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Chapter Text

The pilots climbed down from their cockpits into a whirlwind of celebration: New Republic dignitaries, technicians, and cheering civilians surged forward, dragging them onto the speaker's platform, clouds of confetti pouring down from the towering cityscape. The plaza vibrated with roaring appreciation from the thousands gathered below.

Wedge barely managed to exchange quick handshakes with Hobbie and Red Squadron's second-in-command, Wes Janson, before being ushered forward in a line of pilots. The noise was deafening. At the front of the platform, standing at the lectern in modest senatorial whites, was Princess Leia Organa. She met Wedge's eyes with a knowing smile and a tilt of her head—both veterans of public spectacles they'd rather skip.

Beside the platform, tucked against the edge of the crowd just out of camera view, Major Arden Lynn. She wore her flight jacket open over a slim uniform, dark hair tugged back into a quick braid. As Hobbie and Wes approached her after the pilot lineup, she straightened, the easy smirk already on her lips.

"Look what the galaxy coughed back up," Arden greeted, eyes flitting between the two. "Two of the biggest troublemakers in starfighter command."

Wes grinned wide and opened his arms dramatically. "I knew you missed me."

"I did not."

"She definitely did," Hobbie said, eyes narrowed with mock gravity. "I can tell. She probably counted the days."

"I counted the quiet days," Arden quipped, giving Hobbie a quick shoulder bump. "But it's good to see you two back in one piece."

Hobbie gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. "Where's our fearless leader?"

"Still trying to pretend he likes speeches," Arden said, jerking her chin toward the stage. "You know he'd rather eject into a nebula than talk to a crowd."

Wes leaned in. "I heard Leia had to bribe him with the promise of no post-mission committee meetings."

"Tempting," Arden murmured. But her eyes had drifted back to Wedge.

She watched him standing tall, poised and calm, as Leia addressed the crowd. He gave her that rare, quiet smile that he reserved for moments only they would understand. The same smile he'd given Arden across star charts in late-night war rooms, or after long missions when words weren't necessary.

Leia's voice carried over the cheering:

"Citizens of the New Republic, I present to you Rogue Squadron!"

A fresh wave of cheers exploded. Arden barely registered it. Her attention stayed fixed on Wedge as he finally descended from the platform and made his way back toward Hobbie, Wes—and her.

Wedge's eyes found Arden the moment he stepped down. His smile was small but warm, private.

"You looked good up there, Commander," she teased.

"I looked cornered," Wedge replied dryly, stepping close enough to grasp his hand in hers.

"You looked like you'd rather be shot at," she said, voice soft now. He glanced at her, and she gave him the faintest squeeze on his wrist before stepping back to give the others room.

"So," Wedge said, addressing Hobbie. "Tell me about this ersatz Rogue Squadron."

"It's not ersatz," Hobbie replied, "just... provisional. The Alliance wanted a visible Rogue unit while you were off liberating Thyferra. So, they brought us back from training duty to throw something together."

"Temporary," Wes added, shrugging. "Though we fly like legends."

Wedge raised a brow. "And now?"

Hobbie straightened a bit. "Now that you're back, everyone goes home. Except us. Wes and I are back for good. Or so says High Command, pending your approval."

Wedge gave a mock-suspicious hum, then finally nodded. "You're home. Of course you are."

Arden smirked but said nothing, letting the three of them have their moment. Wes and Hobbie had always been more than just pilots to Wedge—they were parts of his foundation. Watching them back together made something unclench in her chest.

Then Wedge casually said, "Before the new Rogues are disbanded, I want to see their files. I have an idea for another X-wing unit."

Arden's smile faltered.

"A what now?" Hobbie said.

"I'm thinking a new squadron," Wedge replied, tone so offhand it might have been a joke.

Arden blinked. New squadron. That phrase hit her with the same cold certainty as a sudden drop out of hyperspace.

Oh no. Not again.

She masked it behind a slow exhale, focusing on keeping her face neutral.

Inside, though, her thoughts reeled.

They had just come home. The war hadn't even cooled, the scars on Wedge's side were still healing, and here he was, talking about building something new. Which meant combat. Risk. Pressure.

Which meant Wedge would throw himself into it, like always. Like he had to.

"Just like that?" Wes asked. "Wave your hand and it appears?"

"I thought I'd tell High Command so they'll know what they need to give me," Wedge said, smirking.

"Classic Corellian," Hobbie muttered.

Arden stayed quiet, gaze fixed on Wedge's profile.

I shouldn't be surprised, she thought. This is who he is. He never stops at victory—he plans the next fight before the dust settles.

Still, a knot had formed just below her ribs. She wasn't sure if it was fear, frustration—or something closer to admiration.

Probably all three.

"Oh—Wedge," Hobbie said suddenly, nodding toward the platform. "The princess—"

Leia was beckoning. Wedge turned, caught Arden's gaze once more.

"Let me finish talking to these people so we can all go home. "

Arden's mouth twitched into the beginning of a smirk, her version of go get 'em.

He returned it with a wink before climbing the steps.

"New squadron, huh?" Wes murmured beside her.

"Don't get excited," Arden muttered. "He probably hasn't slept since Thyferra. This is what passes for fun in his mind."

Wes grinned. "Tell me you're not going to be involved."

"I always get involved."

And in her mind, the plans had already started unfolding.

Chapter Text

The city outside Arden's apartment window pulsed with light, but inside, the space was dim and quiet. The sharp edges of a long day had softened into the hush of late evening.

A half-empty bottle of Chandrilan red rested on the table between two low glasses. The jacket of her uniform was draped over the back of a chair, the collar still marked with faint sweat and stardust.

Wedge stood at the window, in his undershirt, sipping his drink and watching the slow air traffic arc past the skyline. Arden leaned in the doorway of her small kitchen, arms folded, eyes narrowed.

"So," she said, "you want to tell me what this new squadron idea is actually about?"

Wedge didn't look at her. "I thought I already did."

"You dropped it like a thermal detonator in the middle of a reunion party." She moved to the table and picked up her glass. "That's not a briefing. That's a warning shot."

He turned then, the corner of his mouth lifting. "I didn't realize I owed you a briefing."

"You don't," she said, tilting her head, "but I'm the one you come to when your flight path starts bending off course. So, I'd like to know what direction you're flying in before you hit atmosphere."

Wedge walked over and set his glass down, hands braced on the back of the chair across from her. "It's not complicated. I want to build a unit—something lean, quick, specialized. Less politics, more fieldwork. A blend of the best Rogue traditions and what we learned fighting for Thyferra."

"And this is what you're pitching to Ackbar tomorrow?"

He nodded. "Morning meeting. I've got preliminary personnel files from Hobbie. Wes is already lobbying for a squadron name."

There was a pause. Then Wedge sat down across from her, elbows on the table.

"I want the best," he said simply. "And you're on that list."

Arden exhaled through her nose and sat, swirling the contents of her glass.

She didn't answer right away. She took a long sip of wine, stared into the glass like it might offer some clarity. Then, quietly: "I might be assigned to Solo."

Wedge raised a brow. "Han?"

"Yes. Intelligence is shifting again. The rumors are circling. They're putting together a black ops wing, and I'm already flagged as someone who can float between command and infiltration. I'm not confirmed... but it's possible."

A beat.

"And you didn't mention this earlier because...?"

"Because we just got back," she snapped, not harshly, but tight. "Because I wanted one night where it didn't feel like we were planning our exits again. One night where we weren't ships passing through a war."

Her hands clenched around the stem of the glass. "I'm tired, Wedge. Tired of briefing rooms and hidden assignments and wondering if the next time I see you is in a field report."

He didn't move for a moment. Just watched her. Then he leaned forward, voice low and warm.

"I know," he said. "I hate it, too. But we've both spent our lives making things work around the galaxy's chaos. I've never asked you to follow me. But if you do want a place on this squad, I'll make sure it's there."

Arden stared at him.

"Trust me," he said. "Just a little longer."

