cassian andor's doll ♡

Author's Note: First ever smut in my 20 something years of living and of course I choose Cassian for this. Are there any Cass stans out there? 🥲 Feel like nobody ever talks about him but he's so important to me. After this fic, I'll probably take a breather as I don't really have much else planned besides a few messy drafts. Anyways, if there's a single Cassian lover out there who reads this and enjoys it, it'd make my heart absolutely soar. Thx 4 reading, everybody!

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You weren’t expecting a warm welcome.

The Rebellion didn’t deal in courtesies. Every outpost, every mission—it was about efficiency, survival, and who was still standing at the end of the day. But still, you were expecting something more than this.

Cassian Andor doesn’t even look at you when you step into the command tent, at first. He finishes reading whatever’s on the datapad in his hand, brows furrowed, jaw set tight. You wonder if this is just how he always looks—on edge and bracing for impact. When he does look up, it hits you like a punch to the stomach. He looks at you like you’re a problem. Like you’ve already made a mistake by being here.

It’s the first thing you notice. Not his sharp jawline, not the rough stubble shadowing his face, not even the way he stands—feet planted, arms crossed, every muscle taut with something unreadable.

No, the first thing you notice is the weight of his gaze. Suspicion. Guarded. Calculating.

They had sent you here with little explanation—assist Captain Andor, integrate into the missions, follow his orders—but no one warned you that he’d look at you like this. Like he’s waiting for you to prove him right. You press your lips together. You were clearly not the ally he was hoping for. Tightening your grip on the strap of your bag, you speak for the first time, "You think I'm a liability."

Cassian’s steady gaze stays on you. “I think I don’t know you.” His eyes sweep over you, assessing. “But you’re not easy to trust.”

You've heard that before, from officers who kept one hand on their blaster and the other one ready to push you out of the way. From commanders who never let you forget what you used to be before the Rebellion.

You take a step closer, letting the fire in you flare just a little. “Guess you’ll just have to keep an eye on me then.”

Cassian’s jaw tightens. But he doesn’t step back. Though he doesn’t say anything after that.

━━━━⊱︎⊰━━━━

Weeks later on a mission, your boots are soaked through and the wind cuts sharper than it has any right to. You’ve been through worse—nights sleeping under damp tarps, mornings where frost settled into your boots before you could even lace them. But something about tonight’s cold sinks straight to your bones.

Now you’re standing in the cold pretending it doesn’t bother you. And Cassian notices. Of course he does.

He shrugs off his coat and tosses it at you with a flick of his wrist. You blink down at it, then back up at him. “I’m fine.”

“You’re shaking.”

“I’m—”

“Put it on.”

His voice is firm, but not unkind. Like he’s made a decision and arguing won’t change it. Annoyingly, that tone of his sends heat straight to your core, even as your breath fogs in the freezing air.

You stare at him a beat longer, breath puffing out white clouds, before exhaling sharply and sliding the coat over your shoulders. It smells like blaster oil and heat and the weight of him—sharp, worn, unmistakably Cassian.

━━━━⊱︎⊰━━━━

It takes a few days to make it to the next fallback point. The terrain is rough, the weather brutal, and morale is low. But it’s Cassian you’re watching. He’s quieter. He won’t look at you for long. He barely speaks unless it’s to give an order. And somehow that grates on you more than all the orders he’s ever given.

The fourth night, after yet another bare-bones meal for dinner, you slip away from the firepit and follow the faint sound of water. You find him standing knee-deep in the river, arms tense, shoulders bare under the moonlight. Cassian turns when he hears you. “You’re supposed to be sleeping,” he says.

“So are you.”

He doesn’t argue. You glance at the bruises across his ribs. The streaks of ash on his jaw and the ripple of tension he always wears on it like armor. “You’re hurt,” you say softly.

His gaze flicks to your arm, still bandaged. “So are you.”

You step into the river without thinking. The water is cold, biting at your skin, but you keep going until you’re close enough to reach for him. Your fingers skim over his shoulder, across a bruise forming high on his chest.

Cassian exhales, eyes fluttering shut for just a second. Then—soft, almost careful—“Don’t move.”

You don’t ask what he means. You don’t have to. His skin is warm under your palms, your gaze observes his face when he drags you a little closer. Your thumb traces a cut along his jaw. But, he catches your wrist. And then his lips brush the inside of your wrist, so lightly you could lie to yourself and say it was nothing.

“Cassian…” you whisper.

He stays quiet. He doesn't kiss you, even though deep down you want him to. Just presses in—closer than before—close enough to catch your breath, and stays there. And in the silence, only the night answers back.

━━━━⊱︎⊰━━━━

The next mission isn’t long, but it’s long enough for you to notice the way Cassian's eyes feel on you when you’re not looking. Enough for you to realize what’s been holding him back isn’t doubt but worry. Not about you. For you.

You’re crouched behind a low ridge one night, surveying a mining compound, and you can feel the air between you charged and tight.

“You’re quiet,” you murmur.

“I’m thinking,” Cassian says.

“About?”

“Extraction routes.”

You glance at him. “Liar.”

He doesn’t deny it. Just says, “You’re not easy to ignore.”

You blink, then look back toward the compound. You don’t answer—just let the corner of your mouth lift, and hope he catches it.

“You’re reckless,” he says after a moment.

You huff a quiet breath. “So are you.”

“Yeah, but you’re new.”

“Yeah, but I’m not stupid.”

“No,” he says after a pause. “You’re not.”

You watch him from the side. “Are you always like this with new people?”

“I usually don’t care about new people.”

You go still. Cassian’s eyes flick toward you. “I notice everything. You should know that by now.”He stands up, lingering just a little bit closer.

That night, you patch up a graze on his shoulder. He doesn’t pull away when your fingers brush skin. He watches you with his jaw tense like always.

When you’re done, he says, “Thank you,” and your chest aches with the effort of pretending it means nothing. But you’re both pretending. And the cracks are starting to show.

━━━━⊱︎⊰━━━━

The mission’s gone sideways in too many directions, and you're running out of clean shots and clean exits. But what gets under your skin isn’t the enemy fire, it’s the way Cassian keeps pushing ahead like you’re not right there beside him.

You cover him. Twice. He doesn’t acknowledge it. Just reloads and barks for you to move faster.

By the time you reach the rendezvous point, your heart’s hammering, your thigh’s bleeding, and your patience is gone. “I had that angle,” you snap as you duck behind a crate.

“No, you didn’t,” he fires back, checking the charge on his blaster. “You hesitated.”

“I was covering you.”

“I didn’t need covering.”

