Pilot .ᐟ LUKE SKYWALKER had become a name people said with something close to reverence.
You remember the first day he arrived at the Rebellion as clearly as if it were happening now. He had that fresh-faced, wide-eyed look—something achingly sincere that could only be described as hope. He wasn’t the tallest among the pilots crowding the Yavin IV hangar, but he didn’t need to be. The sun-kissed warmth of his skin and that unmistakable shock of golden hair made him stand out instantly, especially against the blaze of his orange flight suit.
The hangar had been its usual chaos; mechanics shouting over engines, droids weaving between boots, the scent of fuel thick in the air. But through all of it, your attention kept drifting back to him.
The rookie, and you were right to watch.
He was the one who made the impossible shot; the one in a million. The one that reduced the Death Star to stardust. After that, everything changed.
You watched him climb the platform during the ceremony, bright lights glinting off polished medals, dressed in that sharp yellow jacket that seemed made for him. Every pair of eyes followed his ascent. His smile was wide, almost bashful, only made the cheers louder. By the time the celebration began, Luke Skywalker was no longer just a pilot.
He was a symbol of hope, defiance—of the future.
To the galaxy.
To the Rebellion.
To you.
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Hoth, however, is not Yavin IV. Hope doesn’t feel as warm here.
The planet is merciless; white, blinding, and so cold it feels personal. The air bites at exposed skin, creeps into your bones and settles there stubbornly. But freezing on Hoth is still preferable to kneeling before the Empire, so you learn to adapt. You layer up after layer to fend off the cold and you endure.
Luke endures too but fame follows him even here. His reputation has only grown since Yavin IV. Pilots, commanders, recruits orbit him constantly and Luke, with that easy grin and earnest charm, never seems to push them away. If anything, he draws them in. Now that you’ve been assigned as the primary mechanic for his X-wing, you see more of him than most or at least—you’re supposed to. In reality, you often get the short end of the stick.
You try not to blame him. You really do.
But it’s hard not to feel a slight flicker of resentment when he’s the last to land before nightfall and you’re left waiting in the frigid hangar, fingers stiff inside your gloves. It's hard not to feel slighted when he promises to walk you through the adjustments he noticed during pre-flight checks only to be swept away by a crowd before he can finish a sentence.
All he ever manages is that apologetic smile. “I’ll make it up to you!” He always says it like he means it and it wouldn’t be the first time this has happened to you.
Which is how you find yourself here now—alone in the hangar long after most have turned in for the night. His X-wing sits before you, frost clinging to its hull. You huddle deeper into your jacket as you work, breath fogging in pale clouds with every exhale. The cold gnaws at your fingers, makes your joints ache as you tighten bolts and recalibrate wiring.
If you’re lucky, you might make it to dinner before the kitchens close. But that depends on what you’re dealing with and with Luke’s ship, that can mean anything.
You sigh and keep working.
You’re so focused on the delicate circuitry behind the maintenance panel that you don’t notice the shift in the air. Don’t notice the sound of approaching boots muffled against the hangar floor. You continue your scrutiny inside of the panel and you know that you need a specific tool for this kind of problem and you know for certain that you have it in your tool kit.
And when you turn, you nearly collide with him.
“Fuck!” The curse bursts out of you before you can stop it, heart slamming violently against your ribs.
Luke startles at your reaction, hands lifting instinctively in surrender. A sheepish, apologetic smile spreads across his face.
“I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “I should’ve said something.”
The shock drains from you slowly, leaving behind irritation that feels far warmer than the cold ever could. You wave him off with a sharp huff and turn away, already moving toward your tool kit. You don’t trust yourself to speak, after all, he’s the reason you’re still here. You allow yourself that small pettiness. You’ve earned it.
“C’mon,” he says softly, your name following in that familiar voice. He trails after you like a shadow, close enough that you can feel the heat of him despite the freezing air. He doesn’t need you to say anything to understand. He can feel the tension rolling off you in waves and if the determined look settling over his features is anything to go by—Luke Skywalker has every intention of making good on his promise this time.