She sat back in her chair, heart hammering in a way she didn't like. It would be easier if he were reckless, if he made decisions without thinking. But no—he was precise. Calculated. If he was offering her a place, it wasn't out of sentiment. It was because he meant it.

Which made it worse.

Arden shook her head and pushed the glass aside. "You always do this."

He raised an eyebrow. "Do what?"

"Say something that makes me want to throw things and kiss you at the same time."

Wedge's smile grew slow and devilish. "That's Corellian charm. Comes standard."

"You're impossible."

"I'm persuasive."

He stood and moved around the table, his hands brushing over her shoulders as he leaned down behind her chair.

"Come to bed," he murmured near her ear.

"That's not going to make this go away."

"No," he agreed. "But it'll make you forget it for a while."

She looked up at him, still stubborn, still frustrated, but something in his expression made her resolve slip.

He kissed her like the war was far away, like plans could wait, like maybe—for tonight—they weren't commanders, or operatives, or survivors.

Arden's heart pounded as Wedge's hands slid down her arms, his fingertips tracing the soft skin of her elbows. She could feel the heat of his touch, a stark contrast to the cool air of the apartment.

His breath was warm on her neck as he leaned in, his lips brushing against her ear, sending shivers down her spine.

Arden's resolve wavered, her body responding to his touch, to the promise in his voice.

She turned to face him, her eyes locked onto his. "What if I choose to resist?" she challenged, her voice barely above a whisper.

Wedge's smile was slow and seductive, his eyes darkening with desire. "Then we'll both burn," he said, his hands moving up to cup her face, his thumbs brushing against her cheeks.

He leaned in, capturing her mouth in a fierce, passionate kiss. Arden melted into him, her hands reaching up to tangle in his hair, her body pressing against his. The kiss was a battle, a war of wills, and she knew she was losing. But she didn't care. For tonight, she wanted to surrender.

Arden's heart pounded in her chest as Wedge's hands moved from her shoulders to her waist, his fingers tracing the curve of her body. She could feel the heat of his touch through the thin fabric of her uniform.

His breath was warm on her neck as he leaned in, his lips brushing against her ear. "I know you're tired, Ards," he whispered, his voice low and husky. "But I also know you're strong. Strong enough to handle whatever comes our way."

Arden's resolve wavered, her body responding to his touch, to the promise in his voice. She turned to face him, her eyes locked onto his. "And what if I can't handle it?" she challenged, her voice barely above a whisper.

Wedge's smile was slow and reassuring, his eyes darkening with desire. "Then we'll face it together," he said, his hands moving up to cup her face, his thumbs brushing against her cheeks.

He leaned in, capturing her mouth in a fierce, passionate kiss. Arden melted into him, her hands reaching up to tangle in his hair, her body pressing against his. The kiss was a battle, a war of wills, and she knew she was losing. But she didn't care. For tonight, she wanted to surrender.

Arden's body responded to Wedge's touch, her breath hitching as his hands moved from her face to her back, unhooking her uniform. She felt the cool air against her skin as the fabric fell away, revealing her body to him. Wedge's eyes darkened with desire as he took in her form, his hands moving to cup her breasts, his thumbs brushing against her nipples.

Arden gasped, her head falling back, her body arching into his touch. "Wedge," she whispered, her voice filled with need.

He smiled, his hands moving lower, tracing the curve of her waist, her hips. "I've missed you, Ards," he said, his voice low and husky. "I've missed this." He leaned in, capturing her mouth in a fierce kiss, his hands moving to her thighs, lifting her up.

Arden wrapped her legs around him, her arms around his neck, her body pressing against his. He carried her to the couch, laying her down, his body covering hers. She could feel the hardness of him against her, and she moaned, her hands moving to his shirt, pushing it off his shoulders.

Wedge's hands moved to her pants, unzipping them, his fingers sliding inside, finding her wet and ready. Arden gasped, her hips bucking against his hand. "Wedge," she moaned, her body on fire. "I need you."

He smiled, his fingers moving faster, his thumb brushing against her clit. Arden's body tensed, her orgasm building. "Now, Arden," he whispered, his voice filled with desire. "Now."

Wedge's fingers continued their dance, expertly teasing Arden's most sensitive spot, coaxing her closer to the edge. He knew her body like the back of his hand, and he used that knowledge to his advantage.

"You're so wet for me, Arden," he murmured, his breath hot against her ear. "I can feel how much you want me."

Arden's breath hitched, her body trembling as she struggled to maintain control.

"Wedge," she gasped, her fingers digging into his shoulders. "Please, I need you inside me."

Wedge's smile was wicked, his eyes dark with desire. "Not yet, love," he whispered, his fingers replacing his mouth, his tongue tracing the curve of her ear. "I want to taste you first."

He moved lower, his mouth capturing her nipple, his tongue swirling around the hard peak. Arden's body arched, a cry escaping her lips as waves of pleasure coursed through her. Wedge's fingers continued their relentless assault, his mouth moving lower, his tongue dipping into her navel. Arden's body was on fire, her hips bucking against his touch.

"Wedge," she moaned, her voice filled with desperation. "I can't take anymore." Wedge looked up, his eyes locked onto hers.

"You can, Arden," he said, his voice filled with determination. "And you will."

He moved lower still, his tongue dipping into her folds, his fingers still working their magic. Arden's body tensed, her orgasm building.

"Wedge," she moaned, her body trembling. "Now." Wedge's tongue moved faster, his fingers replacing his mouth, his thumb brushing against her clit. Arden's body tensed, her orgasm ripping through her. She cried out, her body convulsing as waves of pleasure washed over her.

Wedge's fingers moved faster, his thumb brushing against her clit, pushing her over the edge again. Arden's body was on fire, her mind blank as she rode out her orgasm.

When she finally came back to herself, she found Wedge looking down at her, a satisfied smile on his face.

Arden's breath hitched as Wedge's fingers withdrew, leaving her feeling empty and desperate for more.

She looked up at him, a playful smirk tugging at her lips. "You're not going to make me forget, Wedge," she teased, her voice laced with laughter. "I'm still mad at you."

Wedge's eyes sparkled with amusement and desire as he slowly unbuttoned his pants, his gaze locked onto hers. "Oh, I think I can manage that," he replied, his voice low and confident. "I'll make you forget all about it as soon as I'm inside you."

Arden's heart pounded in her chest as she watched him, her body already responding to his words. "We'll see about that," she challenged, her voice steadier than she felt.

Wedge's smile was wicked as he positioned himself between her legs, his hands moving to her hips. "Oh, I think you will," he said, his voice filled with determination.

Wedge's hands gripped Arden's hips, lifting her slightly as he maneuvered her into a new position. He positioned her on her knees, her back against his chest, her legs spread wide. Arden's breath hitched as she felt the cool air against her exposed skin, her body still tingling from her previous orgasm.

"Wedge," she gasped, her voice filled with anticipation and a hint of nervousness. "What are you doing?" Wedge's lips brushed against her neck. Arden's body responded instantly, her hips pressing back against him.

Wedge's smile was wicked as he moved his hands lower, tracing the curve of her waist, her hips. "Not yet, love," he whispered, his fingers sliding into her, finding her wet and ready.

Arden's body tensed, her orgasm building as Wedge's fingers moved faster, his thumb brushing against her clit.

Wedge's control snapped as Arden's desperate plea echoed through the penthouse. His eyes darkened with a primal intensity, and he could feel his own body responding to her need. He positioned himself at her entrance, with a final, guttural groan, Wedge plunged into her, his body shuddering with the force of his entry. Arden cried out, her body convulsing as waves of pleasure and pain washed over her.

Wedge's hands gripped her hips, his fingers digging into her soft flesh as he began to move, his thrusts deep and urgent. Arden's breath hitched, her body moving in sync with his, her moans filling the room.

"Wedge," she gasped, her voice filled with wonder and desperation. "Don't stop. Please, don't stop."

Wedge's thrusts became more frantic, his body slick with sweat as he chased his own release.

"Fuck, Ards," he moaned, his voice filled with raw emotion. "I love you."

