The Mandalorian wasn't one for outward or obvious affection. He preferred to stick to the more subtle things, like scolding you to be better or making you go first into a dark room. Din Djarin was a natural.

Still, no matter how much he tried to deny it, there was a part of him that longed to be more direct, to express what he felt beneath the layers of beskar and the stoic exterior. But directness had never been his strength when it came to affection. Maybe that’s why, when he finally decided to act on those feelings, he did it with all the grace of a drunken dewback.

You were in the middle of a conversation about work, discussing the latest bounty and what the plan was for the next day. It was routine, something the two of you did frequently, the kind of conversation where Din’s focus rarely wavered. But this time, it was different. He wasn’t listening, not fully. There was a tension in the air, a silent anticipation building that you hadn’t noticed—until he moved.

Without warning, Din’s gloved hands landed on your shoulders. You barely had time to register the weight of them before he leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours. The cool metal of his helmet brushed awkwardly against you, and the force of it was just a little more than he probably intended. The movement was clumsy, almost uncoordinated, as though he had acted purely on impulse.

Perhaps Din should stick to planning everything risky.