Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The docks were slick with rain, the sea air thick with the scent of salt and engine fuel. Four Mandalorians moved like shadows through the dim light, armor catching only the faintest gleam.

You were the newest among them. Months, not years. Still learning the rhythm of the Nite Owls, still trying to earn the kind of wordless trust that Koska and Axe shared when they fought side by side.

At least Axe wasn’t a stranger anymore. You’d been on two missions with him before this one, enough to learn that he fought clean, precise, that he always had your back without making a show of it. And though his words were few, you’d caught the dry humor that sometimes edged into his voice when the comms were quiet.

Koska you’d met only days ago, but she’d taken to you with an ease that surprised you—quick with encouragement, quick with a grin.

Varo was different. His armor was painted in the same Nite Owl blue, but his presence felt heavier, sharper. He’d been with a different cell before joining back with Bo-Katan’s forces. You’d caught him watching you more than once on the shuttle down. Not with warmth, not with disdain either—something assessing. Measuring.

“Cache is just ahead,” Koska’s voice came through comms. She crouched at the edge of the dock, pointing toward the warehouse squatting against the waterline.

“Light guard,” Axe said, scanning. “Sloppy perimeter. Too sloppy.”

“Trap?” you asked.

“Or overconfidence,” Varo muttered. His gaze flicked to you, then lingered just a second longer than necessary. “Try to keep up, new blood.”

Your jaw tightened under your helmet. “I’ll manage.”

Koska’s laugh crackled over comms. “Don’t mind him. He thinks he’s charming.”

They breached fast, clean. Koska and Varo moved with practiced aggression, cutting through the guards with blades and blaster fire. You weren’t as fast—you never had been—but Axe stayed near your shoulder, letting you cover angles, never straying far. He didn’t comment when your shots took down two would-be flanking guards. He didn’t have to. The small tilt of his helmet told you he’d seen.

Inside, the cache was locked down. A heavy security door sealed tight, console blinking a steady red.

“Explosives,” Varo suggested.

“Would draw half the docks,” Axe countered. His gaze turned to you. “You’ve got tools, don’t you?”

You nodded, already moving. Kneeling at the console, you pulled out your kit and set to work. The locks weren’t military-grade. Just stubborn. Your fingers moved steady and sure, tracing wires, re-routing circuits.

Varo leaned against a crate, arms folded, watching. “Didn’t know we had a slicer with us.”

“I’m not,” you muttered, focused on your work. “But I know my way around a locking mechanism.”

There was silence, then the door hissed open.

You looked up with a grin. “See? Told you.”

Koska clapped your shoulder warmly. “Nicely done.”

Varo let out a low whistle. “Impressive. Didn’t think you had that in you, mesh’la.” The endearment rolled off his tongue like a test.

You froze for half a second, caught off guard, before your laugh slipped out—uneasy, but not dismissive.

Axe felt something sharp twist in his chest. He didn’t like the way Varo’s helmet stayed fixed on you. Didn’t like that you’d answered him at all. He told himself it was nothing—just tension, just the mission—but he stayed closer to you for the rest of the run.

The cache burned behind you when the charges blew, flames reflecting off the water. The mission had gone flawlessly, yet as the four of you made your way back to the ship, the silence between you carried more weight than the fire at your backs.

Koska kept her tone light, talking logistics. Varo walked with an air of smug amusement. And Axe… Axe walked at your side, jaw tight, fists clenched in his gloves.

He told himself it was tactical. Just covering your flank.

But it wasn’t.

Chapter Text

The hangar smelled like scorched metal and oil, and Axe Woves was half convinced you preferred it that way. He leaned against a support strut, helmet tucked under his arm, watching you move beneath the belly of the gauntlet fighter like you were born there.

The others had peeled off—Koska to spar with Bo-Katan, Varo to polish his armor until it gleamed like a star. But Axe stayed. He told himself it was because he needed to debrief you about the damage the ship had taken in the last skirmish, but that excuse wore thin the longer he stood here, silent, just… watching.

