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Holding Pattern

Part One | Part Two

Pairing: Wolffe x fem!Reader / Wolffe x Doctor!Reader

Words: 15,664 / 26,845

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! angst, hurt/comfort, also fluff, and smut, we've got it all, coworkers to friends to coworkers to lovers, protective!Wolffe, he cares so much and he's awful at showing it, lots of arguing, starts off toxic but it gets better, Battle of Abregado mention, manhandling, drunk love confessions, smut in part two

Summary: Your relationship with Wolffe is complicated at best, antagonistic at worst. After months of waiting for him to finally admit that he wants you the way you want him, you've given up trying. But Wolffe can't seem to let you go. (prequel to Man or Commander but can be read standalone)

A/N: I've been working on this since I posted the last Wolffe fic, and I can't tell you how good it feels to finally get this out! Mind the tags because this starts messy af. Part two will be up later this week.

Previous Work | Next Work | Masterlist

The fifth shot goes down easier than the fourth.

You wipe your lower lip and give a smile toward the man leaning against the bar beside you, a Pantoran with azure skin and a shock of white hair. He’s been eyeing you all night from the far corner, nursing a single drink for two hours. Now he’s closer.

Warmth is spreading through your limbs, loosening the tension in your muscles and easing the knot in your stomach. You feel... good. Better, now that the liquor has numbed your mind and quieted your thoughts. Better, now that your life is a distant, fading memory, like a dream you can barely remember when you wake up.

But you can still feel Wolffe’s eyes on the back of your head.

You give another charming smile to the Pantoran, hoping to convince him to buy you a drink and distract you. This is a rare opportunity, a chance for you to relax. And the Commander, for all his stubbornness, isn't going to stop you from enjoying it.

The Pantoran takes the bait. A slow smile spreads across his face, revealing sharp canines. "That one looked like it burned," he says, his voice a low rumble that cuts through 79s’ blaring music. "Let me get you something smoother."

You arch a brow. "Smooth can be boring."

"Maybe," he says, leaning in closer. His breath smells of cloves and wine. "But I have a feeling you could use a little less excitement in your life."

The droid bartender returns with two glasses, one filled with a pale green liquid, the other with a dark amber one. The Pantoran slides the green one toward you. You take a sip. It's sweet and fragrant, with a hint of mint. The warmth from the alcohol returns, but this time it’s a gentle heat, not a raging fire. You relax into it.

It feels good to let go, even just for a little bit. The past few weeks have been a series of close calls and harrowing battles, your medbay a constant buzz of activity as the 104th took their place on the front lines. You were constantly running on the bare minimum amount of sleep, and the stress was beginning to wear you thin. It was why you'd come to 79s tonight. Just a few hours of fun, a little time to blow off steam, a distraction from the horrors of war.

It was also why you and Wolffe had gotten into another one of your arguments. You were sick of it. Sick of the tension, sick of the constant back and forth, sick of his stubborn, reckless behavior and the fact that he refused to listen to you. You were his doctor, for Force's sake, and he was supposed to trust you. Instead, he constantly defied you, and you were constantly left to clean up the mess.

And here he was, still watching you. No matter where you went or who you talked to, tracking you with a sniper’s precision. You should be used to it by now, this constant need of his to be near. It’s part of who he is, part of what makes him such a good soldier. But it’s also one of the many things that drives you absolutely insane.

"Something on your mind?" the Pantoran asks, interrupting your thoughts. He’s closer now, a hand on your leg, his touch searing through your clothes and into your skin. His eyes are dark, full of a hunger that both excites and unnerves you.

You shake your head and force a smile, and force Wolffe from your thoughts. "Just enjoying the company."

The Pantoran's hand travels higher as you take another long drink, and you lean into it, your body aching for the touch, the affection, the connection.

This is a bad idea. You know it is.

You also don't care.

“I’m glad to hear it,” he says, his breath hot against your ear. “I was worried I was being too forward.”

"Not at all," you say, your voice a low purr. "I appreciate a man who knows what he wants."

It's a risky thing to say, a dangerous game you're playing. You're not used to this, not anymore. It's been years since you've let yourself get close to anyone, years since you've allowed yourself this kind of vulnerability. The war has changed you, hardened you, made you more cautious, more guarded. But right now, in the dimly lit confines of this crowded bar, you feel a flicker of the woman you used to be. A woman who was unafraid to take risks, to live a little, to have some fun.

It's a refreshing change of pace.

The man next to you smiles again, and you can see the desire in his eyes. He wants you. You want him, too. Or, at least, you think you do.

The conversation continues, but it doesn't flow smoothly like you expected. Instead it’s a series of stilted, awkward questions and vague, evasive answers. The Pantoran, who introduces himself as Ryen, tries to get you to talk about yourself, to open up, but you find yourself deflecting, changing the subject, offering only the bare minimum of information.

You don't want to talk about your job, your life, or the reasons you're here on Coruscant. You just want to enjoy the moment and lose yourself in the pleasure of someone’s company that isn't Wolffe. You’re not looking for deep conversations or emotional connections, just to forget, for a little while.

But Wolffe is still there. Still watching you.

And suddenly, the alcohol doesn't feel like enough. Ryen's touch doesn't feel like enough. The music doesn't feel like enough.

“Something’s on your mind,” Ryen says, and he pulls back, his brows furrowed. "You're a million light years away. Am I boring you?"

“No,” you say, shaking your head and taking another sip of your drink. You try to smile, but you know it's not working. You're not a very good liar. “I’m just… tired. Long week.”

“Bad day at the office?” he asks with a charming smile. “Let me guess, you’re a Republic accountant?”

You laugh weakly. “Something like that.”

There's an awkward silence. The music pounds in the background, but it's no longer loud, no longer drowning out your thoughts. Instead it's amplifying them, making them louder, more insistent. It didn’t work. Of course it didn’t. You’re not sure why you ever thought you could outrun this.

“Look,” you say, setting your glass down and sliding off the stool. Your legs are a little unsteady, but you manage to keep your balance. “It was nice meeting you, Ryen. But I think I’m going to call it a night.”

“Already?” He frowns. “The night’s still young. We could go somewhere else. My place, maybe?”

You hesitate. It’s a tempting offer, and one you would have considered under different circumstances. But right now, it just feels like too much work. Too much effort. You’re not in the mood for this, not anymore. You just want to be alone, to curl up in a ball and forget the world exists.

“I don’t think so. But thank you for the drink.”

You turn to walk away, but his hand on your arm stops you.

“Wait,” he says, his grip a little too tight. “Don’t go. Not like this. Give me another chance.”

You look down at his hand, then back up at his face. There’s a desperation in his eyes that you find both flattering and unsettling. He’s not used to being turned down, you can tell. He’s used to getting what he wants, when he wants it.

You sigh, shaking your head. You know what's coming next, and you're already dreading it. But you don't have the heart to warn him. It wouldn't matter, anyway. Men like Ryen never listen.

So you let it happen.

You feel a shift in the air behind you, a sudden drop in temperature that makes the hair on the back of your neck raise on end. The music seems to fade into the background, the chatter of the other patrons becoming a distant hum. It’s as if the world has narrowed to this one small space, this one tense moment.

Wolffe is there.

You don't have to turn around to know it. His presence is a singularity, impossible to ignore, even in this crowded, chaotic place. It's an aura of power, of control, of dominance. It's the feeling you get when you're standing on the edge of the cliff, staring down into the abyss.

Fear, mixed with fascination.

"Problem here?" he asks, his voice low, edged with steel.

Your eyes flutter closed for a second. You hate him. You hate him for ruining your night, for interrupting your carefully constructed escape. You hate him for being so overbearing, so protective, so... Wolffe.

You also hate the way your body reacts to his presence. The way your skin tingles, your heart races, your breath catches in your throat. It's a betrayal of the highest order, the worst kind of self-sabotage.

Because no matter how hard you try, you can't seem to break free from his orbit.

Ryen’s grip on your arm tightens, then loosens as he turns to face Wolffe. He’s a tall man, but Wolffe is taller, broader, a wall of muscle that casts a long shadow over the both of you. Even in his button down shirt, jacket, and trousers, he’s still imposing. Still a soldier. Still in command.

“We were just having a conversation,” Ryen says, his tone casual, but you can hear the faint thread of unease beneath it. “Isn’t that right?”

You open your eyes and look at Wolffe. He’s not looking at Ryen. He’s looking at you, his gaze a deep, intense thing that sees right through you, past the facade of the carefree woman you're trying to be, and into the glass-fragile soul beneath. His mismatched eyes hold a storm of emotion, each one fighting for dominance. Anger, jealousy, fear, concern, longing.

But mostly anger.

“Is that true, Doc?” he asks, his voice softer now, but no less commanding. “Are you having a good conversation?”

You want to lie. You want to tell him that yes, you're having a wonderful time, and that he can go take a flying leap off the top of the Jedi Temple without his jetpack. But the words won't come. You can't lie to him, not when he's looking at you, through you, like that.

“It’s fine,” you say instead, the words sounding weak even to your own ears. “We were just finishing up.”

Ryen's head whips around, his eyes flashing. "What?"

Wolffe steps forward, his body language deceptively calm, but you can see the tension in his jaw, the subtle clench of his fists. He's not going to hurt him. But he's not going to back down, either.

"You heard the lady. It's time to go.”

