Mon Mothma Getting Wasted And Dancing To Space Pop Music Because One Of Her Oldest Friends Is About To

omega

I hope you have an amazing day today!! Your blog makes me so happy and it’s always a joy to read your stuff. Thank you for the happiness you bring to my life! Have a good weekend!

Ahh, thank you so much!! 🥹💖 Your message absolutely made my day—it means the world to know my writing brings you joy. Truly! I’m so grateful for your kindness and support. I hope you have an amazing weekend too—you deserve all the good things!! 💫✨

“In all honesty darling, they only started calling me the Negotiator because the slut was considered too unprofessional.” - Obi-Wan Kenobi to Cody at some point in the war

Someone, Evermore (Sunshine, Evermore.) by songofsewerrats on ao3

https://archiveofourown.org/works/62754613

@songofsewerrats

Edit: since this post is being seen by a lot of people, im letting you guys know that this fic is the best Codywan fic I’ve ever read and I strongly recommend you to check it out!

Hello! Can you do a bad batch x fem!reader where she’s been with them for a bit but they still have an outwardly showed her that they like her but they get close to her/touch her whenever they’re uncomfortable because she might smell/remind them of home(their ship) and she doesn’t really notice at first but when she does it’s all “aw you really do like me!”

Have a good night or day! 💗💕

“The Scent of Home”

Bad Batch x Reader

You’d been traveling with Clone Force 99 for just long enough that your “guest” status had evolved into something more like “resident stowaway they couldn’t get rid of.” Not that you were complaining. The Marauder might not have been luxury living, but it was safe, the crew was (mostly) stable, and there was always something to laugh about—usually Wrecker tripping over his own boots or Tech getting roped into arguments with Gonk.

Still, there was a weird undercurrent to life aboard the ship.

They were… close. Physically. Constantly. And it wasn’t like they were trying to make you uncomfortable, but sometimes, you wondered if the entire squad had collectively decided you didn’t have a personal bubble. You’d turn around and find Echo right over your shoulder while you were cooking rations. Crosshair would sit beside you on missions when there were other seats available. Hunter always managed to casually lean his arm over the back of your chair during briefings. And Tech—sweet, literal, constantly-tapping-on-a-datapad Tech—had started borrowing your jackets when he got cold. Without asking.

You weren’t mad about it. Just… confused.

“Do clone squads not believe in personal space?” you muttered under your breath one evening, squashed between Echo and Wrecker on the narrow seating bench while Hunter briefed the team on their next mission.

“What’s that?” Wrecker asked, already distracted by trying to sneak some of the ration bar you’d left in your pocket.

“Nothing,” you grumbled, tugging it away from him. “Just wondering if elbows have to touch for squad cohesion.”

Echo gave you a slow side-eye and didn’t move away.

⸻

It wasn’t until the fourth night in a row that you found Tech asleep in your chair, legs propped on your bunk, datapad resting on his chest like a satisfied pet, that something in your brain started to itch. You stared at him from the doorway, arms crossed.

“Tech.”

Nothing.

“Tech.”

He stirred, blinked once, then sat up and blinked again like you’d startled him from a dream. “Oh. I—apologies. I must have dozed off.”

“You’re in my chair.”

“Yes, I am aware.” He didn’t move.

“You have your own seat, you know.”

He looked genuinely confused. “I do. But yours is—warmer.”

You squinted. “Warmer?”

“It smells like… here.” He blinked. “Like the ship. Like the inside of the cockpit when we’ve been in hyperspace too long. It’s familiar. Soothing.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it again. “You mean it smells like me.”

“Yes,” he said easily, then added after a beat, “That was not meant to be an intrusive observation.”

You stared at him. “You fell asleep in my chair because I smell like the Marauder?”

“Yes. Precisely.” He paused. “It’s… comforting.”

It took you a full thirty seconds to connect that to the moment yesterday when Crosshair had leaned just a little too close while cleaning his rifle and muttered something about “the smell of ion grease and coffee,” or that time Hunter had caught your wrist absentmindedly and inhaled before letting go like nothing had happened.

You turned on your heel and went straight to the galley. Echo was there, pouring caf, looking sleep-deprived and deeply unrepentant.

“Do all of you use me like some kind of emotional support blanket?”

He paused mid-pour. “Not on purpose.”

“That is not comforting!”

“I mean—” He cleared his throat. “You remind us of home.”

You blinked. “I live here. On the ship.”

“Yes, but… you smell like the inside of it now. You’ve been here long enough. You’re part of it.”

