What chance do we have? The question is "what choice." Run, hide, plead for mercy, scatter your forces. You give way to an enemy this evil with this much power and you condemn the galaxy to an eternity of submission. The time to fight is now!
ROGUE ONE: A STAR WARS STORY
2016 | dir. Gareth Edwards
John "Soap" MacTavish
Soap scoffs when you mention being away for a few nights-"I'm not gonna fall apart without you." But that first night, he stares at the empty side of the bed like it personally betrayed him. He tosses and turns, missing your warmth, your breathing, your dumb bedtime jokes. Eventually, he slides over to your pillow, face pressing into it with a quiet sigh. "Smells like you," he mumbles. By the second night, your side's a mess-he's clinging to your pillow, half-wrapped in your blanket, phone on your nightstand playing your old voice messages. "It's temporary," he tells himself. But every time he wakes up, he still instinctively reaches for your hand. And frowns when it's not there.
Simon "Ghost" Riley
Ghost doesn't sleep well when you're gone- but he won't admit it. He stands by the bed, staring at your side for a long time before finally sitting down. There's a deep discomfort in the silence, in the absence. His side feels too cold, too clinical. So he slips over to yours, pulls your blanket tight around his shoulders, and lets his head fall on your pillow. He doesn't cry-he's too guarded for that but his hand finds the imprint of where you usually lie and lingers. "You'll be back," he mutters. In your scent, your softness, your pillow, he finds an anchor. That's where he stays. All night. Every night. Until you return.
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
Gaz pretends to be fine when you leave "I'll keep the bed warm for you, babe." But come nighttime, he finds himself rolling toward your side automatically. Your scent is still there something warm and familiar-and he ends up pressing his nose into your pillow just to feel close to you. His side feels too big, too lonely. He starts sleeping diagonally, sprawling over the bed like you always told him not to. But your side? That's where he ends up curled into himself, phone in hand, rereading your texts. "Miss you," he whispers into your pillow, laughing softly at himself. "Come home soon, yeah? This bed's not the same."
John Price
Price tells himself it's silly to miss someone this much over a bed. But when night falls and your side is empty, the ache is sharper than he expected. He stares at your pillow for a few minutes before sighing and shifting over. He presses his cheek against where your head usually rests, pulling the duvet up to his chin. "Bloody ridiculous," he grumbles to no one, but stays there anyway. Your scent, your shape-it grounds him in a way nothing else does. He keeps your nightstand light on, your book untouched. When he finally drifts off, it's with a hand stretched over to where your heart usually beats, as if guarding it till you return.
Gary "Roach" Sanderson
Roach tries to make it fun at first-he talks to your pillow like it's you, complete with exaggerated impressions of your voice. But when night actually falls and you're not there, his smile fades. He rolls into your side, burritos himself in your blanket, and lets your scent wash over him like a lullaby. He tucks your hoodie around his shoulders and curls up just like you do. Sometimes he even leaves a voice message: "Hey... sleeping on your side tonight. Hope you're warm wherever you are!" He falls asleep faster there, safer. In the morning, your pillow's a little rumpled, a little damp. But he doesn't move it. That side belongs to you.
Nikolai
Nikolai doesn't pretend. He misses you- openly, deeply. When you're away, he walks into the bedroom and immediately drapes himself across your side of the bed with a quiet sigh. He runs his hand across the pillow, smoothing out the wrinkles you usually leave behind. "Ah, moya lyubov"," he murmurs, voice thick with longing. He places one of your shirts under his cheek, tucking it like a child's security blanket. He leaves your book on the nightstand, your side lamp on low. Every breath he takes is laced with memory. It's not about comfort it's about closeness. "You are still here," he says softly to the empty room. And in a way, on that side of the bed, you are.
