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Honey, Honey

Pairing: Wrecker x fem!Reader / Wrecker x baker!Reader

Words: 21,107

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! friends (coworkers?) to lovers, fluff, hurt/comfort, smut, Wrecker being the sweetest man in the galaxy, descriptions of natural disaster, found family stuff, reader has a cat, i had to do a lot of research about star wars food to make this happen, unprotected sex, handjob, fingering, pinv, size kink and i really do mean that

Summary: Ever since Wrecker and his family settled on Pabu, he's been a permanent fixture in your small bakery. But he doesn't come to buy bread or pastries. He only wants to see you.

A/N: Posting this for @gar-romance-month ♥️ This was my attempt at writing a cheesy Hallmark type romance that got incredibly out of hand. After many, many rewrites, I decided to use romance month as my push to finally publish it. There's one more reader fic (Howzer) left plus Jesse fic part two coming soon 🙏

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You're not sure exactly how it started.

One day, you're struggling to lift a large container of dough from one workstation to the other, the muscles in your arms screaming with the effort as you try to keep the mixture from sloshing over the sides. The next, Wrecker's smiling face is greeting you every morning, his broad shoulders nearly blocking the doorway as he ducks to enter your bakery, apron already tied securely around his thick waist.

He never asks for payment, always deflecting your offers with that bashful smile that makes his entire face light up and a "it’s nothing," as if helping you was the most natural thing in the galaxy. When you insist on compensating him for his time, he only ever accepts a few of your pastries, which he then shares with Omega and his brothers. His compliments are always a little too enthusiastic, a little too loud, and they never fail to make your cheeks flush. He tells everyone you're the best baker in the galaxy, not just on Pabu.

You just roll your eyes and shoo him out the door, but your heart always gives a little flutter, a traitorous reaction you try your very best to ignore. The praise is always a bit too much for you, a little too earnest for your own comfort. You'd spent years in culinary school learning to critique and be critiqued, to accept compliments with professional grace.

But with Wrecker, it feels different—personal, almost. You find yourself looking forward to it, to the way his eyes light up when he tastes a new recipe, to the genuine awe in his voice when he describes your pastries to customers at the market.

You'll never admit it, though. Asking for help was one thing, admitting you enjoyed it was another entirely.

"I don't have to if you don't want me to," Wrecker says, as if his arms weren't already around your legs and lifting you off the ground. You sway precariously in the air for a second before he finds his footing, holding you securely in the air with his head level with your hips.

"It's fine," you huff, though the words are a little strained, and you’re struggling to keep your grip on the banner you're supposed to be hanging.

The annual Pabu Founder's Day festival is tomorrow, and you'd procrastinated, as usual. Now, you’re scrambling to hang a banner over your shop entrance. The ladder you'd been using had wobbled, a nerve-wracking creak echoing through the quiet street, and then Wrecker was there, scooping you up as if you weighed nothing at all. The sheer, effortless strength of him still managed to catch you off guard every single time. As does the earnest, boyish grin on his face when you look down at him.

"You sure?" he asks, his voice rumbling through his chest and vibrating up your legs.

You take a steadying breath, the salty sea air filling your lungs. Pabu is already bustling with preparations for the festival. Colorful flags are strung between buildings, and the sounds of hammers and cheerful shouts fill the air. From your vantage point, you can see over the rooftops to the sparkling turquoise water of the bay. It’s beautiful. But right now, all you can focus on is the warmth of his hands on your thighs, the solid feel of his chest against your shins.

"I'm sure," you say, a little more firmly this time. "Just don’t drop me, okay?”

"Oh, I'd never drop you,” he replies cheerfully, and as if to prove his point, he flexes, and you rise another few centimeters.

You bite back a squeak of surprise and focus on the banner, fumbling with the hooks and the rope as fast as you can. You can feel the eyes of the curious few islanders walking past on you and your makeshift, fleshy ladder, and you do your best not to look like you’re enjoying this too much.

You’ve gotten used to the stares. Wrecker’s presence is a constant in your life now, and the people of Pabu have long since grown accustomed to the sight of the giant clone helping you in your small bakery. But being held aloft by him in the middle of the main street is still enough to turn heads. This will be all over the island by nightfall.

"Almost... got it," you mutter, stretching to your tiptoes, the muscles in your calves screaming. The hook finally catches on the metal hook above your door, and you let out a sigh of relief. "Alright, scootch me to the left a little. Slowly. No, my other left."

Wrecker chuckles and does as you ask, shuffling sideways with surprising grace for a man of his size. You secure the other end of the banner, and it hangs straight and true, the crisp white canvas with your bakery’s logo—a tooka-cat curled around a rolling pin—flapping gently in the sea breeze.

"How's it look?” he asks, craning his neck to see.

You finally let yourself relax a little, taking in the view from this height. From up here, the world looks different. Smaller, somehow. More manageable. The anxiety that had been building in your chest about the festival, about the special-order wedding cake you still needed to finish, eases just a little.

“Looks good,” you answer as you look down at him. His face is turned upward, his expression open and earnest, completely devoid of any hint of mockery or impatience. He's just... happy to be helping. The thought strikes you with unexpected force, sending a wave of warmth through your chest you can't bring yourself to blame on the afternoon sun.

He's still holding you.

The realization washes over you, sudden and sharp. Your hands are now free, the banner is hung, and yet he hasn't put you down. You're just... suspended in his arms in the middle of the street. While he looks at you with that goofy, genuine smile.

"Wrecker?" you say, your voice coming out softer than you intended.

"Yeah?"

"You can, uh... you can put me down now."

"Oh! Right."

He blinks, as if snapping out of a daze, and lowers you slowly, your body sliding down his until your feet touch the cobblestones. You stumble a little as you land, your hands flying to his biceps to steady yourself. The muscles there are like solid rock beneath your palms, and you pull your hands back quickly.

"There we go," Wrecker says with a grin, straightening your apron where it had gotten twisted during your aerial acrobatics. His fingers brush against your hip, and you feel that tell-tale flutter in your stomach again. "All done."

"All done," you echo, your voice a little shaky. You take a step back, creating some much-needed distance between you. "Thanks for the... lift. I appreciate it."

"Anytime," he beams. "Anything for the best baker on Pabu."

And there it is.

The compliment, delivered with that same boyish enthusiasm that always manages to disarm you. You turn away, your hands on your hips, looking up at the banner, needing to focus on anything other than the way your heart is hammering against your ribs. "It's not crooked, is it? I hate it when things are crooked."

"Looks perfect to me," he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice.

Of course, he would think that. Of course, he would.

You risk a glance at him from the corner of your eye. He's just standing there, hands on his own hips, mirroring your pose, admiring your work like it’s the most impressive thing he's ever seen. A group of young Pabu children run past, shouting, and Wrecker's gaze follows them for a moment, a fond look on his face. Then, his eyes are back on you, and you have to look away again.

The afternoon sun is beginning to dip lower, casting long shadows across the street. The air is filled with the scent of salt, frying fish, and the sweet smell of baking from your own shop. You need to get back inside. You have dough to make, cakes to decorate, and you've wasted enough time staring at this banner and the giant, kind-hearted man who helped you hang it.

"Well," you say, turning to face him fully, forcing what you hope is a professional, business-like smile. "I should get back to it. Big day tomorrow. Lots to do."

"Ah, yeah, yeah, of course." Wrecker rocks back on his heels, hands shoved into the pockets of his trousers. "Don't wanna keep you from your... baking."

He looks disappointed, and the sight of it makes your chest ache in a way that's both familiar and unwelcome. You've seen that look before, every time you shoo him out the door at closing. Every time you refuse his help with something you know you can do yourself. And every time, you have to fight the urge to take it back.

"You don't have to—" You start, then stop yourself, shocked by the words that almost spilled out of your mouth. You don't have to go. You haven't said those words to anyone in years. The thought of them, of the vulnerability they represent, is terrifying.

He looks at you, his head tilted in that curious, puppy-dog way he has. "Yeah?"

"I just...I mean..."

You sigh, your shoulders slumping in defeat. You are terrible at this. Terrible at this whole 'talking to people' thing, especially when those people are tall, strong clones with disarmingly sincere smiles and hands that feel like they were made to lift you.

"Actually... I could use some help with the filling for the sweet-petal ryshcate," you find yourself saying. "If you're not too busy."

"I'm never too busy for you," he says, the words tumbling out of his mouth so fast they almost run into each other. He clamps his jaw shut, a faint blush creeping up his own neck now, and he clears his throat. "I mean, yeah, I can help. With the ryshcate."

You nod, a small smile playing on your lips despite your best efforts to suppress it. "Good. Come on, then. You can taste-test the new batch of scalefish tarts, too. For quality control, of course."

"Tarts?" He brightens instantly, all traces of awkwardness gone. You're breathing a little easier, too. This is better. This is your territory. Baker and her volunteer taste-tester. It's safe. It's manageable. "Now you're talking! Did you use that smoky cheese I like?"

"I might have," you say, turning and heading back into the bakery, the bell above the door chiming cheerfully as you push it open. "But you'll have to earn it. No tasting until all the ryshcate filling is mixed."

"You drive a hard bargain," Wrecker grumbles good-naturedly as he follows you inside. He practically has to fold himself in half to get through the doorway, but he does it without complaint. The familiar, comforting smell of sugar, yeast, and cinnamon washes over you in a wave of heat, and you feel some of the tension in your shoulders finally release.

He’s right at home here, too. He knows where the bowls are, where the big mixer is. He doesn't even need to be told anymore. He just... fits. In your small, cramped, slightly chaotic bakery, this giant of a man has carved out his own space. And you've let him. A thought that should terrify you, but somehow, right now, it just feels... right.

"Alright, big guy," you say, handing him the spare apron. "Let's get to work. Founder's Day waits for no one."

The hours melt away in a comfortable rhythm that has become second nature to you both. You give the instructions; Wrecker provides the muscle. The giant mixer, which you usually strain to move, is lifted onto the counter with an ease that still makes your jaw drop. The fifty-kilo sack of shuura flour is hoisted onto your shoulder-height shelf as if it were filled with feathers. You're chopping candied root petals, and he's measuring out the blumfruit extract.

The silence between you is not awkward, but companionable, filled only by the whir of the mixer and the rhythmic thud of your knife against the cutting board. Tuna, your tooka, wakes from her nap on a sack of flour, stretches luxuriously, and pads over to rub against Wrecker's leg, purring like a faulty engine. Traitor.

"She likes you," you note, trying to sound casual.

"I'm very likable," Wrecker says, not looking up from where he's carefully weighing out powdered sugar on the industrial scale.

You snort. "Modest, too."

He shoots you a grin over his shoulder, and you roll your eyes at him, but you can't stop the smile from tugging at your own lips. It earns you a wide, happy grin in return, so brilliant it could power the entire island for a week.

The ryshcate filling is coming together, the sweet, floral scent filling the air. You're about to add the final ingredient, the secret one, the one your grandmother taught you that makes all the difference, when the mixer suddenly makes a horrible grinding noise and shudders to a halt. A plume of smoke puffs out from the motor housing.

"Kriff," you mutter, staring at it in dismay. This is the third time this month. You tap the housing, jiggle the switch, and hit the side, but it's completely dead. "No, no, no, no..."

Wrecker's at your side in an instant. "What's wrong?"

"The mixer," you say, your voice tight with frustration. "It's dead. I can't make the filling without it. Not in this quantity. Not by hand."

You run a hand through your hair, your mind racing. You could try to fix it, but you're no mechanic. You could try to finish the batch by hand, but it would take hours, hours you don't have. You could call the vendor on the next island over, but they wouldn't be able to get a part here until after the festival. Panic, cold and familiar, starts to creep up your spine.

You spent weeks planning your Founder's Day menu. You have orders for three wedding cakes, two dozen custom ryshcates, and enough pastries to feed half the island. You'd even planned on entering the baking competition this year, the one you've always been too scared to enter. This one mixer, this one glorified motor with paddles, was the lynchpin of the entire operation. Without it, your plans are dust.

"Okay, okay, think," you mutter, pacing the small space behind the counter. "I can... I can make the smaller cakes. The ones for the competition. I can do that by hand. But the big order... the Ryloth wedding... they're coming to pick it up tomorrow morning..."

