“Cold Front”
Commander Bacara x Reader
The bass of the music thumped like a heartbeat. Smoke curled lazily through violet lights, and every set of eyes in the room was fixed on the dancer in the center of it all—you.
You moved like you didn’t care who watched, like the galaxy’s chaos didn’t touch you. It was part of the act. No one noticed the way you studied people back. No one but him.
He didn’t belong here.
Commander Bacara stood against the far wall, still in his armor, helmet clipped to his side, expression unreadable but stern. Even from the stage, you could tell—he hated this place. Too loud. Too soft. Too alive.
You liked that about him.
After your set, you made your way through the crowd, glittering drink in hand, heels clicking with purpose. You stopped in front of him, smiling with a tilt of your head.
“Enjoy the show, Commander?”
“No,” he answered flatly.
You laughed, sipping your drink. “Honesty. Refreshing.”
“This establishment is inefficient. Security is lax. Your exit routes are exposed. You shouldn’t be working here.”
“And you shouldn’t be in a nightclub, but here we are.”
He didn’t smile. He didn’t look away either.
“I was told you have information,” he said. “About a Separatist envoy using this venue for meetings.”
You shrugged. “Maybe I do.”
His brow furrowed. “This is a war zone, not a performance.”
“It’s both,” you said, leaning in. “You wear that armor like it’s your skin. I wear this smile like it’s mine. We both hide behind something, Bacara.”
He froze. Most didn’t call him that. Certainly not dancers with glitter on their collarbones.
“I’m not here to play games.”
“I’m not here to fight a war,” you countered. “Yet somehow, we’re both losing.”
A silence settled between you.
You studied his face—cut from stone, eyes like a blizzard on Mygeeto. A soldier made for killing. Raised in cold, trained to crush. He probably thought you were soft. Flimsy. Useless.
But he didn’t walk away.
“Tell me what you know,” he said, lower this time. “I’ll make sure you’re protected.”
You leaned in closer, close enough to smell the cold steel scent of him. “What makes you think I want protection?”
He didn’t answer.
You touched the edge of his chestplate with a single finger. “You’re all edge, Bacara. No softness.”
“I don’t need softness.”
“Maybe not,” you said, stepping back. “But I think you want it. Even if you hate yourself for it.”
He stared, jaw clenched, like he was bracing for something. You smiled again and turned.
“I’ll send the intel,” you called over your shoulder. “But next time, you come here as a guest. Not a soldier.”
You didn’t see him leave.
But hours later, when you returned to your dressing room, there was a small datapad on your table. Coordinates. A thank you. And nothing else.
Cold. Precise. Just like him.
And somehow… you couldn’t wait to see him again.
⸻
You didn’t expect him to return.
Men like Bacara didn’t double back for anything—especially not for someone like you. You were used to one-way glances, hot stares, empty promises dressed up as danger.
But two nights later, he was there again. Right on time. Leaning against the rusting frame of a service door
, arms crossed, helmet clipped to his belt, white armor streaked with grime from travel.
Silent.
You lit a cigarra with one hand and tossed him the datachip with the other. He caught it easily.
“Happy?” you asked, blowing a stream of smoke toward the gutter light. “Encrypted. Real-time surveillance, time stamps, backdoor schematics. Everything the Separatist envoy’s been up to in my club.”
He turned the chip over in his palm, then slipped it into a compartment at his belt.
“You held onto this longer than necessary,” he said.
You arched a brow. “You didn’t ask nicely.”
“I don’t ask.”
“Right,” you muttered, flicking ash. “Clone Commanders don’t ‘ask.’ They demand, they invade, they execute. Such charm.”
He didn’t rise to the bait. “And you’re not just a dancer.”
You turned to him then, leaning back against the wall. “No, I’m not. But I’m also not your informant. Or your ally. I gave you what you wanted because I wanted to.”
He studied you. Cool, detached, calculated.
You hated that he could look right through you. Hated it more that you let him.
“You’re efficient,” he said finally. “Unsentimental.”
“You say that like it’s a compliment.”
“It is.”
