The Jedi Temple on Coruscant was a bastion of serenity, a place where the chaos of the galaxy was meant to fade into a distant hum. But in Bastila Shan’s private quarters, high above the city-planet’s endless sprawl, serenity was nowhere to be found. The sleek, minimalist space—polished durasteel walls, a single low table, and a meditation mat—did little to calm the storm brewing within her. The panoramic window, framing the glittering chaos of Coruscant’s skyline, only seemed to mock her restlessness. She paced, her form-fitting robe clinging to her athletic frame with every sharp turn, the deep indigo fabric catching the dim light of the room. Each step was a silent curse, her jaw tight, her mind a tangle of frustration and something darker, something she refused to name.
Revan. Gone. Again. The weight of his absence pressed against her chest like a vibroblade, sharp and unrelenting. She’d fought alongside him, tethered herself to him through the Force, through something deeper—and now, nothing. Just silence. She stopped pacing long enough to glare at the city below, her reflection in the transparisteel a mirror of her irritation: sharp cheekbones, stormy gray eyes, and lips pressed into a line that could cut through duracrete.
A sharp chime at her door snapped her from her brooding. She didn’t need the Force to know who it was—only one person had the audacity to barge in unannounced with such regularity. With a flick of her wrist, the door slid open, revealing Jolee Bindo, the grizzled old Jedi whose very presence seemed to defy the Temple’s pristine order. His robes were as worn as his smirk, his gray hair a wild halo around a face etched with too many years and too many secrets. His eyes, though—those damnably sharp eyes—twinkled with mischief as he leaned casually against the doorframe, arms crossed.
“Well, well,” Jolee drawled, his voice rough as gravel but laced with amusement. “If it ain’t the great Bastila Shan, pacing holes in the floor. What’s got you wound tighter than a Hutt’s credit ledger? Missin’ someone, are we?”
Bastila’s gaze snapped to him, her posture stiffening as if she could physically deflect his words. “Don’t start, old man,” she shot back, her tone icy but her eyes betraying a flicker of something raw. “I’m in no mood for your nonsense today.”
Jolee chuckled, stepping into the room uninvited, his boots scuffing the polished floor. “Oh, I can see that. You look like you’re ‘bout to Force-push the whole Temple into orbit. But I ain’t here to fight, girl. Just checkin’ in on my favorite prodigy. You gonna offer me a seat, or do I gotta stand here ‘til my knees give out?”
She didn’t move, didn’t soften, but her lips twitched—just for a split second—before she masked it with a scowl. “You’ve got two minutes, Jolee. Say what you came to say, then get out. I’m not in the mood for company.”
He raised a bushy eyebrow, his smirk widening as he dropped into the nearest chair without waiting for permission. “Two minutes, eh? That’s barely enough time to warm up. But fine, I’ll cut to the chase. You’re a mess, Bastila. And don’t gimme that look—I’ve seen enough broken hearts and restless souls to know one when I see it. Revan’s got you all twisted up, don’t he?”
Her fingers curled into fists at her sides, the air around her crackling with barely restrained energy. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she snapped, stepping closer, her voice low and dangerous. “Revan is a mission, nothing more. And I don’t need your pity—or your unsolicited commentary.”
Jolee tilted his head, unfazed by her venom, his eyes glinting with something that made her stomach twist in a way she didn’t want to acknowledge. “Pity? Nah, girl, I ain’t got any of that for you. But I do got eyes. And I see a woman who’s been left high and dry, pacin’ her fancy quarters like a caged nexu. You need to loosen up, Bastila. Let that tight grip o’ yours slip a little. Might do you some good.”
Her breath hitched, though she masked it with a sharp laugh, crossing her arms over her chest as if to shield herself from the heat creeping up her neck. “Loosen up? Is that your grand Jedi wisdom? Tell me, Jolee, how exactly do you propose I do that? Shall I abandon my duties and run off to some backwater cantina like you did in your youth? Or perhaps you’ve got a more... personal suggestion?”
The words hung between them, heavy with implication, and for the first time, Jolee’s smirk faltered—just for a heartbeat—before it returned, sharper than ever. He leaned forward in the chair, resting his elbows on his knees, his gaze locking with hers in a way that sent a shiver down her spine. “Oh, darlin’, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re fishin’ for somethin’ you ain’t ready to handle. But I’ll bite. You want personal? I got stories that’d make even a Sith blush. Question is, can you keep up?”
Bastila’s lips parted, a retort on the tip of her tongue, but the heat in his tone—the challenge in his eyes—caught her off guard. She stepped closer, her robe swishing softly against her legs, her presence commanding even as her pulse quickened. “Don’t play games with me, old man,” she said, her voice a low purr now, laced with something dangerous. “I’m not some wide-eyed padawan you can charm with your rogue nonsense. If you’ve got something to say, say it. Otherwise, stop wasting my time.”
Jolee’s chuckle was low, almost a growl, as he stood, closing the distance between them until they were mere inches apart. He was taller than she’d expected, his weathered frame still carrying a quiet strength that made her hyper-aware of the space—or lack thereof—between them. “Wastin’ your time? Girl, I’m the best damn distraction you’ve had all week. But if you want me to spell it out, fine. You’re wound up, Bastila. And I reckon I know a thing or two ‘bout unwindin’ a woman with too much on her shoulders. Care to test that theory?”
The air thickened, charged with something neither of them was willing to name. Bastila’s eyes narrowed, but her cheeks flushed, a betraying warmth spreading across her skin as she held his gaze. “You’re insufferable,” she hissed, though her voice lacked the bite she intended. “And you’ve overstayed your welcome.”
Jolee’s grin was maddening, his eyes flicking over her face as if memorizing every detail of her unraveling composure. “Maybe. But you ain’t kicked me out yet, have you?”
For a long, agonizing moment, they stood there, the silence between them louder than the hum of Coruscant outside. Her breath was shallow, her mind racing with things she refused to acknowledge—things his presence, his words, had stirred awake. Then, with a sudden, sharp movement, she stepped back, her hand slamming against the door control panel. The durasteel slid shut with a hiss, nearly catching Jolee as he stepped back just in time, his laughter echoing even through the barrier.
“Two minutes are up, old man!” she called through the door, her voice steady but her hands trembling as she pressed them against the cool metal, trying to anchor herself. Her cheeks burned, her heart a wild drum in her chest, and she cursed under her breath—not at him, but at herself. At the way his words lingered, at the way her body had betrayed her with that flush, that heat.
On the other side of the door, Jolee’s low chuckle faded as he turned away, shaking his head. “Oh, Bastila,” he muttered to himself, a wry grin tugging at his lips. “This is gonna be fun.”
Inside, Bastila sank against the wall, her eyes closing as she fought to steady her breathing. She was in control. Always. But for the first time in a long time, she wasn’t so sure. And that terrified her more than any Sith ever could.
Want to know how it ends?
This is just the opening chapter. Continue the saga - or write a steamy tale starring you.