SW Gray Tale 20:A (Not) Steamy Nights

Now that Vasha had definitive proof I wasn't just making up my "superpowers," things shifted. She didn't immediately throw more broken tech at me to test, though. Instead, she grilled me—hard. How did it feel? Did it hurt? Any headaches, dizziness, weird urges to start speaking in ancient binary? (The last one I wasn't sure myself.)

I answered as honestly as I could, which mostly amounted to: It's fine, really, just kinda tiring sometimes, but also fun, like solving a puzzle.

She didn't look entirely convinced, but she also didn't shut it down. That was progress.

Over the next few days, I made sure to reinforce that this wasn't just some selfless act—I liked doing it. It wasn't just about making credits (though, let's be real, that was a nice bonus). It was about the thrill of taking something dead and making it work again. That seemed to ease some of her guilt about "using" me, and soon enough, she started bringing home bigger, more complex scrap from the dockyard.

Most of it was stuff marked for the compactor anyway—irreparable junk destined to be crushed into raw material. No one cared if you snagged a few pieces from the pile, so long as you weren't hauling out entire speeder bikes under your coat.

The only downside? My repair speed took a nosedive. Vasha had strict rules now—no live power without supervision. That meant no power tools, no test boots, no quick jolts to feel out a component's pulse. I could diagnose things partly, but actually fixing them? That had to wait until she was around.

So, while I waited, I filled the time with books and my eternally frustrating telekinesis practice. (Seriously, if my progress were any slower, it'd be going backward.) But when Vasha was home? That's when things got efficient.

Turns out, two pairs of hands work faster than one—especially when one of those pairs belonged to an actual technician. Vasha might not have had psychic repair powers, but she had experience, and that was its own kind of magic. I'd tell her what was wrong with a piece of tech, and half the time, she'd already be pointing at the exact faulty capacitor or corroded trace before I could even double-check. Meanwhile, I was still poking around like a kid with a flashlight.

Still, the system worked. Over the next few weeks, the pile of repaired tech grew, and so did our credits. Not enough to buy a starship or anything crazy, but enough to make a real difference—enough that Vasha's usual dockyard exhaustion started to ease, replaced by something almost like optimism.

And hey, if that meant more junk to tinker with and fewer nights of ration-stretching? I wasn't complaining.
__
I was complaining now...atleast mentally.
The apartment was getting cramped.

What had once been a cozy, if slightly cluttered, living space was now edging toward hoarder's paradise. Vasha's repair station had long since swallowed half the hallway, and the influx of "hopeless" tech from the docks wasn't helping. Components, tools, and half-fixed gadgets piled up in every available corner—including, unfortunately, the couch.

My couch.

The one I'd been sleeping on since day one.

Now, it was just another storage surface, buried under circuit boards and disassembled motivators. Which, of course, led to the other problem.

Vasha, in what I could only assume was a mix of guilt and gratitude, had decided I was upgrading to her bed.

Her bed.

The same bed belonging to the woman whose entire anatomical layout was burned into my brain like a cursed holomap. The same woman whose bare shoulders, glimpsed when she changed shirts, sent my stupid adolescent brain into overdrive. The same woman whose breast had literally been pressed against my head not even two weeks ago.

Yeah. This was fine.

I stood frozen in the doorway as Vasha flopped onto the mattress, shoving two pillows into place before scooting toward the far side. The sheets were rumpled, still warm from her body heat. She patted the empty space beside her like this was the most normal thing in the world.

"Come on, Ezra, get in. Reminds me of the first day you came here."

Oh, it's reminding me of something too.

Like the fact that I was very aware of every curve, every dip, every inch of her that my stupid psychic senses had mapped out against my will. Like the fact that my body, despite being seven years old on the outside, was still very much not seven years old where it counted.

And boys, as it turned out, didn't have an age limit on inconvenient boners.

I swallowed hard, my face heating up. "Uh. Yeah. Right. First day. Totally the same."

Except back then, I hadn't known what her thighs felt like under my stupid hyper-perception. Back then, I hadn't spent nights replaying the memory of her chest against my face like some kind of pathetic, repressed holovid.

Now? Now I was hyper-aware.

Vasha tilted her head, frowning at my hesitation. "You good?"

No. No, I am not good.

"Yep. Just. Uh. Thinking about… wiring. Yeah."

She snorted, rolling her eyes. "Nerd."

I forced a laugh, then took a deep breath and very carefully slid into bed beside her, keeping my body angled away like my life depended on it.

Which, given the current state of my dignity, it kinda did.