Arden's body tensed, her orgasm building as Wedge's words hit her like a physical force. "I love you too, Wedge," she gasped, her voice filled with wonder and love.

With a final, powerful thrust, Wedge's body convulsed, his release spilling into her. Arden's body tensed, her orgasm ripping through her as she rode out the waves of pleasure with Wedge. Their bodies stayed locked together, their hearts pounding in sync as they both came back to themselves.

.........

Chapter Text

Behind the desk, Admiral Ackbar, commander in chief of the New Republic's military operations, returned Wedge's salute. Like other Mon Calamari, with their outsized heads and rubbery skins, he looked to most people like a bipedal and intellectual fish, but Wedge knew him to be far more humane and courageous than many who fought for the New Republic.

Ackbar gestured toward the visitors' chairs. "Commander Antilles. Please, sit. Is it too humid for you? I can make adjustments."

"Not at all." Wedge took the seat indicated. "Thank you for making time in your schedule for me so soon."

"It is not an imposition." Ackbar leaned closer, focusing on Wedge, his two widely separated eyes sometimes moving independently. "I see no signs of hangover on you, Commander. Must I conclude that you did not celebrate adequately?"

Wedge smiled. "Very adequately. Meeting old friends and new, old Rogues and new, and telling stories until we couldn't string two words together. But I left the heavy drinking to the younger pilots. And your Tactical Officer Kept me in Check"

"Wise of you. Major Lynn is very strict. I suggest you keep her around." He laughed, then looked thoughtfully, "Younger pilots. I notice I did not recognize all their names."

"Rogue Squadron is catching up from attrition, sir. At the end of the Thyferran mission we were down a few pilots. Since then, we've brought our numbers up again. We're still one pilot light, but Aril Nunb rejoined us temporarily for yesterday's celebration."

"I'm sure you will employ your customary skill in finding extraordinary replacements. Well, allow me the impatience of office. What brings you to me? Your message hinted at—what was it? 'Recommendations for a new type of unit, particularly well suited to the search for Warlord Zsinj.' "

"That's correct." Warlord Zsinj, a onetime Imperial admiral still in possession of a Super Star Destroyer, an eight-kilometer warship capable of pounding a planetary surface flat, was now the New Republic's most important military objective. His hit-and-run missions against New Republic sites were increasing in bold effectiveness and destructiveness, and the danger that he might assume Ysanne lsard's role as the center of an Imperial resurgence was not an empty one. "I'd like to form a new X-wing group, sir."

Admiral Ackbar's mouth bent in an approximation of a smile. A learned behavior—Mon Calamari did not communicate amusement that way. But Ackbar was well versed in human body language. "Rogue Squadron is no longer good enough for you?"

"Rogue Squadron will always be good enough for me, sir. But in the last several years I've bumped repeatedly into a glaring weakness in our military. I've tried to address it before and want to try again."

"Please elaborate."

Wedge leaned back, settling in for a lengthy discussion. "You'll remember when I reorganized Rogue Squadron a few years back, I took the best pilots I could transfer or steal...but when it came down to choosing between pilots of equal skill, I always chose the one who had useful ground-based skills as well."

"Yes. You wanted pilots who could also be commandos."

"I got them. And they got quite a workout as commandos, especially in the liberation of Coruscant from the Empire and then of Thyferra from Ysanne Isard." Ackbar managed to smile again.

"You have certainly justified our faith in your experiment. Rogue Squadron performed magnificently."

"Thank you. Speaking for my men and women, I must agree. But I'd originally thought that Rogue Squadron would be used opportunistically: a strike mission would reveal a ground-based weakness, and we'd have the training and supplies to go down and perform the necessary ground mission. The way it turned out, we keep landing full-fledged commando missions. So, I think we need another commando X-wing squadron, one where we choose pilots to have a full range of intrusion and subversion skills. Rogue Squadron was designed as a fighter unit first, commando unit second; this time, I want to go the other way around."

Admiral Ackbar's expression, so far as Wedge could read it, was dubious. "Historically, we've had few problems coordinating the efforts of commandos on the ground and fighter pilots for aerial support."

"I don't agree. Commandos can communicate strike locations to the pilots, but the pilots still won't have the familiarity with these locations that the intrusion team will. Commandos who've had their extraction plans busted might want to seize enemy spacecraft to escape; the way things stand, they can't count on having enough pilots to make that escape, while commando-trained pilots could. Normal pilots follow orders and conform themselves to standard tactics—and should! But a commando X-wing unit might develop new tactics. New ways of mounting even ordinary raids and pursuits. New ways of anticipating assaults and ambushes."

Ackbar abruptly leaned back from him, his eyes half closing; it looked to Wedge like a frown of concentration. "What made you say that?"

"Thinking about the subject on the long flight home, and during the time we were garrisoned on Thyferra before that," Wedge said. "Even though the garrison assignment was cut short from the two months originally planned, it still gave me plenty of time to think."

"You haven't heard any news?"

"No, sir. About what?"

Ackbar shook his head. "Please go on."

"Well, that's actually about it. I can dress it up in a formal report for you. But one other thing I think is important—I can give you a unit like this for free." Ackbar snorted, the sound emerging as a series of rubbery pops.

"Can you, now?"

"Yes, sir. First, the replacement Rogue Squadron is being disbanded, its pilots and X-wings being returned to their original units. Correct?"

"Correct."

"So, you'll be issuing a dozen new X-wings to us, won't you? To the original Rogue Squadron."

"Why would we? Your X-wings are in functional shape, are they not?"

"Well, yes, but they're not New Republic property any longer. They were sold to my second-in-command, Tycho Celchu, at the start of our operation against Thyferra. They're his personal property, held in trust for all of us, until and unless he decides to vest ownership in their pilots."

"How uncharitable of you. You could donate their use to the New Republic. I believe one of your pilots has been using his personal X-wing all along."

"Yes, sir. Lieutenant Horn. And Tycho would be glad to loan his snubfighters to the New Republic, for the use of Rogue Squadron, if..."

"If the next dozen X-wings out of the factories are assigned to your new commando squadron."

"Yes, sir."

"That's blackmail. It's unbecoming."

"Most unconventional tactics are unbecoming until they succeed, Admiral. I direct your attention to the planet Thyferra..."

"Be quiet. There's still the matter of pilots. Fresh out of the Academy, their training costing hundreds of thousands of credits apiece. That is not 'free.'"

"No, sir. I don't want new pilots. I want experienced ones." "Which is an even more significant expense."

"No, sir, not with these pilots. I want pilots no one else wants. Washouts. Pilots staring court-martials in the face. Troublemakers and screwups."

Ackbar stared as if he couldn't believe his tympanic membranes. "In the name of the Force, Commander, why?"

"Well, some of them, of course, will be irredeemable. I'll wash them out, too. Some of them will be good men and women who've screwed up one time too many, who know their careers are dead but would give anything for one more chance..."

"You're more likely to get a proton torpedo up your engines than you are to get a functional squadron out of such pilots. The torpedo might be launched accidentally...but that's no comfort to a widow."

Wedge spread his hands, palms up, and smiled. "Problem solved. I'm not married."

"You know what I mean. You are attached."

"Yes, sir. And she would kick my ass if I got myself killed."

Ackbar chuckled. Then serious again, "What would become of Rogue Squadron?"

"I'd be happy to remain in charge officially, but for all squadron activities, Captain Celchu is more than qualified to lead...and now that he's been cleared of the formal charge of Corran Horn's murder and the informal charge of being a brainwashed double agent, there shouldn't be any responsible objection to his full return to duties. I'd return Lieutenant Hobbie Klivan to Rogue Squadron as second-in-command and take Lieutenant Wes Janson as my own second-in-command. I will also request reassignment of Major Lynn as my tactical support. Once the new squadron is established, of course, I'd hope to return to direct command of Rogue Squadron."

Ackbar's expression tightened. "Well put, however Major Lynn is one of our finest tactical officers, Commander. I am not inclined to release her from my team."