The tension crackles as loud as the blaster fire behind you. You don’t look at each other, you don’t have to. The frustration between you is too sharp, too close to something else.

Later, back at the safehouse, frustration follows you both in. He slams the door harder than necessary. You drop the intel onto the table harder than you should.

You don’t speak. But it’s all sitting there, tight in your chest, waiting to blow and the silence between the two of you gets heavier by the second.

━━━━⊱︎⊰━━━━

The mission went to hell. Again.

Cassian’s bleeding from his lip, your boots are caked in dust, and the intel package you weren’t supposed to have is now sitting in your bag—because you grabbed it first. He didn’t.

“I had it handled,” he snaps as you storm into the safehouse. “You didn’t have to blow our cover.”

You rip off your gloves. “You were pinned with a blaster at your neck. Forgive me for improvising.”

“You didn’t listen,” Cassian growls, flinging his arm out like he’s one second from losing it. “I told you to wait for my signal!”

You toss your gloves to the floor, scoffing. “You would’ve been dead if I had, Captain.” Your voice cuts—sharp and aimed to hit.

His eyes narrow. “You think you’re clever.”

You step in, a bit closer, voice steady. "No. I know I am.”

And then he breaks, finally. One second of silence and he’s on you, mouth crashing into yours like he’s trying to shut you up, like it’s the only way left to speak or reason with you. It's everything that’s been coiled tight between you two breaking loose all at once.

His hand grabs the back of your neck, anchoring you just before you’re slammed against the wall, breath knocked from your lungs, his mouth crashing into yours like he’s done pretending. Fingers in your hair, body pressed tight to yours, his lips trailing fire down your jaw and neck, every inch of space, gone.

“You don’t think. You act," He reprimands while he keeps trailing down, suckling, "Like you’re not mine to worry about,” he mutters against your skin.

“I’m not yours—” A moan from your lips cuts you off before you can finish when his mouth finds the curve of your neck and lingers there, sucking slow and deep until the skin heats beneath his tongue and you know it’s going to mark.

“You’re just pissed,” you breathe, thinking maybe this is fury, maybe it’s impulse, maybe it’s everything all at once.

“I’m in love with you,” he bites out. “It’s the same thing.”

Cassian’s chest rises fast against yours. He doesn’t pull back. You try to say something. Anything. But your voice falters again, and all that comes out is breath.

He reads that like a signal. One second you’re standing, the next he grips your thighs and lifts you, carrying you across the room with staggering purpose. You barely register the room spinning around you before your back hits the cot, frame creaking beneath the weight of your bodies.

He’s hovering over you, the heat radiating off of him. His breath, hands, mouth, are all over you like he’s making up for every second he had to wait.

His hands are rough where they want to be, but loving where they linger. He shoves your shirt up, palms your breasts, thumbs working slow circles until you arch into him. He strips you down fast, dragging your pants off with a growl, and you can barely think while you undress him too.

His mouth trails along your stomach, down your thighs, and when you whimper, when your hips lift instantly for him—he presses you down with both hands.

Steady. In control. Maddening.

His eyes drop—and for a moment, he just stares. Like the sight alone took the breath from him. His mouth parts, jaw slack, eyes glazed with something close to awe. “Perfect,” he whispers, almost like it wasn’t meant to come out. “Look at you…”

He lowers himself again, breath warm against your thigh, lips ghosting over your skin as he settles between your legs. His tongue starts slow and focused. You gasp as his tongue begins to lap up every bit of your slick. And when you moan this time, it's his name. But it sounds like a plead and it only makes him hungrier.

He devours you like he’s starving. Like he hasn’t tasted anything real since the war started. Like you’re the first thing that’s made him feel full in a long time.

His tongue moves slow at first with long, deliberate strokes from bottom to top, savoring every drop like it’s keeping him alive. Then faster, more focused, the flat of his tongue dragging over your clit with maddening precision, again and again, until your hips jerk under his mouth. He groans into you, the vibration sending sparks through your spine.

And when you're gasping, legs trembling, everything unraveling, you fist your hand in his hair and yank. His head lifts fast at that. He's looking at you with heavy lidded eyes, his lips glistening, chin wet. He’s drenched in you, mouth parted like he’s still tasting you. The look in his eyes is wrecked and ravished, like if you gave him one more second down there, he’d never come back up.

But you don’t give him the chance. You tug him higher, guide him with shaking hands. He groans when your fingers wrap around his length as you angle your hips and drag him toward where you need him most.

And then, he sinks in slow and deep.

When he finally bottoms out, his eyes are searching your face like he’s afraid he imagined it. Your cheeks are flushed, lips parted, eyes glazing over with pleasure—you look like everything he never thought he’d be allowed to have.

“Feels like..” he whispers, voice shaking. “Feels like you were made for me"

He pulls out slow—torturously slow—and then thrusts back in hard, with a sharp snap of his hips and you break open beneath him, undone and unfiltered.

Your breath’s caught somewhere between a gasp and a moan, but you still manage to say his name—barely audible, but a tantric prayer. He says yours in return, like a vow, like it's the only thing grounding him.

The cot rocks beneath you with every thrust, steady and relentless. Cassian's hands stay locked onto your waist while he fucks into you like he’s making up for every second he had to pretend this wasn’t real. Every thrust gets rougher, deeper, like he wants to live inside you.

You’re already close, the pressure building fast. Your nails dig into his shoulders, your breath catching on every thrust. “Cassian—”

He groans when you say his name like that, desperate and broken. His hand snakes down between your bodies, fingers circling your clit without hesitation, firm and focused. “I’ve got you,” he rasps. “Come for me.”

And this time, when he gives a command, it’s not like the others. Not barked out in the field, not clipped and tactical. This one’s just for you, just for now.

And you obey. It hits hard—your whole body arching, clenching around him, mouth open in a moan you can’t even bite back. He watches you fall apart like it’s the most important thing he’s ever seen. Like he’d die to make it happen again.

“Fuck—you’re squeezing me so tight" he mutters, voice unraveling. You grab his face and make him look at you. “Finish inside me.”

His jaw clenches, like he’s trying to hold it together. “You want me to?” He asks, looking down at you, so fucking beautiful, afraid that wanting it this much might break him.

You nod, eyes never leaving his. And that's all it takes for Cassian to let out a low, guttural groan while his rhythm falters. His hips snap forward once, twice, then he buries himself deep, gasping your name like it’s the only word he remembers.

He stays there, buried deep, breathing like he doesn’t want to leave this version of himself. One of your legs is still wrapped around his waist, trembling but holding him in place, like neither of you are ready to let go.