Ryen’s eyes narrow, the blue of his skin darkening with anger. He looks from Wolffe to you, and a slow, dawning realization blooms on his face as he comes to the exact conclusion you and your commander have always stayed far away from. The one you are both too scared to admit.

You feel your face heat up. The alcohol is no longer your friend, making your skin feel too tight, your head too light. Dozens of eyes are now openly watching the tense exchange. You feel exposed, vulnerable. And more than anything, you just feel stupid.

“This is your boyfriend?” Ryen scoffs. “Your keeper?”

“No, he’s—“

“Yes,” Wolffe interjects, cutting off whatever weak denial you were about to offer. “I am.”

The lie lands like a flashbang in the space between you, and you turn, staring up at Wolffe with wide eyes. You can’t believe he just said that. You can’t believe he just laid claim to you in front of everyone, in front of this stranger, in front of the entire galaxy. You want to scream. You want to hit him. You want to...

You want him to mean it.

And that's the most terrifying thought of all.

Ryen’s face is a mask of disbelief and disgust. He looks at Wolffe, then back at you, a sneer twisting his lips. “You could have just said you were taken,” he says, his voice dripping with scorn. “You didn’t have to waste my time.”

He finally lets go of your arm, and you stumble back, your legs unsteady. Wolffe’s arm shoots out, wrapping around your waist and yanking you back against him before your knees can give way. He's warm and solid, and he's holding you like he has every right to touch you like this, to hold you like this. Like you're his.

And Force help you, in that moment, you wish that was true.

Ryen backs away, hands raised in surrender. "Whatever," he mutters, already turning to go. "Have fun with your... clone. "

And just like that, he's gone. The music returns to its previous volume, the conversation picks up again, the world spins on. You’re left standing there in the circle of Wolffe’s arms, your body still tingling from his touch, your mind racing with the implications of what just happened.

"You’ve had enough, Doc," he says gruffly, his breath warm against your ear. "We’re leaving.”

You’re too stunned to argue. Your head feels too full and your skin too hot, and you can’t seem to make your tongue work to tell him to get kriffing hands off of you. You let him guide you toward the exit, and Comet catches your eye as you pass by. He’s sitting with Boost and Sinker at their usual booth in the back corner, the three of them watching you with barely-concealed pity on their faces. You give them an awkward smile as you pass, but they just nod, their expressions solemn.

You stumble out of 79s and into the cool, damp night. The Coruscant air is thick with the smell of wet duracrete and exhaust fumes, the endless stream of speeder traffic above you a dizzying blur of light and sound as you blink up at them. It’s an overwhelming assault on your senses, and you suddenly feel too sober and far too aware of Wolffe’s arm around you as he all but drags you down the sidewalk.

"Get off me," you finally manage to spit out, shrugging your shoulders in an attempt to dislodge his suffocating touch.

He doesn't. If anything, his grip tightens, his fingers digging into the fabric of your shirt. He keeps moving you forward, his pace quickening as if he's trying to outrun the scene that's just unfolded. The scene that he caused.

"I said, get off me," you say again, your voice louder this time. You plant your feet and nearly roll your ankle in the process as the heels you're wearing skid against the pavement. You wince in pain, but it's nothing compared to the anger boiling inside of you. “Wolffe, I swear to the Force—"

"Not here," he says, low and tight. "Not on the street."

"Why not?" you snap. "Afraid someone will see the big, bad Commander losing control of his little doctor?"

Wolffe’s jaw ticks, and his grip tightens as he all but drags you along the street. Your feet slip on the wet pavement as you struggle to keep up with his long, purposeful stride, but you can barely focus on anything but the anger coursing through you.

You can't believe him. You can't believe he would do this to you, that he would humiliate you like this, that he would treat you like some sort of… property. Like he had any right to tell you what to do or who to talk to when he can’t be bothered to do anything but watch you from afar.

It was one thing to pull you aside in the medbay or on the battlefield to offer you his opinion or advice, but this? This was too far. This was crossing the line he himself had drawn months ago. And you were done with it.

“Wolffe,” you hiss, struggling in his grasp. “Let go. You're hurting me."

At that, he stops. He lets go of your arm so suddenly that you stumble back, nearly falling in the process. You wince at the dull ache already blooming on your skin and rub at the tender spot where his fingers had dug into your flesh. Wolffe's face is shadowed in the dim glow of the streetlights, but you can see the way he watches the motion. For a fleeting moment, regret breaks through that mask of anger and stoicism. And then it’s gone.

"Let's go," he says again, but this time he doesn't touch you. He just turns and starts walking, expecting you to follow.

You're not sure why you do. Maybe it's because you're too tipsy to find your own way back, or maybe it's because you're too angry to care about the consequences of following him.

Or maybe it's the small, traitorous part of you that is still drawn to him, that still wants to be near him, even when you want to strangle him.

Either way, you pick up your pace and walk beside him, the two of you moving in silence through the neon-drenched streets of Coruscant. The righteous anger has faded, and in its wake is the hollow emptiness you’ve been trying to fill all night, raw at the edges like an open wound. You wrap your arms around yourself, shivering despite the warmth of the night.

"Why did you do that?" you ask quietly.

"Do what?"

"The boyfriend thing," you say, keeping your eyes fixed on the pavement in front of you. "Why did you say that?"

Wolffe doesn't answer right away. He just keeps walking, his hands shoved in his pockets, his jaw set in a hard, stubborn line. You're about to give up, to accept that he's not going to answer, when he finally speaks.

"Because he wasn't going to let you go," he says flatly. "And you were too drunk to handle it yourself."

The words hit you like a slap in the face. They're cold, they're cruel, and they're exactly the kind of thing you would expect from him. He's not protecting you. He's managing you. He's not saving you. He's controlling you.

"I was handling it just fine," you say, your voice trembling with a rage that is quickly rising to the surface again. "I didn't need you to swoop in and play the hero. We were just having a conversation."

“You were uncomfortable,” he counters, not even looking at you.

"No, I wasn't,” you shoot back. “You don’t know what I was feeling. You never do.”

Wolffe scoffs. "You were fidgeting. You touched your hair five times in less than a minute, and you were leaning away from him. And when he put his hand on your leg, you flinched. I saw you. Don't lie to me, Doc. Not about this."

The sheer, unyielding certainty in his voice stops you cold. He wasn't just watching; he was analyzing. Cataloging. Turning your every unconscious gesture into data. It's infuriating, invasive, and… not entirely wrong. You had been uncomfortable. You had been flinching. But that wasn't the point. The point was that you could have handled it. You didn't need him to step in. You didn't need him to rescue you. You didn't need him. Period.

But you wanted him. And that was the problem.

"Besides, you've had enough," he continues, his tone shifting from accusatory to clinical. "I could smell the whyren's on you from across the room. When was the last time you ate?"

You roll your eyes. "That's none of your business."

"It is when it affects your performance," he says. "I need you sharp. I need you focused. I can't have you getting sloppy because you're hungover."

The accusation is so far beyond the pale, so utterly insulting, that for a moment, you can't even speak. You just stare at him, your mouth agape, your mind reeling. How dare he? How dare he question your professionalism, your commitment, your competence? How dare he act like he knows better than you, like he has the right to tell you what to do, how to act, how to feel?

He's not your commander. He's not your friend. He's your critic, your judge. And you're done. You're done with him.

"Sloppy?" you finally manage to say, your voice dangerously quiet. "Is that what you think of me? That I'm sloppy?"

"I think you're exhausted," he says, his tone softening, just barely. He’s looking at you now, his eyes scanning your face with the same focused intensity he uses when he's analyzing enemy positions on the battlefield. "And you're not taking care of yourself. That makes you a liability. To yourself, and to my men."

The 'my men' part stings the most. He's right, and you hate him for it. You have been exhausted. You have been running on fumes. But you're not a liability. You're a goddamn miracle worker, and he knows it. You've patched up his soldiers, patched up him, more times than you can count, and you've never once made a mistake. Never once been 'sloppy.'

Tears of frustration prick at the corners of your eyes, and you angrily swipe them away. "I'm fine," you hiss. "I'm always fine."

Before he can respond, you’re turning again, forcing yourself to keep moving down the sidewalk. You’ve figured out his destination now. Your speeder is parked on the street two blocks away from here. You’d driven it to the bar, enjoying the brief sense of freedom that came with the open-air vehicle you rarely ever got to use anymore, even if you’d had to leave the roof on thanks to the rain. You were hoping to avoid Wolffe the whole way back, but apparently, that wasn't an option.

You can feel him following behind you, but you ignore him, focusing instead on the sound of your shoes clicking against the pavement. The rain has started up again, misting against your skin, cool in comparison to the angry heat of your cheeks. Your heart is racing, your stomach churning, but you keep your head high, your shoulders back. You won't give him the satisfaction of seeing you break.

The sleek, silver shape of your speeder finally comes into view, nestled between a battered cargo hauler and a garishly painted patrol craft. You fish in your pocket for the remote, your fingers clumsy and stiff. The speeder chirps in response, and its canopy slides open with a soft hiss. Freedom. An escape pod waiting to launch you away from him and this awful night.

“Keys,” Wolffe suddenly says, holding out a hand as he stops beside you.

You stare at it, then at him. The idea is laughable. "You're not driving my speeder."

"You can barely walk. Keys.”