"Understood, Sir"

"You're committed to this idea, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir." Wedge considered what he was about to say. "Since the battle at Endor, the military's public relations groups have represented Rogue Squadron as if we were the lightsaber of the New Republic. A bright, shiny weapon to cut down any dark Imperial holdovers who still stand against us. But, sir, not all battles call for lightsabers. Some of them are fought with vibroblades in back alleys. The New Republic needs those vibroblades too, and doesn't have them."

"I understand." Ackbar nodded agreeably. "Request refused."

Wedge couldn't speak; suddenly all the air seemed to leave his chest. He'd thought he was so close, thought he had convinced the admiral.

"Unless..." Wedge found his voice again.

"Unless?"

"I'll make a bet with you, Commander. You get your chance at forming this squadron. If, three months after it goes operational, it has proven its worth—in my sole estimation—you can do as you please. Continue with the new squadron, go back to command Rogue Squadron, whichever you choose."

"And if I lose?"

"You accept promotion to the rank of general and join my advisory staff."

Wedge kept his dismay from his face. "I would seem to win either way, sir."

"Stop it. You're not fooling anyone. If you had your way, you'd continue flying snubfighters and commanding fighter squadrons until you were a century old. How many promotions have you turned down? Two? Three?"

"Two." The conversation starting to sound like one he had with Arden previously. She loved him, she knew his heart was in the Starfighters.

"Well, if you lose your bet, you accept this one."

Wedge sighed and thought it over. He needed to keep flying; he wouldn't be happy in any other way of life. Although he would be happy with the stability and life with his partner. But the New Republic military needed this new tactic, needed many new ways of doing things, before they became as tactically fossilized as the Empire had been. "I accept, sir."

Ackbar ground out a laugh. "In a sense, you've already lost, Commander Antilles. You're wagering your career for the good of the New Republic. You're creating new tactics, new weapons for the New Republic, not just for your squadron. You're already a general...you just don't know it yet."

"I guess I'll accept that remark in the spirit in which it was intended, sir."

"I have another remark for you, Wedge. News, bad news that you'll have to take to your subordinates. And I don't envy you that task."

Chapter Text

Wedge Antilles stood in the hangar bay aboard Home One, surrounded by the familiar scent of coolant and the sharp tang of fresh paint. The Rogue Squadron X-wings lined up in neat rows, their distinctive red stripes being reapplied over the base gray of the New Republic standard. But his eyes lingered on one snubfighter, his own, as the black and green-and-gold checks—colors from his family's old refueling station, colors his father had designed and never lived to see used—were erased stroke by stroke.

Beside him stood Arden Lynn, hands tucked into the pockets of her flight jacket, watching the same repainting process. She didn't say anything at first, just stood close enough that their arms brushed now and then. Wedge wasn't sure whether the ache in his chest was from the erasure of the past, or the fact she was shipping out within the hour.

Tycho approached, arms crossed, brow furrowed—not at the paint, but the logistics. "So how's this going to work?"

"I act as commander for both Rogue Squadron and the new squadron," Wedge replied. "And I'll lead the new squadron directly. Tycho, you're Rogue Leader until I return. Hobbie's your second, Nawara stays as exec. Wes, you're with me as second-in-command of the new unit."

Tycho arched an eyebrow. "And Rogue's going where?"

"Hunting Zsinj. The new squad will form up at Folor Base."

Tycho groaned. "Ah, yes. Folor. Jewel of the moons."

Arden chuckled quietly, eyes still on the X-wings. "Lunar beauty and endless freeze-dried rations. A real paradise."

Wedge smirked, then continued. "Once the new squad is operational, we'll run joint ops. Covert, for now. High risk, high reward."

Wes turned to Hobbie. "Sorry to see you stuck with the flying fossils, while I stay with Commander Wedge on the cutting edge of—"

Hobbie smacked his shoulder. "Oh, shut up."

Wedge cleared his throat. "Tycho, Nawara—give us a minute?"

As the two officers stepped away, Wedge turned to Hobbie and Janson. "There's something else. You're not going to like it. Talon Squad is gone."

Hobbie blinked. "Gone? As in—"

"Wiped out. Ambush. Only Lieutenant Donos survived."

Janson sagged against the wall, while Hobbie's face paled as though he'd taken a stun blast to the gut.

"They were drawn in by a single TIE Interceptor. Lured into a dead system that Intelligence marked as secure. Turns out the report was a plant—someone sliced it into our code. Eleven pilots, all dead. Donos is being debriefed now. Once that's done, he's heading to Folor. Even if he's cleared, most squadrons won't touch him. I want to evaluate him for the new squadron."

Janson's voice cracked. "Eleven pilots we trained. Lost because we trusted the wrong intel. What a pair of fools we must be."

"No," Wedge said sharply. "It could've been any of us. That's how traps work. You base a decision on data you should be able to trust. You understand me?"

Both men nodded, subdued.

Wedge handed Janson a datapad. "This has pilot criteria and clearance to search all New Republic pilot records. Start tomorrow. Reach out to candidates who qualify, but don't tell them why. Just get them to Folor."

He looked to Hobbie. "Once Donos is debriefed, I want a simulator run based on Talon's final mission. It'll be the first thing the new squad flies—and Rogue too. It doesn't happen again."

"Understood," Hobbie said.

A brief silence settled as Wedge's gaze drifted toward Arden, who'd quietly stepped back as the conversation turned grim. She returned to him now, and for a long second he considered telling her—about Ackbar's offer, about the promotion he'd declined. About the bigger command he could have had, if he'd chosen a desk over a cockpit. He opened his mouth—

—and closed it again. Not now. Not today.

"Hey." She placed a hand on his arm, her expression softening. "It'll all work out. You're doing something important here, something no one else can. You've got the best small-unit fighter tactics knowledge in the galaxy. You'll make this work."

Her confidence steadied him, and as she leaned in, they kissed—a moment of quiet connection amid the chaos surrounding them.

"Good luck with General Crespin," she murmured as she pulled back.

"Thanks. I'll need it."

She smiled. "You'll do fine. I'll see you when I'm on leave."

"See you then," Wedge replied.

She smiled, then she turned and walked off, her long stride already pulling her toward her shuttle.

Wedge watched her go, the sound of boots on metal ringing in his ears long after she disappeared around the corner.

Chapter Text

Mon Calamari Orbit — Briefing Room, Home One

0800 Hours

The lights in the briefing chamber were dimmed, the curved walls humming faintly with power, as if the ship itself was eavesdropping. A translucent display hovered in the center of the room, a tactical map slowly rotating with planetary systems along the suspected flight paths of Iron Fist, Warlord Zsinj's flagship.

Major Arden Lynn stood at the edge of the light, posture military-proud, hands clasped behind her back. Her hair was pinned up sharply, her uniform crisp despite the early hour and short notice. But inwardly, she was still adjusting. To this room. To this assignment. To waking up in Wedge's arms one moment and standing in a war council the next.

She didn't have the luxury of emotional hangovers. Not in this room.

"Glad you could join us, Major," Han Solo said as he paced around the holomap. He looked every bit the seasoned general now, though he wore his rank with the same irreverence he'd once worn a DL-44 blaster. "You've been on my radar for a while."

Admiral Ackbar, seated to Han's right, gave her a gracious nod. "Major Lynn. Your experience in asymmetrical operations and cross-unit command makes you an ideal candidate for this task force."

"I appreciate the confidence," Arden said, cool and professional.

"And the politics," Admiral Onoma added, not unkindly, but with a pointed glance. The Mon Calamari's voice was smoother than Ackbar's rasp, but his eyes were sharper. "Councilor Fey'lya is quite invested in our pursuit of Zsinj. He believes the New Republic has... under-leveraged its special assets. You, Major, are one of them."

Arden didn't flinch, but her jaw tensed. "That sounds flattering. And not at all concerning."

Han smirked. "Don't worry. We've all been handed a 'gift' from Fey'lya before."

Ackbar tapped a command, and the display zoomed in on the Quelli Sector.