You weren’t like Koska or Varo. You didn’t cut through missions with that predator’s grace, didn’t strike fear in stormtroopers just by standing tall in beskar. You held your own, yes, but you didn’t keep pace when the firefight dragged into a sprint. Axe had noticed. He always noticed.

And he covered for it. He’d step into the line of fire just a little more often when you were on his flank. Shift his angle so you could reload without being exposed. To anyone else, it looked like tactical sense. To him, it was instinct.

Now, crouched beneath the ship, you had a hydrospanner clenched between your teeth, smudges of grease painting your cheek. Your hands were deft, coaxing cooperation out of stubborn wiring like you were speaking a language Axe couldn’t hope to learn.

You grunted, spat the tool into your hand, and muttered under your breath, “If one more of you di’kuts overrides a cooling system mid-run, I swear—”

Axe’s lips twitched before he could stop himself. Stars, he liked your fire.

He shouldn’t. You were still new to the Nite Owls, still proving yourself in ways that mattered to Mandalorians. He was supposed to measure you with the same sharpness he gave everyone else. But when it came to you, his judgment blurred.

She’s not the fastest. Not the strongest. But she’s still here, he thought. Still standing where others would’ve fallen.

You shifted onto your back, wriggling further beneath the ship’s hull, and your shirt rode up just enough to expose a curve of skin—soft, warm, wholly human. His throat tightened. Most warriors he’d known carved themselves lean with endless training, but you… you were different. Chubby, yes. A little slower. And somehow that only made him want to draw nearer. To shield. To claim.

Axe exhaled hard, dragging a gloved hand down his jaw. Ridiculous. He was a soldier. Mandalorians weren’t meant for distractions. But still, his eyes followed the deliberate precision of your hands as you reconnected a scorched conduit.

“Could use another pair of hands,” you called suddenly, voice echoing from beneath the fighter.

He startled slightly—caught in his own thoughts—but strode forward to kneel beside you. “What do you need?”

You slid the hydrospanner toward him without looking. “Hold this steady while I secure the housing. And don’t strip the thread, or I’ll know.”

Axe chuckled, a low rumble in his chest, as he took the tool. “You doubt me already?”

“I’ve seen you pilot. You’re heavy-handed.”

He arched a brow, though you couldn’t see it with him looming above you. “Careful. I might take offense.”

That earned him a laugh. Stars, that sound—it hit him harder than blaster fire. He wanted to bottle it, carry it into battle, let it drown out the chaos.

You scooted closer, your shoulder brushing his knee as you maneuvered the component into place. Heat flared at the contact, sharp and unwelcome in its intensity. He clenched his jaw, trying to focus on the task.

“She’s steady now,” you murmured, tightening the seal. “Another ten klicks in pursuit and we would’ve lost primary systems. You fly her hard, Axe.”

He smirked faintly. “You fix her better than anyone else could. I push because I know you’ll keep her alive.”

That made you glance up at him, smudge of grease across your brow, eyes wide and searching. He swallowed. Too much truth in that slip.

You smiled, though, soft and quick, before returning to your work. “Flattery won’t get you out of cleaning the carbon scoring.”

He huffed, passing the hydrospanner back. “Was worth a try.”

For a while, the only sounds were tools clinking, panels sliding back into place, your soft hum of concentration. Axe let himself look then—really look. At the curve of your cheek, the line of your jaw, the way your lips pursed when a bolt wouldn’t give. At how you fit in this world of smoke and steel, not by being the sharpest blade but by being the one who kept the blades from breaking.

Koska could fight circles around most. Varo could strike with precision and swagger. But none of them could do what you did. None of them could make Axe’s chest ache just by lying under a ship, cursing at a stubborn coil.

She’s not like the others. She doesn’t need to be.

The thought was quiet, resolute, heavier than any oath he’d taken.

You rolled out from beneath the fighter with a triumphant grin, grease smeared across your forearms. “All done. She’ll hold.”