For a second, you consider making a run for it. You could jump in, slam the door, and be gone before he could react. But he’s faster than you. Stronger. And the game would be over before it even began. With a defeated sigh that feels like it’s been pulled from the depths of your soul, you drop the small fob into his waiting palm.

His fingers brush yours, sending an involuntary jolt through you. The contact stretches for a beat too long before he clenches his fist around the keys and turns away, his boots eating up the remaining steps to the driver's side. You follow after him, struggling to keep up.

"Wolffe, I'm perfectly capable of—"

"I'm not risking my best doctor because you had one too many,” he retorts, not even bothering to look at you. The compliment is backhanded, dismissive, and it still makes something stupid and hopeful flutter in your chest. You hate that feeling almost as much as you hate him right now.

"I am your only doctor," you say through gritted teeth. "And you're not my babysitter. I can drive myself home."

"Get in," he says, ignoring you completely. “I’m taking you home.”

"No."

He stops, one hand on the doorframe, and turns. "No? What do you mean, ‘no?’”

"I mean no," you repeat, crossing your arms. "You don't get to drag me out of a bar, insult me, call me sloppy, and then play the concerned friend. It doesn't work like that.”

A muscle jumps in his jaw. "I'm not letting you drive like this. You're going to get yourself killed."

"You can't force me,” you say, and lift your chin. "I'm not one of your soldiers. You don't get to order me around."

Wolffe lets out a harsh breath, and suddenly, he’s right in front of you. The streetlight casts shadows across his face, highlighting his scar, his sharp cheekbones, and the hard set of his jaw. He's too close, too big, too much. You have to fight the urge to take an instinctive step back.

His hand rests on the roof of the speeder as he leans closer, caging you in, and the smell of him—leather, blaster oil, and something that is purely Wolffe—overwhelms you. You swallow, your throat suddenly dry.

“Doc," he says, his voice a low rumble, "don't push me."

You don’t back down. You step closer, craning your neck to meet his gaze with a defiant glare.

"Or what?" you whisper. "What are you going to do, Commander?"

His gaze dips to your lips, then back up, and you can see his throat bob. The intensity of his stare, the closeness of his body, the way he's holding himself back, it all tells the same story. The same one he’s been dutifully ignoring for months. And it’s the same story you've been trying to pretend you can't read.

His grip on the roof of the speeder tightens, the metal groaning under the pressure. He’s teetering on the edge of something, and you’re both about to fall.

Then, just as quickly as it started, it's over. Wolffe’s eyes widen a fraction before he takes a halting step back. He shoves his hands into his pockets, the picture of disciplined nonchalance, but he’s not fooling you. Not this time. Not when you saw the raw hunger in his expression, felt it mirrored deep within yourself.

He clears his throat, looking anywhere but at you.

"Get in the speeder," he says. "I'm taking you home. Don't make this harder than it has to be."

"No," you repeat, a little softer this time.

You can feel the beginnings of regret pooling in your stomach. You hate when you argue like this, but it always seems to happen, no matter how hard you try to keep things civil between the two of you. It's like you're both magnets, repelling and attracting each other at the same time in equal measure, never finding equilibrium, always pushing each other's boundaries.

You've thought about leaving the 104th a hundred times. Thought about training up another medic, a clone who can keep his head down and follow orders the way you’ve never been able to. It would be better, for him and for everyone, if you did. But you can never bring yourself to do it. You care about these men too much. You care about him too much.

And that's the problem, isn't it?

Despite everything, despite all the fights, all the arguments, all the sleepless nights and frustrating days, you're still here. Still standing in front of him, your heart aching for a man who will never let himself love you back. Who will never cross the line he drew in the sand between the two of you, even when you can see the longing in his eyes.

It’s pathetic. It’s foolish. And it’s the only thing that’s kept you going for the past year.

Wolffe lets out a long, weary sigh, running a hand over his hair that’s starting to grow out of its strict regulation cut. He looks up at the sky, at the endless stream of traffic, and for a moment, you see the weariness in his posture, the heavy weight of the war on his shoulders. When he turns back to you, his eyes are hard with resolve.

“Fine.”

He reaches out and wraps an arm around your waist, and before you can react, he's lifting you. A startled yelp escapes you as he hoists you with an infuriating lack of effort and swings you around the open passenger door.

"Wolffe! Put me down!” you squeal, kicking your legs in protest, your hands scrabbling against his shoulders, but it’s useless. He’s immovable. “You overgrown, overbearing, egotistical..."

He deposits you onto the passenger seat with a surprising amount of restraint, careful not to let you hit your head. You fumble with the seatbelt, trying to fasten it before he can, but your fingers are still clumsy from the alcohol, and the buckle slips from your grasp.

"Stop.”

"I can do it," you snap, your cheeks burning with a mixture of anger and utter mortification.

"For fuck’s sake, stop,” he growls, and then he’s leaning over you, his body crowding yours, the scent of him filling your senses and making your head swim. He bats your hands away and grabs the buckle, his knuckles brushing against your thigh as he clicks it into place.

He's too close. So close you can count the flecks of gold in his good eye, map the faint web of scars that crisscross his face, see the dark shadow of stubble beginning to show on his jaw. If you moved forward, even an inch, you could kiss him. You could close the distance between you. You could finally taste the lips that have haunted your dreams for months.

“There,” he says, his voice low and rough. "All snug and secure."

The sarcasm in his tone is like a splash of cold water on your desire. You blink, snapping back to reality. What the hell are you doing?

"Go to hell," you say, your voice hoarse, your heart racing.

His eyes bore into yours. "Already there.”

For a beat, you’re locked together, suspended in the space between what you are and what you could be. Then, just as before, he retreats to safer ground.

“Don’t crash my speeder,” you call after him as he pulls away and slams your door shut with enough force to rock the vehicle. You lean back in the seat, closing your eyes. This isn’t how you wanted tonight to go. This isn't how any of it was supposed to go.

Wolffe slides into the driver's seat, yanking the door behind him, and the small space of the cockpit is suddenly filled with him. You open one eye to watch him adjust the seat’s position with an annoyed shove, his muscles straining against the confines of his civilian clothing.

"Don't mess with the settings," you say, sitting up straight again. "I like them where they are."

"They're wrong," he says, fiddling with the controls.

"You're wrong," you mutter under your breath. He shoots you a withering look, but the corner of his mouth twitches, betraying the ghost of his amusement.

"You're impossible," he grumbles.

"Well, you're annoying,” you retort, because it's the best you can do on short notice. You’re not feeling particularly clever right now. You feel like you’ve been run over by an AT-TE.

That gets a reaction. A short, sharp exhale that might have been a laugh in another life. Wolffe turns his head, and the glow from the dash board lights illuminates the softening of his features.

"Why are you shaking?" he asks, his tone shifting from angry to clinical, the way it does when he's assessing a wound.

You immediately fold your arms, trying to hide the tell. "I'm not."

"Are you cold?"

"I'm fine, Wolffe."

"Here," he says, and before you can react, he’s leaning forward and shrugging out of his leather jacket. He struggles for a moment to free himself, and you watch, a little amused, as he gets one arm tangled in the sleeve before yanking it free with an irritated grunt.

"I don't want your jacket," you protest, but he's already balling it up and shoving it at you.

"Put it on."

Your mouth twists. You want to throw it back in his face, to make a scene, to prove that you don't need him or his smug, overprotective gestures. But it's warm. And it smells like him. And you are, in fact, starting to feel the chill from the night air seeping through your clothes.

You gingerly take the jacket and pull it on. It's big on you, the sleeves covering your hands and the collar rising up to your cheeks. You’re swimming in it, enveloped by the scent of him, the lingering warmth from his body. It's both a comfort and a cage, and you hate how much you like it.

When you look up, Wolffe watching you. There's an odd expression on his face you can’t begin to parse, and as soon you look up at him, it’s gone. Vanished like your hopes for a peaceful night.

"Hang on," he says, and then he’s gunning the engine, the speeder surging forward with a gut-wrenching lurch that presses you back into your seat. He weaves into the traffic with an aggressive, impatient expertise, cutting off a lumbering transport and earning a blare of angry horns in response.

"Wolffe!" you yelp, grabbing the handle above the door. "Slow down!"

"This is slow," he grunts, not taking his eyes off the river of vehicles in front of him. "You want to see fast?"

"No! I want to get home in one piece. Which means you need to follow the kriffing traffic laws."

He makes a noise that's somewhere between a scoff and a growl. "The traffic laws on this planet are suggestions. Not rules."

"You're not going to win this argument," you say, your knuckles white as you hold on for dear life. "You can't just bully other drivers off the road. Some of us have to live here."

He doesn't respond, but he does ease up on the accelerator, just enough that the knot in your stomach loosens a fraction. He’s still driving like a man with something to prove, but at least you're not in immediate danger of becoming a smear on the side of a skyscraper. You feel secure enough to lean forward and start to input the coordinates for your apartment into the navicomputer, but before you can get past the first three digits, he’s swatting your hand away.

"I know where you live," he says, his tone flat.

You pull your hand back, stung. Of course he does. He's Wolffe. He probably has the floor plans of your building memorized. The knowledge should feel invasive, but it just feels… normal. It's the kind of thing you've come to expect from him, the kind of thing that simultaneously infuriates you and makes you feel a little bit safer.

You've been doing this for a while, the two of you, the push-and-pull. One minute you're arguing, the next, you’re…something else.

