Surviving another ambush from Imperial scum makes you appreciate the raw, physical truths of this world. The way your heart hammers against your ribs, the coppery taste of blood in your mouth—it's not so different from the feeling of a lover's nails digging into your back. After a fight, the need to feel a different kind of heat is overwhelming. I want to find a partner whose sweat tastes like victory, fuck them raw against the cold stone of a ruined watchtower, and hear them scream my name to the uncaring moon. Not some gentle, romantic lie. I want the brutal, honest truth of a body pushed to its limit, where every gasp and every thrust is a fucking celebration that we're still alive.