“That’s not normal.”

“Define normal,” Echo said mildly.

⸻

Later that night, you caught Wrecker curled up on your bunk, nose buried deep in your pillow. The image might’ve been cuter if it didn’t confirm every weird suspicion you’d had for weeks.

“Wrecker.”

He cracked one eye open and grinned, not even trying to move. “It smells like you.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“I like it.” He snuggled in further, like a massive, affectionate tooka. “Smells like the Marauder.”

You sighed, but your heart did something traitorous and warm.

“You guys really are emotionally stunted, huh?”

“Hey,” came Hunter’s voice from the doorway, sounding suspiciously amused. “That’s offensive.”

“Is it?” You crossed your arms and turned toward him. “Because instead of telling me you liked me, you all decided to casually absorb my scent like loth-cats?”

Crosshair strolled past behind him, muttering, “Didn’t realize she’d catch on this fast.”

“I didn’t catch on! You basically rolled in my laundry!”

Tech emerged from the cockpit, pushing up his goggles. “To clarify, I merely borrowed your jacket.”

You jabbed a finger in his direction. “You napped in my scent.”

He paused. “Yes… but respectfully.”

There was a long, awkward silence before Wrecker added cheerfully, “We just like you, that’s all.”

You blinked, thrown off by the sudden earnestness. “Like me?”

“Yeah,” he said, as if it were obvious. “You make it feel like home.”

Hunter stepped closer, expression softening in that careful, deliberate way of his. “We didn’t know how to say it. You came into our lives like a storm and just… stayed. It got easier when you were here. Like we could breathe again.”

Crosshair rolled his eyes from the background. “You’re all terrible at subtlety.”

“I don’t think ‘sniffing my blankets’ qualifies as subtle.”

“Would it help,” Echo said slowly, “if we just admitted it properly?”

You stared at them—five elite clone troopers, all looking at you with some variation of awkward affection or hopeful confusion.

“You’re all idiots,” you said finally, grinning despite yourself.

“But… our idiots?” Tech offered, voice hopeful.

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah. Fine. My idiots.”

Wrecker threw his arms up in celebration from your bunk, nearly taking out the overhead panel. “Knew it!”

Sargent Hunter x Mandalorian Reader pt.1

---

The sound of blaster fire echoed through the narrow alleyways of the war-torn city. The Republic had been fighting for years, but the true cost of war weighed heavily on everyone—soldiers and civilians alike. Sergeant Hunter and his squad were on a mission: to extract a high-ranking separatist official, someone who held vital intelligence. But things had gone awry, as they often did.

"Alright, boys, spread out," Hunter said, his voice calm but commanding. "We're on a tight timeline."

The Bad Batch—Hunter, Wrecker, Tech, Echo, and Crosshair—moved with precision, their enhanced skills making them unmatched on the battlefield. As they advanced through the streets, a shadow flickered at the corner of his vision. A figure clad in Mandalorian armor stood silently against a crumbling wall, watching them.

Hunter's instincts kicked in immediately. He had seen many soldiers and mercenaries, but there was something about this one—a presence, a coldness that didn't quite fit the norm of the typical bounty hunter. She wasn't in full view, but even from a distance, he could tell she was skilled. Her helmet was shaped with the distinct Mandalorian T-visor, and her armor bore the unmistakable dents and scratches of someone who had seen too many battles.

He motioned to Echo, signaling him to take point. "Cover me."

The rest of the squad adjusted their positions, but Hunter moved toward the alley, cautious but intrigued. The Mandalorian's eyes never left him. She didn't reach for a weapon, but she was clearly ready for one if needed. He approached slowly, his blaster at his side.

"Are you lost, soldier?" her voice was low and guarded, but there was an undeniable strength to it.

"Just looking for someone," Hunter replied, studying her carefully. "You?"

"Same," she said with a slight tilt of her head. There was an unreadable expression beneath her helmet, but Hunter could hear the slight hint of amusement in her voice. "But I don't think you're the one I'm after."

Hunter furrowed his brow. "Then you're not a threat?"

She chuckled, and it was a sound that made his instincts flare. "Not to you, no. I'm just trying to survive, same as everyone else."

He took a cautious step closer. "I don't know many who would wear Mandalorian armor and not fight for a cause."

The Mandalorian paused, her posture shifting slightly as she adjusted her stance. "My cause is my own, Sergeant," she said. "I'm no different from you, except I work alone."

Hunter tilted his head, studying her. "You don't seem like someone who works alone."

