These motel-style keychains say Niamos Resort and Spa. On the bottom it says room 5, since Cassian visits Niamos in 5 BBY. I like to think that when the Empire falls, Niamos thrives again, becoming an amazing destination full of local businesses and delicious treats. Maybe Cassian or Melshi takes you there to celebrate.
I also made these:
These are about 2.5” and printed on sturdy pine wood. They have the Ferrix Honor Guard symbol and say BRASSO along the bottom. I think they have a really Ferrix-y feel, and I can see the Honor guard making it’s members personalized keychains. And maybe Brasso gave his to you.
I hope you enjoy these! Shop is here! I’m working on some more Brasso fic, it’s just coming slowly. But I think y’all will love this one when it’s ready. 💜
CW: chronic pain, hospital scene (mild) reference to injury, implied sexual intimacy
Ao3 Link
★★★★★★★★
You’ve been a regular at your favorite caf bar since they opened, walking distance from your little house on Gatalenta. You go in for a cup of caf and maybe lunch, get a little work done, say hello to other regulars. Today you’re at your usual spot near the bar when you hear the voice of a man you’ve come to loathe. He seems to know the town based on what you’ve overheard, but he must be new to the neighborhood because he first appeared at the caf bar last week. And every time he comes in he looks at you in a way that makes you want to crawl out of your skin.
Today, he sits right next to you. So you immediately start packing up your things to leave. The barista gives you a knowing look, but before you can step away from the bar, the man says, “Where are you going, sweetheart?”
Your shoulders tense up. “Elsewhere,” you say.
You haven’t even made eye-contact—it should be crystal clear that you don’t want to be bothered. But he insists: “You should stay. We could get to know each other.”
Then Brasso walks in, and immediately all the tension in your body washes away. Maybe the creep takes the smile on your lips as being for him, because he’s loudly telling you he’d like to take you out sometime when the barista interrupts him.
“This is so embarrassing for you,” she says.
Brasso meets your eyes as he quickly crosses the room, “Is everything all right, love?”
Upon hearing Brasso’s voice, the guy looks like he wants to jump behind the counter and hide. He’s clearly run into your husband in town before—your husband who is almost two meters tall and built like a load-lifter droid. When you show him your left hand, displaying your wedding ring, he goes pale.
Brasso takes your shoulder bag from you and kisses your cheek. Somehow the creep is still here, aghast, blurting out an apology—not for you of course, but for Brasso.
“Are you serious right now?” Brasso asks. And before the man can respond he just says, “Get out.”
If that man had a tail, it would have been between his legs as he rushed out the door.
“Thanks,” the barista says. “That guy is the worst but I’m not allowed to kick anyone out unless they’re starting a riot. Doubt he’ll be back anytime soon.”
“Happy to help,” Brasso says, reaching into his pocket for credits as she hands him his regular after-work caf.
“It’s on me today,” she says. “I owe you one.”
“Hardly,” he says.
When she insists on it, Brasso puts his fistful of credits in the tip jar.
“You don’t have to do that,” the barista says.
“He knows,” you say. “He’s going to do it anyway.”
He slides his arm around your waist as you leave the caf bar and you think that nothing in the galaxy could make you feel safer than this, the warmth of Brasso’s touch radiating through your body.
Brasso is wearing an oversized cable knit cardigan over a henley, a few of the buttons left open, with a pair of trousers that he must have had tailored—they fit impossibly well. He’d recently taken to leaving his work clothes at work, usually coming home in something more comfortable. And while you did find his overalls sexy, it’s been nice seeing him in the wardrobe of a man who has finally been able to make time for himself. To relax after years and years of uncertainty.
He catches you staring as he gets into the speeder, raises an eyebrow. “What?”
“You just look really nice, ” you say. “Very cozy.”
He shrugs, a bit bashful. In the back seat, you note a bag of groceries.
“Thought I might make us something special tonight,” he says. “Had to pick up a few things..”
“You don’t have to cook, Brass. I know it’s been a long day for you.”
A shipment that was supposed to arrive yesterday arrived late today, meaning two shipments had to be unloaded and taken care of almost simultaneously. He’d sent you a message earlier, letting you know not to expect him for lunch. But now he smiles as he starts the speeder, takes your hand in his, bringing it to his lips for a kiss.
