It was quiet in your ship.

Barely held together, creaking in all the wrong places, but it was yours. Out there, nothing was safe. The air could kill you, and the people would try. But inside this metal shell, you could finally let yourself breathe. Even if it was just for a moment.

You were on the ground, slumped against the cold wall. The wound in your side burned like hell. Deep and messy, getting worse by the second. Blood soaked through the fabric of your suit as you tried to hold it together. Your breath came in short, tight gasps, teeth clenched, hands trembling and covered in dark red liquid, warm and thick as you pressed a makeshift seal against it.

Every muscle in you was focused on staying conscious. Staying still. Staying alive.

Then you felt it. A shift in the air. Not the ship creaking, not the wind. Someone.

Ezra.

He slipped in through the hatch. No warning, no sound. Just that quiet, steady presence. When you looked up, he was already standing over you, helmet off, blaster in hand, and that damned grin spread across his face like this was all some casual reunion.

Your arm shot up, gun raised toward him. Your hand didn’t shake, not once, even though you could barely hold yourself upright. The pain vanished under adrenaline and instinct.

He didn’t flinch. He just stood there, amused. Eyes scanning you, reading you like a page he already knew by heart.

And then he spoke, low and annoyingly calm.

"Relax, sweetheart. If I wanted you dead, you’d have been gone months ago.”

His grin deepened, like he was proud of that line. Then, slowly, he raised both hands in mock surrender, staring down at you like he was waiting to see what you'd do next.

You didn’t lower the gun, and he didn’t stop smiling.