The Mandalorian's hand subtly rested on the hilt of her blaster, but she didn't draw it. "What do you know about me, Sergeant Hunter?"

Hunter's gaze narrowed slightly. She knew his name. It was strange—he hadn't told her, and yet her tone had a knowing edge. It piqued his curiosity even further.

"I know you're a mercenary of some kind," Hunter said, testing the waters.

"Close enough," she replied, her voice carrying a hint of bitterness. "But I'm no mere merc. I'm a bounty hunter. And I have my own code to follow."

Hunter nodded slowly. He'd encountered bounty hunters before, but there was something about her—her confidence, her skills—that set her apart from the usual hired guns.

The two stood in silence for a moment, the distant sounds of war barely breaking the stillness between them.

Hunter wasn't sure why he felt so drawn to this woman, this Mandalorian. Maybe it was the way her presence seemed to hold steady in the chaos. Maybe it was the way she didn't back down, didn't flinch under the weight of the situation. But something in him—the soldier, the leader, the man—couldn't help but want to know more.

"Why are you here?" he asked quietly, his tone more personal than he intended.

Her voice softened slightly as she answered, "Same reason as you, Sergeant. I'm looking for someone... or something. And maybe, just maybe, we're both after the same thing."

Hunter's interest peaked. "What do you mean?"

"Let's just say," she began, "I've been hunting a certain individual who's not exactly on the Republic's side. And I'm willing to do whatever it takes to bring him down."

Hunter's gaze hardened as he considered her words. "I get that. But the Republic's not going to take kindly to a bounty hunter crossing their path. Especially a Mandalorian."

The Mandalorian gave him a wry smile. "I've never been one to follow the rules."

Hunter couldn't help but chuckle. "Yeah, I've noticed."

They stood there, exchanging glances, understanding the complexity of the situation. For a moment, there was a quiet understanding between them—two warriors, both driven by duty, yet standing on opposite sides of the battlefield.

"So," Hunter said, "what happens now?"

The Mandalorian's gaze flickered toward the distant sounds of blaster fire and explosions. "Now? We finish the mission. But don't get too attached, Sergeant. My code is my own."

"I don't plan on getting attached," Hunter said, though he couldn't deny the pull he felt toward her, an unspoken connection between two soldiers caught in a war that neither fully understood.

They exchanged one last look before turning back to their separate paths. The mission was still at hand, and neither of them had time to deal with distractions—at least, not yet. But as Hunter moved back to join his squad, he couldn't shake the thought of the mysterious Mandalorian bounty hunter, wondering just how much she was hiding beneath that cold exterior.

And maybe, just maybe, their paths would cross again. The war had a way of bringing people together, even when they didn't want to be.

“Diplomacy & Detonations”

Commander Cody x Village Leader Reader

Their ship barely had time to land before blaster rifles were pointed at them.

“I told you I didn’t want help,” came a voice from the treeline—sharp, challenging, full of attitude.

Commander Cody raised a hand to signal the 212th to hold. From behind him, Obi-Wan calmly stepped forward.

“We’re not here to interfere, only to support your defense—”

“You are interference,” the voice snapped.

Then you stepped into view.

A whirlwind of belts, loose straps, feathers, and leather. Goggles shoved to your forehead, hands on hips, expression full of contempt. You looked at the fully armored, clean-cut clones like they were an invasive species.

Obi-Wan bowed slightly. “You must be the village leader—”

You held up a hand. “No, no, don’t butter me up with that Jedi etiquette crap. You’re uninvited.”

“I think you’ll want to hear what we have to say,” Cody said, stepping forward.

You blinked at him. Then walked slowly around him, circling like a predator.

“Mm. Square jaw. Soldier posture. Serious as a stun baton to the ribs. You’re the commander?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Unfortunate.” You gave a nasty grin. “I was hoping for someone I could beat in an argument.”

He didn’t flinch. “You’re welcome to try.”

You smirked.

Just as you squared your shoulders, ready to argue—maybe throw a punch—a group of kids came tumbling out from the trees. A little one tugged your coat.

“Boss! Are we really getting Republic soldiers? That means laser tanks, right? And hot rations?”

You didn’t even turn. “Not now, shitheads, I’m busy beating up strangers.”

Cody blinked. Waxer coughed to hide his laughter. Ahsoka’s eyes went wide. Anakin mumbled, “Oh, Force.”

Later, around a crackling fire in your chaotic half-open planning tent (made of repurposed sailcloth and wire), Obi-Wan laid it out clearly.