You can feel him still inside you—thick, spent, warm. His release already starting to leak out of you and around him, sticky and slow between your thighs.

“You’re reckless,” he mutters. Though it sounds like affection when he says it this time.

You hum against his skin. “So are you."

And still, he doesn’t move.

The room is quiet but the soft sounds of the cold night outside echo. The wind, the faint hum of crickets, and the distant rustle of leaves. It all feels far away. Like nothing exists outside this cot, this breath, this moment.

Afterward, when you’re trembling and tucked into his chest, you let yourself sink into the warmth of him. He feels solid, quiet, and safer than anywhere you’ve been in a long time.

Your voice is barely above a whisper, almost shy. “I didn’t mean that thing I said earlier… about not being yours.”

Author's Note: idk how to write smut, but im trying okie?!

PS- if i have any james kelly/hayden christensen girlies, i posted a lil one shot here ;)

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He doesn’t knock but you hear the sound of boots trecking closer. Your breath catches in your throat the moment the door opens.

Anakin.

Finally.

You stand a little too fast and your knees almost buckle from the way relief crashes into you like a wave.

You hadn't seen him in weeks. Not since he was pulled to the opposite end of the galaxy, again, with nothing but scrambled comms and a handful of encrypted messages.

He’s sunburnt, his cloak covered in dust. His brow is creased but he looks at you like you’ve just saved his life.

“Hi,” you whisper, barely able to get the words out.

That alone nearly breaks him.

Anakin crosses the space between you without hesitation, wrapping you in his arms. He buries his face in your neck, letting out an exhale. Like he's been holding his breath the entire time he was gone.

“I thought I’d go insane,” he mumbles. “I thought if I had to wake up one more morning without you next to me—” He pulls back just far enough to kiss you.

And the second your lips touch—it all unravels.

His kisses are desperate, needy, open-mouthed. Like he’s both punishing and apologizing to you for having had to leave.

“I missed you, Ani." you stroke the back of his head, fingers tangling in dusty curls.

It's almost overwhelming now, being in his arms after weeks. You can't even get another sentence out before Anakin's mouth devours the words against your throat.

He bites and licks at the skin there like he needs proof you’re real. Then he lifts you with both arms, one still gloved, possessive and loving on your thighs, walking you backward through the apartment without looking.

When he finally places you onto the bed, he lays you down like he's been waiting forever for this exact moment.

His forehead rests against yours while his hands roam, sliding beneath your top. Thumbs grazing your nipples until you gasp and whimper into his mouth.

“I dreamed about this,” he says. “Every night. I was afraid I'd forget your touch. Afraid I’d forget how it feels to be inside of you.”

You whimper, hips pressing forward instinctively. That alone makes him groan like you’re torturing him.

“I need you,” he says suddenly, dragging his mouth across your collarbone, leaving trails of blooming bruises. “I can’t wait, baby. I need you.” he whines, deprived and desperate.

“Take me,” you plead as you grind against him.

He undresses the both of you like a man possessed. Belt clattering to the floor, robes kicked aside, cock flushed, thick, and leaking at the tip as he shoves his pants down just enough.

He doesn’t waste time teasing, just pushes in deep with a sudden thrust. His head falls into your shoulder as he groans and just stays buried inside you, murmuring your name like it's holy.

Like loving you is the only thing he's ever needed and he's on his knees for it, buried in you like it's salvation.

Your legs are trembling from how full you feel when he says, "You’re clenching like you missed this. Missed me. Is that it, sweet girl?"

You nod against him, breath caught, arms wrapped around his shoulders like you never want to let go.

And then he starts to move.

It's really slow at first, mostly because he's making sure to reach as deep as possible when he rolls his hips forward. Like he wants to fuck your soul, not just your body. “So pretty like this… so wet for me… fuck, baby…”

He laces his fingers with yours, pinning both of your wrists above your head as he moves inside you with aching rhythm, eyes locked to yours.

He drives into you with ruthless precision, your dripping pussy clenching around him. The sounds between your bodies are obscene and wet, your legs shake while your mouth falls open.

Babbling incoherently now, you're barely able to take it. And he absolutely loves it.

Seeing you flushed and undone under him, Anakin moans, slowing his thrusts just long enough to lean down. His gloved fingers cradling your jaw while his eyes drink you in.

“Stars,” he whispers, voice hoarse, almost gone. “Look at you.”

A broken sound escapes your throat again as your head falls back, eyes fluttering. Your body’s too full, too sensitive.

You feel destroyed, wrecked, and you know he can see it. He brushes your cheek and the corner of your lips with his fingertips, gentle in a way that makes your chest ache.

Because even now, even like this, Anakin is still so tender with you. His expression is molten and dark with hunger. Yet, it's so soft and loving, as if he can’t decide whether to ruin you completely or stay like this forever, just watching you fall apart for him.

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” he pants, voice ragged. “Gonna fill you up. Will you let me?” He asks. But it's not really a question at this point, more like a promise.

All you can do is moan, arching your hips up to meet him, mouth still parted in gutteral cries. You come hard, clenching around him. He kisses you through it, swallowing your cries as he keeps fucking into you, desperate to reach his own release.

“Say it,” he breathes into you, hoarse and pleading. “Say you’re mine. Say you missed me.”

“I’m yours,” you gasp, fingernails dragging down his back. “Always, Anakin. I’m yours, I miss—”

He slams into you, cutting off the words, rhythm starting to falter. You feel it as his thrusts grow uneven and erratic and he's cursing under his breath. His face contorts and he groans through clenched teeth as he finally comes, thick and hot inside of you.

But he doesn’t stop pounding until he’s completely spent, until it’s leaking out around him.

━━━━⊱︎⊰━━━━

Afterwards, there's a long moment where neither of you move. Just the sound of your breaths echoing throughout the apartment. Shaky, uneven, like you’ve both been through something you barely survived.

His weight eases over you while your legs remain lazily draped around his waist. He’s still inside you, softening slowly. His breath hot and shallow against your throat.

The galaxy feels blurred at the edges, dazed and dreamlike.

Your thighs tremble with every little shift in movement. Your chest rises and falls unevenly as you blink up at the ceiling, lips starting to tremble.

It hits you then, he's really home.

Anakin senses it, the shift in your breath, the way your lip starts to wobble. So he lifts himself just enough to look down at you. There's something soft in his gaze—like he knows exactly what you’re feeling.

“Oh, sweet girl…” he whispers before leaning in to kiss your cheek, your eyelids, your nose. Your eyes flutter shut from the sensation and he gingerly brushes your hair back.

His voice is sweet and doting now, “I missed you so much. I don’t think I can leave you ever again.”