You're rambling, your thoughts flying in every direction at once, and you don't even notice that Wrecker has moved. It's only when he clears his throat that you look up.

He's standing by the mixer, one of his massive hands resting on the lid. "How fast does it need to go?"

"What?" you ask, confused.

"The mixer," he says, tapping the lid. "How fast does it need to spin? To mix it all up?"

You stare at him, bewildered. "I... I don't know. A medium speed, I guess. Fast enough to whip the air into it, but not so fast it turns the—"

Wrecker doesn't wait for you to finish. With a grunt of effort, he grips the handle on the mixing bowl, lifts the entire heavy, ceramic bowl off the base, and cradles it in one arm like it's a pet. Then, with his other hand, he grabs the paddle attachment, which is still stuck in the congealed filling.

"Wrecker, what are you doing? Don't—"

But it's too late. With another grunt, he gives the paddle a sharp tug, and it comes free with a loud squelch. He discards it on the counter with a clatter, then looks at you, his expression completely serious.

"Get me the other one," he says, nodding toward the wire whisk attachment. "The one with the loopy things."

You just stand there, your mouth slightly agape, your brain struggling to process what's happening. "The... the whisk? Why?"

"'Cause I'm gonna mix it," he says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the galaxy. He holds the bowl in the crook of one arm, flexes the fingers of his other hand, and gestures impatiently for the whisk. "C'mon, we don't have all day."

The sheer absurdity of it is so overwhelming that for a moment, you forget to panic. You forget to be frustrated. You just... stare. He's going to hand-whisk fifty kilos of ryshcate filling. The muscles required for such an undertaking are, for all intents and purposes, not human. But then, he isn't, is he?

A hysterical giggle bubbles up in your throat. You try to swallow it, but it escapes anyway, a little hiccup of laughter. Wrecker's face falls, and you realize he thinks you're laughing at him.

"No, no, not at you," you say, quickly, shaking your head as you retrieve the whisk and hand it to him. "It's just... this is the single most ridiculous thing I have ever seen."

"Is it gonna work?" he asks, his brow furrowed with genuine concern.

"I have no idea," you answer honestly, and another laugh escapes you. His eyes soften, and he grins, his uncertainty replaced by the familiar glint of determination.

"Well, only one way to find out," he says, and he plunges the whisk into the bowl.

It's...impressive, and a little concerning, how easily he handles it. You watch, mesmerized, as his massive hand begins to move, the whisk flying through the thick, sticky mixture. At first, the movement is clumsy, the mixture sloshing up the sides of the bowl. But then he finds a rhythm, a smooth, circular motion that's surprisingly fluid.

You start to give directions, the baker in you taking over. Within minutes, he's perfected the "figure-eight" technique you've been trying to teach yourself for years, folding in the air, making the filling light and fluffy. He's not just strong, you realize. He's got an innate grace, an instinct for the physical world that you can only dream of. He can feel the texture changing, the resistance lessening, and he adjusts his speed and pressure accordingly.

"You're amazing," you say with a breathless laugh as he sets the finished filling next to you, the mixture perfectly whipped. The entire process took less than ten minutes. The mixer would have taken twice that. "You're my new favorite kitchen appliance."

"I try," he says with a wink, wiping a smear of filling from his cheek with the back of his hand.

And just like that, the panic is gone, replaced by a giddy, sugar-rush-like energy. The breakdown of the mixer, which should have been a catastrophe, has turned into... this. An absurd, wonderful, collaborative effort. You feel lighter than you have in weeks, the weight of your expectations lifting, replaced by the simple joy of creating something with someone.

"Alright, my favorite appliance," you say, clapping your hands together. "The filling is done. The dough is proofing. The cakes are baked and cooling. Now, for the really important part."

"The tarts?" he asks, his eyes lighting up. You know he's been thinking about them this whole time.

"The tarts," you confirm with a grin. "But you can't just have one. You have to tell me what you think. Be honest. I'm thinking of putting them on the permanent menu."

You pull the tray of scalefish tarts from the warmer. They're beautiful, golden-brown and flaky, the smoky cheese and herbs wafting up in an intoxicating cloud. You arrange three on a plate for him and add a dollop of a spicy green chutney on top, a little experiment of yours.

"Alright, Quality Control," you announce, returning to the counter and sliding the plate in front of him. "Be honest. I can take it."

Wrecker takes the plate, but instead of taking a bite, he looks at you. "I'm always honest with you."

"I know," you murmur, feeling oddly breathless, and you smooth down your apron. "That's... that's why I'm asking. Now, eat."

You watch with rapt attention as he takes the first bite, his eyes closed in concentration. It’s a familiar ritual, one you've come to enjoy more than you'll ever admit, this giant of a man treating your pastries with the gravity of a bomb disposal expert. He chews slowly, savoring it, and you find yourself holding your breath, waiting for his verdict. Your entire culinary career has been built on the approval of stern-faced chefs and snooty critics, but none of their opinions have ever felt this important.

He swallows, and for a heart-stopping second, he says nothing. He just looks at the half-eaten tart in his hand.

"Well?" you prompt, your nerves stretched taut. "Is it good?"

"That's the best thing I've ever eaten," he says at last, with such utter sincerity that it makes your chest ache. He shoves the rest of the tart into his mouth and reaches for another one immediately. "The green stuff on top... it's spicy. But not too spicy. It's perfect. It cuts through the cheese and the fish. It's... yeah. This is the one."

A wave of relief washes over you, so potent it almost makes you dizzy. You let out a breath and lean against the counter, a smile spreading across your face.

"You really think so?"

"I know so," he says, already polishing off the third tart. "You're putting these on the menu. You have to. The people of Pabu need this in their lives."

You laugh, the sound light and easy. "I'll consider it. If you help me finish cleaning up, I might even let you take the rest home."

That’s all the motivation he needs. In record time, the counters are wiped, the bowls are washed and put away, and the floor is swept, all while you carefully spoon the finished ryshcate filling into the pre-baked cake shells. You work together in silence, the easy rhythm of your movements speaking volumes. It feels like a dance, one you’ve been practicing for months without even realizing it.

You’re just finishing the last of the decorations on the wedding cakes—delicate sugar-flowers for the Ryloth couple, intricate frosting swirls for the Pabu locals—when you hear it.

A low rumble at first, like distant thunder.

Then, the floorboards begin to vibrate.

Tuna, who had been dozing on the windowsill, lets out a hiss, her fur on end. You freeze, the piping bag in your hand held motionless over a pristine white cake. You look up, and your eyes meet Wrecker's. His easy-going expression is gone, replaced by one of sharp, sudden focus.

"Stay here," he says, his voice low and commanding. It's a tone you've never heard from him before, and it sends a shiver down your spine. He moves to the door, not with his usual cheerful bounce, but with the predatory grace of a soldier, his footsteps silent on the wooden floor.

"Wrecker, wait—"

But he's already gone, striding through the doorway and out into the night. The little bell above the door chimes, its cheerful sound completely at odds with the growing sense of dread that's coiling in your stomach. The rumbling grows louder, the vibrations stronger. A jar of sprinkles topples off a shelf and shatters on the floor.

You snatch Tuna from her perch, holding the squirming cat to your chest as you peer out the window. The street is chaos. People are running, shouting, pointing up at the sky. And then you see it.

Rain. But not the gentle, life-giving showers Pabu is known for. This is a deluge. A wall of water slamming into the island with the force of a physical blow. The wind howls, ripping flags from their buildings, tearing the freshly hung banner from its hooks. It flutters away into the darkness, lost to the storm. Your banner. The one Wrecker helped you hang.

A flash of lightning illuminates the scene, and for a horrifying second, you see the ocean. It's not the calm, turquoise sea you're used to. It's an angry, churning monster, the waves rising up like mountains, crashing over the seawall with explosive force. The lower levels of the island are already flooding, the water dark and relentless.

Then you see him.

Wrecker, standing in the middle of the street, not running for cover like everyone else. He's helping an elderly couple who had stumbled, hoisting them to their feet and guiding them toward the relative safety of the higher walkways. Another flash of lightning, and you see him lift a fallen cart that had been blocking the path, tossing it aside like it was a child's toy. He's not scared. He's not panicking. He's doing what he does best. He's helping.

With the path cleared, Wrecker turns and bounds back toward you. The door nearly pulls off its hinges as he slams it shut behind him, his face grim, rain dripping from his chin onto the floor.

"It's not just a storm," he says, shaking his head. "The tide's coming in. Fast. We need to get to higher ground. Now."

"My cakes," you blurt out, your eyes darting to the three beautiful, finished wedding cakes sitting on their stands. The Ryloth cake, with its delicate, edible flowers. The Pabu cake, with its intricate buttercream waves. The third, a smaller cake for the mayor's anniversary, adorned with tiny, shimmering sugar pearls. Weeks of work. Thousands of credits. Your entire festival plan.

"Forget the cakes," Wrecker says, his voice firm but not unkind. He's already moving, grabbing your emergency "go-bag" from under the counter—the one you'd packed after the last big storm and never touched—and slinging it over one massive shoulder. Tuna yowls in protest, digging her claws into your shirt. "We have to go."

"I can't just leave them," you protest, your mind racing. "The Ryloth wedding is tomorrow. They'll be ruined. Everything will be ruined."

Another tremor shakes the building, and this one is accompanied by the sickening crunch of wood and stone from somewhere down the street. The floorboards beneath your feet groan in protest. A crack appears in the window, zigzagging its way across the glass like a bolt of black lightning.

"Hey," Wrecker says, stepping closer. His hands come to rest on your shoulders, and they're grounding, solid. "Look at me."

You force your gaze away from the cakes, from the cracking window, and look at him. His eyes are intense, focused. There's no fear there, only an unshakeable resolve that's both terrifying and strangely comforting.

"Nothing is more important than you," he says, the words simple and absolute. "Not the cakes. Not the festival. You. Got it?"

Your throat feels tight, and all you can do is nod. You can feel the panic trying to claw its way back up, but he's here, an anchor in the storm.

"Good," he says, and then he's moving again, purposeful. He picks up Tuna's carrier, which had been sitting by the door, and deftly pops the indignant cat inside before she can escape. "Now, what else is essential? Medicines? Files? Think small, think light."

His question cuts through your shock, forcing your brain to engage. You look around your bakery, your home, the place you've poured your heart and soul into, and you try to see it through his eyes. Not as a collection of memories and dreams, but as a structure about to be destroyed.

"The… the recipe book," you stammer, pointing to the battered, leather-bound book on the high shelf above the mixer. The one your grandmother gave you. The one thing in the shop that is truly irreplaceable.

Without hesitation, Wrecker reaches up and plucks it from the shelf, tucking it safely inside the go-bag. "Anything else?"

You shake your head, your vision blurring with tears you refuse to let fall. "No. That's it."

"Okay," he says, shouldering the bag and picking up Tuna's carrier. He takes your hand in his free one. His grip is strong, warm, and sure. "Let's go. Stay behind me. Watch your step."

He pulls open the door, and the full fury of the storm hits you. The wind is a physical force, tearing at your clothes and whipping your hair across your face. The rain is so heavy it feels like you're trying to breathe underwater. The street is no longer a street; it's a river, fast-moving and dark with debris. A piece of roofing from the cantina next door sails past and smashes into the far wall with a sickening crunch.

Wrecker doesn't hesitate. He plunges into the deluge, pulling you with him. The water is already up to your knees, shockingly cold and powerful. It tugs at your legs, trying to pull you off your feet. You stumble, but Wrecker's hold on you tightens, keeping you upright. He's like a mountain, unmoving against the current.

"Hold on!" he yells over the howl of the wind.

He wraps one arm around your waist, hoisting you up so your feet barely touch the ground. He moves with surprising speed through the churning water, his long legs eating up the distance. In seconds, you're on the steps that wind along the cliffside, climbing toward the higher levels of Pabu. The wind is still ferocious here, but you're out of the immediate path of the flood.

You risk a glance back down at your bakery. It's still there, for now. But the water is lapping at the foundation, and with each wave that crashes over the seawall, it seems to tremble. You see the banner, the one you were so proud of, snagged on a piece of wreckage, the tooka-cat logo tearing in the wind. A fresh wave of grief washes over you, so sharp and sudden it almost makes you cry out.

