Star Wars Rebels: A Gray Tale Chapter 20: (Not) A Steamy Nights

Yo ho guys, still pumping this full of stones I see? Like god damn, we are at 600 stones and just 2 days has passed. Thats so mad shit bro, like thats nearly our acculumation for the whole previous week. You guys really are GOAT.

This here is the regular chapter, and I would put up the bonus chapter for getting this baby into top 20 in around half an hour. Electricity's been a bitch here so work's been slow and not to ntion my internship supervisor suddenly reminded that I gotta complete the training and evaluate the Machine Learning Model that was supposed to be completed by next month, today. Jackass.

Now I am struck handling an 900x H100 GPU cluster to get this model ready since last night, And man, this cluster setup is so fucking clunky, like how tf does 72000 GB of VRAM is giving out of mory error is beyond ...

(this whole gpu cluster costs 9 Million Dollars, can you fucking imagine? No right!? Yeah too...Still doesn't feel like despite working on it. maybe bricking it may help remind of the price more acutely...jk)

And we passed 50k words! wohooo!

That's an average of 2.5k words per chapter. In my last book, where I used to cut chapters to make 1.7k word around words per chapter, soone had comnted about it, critiquing how I wasn't even posting an whole chapter etc etc and how scenes feel incomplete and all

Taking that to heart, in this book, I tried to keep every chapter end at its natural pace and atleast bigger than 2k words.

Thanks reader who's na I rember not, but words I do...

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Now that Vasha had proof I wasn't just so delusional tech whisperer with a superiority complex, things... shifted. She didn't imdiately hurl more broken gadgets at my head (disappointing, honestly), but she did start grilling like I was the main course at a paranoia-thed BBQ.

How did it feel? Did it hurt? Any headaches, dizziness, or uncontrollable urges to chant ancient binary code under moonlight? (Jury's still out on that last one—I did dream in hexadecimal once.)

I gave her the truth: it's fine. Really. Just kind of tiring, but in a fun, Sudoku-on-hard-mode-with-stakes kind of way.

She didn't look fully convinced—her eyebrow practically filed a complaint—but she didn't shut it down either. So... progress?

Over the next few days, I made it clear this wasn't just so tragic, noble sacrifice. I liked doing it. It wasn't just about the credits (though, hello, money—yes please). It was the thrill of resurrecting trash like so sort of junkyard necromancer. That seed to ease her guilt about "using" . Soon enough, she started hauling in chunkier, more "how-is-this-not-haunted" levels of scrap from the docks.

Most of it was destined for the compactor anyway—true lost causes. No one cared if you "rescued" a few pieces from the pile, as long as you weren't smuggling out an entire speeder bike under your coat like so sci-fi raccoon.

The only downside? My repair speed face-planted. Vasha had rules now—strict ones. No live power unless she was around. No tools with bite. No rogue jolts just to "see what happens." Which ant I could only poke and prod gently, like I was tech-flirting.

So, while I waited for her to get ho, I passed the ti reading books and absolutely failing at telekinesis. I'm serious—if my progress moved any slower, I'd be aging in reverse. Pretty sure I reached "grumpy old Jedi toddler" phase last week.

But when Vasha was ho? That's when the magic happened.

Turns out, two pairs of hands beat one, especially when one of those hands belonged to an actual licensed adult who knew what she was doing. Vasha didn't have psychic gear-fixing powers, but she had experience—which is, apparently, even better. I'd say what was wrong, and half the ti she'd already be halfway into fixing it before I finished talking. anwhile, I was still squinting at wires like they might confess to sothing.

Still, it worked. Slowly but surely, our pile of revived tech started looking less like cursed scrap and more like marketable goods. The credits ca in—not enough for a starship, but enough to stop checking the ration pack expiration dates like they were lottery numbers.

And if that ant fewer nights of sad soup and more ti elbow-deep in glitchy gadgets with Vasha at my side?

Yeah. I could live with that.

Or maybe not...

[A few days later]

I was complaining now. At least ntally.

The apartnt was officially reaching critical mass. What used to be a cozy, slightly ssy space had evolved into a full-on tech jungle. Vasha's repair station had taken over half the hallway like a territorial beast, and the stream of "hopeless" junk from the docks was turning the rest of the place into a graveyard of half-fixed electronics.

Couch? Gone.

My couch.

The sacred crash-zone I'd been sleeping on since day one had vanished beneath a heap of circuit boards and disassembled motivators. It had been repurposed into "storage," which was apparently code for "you're sleeping sowhere else now."

Sowhere else being Vasha's bed.

Her bed.

The bed of the woman whose anatomy was burned into my brain like so cursed map downloaded straight into my frontal lobe. The sa woman whose bare shoulders made my traitor of a brain throw confetti. The sa woman whose chest had—by complete accident—t my face not two weeks ago in an incident I had absolutely not replayed in excruciating detail while trying to fall asleep.