You smile. Mostly because you know he has to leave again soon. Of course you do. He’s bound by duty—by the war, the cause, the robes he never fully gets to take off.

But right now, none of that matters.

Not with the way he’s holding you while his come is still warm inside you. Not with his mouth trailing over your collarbone like he’s relearning the shape of you.

He’s here.

And he’s yours.

And that’s enough, for now.

“C-Can’t feel my legs,” you mumble.

He grins.

Actually grins. Boyish, flushed and handsome.

It's then in his smile that a flicker of a memory comes back to you. The first time you ever met him, both of you years younger, standing awkwardly in the Temple courtyard. He’d smiled at you then like this too—cocky, sun-warm, all dimples and promise.

“Good,” he says proudly.

You shove at him half-heartedly, and he chuckles again before slowly, carefully pulling out. You whimper when your hips twitch at the sudden emptiness and soreness. He gently hushes you.

“I know, I know,” he coos. “You’re sensitive. It’s okay. I’ve got you, baby.”

You’re so fucked out you can’t move. So, he moves for you. He kisses your stomach, your thighs, your knees.

Then he disappears from the bed, rummaging around for a moment before returning to clean you up. He runs the damp fabric between your legs with maddening care, cooing every time you flinch or whine.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “Still dripping for me.”

“Anakin!” your cheeks flush as you throw your arm over your eyes.

“What?” he says innocently, pressing a kiss to your hip. “Just admiring my beautiful wife. All full and spent and pretty… Do you want me to run you a bath? Or should I tuck you in? Did you eat already?”

Your mouth opens to answer but he’s already climbing back onto the bed, settling behind you, pulling you into his lap. Your legs go limp over his thighs. “Ani, you're not serious—”

“Oh, I’m serious,” he says, voice low and teasing now. “I’ve got you exactly where I want you. Might keep you like this forever.”

You lean into him, humming as your head falls back on his shoulder. “You're ridiculous.”

author's note: hi all! i've been in a rut lately and can't really write fully fleshed out one shots/chapters as of late but i found this lil draft & thought it was cute (the thought of cass so tender like this.. hhhnh)

ps- iykyk: ironically enough, this 'concept' was written months ago in my journal. 🥲

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The room is dim while machines hum low as they monitor with soft, steady beeps. There's a faint smell of antiseptic and fabric softener lingering in the air. The quiet in the medcenter room is not one of tension or waiting, but one that feels like serenity and security.

Half-dozing off, you're propped up on a few pillows, hair damp from the sweat that wouldn’t stop hours ago. You’re wearing one of Cassian’s shirts now because the hospital gown made you feel like a patient instead of a person. Your newborn baby is asleep on your chest, impossibly small and impossibly real.

Cassian leans on the edge of the armchair nearby. He hasn't taken his eyes off you in.. he doesn’t know how long. Time stopped feeling real the moment your baby's cry broke through the air for the first time.

He's worn out from today too but refuses to sleep. Instead, he just watches protectively over the two of you. His eyes land on you first. In your half asleep state with your mouth slightly parted, wearing his shirt. Then at her, the tiny rise and fall of his daughter's breaths against your chest.

You look like a dream, like something he never thought he’d deserve. He still couldn't believe this wasn't a chapter of a story from someone else’s life.

You shift again and whimper quietly from the soreness and pain radiating throughout your body.

Cassian is on his feet before he even realizes it. He crosses the room, hands hovering before they land. One softly carressing your cheek while the other cradles the baby's head. Carefully, he eases the baby from your chest, gently shushing under his breath like it's muscle memory. “It’s okay, love. I’ve got her. You sleep.”

Your brows twitch as if you might protest, but your body's exhaustion immediately gives in, leading you into a soft slumber. He rocks side to side with the baby now cradled in his arms. She's tiny, warm, red-faced, squishy and a part of you, a part of him.

His.

He swallows down the knot in his throat and an emotion that feels too big to name, his heart swelling at the reality of it all. He carries her over to the armchair he’s been using as a perch all day before sitting down, pressing a kiss to her forehead. Then another to the tiny bit of hair that’s still drying from earlier.

She makes a face in her sleep. One that looks like a pout, like the one you always make when you're tired. Cassian melts.

“I know,” he whispers, voice hoarse from everything. “It’s a lot. You had a big day, hm?” His hand cups her back while his thumbs rub tiny, careful circles.

“I’ve done a lot of things in my life,” he says quietly, almost to himself. “But this... this is the only one that made me feel… new. Like I get to start over."

Then, there's a little noise that escapes your lips as you shuffle in your sleep—a half-moan that makes his eyes shift to you instantly, protective as always. Your head turns slightly, and your lashes flutter. He waits with his breath held.

There's a pause.

You settle back into sleep.

He softly exhales before coming back to you with the baby in his arms. He carefully climbs beside you into the narrow medcenter bed, maneuvering slowly like he’s defusing a bomb.

He finally manages to lay the baby back onto his chest comfortably and places his arm onto her back. You let out the tiniest sigh and nuzzle into his shoulder, your hand finding his thigh under the blanket.

“You can keep sleeping, love.” he murmurs. “I’ve got you both.”

Cassian is still tired but doesn’t sleep, not that'd he even want to.

He just watches the way his daughter's tiny chest rises with his. And he watches the way your body curls instinctively around him and the new life between you.

It’s the safest he’s ever felt.

He kisses the top of your head, one hand still steady on the baby’s back while the other tugs absently at the edge of her swaddle.

After a moment, he whispers:

“Thank you. For her. For you. For this.”

Cassian closes his eyes for just a moment as he let's it all sink in. There’s nothing left to chase—he’s home.

[end]

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

꩜ BONUS:

It's around midnight when you’re half-dozing off again, shortly after having fed your daughter who's now tucked on your chest. But it's then when you feel a tiny squirm.

You groan. “Cass…”

Cassian’s halfway into a nap beside you, but immediately sits up like someone screamed. “What? What’s wrong—what is it?”

“She peed. I think. Maybe worse.”

Cassian blinks. Processes. “I can do it.”

You blink back at him. “…You can?”

He’s already standing. “Yes. Of course. It’s a diaper. I’ve done worse.”

“You’ve hotwired Imperial transports under fire.”

“Exactly,” he says, scooping her up like a soldier on a mission. “How hard can it be?”

Answer? Very. Very hard.

You watch from the bed as he carefully lays her on the changing pad. He opens the supply bag the nurse stocked for you and squints at its contents like he’s about to interrogate them.

“Okay,” he mutters, taking a deep breath.

You stifle a giggle as he untapes the diaper slowly, then freezes.