“You know I have a full team, right?” he says. “It was a long day, but I’m more than happy to make us dinner. You’ve had a very long week, and you deserve something nice tonight.”
You don’t know what it’s like to live in a body that can do that kind of labor day after day and still have the energy to cook or run errands or take care of things around the house. To take care of you. And your week has been long, starting with straining your back at the market over the weekend, that strain just snowballing until you were panicking over whether you’d be able to finish your holonet orders on time. Brasso ended up sending a droid from the shop to help you—a little C1-unit with a curved, green dome who was more than happy to sit with you in your office and label packages, despite some sniffing and pawing from the two tooka residents of your home.
“Okay,” you say. “I don’t know how you do all of the things you do. Promise me you’ll rest tomorrow.”
“Anything for you, love,” Brasso says, pulling away from the parking space. “Absolutely anything.”
*
This wasn’t how it usually went for you. Usually when the two of you ended up at the med center it was you stuck in bed exhausted and hooked up to an IV. Usually Brasso was pulling up the chair to sit as close to you as possible, holding your hand, fretting as med droids came in and out of the room. But today on his way back from the spaceport Brasso’s speeder had been side-swiped. A hit-and-run. The med center had called you when he was admitted. And when you’d arrived, he’d insisted he was fine. But as soon as a med droid arrived to administer medications, you learned that Brasso had fractured three ribs and had severe bruising on his chest and shoulder.
You’d never seen him like this before, and you held back tears as you dragged that chair from across the room so you could sit next to the bed as you smoothed Brasso’s hair away from his face, revealing a cut he hadn’t mentioned.
“You hit your head,” you say. “Do you have a concussion?”
“It’s minor,” he said, taking your hand and kissing your wrist. “I should be able to get out of here soon.”
“I want to talk to the doctor.”
“I promise, love, I’m fine,” he said. “Nothing a little bacta won’t solve.”
“That’s what you said when you dropped an entire engine on your foot.”
“I should have been wearing better shoes.”
“But you weren’t. And I had to get Vetch to bar you from the yard until you’d healed properly.”
You’d never imagined that Vetch would be a regular part of your life but, after the war, the Urodel had reached out to Brasso, told him he was looking for work and he wasn’t keen to return to Ferrix after how things had ended for him there. He’d always been a bit of an outcast, a strange but sweet individual who—like you—had hoped that things would blow over on Ferrix far before they did. And when he ran, it was self-preservation—the fist of the Empire came down much harder on folks who weren’t human. You’d never been close, but he’d gone missing early on, and was one of the many beings that you thought about on those cold Ferrix nights wondering if you needed to leave before you disappeared too, hoping that every one of those missing beings had left on their own terms.
So you’d offered up your couch to Vetch for a couple of weeks, and Brasso had helped him find salvage work at another scrap yard. Soon he was back on his feet. And when Brasso was starting his own business, he’d asked Vetch to join his small team. Now, the Urodel was family. And when he’d told you that Brasso was trying to walk around on his broken foot just days after the accident, you’d asked him to do you a favor. Vetch was the only person you knew who could outmatch your partner in size and strength, so he was effective in making sure Brasso kept to the work he could do sitting down until the doctor cleared him to do physical labor again.
Brasso sighed, taking both of your hands in his. “I don’t want you to worry about me. This is not a big deal.”
The tears you’d been holding back began to spill over. “Brass, this is a huge deal. Do you know how lucky you are that this wasn’t worse? If I lost you—”
Brasso tried to sit up in bed and you put a hand on his shoulder to ease him back down. Maybe it was the pain in his ribs, but he didn’t resist. Instead he turned to his side and shuffled over, patting the cot. “I’m here,” he said. “Will you lay down with me? I just need to hold you.”
So you climbed into the bed with him, thanking the stars for its generous size due to the larger species that this med center also served. Brasso started to brush your tears away—but the familiar touch as he caressed your face with his rough hands somehow made you tear up again. And he pulled you close, wrapping his big arms around you, hazel eyes bright as he met your gaze.
“It wasn’t worse,” he says. “After everything, I’m not letting a speeder wreck take me away from you. It isn’t happening, all right?”
You nod, knowing he can’t actually promise this, but trying to believe him anyway.