Axe offered his hand before he could stop himself. You took it, and the weight of your fingers curled around his made his pulse jump. He pulled you up, steadying you when you wobbled, and for a heartbeat you were closer than you should’ve been—your chest brushing his armor, your breath ghosting his throat.

Too close. Too dangerous.

But Axe didn’t move. Couldn’t. His hand lingered a second too long in yours, his eyes locked on the curve of your mouth.

Say something, he ordered himself. Anything.

But all that came was silence, thick and charged. And maybe you felt it too, because you didn’t pull away.

Finally, Axe cleared his throat, forcing space between you. “You’re wasted on repairs,” he said roughly, though his voice was softer than he intended. “Any clan would be lucky to have you.”

Your smile wavered—just for a moment—but when it returned, it was warm enough to make his chest ache. “Maybe. But I’d rather have this clan. These people.”

Me, he thought savagely. You’d rather have me.

He bit it back, tucking the words behind clenched teeth. Not yet. Not here. But stars help him, he was already yours in every way that mattered.

And as you turned back to your tools, humming softly, Axe Woves stood in the hangar with his heart unarmored, knowing that sooner or later, he wouldn’t be able to hide it anymore.

Chapter Text

Axe Woves sat cross-legged on the floor of his quarters, helmet in his lap, rag and solvent at his side. The room was quiet, just the faint hum of the ship’s systems thrumming through the metal walls. Normally, this was when his mind settled. Cleaning the armor was ritual, a way to order the day’s chaos into something clean, steady, purposeful.

Not tonight.

Tonight, every pass of the rag over beskar only brought him back to you.

He could still see you, half-buried beneath the fighter in the hangar, grease smudges like war paint on your cheek, eyes bright with concentration. Still hear your laugh when you teased him about his piloting. Still feel the weight of your hand in his, warm, soft, alive.

Stars, that hand. He’d held dozens before—comrades, clanmates, brief touches in battle—but none had made his pulse thunder in his throat like yours had. He’d felt every line of your palm, the slight tremble as you stood, the trust in the way you let him steady you.

He was supposed to let go immediately. He hadn’t.

Axe scrubbed harder at the curve of his gauntlet, jaw tight. What was wrong with him? He’d fought side by side with some of the fiercest Mandalorians alive. He’d faced stormtroopers without flinching, stared down Imperial officers who thought they could buy his loyalty. None of it rattled him like you did with one smile.

And it wasn’t just attraction. He knew what that felt like—brief, burning, gone with the next campaign. This was different. This had been building in quiet ways he hadn’t wanted to name.

The way he found himself shifting formation so you wouldn’t be caught in heavy fire.
The way his mood lightened when you were the one at his flank.
The way you looked at machines—like they weren’t just metal and wires, but things with souls worth saving.

He liked that about you. More than liked.

You weren’t the sharpest blade in the unit, not the quickest shot or the fastest runner, but you didn’t need to be. You made them stronger in other ways. You kept their ships running, their gear patched, their fires lit. You filled cracks others didn’t even notice.

And when you laughed—when you laughed, it made him forget the weight of everything else.

Axe’s hand stilled on his gauntlet, rag clutched tight.

He wanted you.

There it was. Stripped down, laid bare. He wanted you, and not just in the fleeting way of battlefield camaraderie or fleeting passion after a mission’s high. He wanted the quiet things. To be the one you trusted with more than just repairs. To know what it felt like to have you look at him the way you looked at those machines—like he was worth saving, too.

He scowled, scrubbing harder at an already polished seam. Foolish. Dangerous.

Mandalorians were strength, discipline, loyalty to the clan above the self. Affection… affection complicated everything.

And yet—

Axe set down the gauntlet with a clatter, dragging a hand over his face. His chest was tight, restless. The memory of you rolling out from beneath the ship, grinning wide with pride at your work, burned in his mind. He’d wanted to reach out then, smear the grease from your cheek with his thumb, maybe steal a kiss before he thought better of it.

If she knew what I was thinking, she’d laugh, he thought bitterly. Or worse—she’d pity me.