You peek with one eye closed. “Is it bad?”

“It’s… fine.”

It's not fine. The moment the diaper opens, she starts kicking, hard. Her feet are flailing like she's trying to start a fight with Cassian. Her little heel smacks right into the dirty diaper and smears it across her own thigh.

He recoils. “I had a plan,” he huffs, fumbling for wipes. “She ambushed me.”

“She’s a baby, Cass!"

“She’s a saboteur.”

Your daughter who's still squirming lets out a high-pitched squawk as he cleans her off thoroughly.

He looks personally betrayed. “She’s slippery,” he grumbles, grabbing a fresh diaper and fumbling with the flaps.

But finally, he gets the new diaper on. It’s a little lopsided but it fits securely over her as she fusses between tiny grunts and whines.

Cassian scoops her back into his arms, looking half-wild and flushed with sweat, before crossing the room toward you with the most defeated expression you’ve ever seen on him.

“She did that on purpose,” he mutters, placing her gently back in your arms. “She waited until I was overconfident.”

You smile up at him while he huffs. Though, you don't let him sulk for long before you guide him back down beside you again. He curls up quickly, tugging the blanket up, one arm already across your waist, eyes trained on the baby like she might attack again.

She yawns, big and gurly before stretching one tiny arm in Cassian’s direction. He can't help but melt. Again.

“…She’s trying to apologize, Cass" you say, softly.

“Mhm. That’s what the gurgle meant.” he answers, stifling a smile before pressing a kiss to your temple.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

Late into the night, when the sky's dark blue glow leaks in through the window, you hazily wake up when you feel the bed shift. Cassian is easing back beside you, daughter in his arms, cradling her like she's a constellation he somehow caught with both hands.

She lets out a sleepy grunt with one tiny fist stretching sharply across his collarbone. Cassian winces for a second.

“She’s plotting again,” he mutters, not expecting a reply.

You grin, eyes still closed. “She gets that from you.”

He huffs a laugh, settling in beside you both.

Author's Note: I'm truly sorry for making this man a yearner in every fic I make. I don't know any other way. Pls let me know if you enjoyed this (or didn't) at all, this type of writing isn't really my thing and also I'm just a slut for validation ok?

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You met in a moment in time that should've passed without notice.

Obi-Wan had been assigned to a neutral world in the Mid Rim for negotiation debriefs. It was just another summit, a stretch of days drawn out by procedure, long-winded meetings, and the dull, gray weight of diplomacy.

You were already there as a scholar, a translator, a diplomat’s daughter—he never quite figured out which. But what he did know, was that your voice was gentle, yet your presence was unwavering.

During the endless sessions of negotiation and strategy, when tempers rose and things got loud to the point where nobody was really hearing each other anymore, you would speak. Clear, incisive, calm. The kind of calm clarity that made people pause. Made him pause.

And though your presence wasn't loud, it was unmissable. You never fought for space, but claimed it without asking. In the way that only people worth listening do.

Somehow, by the end of every session, you always ended up right beside him. It was never deliberate. Neither of you ever moved first. And yet, there you were, always near, like the space between you both seemed to close itself. And when the halls fell quiet and the chamber emptied, you and Obi-Wan always just happened to be the last ones still there.

One night, after a particularly long session that ended in exhausted silence, you gestured to the sabacc table near the fireplace. “Come on,” you said. “I want to see if I can beat a Jedi.”

Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow, the faintest smile curving behind his beard. “I’m not a gambler.”

“That’s what all gamblers say.”

He regarded you for a moment, longer than politeness allowed. Like he knew this moment would stay with him, long after it had any right to.

But without a word, he sat down across from you.

Neither of you spoke at first. But the silence between you felt full. Full in a way that settles from recognition. Like your presence had already begun to feel familiar to him, and his to you.

You promptly began to deal the cards. The sound of their shuffling the only thing between you two for a while. Obi-Wan watched your hands, and for a moment, it felt like he might speak.

Then— he did.

“Are you always this confident?” His voice was quieter than usual, almost amused.

You didn’t look up. You were too focused on arranging your cards, your fingers moving with steady precision. Like you hadn’t even noticed his question had weight. “Only when I know I’m right.”

He sat back slowly, like the weight of your words had landed somewhere unexpected. A breath eased out of him. There was no boast in your tone, no sharpness, only quiet truth. And yet—he felt disarmed all the same.

You felt the silence stretch between you, and then, just barely, your lips curved at the corner. A soft, small smile. One he’d find himself remembering when he least expected it.

The game unfolded slowly, a flicker of strategy laced with something softer, more intimate, threading between each hand.

You two hadn’t quite reached conversation yet, but it lingered near. Through passing observations, small jokes, a shared smile that grew too easily, like a secret blooming in plain sight.

Your eyes occasionally found his. Still, unreadable, but burning with something carefully hidden beneath the surface.

The game ended in a draw. 

Not that either one of you was really keeping score.

━━━━⊱︎⊰━━━━

In the days that followed, Obi-Wan found his eyes drawn to you more often than he’d like to admit. Not obviously. Not indulgently. Just—enough.

Enough to notice the way you moved through tension like it couldn’t touch you. The way you listened without performance. The way you spoke only when it mattered. And how, somehow, it always did.

There was one afternoon where someone challenged your interpretation of a treaty clause. Not cruelly, just carelessly. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t raise your voice. You just tilted your head and clarified, your tone soft but so exact it left no room for argument.

No one interrupted you after that.

And Obi-Wan, across the room, had the sudden, disorienting thought. 'She doesn’t even know'.

You didn’t know how every eye in the room had faltered, just for a second, when you’d spoken. You didn’t see how you’d taken hold of the entire conversation without ever raising your voice. And you certainly didn’t realize how lovely you looked then, standing in the windowlight, bathed in sun. All the meanwhile, he sat there, unsure of what to do with the feeling.

That evening, when the last of the diplomats were retiring for the night, he found you again. Not in a meeting. Not by chance in a hallway. But in the garden.

You were already seated in the grass when he approached. Your feet tucked neatly beneath you while the folds of your gown gathered around your knees. In your hands, a cluster of small pale blossoms—soft ivory with golden tips, delicate against your skin.  

“They’re called Miralin,” he said, as he stepped forward before crouching beside you.

You hummed in agreement. “What do they signify?” you asked intrigued, looking at him. And that's when he looked at you for the first time. Really looked.

“Local legend says they’re given between lovers. Before partings—battle, long travel, when words aren’t possible. A symbol of what's left unsaid” He continued as his hand brushed lightly across one of the open flowers in your hand.