“Those last few years,” you said. “Before you came back…I’d started to think you were dead. And for a moment when the med center called me—”
“I’m here, darling,” he said, touching his forehead to yours, his dark hair brushing your cheek. “I’m never leaving you again.”
He kissed you and for a split second you could almost believe you weren’t in a stiff cot in a sterile room. Running your hand through his hair, the ends just brushing his collar, you thought about all the silver strands that have come in, how many of your friends from Ferrix had never grown old enough to have a single gray hair. How lucky you were that he was still alive, this beautiful man whose face you’d seen on so many wanted posters for years, every day hoping he was safe.
“Say it again,” you asked.
“I’m never leaving you,” he said, his voice soft. “Ever again. I promise.”
*
It’s after dark when Brasso sends you to the couch to rest with a cup of tea. He’s rinsing dishes and packing up leftovers and rinsing dishes, the tookas pawing at his legs as they wait for him to put down a plate of scraps for them.
“Are you sure you don’t need—” you say.
“Of course I’m sure,” Brasso says. “You hurt yourself this week and you need to take it easy. Let me just finish up here and I’ll bring you something for your back, love.”
You sigh. He’s right. The pain isn’t as bad as the day before, but it’s still there and you know he sees right through you when you say you’re fine. He always has. “I just hate this feeling. Like one day you’ll wake up and it will feel like a burden, how sometimes I can’t help with even the smallest things.”
Immediately, Brasso is at your side, kneeling, one of his big hands resting on your knee. “Look at me,” he says. “I need you to know that that will never happen. I know there are things you can’t do, and that some days that will be worse than others. I knew that back on Ferrix, I knew that when I came to find you after the war, I knew that when I married you and I know that today. Darling, you could never, ever be a burden to me. I need you to believe me.”
“I don’t know what to say, Brass,” you say.
“Just tell me you understand.”
“I do.”
“Okay,” he says, pressing a sweet kiss to your cheek. “What needs doing is done. Everything else can wait until tomorrow. Let me get you the bacta spray. That’s been helping, right?”
“It has.”
He gets up and you can hear him rummaging around one of the drawers in the refresher, cursing under his breath as he nearly trips over the tookas chasing each other down the hallway. When he returns to your side he helps you apply the spray to your neck and shoulders, and then your lower back where the pain has been worst. You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding as you let Brasso pull you toward him.
“You’re too good to me,” you say, resting your head on Brasso’s firm chest as he wraps both arms around you.
“I think I’m just about the right amount of good to you,” he says. “Honestly I could probably do a bit better.”
You reach for his neck, the ends of his shaggy hair soft in your fingers, and he takes in a sharp breath that tells you exactly how he feels about this touch. When you ask him to kiss you, he obliges, his lips meeting yours with an unexpected desire.
“Do you want to go to bed?” you ask.
“It’s still early” he says. “But if—”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“That’s some really effective bacta. You sure?”
“I just want to be close to you.”
“All right, love.”
Brasso helps you up from the couch, leading you to the bedroom where he undresses you, his tender hands moving slowly over your body as he bends to kiss your neck, the stubble on his jaw brushing your sensitive skin.
“You tell me if I’m not gentle enough,” he says, easing the both of you into bed, under the covers.
“I would, but I know I’ll never have to.”
A stubborn lock of hair has fallen forward, obscuring his eyes, and you tuck it back behind his ear, eliciting a smile before he captures your lips with his, his deft fingers tracing the lines of your body, touching you in a way only he knows how. Because he knows you, loves you so specifically and completely that it was almost overwhelming.
As his fingers slip softly past your waist, you throw your arms around his neck and you whisper in his ear: “I love you.”
“And I love you,” he says, his hazel eyes catching the moonlight. “Always.”
★★★★★★★★
Some more Brasso comfort for y'all! Thank you for reading! I hope this fic made you feel seen and loved.
I have a taglist now! Sign up here if you want to be tagged in future fics. (And choose if you only want to be tagged for certain characters.) In the meantime, I’m tagging my taglist as well as some folks who have been reblogging my fics. Love y’all!
CW: chronic pain, anxiety/depression, reference to injury, implied sexual intimacy
Ao3 Link
★★★★★★★★
You knew you wouldn’t be able to hide your injury from Brasso, but you hadn’t expected him to pick up on it almost the second he got home from work. He’d just come through the door and had barely hung up his coat before he asked, “What did you do to your wrist?”