This was fine. Totally fine.

I froze in the doorway like a knocked-over protocol droid while Vasha casually flopped onto the mattress, shoved two pillows into place, and scooted over like this was so Tuesday night sleepover. The sheets were rumpled. Still warm. She patted the space beside her like this was no big deal.

"Co on, Ezra, get in. Reminds of the first day you ca here."

Oh, it reminded of sothing too, alright.

Sothing like: Congratulations, your puberty speedrun just unlocked Nightmare Mode.

Because here's the thing—my body might look seven, but biologically? Emotionally? ntally? None of it was cooperating. And apparently, neither was my blood flow.

I stood there, sweating like a stolen droid during a customs inspection. "Uh. Yeah. Right. First day. Totally the sa."

Except back then, I hadn't been hyper-aware of the way her thigh brushed mine when we passed in the hallway. I hadn't had entire ntal archives dedicated to how she slled after a long shift, or how her voice dropped when she was tired, or how her body heat made my psychic senses short-circuit like a fried interface chip.

Now? Now I was a walking, talking embarrassnt.

Vasha tilted her head. "You good?"

No. Absolutely not. Abort mission.

"Yep. Just... thinking about wiring. Yeah."

She snorted. "Nerd."

I forced a laugh and very, very carefully slid into the bed, keeping my back to her and my limbs as neutral as possible, like I was trying to diffuse an emotional landmine.

Because honestly? With the state of my dignity right now, one wrong move and I was going to self-destruct.

[Few monts later]

I thought I was safe.

I'd managed to slide into bed without incident, keeping a respectable, monk-like distance between us. My back was turned to her, spine straight as a blaster barrel—because if I even accidentally brushed against Vasha, my body might stage a mutiny.

So of course, she had to ruin everything.

She rolled over and threw an arm around like it was no big deal, tugging back against her.

"Mm, you're surprisingly cuddly for a scrawny thing," she mumbled, breath warm against my neck.

I went rigid. Not from panic—okay, so panic—but mostly because I had entered Defcon 1: Full-Body Awareness Mode. Her chest pressed against my back. Her legs tangled with mine. Her entire warm, soft, Vasha-ness wrapped around like I was so sort of sentient body pillow.

Great. Just great.

I tried to shift subtly, praying I wouldn't trigger a situation.

Instead, she just hugged tighter, nuzzling into my hair like I was an oversized tooka doll. "You're stiff as a droid."

Yeah, I noticed.

I exhaled slowly, attempting to de-stiffen (physically and emotionally). This wasn't a big deal. I was an adult. Kind of. ntally. I could handle this. Just needed to think about... boring things. Like wiring diagrams. Or tax forms. Or Wookiee toenails.

She sighed, her fingers drawing lazy patterns on my arm. "Better than the couch, right?"

"Uh-huh," I said, channeling the emotional range of a malfunctioning datapad.

She chuckled softly, the sound vibrating against my back. "You're such a weird little thing."

I grunted, pretending I wasn't internally screaming.

Eventually, her breathing slowed. Her grip relaxed. She fell asleep.

Finally.

I adjusted my position a little, carefully this ti. Less "panicked board," more "human who sotis experiences comfort."

It was fine. Totally fine.

…Mostly.

At least she hadn't noticed anything. Small rcies and all that.

Sohow, sleep found . Took its sweet ti, of course—I spent a good thirty minutes pretending her thigh wasn't pressed lightly against mine, like so cruel, slow-motion brain-lting curse. But eventually, I drifted off.

Thank the stars my body didn't co pre-installed with a full set of hormones. ntal chaos was already enough of a full-ti job.

Morning—or maybe fake Lothal dawn o'clock—ca way too soon.

I stirred, blinking groggily as I realized my face was currently pressed into sothing... soft. Really soft.

Ah. Right.

At so point during the night, I'd migrated into full sprawl mode. Cheek squished against Vasha's chest like it was the most natural pillow in existence. And worst of all?

It was comfortable.

Warm. Safe. Steady. Like being wrapped in a sleepy force field of Not My Problem. Her slow breathing was practically a lullaby.

For a mont, I considered the ethics of this. I really did.

Then I went, nah. If I'm already here…

I snuggled closer, breathing in the faint scent of engine grease and cheap soap, and let myself lt right back into sleep.

Vasha stirred slightly, mumbled sothing incoherent, and tightened her arm around like I was a particularly clingy heating pad.

She didn't wake.

Worth it.

===

When I finally woke up properly, the bed was empty. Pale golden sunlight filtered through the curtains—actual, honest-to-Force sunlight. Not the synthetic buzz of Lothal's neon hellscape, but real light. Right. Lothal. That realization still caught off guard, like a background process that hadn't finished booting.