With curiosity piqued, your fingers curled around the stem, thumb brushing gently across its edge. And Obi-Wan, couldnt help but keep looking at you like he’d only just realized how beautiful you truly were, and how still the world around him had gone.  

Your profile tilted just slightly toward the moon, and the light skimmed across your cheekbones. It almost knocked the wind out of him when he realized you were something so beautiful and close enough to touch, yet somehow still so out of reach.

And in the silence that followed, you asked, “Is it lonely? The way you live?”

You caught the slow exhale he didn’t mean to let go and the way his gaze drifted as if your question had brushed against a part of him he rarely let anyone near. Then, after a long pause—“It’s quieter than I thought it would be.”

You nodded, just barely. And when both of your fingers brushed in the grass, neither of you moved away.

━━━━⊱︎⊰━━━━

The negotiation meetings faded into one another after that, the hours stretched long, and like usual, he was always there near you.

Following that night, there had been something unfinished between you, though neither of you had the courage to name it. So you didn't. And it clung to both of you like heat in the air—tangible, breathless, inevitable.

But it revealed itself in small, ordinary moments that no one else noticed: His hand on your lower back when guiding you through a crowd, lingering just a heartbeat longer than necessary. Or the soft, stifled laughs you gave him when he leaned in during a tense meeting and murmured some dry, razor-edged comment meant just for your ears.

But mostly it was in the nights you both stayed lingering too long in the garden, under the lanterns and the scent of blooming citrus, neither of you willing to leave first.

You’d talk until the stars blurred, pretending not to notice how close your shoulders and hands were next to one another as you began to finish each other's thoughts during conversation.

When you spoke, Obi-Wan watched like he was memorizing you for now until the end of time. The way your eyes looked when you were listening intently, the way you bit your lip when you were trying not to smile, and the way your hands would move—expressive, nervous, tender—depending on what you were saying.

On another night in the garden, when the breeze was sharp and your voice was softer than usual, you unscrewed the cap of a metal flask, the scent of something sharp and bitter caught in the air between you. You passed it over to him, your fingers brushing briefly. He didn’t ask. Just nodded, drank deep, and handed it back with a faint sound at the back of his throat.

You tried to make light of it, "It won't fix galactic relations, but it might take the edge off"

And he laughed. Really laughed.

It was unguarded, rare. And you swore something gave way in your chest when you saw it.

The laughter eventually faded, and the quiet that followed felt heavier than before—full of everything you hadn’t said. So, you asked the one question that had lived in your chest the longest since knowing him. “If you could’ve chosen a different life… what would it have looked like?”

He didn’t answer, not out loud.

But in that silence, in between the stillness of your heartbeats, you had felt it. The weight of the answer he couldn’t give. The truth that lived behind every look he ever cast your way.

You.

His answer was you.

━━━━⊱︎⊰━━━━

And on the second-to-last night before his departure, you found yourselves together again. By then, it felt much less like coincidence, and more like something unspoken that both of you had long since made peace with.

Obi-Wan had been there when you stepped into the garden, standing near the edge of the courtyard, where the wind stirred through the trees and the sky had just begun to turn dark.

"You waited” you said softly, smiling.

“You always find me,” he replied, like it wasn’t something he counted on, but something he still hoped for.

And that was it for a little while. You stood beside him, arms brushing, breaths in sync. The stillness between you hummed, as it always did—with memory, with anticipation, with the ache of things understood but never spoken.

You watched the lights of the surrounding buildings flicker against the horizon while the wind curled at your sleeves, carrying the subtle perfume of the garden in bloom.

He turned to you then, slowly, like he’d been trying not to all evening. "I don’t know what I’ll do with this, when you’re not in front of me anymore.”

But for a moment, you had heard it. The faintest crack in his voice. And in the low light, he looked like something half-sacred, half-falling apart.

You didn’t say what you were actually thinking—that you wished he’d stay, that he’d choose you. Instead, you reached for his hand. Not softly, not hesitantly. Just true.

And he held it back, without hesitation. His fingers curled around yours like they belonged there, like they’d always meant to. The hours thinned and time was running out but you and Obi-Wan stood there together. Hand in hand, saying nothing, asking nothing.

━━━━⊱︎⊰━━━━

The night before he left, you found each for the last time.

Not in the garden but somewhere quieter, hidden. A narrow passage tucked outside behind the council wing, carved from old stone and shadow, half-forgotten and long out of use.

The rain had started just after nightfall—light at first, then steady. It soaked through your outer cloak, beading on your sleeves, chilling the air. By the time you found him, you were already half-drenched.

He was just beyond the archway, standing in the narrow pocket of space where the path hadn’t yet met the dark. You slowed as you approached, steps reverberating on the stone. He didn’t move, but there was something different in his gaze this time—like he’d stopped trying to hide how much you meant to him

You reached for him, hand rising gently. Fingers brushing his jaw. The curve of his cheekbone. The corner of his mouth. He didn’t stop you. Didn’t flinch. Instead, he leaned in with a gentle kind of surrender—like your hand had called him home.

Your trembling voice barely rose above a whisper, “You don’t have to say it."

He didn't need to. But stars, you felt it. It was there—in the way his eyes searched yours like he’d known you a thousand different ways, in a thousand different lives, and loved you quietly in every single one.

His hands found your waist, then your back, pulling you to him carefully, steady. Not possessive. Not hasty. Just sure.

He pressed his forehead to yours and closed his eyes. And for a moment, there was only the sound of rain in the distance, the warmth of his hands at your waist, and the unspoken ache of what you could never keep.

But when his mouth finally found yours, it was slow and deliberate, like he needed to feel every second of it. You let out a soft gasp when you felt the warmth of his lips and the scratch of his beard against your skin.

He kept kissing you, with love and longing, his mouth parting over yours with purpose. Deepening each time like he was testing how much of you he could take before it ruined him.

His hand slid up your spine, anchoring you closer, and you melted into it without a thought. He knew then, that the loss of you was already lodged in his chest, and still, he chose to burn for it anyway.

Your fingers curled into his robe, holding him—not to keep him, but to feel him. To know this was real. To know he was real. Just this once.

And after an eternity, he finally pulled away slowly, carefully, eyes closed. The rain behind you continued to pour as you looked at him one last time.

Obi-Wan reached up and gently brushed a piece of hair from your cheek. His fingers were warm, lingering, like he was already remembering exactly how you felt beneath his hands. His hand lingered there, thumb just near your jaw.

Then it dropped.

And slowly, he pulled away—turning without a word, slipping back into the shadows, his rain-heavy cloak trailing behind him.

He didn't look back and you didn't call out for him.