"The Mon Remonda," Ackbar began, "will serve as the flagship for this operation. Zsinj's movements remain erratic, but intelligence indicates he's reinforcing smaller outposts along the border of the Mid Rim. We intend to flush him out, restrict his supply lines, and—if the opportunity presents itself—cripple Iron Fist before he consolidates more systems under his control."

Han folded his arms. "We need a mobile, flexible strike team. Ground ops, infiltration, rapid extraction—especially if we can't rely on conventional fleet engagements. That's where you come in."

"You'll be attached to the Remonda's special operations detail," Onoma added. "Answering directly to General Solo."

Arden's gaze flicked to Han. "What's the scope?"

"Open," Han said, straight-faced. "We'll play it loose. We've got NRI assets riding backup, but I need someone who can work inside chaos. Someone who doesn't blink when the plan changes mid-jump."

"You're describing most of my last three years," Arden said dryly.

Han grinned. "Exactly."

Ackbar leaned forward. "You will coordinate with Captain Kolaff, as well as General Solo's personal command team. The Mon Remonda departs in two days. Your assignment begins immediately."

A pause. Then Ackbar's gaze narrowed slightly. "Unless you have conflicting duties elsewhere, Major."

There it was. The subtle test.

Arden's mind flickered—Wedge, the squadron, the offer still fresh from last night. His hand on her back, his voice in her ear: Trust me.

But the war didn't wait for anyone. And neither did opportunity.

"No conflicts," Arden said smoothly. "I'm ready to deploy."

"Good," Han said, turning to adjust the tactical overlay again. "You'll get your final orders and team manifest by tonight."

Ackbar gave her one last nod. "May the Force be with you, Major Lynn."

Arden saluted, then turned crisply to exit.

As she passed through the doorway, the hum of the briefing room faded behind her—replaced by the heavier, slower weight of her thoughts.

She'd made her choice. Or at least, this was a choice.

She wondered if Wedge would see it as a betrayal, or as something he expected all along.

Either way, she'd tell him herself.

....

Chapter Text

The twin-pronged prow of the Millennium Falcon dipped as it cleared the tunnel into the hangar. With a practiced spin, the ship rotated neatly in place, its nose pointed back toward the entrance. Then it settled down on its landing struts with the kind of casual grace that only came from decades in the hands of a cocky pilot who knew exactly what he was doing.

The boarding ramp hissed as it descended. Wedge Antilles stepped forward, expecting a handshake and a round of grumbling from General Han Solo. He got that—and more.

Han strode down first, wearing his signature Corellian vest over a pale tunic and brown trousers, all relaxed travel gear and zero general's polish. His grin was wide and easy, the kind of smile he didn't bother faking for politicians or reporters.

"Wedge," Han greeted, pulling him into a quick, back-thumping embrace. "You're a sight for sore eyes."

"You look like someone who just escaped a diplomatic prison transport," Wedge said.

"Close," Han replied. "I brought you something."

Wedge raised an eyebrow, but before he could ask, another figure appeared at the top of the ramp—and his heart stuttered.

Arden Lynn.

She descended like a shadow slicing sunlight, her boots sharp against the Falcon's ramp, a duffel slung over one shoulder. Her uniform jacket was open, her expression unreadable—but her eyes locked onto his the second she spotted him.

Wedge blinked. "I didn't think I'd see you this soon."

"You and me both," Arden said, stopping a few steps from him. "Apparently I've been reassigned."

Han clapped a hand to her shoulder and smirked. "A little gift from Coruscant. Turns out someone up high thought I needed adult supervision on this Zsinj thing."

Wedge shifted, eyes flicking between the two. "You're attached to Solo's command?"

Arden nodded. "Special operations liaison. Effective immediately."

Han rolled his eyes. "Which means she and I are both going to be equally miserable."

"Speak for yourself," Arden said dryly.

"You were miserable on Coruscant," Han shot back.

"I was bored."

"Same thing," they said at the same time, then glanced at each other and huffed in reluctant agreement.

Wedge finally found his voice again. "Well... this is unexpected."

Arden gave him a look that was halfway between I know and don't make this weird. "But not unwelcome."

"No," he said, trying to mask the twist in his gut. "Not unwelcome at all."

They fell into step as they exited the hangar, Solo leading the way toward the main corridor.

"How was your flight in?" Wedge asked, directing it more toward Arden than Han.

"Dull," Han answered anyway. "But better than another night at a Coruscant state dinner listening to senators drone on about planetary agricultural quotas."

Arden smirked faintly. "I almost preferred the dinners. At least the wine was real."

"Spoken like someone who's never seen Ackbar scowl at a toast," Han muttered.

Wedge chuckled. "Sorry I missed you when I got back from Thyferra. I thought you were still on the Mon Remonda."

"I was," Han said, waving his hand. "Still am, technically. But I'm here delivering updated orders and trying to outpace Zsinj's listening posts. There's a theory the warlords might have taps on our previous transmission routes."

"So the new orders...?"

"Manually distributed. And classified differently enough to throw off any pattern recognition."

Wedge frowned. "If they're adapting to our movements that fast, we're in trouble."

"We are in trouble," Arden added. "That's why I'm here."

"And I'll be heading out again tomorrow," Han added with a sigh. "So tonight's our one window for debriefs, real drinks, and probably a round or two of base gossip."

Wedge grinned, playing along. "Don't get your hopes up. Folor Base is a joyless rock. No alcohol, no gambling, no holos from Commenor. All entertainment is limited to diplomatic ceremony replays and committee meeting transcripts."

Han narrowed his eyes. "You're lying."

"I had you going."

Han threw up his hands. "I swear, even Leia doesn't lie this well."

"She does," Arden said. "You're just used to it now."

Wedge turned to Arden, letting the teasing drop for a beat. "Really—it's good to see you."

"Same." Her voice was soft, just for him. "Even if it's back in the middle of a war."

He gave her a small, private smile. "It always is."

Chapter Text

After hours of grueling strafing run training with the Wraith Squadron candidates, Wedge Antilles descends from the ladder of his X-wing, wiping sweat from his brow. It's been a frustrating day of drills, but he's finally starting to see progress. As his boots hit the ground, he's greeted by a familiar figure standing in the hangar—a welcome sight after the chaos of the day.

"Looks like they're keeping you busy," Arden said with a teasing smile, folding her arms as she stopped a few paces away.

"You could say that," Wedge replied, wiping the sweat from his neck with a rag. "It's tough. There are a few rough candidates who need to be broken in, but I've got faith in this project. It's just... going to take time."

Arden stepped closer, her tone softer. "Of course, it will. You're building something new. Give yourself some credit—if anyone can make this squadron work, it's you."

He sighed but smiled at her encouragement. "Thanks. That means a lot coming from you. I'm glad you're here."

"I've managed to add couple of days to my leave," she said, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Hopefully, you can carve out some time for me?"

Wedge glanced around the hangar, which is unusually quiet now that training is over for the day. A mischievous smirk tugged at his lips as he looked back at her.

"Well," he said, leaning in slightly, "I do have some time right now."

Arden raises an eyebrow at his tone, watching as he glanced toward his X-wing.

"Tell me, Major," he continued, his voice dropping conspiratorially, pointing behind him, "have you ever done it in an X-wing before?"

Her eyes widen briefly before she laughs, a bit embarrassed but clearly amused. "Wedge Antilles, you're incorrigible." He threw his helmet and gloves on the floor. She looks around the hangar, making sure they're alone, slide her jacket off and dropped it on the floor. She then shook her head with a sly grin. "After you, Commander."

Without another word, she pointed to the ladder, they climb the ladder to his Starfighter, disappearing into the cockpit as the quiet hum of the hangar envelops them.

Arden stepped on the top rung of the ladder, took one last look around the hanger before gently stepping into the cockpit. She paused to smile down at him, he smiled back at her and winked. The craft rocked gently under the shifting weigh of the couple.

She turned her back to him, seductively pulling the bottoms of her dress blues down to her ankles, his hands caress her backside, he gave it a light tap and she delicately sat back. Her feet in between his, she leveraged herself onto floor. They both shifted sideways, it was an awkward fit.