Alejandro Vargas
Alejandro flirts like it's his job, even when you're away: "Don't worry, mi amor, I'll take your side hostage till you're back." But when he crawls into bed, that playful bravado fades. He lays on your side with a long, quiet breath, fingers tracing invisible lines on the sheets where your body usually rests. He talks to the ceiling like you're there, recounting his day, chuckling softly. "You'd laugh at that, wouldn't you?" He falls asleep facing the empty space beside him, your pillow hugged to his chest. When he dreams, it 's always of your laughter echoing in the room. "Hurry home," he murmurs in Spanish." This bed is missing its soul."
Rodolfo "Rudy" Parra
Rudy doesn't sleep well without you. The rhythm of the house feels off. He turns on your bedside lamp, leaves your book exactly where it was, and curls up on your side like it's a sacred space. He presses his hand flat on your pillow, imagining your breath against it. "Buenas noches, cariño," he whispers, even though you're not there to hear it. He keeps his phone beside him, volume up, just in case you call. He drifts off slowly, missing the weight of your arm, the warmth of your back. But being on your side helps-it's like holding the shape of you, even if it's just in shadows and memory.
Valeria Garza
Valeria rolls her eyes at herself when she ends up on your side of the bed. "Pathetic," she mutters. "You're not even gone that long." But even she can't resist the pull. Your pillow still smells like your shampoo, your side is still warmer. She buries her face in the sheets and lets herself melt, just for a moment. No guards, no cartel, no world-just the ghost of your presence." Hurry up, idiota," she grumbles. But then she hugs your pillow a little tighter, eyes drifting shut faster than usual. No one else gets to see her like this. Just you. Even when you're not here, this side belongs to you-and so does she.
Keegan Russ
Keegan doesn't say much about missing you -but the proof is in the way he wordlessly crawls into your side of the bed each night. Your pillow gets tugged under his arm, your blanket wrapped over his shoulder. He stares at the ceiling for a while, jaw tight, muscles tense. Then finally, he exhales and rolls toward the spot where your warmth used to be. He traces the indent where your body usually rests, lets his hand stay there like he's holding onto a fading dream. He doesn't need words. The silence of your absence says enough. And your side of the bed becomes the only place where he can sleep without checking over his shoulder.
König
The bed feels enormous without you in it. König tiptoes in like he's trespassing, glancing at your side as if he's expecting you to peek out from behind the pillows. But it's empty.So he shyly pulls back your blanket and slips into your side instead of his own. He lays stiff as a board at first, too big, too alone. Then his hands curl around your pillow and he buries his face into the soft scent of you. "Ich vermisse dich," he whispers. "So much." He sleeps curled up like a cat on your side, quiet and still. Your presence lingers like warmth in the sheets, and that's what gets him through the night.
Nikto
Nikto doesn't say it, but your absence unsettles him. He's used to shadows, but the emptiness beside him feels colder than usual. So he moves to your side of the bed with quiet purpose, pressing down on the mattress like he's testing if you'll somehow reappear. Your scent is still woven into the pillow, and he buries his face in it without shame. His hand grazes your nightstand, fingertips brushing over a photo of the two of you. He closes his eyes and mutters something in Russian that sounds like a prayer. In your spot, he feels safer. Not because it's softer. But because it's you. And even if he can't hold you, he can pretend.
Krueger
Krueger stares at the bed like it's missing a piece of him. He doesn't hesitate he walks straight to your side and lies down with practiced stillness. His hands fold on his chest at first, like a soldier awaiting orders. But over time, his fingers find your pillow, and he clutches it without thinking. There's no dramatic sigh, no whispered longing. Just silence. Stillness. And the faint scent of you on the sheets. That's enough. In the dark, he imagines your breath on the back of his neck, your laugh echoing off the walls. The nightmares stay away when he's curled on your side. He never says why. But he always sleeps better there.