Except… maybe not. You hadn’t pulled away when he held your hand too long. Hadn’t shied when he lingered close. You’d just smiled, eyes softer than he’d expected, like you didn’t mind. Like you almost welcomed it.

That was the thought that kept him pacing his quarters long after the others were asleep.

He stripped off his chest plate, setting it aside, then sat heavily on the edge of his bunk. For a long moment, he stared at the helmet in his hands. The paint was chipped, the edges worn, but it was his. His shield, his identity, his discipline. And for the first time, he hated it just a little—because behind that visor, no one could see the storm in his eyes when he looked at you.

He wanted to say something. To tell you. To lay it bare like he’d just admitted to himself.

But what if it ruined everything?

You were still new to the Nite Owls, still finding your footing. If he made it personal, if he crossed that line, it might unbalance the team. Worse—it might drive you away. And the thought of you leaving, of not seeing you every day in the hangar or at his flank in a fight, was unbearable.

So he’d swallow it. For now. He’d guard it like he guarded everything else.

But stars, it burned inside him.

Axe leaned forward, elbows on his knees, helmet dangling from his hands. He imagined your laugh filling this room, imagined you sitting across from him with tools scattered between you, imagined you leaning close to smudge grease on his cheek just to see him scowl. He imagined kissing you, slow and unhurried, like there was no battle waiting outside the door.

His chest ached with it.

And maybe one day, he’d find the words. Maybe one day he’d let them spill out in the heat of a mission, or in the quiet after, when no one else was around. Maybe you’d meet him halfway.

Until then, he’d keep standing at your side. Keep covering your flank. Keep letting the others think it was just tactics, just good sense.

But Axe Woves knew the truth.

Every time he put on that helmet, every time he walked into fire with you at his back, he knew he was fighting for more than Mandalore. He was fighting for the chance—no matter how slim—that one day, you might look at him and see more than just another soldier in blue beskar.

You might see him.

And stars help him, if that day came, he’d never let you go.

Chapter Text

Varo’s voice flowed beside him, animated and sharp. “If we split into two teams and hit the north and south routes, we’ll cover more ground without triggering patrols. Then we—”

Axe nodded, absorbing the plan, mentally noting patrol patterns. Not bad… Varo’s thinking is solid. He started weighing risks and escape points, until a sudden clang echoed from the training yard.

His eyes flicked toward it, and recognition hit immediately. That’s you. The trainee sparring with Koska — slower on her footwork than the average Nite Owl, a bit rounder in frame, but moving with precision and determination that spoke of real skill.

Varo continued talking, oblivious. “…and if we pull it off right, exposure time drops by thirty percent.”

Axe nodded, though his attention was wavering. He found himself cataloging your movements: the way you shifted to absorb strikes, the slight lag in speed compared to Koska, but also the improvements — you were faster than last mission, your counters cleaner, more confident. Three missions in and she’s already picking up my patterns and Koska’s techniques. Not bad at all.

Varo paused, tilting his head. “Hey… Woves? You even listening?”

Axe blinked, caught. “Yeah. Uh… yes.” He ground his teeth in mild frustration. Damn it. I’m trying.

Varo’s smirk widened. “Sure. You’re just… distracted. By a pretty face, I’m guessing?”

Axe’s jaw twitched. Varo, shut up. He tried to straighten, focus back on the recon plan, but the corner of his vision betrayed him again. Every swing, every parry, held him rapt — not just for your skill, but for the sheer effort and determination you put into keeping up. She’s getting better. Faster than I’d expected. Proud of her… but that doesn’t mean I have to say anything.

Varo chuckled softly. “I’ll bet five credits you start mumbling tactical notes about her moves before the end of this session.”

Axe’s lips pressed together, a subtle tension in his shoulders. Maybe I would. And yet, he forced himself to focus on Varo, even as his mind cataloged every improvement, every calculated movement, and the small, undeniable spark of admiration he couldn’t ignore.