"Hold still," he whispered against the back of her hair. He ran a large palm down the side of her hip and thigh and brought her leg up and back to drape over his hip behind her. He slid his fingers forward then, stroking over her stomach, lower, pressing against her mound, circling her clit and slipping into the hot wetness that seemed to be constant for him.

Two fingers slid deep and she gasped as his thumb stroked over her clit at the same time.

"Wedge," she choked.

"I'll never get enough of you," he murmured, kissing her hair, her shoulder.

She knew the feeling.

He thrust his fingers deeper. A moment later, he lifted her thigh farther and she felt the tip of him at her entrance. Instinctively, she arched her back and he pressed forward, sliding fully, thickly into her.

They moaned together. His hand returned to her, stroking her clit as he moved behind her. She had less leverage in this position, but Wedge was doing fine, pumping deep, long and slow.

She was quickly breathing hard, feeling the coil of desire wind tighter, as if she was reaching for something just beyond her, something that only he could provide.

And she shattered. Her orgasm, her heart, her resistance.

His hand slide down her face, she turned her head to kiss his lips. They smiled giving a little laugh at each other.

A familiar voice broke through the moment. They froze.

"Antilles? Wedge! You still down here?" Wes Janson strolled into the hangar up to Wedges X-wing, with his usual carefree swagger, whistling a jaunty tune. His eyes were immediately drawn to an unusual sight: on the floor was a helmet, gloves, and a female issue flight jacket.

"Guys?" he yelled up at the cockpit.

Arden leaned forward and looked up first, with a shy wave. "Hi, Wes."

"I'm going to ask I question I might be able to answer myself. Is Antilles with you?"

Wedge Antilles leaned forward behind Arden in the cramped cockpit. "That would be correct, Jansen."

Wes stopped in his tracks, a devilish grin spreading across his face. He crossed his arms across his chest. "Well, well, well. What have we here? This isn't the first time I've walked in on Lynn in a compromising position, but it is the most creative."

Wedge groaned, running a hand down his face. "It's not what it looks like, Wes."

Arden, ever the sharper wit, smirked. Struggling to get back into her uniform. "Then what does it look like, Wes?"

"Oh, I don't know," Wes said, tapping his chin in mock thought. "Two highly respected officers, one very cramped cockpit, and a lot of suspiciously red faces. Should I call maintenance, or should I just leave and let the X-wing get... whatever kind of maintenance this is?"

"Janson," Wedge started, but Wes cut him off with a wagging finger.

"No, no, let me guess! You were testing the cockpit's capacity for two people? Planning some emergency escape maneuver? Or wait—" His eyes lit up with feigned realization. "Is this some new covert mission training? 'Operation Awkward Flight Crew'? Wait, Compensating in Cramped Spaces: The Antilles-Lynn Method."

Arden laughed, sliding out of the cockpit with the grace of someone entirely unbothered by the teasing. "You've got quite the imagination, Wes."

Wes shrugged dramatically. "Well, when you keep giving me material like this, how can I not?"

Wedge zippered his suit halfway, climbed out next, shaking his head but unable to hide a sheepish grin. "For the record, we were testing adjustments to the inertial compensator."

Wes raised an eyebrow. "Oh, sure. That's what we're calling it now."

.......

Chapter Text

The mess hall was quieter in the early hours, a lull before mission briefs and flight drills. The smell of strong caf and synthetic eggs hung in the air. Wedge Antilles sat at a corner table with Arden Lynn beside him, both nursing steaming mugs of caf and picking at their trays in companionable silence.

Wes Janson strolled in late—he was always late—and spotted them immediately.

"Hey, lovebirds," he chirped, sliding onto the bench across from them with a tray piled precariously with pastries and protein bars. "Sleep well?"

Wedge grunted into his caf.

Arden didn't answer. She didn't have to. Her expression made it clear: tread lightly.

Wes, of course, didn't.

He took a bite of something vaguely croissant-shaped, chewed dramatically, then leaned in slightly. "You know, I was doing a system check on my X-wing late last night—" he paused for effect, glancing between them, "—and I swear I saw movement in yours, Wedge."

Wedge didn't react.

Arden's hand slowly slid under the table.

Wes continued, voice full of innocent mischief. "Could've sworn I saw the canopy fog up. Weird. Real weird. You'd think—"

His sentence ended in a sharp gasp as Arden's fingers found the soft spot just below his ribs and dug in hard.

Wes stiffened, biting down on his pastry with a strangled whimper. "Ow—ow—okay—friendly fire—FRIENDLY FIRE—"

Arden leaned in with a sweet, dangerous smile. "Finish that sentence, Janson."

Wedge sipped his caf without looking up. "Ards, let him go."

There was a pause. Then, with exaggerated grace, Arden released her grip and returned to her breakfast like nothing had happened.

Wes rubbed his side, groaning. "She's got assassin fingers. Like vibroblades. I think I bruised my soul."

Wedge finally looked at him. "Consider it a warning shot."

Wes pouted, grabbing a protein bar. "You two are no fun in the morning."

Arden smiled without looking at him. "You're still breathing. That is the fun."

Wes opened his mouth, reconsidered, and silently focused on his tray.

Wedge smirked into his mug. Peace, as always, was temporary.

Chapter Text

The rest of the squadron gathered for breakfast a little later in the morning.

"So, I'm curious," Phanan said, tapping his fork against his tray like a pointer, looking over at his superiors. "Commander, Major—who do the old-timers think of as the greatest fighter pilot in the galaxy?"

Wedge and Arden exchanged a look.

"Well," Wedge said, "we can hardly speak for the old-timers. And you're older than we are, Phanan."

"I meant your generation of pilots."

Wedge sighed. "It depends," he said.

Arden jumped in. "What are the criteria for 'greatest pilot'? I mean, sure, Luke Skywalker's got raw talent, but he didn't fly regular missions for long. Then you've got aces who racked up kill counts but got vaped by some lucky TIE rookie."

She raised an eyebrow at her commander. "But if you go by experience and survival, there's only one pilot who flew in both Death Star runs and lived to talk about it. Statistically speaking, Wedge Antilles is the best pilot the Rebellion ever had."

A snort broke the flow of conversation.

Falynn Sandskimmer sat back in her seat, arms folded, with an unimpressed tilt to her mouth.

Arden Lynn turned her head slowly. "Something amusing, Sandskimmer?"

Falynn waved a hand flippantly. "Oh, no offense, Major." Her tone made the rank sound ornamental. "But let's be honest—being good in an X-wing twenty years ago doesn't mean you can still pull the stick today. And I didn't see your name on either Death Star roster."

The table went quiet.

Arden's voice was cool. "You're right. I wasn't there." She rose from her seat with the precision of someone used to drawing attention only when she meant to. "I was somewhere else—surviving the part of the war most people don't know existed. But if you'd like a demonstration of my relevance, come along."

Reluctantly, Falynn stood, annoyance written across her face. "Where?"

"We're going flying," Arden said, her tone deceptively casual. "A little competition. If you're up to it."

"Now, wait," Falynn protested. "That's not fair. Until I'm through training, you still have some points on me in X-wings."

"How about repulsorlift ore haulers?" Wedge shot back.

"Good. Let's go." Arden confirmed.

Falynn blinked. "What?"

"I don't repeat myself," Arden said. She turned, already moving toward the door.

Falynn scrambled up, flustered. "Wait, I wasn't challenging you, I just meant—"

"She was, though," Wedge said calmly. He didn't get up. "And you picked the wrong woman to do it with."

Falynn hesitated, looking to Wedge for rescue.

He just raised his caf mug in salute.

The rest of the squadron was half out of their chairs, ready to trail behind.

Janson waved them down. "Finish your meals. We'll reconvene in the briefing room. I'll transmit the feed. Trust me—this is going to be very educational."

....

On the lip just above the first descent into the Trough, two bulky ore haulers rumbled to a halt. Their massive repulsors thrummed against the rocky plateau, the wind kicking up fine dust around the treads.