But then Wrecker's grip on you tightens, and he turns, shielding you from the worst of the wind with his own body. "Don't look," he says, his voice gentle but firm. "Just keep moving."

You bury your face in his chest, the fabric of his soaked shirt rough against your cheek, and let him lead you. You can hear him talking into his comm, his voice clipped and professional, so different from the cheerful rumble you're used to.

"Hunter, I got her. We're heading to the house... No, it's not lookin' good... I know. We're on our way. Keep Omega inside."

A new fear claws at your chest. Omega. "Is she okay?"

"She's safe," Wrecker says, not breaking his stride. "Hunter and Crosshair are with her. They're at the house. It's on the highest ground. It'll hold."

You nod, trying to take comfort in his words. The climb is grueling. The steps are slick with rain and spray, and you have to cling to Wrecker to keep from being blown away. Tuna yowls pitifully from her carrier, her cries barely audible over the storm. The world is a blur of gray and black, lit only by the intermittent flash of lightning, which throws the ravaged landscape into stark, terrifying relief.

You see other people, other refugees from the lower levels, all struggling upward. You see neighbors helping neighbors, strangers carrying children, the community of Pabu banding together in the face of disaster. It's horrifying, but also... beautiful, in a way. A testament to the resilience of the people who have made this island their home.

Finally, you reach the level where the Batch's dwelling is carved into the rock. The door is open, light spilling out into the stormy night. Hunter is there, framed in the doorway, his expression grim. He takes one look at you, drenched and shivering, and then at Wrecker, and he just nods.

"Get her inside," he says, taking Tuna's carrier from Wrecker as you both stumble over the threshold. "Cross, get some blankets."

The inside of their home is small but functional, filled with mismatched furniture and military-grade equipment that's been repurposed for domestic life. It's warm and dry, and the sudden relief from the storm is so overwhelming that your knees buckle.

Wrecker catches you, lowering you gently into one of the sturdy chairs around their table. Crosshair appears with two coarse wool blankets, draping one over your shoulders before moving to secure the door against the wind. He doesn't say anything, but his movements are efficient, and there's an unspoken concern in the way he glances back at you.

Omega scrambles down from where she'd been perched on the kitchen counter, her eyes wide with worry. "Are you okay? We saw the water coming up so fast! Was your shop—"

She cuts herself off, looking from your stricken face to Wrecker's, and she seems to understand. She doesn't finish the question. Instead, she just stands there, wringing her hands, looking so small and vulnerable that your heart aches.

"I'm okay, Omega," you say, trying to make your voice sound steadier than you feel. "Wrecker got me out."

You look at him. He's dripping all over their floor, a puddle already forming around his boots. He's fussing with the go-bag, pulling out your grandmother's recipe book and setting it on the table with reverent care, as if it were the most important thing he's ever handled. There's a small gash on his arm bleeding sluggishly, but he doesn't seem to notice.

Hunter kneels in front of you, his sharp eyes scanning you for injuries. "Any bumps, any scrapes?"

You shake your head. "No. I'm fine. Just... cold."

And wet. And so profoundly tired it feels like your bones have turned to lead. You suddenly can't remember the last time you slept properly, the last time you ate a meal that wasn't a pastry scarfed down between customers. The adrenaline that had been carrying you is gone, and in its place is an empty, hollow ache.

"Hunter," Wrecker says, and there's an urgency in his voice that cuts through the room. "It's bad. Really bad. The whole lower market is gone."

Hunter's jaw tightens, and he shares a look with Crosshair, who has just finished barring the door. The unspoken communication between the three of them is swift and heavy with a lifetime of shared experience. Even a year without putting the armor on hasn't erased that instinctual link. They are soldiers, and they have seen worlds fall. This storm is just another battle.

You hear Tuna meow pitifully from her carrier, and Omega immediately goes to her, unlatching the door and letting the soggy, indignant cat out. Tuna shakes herself, spraying water everywhere, and then promptly begins to groom, as if to reassert some semblance of dignity.

Crosshair's lips twitch. "Cat's got more sense than most of the people down there."

"Cross," Hunter warns, his tone low.

"I'm just saying," Crosshair mutters, but he moves to the small kitchen area and starts rattling around with mugs. He comes back and pushes one into your hands. The ceramic is hot, and you wrap your fingers around it gratefully. It's just caf, strong and bitter, but it's the best thing you've ever tasted.

"We can't do anything tonight," Hunter says, more to himself than anyone else. He straightens up, his gaze distant. "We wait for the eye. We assess at first light." He turns to you, and his expression softens slightly. "You're safe here. You can stay as long as you need to. We'll figure out... we'll figure everything out later."

You just nod, not trusting your voice. You take a sip of caf, the hot liquid scalding your throat and warming you from the inside out. You can feel their eyes on you—Wrecker's worried, Omega's sympathetic, Hunter's assessing, Crosshair's carefully neutral. It's too much. You feel like an exhibit, the sole survivor of some tragic natural disaster, brought here for them to study.

"I'm fine," you say, the words coming out more curtly than you intended. "Really."

Wrecker finally seems to notice the gash on his arm when he reaches for his own mug of caf. He prods at it with his finger, and you see him wince. It’s not deep, but it looks nasty.

"You're bleeding," you say, your voice softer now.

"It's nothing," he says, trying to shrug it off.

"It's not nothing," you counter, pushing your chair back and standing up. The blanket slides from your shoulders, and you feel another wave of shivers, but you ignore it. "Where's your medkit?"

Wrecker looks to Hunter, who gives a brief, almost imperceptible nod. Cross sighs as if deeply put upon and disappears into another room, returning with a standard-issue military medkit. He sets it on the table in front of you with a thud.

"Help yourself," he says, before returning to a window and peering out into the storm, his tall, lean frame a stark silhouette against the flashes of lightning.

You open the kit, your hands moving with an efficiency that surprises you. This, at least, is familiar. This you can do. You find antiseptic wipes, bacta patches, and sterile bandages. You pull up a chair next to Wrecker, who's watching you with an expression you can't quite decipher.

"Let me see," you say, taking his arm gently. The cut is from some piece of flying debris, you imagine. It's already starting to swell. You start cleaning it, your touch light and sure.

"Ouch," he grumbles, pulling his arm away.

"Hold still, you big baby," you say without looking up. Your tone is gentle, though. "This will only take a second."

Wrecker goes still, and you can feel the tension in his muscles. You work in silence, the sounds of the storm and the quiet murmurs of Hunter and Crosshair at the window the only noise in the small room. Tuna has found an abandoned blanket and is kneading it with her paws, purring contentedly, as if the world isn't ending outside. Omega is watching you, her head cocked to one side, her expression thoughtful.

"Where'd you learn to do that?" Omega asks, her voice quiet.

You look up from Wrecker's arm, meeting her curious gaze. "Before I decided to go to culinary school, I thought I wanted to be a doctor," you answer with a small, humorless smile. "Did two semesters of med school before I realized I couldn't stand the sight of blood."

Wrecker lets out a short, surprised laugh. "You're doing okay now."

"It's different when it's yours," you say, before you can stop yourself.

You smooth the bacta patch over the cut, then start wrapping the bandage around his thick forearm. The proximity is… distracting. You can smell the rain on him, mixed with something else, something uniquely Wrecker. Like clean metal and the faint, sweet scent of the sugar he’d been inhaling in the bakery.

Your fingers brush against his skin, and you feel him flinch, just barely. His arm flexes, the muscles bunching under your touch, and you feel your face flush. You focus on the bandage, on making the corners neat, on anything but the way your heart is suddenly hammering in your chest.

"There," you say, securing the end of the bandage. "All done."

"Thanks," he says, his voice lower than usual. He looks down at the neat bandage, then back at you, and there's an emotion in his eyes that's so raw and open it makes your breath catch. Gratitude, yes, but also something else. Something deeper.

You get up quickly, putting the supplies back in the medkit. You need to move, to break the spell. You need to think about something other than the warmth of his skin under your fingers.

"The worst of it should pass in a few hours," Hunter says, turning away from the window. "We'll take shifts. Someone stays awake. Watch for any structural changes."

"I'll take first watch," Crosshair says, not waiting to be asked. He grabs a rifle from where it leans against the wall and settles himself in the chair by the door, adopting a posture of grim vigilance. "The rest of you should get some rest."

The unspoken order hangs in the air. Rest. As if it were that simple. As if you could just close your eyes and switch off the image of the water rising, of your bakery shuddering on its foundation. You feel that same panic, cold and sharp, start to creep back in.

Wrecker must see it on your face, because he's at your side again. "Come on," he says, his voice gentle. "I'll find you some dry clothes. You can't sleep in those."

He leads you down the hall, past a few closed doors, until you reach one at the end. It slides open as you approach, revealing what you assume is Wrecker's room. It’s… surprisingly tidy. A bed on a simple wooden frame, neatly made. A small shelf holding carved tooka-cat figurines, obviously made by Omega, and what looks like a partially assembled droid head. The only sign of disarray is the massive pile of clean clothes in the corner.

"Sorry," he says, scratching the back of his neck. "Wasn't expecting company."

"It's... cleaner than I expected," you say, and then immediately regret it. "I mean, not that I expected it to be messy. I just—"

He lets out a soft laugh, cutting off your flustered apology. "It's okay. Crosshair gets on my case if I leave my stuff everywhere. Says it's a 'tactical disadvantage'."

You smile, but it feels brittle, fragile. You watch as he rummages through the pile of clothes, pulling out a large, soft-looking tunic and a pair of drawstring trousers. They're all clean and smell faintly of soap and salt air.

"These should work," he says, holding them out to you. "They'll be big, but they're dry. 'Fresher's across the hall if you want to, you know... change."

You take the clothes from him, the fabric impossibly soft in your hands. "Thank you, Wrecker. For... everything."

The words feel inadequate, hollow. How do you thank someone for saving your life? For saving your cat? For the priceless recipe book? For hand-whisking fifty kilos of cake filling? For being the one person you could count on when your world was literally being washed away?

His expression softens, the easy-going humor replaced by that same raw, earnest look from before. "I told you. Anything for you."

He says it so simply, so matter-of-factly, that it hits you with the force of a physical blow. Not because of the words themselves, but because of the conviction behind them. He doesn't see it as a debt or a duty. He sees it as... obvious. As natural as breathing.

You have to look away. You duck into the refresher, closing the door behind you and leaning against it, your heart pounding. You strip off your soaked clothes, wincing as the fabric peels away from your cold skin. The refresher is small, just like the rest of the dwelling, but it's clean and functional, a near mirror image of the one in your flat. The similarity sends another pang of grief through you.

You quickly dry yourself with a rough towel and pull on the clothes Wrecker gave you. The tunic is enormous on you, the hem falling to your mid-thigh, and you have to cinch the drawstring on the trousers as tight as it will go to keep them from falling down. You look ridiculous, like a child playing dress-up in an adult's clothes. But they're warm and dry, and the faint scent of him clinging to the fabric is oddly comforting.

When you emerge, Wrecker is still in the hallway, leaning against the opposite wall, waiting. He straightens up when he sees you, and you see his eyes flicker over you, just for a second, before he looks away, clearing his throat.

"Better?" he asks.

"Much," you say, your voice barely a whisper. "Thank you."

"You can, uh, take my bed," he says, gesturing into the room. "I'll take the floor."

"No, I can't ask you to do that," you protest immediately. "Wrecker, you've already done so much. This is your home. I'll sleep on the floor."

"No way," he says, shaking his head firmly. "You've had a long day. A long... everything. You need the rest. I'll be fine. I've slept in worse places. Way worse." He doesn't elaborate, but you can imagine.

You fight back the urge to argue. You're not used to this. You're the one who takes care of things, the one who copes, the one who figures it out. Being taken care of feels… foreign. Unsettling. But you're also so tired you can barely think straight, and the idea of sinking into that soft-looking bed is more tempting than you care to admit.

"Okay," you concede. You wrap your arms around yourself, suddenly feeling very small and very lost. "Wrecker... what am I going to do?"

