Chapter Text
The Ghost dropped out of hyperspace under cover of night, the familiar fields of Lothal stretching beneath them in muted greens and golds. Even from orbit, Sabine could see the scars the Empire had carved into the planet—factories, checkpoints, mining sites cutting across the land like wounds that refused to heal.
Three months pregnant, and somehow Lothal still made her feel small.
She stood near the cockpit viewport with her arms folded loosely over her stomach. There wasn’t much to see yet beneath her armor and layered shirt, but she knew. Ezra knew. Hera definitely knew.
And lately, apparently, the Force knew too.
“You okay?” Ezra asked quietly beside her.
Sabine glanced at him. His hair had gotten longer again, curling slightly around his ears, and there was something sharper in his face these days. Seasoned. Tired. But every time he looked at her lately, warmth softened the edges.
“Yeah,” she said. “Just thinking.”
“Dangerous hobby.”
She snorted softly.
His hand brushed against the small of her back, subtle enough that nobody else in the cockpit commented on it. But Kanan noticed. Kanan noticed everything.
“We’re coming in near Old Jho’s place,” Hera announced from the pilot’s seat. “Same plan as before. We stay quiet.”
“On Lothal?” Zeb muttered. “That’ll be a first.”
Chopper barked a rude series of beeps.
Sabine shifted slightly as another wave of nausea rolled through her—not as violent as the first weeks, but enough to make her close her eyes briefly.
Immediately, Ezra looked down at her.
“You need to sit?”
“I need the galaxy to stop moving for five minutes.”
“That bad?”
“Not helping, Bridger.”
He smiled faintly. “Right. Sorry.”
Kanan watched the exchange from the doorway, thoughtful but silent.
The truth was, pregnancy aboard the Ghost had become… complicated.
Hera had quietly adjusted schedules so Sabine wasn’t pulling long repair shifts alone anymore. Zeb had stopped tossing ration packs at her after accidentally making her gag when one burst open and smelled “too fish-like.” Chopper had taken to hovering aggressively near anyone who startled her too badly, which was somehow both sweet and terrifying.
And Ezra—
Ezra hovered.
Not in an annoying way. Mostly.
He carried things before she asked. Remembered exactly which foods suddenly made her sick. Woke up instantly anytime she shifted too fast in the night. Sometimes she caught him staring at her stomach with this impossible expression—not fear, not disbelief anymore.
Wonder.
Like he still couldn’t believe someone existed there.
The Ghost landed in the tall grass outside Old Jho’s abandoned mill just before dawn.
As soon as the ramp lowered, cool air swept inside. Sabine breathed it in gratefully.
“Okay,” Hera said, turning toward them. “Remember, Governor Pryce tightened security after the rebel activity here. We keep our heads down.”
Ezra nodded, already pulling his hood up.
Sabine reached automatically for her paint supplies before Hera gave her a look.
“What?”
“You are not climbing onto rooftops while pregnant.”
Sabine blinked. “I’m sorry, since when?”
“Since now.”
“I’m still me, Hera.”
“And you’re also carrying a tiny person.”
Zeb coughed loudly into his hand. “Tiny Mandalorian Jedi person.”
Sabine pointed at him. “You stop talking too.”
Ezra failed miserably at hiding his grin.
The occupied streets of Lothal felt heavier than Sabine remembered.
Stormtroopers patrolled every corner. Citizens kept their heads lowered. Imperial propaganda flickered across screens mounted above the marketplace.
Ezra moved differently here now.
Less like the reckless street kid he’d once been and more like someone carrying ghosts in his pockets.
As they walked through the crowd disguised in stolen gear, Sabine noticed the way locals glanced at Ezra twice. Recognition. Hope.
The boy who’d never stopped fighting for Lothal.
“You’re doing the thing again,” Sabine murmured quietly.
Ezra looked at her. “What thing?”
“Brooding.”
“I do not brood.”
“You literally stare dramatically into middle distance.”
“That’s different.”
She rolled her eyes, but her hand found his briefly beneath the cover of her jacket.
A sudden sharp smell drifted from a nearby vendor stall.
Sabine froze.
“Oh no.”
Ezra’s eyes widened immediately. “Oh no?”
“The meiloorun stew—”
She turned and bolted down the alley.
Ezra followed instantly.
A minute later, Sabine sat against the wall behind the market, breathing hard after getting sick into a drainage grate for the third time that week.
“Well,” she muttered weakly, “that was dignified.”
Ezra crouched beside her, offering a canteen.
“You okay?”
“I hate everything.”
“You liked meiloorun stew last month.”
“I also liked not throwing up last month.”
He rubbed her back carefully while she rinsed her mouth.
There was still awkwardness in moments like these—not between them exactly, but in adjusting to what this actually meant. The reality of it. The unglamorous parts.
Sabine rested her head briefly against the wall. “You didn’t sign up for this.”
Ezra frowned immediately. “Yeah, I did.”
She looked over at him.
“When?”
“The second you told me,” he said simply. “Actually… probably before that.”
Her chest tightened painfully.
“You’re being annoyingly sweet again.”
“I learned from Hera.”
“That explains the emotional damage.”
Ezra laughed softly.
Then his expression shifted suddenly, attention flicking toward the street.
“What?”
He stood slowly, face sharpening with instinct.
“Stormtroopers,” he murmured. “And…”
His eyes narrowed.
“Ezra?” Sabine asked quietly.
“There’s someone else.”
Moments later, they saw him.
Commandant Brom Titus stepped into the square with a squad of troopers, barking orders at civilians while Imperial transports roared overhead.
Sabine stiffened immediately. “I hate that guy.”
“You and everyone else on the planet.”
The mission moved quickly after that.
They slipped through the city gathering intel on Imperial shipments while avoiding patrols, eventually reconnecting with Ryder Azadi and the growing rebellion hiding beneath Lothal’s surface.
But throughout it all, Ezra stayed hyperaware of Sabine.
Too aware.
When blaster fire erupted near the fuel depot later that evening, Sabine instinctively moved toward the front line with her pistols raised—
—and Ezra grabbed her arm.
“Wait.”
She stared at him. “Ezra—”
“You can’t rush straight into crossfire anymore.”
The words hit harder than either of them expected.
Sabine’s jaw tightened immediately. “I can still fight.”
“I know you can.”
“Then don’t do that.”
Blaster fire exploded nearby again.
Ezra lowered his voice. “I’m not trying to control you.”
“Then what are you doing?”
His expression cracked slightly.
“Trying not to lose both of you.”
The anger vanished from her face instantly.
Around them, the sounds of fighting blurred into the background.
Sabine looked down briefly, then back at him.
“You won’t,” she said softly.
Ezra swallowed hard.
She stepped closer, taking his hand and guiding it briefly to the small hidden curve beneath her armor.
A reminder.
A promise.
“We survive this,” she whispered. “All three of us.”
For a second, Ezra looked overwhelmed by the enormity of that sentence.
Then Zeb yelled from across the street, “If you two are done having feelings, we’re getting shot at!”
Sabine groaned. “Ruined the moment.”
“Completely,” Ezra agreed.
But he was smiling again.
And when they ran back into the fight side by side beneath the occupied skies of Lothal, they moved differently now—not just as rebels, not just as partners.
As the beginning of something larger than either of them had ever expected.
A family trying to survive a war.