“The Separatists are planning a full invasion. Three battalions of B1 units, two AATs, and an orbiting cruiser for support.”

You sipped from a cup of what smelled like fermented jungle fruit and blinked slowly. “So… what you’re saying is… there’s gonna be a fight?”

“Yes.”

“And it’ll be… big?”

“Yes.”

You sat up straighter. Your grin turned hungry.

“Fine. I accept your help.”

Cody raised a brow. “That fast?”

You threw your arms out dramatically. “You brought me violence! You should’ve led with that!”

Boil leaned over to Waxer. “She’s gonna get us all killed, isn’t she?”

Waxer whispered back, “Yeah. But it’ll be fun.”

⸻

Two days later, you were mid-dismantle of a thermal sensor when Cody approached.

“You shouldn’t be in the blast zone. This isn’t standard military procedure.”

You blew a strand of hair from your face and smirked. “I’m not a standard anything, Commander.”

Cody exhaled. “You’re reckless.”

You held up a small grenade. “I call it chaotic innovation.”

“It’s dangerous.”

You grinned. “So are your cheekbones, but I don’t hear anyone complaining.”

He blinked. “…What?”

You tossed the grenade to him. He caught it reflexively.

“Good hands,” you said. “I like that.”

He stared down at the live grenade in his palm.

“Is this—armed?”

You winked. “Might wanna disarm before you end up splattered on that wall.”

⸻

When the droids finally attacked, you were thriving.

You rode into battle standing on a makeshift hover-skiff, brandishing a long spear with fireworks tied to it, cackling like a banshee.

Cody shouted into the comm: “Can someone please get her out of the crossfire?”

Waxer replied: “We tried. She bit Boil.”

Boil yelled: “She did NOT! I just tripped—!”

“You tripped because she kicked you!”

⸻

Later that night, after the battle, the village lay safe. The droids were in pieces. And you sat on a fallen log with your knees tucked up, staring at the jungle.

Cody approached, helmet off.

“You did well today.”

You sighed. “Don’t ruin it with compliments.”

He smirked. “I’m trying to be civil.”

You eyed him. “Why? Planning to ask me to dinner?”

A pause.

“…Would you go?”

You stared.

Then laughed. “Commander. If you take me to dinner, I’ll probably start a bar fight and make you pay the tab.”

“Noted.”

You tilted your head. “You’d really take me?”

Cody shrugged, voice quiet. “You fight for your people. You’re unpredictable, reckless… and you’ve got guts. I respect that.”

You squinted. “That’s either the sweetest thing anyone’s said to me… or the scariest.”

He held out a hand.

You took it, grinning wide. “Alright, Tensejaw. Maybe I’ll let you stick around.”

Command Batch and other clones/characters Material List 🏆

|❤️ = Romantic | 🌶️= smut or smut implied |🏡= platonic |

Gregor

X Reader “The Brightest Flame”❤️

- x Reader “Synaptic Sparks”❤️

Commander Doom

- x Jedi Reader❤️

Jango Fett

- x reader “cats in the cradle”❤️

Commander Bacara

- x Reader “Cold Front”❤️

- x Reader “War on Two Fronts” multiple parts

Commander Bly

- x Jedi reader “it’s on again”❤️

- x Twi’lek Reader “Painted in Gold”❤️

Commander Neyo

- x Senator Reader “Rules of Engagement”❤️

- x Reader “Solitude and Street Lights”❤️

Command Batch (Clone Commanders)

- x Reader “My Boys, My Warriors” multiple parts 🏡

- x Reader “Steele & Stardust” ❤️

- x “Brothers in the Making” multiple chapters 🏡

- Helmet Chaos ❤️🏡

Overall Material List

Happy May 4th! Hope you’re having a great weekend!

I was thinking a Bad Batch or 501st, or even 212th x Reader where they’ve been in a relationship (can be platonic) but after some time it’s gone stagnant.

Like how in relationships it takes romance and quality time to keep a relationship alive and in my experience it’s always the guys who forget they have to do more and not just get completely complacent. And the boys need to fight to get her back and keep her. Maybe slip in some jealousy?

Love your writing! 💕

“What We Leave Behind”

The jungle was quiet tonight.

For once, the rain held off. Just the hum of night creatures and distant comm chatter whispered through the dark, while you sat alone beside the supply crates, helmet at your feet and dirt caking your boots.

Cody hadn’t come looking for you.

Again.