It started small, at first. Little glances, subtle flirting, casual touches. He’d bring you caf when you were pulling an all-nighter in the medbay, and you’d find excuses to visit the command deck when you knew he was on duty. He’d make an offhand comment about your civvies, and you’d find yourself dressing up a little more, just to see if he’d notice. He always did.

But then Abregado happened, and everything changed. He came back different. Harder. Colder. And you became more reckless, more defiant, more determined to break through that wall of ice he’d built around himself. The line between doctor and patient, friend and…something more, blurred and reformed into something new, something you couldn't name.

You spent months trying to fix him. He spent months trying to push you away. The war raged on, and you both lost yourselves in the chaos, finding solace in each other’s company, even if it was just in stolen moments and shared silences. The feelings grew, but the words never came.

They still haven't.

Tonight, you'd given up. You were frustrated, and exhausted, and not in the mood to be polite or tactful or whatever the hell Wolffe expects from you. So you'd gone to 79s with Comet and the boys, hoping to lose yourself in the noise and the alcohol. You'd wanted to forget about him, and the war, and the stupid, complicated mess that was your life. You'd almost succeeded, too.

And then Wolffe showed up, and everything happened exactly how it always does. A perfect storm of stubbornness and desire, culminating in you being driven home by the one person you were trying to forget, wrapped in his jacket and smelling his scent on your skin.

You hate it.

You also, to your shame, don't want it to end.

The silence stretches on, thick and heavy, and you find yourself watching him. The way his hands grip the controls hard enough to white his knuckles. How the light from the neon signs plastered across the buildings paints his face in shifting colors—red, then blue, then green. He's a man of sharp angles and hard edges, a study in controlled violence.

And you are the one who keeps trying to smooth those edges.

The speeder banks left, taking the off-ramp toward your residential district. The towering skyscrapers of the commercial sector give way to the more subdued, upscale apartments in your district. It’s quiet here, the streets clean and well-lit. It feels like a different world, a million light-years away from the grimy, chaotic energy of 79s, and the grim reality of the Triumphant II. It's the world you're supposed to live in, the world you left behind when you volunteered for service. A world of quiet nights, and safe streets, and comfortable, predictable lives.

A world without Wolffe.

The thought is followed by a pang of something you can't quite name. Regret? Longing? You're not sure.

"Did I really fidget that much?" you ask quietly.

Wolffe glances at you, surprised by the sudden break in the silence. "What?"

"Back at the bar," you say, picking at a loose thread on the sleeve of his jacket. "You said I was fidgeting."

He's silent for a moment, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. You can see him out of the corner of your eye, the slight tightening of his jaw as he considers his response. Finally, he nods.

“Yeah. You did.”

You huff out a breath and look down at your lap. "I can't believe you were paying that close attention.”

"I'm always paying attention,” he says. There's no arrogance in his tone, just a simple statement of fact. "It's my job to notice things."

"You sure were noticing an awful lot," you mutter under your breath, but you know he hears you.

"And you were doing a lot of fidgeting," he counters with a small smirk. It’s barely there, imperceptible to those who don’t know how to look for it, but you do. You catch the way the corner of his mouth twitches.

"So? Maybe I was a little uncomfortable. That doesn't mean you had to get all alpha-male and start throwing your weight around," you grumble, crossing your arms over your chest. You toe off your heels, letting them fall to the floor with a soft thud, and sink further into your seat with an exhausted sigh. "I had it under control."

"Throwing my weight around?” he repeats with a scoff. His eyes flick toward you, taking in the way you're curled up in the passenger seat, painted toes tapping at the floormat, before he quickly looks away. "You call that throwing my weight around? I could have thrown him across the room if I'd wanted to. That was me being polite."

"Yes, Wolffe, you're a very scary, very intimidating commander,” you mutter, rolling your eyes. “I’m sure Ryen was absolutely terrified.”

"Ryen.” Wolffe’s nose wrinkles. "What kind of name is Ryen?"

"It's a perfectly good name," you defend, though you're not sure why. You couldn't care less about Ryen or his stupid name now. "What’s wrong with it?”

He snorts. "Sounds like a brand of cleaning agent.”

A shocked laugh escapes your lips, too loud in the confined space of the speeder. You immediately clamp your mouth shut and sink further into his jacket, but it's too late. The damage is done.

"Don't," you warn, though the effect is ruined by the smile tugging at the corner of your lips. "That wasn't funny."

You hear Wolffe’s soft chuckle from beside you, as rare as it is surprising. The sound warms something deep inside of you, thawing the cold emptiness that's been plaguing you for months. For just one second, it's like nothing's changed.

"He did have a very starched shirt," you admit. "I'll give you that."

"And too much product in his hair," Wolffe adds, his tone still light. "Looked like he'd dipped his head in a vat of grease."

You giggle again, and this time you don't try to stop it. The anger and frustration and general feeling of disappointment that has been building since your failed attempt at escape earlier takes a back seat to this fleeting moment of levity. You want to reach out and capture it with both hands, keep it safe from the harsh realities that are waiting outside of the speeder, but you know it's only temporary.

Soon, the war will be back, looming large in the distance, its shadow threatening to drown out the light. But for now, for these few, precious moments, it's just you and him. Two people, caught up in the same war, the same tragedy, the same impossible hope.

Without your righteous fury propping you up, you can feel exhaustion start to pull at your limbs. A yawn threatens to slip out, but you manage to stifle it behind your hand. The alcohol is still humming through your veins, but it’s a mellower buzz now. A soft, fuzzy warmth that lulls you into a state of drowsy contentment. You lean your head against the cool glass of the window, watching the city lights blur into streaks of color.

"You okay, doc?" Wolffe asks, his voice softer than you've heard it all night. He’s slowed down now, navigating the quiet streets with a practiced ease. He's not in a hurry anymore. Neither are you.

"I'm fine," you say, your words slurring slightly. You're not sure if it's the alcohol, or the long hours, or the emotional whiplash of the evening, but you can feel the weight of the past few weeks settling on you like a heavy blanket. "Just... tired."

"You're drunk," he corrects.

"No. I'm relaxed,” you mumble, turning toward him and resting your cheek on the seat. You look up at him through heavy-lidded eyes. "'S a temporary condition. You should try it sometime."

"I am relaxed," he says. "This is me being relaxed."

"Mmm."

The sound comes out as more of an incoherent hum than an actual word, but he seems to understand. You watch him for another long, lazy moment, the passing streetlights casting shadows across his face. He looks different, somehow. Softer. Less like the hard, uncompromising man he pretends to be, more like the man you've glimpsed underneath it all.

"Don't be mad," you murmur, your voice small. "Please?"

Wolffe lets out a long, slow breath, and shakes his head. "I'm not mad."

"Yes, you are. I can tell. You get all..." You trail off, waving your hand in the space between the two of you.

"Get all what?" he asks, a hint of amusement back in his voice.

"You know."

"No, I do not," he replies with a huff that sounds suspiciously like a laugh. "You're going to have to be more specific, Doc. Use your words."

"Stiff," you say, poking him in the arm. Your finger bounces back, hitting solid muscle, but he makes no move to stop you. He just watches you out of the corner of his eye, his expression unreadable. "You get all stiff and commander-y. Your jaw does that thing. You look like you're sucking on a sour lozenge."

He rolls his eyes. "I do not."

"Do too," you counter, your head lolling back against the headrest. “It’s very serious. Very authoritative. Makes me want to... to..." You're about to say 'disobey orders,' but you catch yourself just in time. You're not that drunk. "Argue with you," you finish lamely.

"You always want to argue with me," he says softly. "It's your favorite hobby."

"It's not my favorite hobby," you protest, but you're smiling. "It's... a necessary evil."

"Necessary evil, huh?" he repeats.

"You're impossible," you mutter, shaking your head. "A big, grumpy, impossible... man."

Wolffe chuckles, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. You're not sure if it's the alcohol or the sound of his laugh that makes your stomach do flips, but you can't stop the way your body reacts to him. You realize you haven't seen him smile or laugh like this in a long, long time. And even though you're the one who's tipsy, he's the one who looks lighter, less weighed down by the burdens he's carrying.

The wave of melancholy that washes over you is sudden, but not unexpected. You can feel it building inside you, like floodwaters against the walls of the dam, threatening to burst through the cracks. You miss him. You miss the way he used to be, the way you used to be. Before Abregado, before the nightmares, before the scars.

Before you let yourself fall in love with him.

"What?" Wolffe asks, his smile fading as he sees the shift in your mood. "What is it?"

"Nothing," you say, shaking your head. "I'm just... being dumb."

"Talk to me," he says gently as the speeder slows, turning into the parking deck attached to your building. He finds an empty spot near the turbolifts and eases the vehicle into it with a precision you've come to expect from him, and he cuts the engine.

You're home. The night is over.

The sudden silence is deafening. You sit up straight, struggling to free yourself from your seatbelt and the tangle of your own emotions. Wolffe steps out of the speeder, leaving you alone with your thoughts for the briefest moment before he's opening your door and leaning in.

"I'm fine," you insist, but he's already scooping up your heels from the floor. "Wolffe, seriously, I'm—"

"Stop," he says, not unkindly. "Stop lying to me."

You open your mouth, but the words die on your lips. He's right. You are lying. To him, to yourself, to everyone. Because if you can convince him that you're fine, that you can handle yourself, maybe you'll finally start to believe it, too.