When you asked him how he knew, he said you were holding your datapad funny, then went to get the first aid kit—a very complete kit. Maybe it was all his years of physical labor, or maybe it was his time on the run during the war, but you’d learned that Brasso kept himself prepared. The first aid kit was one of the first things he’d purchased your household when he’d moved in with you after the war—he’d kindly told you that you scattered supply of bacta sprays and disposable bandages weren’t going to help if either of you had a real emergency.
Today, as he gingerly wraps your wrist in a cloth bandage and a makeshift splint, you’re grateful for this preparedness. And for his hands, the tenderness of his touch as he secures the brace. And you know what’s coming next.
“I know you don’t want to go to the clinic,” he says. “But you’re going to be miserable in a few days if you don’t get this looked at. Get a proper treatment.”
“I’m sure this is fine,” you say.
You’d had this kind of injury before—inevitable for anyone who works with their hands as much as you do, but especially for someone with your chronic condition. And Brasso is right—he’s had similar injuries himself, and though his good health means he recovers better than you do, he’s overdone it at the shop before, even around the house with some of his projects.
You remember back before the war when he’d hurt his knee in the Ferrix scrap yard, how he’d tried to go back to work injured and made it so much worse. When you heard about this from a mutual friend, you’d gone over on your day off with a hot meal, just to make sure he was taking care of himself.
From the look on his face when he saw you standing in his doorway that day, you should have known how he felt about you. You’d called ahead, so he’d been expecting you—but there was something in those bright eyes of his. At the time, you’d told yourself it was relief. That he’d been stuck inside by himself for a few days and was just glad to see anyone—even if that person was going to hound him about resting. But you know now that it was yearning, that you could have asked him that day to quit his job and take you to the Outer Rim and he would have started packing a bag.
“Love,” he says, cradling your injured hand in his. “Are you sure you won’t let me take you, just to see a med droid tonight?”
“You know how I feel about clinics.”
“I do,” he says. “I also know how you feel about me when I’m being stubborn about getting medical care.”
With your good hand, you reach for his face, the bristle of his short beard familiar as he instinctively leans into your touch. So many times, back on Ferrix, he’d been the one to sit with you in the waiting room, to bring you a meal at home when you weren’t doing well, to stop whatever he was doing to come get you from wherever it was that you were having a panic attack. Some men would use that to their advantage, to make you feel small or guilty—maybe somehow beholden to them. And Brasso never did. That just wasn’t him.
“Fine,” you say. “Just…give me a minute.”
Brasso gets up and puts away the medical supplies, packing them into the first aid kit before storing everything away under the sink in the refresher. He comes back with his jacket on—the jacket you’d gotten him for Life Day, green to match his eyes, custom tailored for his broad chest and shoulders, lined with fur for cold evenings in the yard. And he was beautiful in it—you stood to wrap your arms around his neck, kissing his cheek.
“What was that for?” he asks.
“Just for being you,” you say.
He smiles before putting on his winter hat and helping you into your coat. You’ll never get used to the fact that his are the hands that care for you in moments like this. That as long as you’d loved him, he’d been loving you, too.
“Come on,” he says. “We’ll pick up dinner afterward.”
You pause, just inside the garage. “I thought we were going to have the rest of that stew you made tonight? I took it out of the freezer earlier.”
“It will keep for another day or two,” he says, opening the speeder door for you. “You deserve a little treat.”
*
It had only been a few weeks after Brasso had arrived on Gatalenta when he’d asked you, “Why did you never tell me how you felt?”
You were in bed, and it was late, but you couldn’t sleep, the pain in your back keeping you awake. You’d told Brasso plenty of times that he didn’t need to stay up with you, but he’d refreshed your heat wraps more than once, fetched pain pills, and was now holding you as you lay face to face, the moon shining into your bedroom through a break in the curtains.
When you didn’t reply right away, he kissed your forehead. “It’s all right, we don’t have to talk about it. But you’ve never been one to keep that sort of thing to yourself. So I’ve been wondering.”
“Honestly,” you’d said, “you always did so much for me. I felt like I couldn’t offer you a lot in return—the way my health has always been, you know?”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I am.”
With one of his big, gentle hands, Brasso caressed your cheek. “Who used to bring me hot caf at work every time it got out that I was stupidly hungover?”
