SWEET ESCAPE || poe dameron x reader

chapter ten: learning

It only occurred to you then, when Poe intertwined his fingers with your own, that you'd never held the pilot's hand before.

A month of sleeping in the same room, drinking together, eating meals with each other, going on missions together, and you'd never so much as hugged him? No, that couldn't be right, surely.

You frowned to yourself as soon as Dameron started leading you to a free spot. The campfire roared vigorously, alight with an orange glow that cascaded over his knife sharp jaw and soft smile. It reflected in his dark, pretty boy eyes, leaving nothing to the imagination about where he was looking—

Maker, he was looking at you. Fondly, softly, like he'd been fucking dying to end up having a very awkward dance with you since you'd first arrived on base.

"Slow dance?" Dameron asked lowly. You finally met his eye, forcing yourself to wipe away your nervous frown.

"It's funny that you think I'd be able to fast dance," you joked in response. Poe's silently chuckling smile in return almost ripped your heart out of your fucking body.

"Slow it is," Dameron reassured you.

It was then that his other hand came to settle upon your waist. You took in a deep breath when his fingers pressed snuggly just above your hips, while he raised your already intertwined hands up into a Waltz position. You swallowed as you placed your free hand on his shoulder, settling your fingers down as calmly as you possibly could.

You were touching him, and he was touching you, and you'd never fucking done this before. You were however many beer cans deep, Dameron even more so, and now you were going to dance with him—

Maker, is this allowed?

"Ten," Dameron said suddenly. You flicked your gaze back to his eyes, trying to ignore how you were acting like a deer in headlights. "You okay?" he whispered. For fucks sake, he looked so genuine. He looked so normal and comfortable and everything that you felt you weren't.

Why was it borderline impossible for you to do something normal?

You could feel your walls ascending faster than they ever had before. An anxious pit the size of the Starkiller Base had just opened in your gut and was slowly consuming all of your rational thinking. You could feel the itching stares of the other cadets looking at you and Dameron. Maybe they were sniggering, or making bets about whether or not you'd end up fucking later, or—

"Hey," Poe immediately pulled away from you, but he kept his hand on your waist. For support, for reassurance, for whatever. "You've gone pale, Ten," Poe squeezed your waist softly, bringing you back from within your messed up head.

You thought you'd be fine after he brought you back down to Earth, but that's when your mind got progressively fucked up. When you looked at his face, his stubble, his pretty boy concern that washed over his pretty boy face and his pretty boy everything—

Some sick god out there flashed Ronan's face into your mind.

In front of you, alive, moving, looking at you in that way he used to when you had to share a lander or navigate a perimeter search in the pitch black. Ronan had the same fucking expression as Poe; the same dark curls and the same boyish grin and the same incessant but subtle affection that was reserved just for you.

Only for you.

Maker, why? Why?

He was dead, dust, gone. Yet Dameron was living and breathing. He was sleeping not two meters away from you, snoring soundly while you smiled to yourself at the lawn mower breaths he inhaled and exhaled at night. He was looking at you in that way that he often did, when you could feel his stare on your neck when you weren't looking at him, but knew it was him. He was reassuring you and calming you after panic attacks and random bouts of insecurity unprompted and voluntarily—because he cared.