“Spar with me,” she says, a brisk command as though he’s one of hers and not some leftover she sees as other, lesser, apart. “Not over that,” she adds, as his hand drifts over the saber hilt at his belt, “just for fun - or is that one of those things you’re not supposed to have?”

That settles it for him - he’s not supposed to have a kid either, or a darksaber, or a face - and when he gets lucky, gets the better of her and pins her to the floor, he takes the chance to say, “Remind me to tell you about the other things I’m not supposed to have sometime,” before she heaves him off; it’s worth the blood on his lip her headbutt leaves him with.