——

Your lungs burned, sweat prickling along your hairline as Koska pressed forward with another flurry of strikes. Every block, every pivot, every shift of weight demanded your full attention. You were determined not to let her down — or yourself.

“Good. Keep your balance, don’t overcommit,” Koska barked, tapping your shoulder lightly. “Again.”

You parried, dodged, and countered, heart racing, muscles trembling, entirely absorbed in the rhythm of the sparring. For a moment, there was nothing else in the world — no missions, no obligations, no spectators. Just Koska’s movements, and your attempts to match them.

By the time Koska stepped back and signaled the end of the session, your chest heaved, and your arms felt like lead. “Not bad,” she said, letting you drop into a crouch to catch your breath. “You’re slower than the average Nite Owl, sure… but your counters are sharper than last time. I can see you’re thinking, not just reacting. That’s what counts.”

You wiped your forehead with the back of your hand. “Thanks. I… I’ve been trying.”

Koska gave a small nod, her rare smile softening her usual intensity. “And it shows. Keep that up, you’ll be more than competent on the field.”

She glanced over her shoulder. “What do you think, Axe?”

You barely registered the sound at first — fully absorbed in catching your breath — until a voice came from the sidelines.

Axe shifted a step forward, gaze steady on you. “Your eyes are faster,” he said, his tone measured, almost casual — though there was a flicker of something more beneath it. “You’re reading her tells before she strikes. Footwork still lags, but you’re compensating with anticipation. That’s an improvement.”

Your stomach did a little flip. Oh… he’s been watching this whole time?

Koska arched an eyebrow. “Anything else, or are you going to keep your praises brief?”

Axe smirked faintly, a rare break in his usually stoic demeanor. “Don’t get used to it,” he said, but he stepped a bit closer, eyes narrowing slightly in thought. “In a spar, slower footwork isn’t the end of the world. In the field, it means enemies will press you harder. So make it work for you — let them overextend when they come at you fast. You’ve got solid timing; punish their mistakes instead of trying to match their speed.”

You blinked, surprised at the different angle, and nodded quickly, heart thudding at the precision in his words.

He added, quieter, like it was meant just for you: “And don’t drop your chin when you counter. Happened twice in that last flurry. Someone’s waiting for that.”

Heat rose to your cheeks, both from exertion and the attention. “Got it,” you murmured.

Varo’s laughter floated over from the sidelines. “Careful, Woves, you’re turning into quite the teacher there.”

Axe’s jaw tightened ever so slightly, but he didn’t reply. Instead, his gaze flicked back to you, cataloging every subtle movement, every improvement since your last mission together. Faster. More precise. Determined. Proud of her… and I can’t help noticing.

Koska clapped her hands lightly. “All right, enough gaping. Clean up, hydrate, and don’t trip over your own feet.”

You glanced up again, catching Axe’s gaze for a heartbeat. It was steady, deliberate, a little warmer than usual, like an unspoken acknowledgment of effort and growth. For a moment, you felt a flicker of pride — and something else, something unexpected, stirring quietly in the pit of your stomach.

Chapter Text

The wreck groaned and shivered under their boots, as though the old cruiser resented their presence. Rusted beams leaned at sick angles, air biting with cold and ozone. What was supposed to be a routine salvage run had already stretched into something precarious.

“Half this plating’s worthless,” you muttered, sweeping your wristlight across the broken corridor. “But if there’s even a sliver of beskar—ah!”

Your voice carried that excitement that always pulled a faint crease between Axe’s brows. You’d been with them long enough to know better than to rush blind in unstable terrain. Yet when the glint caught your eye—metal gleaming faintly beneath a warped strut—you forgot all of it.

“There!” you exclaimed, moving forward.

“Wait—” Axe’s warning snapped out too late.

The wreck screamed around you, groaning as supports shifted. A section of ceiling collapsed behind you in a violent roar. Axe didn’t think—he moved. He launched himself forward, tackling you down beneath him.

The world thundered as steel rained down, sparks spitting, air crushed by weight. Axe braced himself, body shielding yours, until silence pressed back in. The only sound left was the hammer of his pulse, loud enough he wasn’t sure if it was his or yours. Your weight beneath him felt terrifyingly small against the crush of metal.