"Comm check," Wedge said through the channel, his voice clipped and professional. "Receiving, Sandskimmer?"

"Loud and clear," Falynn replied.

"Ards?"

"Online," Arden said, her tone cool, unreadable.

"Wes?" Wedge asked.

"I'm here," Janson chimed in cheerfully. "I've dropped a flare four klicks down the trench. First one to the light wins. No weapons, no shields, just repulsors and reflexes."

"Ready, Sandskimmer?" Wedge prompted.

"I've been ready since she stood up at breakfast," Falynn replied.

"And you, Ards?"

"You know I don't hold back," came the smooth answer.

Janson chuckled. "That's what I'm worried about."

Wedge's voice softened just a hair. "That's why I fell in love with her."

Before the frequency could drown in stunned silence or snark, Wedge said, "Go."

The signal barely hit the channel before Arden Lynn kicked her ore hauler forward, plummeting down the slope like she'd just stolen it. The massive vehicle howled in protest but obeyed her every command like a loyal beast. Falynn, caught off guard by Arden's speed, launched after her with a frustrated growl.

The descent into the Trough wasn't meant for speed. The haulers bucked and groaned with every dip in the rock, every bank in the trench. Falynn pushed hard, narrowing the gap, and swung up on Arden's flank, matching her line.

Without hesitation, Falynn sideslipped.

She slammed her hauler into Arden's with a bone-jarring jolt.

Arden didn't flinch. She anticipated it. Let the hauler absorb it. Then, with surgical precision, she braked for half a heartbeat and shifted right—her front end cutting inward. Her hauler's nose caught Falynn's rear quarter and gave it a hard nudge toward the trench wall.

Falynn overcorrected too fast—scraping the side of her hauler against the rock face, sparks flying from the friction.

Arden surged ahead, her hauler stabilizing like she was piloting a speeder, not a lumbering industrial relic.

Janson's voice filtered in. "She's not holding back."

Wedge grinned into the mic. "She never does."

From behind, Falynn's comm cracked with a string of Corellian curses, punctuated by a furious, "Again!"

Arden's voice was calm as she angled for the next bend. "You're welcome to try."

......

Falynn veered sharply to one side or the other, attempting to overtake. Arden mirrored her movements with fluid precision, blocking each maneuver like she was anticipating them two steps ahead.

Falynn's constant, increasingly imaginative stream of profanity crackled through the comms.

Wes Janson, spectating from a ridge with his macrobinoculars, gave a low whistle. "That's quite the vocabulary. You think she's got a holobook of Corellian slurs under her flight seat?"

Wedge's voice was dry. "She's throwing everything at Arden except the cargo hold—and Arden hasn't even broken a sweat."

"She never does," Wes muttered. "Remind me never to race her."

Ahead, the trench began to narrow. Falynn cut hard right, hoping to bait Arden into a slip.

Arden shifted with her—then saw it a half-second too late. A nest of half-buried boulders waited just over the ridge. Her front repulsors clipped them, sending the nose of her hauler bouncing upward, just enough for Falynn to slip by on the left.

Falynn whooped. "Got you!"

Arden caught her hauler's yaw with a small correction, dropping back in smoothly. "Enjoy the view while it lasts."

"Did she just say that like she was bored?" Wes asked.

Wedge chuckled, shaking his head. "She's saving her energy for the kill."

The rift curved left. Falynn took the wide, open ground like a racer hunting clean speed. Arden didn't.

Instead, she knifed her ore hauler right, into the tight alley between a boulder pile and the canyon wall. Her repulsors churned the loose stones under her hauler's belly, kicking a rockslide directly into Falynn's path.

"Hey—!"

Falynn swerved, coughing on dust. Arden took the inside of the curve and emerged a few meters ahead.

"You can't win fair, can you?" Falynn hissed.

"Fair is for parades," Arden replied. Her tone stayed smooth. Dangerous. "This is combat. Dress rehearsal or not."

The flare marking the end of the course glowed faint red in the distance. The trench straightened out, a flat stretch of terrain lined with danger. The right side was smooth and clear. The center was jagged, broken.

Falynn drifted right. Arden veered left.

Wes let out a low hum. "She's taking the hard way. Why?"

"She's setting something up," Wedge replied, eyes narrowing. "Wait for it..."

Falynn was gaining now, almost even as they neared the rockiest portion of the route. Just as she began to edge past, Arden made her move.

She veered sharply right—across the boulders—timing the arc perfectly.

Her hauler launched off the rocks, bow rising.

And slammed down right on top of Falynn's.

Falynn's vehicle buckled under the force, her repulsors shrieking in protest as Arden's hauler crushed into her from above, pinning her just long enough to bleed momentum.

Then, with a growl of repulsorlifts, Arden's vehicle sprang forward off of hers, stabilizing, straightening—and shot ahead.

She crossed the flare marker first, a clean and brutal finish.

Falynn's hauler rumbled in a second later, dust-caked and trailing exhaust.

"You—you—!" she started, furious.

Arden's voice crackled calmly over the comm. "That's right. I won."

Falynn huffed. "You cheated."

Wes let out a bark of laughter. "She says Lynn cheated!"

Wedge keyed his mic. "Falynn, let me paint you a picture. You're in an X-wing. An Imperial laser pierces your canopy. Your blood flash-boils, your organs rupture, and your squadmates find what's left of you with a mop. Are you going to sit there and call the TIE pilot a cheater?"

Falynn was silent for a beat.

"...No, sir."

Wedge's tone dropped into steel. "And what will you say?"

"I won't say anything, sir. I'll be dead."

Arden eased her hauler into a stop and swung its nose around in a graceful arc. "So what will you do to make sure that doesn't happen?"

"...Guess I'll have to learn to cheat."

"Good," Arden said, like a teacher passing an exam. "You've just proven you can learn two things in one day."

Wes chuckled. "And here I thought this was just going to be breakfast entertainment."

Wedge gave a long, satisfied exhale. "You really should know better than to poke a rancor and expect it to play nice."

Chapter Text

Wedge stood by the small shelf that passed for a liquor cabinet, pouring two fingers of Whyren's Reserve into a pair of mismatched glasses. He handed one to Arden as she leaned against the frame of his door, still in her flight suit, half-zipped down to her tank top.

"You know," he said, raising his glass in a little salute, "I've trained pilots most of my adult life. And I've never seen someone teach a lesson that brutally effective."

Arden laughed softly, the sound low and amused. "What can I say? The kid had it coming. Besides," she took a slow sip, "I didn't really hit her that hard."

"You landed a mining hauler on her canopy."

"She's lucky I like her."

Wedge smiled, watching her over the rim of his glass. "If you ever decided to come back to the squadron..." he paused, shrugging. "I wouldn't mind."

Arden set her glass down on the table. Her face softened, but she shook her head. "No. That chapter's closed."

Wedge didn't push. He just nodded, the weight of her words folding into the quiet. Still, the silence that followed wasn't comfortable. It pressed on him, full of things unsaid.

She moved toward him, slow and sure, like she already knew what he wasn't saying.

"What's in your head, Wedge?" she asked gently, brushing a hand up along his jaw. "You've been quiet."

He hesitated, eyes dropping for just a second. Then he met her gaze, the truth still tucked behind his lips.

He didn't answer.

Instead, he kissed her.

She let him.

His glass thudded softly on the floor as his hands came to her waist. She pulled him closer, fingers threading through his hair as he kissed her again—deeper, slower. The quiet of the room became the hush of breath and movement as he walked her backward toward the bed.

She never looked away, even as her knees hit the edge.

Wedge leaned in, lowering her down, her hair fanning across the pillow.

Still, he said nothing. Not about the promotion. Not about the future.

But Arden didn't press. She just touched his cheek one more time, lips parting against his with a whisper that didn't need words.

They understood each other, even in silence.

....

Wedge's lips found their way to the tender, sensitive flesh of Arden's neck, his teeth grazing her skin in a gentle, tantalizing bite that sent shivers down her spine. She arched into him, her body begging for more, her breath coming in ragged gasps. He chuckled, a low, seductive sound that reverberated through her, his hands gripping her hips firmly as he guided her down onto the bed.

