The cityscape of Coruscant glittered like a field of stars beyond the wide transparisteel window of Bastila Shan’s private quarters. The sleek, minimalist apartment—all sharp lines and cold durasteel—was a reflection of the woman who inhabited it: controlled, precise, and untouchable. Yet tonight, as the endless streams of speeder traffic painted streaks of light across the darkness, Bastila felt anything but in control. Revan’s absence gnawed at her, a quiet ache that no amount of Jedi meditation could soothe. She paced the room, her robes whispering against the polished floor, her hands clenched behind her back as if to physically restrain the restlessness bubbling beneath her disciplined exterior.
A sharp chime at the door broke her spiraling thoughts. She froze, her jaw tightening. She knew who it was before the security panel even confirmed it. Jolee Bindo. The old hermit had a habit of showing up unannounced for his so-called “check-ins,” as if she were some wayward Padawan in need of supervision. With a flick of her wrist, she activated the door controls, the panel sliding open with a soft hiss.
There he stood, leaning casually against the frame, his weathered face split by a crooked grin. His gray hair was as wild as ever, his robes more patchwork than proper Jedi attire, and his eyes—sharp and knowing—seemed to see right through her carefully constructed walls.
“Well, well, if it ain’t the great Bastila Shan, pacing holes in her fancy floor,” Jolee drawled, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. “You look like you’ve been wrestling a rancor in your head. Care to share, or should I just guess?”
Bastila’s lips pressed into a thin line as she crossed her arms, her posture rigid. “I’m perfectly fine, Jolee. And I don’t recall asking for company. What brings you here at this hour?”
He chuckled, a low, gravelly sound that grated on her already frayed nerves, and dropped into one of her minimalist chairs without a shred of decorum, his boots scuffing the pristine floor. “Oh, come off it, girl. I’m here ‘cause I figured you’d be stewing in your own misery. Revan’s gone, and you’re doing a piss-poor job of hiding how much it’s eating at you. So, let’s talk. Or fight. I’m good with either.”
Her violet eyes narrowed, a spark of irritation flaring. “I don’t stew, Jolee. And I certainly don’t need your unsolicited commentary on my emotional state. I am a Jedi. I manage.”
“Manage, huh?” He leaned back, folding his arms behind his head, utterly unbothered by her icy tone. “Is that what you call wearing a groove in the floor? Looks more like you’re one bad day away from Force-throwing something through that pretty window.”
Bastila’s fingers twitched, and for a fleeting moment, she considered doing just that—though whether the target would be the window or Jolee was debatable. She took a measured breath, reining in her frustration. “If you’ve come to mock me, you can leave. I have no patience for your nonsense tonight.”
Jolee’s grin widened, his eyes glinting with mischief. “Mock you? Nah, I’m just pointing out the obvious. You’re wound tighter than a Hutt’s purse strings. When’s the last time you let yourself breathe, Bastila? Or—stars forbid—laughed?”
Her gaze sharpened, and she stepped closer, looming over him with the authority of a battlefield commander. “I don’t have the luxury of indulging in frivolity, Jolee. Unlike some, I take my responsibilities seriously. The Jedi Code is not a suggestion to be ignored when it suits you.”
He didn’t flinch, didn’t even sit up straighter. Instead, he tilted his head, studying her with an intensity that made her skin prickle. “Ahh, there it is. The Code. Your favorite shield. You gonna hide behind it forever, or are you ever gonna admit you’re human under all that self-righteous armor?”
The words stung more than she cared to admit, striking at the very core of the turmoil she’d been wrestling with. She leaned down slightly, her voice dropping to a dangerous purr, each word laced with steel. “Careful, old man. I’m not in the mood for your games. You may have abandoned the Order’s principles, but I haven’t. Push me, and I’ll remind you exactly why I’m not to be trifled with.”
Jolee’s eyebrows shot up, but the amusement in his expression didn’t falter. If anything, it deepened, his grin turning downright roguish. “Oh, I’m shaking in my boots, darlin’. But let’s be real—you’re not gonna Force-choke me over a little honesty. Or are you? ‘Cause I gotta say, I’d be mighty impressed if you did.”
Her breath caught, a mix of exasperation and something hotter, more dangerous, flickering through her. She straightened abruptly, turning away to hide the flush creeping up her neck. “You’re insufferable,” she snapped over her shoulder, striding toward the window to put distance between them. “Why do I even tolerate you?”
“Because I’m the only one who calls you on your bantha crap,” he shot back, his voice warm with laughter. He stood, following her at a leisurely pace, his boots scuffing the floor again just to annoy her. “And deep down, you like it. Keeps things interesting, don’t it?”
She whirled on him, her robes flaring with the motion, and found him closer than she expected. Too close. The air between them crackled, charged with something she refused to name. “You presume too much, Jolee Bindo,” she said, her tone low and cutting, but her eyes betrayed a flicker of uncertainty. “I don’t need ‘interesting.’ I need focus. Discipline. Things you clearly know nothing about.”
He smirked, stepping just a fraction closer, his voice dropping to match hers. “Discipline’s overrated, sweetheart. Sometimes, a little chaos is exactly what you need to shake things up. And I reckon I’m just the man to provide it.”
Her heart thudded traitorously in her chest, and for a moment, she couldn’t find her words. She opened her mouth to retort, to reassert her control, but before she could, Jolee reached out—ostensibly to adjust a stray lock of her hair that had fallen loose from its tight braid. His fingers brushed her cheek, a fleeting, accidental touch that sent a jolt through her. Their eyes locked, and the room seemed to shrink around them, the hum of Coruscant fading into a distant murmur.
Neither moved. Neither spoke. The weight of that unspoken something hung heavy between them, a spark waiting to ignite. Bastila’s breath hitched, her lips parting slightly, but she caught herself before she could betray more. She stepped back, breaking the moment, her expression shuttering once more.
“I think you’ve overstayed your welcome,” she said, her voice colder than she felt. “Goodnight, Jolee.”
He studied her for a long beat, then nodded, the smirk returning as if nothing had happened. “Fair enough, princess. I’ll see myself out. But don’t think this is the last you’ve heard of me. We’ve got unfinished business, you and I.”
As the door hissed shut behind him, Bastila stood rooted to the spot, her hand instinctively brushing the spot where his fingers had lingered. She stared out at the cityscape, her reflection a ghostly overlay on the transparisteel, and cursed herself for the heat still simmering beneath her skin. Whatever this was, it was a complication she didn’t need. But as she turned away from the window, she couldn’t shake the feeling that Jolee Bindo had just lit a fuse she wouldn’t be able to extinguish.
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