I stretched and swung my legs over the edge. Cold tal floor. Classic. I shuffled out, yawning like a half-functional protocol droid, and checked the chrono: 0800. Early by our standards, especially after the marathon repair sessions we'd been pulling.

The sll hit next. Sothing savory. Sothing… cooked. I followed it to the kitchenette, where Vasha stood at the stove, back to , sleeves rolled up, hair barely held in a ssy bun, flipping sothing in a pan like a woman who had absolutely no idea she was the protagonist in my ntal fanfic.

I leaned on the doorway and just… watched. The way her shoulders moved, the hum under her breath, the casual confidence in every flick of her wrist—it felt weirdly intimate. Like I'd stumbled into a dream about dostic bliss and my brain hadn't decided to wake yet.

This was what normal looked like. Or whatever passed for it in our weird, grease-streaked little corner of the galaxy.

Speaking of authoritarian regis…

I shuffled into the kitchenette, still half-asleep, and hopped onto my usual stool. Without looking up from the stove, Vasha extended one arm toward , fingers wiggling in a co here gesture.

I sighed dramatically but obediently leaned forward, grabbing her sleeve to tug her closer. She bent down, and I pressed a quick, not so dry peck to her cheek—like a protocol droid executing a programd greeting. Talking about which, gotta turn on LQ too. Been thinking bout what na to give to it too..

Vasha's eyebrow arched. "Huh. Sobody's learning."

"If it's mandatory, might as well get it over with," I grumbled. "Now co on, lay on your tyrannical demands."

She grinned, dropped her spatula, and promptly grabbed my face in both hands. What followed was the kind of sloppy, exaggerated cheek kiss usually reserved for embarrassing toddlers in front of their friends. I scrunched my nose as she made a loud mwah sound, her thumbs squishing my cheeks together.

"Ugh, moist," I muttered, wiping my face with my sleeve.

"You'll live," she said, returning to her eggs like nothing had happened.

And just like that, the daily ritual was complete.

I leaned on the counter, watching her flip what might've been eggs—or possibly a fried boot sole, given Lothal's market discounts. The apartnt around us told a different story than our weirdly dostic morning. What had once been a cozy living space was now a glorified scrapyard. Tools, half-fixed gadgets, and a small mountain of repulsorlift parts had colonized every surface, including my forr couch-bed.

The clutter wasn't just inconvenient—it was unsustainable. And as Vasha slid a plate of questionable protein mash in front of , the idea I'd been chewing on solidified.

We needed a real workshop.

Not just for space, though stars knew we were desperate. For legitimacy. Right now, we were playing junkyard alchemists—resurrecting trash in our living room like back-alley chanics. It worked, sure. The credits were steady now, enough that Vasha's exhaustion had eased into sothing resembling optimism.

But we could do better.

Lothal's tech sector was starved for competent repairs. Miners, freighters, locals with ancient gear held together by prayers and spare parts—they'd pay for reliable service. And with my abilities? We could offer diagnostics no one else could.

The obstacles were obvious: rent, inventory, Vasha quitting her dock job. But the upside? Huge.

The real hurdle was convincing her. Pragmatism was her native language, and "let's gamble our savings" wasn't in her vocabulary.

"You're staring," she said, nudging my plate closer. "Either eat or start talking."

I poked the food. "Just thinking how we're one motivator away from needing a tetanus shot just to walk to the 'fresher."

She snorted. "We could sell so backlog."

"Or," I said, feigning casualness, "we get a place where 'backlog' isn't a lifestyle."

Her fork paused mid-air. "Ezra."

"I'm just saying—"

"No." She pointed the fork at . "Whatever sche you're brewing, no."

"It's not a sche." I lowered my voice before the neighbors reported a dostic disturbance. "You're better than the dock hacks. If we had a real shop, people would see that."

"And we'd see rent, bills, and unemployed," she countered. "No more free scrap. Junkyards charge by the gram, kid."

I slumped. She had a counter for everything.

Silence settled. The only sound was my fork scraping the plate like it was trying to escape.

Then, quietly: "You hate the dockyard."

Her jaw tightened.

"Borl's a sleemo. You co ho exhausted. But here?" I gestured to the chaos. "You're alive."

Vasha stared at like I'd just defied the laws of physics. Her gaze flicked to the piles of repairs, the tools, the half-dismantled speeder part on the table.

For a heartbeat, I thought I'd pushed too far.

Then, barely a whisper: "You really think we could pull it off?"

"Yeah." I shrugged. "'Cause you're the best. And I'm… decent moral support."

A slow smile crept onto her face—the kind that made her eyes crinkle at the corners. She shook her head, laughing under her breath.

"Damn it." She stabbed her food. "Fine. We'll talk numbers later."

I grinned and shoveled the rest of my al down before she could reconsider.

First brick laid.

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