The question slips out before you can stop it, raw and vulnerable. You're not talking about where you're going to sleep tonight. You're talking about tomorrow, and the day after that. You're talking about your destroyed livelihood, your future, your entire life, all swept away in the space of an hour. Everything you'd built, everything you'd sacrificed for, gone.

He doesn't answer right away. He just looks at you, and you see the genuine pain in his eyes, the helplessness. He can't stop the storm. He can't build back your bakery with his bare hands. He's just a man, albeit one of incredible strength and an even bigger heart, and in this moment, you see that he feels your loss almost as acutely as you do.

"We'll figure it out," he says, and he steps closer, not touching you, but just… there. A solid, comforting presence. "I promise. We'll figure it out together."

Together.

The word hangs in the air between you, heavy with meaning. You have been alone for so long, since you left your family to pursue your dreams, since you gave up those dreams to open your own shop, since you made the choice to remain on Pabu. You've prided yourself on your independence, your self-sufficiency. You've never needed anyone.

But tonight, in the wreckage of everything you know, the thought of not being alone is the only thing that feels real.

Another wave of emotion washes over you, and this one you can't fight. Tears well up in your eyes, hot and sudden. You turn away from him, humiliated, wiping at your face with the back of your hand. You don't want him to see you like this. You don't want anyone to see you like this.

"Hey," he says, his voice gentle as his hand comes to rest on your back, between your shoulder blades. His touch is light, hesitant at first, but then it becomes more firm, a steady, grounding pressure. "It's okay. It's okay to be sad."

The simple kindness of it is your undoing. A choked sob escapes your throat, and then another. You try to swallow them back, but it's no use. The dam has broken. Years of repressed grief, of stress, of loneliness, come pouring out in the middle of the hallway of a clone's home on an island that's being torn apart by the sea.

Wrecker doesn't say anything else. He doesn't offer platitudes or empty promises. He just stands there, his hand on your back, letting you cry. He doesn't flinch or pull away when you turn and bury your face in his chest, soaking the front of his new, dry shirt. He just wraps his other arm around you, pulling you into an embrace that's so strong and so secure you feel like nothing, not even the storm raging outside, could ever hurt you again.

You let him guide you back into his bedroom, grateful for the privacy of the closed door. He doesn't let go, simply sits on the edge of the bed and pulls you down with him, settling you against him as you continue to weep. He rocks you gently, one large hand stroking your hair, the other rubbing soothing circles on your back. He doesn't shush you or tell you to stop. He just lets you ride out the storm inside, while the other one rages on outside.

After what feels like an eternity, the tears begin to subside, leaving you feeling hollowed out and exhausted. You're limp against him, your head pillowed on his shoulder, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest a strange but welcome comfort. You can hear the steady beat of his heart, slow and strong under your ear.

You're vaguely aware that you should probably move, that you're soaking him with your tears and making a mess of him. But you can't. You can't seem to make your limbs work. So you just sit there, in the quiet of the room, and let him hold you.

"Sorry," you mumble, your voice hoarse. "I'm getting your shirt all wet."

He chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest and vibrating against your cheek. "It's just a shirt. Got plenty of 'em."

You pull back slightly, just enough to look up at him. His face is shadowed in the dim light from the single lumen-lamp in the corner, but you can see the shine of his mismatched eyes and the wetness that clings to his lashes. He's been crying, too. The realization hits you with surprising force, and you feel another lump form in your throat.

"Why are you so nice to me?" you ask, the question barely audible. It's been on your mind for months. From the very beginning, he's been... different with you. Kinder. More patient. You'd always chalked it up to him being just a genuinely good person, but it feels like more than that. It always has.

He looks down at you, and the vulnerability in his expression is staggering. The cheerful, slightly goofy facade is gone, replaced by something raw and unguarded.

"Because I..." he starts, then stops, swallowing hard. He looks away for a second, as if gathering his thoughts, before meeting your gaze again. "I care about you. A lot."

He says the words so quietly, so earnestly, that they land with the force of an explosion. In the quiet, stark room, there's no room for misinterpretation. This isn't the friendly concern of a neighbor. This isn't the casual affection of one of the many islanders you serve coffee to every morning. This is... more. So much more.

And you finally see it.

All the pieces click into place, so suddenly and so clearly it's almost dizzying. The way he always finds an excuse to be at the bakery. The way he "just happens" to walk past when you're struggling with a heavy delivery. The way he lights up when you talk to him. The way he defends your baking to anyone who dares to offer even the mildest criticism.

The compliments. Oh, kriff, the compliments.

You're the best baker on Pabu.

It's the best thing I've ever eaten.

Anything for you.

It wasn't just him being enthusiastic. It wasn't just him being kind.

It was him, telling you, in the only way he knew how, how he felt. And you, in your stubborn, self-reliant, emotionally-stunted way, had completely missed it.

"Oh," you say. Because what else is there to say? Your mind is a complete blank, wiped clean by this stunning, life-altering revelation. You feel like an idiot. A complete, oblivious idiot.

He must see the confusion, the dawning comprehension, on your face. A look of panic flashes in his eyes, and he starts to pull away. "Hey, look, you don't have to... you've been through a lot. We can just forget I said anything. It's fine. It's—"

"No," you say, your hand flying out to stop him, your fingers wrapping around his forearm. His skin is warm, and you can feel the solid muscle beneath. "Don't. Don't say that."

You look up at him, really look at him, past the soldier, past the muscle, past the easy-going facade. You look into his eyes, and you see it now. The warmth, the affection, the hope, and the fear. The fear of rejection. The fear of being too much. The fear of not being what you want. It's the same fear you see in the mirror every single day.

"Wrecker," you say, his name feeling strange and new on your lips. "I... I didn't know."

"I didn't exactly... announce it," he admits with a self-deprecating shrug. "Figured you'd figure it out eventually. Or you wouldn't. Either way, I just... wanted to be around you."

Your heart clenches, painfully. He's been content to just... be in your orbit. To be your friend, your helper, your cheerleader, all while wanting more. He's been content with the crumbs you've been offering, because they were coming from you.

"I'm sorry," you say, and you mean it with every fiber of your being. "I'm so sorry I didn't see it."

"You're not exactly the most observant person when it comes to this stuff," he says, and there's no judgment in his tone, only fond understanding. "Crosshair always says you're about as emotionally perceptive as a rock."

"That's rich, coming from him," you huff, and the sound is half laugh, half sob.

"That's what I said," Wrecker grins, and the familiar, boyish expression is back, but now it's layered with this new, breathtaking vulnerability. "But he's right. About me, too. We're not... great at this stuff. Any of us."

You're silent for a long moment, just looking at him. You think about all the times you've pushed him away, all the times you've shooed him out the door, all the times you've rolled your eyes at his compliments. You think about all the opportunities you've missed, all the moments you let slip through your fingers because you were too scared, too proud, too busy being independent to see what was right in front of you.

Your bakery is gone. Your home is gone. Your entire life is gone. And yet, sitting here, in this dimly lit room, with this big, kind, ridiculously brave man who has been quietly, patiently loving you from afar, you feel... hopeful.

You lean in, slowly, giving him every opportunity to pull away. He doesn't. He just watches you, his eyes wide, his breath held. You press your lips to his.

It's not a passionate, fiery kiss. It's not the kind of kiss you see in the holodramas. It's soft, and hesitant, and it tastes of salt and rain and bitter caf. It's a question. And an answer. And with it, you realize you’ve been asking and answering the same questions in your own head for months.

He responds tentatively at first, his lips unsure against yours. Then he seems to find his footing, and he kisses you back, one of his large hands coming up to cup your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin with a tenderness that makes your breath catch. It's the gentlest you've ever felt him be, and it's more intoxicating than any kiss you've ever experienced.

When you finally pull away, you're both breathing heavily. You rest your forehead against his, your eyes closed. The storm outside feels very far away.

"Wow," he breathes, and the word is so full of genuine awe that it makes you smile. "Okay."

"Okay?" you whisper, pulling back to look at him.

"Yeah," he says, his eyes shining. "Okay. That was... yeah."

You let out a soft laugh, the last of your tears drying on your cheeks. "Yeah."

He's still looking at you, and you can see the hope in his eyes, bright and unashamed. "So... does this mean...?"

"It means," you say, choosing your words carefully, "that I'm an idiot. And it means that I've been oblivious. And it means that I... care about you. A lot, too."

The grin that spreads across his face is so wide and so bright it's almost blinding. He looks like he's just been given the entire galaxy, and all you did was kiss him. The sheer, unadulterated joy on his face is the most beautiful thing you've ever seen.

"Really?" he asks, as if he can't quite believe it.

"Really," you confirm. "But... can we... can we talk about the rest of it tomorrow? I'm so tired, Wrecker. I don't think I have the brainpower for... all of this... right now."

"Of course," he says immediately, his expression sobering. "Yeah, of course. You need to sleep. Don't worry about anything else. Just... sleep."

He stands up, gently disentangling himself from you. He pulls back the covers on the bed, the simple sheets and blankets looking impossibly inviting, and you slide under them with a sigh. The bed is soft, and it smells like him, clean and warm and safe.

You watch as he moves around the small room, grabbing a pillow and one of the blankets from the neat pile in the corner. He lays them out on the floor beside the bed, not with any sense of hardship, but with the simple, matter-of-fact practicality of someone who has made do with far worse. He lies down, folding his arms behind his head and looking up at the ceiling, and wiggles a few times in an attempt to get comfortable on the hard floor.

"Wrecker?" you whisper into the darkness.

"Yeah?"

"Get in the bed."

He turns his head to look at you, and even in the dim light, you can see the surprise on his face. "What?"

"I said, get in the bed," you repeat, more firmly this time. You shuffle toward the wall and peel back the blankets, just as he did for you, and pat the empty space beside you. "It's big enough. And I don't want you sleeping on the floor."

For a moment, he just stares at you, and you wonder if you've overstepped, if you've moved too fast. Then, slowly, he pushes himself up, gathering his pillow and blanket. He climbs into the bed, and the mattress dips and groans under his considerable weight. He stays on the very edge, as far away from you as he can possibly get without falling off, and lies stiffly on his back, staring up at the ceiling.

You can feel the tension radiating off him in waves. He's afraid to move, afraid to touch you, afraid of breaking whatever fragile new thing you've just created between you.

"Wrecker," you say, your voice soft.

He doesn't answer, but you feel him shift slightly. You scoot across the bed, the space between you shrinking until you can feel the warmth of him through the thin fabric of your clothes. You hesitate for just a second, then you roll over, pillowing your head on his shoulder, your arm draped across his massive chest.

His whole body goes rigid. You can feel the frantic, hammering beat of his heart against your cheek.

"Is this okay?" you whisper, suddenly unsure.

You feel him take a deep, shuddering breath, and then, slowly, carefully, he relaxes, one of his arms coming around to rest on your back, holding you gently. His hand settles in the small of your back, and he starts to rub slow, soothing circles, just like he did earlier.

"Yeah," he breathes, the word exhaled on a sigh. "This is... this is more than okay."

You snuggle closer, burying your face in the crook of his neck, and his hand moves to your hip, his thumb stroking the bare skin there, sending shivers of a completely different kind up your spine. This is nice. This is more than nice. This is right.

Within minutes, you feel the pull of sleep, the warmth of him, the steady beat of his heart, the sound of his breathing, all lulling you into a sense of safety you haven't felt in years. You're exhausted, physically and emotionally, but for the first time all night, you're not afraid.

You wake up to the sound of silence.

The storm is gone.

The only sounds are the soft, rhythmic breathing of the man beside you and the distant cry of a gull. A pale, watery light filters into the room, painting the walls in shades of gray and silver. You're still curled up against Wrecker, his arm heavy and warm across your back. One of your legs is thrown over his, your body tangled with his in a way that feels both intimate and completely natural.

You lift your head and look at him. He's still asleep, his face relaxed and peaceful in the soft light. He looks younger, without the constant, easy-going grin or the furrow of concentration he gets when he's helping you with a particularly difficult task. Up close, you're able to see the details of the web of scars that stretch across the side of face and neck.

You trace one with your fingertip, gently, from his temple down to his jaw. He doesn't stir. You've seen these scars before, of course. You've noticed the way the skin on his hands is puckered and calloused, the way he sometimes favors one leg over the other when he's tired. But you've never really seen them. Not like this. You've never let yourself wonder about the stories they tell, about the life he lived before Pabu, before you.