--
I thought I was safe.

I'd managed to slide into bed without incident, keeping a careful distance between us, my back turned toward her like some kind of defensive barricade.

The last thing I needed was to press up against Vasha and have my body betray me in that way.

Then she ruined my careful planning by rolling over and draping an arm around me, pulling me back against her.

"Mm, you're surprisingly cuddly for a scrawny thing," she murmured, her breath warm against the back of my neck.

I stiffened for a second—not because I was panicking, but because, well. There were logistics to consider. Like the fact that her chest was now pressed against my back, her legs tangled with mine, and my body was very aware of the soft warmth of her.

Great. Just great.

I shifted slightly, trying to adjust without making it obvious.

Vasha just tightened her grip, nuzzling into my hair like I was some kind of oversized tooka doll. "Relax, kid. You're stiff as a droid."

Yeah, no kidding.

I exhaled, forcing myself to untense. It wasn't like this was actually a problem. I was an adult, mentally at least. I could handle a little accidental contact without losing my damn mind.

Still. The situation was… not ideal.

She sighed, her fingers absently tracing idle patterns on my arm. "Better than the couch, right?"

"Uh-huh," I muttered, keeping my voice carefully neutral.

A soft chuckle vibrated against my back. "You're such a weird little thing."

I grunted in response, focusing on keeping my breathing steady.

After a few minutes, her grip loosened, her breaths evening out into sleep.

Finally.

I let out a slow breath, carefully adjusting again—this time with a little more success.

It was fine. I was fine.

…Mostly.

At least she hadn't noticed.

Small mercies.

Somehow, sleep eventually took me—though it took a solid half-hour of stubbornly ignoring the warmth pressed against me before my body finally gave in. Thank the stars for small mercies. At least this prepubescent vessel didn't come with the full hormonal nightmare of my old body. Mental cravings were bad enough; I didn't need chemical ones adding to the trouble.

Morning came too early.

Or maybe it was still night. The dim glow of Coruscant's artificial dawn barely seeped through the curtains when I stirred, my face nestled into something impossibly soft.

Ah. Right.

Somewhere in the night, I'd ended up half-sprawled over Vasha, my cheek smushed against her chest like it was the most natural pillow in the galaxy. And—kriff it all—it was comfortable. Warm. Safe. The steady rhythm of her breathing beneath me was downright hypnotic.

For a brief, groggy moment, I considered the ethics of the situation.

Then I dismissed them entirely.

Screw it. If I'm already here…

I nuzzled deeper, inhaling the faint scent of engine grease and whatever cheap soap she used, and let sleep drag me under again.

Vasha stirred slightly, her arm tightening around me in a sleepy half-hug, but she didn't wake.

Worth it.

...

When I finally woke up properly, the bed was empty. Pale golden sunlight streamed through the thin curtains—actual, honest-to-Force sunlight, not the artificial glow of Coruscant's endless cityscape. Right. Lothal. The realization still caught me off guard sometimes.

I stretched, my bare feet hitting the cool metal floor as I shuffled out of the bedroom. The chrono on the wall read 0800—early by our standards, considering our recent late-night repair sessions. The smell of something savory led me to the kitchenette, where Vasha stood over the stove, her back to me as she tended to a sizzling pan.

Leaning against the doorway, I took a moment to study her. The way her shoulders moved with practiced ease, the faint hum under her breath, the loose strands of hair escaping her usual messy bun—all of it painted a picture of domesticity that felt both comforting and strangely surreal.

This is what normalcy looks like, I thought. Or as close to it as we could get.

But the apartment told a different story. What had once been a modest living space was now half workshop, half storage unit. Every flat surface bore the scars of our side hustle—scattered tools, disassembled machinery, and the ever-growing pile of "salvaged" components that never quite made it to their intended repairs. My former couch-bed was currently buried under a stack of repulsorlift parts, and the dining table hadn't seen an actual meal in weeks.

The clutter wasn't just inconvenient—it was unsustainable. And as I watched Vasha flip what looked like some kind of egg substitute with a flick of her wrist, the idea I'd been mulling over solidified.

We needed a real workshop.

Not just for space, though Force knew we were desperate for that. But for legitimacy. Right now, we were playing a scrappy underdog game—taking in dockyard castoffs and junkyard rejects, patching them up in our living room like some back-alley chop shop. It worked, sure. The credits were coming in steadily now, enough that Vasha's perpetual exhaustion had eased into something resembling optimism.

But we could do better.