His pulse hammered. For a moment he stayed perfectly still, ears ringing, chest heaving with the sound of your breath beneath him. Alive. Alive.

You stirred, dazed. “I—I dropped my helmet.”

Axe’s head jerked back toward the rubble. For half a breath, panic spiked—no helmet meant no protection if the air shifted. He forced it down, cataloguing the danger before it could fray his focus. There was no sign of your helmet. Must be on the other side of the rubble. A curse burned in his throat.

The atmosphere wasn’t toxic, but it was bitterly cold. Too cold to sit long without protection. He forced himself to stand, scanning the collapse. Heavy beams had wedged together, sheets of metal overlapping like jagged teeth. He tested one with his shoulder. It didn’t budge.

You were already moving toward the gleam again—still chasing that faint hope. Fingers scraped against edges as you pulled, pried, until a solid panel slid free. Beskar. Real.

But behind it? Nothing but a wall of compacted wreckage. A dead end.

Your shoulders slumped as you turned back. “Guess that’s it.”

Axe checks his comms, grits his teeth. “Nothing. Can’t reach anyone from here.”

You lowered yourself to the ground, breath fogging faintly in the freezing air. “When we don’t check in, they’ll send someone. Might be a few hours.”

“Or a day,” Axe corrected. His jaw set tight. Too long without warmth. He crouched, running through options, voice clipped as he spoke them aloud.

“We can’t dig through that from this side. Too unstable. Would bring the rest down on us.”

You nodded, trying to be pragmatic. “What about a fire?”

He scanned the space again. Rust, durasteel, shattered circuitry. No wood, no fuel. Even if they had something, the air was too thin and stale to risk flames. He shook his head. “Not an option.”

“So… we wait.” You let out a nervous laugh, rubbing your arms. “I’m not great at waiting.”

Axe finally sank down beside you, deliberate. He unclipped his helmet and set it on the ground. His eyes caught yours, unguarded, and you froze for just a breath at the intensity there.

“You almost died.” His voice was low, roughened with what he didn’t say.

You blinked, oblivious to the weight of it. “But you protected me.”

He dragged a hand through his hair, frustration tightening in his chest. “Could’ve been too slow. One second later—” He broke off, couldn’t finish. Don’t picture it. Don’t let yourself picture it.

You smiled faintly, trying to ease him. “But you weren’t.”

Your words should’ve reassured. They didn’t. He could still feel the echo of that moment—the sight of you under falling steel, the way his body had just moved, like every instinct had decided he’d rather be crushed himself than risk losing you.

Then you shivered. Subtle, but sharp enough that he noticed instantly.

He hesitated—just long enough to know this wasn’t only survival—then pulled you against him, cloak sweeping around your shoulders as he wrapped it around you both.

You gasped softly at the sudden warmth, the solid press of his body against yours. His arm settled heavy across your shoulders, grounding you, his chest rising steady at your side. The scent of oil, smoke, and cold metal clung to him—comforting in its familiarity.

For Axe, it had begun as practicality. Body heat, survival. But as your weight leaned into him, as the tremble in your frame eased under his hold, that excuse frayed thin. He wasn’t thinking about the cold anymore.

He was thinking about the way you’d smiled the first time Koska praised you. The grit in your movements during sparring, stubborn and improving every time. The way you didn’t see yourself the way he did—stronger than you thought, sharper than you realized.

And the fact that if he’d been two steps further back tonight, you’d be gone.

“Don’t scare me like that again,” he muttered.

Your eyes flicked up, oblivious to how raw his voice was. “I’ll try not to.”

The silence that followed grew heavy, charged. Your breath made small clouds in the frigid air. His gaze caught on the curve of your mouth, then flicked up to your eyes and stayed there. Something raw flickered in his expression, a warning and a question all at once. He felt it in the air between you, in the way your eyes lingered a moment too long, in the heat curling low in his chest.

