flicking a nail against his helmet. "I hate you so much."

            Out of sight to Zoya, Din smiles, because this is what he missed, more than anything. "I know."

──────⊹⊱✫⊰⊹──────

a/n: me not updating for almost two weeks vs me saying that im gonna try to update more </3 as always, thank u so much for the continued support even tho this book is very slow moving. i appreciate it and love u all sm !!