The rain started again—soft, cold, hissing down the walls. You shivered despite yourself, arms crossing over your chest. He noticed. Of course he did.
Still, he didn’t offer anything.
Just stepped forward, close enough that his presence alone made the alley feel smaller.
“This intel—” he began.
“I know what it means,” you cut in. “The envoy’s selling clone positions to mercenary networks. My club was the drop zone. I didn’t know until I did. I fixed it.”
“You interfered.”
You gave a slow smile. “What’re you gonna do, arrest me?”
His gaze didn’t shift. “If you were a threat, you’d be dead.”
A beat passed.
“Flattering,” you said. “Your version of flirting, I guess.”
“I don’t flirt.”
“No,” you murmured, looking up at him, “you don’t.”
The silence between you stretched long. Not soft. Never soft. Just charged.
He didn’t step closer. You didn’t touch him.
But something was laid bare in that narrow space between your bodies. A wordless understanding. You gave him your intel. He gave you his time.
“You’re leaving tonight,” you guessed.
“Yes.”
“You’ll be back?”
“Not if I can help it.”
You nodded, forcing a grin. “Careful, Bacara. You keep talking like that, I might start thinking you’re consistent.”
He turned, no further words, already walking into the rain.
You didn’t watch him go. Not this time.
You just stayed in the alley, smoke burning low, wondering why you felt like you’d just given away something more dangerous than a datachip.
⸻
The club was closing, lights dimmed, staff gone. You were alone backstage, slipping off your heels, when you heard the door open.
You didn’t flinch. You knew who it was before he said a word.
“You said you were leaving,” you said, not looking at him.
“I am.”
“You lost, Commander?”
His footsteps echoed—measured, armored, unhurried. When you turned, Bacara was there in the doorway, helmet in hand, gaze locked on you like a tactical target.
“I don’t like loose ends,” he said.
“Is that what I am to you?” you asked, voice light but brittle. “A mission to complete?”
“You gave me intel I didn’t earn. That’s motive.”
“So this is you—closing the loop?”
His jaw clenched slightly, eyes narrowing.
“I don’t leave variables behind,” he said.
You snorted, stepping toward him slowly, deliberately. “That’s funny. Because I think you came back for the one thing you can’t control.”
The space between you evaporated. You barely registered him moving—just felt your back hit the wall behind you, hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs.
Bacara loomed in front of you, one hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your chin, not cruel, but firm.
“Careful,” he said, voice low and lethal. “You think you’re dangerous because you wear a new name every night. But I see the cracks.”
Your breath caught. You didn’t want to flinch. But you did. Slight. Barely there.
He saw it.
And leaned in closer.
“I don’t care about the act,” he growled. “I care about the one underneath it. The one who lies, cheats, and keeps a weapon under the floorboards.”
You stared up at him, lips parted, heart pounding against your ribs like it wanted out.
“And what do you want with her?” you whispered.
“I want her to stop pretending she’s untouchable.”
His hand slid from your jaw to your throat—never tight, never cruel—but there. Asserting. Commanding.
You didn’t push him away.
You tilted your head back, letting out a slow breath. “You going to order me around now, Commander?”
“I don’t give orders to civilians,” he said.
His hand flexed. “But I do take control.”
Then his mouth was on yours—hard, claiming, no warning. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet. It was war. His hand fisted in your hair as he pressed you to the wall, your body fitting to his armor, your fingers gripping the cold edge of his chestplate like it anchored you to reality.
You kissed back like you’d been starving. Because you were. For something that wasn’t fake. For someone who didn’t need you to perform.
His grip never wavered. He knew exactly what he was doing. Every move was intentional—controlled, dominant, unyielding.
When he finally pulled away, you were breathless. Dizzy. Your hands shaking slightly where they rested on his armor.
He didn’t look smug. He looked the same. Just focused.
“This changes nothing,” he said, voice even.
You licked your lips, voice rasped. “Good. I hate messy.”
He stepped back. Just a fraction.
“War calls,” he said simply. “Don’t follow.”
“I won’t,” you lied.
His eyes lingered one last time.
And then he was gone.
