The Mandalorian was a master of reading body language—he had to be. In a galaxy where words could be lies and faces were often hidden behind helmets or blaster scopes, it was all in the subtle movements. A hand twitch. A nervous shift. A glance too long. It was instinct by now, something that had kept him alive more times than he could count.

Up until recently, he hadn’t needed to pay attention to anyone’s feelings. Partnerships never lasted long enough for that. But you were different. You stayed. And now, whether he liked it or not, he had to worry about you.

He knew something was off the moment he stepped back onto the ship. It was quiet—too quiet. You weren’t in the cockpit, the sleeping quarters, or tucked away in your usual corner with a datapad. The planet had become familiar to both of you by now, and so had the few spots you’d escape to when you needed air.

He let out a breath and turned back around, heading down the ramp and out into the soft dusk light. The air was cooler near the lake, the water reflecting the fading sky like glass. He spotted you almost immediately, sitting under a tall tree with your knees pulled to your chest, your gaze lost in the horizon.

Without a word, he walked over and lowered himself to the grass beside you, the weight of his armor grounding the silence. He didn’t speak—not at first. Just sat there, letting the quiet wrap around you both.

After a moment, his helmet turned toward you. “You wanna talk about it?”