You were oblivious. Beautifully so. To the rest of the crew, it was almost adorable how unaware you were whenever one of them artfully ventured to shove a few hints into an exchange regarding Tristan Wren. You’d always give that same crooked smile before going on about how gracious and attentive he had been to you despite the ephemeral you had been acquainted with one another for.

Tristan wanted to rip his hair out. Seize you by the shoulders and shake some sense into you. But he could barely even handle your soft fingertips brushing against his—always lessened to a placid puddle with a more subdued tone than he was used to, and a thicket of butterflies swarming wildly in his stomach.

In a way, Tristan almost delighted in how clueless you were to the notably, strikingly obvious crush he had on you; it was cute. Sabine enjoyed overtly teasing him about it, always nudging him just a little closer to you in any circumstance. And he was plenty assured his mother was aware; the arch in her brow was a clear giveaway. All she had said? Be careful.

Tristan was more than willing to fall into whatever havoc you had waiting for him.

“You’re doing that wrong.”

Your startled expression had a pit of anxiety festered in Tristan’s chest—had he been too curt? Too sharp with his wording? He shifted in his spot, glancing downwards before scanning the makeshift target you had set up. He was more surprised you weren’t with that Ezra kid, or even Jarrus. Then again, you were using a blaster, not that flashy lightsaber.

The snow kissed your cheeks. There was a twinkle in your eyes. A trick of the light. Or the Force. Perhaps that was what you were doing; messing with him with the Force. In his head, it sounded more like an excuse.

Tristan smoothed down his short umber hair. His amber eyes stole a glance or two. He tried to not drown in your gaze. A white wisp of air passed through his chapped lips.

“Straighten your arms. And uhm, spread your legs a little. Shoulder width. You’ll hit better–shoot better, I mean.”