He was always somewhere—needed, summoned, occupied—and you understood that. You always had. But lately, it felt like you were something he’d already won. Like he didn’t have to try anymore.

The warmth between you had cooled. No more late-night brushes of fingers or small grins in the mess tent. The distance had grown, and Cody hadn’t fought it. Hadn’t fought for you.

Bly had noticed.

The 327th commander had been respectful, sure—but his gaze lingered longer than it used to. He complimented your marksmanship. Laughed at your dry humor. Today, as you stood beside him surveying troop formations, he’d murmured, “Hard to believe Cody lets you drift so far. If you were mine, I wouldn’t take my eyes off you.”

It was bold. But his tone had been soft, almost regretful. And your smile… well, that had been real.

You hadn’t smiled in days.

Which was exactly when Cody saw.

And said nothing.

Until now.

“There you are.”

His voice rolled low from the shadows. You looked up and found him leaning against a crate, arms crossed, helmet under one arm, jaw tight.

“Yeah?” you said flatly. “If you’re looking for Bly, I think he’s still on comms.”

Cody’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not looking for him.”

“No?” you drawled, standing. “Funny. Seemed like you were staring straight at him when he spoke to me.”

“Because he was staring straight at you.”

You crossed your arms, biting back the bitterness. “Someone had to.”

Cody stepped forward, just enough that the firelight caught the tension in his face. “You think I don’t see you?”

“I think you forgot how to,” you snapped. “I think somewhere along the line, I became part of your routine. Not your choice. Not your fight.”

His brow furrowed. “This is all a fight.”

“Exactly. And you stopped fighting for me.”

He flinched like you’d struck him.

Silence stretched between you—tense, aching, taut as a live wire.

Then, softly, “He doesn’t care about you.”

Your eyes burned. “No. But he noticed me. And I haven’t felt noticed by you in weeks.”

Cody swallowed hard, stepping closer. “I never stopped. I just…” he looked down, then back up with something shattered in his gaze, “I thought I already had you. I didn’t realize I had to keep earning it.”

You were close now—closer than you’d been in days. Your breath hitched as his hand brushed yours.

“I’m not a campaign, Cody. I’m not some territory you claim and forget.”

His touch firmed at your waist, eyes stormy with something between guilt and want. “I didn’t forget. I just—got lost. I’m sorry.”

The kiss came hard—pent-up frustration, regret, longing. You clutched at his armor, grounding yourself in the heat of it. In him.

When you broke apart, gasping against each other in the humid night, you whispered, “Don’t make me feel like I need to be someone else’s, just to remember I’m still worth wanting.”

Cody pressed his forehead to yours. “You’ve always been worth fighting for. I just forgot I needed to keep fighting, even when I thought I’d already won.”

From the tree line, unseen, Bly watched for a moment longer, unreadable behind his visor—before turning away.

Tomorrow, it would rain again. The jungle would close in. The war would keep raging.

But tonight, Cody remembered.

Can i request the 501's reaction to you being sick? Specifically with a fever or something that's easy to hide. And the reader has rarely been sick before so everyone freaking out when they eventually find out lmao

I love your writing <3 you deserve so many more likes my darling

“You’re What?!”

501st x Reader

You’d dodged blaster fire, explosive shrapnel, and the temper of half the 501st. But this… this damn fever was your greatest adversary yet.

“You’re lookin’ a bit pale, General,” Jesse had noted the day before, squinting at you over a deck of sabacc cards.

“I’m always pale. Comes with the territory,” you’d said, waving him off and trying to ignore the sweat rolling down your spine.

You figured it would pass. It always did. You never got sick. But two days in, your joints ached, your brain felt like it was melting, and even Rex noticed something was off.

“You alright?” he asked after training drills, brows drawn tight beneath his helmet as you leaned too long on the wall.

“Fine. Just tired.”

Rex had narrowed his eyes but let it go. For the moment.

That night, you crawled into your bunk fully dressed, armor still half-on, because even removing your boots felt like a battle. You swore no one would know. You were fine.

The next morning, you nearly face-planted in the mess hall. Nearly. But unfortunately, not before Fives caught your elbow mid-sway.

“Woah—woah! Easy, General!” His arm wrapped around you like a vice. “Are you drunk? Wait, are you drunk? Is that allowed? Why wasn’t I invited?”

“I’m fine,” you rasped, voice barely above a whisper.

Fives blinked. Then frowned.

“…You sound like a malfunctioning comm.”

And suddenly the entire table went silent. Hardcase dropped his tray. Jesse dropped his jaw. Kix, who had just sat down with his caf, froze mid-sip.