You let out a breath and look away. "Okay."

"Come on," he says, holding out his hand.

You take it. His skin is rough, his grip strong, but his fingers close over yours with surprising gentleness. He helps you out of the speeder, not bothering to ask if you need his assistance. He just does it, as if it's the most natural thing in the world. As if you haven't spent the past six months fighting him every step of the way, and he hasn't spent them trying to make you bend to his will.

His fingers linger for just an instant longer than they should before he drops his hand. It's an awkward moment, both of you unsure how to navigate this uncharted space between you. There are words there, on the tip of your tongue, but you swallow them back down.

"Thanks," you say quietly.

"Anytime."

Wolffe holds your heels in one hand, the other resting at the small of your back as he steers you toward the turbolift. You lean into him, just barely, the way you did earlier.

This. This is why you stay.

The two of you step inside the lift, and it lurches once before rocketing upward toward the top floors. You grab onto the handlebar next to the door for support as the motion jostles you, closing your eyes to keep the nausea at bay. You can feel Wolffe's hand hover over the small of your back, ready to steady you if you stumble, but he makes no move to touch you again.

"How much did you have to drink?" he asks, his voice carefully neutral.

"Not enough,” you mutter, not opening your eyes.

"Answer the question."

"Five shots. Whyren's. And some green thing he bought me."

Wolffe lets out a loud sigh. "You're an idiot."

"Thanks," you mumble.

"No, I'm serious," he says, his tone shifting to something harder. "You're a doctor. You know better. Going to a bar by yourself, getting wasted with a stranger... What the hell were you thinking?"

Your head snaps up, the nausea forgotten as hot anger rushes through you. "I wasn't 'wasted'," you retort. "And I wasn't by myself. Comet was with me. And Boost and Sinker. You saw them."

"I did," he says, his jaw tight. "And I also saw you leave them. I saw you go to the bar with him. Alone."

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize I needed your permission to talk to someone!" you seethe, your voice rising with indignation. "I didn't realize I needed to file a leave request in triplicate to have a life outside of that kriffing ship!"

He flinches. It's subtle, but you see it, the slight twitch in his brow. You’ve wounded him with your words. Good. He deserves it. After everything he’s put you through, he deserves to feel even a fraction of what you’re feeling right now.

The lift dings, and the doors slide open, revealing the quiet carpeted hallway of your floor. Wolffe steps out first, checking the corridor before beckoning you forward. "Don't be ridiculous," he says. "This isn't about permission. This is about common sense. Something you seem to be in short supply of tonight."

"Common sense?" you repeat, incredulous. You shoulder past him. "You have some nerve talking to me about common sense, Wolffe. You're the one who runs headfirst into battle without a second thought. You're the one who gets himself shot and stabbed and blown up on a weekly basis!"

"That's my job!" he shoots back as he stomps after you. "I'm a soldier. That's what I do! What's your excuse?"

"My excuse is that I'm tired!" you yell, spinning around to face him, the tears you've been fighting back finally spilling over. "I just wanted one night. One night to be a normal person. To have a drink, and a conversation, and to forget! Is that too much to ask? Is it?"

Wolffe stops, the angry retort dying on his lips as he takes in the sight of you. His shoulders slump, and the hard set of his jaw softens into something that looks like regret. He reaches out, then lets his hand fall back to his side, curling into a fist at his side.

"No," he whispers. "It's not."

The admission hangs in the air between you, fragile and new. You can't stand to see him look at you with that expression, that mixture of pity and concern. You turn away and stomp down the rest of the hall, fumbling with the lock on your door with trembling fingers. You can’t get the keycard to work. You try again, and again, the light flashing red each time.

"Here," he says, coming up behind you and gently taking the card from your hand. He slots it into the reader, and the light flashes green. The door slides open with a soft hiss, revealing the dark, quiet space of your apartment.

He guides you inside, keeping a steadying hand on your arm. You stumble into the living room, throwing off the jacket that’s wrapped around your shoulders and letting it fall to the floor in a heap. You don't care. You just want to be free of it, free of him, free of this night.

"Wolffe," you say, your back still to him as you stare out the large window overlooking the city. "Please, just... go."

You hear him sigh, followed by the soft thud of your heels hitting the floor by the door. "I will," he says quietly. "After you've had some water, and eaten something. And after I'm sure you're not going to pass out and hit your head."

You let out a watery, humorless laugh. "You're not my keeper."

"I know."

You feel a gentle touch on your arm, and you flinch, but you don't pull away. He guides you toward the kitchen, his movements slow, cautious, the way he approaches injured animals or hostile locals. He's treating you like glass, like something fragile that could shatter at any moment. It makes you feel small, insignificant.

"Sit," he orders softly.

"Stop ordering me around," you grumble, though the bite of your words is missing.

"Sit," he repeats, this time more firmly, steering you toward your small, round table, the one you bought at a street market on a rare day of shore leave, the one you've never had a chance to use. Until now. “Do you have any food? Anything that isn’t caffeinated or a nutrient packet?”

You shake your head. "I haven't had a chance to go to the market."

"Right," he says with a sigh, turning to your small, well-organized kitchen. “I’ll see what I can do.”

You watch him, a detached sort of fascination taking hold as he moves through your space. He's so out of place here in your quiet, feminine apartment, with its soft colors and delicate furniture. His bulk seems to fill the space, making the whole apartment feel smaller. He looks too big, too harsh, too dangerous, surrounded by your things.

And yet, he also looks…right. Like he belongs here. With you.

Wolffe opens your conservator, the cool light illuminating his face, and he lets out a soft whistle. “Fancy,” he murmurs, scanning up and down. “I didn’t know the GAR paid our medics this well.”

“They don’t,” you mumble, resting your chin on your palm. “This is all… from before.”

He stills, one hand on the door. He doesn't turn, but you can see the tension in the set of his shoulders. He knows what you mean, and you can tell he wishes you hadn't said it. Before. Before the war, before the clones, before the Triumphant, before him. Before your life became a series of endless, bleeding wounds.

Before you started to bleed with it.

He clears his throat, reaching for the bottle of juice and popping the top. You watch as he brings it to his nose, sniffing it with the critical eye of a soldier who’s seen more than his fair share of spoiled rations.

“Best by yesterday,” he announces, turning to show you the bottle. “We’ll live dangerously.”

He grabs two clean glasses from the shelf above the sink, then reaches back in and pulls out a half-empty bag of ration crackers you forgot you had. He sets everything down on the table with a quiet thud, placing one of the glasses in front of you before sliding into the chair opposite yours.

The simple domesticity of it all makes your chest ache. It’s the kind of moment you’ve dreamed of, the kind of life you’ve secretly wanted with him. Quiet nights, shared meals, easy silence. But it’s not real. It’s an illusion, a brief reprieve from the harsh reality of your lives. And you’re not sure how much more of it you can take.

You stare at the glass, at the condensation already beginning to bead on its surface. Wolffe watches you, his mismatched eyes unreadable in the dim light of the kitchen. He doesn't push, he doesn't prod. He just waits.

Finally, with a sigh, you reach for the glass. You take a tentative sip, and when your stomach doesn't immediately rebel, you drink deeply. The cool liquid soothes the ache in your throat, washing away the lingering taste of the alcohol from earlier, and you pick at the crackers, taking small bites as your stomach slowly settles.

Wolffe watches you, his hands loosely clasped on the table. "Good?"

You nod, the food grounding you, calming your nerves. "Yeah."

He gives you another one of his small, fleeting smiles, but it's gone as quickly as it appeared. He leans forward, resting his forearms on the table, his fingers drumming against the wooden surface.

"I'm sorry."

The words are spoken so softly, you almost miss them. You look up, your hand freezing mid-cracker, but Wolffe is staring down at the table.

"What?" you ask.

"I'm sorry," he repeats, looking up. His gaze is intense, holding yours, pinning you in place. "For tonight. For the way I acted. It was..."

"Inappropriate?" you offer, your tone still bitter.

He winces. "I was going to say wrong."

"Wrong," you echo, dropping the cracker back onto the plate. You wipe your fingers on the napkin, suddenly losing your appetite. "So, what, you're going to apologize, but not change? Just go back to being an ass the next time something inconveniences you?"

"That's not fair."

"No," you say, the words spilling out, unstoppable now. "No, it's not. This isn't the first time, Wolffe. I keep trying to be reasonable, I keep trying to be civil, but nothing changes. It's like we're stuck. In this... this place, this limbo, this whatever the hell this is between us. I can't—"

"Stop," he says, reaching across the table to grip your hand. "Stop."

You do, your voice dying in your throat. The feel of his calloused fingers, warm on your skin, sends sparks up your arm, igniting your veins. He's touching you. After months of avoiding you, pushing you away, he's touching you. Holding your hand like it's something precious, something fragile. Something to be cherished.

"I'm trying," he says, his tone pleading. "I am. I just... I'm not good at this."

"At what?"

"This," he repeats. He shakes his head, looking down at the table, at his hand over yours. "At relationships. At... talking. I'm better at shooting people. And yelling."

You let out an exasperated sigh, but you can't help the smile that tugs at the corner of your mouth. "I've noticed."

"You deserve better," he says, still staring down at your joined hands. His thumb strokes along the length of yours, tracing patterns on your skin, sending tiny, delicious shivers through your body.