A wave of guilt washes over you, so sharp and sudden it almost makes you gasp. You've been so wrapped up in your own world, in your own struggles, in your own carefully constructed independence, that you've never stopped to consider his. You saw him as Wrecker, the big, friendly guy from the Bad Batch who helped you lift flour sacks. You didn't see the soldier, the survivor, the man who has seen and done things you can't even begin to imagine.

He stirs then, his eyes fluttering open. They're cloudy with sleep for a moment, and then they focus on you and widen, growing clearer and more alert with each passing second.

"Hey," he says, his voice rough with sleep.

"Hey," you whisper back, not moving away. You feel him tense, just for a second, as the memories of last night come flooding back. Then he relaxes, a slow, sleepy smile spreading across his face.

"So... that wasn't a dream," he says, and there's a wonder in his voice that makes your chest ache.

"No," you say, shaking your head. "It wasn't."

"Good," he murmurs, tightening his arm around you, pulling you closer.

You lie there for a while, in the quiet of the room, listening to the sounds of the house waking up around you. You can hear the distant clatter of pans in the kitchen, the low murmur of voices, the soft pad of footsteps in the hall. The storm is over. The world is still here. But it's not the same world it was yesterday.

You should get up. You should face the day. You should see what's left of your life, of your home. But you can't. You can't bring yourself to leave the warm, safe bubble of this bed, of this moment. You want to stay here, with him, forever.

"We should... we should probably get up," Wrecker says, as if reading your mind. He doesn't sound like he wants to, either.

"I know," you sigh. "But I don't want to."

"Me neither," he admits. He shifts, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at you. The movement brings his face closer to yours, and you can see the tiny flecks of gold in his brown eye, the way the light catches in his white one. "You're pretty when you first wake up."

You feel your face heat, and you have to fight the urge to bury your face in the pillow. You're not used to this. To this easy, open affection. To being seen. "I'm sure I'm a mess."

"Nope," he says, shaking his head. "Just pretty."

He leans in and kisses you then, a soft, lingering kiss that's different from the hesitant one last night. This one is sure and confident, full of the promise of morning. It's slow and sweet, and it makes you forget, for just a little while, that you have anything to worry about at all.

When he pulls away, you're breathless. "Okay," you say, your voice shaky. "Okay. I'm getting up. Before I... we... don't."

He laughs, the sound deep and rumbling in his chest, and he finally lets you go. You swing your legs over the side of the bed and stand up, your legs feeling strangely wobbly. His pants are practically falling off of you, and you have to clutch the waistband to keep them from sliding down your hips.

Wrecker watches you, an appreciative glint in his eye, and you feel another wave of heat wash over you. "What?" you ask, trying to sound annoyed, but failing miserably.

"Nothing," he says, but the grin on his face says otherwise. "They look better on you than they do on me."

You roll your eyes, but you can't stop the smile that tugs at your lips. "I'm going to go find my clothes. I'm sure they're soaked, but I can't walk around like this."

"They're probably dry by now," he says, getting out of bed and stretching, the muscles in his back and shoulders rippling under his shirt. You have to force yourself to look away. "Crosshair probably hung them up by the heater. He's weird about things like that."

He's right. When you get to the main room, you see your clothes folded neatly on a chair near the heater, the fabric stiff and slightly salty, but dry. Hunter and Omega are at the table, hunched over a datapad. Crosshair is by the window, his rifle still in his hands, staring out at the morning.

They all look up as you and Wrecker enter the room. The silence that falls is heavy and awkward. You can feel their eyes on you, taking in your disheveled state, the fact that you're clearly wearing Wrecker's clothes, the way you're standing just a little too close to him.

"Morning," Hunter says, his voice neutral. He gives you a brief, searching look, and then turns his attention back to the datapad.

"Morning," you mumble, your face burning with embarrassment. You snatch your clothes from the chair and make a beeline for the refresher, but you still catch Crosshair's "about time" before the door slides shut. You also hear the soft 'thwack' of Hunter hitting him, which brings you a small amount of satisfaction. Omega just giggles.

You dress quickly, the familiar fabric of your own clothes a welcome relief, even if they are stiff and smell of the sea. When you emerge again, Wrecker has poured you a mug of caf and set it on the table. Tuna has made herself at home in his lap, and he's scratching her under the chin, making her purr so loudly you can hear it from across the room.

"Thanks," you say, taking the mug and sitting down. You take a sip, the hot, bitter liquid a welcome jolt to your system.

"We were just looking at the damage reports," Hunter says, pushing the datapad toward you. "We haven't gone out yet, but it looks like your place might have made it through the worst of it."

You stare at the datapad, at the grainy satellite image of the island. Your bakery is on the higher end of the lower market, and while the buildings around it are clearly destroyed, yours looks... intact. The roof is still there. The walls are still standing. There's water damage, for sure, and the ground floor is likely flooded, but it's not the empty crater you imagined it would be. It's not gone.

"I... I don't believe it," you say, your voice shaking.

"It's not the best news, but it's not the worst," Crosshair says from his post by the window. "The foundations could be compromised. The lower levels will have to be stripped and rebuilt. All your equipment is probably ruined."

He says it with his usual bluntness, but there's no malice in his tone. He's just stating the facts. And he's right. Even if the building is still standing, your livelihood is gone. The ovens, the mixers, the refrigerators, all of it would have been submerged in saltwater. They're all worthless.

"But it's still there," Wrecker cuts in, his voice firm. He gently moves Tuna from his lap and stands up, coming to stand behind your chair, resting one of his large hands on your shoulder. "The building is still there. We can fix the rest."

"We?" you ask, looking up at him. The word hangs in the air, heavy with meaning. We. The word that had been so foreign to you just yesterday, now feels like the only thing that matters. The promise of not being alone. The promise of facing the future with someone by your side.

"Yeah, we," he says, squeezing your shoulder gently. "You don't have to do this alone."

You look from him to Hunter, then to Crosshair, and finally to Omega, who is watching you with wide, hopeful eyes. They're not just offering you a place to stay. They're offering you their help. Their support. Their family. And you realize, with stunning clarity, that this is what you've been missing. Not just in the last 24 hours, but for your entire life. This sense of belonging, of community, of having people who have your back, no matter what.

"I... I don't know what to say," you stammer, your vision blurring with tears. "Thank you... doesn't seem like enough."

"It's enough," Hunter says, and he gives you a rare, small smile. "We're neighbors. That's what we do."

"We're more than neighbors," Wrecker says, and he gives your shoulder another squeeze, a silent, proprietary gesture that makes your heart flutter. "Now, let's go see what we're working with."

The lower levels of Pabu are a disaster zone. The water has mostly receded, but it's left behind a trail of mud and debris that's staggering in its scale. The smell is overwhelming, a cloying mix of salt, sewage, and rotting vegetation. The path that you and Wrecker took last night is barely recognizable, the wooden steps splintered and broken in places.

The five of you pick your way through the wreckage, Hunter in the lead, Crosshair bringing up the rear. Omega stays close to your side, her small hand in yours, her presence grounding you. Wrecker walks on your other side, his hand never far from your back, ready to steady you.

You see the other survivors, all of them with the same shell-shocked, dazed expression on their faces. Some are already starting the cleanup process, hauling buckets of mud from their homes, sorting through the wreckage for salvageable belongings. Others just sit, staring at the ruins of their lives, their faces etched with grief.

The resilience of the people of Pabu is humbling. This isn't the first time the ocean has risen up to claim its own, and it won't be the last. They know how to rebuild. They know how to start over. But it's never easy.

And then you see it. Your bakery.

Hunter was right. It's still standing.

The front is a mess. The big picture window is shattered, the glass lying in glittering shards on the mud-caked floor. The door is hanging off its hinges. The beautiful banner you were so proud of is gone, lost to the storm. A few of the patio chairs have washed up against the front, but the rest are gone.

But the building is there. The stone walls are solid. The roof is intact. And the little sign, the one you painted yourself, the one with the tooka-cat curled around a rolling pin, is still there, hanging crookedly, but defiantly, above the door.

You let out a sob, a sound of pure, unadulterated relief, and you feel Wrecker's arm come around you, pulling you into his side. You lean against him, the strength of him holding you up as you survey the damage.

"We'll fix it," he says, his voice low and confident. "I promise."

"Let's get inside," Hunter says, his practical tone cutting through your emotional haze. "Let's assess the real damage."

Wrecker boosts you over the broken threshold, the mud squelching under your boots as you land. The inside is even worse than you imagined. The entire ground floor is covered in a thick layer of foul-smelling mud, dotted with debris—broken furniture, pieces of the market stalls from across the street, seaweed, and other unidentifiable things. The beautiful, polished concrete floors you'd been so proud of are ruined, stained and cracked.

Your heart sinks as you look around. Your counters, the ones you and Wrecker had wiped down just last night, are caked in grime. The big mixer is lying on its side, its motor housing cracked, the mud already starting to corrode the metal. The ovens are full of water, their doors hanging open. Everything is destroyed.

Your apartment upstairs, however, seems to have been spared the worst of it. Once Wrecker makes sure the stairs are safe, he lets you go up on your own. The floor is damp, and there's some water damage to the walls, but it's nothing compared to the devastation below. Save for a few things that have fallen over, and the framed diploma from culinary school now on the floor, the glass shattered, your home is as you left it. Even Tuna’s bed is dry.

You pick up the diploma, looking at the name written in elegant, swirling script. It feels like it belongs to another person, another lifetime. A person who dreamed of Bespin, of white tablecloths and Michelin stars, not mud and rubble and the arduous process of rebuilding.

When you come back down, the others are already at work. Wrecker is lifting the heavy, industrial-sized refrigerators, moving them aside as if they weigh nothing, checking the structural integrity of the walls behind them. Hunter and Crosshair are systematically clearing the debris, working with an efficiency that speaks to their military training. Omega is carefully salvaging what she can, setting aside the few things that aren't completely ruined—your collection of ceramic mixing bowls, your favorite rolling pin, boxes of unopened spices.

"Anything?" you ask, your voice hollow.

"Not much," Hunter says, kicking aside a chunk of what looks like part of the cantina's roof. "The electrical system is fried. The plumbing is likely shot. And everything metal is already starting to rust. You're looking at a complete gut job."

"I figured," you say, sinking down onto one of the few remaining stools, its legs caked in mud. "I don't have the credits for this, Hunter. Even with the insurance, it won't be enough."

"We'll figure it out," Wrecker says, coming to stand beside you. He's covered in mud and sweat, but he's smiling. "We've got skills."

"I don't think you can fix a commercial-grade oven with just enthusiasm, Wrecker," Crosshair mutters, but he's already prying open the control panel on one of the ovens, his long fingers deftly sorting through the wiring. "Maybe. The capacitor is blown, but the heating elements look intact. The casing is stainless. We can clean it. Might be salvageable."

You stare at him, surprised. "You can fix it?"

"I can try," he says, not looking up. "No promises."

And just like that, a tiny spark of hope ignites in your chest. It's faint, but it's there.

"See?" Wrecker says, nudging you with his elbow. "We've got this."

The next few weeks are a blur of hard, dirty, exhausting work. The days are long, the nights short, and you fall into bed every night, your muscles screaming in protest, your mind too tired to think. But you're not alone.

The entire community of Pabu comes together to help. People you've only ever served caf to, people whose names you don't even know, show up with hammers and saws, with buckets and sponges, with hot meals and words of encouragement. The Bad Batch, your Batch, becomes the unofficial foremen of the rebuilding effort, organizing the volunteers, directing the work, and pitching in with an strength and stamina that never seems to wane.

Wrecker is there, every single day, from sunrise to sunset. He's the first one to arrive and the last one to leave. He hauls away rubble, he mixes concrete, he rebuilds walls, and he does it all with a smile. He's your rock, your anchor, your constant.

And you… you learn to accept the help. You learn to let go of your fierce, stubborn independence and allow yourself to be taken care of. It's not easy. There are days when you want to scream, days when you want to give up, days when you feel like you're drowning in grief and despair. But then you look up, and you see him, and you remember that you're not doing this alone.