“I’m sorry I brought the ship back so late.” Luke’s apology is earnest—too earnest. It would be easier if he sounded careless, if there was something to justify your irritation. But he sounds soft and sincere and that only makes it harder to stay angry. So you don’t look at him. You keep your eyes on the open maintenance panel, fingers stiff inside your gloves as you adjust wiring with careful precision. If you meet his gaze, you’ll fold. You know you will.
“Give me a chance to make things right,” he tries again, hope threading through his voice. He keeps a respectful distance, hovering just far enough away not to crowd you but close enough that you can feel his presence like a persistent warmth at your back. “I’ll make it up to you. I said that, didn’t I?” The reminder only grates on you more.
The cold has been merciless. Your lips feel numb, possibly blue now, and you’re certain dinner has ended almost --if not completely finished at this time . You should be asleep by now, tucked beneath layers of blankets. Instead, you’re in this frozen hangar, fingers aching, because the galaxy’s favorite pilot can’t seem to land on time and now he’s following you around like a guilty tooka.
“You can have my share of dinner for a week,” Luke offers quickly, scrambling for leverage. “All of it.” he adds, hoping that can sweeten the deal but;
Nothing. Not even a glance his way so he tries again.
“My blanket,” he adds, more desperate now. “It’s yours. If you want it.”
But you continue working, the sound of tools against durasteel fills the silence, and Luke visibly searches for something, anything, that might crack your resolve just to get back on your good graces.
“Please,” he says finally, your name falling from his lips in a tone that forces you to inhale deeper than you mean to.
He steps closer. “What do you—”
“Luke, just—”
You turn sharply to cut him off, but your gloved grip slips. The tool in your hand clatters loudly to the floor, the metallic echo ringing through the hangar far longer than it should.
“Fuck me—!,” you snap in frustration.
The words hang in the frozen air and both of you go still.
The tool finishes its noisy descent, settling against the durasteel with a final clang. When you look up, Luke is staring at you and something in the atmosphere has shifted. The irritation from moments ago has dissolved into something heavier, something thicker.
“Well,” Luke says slowly, a teasing grin tugging at his mouth, “if that’s what you want.” The amusement in his eyes is unmistakable. He’s seizing the opportunity, trying to lighten the mood now that you’re finally looking at him.
Your brows lift as realization dawns and frustration floods back in all at once; the cold, the missed dinner, the stubborn ship, the gloves, the tool—and this insufferably handsome pilot.
Something in you snaps.
“Yeah,” you answer simply.
His grin falters at that. You watch the amusement drain from his expression, replaced by something uncertain but definitely not unwelcome if he’ll be truly honest with himself. Heat creeps up his neck, blooming pink against pale skin. He hadn’t expected you to agree and he definitely hadn’t expected you to mean it.
“You wanted to make it up to me, right?” you ask, stepping closer now. Your voice is steady, now that you’re so fed up with just about everything, you feel bold and that was enough to make you throw all rational thought out the nearest viewport now that you're the one daring him.
Your hand catches the front of his jacket and tugs. Luke moves instinctively, one palm bracing against the hull of his X-wing above your head to keep from stumbling into you. The shift traps you between him and the cool metal of the ship but you’re the one who pulled him in and you both know it.
“C’mon, Skywalker,” you murmur, mimicking his earlier pleading tone but yours is layered with something far more dangerous, provocative, and interesting. You tilt your head up at him, your eyes tracing the line of his jaw and you watch closely as your gaze follows the path to the tips of his ears flushing red under your scrutiny. You like knowing you can do that to him.
“I wanna fuck,” you say plainly, voice low and unwavering. The bluntness steals the air from his lungs. It makes his throat bob and his breathing changes to a more conscious effort now that you’ve managed to steal all of the air in his lungs with just a couple words.
For a split second, he looks stunned then something settles over him; something steadier. His hand remains planted above your head, but his posture shifts like he was grounding himself and now all of his focus is on you.
“Okay,” Luke answers, nodding once and he wasn’t hesitant at all even as he tried to shake off that flustered feeling creeping onto him. There’s determination in his eyes now along with desire. His gaze darkens as it drags slowly over your face, your mouth, lower.
“Okay,” he repeats, quieter now.
The cold still bites at your skin but suddenly, it’s the last thing either of you feel.
⋆𐙚❅°⋆❆.ೃ࿔: ⋆.˚