Instead you stayed still, listening to the rain while your hands stayed exactly where they were, as if you might still feel him there.

You didn’t sleep that night. Not really.

You went back to your quarters soaked through—hands still trembling, lips still burning from something that was never supposed to happen. You undressed slowly, like you were still waiting for your body to catch up with the moment.

And that’s when you found it.

Tucked carefully into the inner lining of your cloak. Hidden. Pressed there with intention. A cluster of pale blossoms—soft ivory with golden tips.

You’d seen Miralin only that once before, blooming on your first night with Obi-Wan in the garden. He’d told you then: They’re given when words aren’t possible. A symbol of what's left unsaid.

You hadn’t even ever seen him pick one. But now here it was. Slightly crushed, edges fading. Still whole. You sat with it in your fingers for a long time, staring at the petals like they might still hold the shape of his hand.

Long after it was over, you were still trying to stay inside of it. Still trying to remember what it felt like to be chosen, even for a fleeting moment in time.

━━━━⊱︎⊰━━━━

There’s a corner of the galaxy where no one says your name anymore. And still, it echoes.

Somewhere deep in the Outer Rim—on a sun-bleached stretch of Tatooine that feels farther from the galaxy than it should—Ben Kenobi stands at the edge of dusk and swears he hears a voice.

Not the Force.

Not a memory.

You.

He hasn’t seen you in years, not really. Not since the war swallowed you both and spit you out on opposite ends of survival. He doesn’t know where you are now—if you’re alive, if you’ve changed your name, if you ever think of him when everything’s quiet and no one’s looking.

And at night, in the deep hush of the desert—when the suns have long set and the wind moves low through the canyon—he sits alone in a cave, staring at nothing.

But sometimes, in the silence between breaths, you return to him. Never for real, and never in full. Just… the sound of your laugh and the memory of your touch.

If he closes his eyes and thinks hard enough, he can still feel your fingers at his jaw—still hear the way you murmured, trembling, “You don’t have to say it.”

He never speaks your name, but it lingers anyway.

In the silence. In the wind.

Author's Note: I, andorsdoll, solemly swear to stop using Obi-Wan Kenobi as the Jedi equivalent of a bad timing alarm clock in my Anakin fics after this one. Heh, thx 4 reading everybody! ฅ/ᐠ. ̫ .ᐟ\ฅ

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The mission briefing had dragged on way too long. You were standing stiffly near the back of the room. Restlessly, you shift your weight from one leg to another, only half-listening to Obi-Wan and the senator go back and forth, about trade routes, security details, and a bunch of other things you really couldn’t care about in the moment.

You could feel a certain somebody’s gaze on you—and it was annoying. But you refused to look at him. Not even for a second. Not after what happened in the speeder. Especially not after what happened in the speeder.

Not after the way his hand had slipped between your thighs under your robes while you both pretended to talk strategy. But even without looking, you could feel the air shift—subtle, electric. The kind of tension that didn’t come from eye contact or words. No, Anakin was using the Force again.

His Force signature presses against yours, warm and teasing, like he was tracing lines down your spine without touching you at all. And you tried to keep it together. Really, you did.

But the moment the senator announces, “We’ll reconvene in five minutes to finalize the coordinates,” and the council members file out, Anakin is instantly at your side, already tugging your wrist toward the side corridor.

“Five minutes,” he says, voice low, his grin sharp, wicked, like he’s already got you bent over in his head. “We can make five minutes work.”

“You’re insane.”

He pulls you into the nearest refresher and locks the door behind you with a hiss of the panel. The second it seals, he has your back pinned against it, kissing you like this doesn’t break every rule he’s supposed to follow.

“You gonna waste half of it arguing?” he mutters into your mouth

You shouldn’t do this. You really shouldn’t. In less than 300 seconds, you're supposed to be back in that room, looking like a composed, responsible adult. Not like someone getting absolutely fucked over a sink by the Chosen One.

Your back is still pressed against the door as he kisses you hungrily and hikes up your robes like he’s done it a hundred times before (he has). His breath, hot at your neck and his fingers quick—too practiced—as you bite your lip to keep from moaning when he shoves two fingers in, pumping them shamelessly, just to make sure you're wet enough to take him without hesitation.

"You expected me to sit through another meeting like this?” he mutters on your lips again.

You smirk against him, “You’ve been sitting through them with your cock half-hard all day. What’s one more?”

He exhales hard through his nose, then shakes his head like you’ve finally broken something loose in him. His eyes drop and his hands move.

He walks you to the sink like he’s guiding you into position—deliberate, hands firm. The counter catches your thighs and then you’re folded forward, bent at the waist with nowhere else to go.

His fingers circle your clit a few more times—not teasing, just claiming. Almost like he's reminding you who gets you like this. Then Anakin pulls back just far enough to line himself up. And with one sharp, unforgiving thrust, he’s inside.

The stretch is instant, perfect, obscene. You gasp while your hands grip the sink tighter. Your hips slam into the cold sink edge, and a choked sound catches in your throat before you can stop it—but Anakin’s already one step ahead. His hand clamps over your mouth, just in case. His other hand settles at your hip, fingers digging in like he’s anchoring himself to you.

He doesn’t wait because patience has never been his thing—and with only minutes to spare, he’s sure as hell not starting now. Instead, he sets a brutal rhythm. Fucking into you like he knows exactly how long he’s got—and plans to use every damn second of it.

Still moving and relentless, Anakin slides his hand down far enough to start circling your clit again. Like he’s coaxing your orgasm out one flick at a time, knowing exactly what you need before you ask.

“Come for me,” he growls, low in your ear. “Be quick, sweetheart. Clock’s ticking.”

Your whole body seizes, a strangled cry caught under his palm as you come hard around him, thighs shaking, knees nearly buckling as he holds you upright and fucks you through it like he planned to make you fall apart exactly like this.

Then—

“Anakin? You in there?”

It's Obi-Wan.

Your eyes fly open and you freeze—still pulsing around Anakin’s cock, breath ragged, face flushed, his hand still over your mouth.

Anakin doesn't stop.

Of course he doesn’t. He just fucks into you harder, grinning, like the reckless bastard he is.

“Bathroom,” Anakin calls out, somehow perfectly steady. “Be out in a sec.”

“Briefing resumes in two minutes,” Obi-Wan says, voice calm but clipped. You hear his footsteps retreat down the hall—measured, fading, gone.

And then, Anakin’s losing it.

His rhythm falters—thrusts stuttering, uneven now, like he’s trying to keep it together and completely fucking failing. A strangled moan pulled straight from his chest escapes his lips, and then he’s coming, hard. He buries himself to the hilt, hands shaking where they grip your hips, jaw slack as he spills inside you.

