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Corran pointed back to where a tech was using a crane to pull Whistler out of his green and white X-wing. “Whistler will be available in just a second.”

Her grip on his hand tightened. “Not quite the assistant I had in mind.”

Corran felt a burst of heat rush up his body, then his face reddened. He looked over at Wedge. “If you don’t mind, General, I guess I have some cooking to do.”

Whistler’s diligent timing of the baking ryshcate and his promise of a shrill alarm when it was done enabled Corran and Mirax to spend time outside the kitchen of their small apartment. The kitchen itself, while boasting some of the best appliances available, felt as cramped as an X-wing cockpit when all three of them tried to crowd in there. They retreated to a small living room, which was built side-by-side with the smaller of the apartment’s two bedrooms. Mirax used that room as an office for her import-export business, which meant it remained crammed with all manner of odd things. Corran didn’t mind that, though, since the clutter made it difficult to offer the room to Mirax’s father as a place to stay on his visits to Coruscant.

Mirax had redecorated the master bedroom while Corran was off with Rogue Squadron chasing Grand Admiral Thrawn. Redecorating while a war raged may have seemed frivolous, but Corran could understand it. He knew Mirax had not been idle during the Thrawn crisis. She had spent a great deal of time rescuing refugees from worlds Thrawn had threatened and running supplies to those who needed them. When she returned to their apartment in Coruscant, the empty bedroom she had shared with him emphasized the fact that he wasn’t there. By changing it around, by rearranging it into something she would show me when I returned, she worked toward making a future as opposed to worrying about an uncertain present.

Once the baking process had been turned over to Whistler, Mirax gladly and anxiously showed him all the changes she had made. He found the new bed very comfortable, the carpet woven of Ottegan silk very soft, and the nerf-wool towels decidedly greedy in drinking up the water left behind after a hot, steamy stint in the refresher station. Mirax had even made changes in his wardrobe, having added a couple of suits that were stylishly cut—though the bright colors did seem a tad harsh on his eyes.

Mirax snorted at his protests about the color of the outfit she wanted him to wear. “That vibrant green in slacks and tunic, with an ivory banded-collar shirt beneath, that’s the style now, Corran. The Empire made its last attempt to destroy the New Republic. Wearing dour Imperial colors, or the drab sort of things folks wore when fighting them, is out. Those clothes served to hide one away, but no longer.”

“It’s one thing to not be hiding away, but another to make yourself a target.” He smiled as he watched Mirax settle little dangling earrings in her lobes. The jewelry had a silvery sheen to it, much like the highlight and accent color of her gown. Corran couldn’t quite figure out how the long black dress, which had been cut low in the front and lower in the back, managed to get silver highlights—perhaps, it uses some weirdly shaped thread in the weave that reflects from certain angles—but it clearly made Mirax into a target. “Very impressive gown.”

“Why, thank you. You got it for me for our anniversary.”

Corran started to speak, then hesitated and frowned. He saw Mirax watching him in the mirror, so he just winced. “I didn’t forget the day, you know.”

“I know. I got the message you sent. I knew this was the sort of thing you’d get if you were here, so I just helped you out.” She turned and kissed him on the lips. “You know, even though we’ve had to spend a fair amount of time apart, I am very happy to be married to you.”

“As I am to you.” Corran stroked the bare flesh over her spine as he kissed her. “The next Imp or warlord or pirate that decides to keep us apart is dead, just clean dead.”

“My thoughts