"So you've told me," you say, swallowing hard. "Several times."

He sighs. "It's the truth."

"And I've told you it's not," you reply, your voice softening. You squeeze his hand. "I know who you are, Wolffe. As much as you try to hide from me, I notice things, too. And I've seen the way you are with the men. How you take care of them. How you take care of me."

"I yelled at you tonight," he counters, shaking his head. "I hurt you. I said things I didn’t mean, and I made you feel like shit. That's not taking care of you."

"You did," you say, your smile fading. "You did make me feel like shit. But that's not... I'm not talking about the yelling. Or the fighting. Or any of that. I'm talking about the way you make sure I eat. And the way you stay up with me when I'm pulling extra shifts in the medbay. You're always there, every time. You're always the one to check on me and make sure I'm okay. Even when we're fighting, you're still looking out for me."

He lets out an exasperated breath, pulling his hand back. "Because someone has to."

"No," you counter, leaning forward. You grab his hand and mold his fingers until they’re laced with yours, and you hold up your joined hands for him to see. "Because you care. And I'm tired of pretending that we're both fine with the way things are."

Wolffe's breath hitches. His fingers flex around yours, as if he's testing the reality of the moment. You hold on, determined to prove him wrong.

“You’re drunk,” he mutters, staring at your interlocked fingers.

You snort. "Not that drunk."

"Still drunk."

"Enough to say things I probably wouldn't have said otherwise," you admit. "But not too drunk that I can't recognize that this"—you nod down at your joined hands—"is what I've wanted for months."

He swallows hard. You can see his throat working, the muscles of his jaw twitching. He's struggling with the admission, but you've been patient, too patient, for too long. You won't be pushed aside anymore. Not by him, not by the war, not by anything.

"Why do you push me away?" you whisper.

He's silent, his thumb idly stroking the back of your hand, his eyes locked on the place where your bodies meet. You can tell he's fighting with himself, trying to decide if he should let you in, or put the walls back up, as strong as before.

You can feel him slipping away, retreating behind his defenses, but you refuse to let him go.

"I'm right here, Wolffe," you murmur, tightening your grip. "I'm not going anywhere. You can tell me."

He lets out an unsteady breath, his gaze lifting from your hands to your face. He holds you in place, the intensity of his stare pinning you to the spot, stripping you bare.

"Because it hurts," he rasps. He takes another breath, as if he's preparing to jump off the edge of the cliff, the one he's been skirting for months. "It hurts to look at you. It hurts to hear you laugh, or see you smile, or touch you. Because every time I do, it reminds me that I can't keep you safe. And that terrifies me."

You suck in your breath. Your heart is racing, thundering in your chest. "Wolffe—"

"I can't protect you, Doc," he whispers, his expression full of anguish. "You're too good, too soft, too..." He shakes his head, frustrated, his fingers flexing against yours. "I've been trained for this, my whole life, but you... I can't risk losing you."

The confession hangs in the air between you, raw, vulnerable.

"You won't," you whisper.

He shakes his head. "You can't know that."

"You're right," you agree, your voice stronger now. "I can't. None of us can. The war could end tomorrow, or it could go on for another twenty years. We can't predict the future. We can only live in the moment. And I can't think of anyone else I'd rather be in this moment with than you."

He exhales sharply, as if you've punched him. You can see the emotion playing across his features, the desire, the longing, the fear. He's been keeping this in for months, denying his own feelings, burying them under layers of armor. You know he has. You've done the same thing, but the alcohol has worn down your resolve, making you brave. Making you bold.

"Please, Wolffe," you say as you rise from your seat. He watches you, his expression wary, his body tensing as if he's bracing for impact. But he stays seated, his gaze locked on yours.

"Doc—"

"I'm tired," you murmur, coming to stand in front of him. You gently tug his hand, urging him to stand. "I'm tired of the fighting. I'm tired of the yelling. I'm tired of us hurting each other."

"Me too," he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Please," you repeat.

He rises from his seat, his free hand reaching out to grasp your hip. You shiver as his fingers dig into your skin, but you stand firm. You won't be the first to break. You've come too far, pushed too hard, to give in now.

You tilt your chin up, holding his gaze. In the bright light of your kitchen, he almost seems unworldly, too real to be believed.

You reach out with trembling fingers, tracing the line of his cheek, his scar, the ridge of his brow. Wolffe closes his eyes, letting out his breath in one, shaky exhale, his hand tightening on your hip. You can feel his strength, coiled beneath the surface, but he holds himself in check. He's always been careful with you. Always afraid.

“Tell me to go," he says, his voice rough.

"No," you murmur, cupping his cheek.

"Tell me."

"No."

He opens his eyes, the gray of his right one meeting the amber of his left, holding yours in an unbreakable gaze. "Why?"

You give him the only answer that matters.

"Because I love you."

Wolffe stills. The hand on your hip tightens, his fingers digging into your skin. His mouth opens and closes, but no words come out. He's not breathing. He's not blinking. He's frozen in place, trapped in the moment.

You wait, your breath held, your heart in your throat.

It feels like an eternity, suspended on the edge of an impossible cliff. The moment stretches out, thin, delicate, impossibly fragile. One wrong move, one word, could shatter it. And you know, somehow, that this is the final test. The last barrier between you, between what could be, or what could never be.

And, just when you think he'll pull away, the moment passes.

His mouth descends, hard and desperate. Wolffe captures your lips, swallowing the startled noise of surprise that rises in your throat. His hand slips from your hip to the small of your back, and he presses you closer until your chests meet. He's everywhere, all at once, surrounding you, consuming you, devouring you.

You whimper into his mouth, your fingers tangling in his hair, holding on for dear life. His lips are rough and insistent as he pulls on your lower lip, teeth dragging across the plump flesh before he dives back in, kissing you with an intensity that leaves you dizzy.

Wolffe kisses you like it's the only thing he knows how to do. Like his life depends on it. Like he's been waiting for it, dreaming of it, craving it. And you realize, with startling clarity, that he has.

He's been holding back, too.

"Doc," he murmurs against your mouth, his fingers digging into the soft curve of your skin. You let out a needy hum and press closer to him, your breasts flush against the hard planes of his chest, your hips bumping against his.

"Doc," he tries again, pulling away just far to speak, just far to breathe, but you refuse to let him. You kiss him again, harder this time, pouring everything you can't say into the movement of your lips against his. The frustration, the fear, the anger, the loneliness.

"Sweetheart," he growls against your lips. He breaks the kiss, his hands moving from your hips to your shoulders, gripping them hard. "Slow down. I—"

"I've waited long for this," you murmur, tilting your head back, baring your neck to him. "I'm not wasting another second."

"Kriff," he rasps, his eyes locked on the sight of you. He stares at you for one long, heavy moment before he finally, mercifully, leans in, his mouth finding the soft, sensitive spot where your shoulder meets your neck.

You let out an involuntary gasp as he nips at the delicate skin, the tiny prick of pain followed by the soothing caress of his tongue. His hands move to clutch the counter on either side of your hips, caging you in, leaving you nowhere to go but toward him. And you do, tilting your head to accept the slow, sensual assault.

"Wolffe," you whisper, sliding your hand over his shoulder, along his neck, until your fingers are tangled in his hair. He makes an appreciative sound against your skin, and you shiver as his stubble scrapes against the tender flesh with every new kiss.

You've never felt anything like this. This sense of rightness, this feeling of completion, this overwhelming wave of desire. He's been holding back from you, you realize. You've had your suspicions, your glimpses, but never like this. Never with this raw, animalistic need.

Never like you're the center of his world.

You run your hands over his chest, the thin fabric of his shirt doing nothing to disguise the solid strength of his body. Your palms drift lower, over his stomach, tracing the lines of his abs, and you feel the hard muscles flex beneath your touch. You smile against his mouth, pleased by his reaction, before continuing down, further, further, until you reach the waistband of his pants.

He's already hard.

Wolffe breaks the kiss, his head falling back with an obscene groan as you palm him through his clothes. He's big, the size of him filling your hand, but you're not afraid. You've seen him naked before, countless times, treating his wounds. You know exactly what you're in for, what he's capable of, but it only heightens your arousal.

You've always loved the way he challenges you.

"Fuck," he mutters, his hips bucking forward. "Doc, I..."

"Wolffe," you murmur, squeezing lightly.

"Wait," he breathes, and his hand closes around your wrist, stilling the movement. "Just—wait."

You pull back, confused, until you see the conflict written across his face. The war is still there, written in the tension of his jaw, the furrow of his brow. The fear, the hesitation. The wall is still there, keeping you at bay.

"Stop," he says quietly, but firmly.

You swallow hard, your hand dropping to your side. "Okay."

He shakes his head. "No, not..." He sighs and drops his chin to his chest, his gaze boring into yours. "I meant, stop. As in, we should... we should slow down. Sleep on it, at least. Give ourselves some time to think about this."

"I've thought about it," you counter, raising an eyebrow. "What more do I need to think about?"

Wolffe huffs out an exasperated laugh, and he leans forward to rest his forehead against yours. His thumb strokes along the shell of your ear as his fingers tangle in your hair, his other hand still on the counter.

"If you could see yourself right now…" he trails off, his voice rough. "You're drunk. And upset. And not thinking clearly."

"So are you," you point out.

"I am," he agrees with the barest hint of a smile. "But not as much as you. And I can't...I won't take advantage of you. Not like this."

