His things were his own. His ship was his own. His home was his own.

Din Djarin had never had a real home before. The Razor Crest was the closest thing to long-term lodging he’d ever known. After it was destroyed, he had to come to terms with the fact that he had lost his ride, his home, and years of his life in one fell swoop. It was tragic, but he had to move on.

When Greef Karga offered him land and a quaint little cabin as thanks for a job well done, Din found himself with something new to accept. It was modest, yet big enough for him and Grogu: two windows flanking the front door, an awning to the right, and a weathered old tree in the yard, its roots breaking the stones where tall grass grew stubbornly between them. The Mandalorian told himself he’d tidy it up, although he never did.

Inside, the place held the bare essentials — a kitchen, a small living space, a bathroom, and a bedroom, each connected by short hallways that broke up the open floor plan. There was even a closet, meant for spare blankets or storage, though Din quickly repurposed it for his weapons and gear. Not the most secure arrangement, but Nevarro was stable enough these days that he chose to trust it.

It was a nice place to lay low between adventures.