This is insane. He shouldn’t. You were teammates. Distraction was dangerous. But the thought of pretending nothing had shifted—of going back to the careful distance he’d kept—felt impossible.

Before reason could stop him, Axe leaned in and kissed you.

It wasn’t careful. It was hard, sudden, raw—the kiss of a man who’d nearly lost what he hadn’t dared admit he wanted.

You froze for a heartbeat, surprised—then melted against him, hand clutching at his cloak, pulling him closer.

When he finally broke the kiss, he stayed close, eyes searching yours as though reassuring himself you were still there, whole. The memory of falling beams hovered behind his gaze, making the moment feel sharper, more fragile. His forehead rested against yours, his breath uneven.

“You could’ve died,” he whispered. His voice cracked just enough to betray the fear still lodged in his chest.

You didn’t argue. You kissed him again instead—softer this time, a promise more than a rush.

You lean back slightly, still catching your breath, and a soft giggle escapes you.

Axe blinks at you, momentarily frozen. “What—”

“Sorry,” you say, still laughing softly, shaking your head. “I didn’t expect that.”

For the briefest moment, Axe’s jaw relaxes, and a small, almost shy smile tugs at the corner of his lips. Then he clears his throat, masking it under a low chuckle. “Clearly.”

His eyes flick to the collapsed rubble, grounding himself again. “We still need to stay warm. Huddle.”

You scoot closer under the shared cloak, giggling fading into a small smile. “Right. Survival first.”

“Exactly.” His gloved hand brushes yours for a fraction of a second as he adjusts the cloak. That tiny smile lingers just long enough for you to notice. But Axe shifts back to his usual stoic vigilance, his voice practical. “You scraped your arm. Here—let me check.”

You let him, unaware of how tense his body remains. “I’m fine,” you protest, more amused than hurt. “Just a scratch. You almost had a heart attack over me.”

“Almost.” He grits his teeth, not denying it. “You moved too fast back there. Could’ve been worse. Don’t make me do that again.”

You snort softly, hiding a blush. “Noted. I’ll try to be more careful… for you.”

He pauses at that, caught off-guard by the implication. For me. He swallows, clearing his throat. “Good. Keep your focus here, not on me.”

“But you,” you counter, nudging his shoulder gently, “you saved me. Twice now.”

Axe’s eyes meet yours, just for a second longer than necessary, before he looks away toward the wreckage again. “I did. That’s… my job. Team comes first.”

You notice the slight catch in his voice and the way his shoulders tense. “Yeah, but you also… care.”

He finally lets that show in the tiniest exhale, as if weighing whether to risk putting the truth into words. He leans back just slightly so you can see it. “I do. More than I probably should.”

The words hang between you, unsaid but understood. You smile, warmth spreading despite the cold. “Good to know.”

He growls quietly under his breath, frustration at his own vulnerability mixing with relief. “Focus. We survive first, talk later.”

You nod, still smiling, and together you shift slightly, closer for warmth, letting the quiet moments speak in ways words can’t.

Chapter Text

Time had a way of slipping past you. After the salvage mission and the rescue, you hadn’t managed a single private moment with Axe.

First, you’d been pulled onto a mission with Koska, and before you could catch your breath, he’d left for a solo assignment. By the time you returned, two more missions with Varo had filled the gaps, and somehow, weeks had passed.

With Varo, you’d found a rhythm—teasing, joking, sparring—but you still carried a quiet, unspoken spot in your chest reserved for Axe.

You’re mid-laugh at one of Varo’s jokes, brushing off a minor stumble during your sparring drill. His teasing is relentless but good-natured, the kind that keeps your focus sharp while making the session fun. You duck a mock swing and grin. “You’re full of yourself today, aren’t you?”

Varo smirks, adjusting his stance. “Just keeping you on your toes. Can’t let you get too comfortable, can I?”

You laugh again, nudging him lightly. “Noted. I’ll stay on guard. Don’t want to disappoint you.”