You’re both breathless, bodies pressed together, still locked in place over the sink as the silence creeps back in. You stay there a beat longer, forehead pressed to your arm, his body still warmly pressed behind yours.

Anakin leans in, voice quiet at your ear. "Told you we had time," he murmurs before pressing one last kiss to your shoulder.

You roll your eyes, grabbing a nearby cloth to fix your face, "Shut up and straighten your hair.”

━━━━⊱︎⊰━━━━

You both scramble to pull yourselves together—fixing robes, smoothing hair, pretending your legs aren’t jelly. Pretending Anakin didn’t just fuck you senseless with a hand over your mouth.

By the time you step out of the refresher, the corridor’s empty. No one waiting, no witnesses. Just the low hum of distant conversation as the others start filtering back into the briefing room.

You fall in line beside Anakin like nothing happened and the doors open. Obi-Wan’s already seated, datapad in hand, brows raised just slightly when he looks up.

“Everything alright?” he asks, voice even, but there’s a flicker in his eyes—something just shy of suspicion.

Anakin doesn’t miss a beat, “Never better.”

You don’t dare look at Anakin, or Obi-Wan. Instead, you just take your seat, ignoring the heat still simmering in your skin and the way your body aches in places no one else in the room can ever know about.

Then, under the table, Anakin's fingers brush lightly against yours. A silent touch. Warm. Steady.

The senator clears his throat and Obi-Wan starts speaking again. The briefing resumes. Like nothing ever happened.

Author's Note: An unintended sequel to my last upload. I have a few ideas for a potential next chapter but I'm likely ending it here unless anyone is actually invested, haha. thx everybody! ฅ/ᐠ. ̫ .ᐟ\ฅ

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It should’ve ended there. It was supposed to end there. That kiss—soft, deliberate, almost terrifying in the way it meant something—should’ve been the line you didn’t cross again. But restraint was never either of your strong suits. And it most definitely wasn't Anakin's.

Now, it’s late. Too late. You’re on the bed in his quarters, the silence between you full of things neither of you can say out loud. You should’ve left an hour ago. You should’ve walked away the moment his hands found your face like you were something precious, before the thrown robes on the floor and entangled limbs. But you didn’t, you couldn't.

Anakin has his arm wrapped around you while your head rests on his naked chest. “This was a mistake,” you say, even though you don’t mean it.

He doesn’t look at you. “Don’t say that.”

You look up at him, “You know we can't keep doing this. I know we just decided..." your voice faltering, "But Jedi can't jus—"

“I know what I’m supposed to be,” he cuts in, not angry, just passionate. Like he always is. “But I also know what I feel. And I’m done pretending like that doesn’t matter.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. As always, you're about to open your mouth in protest but in an instant, he's on top of you, hovering over you—like he’s about to ruin you, or worship you. Maybe both. “You think I care?” he says, low and rough, voice barely more than a growl. “You think I care about rules or consequences when it comes to you?” His hand is tracing over the sides of your bare body, and you can feel the tension between your bodies like a live wire.

“Tell me to stop,” he dares you. You don’t. You can’t.

Instead, you sigh, “We’re going to burn for this.”

And he leans in, nose brushing yours, lips ghosting over your mouth, smiling. “Then let it burn.” You kiss like you’re both already doomed. It’s all tongue and breathless gasps, his hands sliding down your waist while yours tangle in his curls like they belong there. His voice is rough against your throat. “Stay tonight.”

You blink up at him, heart pounding “You know I can’t—”

“Please.” It’s one word. Barely a whisper. But it breaks something in you, the way he seems so vulnerable asking you.

So you stay.

And later, in the stillness of the night, just before sleep takes you, Anakin murmurs into your hair: "You're everything to me."

━━━━⊱︎⊰━━━━

The next morning, you leave his quarters before the sun crests over the skyline, robes wrinkled and hair hastily pulled back. Two hours later, Anakin walks into the training hall with the faintest bruise blooming just beneath his jaw, the kind left behind by your mouth, and it feels like everyone notices. Including Obi-Wan. Especially Obi-Wan.

Your stomach twists when you see some of them speaking in hushed tones near the center of the room. You're already cursing yourself a million times over in your head for being so stupid and reckless by leaving that on him while Anakin, always terrible at hiding anything, looks half-defiant, half-unbothered. Obi-Wan looks… observant. Suspicious? Too calm. Watching you.

You turn quickly, pretending to check a control panel. Pretending not to exist. He can’t know. He can’t.

━━━━⊱︎⊰━━━━

Later, you find yourself ducking into an empty meditation chamber needing air. And then the door hisses open. “Is there something you’d like to tell me?” Obi-Wan’s voice is calm. Too calm. Fuck.

You turn slowly. “I’m sorry?”

He steps forward, folding his arms, gaze unreadable. “Anakin’s… distracted. Reckless. Volatile. More than usual.”

You exhale, shaking your head. “That doesn’t involve me.”

“You sure?” His tone sharpens, just enough to make your stomach drop. He’s not accusing you—not outright—but he’s circling the truth.

You meet his gaze evenly. “I think you’re giving me too much credit.”

He studies you, and for a second, you swear he's gonna give you the what for. But then, he lets it go.

“Be careful,” Obi-Wan says simply, before turning to leave, “With whatever it is you’re not saying.”

The door hisses shut behind him.

And then, of course, Anakin finds you again later that night.

“You weren’t at training.” you remark, glancing at him.

“Neither were you.” He smirks, the kind of crooked, cocky grin that usually melts your resistance. “Missed me?”

You cross your arms, pursing your lips, “Obi-Wan’s watching you.”

He falters.

“I know,” he says, quieter now. “I don’t care.”

“Well, I do,” you snap. “I know I'm the one who screwed this up here but I’m not going to let you get caught and dragged in front of the Council because you can’t keep it in your pants.”

His jaw ticks. “It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like, Anakin?” you demand, voice rising. “Because if this is real, if we are real, then you can’t just keep acting like the rules don’t matter.” He closes the space between you in two strides. His hands cup your face, his thumb caressing your lips. “But you’re the only thing that does matter.”

Your throat tightens. “Don't just keep saying that, Anakin! Don’t be stupid.”

His eyes search yours like he’s memorizing you, burning you into his mind. “Yeah, I’ll try.” He says. And that’s the problem, isn’t it? Trying isn't enough. But Anakin’s reckless—he doesn’t care about the rules or the consequences. He never has.

The silence between you feels like it’s closing in, you’re not sure whether to pull him closer or push him away when he kisses you again this time.