“Brass, I lived spitting distance from your job.”
“And who made sure I ate when my mother died?”
You remembered the comm from Salman, asking if you could come collect Brasso. That he hadn’t been sure who best to contact in this situation, but he knew the two of you were close. He thought you might be able to handle him like this. You’d assumed “like this” meant “too intoxicated to be in public.” Nobody had told you about Brasso’s mother.
“I thought I was going to have to peel you off the floor of the cantina when I got that call,” you said, “And I wasn’t sure how I was going to do that. But when I got there— ”
“I was a mess.”
“Of course you were.”
“And you slept on my couch that night. Made me breakfast.”
“I didn’t want you to be alone.”
“You had a sandwich for me almost every time I saw you for two weeks.”
“You took care of everyone, all the time. Someone had to take care of you.”
“I’m glad it was you.”
You sighed. You knew where he was going with this. “We were friends,” you said. “That’s what friends do.”
“But it’s not,” he said. “Listen—I’ve always had plenty of friends. But I’ve never known anyone else who can stand to be around me when I’m grieving. Who can even tell when I’m having a hard time. Who remembered even back then not only precisely how I liked my caf but what I’d named the tookas that lived in the alley by the yard.”
“When you put it like that…I had no idea you were that lonely.”
You brushed his hair away from his face with your fingertips and he caught your hand in his, brought your palm to his lips for a kiss.
“I was, and I wasn’t. But stars, you changed everything for me, darling. I loved you immediately. Because you saw me.”
Brasso closed his eyes, his nerves perhaps coming to the surface when he realized how much he had just said out loud.
Cupping his cheek in the palm of your hand, you told him, “I love seeing you.”
He smiled, tenderly placed a hand on the small of your back. “Is the medicine working? How is your pain, love?”
“Better.”
“Do you want me to make you a cup of tea? The herbal one, for bedtime.”
“No,” you said. “Stay here with me. I think I’ll be able to sleep soon.”
He kissed you softly, his lips brushing over yours like a whisper. “All right, love,” he said. “Just tell me if you change your mind.”
You let Brasso pull you closer, breathing in the scent of him as you felt yourself drifting toward sleep, blinking back tears. Because as much as you’d always seen him, you knew that from the day you’d met, he’d always seen you, too.
*
It’s late when you finish at the clinic, Brasso still visibly upset at the dismissive human medic who had refused to treat you before you demanded to see a droid who would actually look at your wrist. The droid had immediately identified tendonitis and given you an injection and a prescription to pick up tomorrow at the pharmacy.
“I should have gone in with you,” Brasso says as he drives toward home. “I can’t believe so many doctors are still like that.”
You take a deep breath, your anxiety still high after the clinic visit. You’d told Brasso not to worry about you. It was such a routine injury—you figured you’d be in and out without incident. You’d been wrong.
“At least now we have dumplings,” you say.
Soon you’re home on your sofa, takeout bags on the living room table, tooka cats underfoot as Brasso plates one of your favorite comfort meals.
“You know,” he says, “I’ve been to a lot of places, but I don’t think I ever visited a world that didn’t have some version of this.” He hands you a container of sauce. “Every time I was served dumplings, no matter where I was, I always thought of you. Of that little place on the edge of town where we used to go.”
“You always knew when I was having a hard time,” you say. “I know gossip used to spread fast on Ferrix, but sometimes…sometimes you’d show up at my door and ask if I wanted to get dumplings and it was like you’d read my mind from across town.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever read your mind,” Brasso says. “But any time I asked you to have a meal with me I knew that you were joining me because you wanted to be there. Not because you needed a favor.”
“I also just really liked riding on the back of your speeder bike.”
You loved every second of those rides—it was almost better that your favorite spot for dinner was so far from town. You relished the way it felt to be pressed up against Brasso’s warm body, the wind on your face, how the world faded to the background when you were there with him. Even on cold Ferrix nights, you always said yes to dumplings, if only to be close to him
That should have been another sign as to how Brasso felt about you—the man asked you to dinner often enough, listened as you gave him the tedious details of a recent project you were working on or a rough day at work or even the echoes of an old trauma that had come back to the surface. You trusted him so quickly, and he seemed to genuinely want to hear what was on your mind.