Today, most of the rebuilding is done. The new floor has been laid, the walls painted, and the new ovens, salvaged from the wreckage of an old Republic transport ship and painstakingly refurbished by Crosshair, are being installed. It's starting to look like a bakery again. Your bakery.

You’re inside with your cleaning supplies, standing in the middle of the main room, just... breathing. The air still smells of fresh paint and new plaster, so different from the sugar and yeast you’re used to. But it’s clean. And it’s solid. And for the first time since the storm, you feel like you’re really home.

You're so lost in thought that you don't hear him come in. The first you know of his presence is the gentle touch of his hand on your shoulder, and you jump, spinning around to face him.

"Whoa, easy there," he says, holding up his hands, a grin spreading across his face. "It's just me."

You nearly drop the bucket of soapy water you're holding. He’s been gone most of the day after carrying in your ovens, off with Hunter to help with the reconstruction of the seawall. Now he's standing here, framed in the new doorway, plaster streaked across his cheek and toolbelt slung low on his hips.

He’s not wearing a shirt. Which is... new. Distractingly so. The afternoon light filtering in through the new window catches the sweat on his chest, tracing the shifting lines of the muscles as he moves. He’s built in a way you’ve only seen in holodramas and trashy romance novels: wide shoulders, narrow waist, and defined pecs underneath a dusting of dark hair. You follow the trail of hair down to where it disappears into the tool belt, which is resting just above the vee of his hip bones. You're suddenly aware of your own breathing, which has gone all shallow and tight.

"Your uh… your shirt," you manage to say, your voice coming out all squeaky.

He looks down at himself as if noticing it for the first time. "Oh. Right. Had to take it off. It was gettin' in the way."

You have no doubt that it was. You also have no doubt that he is doing this on purpose. Not in a cruel, teasing way, but in that sweet, clumsy, Wrecker way. He’s trying to get your attention. And it’s working.

"The ovens are in," he says, clearly proud of himself. "Crosshair's got 'em hooked up. Said we should test 'em out. Make sure they work."

A real smile, the first one all day, spreads across your face. "And you're the volunteer for that, are you?"

"It’s a tough job, but someone’s gotta do it," he says with a wink. He’s still standing too close, and you can feel the heat radiating off him, smell the sweat and the sea and the faint scent of the soap he uses. "So... what are we makin'?"

Your mind races, cataloging the supplies you have left. Most of your non-perishables were salvaged, but the special ingredients, the ones you’d saved for months for the Founder's Day festival, are all gone. You’re back to square one. A simple square one.

"I’ll need to run out for butter and eggs, but I have flour. Sugar. Shuura preserves," you say, ticking off the items on your fingers. "I can… I can make you a cake, maybe. A proper one. To celebrate. To say thank you."

He waves his hand dismissively, but his eyes are shining. "Don't have to do that. Just happy to help."

"I know I don't have to," you say, and your voice is firmer this time. You take a step forward, closing the last bit of space between you, and rest your hand on his chest, right over his heart. You can feel the steady, strong beat of it against your palm. "But I want to."

His breath hitches. He looks down at your hand, then back up at your face, and the easy-going facade crumbles, replaced by that same raw, vulnerable look you saw in the dark. He’s so transparent, so open with what he’s feeling, and it’s both terrifying and the most wonderful thing you’ve ever seen.

"I like it when you do that," he says, his voice low. "Touch me."

"Then maybe I'll do it more often," you whisper. You lean in and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, then pull away, before the kiss can turn into something more. "I’ll be back in a few minutes with the supplies. Don't go anywhere."

"Don't plan on it," he says, and he watches you go, his gaze heavy on your back.

When you return twenty minutes later, with a basket full of fresh eggs from the local farm and a block of butter, you find him high up on a ladder outside. He’s pulling the tarp off the roof of the cantina next door, his shirt still very much absent, and he’s giving the rest of the island's female population, and probably some of the male population, quite the show. You try to ignore the little pang of… something… that you feel in your chest. It’s not jealousy, not really. It’s more of… possessiveness. A sudden, fierce desire to march over there and tell them all that he’s yours.

You shake your head at the absurdity of the thought. He’s not an object to be owned. And you’re not the jealous type. Or at least, you never have been before.

He sees you, and he waves, his grin so wide and so bright it makes your stomach do a little flip. He scrambles down the ladder and jogs over to you, all long legs and easy grace. "I got bored."

"I can see that," you say, arching an eyebrow. "Were you trying to distract people from the fact that their homes are in ruins?"

"Was it working?" he asks, completely unabashed.

"I'm sure it was for some of them," you say, trying to sound dry, but you can’t stop the smile from tugging at your lips. "Now, are you going to help me with this cake, or are you going to go back to your... community service?"

"Cake," he says without hesitation. "Definitely cake."

The process of baking together is different this time. It’s not the frantic, desperate scramble of the night of the storm, but a slow, comfortable, companionable rhythm. There's no tension, no unspoken words hanging in the air. Just the simple, happy act of creating something together. And you find yourself talking. Really talking.

You tell him about your family, about your parents who wanted you to be a doctor or a lawyer, anything but a baker. You tell him about the pressure of culinary school, about the long hours and the impossible standards, about the chef who told you that you were good, but not great, and that you'd never make it on Bespin. You tell him about the day you walked away from your dream, not because you failed, but because you realized it wasn't your dream at all. It was someone else's.

He listens, really listens, asking questions that show he's paying attention, not just waiting for his turn to talk. He tells you about his childhood on Kamino, about the endless drills and the sterile white walls, about the way he and his brothers were always different, always the odd ones out. He’s seen so much, done so much, in such a short time. He talks about the wars with the same casual tone someone else might use to talk about a sporting event, but you can hear the exhaustion in his voice, the weight of it all.

You learn that the cheerful, slightly goofy facade is as much of a defense mechanism as Crosshair's sarcasm or Hunter's stoicism. He’s not dumb, he’s not simple, he’s just… choosing to be happy. He’s choosing to focus on the good, on the now, because he knows better than anyone how quickly it can all be taken away.

And you realize, with startling clarity, that you’re not the only one who’s been rebuilding. He has been, too. Piece by piece, day by day, he’s been building a new life for himself and for his family. A life of peace, and quiet, and home. And you, somehow, have become a part of that.

You’re just pulling the cakes out of the oven, the sweet, warm smell filling the air, when he suddenly says, "You know, I never thought I'd have this."

You look up from where you're placing the hot pans on the cooling rack. "Have what?"

"This," he says, and he gestures around the room, taking in the new walls, the new ovens, the faint scent of sugar and paint that still hangs in the air. "A home. A real one. A place that's ours."

His gaze lands on you, and the weight of it is staggering. "And…someone to share it with."

Your heart does that little fluttery thing it does whenever he looks at you like that. You set the oven mitt down on the counter, your hands suddenly feeling clumsy and unsure. "I never thought I'd have this either," you admit, your voice quiet. "I always thought I'd be alone. I thought I wanted to be."

He takes a step closer, closing the distance between you. "Why'd you think that?"

"Because it was easier," you say, and the words feel like a confession. "If you're alone, you can't get hurt. If you're alone, you don't have to depend on anyone. You don't have to… risk it."

"Risk what?" he asks, his voice gentle.

"Everything," you breathe.

You’re not just talking about the bakery anymore. You’re talking about your heart. Your life. The very soul of you.

"Oh," he says. And then, "Is it worth it?"

You look at him, at this man who has been so patient, so kind, so steady in the face of your stubbornness and your fear. You think about the way he held you while you cried, the way he promised to help you rebuild, the way he looks at you like you're the best thing he's ever seen. You think about the way he kisses you, slow and sweet, and the way he holds you at night, like you're precious, and breakable, and the most important thing in the galaxy.

A slow smile spreads across your face. "Yeah. It is."

"Good," he says, and his smile is like the sun breaking through clouds. He closes the last of the distance between you, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you tight against him. "Cause I was thinkin'..."

You tilt your head up to look at him. "Yeah?"

He looks down at you, his gaze soft, his eyes full of so much love it takes your breath away. "I was thinkin' that maybe we could... y'know... make this official. You and me. We could, um, we could be somethin'. Somethin' more than... this."

"This," you repeat, your voice coming out all shaky and thin.

"Yeah," he says. "I wanna be your... you know. Boyfriend."

Your heart swells, filling your chest with warmth, with joy, with the kind of lightness you haven't felt in years. This big, sweet man, who is so much more than anyone gives him credit for, who has seen and done things that you can't even imagine, wants you.

"Is that... is that okay?" he asks, and you realize you've been silent for too long. He's looking at you with that same vulnerable, hopeful expression that he had that night, and you realize that he's just as scared as you are.

You reach up, cupping his face in your hands, feeling the roughness of his stubble against your palms. "That's more than okay," you tell him, your voice steady and sure. "That's perfect."

The kiss, when it comes, is sweet and slow and deep. You can feel the smile on his lips, the happiness radiating from him like the sun. He wraps his arms around you, lifting you up, spinning you around, and you can't stop the laugh that bubbles up from your chest. You feel light. You feel free.

You feel loved.

When he finally sets you down, he doesn’t let you go far. He keeps his arms around you, holding you against him, his forehead resting against yours. "So," he says, his voice low and rumbling in his chest, "when do we get to eat that cake?"

You laugh again, the sound coming out of you in little hiccups. "Oh, it needs to cool. And then I need to assemble and frost it. A couple hours, probably.”

"A couple hours," he repeats quietly. He’s still so close that you can feel his breath on your lips, his body warm and solid against yours.

"Yeah," you whisper, not quite ready to step back and break the spell that's fallen over you.

"Hm," he says, his eyes flicking down to your lips, and then back up to your eyes. "That's... that’s too bad. Cause I’m really hungry.”

You're suddenly aware of how tight his grip is around your waist, how his thumb is stroking slow, teasing circles over the small of your back. The air between you feels charged, electric, and when he licks his lips, you can't stop yourself from tracking the movement with your eyes.

"I could… make some sandwiches or...something..." you offer, but your words trail off into nothingness as he dips his head, pressing his lips to the curve of your neck, right where it meets your shoulder. The touch is gentle, almost tentative, but it sends sparks of heat shooting down your spine, pooling low in your belly. Your hand cups the back of his head before you even realize what you’re doing, holding him against you.

"Not really what I had in mind," he murmurs against your skin, his voice dropping an octave as he moves up your neck, peppering you with soft, barely there kisses.

You try to laugh, to come up with some sort of witty retort, but the words stick in your throat as he finds that spot just below your ear that makes your knees go weak. His arm bands tight around your waist, supporting you, keeping you upright as he kisses his way along your jawline. You're vaguely aware that you should stop this, that the two of you are standing in the middle of the bakery, in full view of anyone who happens to pass by.

But the rational part of your brain has shut down, replaced by the need to feel his hands on you, to taste his lips. You turn your head, catching his mouth with yours, and he lets out this low, needy sound that makes you shiver. You open for him, your lips parting, inviting him in, and he deepens the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours in hot, slick strokes.

You're lost in the sensation, the feel of him, the taste of him, the way he makes you feel like you're burning from the inside out. You're so lost in him that you don't even realize he's moving you until he lifts you up, setting you on one of the stainless steel counters without breaking the kiss.

His hips slot between your legs, and he pulls you tight against him, one of his hands sliding under your shirt, tracing up your spine, the other cupping the back of your head, angling you for his kiss. He’s still so much taller than you like this that he has to bend down over you, curling his body around yours. You’re surrounded by him, his body, his heat, his scent. But the sudden, all-consuming need to be closer has you wrapping your legs around him, pulling him into you, crossing your ankles over the small of his back. He groans into your mouth and rolls his hips, grinding the hard ridge of his cock against the growing heat between your thighs.

This is new. The two of you have done nothing more than make out on your couch, his hands staying firmly above your clothes. You've both been content to take things slow, to savor each new step in this burgeoning relationship. But this? This is not slow. This is the opposite of slow.

"You sure this is okay?" he asks between kisses. You bite his lower lip and tug, and he groans again. "Cause we... we can stop."

"I don't want to stop," you tell him, panting. And it's the truth. You want this, want him. You want everything.

