Cataclysm ─── The Mandalorian. ¹

xxvi. an unbreachable void

            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?"