“You’re sick?” Kix stood so fast he knocked over his drink. “You’ve never been sick!”

“Statistically speaking,” Echo said cautiously, “this might be an omen.”

“Don’t say omen, she’ll think she’s dying!” Jesse snapped.

“I’m not—” you started, and immediately broke into a coughing fit so violent it made Kix’s med-scanner ping before he even used it.

Rex had walked in by then, and you knew you were doomed when he barked, “What’s going on?”

“She’s sick,” Fives said dramatically, like he was reporting a battlefield casualty.

“Proper sick,” Echo added, wide-eyed.

“Like, fever and everything,” Jesse chimed in.

Rex turned to you slowly, like you’d just declared war on Kamino.

“Is this true?”

You stared, swaying a little. “Maybe.”

Rex took one step toward you and you flinched. “Don’t touch me. You’ll catch it.”

He looked offended. “You think I care about that?”

The moment your knees buckled, six clones lunged at you like you were the last ration bar on the ship.

⸻

Later, in the medbay You were tucked into a cot, surrounded by snacks, water bottles, and what looked suspiciously like a handmade blanket from Fives.

“I’m not dying,” you muttered, as Kix took your temperature for the fifth time.

“You had a fever of 39.5. You were dying,” he said flatly.

Rex was pacing. “Next time you feel off, you tell someone.”

“She thought she could tough it out,” Echo said knowingly. “Classic move.”

Fives leaned on the bedrail. “Don’t worry, General. We’re not letting you go anywhere until you’re back to full sass levels.”

Hardcase grinned. “And I’m standing guard. Fever or not, no one touches our General.”

You coughed again and muttered, “This is ridiculous.”

Jesse threw a blanket over your head. “So are you.”

Hardcase nodded gravely. “This is emotionally devastating.”

Even Anakin showed up halfway through the ordeal. “Heard you caught the plague. Do you need me to file a formal mission postponement?”

“…It’s a cold, sir.”

“That’s what you said before that speeder crash, and we both know how that ended.”

By the time your fever broke the next day, the entire 501st had personally sworn vengeance on germs, replaced your room filters, and started force-feeding you water every hour.

And when you walked into the hangar a day later, freshly cleared by Kix and very much alive?

There was a banner.

“WELCOME BACK FROM THE BRINK OF DEATH.”

Hardcase had made it himself. With glitter.

Day 1 of being cleared by Kix: You felt good. Not perfect, but good enough to want your normal routine back. Unfortunately, the 501st had other plans.

Rex refused to let you do anything strenuous. “You’re still on light duty,” he said as he handed you a datapad and pointed to the command center chair. “You sit, drink water, and look authoritative. That’s it.”

“Can I at least lift the datapad myself?” you asked dryly.

“…Only if it’s under 2 kilograms.”

Fives popped up behind you, placing a fluffy blanket over your shoulders. “You didn’t even cough, but just in case.”

“I’m not cold.”

“You might be cold.”

Hardcase walked by with a steaming mug of something he said was “clone-approved recovery tea,” which suspiciously smelled like caf and fruit rations. You didn’t ask.

Tup slipped a flower behind your ear. “For morale.”

Dogma, meanwhile, was pacing with a clipboard, occasionally checking on your hydration levels. “Eight sips every hour. Non-negotiable.”

At lunch, you tried to sneak away to the mess.

Jesse blocked the doorway like a bouncer. “Authorized personnel only. And by that, I mean people not recently raised from the dead.”

“I had a fever. I didn’t flatline.”

“You might as well have! I had to emotionally process that in real time.”

Echo leaned around him. “I made you soup.”

“…Why are there six different bowls?”

“We all made you soup.”

“I am not eating six soups.”

“Yes, you are,” Kix said from behind you, arms crossed. “Recovery protocol. Article 7B. Look it up.”

You were 80% sure he made that up.

That night, as you returned to your bunk, someone had strung up another banner.

“WELCOME BACK: PLEASE STAY THAT WAY”

There was even a checklist on your locker:

• No dying

• No hiding symptoms

• Tell Kix everything

• At least try to act mortal

You sighed and smiled despite yourself. There was a little sketch of you, wrapped in a blanket, being force-fed soup by Fives. They’d drawn themselves too—grinning like idiots, looming behind you like overprotective brothers.

You curled up that night with a warm stomach, sore cheeks from smiling, and an overwhelming sense of comfort.

You weren’t just better.

You were home.