Lothal might be a backwater compared to the Core Worlds, but that didn't mean it lacked opportunity. If anything, the planet's tech sector was starved for competent repair services. Between the mining operations, the small-time freighters, and the locals just trying to keep their aging equipment running, the demand was there. And with my abilities—even limited as they were—we could offer something most mechanics couldn't: near-perfect diagnostics, every time.

The obstacles were obvious, of course. Rent. Inventory. Credentials. Vasha would have to quit her dockyard job, losing our steady (if meager) income and, more importantly, our primary source of scrap. But the junkyards near Capital City could fill that gap, and the increased throughput from a proper shop would offset the loss.

The real hurdle was convincing Vasha. She was pragmatic to a fault, and "let's gamble our savings on a business" wasn't exactly in her playbook. But I'd seen the way her eyes lit up when a particularly stubborn piece of tech finally whirred to life under her hands. The dockyard was just a job—this? This could be hers.

I just had to plant the seed.

"You're staring," Vasha said without turning around, her voice pulling me from my thoughts. "Either sit down or make yourself useful."

I pushed off the doorway and ambled over to the counter, hopping onto a stool. "Just admiring your culinary skills."

She snorted, sliding a plate of something vaguely egg-shaped in front of me. "Liar. You were doing that thing where your brain's moving faster than your mouth."

"Maybe." I poked at the food—some kind of local protein mash, probably scrounged from the market's discount bin. "Just thinking about how we're gonna need a bigger apartment soon. Or a storage unit. Or maybe just start stacking stuff on the roof."

Vasha rolled her eyes as she joined me at the counter with her own plate. "Tell me about it. I nearly broke my neck tripping over that damn motivator last night." She took a bite, chewing thoughtfully. "We could sell some of the backlog, clear some space."

"Or," I said carefully, "we could get a place where space isn't the issue to begin with."

She raised an eyebrow. "You suggesting we move?"

"Not exactly." I twirled my fork, feigning nonchalance. "More like... expand. You know. Professionally."

Vasha's chewing slowed. "Ezra."

"I'm just saying—"

"No." She pointed her fork at me. "Whatever scam you're cooking up, no."

"It's not a scam!" I protested, my voice a little too loud. I immediately reined it in, trying to sound less like I was pitching a get-rich-quick scheme and more like a kid who'd just had a brilliant idea. "I just mean... you're really good at this stuff. Way better than those guys at the docks. If we had a real place... people would see that."

"—we'd have rent, utilities, inventory costs, and a whole lot of headaches," she finished for me, her tone flat and practical. "Not to mention I'd have to quit my job, which means no steady pay, no benefits, and no more 'borrowing' from the dockyard scrap piles."

I opened my mouth to argue, but she just gave me a look that shut me right up.

"And before you say it—no, junkyard prices aren't the same. The dockyard lets me take the unsalvageable for free because nobody else wants it. Junkyards charge by the kilo, even for garbage."

I slumped onto my stool, the wind thoroughly taken out of my sails. She had an answer for everything. She'd clearly thought about this before and dismissed it as a pipe dream.

"Kid," she said, her voice softening as she set her fork down. "I get it. Really. But it's not that simple."

We sat in silence for a moment, the only sounds the distant hum of the building and the scrape of my fork against the plate. I pushed a piece of the protein mash around. She was right, of course. From a logical standpoint, it was a huge, stupid risk. But my argument wasn't about logic.

"Okay," I mumbled, not looking at her. "But... you hate the dockyard."

Her movements stilled.

"You're always tired when you come home," I continued, keeping my eyes fixed on my plate. "And that foreman, Borl, is a jerk. You always mutter about him when you think I'm not listening." I finally looked up at her. "Here... when you're working on the stuff we bring back... you're not tired. Isn't it a better way to live than to work there?"

Her face was a mask of stunned silence. The confidence, the pragmatism, it all just fell away, leaving her looking… surprised.

For a moment, she just stared at me, then her gaze drifted to the mess of our workshop-apartment. I thought that this won't convince here for a moment due to the silence that was surrounding us.

Her voice was barely a whisper when she finally spoke. "You... you really think we could pull it off?"

"Yeah," I said, my voice quiet but sure. "'Cause you're the best. And I'm... a pretty good assistant."

A slow smile touched her lips, the first genuine, hopeful one I'd seen all morning. She shook her head, a quiet, disbelieving laugh escaping her.

"Damn it," she muttered, picking her fork back up. "Fine. We'll talk numbers later"

I grinned, shoveling the rest of my food into my mouth before she could add any more conditions.

The first brick was laid.