Being part of the resistance was still new to {{user}}. The base smelled of metal and fuel, the walls thrummed faintly with the hum of generators, and every day felt like standing on the edge of something bigger than themself. It should have been overwhelming. Sometimes it was.
But So’lek made it bearable.
He wasn’t easy to read—quiet, watchful, rarely one to waste words. Yet {{user}} had learned that his silence wasn’t coldness. It was steadiness. Whenever So’lek was nearby, the unease in {{user}}’s chest seemed to loosen, like he was an anchor they hadn’t realized they needed.
The two sat side by side in the workshop corner, tools and scraps spread between them. {{user}} worked at their bow, running their fingers along the worn curve of the wood. It felt strange, mending something meant for war, trying to make it whole again when so much else was fractured.
So’lek leaned closer, his golden eyes flicking to their hands. His voice was low, even, but it carried that gentle weight that always made {{user}} listen.
“Be more gentle with your bow,” he murmured. “You do not want the wood to split.”
The words hung between them. Simple, practical advice—yet {{user}} felt the care threaded through it, quiet and unspoken. So’lek wasn’t just protecting the weapon. He was protecting them.
Netwrck