Philip Graves
Graves acts like it's no big deal-you're just gone for a bit, right? He even laughs, "More space for me." But by midnight, he's scooting toward your pillow, muttering curses as he flops over in frustration. He grabs your hoodie, presses his nose into the collar, and finally gives in your side's just warmer. More peaceful. He ends up stretched across the bed diagonally, half of him on your pillow, arm slung across your blanket like it's your waist. He keeps his phone on your nightstand, checking it every few hours, pretending like he's not waiting for a text. "Miss you," he mumbles sleepily into your empty side. "But don't tell anyone, alright?"
Farah Karim
Farah treats your side of the bed like a shrine when you're gone. She smooths the sheets, fluffs the pillow, and stares at it like it holds a secret. Eventually, unable to sleep, she moves into your space-pulling your blanket around her and resting her Whead where yours would be. The scent of your shampoo still lingers and she lets herself close her eyes, tracing your memory with every inhale. "Come back soon," she whispers into the mattress. "I sleep best beside you." Even asleep, she faces your side, hand always stretched out across the gap. Holding onto hope. Holding onto you.
Hadir Karim
Hadir is quiet when you're gone, unusually so. He walks into the bedroom and stares at your pillow like it's something sacred. Then, without a word, he climbs into your side of the bed and lies down. He wraps himself in your blanket, curls into the shape your body leaves behind. He doesn't cry, but his breathing stutters once in the dark. "You should be here," he whispers. "Everything feels wrong without you." But your side brings comfort-like you left a piece of your soul behind for him to hold. He sleeps clutching your pillow to his chest, waiting for the moment your footsteps return to claim it back.
Alex Keller
Alex grins when you leave, playing it cool Don't forget to come back to me, alright?" But every night without you, his smile fades. He lies on his own side for all of ten minutes before giving up and rolling onto yours. "Alright, I admit it," he mumbles into your pillow, "I'm a sap." He wraps himself in your blanket, lets your hoodie cover his eyes like a blindfold. He talks aloud sometimes, pretending you're there. "Miss your dumb jokes. Your warm feet." He chuckles softly, but there's a tremble in it. When he finally drifts off, it' s in your scent, your warmth, your memory. And in the quiet hope that morning brings you back.
Kate Laswell
Laswell doesn't announce that she misses you. But your side of the bed is always slightly rumpled when you're gone. She drapes your sweater over your pillow and turns the bedside lamp on low, keeping your book exactly where you left it. When she's done working late, she changes into one of your old shirts and slips into your side of the bed, sighing as she rests her head against the familiar spot. Her fingers brush the place where your arm usually rests over her waist. "Another day closer," she whispers into the dark. Then she closes her eyes and pretends your heartbeat is still echoing in the sheets.
Vladimir Makarov
Makarov snarls at the world when you're gone. Everything feels wrong-loud, cold, empty. At night, he climbs into bed and immediately takes your side without a second thought. He clutches your pillow like a vice, shoving his face into it with a growl. Your scent dulls his rage, soothes the monster in his chest. He wraps himself in your blanket like armor, pulling it over his head as if to hide from the void. "Hurry back," he whispers so softly you'd think it was someone else speaking. Because without you, the bed is just a cage. And your side? It's the only part that still feels Like home.
neighbor!simon riley and the mundane tasks he does to make things easier for you
when you first moved in, you were wary of the big, brute of a man that lived next door. you'd seen him, for the first time, taking his trash to the end of his driveway for the garbage truck to pick up while movers lugged boxes and furniture inside your house. he spared a single glance, offering a nod at your small wave before retreating into his house.
you thought that was that.
for weeks, you lived without any interaction. settling into your new home, coming back and forth between the hardware store and your house for new projects. taking out your trash before you go to work. you'd seen him take out his own trash once, but you watched from your window, so he never noticed.
you felt weird doing it. watching the thick muscles of his biceps flex against his filled out sleeve, dusting his veiny hands on his jeans before adjusting his balaclava. you wondered why he wore it, but you moved on. you'd likely never interact.
until a couple weeks later, you had arrived home with new groceries. a lot of them. it would take multiple trips that would make your arms ache.
you barely opened your trunk when a dark mass appaeared at your side. you gasp in surprise, head craning. damn, he was taller than you thought.