"Yeah?" he asks, his voice low and gravelly, and it goes straight to your core, making your toes curl in your shoes. "What do you want?"

"I want..." you start, but you're cut off by his lips, his tongue sliding into your mouth, hot and insistent and so, so good. You moan, wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. You're practically climbing him, desperate to get as close as you can. And Wrecker meets you halfway, as he always does, his large hands grabbing for the soft, pliant flesh of your thighs and dragging you right to the edge of the countertop. He grinds against you, slow and deep and filthy, and you can't help but whimper against his lips. You've never been this needy, this desperate, this hungry for anyone.

"Wrecker," you breathe, your voice shaky and thin.

"Tell me," he says. His lips move down to your neck, trailing open-mouthed kisses along the column of your throat, nipping and licking and sucking in equal measure. He's leaving marks, you know he is, and you have the distant thought that you should care about that, but you don't. You don't care about anything but the way he makes you feel.

You try to answer him, to tell him what you want, but all you can manage is another needy whimper, your head falling back, giving him better access. He chuckles against your skin, and you can feel the vibrations of it all the way down to your bones.

He's going to drive you crazy. He’s going to make you come apart right here in the middle of the kitchen.

"I wanna hear you say it," he says, his voice rough, his breath hot against your skin. "Tell me what you want, sweetheart. I just wanna make you feel good.”

It's such an unexpected, unfamiliar sensation, having someone care about what you want. Not just what they want, or what you can do for them, or what they think you should want. But what you actually, really want.

So you tell him.

“I want you to take me upstairs,” you breathe, your legs tightening around him. “To my bed. I want you to make me yours.”

The words are barely out of your mouth before he’s pulling you off the counter. You let out a surprised squeak, wrapping your arms around his neck to steady yourself. He hoists you up with an ease that still manages to steal your breath, and you’re suddenly face to face, your legs wrapped around his waist, your bodies pressed together from chest to hips. He’s holding you like you weigh nothing, like you’re precious and breakable, and it makes your heart ache.

"Hang on," he says, and then he’s moving, striding through the bakery and up the stairs, his long legs eating up the distance. You bury your face in his neck, muffling your laughter against his skin. You’re sure you must look ridiculous, but you’ve never felt more desired, more cherished, in your entire life. This big, strong, brave man is carrying you upstairs to ravish you. Who cares what you look like.

He kicks open the door to your apartment, and as soon as it closes behind him, you’re pulling him down into another kiss. He stumbles, his back hitting the wall with a soft thud, but he doesn't drop you. He just kisses you back, deep and hard, one of his hands coming up to tangle in your hair, the other gripping your ass, holding you against him.

You can feel how hard he is, the thick, rigid length of him pressing against the apex of your thighs. You can’t resist the urge to grind against him, rolling your hips in slow, deliberate circles. He groans, his hips bucking in response, and you repeat the motion, again and again, until he’s panting against your lips, his grip on you tightening.

“You keep doing that, and we’re not gonna make it to the bed,” he rasps. “And I really wanna make it to the bed.”

His hips push against yours, pinning you to the wall and stopping your movements. A gasp escapes you at the sudden pressure, and your eyes flutter shut. He’s everywhere, the solid wall of his chest against yours, the hard muscle of his arms caging you in, the thick, heavy ridge of his cock pressing against you. He’s everywhere you want him to be. Except he’s wearing too many clothes.

"I want to touch you," you whisper against his lips, and you can feel him smile.

"Touch me then," he murmurs back. He loosens his hold on you, letting you slide down his body until your feet hit the floor. He’s still crowding you, leaning over you, his hands braced on the wall on either side of your head. You keep your eyes on his as you find the buckle of his toolbelt and pull it loose. You’re both silent, save for the harsh sound of your breathing, as you toss the belt aside. It lands on the floor with an audible thump.

You trace your hands over the broad expanse of his chest, the hard planes of his stomach. There’s a healthy layer of fat you’re sure your baking has contributed to over the muscles, but that only makes him more appealing. He feels solid, real, strong enough to handle anything you could give him and then some. You can feel his eyes on you, watching you explore him, and it sends heat racing up your spine, curling low in your belly.

You find the waistband of his pants and dip your fingers inside. You’re not trying to rush, but there’s no denying the way your breath catches at the first brush of warm, soft skin against your fingertips, the way he inhales sharply. His muscles are coiled tight beneath your touch, his hips twitching as you skate your fingers across his stomach and pop the button at the top. The sound of the zipper is loud in the silence of the room, and when you look up at him, his eyes are dark and hooded. His tongue darts out, licking his lower lip, and you mirror the action, your lips parting.

"Keep going," he says, his voice rough.

You swallow hard, your throat suddenly dry, but you do as he asks. You tug the fabric of his pants down over his hips, taking his underwear with them. His cock springs free, slapping against his stomach, the head flushed and shiny with pre-come.

"Oh," you breathe out.

The first time he came to the bakery, you had been awestruck by his size. He's so tall, so broad, so much bigger than life in every way. You had thought then, in the brief moments when your mind wandered to such things, that the size would extend to all aspects of him. But the reality of him is so much more than you ever imagined. He's thick, and heavy, and long enough that you're suddenly unsure that he'll fit.

He's still watching you, and he must see the flash of concern on your face, because he lets out this little huff of laughter. "I'll be gentle with you," he says, reaching down to take your hand in his. "Promise."

Your heart stutters in your chest. "I know," you say, and you mean it.

There's no doubt in your mind that Wrecker would never do anything to hurt you. That he's the type of man who would take care of you, protect you, make sure you're safe. He’s done nothing but treat you with kindness, with patience, with respect. He’s been so good to you, in so many ways, and you want to be good to him, too.

So you wrap your hand around him, marveling at the way your fingers barely touch around his girth. You stroke him once, from root to tip, and his eyes flutter shut, his lips parting on this soft, sweet noise of pleasure that makes your heart ache.

"That's... that's so good," he breathes, his hips pushing into your touch. "So good, sweetheart."

You can't help the flush of pleasure that rushes through you at his words. You stroke him again, slower this time, twisting your wrist, and he groans, louder this time. His eyes snap open as his hips jerk again, his cock twitching in your hand.

"But if you keep doing that, I'm not gonna last long," he says, his voice strained. "And I really wanna make it to the bed."

"I want that, too," you tell him, your thumb brushing over the leaking slit at the head of his cock. His hips buck, and his cock pulses in your hand, spilling another drop of pre-come that makes the next stroke of your hand slick and messy. You tighten your grip on him and pick up your pace, watching the way his muscles flex and tense with each pass of your hand.

"Fuck,” he grits out through clenched teeth. His hands find the hem of your shirt, and he tugs roughly at it, his fingers clumsy and urgent. You let go of him long enough to raise your arms, letting him strip the garment from you, leaving you in your bra.

He makes this low, needy sound that makes your thighs clench, and he leans down, pressing his forehead to yours. His hands find their way to your chest, cupping you through the thin fabric of your bra, his thumbs brushing over your nipples. You gasp at the sensation, arching into his touch, and he does it again, pinching and rolling the sensitive nubs until they're stiff and pebbled, visible even through the fabric.

"I wanna see you," he murmurs against your mouth, and you can only nod, reaching behind you to undo the clasp of your bra. He watches, his eyes dark and intent, as you shrug the garment off, letting it fall to the floor at your feet. The cool air of the apartment hits your skin, making you shiver, but then he's touching you, his big, warm hands covering your breasts, squeezing and kneading, and you can't think of anything else.

"You're so beautiful," he says, and the sincerity in his voice makes your heart ache. He ducks his head, his lips finding the sensitive spot where your neck meets your shoulder, sucking and biting gently. His hands are still on your breasts, his fingers toying with your nipples, and the combined sensations are too much, making you moan.

Your hands find their way to his cock again, and you stroke him, slow and firm, your hand twisting with every upstroke. His breath is hot on your skin, his hips pushing into your touch, the flushed head of his cock leaving sticky smears of pre-come on the bare skin of your stomach. You're so lost in him, in the feel of him, the taste of him, that you don't realize what's happening until his hand is sliding between your legs.

"Wrecker," you breathe out, his name catching in your throat as he cups you through your pants. His fingers are rough and calloused, the fabric of your pants the only barrier between them and where you’re aching for him the most.

"Need you so bad," he says, his voice low and desperate. His thick middle finger drags along the seam of your pants, and you whimper, your hips bucking, chasing more of the contact. "Need to feel you, sweetheart. Need to make you feel good."

You're already feeling pretty damn good, but you know what he means. You want him inside you, filling you up, stretching you open. You want him on top of you, surrounding you, his weight pressing you into the mattress. You want him everywhere.

So you let go of his cock, ignoring the low whine that escapes him at the loss of contact, and find the button of your pants. Your fingers are clumsy, fumbling with the fabric, and you have to try twice before you finally manage to pop the button and tug down the zipper. You push the pants down your hips, taking your underwear with them, and step out of the garments, kicking them to the side. And then you're standing in front of him, naked and exposed and vulnerable in ways you haven't let yourself be in years.

His breath catches as he looks at you, his eyes roaming over your body, taking in every inch of you, and you have to fight the urge to cover yourself. But then his gaze meets yours, and there's so much heat, so much desire in his expression, that you're flooded with the same warmth you feel every time he smiles at you.

"You're perfect," he says, his voice low and reverent. His hands find your hips, and he pulls you towards him, his cock pressing against your stomach, leaving another smear of pre-come on your skin.

"So are you," you whisper, and you mean it.

There's nothing about this man that isn't perfect. He's kind, and thoughtful, and funny, and strong, and handsome, and he's looking at you like you're the best thing he's ever seen.

He ducks his head, his lips finding yours in another kiss. It’s slow and reverent, but claiming in ways you’ve never felt before, his tongue sliding against yours in hot, slick strokes. You let him drag you closer to him, his hand splaying across the small of your back, pressing your naked body against his. His skin is warm, and you can’t stop yourself from running your hands over the hard planes of muscle, tracing the lines of his body.

"I wanna take my time with you," he murmurs, breaking the kiss to nip at your bottom lip, and you nod, your breath catching in your throat. "Wanna do everything with you."

"Anything you want," you tell him, and you mean it. You want him to have anything, everything he wants. He deserves it.

He makes this low, rumbling noise in his chest that makes your toes curl, and then he's scooping you up again. Without the barrier of your clothes between you, the searing heat of his body against yours is overwhelming, the sensation of his skin on yours making your head spin. You wrap your legs around his waist instinctively as he carries you across the room, and his hands cup the bare curve of your ass, his fingers digging into the soft flesh.

He sets you down on the bed gently, his hands on your hips guiding you down, and you reach for him, tugging him with you. He follows, his body covering yours, pressing you into the mattress, and you can't help but moan at the weight of him on top of you. You wrap your legs around his hips, pulling him closer, and his cock presses against the wet heat between your thighs, dragging along your slit and bumping your clit.

The two of you gasp in unison, and he does it again, his hips rolling in slow, deliberate circles, the friction sending sparks of heat up your spine. You're so wet, so ready for him, that there's no resistance, just the hot, slick slide of his cock between your folds.

"Wrecker," you breathe out as your head tilts back, your eyes fluttering closed. "Please."

"Gotta get you ready first,” he grunts, though he doesn’t stop his movements. "Don't wanna hurt you."

You almost want to laugh. As if this big, sweet man could ever hurt you. But you know what he means. You know he's worried about fitting, about being too much for you, and your heart swells with affection.

"Then get me ready," you whisper. You reach up, cupping his cheek and bringing his gaze to yours. "I trust you."

His eyes soften, and he leans down, brushing his mouth against yours in the softest of kisses. "I won't hurt you," he murmurs, and you nod.

"I know."

He sits up on his knees, looking down at you, and you can feel your cheeks flush under his scrutiny. You’ve never felt this way before, this mix of nervous anticipation and eager desire, and you’re not sure what to do with yourself. Your hands itch to reach out and touch him, to pull him back down to you, but you resist, letting him look his fill.

"Beautiful," he says again, his voice low. He reaches out, tracing his fingers down the curve of your waist, over the swell of your hip, and down your thigh. "So soft, all over."

"Thank you," you whisper, not sure what else to say.

