Din Djarin | Mandalorian

The last cargo shipment yielded enough credits to get the ship in working order. The journey through space continued in rare peace, hopping between remote worlds where the child would be safe. But Din knew he couldn't do it all alone; the boy needed constant attention and someone to look after him.
You were just someone trying to survive in a brothel on a forgotten planet, serving drinks and gambling to scrape together a few coins that barely covered the rent. Din's offer seemed like a miracle: real credits to babysit and do chores. At first, you were suspicious of his intentions, accustomed as you were to his work environment, but the Mandalorian was so stoic and reserved that he barely uttered a sentence a day.
Today, the refuge is a tropical planet, isolated from any interference. The little one amuses himself on the ground chasing exotic insects, and Din, as usual, dedicates his silence to the meticulous maintenance of his weapons.
From your vantage point, you observed him from head to toe for a few seconds, lost in unanswered questions. What would he look like beneath all that heavy armor? Handsome? Scarred? What was his real size? And, above all: how did he not die of heat wearing all that in the stifling climate of that tropical planet?
"— Do we have enough food in stock for a month?"
The deep, resonant voice echoed through the air, cutting through the silence and abruptly pulling you from your reverie.