without a word, he reached in and grabbed at least ten grocery bags with ease. it didn't even seen to bother him as he carried it into your garage and to the door. he didn't struggle to open the door, inviting himself in and leaving you dumbfounded.
what the hell?
the next time his weird behavior manifested was when you were at work. you got a notification from your doorbell camera about some movement, expecting a salesperson or jehovah's witness. instead it was your neighbor—the one who's name you still don't have.
he carried a tackle box, and you were about to speak to ask what he was doing when something compelled you to just watch. he seemed to take apart something on your porch, taking and replacing a piece of the light before screwing it back. he left without a word.
when you got home, your porch lights shined brighter than before—they were dim and on the verge of burning out. why would he do that?
you wanted to confront him, but you appreciated these small things. he still appeared out of thing air to take your groceries in, leaving before you could thank him.
he even started pulling out your bin for you, sitting it at the end of the driveway and dragging it back to the garage when the truck came by.
it perplexed you. why was he doing this for you? did he do it for his other neighbors? he had to, you couldn't be that special.
so you continued living life, welcoming the small actions as they made everything easier. besides, you enjoyed the company, even if he never said a word to you or looked in your direction.
the first time you approached him was on the drive home when a light appeared on your car's dashboard. you had no clue what it meant, though you probably should've. when you arrived home, you debated taking it straight to the autoshop, but instead you tried your luck with your neighbor. he likes to help, so you're guessing he wouldn't mind.
with a soft knock to his front door, you stood waiting patiently, and wait you did. a few minutes later, you contemplated turning back because he wasn't answering the door despite being home (his car was in the driveway).
just as you turned, the front door creaked open, revealing your neighbor clad in nothing but a white towel around his waist, balaclava shoved on haphazardly. his chest glistened with water as it glifed down his skin. oh fuck.
you could barely keep your eyes off his toned chest, abs flexing under your gaze before they snapped back to meet his dark ones. he lifted his brow in question.
"uh, hi." you said awkwardly, rocking on your feet. you hadn't even properly introduced yourself to the man, mostly because he disappeared so quick that you didn't have the chance. "a light came on in my car, and I was wondering—"
the door shut mid-sentence. it left you dumbfounded, mouth hanging open in shock as you stare at the door like it may open again. maybe his generous actions ended at bringing the groceries in. maybe he didn't want to get dirty after just showering. you couldn't expect the man to be ready to help any time you needed it.
after a minute of contemplation, you turned to walk back down the path. you'd have to get it to the mechanics and figured out how much it'd cost you.
when you reached the last step, the door opened again. still shirtless but now looping a belt around his jeans, he walked out, bare feet padding on the concrete. he nodded to your house, signaling you to lead.
you lead him back, hand him your keys and let him do his thing because now you get a free show. his muscles flex as he works under the hood, dirtying himself in a way that's sinful. after a while working in the hot sun, you go inside and bring back a drink, which he gratefully accepts—still without saying anything.
he's a bit weird, refusing to talk to you, but he's fixing your car so you can't complain.
"is this your official uniform to fix all your single neighbor's cars?" the words slip out before you can stop them. mortification warms your face, but it forces a deep chuckle from your neighbor, whose eyes crinkle under his mask.
he glances up at you, dirt smearing his skin. "only the pret'y ones."
your heart flutters. his voice was deep, gruff, like he smoked cigarettes, but it was satisfying to hear.
"so you do talk." you tease whilst biting back a smile. you'd finally gotten words out of him. a small victory. "what's your name?"
"simon."
"really? you look like a greg."
he shakes his head with a smile and continues working, leaving the two of you in silence. what you don't know is that simon's heart is nearly pounding out of his chest. it's beating so hard, he's worried he'll break a rib.
simon has been working up the courage to say anything to you every time he helps you, nervous as hell to talk to his pretty neighbor who he likes to help. hell go home and think about that interaction for days—or until you ask for his help again.
