This should have been so easy.

Honestly, Din isn't sure where the job had gone this wrong. He'd had a simple way in and out, an easy enough target, and the preference for this particular assignment had been for the target to be brought in alive. It had all been part of some petty dispute that he'd wanted no part of, and it wouldn't even end in murder, from what he'd gathered, so he might have been a little distracted and let his mind wander because of how uncomplicated it all was, but certainly not enough to end up in the mess he's faced with now.

Instead of the supposed target's underground den, the place had been swarming with New Republic personnel already dissecting every piece of evidence on what had looked like the remnants of a crime scene. He had already landed right in the middle of it all by the time he'd realised that someone had beat him to this particular bounty.

It had been too late, then; they'd already spotted him. He hadn't had the time to ponder how he hadn't found out about this or, if the one who'd given him the assignment had known, why hadn't he been informed, because the nearest officer had descended on him like a hound and, in the panic that having to improvise always seems to freeze him with, he'd reverted to the only person remotely close to the New Republic that he can trust.

It's unfair; he knows that. Cara deserves better than to have to be wrapped up in his schemes time and time again while doing her best - no matter how good her best actually is - to be a respectable citizen. She's walking a thin line with the law, he knows, one cleared chain code away from things she could have been executed for, as she'd told him time and time again, and he should know better than to give into the instinct that she'd be there whenever he reaches out for help, but it feels too late for that now. Without even meaning to, he'd made her essential to himself and there's a little resentment brewing beneath the surface because of it - not for her, never for her - but here he is nevertheless; waiting at her door because she hadn't been in her office.

It worries him; more than it probably should. More than he probably has a right to, in all fairness. Karga had assured him that sometimes, she would disappear for a day or two and not really ever bring it up when she'd come back, but he had heard nothing from her for over two days now, and, well. It had worried him, too, even if he wouldn't bother her about it.

Din has no such reservations. He'd bothered her with worse, after all.

By the time he'd started to despair - while still bracing himself for another knock, followed by one more spiel on how he just wants to make sure she's all right - the door is yanked open and Cara squints back at him, eyes rimmed with the dark, faintly shimmering substance that usually seems so carefully arranged over her eyelids.

"Oh, Maker, come in," she says after a moment of stunned, disgruntled silence and it's not difficult to guess that sunlight must hurt a little just now. "Hello again, Mando. What is it? You want caf?"

"No, thank you." Suddenly, all his New Republic-related troubles seem to have vanished, leaving only stark relief at the fact that she's fine - clearly exhausted and more than a little irritated, but safe.

"Well, I do." She wanders around the small room, kicking aside a stray shoe that seems altogether too big to be hers, to get to the machine, and then sits down opposite from him when it's done. "What brings you here?"

"I, uh." It's not overly eloquent, but his train of thought crashes with a bang into about ten others coming directly towards it on wildly different tracks, as soon as he takes his first proper look at her.

Suddenly, it's no wonder it had taken her this long to get the door. Other than the clear sleep deprivation, there's plenty to signify the fact that he'd caught her off-guard. To start with, she isn't even dressed, the flimsy tank top she'd thrown over herself a far cry from the iron discipline that her armour provides, and she looks so unexpectedly vulnerable that Din feels compelled to look away. It's as if she hadn't meant for him to see her like this, as if he'd intruded on something terribly personal, but there she still is, without a trace of any reservations, looking at him expectantly.

"You needed my help?" She prompts, her tone carrying the distinct familiarity to the way it sounds whenever he's hit his head particularly hard and she's not sure he's not concussed. "With information, you said?"

"Yes. Yes!" Information. The New Republic. That's it. He's here for help, not to stare at her and wonder if he'd earned the privilege to see her in her downtime. "I ran into some of your—colleagues while on a job. It should have been a quick in and out, but someone beat me to it - and did a messy job of it, too." He stands up, suddenly restless, once again angry over the mess that had been left behind, making this far more complicated than it had ever needed to be. Now, on top of everything else, he wouldn't even get the money he'd been promised, because there's nothing to deliver. He can't walk the frustration off, but he sure can try. "If I'd been the one to do it, they would have never known, but as it is... Either way," he continues in another frail attempt to remind himself that she likely doesn't have all day. "They asked me if I was part of the investigation, and I had to say yes, or they'd ask me what business I'd had with a criminal. I told them I'd got the location mixed up and had ended up on their turf by mistake. Next they wanted to know—"

"—who supervised your mission," Cara finishes for him, amusement sneaking in past the fog that the lack of sleep tends to bring, and when he nods, her smile only widens. "So you told them it was me." She outright laughs now and it's his turn to scowl back at her, not that she would know. It occurs to him that he might as well get in the habit of removing the helmet in front of her for good - she's seen his face now, and he'd much rather have her be aware of his displeasure. "They thought you were my intern. I don't even know if I'm allowed interns."

It's nowhere near as funny as she seems to think it is, but it's a far more comforting background to his decision than her worry would have been, and Din braces himself. It's now or never. He just has to take it off. This is Cara and she's safe and always unexpectedly kind and he wants to look her in the eye when he talks to her.

He takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and pulls the helmet off in one swift move.