The sound of boots clanging on the metal deck behind you makes you glance up. Relief floods through your chest like warm sunlight. Axe’s back. He strides into the room, armor scuffed but intact, shoulders heavy with fatigue from the long mission he’s just returned from.

A grin spreads across your face before you even think. “Axe!” you call out, voice bright with delight. “You made it back! In one piece!” Your heart swells at the sight of him safe, your soft regard for him whispering in every beat.

Your chest feels lighter, the tension of the day evaporating for a moment. You’ve missed seeing him around, missed the quiet reliability he brings to every mission. Relief and affection mingle in your chest, making you lightheaded in a good way.

Varo glances over at you, then notices Axe. He raises an eyebrow, a knowing smirk forming, but you’re too busy watching Axe move closer.

Axe’s jaw tightens as his gaze sweeps between you and Varo. His body is rigid, shoulders squared, eyes sharp—but you don’t notice any of it. To you, he looks exactly like you hoped: back, safe, and alive.

“You’ve been gone forever,” you say, stepping closer, ignoring Varo’s teasing tone for a moment. “We were starting to wonder if the mission would eat you alive.”

Axe lets out a low chuckle, almost reluctant, his voice rougher than usual. “Some of it tried,” he admits. There’s a pause as he takes in your expression—relieved, smiling, oblivious to the tension threading through his body.

Varo leans a little closer, nudging you teasingly. “Careful, you’re making the big man blush. Don’t want him to get distracted.”

You roll your eyes, turning back to Varo. “Distracted by what? You?” You playfully jab a finger at Varo, grinning.

Your attention drifts back to Axe, and for the first time you notice a subtle change in him—a tightness around the jaw, a faint narrowing of the eyes. But you dismiss it, misreading it as fatigue. “Are you okay? You look… tired.”

Axe exhales slowly, his gaze softening slightly when it meets yours. A hint of a smile tugs at the corner of his lips—small, fleeting, almost hidden behind the mask of his armor and exhaustion. It’s rare, subtle, but it’s there. And somehow, it makes your heart leap.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m fine. Just… glad to see you too.” he says, voice low, steady, but layered with unspoken emotion.

You grin, satisfied with that answer, and glance at Varo. “See? Nothing to worry about.” You laugh lightly, still oblivious to the undercurrent of protectiveness and simmering jealousy in Axe’s posture.

Axe stiffens imperceptibly at your interaction with Varo, hand brushing against his weapon—not in threat, but instinctive protectiveness. Every flick of your hair, every laugh at Varo’s teasing, pulls at something deep inside him. She’s growing comfortable… with him. And though he knows Varo isn’t a threat, the heat of possessiveness and protectiveness rises like a tide he can’t quite hold back.

You notice the brief glint of something in his eyes—a warning, or maybe just focus—but it doesn’t register fully. Instead, you feel a small thrill that he’s here, and a warm, fluttering comfort that he’s back in one piece.

Varo smirks again, clearly enjoying the dynamic but wisely keeping his comments light. “You’re going to make him forget about his debrief.”

You nod, still smiling at Axe, and take a deep breath. Everything feels… right. For now. Axe has returned, the team is back.

Inside, Axe is a storm. She’s here, safe, alive… and laughing with someone else. Focus, Woves. Focus. But his gaze keeps drifting back to you, cataloging the way you move, the subtle strength in your posture, and the smile that lights up your face. The playful energy with Varo is harmless, yet the sight of it—your laughter, your ease—ignites something fierce and protective.

You’re oblivious to it all, your delight in seeing Axe clouding any awareness of his tension. You simply feel safe, glad, and warm, and that makes him all the more vigilant, all the more aware of how much he cares—and how much he doesn’t want to ever see you hurt.

The moment is quiet, layered, and charged. Your laughter and lighthearted comments echo in the space, while Axe’s watchful eyes and tight posture silently hint at the deeper emotions simmering beneath the surface. A subtle tension coils between you, one that neither of you has addressed yet, but that will soon demand attention—especially now, after seeing how easily your heart seems to lift at just the sight of him.