The last time Chirrut stole Baze's breath, it was with a staff against his ribs. This time feels just as much of a shock, just as painful. Baze knows, intimately, that he'll hurt his friend no matter what he does. He doesn't like Chirrut, not in that way.

Baze doesn't like anyone in that way. He honestly hasn't given liking people very much thought; there was always so much more to do. Kitchen duties. Sparring. Library work.

But now, he's going to hurt Chirrut. Shavit. Baze realizes, slowly, that it might be easier to give into his friend. Might be easier to give him what he wants.

Baze draws a deep breath through his nose, and leans forward to mash his lips against Chirrut's.

Baze feels nothing.