As you eat your dinner, you think about that first day, when he’d helped you with your groceries, you’d been sure you’d never seen him before. But soon it was like he was everywhere—the cantina, the café, the corner shop, even just out for a walk. And, when you’d asked a friend about him, she’d told you that he’d always been there—you just hadn’t looked up long enough to see him. Maybe you’d been stuck in the fog of your depression. But the day you met Brasso, the fog started to lift. On some days, just a hello was enough to make things feel a little less dire.
And his eyes lit up when he saw you, too. You were just too afraid to read anything into that. Because the idea of losing him as a friend was too heavy on your heart.
“I thought you hated that thing,” Brasso says.
“The bike? At first, I did,” you say. “It made me anxious. Because I’d never ridden on a speeder bike before. But you always made me feel so safe. Even that first time—when you realized I was anxious about it you said you’d borrow someone’s landspeeder if I wanted. Something about that made the anxiety just melt away.”
“I was so nervous even to ask you,” he says. “I was talking myself up the whole way over to the café. I wanted to meet you when you were getting off your shift. But when I got there you were crying in the alley out back.”
“It was supposed to be a date? The first time we got dumplings—Brasso, you never told me.”
“That day it seemed like what you needed was a friend.”
“You were wearing that sweater—it was so soft. And you smelled nice. I remember wondering if you were wearing cologne”
“I wasn’t going to ask you out for the first time in my overalls, covered in grease.”
On any other day you might have noticed that Brasso had actually walked home after work, then come back on his speeder to see you, changed and cleaned up. The way the denim trousers he wore that day accentuated his thighs, his chartreuse sweater hugging the curves of his muscular chest. But you’d had a rotten shift and your knees were so sore you could hardly stand so you were trying to get it together before walking home. And then Brasso was there, pulling you into his arms, telling you it was going to be okay.
“That was a date,” you say, almost in a whisper.
“I wanted it to be,” Brasso says. “But then it wasn’t…and I didn’t really know what to do next. Not until the day I knew I had to leave.”
“Brass…I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything.”
You lean in to kiss him then, cupping his face in your hands. Something tense in Brasso releases as he kisses you back, one of his hands cradling your neck, his mouth urgent against yours as he pulls you closer. You find the hem of his shirt, soon helping him out of it, letting your hands wander over his soft tummy, his toned chest, the strong arms that have always known exactly how to hold you. Brushing his hair away from his face, with the tips of your fingers, you kiss his jaw, and then his throat.
Almost breathless, Brasso asks, “Can I take you to bed, darling?”
“What about the dishes?”
“I’ll get them later. Right now I just want you.”
You follow him down the hallway, and he undresses you slowly, pressing his lips softly to your skin as he goes. When he finally has you in bed, and his clothes, too, are on the floor, he says, “I have always loved you. From the day we met. On your bad days and on your good days. Whether you’re healthy or not.”
“It’s tendonitis, Brasso. I’m okay.”
He touches his nose to yours, and this close you can hear his heart beating. “I still think about the time you told me you didn’t think you could offer me much,” he says. “But you know you’re enough, right?”
“Brasso—”
“You’re so much more than enough.” Gently, he traces the angle of your jaw with his knuckles. “You are everything to me. And I love you. All of you. Always. I need you to believe that.”
“I know that now,” you say, tucking a just-long-enough lock of hair behind his ear so you can better see his hazel eyes. “And I love all of you, too. Every day.”
You hear the rain start to fall outside, the droplets hitting your window as Brasso’s fingers make their way to precisely where he knows you want to be touched, your arms around his neck as he kisses you, and you run your thumb over your wedding ring, thinking how lucky you are that on that day you finally looked up and saw this man. That he was always looking right back at you.
★★★★★★★★
Another Basso fic in the books. Thank you for reading! I hope this fic made you feel seen and loved.
I have a taglist now! Sign up here if you want to be tagged in future fics. (And choose if you only want to be tagged for certain characters.) In the meantime, I’m tagging my taglist as well as some folks who have been reblogging my fics. Love y’all!
I finally finished a new little Brasso fic and hopefully after giving it one more read-through I’ll have it up for y’all tomorrow.
Thank you for being so kind and patient as I write. It’s been slower for me lately but I really leaned into some delicious yearning with this one. I think y’all will like it.