His fingers dip between your legs, sliding through the slick heat at your core, and you bite your lip, stifling the moan that threatens to spill from your mouth. He's watching you, his eyes dark and intent, as he slides one finger inside you slowly, so slowly that you can feel every inch of it. A low, rumbling noise of approval leaves him at the lack of resistance and he pumps his finger in and out of you slowly, his thumb circling your clit.

"Wrecker," you say, his name coming out on this breathy little gasp. You're so wet that you can hear the filthy sound of his finger pushing into you, can feel your own slick dripping down the inside of your thigh.

"Yeah, sweetheart," he says. "Just like that."

His finger curls inside of you, pressing against your inner walls, and your back arches, your hips pushing down into his hand. He keeps up his ministrations, adding another finger, stretching you open, preparing you for him, and your hands fist in the sheets, your body shaking with the pleasure he's giving you. You've never felt like this before, so turned on, so desperate, and you can't stop the little whimpers that escape your lips.

He ducks down to press his lips to yours, and you kiss him back eagerly. He keeps working you, his fingers thrusting in and out of your body, his thumb brushing over your clit with each pass. You’re gasping into his mouth now, your hips twitching up, and he pulls back, pressing kisses along your jaw and down the column of your throat. He’s careful not to leave any marks, but the scrape of his stubble has you shivering, the heat of his breath on your skin making your entire body feel flushed and feverish.

"So perfect," he whispers, his voice low and rough, and you can't help but whimper. You feel perfect, feel like you're floating, like your entire body is on fire. You're so close, so close to tipping over the edge, that you can taste it.

"Please," you gasp, your fingers clutching at his shoulders. "Please, I need... I need..."

"You need this?" he asks, and his thumb presses down on your clit, his fingers curling inside of you. "Need me to make you come?"

"Yes," you breathe, your head thrown back. "Wrecker, please. Make me come for you."

He groans, his hips pushing against the mattress as he works you harder, faster, his fingers pumping in and out of you in an unforgiving pace. Your body is wound so tight that it only takes seconds for you to snap, your orgasm crashing over you like waves on the shore. You can hear the way your breath hitches, the way you moan out his name, can feel your body shaking, clenching around his fingers. His thumb doesn't stop, keeps rubbing firm circles against your clit, drawing out your pleasure until it's almost too much.

"That's it," he says. "That's it, sweetheart. Let me see you."

His fingers slow as you come down, your body going limp, and he withdraws his fingers gently. When he sits up on his knees, you can see the way his cock is hard and flushed, the head leaking pre-come in steady pulses, and you can't help but reach for him.

He doesn't resist when you pull him down for another kiss, your legs wrapping around his hips. You can feel the hot, hard length of him resting between your legs, and you rock up, grinding against him, smearing your slick and his pre-come against your inner thighs.

"Wrecker," you breathe against his lips, your hands sliding down his back to grip his ass. "Please."

He reaches between your bodies, his hand wrapping around the base of his cock. You can't stop the gasp that escapes you when he rubs the head over your clit, the pleasure sharp and bright.

"Gotta go slow," he says, and you nod, even as you try to push down against him. "Easy, sweetheart. Don't wanna hurt you."

You want to tell him that you don't care, that you're ready, that you need him, but you know he won't listen. He's determined to take his time, to make this good for you, and you love him for it.

So you nod again, and you let him take control. He guides himself to your entrance, the thick head of his cock pressing against you, and you can feel yourself stretching around him. It's not painful, not even uncomfortable, but it's so much more than you've ever felt before. He’s trying so hard to be gentle, but when he stills with just the head of his cock inside you, you can’t help the impatient little whine that escapes you.

"Please," you say again. "Don't stop."

He huffs out a soft, disbelieving laugh. "You're so greedy," he says, his lips brushing over the shell of your ear, his breath hot on your skin. "So desperate for it."

Your cheeks flush, and you turn your head to the side. You are, though, you’re desperate for him, and you don’t know how to handle it. You've always been in control, always been the one to initiate, to set the pace, to decide when it's enough. You've never given up that control before, never let someone else take the lead.

He nips at the underside of your jaw, and you gasp, your head turning back to him. "Don't," he says. "Don't hide from me. Wanna see how much you want it."

You swallow hard and nod, meeting his eyes.

"That's it," he says, and he pushes deeper, his cock stretching you, filling you, and you can't stop the low, keening moan that escapes your lips. "You take me so good."

He keeps going, keeps pushing into you until his hips are flush with yours, and you're so full, so stretched, that you can't think of anything else. All thoughts of embarrassment or nerves have been pushed aside, and all you can focus on is the feeling of him inside you. You're gasping for air, your nails digging into his shoulders, and he's not moving, not yet, just letting you get used to the feel of him.

"You alright, sweetheart?"

"Yes," you say, your voice shaky. "Yes, I'm alright. You're just so..."

"Big?"

"Perfect," you say. "You're perfect."

His eyelids flutter at that, his cock pulsing inside of you. You can tell it's taking all of his self-control to stay still, to let you adjust, and you can't help but roll your hips up, just enough to take him that much deeper. He groans, his hips pushing into yours involuntarily.

"Greedy," he says again, and you can't help but laugh.

"Maybe," you admit. "But only for you."

His eyes soften, and he leans down to kiss you, his lips soft and sweet against yours. "Ready?"

"Ready," you tell him.

He pulls back slowly, his cock dragging against your inner walls and sending sparks of heat up your spine. He's watching your face, gauging your reactions, and his lips quirk when you whimper, your back arching.

"So sensitive," he murmurs. "So perfect. Gonna make you feel so good."

And he does. He sets up an easy rhythm, his thrusts deep and measured. He's so big, but he's careful, so careful, never pushing too hard, never going too deep. He's in complete control, and you're helpless to do anything but hold on, your fingers digging into the hard muscle of his shoulders as he works you with slow, deliberate strokes. The stretch is still there, but it's good now, so good that you can't stop the noises that spill from your lips, the breathy moans and gasps and whimpers.

It feels like you've been on edge since the moment you walked into the bakery together. Every touch, every kiss has been building to this, to the feel of him inside you, over you, around you. It's overwhelming, but not in the same way as the first time you kissed him. This is an intense, consuming, almost terrifying kind of pleasure, and you're barely hanging on.

Wrecker is right there with you. He’s gone from quietly praising you to incoherent grunts and curses. His hips have picked up speed and force, and now every thrust jolts up your spine, makes your body shake and twitch.

"So fucking beautiful," he pants. "So tight and wet for me. Gonna take care of you, sweetheart, I promise."

You don't doubt him for one second. You believe, with every fiber of your being, that Wrecker will take care of you, will make you feel better than you've ever felt before. And he does.

A choked cry escapes you as he sits back on his heels and drags you into his lap. His cock sinks even deeper inside of you at this angle, the head bumping against your cervix with every thrust. Your hands scrabble for purchase on his broad shoulders, and your nails dig into his skin, but he doesn't seem to care. His eyes are focused on the way you’re spread around his cock, the way your body is clinging to him, trying to keep him deep inside of you. The intensity of his gaze has you flushing, and you turn your head, your cheek pressed against his shoulder as he moves you up and down his cock like you weigh nothing.

"Look at you," he breathes. "Taking it all so well. So good. Such good girl."

You can feel your inner muscles flutter around him at that, and you can't stop the moan that escapes your lips. You've never been one to enjoy praise, to bask in compliments, but there's no denying that his words are going straight to your core. There's no denying that you want to be good for him, that you want to please him.

"Wrecker," you breathe. "I need... I need..."

"I know," he says. "I know what you need. Let go."

He shifts his weight, spreading his knees for better leverage, and he starts to really fuck you. His hands are tight on your hips, holding you in place as he pounds into you, the wet, filthy sounds of your coupling filling the room. He’s going so deep now, so deep that you're sure you can taste him, that you can feel him in your throat. The head of his cock bumps against your cervix again, and your entire body shakes.

"Fuck," he groans. "So fucking good. Knew you'd feel like this."

You want to tell him that he feels good, too, that he's the best you've ever had, that you never want this to end. But all you can manage is his name, his name and broken pleas for more, for everything he can give you. You can feel the tension coiling in your stomach, can feel the pleasure building and building until you're sure you're going to burst. Every nerve ending in your body is on fire, every inch of your skin is alive with sensation.

"Wrecker," you gasp, your fingers clutching at his back. "I'm gonna..."

"Yeah," he grunts. "Come for me. Wanna feel you."

His fingers find their way to your clit, rubbing in fast, rough circles, and that's all it takes to send you hurtling over the edge. You come with his name on your lips, your body clenching around him, your hips bucking in his grip. You're shaking, gasping, your head thrown back as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you.

He doesn't stop, his hips pistoning into you, his cock dragging against your inner walls and prolonging your orgasm. The feel of him throbbing inside you, his thick length stretching you, is enough to make you see stars. You're barely conscious, your mind floating somewhere outside of your body, and you can feel tears leaking from the corners of your eyes.

"Gonna come," he pants. "Where do you want it?"

"In me," you say, your voice barely above the sound of his skin slapping against yours, his cock pounding into you. "Come in me. Fill me up."

"Fuck," he grits out. "You sure?"

"Yes," you gasp. "Please. Want it."

He groans, his head falling forward to press his forehead against your shoulder, his hands gripping your hips tight enough to bruise. It only takes one more thrust until he’s yanking you down onto him and grinding against you. He comes with a low, guttural moan, and you can feel it, the hot rush of him filling you, so much of it that it leaks out, running down your thighs.

"Fuck," he pants, his chest heaving. "Oh, fuck."

The tension bleeds out of him in one slow exhale, and he slumps over, curling around you and bringing you into the circle of his arms. You go willingly, folding yourself into his embrace. Your cheek settles against his chest, slick with sweat, and you listen as the frantic beat of his heart slowly starts to return to normal.

"So," he says after a while, his chin resting on top of your head. His fingers run through your hair, stroking gently. "How was I?"

The laughter bubbles up out of you, bright and real and free. "Oh, you know," you say, tilting your head back to look at him. "You were alright."

His answering grin is blinding. His eyes crinkle at the corners, and his cheeks dimple. He leans down, pressing soft, light kisses to your lips, your cheeks, your forehead.

“Just alright, huh?” he says, nipping playfully at your nose. "I'll have to try harder next time. You’re a tough critic.”

You can't stop the shiver that runs down your spine at the thought of a next time. At the thought of him, you, and this bed, and the many, many hours you intend to spend in it. You have so much lost time to make up for.

“Yeah,” you say, your lips finding the hinge of his jaw. “You will.”

He’s still laughing as he pulls you into another kiss, rolling the two of you over so that you’re on your back again and he’s on his side next to you, propped up on an elbow. His other arm is thrown over your waist, holding you close, and you can't stop yourself from running your hands over the hard planes of his chest and stomach. You explore every dip, every ridge, every scar, memorizing the feel of him.

You don't know how long you lie there like that, tangled up in each other, your bodies slick with sweat and other, stickier things. The afternoon light fades, casting the room in the warm, golden glow of sunset. The only sounds are the soft rustle of the sheets, the distant cry of a gull, and the steady, reassuring beat of his heart. You feel more rested, more peaceful, than you have in months.

You start to drift off, lulled by the warmth of him, but then you hear him say your name, his voice soft.

"Yeah?" you mumble, your eyes still closed.

"I was serious, you know," he says, his fingers tracing the line of your spine.

"About being the best?" you ask, and you can feel him smile. "I know."

"No, not about that," he says. "Well, yeah, about that, too. But I was serious about the other stuff. About us."

You open your eyes and turn your head to look at him. The sunset catches the light in his mismatched eyes, making them shine, and you watch them search yours with a mixture of hope and fear.

"I know," you say again, your voice soft but sure, and cup his cheek. "I was serious, too."

The smile that breaks across his face is brighter than any sunset. He rolls over, pinning you to the mattress with his weight, and you can't stop the giggle that spills from your lips, bright and happy. You feel light, lighter than you have in weeks, months. Maybe even years.

He ducks his head, burying his face in the crook of your neck and breathing you in, and you wrap your arms around him, holding him close.

"You're not gonna be able to get rid of me now," he mumbles against your skin, and you laugh.

"Good."

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#tbb wrecker x reader

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