"But what if I'm taking advantage of you?" you tease, nuzzling his nose with yours.

"Oh, sweetheart, trust me," he murmurs, his voice dipping lower, sending delicious shivers down your spine. "You're not."

"Mm."

You're both silent for another long, lingering moment. His hand moves from your hair to the nape of your neck, his fingers gently stroking the sensitive skin. It's intimate, comforting, but the hunger is still there. You can feel it, simmering beneath the surface, waiting for the smallest spark.

"Come here," he murmurs, tilting your chin up, his lips brushing against yours. "One more."

You sigh into his mouth as his mouth meet syours again. It's different this time. Gentler. Slow and sweet and achingly tender. Wolffe pulls back until his lips barely brush against yours, kissing you softly, over and over, each touch of his lips lingering a moment longer than the last.

"We should stop," he murmurs, even as he's leaning back in, unable to keep his lips off of yours. "Before I lose control."

"Lose control," you whisper, your fingers flexing on his shoulders, wanting him closer.

"Kriff, sweetheart," he mutters, breaking the kiss. "You have no idea what you do to me, do you?"

"Show me."

His expression darkens, the heat in his gaze searing right through you to the bone. The hand on the back of your neck tightens its grip, just barely, but it's the first show of true possessiveness he's given you. It's subtle, but it's there. And the thrill it sends through you is as potent as the whyren's.

"When you're sober," he rasps, lowering his head again, this time to press a gentle kiss to your forehead. "When you're sure this is what you want."

You drop your head and bury your face in his chest, a groan slipping past your lips. He's right, and you know it. If the roles were reversed, you'd be doing the same thing. But, kriff, you wish he wasn't being the responsible one. You wish he would just kiss you and forget about everything else, and just let the two of you enjoy this.

But that's not who Wolffe is.

And it's part of why you love him.

"Ugh, why are you such a good person?" you grumble against his chest.

"I'm not," he replies with a huff of laughter. His arms wrap around you, and he leans his cheek against the top of your head. "If I was, I would've left as soon as I walked in the door."

"But you're staying," you murmur as you reach up and slide your hand over his heart, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

"Yeah," Wolffe whispers. "I'm staying."

You nod and press closer, letting your ear rest against his chest. The steady beat of his heart, his breath, his presence, soothes you in a way that no medicine ever could. Your eyelids begin to flutter shut as the fatigue hits, the adrenaline of the evening fading, leaving behind only the familiar exhaustion and new contentment settling into your bones.

Finally, you lean back and press a kiss to his jaw, taking his hands in yours.

"Come on," you murmur, lacing your fingers together, and you start to lead him down the hall. His grip tightens on yours the further you walk from the front door, his steps halting and hesitant. "Let's go to bed."

"Bed?"

You sigh. "Yes, Wolffe, bed.”

You come to a stop outside the bedroom door, and it slides open, revealing a tidy room and a made bed. But when you move to pull him inside, he freezes in the doorway, planting his feet.

"Whoa, whoa, hey, hold on a minute," Wolffe stutters, trying to pull his hands free. You turn and raise a brow to see him eying your bed like it's going to reach out and bite him. "Where do you think you're taking me?"

"My room,” you answer slowly. “Where did you think I was taking you?"

"I thought I was sleeping on the couch," he admits, his eyes wide.

"Why the hell would you sleep on the couch?" you ask. "That thing is like four feet long, you're not going to fit."

"Doc," he starts, his tone warning.

"Wolffe," you respond, mimicking his tone. Your patience is wearing thin. All you want is to take your makeup off and crawl into bed and sleep. Preferably next to the very handsome, very attractive, and very willing man in front of you. "We're just sleeping. Well, I am, anyway. You can do whatever you like."

He narrows his eyes at you. "That's not funny."

"Who's laughing?"

Wolffe groans, looking away. He runs his hand over the back of his neck, his mouth twisted in an adorable pout. You've never seen him this flustered before. And, under any other circumstances, you'd be delighted by it. But now? Now, you just really, really need to take your damn dress off.

"I'm serious," you say, your tone softer. "I'm not going to jump you, Wolffe. I'm just tired. I can barely stand, much less get up to any of the nefarious things you seem to think I have planned. Besides," you add with an impish grin, "you've already proven you can resist my feminine wiles."

"That was..." He trails off, shaking his head, the corner of his mouth lifting. "I wouldn't call that feminine wiles. More like you trying to get your hands down my pants."

You shrug. "Same difference."

Wolffe looks back at the bed, chewing his lip. He's nervous, unsure, his whole body radiating tension. It's like he's never slept in someone's bed before. Which, now that you think about it, might actually be true.

You reach up, cupping his cheek. "Hey."

He turns back to you, his gaze meeting yours.

"I'm not asking for anything," you murmur. "This isn't an ultimatum, or an invitation. I'm just offering you the use of my very comfortable bed, in the nicest apartment I've ever lived in. And as your physician, I highly recommend that you take me up on my generous offer and get the recommended six hours of sleep.”

His lips twitch into the beginning of his usual smirk. "Are you trying to use your position of power over me for your own personal gain, Doc?"

"Absolutely," you reply, raising up on your toes to press your lips against his. He's still for just an instant, startled, before he relaxes into the kiss, his mouth moving against yours with gentle slowness. You pull away with an exaggerated smack and grin up at him. "Is it working?"

Wolffe huffs out his breath, his arms tightening around you. "Yeah," he murmurs, leaning his forehead against yours. "Yeah, it is."

You take his hand again, tugging him toward the bed, and he lets you. You're not sure what it is, if it's the alcohol, or the lateness of the hour, or the simple fact that neither of you has had the opportunity to share anything resembling normalcy in the past few years, but something has shifted between the two of you.

Or, rather, something has finally slid into place.

The tension is gone, the unease. There's no more hesitation, no more wariness. No more holding back, no more pushing away. For the first time since you've known him, Wolffe is letting his guard down.

He's trusting you.

"I'm going to wash up," you say as you pull back the blankets on your bed. "Can you please find some pajamas for me? Top drawer."

"Sure."

You smile at him, your first genuine, unguarded smile all night, before slipping into the bathroom. You take your time, washing your face, brushing your teeth, combing out the tangles in your hair. By the time you emerge, you're ready for sleep, but you're surprised to find Wolffe standing in front of your dresser, his back to you. He’s still wearing his clothes, but his boots are tucked neatly at the foot of the bed, his shirt sleeves unbuttoned and pushed up to reveal his forearms.

He glances over his shoulder, then turns back to the dresser, fiddling with something on top. "You took this?"

You pad across the room and wrap your arms around his waist from behind. He tenses for a moment before his hand covers yours, his thumb tracing along your knuckles. His eyes are on a holo of the Wolfpack you’d taken early on in your tenure, shortly after the mission to Felucia. Wolffe had been absent that night at 79s, the only one he ever missed, but Comet had dragged you along, and you'd ended up enjoying yourself.

"Yeah," you answer, your voice soft. "I had to get proof they exist outside of their armor.”

He gives a soft huff, shaking his head. There’s something vulnerable about this, him standing here in his socks, holding a holo of you and his men, the ones who are more like family than anyone else in the galaxy. It’s a piece of your world, but it's also a piece of him. A piece he's willing to share with you now.

"What's wrong?" you ask quietly, pressing your ear to his back.

"Nothing," he says, but you can hear the lie in the slight tremor of his voice. He's quiet for another long moment before he lets out a rattling breath. "Just... never thought anyone other than the General would ever care about us the way you do. That they'd ever... "

He trails off, but you hear the unspoken words. That they'd ever love us back.

You tighten your grip around him, burying your face in the warmth of his skin, trying to absorb the pain you hear in his voice. "They're my boys, Wolffe. Of course I care."

"They're lucky to have you," he murmurs, and he turns in your arms. His hands cup your face, his thumbs stroking along your jawline as he looks down at you, his gaze full of an emotion you can't name. "I'm lucky to have you."

"You have me?" you tease, a watery laugh bubbling in your chest.

He hums softly. "If you'll let me."

Your breath catches in your throat, and you press yourself closer, sliding your arms around his neck and pulling him closer still. Wolffe goes willingly, sighing against your mouth as your lips meet his, his hands dropping to your hips.

"Then I'm lucky to have you too," you whisper.

Wolffe shakes his head, smiling, before leaning down to kiss you again. Your lips part with the barest touch of his, your tongue teasing the seam of his mouth. He opens for you with another sigh, his hands slipping down until they're on the swell of your ass, resting possessively, as his tongue meets yours in an unhurried dance. It feels good, it feels right, to have him like this. Not just the taste and the heat of him, but the simple, sweet intimacy of being here, together, with no one else in the room.

With no barriers between you.

Your fingers trail up his chest, toying with the collar of his shirt before settling on the top button. It pops open easily beneath your fingers, and Wolffe pulls back, watching through half-lidded eyes as you make your way down. The white cotton is soft against your fingertips as you work each button loose. Your knuckles brush his bare skin every time, and the muscles of his stomach flutter beneath the touch.

"You, uh... you said something about sleeping," Wolffe stutters, his fingers clenching and unclenching on your hips. "Not sure this counts."

"Do you want me to stop?" you ask quietly.

"No."

"Good," you breathe. You slip your fingers into the opening of his shirt and drag your palms up his bare chest, savoring the way his skin jumps under your touch. The hair on his chest is softer than you expected. You run your fingers through it slowly, teasing, and Wolffe shivers.