To her credit, Cara doesn't look away, even if she does speak up. "You don't have to do that if you don't want to. Just because you did it back on that ship for the kid—"

"I want to." She hadn't cared one bit about any of the other Mandalorians they'd met while on their mission to rescue Grogu, but it had still made him oddly jealous to watch her talk to them while they'd been unguarded; as if they'd been allowed a sight that he hadn't, and now, it turns out that he's right. Without the helmet and all its distractions blinking and moving in his peripheral vision, the undoctored sight of her in front of him nearly takes his breath away. "It's— not what I wanted at first - not what I thought was right - but it feels— it's different," he admits at last, for the lack of a better word. "Good different. It doesn't have to be always, but with people I trust," with you, "I want it to be an option."

As always, she sees right into what he doesn't say. "Thank you for trusting me, then." She doesn't wait for a response - or a confirmation, even - her unshakeable confidence bulldozing directly onto their next issue - the initial reason he's here. "How about that. I have a routine check-up on a neighbouring world in a few days; I can log you under some other name and say that's where you were meant to be when they met you today." Her eyes stray across the room and Din follows her gaze, the rest of the plan drowned out once he finds what she'd subconsciously sought out.

There's a jacket thrown over the back of her small couch, haphazardly tossed into a ball by someone who must have been in a hurry. It's clearly not one of hers - everything Cara wears is dark and stiflingly tight - but it does look familiar in a way he can't quite pinpoint. Unease pools low in his stomach."Have you got guests?" The jacket, the shoes - it makes sense, suddenly. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to intrude—"

"No, it's all right," Cara waves him off, downing her cup in one long sip, as if she feels that she's going to need it if she's to continue this conversation. "He's, er. Another colleague. A brother in arms, if you will."

He will not.

"I don't want to intrude," he says again, acutely aware of the fact that he's repeating himself but entirely unable to stop. "If you want me to go, I can. It really isn't that important—"

"Well, it is now that you've got the bureaucrats breathing down your neck," Cara huffs, as if there is no bigger offence to her work than the documentation she needs to deal with. Knowing her, that might be exactly the case. "Tell you what," she says at last, clearly sensing that he would prefer to be anywhere else but in her home with the implications that it holds just now. "I'll figure this one out and then make sure we make it believable. You just stick around for the rest of the day, all right?"

"Got it."

He dons his helmet back on, so eager to flee the scene that he barely says his goodbyes and it's only when he's outside Cara's small home, aimlessly wandering the streets once again, that he wonders why the prospect of her not being alone had made him this jumpy in the first place. He should have been happy – should have taken the caf she had offered, considering that her company clearly hadn't bothered her, and could have had an entirely normal day instead of being reduced to being a visitor put on hold.

And still, the regret stemming from the missed opportunity is his smallest problem, far overshadowed by the realisation that he is, in fact, only a visitor – yet another truth that should have not tasted as bitter as it does.

~.~

"Mando? That you?"

He freezes in place at the sound of the new voice making its way above the buzz of the crowd at the market, a suspicion sneaking in as he turns around rigidly, looking around the street for the source of the call and grimaces when he proves to be right.

"Vanth," he greets cautiously, eyeing the man in search of something he can't quite pinpoint even in his own mind, until it's right in front of him – the clothes. He had seen those before, not only on Cobb Vanth himself back on Tatooine, but very, very recently, too. He should have guessed. "What leads you here?"

"Came for business, stayed for pleasure." His smile is dazzling as always, and as much as Din tries to hate him for it, given the circumstances, he can't quite manage it. "What about you?"

"I could say the same." It's a challenge, but there's no way for the Marshall to catch on, given that he doesn't yet know what kind of situation he had stumbled into. Not that, Din amends in his own mind, there is a situation at all, but still, "I had to ask a friend for a favour; I'm staying until he gives me the green light that it's all settled." He practically knows already, but there's nothing like making sure, so Din goes n, tilting his helmet in the general direction that they had both come from, vaguely aware of the oddity of the circumstances that he had found himself in. A part of him is glad that they had found each other, even if it had been by chance – their personalities would clash in the best way possible, he suspects, but... And that's where the trouble lies, isn't it? But. "She's the Marshall of this part of Nevarro; we work together sometimes."

Cobb's eyes widen even as his smile grows a little more collected, and Din is confusingly – perversely – both glad to see it and a tad embarrassed by his own behaviour. Cara owes him nothing. This near stranger, a good ally as he had been, doesn't either. Neither of them needs this sort of childish needling on his part, but he can't help himself. "She's become a bit of a big deal around these parts, from what I've heard."

"Cara Dune? Oh, she's a big name all right," Cobb laughs, mirth quickly subdued when he's only met with confused silence. "Because of— well, I assume she's told you already."

"She definitely has not." It stings to admit it, but Din doesn't have much in the way of options – he has no clue what he's talking about, and he only ends up being more mystified when Cobb pulls out a piece of paper – a rarity in these parts of the Galaxy, and all the more impressive for it – scrawls out something that looks like an address and hands it to him with the sort of green that couldn't possibly mean anything good.

"Meet me there at ten standard," Cobb says, and it sounds like the worst, most tempting promise that Din has ever heard. "And I'll show you. Or rather," his smile grows wicked, and the temptation grows with it, "She will."