His dark eyes held hers captive, a silent command to keep looking at him as he began to make his way down her body, his lips and tongue leaving a trail of fire in their wake. By the time he reached the apex of her thighs, Arden was writhing beneath him, her body already on the precipice of release.

Wedge held her firmly in place, his strong hands gripping her thighs as he settled between them. He took his time, his tongue exploring her with a slow, deliberate thoroughness that left Arden gasping for breath. He found her clit, his tongue flicking against it with a precision that spoke of a deep understanding of her body.

Arden cried out, her fingers tangling in his dark hair as she held him to her, her body shuddering with the force of her release. Wedge didn't let up, his tongue continuing its relentless assault even as she rode out the waves of her orgasm. He brought her to the edge again and again, his touch never straying from the rhythm that he knew would send her spiraling into ecstasy.

Arden's cries filled the room, a symphony of pleasure that echoed the passion that burned between them. As she came undone for the third time, she knew that she was lost, completely and irrevocably, to the man who held her in the palm of his hand.

As Wedge continued his relentless assault on Arden's senses, he began to slowly, torturously slide into her. His eyes never left hers, watching her expression as he inched forward, filling her inch by agonizing inch.

He could feel her body stretching to accommodate him, her muscles clenching around him as she gasped for breath. He took his time, grinding his hips against hers, allowing her to adjust to his size before pulling out and repeating the process. He wanted to draw this out, to make her feel every inch of him, to make her come undone again and again.

Arden could feel the tension building within her, her body coil like a spring ready to release. Wedge's slow, methodical pace was driving her to the brink of madness, her nails digging into the flesh of his back as she urged him on.

She could feel the heat of their bodies mingling, their sweat-slicked skin sliding against each other as they moved in a dance as old as time. She could feel another orgasm building, her inner muscles clenching around him as she teetered on the edge. And just as she was about to topple over, Wedge would slow down, his movements becoming almost languid as he savored the feel of her.

It was a cruel, exquisite torture that had Arden begging for release, her voice ragged with desire and frustration. But Wedge was a master at his game, and he wasn't about to give in just yet. He wanted to draw this out, to make this moment last an eternity. Because in the chaos of their lives, in the whirlwind of war and duty, this was their sanctuary. This was their heaven. And he was determined to make the most of it.

Wedge, sensing Arden's desperation, smirked wickedly, his dark eyes gleaming with amusement and desire. " Good girl." he murmured, his voice low. His words, laced with pride and possession, sent a shiver down Arden's spine, her body responding to his praise like a well-trained instrument.

She cried out, her inner muscles clamping down around him as another orgasm tore through her, his words pushing her over the edge. Wedge groaned, his control wavering at the feel of her spasming around him, but he held on, determined to make this last.

As Arden came down from her high, her body still trembling with aftershocks, Wedge began to move again, his thrusts becoming more urgent, more insistent. He could feel the tension coiling in his own body, the familiar tightening in his loins that signaled his own release was imminent.

He wanted to draw this out, to make this moment last, but his body had other plans. With a final, powerful thrust, he buried himself deep within her, his body shuddering as he found his own release. "Ards," he groaned, his voice ragged with passion.

As he collapsed onto the bed beside her, their bodies slick with sweat and their breaths coming in ragged gasps.

Chapter Text

The room was dim, lit only by the faint amber glow of the ship's standby lighting. The hum of distant systems filled the silence. Wedge lay on his back, the sheet drawn lazily over his hips, one arm draped across his forehead. Beside him, Arden Lynn shifted onto her side, tracing idle patterns along his chest with her fingers. Her eyes searched his face, even though he wasn't looking at her.

"You made love to me like we were never going to see each other again," she whispered. Her voice was steady, but quiet. Too quiet.

Wedge swallowed hard, his eyes still fixed on the ceiling. "Maybe I did," he admitted after a moment.

She didn't push him. She never did. Arden had the rare talent of knowing when silence said more than words ever could. But tonight, she waited—just a beat longer.

"This life," Wedge began, exhaling slowly, "It's not easy. You know that. Every once in a while, I catch myself wondering what would've happened if my parents hadn't died when that refueling station went up. If I'd stayed on Corellia. Maybe I'd have taken over their work. Grown the business. Had a family. Maybe a couple of kids. A house. A dog, even."

Arden gave a soft snort. "Wedge Antilles with a dog. That's a new image."

He smiled faintly, but it faded as quickly as it came. "That version of me... the one who stayed? He's probably safe. Rich. Happy. Married. Not haunted every day by names on casualty lists. Not waiting for the day his luck runs out."

"You're not unhappy," Arden said gently, though not as a question.

"No," he said. "I'm not. I'm content. But that's not the same."

He turned his head finally, met her gaze. "You've seen the reports. You know how many of my pilots I've buried. They die, and I don't. And the galaxy calls it luck. I call it inevitability delayed."

Silence fell again. Arden shifted closer, propping herself up on one elbow, her voice firmer now. "You're not a ghost yet, Wedge. You're still here. Still alive. You have more than luck. You have me."

Her hand moved to his cheek, thumb brushing along the edge of his jaw.

"I'll always be here for you, even when we're apart. But if we want something more—marriage, family, a life outside all of this—then someday, something has to give. The war can't last forever. And if it does... we can't."

Wedge looked at her, truly looked at her now. The way the light caught her dark eyes, the determination there that matched his own. A soldier. A survivor. And still, someone capable of imagining something softer, brighter.

"I know," he said, and for the first time, the words didn't feel like betrayal. "Ackbar offered me a generalship again. Staff work. A quiet post. And for a moment, I thought about saying yes."

Arden's eyes widened, but she said nothing.

"But I'm not there yet," he continued. "I still make more of a difference in a cockpit. I still owe something to the ones who never made it back. But... maybe someday."

She leaned down, kissed him softly, and when she pulled back, her smile was small but real. "I'll wait. But not forever."

He reached up, fingers tangling in hers. "I won't ask you to."

In the quiet, in the space between battles and duty, Wedge Antilles allowed himself—for just a little while—to believe that the future held something more than war.

Chapter Text

At the top of the hill, Wedge leaned back in his skimmer, arms folded behind his head, watching the Wraiths below as they splashed and wrestled in the surf. Beside him, Arden Lynn lounged in the passenger seat, her legs stretched out, sunglasses shielding her eyes from the bright sun. The two of them sat in comfortable silence, taking in the rare moment of peace.

The whirring sound of an approaching vehicle made Wedge sit up slightly. Admiral Ackbar climbed awkwardly into the back of the skimmer, his amphibious form looking distinctly out of place in the sun-drenched setting.

Ackbar made a thoughtful noise before turning his gaze to Arden. "Major Lynn, it's good to see you taking a well-earned break."

Arden lowered her sunglasses slightly, offering a smile. "Thank you, sir. I don't take them often, so I'm making the most of it."

"You're still fully dressed, Commander," Ackbar observed, turning to Wedge, his voice carrying its usual dry tone. "Shouldn't you be wearing a scrap of cloth and enjoying the water like the rest?"

Arden smirked. "You see, Admiral, I told him the same thing. He insists on being a curmudgeon."

Wedge smirked. "I'm not as close to the Wraiths as I am to the Rogues, sir. I think I'd make them uncomfortable."

"So, you are not 'one of the lads'? More like a real officer? As intimidating as a general?"

"Oh, yes, our bet. Actually, I was rather hoping you'd take this opportunity to acknowledge that the Wraiths had 'proven their worth,' as you put it."

Arden grinned, tilting her head toward Wedge. "I am trying to convince him."

Wedge shot her a look, but before he could speak, Ackbar let out a low chuckle. "Your three months aren't up yet. You are still in danger."

Arden lifted her sunglasses just enough to wink at Wedge before settling back again.

Wedge sighed, shaking his head with an exaggerated look of resignation. "Admiral, that's the story of my life."