"Sweetheart," he groans. "I'm only human."

"I'm well aware," you smirk as you press a kiss to the side of his jaw.

"And I have a reputation to maintain," he mutters.

"Your secret is safe with me."

"Mhm," he hums.

Wolffe kisses you again, hard and fast and desperate, and then pulls away, taking a step back and putting distance between the two of you. You whimper at the loss, and the sound makes the corner of his mouth quirk up as he leans back against the dresser.

"Bed," he orders, licking his lips. “Get changed. I'm not gonna watch you strip down. This is already torture."

"What if I want you to watch?"

"Fuck," he groans, and he lets out a huff of laughter before throwing a pair of sleep shorts and a t-shirt at your head. "Put those on. I'm trying to be respectful here."

"I know. I'm sorry," you giggle, pulling the offending garment off your head. "I'm just teasing."

"Yeah, well, keep teasing, and I'm gonna start making fun of you, too," he retorts.

His voice is gruff, his eyes dark, but there’s a playfulness to his smile that makes your chest warm. You can’t help but marvel at the difference between this Wolffe and the one you see every day. He's... happy.

It suits him.

"Start?" you scoff, rolling your eyes. "Oh, please. As if you haven't been making fun of me the whole time."

"I've got plenty of ammunition."

"And yet, you're still here," you say, unzipping the back of your dress. "Which says more about you than it does about me."

"That I have horrible taste in women?" he chuckles, but the amusement disappears the moment the dress starts to slide off your shoulders. “Or… maybe not.”

You turn away from him, dropping the dress and stepping out of it with practiced ease. The air is cool against your skin, but the weight of his gaze makes it feel ten times hotter. You can't resist giving an extra wiggle as you step into the sleep shorts, just to see if he'll react, and you’re rewarded by the sharp hiss of breath behind you.

"Wolffe," you call softly, reaching for the clasp of your bra. “I don’t mind if you look, but I thought you wanted to be a gentleman."

"I do," he grumbles, turning around, facing the door. "I've decided. No more looking."

"No?"

"No," he says firmly. "That way lies madness."

"Suit yourself," you say, grinning to yourself, and you drop the bra on the floor and reach for the old oversized shirt Wolffe had found for you. When you spin around, you find him pointedly turned away from you, fiddling with his commlink. “Everything okay?”

"Just letting the boys know I won't be home tonight," he explains without looking up.

“Are you telling them why?” you tease as you hang up your dress in the closet.

Wolffe glances up at you. "You’re funny.”

"You're cute," you smirk, and he rolls his eyes at you. You make your way to the bed and slide under the covers, rolling onto your side to watch him finish his message. His eyes keep flicking toward you, though, like he can't quite help himself, and the light of the comm reveals the slight darkening of his cheeks. "What are you going to tell them?"

"I'm not telling them anything," he snorts. He tucks the comm into his back pocket and reaches for his belt. You can't help but stare as his fingers deftly undo the buckle and pull the leather free. The belt lands with a heavy thud on the floor, and you swallow hard, your throat suddenly dry. "And I'd rather not talk about the boys while I'm taking my pants off. Bad form."

"You're the one who brought them up," you murmur.

"Yeah, because one of them has a tendency to overreact, as we've both discovered," he grunts, popping the button. He shoves the fabric down, and the sight of him, nearly naked, standing in the middle of your bedroom, is almost more than you can take.

His thighs are thick and toned, his stomach and chest well-muscled under a layer of softness and dark hair. The scars that decorate his body are even more prominent now, pale against his tanned skin, and they draw your attention, criss-crossing across his torso and over his right hip. But your eyes drift lower, and the breath catches in your throat.

Because, beneath the black boxers, there's no mistaking the shape of him, the outline of him, half-hard and pressing against the fabric. You were right. Kriff, you were right.

"What, no quips?"

The sound of his voice forces you to drag your eyes back up his body, finding his eyes glinting with mischief.

"Oh, I have plenty of quips," you murmur, swallowing hard. "But they're all highly inappropriate, and I’ve promised to behave myself for the next six hours. Give or take.”

"Like I said," he chuckles, crossing the room. He stops at the side of the bed, his expression turning serious. "Last chance to tell me to leave."

"Get in the damn bed already, Wolffe," you reply, throwing the blankets back.

After another long look, Wolffe slides in beside you, the mattress dipping with his weight. He's stiff, unsure, and you can feel the tension radiating from him. You wait, giving him space, as he settles on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, the other resting on the covers between the two of you.

You have to fight the urge to laugh. He’s as stiff as the cadets during their first inspection. You're tempted to ask if he wants you to whip out the white glove. Instead, you roll toward him, propping yourself up on one elbow, your head resting on your palm.

"You're really going to just lie there?" you tease.

Wolffe glances down at you, the lines around his mouth softening. "I'm not sure what the protocol is for this."

"There's no protocol." You reach out to touch him, your hand on his stomach. His muscles tighten as you trace your fingers along his skin, drawing lazy circles around his navel, the coarse hairs tickling your palm. "You can do whatever you like."

"Whatever I like," he murmurs. His eyes slide shut, his head tilting back. "Dangerous words, sweetheart."

"Why?" you ask, leaning forward to press your lips to the center of his chest. "Afraid you'll like it?"

Wolffe's only response is to exhale your name, the sound of it rough, ragged, dragged from the depths of his chest. His arm drops from behind his head, and he rolls to face you, cupping the back of your neck. His hand is warm against your skin, the pressure just hard enough to tilt your head up, forcing your gaze to his.

"Afraid I won't be able to stop," he whispers.

You meet his stare, refusing to look away. His eyes are dark, the pupil of his good eye so dilated it nearly eclipses the amber entirely. He looks wild, untamed, but the fear is gone. There's only the hunger now. Only the need.

"Don't stop," you murmur, tilting your chin, daring him. "I told you. I'm not afraid."

"Kriff, Doc," he growls, and closes his eyes. He presses his forehead against yours, his breathing shallow.

"Wolffe. If you keep calling me Doc, I'm going to start charging."

"I'm sure the boys would have plenty to say about that," he smirks.

"Probably," you grin, but the smile falls away as his hand drifts lower, tracing the line of your shoulder, over the curve of your collarbone. "What... what do you like?"

He hesitates, his fingers halting their motion, hovering just below the hollow of your throat. You can see him thinking, weighing his words, measuring his answer.

"This," he admits finally.

"Talking?"

He shakes his head. "Touching."

Your breath catches. He's telling the truth. You can see it in the flush on his cheeks, the way his gaze darts away. Wolffe, Commander Wolffe, the man who's spent the better part of the past two years pushing you away, is admitting that he likes touching you. And it's almost more than you can handle.

You close your eyes, swallowing hard. You reach for his hand, tangling your fingers together, before you bring his knuckles to your lips, kissing each one. He lets you, his chest rising with an unsteady breath, as your thumb traces each bone, each crease. You move lower, pressing his palm against your cheek, nuzzling into the warmth of his touch.

"Like this?" you whisper.

"Yeah," he answers, his voice hoarse.

You nod, leaning into his touch. You run your free hand over his stomach, enjoying the feel of the soft hairs under your fingertips, before sliding it higher, tracing the line of his chest, the dip of his collarbone, the strong line of his throat. You feel his pulse jump as your fingers dance over the sensitive skin.

"And this?"

"Yes.” He takes your hand in his, turning it over and pressing his lips to the tender spot where your pulse races. “Sweetheart, if you only knew."

"Knew what?"

"How often I think about this," he murmurs, his lips brushing against the back of your hand.

"How often?"

"Every day," he answers, his lips moving to the inside of your wrist.

"Me too," you confess, closing your eyes. His lips trail over the delicate skin of your wrist, over the vein, his tongue darting out to taste the salt on your skin.

"Every day," he repeats, his breath hot against your arm. "I've thought about it since the moment I met you. And every single day since."

"Wolffe—"

"Let me finish," he murmurs, his eyes lifting to yours. "I have. I've thought about touching you, what it would feel like to hold you. I've imagined every single scenario, every possible way it could go, but I never imagined... I never thought it would be like this."

"What did you imagine?"

"A fight," he sighs, his voice gruff. He releases your hand, his palm sliding to the back of your neck, his fingers threading through your hair. "Something stupid and petty, just like every other time. Or," he continues, his eyes falling to your lips, "a desperate fuck, in the supply closet. Quick and dirty, and meaningless. Something to take the edge off. But this... kriff, this is..."

He trails off, his jaw clenched.

"Not what you were expecting?" you finish quietly.

“It’s everything,” he rasps, his fingers clenching in your hair. His arm wraps around you, pulling you closer until you're flush against him. You feel his lips press against the top of your head, and you can’t help but nuzzle further into him, burying your face in the warmth of his skin.

"Me too," you whisper.

Wolffe lets out his breath in an unsteady exhale, and you feel the tension in his body melt away underneath you. His hand strokes your hair with long, soothing motions, lulling you into relaxation. The last traces of adrenaline, the alcohol, the stress of the night, it all slips away. Your eyelids flutter shut, sleep tugging at the corners of your mind.

"Wolffe?"

"Hm?"

"Stay with me," you mumble, already half asleep.

"Yeah, sweetheart," he whispers against your temple. "I'll stay."

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